Chapter I.
The dungeon’s stench coiled through narrow corridors. Even here, relatively far from the cells, the scent of blood could be detected along with the stink of sickness and death. Torches lit the way, turning darkness into murky pools of shadow held at bay by flickering orange. Worst of all was the silence, haunted by the voices of those who perished in this godforsaken place. Screams, wails, whimpers. Fruitless prayers breathed out by the desperate. Wingless birds of hope turned carrion crows in the breasts of chained prisoners. There were two hells, one of shadow and ice, another of undying flame. But here, Meara thought, here was a third unto itself: a dungeon built to imprison fae. That was the reason why, apart from the Citadel’s armoury, this place held more Bloodsteel than anywhere else in the kingdom. Light as a feather, clear as water and gilded with a silver-red sheen, it was a metal that was extraordinary only in the hands of those like her. It was also the only metal that the Fae feared for it burned and weakened them like nothing else. Bloodsteel was a rarity now that the mines of the Snow Mountains had run dry but the bars and chains housed in the dungeon had not been melted down for weaponry. They remained, nearly as old as the Citadel itself which stood above in sunlight.
The keys to the cells jangled softly. She clenched her fingers tighter, drawing one more pathetic grate before the metal fell quiet. Being at the head of the column had a single advantage. The others behind could not see her shaking hands or the fact that she did not want to be here.
The corridors they passed twisted like the gut of some great wyrm tunnelling deep underground. It was designed such that in the event of a prison break, only one prisoner at a time could come through. An individual was always easier to finish off. And there was no way to avoid the armed guards who came patrolling in twos, one after the other. Only Bloodborn ever came down here. Born of fire. Born of blood. Armed with Bloodsteel swords. There had been escape attempts made and not a single one ever succeeded. In here, there was no hope.
Out of the semi-darkness cells loomed, rivulets of silver-red light glinting on the bars, the same shade reflected on the bracers she wore and the blade at her side. These marked her as one of the Order, as much as the Blood in her veins. A long time ago, she had worn them with pride. Swallowing hard, Meara looked at the keys, at the cell numbers they bore, one for each remaining faerie that had not succumbed to disease, torture or starvation. They had the misfortune of being exceptionally strong and thus their reward was a public execution in the Great Square on New Year’s Eve.
“Bastard, you might want to get a move on.” At the end of the line—there were a total of ten of them, one for every prisoner—Willard, sole heir of the Duke of Camden, called out sarcastically. “Or can’t you read the numbers?” Sniggers rose in the air only to be silenced by the man directly behind her, whose tall figure shielded her from mocking eyes. All he had to do was turn and stare. Such was the power of being second in line to the throne of Elyria, the first and oldest kingdom in the mortal realm. She had but one friend in this world and thank Ehyn, the One God and Maker of All, he was Prince Finnegan of House Caravel.
The urge to retort came and went just as quickly. Taking a deep breath—which was a mistake because the foul stench nearly brought up whatever little breakfast she had been able to stomach—she took the first key, shoved it into the keyhole and twisting hard, wrenched the tumblers of the lock back. The sharp sounds made the gloom shiver with jarring echoes. She unlocked cell after cell, determinedly deaf to the sounds of babbling—several of the captives were clearly insane—to the sounds of old chains being unclasped and new ones locked on, to soft sobs and weak cursing. If her eyes stung at all, it was only because of the tallow from the torches, from the smoke melding into shadow. Or so she told herself.
In the last cell was a shrunken figure made more of ragged cloth than flesh and bone. When she stepped in, it stirred. Huge green eyes opened and in them she saw her silhouette edged in red. She had been prepared for a cursing. Instead, the prisoner blinked slowly and said, “It’s you.”
That was when she realised who it was. Leprechauns were stocky, short, built for strength and burrowing tunnels. Their hands, much like their feet, were disproportionately large. Their noses were not the bulbous monstrosities that human illustrators, most of whom had never seen a leprechaun in their lives, imagined. While big, they were exceeding elegant but this one’s nose had been broken. Several times. Some teeth were missing too because there was a faint whistling as he spoke. Their skin was rough and mottled, something that faerie glamour could not truly disguise. That was why those who had dwelled amongst humans often wore long-sleeved garments, long pants or long robes with high boots. This leprechaun had worn robes that had once been red, not that one could tell with all the dirt and blood on the filthy strips. Meara tried not to look at the sharpness of his bones. She did not reply, stiffly unhooking the chains looped to her belt. The coils and wrist cuffs were warm against her fingers. Bloodsteel was always warm. Even if left outside in winter, no frost would kiss it.
