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. There 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.

“Do it again, Ma!” Ambros pleaded when the light faded away.

Benen stared down at the light that still clung to his fingertips. My heart skipped a beat and I quickly looked to make sure Faelan wasn’t watching us. Then I nudged my sister. Her eyes widened when she saw my son.

“‘Tis rare for a boy-child to have the gift,” she whispered.

I nodded, then I pulled Benen into the shelter of my cloak, hiding him. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to realize how strong this future king might be. Not when we were on our way out of our homeland, weary and wounded. Benen wouldn’t have the banshee voice—not like Caer and I did—but he might have something just as strong, something I’d only heard of in legends and myths.

A child of light, born of a banshee, had been prophesied to one day rule all the Fair Folk in the world.

* * *

Not long after that, we began the long, slow ascent of Sléibhte Chill Mhantáin upward and upward, as we headed toward our final destination.

At this point in our journey, my horse had grown weary and her steps were slow. My boys grew fidgety, as if they had eaten a handful of bees, and they climbed down from their shared pony. Together, they frolicked beside our caravan.

“Chase me!” Ambros called to his brother.

“I’ll win,” Benen shouted back.

They both laughed and I smiled.

Benen, my pensive, introspective boy, looked so much like his father, with his black hair and dark eyes, it was as if Fethur had been brought back to life. You could almost see the gold crown perched upon Benen’s head—although he didn’t have it. Not yet. Ambros, on the other hand, was my headstrong, wild child. He looked like me, with fair hair and blue eyes. When he ran, a storm followed on his heels, strong winds and churning clouds.

“They should stay away from the horses,” Faelan chided me. “One misstep, by child or beast, and your future kings will be dead.”

“Let them play,” Caer, my sister said.

He struck her, a blow across her face so hard it almost knocked her off her horse.

“You will not do that again, my lord!” I warned him as I rode my horse between them.

Three of my foot-soldiers were instantly at my side, their swords drawn and pointed at Faelan. It may have been a mistake on my part, to come between a husband and a wife, and with my crown so precarious.

It may have been my own undoing.

Though I think he had planned something for me all along, ever since my husband lost his head during our recent battle.

But Faelan was mistaken if he thought I would allow the Old Ways to stand in this New Age. He may have stolen Caer to be his bride, years ago, but she was not his property. She belonged to my House and, since I was the last living elder, that meant she was technically mine.

Caer and I had been the best of friends for thousands of years. No Leanan Sidhe upstart would come between us—not now, not ever. I didn’t care that our father had allowed this foul marriage.

But there were others who would have disagreed with me. I could see it in their shadowed faces.

A dangerous division was taking place in our Clan. I was losing followers with each passing day.