Once Upon A Curse: 17 Dark Faerie Tales

by Yasmine Galenorn

  Caedehn nodded his understanding, his expression hard. “I know. I’ll swear a blood oath if I must.”

  My Curse flared to life at this statement, the sudden upheaval of power causing my faelah to hiss and spit. The instantaneous agony of it drew a gasp from my lips, but I disguised it with a shout which sounded more triumphant than pained.

  “Very well, my dearest,” I sneered. “Do give me your oath then.”

  We performed the ceremony, and I gritted my teeth at my son. I called him a fool for his decision, but it had been made, and there was nothing I could do to change his mind. Even if I wanted to bring an end to this madness, my Curse would never allow it. The Darkness, more than anyone or anything else, could sense exactly what I was feeling, and the more anguish it caused me, the stronger it grew.

  As soon as the ritual was through, I opened my glamour, allowing it to flow freely into my transformed Cumorrig, now three times their original size and primed for battle. And then, I stood back and watched as my son took on his own battle shape, the riastrad he’d inherited from his father. Beside me, the girl watched, trapped beneath a protective shield of glamour. I tried reaching out for her, my Curse wanting to taste her hidden power and the turbulent emotions stirring in her soul, but the shield was strong, and it easily deflected me. The sharp jolt was nothing compared to what the faeduhn magic meted out, though.

  Bored with watching the girl, I eyed Caedehn again, feeling his weakening state like an ache in my bones. That old memory stirred anew, but this time, I didn’t have the strength to fight it. Unobstructed, it came flooding back into my mind. I had thought my torment was over when Cuchulainn was through with me, but I had been wrong. Nine months after being spurned by him, I bore his child, a child I did not want, a son I could not love. Alone, in the cavern fortress of my realm, I brought him into this world, reminded during every agonizing minute of that long labor of the man who had been so cruel to show me life, then take it away as if it had meant nothing to him. Because it had meant nothing to him.

  The child was born healthy, despite my sickened soul and the resentment I harbored against him. For a few minutes after his birth, as I lay holding him and recovering from my ordeal, I allowed myself a glimpse at the life that could have been. If I had not been the goddess of war, if Cuchulainn had not wished simply to use me and cast me aside, if the faeduhn Curse had never coiled around my soul ...

  Whatever light that moment had brought was soon snuffed out. That sour, bitter, burning resentment grew once more, fueled by the dark glamour, and I wanted to be rid of the child. I called forth one of my servants and charged her to take the child away and leave it on the boundary of my realm. She obeyed without question.

  “Let the elements of Eile kill him,” I’d told her, the pain of the Darkness crushing my heart under its weight, “for I cannot bear to look at him any longer. But,” I added, remembering who his father was and knowing that I was even stronger, “before you do, let me see him one last time.”

  Reluctantly, the young woman handed him over. It was painful to gaze into his eyes, so green they conjured memories of Eile’s vast fields and the endless canopy of the Weald glowing beneath a summer sun. The pain of my Curse dug into my heart, and I nearly cried out. Whatever peace might have been was dashed away, burned into black ash, choking me as I tried to breathe.

  “I place a geis upon you, my son,” I rasped, my eyes burning with impending wrath.

  I pressed my palm to his chest and conjured my symbol, the mark which tied a Faelorehn life to my service.

  “Should you survive after I cast you away, you will someday return to serve me. And should you disobey me, your life, and your glamour, will be forfeit.”

  A sound of anguish drew my attention back to the rain-slicked battlefield and to the dwindling fight, the memory from so long ago floating away like smoke scattered in the wind. Caedehn had defeated all but one of my Cumorrig, yet his strength and his resolve was failing. Like his father, his pride and warped sense of honor would be his downfall. He would let his supposed love for this fae strayling destroy him.

  “Utter fool!” I muttered again under my breath, my eyes burning with impatience and rage. Did he not realize the anguish love would bring him?

  In the next instant, my Cumorrig found its opening and plunged its wicked claws deep into Caedehn’s abdomen.

