The Subtle Beauty

by Ann Hunter

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  1 Sam, 16:7

  Part I: BLADE OF WOE

  BLADE OF WOE

  Part II: THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS MONSTERS

  THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS MONSTERS

  I: MORNING GLORY

  II: LUCULLIA'S WEDDING

  III: THE MIDNIGHT RUN OF PRINCESS GLORY

  Part III: THE MAN AND THE MONSTER

  IV: BEAUTY IS A BEAST

  V: TOO LATE FOR CURSES

  VI: THE CURSED PRINCE

  VII: THE MAN AND THE MONSTER

  Part IV THE SUBTLE BEAUTY

  VIII: THE WISDOM AND THE GLORY

  IX: THE GREAT STAG HUNT

  X: RISE OF THE PHOENIX

  IN THE END

  Free Short Story

  MOONLIGHT EXCERPT

  About The Author

  Pronunciation Guide

  Translation

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Ann Hunter

  Stock cover photograph copyright © 2007-2014 Cathleen Tarawhiti (http://cathleentarawhiti.deviantart.com)

  Editor: A.J. Sterkel

  Graphic Designer: Andrew A. Gerschler

  Published in 2014 by Afterglow Productions/P. Gerschler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

  The Subtle Beauty / By Ann Hunter

  ISBN-10: 0989203425

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9892034-2-5

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for purchasing The Subtle Beauty!

  Within these pages are creatures inspired by Celtic mythology, along with a dash of Celtic language.

  For your convenience and reading enjoyment, I have included a pronunciation and translation guide at the back of the book.

  Enjoy the story, and remember….

  There’s no such thing as monsters.

  ~

  Be sure to stay tuned after the conclusion of The Subtle Beauty for an exciting preview of Ann Hunter’s upcoming novel, Moonlight!

  “….for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”

  -- 1 Sam, 16:7

  Part I

  BLADE OF WOE

  This is the story of a man and a monster, but really it is the tale of a blade…

  In a black castle on the cliff tops by the sea, near the high moors of Sigil’s Gate, the Celtic Princess, Aowyn, snuggled close to her dark-haired husband. He slung his arm over her wide belly. She smiled as he bowed his head and buried his face in her copper hair, breathing deeply. The child in her womb squirmed. Aowyn grasped her husband’s hand and placed it over the baby’s kicking.

  “Do you feel that?”

  “Mmm.” He freckled her neck with kisses.

  Aowyn giggled as the baby became more active. “He likes you.”

  “How do you know it is a he?”

  Aowyn chewed her lower lip. She didn’t know. What if she let her royal family across the sea down by failing to produce a male? Worse, what if she let her husband down? “The baby is so strong, like you, Xander. I always assumed it was a boy.”

  “Let us hope.”

  Aowyn stared into the darkness for a long time. Tables and chairs were rough shadows, save for where moonlight bounced off the edges. The peace in the room lulled her. Her vision blurred in a sleepy half-consciousness, until a voice, none which she had heard before, took her attention.

  “Aowyn, daughter of Aodhagáin, hear me.”

  Aowyn’s eyes widened, and she propped herself up on one elbow. “Did you hear that, Xander? Someone is in the room...” she looked over her shoulder, but Xander was frozen in time. Aowyn began to tremble. “Who’s there?”

  “Be not afraid, young one, for we bear glad tidings.”

  Aowyn slowly pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Who are you?”

  “Step into the light and know us better.”

  Aowyn was filled with doubt. Slowly she moved to the stretch of moonlight that reached through the room.

  “Aowyn…” as her name was spoken, the pale light became blinding. She had never seen such glory, for it was brighter than the noon-day sun. Gradually her vision returned, and the warmth of spring grass, dotted with little yellow flowers, tickled her senses. The light remained around her, as pure as an artist’s canvas, save for this little haven of green and yellow.

  The voice became many now, in a rush of hushed murmurs, like the caress of a soft breeze. “The child you bear will one day be great. See him now.”

