White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  She would not argue the truth. “Release the Wind Herald,” she replied in answer, their once close association slipping away.

  The Milesian leader studied her before moving away.

  In the glow of firelight, Lord Amergin spoke so all could hear. “The fates chose Princess Scota. She has won the right to live, but she has not won the right of my returned trust. I therefore ban her from her people and give her unto the care of the Wind Herald. Never will she live among us again.”

  Scota felt her chest go tight, but stood her ground.

  The druidic bard walked around her to his fuming captive.

  With his arms and legs pinned to the ground, Boyden glared up at the leader. “If she died, I would have killed you.”

  “I know.” Lord Amergin gestured his guards away with a flip of his hand and Boyden jumped to his feet.

  They stared at each other.

  One pensive.

  One angry.

  “Where is the magical Darkshade dagger, Wind Herald?’ Lord Amergin asked, missing little.

  “Where it belongs, with my brethren,” Boyden replied firmly.

  The leader nodded, silence opening between them.

  After a long moment, Lord Amergin said, “Take good care of her, Wind Herald,” and walked away.

  CHAPTER 21

  MANY DAYS CAME AND WENT since leaving her people’s camp. A kind of sadness moved through Scota as the old familiarities were left behind. She considered herself a daughter of the emerald land now, and … of the winds. Old allegiances were gone, not by her choice, but by Amergin’s. At first, his banishment hurt and angered, but when Boyden took her arm and whispered, “Come with me, Scota. I love you,” all fury dissipated as if it had never been.

  His love warmed her. He made her feel wanted, made her feel incredibly alive.

  She went with him willingly. Walking out of Lord Amergin’s camp, she never looked back.

  That part of her life was over.

  Scota pressed her hand to her stomach with a secretive smile. A magical babe grew within her, bringing promises of new beginnings. She looked forward to holding their daughter or son in her arms. She looked forward to growing old with Boyden in the land of his fey brethren. There were so many new things to learn and experience. She was excited by it all. Beside her, the Wind Herald walked in silence while the others of his tribe kept several paces ahead. The large group of men who first accompanied Boyden into Lord Amergin’s camp parted many days before with simple nods. Four men remained. Two accompanied the Tuatha chieftain, while the fourth, the wind warrior, remained protectively by her side.

  They were moving deeper inland toward a place where the faery woodlands were said to be. As they walked a grassy path, Scota thought about the mysterious faeries. Lavender shadows crept across green rolling lands and crystal-clear lochs. The ending light seemed to turn the living realm into the dominion of the magical.

  In the near distance, woodlands rose from swirls of white mists, treetops kissing a gray, cloud-filled sky.

  Anticipation stirred within her.

  No one in her tribe knew of the existence of the magical fey woodlands, no one but herself. She felt like a traveler, on her way to a hidden and ancient discovery. “Do these woods have a special fey name, Boyden?” she asked quietly.

  “Nay, we call them simply the fey woodlands. Disappointed?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “These woodlands are verra old. They are an enchanted place where the sound of flutes can be heard, if one cares to listen.”

  Her eyes widened with awe. “Have you heard these flutes?”

  “Aye, I have,” he answered mysteriously, adjusting the torc at his neck.

  “What do they sound like?”

  “It is a kind of music that has no words to describe it. Delicate notes reach inside you, telling whispers of newborn flower petals or a bee’s journey to a bush. Your heart will hear it and you will understand. Many things will be new to you here. Deep within the woods, white roses grow in impenetrable thorn thickets of silver and gold, and faeries can be seen riding on the backs of snails, hares, or wolves.”

  “Truth?” she prompted, giving him a curious look.

  “Always truth, Scota. Look for yourself.” He pointed.

  In the reflecting rays of the ending day, a tiny rider approached astride a blue hare with white ears. The rider, a white-cloaked faery with yellow hair, held a bridle of golden twigs.

  “One of the piskies,” Boyden explained, shielding his eyes from the last rays of the setting sun.

