by L. K. Rigel
“Call me Lowenwyn, then.” Wennie’s eyes twinkled as she arranged flowers in a vase. “If it feels more elegant on your lips.”
“Lowenwyn,” Lord Dumnos said. “I knew someone once… Her name was like yours. Rozenwyn.”
“That was my mother’s name, though I never knew her,” Wennie said. “What was she like, your Rozenwyn?”
“Oh, she wasn’t my… well, perhaps she was, for a time.” The earl eyed Wennie more closely. “Ah, how long ago was it, now? Eighteen… twenty years, maybe.”
“I’m nineteen. Perhaps I’m your long lost daughter.” Wennie winked at Braedon.
Always joking, making the world a lighter place. No one could be with her and be unhappy.
“What was Rozenwyn like, you ask?” Ross said. He hadn’t been this engaged with the world in months. “Quite like you, if I recall. Different hair, not a ginger. But with your lively hazel eyes. Her father was one of my father’s knights. Sir Yestin died at the Battle of Tintagos Field, defending the castle with honor.”
“Not what she looked like,” Wennie said. Just like a woman to ignore the part about bravery and sacrifice. She was adorable. “What was she like? Her character?”
“Oh, yes. I suppose that’s what really matters, eh?”
Wennie was wise as well as lovely. A child’s eagerness played on her face, hunger for knowledge of a never-known mother made of stories. Braedon’s heart went out to her.
“No one could know Rozenwyn and not love her,” Lord Dumnos said. “Everyone was brokenhearted when she died.”
“Were you there?”
“I was gone from Tintagos at the time, off on some fool’s errand, with this fool here.”
Nice. At last, acknowledgement Braedon was in the room.
“But that’s how well she was loved,” Ross said. “Her memory lived on, and I heard of it when I returned.” He fell forward suddenly. His goblet crashed to the floor, and Wennie bent down to clean it up.
“My lord? Ross?” Braedon grabbed his friend’s hand.
“Braedon, lad. I believe the light is truly going out at last.”
“Don’t talk that way, Ross.” Braedon turned to Wennie. “Fetch Prior Marrek. Quickly!”
“Yes, my lord.” Her eyes glistened with unspilled tears. “Where is he, my lord?”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you from the cloister?”
“A nun, my lord?” Her eyes widened, and she burst out laughing. “No, my lord. No worries. I’ll find him.”
Braedon sat down to an equal look of hilarity on Ross’s face.
“She’s not from the cloister,” said the earl.
“But you told me the nuns sent her to care for you.”
“An abbess,” Ross said. “Lowenwyn told me an abbess sent her from an island of perpetual spring. I’d think she must be fae, but her eyes are the wrong color.”
“That explains why she always smells like flowers then.” Braedon shook his head at Ross’s foolishness. “Wherever she comes from, you don’t deserve her, the way you grouse and grumble.”
“Aye, I’ll grant you that,” Ross said.
“And I don’t think your light is going out either.”
“No. I wanted to talk to you alone. How old are you now, Braedon? You’re no longer the boy who couldn’t take the air below deck on the Vengeance.”
“Thirty-two, my lord.”
“Thirty-two and not married. No apple of your eye?”
“There is. But she’d never have me.”
“And why not? You’re good-looking enough. And you’re my heir now, all legal, agreed to in writing by the king. You’ll be the earl when I’m gone. No woman would mind being called countess, even if she had to put up with the likes of you. Good lord, you’d never beat a wife. Would you?”
“Of course not!”
“I didn’t think so. What about Wennie? You like the look of her, no denying it.”
“She’s… she’s wonderful, my lord. But…”
“But what?”
“She’s so young. She probably thinks I’m too old for her.”
“She probably thinks you’re a coward, wanting and not asking. That’s a terrible thing.”
It was good to see the old man’s humor return. Old man. Ross Bausiney was but a dozen or so years older than Braedon, but unending sorrow had brought him low.
Ross heaved a great sigh. “I hope my light is going out. I long for heaven, where my Igraine waits.” He took hold of Braedon’s arm. “Braedon.”