  The faeduhn magic swelled within me, like a black cloud of smoke and fire, swallowing my heart and any sentiment it might have conjured forth. Agony, like searing mage-fire, coursed through my blood, and I had to fight to keep control. That pathetic whelp of Danua’s still watched, screaming my son’s name. She would pay me no heed, at least for the next few minutes. I drew in a breath of the damp air and let my eyes close. The dark magic, always trying to overtake me, licked at my senses, its dominance no match for my own. That was my fate as a Tuatha De, a goddess among immortals, cursed to be Faeduihn. Any normal Faelorehn man or woman would succumb and lose all their faculties under the spell of such dark power. But not me. The insidious magic pushed me and warped me to become what I was now, the goddess of war and strife, unable to feel that which my brethren could feel: joy, happiness, love ... But it would never take my mind from me; it would never grant me that one blessing. Instead, I struggled every waking hour beneath its weight and wrath, knowing exactly what I was missing. All because of one night with one man whose glamour had somehow overridden my Curse, a geis I could never break.

  I opened my eyes to see Caedehn fall with the last Cumorrig. The dark magic burned deeper, eager to get a hold of his well of glamour. The little strayling broke free of her protective shield of magic and rushed over to him, sobbing as his life drained away.

  “Good,” I whispered to myself, the dark magic easing back to its place beside my own glamour. “It is done.”

  I was numb. There had been so much pain this time, so very much.

  Somehow, I made my way over to Caedehn’s lifeless body. I snarled something at the girl, telling her to back away so I could claim my glamour, and then hers as well. I saw no need to keep my promise now, and I doubted my Curse would let me walk away from this battlefield while such delicious, fresh magic sat in the mud before me.

  And then, I saw it in her eyes, that sensation so alien to me, the look Caedehn had given her not too long ago. Somehow, it burned through my defenses and singed the edges of my faeduhn curse, and for a split second, my heart was allowed to experience what it should have this dark morning: love, pride and sorrow so deep, I thought I might fall into it and never arise again. A small gust of cold air brushed against my face, and it felt as though a thread of ice traced down my cheek. Gasping, I backed away as the girl’s own glamour burst forth like a thunderclap directly overhead.

  I had thought she and Caedehn to be fools, weak for allowing themselves to fall in love. I knew from personal experience that that particular sentiment only led to ruin and pain. Yet, this half-breed Faelorehn woman burned before me, not with the excruciating, punishing scorn of faeduhn magic, but with that same radiance and power I had known only a few times in my life. This Meghan girl, with her brand new glamour and her ignorance of the Otherworld, shone forth like a star, her magic powered not by Eile’s magic or glamour stolen from another. Her power came from love.

  Never in my life had I backed down from a challenge, for I was always the most formidable opponent anyone would ever face, but this girl had found a way to defeat my cursed magic, and she didn’t even know it.

  Snarling in frustration, I called upon what remained of my dwindling power and transformed, becoming my animal shape. I beat my black raven’s wings and let the gusting wind take me, nearly succumbing to the strayling’s attack. I did not care. I had to outpace the punishing vengeance of my geis as the faeduhn magic sought to crush what my heart dared to feel. Cawing out in anguish and rage, I pushed myself higher, blending in with the dark clouds above and disappearing out of reach.

  I would not forget this girl and her wrath, and li
ke Cuchulainn so long ago, how she had shown me once more that which I was denied. When I recovered, I would return, my power multiplied tenfold, to rip from her body the one thing that would satisfy my Curse’s insatiable appetite, at least for a while. Perhaps then, I would know a small moment of tranquility.

  As I streaked across the storm-tossed sky, staying just ahead of the faeduhn’s wrath, I allowed myself, for the first time in many, many years, and most likely the last time, to examine that grandest emotion any living thing could posses. I stretched my mind, pushing it past the murky darkness which blocked out all the light, and I caught a glimpse of a shard of a memory: a picture of Caedehn’s face the morning he was born, the scent of his new, silky skin, the sound of his tiny voice as he slept, the rapid beat of his heart. And just before the drowning, poisonous pain rushed in to fill all the spaces in my heart, a new torment cut through me: a sorrow far worse than everything my geis had ever thrown at me. And this one hurt the worst, because this time, it was real.