  Scota shielded her eyes too. She recognized the tiny faery from the Elemental’s blood memories within her, but awe still welled up inside her throat at seeing the little fey born with her own two eyes.

  Boyden paused beside her at the crest of the slope, and Scota breathed in the wonder of the charming land. Ribbons of gold and silver danced in the wind-scored hills, marking the woodland’s border of enchantment. Reaching for the sky, giant trees slipped in and out of faded colors and white mist.

  Her focus returned to the tiny herald astride the white-eared hare. “Boyden, the rider seems to be speaking harshly with your chieftain.”

  “Aye,” he commented, his focus on the exchange, as well.

  “Do you not wish to hear what he says?”

  “The rider is a she,” he corrected, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If the tiny one wished to speak with me, she would ride to me, but the wee piskies doona care much for the wind.”

  He glanced at her with mischief before returning his attention to the tiny faery. After a moment, his brows drew together in a frown. “I am surprised she comes to meet us in the high meadow. Normally, they willna reveal themselves in this way.”

  “Why do you scowl, Boyden?”

  “Something is amiss. My chieftain argues.”

  The piskie pointed at them and gestured wildly.

  “She appears to be unhappy with our presence,” Scota said in observation, a falling feeling in her stomach.

  “Extremely,” he replied slowly. “My chieftain waves for us to go on ahead. We will wait for them at the abandoned place.”

  He touched her shoulder, guiding her gently forward.

  “Boyden, do you …”

  He shook his head. “I doona know, Scota. Let us wait and see. The fey react differently than one expects, and I willna say until I know the truth of their quarrel.”

  She pushed a few strands of hair off her face. “Although I am excited to become part of your fey brethren, I do not think the faeries want me here.”

  He looked at her. “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged. “Derina said they consider me an enemy.”

  “You are my mate. You go where I go.” He took her hand. “Come, let us enter the mist together. Let me show you a wee bit of the magical.”

  He pulled her forward, taking a path different from the chieftain and the tiny rider. They entered the swirling white mist of the woodlands. Cool dampness caressed her face; the fresh scent of tree bark and freedom entered her lungs. Everything was beautiful.

  “Boyden, never have I seen such olden trees. The trunks are so large.”

  “I am gladdened. The trees have seen many a time pass. Come, ‘tis this way.”

  They walked into shadows of amber light, and he led her to the edge of a large sylvan thicket where an abandoned fort of circular homes stood. Some of the homes were built of oak timbers, but most were made of poles, stakes, twigs, and tree branches bound with clay and mud. Hazelnuts woven into musky old animal skins hung over many of the door entrances.

  The air in the thicket smelled of moisture and decay, but it was not offensive, only sad. Pausing beside one of the circular homes, Scota lifted the brown animal skin and looked in. Broken acorn shells littered the floor. In the center of the room, a circle of small gray stones lay in wait for a fire long ago extinguished.

  She stepped in. In the back, a large bed of old white sheepskins and woven b
lue blankets had been left behind. The place was sprinkled with wolf hair, and she surmised the cottage was already taken. To her right, a trestle table with a broken leg stood precariously above reaching green vines.

  She returned to Boyden’s side, outside.

  He stood near a crumbling stone wall entwined with thick brown vines.

  “Is this a faery place?” she asked, slightly disappointed.

  “Nay, Scota,” he chuckled. “ ‘Tis belonging to my tribe and abandoned from the times of the Kindred war.”

  “The Kindred war?”

  He nodded. “Long ago, the chieftain of my tribe fulfilled a prophecy to mate with a territorial goddess to save the land. It is a long story.”

  She looked down at her hands. Vicious memories from her joining with the primordial wind, flickered within her. They were shades of the Kindred battle, and what had almost been.

  “Scota, are you feeling ill?”

  She pushed the troubling shades aside, unwilling to taint her happiness. “I am well.” She was with her mate; all else mattered little to her. “You must share the chieftain’s tale with me sometime.”

