by Shona Husk
“Birch is still holding my books.”
Roan frowned. “Do you need them?”
“They are my life’s work.” He’d spent centuries amassing knowledge instead of gold while searching for a cure. The lust for gold he’d been able to ignore until the very end—yet once he’d given in it had been a glittering slippery slope to soulless goblin.
“They’re relics best suited to museums.”
“Like us.” Where did people who’d lived ancient history belong? “Go back to your planting,” Dai said as he walked away.
“The plaque is ready,” Roan called after him.
Dai stopped. He hadn’t expected it to be engraved so quickly. He turned slowly.
“Will you join me this evening to remember?” Roan’s face was impassive and revealed none of what he was thinking.
“What will your guests think?” Surely burying swords would raise suspicion?
“Eliza is taking them out for dinner. We will be alone.”
Dai nodded, his gaze on the ground. Roan had planned this. Brac, Fane, Anfri, and Meryn would be put to rest a final time in the Fixed Realm. They should have all survived the curse and be experiencing life in the world of men again. His lips turned in a sad smile. Fane wouldn’t be considered a man in this time. He was only sixteen when he was cursed. He’d taken his own life, unable to cope with the harshness of life in the Shadowlands and the prospect of eventually fading to goblin.
Meryn had faded to goblin after the first summons, that first awful night at the beck and call of the general while the last of the Decangli were slaughtered. Brac had been pulled apart by the druid centuries later, and Roan had killed Anfri. He’d faded only a handful of days before the curse broke.
And Dai was jealous of them. They got to die and be reborn with no memory of the Romans or the Shadowlands or goblins. They got a fresh start, not just a second chance.
“I will.” Maybe he could bury his past along with his sword and torque.
Chapter 6
The cold pressed against Meryn’s bones and squeezed. They ached in a way he hadn’t felt for…he paused. He couldn’t remember his bones ever aching and yet he knew they must have or why would he have thought it? He curled tighter into a ball to preserve his body heat as the need to survive that fueled his flight left him shivering in the dust. Above him, his gray stained cloak hid him from the casual sight of a goblin scout and blocked out the dull, never-ending twilight.
How long would he have until the goblins heard the beating of his human heart and found him and ate him? That’s what they did to humans who found their way to the Shadowlands or who were caught during the Wild Ride—the only time those who’d turned fully goblin could escape the Shadowlands and roam the Fixed Realm. The fear of being found wouldn’t let him close his eyes, even though he was exhausted. He was so tired his muscles shook. He’d only stopped because he was too weak to go any farther. He didn’t want to be human.
He wanted to be goblin. Maybe he was being punished for being different, for giving himself a name. Goblins didn’t have names. Yet he did, and he didn’t remember a time without one. He didn’t remember ever being alone either, but his troop had turned on him when his skin had become pink. He’d been forced to flee or die.
They would come after him. They no longer knew him or wanted him because he was human. A crushing weight settled on his throat, making it hard for him to breathe.
Human and in the Shadowlands. How had it happened and what did it mean?
Memories rose like infected blisters, pushing painfully on his mind. Meryn pushed them down, unwilling to examine them or the hurt they caused. There was no pain or conscience when he was part of the goblin troop. Now every death, human or goblin, committed by his once-gray hands hung like a barbed hook through his skin, dragging him down.
He tucked his hands against his body to keep warm and tried to sleep for just a little, knowing the strange dreams would come again. Battle and blood. The things a goblin lived for—except he was no longer goblin, and in those dreams he was also a man. Fighting, but he fought for more than gold and glory. But what was worth more than gold?
Meryn closed his eyes to stop the strange tears that burned his skin, dampened the dust, and swelled in his heart, and he prayed for mercy. For the oblivion of gold and greed.
To wake up goblin.
***
Dai’s breath clouded in front of him as he looked up at the tree with the little house wedged in the branches. At his feet was a bundle of ancient swords and torques wrapped in an oilcloth and a shiny new plaque.
“It’s freezing out here.” In Wales it was either going to be sunny and cold or rainy and cold. Here in Australia, on the other hand, it could be sunny one moment and bitter the next as if the country couldn’t make up its mind about seasons. Not even the trees knew if it was cold enough to drop all their leaves, some, or none.
“Remind you of home?” Roan huffed out a breath.
“Yeah, except this would be summer.” He forced out a laugh and raised his beer.
His brother drank too. Who’d have thought cold beer would become popular? Or that there would be so many kinds? And that none of them needed to be eaten with a spoon.
Roan squatted down and lit the four little candles at the base of the tree. He marked on the bark where the plaque was going, but neither of them was quite ready to attach it. They stared at the bundle on the ground and drank in silence. There was nothing that could be said that would change ancient history. They were at the end of their lives as Decangli. The end of the Decangli. Though in truth, their tribe was wiped out the night the rebellion failed.
The Romans had made sure there would be no further uprisings. All the men who’d survived the fight were captured and killed. The women were taken for slaves—assuming they didn’t raise their swords in retaliation. With the death of their sister, the last princess, the routing was complete. If nothing else, the Romans were efficient. Maybe rebelling wasn’t the smartest of moves, but at the time it felt like the only option; giving in went against the grain. With the wisdom of history on his side, Dai knew they’d been lucky to hold out as long as they did. The whole of England had fallen under the boot, as had most of Europe and northern Africa. In this time, there would’ve been criminal charges and war-crimes tribunals for most of the things that had happened.