“Yes, Ross?”
“If you love her, go after her. Don’t waste…”
They were the last words Braedon heard his friend, mentor, and guardian say.
« Chapter 25 »
Mistcutter
21st Century. The island of Avalos
The world twisted. Lilith heard a whooshing noise and felt like she was going to vomit. Sound seemed to go in and out of phase, like the beginning of that “what condition” song from The Big Lebowsky.
Then the world straightened out, and she was on a small island in the middle of a lake, standing before a sword lodged in marble.
Mistcutter.
Without thinking she ran to it, grabbed the hilt with both hands, and pulled the sword from the stone.
She looked around, expecting to hear the chorus from the same song, oh yeah! But no choir of angels sang a fanfare, and somehow she knew—as lovely as this place was—this wasn’t heaven.
A tall, dark, and mysterious man was standing at the bridge, watching her, and she went to him. “Are you fae?”
“Igraine,” he said. “It gladdens my heart to see you again.”
“I’m not Igraine. My name is Lilith. The fae call me Lily.”
“Yes, of course.” He smiled.
“Are you wyrd or fae?”
“I am fallen.”
He glanced at the sword in her hand, and she instinctively took a step back to put some space between them. The weapon felt wonderful, as if it had been made for her alone—though of course that was ridiculous.
“I… I need it.” Maybe he’d let her go if she could just explain…
“I know,” he said. “I’ll take you—and the sword—back to the mundane realm as far as Igdrasil.”
“Oh, thank you!”
He clasped her free wrist. When had he moved so close to her? In his grip was power she hadn’t expected. “But when Mistcutter has served its purpose, you must return it. We can’t allow Sarumen to gain possession of this instrument.”
“Great gods, no.” The thought sent a shock of fear through her. But she couldn’t think about the Sarumens right now. She had to get back to Mudcastle with the sword. “Igdrasil is good. That works for me.” She could take the portal there to return to the fae cottage.
In the blink of an eye, she was standing beside the world tree, sword in hand and the man beside her.
“Of course.” Lilith acknowledged the magic, shrugging her shoulders. “Come to Dumnos, a land of mist and rain. And every other weirdness you can think of.”
The fallen man gave her an amused look. “When all is done, return here with Mistcutter and call my name: Velyn.”
Velyn. The sound of it struck something inside, a warm, friendly—and familiar—note. “Who are you?” she said. “This seems crazy, but… have we met before?”
“In your first incarnation, we were very good friends.”
His smile was so dazzling she could have swooned, but for the word incarnation.
“But then you found love. True love. The kind of love that delights in the mere fact of the beloved’s existence. The kind that, once taken root, never dies.” He touched her cheek. “It never dies. Do you understand, Igraine?”
“I… don’t.” She wanted to protest that her name was not Igraine, but now she wasn’t sure.
“Not every soul has a bound mate, but soul mates do exist. When they find each other, all the heavens rejoice. And if the lovers are too soon parted, the blow is felt throughout existenc
e as a crime against the mystic.”
“Cade is my soul mate.”
A statement, not a question. She felt the truth of it.
“In another incarnation called Ross of Tintagos.” Velyn nodded. “Your life was ended too soon, and his grief was so profound that Brother Sun and Sister Moon decreed you should both live again, to contain and express your unrequited love. Otherwise the realms as we know them would shatter.”
“Great gods.” But she saw a twinkle in his eye, a bit mischievous. “Now you’re teasing me.”
“Perhaps. A little. Maybe the truth is: the high gods granted you both another chance to get it right.”
“What do I have to do now?”
“Nothing you won’t naturally do, Igraine-Lilith-Lily. It’s Ross-Cade who must choose rightly this time.”
“Who are you? What are you?”
“I’m simply Velyn of the Fallen,” he said. “Forever bound to the earthly plane, the memory of heaven ever fresh in my heart.”
“You’ve been to heaven. You’ve seen the high gods?”
