On the third time around, she commanded the sparks to dance. With her hands, she guided them into complex patterns, patterns which described the ancient powers. Swirling in groups of three, intertwining lines, and animals similar to those etched upon the brooch. Symbols carved upon the ancestor stones, pictures from seasons so long past that even the ancient memories had turned to legend and to myth.
Her hair stood on end as she completed the dance and commanded the sparks to coalesce into a single strike of lightning. Clíodhna directed it to the center of the circle, just past where Fingin huddled in abject fear.
The poor boy, frightened out of his wits, scrambled back. To his credit, he didn’t leave the circle. Instead, he huddled against the largest stone, the north-facing sentinel, and cried tears washed away in the rain.
Clíodhna walked to the place where the lightning had struck, the acrid odor of charred earth burning her nose. She raised her arms, still singing in the ancient language. She called down the gods in the words Adhna had taught her over several patient seasons.
“Mysterious Manannán and Aebh, rulers of the mists!
Shield us with your cloak
Brilliant Grian and Elatha of the sun and the moon!
Transport us with your silver craft
Powerful Tuireann of the thunder bolts!
Guard us with your fury
Honored Cailleach, the ruler of ice and snow!
Keep us in your arms.”
Her hair had escaped from her braid, whipping in the wind like sea eels. She called the light down to her, commanding the energy into shapes like the ancients drew. As she bid the energy to depart, to go back to its home in the sky, she felt a thousand winters younger. She hadn’t felt old before, but now she stood ready to take over the world.
Fingin’s eyes grew wide with horror.
“Now, child, are you ready for your legacy?”
He didn’t answer, but she reached into her bag and drew the brooch out. She held it out in its white fabric wrapping and unfolded each edge with ceremonial dignity. The green stones shone bright in the dark mists.
Fingin, despite his terror, reached out to touch the brooch. Clíodhna wanted to take it away, to spare the child the inevitable pain, but fate demanded her compliance. When he seized and fell, his scream cut through her soul. The thunder boomed in answer and lightning ripped across the sky. She sat cross-legged and placed his head in her lap, stroking his hair and rocking him.
Too weak from her conjuring to banish the storm, she gathered up the brooch, placed it in her pouch, and then lifted her grandson from the ground. With Adhna’s help, they carried him down to the roundhouse. His parents still out, they tucked him into his bed. He slept soundly enough and didn’t seem to have taken too much harm from the transfer of the brooch’s power. Still, she’d remain anxious until he woke without incident. Her hair fell into her eyes again, and she pushed it back behind her ear with impatience. She paused, examining the lock that used to be white. It had turned black again.
Just as she’d tucked Fingin’s blanket around him and turned to collapse into Adhna’s arms, voices outside drew her attention. She stumbled to the door to peer out into the darkness.
Several men carried torches, muttering amongst themselves. In the forefront stood Abbot Pátraic.
Behind Pátraic, the tanner glowered with hatred in his eyes. Clíodhna cursed her own hasty actions at his workshop. However, what was done was done. Now she must reap the reward for her own show of temper.
She stood in front of the roundhouse with her feet planted. With a quick glance to the roundhouse, she grabbed the pitchfork Fingin had abandoned earlier that evening. It gave her some sense of relief to hold a weapon, any weapon. “Why have you come to my home, Abbot Pátraic?”
He raised his decorated crozier high. She noticed he’d dressed in his ceremonial white robes with a sparkling gold and purple scarf draped across the back of his neck. It hung straight in front of him, showing off detailed embroidery. The same entwined animal shapes that she’d seen on the brooch danced on his scarf.
“I come to accuse you of being in league with the devil, of working with the evil forces he spews forth from fiery hell. I come to burn a wanton.” He pounded his crozier on the bare ground three times.
The men behind him raised their torches and shouted in avaricious glee at his ringing proclamation.
“You are mad, Abbot Pátraic. I don’t even know your devil.”