Dai finished his beer and put it on the grass, then picked up the shovel to begin digging the hole for the old weapons and the memories that went with them. At least he’d get warm. As Dai dug, Roan hammered the plaque into place, the steady tap-tap like the beating of a solid gold heart. Dai paused, his cold hands chaffing on the shovel. He wasn’t used to the manual labor. He glanced at his brother, but Roan’s attention was on the hammer and nails.
If he could move beer, could he move dirt? He looked at the layers of web that made up the earth and the plants pushing through it. Then he imagined scooping out a handful. At first nothing happened, then the ground trembled and a clod the size of a large dog jumped out and landed at his feet with a whoosh of air and a thump. He gave it a cautious nudge with his boot and the soil fell apart so it looked like the other, smaller pile he’d dug out by hand.
“Finished already?” Roan said as he turned.
“Trying to stay warm.” Dai gave him a tight grin, hoping Roan hadn’t seen.
“Deep hole.”
“Don’t want anyone digging them up by accident. How would the archaeologists explain finding old Celtic weapons and jewelry in Australia?” Probably by concocting a tale about Celts traveling farther than first thought and then they would spend vast amounts of money searching for a nonexistent settlement.
Roan nodded and picked up the swords. One for every man cursed. Six in total, but the sword for Meryn was a stand-in. When their cousin faded to goblin, he took his weapons with him. The sickly, gray thread still connected Dai to his goblin cousin. Meryn deserved so much more than an eternity of roaming the Shadowlands. He was Roan’s second,
a battle planner to match the Romans. Dai shuddered as if the cold from the Shadowlands was still chilling his blood. Maybe burying their swords wasn’t a good idea.
“You sure you want to part with it?” Dai raised an eyebrow.
The blade hadn’t left his brother’s side in nearly two thousand years. While he’d acquired others, that was the one he’d been cursed with.
“I’ve got to.” Roan cradled the bundle, holding the memories for the last time.
Dai had surrendered his sword, but he’d kept his throwing knives. He couldn’t bring himself to be totally defenseless. There had been too many years where he was forbidden to carry any weapon in case he slit his master’s throat. He still wanted to hear the bastard beg for his life, but that chance was long gone even if the nightmares of Claudius weren’t.
Roan placed the swords in the ground. The clanking was muffled by the cloth. It felt like they were burning the corpses of the men again. If Dai hadn’t told Roan there was a traitor and suggested they stall the rebellion, the druid wouldn’t have argued with Roan about the delay and the curse would never have been laid.
“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been cursed?”
“We’d be dead and I wouldn’t have met Eliza.”
True, the rebellion would have gone ahead as planned and the Romans would’ve been waiting. But at least they wouldn’t have had to live as goblins. “She made two thousand years in the Shadowlands worthwhile?” All the fighting, all the death?
Roan sighed, a puff of cloud in the cool night air. “I have to believe it was all for something.”
Dai nodded; suffering had to be for something. What had he got? A library he couldn’t touch, magic he couldn’t use, and a wealth of scars not even the ink on his skin could hide.
“What about you?”
“I was ready to die.” That was no secret. While for years he was the one who’d urged Roan to keep fighting the curse’s grip while Dai searched for a cure, in the end it was Roan forcing Dai to stall when Dai’s fear of turning goblin was turning his thoughts to suicide.
“Don’t waste your second chance. Live for those who died.” Roan stood up.
None of the men had deserved to die, yet he envied them their peace. Fighting to stay human in the Shadowlands was like trying to hold a handful of water. It didn’t matter how careful he was—drops escaped, some evaporated, and eventually there was nothing left but a thirst for gold that could never be slacked.
Was it his responsibility to make up for their lives? What about his life? His life was over long before the curse. It had ended the day he was taken hostage, a good behavior bond to make sure his father, and then Roan, did as the general asked. In return, Dai was educated in all of Rome’s vices. At first their sister, Mave, was too young to be of any use to the invaders. If the Decangli hadn’t tried to rebel, she would have married a Roman and they all would have died in a quiet corner of Wales centuries ago. Who would they have been reborn as if that had happened?
Amanda’s daughter lingered in his mind. “Have you noticed how much Brigit looks like Mave?” he asked.
Roan shrugged. “I guess, a little.” He lifted his gaze and looked at Dai. “You’re not thinking she’s come back?”
Dai looked at his hands. The first life he took had never left him and still haunted his dreams. Maybe it was his guilty conscience searching for soothing. As if through knowing his sister had been reborn and was happy, he’d be forgiven. “She would’ve had many lives in between then and now.”
“You still believe.” Roan frowned as if he couldn’t understand Dai’s faith in the old religion.
Dai nodded. He did, even though it clashed with so many others. He held on to the belief that everyone got another chance to have a better life. He had to. It was all he had. He wanted the chance to have what every man wanted. He wanted a life untainted by the poison of the past.
