It did not take long to find out. A beautiful faery entered—Månefè’s daughter, he presumed—taking the baby from the king’s arms so Finaarva could sit on his throne. As she stepped out, Tigano and his lieutenants took their place at the wide, nearly circular stump, its wood polished so every ring shone as vividly as the day the tree had been cut down. After a few meaningless comments from lesser lords, Månefè rose.
“The time has come, my king, for an end to the war. After centuries of careful culling and planning, my spies have revealed the Daoine Sidhe are now too weak to maintain their magic. Oberon’s dome cannot hold against our enchantments, not if we concentrate our attacks. Our numbers are too great, our sorcerers too powerful. The giants and ogres now fight alongside us. We have legions of goblins to throw at their defenses, so many that the sheer weight of our dead will crush our enemies. A month, maybe two, and Oberon’s head will be on a pike.”
There was no cheer; instead, the faery nobles shifted uncomfortably. The war against the Daoine Sidhe had lasted since the Sluagh Sidhe had rebelled, but the casualties had always been few. Månefè spoke of genocide. As it dawned on each faery what was being called for, faces turned to his and he realized this was why his silence had been bought.
He focused his eyes on Finaarva’s large cobalt orbs, hoping the king would hear reason, but knowing he could not afford a prolonged debate.
“My king, I have just learned of a new threat. The dragons—the young coloreds—have already ascended under Ao Shun’s tutelage.”
The others rumbled at the news, but Månefè chortled. “Impossible! You can’t be serious!”
He ignored his rival, plunging on. His only hope was that Finaarva would at least consider what he said.
“Ao Shun now has enough hongs to destroy us should he bring them into the war. My sources say he plans to fight alongside Oberon.”
Månefè threw his head back and roared with laughter. “The dragons? Enter our war? They barely notice us! Besides, we have already negated all of their matures.”
The king waved Månefè to silence. “What are you thinking, Lord Changeling? What possible reason could Ao Shun have to concern himself with us now that the dragons are united. They will leave Faery and travel the stars!”
“I do not pretend to know Ao Shun’s mind, my king, only that all signs point to the dragons joining with Oberon. Their friendship goes back to the old world, to Ireland.”
Finaarva sat with a hand cupping his chin, at least making a pretense of considering Tigano’s words. Then he turned to Månefè.
“What say you?”
The dark-haired faery sat for a moment, a grave look on his face, before rising slowly. Under other circumstances, Tigano would have rolled his eyes just as dramatically. Instead, his lack of sarcasm lent gravitas.
“Four months to ascension, you say? Pah! We know the dragons. They are more bound by tradition than Oberon! They would no more rush those young coloreds than mac Lir would return to a time where we swapped babies for magical gain. We have brought together the might of the changelings with that of the giants, ogres and goblins. We are now the supreme power in Faery, and I know how to strike fear into the heart of every dragon, to finally drive them from our world, to force them to seek their true destiny and leave us be!”
Tigano could feel all eyes turning to him. This was the moment in previous war councils where he would skewer Månefè’s unrealistic ambitions. He remained silent, his own eyes focused on his rival and avoiding glances from the others. He knew his lack of dissension would hand Månefè exactly what he wanted, but he was trapped.
A malicious grin spread across the tall faery’s face, and he gesticulated with more fervor.
“My king, you know the mature ones still lie in their cavern, awaiting the death that is long in coming. It is time to hasten their deaths and send a clear message to Ao Shun that the time of the dragons in Faery is over!”
There was some polite clapping this time. Tigano could not help but slink down in his chair. The dragons would neither cower nor flee. They would destroy Bruagh-na-Boyne.
This is not how it was supposed to end! But he still held his tongue.
Is my pride worth all this? he wondered. Månefè had not yet won the council over. I could still stop this. Finaarva and Månefè already know. Àibell will know soon enough.
