by A. E. Lowan
Lana sighed. “I stole something when I left.”
“What?”
“Keeper.”
Winter frowned for a moment, confused… and then her brows shot up. “Keeper? You stole a named blade?” Was that what Etienne had been talking about in the kitchen? Even she had heard of Keeper.
“It’s the only way I can catch Midir.”
The guards murmured among themselves at the mention of that name.
“I need to plead my case before the king.” For once Lana seemed earnest.
Winter glanced at the other two guards. “Then by all means, let us proceed.”
They were taken through the stone doorway into a cool moonlit corridor, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, the walls meeting in a peaked ceiling arcing high overhead. Water dripped slowly down the mossy walls and mist swirled about their feet, concealing the slick stone beneath. Here and there eyestalks sprouted from the moss and watched them pass in mouthless silence and Brian’s eyes widened a bit to see them.
Lana hissed back at him. “Don’t do that.”
Brian studiously looked away. “Can they hurt us?”
Lana looked at him like he was a truly special sort of idiot. “No. They’re only moss.” She turned back to minding her footing. “It’s just creepy to stare back.”
The halls went on for an eternity… for those who did not know the way. Lana had been born in these misty corridors, protected only by her sweetheart fairy mother and forgotten by the sidhe lord who had sired her. Looking for him after her mother’s death had proven fruitless and she had ended up with Ciaran.
Music, wild and free, nothing like the staid, set human melodies Lana had had to listen to for the past year-and-a-half, greeted them with a burst of moonlight and then they were in the heart of Ceallach’s Unseelie court.
Ladies and lords gathered around, dressed in finery of spider silk and bone and glimmering stone. Humans and fae in artfully torn livery moved among them with trays of treats and sweet wine. Wearing blood-spattered mortal weave, Lana felt like the ugly duckling and wished for a chance to change. But no, time had run out, and she was brought before her king.
King Ceallach was tall, even for a sidhe, and his long black curls were dressed tonight in blood red stones. He sat on his raised throne watching Lana and her company approach with dark, curious eyes. The guards forced Lana to her knees on the stone floor, the force resonating up her thighs and wrenching a small sound from her lips, and Ceallach leaned forward, regarding her like an interesting bug. “So, you’ve returned, my child’s mistress.” He glanced at her companions who could not understand the Faerie tongue, his eyes resting on Brian for a long moment, and then her guards, and then back at her. “But something is missing. Where is my property?”
Familiar faces stared at her with the same expressions of curiosity and contempt. The half-breed consort was again in their midst. But, no, she would never again be on Prince Ciaran’s arm. She had to make her own way, now. Lana raised her head at the acknowledgement and refused to cower. At least he did not name her a common thief and have her tossed down an oubliette. “I have, my dread lord, and the blade Keeper is safe.” Time to play her card. “I bring you news of the great Prince Midir.” No mention of Midir as Ceallach’s brother. Let Ceallach draw attention to the association himself, if he so wished.
Ceallach raised an eyebrow, but she could see the rage kindle in his dark eyes. “Tell me.”
“I know where he is and what he plans.” Lana paused for dramatic effect, the storyteller’s art appreciated by all fae, and launched into her tale. “I admit, I took Keeper, but my intentions were pure.” She ignored the soft scoffing noises from several in the crowd. Ciaran had not helped her make many friends. “My beloved prince had been murdered and I craved vengeance.”
“As did we all.” Ceallach’s voice held a thread of threat.
Lana bowed her head. “But in my breast it burned bright, until on my own I devised a plan. I would take Keeper, get close to the great prince, and use the blade to capture him.” Lana looked up.
Laughter broke out all around her… but it died down as courtiers realized that their king had not joined them. Instead he watched her with a calculating expression. At last he asked, “And how close did you get?”
Here was her chance. “Prince Senán, son of Anluan, son of Niahm, yet lives. Midir has destroyed his memories and recreated him as his own son. I got close to Senán and learned much about Midir’s plans.”
“Close?”
