Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

Kyri.

  Morgan could only look at her. He tried to take a breath to speak but there was pain.

  She went to one knee with the weight of him, a hand sliding gently down around the arrow in his chest, pouring Healing down along it and into him even as she lifted her head to stare defiantly into the face of the opposing army, fury, rage and fear spearing through her.

  It was just she and Morgan alone in the middle of the field, on the rise Morgan said they had to reach.

  Her hand slipped inside his shirt, curled around the arrow, over his heart, over the terrible wound so close to it. Slowly she pulled the arrow, Healing as she withdrew it.

  Morgan’s blue eyes met hers, his hand covering her hand even as the enemy momentarily halted their flight.

  Both of them knew the truth – that if they turned on them she couldn’t lift him from here, not before the arrows flew.

  And she wouldn’t abandon him… no more than he would have left her. If they were to go, it would be together.

  So small, Oryan thought, stunned, as he saw them on the ground.

  In all the time Oryan had known her, for all of her small size, Kyri’s indomitable spirit had always seemed so large.

  Kneeling in the center of the plain, trapped between the two armies with Morgan in her arms, both of them in the direct path of Haerold’s forces, she looked so fragile, her gossamer wings curled almost protectively around them.

  But she also looked resolute, defiant, as if daring them to come at her, defying them to try.

  A sudden silence fell, for a breath, two…

  Slowly, the enemy turned as someone on that side shouted and another cheered. A wizard charged through their ranks, spurring his sweat-foamed horse faster.

  The enemy had turned.

  A whisper, Morgan snatching a breath as Kyri’s warmth, her Healing, spread through him, taking the pain away.

  Crystal blue eyes met aquamarine.

  “I love you, Kyri.”

  “I love you, too, Morgan,” she said, lowering her head to brush a kiss across his mouth.

  Watching, Oryan saw the enemy turn to run toward them…

  Shouting, he tried to rally his troops. Above, the Fairy, as one, gathered and dove. Knowing it was hopeless.

  The momentum had been lost, but every one of them, from levy to rebel to Fairy refused to give up….and Oryan went with them.

  A great shout went up, in defiance, denial….

  Kyri looked up again…at the setting sun, at the lowering clouds.

  There was only one faint chance, one last desperate gamble…

  She wouldn’t lose Morgan again, not for her own life…. Haerold wouldn’t win…

  Faces flashed through her mind, Oryan, so determined… young Gawain… all of her people, quiet Galan, steady Dorien, dependable Solon, merry Gaia…fallen.

  And Morgan… Always her beloved Morgan…

  “Gawain,” Kyri shouted, in voice and mind, “Clear the sun... clear the sun… just give me light…just a single shaft of light!”

  Her arms wrapped tightly around Morgan, she poured Healing into him as the arrow finally came free. She tossed it away. Even so, he was too weak for her to move.

  Her eyes were on the advancing troops, as the wizard raised his hands and gestured… raising power….

  Astonished, disbelieving, Gawain could only stare, trying to understand how everything could have gone so bad so suddenly.

  It didn’t seem possible. For days, weeks, months, for as much as he’d suffered, as hard as he’d fought, Morgan had seemed eternal, strong and unconquerable. They’d been so close to winning…

  Kyri’s cry broke his paralysis, his eyes lifted to the leaden sky and then he set heels to his horse, racing across the battlefield and into the field of fire.

  Oryan turned, cried out in horror, “Gawain!”

  The army stared as the determined young man raced across the field, his brown hair flying, gray eyes steady, his sword raised in hand.

  With a great shout, as one they charged to defend their General and their Prince.

  Before her, a hundred men and more ran toward them.

  Kyri saw the archers raise their bows and the first flight of arrows flew upwards with a sound not unlike wings to darken the sky.

  Then Gawain was behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

  She looked up into his silver eyes.

  His met hers and then looked at the advancing army, at the flight of arrows rising and the clouds above.

  Magic shivered over her skin, hers and his, focused together.

