Table of Contents
Free Chapter of Fathom
Glossary And Dates
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Leave A Review
Join Merrie’s Newsletter
About the Author
Also by Merrie Destefano
Fairytale Christmas
A Fair Folk Saga
Merrie Destefano
Ruby Slippers Press
Copyright © 2017 by Merrie Destefano
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Les Solot.
Image by Deposit Photos/Fotolit2.
Created with Vellum
For my sister, Kathy, my Caer.
Be safe, be well, and remember always that I love you as much as Eire loves Caer.
Contents
Glossary And Dates
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Leave A Review
Free Chapter of Fathom
Join Merrie’s Newsletter
About the Author
Also by Merrie Destefano
Glossary And Dates
These dates relate to Ireland and this story.
Ice Ages: 24,000 B.C. - 9,000 B.C. Approx. [Time of the Ice Giants]
Stone Ages: 12,000 B.C. - 2,000 B.C. [Time of the Standing Stones]
Bronze Age: 2,000 B.C. - 500 B.C. [Time of the Milesian Invasion]
Iron age: 500 B.C. - 400 A.D.
Glossary:
Alba: Scotland
Albion: The island of Great Britain
Arrachtaigh: Monsters
Beidh mé: I will
Cara Maith: Good friend
Caorthannach: The fire-breathing mother of all demons
Cinn beag: Little ones, mortal
Ciorcal: Circle
Duine: Mankind, mortals
Faery Cavalcade: The great faery cavalcades of old would travel in gusts of wind, disappearing and then reappearing again far away. Many Fair Folk believe that on the great Day of Judgment, all the Tuatha de Danann will turn to dust and blow away forever.
Ice Giants: Ice age glaciers
Liagchiorcal Chaisleán an Ridire: Castleruddery Stone Circle, near the Wicklow Mountains
Leanaí: Children
Nightshade blood: The blood of a Leanan Sidhe
Nuckelavee: Half-man/half-horse demon from Scottish legends
Mares: An evil goblin or faery that sits on the chest of a human while they sleep, causing bad dreams.
Milesians: Invaders who conquered Ireland during the rule of the Tuatha de Danann
Muir Éireann: The Irish Sea, the narrow span of ocean between Ireland and England
Seanchaí: Gaelic storyteller who told folktales in a time before writing
Sléibhte Chill Mhantáin: The Wicklow Mountains
Tuatha de Danann: The Fair Folk, a race of immortal gods with magical powers, also known as faeries
One
1,400 years B.C.
They came in longboats and we stood on the rocky cliffs, watching as they arrived. Faery and Duine stood side by side, immortal and mortal, the way we had always been. The Duine were our beloved cinn beag, our little ones; we were their feared and favored gods.
At that time, we walked hand in hand, sharing everything. The mortals fed us and clothed us. Our magic blessed or cursed them.
It was our way of life.
I loved them all dearly, for I was their queen. I was Eire and this grand island carried my name. Eire Land.
Ireland.
This was my home and my people.
But it all changed on that day when the Milesians arrived, storms in their wake, their Druids conjuring dark magic, their armor and their weapons fashioned in diabolic forges while a great sorcerer cast spells over each and every item.
I should have killed them all the moment they set foot on our island. I shouldn’t have trusted their lies, their broad smiles, their gifts of gold.
But the worst thing of all they brought to our shores was that cursed silver. Shaped into armor, it made the wearer invincible. Melded onto swords, it could poison my people, the Tuatha De Danann, and cause a fearsome illness.
They wore this magic silver in charms and rings and necklaces, they wove fine strands into their clothing. A few of them even drank it, so their skin would glow a soft blue in the darkness.
They camped for a day and a night, strange fires burning, the stench filling the valley. My sister, Caer, sensed danger before I did. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, then she called for one of our kinsmen.
“Take the youngest children and flee, hide on the cliffs and watch,” she told him.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The darkest magic of all is brewing,” she whispered behind her hand. She knew more about this sort of sorcery, since her husband, Faelan, was a Leanan Sidhe. Her husband and mine stood side by side, dressed for battle, both of them carrying bronze swords and shields. Faelan lifted his head, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath, then licked his lips.
The Druids were burning human sacrifices.
When the moon hid behind thick clouds and many of our soldiers had fallen asleep, the Milesians crept nearer. Then they attacked in blinding light, all of their silver weapons glowing bright blue. No one could flee fast enough as their swords began to swing through the crowds.
Three things can kill a faery.
One, if you steal his heart.
Two, if you cut off his head.
Three, if a banshee sings him to everlasting sleep.