  The canvas of light swirled in to many colors, taking on depth and definition. Aowyn’s heart swelled as a broad-shouldered man, clad in royal purple, descended a gilded staircase toward her. His amber eyes were startling and held a knowing twinkle. His hair was like the setting autumn sun.

  “Behold Eoghan, prince of the future Crown Realm.”

  Aowyn reached out to the image, wanting so desperately to touch this young man with Xander’s stature and her nature. He smiled at her boyishly, then vanished.

  The light faded. Aowyn’s heart raced, her breathing increased. “Wait.”

  The grass and the flowers shriveled into empty space. She shook her head. “No. Wait. I want to see him again. Gods, why taunt me so?”

  But the voices were gone, and Aowyn was in her bed.

  Xander’s hand rested over her belly. The baby squirmed.

  “Do you feel that?” she asked.

  “Mmm.” He freckled her nape with kisses. The baby became more active. Aowyn giggled. “He likes you.”

  “He.” Xander breathed in his wife’s lovely scent. “How do you know?”

  Aowyn was startled when the words flowed from her without her consent. “The gods have made it known to me.” She chewed her lower lip. Was it true?

  Xander propped himself up on an elbow. “The gods.” He sounded incredulous.

  Aowyn’s shoulders rose to her ears. It was a wild statement, to be sure. Her voice was timid. “I have seen him.” She rolled on to her back, glowing with excitement. “Oh, Xander, he is beautiful!”

  Xander flopped over and rubbed his face. Aowyn slipped her arm over his brawny chest. “He has your brow and shoulders. He was so big and strong. You will be proud, my love.” She snuggled into his shoulder with a dreamy sigh.

  Xander stared at the ceiling. A son. He wanted nothing more. But his wife was a princess, bearing a prince. A prince needed provinces to govern and kingdoms to rule. All Xander had was Blackthorn Keep. He clenched his jaw. One decrepit fortress was not enough. He had fought all of his life to retain his birthright over what very little land his family had left, but he would have to fight harder with a son on the way.

  Xander’s breath came in a shudder. He glanced down at Aowyn, who had nodded off. It was going to be a long, sleepless night.

  Xander stood before the window the following morning, gazing at Aowyn in the black rose garden below. A blue butterfly landed on her hand, and a smile lit her face. Xander sighed, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips as he leaned against the windowsill. The sunshine warmed his bare chest and shoulders.

  A son.

  His forefathers would have given their kingdoms for sons. Perhaps that is how Blackthorn’s hold had dwindled. Such a small land for a great prince to enter. It simply would not do. Yet Xander saw no peaceable way to expand. Was there no one with whom he could form an alliance? He had fought for so long to retain what little h
e had, yet now he would willingly swear fealty to anyone for more.

  Could he perhaps arrange a marriage? High King Balthazaar at Winterholme, far away to the northwest, had recently announced the birth of a daughter, Alexa. Xander had a feeling such a proposal would be frowned upon. Aowyn’s people were newcomers to the land. Winterholme’s hold was full of ancient, royal blood. Balthazaar would likely see the proposal as a taint upon his lines. Xander, alone, did not feel that way, though his bloodline ran through the land just as deeply. He had been fighting in Aowyn’s country under his father’s command when he, serendipitously, met and fell in love with the princess. Her father saw an opportunity to forge his own way on to a new continent and offered Aowyn to Xander as a truce between the kingdoms. Now here she was, bearing a son, and Xander had no provinces to deign to him, save for the tiny hold of Blackthorn. No doubt, once word reached Aowyn’s homeland of the coming prince, great expectations would arise.

  Xander shifted his weight. Perhaps Aodhagáin would send assistance. Then he remembered that his father’s battle had drained the coffers of both kingdoms, and what little Aodhagáin had remaining was given with Aowyn as a meager dowry.

  Xander thumped his forehead against the windowpane, closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw. He did not hear the bedroom door open or register that he was no longer alone until a startled voice chimed in the background.

  He looked over his shoulder. “It is alright, Maeb, you can come in.”