“The highest heaven,” he said. “The highest god. But enough! Now”—He gripped the side of her head and pressed his thumb hard against her temple—“when your task is accomplished, return Mistcutter to me. Come to Igdrasil and call my name. Even at this moment the Sarumen have found the abomination. I have no words for the darkness to come if they also gain possession of the Sword of Mist and Rain.”
“I think I understand you,” Lilith said. “But why not just destroy it?”
“That would be worse. Mistcutter is the embodiment of an idea. It can’t be destroyed. In truth, what is sacred isn’t the sword itself but the concept of it. Destroy the sword and the idea would scatter with the winds and grow in every place a particle landed.”
“The idea?”
“The idea that a human can ignore the will of the gods.”
“Yikes.”
“Better to know where the sword is, to keep it safe.”
“I agree.” It was exactly how Lilith felt about the Oracle’s ring, locked away safely in Lydia Pengrith’s antique secretary.
“Good.” Velyn nodded, and she wasn’t altogether sure he hadn’t just read her thoughts.
“I’ll bring it back,” she said. “Mistcutter.” She stepped into the portal, careful not to speak at all.
Mudcastle’s front door was ajar, and the sight gave Lilith a bad feeling. She crossed over the threshold, Mistcutter raised—and found Jenna Sarumen inside, the mirror in her arms.
“Jenna! What are you doing here? How…”
Startled, Jenna dropped the abomination—and then she sprouted wings.
“Hey!” Boadicea cried out.
“This belongs with Quinn.” Jenna reached down and grabbed the mirror’s corner, her gaze fixed on Lilith. “I finally found it, and I’m taking it to him.” Her wings were amazing, metallic-looking, silver and gun-metal green. They made Lilith think of dragons.
“Quinn?” The name meant something. Something dark.
“Did you think your insipid wyrd could possibly kill someone so magnificent?” Jenna said.
My wyrd? Yes, Igraine had been a wyrding woman; Lilith felt the reality of it. She stepped forward, and a beam of sunlight caught and illuminated Mistcutter in her hand.
“No.” Jenna darted backward, up to the ceiling, glancing from the sword to Lilith. “No, that’s not possible…” She tilted her head. “You’re the one?”
“My wyrd, you said.” Could Jenna possibly know of Lilith’s connection to Igraine?
“You tried to murder Quinn.” Jenna’s face contorted in a disgusted smirk. “But he did kill you.”
Quinn… the name sent a shiver of fear through Lilith. She couldn’t place it, but she knew he had been dangerous to Igraine. To me.
She lunged for the mirror, and Jenna—her eyes on Mistcutter—dropped it.
Jenna uttered an animalistic growl, but she didn’t try to challenge Lilith, her eye wary and steady on the sword. “I hate you!” she said. “You get everything!” She wrapped her wings around her body like a cocoon and popped out.
“Sun and moon,” Lilith said. “That raised more questions than it answered.”
“Did you get it?” Boadicea called out behind her. “Do you have it?”
“Yes. And yes.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Boadicea was silent for two seconds. Then, “Get me out! Get me out! Quick, before something else happens!”
“Hello! Hello! I’m here!” Morning Glory popped in.
Oh, no.
“Mother.” Lilith tried to sound as serious as humanly—or faely—possible. “Stay calm, and keep out of the way.”
She raised the sword over her head and faced the mirror—and saw Cissa and Goldy reflected in it, standing behind her in the doorway.
“Lily girl!” Goldy said. “What are you doing?”
“She’s setting me free, if you want to know,” Boadicea said from her prison. “Everybody shut up and let the girl work!”
“Be quiet, everyone,” Lilith said. “I have to say the words first.”
“What words?” Boadicea said. “I never knew of any words.”
“I don’t know,” Lilith said. “But words want to come out of my mouth.” A final time she raised the sword over her head. Holding the hilt with both hands, she chanted:
“By the dark mist he found you.
By the dark mist he bound you.
Servant of desire, enemy of delight.
By Mistcutter I see you.
By Mistcutter I free you.
All will be well, all will be right.”
