“Of course, fair lady, as me mum thought,” he took another swig.
“Your mother never wed,” Caer reminded him. “Centaurs don’t wed.”
“’Tis sad but true,” he said as his eyes misted. “As long as I have lived I have heard the story from my kindred, fair lady. Me mum watched the stars, and fell asleep. The gods punished her. A goat had relations with me mum in the night, and made me.”
Caer laughed and sank into the snow. “Why do you cheer me when my thoughts are so bleak?” She watched the smile grow on his face.
“’Tis my nature, fair lady.” He bowed. “For I am a prince, and you a princess already, and who knows our parents nature?”
Caer laughed. She knew everything she needed to know about her parents, and he did also. Neither one wanted to know more, believing they would be disappointed.
She knew the man she loved in dreams. She saw him every night and remembered their childhood meeting in the woods, perhaps a dream as well, for Beoreth never mentioned it, and Caer did not tell her grandmother of her dreams.
Beside her the goat-man took another swig of ale. Brown wool covered his body and crept up his back and his stomach in the way of the centaurs, though it lacked their regality. A mop of brown curls and horns crowned his head, and he made the occasional bleat. But for the wool, he possessed the thick hide of a centaur. On his head a circlet of gold bound his thick hair, much like the long, bound braids of the centaurs.
At his full height Huma still stood shorter than the average centaur, shorter than Caer whose own stature grew tall and beautiful as she neared her twentieth birthday. Yet his small nature never bothered Huma; in fact the presence of the centaurs lurking in the woods throughout Caer’s life seemed to be all that troubled him. And his brethren seemed none too fond of him either.
Yet he remained her constant companion, the one friend she ever made. She found him many years ago, wandering behind the hovel, bleating and hungry. Beoreth complained about Caer’s new pet. Yet Caer took him in anyway and gave to him her friendship. Now he lived in the woods nearby.
Beoreth, old and frail, but still wise and quick-witted, tended to her chores in the hovel now, boiling the brews to help her ailing health. As Beoreth aged, Caer went in her stead to the nearby village of Waterdam when they needed supplies.
Beoreth’s voice shattered the silence.
“Caer!”
“We should return,” Huma stumbled a bit as he began to walk.
“So, old friend,” she persisted. “Do you think my prince will come?”
“You need no prince,” he mimicked the words of Beoreth. “You need a good man with a strong back who’ll do what you tell him to.”
Caer laughed as they walked on. She did not notice the lady who watched her or the banners waving, illuminated by the torches glimmering not far away. She did not see the lady’s watchful gaze, the deep brown hair, or the immortal beauty.
But the time would soon come when the Erianrod, the child of light, would be awakened, and she would know all.
*****
The full moon shone around the earthen hovel. Inside Caer turned and tossed in a desperate search of sleep.
Sleep always came to her without effort. She wrapped the thick, woolen blankets around her and sat up, confused why dreams did not come to her now, when she wished to dream.
Unless, of course, the problem lay with anticipation.
She became desperate to see the man in her dreams, for so long her friend and confidant in sleep. But every morning when she awoke her heart broke because she lost him again.
Auburn hair fell around her shoulders to her waist, deep red in the firelight. Her cotton dressing gown seemed to block as little of the cold as the wool blankets she clutched around her.
Caer iormeita…
The woman’s voice calling out to her lilted soft and beautiful, ringing in her head like the tinkling of bells. The hairs on Caer’s head prickled, and her skin seemed to tingle with curiosity and fear as she realized she knew the meaning of the strange words.
Caer, come to me…
“Who’s there?” she whispered, glancing at the glowing embers of the fire, at the dead candle on the table, its wax almost spent.
She heard no reply.
Caer set down a foot and drew it up again. The earthen floor grew too cold to walk on. Caer laced leather boots onto her feet, and stood. Caer and Beoreth remained alone in the hovel, for it would be hard to miss a woman in the small room she lived in. Yet the words seemed to ring in her head the same, as if spoken beside her.
Caer iormeita. Caer, come to me.