“Thornbury. In the province of Vrain,” the faerie added, mistaking her silence for forgetfulness.
Vrain lay across Valarin’s Bay from the capital, Thelione, and to the south. It had been her last trip across the waters, her final hunt. Months before, reports had arrived of a particularly elusive faerie. She still remembered the wind in her hair, the smooth surge of the medium sized vessel over calm waters, the sight of the ruin that was now Gullsport; before Oberon it had been a prosperous river city. Ships that could not dock at Thelione would go there for supplies and repairs, though the bulk of the trading occurred at the former. Now, all that remained of it was memory and ash. There were others too, towns and villages. Dewberry, Lothein, Olderfeld, to name a few. But not Thornbury, which sat just before the border of the Vales. She had spent the entire trip praying that the faerie would be gone by the time she and her companions arrived. But the Maker had not listened. The leprechaun had been smoked out with fire, his boltholes blocked with burning stones slicked with oil. Cornered, he begged her to kill him. She had been about to but Finn stepped in. King Iain wanted this prisoner alive. For what, he would not say though by then, it was an open secret. The leprechaun had wept and spoken no more to her, not even when he was handed over to Willard who was in charge of interrogations.
So this is what had become of him. If only she had been quicker. If only she had disobeyed. “Hands out please.” After the cuffs went on, his feet were chained as well. The faerie hissed softly through it all. The faint smell of burning skin grew stronger as his new bonds came into contact with sections of his bare flesh that were not already seared.
“You do remember.” His knowing tone was unbearable. She moved faster, stripping off the chains tethering him to the wall, careful to keep her face averted. “You don’t look well.”
Startled, she finally met his gaze. How ridiculous that statement was, given their current positions. Then out burst a question nestled deep in her gut, one that had been twisting as restlessly as she had been for months on end. “Why didn’t you leave?” she hissed. “Why didn’t you take the Faerie Road home?”
“There is no home.” He shrugged. The chains sang softly.
“Don’t lie. I know there is a way to the Underworld.” Anger curled her lips. Her teeth were white in the dark. “When Oberon retreated, he swore his people would never again come to the mortal realm. Why did you not follow?”
Deep wrinkles and wattle-like sagging folds of skin did nothing to detract from the sad beauty of those enormous green eyes. “Oberon is not my king.”
The denial stung more than the acrid smell of blackened skin. She opened her mouth to say there was no point in lying but a new shadow cast by the light stopped her. She turned to see Finn. And realised how quiet it was, save for the mad gibbering of one or two prisoners who would not be silenced despite hard blows dealt. It was time. Fastening the collar around his throat, she led the leprechaun to join his fellow fae, all similarly chained, all to be led to the same doom.
They would be taken from the Citadel dungeon, paraded through the Highlands District and into the Gardens District. In the latter was the Great Square. While different districts had their weekly markets, the Square was where the monthly Market Day was held, where everyone, even the poorer citizens from the Bay District— unofficially known as the Burrows—came, if only to gawk at the merchants and aristocrats in their finery and to smell food not all of them could afford.
Rattling chains at the head of the column signalled that Willard had begun marching out. Today was not Market Day, Meara thought grimly. But the crowds would be there in full force all the same. Today, blood would whet their appetites.
“Filthy monsters!”
“Hey big ears! Long claws!”
“That’s what you get when your king invades us then turns tail and runs!”
“Look Mama, they’re green! And blue!”
“Don’t look at their eyes, you stupid child! They’ll put a spell on you.”
“Don’t nag the boy, wife. That’s why we have the Order here escorting these bastards.”
“Why is their hair so long?”
The chatter of the masses washed over her in waves. They were in the Gardens now. This was the ward of the merchants, the middle-class who bartered and imported both local and exotic goods for a living. Sometimes, they bartered their daughters off as wives and mistresses in order to get a foothold into the Highlands. In the Burrows, the roads were little more than dirt; here, they were made of clean smooth stone. Against it, the smudged red trail left by the prisoners was stark. Barefoot, their abused feet had begun bleeding.
