The empress beckoned to the little creature she called Og. He took the mortar’s contents and added some sort of spirit to make a brew so vile Hazel gagged when it was her turn to drink. Forcing it down, she felt sharp, hot pains in her belly as she passed the bowl to Isabel. Sweat poured in little rivers down the sisters’ faces as they shared the Spider’s bitter drink. As the bowl made its rounds, their grandmother talked of dragons.
The Spider spoke of Ember and N’aagha, the Father and Mother of dragons. She told them how Ember hatched from the earth, a wingless stormdrake of gold and fire. She whispered how Astaroth conjured black N’aagha from the ashes of his enemies. The two battled, and pursued each other to the far corners of the world. Their unlikely union produced six children, as varied in appearance as they were in power and temperament.
Hati the Moon-Snatcher, Midwinter’s King,
Ammech the Sun-Catcher, Master of Spring,
Talysin Spell-Singer, Weaver of Mists,
Graazh the Frost-Bringer who kills with a kiss,
Ran-Tolka the Dreamer who wanders the earth,
Valryka the Valiant awaits her Rebirth.
The lore was woven into rhymes and songs that tumbled through Hazel’s mind and subconscious. Most were new, though some grazed memories buried somewhere deep. She learned the verses for each dragon and the ancient spells binding those that guarded Otherland Gates. She recited words of protection and command, charms to ensure her safety in their presence. She learned where Valryka fell in battle with the daemonic Shibbolth, how all dragons feared Hati, and why Ran-Tolka cloaked herself in human form . . .
The four Faeregines did not eat or sleep. If they grew thirsty, Og mixed more of the bitter concoction. When the coals cooled, he added more and fanned them with a bellows.
When Hazel could sit up no longer, she curled into a ball. Eventually, the Spider’s words faded, replaced by the rasp of her breathing, the soft hiss of coals, the creaking of the ship’s hull. And when her awareness sank even deeper, and floated on currents of whale song, the Reaper’s voice, dry and cruel, sounded in her head.
One cannot hide from a dragon. Not behind thoughts, flesh, or dreams. Talysin will not be deceived. He will perceive you are my vessel, the instrument I set in motion long ago when I knew my doom was at hand. His mind will tear through your little cocoon and lay you bare to me. You will never feel more exquisite pain. And when it is over, we shall be one, whether you wish it or no. And then let my enemies tremble!
Rough hands took hold of Hazel. She moaned as Og raised her to a seated position. Several feet away, Violet and Isabel huddled together, watching her through a curtain of heat shimmer. Their dull eyes were sunk deep within their emaciated faces. Fingers twitched, their mouths hung open, a red-brown crust about their cracked lips. The merciless heat had baked the humanity out of them. Her sisters were strangers, two savages plucked out of time.
“Is she breathing?”
Her grandmother’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. Og gave an indifferent grunt.
“Ten minutes,” said the Spider.
Hazel had a dim sense of being carried not up, but down a long, dark stairway. Her next sensation was of sea spray speckling her face. Something damp touched her forehead. Her skin absorbed its moisture like a sponge. She opened her eyes to see Dàme Rascha’s face, upside down and framed by a sky teeming with stars. Tears glistened in the vye’s fierce eyes.
“Am I dead?” croaked Hazel. Her voice sounded utterly alien in her ears.
Rascha hugged her close. “No, my love. You are purifying yourself to stand before Talysin. I know it is hard.”
“How long have I . . . ?” Hazel whispered.
“Six days,” said Rascha, stroking her limp hand. “Violet and Isabel have been up twice already. We land day after tomorrow.”
Hazel nodded dimly. She wanted to feel pride at staying below longest, but she was too exhausted to care. Music carried on the wind, from somewhere—a flute or fife. There were footsteps behind Rascha, and another figure appeared within Hazel’s view. Sigga.
The Grislander’s concern was plain. “Is this typical?”
Rascha nodded and dabbed Hazel’s forehead. “Faeregines bear it. I don’t know how, but they do. Something in their blood.”
Hazel heard a chorus of cries and shouts, a stampede of footsteps above.
“What . . . ?” she whispered.
