“My parents are Chieftain Iccius and Chieftess Adele of the Remi,” Freya said. “How could you not know that? Did they do something to anger the fey or make some sort of deal to trade me for something?” She’d heard stories of things like that happening.
It was Morrigan who now rolled her eyes. “No. Cease trying to guess because you keep guessing wrong.”
“She’s not totally wrong this time,” Hedwig said. “If you want to look at it that way, her parents did make a deal. Hint, Freya. The so-called palace, that pile of rocks in the shape of a really large hut? Your Remi people didn’t build that.”
Balder leaned over Freya’s shoulder to hold a wineskin before her face. She had not even heard him return. “I do hope this is more to your liking, sister. I see they were beginning to explain the truth to you. I am your brother, of a sort.”
“Um, no. I’m not fey.” How much weirder could this possibly get? If she were fey, if she were one of them, she wouldn’t have suffered Romans for so long. “But…I am adopted.”
“You are,” Balder said. “Your human parents exchanged me for you. And, no, I’m not bitter about it. I rather like my life amongst the fey. It is, however, lovely to meet my sister. I’ve been curious about you, you know. We were exchanged for each other and grew up with each other’s parents, or parent, in my case. Your mother didn’t raise me, just your father.”
He lowered his head and kissed her hand. He had Iccius’s eyes and Adele’s black hair.
“You needn’t suffer alone,” Balder continued. “Indeed, I am glad not to suffer alone any longer.” He gave her hand a firm squeeze.
What did Balder have to suffer about?
He brought the skin to her lips, filling her mouth with a steady stream of ale. It was good, only a hint of sweetness this time. A refreshing sort of sweetness, though, not the cloying sort. The sweet and bitter mingled, but also with the slightest bit of tart. She’d tasted nothing like this before. But the faint aroma… Freya could almost forget her current predicament with the wonderfulness of the blueberry ale dancing on her tongue.
“Chiron’s taught you all about Woden, your father,” Balder said. “My father by a bond, yours by blood.”
The warlike Woden had raised this bard? Freya looked again at Balder’s ringed, lithe fingers and spotless cape, then thought of the pictures she’d seen of Woden, his mouth open in some battle cry, clad in a loincloth as he fought monstrous beasts in some icy land. Who would wear only a loincloth in a place like that? Balder dressed much more sensibly. No, there was no way Balder could have been raised by the snarling, one-eyed god. Not god. Fey.
Freya grinned. “I heard fey like to play random tricks on mortals. This isn’t going to work on me.”
“We didn’t get to the best part,” Hedwig said. “Your mother is Hecate.”
Freya choked on the ale. She must have misheard. “This is getting more and more ridiculous. Hecate and Balor were a couple, not Hecate and Woden. They were evil Beasts, too. If I had fey parents, they’d be one of the heroes, like Lugh Lamfada, the one who conquered the Beasts.”
Morrigan’s eyes flashed red. “Remember that the victors are the ones who write the tales. As to your parents, it was a bit of a forbidden romance. They met at some sort of, well, discussion.”
“Discussion? That’s what you’re calling it?” Hedwig turned to Freya. “At this rate, Morrigan will be telling you Woden gave Hecate flowers and booze and sang ballads. Didn’t happen. Well, just the booze did. After several barrels of booze, I believe Hecate said to Woden, ‘Bed, now.’ Woden gave her a stupid smile, similar to yours, and grabbed her arm. Even though Hecate isn’t the most well-loved of the fey, she was well loved that night.” She gestured to Freya. “And here you are, a weird product of a really weird mismatch.”
“If I believed this at all, I could see why neither of them wanted to raise me,” Freya said. The texts made it seem as if Hecate lived on the outskirts of fey society, a Beast who could consume anyone she pleased. Woden would never want a daughter who ate his warriors on a regular basis. But Freya was nothing like those Beasts.
