Embers in a Dark Frost

* * *



“Deira, wake up. Daughter, wake up.”



The voice sounded far away, whispering words on the wind—a dream—that couldn’t be real. The blood vessels in my head pulsed painfully. Sickness roiled in my stomach. A moan rumbled from my throat, cut short by a cool, rough hand on my forehead.



I blinked until my vision cleared.



Above me a luxurious, deep blue canopy hung from the four posts of the bed. A fire burned in a massive marble hearth. The walls glittered with inlaid silver panels and sparkling gems.



I pushed onto my elbows, drew in a deep breath, and faced the man by my bedside, looking straight into the eyes of my father.



My father.



“No more fainting, child,” he said with a smile.



He sat on the edge of the bed, a soft bed covered with the same blue material as the canopy above me, his old, withered hands folded in his lap. He was still striking, still handsome. And still my father.



“Are you real or spirit?”



“Aye, I am real. Old, but real.”



I sat straighter, shoving my hair away from my face. “But…”



My mind was a chaos of questions. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, couldn’t believe he was there. With me. In Nox’s realm. Alive. My father was alive. My arms were around him before I knew what I was doing.



Memories flooded back, the spicy scent of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the deep tone of his voice. I held him for a long time and sobbed like a child.



After, I released him and studied him, taking in every detail, noticing the yellow hue of his paper-thin skin and the blue veins underneath. His hands were the big hands I remembered, hands which held mine as we’d walk in Mother’s garden. The veins and tendons were swollen and stark, but they were his hands. He wore a rich blue tunic trimmed in silver thread. His hair was long and white, a few stubborn strands of red remaining. His eyebrows had become bushier and white. His nose looked more prominent. And as he frowned, the wrinkles on his forehead deepened.



Happiness swelled my chest. I held his hands and inspected the ink-stained fingers. “You still write.”



He smiled. “Aye. I can’t seem to stop.”



I showed him my own hands, the fingers still stained from the ink I’d overturned in Falias. We laughed together. “I have learned to scribe as well,” I told him with pride, wanting so much to be like him, to make him proud. “I’ve kept all your books, everything you’ve written.”



A warm glow softened his eyes and he hugged me. “I had hoped as much.”



I continued to stare at him in wonder. “How can this be?” By all accounts, he should not have lived so long.



“The years I spent in Falias with your mother clung to me, extending my life.” He glanced at my hands, which he held in both of his. He sighed heavily. Concern and trepidation swam in the brown depths of his eyes. “But I had help, Deira. I would not have lived to see this day, to see you again had it not been for Nox of Annwn.”



I stilled. “What?”



“When I came into the woods searching for the power of the pillar stone to reclaim Emain Macha, he approached me. He promised me that one day you would rule in my stead, for my time had passed. And he extended my days so that I could see you grown, and see you secure in this world, a queen in both lands.”



“No,” I breathed, feeling as though I’d awaken into a nightmare. “No, this isn’t right...” I looked around the sumptuous chamber.



“This is his home. He lives in great wealth and power. Everything you could ever want, he would give to you. He has promised me.”



“And you believe the promise of one who has waged war on his own homeland?”



My father’s lips thinned. He was troubled by his choice, I could tell. He shook his head sadly. “I have done what is best for you.”



His words ripped open the tender wounds of my childhood. “Was leaving me the best? Was leaving me alone, to Mother’s family the best thing for me? Do you have any idea what they did to me? It was not the right thing.”



He met my gaze. “Aye, it was.”



I didn’t know how to respond. The chaos, shock, hurt, all of it ballooned inside of me. I had to move, to escape the pain and joy of seeing him again, of the abandonment, and of knowing he’d aligned himself with Nox. I slid from the bed, nearly tripping on the fabric tangling around my ankles.



I righted myself, standing barefoot on a thick rug, gazing down in confusion at the deep, shimmering green gown I wore. It fell in soft folds around my feet, a straight line from the thick, jewel-encrusted band that wrapped around my chest just below my breasts. Above the band, the fabric had been gathered into tiny pleats that covered my breasts, but left a deep plunging space between them. Two gold clasps decorated the shoulder straps.



I scanned the room, seeing padded couches and low chairs, a dressing table with a gilded mirror, a table full of fruits, bread, cheese, and meats. Boxes and chests made of the finest wood and metals sat on thick, colorful rugs. This was a chamber fit for a queen.



My father was still on the bed, hands folded in his lap, his expression weary and sad.