Sigga peered over a railing. “We’re in Lirlander waters. There’s a city below us.”
Hazel tried to sit up.
“No,” said Rascha. “Lie still.”
But Hazel would not. She wished to feel a breeze, and see for herself one of the fabled demon kingdoms. Most of all, she wanted to stand and prove she still could.
“Been sitting too long,” she gasped. “Please.”
Not even Rascha could ignore the desperation in her voice. Propping Hazel up, she and Sigga helped her to stand. Hazel gave a little cry as her cracked and blistered feet made contact with the deck. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, even after Sigga wrapped a blanket about her. But anything was preferable to that dead, sweltering sanctum.
As she got her bearings, Hazel realized they were on a small deck toward the back of the ship on the starboard side. The main deck was some thirty or forty feet above them. She could see figures lining the rail, their faces lit from below by the sea’s shimmering luminance. Among the many soldiers and sailors, she spied Hob’s dark face gazing down, transfixed with quiet horror. He might have been watching another phantasia.
It turned out he was.
Pictures of the Lirlands always disappointed. They could not be glimpsed during daylight, and photographs taken at night revealed no more than dim clusters of fuzzy light within a vast black sea. It was like viewing a distant galaxy through an overmatched telescope.
Not so in person.
The waters below were shockingly clear and gave off a phosphorescent glow. Gazing down, Hazel made out distant cities and dwellings like she was spotting coins in a fountain. Some were encased under glassy domes, but many stood in the open ocean, including palaces that looked to be colossal in scale. Every structure and spire had a pearly gleam.
Something huge glided past, trailing streams of shimmering bubbles. It looked like a manta ray, but one with a hundred foot wingspan and luminous markings down its back. It cruised lazily along before veering down and away toward a smoking canyon.
As Hazel followed its majestic dive, she noticed things were floating up toward the surface. It took her a moment to realize they were bodies; hundreds of corpses in various states of decomposition. Most were sailors and merchants, their faces frozen in expressions of frenzied terror. They bobbed up like corks, steam billowing off their rotting flesh. Hazel heard soft thumps as Rowana pushed them aside.
“Why?” she whispered.
Sigga stared down at the grisly spectacle. “The Lirlander Seals gives us safe passage over their lands, but the demons are not our friends, Your Highness. They’re gloating over the ships they’ve sunk these past months. Whoever hid that dwimorleech in the vault sacrificed thousands of innocent lives.”
Hazel’s gaze fell upon a young boy. She recognized him at once, for she had been with him during his final moments aboard the Polestar.
Danny’s skin was gray, but he had not decomposed. His mouth hung open; sightless eyes gazed up at the heavens. He did not look frightened, so much as surprised and even disappointed that his life had ended so soon.
Hazel did not scream or cry out. She was too tired, too disoriented to be certain if what she was seeing was real. But a tear rolled down her cheek, and she watched Danny until he was lost in Rowana’s foaming wake.
Her teeth had stopped chattering, but Hazel felt vaguely sick. Looking up, she saw most spectators had disappeared from the railing above. But not Hob. He remained exactly where he’d been, staring down at the nightmare sea.
Sigga sighed and tugged Hazel away from the railing. “I warned him no
t to look.”
When Hazel turned, she saw that Og was waiting in the dark doorway. Rascha lay her hands on Hazel’s shoulders.
“I don’t want to go,” said Hazel softly. “I want to stay with you.”
The old vye kneeled beside her and straightened the crown upon her head. “Go to your grandmother and sisters. We’ll reach the Isle of Man soon. The worst is over.”
Hazel left them. Creeping down through the dark with Og, she could not imagine how she would ever endure another day in that furnace. When they reached the sanctum, the empress was still chanting through black, cracked lips. Violet and Isabel were slumped against each other, their glazed eyes insensate. Hazel tried to go to them, but Og steered her firmly to her mat and poured more of the scalding brew down her throat.
Folding her legs beneath her, Hazel tried to forget what she’d just witnessed in the sea. She resumed her vigil of the white-hot coals and prayed that Rascha’s assurances were true. But when the Reaper’s whispers returned, she knew the worst was far from over. It was only just beginning. . . .
“Your Highness?”