  Morgan felt it, hers soft, fresh, Gawain’s sharp, clear…

  In the distance, so did Galan…

  “Kyriay…no….!” he shouted. “My Kyri….”

  Galan ran even as his wings opened, knowing, fearing what she was about to do.

  He looked across the battlefield at Kyri, saw her gesture to the prince.

  “Give me light,” Kyri whispered to Gawain.

  Their eyes met and the boy nodded. His gaze went to the sky.

  Remembering everything she and Galan had taught him, Gawain focused his intent.

  On light.

  Everything went silent…the moment breathless, seemingly eternal…

  Morgan watched as the soldiers sped toward them, as the arrows reached their apogee.

  In a moment, they would fall.

  A blast of wind would stop them, Kyri knew, but not those who ran beneath them. The arrows would reach them first, but the soldiers soon after.

  Kyri looked back at Morgan. She loved him so much.

  Their eyes met as his hand closed over hers. There was no pain. She’d Healed it.

  “Close your eyes, Morgan,” she said softly.

  He looked at her, at the look in her eyes, at the desperation, a trace of hope and fear…

  The clouds parted. A single shaft of light pierced to strike the trio on the rise.

  It was enough.

  So very beautiful, Morgan thought as he looked at her, as the light touched her, warmed her eyes, gilded her hair and sparkled from her wings.

  “Close your eyes, love,” she said.

  “Kyriay,” he said, not a question, a statement.

  Brightness.

  On a breath, she said, “Yes.”

  Her face lifted to the light and he closed his eyes.

  Kyriay, the Bright One, Queen of the Fairy, spread her wings wide, wider and called down the Light. Called it down to her, down to her crystalline wings, opening them as wide as she could to take it, all of it. She called the light down and into her, into her wings, to fill her and them with brilliance, them and her with heat and light.

  It poured into her, seared through her, battered her, filled her to bursting with glorious, radiant light, so bright, so intense, so much, so much, more, more… It streamed into her, overwhelmed her. She was lost in the brilliance as it filled her, absorbing it, more, the light of the sun, all the light of the sun…burst through her…

  To those watching, incredibly, her wings began to glow, brightened.

  The light intensified, grew eye-searingly bright, so brilliant they had to turn away, going white hot… A sound rose from her wings, the sound of crystal on crystal, ringing, shrieking…

  Kyri arched as her wings gathered the light, cupped it, focused it.

  A keening cry burst from her.

  She was Brightness…

  Released it.

  Light exploded across the plain. It burst brilliantly, searing, radiant, as if a thousand bolts of lightning had all struck at once in the same place.

  To those there the world seemed to shatter into a million shards of glorious incredible radiance. If light could be translated into sound then it thundered, it rang, it screamed brilliance. The whole world reverberated with a sound like bells, like shattering glass, like the breaking of a thousand hearts. It was life, it was love and healing, it was hope, it was the defiance of death, it was the sound of grief.

  It was as if the sun ha
d been born again in the midst of the plain and Kyriay, Brightness, the Queen of the Fairy, and Morgan in her arms, were at the heart of it.

  Light splintered, blasted, blinding…

  And everywhere her tears had fallen, light burst, too…

  In the dark shadows of Haerold’s dungeon and the misty darkness of abandoned Caernarvon, in the blighted heart of the Central Forest and a fertile plain in the depths of the heartlands, there was light, glorious light. It stripped away the shadows, burned away the darkness…

  Silence.

  The world came back from glory slowly, from the astonishing brilliance, as the light receded and the eyes tried to adjust. It was for a moment rendered only in black and white, as it came back into focus once more. Color seeped back by degrees. The clouds were gone as if they’d never been and the lowering sun bathed everything in soft, warm amber light.

  A gentle breeze blew, brushing across the skin lightly, ruffling the hair gently.

  Across the battlefield soldiers stared around them, incredulous…

  For a moment Oryan couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. No one could. He was dazed, uncomprehending and then his heart went still as he looked for his son…and for Morgan and Kyri.

