Max glowered. She was a goddess and her essence was in the gae bolga, but he would not be cowed. “I’m no one’s slave.”
This time her laugh was audible. Setting down the tunic, she pried one of the infants from her breast and held it over the stream. The baby was gray and wrinkled, a bawling newborn girl. Caressing a cheek, the Morrígan lowered the child into the stream and held her astonished face beneath the icy water.
“What are you doing?” Max cried.
“Beg me to stop.”
Max looked at the baby, her hands slapping the water’s surface.
“Stop!” he cried.
“Beg me.”
“Please! I’m begging you. Please let her up!”
Chuckling, the Morrígan lifted the hysterical baby out of the water, thumped her twice upon the back, and set her back to suckling. The other infant hardly noticed. Max still had yet to see the goddess’s face.
“Of course you’re a slave,” she said. “You’re a slave to modern morality. You’re a slave to the wishes of others. Bram, Menlo, Mina, Astaroth—they all use you, manipulate you, command you. I gave you a weapon to conquer the world, and here you are begging others to do the fighting. You could break Prusias tomorrow—shatter all resistance if you’d simply embrace what’s already in you.”
“It’s your power—the gae bolga’s power. I don’t want it and won’t be a slave to it.”
“You are mistaken,” said the Morrígan. “The gae bolga only channels what’s within you. That power is yours, not mine. It is time you shook off this mortal cloak and become what you are meant to be.”
“And what is that?”
“King and conqueror,” she intoned, dragging a bloody banner through the water. “Astaroth, Prusias, Rowan, Lilith, witches, the Workshop—there are too many factions. The world is crying out for strength. Not Astaroth’s. He’ll never understand the world he wishes to rule. It must be you. You have the strength.”
“I don’t have the wisdom. Or the desire. I don’t wish to rule.”
Shaking her head, the Morrígan wrung out the banner. “You think you’re being noble,” she observed with cold disapproval. “Billions will die—have died—because no one yet has had the strength or will to impose peace. You have that strength and you refuse to use it. Is that nobility or cowardice?”
It was Max’s turn to laugh. “The Morrígan wants peace?”
For the first time, he beheld the Morrígan’s face. She raised her head slowly, her hands brushing back her black, blood-crusted tangles so that he could look directly upon her. Her skin was dark, her nose as hooked and sharp as a raven’s beak. The mouth was too broad, the bloodstained lips too thin. They were parted in a loose, hungry grimace that revealed worn and pointed teeth. If the Morrígan had eyes, they were set very deep. Those red-rimmed sockets might have been empty, but Max had no doubt she could see him.
“Are you mocking me?” she inquired coldly. “Should I turn my attention to your companions?”
Max glanced at Scathach and Nox. Both were rigid and staring ahead, but their gazes were blank and unseeing.
“The lass spent time in the Sidh, but she is mortal now,” the Morrígan observed. “Shall I let her see me? Care to witness what my presence can do to mortals?”
The Morrígan was threatening to turn her aura into a weapon. Max had never seen such a thing done, and had no wish to. He’d always thought of auras as an indicator of a magical being’s strength or power. While animals were sensitive to auras—even those given off by normal people—few human beings could perceive them unless they encountered a very powerful one.
Max had encountered many powerful auras. By far the greatest had belonged to Lugh, the Fomorian, Astaroth, and now the Morrígan. Their auras were fundamentally different from those of lesser spirits and even greater demons. One could feel the power radiating from them, almost crackling at invisible frequencies. Max knew his aura was powerful as well—when the Old Magic burst forth, his enemies could not even look at him—but he had never thought of it as something that could be manipulated and controlled.
But perhaps he’d been wrong. The Morrígan was doing so now, keeping it at enough of a simmer to paralyze Scathach and Nox. What would happen if the Morrígan chose to unveil her presence entirely? Max did not want to imagine the consequences. It would be like staring at an eclipse.
“No,” said Max. “Please don’t.”