But Brigit wasn’t free. Her father had drowned before she was born and she suffered from a breathing condition. He’d researched asthma and was now interested in whether the illness would show up in the weave of Brigit’s body. If it did, he might be able to heal her, and Amanda would no longer have so much worry. He liked it when Amanda smiled. He’d like it even more if she were smiling at him for healing her daughter. The breeze rustled the leaves in the tree so they whispered in his ear, mocking his desires. If he couldn’t fix himself, how was he going to help someone else?
“So do you. You didn’t want to kill the druid.”
“I didn’t want more bad luck.” Roan stared at the dirt as if he didn’t want to admit he still clung to the old beliefs after centuries of existence. “I hope Brac and Fane had better lives the next time around.”
They, too, would’ve had many lives since escaping the Shadowlands in death. Anfri wouldn’t be reborn for a while. And who knew what would happen to Meryn, a goblin who was damned to run the Shadowlands? If he died, would he get the chance to live again as a man or was he damned forever?
But their ritual wasn’t about the lives they could be living, but about the lives they had led. Fierce and fearless. They were half wild at first, as if the Shadowlands made them mad just by breathing the air. Brac’s death forced them to reevaluate how they were living and how they were going to survive.
Roan took the shovel and backfilled the hole. “It doesn’t feel like two thousand years, does it?”
No, it felt like four thousand or more. It was hard to quantify that amount of time even after living it. Months and years bled to one gray, amorphous mass.
His brother stuck the rosebush in the much smaller hole and pushed dirt in around the bush. “It wasn’t all bad. There were good times.”
Dai closed his eyes. There was a time when they were able to fight the commands, travel to the Fixed Realm at will, but still had a grip on their souls and were safe in their castle. Yet even then he’d never had peace. He couldn’t let his guard down and let the truth slip out. When Roan brought women back, eager for a silver slice of goblin wealth, it had been easy enough to pay them off and talk like the others. But he could never bring himself to let another touch him, or see the scars. His fingers curled as he remembered the touch of Amanda’s hand. She was making him want the impossible.
The candles guttered, casting the names of the other four men in darkness. But he knew them and would never forget them. Without his poking and prompts, the rebellion would never have taken place. His thirst for revenge resulted in the slaughter of his tribe, and the general still had the last laugh. The one time Dai held a sword in Claudius’s presence, he was unable to kill him. With his goblin body bound by the curse he was forced to obey once again. The final order was worse than anything Claudius had done to him as a slave.
Dai shivered like ghosts were caressing his skin. He didn’t like remembering his past. There was too much of it, and too much he didn’t wish to think about. The breeze swirled around him, creating shadows at the corners of his vision. If he succumbed, he’d never find his way out of the dark.
***
The candle on the desk didn’t stop the shadows from closing in, but it kept them out of reach and was softer than the electric light. Maybe having some light while Dai slept would keep his nightmares at bay…maybe, but not likely. He doubted even Amanda sleeping upstairs would be enough to bring him pleasant dreams. He stared at the little flame and stifled a yawn.
In the Shadowlands he’d been tired, but not sleepy. Before that, as a slave, he’d slept with one eye open, jerking awake at the slightest sound. He must have slept peacefully as a child before the Romans had first arrived and the battles had started.
He had vague memories of being held by his mother—sharper memories of the tiny baby who survived after she died. His father and Roan were busy, and no one worried about him, the second son, so he made sure she was okay and well looked after. He just needed to feel as important as his older brother, so he became Mave’s protector and made sure she was treated like the princ
ess she was. He was thinking of his sister as he fell asleep, but Claudius still claimed his dreams.
***
Not even the curse, and the ugly goblin body, had saved him from General Claudius’s attention. Like Roan, Dai was compelled to answer all summonses. He was called to the general’s private chambers, as the Decangli rebellion surrendered and died, to find eleven-year-old Mave held in one of Claudius’s hands, and a sword in the other. On the floor was the body of Drem, his cousin and Meryn’s younger brother, his face slack with death as his blood seeped into the rugs. While every other man had been fighting, trying to throw the Romans off Decangli land, Drem had been with the general.
Dai knew why. The traitor was killed by his own greed. But being right was a bitter reward, Drem had been a trusted friend.
“Your sister is quite pretty, don’t you think?” Claudius squeezed her arm until her skin was white beneath his fingers. “How fast do you think I can make her cry?”
Mave didn’t flinch. She didn’t even scream when she saw him. Did she recognize him? Did she know what had become of her brothers?
“Leave her alone. She’s a child.” The rasping goblin voice scratched his ears. Was it his?
Claudius caressed her cheek.
Rage burned like acid in Dai’s veins, but he couldn’t move. He wanted to rip Claudius’s heart from his chest and force it down his throat and see how he liked to choke. But the curse kept him immobile in the presence of his summoner. Was that what it was going to be like? Never free, always a slave to whomever called them to the Fixed Realm?
“You get to choose her fate. Think of it as my last gift to you.” Claudius stroked her hair. “It’s fitting. The last Queen of the Decangli making peace with Rome. Something your brother wasn’t smart enough to do.”
“Would you befriend a two-headed snake?”