Caer tip-toed through her home, glancing at the tattered curtain her snoring grandmother slept behind. Caer placed a log onto the hearth and stoked it for the heat they needed. Relaxed again, she turned to the bed she abandoned.
Caer ibormeita? Caer, will you come to me?
“Where are you?” She picked up another log, hefting it over her head as a weapon. It seemed as good as any weapon one could make.
Sistan niehereth. Giharad nestlith.
In silver palaces. In golden glades.
“Fairies.” She felt something rare, as if a candle burned in her heart, unable to break free and shine its light. The voice spoke of Elphame, the fairy kingdom beneath the earth. She strained her ears. The sound of pipes and lutes floated outside, playing not the joyful songs she imagined the fairies played, but a slow, mournful tune. Above the pipes and lutes she heard the fairies sing in their language, which her heart understood.
Caer crept to the door. As she gripped the latch, she glanced at her grandmother’s curtain and listened. And without a second thought, Caer opened the door and disappeared into the cold world, wrapped in blankets offering little warmth against the chill.
The sound of the pipes grew clearer now, the sound of the singing as if whisperings from far away. She could hear the words as they sang, the same mournful sound of the pipes.
Lithia patuna, shrediagova, fwelithia nastari, shacrina. The light has passed, the darkness grows, the world is fallen, and shadows close.
How did she understand the words? She walked through the snow, and the icy chill of the wind broke through her wrappings. Could it be because she imagined she understood, and she dreamed of this in the hovel? No, it could not be a dream. This chill could not be imagined.
She paused, letting the crunching beneath her feet cease to listen to the fairies’ mournful song.
Watunasa licam amus sira? Watunasa isum basaledin? Solani cavala gomanin. Thiapara fwer amar.
When will the light come among us? When will we be saved? Soon is the call of the gods. The path for her is made.
The pipes and voices seemed closer now. Caer glanced back and saw the hovel framed in the moonlight. Caer wondered if she walked so far, or if the darkness played tricks on her mind. It seemed the world itself moved and brought her closer to the fairies.
Before her the woods glowed, not the soft white light of the moon, but a shimmering, moving blue light. It lay over the ridge not far away.
Caer glanced back one more time and began to walk toward the dancing lights of the fairies.
Ibormeitas Caer. Come to me, Caer, the voice whispered in her head. And without thought, Caer obeyed.
Caer climbed over the ridge and saw what she never imagined she would. Stretching as far as could be seen, fairies walked, hundreds and thousands of them. Their dress they wove of silver and green; blue as clear as the water and clear skies; the deep, rich brown of the earth beneath her feet; and the purest of white silks, trailing in the snow.
Some of the fairies’ hair hung free, framing their strong, chiseled faces, falling to their shoulders, cascading down their backs. Others drew their hair in a knot, with a single cascading tail. Though she imagined them as princes and queens, Caer did not see a single crown on their brows. And yet somehow she did not believe they needed crowns or circlets of gold to make their presence known. Their eyes glowed the blue of the oceans, th
eir hair golden and silver.
The men carried glinting swords at their sides, the women daggers and arrows, or small children at their bosoms. They rode horses or walked; some carried spears.
The blue light shone from lanterns. The others carried streamers of cloth hanging from tall yew staffs. The silky cloth blew in the night air, a silver tree with golden fruit against a backdrop of cream. Above each tree the golden visage of the crown of stars worn by the Witch Queen of Sul embroidered upon it.
The ones closest to her wept, thick tears of deep blue seeming as if they belonged in the places of the gods, and not fit to fall on the horrible earth of her mortal world. Caer gasped, awe-struck. The fairies glanced in her direction, and Caer ducked behind a tree.
The fairy song changed.
Lithia lonuasol owentari. Lithia lonuasan ewespria.
The light is lost in lands of winter. Without the light there is no spring.
Caer watched the glittering fairy lights as the words of their song repeated.
When will the light come among us? When will we be saved? Soon is the call of the gods. The path for her is made.
Ten banners rode by Caer, blowing in the icy breeze, with ten lanterns before them. And behind, on a silver steed, a lady sat, tall and regal, with a crown of stars upon her head, her hair the dark brown color of oak, her eyes also weeping.