Trepidation grabbed his tongue, squeezing it. He had never before feared his treachery becoming known. There were many in the glen who would openly applaud his use of the ancient changeling magic so long forbidden by Oberon, especially if they knew he’d used it against Månefè. Such a simple thing, really, the switching of two babies. Little Pwyll had looked so innocent. He wondered if Arawn was just as innocent.
Panic set in the moment he thought of the other child. If Månefè—or his daughter, more likely—had seen through Hagr’s glamour and discovered his deception, what would prevent Àibell or someone else in her family doing the same with Arawn? With her family moving in, it was inevitable.
He had never sought another faery’s approval before. After all, he was the Lord Changeling and even Finaarva was nearly a peer. His wife, however, had brought out his long-forgotten conscience. For a moment, he saw the weakness he’d fallen prey to, but he knew he no longer cared about that. He cared for her, craved her approval. By the time he returned, she could have seen the false Pwyll and realized the truth.
For several moments, dread deafened him to the debate. Then a solution began to form. It was dangerous, but was there any other option? Could he risk his rival regaining his full power? Was that not only the greater danger, but the greater evil? He did not have to complete the spell reversal. He might have to battle control of the dark sorcery for the rest of his life, but Månefè would remain diminished. Would his wife understand?
As his senses returned, he realized his moment to halt Månefè’s megalomania had passed. The generals were now leaning forward, eagerly lapping up his rival’s every promise of grandeur.
“When we stand in the blood of the dragons, our victory will be assured! Our sorcerers will overwhelm the Daoine Sidhe! Our arrows will pierce their magic! Our swords will shatter their shields! The dragons themselves will tremble at the name of Finaarva, the Sluagh Sidhe, and those who lead them!”
Even Dyfed and Morvyn were cheering. He collapsed against the back of his chair, unable to any longer cling to his pretense, and let his pride bleed from him as from a gaping wound. He needed to return home. He needed to be the one to tell Àibell. She should not learn what he had done from anyone else. He rose, turning to leave.
“Lord Changeling!” boomed the king. “Where are you going? Did you not hear Lord Månefè’s call?”
He paused. He had not heard.
“Call?”
“Are you going to lead the killing of the dragons or not? You aren’t going to abdicate command of the changelings, are you?”
Little of his old pride remained, but dread clung to him like a demon, returning a semblance of his wit to him.
“Lord Månefè has chosen to doom us all. This plan will enflame the dragons. I go now to see if there is any hope of saving my family. Follow him if you insist; my place is not here.”
Without waiting to see what storm he’d unleashed, Tigano swept out of the council chamber alone. As soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run.
♦ ♦ ♦
He had never flown the few miles to the south end of Bruagh-na-Boyne with greater haste, yet at the same time his home had never taken so long to appear. He did not allow himself any room to think. All that mattered was his confession. He could not consider the possibility his resolve would fail again. He dared not dwell on the chance her family—only a mile north of his home—had already started moving in. Memories of her large brown eyes, her delicate wings, and especially her gentle touch were all he let seep in, allowing them to fill every part of his awareness until there was no room for any other thought.
He heard the ruckus fr
om the beach by his stump before he could see it and groaned. Then he spotted a young family of faeries gliding below him, confirming his fears. Their clothes were made of leaves and bark and decorated with colorful flowers: the bucolic clothes of those who could not afford to live in more than a glade. Their butterfly wings reminded him of Àibell’s: varying hues of blue outlined with thin black veins and thick black edges.
He snapped his wings, afraid now of what he would find. Moments later, he soared above his beach. Faeries milled everywhere on the rocks, all with the same peasant style and wings that were mostly gradients of blue.
He hesitated until he spotted Àibell near the stump, her back towards him. Her voice carried clearly as she organized. Swallowing once, he plunged, not daring to allow any thought but disclosure of his deed to infiltrate.
There was a loud squawk from the faeries closest as he landed behind her, and they scattered. He did not smile, knowing it was the sight of the Lord Changeling that frightened them. Steeling himself, he took two steps towards his wife, then stopped suddenly and his heart thudded.