  “Sometime,” he smiled in reply, offering nothing more.

  She did not pester him, but instead surveyed the crumbled homes with hands on her hips. “Do we rest here and wait for the others to come?”

  “Aye, we rest,” he replied.

  Neither moved.

  Instead, they stood listening to the hum of frogs and crickets greeting the growing darkness. She knew he was troubled by the appearance of the tiny faery, but remained silent. What would be, would be; she had no control over fate. She lived in the moment and would face what came when it presented itself.

  To her right, a decayed ruin of fallen stones was buried beneath a massive thicket of silver thorns. Brown wrens foraged through the undergrowth, unconcerned by their presence.

  “The birds do not fear us,” she remarked with fascination.

  “In the fey woodlands, the wild creatures doona fear, but walk among us. Wolf, pig, wren, it matters not, Scota.” He pointed to the active birds. “They search only for spiders and bugs to sate their hunger.” He took her hand again. “Come, let us select a cottage to rest in.”

  “Not that one,” Scota pulled him back. “A wolf has claimed it.”

  “Do you think the wolf would object to us confiscating his home?” he teased.

  “Yes,” she tugged him back, “especially when there are so many other ruins to choose from.”

  “Agreed. How about the ruin near the double boulder?” He gestured toward a smaller round house.

  “Let us first check availability,” she advised.

  He laughed and pulled her with him, the incoming night close on their heels.

  The morning of the next day, they made the small round house theirs, filling it with usable pieces. From one abandoned home, they claimed a table; from another, a basket of candles; and still another, four clay pots, one large and three small. The animal skins proved more of a challenge. Old and dirty, Scota shook them out against the boulder and washed them in a nearby stream. She did not know how long the fey intended for them to wait and decided to keep busy. In the waning afternoon, Boyden went to meet with his chieftain. She did not know how long he would be and decided to take this time for herself and bathe in the black waters of the stream.

  Surrounded by ancient trees draped in moss and white flowers, she dropped her clothes on the shore. Testing the cold waters with her toe, she shivered, bit her lip, and waded in. She knelt on a soft bed of rounded pebbles with black waters rising to her waist in cool caresses. After a while, she stopped shivering and began to wash.

  She did not expect company.

  But company, she had.

  A twig broke, and a hooded figure appeared beside a tree.

  “Derina,” Scota greeted the ancient woman. “I did not expect anyone.”

  The druidess stood beneath the boughs of a large oak, leaning on a walking stick. She wore a white, hooded robe that fell to her ankles. “I brought you my soap, Princess. I thought you would like to wash from your journey.”

  “My thanks, Derina.” Scota went to get up, but the druidess waved to her to remain where she was.

  “Open your hand, Princess.”

  Scota caught the thin bar of green soap easily. It continually unnerved her the way the ancient saw with no eyes, but she shrugged the feeling off. “My thanks, Derina.” She sniffed the soap with appreciation. The combined scents of lavender and rosemary were soothing.

  “Wash and we talk.” The druidess grabbed the folds of her robe with one hand and with the walking stick in the other, made her way between feathery stalks of grass. She paused to stand at the edge of the shore.

  Scota dipped the soap under the moving waters and began to wash her arms and shoulders.

  “You wish to speak with me alone? Without Boyden?” Scota surmised the fey might consider her an enemy still. She fervently hoped not.

  “Aye,” Derina replied, saying nothing further.

  Freeing her hair from the plaits, Scota dipped her head under the water. In the continuing silence, she washed and rinsed her hair and her body, but the anxiety slowly built within.

  She flipped her wet hair back. “The fey do not accept me, do they, Derina?” Scota murmured her question.

  “Nay, the High King of the Fairies willna accept you, Princess.”

  Through wet lashes, she met the druidess’s empty eye sockets. “Even after all that has happened? This king who judges without meeting me still considers me an enemy to his realm?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why?” she blurted out angrily.