The tanner stepped forward, pointing a stained finger at her with malice. “She does! She threatened me with his wrath!”
Clíodhna rolled her eyes. “I did no such thing. I told you to stop dumping your disgusting mess into the river. You’d burn me for telling you not to foul our water supply?”
He growled at her and stepped back, allowing another man to step forward. “She told my wife to make friends with the Good Folk living in our hearth.”
Pátraic nodded as if this qualified as credible evidence for Clíodhna’s evil ways.
Had these people been her friends? She saw no women in the group, and only a few monks she didn’t recognize. She searched for Odhrán, relieved when she couldn’t see him. For once, she wished Rumann stayed home. Even he wouldn’t allow an angry mob to burn his own mother.
Adhna grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the roundhouse. He whispered in her ear. “You must know they won’t listen to reason. They’re too filled with prejudice and hate for the Fae. Our only chance is to flee to the stones. We don’t have the strength to fight so many.”
She glanced at him and then up the path toward the stones. Perhaps they could lose them in the Fae mists on the hill. As if they’d rehearsed it, they split to run on either side of the crowd, splitting the attention. Clíodhna, now grateful for the renewed feeling of youth the ceremony at the stones had granted her, pelted down the glittering path, begging Danú to guide her steps and not allow her to stumble.
Behind her, the men’s voices rose in startled anger. They shouted orders but were slow to follow them. Perhaps they didn’t want to chase down a mere woman, as the tanner had put it. Perhaps a few remembered the last time they tried to kill her.
She’d give them another memory if they came too close. By Danú, she would give them a memory that would sear their soul and keep them from ever getting a good night’s rest again.
Her anger grew as she climbed the hill, running through the darkness along the glittering path. Shouts behind her drifted to her hearing as she passed the black sentinel stones. Adhna panted behind her and they almost reached the sanctuary of the circle when their hunters emerged from the forest.
One reached out and grabbed her clothing, ripping a great tear in it. She jerked away from him, but another grabbed at Adhna. This one held tight and he brought his torch down, evidently intending to burn the Fae man right there. She screeched and poked toward Adhna’s attacker with her pitchfork and he backed off, but not before Adhna’s shoulder got scorched.
They fanned out around their prey, encircling both with feral glee in their eyes. The flickering torchlight reminded Clíodhna of her powers. She threw her head back in a mighty laugh and got the satisfaction of seeing Pátraic’s own expression of grim satisfaction slip a notch.
Adhna elbowed her and slipped her something. She took it and glanced down at the bronze leaf-shaped knife. Ancient power oozed from it and she smiled.
While raising her arms with her knife in one hand and her pitchfork in the other, she called the storm.
At least, she tried to call the storm. Her magic had been much diminished by the earlier ceremony, and only a faint breeze answered her call. Frustrated, she screamed into the night. Their attackers grew closer, taking cautious steps into the stone circle. Pátraic chanted in his harsh language as the men called out insults and names.
“Fae-lover! You sleep with the devil every night!”
“Go away, back to hell, wanton of the night!”
She growled at them and brandished her weapon
s, making one or two step back, but most of them wouldn’t be intimidated by a woman, no matter how well armed. Sweat dripped into her eyes and her mouth and she spat out the salty liquid.
After taking the time to gather the power from the land and funneling it into the sky like a fountain, she shouted in sheer jubilation as it rushed through her and into the roiling storm clouds.
Wind cut through the stone circle, making the torches gutter. Each man stopped and glanced up in apprehension as the thunder boomed over the hill. A few stepped back, but their fellows pulled them back into the circle.
Adhna chanted under his breath behind her. She recognized the words, similar to those Grimnaugh had used to rip a hole between the mortal realm and Faerie. She needed to give him time to complete his spell.
Instead of feeding her storm, she sent the next wave of power out to the Fae, hoping they’d heed her call.
The wind whistled by the stones and cold needles of rain stung their faces as the men lost their fear and stepped closer again.