All three of these things happened on that night and more. My own husband, King Fethur, perished at my side, though we both fought valiantly, neither of us giving in to weariness. But one blade sliced off his head and there was no magic in the world that could bring him back to life. I didn’t have time to mourn, for the Milesians forced us back and back, trying to push us up a high cliff and then down into the rocky sea.
We fought, our casualties great. We lost more than a thousand men on that night.
My feet slipped, my sword swung in an arc of death, and my sister and I set our banshee blood free. We sang a song of death, though it was hard to find the right notes that could penetrate the thick silver helmets that covered the Milesians’ ears.
Faelan may have rescued us, though I don’t think that was his intention. While our banshee nature came to the front, so did his Leanan Sidhe ways. He already towered over the Milesians, being a full torso taller than any of them, and his black-furred skin and golden glowing eyes caused many of their soldiers to stumble in fear.
But when he began cracking their bodies in half and drinking their blood, a path of escape op
ened for us.
His darkness was blacker than their own.
We ran, searching for our children, and having no time to gather food or supplies. But our path toward the cliffs where my children and those of my sister were hiding was barred.
Three bright, silver-blue Milesian warriors stood in the way, all of them wearing head to foot armor, unlike anything we’d ever seen. Our weapons could not touch it, our songs could not penetrate it, and even Faelan grew weak when he approached them.
The warrior in the center wore a crown atop his armor and a glowing ring on his right hand that rivaled the sun, nearly blinding us.
This was the Milesian king.
“Kneel or flee,” he told us. “We could fight from one moon to the next, but you will never defeat us. Submit to us, give us your children to raise as our own, let us wield your faery magic for our purpose, and you may remain here in your homes.”
He paused, waiting to see if any of us would take the knee before him. None of us did, though we all grew unsteady on our feet. It felt like poison came into my lungs with every breath, making my muscles soft and my bones frail. Those around me began to cough, a slow trickle of blood coming from their noses and mouths.
If we continued to stand here, this silver was going to kill us.
“What is our other option?” I asked, refusing to even bow my head. As the Fair Folk Queen, I was his equal.
“Flee. Quickly.” His voice came out as an angry growl. “Your people have a fortnight, maybe less, before my men hunt you down and kill you in your sleep. Or we might poison you along the road, if we think you are taking too long. Trust no one. Take no spoils. Do not return to your homes.”
I held my breath, hoping he was merely banishing us to the southern tip of our isle. But he wasn’t.
“Leave Ireland and never return. Your kind is no longer welcome here,” he said.
At that point, the king and his two soldiers stepped aside, allowing us a narrow path of escape. As we each began to dart past them in single file, they reached out to touch us, some on the leg, some on the arm, some on the face.
We bear those silver-scorched burns to this day. Even the Standing Stones cannot heal the wounds we received on the day of our banishment.
We will never forget the Milesian Invasion or the loss of our homeland.
Two
With my husband gone, I feared for the lives of our young twin sons. They were now the rightful heirs to the throne, but there was treachery afoot, within our faery camp and without. I could feel it brewing in whispers and cautious glances, in the way some people gathered behind warriors who had done well in our last battle. It was no coincidence that the Milesians had attacked us in a part of the country where we had no Standing Stones. We might have been able to withstand the Druid’s sorcery—if only we could have drawn away to a stone ciorcal in small groups and strengthened ourselves.
‘Twas the work of spies, sure enough. Some of our people must have made maps and given directions to the invaders.
We had but a few days left to make it to the shore, where our longboats waited, all stocked with supplies, enough to last us when we made it across the Muir Éireann—the narrow span of ocean that separated us from Albion. I’d wanted to go to Alba, the northern part of our neighboring isle, for we had friends there. But the Milesians barred that exit.
They didn’t want us to band together with our friends. They only allowed us to flee into the arms of our enemies.
So, the road of escape went on forever, wending through forests and hills, over mountains and rivers. We marched past fields and through villages. Sometimes the Duine came out to weep at our banishment, tossing flowers in our path. Sometimes they hid behind trees and threw rocks.
We never knew what the next village would hold.
One morning—just after thick storm clouds parted—we passed through a small, muddy village. Tiny huts lined a narrow road and an old woman ran toward us. “My queen, my queen,” she called out. Her white hair blew in the breeze, catching the sunlight, and making it look as if she wore a halo. With head bowed, she lifted a fresh loaf of bread, wrapped neatly in a clean apron, and she handed it to me. The fragrance of yeast and rosemary made my mouth water.
