TWENTY-NINE
SAGE
I’m more than a little relieved when we pull up in front of the Cottages. Neither of us said a word the whole way home. The silence was heavy with horror and unspoken questions.
I just saw my first official dead body. And the worst part is, I’m numb now.
Maybe I’m in shock.
When I realized what I was seeing under that table—the moment my mind registered the human hand, the clothes, the torn flesh—my heart stopped and everything slowed. My mind couldn’t understand what I was seeing, the pieces . . . bile filled my mouth and I wanted to cry, to scream.
But then Faelan pulled me away, and icy awareness hit me; nothing would happen because of it. No investigation, no arrests. Nothing. No one would ever know what became of that person.
The body was probably one of many in that place. And Kieran was standing right beside it as if it was a piece of dropped meat.
On the street, you get used to injustice. The shadows are full of bastards who get away with all kinds of sickening things. If a person is murdered in cold blood, though, you could tell yourself that someone might at least try to punish the people responsible. But in this world, human life is expendable, a means to an end. Food. This kind of viciousness is normal to these people. And now I’m one of them.
I swallow hard, not wanting to cry.
We pause as we come to the waterfall near the steps that lead to the cottages. Neither of us seems sure of what comes next. Seconds tick by, and the sound of water splashing into the lagoon pool surrounds us. An owl hoots from one of the taller trees.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he finally says, “especially on the night of your Introduction to our world. And after everything that’s happened . . .”
I don’t really have anything to say in response. Would there have been a better time to see it?
“Does that happen a lot,” I ask, “the . . . killing?”
He stares at the dark surface of the water. “Less than it used to.” After a few seconds, he adds, “They have to be more careful now.”
The way he says they, like he doesn’t include himself in their world, strikes me as odd, but a trickle of relief comes. He doesn’t think of himself as one of them.
I watch his profile in the moonlight, and the memory of how he called himself an outcast comes back to me. How he said he left his family. I find myself wondering about his life, what his story is. How did he become this, a servant and hunter, claiming he’d take a knife to the heart for me, a girl he barely knows?
“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” I say.
He turns and studies me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face. “I’m not sorry,” he finally says. But confusion pinches his brow, like he’s surprised at himself.
I can’t help thinking of the way he tried to teach me to control my powers tonight, even a little bit, so I wouldn’t hurt someone. And then he kissed me . . . an all-consuming kiss that rocked everything under me. I want so badly for it not to have been a lie. I need it to be true after what happened with Kieran tonight.
I reach up and touch the bronze medallion on my chest, wondering about my sister, this queen named Lily. Everyone acts as if she was so powerful, so strong. A killer, yes, but strong. What would she have done tonight? Would she have destroyed Kieran? Would she have let herself fall for Faelan? Or would she have run, like I want to do right now?
“I should take off the other torque,” Faelan says, breaking through my thoughts. “It’s useless now since the older, stronger one will take over.”
A twinge of fear uncurls in my chest. “Will this one be safe?” I can’t imagine it would be if Kieran gave it to me. But then, when he put it on me, the shift wasn’t in his favor. I felt like I could finally breathe again and fight him off. It doesn’t make sense. Why would he place a torque on me that gives me freedom to push him away?
“A torque isn’t safe or dangerous,” Faelan says. “It just is.”
“So this one will be okay?”
“It was your sister’s, gifted to her for her Bonding ceremony by her mother. It’s rumored that it had to be very strong to combat Lily’s powers.”
“Does that mean I’m not dangerous with this one on?” I ask.
He shakes his head slowly. “No way to tell. A torque is meant to be shaped for a single spirit. So it likely won’t work on you very well in the long run. Unless Kieran was somehow able to get a druid to reshape the bloodspell on it specifically for you. He would’ve needed some of your blood, though, to do that.”
Back to square one, then.
He comes around behind me and gently unclasps the weaker torque. “We’ll see how well it works tomorrow.”
I turn to face him as he pulls the necklace off, my heart beating harder as I search his face. A yearning fills me. To push aside this fear, to feel the same rush of wonder he made me feel earlier, when he held me and kissed me and consumed me.
“Faelan,” I whisper, stepping closer.
He goes still, muscles tensing, fear sparking in his eyes.
And an ache blossoms in my gut.