  “You and your people invaded our land, Princess. The fey can be spiteful in their ways. They doona forgive or forget. The king accepts the unborn babe in your womb because the child be belonging to Boyden, and he wants Boyden. The Wind Herald be verra special to the faeries though he refuses to acknowledge his heritage.”

  Scota took the rejection deep inside and pushed it down so it would not hurt. She looked away, her once bright and hopeful future dimming into murky shadows. “He is an unwise king.”

  “Mayhap,” the druidess replied. “The High Queen of the Faeries allies herself with you, as do I.”

  She looked up in surprise. “Why would she? Why would you?”

  The ancient clasped the walking stick in front of her. “Without you, we both believe the line of the Servant Wind King ends. I doona think Boyden will ever claim another as he has you.”

  “Am I merely a vessel to you?” she scoffed, full of hurt.

  “Nay, Princess. You be his heart and …” she smiled warmly, “… I hope, my friend. I am old, Princess. In my time, I have seen much and know life be not fair. When the moon rises high in the sky this eve, a rider comes to summon you to the High King. Your fate be decided then. Whatever happens, Boyden must not break away from the fey realm.” White brows furrowed, and Scota felt the close regard of those empty eye sockets. “Do you understand me, Princess?”

  She understood. “If I am banned from the fey, you wish me to shun him and leave.” It was a statement.

  “Aye, you must.”

  She shook her head. “What you ask … I can not do.” She stared down at the lathered soap in her hands.

  “I doona ask this lightly, Princess.”

  “Do not ask me at all, then,” she said, holding on to her temper.

  “Boyden must learn to control the lethal wind. The daughters of his line have lost the knowledge, and so he must find it within himself. The fey can help him regain it.”

  “He will find it,” Scota murmured, believing it so.

  “He must, Princess. If he canna relearn the ancient blood vow within him, the lethal wind be forever lost to us.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” she asked softly.

  “Aye, Princess. Doona ask me why. Know only that it be a most terrible thing. Boyden must remain with his faery brethren and rediscover his bl
ood vow of the wind.”

  “What of me, Derina?”

  “Whatever the king’s decision this eve, you carry the Wind Herald’s babe, a bloodline never to be broken. If the High King decides against you, you must accept his decision.”

  “Where would I go, Derina?”

  Derina tilted her head. “Far from here be a place known only to a few. It be called White Fells, and I will take you there. In time, you will become a distant memory to Boyden.” She did not add the High King’s intention to wipe the Wind Herald’s memory clean of her.

  “You act as if I am banned already. What of my babe?”

  “When birthing time arrives, I will come to you and take the babe. I will give the babe to the father and tell him you died.”

  Scota studied the soap. “Your words speak the same hurt to me as Lord Amergin. He promised to give my babe to the father and tell him I died in birthing. I am not wanted on either side.”

  “You are caught between, Princess.”

  “Between,” Scota repeated softly. “Is there no hope for me, Derina?”

  “Methinks only a wee bit.”

  She nodded. “I will think on what you have said to me.”

  “You will come to know what I say be the way of it,” Derina murmured.

  “The way of what?” Boyden stood at the edge of the trees, looking inquisitively between them.

  Quickly dunking her head, Scota came up sputtering. “Derina says I will like her food. After she described the tripe to me, I said I would think on it.”

  A single brow arched. “Do you lie to me, Scota?”

  “Yes,” she replied stiffly.

  He gave the druidess a long stare. “You bring mischief, Derina.”

  “Do I, Wind Herald?” Hiking up her white robe with one hand, she leaned on her walking stick and turned away. “I go now, before the nasty wind topples me over.” Without further comment, the white-haired ancient disappeared among the shadows of the trees.

  “What did she say to you, Scota?”

  The leaves fluttered in the day’s light winds, responding to his disquiet.

  “Did you speak with your chieftain?” she asked rather than answered.