Prologue: Choices
Blue moonlight filtered through leafy oaken limbs above a small, forest glade where the Veil thickened, where a cloaked woman walked alone, her thoughts weighed down with the irony of a decision.
Dew seeped through the soles of her doeskin boots as she paced through autumn leaves, brushing back the long, thick locks of her honeyed hair to peer through gaps where the trees had shed their fiery coiffure. The stars confirmed her augury. She had come to the correct place on the proper night, and the only task left to her was to wait—a skill she had never mastered.
She did not doubt the choice she had made, but pondered its cost. At best, her Queen would be furious, and her life, and those of the people she loved, were forfeit if she could not protect them. That is what brought her among the trees, to lay aside her proud heart and fall upon the mercy of a mortal enemy.
A fluttering in the shadows drew her attention, but she did not stop or turn aside. This wood held many secrets that could not, or would not, help her. The very thought was new, the need to ask for aid or succor. Life in the court was simpler; you commanded or you obeyed, and failure, as often as not, meant death.
It began with a promise, but not to the Queen. The woman had been trusted by no virtue either possessed but by a mutual lust for power and a selfish disdain for those that walked beneath them. She valued nothing beyond the perimeter of her own skin, or so they both believed, and for centuries it had been a reasonable substitute for trust.
Until she was sent to kill Cionaodh.
She should have simply taken his life, but her hubris had failed her. His will was strong and she craved that power for herself, so she sought to enslave his soul before ruining his body.
Instead, Cion, a mere mortal, had shown her that life, like love, was not a jewel to be hoarded, but a flowing river that grew as it united with others. The strength she had seen in him could not be taken for the simple reason that it was not his alone, and in seeking the source of his power she found herself trapped by it.
It stung the remains of her pride that something so fleeting and fragile as love could bind her as utterly as she had once tethered her prey. The first and hardest thing she had sacrificed was her pride. It had not been burned away so much as starved into an impotent specter, protesting weakly from within as something better took its place. That pride lived on only as a memory of her past, of the person she could become again if she allowed it.
The fall was painful but not without grace, and it changed her less than she would have thought. Her dignity remained and would until the day they tore it from her—along with her beating heart—but she was not a goddess, as many had believed, as she had almost come to believe herself. She was a woman, and to her very great surprise, she discovered it was enough.
Clearly, she lacked the wisdom of a goddess, she reflected, having been drawn out of hiding because of a rumor without the least assurance she would meet the one she wished to see. The conditions were right, and now she walked only to pass the time with what hope she dared embrace.
Without warning, something vast crashed through the growth behind her. She did not startle. Divine or not, she had power. Woman or not, she would not hesitate to wield its considerable might in her defense. The thing drew up short of trampling her, stamping its hooves into the ground as she turned to face it. Ivory and silver ornaments hung several feet above her head suspended from the moss-covered antlers of an enormous, black elk. On its back rode a little girl.
“What is your purpose in my wood, devil?” came the voice of a child—no, not a child, a fully grown woman, though small, with brilliant, red hair, dressed in a short, white gown, and barefoot. Two hulking fomorians, which the people called firbolgs, lumbered forward on either side. They moved slowly, but were immensely strong and notoriously difficult to harm. A thuggish fachan stumped out of the woods on unwieldy, ill-shaped limbs. A dozen other creatures stepped forward, and dozens more chattered just out of sight, a small army of Fae circling the humble clearing.
“I have come to see the fool,” announced the woman. If she felt any fear, it was masked behind a solemn, even haughty, nobility.
The girl cocked her head and starlight twinkled in her large, emerald eyes. “An assassin comes willingly to this place on this night? Are you here as a challenger for the title?” Hints of mocking laughter echoed from the shadows and between the trees. The woman ignored the insult and took a step forward, but more crashing tore her attention from the girl as a huge barghest—which some called a dire wolf and others a hellhound—bounded into the glade. It slid to a stop on fallen leaves as the little girl put up her hand.
“Wait, Grimjaw,” she purred. “Let us hear what the Morrigan has to say. You may play with your meal once she has properly entertained the rest of us.”
With one last look at the great beast, the woman turned toward the girl and spread her arms, palms forward in a gesture of peace. “I am not here on behalf of the court. I seek asylum.”