At the end of this road was a turning to the left. That would bring them almost immediately to the Square. The inside of her cheek was a stinging mess; she had bitten it repeatedly, almost constantly. On her tongue was the copper taste of blood. If she held the chain attached to the faerie any tighter, her knuckles might split skin. Above, the midday sun was a relentless orb burning in its zenith. She wondered if it were possible to find a place to hide from all this by nightfall.
An object came sailing out towards the leprechaun, large and fast. It was a melon. The ring of her drawn sword was bright against the crowd’s dull thunder. In her hand, it was brighter still, a shining blur as she lunged forward, striking the fruit, splitting it into halves with such force that they sailed past her and the faerie, and ended up smashing into the crowd. Something wet dripped down her face. She wiped it with the back of her hand which came away sticky; it smelled sweet. Fury seized her. “The next person who throws an object is going to spend the new year in a cell,” she snarled, the threat clanging out like an alarm. The crowd went silent. “It is a crime to strike a knight of the Order, even if by accident.”
Glaring fiercely at the people on her right, she transferred her gaze to those on the left and noted with satisfaction that they looked down and shrunk back. Ignoring the stares of her fellow Bloodborn and the leprechaun, she sheathed her blade and they proceeded without further incident until they entered the crowded Square, clearly demarcated by the tall storeyed shophouses surrounding it and the huge crowd that was confined to standing behind ropes and guards that cordoned off the area. The middle of the Square was dominated by two covered canopies beneath which rows of chairs had been placed; the nobles were already seated, some with their servants holding fans to cool them. At its end was a huge platform erected specially for this occasion. There was only one executioner, hooded and masked, sharpening a great sword, and only one block. Two nervous assistants stood well to the side. They were the ones who would remove the corpses.
They meant to behead the prisoners one at a time, to draw out the gory spectacle. The first one to die would be the lucky one. The last one, much less so. She glanced at the leprechaun who looked stoically ahead. ‘Bloody hells.’ Heat flooded her face. She clenched her jaws together because she feared what would happen if she did not. Against her ribs, her heart beat in wild contrast to the slow rhythm of drums that had begun the moment the prisoners arrived. This was not what she had envisioned when she had sworn her Oath at thirteen. This was not protecting the mortal realm. This was butchery. Still, her feet moved with a life of their own until all the prisoners had been escorted up the platform and their chains joined by links that none of them could break.
She was about to leave when the leprechaun shifted towards her. The executioner turned, full of nervous energy and Meara knew he was afraid to be left on stage with emaciated, bound fae. Hundreds of them had been killed and there were none left in Elyria, if the lack of reports in the past few months was any indication. But fear did not go away because of that; it lingered, feeding off the foundations laid by nearly three thousand years of enmity and the War from two years ago. “Did you know leprechauns can transmute any material into gold?” the wizened faerie murmured.
“That won’t save you.” Her voice was a raw withered thing in her ears. She swallowed the words she really meant to say: I’m sorry.
“We also know true gold when we see it.” Deep green eyes bore into her seafoam ones. “I forgive you.”
It would have hurt less if he had pulled an adamantine blade and stabbed her in the chest. All the same, she flinched as if he had. Her eyes fell on his chains and she felt the weight of her sword, usually featherlight, like a boulder. It would be nothing to sever those bonds. It would cost everything to do so.
“Go,” he whispered and she realised that the rest had taken their places at the sides of the Square, flanking the platform. Finn’s blue eyes were drilling into her, silent and urgent. The drumbeats escalated, building to a grim crescendo. The king and queen mother had arrived. All the nobles stood in a flurry of silks and satins; the crowd gasped and murmured, mesmerised and fearful in equal measure. Head down, shoulders hunched, she retreated, slipped off the stage and took her place beside Finn.
Twenty Bloodborn knights escorted them, a reminder that Selya was the Commander of the Order. Iain too had the Blood. By tradition, he could not assume her role; officially he had no say in what the Order did but Meara knew tradition and rules were not something Iain would let stand in his way. After all, he had murdered Oberon’s ambassador.
They could nearly be twins, Selya and her son. Both were very tall and pale with paler blond hair and deep green eyes. They had the same fine-boned features, though the son was more striking than even his mother. The only other person in the kingdom who was as good-looking as Iain was Finn. But there was a world of difference between them. Finn was kind and good. Iain was mad and cruel. Everything they had done after the War had been based on his orders, carried out because of duty. Once upon a time, such a notion had made things bearable; now there was little more than a brittle kind of consolation to be found. She realised she was glaring at her king only when Finn gave her a subtle nudge.