“The Fairy Queen,” Caer whispered. And the lights went out.
Caer waited for her eyes to adjust in the moonlight. She peered into the ravine where the fairies walked moments before, but found it empty, save for moonflowers blooming where their tears fell.
She turned around and could not see the hovel. She seemed to have traveled with the fairies, for the house disappeared, though moments ago it remained distant.
Fear clutched her heart. She might freeze. She cursed herself for not wearing her furs. Kicking at the snow, Caer walked away from the ravine, hoping to find her way home. But in the night even the trees seemed displaced from where she knew them to be.
A little way off she saw the fairies' lights gleaming. They no longer hid, and instead came into the open, and did not move. At the center of the procession sat Mab, the Fairy Queen, on her silver horse behind the torchbearers and banners.
“Help me!” Caer cried. “I cannot find my home!” Breathless, she arrived where they waited.
Mab’s penetrating stare locked onto her. The Queen spoke in the voice of the woman who called to her. “Ibormeith Caer.” Her voice rang in the woods like the soft tinkling of bells. You have come, Caer.
“Will you help me find my home?” she asked again, looking up at the Queen’s beauty, the type of beauty the gods alone, Beoreth once told her, possessed in Miðgarðir.
“I will,” the fairy Queen replied. A moment passed before Caer realized the Queen spoke in the language of mortals. “In Eliudnir, deep in the wastes of Óskópnir, Moloch's heir gathers darkness to its call. You should not wander too far into the woods.”
“Why do you pass this way?” Caer forgot fear and let her curiosity take hold. “Are you going to fight a war?”
“The time of war passed long ago.” Mab waved her hand at a nearby tree. The hovel appeared behind it, as if masked by a powerful spell.
“Do not wander too far into the path of Sul, young daughter,” Mab warned, her tone as grave as her features. “Remain in Fensalir, where you will be safe.”
“I will,” Caer promised and wondered if Mab spoke aloud or in her thoughts. She glanced down at her feet in the snow. “Did you call to me?” she asked, peering up. But she found the forest around her empty. The fairies vanished.
The lights disappeared from the woods. As she trudged back to the hovel and shut the door, she thought about the joy and the wonder and the fear she felt upon meeting the fairies. She crawled into bed, and sleep took her into dreams, and into strange places she saw before, worlds sleep alone could give to her.
Not far away Mab watched and waited. Centaurs alone did not watch the child of light frozen in the wilderness; all who awaited her return watched and waited for the coming of the light.
You hear because you are the heart of the world, Mab whispered, and disappeared in a wisp of smoke.
*****
It began. Caer, wrapped in the thick wool blankets, now warm and snug in the light and warmth of the fire, fell into dreams, and heard the call of places she never knew.
The warmth of the hovel disappeared, replaced by ice, and a dead city before her. The moonlight caressed her face, and a crown of stars rested upon her brow.
The time comes…
Caer took in the lands of winter around her. As she flew through the lands of Sul, over the wilderness of Fensalir and the fairy dwellings of Elphame, she perceived the darkness and shadows of Belial. Caer saw now around her the forests of ice and snow, the lands of perpetual winter, in the far north of Sul, where the path of light passed into Ull and at last to Glasheim and Vingólf, the vigil of the Ice Queen.
“Your time draws nigh, my daughter.”
The Ice Queen stood nearby in the clearing. Tears streamed down her face, and yet…
And yet the woman of Caer’s dreams looked upon her in hope and happiness.
“You have returned to me at last, my daughter,” she cried, as her tears of joy shattered on the ice and snow, before the shadows of Caer’s mind overcame her, and she drifted out of space and time.
Do you hear the call, The Ice Queen’s voice intoned on the wind. Caer felt light as a feather, a specter in Miðgarðir.
Do you feel the call of Miðgarðir and the people who forget you?
The White City rose tall before Caer, shining in the light of the dawn sun.
“I hear it,” she murmured and felt the world change, and the presence of Beren faded away on the wind.