“I am his lover.” At least she had been, before she pitched him into Midir. She wasn’t lying.
Ceallach looked amused and waved for Lana to continue.
Lana’s knees on the stone floor were beginning to burn but she ignored it out of long practice. “The great prince is tearing a hole in the veil between realms and wishes to create his own Faerie kingdom within the Mortal Realm. He has an army of fae and plans to invade tomorrow night.”
Ceallach sat back, thinking. He looked at Lana’s companions again. “And why do you bring mortals among us?”
Lana glanced at Winter. Here was another opportunity. “The whitehaired woman is half fae and a great healer. I brought her-”
“They don’t understand us. What language do they speak?”
Lana bowed her head again. “The mortal language of English, my king.”
Ceallach stood and the gathered courtiers bowed before him, leaving Winter and Brian standing above them all for a moment, looking confused, before Winter bowed and pulled Brian down into a bow with her. He chuckled. “And what is your name, little healer?”
Winter raised her head, a jolt of surprise moving through her to hear the king speak English. “My name is Winter Mulcahy, your majesty. I apologize that I do not speak Faerie Gaelic. I was never taught.”
Ceallach stepped down from his dais and approached, each step casual. He was indeed lord of all he surveyed. “I will forgive you if you introduce me to your companion, Winter.”
“This is Brian MacDowell. He is my cousin.”
Ceallach paused for a moment, and then smiled, amused. “I think we both know he’s more than that.” He swept his arm out. “I think we all know, for who among the sidhe does not know a Hero when we see one?”
Winter felt the color drain from her already pale lips. “Please, your majesty, he’s untrained. His Hero’s Journey only began today.”
Ceallach raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem to have a high opinion of your young Hero, do you?”
“I have a very high opinion of him, your majesty. He’s the finest young man I’ve ever met.” Which was entirely true, and the Faerie king would taste the truth in her voice.
“Then let him meet my challenge. I must know what quality of Hero I am dealing with.”
Brian looked up. “I don’t know that, myself, but I’ll meet your challenge, your majesty.”
Winter closed her eyes for a moment, unsure of who to pray to. No one was listening, anyway.
Ceallach smiled and spoke to the crowd. “It should be a challenge worthy of a true Hero…” his nod to Winter was slightly mocking, “but not too onerous.” His courtiers shouted out suggestions, ranging from trial by combat which made Winter’s breath shiver with fear to games of skill and chance the names of which Winter had never heard. The stakes were high, of that Winter had no doubts. Finally, Ceallach’s smile widened as an idea seemed to occur to him, and he drew a courtier close to whisper in her ear. She grinned at Brian and slipped away to carry out her master’s bidding.
Apprehension made Winter shiver.
Ceallach turned back to his courtiers, a showman’s smile on his face. “Our young Hero is lacking something.” He made a show of looking Brian over. “It’s not strapping good looks. Those he has in abundance.”
Brian’s cheeks darkened and the fae around him laughed.
Ceallach raised a hand. “No, no, it is good he is modest. A vain Hero is insufferable.” He walked around Brian, the two men
of a height even if the muscular Brian was much broader. “No, he is modest, he is handsome, I dare say he is hardworking?” He looked to Winter for that, and she nodded agreement. “So what is he missing?”
“Experience?” Winter suggested, hoping to get Brian out of this.
Ceallach waved her off. “We all start somewhere. He starts here. Today.”
“A weapon?”
The suggestion came from a small sidhe girl who tugged her king’s tunic and his smile changed to one of tenderness and indulgence. He stroked her dark hair with a gentle hand. “Yes, my clever pet. A Hero needs a weapon.”
The little girl beamed up at him.
Ceallach waved his arm towards a doorway. “And here we have a weapon fit for a Hero!”
The courtier returned with a brace of guards who between them carried a loaded weapons rack that trailed thick cobwebs like streamers. The guards set the rack down in the clear space before their king and bowed low before stepping back.
Something about this struck Brian as strangely familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He looked up to find the Faerie king watching him closely. What was he looking for? “What sort of challenge is this?”
