As if aware of their presence, a dank wind moved from the depths of that hole. Eileen, her hands freed from the NightMare’s mane, covered her nose at the stench of old, dead things.
A large, flat stone scribed with spirals marked the threshold. The mare raised one hoof and brought it sharply down upon the stone. Bright sparks skittered, followed by a distant, booming echo. Twice more the mare knocked, and each time the sound grew closer, until it vibrated Eileen’s very bones.
The air of the doorway wavered, like a pond stirred by the wind.
“We pass now into the Realm,” the NightMare said. “You must remain on my back, no matter the sights you see or the danger you face. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” The syllable floated up from Eileen’s mouth, a fragile moth lost in the night.
The mare stepped forward. As they passed over the threshold, Eileen felt a terrible pain, as though angry wasps swarmed over her. She bit her lip and drove her fingernails into her palms, determined not to cry out.
Inside the barrow a pallid light spread, illuminating a stone-lined corridor with a corbelled roof. Rank fungus, pale and misshapen, grew along the edge of the flagstone floor and clumped in crevices on the walls. The stinging pain passed, but the clammy air lay heavy against her skin.
She cast a look over her shoulder, straining for one last glimpse of the night sky before the mare bore her deeper in. The stars were tiny pricks of light, washed dim by the moon. Then the opening was blocked by a shambling figure. The barrow light illuminated its skeletal form, ancient skin shriveled tight against the bone. Tattered rags hung from its limbs and a golden torc encircled its neck, marking it as a chieftain of yore.
From the skull-like face, empty sockets regarded her. Deep within lurked a spark of eldritch fire. The corpse opened its mouth in a soundless laugh.
Eileen pivoted away and leaned over the mare’s neck, hoping her mount might hurry, but the NightMare continued her measured pace down the corridor. Another memory untangled itself from Eileen’s mind, flared and burned down to ash.
The echo of hoof beats was soon muted by the slither and scrape of dozens of footsteps.
Throat dry, Eileen glanced behind her again, and smothered a scream. The dead followed, patient in their stalking. Your beloved will soon join us, their tongueless mouths seemed to say.
“No,” she whispered.
The barrow amplified the sound, turning it into a long “ohhh” of despair.
“Quiet,” the mare said. “Or do you wish to bring the bean sidhe for a visit as well?”
Eileen had been afraid before, but this slow, creeping terror held her nearly paralyzed. What if the NightMare chose to stop and allow the restless corpses to touch her with their rotting fingers? Would they merely stroke the resilience of her living flesh, or would they gouge great handfuls, feasting on her in a vain bid to regain their own vitality?
From the avid lights in their eye sockets, she very much feared the latter.
The mare bore her past an opening to her left, filled with the tang of blood and the sighing of the sea. Then an opening to her right, where noxious vapors swirled. Eyes stinging, Eileen buried her face in the crook of her elbow and tried not to inhale. Her heart beat hard and fast, knocking against the fragile prison of her ribs.
She did not need to look back to hear the following dead.
At length, her mount brought her to the central chamber. The pale light revealed crumbling treasures in the corners: rotted linens, tarnished silver set with dully gleaming gems, a golden goblet with one side crushed in as though it had been used as a weapon in some vicious fight.
In the center of the room lay a stone slab, and upon that slab…
“Aidan!”
She swung her leg over the mare’s broad back, and only a shrill whinny of warning made her halt. Mere inches from dismounting, Eileen scrabbled back onto the horse. The dead hissed in disappointment behind her.
Hands trembling with impatience, she forced herself to be still as the NightMare stepped up to the slab.
Aidan lay as if asleep—or lifeless. His eyes were closed, and he was dressed in the raiment of an ancient king, with gold armbands encircling his biceps and thin circlet set upon his brow.
Digging her fingernails into her palms, Eileen watched his chest, straining for a sign of breath. At last, it rose in a long, slow inhalation. She slumped back, tears pricking her eyes.
“He lives,” she whispered.
“Not for long,” the mare replied. “You may step down now, but stay upon the marble verge. Should your foot touch the flagstones, you will be lost, and your love as well.”
Eileen slipped down, placing her feet with care. She cupped Aidan’s cheek.
“Wake, beloved,” she said.
He made no response.
“Aidan, please wake.”