“Your heart is too weak to be a god,” she spat. “Invite me in and I will do what you cannot. Let me use your body, Hound. As partners, you can end this war and I can sate my hunger. What say you?”
Max shut his eyes. “No. I can’t. I will give the gae bolga back to you. I don’t want it if this is what it costs.”
The Morrígan tutted. “My boy, my boy. I’m afraid that’s impossible. Your blood is in the blade, too. We are one now, Max McDaniels, and I won’t be ignored.”
“The blade may be ours, but my body is my own.”
The Morrígan considered this. “There is another way,” she mused.
“What way is that?”
“Give me a son!” she hissed. “Give me a son and I will raise him. Give me a son and he will do what his father could not. Give me a son and I will bother you no more.”
When Max remained silent, the Morrígan began to laugh.
“Don’t let my appearance dissuade you. I can be whomever you like.”
As she spoke, her nightmarish visage gave way and the Morrígan became Scathach. When Max hesitated, she gave a knowing leer.
“Perhaps your heart’s confused.”
With a sudden rippling, The Morrígan’s appearance changed. Scathach’s dark hair turned to auburn; a fair complexion became tan and freckled. She was Julie Teller, exactly as Max remembered her during his first week at Rowan.
“You never forget your first love, do you?” said Julie.
“I’m not giving you a son,” said Max.
The Aussie girl leaned forward and flashed a devilish smile. “Perhaps you’d prefer someone more … experienced?”
Petra Kosa lounged naked on the bank, impossibly beautiful and alluring. “Come sit beside me,” she cooed. “Just for a minute. If you don’t like it, we can always stop. But I don’t think you’ll want to …”
Max could not pretend the sight of those curves and perfect skin was not enticing. He knew that it was an illusion, of course. He knew that he was being plied and manipulated. But it was not easy to ignore. Idle hands weren’t the devil’s playground; it was the gap between can and should.
Max shook his head, uncertain whether the gesture was meant for the Morrígan or himself. “I’m not fathering some monster for you to raise,” he muttered. “And I’d never betray Scathach.”
Petra Kosa’s seductive form vanished, replaced by the Morrígan’s true guise. The goddess fixed her attention upon Scathach’s blank face.
“Is this the problem?” she breathed. “Love for a mortal? Love for an outcast? That can be remedied.”
The gae bolga moaned as Max unsheathed its blade and pointed it at the goddess. “Don’t touch her. Don’t even think it.”
The Morrígan’s eyes never left Scathach.
A shadow fell over them.
Ravens screamed and took to the air; wolves snarled and loped behind the goddess. Max turned to see the Fomorian standing atop the hill, a battle-ax slung over his shoulder. Several of the faeries were with him, sitting atop his curling horns or peering out from his snow-dusted pelts.
How something so large could move so silently was unnerving. In one stride the Fomorian descended the hill. Scooping up Scathach and Nox, he held them in his great hand and bowed to the Morrígan.
“Go in peace.”
The goddess looked amused. “You cast a large shadow but do not pretend you command here. Bend your knee and pay homage.”
“These are my lands. I bow to no one here. All of you must go.”
The Morrígan smiled. “Say my names.”
; “The one that speaks is Macha,” said the Giant. “At her breast are Badb and Nemain. You are one and the same, mother to each, sister to each, daughter to each. You are the Morrígan and I ask that you leave my isle.”
The Morrígan made no attempt to rise. “Give me your name and I will go.”
“I have no name.”
The goddess leered. “I thought not. You’re not lord of this isle. You’re not lord of anything. You’re merely Elathan’s shame. But let your ax fall, bastard. Show the Morrígan your power. She longs to see it.”
The goddess’s and the giant’s auras were like two colliding storm fronts. The ravens were silent, the wolves whining and watchful as they slunk about their mistress. With a grunt, the giant slung his ax into a strap upon his back.
“You cannot harm me unless you’re attacked,” he said. “You cannot harm anyone here. Not directly. That is the price of your passage to this world. That is why you want my kinsman.”