“A simple one,” Ceallach spread his arms. “For our neophyte Hero, a choice.” He looked to Brian again. “Choose wisely.”
Brian looked at the rack and hesitated. “Or what?” The way Lana talked this place wasn’t far off from being like the streets. There would always be a catch.
Ceallach chuckled and dropped his arm around Winter’s shoulders. “Else you forfeit your fair maiden.”
“What?” Winter tried to squirm away, but Ceallach held her close.
Brian reached for Winter but Ceallach’s guards, bristling with weapons, stepped in between them. He’d have to choose one of the cobweb-covered weapons from the rack if he wanted a hope of not getting cut to ribbons getting her back. He turned back to the king. “Choose a weapon. That’s all?”
“Choose wisely.”
Wisely. Okay, so he needed to choose a particular weapon. Fine. Brian turned back to the rack.
Seven weapons rested there. Two elaborately carved bows, a spear-looking thing, and four swords of various sizes from a monster nearly the size of the spear to a dainty blade barely the length of his forearm. But it was a middle-size sword with a lion’s head on her crossbar that arrested his attention.
Her?
Brian crouched down and gently tore away the cobwebs, revealing a fairly simple sword with minimal decoration outside the elegant lion’s head which he could now see graced both sides of the pommel. The metal was strange, all silvery-gold and shimmery under the moonlight, and Brian felt a strong urge to feel her weight in his hand. He looked up at Ceallach. “Can I draw her?”
Ceallach looked pleased. “Her, is it?”
Brian flushed again. “It seems right to me.”
Ceallach grinned. “Then her it is. Draw her, let’s see what happens.”
Brian swallowed and stood, suddenly nervous. What if he was wrong? He looked over the other weapons, just in case… but no, none of them affected him the way she did. So he picked the lion-headed sword up by her scabbard… sheath…? and brought her blade out into the air with a ringing hiss of steel.
“Greetings, Hero. Long have I awaited your touch.”
Brian gasped and looked around, only to realize the voice was in his head. “I… Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Is she speaking to you, young Hero?”
“Yes.”
Ceallach looked delighted. “Ask her name. She has refused to tell all who asked, even they who forged her.”
“May I ask your name?” It felt rather strange, speaking to an inanimate object… and also very right, as if he’d been waiting for this his whole life.
“I am Courage. I have been waiting for you.”
“My name is Brian. May I tell these people your name?”
“As you wish. I am yours.”
And he was hers. He knew that on a visceral level. But out loud he said, “Her name is Courage.”
Ceallach removed his arm from Winter’s shoulders and his guards stepped aside. “Well done, my boy! Well done.” He motioned toward a liveried servant. “Get our young Hero a fine sword belt. He must be able to bear his companion with pride.”
Brian finally smiled, looking in wonder at Courage for a few moments before sheathing her. He couldn’t wait to show her to Jessie when they got home. He nearly pulled out his phone to text her and then stopped. It was a pretty safe bet that his phone wouldn’t work, here. As soon as they reemerged, then.
Ceallach ascended the dais, passing Lana who remained on her knees on the stone where her king had left her. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, watching Lana, and finally said, “A Hero and a healer. You keep interesting company, Lanadrielle.” He glanced at Winter with renewed curiosity. “And you make a lovely maiden, young Winter.”
Winter bowed her head. “Thank you, your majesty.” Her heart still fluttered from her scare.
“Why are you here?”
Winter looked up at him. “I’m the wizard of the city Prince Midir is going to invade. Tens of thousands of my people will die if he succeeds.”
Ceallach nodded, thinking. “You have much at stake.”
Was Lana wrong about his commitment to Midir’s destruction? Winter drew breath to speak.
“Winter Mulcahy is a great healer. She can cure Queen Deirdre, your majesty.” Lana held her head high, even on her knees. “In exchange for your help.”
Ceallach’s brows knit.