Hazel found herself staring into the kindly face of a priestess. The woman was dabbing her with a scented cloth while an acolyte added small white flowers to the crown upon her head.
“Yes?” said Hazel.
“It is time,” the woman replied. “Are you ready?”
Hazel was so disoriented she had no clue where she was. “Ready for what?” she murmured. She half expected to hear she was late for a test in Old Tom.
The woman smiled. “To stand before Talysin. All is prepared. The Divine Empress is waiting, and it is a beautiful day.”
Hazel looked around uncertainly. She was in a cabin of gold and teak, standing in a basin of cool water. She had been bathed and her white skin anointed with oil, which darkened the henna designs. The cabin’s curving window showed a dawn sky of pale gold above natural harbor or inlet. Two warships—half their escort—were anchored just behind them. She felt a dull ache in her stomach.
“Can I eat something?”
“Very soon,” the priestess promised. “Just a few more hours.”
Hazel cursed silently. A few more hours might have been eternity. Taking the acolyte’s hand, she stepped from the basin and dried her feet on a soft mat. The skin was pink and badly blistered.
As they left the cabin, Hazel realized the pounding in her head was actual drums. It was not the festive drumming that sent them off from the Sacred Isle. It had different timbre and rhythm. Hazel could not place it but was almost certain she’d heard it before.
Stepping on the main deck, she gazed out at cliffs and hills, green with clover or yellow with gorse. The Isle of Man was one of the few places whose name had not changed with the Cataclysm. A guardian had lived here once, a giant whose magic protected the island and its inhabitants. When the Reaper crafted the Otherland Gates, she chose this land for a portal to the Sidh, a realm ruled by ancient gods who left this world long ago. And when it was finished, the empress set Talysin to guard it and ensure that none could enter but those she approved.
Already, workmen were building bonfires and setting up pavilions to house the small army of people that would be sleeping on the island while the Faeregines made their offerings. Hazel would not get to live in one of them. For three days, she would be sleeping in a dragon’s shadow.
Talysin.
A shiver went down Hazel’s spine. Today, she would see a dragon. Not some drawing from one of Uncle Basil’s storybooks but a true monster from antiquity. The Spider’s lessons from the journey surfaced in her mind like champagne bubbles: Talysin’s lore and history, the words of greeting and passage, and the rules for dealing with such proud and aged creatures. These were not phrased as guidelines but as dire warnings with potentially devastating consequences: Never look a dragon in the eye; never let a dragon learn your truename; never assume a dragon is sleeping; never turn your back on a dragon; never speak lies in a dragon’s presence; never fail to show courtesy; never fail to bring gifts; never fail to praise a dragon’s lineage; never show fear. . . .
There were dozens. Hazel imagined there must be similar lists for meeting the empress or other members of her own family. She hoped she could remember them all. She also hoped the gate was near, for she feared a longer trek would be the end of her.
Clinging to the priestess’s hand, Hazel proceeded down a stone pier to the beach where the Divine Empress was waiting in her palanquin, surrounded by guards and attendants. Violet and Isabel sat astride white horses. Both looked so weak they merely clung to the animals’ necks while their bodyguards held the reins. Hazel’s horse was pale gray with a white mane. Dàme Rascha and Sigga stood by the animal, but Hob held its reins.
Sigga lifted Hazel into the saddle. Like her sisters, she leaned forward and rested her head against the animal’s warm neck. Its mane smelled like seawater and there were small shells threaded onto its coarse hairs. She wondered dimly if it was some breed of stalliana. Maybe there were gentle kinds. Her face was just a foot or two away from Hob’s.
“So you’re coming to see him too,” she whispered.
He nodded gamely, but the hand that held the reins trembled ever so slightly. How alien this must be for him, she thought. It was strange for her, and she’d grown up hearing about dragons and Otherland Gates. Hazel always knew she’d make this journey someday. But a boy from Dusk? He must feel like he’s stumbled into a nightmare.
“Don’t be scared,” she said. “It’s going to be all—”
The dragon horn sounded, a spiraling shell whose hoarse note triggered a primal dread. From somewhere in the hills, the drumming grew louder. When sunlight reached a standing stone, the priests raised the empress’s palanquin and they began the slow march inland.