The owl hoots again in the trees above, and a smaller bird sings in answer. I take in a breath of the cool evening air, the scent of night jasmine filling my head, and wish I could sort out everything that I’m feeling.
I wish it had been a different kind of night.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” I say softly. I give him a weak smile before walking away and heading for my cottage.
I sit on the couch, staring down at the coffee table. I’ve never felt more trapped in my entire life, not even when I was in that Catholic group home, or when my mom’s next-door neighbor, Mrs. Randall, locked me in her broom closet when she babysat me. I can’t run. I can’t run from any of this—my powers, or Kieran, or my sister’s past.
The only person I don’t want to run from is Faelan. But I’m not even sure I can have him.
How could he kiss me like that if he didn’t mean it?
My eyes fall on the scroll he gave me this afternoon—the scroll that supposedly has the stories about my sister in it.
My pulse picks up a little. The truth of what’s happening to me could be in there. But I’m starting to wonder if I want to know what I might become.
The dark princess’s words come back to me: My brother would be pleased to teach her, tame her, as the King of Ravens tamed her sister.
Like the king tamed my sister? Is that what Kieran wants to do to me? What does that even mean?
The king was their brother, and my sister was married to him, and then somewhere in there she murdered him and tried to destroy the whole world. And either Kieran thinks in his twisted mind that he and I should be together, or he thinks that he should torment me until I get thrown into goddess hell along with my sister.
I wish I knew what he wanted from me. Because however much I want to deny it, however much it sickens me, I do feel drawn to him. Like a part of me wants him too.
And I need to figure out why.
I pick up the scroll and set it in my lap. I hesitate for a second, and then I take the leap, gently pulling it open.
The script is delicate and decorative. Some of the letters are painted with colored designs: a bird or a horse or some other animal. It’s definitely old, but the ink is only faded a little, the thick paper slightly discolored.
I find the spot where a new section starts and look over the unrecognizable language. I pick up the adder stone and bring it to my face, peering through the hole.
The script shifts, the ink re-forming in the weave of the paper. Familiar words begin to appear: forgotten, punishment . . . until it’s all in English.
Seven hundred and fifty-three, anno Domini, the third earth-child born of Our Holy Goddess Brighid, first of the female line, occurred within the short summer of the lily: born, Líle Ó Braonáin, of a human male. Named for the sorrow of her days to come, and the promise of a rebirth within the ashes. She is Daughter of Fire, Queen of Spark and Sorrow. Ever shall she burn.
A chill works over me as I absorb the words.
My sister’s title was Queen of Spark and Sorrow. The name sends a twist of sadness through me for some reason. I push it away and keep reading. I shouldn’t feel bad for a murderer.
In which the life of Líle Ó Braonáin begins on earth: An envoy of the Holy Goddess Brighid brought across, from the Otherworld, the first female child of fire and gave the newblood as a changeling to a smyth’s widow in the south, a rare practice as it were. The babe held back the woman’s sorrow for a time, but it soon came to the widow’s attention that her daughter had many oddities, and she feared that her true child’s soul had been taken by a sprite. The human woman became aware of the glamour placed on the child, seeing the truth of what had been done to her.
And so, in the long summer of wyne, the babe was abandoned within the Caledonian wood by the widow, for she hoped that the fae would take back their trickster gift and that the gods would be appeased. But no wolf or beast consumed the child. It lay, surrounded by the arms of ash and birch, and soon was found by a humble monk of unknown title to be raised in seclusion until her twelfth year, when her Emergence began.
Three years of the demi’s life are marked here as void.
(Note here: As a matter of suspect, we believe the goddess collected her and kept her in the Otherworld for a time, but the reasons are unknown.)
It was upon her fifteenth year that the demi reappeared on the moors, near starving. She was taken in by the Church, found to be a girl of rebellious nature and stubborn of will. Many times she was chastised, to no avail. Soon she was sent by the Cast to live in a nunnery. There she would pass her most fearsome days, until she could be taught the value of balance.
(Note here: It was during this time that the first of the Great Breaking occurred.)