“What Chiron didn’t tell you,” Balder said, “was that our parents talked long enough to agree to give you to the Remi leaders along with enough riches to provide you with a good life. Why do you think you’ve always had more than enough luxuries? Why do you think the Remi live better than other tribes? How many other tribes have a white structure with three stories, decorated with swan and horse statues? How do you think you get to ride Enbarr? You had Chiron for a teacher, too. Your blood parents haven’t forgotten you, sister.”
Enbarr? The palace? She’d never thought about these things or questioned them. She’d never heard of Enbarr in Chiron’s tales, but he was more than a mere horse. The Romans prized the steeds sired by the incomparable Enbarr, whose mane drifted to the earth in silken waves. Enbarr had unsurpassed speed. When she rode him, she could not even feel his hooves strike the ground.
Why was she even considering any of this as truth? Enbarr was just a horse, a very beautiful one. These people were mad—except Freya, from the neck down, was still unable to move.
“I’m not one of those Beasts.” If Freya had been able to move, she would have slammed a fist and probably cut her hand on the rough stone.
“Fomori,” Morrigan snapped. “None of the texts call Beasts that, but that is the name of their people.”
“Don’t worry about the Beast problem.” Hedwig waved off Morrigan. “You should be happy, Freya. You’ll never have to worry about wrinkles or dying of old age. Young and pretty forever, or until someone kills you.” Hedwig’s smile told her she was hopeful of the latter.
“How do you all know so much about me?” Freya swiveled her head to look at the three of them, considering she could not do much else.
“Your parents have used birds to watch you since you were a babe,” Balder said.
“That’s…very creepy,” Freya said.
“Yes,” Hedwig agreed. “There are probably a million better things to do than watch you skulk around in moth-eaten rubbish, freeing Siegfried’s supporters, and buying those harem toys from Ulf.”
“If my parents know my life is in danger, can’t Woden show up in his loincloth and start spearing the assassins? Can’t Hecate show up and eat the Druids or something?” Freya asked.
Morrigan took a deep breath. “Again, here we are. We are your protection and your instructors. Before you are confronted with any other fey, you must learn your powers. You must be able to defend yourself.”
“How do I learn these powers?”
Now we’ll see if this is real. If I get powers, the Romans are going to be fleeing from here, pissing themselves all the way across the river. She resisted the urge to cackle like Hedwig. But what if I turn into a Beast and start eating people? Well, there are Romans nearby. If I were a Beast, would I care about chomping on some Romans? Would the armor get stuck between my teeth and cut my gums?
“You begin to learn your powers when you learn your true name,” Balder said.
Morrigan leaned forward, cupped her hands over Freya’s ear, and whispered one word. “Loreley.”
The world around Freya blurred and darkened into blackness. She groped for the stone wall beneath her, able to move again. But it was not there. Reaching blindly with her hands only revealed more nothingness.
A deep rumble of thunder, a flash of lightning skewering her body, and she shrieked. But it did not hurt. The flash illuminated this reassembled world. Only a moment ago, the sky had been clear. But now, it was dark. There was rain. The very earth seemed to rumble with thunder. The ruins were nowhere. She couldn’t see the earth, only purple clouds in a black sky cracked with white lightning.
A dream. This was some sort of dream. Dreams always had weird shifts of scenery, like from being in a market stall to suddenly being seated at one of her parents’ dinners in sackcloth.
Her body shook, becoming something else, something light and winged—
not something heavy and fanged. White wings, covered in feathers. She soared through the storm, her wings untouched by the lightning, as if she were carried by the wind. Her stomach reeled with her loathing of heights. She kept telling herself not to look down, or up. Sometimes, looking up was just as bad as looking down. Was it so odd to ponder falling up and never finding any purchase, just an endless fall?
But, as always when she instructed herself not to do something, she did just that. Still, she did not feel dizzy, for the storm formed a silver-black ceiling above her, shot with marbled lightning.
And then, the sea. Great waves crashed upon the shore. Ships were swallowed by great water beasts with unblinking eyes and great rows of fangs, larger than swords. The mortals’ screams were drowned in the great roaring of the storm.