  Maeb shielded her eyes so blue that they were nearly gray. “Ní hea1,” she shook her head, then continued in Xander’s tongue, slowly and broken, “you are only half-dressed.”

  Xander chuckled. “Maeb, how many children have you nursed? I do not have much you have not seen.”

  “It is not proper.”

  Xander rolled his brown eyes and crossed to his wardrobe. He pulled on a loose tunic and offered Maeb a rueful smile. “Better?”

  Maeb looked away and fanned herself with her hand. Xander’s own mother would not have been half as sweet as Aowyn’s old nursemaid. Xander took a seat at a small table that overlooked the garden. Maeb set about changing bed linens and arranging fresh garments in Aowyn’s wardrobe.

  Xander slid down in the chair and folded his hands over his stomach, lost in his thoughts. It was not until Maeb raised her voice to him that he realized how much time had passed.

  “I ask you three times now what you want for first meal.”

  Xander raised his hand carelessly to wave her off.

  Maeb crossed to him and picked at a few black curls, as if fawning over her own son. “What troubles you?”

  Xander leaned forward and hung his head, slowly rubbing his hands together. Should he tell her? What help could a nursemaid be? He exhaled a long breath. “Wyn says the gods have revealed that she carries a son.”

  Maeb let out a noise not unlike a chicken who has laid an egg. “Wonderful!” She tussled his hair. “Why worry? This cause for great joy.”

  When she calmed down, Xander explained. “It would be, save he is a prince by birthright, and I am just a man. I have nothing to offer him.” He looked up at Maeb, forlorn. “A prince needs kingdoms; I only have this crumbling heap of a fortress. It is unfit for a prince. Do you understand, Maeb?” He rose slowly, his gazed fixed on Aowyn outside. “My father was not exactly keen to make allies. I have no one to turn to for assistance.” He looked at the round, elf-like woman. “Unless you know of someone?”

  Maeb’s expression was blank, and she stepped back slowly.

  “Maeb?”

  Maeb wiped her hands on her apron and hurriedly turned away.

  Xander knocked over his chair in his haste to catch her. “Maeb, do you know of someone?”

  Maeb was trotting toward the door. Xander caught her wrist and spun her round. “Maeb, you must tell me.”

  Maeb shook her head.

  Xander grasped her shoulders. “If you know who can help, for the love of all your gods in the firmament, tell me!”

  Maeb trembled in his hands. She would not meet his gaze. She swallowed hard. Her words trickled barely above a whisper. “There is rumor… but we do not speak his name.”

  Xander’s grip softened, and he held Maeb’s face, pressing his lips to her graying temple. “Please, sweet mother, tell me.”

  Maeb bit her lip. “Sylas Mortas.”

  Xander turned her gaze to meet his. “Please tell me where I can find this man.”

  Maeb clutched his wrists and pulled them away from her. “He is no man. He is only evil. Please do not seek him out.”

  “Maeb,” Xander implored.

  Maeb’s eyes turned icy. “In the swamps of Morgorth, not far from head of River Trefnwy.” She stole away from him and reached for the door, pausing. “But you not hear it from me.”

  Xander spurred his horse onward. Rhun was a hulking black steed who practically had to rear up to get his front under him in order to launch forward with every stride. His mane, dark as midnight, whipped by Xander’s face. Xander crouched low over Rhun’s withers, driving his hands against the horse’s sweaty neck. They splashed into the River Trefnwy, water exploding into the air with each hoof beat and turned westward, putting the pink blush of dawn behind them. A line of alder trees loomed in the distance, still cloaked in twilight.