That brought a fit of quick laughter from the girl, a musical, playful sound. “I grant you a well-earned victory! You have won the crown, oh Queen of Fools, and I am humbled before your most estimable majesty!” Then her eyes went wide again and with a gasp, she leaned forward, hands flat against the broad back of the elk. “Does that now make me the supplicant? Oh dear, this has become confusing.” A chorus of muted cackles echoed from their audience.
The woman grimaced, her patience nearing its limit. “Do not trifle with me, forest child. Summon your master!”
The chorus of laughter died as the girl’s taunt ended. Resting her elbows on the great beast, she tucked her chin into her hands and replied with a teasing smile, “I have no master.”
A rare moment of confusion darkened the woman’s features while she looked quickly around, seeking answers in the night and finding none.
The girl inclined her head almost imperceptibly. “What brings you so recklessly to this of all places? I'm curious to hear what method of insanity could court a demon to its death.”
The pale woman scoffed, “I am no more a demon than you are a child. Your reputation suggests something… I would say, greater. If the Queen knew what you were she would—”
“She would do little she has not already tried,” the girl cut across her sharply. I do not fear her. The true king may have died long ago but I serve him still. What do you want, Left Hand?”
“I bear that title no longer. Mab seeks my head.”
The news brought more laughter from the girl, “Oh! Dear spirits! Shall I mourn for you, slayer? May the Queen of Ice and Shadow find your skull a suitable ornament for her mantle!” When the woman failed to give a response, the girl spoke again. “Why do you come? Tell me truthfully.”
“I have a son.”
At her words, the wood fell into a grave silence. The girl’s smile faded and she became suddenly, coldly sober.
“You lie,” she hissed.
“He is named Drustan ap Cionaodh and his father is a good, kind man. Both lives are forfeit if they are discovered. Please, if you refuse to help for my sake, then I ask for them.”
“You come to me with a please? What can you possibly need that I can provide?”
“Trickery and deceit. You have hidden many from the courts, but I have no talent for such subterfuge.”
The little red-haired girl barked a humorless laugh but said nothing. They locked eyes, neither turning away though moments dragged on.
“How can I trust you?” the girl asked finally. It was not an unexpected question.
“I have nothing to say on my own behalf that you will accept. I come begging for the life of a changeling boy and a human man, if that is not evidence enough of my motives…” the woman withdrew a bronze collar from the folds of her cloak and cast it to the ground between them where it caught and held celestial light.
The torc had been cast in a braid with two heads facing each other, one a wolf and the other a bear, bracing a knotwork seal between them. The girl stared at it suspiciously.
“How did you come by this?”
“It is by right the property of my husband, the bard, Cionaodh, son of Aodh, son of Amorgen.”
“Not a bard only if that is his.” She made a face. “I knew Aodh, and the life of his son’s son holds nearly as little value to me as your own.”
“That is why my beloved sends this gift. He has renounced the grove and his father is slain. He would not have come by this if an elder yet lived.”
“A druid does not leave the Brotherhood.”
“A good man might.”
The girl stared at the collar, considering her words before continuing. “Then the rumors are true, the grove is fallen. Do you honestly intend to win my heart with a tale of patricide? It is common enough for men to kill for power.”
The woman shook her head. “His hands are innocent of his family’s blood. Merowech himself led the attack on the grove."
The diminutive figure slid off the side of her beast, dropping a dozen feet to the ground. “A shallow distinction at best. You claim your man has betrayed the Brotherhood and you have betrayed the Court, and this trinket is your proof? Your bloody, burned, and mutilated corpses would be more convincing. And you say this is all because of your son?”
“It began before. I was sent by the Queen to Cionaodh as answer for his crime against the druids.”
“And retrieve their lore.”
The woman nodded.
The girl seemed to struggle with her expression, wavering between amusement and skepticism. “It clearly did not go as planned.” The woman said nothing, but the girl’s eyes softened for a moment, belying her next words. “I should let you hang, Left Hand, for the pain you have caused.”
“I would have earned it many times over, but as I told you I have renounced my place and have earned the enmity of the Court. I can defend my family, but not forever. They must be hidden until they are forgotten.”
“Mab has a long memory.”
“I am aware.”
The girl scratched at her wild, red hair, staring into the trees for a long time before delivering an unforeseen reply. “I require payment.”
“You require—?” The question stunned the woman. She had been prepared for rejection, not negotiation.
“I may be persuaded to help your unfortunate son, but you have earned no charity.”
“I did not—the rumors never—” she put a hand to her throat. “I lost all when I abandoned the court, what is left for me to give?”