She plunged beneath the water, her stomach feeling like it was going to disconnect from her body. And then, into the darkness. What was behind the murk? Were there more of those great, sharp-toothed creatures? She shuddered, and her body did not feel normal. She looked down, and her eyes grew so wide that her brow began to ache. She had a tail, a long tail covered in violet scales, terminating in a rose-hued fin. Was she entirely a Beast? No. There were more of the frill-like fins along the backs of her forearms, her very human forearms, and another frill around her hips, this one long, where her flesh met the scales.
She yelled as she was pushed upwards, her hands grasping onto something that felt like a watery mane. A sea beast materialized beneath her, only not as large as the others, nor as bulky. One that seemed almost familiar. He appeared to be made out of sea foam. Yet the noble equine face, the small beard under the chin did not seem so odd. But the great horn in his brow and the scaly pearlescent tail that twined with hers, the feel of a watery mane in her fingers…that was all very odd.
The dream shifted jarringly. She was no longer on the back of the equine sea creature but instead on a throne covered in barnacles. A small goblet crafted from pearl and studded with opals rested lightly in her hand. In the other was a trident crafted of abalone. But it was not heavy in her grip.
Alongside her stood a mirror. She glanced at her reflection and gasped. She was clothed in a material similar to the fey, only it was a stormy purple, dotted with strands of pearls. On her head was a winged band, also made of pearl or a metal that looked like pearl. Ooh, best part of this dream. I like this winged thing.
Before her stood Lady Odilia—dream went bad again—pointing an accusing finger at her and reciting something Freya was used to hearing, and not only from Odilia. “Silly chit, spending all the day dreaming. Lazy, decadent, spoiled. You’re absolutely useless and have no discipline. You need a firm hand. You need Rome, just like the rest of the barbarians.”
In the distance, Freya heard the cries of dolphins. She set the cup aside, but only after taking a sip. More of the blueberry ale.
“I’ll not serve Rome.” She extended her hand, palm open, then closed her fingers. A trident, long and glowing with abalone tines appeared in her fist. Lightning flashed. Odilia fell to her knees, clutching at her chest.
Freya felt it—a pulsing, a throbbing that flowed through her. The earth shook with a roar…from her? Odilia’s hands dug into her chest, trying to scream. Odilia’s heart, that’s what Freya felt beating. The flowing sensation was the woman’s blood. Faster and faster the blood flowed until it started to seethe in Odilia’s veins.
What was she doing? Freya dropped the trident, and Odilia fell unconscious. Then all went black.
The sting of salt burned her eyes when she opened them, and her vision blurred before coalescing into the shapes of the fey trio. “What was that?”
“Your power dream, Freya.” Balder took her hand and knelt beside her. “What did you see?”
“It was all a very weird dream.” Freya tugged a strand of her hair. She could move again. “Am I still dreaming? I’m thinking that maybe I went back to the palace after the market and passed out. A dream within a dream?”
“Not a dream,” Morrigan said. “It’s all very real. Even the power dream. It was a revelation of your magic, all you will be able to do. What did you see?” Her face was close to Freya’s, her jaw tight with concern.
“That? I can do all that?” Freya’s stomach rebelled at the thought of the heights, the depths of the sea, Odilia’s fingers burrowing into her own flesh. “Balder, more ale. Please. A barrel would be helpful.”
“I understand,” Balder said. His words seemed sincere. Those blue eyes of his, the same as her parents’, probably made everything he said sound sincere. She went to push a lock of hair from her face only to touch the winged band from her dream. She wasn’t going to question its presence or complain. She was keeping it.
“I must caution you,” Morrigan said. “Never tell another soul your true name. Only those you trust with your life. You can never, ever use your powers against someone who knows your true name, at least not with the intention to kill. I would advise that you might not know well enough who your enemies are.” Morrigan raised an elegant brow. “Your tale then. Time does grow short indeed.”
She glanced at the sky. The sun had long since moved past its zenith. The ruins were bathed in an orange light. Tomorrow, tomorrow was Freya’s wedding day. Or was it?