She turned to face him, and her countenance darkened, an expression of bitter anger he’d never seen. In her arms, she held a baby boy. He knew instantly it was the false Pwyll and that she had realized the truth.
Chapter 13
The Faery
Tigano stood on the bough, one hand on the thick trunk, transfixed by the spectacle above the river and outside of the dome.
“So many hongs…” whispered Dyfed standing next to him. His blond changeling lieutenant held a long, narrow staff of war magic as tall as his wings in one hand.
In one short week following the ill-fated council, the Sluagh Sidhe, their giant and ogre allies, and the conscripted hordes of goblin tribes had driven the Daoine Sidhe out of the Ath Dara forest back into their glen. Against the combined magical might of the changelings and the faery lords, and the sheer physical dominance of their confederates, Oberon was forced to slowly retreat to Orgá Vale, the sacred Golden Valley that was the heart of Tir-nam-beo, withdrawing his enchanted dome as he did so.
Tigano had quietly joined the changelings almost as soon as his own plot had unraveled. The trust his wife had placed in him when they’d initially married had shattered. She’d demanded the spell be undone, shaming him, even though it was Hagr Twyllo who he’d ordered to return the babies. Anger had burned in him like dragon fire, and it still smoldered even now, but he’d quickly realized the source was his own failure.
He’d slept alone that night, and had left early, Hagr in tow, leaving only a note for Àibell in which he asked her to continue to protect her family and to continue gathering information, letting her know where he was and that he was taking his servant.
For six days, he’d slowly uncoiled his plan to undermine his rival, quietly taking his place at the rear of the changelings and maintaining a low profile. Finaarva might have taken away his command of the changelings, but he would not abandon them, not unless he was expressly forbidden. The other changelings asked no questions about what he was up to, but simply followed orders sent to them from Månefè. Not surprisingly, they only complied with what was expressly asked, and he was certain that no word of his presence filtered back to his rival. Their staunch loyalty to him was what he needed most to undermine Månefè.
Everything had changed on the day they should have crushed Oberon. As soon as the command came for the changelings to leave the army so they could desecrate the dragons’ sacred cavern and slaughter the matures, he’d returned home with Hagr. As his wife had predicted, the dragons had entered the war that very morning. Coincidence or not, the handful of hongs had routed the Sluagh Sidhe and their army without the strength of the changelings to bolster them.
Upon his return, Àibell had been politely amiable in front of her family, but cold and aloof as soon as they were alone. Even the most carefully worded apology had no effect, and he’d realized only his actions over time could heal the wound.
Waiting for news of what he correctly assumed would be the utter disaster caused by Månefè’s plan gave him the chance he’d needed for the first step. Without speaking a word to his wife, he’d removed all implements of dark magic from his chamber, taken them outside, and piled them on the beach. Hagr’s loud wails of protest had drawn several members of her family to see what the ruckus was about, even though he’d left behind the old world relics and other tools of enchantment not of nefarious origin.
The moment he’d begun emptying beaker after beaker atop the pile, the goblin had moaned and wept. Finally, he’d withdrawn his remaining vials of dragon blood and his servant had tugged imploringly on his coat.
“Master! No! Don’t destroy your magic! Please, let Hagr keep the vials safe!”
For one moment, he considered the option. He’d glanced back at the stump and spotted Àibell standing just outside the entrance, her arms crossed and her wings stiff. Their eyes had met. The last time he’d entrusted Hagr, the carefully woven knot of his life had unraveled. He knew the pile of sorcerous implements could be replaced and—if he kept the blood—he could still pursue his dream of immortality.
His wife’s large brown eyes, however, remained locked with his, and he’d carefully pulled out stopper after stopper, pouring the blood over the pile, then dropping each vial and letting it shatter. He’d had to kick Hagr twice to keep the little goblin from collecting even a drop of the blood from one of the shards. Her eyes remained impassive until he’d emptied the last vial, then pointed one hand at the implements while he allowed his magic to build, fueling it with the anger of his folly.