  About the Author

  Jenna Elizabeth Johnson grew up and still resides on the Central Coast of California, the very location that has become the set of her novel, Faelorehn, and the inspiration for her other series, The Legend of Oescienne.

  Miss Johnson has a degree in Art Practice with an emphasis in Celtic Studies from the University of California at Berkeley. She now draws much of her insight from the myths and legends of ancient Ireland to help set the theme for her books.

  Besides writing and drawing, Miss Johnson enjoys reading, gardening, camping and hiking. In her free time (the time not dedicated to writing), she also practices the art of long sword combat and traditional archery.

  For contact information, visit the author’s website at:

  www.jennaelizabethjohnson.com

  Other books by this author:

  The Legend of Oescienne Series

  The Finding (Book One)

  The Beginning (Book Two)

  The Awakening (Book Three)

  The Ascending (Book Four)

  Tales of Oescienne - A Short Story Collection

  *Read excerpts of these books here*

  Find all Jenna’s books at AMAZON~

  Meghan’s POV

  Faelorehn (Book One)

  Dolmarehn (Book Two)

  Luathara (Book Three)

  Cade’s POV

  Ehriad - A Novella of the Otherworld (Book Four)

  Ghalien – A Novel of the Otherworld (Book Five)

  Robyn’s POV

  Lorehnin – A Novel of the Otherworld (Book Six)

  Caelihn – A Novel of the Otherworld (Book Seven)

  Meghan’s and Cade’s POV

  Faeleahn – A Novel of the Otherworld (Book Eight)

  Standalone Novel

  Faeborne - A Novel of the Otherworld (Book Nine)

  *Read excerpts of these books here*

  Connect with Me Online:

  Twitter: @AuthorJEJohnson

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorjejohnson

  My Website: http://www.jennaelizabethjohnson.com/

  Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/authorjejohnson/

  Instagram: http://instagram.com/authorjejohnson

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/authorjejohnson

  *For news regarding book releases, giveaways and author appearances, be sure to sign up for my newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/jp-pL*

  Drawn to the Brink (A Painted World Story) - Tara Maya

  A brink had escaped from across the twixting, and when the glamourers drew colors, Sajiana’s ribbon came up silver. With an extravagant sigh of resignation, she packed up her linen papers, her scribs and her knots, pretending to a reluctance to leave the stuffy halls of Mangcansten. Once loose upon the moor, with the grouse and the heather and the wind whip-a-man through her hair, she broke into a whistle. She trod no road, and needed none. Upon her back she carried her large, flat portfolio, her scribroll and a smaller rucksack of odds and ends. She pitied herself only because the brink had left a trail a first-year draftsprentice could have followed. In no time at all, she would have the creature’s picture in a knot. Once she disposed of it, duty would force her back to dreary Mangcansten.

  However, she was in no danger of overtaking the brink that day. When dusk came, she waited through the twixting time, then found a likely spot upon the empty moor to camp for the night. She had a folder of prepared etchings, including many of little cottages. Sajiana had a fine eye for detail. Even these simple sketches included whimsies such as ivy curled over the stones in the fireplace and watering cans sitting upon windowsills planted with radishes. She placed one drawing in the center of a flat expanse of sward, and then set out her knots at a distance around it. Three knots could serve, at minimum, but because Sajiana hunted a brink, she set out four for safety. As she tugged tight the last knot, the glamour caught the piece of paper. Picture billowed into reality. Now a cozy cottage, with potted radishes in the windows and a roaring fire puttering smoke from the ivy-covered fireplace, stood, snug as you like, before her.

  The key to a good etching was to fill in the view through the windows. If you hinted at what lay inside, that sufficed. No need to draw all the insides separately, as long as enough showed in the picture for the glamour to operate upon it. In the same spirit, if one drew a picture of a cabinet, one must always draw one drawer open just enough to show something inside. Otherwise, when one opened the door of one’s house, or the drawer of one’s cabinet, one was apt to find a blank white interior.