The standing stones of Glasheim and the stone benches of the sacred place rose before her. The fairies stood in a circle around the stones, and beside Caer stood a figure cloaked in white with light pouring from beneath its hooded veil.
'I should not be here,' Caer thought, suddenly fearful. She turned to see the peaceful faces of the fairies, the children of the gods looking upon the face of their father.
Let the future be opened to you now, Woden’s cloak swirled as he spoke to Caer in the languages of gods and men from beneath the white hood. It is time for you to understand, for you shall know the destiny laid down for you in the heavens and on the earth.
You are not so unlike them, his voice continued on the soft wind, as the language of the gods moved in her mind, words no man would know. You are the daughter of my line in this world, a line that bears the face of Dana, the one whom I loved.
“What must I know?”
He gazed at the stone of Frigg before them.
She gasped. The ghost of a child stood there, the boy she knew from childhood dreams. Headred, she thought, as he walked among the stones. Was he lost to her forever?
Your hearts will not be one so long as your heart remains frozen, the god told her as the wind sighed. What he foretold to your people and your mother spared your life.
“What did he foretell?” She heard the god’s words spoken from a time long past.
“In her hand she holds the love of a man,” his voice rang clear in the night, “and the magic of the gods. One she will lose, one she will forget. Her heart will be frozen in the land of winter where she will see her mortal destiny. There she must choose her fate and the fate of her people.
“Her destiny weaves in the night of the gods. She cannot fight, she cannot love, and she cannot face her destiny unless she lets love touch her also, in the lands of magic she returns to.
“The war of shadows will be met in Sul. Men will join her; kindred will fall. The world will change forever, for y Erianrod must come among us, and shed her mantle of secrecy. Belial, Moloch’s heir, may fall, but a price must be paid in a life.
“A life must be taken to bring balance again into the world of magic. One of th
em, witch or demon, must die. And the sacrifice the gods will take from the victor will make their triumph as bitter as defeat. A sacrifice of death shall bring life to all. The battle meets in the place of the gods.
“In the lands of magic, under the shadow of the mountain, y Erianrod and Lord Belial will meet their destinies.
“The door under the mountain must be opened. The heart of the world must be reformed. The shadow must pass under the mountain, and so must the child must enter its vale. In Náströnd, in the shadow of the mountain, they will meet, and the fate of the world will be forged.”
Before Caer, the boy faded into mist. Woden diminished, and vanished into the moonlight. In the stillness of the night, as the nymphs of the wood and waters awoke from enchanted sleep, Caer stood alone by the standing stone of the Frigg, and faced the distant mountains.
And the world shattered again.
Winter glittered around her in the empty wood. Nymphs sang in the trees and the frozen wells, the fairies played mournful songs, the centaurs stepped soft across the snow, and mortal children chattered and played. A song rose above all of these, calling to her from the mountain of the gods, beckoning her to come.
*****
Cahros, son of Cheron, paced in the snow outside the hovel, sipping fire ale and watching the portents among the stars. The wise woman and the witch slept inside. Fire ale burned in his throat, and its warmth passed through his body. He longed to go to his kindred in the north, to pray for absolution in the place of his people, to ask for forgiveness for his father’s betrayal.
Cheron knew what would come for the child of Beren. The stars long foretold this destiny. He disobeyed the most ancient of the centaur’s laws and aided Beren in her time of need.
Cahros’ father helped the witch and her daughter, as he promised to do long ago, and betrayed all the centaur’s ideals.
The moon descended as Woden drew the sun, his chariot, from behind the earth. Frey and Freya moved along their paths of the stars. Tension built in the land of the gods, as darkness grew in the world of magic.
“We have lost so much,” Gehrdon commented. Before where she stood on the rise Cahros started. “So much must be forgotten, while other things can be told, and remembered.”
Gehrdon moved atop a nearby hillock. Long dark hair cascaded over her milky white skin; her eyes, large and round as a horse’s, glittered in the light of the moon. Her dark, brown eyes seemed sad tonight; the night all things must change.
The Ice Queen Page 3