  In the center of the plain, Kyriay still knelt as she had it seemed only a moment and a lifetime before. Her beautiful wings were still spread and resplendent, glowing brilliantly, light still dancing in and through them.

  Morgan was braced in her arms, Gawain at her back.

  Before them, Haerold’s soldiers had fallen like wheat before a scythe, although some few were slowly stirring.

  The wizard was gone. Vanished as if he’d never been. His horse wandered, riderless.

  On the plain between the two forces a tumble of arrows was scattered loosely and wildly like a child’s game of pick-up sticks.

  A little dazzled, stunned, Morgan opened his eyes and looked up at Kyri.

  Her face was as still and serene as marble, tinged lightly with color. The light from her wings shifted over her delicate features. Her remarkable eyes were lowered, the golden lashes sparkling a little in the sunlight. She was barely breathing.

  He raised a hand to her smooth cheek.

  For a moment her beautiful sea-colored eyes fluttered, saw him. Her lips curved… and then the light in them vanished…

  “Kyri,” he said, his heart twisting.

  A terrible fear burst through Morgan….

  It seemed as if Gawain had been frozen and then sense and feeling came back.

  A small voice in his head seemed to whisper, See, I can do magic…

  He looked at her, at Kyri. Her beautiful eyes were closed, her lovely face as pale as milk.

  Gawain caught her as she crumpled, as Morgan scrambled to take her up in his arms.

  She was gone.

  As the shock of it hammered him, Galan whispered, “Kyriay, my Kyri…” as his feet hit the ground beside them.

  On the far side of the plain a voice in the distance shouted, “I can’t see.”

  Chapter Sixty Nine

  It had taken some time, but the castle at Caernarvon had finally been restored to its former glory. At long last it was done and just in time for the winter holiday. The Great Hall had been decked out in pine and winter berries so the room smelled of nothing else. Under Geoffrey’s direction the slate floor had been polished almost to the point of being a hazard and carpets laid over them. A fire burned in the long fire pit. Spits turned with a whole roasted pig, two half sides of beef and several chickens. Pots of mead and honeyed wine hung over the coals to warm. Torches burned, the soft light from them warming and softening the look of the stone of the room further.

  Oryan looked it over with satisfaction.

  It had taken nearly two years to put everything to rights again, but things were returning to normal.

  Haerold had been sent to Remagne, where he brooded in his castle alone. Like many of the wizards that day on the plain, the light had taken Elissa. It hadn’t taken Haerold, but it had taken his sight. A blind wizard was little threat to anyone.

  That incredible light that day had burned away the darkness. It had been beautiful and it had been terrible.

  Gawain came down the steps two at a time as usual. He’d grown even more and now topped his father in height. Wandering along the tables he stopped to sample something from each.

  He’d also become an eating machine, his father thought fondly.

  “Just a little longer….” he said.

  Only Morgan was here at the moment, brooding by the fire…his fair head bent, his blue eyes on the flames.

  A little shot of joy raced across the room on tiny gossamer wings. Morgan snared his daughter out of the air with one hand out of long practice. Her little face beamed up at him, her eyes impish. At two and some she’d just learned to fly and gone from fluttering to zooming. She’d her father’s fair hair, her mother’s aqua eyes and sense of mischief and wings that matched the color of her eyes. In every other way she was her father’s daughter and so she was already a handful. He bounced her in his arms and she giggled, her hands on his face, patting it happily.

  Diana.

  Morgan smiled back at her.

  From above came a sharp piercing cry. That was the signal. He knew what that sound meant. He’d heard it once before, with this one.

  “Let’s go see your mother,” he said, bounding up the stairs to peer around the door, smiling, followed by Oryan and Gawain. “Is it safe?”

  Kyri laughed, sitting up in bed, reaching to Galan, who was beaming proudly, to take the baby from him. “Come see your son, Morgan.”

  She smiled at him, her eyes on his beloved face.