She took his shoulders and shook him, gently at first, then harder as he continued his enchanted slumber. A kiss did not wake him, nor a shout. The echoes of her cry woke strange shadows that skittered across the ceiling, but Aidan slept on.
Throat choked with tears, she turned to the mare. “What shall I do?”
“He has dreamed too long, too far from the mortal world. Tír na nÓg calls to him strongly.”
As if confirming the words, the dead lined up in the chamber stirred and rustled. The fallen chieftain took a step forward. Soon, Aidan would be among their number.
No. She refused to let him slip away.
Eileen gazed at his strong, beloved face. Her heart had long belonged to Aidan, since the first time she met him while picking herbs. He was brave and kind, and deserved a long, full life. And he was lost to her, now, whether she lived or died.
“Lie beside him on the slab,” the mare said, “and take his hand.”
The stone chilled her side, but Aidan’s fingers were warm in hers. She watched the excruciatingly slow rise and fall of his chest. With one finger she traced the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw.
She must sing him back.
Pulling in a breath of grave-cold air, she began. His spirit had traveled far down the road to the West, and the simple waking chant would not be enough. It must be a call home, back to the human world.
Her voice filled the chamber as she sang the heat of summer, the call of the thrush, the taste of ripe berries on the tongue. Every warm, vital memory she once owned, she gave to him, spilling it forth. Each word carried more of her humanity out of the shell of her body and into his. The golden plait over her shoulder leached of color, the strands turning an eerie white.
Slowly, the dead began to dissipate, fading under that mortal onslaught.
Eileen sang of fresh-baked bread, a child’s laughter. The humming feel of her hand clasped in his as they laughed together above the ripening fields.
Aidan’s breathing sped, his cheeks flushed with warmth and color.
Three of the dead remained. Then two. Then only the chieftain. It stared at her, bony fingers wrapped around the golden torc at its neck. The cold malevolence of its will dampened the song, chilled the air to ice.
Shivers gripped her, but she raised her voice, defiant. This time, nothing would stop her.
The last syllables faded. The dead chieftain took another step forward, and Eileen caught her breath. Had she failed?
Then Aidan opened his eyes. Turning his head, he smiled at her so freely she felt her heart break in two. From that crack, the last of her mortal essence seeped. The dark form of the NightMare struck her hoof against the slab.
“Eileen?” Aidan asked, blue eyes clouded with confusion.
“Live well,” she said. “Live long, and happily. I will never forget you.”
“Why would you need to? I’m here, beside you.”
She shook her head, her chest aching with sorrow. “There is no future between us, my love. We must part.”
“No! Marry me, I don’t care about—”
She stopped his words with her lips, a last kiss to carry her into the
night. He tasted of apples and sunlight; everything now lost to her.
The dead chieftain howled. The mare’s hoof boomed against the stone. And between one heartbeat and the next, Aidan was gone.
Weeping, Eileen bent her forehead to her knees. The breath of the NightMare was hot upon her nape and the stone beneath her wet with salt, with blood.
Yet she remained.
Wondering, she sat and lifted her hand, curling her long, wraithlike fingers. Had she a mirror, the reflection would bear little resemblance to the human features she had once called her own.
“The price has been paid,” the NightMare said. “And I have a new rider. Come.”
The far wall of the barrow clattered down to reveal a night rich with shadows and starlight, and a wild, fey wind that called them to ride.
Eileen-that-was rose from the stone, her body hollowed nearly weightless, freed of memory, freed of hope. She mounted the black horse.
Together, they flew forward into that sweet dark.
~*~
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Growing up, Anthea Sharp spent most of her summers raiding the library shelves and reading, especially fantasy. She now makes her home in the Pacific Northwest, where she writes, plays the fiddle, and spends time with her small-but-good family. Contact her at [email protected] or visit her website – www.antheasharp.com
Anthea also writes historical romance under the pen name Anthea Lawson. Find out about her acclaimed Victorian romantic adventure novels at www.anthealawson.com.
Be the first to hear about new releases and reader perks by joining Anthea’s newsletter, Sharp Tales, at https://tinyletter.com/AntheaSharp.
THANK YOU for reading Faery Realms! We hope you enjoyed these tales of magic, adventure, and romance - and found some new authors to love.
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Faery Realms: Ten Magical Titles: Multi-Author Bundle of Novels & Novellas Page 114