They climbed for hours over hills and streams. They crossed a ravine and still kept climbing toward a windswept ridge where a ring of stones jutted from a grassy pinnacle.
That must be the gate, she thought. But where is the dragon?
Talysin was known as the most beautiful and placid of the gate guardians: a golden wyrm like his father, but flightless. Tatters of mist blew across the island, but the landscape was full of color—greens and browns dotted by white and yellow flowers, gray rock formations, and wind-bent saplings. But Hazel saw no glints of gold, much less a dragon. It had been four years since the empress last visited the Isle of Man. What if Talysin had broken the Reaper’s spells of binding? What if he had died? After all, he and his siblings were thousands of years old.
She caught a flash of movement on a hill. Something was standing upon it, a gangling, man-shaped creature with tall, straight horns. Hazel stared at it. Was it a kind of goat? Some kindred of Og’s? The creature leaned upon a twisted staff and watched their party. It seemed to regard them as intruders, but intruders that must be suffered.
Others appeared in twos and threes, some beating the drums she had heard since dawn. They were not fauns or satyrs and were not remotely uniform in appearance. Some resembled rams; others had heron beaks or a wide-eyed, staring aspect that was unmistakably fishlike. There was a crippled, ungainly quality to them that contrasted with the nimble faeries that were now buzzing about. Their radiance was subtle in the daytime; at night, the island must have looked like it teemed with fireflies.
Nine standing stones formed the ring of the Sidh Gate, each forty feet tall and thicker than an oak tree. They rose from a flattened hilltop that offered a commanding view of the island’s cobalt bays and misty dells. From this vantage, Hazel saw great gouges in the earth below, like jagged wounds with smoke trickling from their depths. Scores of the strange creatures now watched them from hilltops and tumbled cairns. The drumming continued.
Priestesses led forward three white goats, sheep, and bulls to the ring of stones and tied their halters to a maypole in the circle’s midst. The priests who’d carried the palanquin placed small chests at the foot of each standing stone. Dàme Rascha lifted Hazel down
from the horse. Once again, a priestess daubed an oily mixture on Hazel’s forehead.
“Ayama sundiri un yvas don Ember thùl embrazza.”
The same rite was being performed with Violet, Isabel, and even the empress. As Hob led Hazel’s horse away, his hand brushed hers and gave it a tiny squeeze. And then he was gone, walking with Rascha, Sigga, and the others to another hill some fifty yards away that was crowned with yew trees. Only the four Faeregines remained near the gate.
“Come,” croaked the Spider, clutching her scepter.
Holding hands, the three sisters followed their grandmother within the circle of standing stones, the sun shining on their faces. When they crossed the threshold, Hazel felt a subtle energy. It was like standing in the midst of nine tuning forks, each vibrating at a different frequency. She’d experienced similar sensations with the megaliths in Tùr an Ghrian, but this was stronger. The Spider pointed to each stone, and the Ogham runes chiseled upon it.
“Nine stones,” she said. “Each gap between them leads to a different kingdom within the Sidh. But only on holy days, and with Talysin’s aid.” She turned to Violet. “Name the eight kingdoms.”
Poor Violet was shivering in the wind. She clutched Isabel’s hand, her swollen eyes red as cherries. The words came slowly. “Fionnachaidh, Bodb, Bri Leith, Airceltrai, Eas Aedha Ruiadh, Meadha, Brugh Na Boinne, and Rodrubân.”
The empress looked to Isabel. “Which kingdom shall receive our offering?”
She pointed to the gap facing due east. “Rodrubân.”
“Why?” pressed the empress.
“That is where the Ard Rí, the High King, lives,” said Isabel.
“Aye,” said the Spider. “But gods do not stir for trifles we lay at their doorstep. If we are fortunate, the High King will send a shield maiden to offer his blessings.”
At last, the empress turned to Hazel.
“Say the words to summon Talysin.”
Hazel tried swallowing, but her throat was too dry. No creatures drummed or watched from the glades or hills anymore. They had disappeared, along with the faeries. Clutching Isabel’s hand, Hazel spoke softly into the wind.
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