  He settled onto the bed beside her as she pulled back the blankets to settle the boy to nurse with a smile of contentment. With a gentle finger, Morgan smoothed the boy’s thin cap of hair. Gold, like his mother’s. He wondered what color his eyes would be once they changed. His son. Their son.

  Oryan leaned against the doorjamb, grinning. “Congratulations.”

  Ducking around his father, Gawain peered over the top of the blankets. “Hungry, isn’t he?”

  “Reminds me of someone else I know,” Oryan remarked, dryly.

  Gawain rolled his eyes.

  Kyri looked up at Gawain and grinned. He’d turned into a fine Healer, after a literal baptism by fire that day on the plain. Gawain and Galan had both been tried that day and come out the stronger for it.

  A crystalline wing found its way out of the blankets, fluttering. Morgan went still as Kyri looked at him, abashed, and then she grinned.

  It was as clear as crystal, that tiny wing, like his mother’s.

  A small smile tugged at Morgan’s mouth as he reached out and touched it. It fluttered automatically.

  “Say hello to Ky, the next King of the Fairy.”

  Morgan shook his head, tucking an arm around her. “What will I do with two of you?”

  Kyri grinned.

  Below, they heard the sound of the doors of the Great Hall opening.

  Clearly torn, Oryan looked back toward the Hall.

  Smiling, eyes sparkling, Kyri said, lifting her chin at Morgan. “It’s his fault, blame him. He couldn’t wait just a little longer to have another.”

  Morgan laughed. ”Go, we’ll be down in a little while to show off our new arrival.”

  It was another benefit of Fairy Healing, that she could recover so quickly, although she would still be tired and a little weak. Kyri looked up at Morgan and he smiled, tracing a finger down the baby’s cheek, Diana fluttering above his shoulder to look down at her brother in fascination.

  They couldn’t miss this first holiday in restored Caernarvon, though.

  Galan took the baby, holding him so Diana could see as Morgan helped Kyri dress, taking her hand to steady her as the long pale blue dress slipped over her now flat belly to swirl around her feet, his hands lifting it a little so her wings could settle before sliding down over her waist. He loo
ked into her eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for our son.”

  She smiled, raising a hand to his face. “I love you, Morgan.”

  Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it. “I love you, too. Are you ready?”

  She nodded and he led her out, a curled arm inviting his daughter to settle in the crook of it, Galan following with Ky.

  The Hall below was filled with familiar faces, people chattering and talking, Fairy nearly indistinguishable from the others in the crowd, save for the wings.

  There were faces that were missed and the grief there had just begun to fade.

  Caleb was gone, he’d fallen only a moment before the arrow struck Morgan or it never would have, his wound so grievous even Kyri couldn’t have healed him.

  They found Dorien amongst the dead, too, his sword in hand, two arrows in him, yet he’d fought there, too. Bodies had been scattered around him.

  Kyri missed his imperturbable presence intensely.

  Among those here were Patraic’s widow and his heir, his daughter Calandra. It would be the first festival they would celebrate after they’d put aside the black of mourning.

  Morgan learned of Jacob’s fate in the days that followed the battle and put the timing together well enough to understand the sacrifice his friend had made, reparation of sorts for the harm that had been done. He grieved for the friend he’d once had.

  His wish, however, had been granted and the walls of Remagne had been torn down. The great pediment now stood on the ground beside the road to Remagne as a shrine to those who had suffered and died in the war. Jacob’s name was listed among them.

  There were bright spots, too, as Gaia’s infectious laughter rang out. Detrick had taken a dozen wounds as he battled to where she’d fallen, to find her, burned badly and bleeding, among the fallen but still alive.

  It had been she Galan had been healing that moment on the plain when Kyri had called down the light. Although he’d done an amazing job, one of her wings had been damaged enough to limit flight. She had consolation, though. Detrick stood at her side, with their son in his arms, firmly keeping the boy from flying off. He wasn’t quite fledged yet but he was trying…mostly Detrick’s patience.

  Jordan of Dorset and Gawain indulged in a wrestling match.