There was nothing left to do but bring it. Lilith closed her eyes and swung the sword down hard upon the mirror. The world spun around her, and the sound of shattering seemed to go on forever…
“Boadicea.” The goblin Max was on the floor, rocking a frazzled female goblin in his arms.
“Lilith.” Cade’s voice, like home.
She opened her eyes. She was in Cade’s arms. Everything was going to be all right.
“Thank Sun and Moon you’re safe.” He lifted her up and pressed her to his chest. Cade’s mother Beverly and his father Dandelion were there too, standing in the doorway.
“Did you see?” Lilith said.
“We all came in together.” Cade nodded and kissed her forehead. “I ran into Max and Mom and Dandelion just outside the door. My god, you were magnificent.”
“I kind of was, yeah?”
“Now do Max.” Boadicea gestured toward her brother, her eyes wild. “Just… I don’t know… stab him in the heart.”
“What?” Lilith said. “Are you insane?”
“No way!” Goldy stepped between Lilith and the goblin with unexpected bravery.
“No.” Max said matter-of-factly, as though turning down a piece of cake or an invitation to a party, not a request to run him through with a mystical sword.
“Yes!” Boadicea said. “Max, think. It’s Mistcutter. She can break the curse. I don’t want to be ugly. It’s Mistcutter!”
“No!” Max bellowed the word.
“Eep!” Morning Glory spun up to the ceiling in a fright.
Everyone appeared stunned into silence, hanging on what was to come. Cissa pursed her lips, her eyes wide.
Max let go of his sister and stood away from her. His anger was palpable and real and almost terrifying. Lilith’s heart broke for him. She picked up the sword from the floor. Some part of him wanted her to do it. The weapon’s power surged out and into her.
While she held Mistcutter, she was connected to the mystic. She could do anything with it—even break a curse laid on by the high gods.
“I can do it, Max,” she said. “Trust me.”
“I can’t let you.” The goblin held up his hand. “Not like that. It would be… wrong.” His shoulders hunched, and he turned away.
“Max.” Cissa went to him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Di
d you bring my present?”
What the… How could she bring up presents at a time like this? But that seemed to be just the thing to cheer the poor guy. He laughed his short, cut-off goblin laugh and pulled a carved box from his long pouch.
She lifted the box’s lid and withdrew a diamond bracelet, delicate and amazing. When she put it on, it looked like sparkling dewdrops were dancing around her wrist.
“So pretty!” said the queen of the Dumnos fae.
“And what do I get in return?” Max said.
“What?” Cissa stopped. “But you never…”
“Yeah, I never,” Max said. “This time I do.”
“What… what do you want?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said.
Cissa seemed consternated, but Lilith saw the corners of Max’s mouth turn down in a goblin grin. He was teasing her. He was going to be all right.
“Now.” Lilith turned to Boadicea. “Your part in the bargain. Tell me what you promised. How can Cade’s transformation be accelerated?”
“It can’t,” Boadicea said.
“You… lied to me?” Lilith glanced at Max. He was the only goblin she’d ever met until now, and she’d assumed all goblins were honorable. “How… how ungoblinlike!”
“I told the truth. I didn’t say I could speed up Cade’s transformation to fairy. I said I know how you can stay in the same time line.”
“That will do. How?”
“You must revert.”
“Revert?”
“Revert to human. Give up being fairy.”
“Done!” Lilith said without a second thought.
“No!” Morning Glory said.
“How?” Lilith said.
“One who loves you must use Mistcutter to cut off your wings. Then you’ll be human again.”
Ouch.
Lilith looked at Cade. “Are you sure you don’t feel any powers?”
“I feel overwhelmingly powerful love. For you.” Cade smiled with the corners of his mouth turned down. “I always have.”
Yes, he had. Cade had wooed her from the beginning. He’d always known what was enduring and true, and what he wanted.
That’s why he wasn’t changing. It would never suit him to be fae. His intrinsic nature was human—loving, nurturing. A true husband in the old-time sense of the word: a man who nurtures, cares for, and sees to the well-being of those in his charge. To be fae would sever his tethers to all that he cared for. To be fae would be to kill that which made him Cade.