A few of the wild Fae popped up behind the mob’s heads, skulking just out of reach. Not the elegant river Fae or ethereal creatures of the wind. Instead, she spied the grotesquely shaped earth and rock Fae, gnarled and dark as a mossy stone.
One large Fae flashed Clíodhna a wicked grin and then gave the tanner’s cloak a firm tug. The tanner whirled around, his torch hitting the face of the man crowded behind him. That man shoved the tanner. “What are you playing at, man? Stop messing around.”
As the Fae deviled the attackers, Clíodhna had time to raise her power again. This time she funneled it into three lightning strikes around her in the center of the circle, between her and the mob. This drove them back several steps, despite their determination.
Pátraic shouted from relative safety beyond the stones, his crozier held high. “Don’t let her sorcery drive you back, fools! She commands demons to distract you! Kill the demons and you can then kill her!”
The men turned to the wild Fae, their torches looming even in the driving rain. The tanner shoved his torch into a Fae’s face, making the creature screech in anguish. Another man did the same, and soon, the Fae still able to move fled the stone circle. At least seven lay in scorched piles of death, though.
A glowing doorway appeared as Adhna cut through the veil. He grabbed her hand. “Now! We must go now!”
“But what of the wild Fae! Some are still alive. We must fetch them.”
“We can’t. They came to your call, as they must. You are their Queen. They sacrificed themselves with willing hearts. We must leave!”
With one more glance of pity for the crumpled bodies of the Fae and one more stare of hatred toward Pátraic and his brutes, she stepped through the rip in the veil.
* * *
Clíodhna had expected to come to a place she recognized. Perhaps near her palace, or Adhna’s cozy roundhouse. Instead, they arrived in the middle of a horrible blight.
Black, noxious goo covered what might have been healthy trees, once. Though the hills rolled in a pleasant undulation, the bracken and weeds jutted from the ground with skeletal claws. The miasma of rotted vegetation and the stink of a corrupt soul drifted across them.
Clíodhna clutched at Adhna’s arm. “Why did you bring us here?”
He shook his head. “I had no choice in my destination. Faerie doesn’t remain in a fixed place in relation to the mortal world.
She tried to find some identifying characteristic in the landscape but failed to center on anything distinguishing. “Where are we?”
He cast his gaze to the horizon and pointed. “There. That’s the palace spire.”
She squinted, trying to see the detail. She made out a hair-thin line against the dim light, as if someone had scratched a smooth rock with their fingernail.
After heaving a deep sigh, she put her hands on her hips. “I suppose we have to make our way there on foot, don’t we?”
With a half-smile, he shook his head. “Indeed, we don’t. I came for you, did I not? I knew we’d have a distance to travel.” He whistled several sweet tunes, an anodyne to the corruption which surrounded them. Clíodhna watched as the tune manifested into white sparks and ambled away from them. “Now we wait.”
They didn’t need to wait long. Hoof beats sounded across the blight, bright and cheerful. Two large white horses, perfectly matched, approached, their heads held high. Each bowed to her when they came near, and she clapped her hands in delight. “Adhna! Did you arrange for them to meet us? You are a dear.” She kissed him on the lips, a lingering kiss that promised more.
She mounted her steed while Adhna got on his, and they began the journey back to her palace.
Despite all her time in the mortal realm, she looked forward to sitting on her throne again, watching the courtiers’ dance, and hearing Cerul sing. She did not, however, look forward to seeing Bodach again. “Is Bodach the reason for this disgusting mess?”
Adhna wrinkled his nose. “After the big battle, his power over his demesne spilled into other areas. Not all of Faerie has succumbed to his filth, but parts have. Even if you destroyed him now, some bits of the land would call him lord, I’m afraid.”
“If I destroyed him now. I can’t, can I?” She made it more of a statement than a question.
Adhna pursed his lips. “Not as such. You can limit his power, but only by being there to hold the reins. He is too powerful to destroy or imprison, and much too powerful to banish. He’d be even more dangerous in the human realm. Bodach has a great delight in madness, and seeing what he can do to stir up such things in humans.”