The demi lived in seclusion within the southern cloister for five seasons. On her eighteenth Beltane, it is thought she met with the human boy, the son of an earthly king within the southern realms. A Bond was formed in secret between the Daughter of Fire and this boy. And so it was upon the full moon of the summer solstice that the inevitable occurred; she fed from the human prince in her vicious rebellion many times but eventually lost control of the fire, killing him in a most conspicuous way. And so, to solidify her sin, in her ignorance she confessed it to the priest of those lands, allowing for the earthly king to learn a part of the truth, the most dreadful of all mistakes made in the name of love.
A punishment was established, and she was Bonded to a more powerful soul, in agreement with both deity creators, in order to contain her. Though it was a first in occurrence, the joining of two separate Houses and powers, it was deemed necessary. (Note here: See also v. VII, ch. III, within these Painted Annals.)
We know from the accounting of this first daughter, and her inability to keep her powers hidden, why the first human factions of the Church split with the Cast soon after this. Many druids were burned at the stake and disemboweled at this time, and the Christian priests only grew in strength, destroying more of our ranks. We must see and recognize here how the first crack was borne upon us. And we must understand, above all, that what was done next in the Bonding of the Morrígan and Brighid bloodlines did not end the destruction this Daughter of Fire would bring. Instead, we brought this retribution of impurity upon ourselves. Her eventual descent into that most horrifying madness was inevitable, considering what we allowed to occur.
It seems we are eternally trapped within the culture of human weakness we helped to shape.
(Note here: See a more detailed account of the first Daughter of Fire within v. XVI, ch. V, of these Painted Annals. See also “The Visions of Bartious Lucius,” in which a priest recounts her confession, and the tales of “The Vicious Flight,” though a more unreliable source, still worthy of comparison. If the collections of Time Scrolls are within access, seek those out as well, v. XII, ch. VI, of the Black Years to Come.)
I sit back, lowering the scroll to my lap. There’s more, but I’m not sure I can digest it. My heart is racing. The words read like something out of an old textbook, not like anything I’d usually be swept up in. It’s silly to let myself get so engrossed.
But it feels very real.
And I guess it is. She accidentally killed her lover when she was young, was forced to marry Kieran’s brother because of it, and eventually, if Faelan’s right, she killed that man too. And went mad? And then birthed the Black Death.
Reading it in this dry accounting twists the knife of the revelations even deeper. There’s a deep callousness there, and it makes me sympathize with the girl that my sister was. Could this happen to me?
I never thought I’d relate to someone accused of being a killer. But after what I did to Ben and nearly did to Faelan, after everything I felt with Kieran, I barely know who or what I am anymore. Am I evil or righteous?
My attention turns back to the scroll. I need to understand as much of this as I can. I need the truth, wherever it leads.
I take a deep breath and dive back in. I read until my eyes burn and my vision blurs. I devour every word, every odd story in the scroll, until I drift off, falling into a dream.
Fionn opens his wings, taking flight from his perch on my arm. He’s small for a full-grown owl but no less fierce. I lower my gloved hand and watch him disappear into the trees, masked by the white flurry of snow.
The black steed shifts under me, his muscles flexing. I reach down and pet his regal neck, his shiny onyx coat striking in the white surroundings. “It’s all right, Spark. He’ll return to us. Hopefully he’ll catch some of those mice plaguing my greenhouse.”
The air is crisp with new snow, the bite of the cold lessened a little by the storm. I’m surprised that I can sense the slight shift in temperature at all; apparently, I’ve been here in this frozen land far too long—nearly six moons now. By my calculations it should be nearly Samhain, summer beginning to blur into autumn back home. And yet on this mountain, it’s still ice and rock, the trees bare, only the ghosts of ash and birch standing as sentinels.
My blood is crying for the vivid green of home. I’m losing my mind among all of this death.
I’ve made my decision to leave, if only for a little while. I know my king will bring me back, like an escaped prisoner, but I must see my woods again. And so tonight, when he is on his hunt, I’ll slip away.
The sound of snow crunching underfoot comes from the path behind me. A rider moves up beside me. It’s the demon himself, clad in heavy black fur, his large raven perched on his shoulder.
I rode ahead of him on the pathway, needing a second to breathe without his silver eyes on me. Since I lost the child three moons ago, he’s been watching me like a hawk. I’ve barely had a moment’s peace except when he leaves me at my bedroom door at night.