  They cantered into the woods and wove through the trees, hopping over logs, and prancing through streams. The further in they rode, the darker it got. The forest floor turned soft and loamy. Rhun kicked up bits of silt, and a damp smell rose from below. The ground broke in to muddy patches. The dense woods around them turned mossy and abruptly sparse with narrow spruces. Rhun slowed, no longer sure of his footing. Xander dismounted and tossed the reins over Rhun’s head. Bullfrogs croaked nearby. Xander swatted a mosquito nuzzling the vein in his neck. Rhun nickered warily. Xander patted his shoulder to reassure him. Black peat squelched beneath them, belching up the rank odor of standing water. Xander could barely see in front of him. Thank the heavens for the native moonflies that glowed and dimmed like stars on the horizon. Rhun threw his head, pulling on the reins and balking. Xander exhaled between his teeth. “Easy, lad.”

  Rhun’s nostrils flared and contracted, his eyes wide.

  Xander chirped to him, hoping to offer some encouragement.

  After a moment, Rhun finally took a step forward. Xander rubbed the horse’s forelock and forged ahead, squinting. Pockets of brackish open water gurgled and foamed. Bubbles ballooned so large that a young child could have fit inside. They burst with a splat, reeking with acidity. Xander wrinkled his nose and swallowed against the sick knot in his throat. Vines twisted at his boots as if trying to pull him into the bog and snuff out his life force. Rhun halted again and stamped his hoof. Xander thought he caught a glimpse of firelight through the trees ahead. He rubbed Rhun’s nose. “It’s not much further.”

  Rhun shook his mane. Xander tugged on the reins. Something long and thin snaked through the water. Rhun skittered his haunches round, knocking into Xander and smashing his foot. Xander bit his lip hard, wanting to punch Rhun in the neck. Idiot beast! He limped a few steps, trying not to yell out and startle Rhun further. Rhun followed behind placidly as though nothing had happened. The mud sucked Xander’s boots deep into the earth. Great veils of lichen swung from the trees like specters. Xander pushed a curtain of them aside and glimpsed a campfire-lit clearing.

  A pot bubbled over embers. Barrels leaned against an old, creaky shack. Across the way, a table stood beneath a steaming, burbling alchemy station. Xander tied Rhun’s reins to a branch, and the stallion dropped his nose to graze. Xander reached for the dagger at his side, wishing he had brought something larger. However, he had learned as a lad that a man who cannot defend himself at short range could not really defend himself at all. His hand tightened around the hilt. He planted his feet firmly on guard, pointing the blade in the direction of a snap from the woods. His breath raced as a tall form appeared between the trees. A figure, cloaked in royal blue with stit
chings of runes, seemed to float toward him carrying a pile of logs. It dumped them beside the fire and stood before him. “It took you long enough to find me, Barwn Blackthorn.”

  Xander’s breath seized in his lungs. “You know my name.” It was a startled statement, not a question.

  “Of course I know who you are. I know who everyone is.”

  “Are you Sylas Mortas?”

  “The one and same.”

  “If you know who I am,” Xander began to circle cautiously closer, “do you know why I have come?”

  Sylas Mortas watched him patiently from beneath his cloak. “You seek power, young Xander. Power you cannot obtain alone.”

  “Do you know why I seek this power?”

  Sylas held up his hands. “I do not concern myself with the whys of men, only the what and how. You seek power; I seek to help you.”

  Xander paused. “Why would you want to help me? What is in it for you?”

  Sylas chuckled. “Do not worry your lordly laddie head over that.”

  Xander lunged at him, jabbing with his dagger.

  A massive blue light launched him through the air and landed him hard on his rear. His dagger went flying in the opposite direction. Rhun danced, startled, in the background. Sylas crouched by the fire and poked at the coals. “When you are ready to behave, I will be ready to talk business.”

  Xander wiped mud from his arms and neck. What did Sylas do to him? “What is your price, Mortas?” he asked with disgust.

  Sylas rose and dusted off his hands. “Allow me to help you, Xander, with payment due only with fulfillment of the bargain.”

  “Bargain?” Xander got to his feet and searched for his dagger. He kept an eye on Sylas. “People say you are wicked and not to be trusted. Why should I trust you without knowing the cost first? How do I know you will not demand my firstborn?” He spotted the hilt sticking out of the ground and bent to retrieve it. He cursed as he burned his hand on a hunk of molten metal.