Adhna glanced at her and then down to the trail so fast, she knew he had stopped talking before he said something else. “What, Adhna? What has he stirred up already?”
He closed his eyes. “I believe part, if not all, of your husband’s madness came from Bodach’s interference. And Pátraic’s hatred of you. The Abbot didn’t turn to madness, but he developed an incredible prejudice he may not have had without Bodach’s influence. He may even retreat from such a stance without constant goading. But I can’t tell how much is native bigotry and how much is Bodach’s pressure.”
So much of her heartbreak over the last seasons stemmed from either her husband’s madness or Pátraic’s hatred. She clenched her fists until the strap of the reins bit into her palms. “Very well. He will reap his reward for what he has sown.”
“You cannot punish him directly. You’ve already shown yourself a match for him but cannot defeat him. He will use that to his advantage in any pitched battle. Instead, you must pretend to be under his influence and bide. In time, you must remove him from power.”
“And how long will that take? I’m not a patient woman, Adhna.”
He laughed, the merry sound a wonderful counterpart to the poisonous environment. “No, one could never accuse you of having too much patience, my love. But you are no longer a woman, Clíodhna. You are a Faerie Queen. You have eons to make your move, and when you do, it will be legendary.”
“I’ll at least make him pay for it a little now. That will satisfy me for a while.”
When she arrived at the palace grounds, courtiers flocked to follow her into the palace. Adhna spoke to a few as they entered.
She didn’t dismount, even once they’d come into the grand hall. Bodach’s corruption hadn’t affected this part of Faerie, not yet, for which she drew solace.
He lounged on the throne—her throne—sideways, while Cerul fed him sections of fruit. As Clíodhna’s horse entered, he scrambled up from the throne and shooed the other Fae away, tossing the remaining fruit into the corner. After stepping down the dais, he held out his arms. “My Queen! I did not expect you back so soon.”
Standing tall in her saddle, she let her voice boom across the assembled. “You mean, you didn’t expect me back at all. How dare you? How dare you usurp my place and corrupt my land? You will pay for this, Bodach, and despite your predilection for pain and madness, you will not like your punishment.�
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His sycophantic smile lessened a notch, and she nodded to the guards Adhna had brought in. “Take him.”
Nine guards approached the Fae. Bodach turned on the guards, his claws out. “You won’t dare lay hands on me!”
Her voice turned ice cold as she gestured the second wave of guards. Twenty-seven now surrounded him. “They will. And you will not fight them, for any injury you do to my own guards, you will pay for three-fold.”
Something in her voice must have hit home, for Bodach’s eyes widened and he sheathed his claws. The guards took him away, with ungentle hands.
Once he had been removed from the throne room, she sought Grimnaugh’s frog-like face. He came out of the corner he’d been cowering in. She grinned and took him into her arms for a hug. “I’ve missed you, my friend.”
When she stood, she curled her lip at the state of mess on her throne. “Let’s have this cleaned before I sit, shall we? I don’t want a trace of Bodach left. I know I must let him return some day, but not yet. Please, not yet.”
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ABOUT CHRISTY NICHOLAS
Christy Nicholas, also known as Green Dragon, has her hands in many crafts, including digital art, beaded jewelry, writing, and photography. In real life, she’s a CPA, but having grown up with art all around her (her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother are/were all artists), it sort of infected her, as it were. She loves to draw and to create things. She says it’s more of an obsession than a hobby. She likes looking up into the sky and seeing a beautiful sunset, or seeing a fragrant blossom or a dramatic seaside. She takes a picture or creates a piece of jewelry as her way of sharing this serenity, this joy, this beauty with others. Sometimes this sharing requires explanation–and thus she writes. Combine this love of beauty with a bit of financial sense and you get an art business. She does local art and craft shows, as well as sending her art to various science fiction conventions throughout the country and abroad.
Age of Druids: Druid's Brooch Series: #9 Page 30