White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

Boyden opened his eyes.

  The Elemental stood before him in the likeness of his new bride. A crimson gown of crystals floated in the air about a slender body with gossamer wings. Shiny black hair drifted down her shoulders and arms, moving in an unseen breeze. Her face appeared snow white and was smooth and oval in the ways of the fey. Black brows arched on a sleek line like his beloved, but that was where the similarity of the reflection ended. Hard, jeweled eyes, laced with long silver-tipped lashes, moved slowly over him as if willing answers to all questions.

  The whisper of her breathing resonated inside him.

  He set his jaw and took hold of his emotions. “Show me your true form.”

  The borrowed image of his bride faded to swirls of black mist, darker than shade, darker than night. She became a living and glittering essence, and when he inhaled, he gave her permission to enter him.

  Air and frost rushed into his lungs, snatching his breath, and his insides twisted in rebellion.

  A wailing of memories …

  A terrible loneliness …

  “Show me the last memory of your Servant King,” he commanded silently.

  From the perspective of the ancient being, shades of the nightmare took form in his mind; swirls of black mist split and coalesced into shimmering tints and colors.

  He saw a likeness of himself staked to the ground.

  A gallant wheezing.

  Red, black, wetness.

  Dying …

  “Daughter,” the king called gently, his head falling low between his shoulders, a bowing in death’s coming.

  The child scrambled to her dying father, hugging him close with skinny white arms.

  “Listen to me, daughter. With my death, the lethal wind goes free and our realm enters into chaos. Doona ever think of her or summon her. You have not the strength to control her, and she kills all she touches. Live your life away from here. When a male child returns to our line, the blood vow will stream in the reclaiming. Now go …”

  Weeping, the grief-stricken child grasped the folds of her soiled gown and climbed to unsteady legs. In strangled gulps, she lurched to the two feathered mounts, falling down to her knees only once. Pulling herself up, she was careful to avoid the hooked white horns of the well-trained beasts. Grasping the golden reins of the closest one, she slid a small hand around the seat strap and hauled herself up into the light brown leather saddle, her legs disappearing among brown feathers. Taking the reins of her mount in a practiced hand, she glanced at the second bird. Riderless, the second animal would no doubt follow her lead. With a final anguished look toward her dying father, she commanded her mount into the air. The second bird followed.

  Expansive wings extended, and with a few hops, they took to the air. The king watched his only child rise into the night sky and disappear among the most brilliant of star-filled nights.

  His head dipped between his shoulders, and he wheezed, “Come to me, my White Wind.”

  The sound of the winds beat at the land giving way to a storm rising.

  “I BE HERE.”

  “Blood to Blooded, a taken oath. Breath to Vow, a forevermore. Honor to Obedience, a defended promise,” the king rasped. “I restate my blood vow to you.”

  The air vibrated in an acknowledgment.

  “You want your freedom?” he demanded in wrath with his last waning strength. “Seduced by treachery, gone behind my back instead of asking, so I gift it to you.” He lifted his head, glaring at the swirls of black mist. “Forevermore are you free,” he snarled in fury. “Forevermore are you alone.”

  A keening cry skirted the land and lochs, sending flocks of birds into the night.

  “With this last breath, I give to you what you would not ask of me. He who comes after, blood of the blooded, blood of my blood, willna ever know you.” Breath rattled in his pierced lung and side where his life’s essence spilled, soiling the ground.

  The king’s eyelashes lowered, splayed against cheeks leeched of all color. With his dying breath, he whispered his will. “You are free.”

  Boyden stiffened. Within him, tumultuous memories swirled and faded to pitch and grief.

  Betrayal.

  Sorrow.

  Rage.

  All feelings belonging to a dead king.

  Comprehension came slowly, a dimming now brightened, a denial once strewn in past and obscurity, now acknowledged, now whole.

  In the deep shadowy reaches within himself, he finally understood the silent and unwritten blood vow of his kin. Not the tribe of the Tuatha Dé Danann, not the faeries, not the primordial guardians, but the other kin, the ones olden and lost to the before-time, the ones known as the Tribe of the Winds.

  He was like none other ever born.

  Through the generations, through the long passage of seasons, his royal bloodline became diluted with the magical, yet remained strong with blood remembrance.

  In his mind, he saw the Servant King, tawny and proud, not listening to any of his advisers. It had been a fatal mistake of arrogance and youth, which led a realm teetering on rebellion to fall.

  Boyden’s fists clenched. Through hurt and betrayal, he had lashed out and banished the very thing he should have kept close. He should have understood.

  As he understood now.

  The Elemental was of the natural, a dark innocent. She was misdirected by a brother’s treachery, a brother’s lust for power and wealth.

  The Wind King should have granted the Elemental freedom to roam the lands as she wished. Not to do harm, but to experience. And by so doing, she would have willingly come back to him. He should not have damned her to a forever aloneness, not cursed her from her bloodline.

  Flinging back his head, Boyden opened his eyes. In the dark night above, stars twinkled overhead, sharing the sky with a crescent moon goddess.

  He inhaled deeply.

  Blood memories were intact. The olden past revealed within him.