Purple-tinged lightning had exploded from his fingers, igniting Bailong’s blood. The blood had sparked, then burst into flames that engulfed the pile in a large blast that surprised him with its force, knocking he and Hagr backwards. The rocks had sizzled and he’d felt a momentary pang of sadness when, with a loud voomp, the spell he’d laid on the riverbank centuries earlier cracked, then ruptured, and the beach rang with a tinkle like falling glass shattering on the stones. Except for his stump, which had been reinforced with many other spells, every log and fallen snag had turned instantly to gray dust. Even the ancient lichen on the rocks had fallen away. Hagr had wailed, but his wife’s tight-lipped smile and raised eyebrows seemed to say, ‘That was a good first step.’
That act alone hadn’t made him comfortable enough to return to their bed chamber, yet Àibell had at least become courteous and civil when they were in private.
He’d received the pleading call from Finaarva less than a week later. The dragons had been enraged as he had predicted, and it was clear that the young coloreds had indeed ascended. All that prevented the war from turning into an instant rout had been his changelings, but they had grown wild and unpredictable after their massacre of the mature dragons. They’d bathed in the blood, and some had eaten the organs. The potency of the magic they’d imbibed would have killed most faeries. Although it had made the changelings strong enough to fight the dragons to a standstill, it had also made them dangerously volatile, killing indiscriminately, even slaughtering other Sluagh Sidhe at times.
Finaarva had once again declared him Lord Changeling, but by the time he’d retaken command, the initial burst of blood magic that had infected the changelings was wearing off. The might of the dragons had begun to reassert itself, driving Finaarva’s forces back. Within a couple of weeks, they’d been pushed back to the Cathaoir River, the very border of Bruagh-na-Boyne.
Now he watched as nearly every dragon hong he knew existed was attacking Finaarva’s magic dome with a fury he’d never seen. Outside the dome on the far side of the Cathaoir River, most of his changelings guarded against the final retreat. Once again, it was their magic missiles holding back the dragons, exploding in showers of red, green, and purple flowers that burned their enemies’ wings and caused them to veer. Fireballs missed badly or struck the shields of violet magic protecting the changelings and the fleeing warriors they guarded.
&nb
sp; “How do we fight such rage?” Dyfed asked.
“Faery is lost to the Sluagh Sidhe,” he muttered gloomily. “Our goblin hordes have been decimated. The giants and ogres have abandoned us. If Finaarva’s dome does not hold, Bruagh-na-Boyne will be little more than scorched stumps in a week.”
He did not tell Dyfed that he did not expect the dome to hold. He dared not let any hint get back to Finaarva or Månefè that he had already made arrangements for his wife and her family to get to safety when it fell.
“Look, my lord,” the blond changeling said, his arm pointing across the river. “Oberon is simply waiting.”
Tigano stared. He could see movement inside the trees on the Cathaoir’s far side. With their dark cloaks and lack of any real armor, the Daoine Sidhe blended easily into the forest. As his eyes adjusted, he frowned.
“Mac Lir has brought them all. He is expecting something.” He hesitated, then grabbed Dyfed’s arm.
“Go and cast the signal. Ao Shun must be coming with every hong not yet here. Any changeling outside the dome will be destroyed if we do not pull them back now.”
Dyfed’s blue eyes grew large. “What of the rest of our faeries?”
“They’d better hope Oberon will take prisoners. Go. The changelings are all that matter if we hope to broker any type of surrender.”
Dyfed nodded, then leaped from the branch, his staff held tight against his body. Tigano watched him dive almost to the forest floor before snapping his dragonfly wings open, soaring over the inlet and through the dome.
He did not watch the retreat but focused on the dragons instead. One in particular caught his eye, a crimson-scaled female. He had seen her leading hongs at several battles. She was young and, for a dragon, quite beautiful with her sleek frame and long, narrow tail, but her green eyes burned with hatred that cast a hardness to her jaw not apparent in any of the other dragons. Her passion drove the other coloreds, and he understood why Ao Shun had chosen her.
Blood of the Dragon Page 14