  In the windows of the cottages that Sajiana sketched, one always caught a glimpse of a snuggly bed on one side and a table laden with food on the other. When she opened the blue door to the cottage, therefore, she found a teakettle just coming to boil, a plate of scones, a hardboiled egg and breaded veal cakes. She tucked in with a will. Nothing like a day of walking to whet an appetite! She banked the fire and crawled into the warm bed.

  Dawn almost caught her by surprise. It had been that long since she’d been on the road. She leaped out of bed just as the twixting of daybreak dissolved the knots on the glamour. As usual, once the glamour vanished, no sign of the piece of paper remained. Bed, table, fireplace, cottage, all misted into the morning fog and left Sajiana shivering in her nightclothes on the desolate moor. Grumbling under her breath, she scurried to her rucksack – no glamour – and pulled on her trousers and jacket of wool felt – no glamour either. She shoved the nightdress into a crumpled lump in her sack and resumed her trek across the roadless moor.

  Fourteen drawings later, she reached a town called Paddiglum. The brink had arrived here a few days ago, after taking a much more haphazard route that zigzagged across the moor. The brink would be hungry, and this one was too inexperienced – perhaps it was young – to know that it would do better to lurk out in the wilderness and waylay travelers than risk coming into a human town.

  She could have drawn herself a dress of crimson silk, sewn with buckles and bells of gold and a tall moon shaped hat to match. However, Sajiana preferred the anonymity provided by her ragged, rugged, real travel clothes. She tromped through the town, whistling, past villagers dressed no better than she, ignoring and ignored. She had a string in one hand, a scrib and a slip of blank paper in the other. A close observer would have seen that the string did not dangle from her hand, but poked its head out this way and that, gently tugging at her fingers. These were the tugs that led her ever closer to the brink.

  The string suddenly jerked her quite hard toward an alley along the cheesemonger’s street. Sajiana looked up and met the eyes of a startled young man. His hair tousled about his head all unruly. His eyes were huge in his face, haunted. His lips pressed together under hungry cheeks. Strange that in all this time since he had escaped from the twixting, he had not used his considerable powers to better maintain himself.

  Some brinks tried to run. Some tried to fight. The outcome would be the same. This brink looked at her a long moment, hard. He walked away. It was as though h
e lacked either the humility or the sense to fear her.

  His striking face would be his undoing; she could hardly forget a face like that. Sajiana sat down against a wall beside a cheese shop. In feathery, charcoal strokes of her scrib, she began to sketch the face she remembered. It took her only a few minutes to have a likeness. It took her longer to tie the complex knot around the portrait. With her knotted portrait, Sajiana stood and walked into the alley.

  "Come to me," she said.

  She heard him before she saw him. A scritching and scratching and scrapping sound: he fought each step of the way to answer her call. He could not resist the compulsion, however, and he finally dragged himself into view. His eyes no longer looked haunted. They blazed with hate.

  "You would dare draw me? Do you know who I am?"

  "Just another brink, as far as I’m concerned," Sajiana said.

  Whatever answer he had been expecting, it had not been that. He stared at her, flummoxed. "Are you mad? What are you talking about? I’m no brink!"

  His surprise surprised her. She had never met a brink who did not know it was a brink. Most boasted of their inhuman superiority.

  "Did you honestly think you were human?" she asked, overcome with curiosity against her better judgment. The teachers at Mangcansten universally advised against entering into prolonged discussion with a brink.

  "I am human," he said. "And the fact you cannot bind me proves it."

  He wrenched himself free of the compulsion. This time he did run.

  The charcoal portrait had become a smudged mess of meaningless lines. She rolled a choice curse around the inside of her mouth. Because he had not attacked anyone, stolen anything, or wrecked any havoc, she had assumed him to be weak. Instead, it appeared he had a stronger will than any brink she had previously encountered. Sajiana began to worry that a more experienced glamourer should have been assigned to this brink. She had a quick hand, but not the patience for the truly intricate work needed to bind an extremely powerful will. The brink was wrong if he thought that humans could not be bound by a portrait. That was what humans and brinks had in common. However, a strong will could turn a line drawing to mush. She would have to put more effort into it.