Freya told them what she’d seen. Everything. Even the part about Odilia. If she had such power, Freya did not want to use it. The fey stood silent, immovable for several moments, save for Balder, whose hand struck a few disjointed notes from his lyre.
When Morrigan spoke, she was not terrified or concerned as Freya had expected. “You must begin learning immediately.”
It hit her then. They were serious about learning her powers. She’d just had a Power Dream. She was fey.
Freya jumped up. “Balder, bring more of that blueberry ale. To Folkvang. Tonight. Hedwig, I need a pair of those strange shoes. And, ooh, we are going to need food.”
“For what?” Morrigan asked, and Freya realized all three looked at her quizzically. Wasn’t it obvious?
“For the victory celebration.”
They still looked confused.
“A celebration because the Romans will be going back to Rome or else they’ll be scorched by lightning. King Vercingetorix will want to come to the celebration. So will Siegfried. Gaul will be ours.”
“Freya,” Morrigan said patiently. “Are you certain you won’t hit any allies with your lightning? I didn’t think you wished to use your other magic.”
“I thought the lightning would go straight for the armor,” Freya said.
“Your warrior friends have metal-tipped spears, dear. This is going to be more complicated than you think. We are going to train you in your powers, and you are going to go on about your life as if nothing has changed until you learn them. Then we will look into the Roman problem, along with the assassin problem. We will start with shape shifting, starting with your swan form.”
“All those heights,” Freya murmured into her ale, suddenly not excited, visions of the victory celebration dissipating.
“I liked Freya’s celebration idea,” Hedwig said. “Especially if it involves those warriors.”
“Those heights will be very useful when trying to elude someone who cannot fly. As we progress, your other gifts will be easier to use. Be warned that your powers are very much tied to your emotions. Now, stand and think about flying high.”
Chapter Two
Freya made her way back into the city.
She had managed to transform into a swan only once. The other times, she had been nervous. Her arms had become wings, and she had been able to take a few flying leaps. She was proud of herself that she had succeeded at all. But when she had transformed properly, the wings had grown from her back.
At least Morrigan hadn’t made her practice the most frightening power, what she’d dubbed the Blood Call.
Look at the ground. Watch your step for once. Don’t think about killing people or them choking on their own blood.
&n
bsp; So lost in thought, Freya walked right into someone’s back, an impenetrable wall covered with a red cape.
“Watch where you’re going,” the Roman said. “Filthy peasants, always walking into their betters.”
She knew that Roman and he knew her; it was the man who had grabbed Hedwig. “Sorry, my lard,” she said, purposely mispronouncing the last word. It was silly, but she refused to call a Roman “lord.”
Even when Freya was living as a Remi princess, the Romans were a force to be reckoned with. Her parents hadn’t been able to stop them from searching her bedchamber. At least they’d left the mattress alone. Odilia had been the one to orchestrate the searches, insisting that those in the palace must also abide by the rules.
The Roman grabbed her arm, wrenching her shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you, peasant. You’re assisting pirates, bringing down destruction on your own people. You’re looking for Siegfried, that foolish Cimbri dog attempting to assist that barbarian king, Vercingetorix.”
“What? Pirates? No, I was helping that hooded woman, the one covered in goat dung,” Freya said. “She’s my…friend.” That was probably the biggest part of the lie.
She tried to pull away, but the soldier’s grip was tight. Unfortunately, she stumbled backward with her usual clumsiness. The Roman caught her, hoisting her up so her feet flailed in the air, her knee aching. She knew enough that she was in serious trouble. In the end, if she were discovered, it wouldn’t matter if she was the Remi princess or not.
“Ow, ow. My arm!”
He drew his sword, seemingly unaware of the silence surrounding them. “Then you were helping a thief who is part of the threat against Rome, barbarian. I saw you earlier. I saw you give the merchant gold coins. There is no way you could afford such. And then he gave you a box. What was in the box?”
Siren Slave Page 3