Winter’s eyes widened. That was too much and too cruel. But now that it was said she couldn’t walk it back without either appearing weak in front of an unknown ruler who had just used her as a hostage, or potentially getting Lana hurt. On the other hand, she couldn’t make any promises, especially not in this place where to be foresworn could mean death. “Lana may be promising more than I can deliver.” Lana shot her a dirty look. “If I may see the queen, your majesty, I can give you a better idea of what treatment options are available.”
Ceallach gave Lana an unfriendly look, but he stood. “Fine. Come with me, little healer. Let us see what your skills will trade for.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Winter followed Ceallach through a door behind the dais and into a narrow hallway. Gone was the wide-eyed moss and the dripping moisture, replaced by smooth, dry stone and soft tapestries. They passed open doorways revealing opulent private rooms until they arrived at the heart of Ceallach’s kingly quarters.
Through a sequence of offices and sitting rooms decorated in a delicate, elaborate style for which Winter had no name was a closed door. Ceallach rapped on the carved wood and waited a moment before a light, feminine voice carried from within. He smiled at Winter, his expression tired. “My queen’s favorite handmaiden,” he said, and opened the door. Dismay stole over his handsome face.
The golden chamber was a disaster. Furniture pieces were overturned and clothing strewn about as if a fancy dress ball had collapsed about the room. Embroidery and thread hung from the ceiling fixtures like wildly colorful cobwebs. Only a chaise in the center of the room remained standing and two sidhe women sat there, one upright, the other laying with her head in her lap, her cheeks sunken and pale, the thin nightgown she wore torn and hanging off of one shoulder. The sitting woman stroked the other woman’s long, tangled hair with a gentle hand, making soft, soothing sounds.
Ceallach looked around the room. “This happens from time to time. Normally, my queen…” he covered his eyes and whispered what may have been a prayer in Faerie Gaelic. “Can you help her?”
Winter ached for him. She knew his pain intimately. “I won’t make any promises, but I hope I can. May I ask you some questions about her, your majesty?”
“Yes, yes. Whatever you need.” Ceallach turned the table closest to him to rights. “I’ll answer anything.”
“Do you know what happened in here?”
Start small and work outwards like a ripple. What had happened in this room was a symptom of the larger condition.
Ceallach spoke to the sitting woman, who replied in Faerie Gaelic. “This is Musette, my queen’s favorite. She says that Deirdre lost one of our younger son’s toys and can’t find it.” He picked up an upturned embroidery basket and looked beneath. “It’s a palm-sized toy horse, a painted blood bay. It was here this morning when I left her…”
Winter looked around and joined in the search, setting furniture and ornaments to rights as she looked beneath. “So she panicked and tore the room apart looking for it.” She looked at Queen Deirdre, laying silent on the chaise, her eyes half-lidded. “Will she speak to me?”
Pain flashed across Ceallach’s face. “She won’t speak to me.” He shook his head. “She speaks to no one.”
Winter nodded, thinking. “How much sleep does she get a night. Some? None? Does she nap during the day?”
“She rarely sleeps, and when she does she has nightmares. She often naps for short periods, usually like this with Musette petting her to soothe her.”
“And how often does she eat?”
“She often refuses to. I can usually get her to drink watered wine, though.”
Winter nodded again, relieved. That was their way in. If Deirdre drank wine every day, she could get potions into her. Now to figure out what kind.
Ceallach watched her closely. “You’ve had a thought, little healer.”
Winter smiled. “The potions I use to treat conditions like your queen suffers from need to be mixed with food or drink and taken daily. If you can get her to drink wine every day, then I think we stand a good chance of treating her.”
“So she’s not the only one who suffers madness like this?”
Winter shook her head. “Far from it. Hers is simply rather severe.” She set a chair with a broken leg against the wall. “My father suffered from something similar. He refused to speak or eat or take his medications. He gave up on the world, on our city, on life, and because he wouldn’t take his medications there was little I could do to comfort him.”
Ceallach paused with a tangle of embroidery floss in his hands. “When did he pass?”