Seats were filled once again when Iain and Selya settled into the great high-backed ones which had been carved in the likeness of their thrones at court. It was Willard’s father who stepped out to read the damning indictment. ‘Of course it would be Camden,’ she thought bitterly. In his quest to please his king and gain more power, the man had basically orchestrated the War that had nearly resulted in the destruction of Elyria. The son was a fool and so was the father but they were both dangerous. Had it not been for Finn, Meara was certain she would have been murdered for breaking Willard’s leg. That she had done it while defending herself from rape did not matter. Sometimes, when Willard stared at her too hard or even when he walked past, nose and eyes in the air to let her know that she was dirt beneath his boots, she could feel his fingers around her throat, the harsh tug of bunched material and tearing laces. Finn had told her that it might have been better if she had broken Willard’s neck. “At least you would only have his father to contend with,” he said on the way back to her room from the infirmary, bruises like ghastly flowers blossoming on her neck and her arm in a sling. “Now you have two powerful enemies here and at Court.”
When the Order originated, its members had to renounce their titles and familial ties. The Order came first, the Oath of their founder Valarin came first. Because when it did not, other loyalties crept in. Iain had not been the first monarch to use the Bloodborn in a war fuelled by self-interest but he might very well be the last. The War of the Kings had decimated their numbers like nothing else. When she had entered it, the Citadel had held close to a thousand warm bodies. Excluding Selya, thirty remained and not a single one with one hair turned white by age. They were young, stupid, ignorant, hungry for power with blood ties to the Court. Their elders had been much the same. Impartiality was a pipedream of old.
It was impossible to completely block out the treacherous windbag who held the title Lord of the Vales. Wilfred Camden possessed a voice that theatre actors would kill for and he used it to marvellous effect. Try as she might, parts of his speech, all a patchwork of lies, invaded her ears.
“For the crimes of black arts…” There was a woman and a man watching from the topmost balcony of a pleasure house. The thin silks she wore did little to obscure her breasts and the dark valley between her legs. The man, dressed in rich satin and furs, probably a banker from the number of gold rings and chains he wore, was paying Lord Camden as much attention as Meara was. Clearly the well-displayed charms of the courtesan were more important.
“…invading houses, murdering the innocent…” Cutpurses threaded through the crowd, graceful as spiders on a web. Each kept to his or her own corner, intelligent enough to keep greed in check. Better a few pouches full of coin rather than making a grab for many and losing a hand instead. Meara silently wished them luck; she hoped they robbed the crowd blind.
“…remaining behind as spies of the wicked Faerie King, Oberon…” Would anyone notice if she jammed her hands into her ears to drown out the memory of the leprechaun claiming Oberon was not his king? Probably, which was why she gritted her teeth instead and made a study of her boots, the flagstones of the Square, counted how many ladies were dressed in green and wearing black diamonds and tourmaline because apparently that was now the latest trend.
“…hereby sentence you to be executed, a swift and just punishment by His Majesty King Iain and Her Majesty, the Queen Mother Selya…” Both of whom were sitting there like sculptures of ice and marble. Bloodless. Heartless. No, that was not true. Maybe for Selya. But not Iain. He hated too much to have frost in his veins. He had lost his wife to Oberon and the land had bled for it, just as these fae were about to bleed. His eyes could have passed for real emeralds but the fever light with which they glittered frightened her. Nothing could warm such darkness, not even the sun’s light filtering through the curtained canopy to settle like a halo on his sleek blond hair. Deep lines were etched at the corners of his eyes, lines that previously had not been there and which did nothing to detract from his beauty. She had pitied him, she still did. But now she hated him too.
The sound of drums broke. “Step forward!” the executioner bellowed.
No one moved. The two assistants nudged each other, disgracefully obvious. Neither wanted to take a faerie by the chain and lead it to its death.
It was then that she noticed how dark the sky had grown. The sun was being swallowed by gathering layers of coal-black clouds. A chill wind swooped in, whipping the canopy curtains, tearing loose a fan from the hands of a careless servant. Across the flagstones, light receded like a wave.
She was not the only one watching. Faerie eyes of blue, of green, of brown, milky eyes that would never see tracked the gloom which spilled towards the stage. Lightning, long and jagged, split the sky. The air tensed like a fist, held itself taut, held its breath.