“I been hopin’ ya would pass this way, Seanchaí,” she said, never raising her eyes to look at my face.
“Thank you for your kindness. A blessing of good harvest on you,” I said to her, my right hand resting on her shoulder. The Milesians had chased us out, but we still had our magic. I gave it to the Duine freely as I passed through the large cities and the small villages.
For a moment, her entire body glowed. The woman gave me a toothless grin.
I took a bite of the warm bread and swallowed, proving there was no poison or Druid silver. Every day, another tale circulated through our camp of how our own Duine had turned against us. We feared the bits of Milesian silver that had been hidden throughout our land, charms hanging from signposts, silver nails pounded into the roads, necklaces draped from oak branches.
But this bread was pure and wholesome and given by someone with a good heart. I broke the rest of the loaf into two halves and gave it to my sons. The pair of them rode beside me, together atop a small white horse. My children devoured the loaf like little, hungry wolves.
Faelan rode his massive black horse past mine, not bothering to look at me. “There could have been silver in that bread,” he said, his words like a curse. “You could have killed your own sons.” He used this opportunity and many others to drive a wedge between me and my faithful followers, both faery and Duine.
Ten days ago, I was a queen. At that time, no one in my House would have dared to criticize me. Now everything had changed.
My sister’s husband, Faelan, had quickly taken charge of our army. At first, I welcomed this, for I was bone-weary from the battle and I’d had to sing many of my sweet faery warriors to death with my banshee voice. After the battle, the rest of the Tuatha de Danann feared Faelan, for they saw how he drew supernatural strength from drinking the blood of his enemies. When he rode atop his horse, the pair of them looked like one magical creature. A nuckelavee, perhaps—a half-horse/half-man demon. Instead of skin, he had thick, short coarse fur, black as his horse, and his eyes were pure gold. His ears curved up and back—much like Mares’ ears—while his teeth were long and came to sharp points.
I’d seen him eat live goats without using a knife, breaking off legs and crunching bones as easily as I ate a carrot.
It didn’t take long for him to take charge of my remaining army. They still protected me, but I could sense something in the air whenever Faelan was near.
I should have been more careful.
I should have taken my sons and my sister, and together we should have slipped away at night. We could have taken the swiftest horses. We could have made it to the shore and taken the first longboat. We would still be together to this day.
As it is, I fear I will never see my sister, Caer, again.
She is lost to me.
I mourn her as I mourn my husband.
Because of this, there is an ache in my heart that I fear will never be healed.
Three
I wept as we traveled, for I knew we would never find another land as lovely as this. There was nowhere as beautiful as this green island, filled with oak groves and emerald hills and Standing Stone monuments. And the people—ah, how my heart would burst at the sight of them. Working in the fields, lifting a hand in the sign of a blessing as we passed, leaving us offerings of bread and salt and milk. We’d find these gifts when we woke in the mornings. Even though we didn’t see the Duine following us, there was a loyal band that had not forsaken us. There were days I thought we would have starved, if not for them.
I carved their faces in my memory and I continued to bless them throughout our journey.
After a long ride, we finally paused to rest for half a day at Liagchiorcal Chaisleán an Ridire, beneath the shadow of the approaching mountains. The
re I took my sons by the hand and led them through the grove of whitethorn trees, past an avenue of kerbstones, then through the massive quartz portal stones.
“Why are we here, Ma?” Ambros asked, impatient. He raced through the ancient circle as if he still rode his pony. Benen, on the other hand, paused to touch the delicate stone carvings, and to marvel at the size of the stones.
“The Druids claim this is their ciorcal, but it was made by the Fair Folk, after the Ice Giants left,” I told them.
“Do you feel it?” my sister asked. Her children wandered throughout the open structure along with mine. Her three sons, Finn, Edmond and Bradan, were nearly grown and had fought in the battle alongside us. But her daughter, Riona, was the same age as my twins.
“Feel what?” Benen asked, his dark eyes sparkling as he turned toward us.
“Watch,” I told him. “Hold still.”
All of our children stopped what they were doing to face us.
Faelan stood beside Caer, his arms crossed, a dark expression on his face. He hated banshee magic and, yet, I could tell it fascinated him—as if he was trying to learn how to harness our power. My sister and I held hands, then we started to sing.
The stones began to glow, soft at first, and everyone within the circle made quiet sounds of awe. Then the light burst from earth to heaven, a golden beacon that could be seen for miles. At the same moment, tiny fingers of light spiderwebbed throughout the circle, encasing each one of us.
The light was both healing and strengthening.
Fairytale Christmas Page 1