“Your kinsman?” the Morrígan laughed. “Little does he resemble you. The Hound is fair as any in the Sidh. Even proud Elathan would have claimed him.”
“I know what I am and my roots are sunk deep,” the giant growled. “This is my isle and you must go. You are not welcome here.”
“Am I not?” said the Morrígan. The goddess gazed at a faerie that was clinging to one of the giant’s horns. “What is your name, shining one?”
The faerie appeared petrified to be addressed directly by the Morrígan. Averting her eyes, she bowed low.
“Simara, my lady.”
“You’ve more courtesy than your master,” said the Morrígan. “You may accompany me back to the Sidh, my dear. All who dwell with Elathan’s bastard may accompany me. I will leave this very hour. Those who spurn my invitation shall be denied the Sidh forever. Go and tell the rest.”
With a flutter of wings, the faerie hovered hesitantly before the giant.
“Do what you must,” said the Fomorian. “Paths to the Sidh are few. The Morrígan’s offer will not come again. You are free to go. Many will wish to join you.”
The faerie zoomed off, weaving through the falling snow like a dragonfly. Max scowled at the Morrígan.
“They’re what he loves most,” he said. “Why would you take them from him?”
The Morrígan was unmoved. Her dark eyes fixed upon him as she raised a finger in stern warning. “Worry about what you love most. Invite me in or give me a son. Which shall it be?”
“Neither.”
Dipping her hands in the stream, the Morrígan washed them clean. “So be it. Youth will have its way. But tell me, Hound. Has anyone shared your geasa with you?”
“No.”
“Ask the Fomorian to tell you. It is time you knew. But keep them close—don’t even tell the girl. If your enemies learn your geasa, they will use them against you.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Max asked quietly.
“Because one ill turn deserves another.”
With a soundless laugh, the Morrígan rose to her feet. Clutching the infants, she walked straight into the nearest hill and disappeared. In her wake, a golden light peeped forth from the hillside. Where it shone, the soil slid away to reveal a mansized tunnel leading deep within the earth. Into the tunnel flew the ravens, screeching and cawing. The wolves came next. Last went the faeries.
They appeared from everywhere to accept the Morrígan’s invitation. A few stopped to bid the giant farewell but most were too anxious to depart for the Sidh while the portal remained open. The Fomorian watched their exodus in silence, his expression unreadable. He might have been carved of stone but for the occasional flick of his lamb’s ears. When the tunnel dimmed and the gate faded, he turned and walked up the hill, crunching bodies and armor beneath his great hooves. When he noticed Max following, he scooped him up without breaking stride.
Max sat within the giant’s cupped hands. Scathach and Nox were no longer frozen and spellbound, but sleeping peacefully. The Fomorian’s hands were warm and dry, his skin thicker than elephant hide and covered with scars the size of kite shields. The wind whistled through gaps in his fingers. Max peered out to see a dim red sky. Below them, snow blew across the dark hilltops.
The giant did not go straight back, but went instead on a rambling walk around the isle’s perimeter. He had grown so large he could pace its entire coastline in less than an hour. Hills and forest, beaches and cliffs slipped steadily past. The Fomorian might have been a mountain of mist as he walked the boundaries of his land. His footfalls made no sound. They seemed to drift past small villages and lonely farmsteads like fog off the Irish Sea.
Max was surprised to see there were humans living on the island. He supposed he shouldn’t have been. There were humans living here before Astaroth came to power. The isle was probably one of the safest places for people in the aftermath—so long as they didn’t anger the giant. Cities had faded, of course, along with most peoples’ memories of life before Astaroth, but there still must have been millions of people scattered across the world, surviving as best they could in this new age. Mankind was nothing if not resilient.
There had been humans in Zenuvia, too. And Piter’s Folly. Thousands of refugees arrived at Rowan every day—perhaps more since their victory over Prusias. Humans even lived in Blys’s capital. In his own way, Prusias was very fond of humans, their passions and quirks, their talents and foibles. When Max had been his unwilling guest, he’d heard the King of Blys quip that he wished he’d been born human. The real joke was that he wasn’t kidding. Not entirely.