There’s an unspoken urgency in the air between us now. I haven’t been able to bring myself to do as my mother said and surrender to him. If anything, my iron will to stay out of his sheets has only grown stronger. I could never love this beast.
Lailoken believes I should obey, but he says that I’ll know when the time is right and not to rush. He’s a monk, however, so what he knows of the bed and the heart is all of nothing.
The king is silent as he watches the sky. His raven, Bran, lifts off his shoulder to settle on a high branch, and the rush of his horse’s breath curls around us. The gray steed is a beast—like its master. His speckled wolf pads past us, wandering ahead on the path, looking for hare or mice.
The only sounds around us are of crackling ice and branches creaking under the weight of the snow. Soon Fionn reappears overhead, emerging from the trees. I hold out my arm, and he lands heavily, a vole crushed in his beak. “Well done,” I whisper to him, scratching his puffed-out chest.
“You’ve trained him well,” the king finally says. “He’s very loyal.”
Fionn lifts off again, finding a branch ahead so he can consume his meal.
We nudge our rides forward at a meandering pace, side by side. I decide to speak freely since our ruse of being civil to one another will likely be broken by tonight when I take flight myself.
“Do you believe you’re training me?” I ask.
He keeps his eyes forward, responding casually. “Is that what you’d prefer? To be trained like a falcon or an owl?”
“I’d prefer to be free,” I say.
He’s silent. Then he asks, “What would you do if you were, as you say, free?” He says the last word as if it tastes bitter on his tongue.
I didn’t expect him to match my challenge. It takes me a moment to think about an answer. In the end, I simply say, “Everything.”
Laughter rumbles from his chest. “Yes, you would, I’m sure. You are a true child of fire. Adventure and risk are in the blood.”
Warmth fills my cheeks at his familiar tone. “And what is in the blood of a child of death?”
His smile turns wry. “Many dark things, if allowed.” He turns his head to look at me. “But death can also be painfully beautiful, Lily.”
I shiver at the sound of my human name coming from his lips. The last person who called me Lily, I loved. And then destroyed.
My thoughts are broken by a sudden screech of pain. My head snaps forward, recognizing the cry of my friend.
“Fionn!” I shout, kicking Spark onward, urgency filling me. We gallop a ways before I find my friend splayed out in blood-speckled snow, just off the path. An arrow pierces the owl’s chest.
I slide from my mount and scramble over to the bird. Its wing is at an off angle, perhaps broken from the fall. It’s still as death.
I hold back tears, reaching out, but then I hesitate. I could hurt it more with my touch. It’s foolish to have grown so attached to a simple owl. But this is the only soul in this place that doesn’t make me wish for horrible things.
“It’s dead,” the king says, coming up on foot behind me. “A hunter’s shot. Perhaps it went for the intended prey.” He glances back at the trees, watching for the hunter.
The tears on my cheeks turn to steam and anger fills me, melting the snow beneath me. “Be silent,” I snap. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He kneels down beside me. “You feel so much for the creature?” he asks, his tone curious.
“Of course, he’s my friend.”
The king turns his attention to the bird. “So you have come to love my gift.”
I nod, my chest aching. It seems everything I care for turns to ashes.
The king shifts, then reaches out, pulling the arrow shaft from the flesh with a swift yank.
I choke out a sob at the violent movement, grabbing his arm. “Don’t touch him!” No doubt the beast would pull apart my bird right in front of me.
He grips my wrist, moving it away, then places his other palm over the owl’s body and closes his eyes, muttering under his breath in the ancient tongue: “Broken vessel, weave back into place, the thing that was taken . . .” His voice is a low hum.
I go still, listening in wonder, realizing what he’s doing. He’s calling the spirit back to the bird. A thin silver fog lifts from his arm and wraps around the owl, and I watch the tear in its breast fold back into place as he heals the flesh with his own ability to heal himself.
Several feathers regrow. The smell of rich earth and warmth fills the air, steam rising in a hiss from Fionn’s form. The snow melts around the bird.
Its wings twitch, its talons flex. And suddenly the bird is twisting back upright, flying up into the branches. I cover my mouth, saying through my fingers, “Holy Mother. What have you done?”
The king hunches over, obviously depleted. “I stopped death for you, my love.” And then he collapses into a heap in the snow.