And the fae screamed in unison, necks stretched, eyes wide, pupils blown so that they swallowed the whites of the sclera. Down came the thunder, the sound of boulders and snow crashing from mountains, the sound of hungry oceans rising to swallow cities. Yet it was the shrieking of the fae that rose above all.
Then as suddenly as they began, they stopped. Like a beast soothed by the silence of its master, the thunder quietened. But the darkness and wind kept growing and the eyes of the fae remained the same. “What the hells is happening?” Meara breathed, drawing closer to Finn. Both of them had their hands wrapped around their blades. “Is that a trance?”
“I thought only banshees had the Sight,” he murmured grimly. “Just be ready. We don’t know…”
He was right, they did not. The Bestiary contained notes and chapters written as far back as two and a half thousand years before yet it was the slimmest book in Elyria. There was so much they did not know about the ones who called themselves the First Children. That was why Iain had taken live prisoners. Above all, he wanted to know where the Faerie Road was. Despite torture and death, he had failed. Today’s execution was revenge but there was nothing sweet about it, for he had given up hope and given in to rage.
As one, the prisoners stepped forward. As one, the crowd that had come to watch them die shrank back.
The chanting began with the selkie who had lost an eye. The dwarf took it up next. Beyond that, Meara could never remember who spoke after.
Imrith or vahn eria
Imrith vokhn dy ahn
Felrion varimor
Felrion yrenon
Vwye’thal merevith vos
Valarhion merenin vos
They were speaking Edemic, the language that the Fae claimed had been taught directly to them by the Maker whom they named El’Aeyn. It was forbidden for humans to learn such; only Magi from Nargos knew that speech and they too had been driven from Elyria in the Second Age, returning to the continent that spawned them. She should not have known what they were saying. But the leprechaun’s voice was in her head though his eyes were blank dark shards facing skywards.
Three crowns afire
Three worlds aflame
All ends in destruction
All is in vain
Darkness rises
And Valarin awakes
“What are you waiting for?” Camden shouted at the executioner. “Kill them now!”
A harsh motion from the latter sent his assistants scrambling forward. Both were healthy and stout. The selkie they grabbed was frailer than a bent sapling. Yet she remained rooted in place, unmoving as the great oaks of the north. Over and over again she chanted along with the rest, their voices rising with the wind, perhaps raising it as great gusts whipped across the Square and struck the crowd, tearing loose hats and scarves, sending some people sprawling. The canopy, ripped from its posts, sailed overhead and out of sight like a great bird with mangled wings.
“Imrith or vahn eria…”
“A spell,” someone shrieked. Arms lifted, fingers pointed. “They’re cursing us! They’ve put a spell on us!”
“Imrith vokhn dy ahn…”
The hysterical took up the cry. “I can’t breathe! I can’t move!”
“Felrion varimor…”
People began collapsing. Others pushed and shoved at each other, desperate to get away. Soldiers drew themselves in a tight line before the cordon, warning the crowd back with spears and swords.
“Felrion yrenon…”
“The Hunt! They are calling the Wild Hunt upon us!” Screams erupted.
“Vwye’thal merevith vos…”
“Meara!” Finn grabbed her shoulder, shook her so hard her teeth rattled. That was when she realised her hands were jammed over her ears. Even so, she caught the tail end of the chant on her lips, only it was in Common Speech. “…And Valarin awakes…” she repeated stupidly, unthinkingly. Finn turned white. She felt his grip through her chainmail. ‘Oh Ehyn,’ she thought, belly folding in ice-cold coils. ‘I’m going mad.’
“Kill them now!” Finn roared, turning to the Bloodborn who leapt up the stage, swords flashing. Blood flew. Guts spilled. And Meara watched through tears as a sword crunched down and cut off the leprechaun’s head.
The rain fell in torrents, shattered sheets of dark silver pummelling the fleeing crowd, soaking the screaming nobles who fled for shelter. Crimson streamed from the platform, spilled in red fountains on the ground below. Selya was on her feet, a pale statue in the heart of the storm, Iain by her side, shouting. Thunder and rain drowned out his words. Meara, frozen to the bone, met the gaze of her Commander and knew that the queen mother understood as well the last words of the fae whose bodies now littered the stage, whose blood earth and stone now drank.