“Oh, Father, what have you done?”



But I knew. I knew already what he’d done.



“I have promised you.”



“You cannot. You haven’t the right.”



He stood. “I have every right. I am still your father.”



“No, you gave away your say when you abandoned me in Innis Fail.”



Tears filled his eyes and color filled his sunken cheeks. “I did not abandon you. Don’t you understand?” He stepped forward and went to grab my hands, but I moved back. Hurt swam in his eyes. I searched the room for a way out.



“Where’s Balen? What have you done to him?” Tears stung my eyes. I was trapped, trapped in wealth and luxury I didn’t ask for or want.



“Deira, please, let me explain.”



I ignored him, hurrying to the walls, trailing my hands over the silver inlays, feeling the bumps of jewels and the intricate designs carved into the metal. Where was the door? Where were my clothes? I wanted out of this dress, out of this false place.



I found a door and pressed the latch. It opened easily. I hurried into a hallway lit by the flames of candles in wall sconces. The corridor seemed to go on forever in each direction. My father’s footsteps sounded from the room behind me. Hands trembling, I gathered the gown so I wouldn’t trip and then I ran down the hall.



Tears streamed from my eyes, making it difficult to see.



“Deira!” my father called.



But I didn’t listen, didn’t stop running. All the old hurts came back, threatening to steal the very breath from my lungs. Still, I pressed on, passing door after door, but the hallway never changed its appearance. It felt as though I was going in circles.



Slowing, I glanced back over my shoulder. No one was behind me so I stopped, using the time to catch my breath and figure out where to go from here. There was no sound in the hallway, just the tall, dark shadows of the doors on either side of me and the candles in between. The floor was made of polished black marble and down the center was a long, woven rug.



My father had made a bargain with Nox of Annwn. Why? Why would he do such a thing? If only he had taken me with him when he’d left. My father, Balen, Nox... How could I trust them any of them?



I started moving again, hoping I’d come to an exit or the hall. As I went, I listened intently for any noise, reminded of the dream I’d had when Balen and I first set out together from the encampment by the lake. But I heard no moans, no cries of passion, no voice in my mind.



I went down a wide set of curving stairs, coming to a long gallery and, beyond it, an enclosed courtyard full of lush flowers, plants, ornamental trees, and fountains. The songs of birds fluttered into the palace, and light spilled through the arches.



Gripping the sides of the gown, I crossed the marble floor.



This must be the place that received the ray of sunlight I’d seen earlier from outside the palace.



As I stepped into the courtyard, I saw no one. The steady flow of water and the birds’ chirping seemed out of place in the middle of the dark woods of Cathair Crofin. The large paving stones were warm against my bare feet as I walked under the canopy of a long gallery, eyeing the vision before me. Before the cold, Murias had looked similar with its luxurious temples and gardens.



There were no doors along the gallery so I continued, going into the garden and hoping to find an exit somewhere. The palace walls surrounded the garden, balconies on the second, third, and fourth levels overlooking the scenery. The far wall seemed to sink into the face of the hill I’d seen earlier rising from behind the palace.



In the middle of the garden, I stopped and my jaw went slack. Dear Dagda.



A tree surrounded by a small circular patch of grass. Long, bent limbs, so low I could touch them, stretched out from a gnarled trunk. Leaves like hammered gold sparkled in the one shaft of sunlight that poked through the clouds. A few round fruit hung from the branches, heavy and full, and as golden as the crown my grandfather wore. A soft yellow hue glowed all around the tree.



I was at once struck by its beauty and how lonely it seemed. I thought of Balen. I was angry and hurt, but overwhelmed with worry of what might have befallen him. I rubbed at my chest, trying to ease the ache I felt there.



The tree’s golden beauty drew me closer. I wanted to stand in its glow and feel its leaves. I wanted to hold the fruit in my hand and see if it was truly made of gold. A faint breeze stirred the gown around my legs and made the leaves dance in the light. I thought I heard the sound of tinkling as they brushed together.



Warmth emitted from the tree. I reached out to find the leaves were thin and leathery. Fascinated, I stepped closer under the branch to inspect the fruit. And then I froze, throwing a hand over my mouth to stop the gasp.



A male slept under the tree. He was on his back in the grass, hands under his head, one leg drawn up, the other stretched out.



He was golden like the tree.



Long golden hair. Thick lashes. His look reminded me of the great hawks that flew over Murias. Full lips that curved up at the corners. The shadow of a dark blond beard on his jaw.