The girl shrugged carelessly. “You hold the torc of a druid lord. What of the library? The Sylvarian blades? The elder staff?”
The woman stiffened, eyes wary. “I willfully surrender the torc as tribute, the rest remains with my husband.”
“To what end?” the girl said, a hint of menace in her tone. “Humans spent centuries attempting to mend Zora’s folly before falling into corruption. Their tools would serve better in more worthy hands.”
The woman stood silent and unmoving, almost regal, as she took stock of the creatures slowly drawing near. “They are not mine to give. Choose another price.”
“And leave those powers to you and your thralls? You have required little encouragement to slaughter thousands, how long before your man raises a hand against his people once more? Or the Queen? Or my own wood?”
No command was given, but something shifted in the air and a deep growl from the barghest sent tremors through the ground. The massive beast’s intelligence surpassed that of most men, and legends that spoke of its power were, if anything, understated. Among the Fae it was one of the most feared, carnage incarnate, a bringer of death. Its size and ferocity would be little use in the crowded glade, but it prevented her retreat.
Time slowed as the woman instinctively marked each threat. The giant fomorians with their long, strong arms loomed ahead. A deceptively delicate nymph moving like water along her periphery. The misshapen Fachan staring with its single, glassy eye, wide mouth full of jagged teeth. The hill troll cracking the trunks of two sturdy maples as he squeezed between them. Dozens of Fae, each passionate in their hatred of her.
The fachan was first to break. It charged, howling and contorting horrifically, a single leg beneath a hideous face, its one arm sprouting from its head. Its halting speed belied its form, and most would have shrunk from it in terror.
The woman barely moved, catching its wrist as the clawed, shovel-like hand descended. She pivoted to one side and twisted, letting the creature’s reckless momentum carry it past her. It kicked to one side in an attempt to dislodge her grip but she turned in the opposite direction, fingers tightening as the force of its inertia snapped the bones in its arm.
A ghostly being with spindly arms and legs threw himself at her, its long, black tongue lashing out. The woman turned again, almost casually avoiding the nosuri's venomous sting. One step brought her inside its reach and instead of falling to its claws she took hold and swung its body like a cudgel into the trunk of a stout oak.
From behind, a massive wooden club breezed past, far too slow to be a threat, but it raised the fires of ancient anger beneath her skin. Her eyes flared like molten iron and with a shout she intercepted another strike, breaking the club to splinters and sending its wielder reeling back with the force of the blow. In that moment she was the Morrigan once more, fierce and immaculate, and every Fae in that wood stepped back in uncertain fear. Everyone except for the Fool, who sighed as if bored.
With supreme effort the woman quelled the goddess and turned slowly to face her enemy.
“I did not come for a fight, but I will not allow you to harm me or rob my husband of his birthright,” her voice rang with authority. “You have my pledge that the relics of the Brotherhood will not be used against you or those you harbor. I am not apologizing for my past, nor asking for your forgiveness. As for the price of your aid, I offer whatever service I can provide and what worldly wealth is within my power to obtain. If you will help, then help. If not, stand aside or learn why the Queen chose me among all her people to enforce her commands.”
The circle looked on as the Fool considered her words for several tense moments, glanced briefly at her wounded soldiers, then finally nodded with no trace of anger or fear. “Very well, I will hide your son in the name of compassion and your husband for his torc. From you I require…” she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Two years.”
“What?”
“You offered what service you can provide and I am claiming it. Submit to serve under me for two years, during which you will not see your husband or your child. I will take them somewhere safe. If you convince me in that time that you are reformed I will reveal their location and you may join them.”
“I cannot leave—”
“You wish them hidden,” the girl interrupted, “and I will see to it that they remain so while you honor our bargain. That is my price, accept it or leave this place. You will not receive the offer twice.”
The woman’s face darkened, her mouth tight and eyes hard. The Fool stared back, waiting.
“I accept your terms,” the cloaked woman snarled, “but know that if my husband or my child are harmed—”
“You will rain certain death and suffering upon me,” the girl waved off her words and gave a quick, musical whistle. A short, wrinkled man appeared at her side, leering at the woman with cruel eyes. The Fool whispered something to him and he cast one last grin over his shoulder before vanishing again into the shadows.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, “You put the safety of my family in the hands of this far dearig and dare to cast aspersions on me?”
“I trust Ragnall with my life, I would not trust you with breakfast.” The girl looked back with an ironic smile that did not reach her eyes. “You have two years to change my mind.”