  He remained the only son born to the bloodline of the Wind Servant King.

  He was the Wind Servant King, reborn.

  The scent of life and wildflowers filled his lungs.

  “Boyden …” his warrior bride broke off, concern in her voice.

  His being ached for her.

  He turned to her, his beloved queen. Searching her face, he hardly recognized her with tears streaming down flushed cheeks. “Stand still, Scota.”

  She nodded.

  Opening his mouth, he exhaled the ancient dark goddess from his body.

  She came out of him in a rush of black mist and surrounded them, blocking out the land and stars. Out of the corner of his eye, his bride’s crimson veils blew hard in the gusts of air, her body straight and true.

  “Blood to Blooded, a taken oath,” he spoke the ancient vow of his royal ancestor loud and clear. “Breath to Vow, a forevermore. Honor to Obedience, a defended promise.” He paused, spreading his arms wider. “I restate my blood vow to you.”

  Black winds centered on him with a clinging chill of joy and acceptance.

  “Never will you be alone again,” he told her.

  The winds eased to a gentle blowing.

  “Come to me with all you question, all you need. Doona go to another.” He pointed to Scota. “Never hurt her or my bloodline.”

  The moon and stars blinked bright in answer.

  The green lands and tall trees materialized from gray vapors.

  Boyden looked into his bride’s eyes. They glittered with golden shards and tears of pride.

  “I give you freedom,” he spoke dispassionately to the Gaoth Shee. “Come to me when I call and do only what I bid, for we are of the belonging now.”

  The air quieted.

  The land quieted.

  Moon shadows returned.

  Exhaustion clung to his bones.

  A distant owl hooted, piercing the night with his predatory song.

  “ ‘Tis done, Scota. The wind and I are one.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He extended his
hand to her.

  With a harsh laugh of relief, Scota ran into his arms and held him. A deep tremor passed from his body into hers.

  “Boyden, all will be well.”

  His head dipped to her shoulder with a grateful and tired sigh. Their legs giving out, they sunk to their knees into the cushioned grass, clinging to each other.

  Warm breath caressed her neck.

  “I am the Wind Servant King, Scota.”

  She pressed her cheek to his. “I know.”

  He lifted his head, and she stared into his amethyst eyes, the gray hue rarely returning.

  “Do you remember all of it, Boyden?”

  “Aye, the blood memories flow clear in me now. It is as you said. I had to see both views, the king’s and the wind’s. Do you remember I told you the king’s brother betrayed him?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat back, resting a forearm on a propped knee.

  She sat back, too. Easing on her hip and folding her hands in her lap, she waited for him to gather his thoughts.

  “The brother was able to gain support because the king lost touch with his realm. In his overconfidence, the king dinna hear the needs of his people even though his advisers sought to counsel him. When the heavy rains did not relent, crops failed and people went hungry. When the king did nothing to help, the people turned to the brother.” He smiled sadly. “In the same way as the Gaoth Shee turned to the brother when her wishes for freedom went unheard.”

  “Why did the king not listen?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I knew. It was a time of anguish for him, a beloved mate recently lost. Methinks grief blocked out all else.”

  “Grief will do that.”

  He nodded.

  “What happened to the lethal wind, Boyden?”

  “As he lay dying, betrayed by his brother, the king granted the lethal wind her freedom but with a curse to remain alone forevermore. The darkest sister of the four winds was never meant to be alone, Scota. She needs belonging to do no harm. If I die without leaving an heir to the bloodline, there is no telling the havoc she would rain upon the lands and creatures.”

  “We must make sure to give her many heirs then,” Scota said firmly.

  “Aye, we must,” he grinned through his weariness.

  Tenderly, she pushed several strands of hair away from his eyes. “You must rest, Boyden.”

  He ran a hand down his face. “I feel as if a horse has galloped over me.”

  “You do not look it.”

  He pulled her gently into his lap. “Ah, what do I look like, my feisty and dominant wind bride?”

  Scota wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled, pressing her face into the warmth of his shoulder. You look like a king.

  The sound of a bee came near her ear, and she swatted absently at it.

  He stiffened beneath her. “ ‘Tis no bee, Scota.”

  She raised her head at the loud drone of bees suddenly surrounding them.

  Before her eyes, tiny glints of amber splayed the land.

  “The tiny lights you see are the piskies,” he explained. “They call me to the High King.”

  “Not now,” she protested.

  “He knows I am weary and seeks advantage to bend my will to his.”

  Scota pushed off his lap in a rustle of red veils. “Give me a blasted sword, and I will show him who has the advantage.”

  “Nay, Scota, you must remain here.” He hiked himself up and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “I will return when I can.”

  With fists clenched at her sides, she watched him go.

  CHAPTER 24

  IN THE FEY REALM KNOWN to some tribes as the Otherworld, Boyden walked alone toward the throne hall of Tara. His boots sounded silent on the flat stone pavers and tiny fissures of green moss.