There were times Max wished he’d been born human, too. He didn’t want to be Lugh’s son, to be an object of interest for gods and demons and everything in between. Life had been simpler before he’d known anything about magic or the Sidh or even Rowan. He wanted to go back, wanted to be that boy again. What would life have been like if he’d never boarded that fateful train to Chicago?
Fateful.
Was it fate? Did he have any say in how his life would unfold or was he simply marching along to the beat of an invisible drummer? Or was one’s life a combination of both—an opportunity to exercise free will at pivotal, orchestrated moments?
What choices had he made tonight? He chose to leave the giant’s caverns and wander the isle until they fell under the Morrígan’s spell. Had that truly been a choice? The question weighed heavily, for the consequences of his meeting with the goddess seemed enormous.
He had made an enemy tonight, an immensely powerful enemy at a time when he could not afford one. It was one thing to bring the Morrígan’s wrath upon himself, but Scathach and the Fomorian were now involved. The giant had lost a great deal this evening. What would Scathach lose? Should he have done what the Morrígan asked?
His mind went back to what Scathach had said aboard Ormenheid.
Never invite a god into this world.
To give in to the Morrígan would have been doing just that. Max suspected Scathach would have agreed with his stand. He just prayed she wouldn’t be the one to pay for it.
It was late when they returned to the giant’s home. The caverns were dark and largely empty. There was no singing or feasting, not telltale glimmers of faerie light from the depths of tunnels or pools. A few of the dewdrop faeries remained, but the Fomorian’s chief companions would be sea, stone, and tide.
Crouching, the Fomorian set them gently on the floor so Max could take Scathach and Nox to their room. Laying them on the bed, Max covered them in blankets and returned to the main cavern, where he found the Fomorian roasting oxen before a roaring fire. Max sat on a nearby boulder and watched him turn the spit.
“I’m sorry,” said Max.
The Fomorian grunted. “They will be happier in the Sidh.”
“I should have heeded your warning,” Max admitted.
Four eyes swiveled to look at him. “You did heed my warning.”
“You told Scathach we should stay in the caverns.”
“Not that one,” said the giant. �
�When we reforged your blade, I foretold that the goddess would tempt you—that she would try to make you a conqueror. Tonight, you did what few have the courage to do. You said no to the Morrígan.”
“I’m afraid of the consequences.”
“They may be difficult,” the giant admitted. “The Morrígan does not bring joy or contentment. That is not her nature. Your choice will have consequences. Whether good or evil, none can say. You chose what you thought was right. That is all one can do.”
Max said nothing but stared into the fire as though it might hold his fortune. Fat dripped onto the coals, hissing and crackling.
“Do you know my geis?” he asked the giant.
The Fomorian gave a reluctant nod. “Geasa,” he corrected. “There are two.”
“Would you tell them to me?”
“I will,” he said thoughtfully. “It is your right to know them. But tell me first why you wish to know.”
This puzzled Max. “Aren’t I supposed to know my geasa? How can I be sure I’m obeying them if I don’t know what they are?”
Max did not know much about geis or geasa other than they were magical prohibitions often placed on royalty or powerful beings at their birth. To break one’s geis was taboo and could trigger serious consequences.
“You are still alive,” the giant observed, pulling the ox off the spit. “If one breaks a geis, their days are numbered. But the Morrígan did not mention yours to keep you from breaking them. She knows a simple truth: those who know their geis are far more likely to break it.”
“Why would that be?”
The Fomorian shrugged. “They come to believe it’s their destiny. If I showed you a thousand doors and said you could enter all but one, which would you wish to open?”
“The one forbidden to me.”
“Of course,” said the giant. “Which is why it can be wiser not to learn one’s geis. Those who do tend to linger at its door.”
As the giant snapped and sucked the bones, Max wavered on whether he truly wanted to know what his geasa were. He decided to change the subject.
“Scathach said she told you why we came.”
The Fomorian nodded, licking grease from his fingers.
The Red Winter Page 21