  He wore his handfasting clothes, a sleeveless tunic cast in the colors of ending twilight, a shade preference dyed from the bilberry plant. His woolen breeches, dyed a darker purple, appeared nearly black to the eye. He had pulled his hair back and tied it with a strip of leather Derina provided. He knew the clothes fit him well by the look of admiration on his bride’s face. It pleased him to see her thus. Without her by his side, he felt lost in the currents of the wind. He would never give her up.

  She waited among his people in the above, a battle she stubbornly fought and reluctantly conceded to him. He knew her dread of interior places from their passage through the spriggan’s cave and wished to protect her from the strain of it, especially now. He would protect his bride and unborns at whatever sacrifice to himself. Scota’s passion and anger gave him the strength for his next confrontation with the king. He knew the tolerance of the leader of the fey was near ending. He must take care not to let his own fierce emotions override good judgment.

  He entered the shafts of pink light marking the way to the throne hall. Embedded in the craggy stone walls on either side of him shone faceted gems and shiny crystals. Clear water trickled from cracks in the walls, a natural residence for the undines, or water faeries, when called before the High King.

  In front of him, a massive archway of stone and moss rose above his head, signaling the entranceway to the great throne hall of Tara. He paused beneath it to gather his resolve and patience. On either side of his shoulders, brown vines climbed ever upward, intertwining with radiant and everlasting blooms of tiny white roses. He inhaled and exhaled, pushing aside the weariness threatening to weaken him. The roses’ light fragrance reeked with presentiment.

  “ENTER, WIND HERALD,” the voice of the High King of the Faeries commanded from deep in the throne hall.

  Boyden rolled his head on his shoulders to relieve tension and walked beneath the stone archway of blooms into a hall lit with shafts of pink light. The air felt ominous in his lungs, a marking of the suspension of seasons passing. He strode around a small grove of stunted white trees with branches thin as a child’s finger and leaves no bigger than his thumb.

  In front of him, several horse lengths away, stood the infamous glacier white dais where the rock-crystal throne of the High King of the Faeries resided.

  That was where the king waited for him.

  “BOYDEN,” the king greeted with the inflection of his brethren. “YOU HAVE CAUSED ME MUCH GRIEVANCE BETWEEN ME AND MY QUEEN.”

  “It was never my intention,” Boyden knelt before the white dais, his knee sinking into soft, green-gray moss. He bowed his head respectfully.

  “STAND AND FACE ME.”

  He stood, legs spread, hands locked behind his back, presenting no threat.

  They always greeted this way before their argument, a ritual of blame and response. The king held him responsible for problems with the fey queen and he quietly remarked that it was not his intention to do so. The queen, although he had never met her, sided with him, as did the druidess.

  “MY QUEEN GROWS ANNOYED WITH THE QUARRELING BETWEEN US. SHE RETREATED TO ONE OF HER SANCTUARIES NEAR THE ROWAN.”

  Boyden met the steady gaze of his royal adversary.

  “SHE WILLNA RETURN UNTIL THIS CONFLICT BETWEEN US BE OVER.”

  He refused to be baited. “It is not my intent to cause discord between you and your queen.”

  “STILL, YOU HAVE DONE SO. IT ANGERS ME.”

  Boyden dipped his head in acknowledgement of the anger, refusing to be drawn into the argument with a denial, a weaker stance for him. It angered him just as greatly to battle for the acceptance of his valiant bride.

  He knew this king to be a great warrior from the incursion times of Lord Bress, knew this king to be stubborn and powerful. It would take all his concentration and strength to have his will be done.

  The High King sat on a throne chair crafted of olden rock crystals, gems of onyx, amethysts, and metal-worked bronze. It was a symbol of the magical and the threat of the fey born. The king’s tunic and breeches glittered with golden threads finely sewn in white fey weaves. His brows were thin and arched about eyes of icy jewels. Gold crystals glittered in long, brown pla
its, framing an angular face both harsh and eerily fragile.

  They were alone.

  “I GROW WEARY OF OUR BATTLE, WIND HERALD.”

  “So do I.”

  “THE ONE YOU CLAIM AS BRIDE INVADED OUR LANDS WITH INTENT TO DO HARM.”

  Boyden told himself not to snarl his retort. “ ‘Tis true what you say. However, Scota also aided me in reaching the Milesian leader, Lord Amergin. She helped me convince the druidic bard of our innocence in the death of the traveler Íth, which has led to the ending of the invasion. You spoke to my chieftain and to the tribal elders. They spoke as I do about her efforts. We would still be in battle if not for her.”

  “UNIMPORTANT.” The king gestured with a wave of his hand.

  “How can it be unimportant?” he replied gruffly, struggling to keep his tone consistent and nonthreatening.

  “WE SPEAK OF NOW-TIMES.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “There would be no now-times,” he ground out, “if not for her.”

  “SHE BE UNEQUAL TO YOU, WIND HERALD,” the king said low with intolerance. He sat forward on the edge of his throne. “SHE BE NOTHING, A MORTAL BORN FROM ANOTHER LAND ACROSS THE SEA, NO MATCH FOR YOU.”

  “She proved her worth to me and gained my respect and heart,” Boyden countered. “She is my queen.”

  “WIND HERALD,” the High King warned with annoyance. “I AM THE HIGH KING OF THE FAERIES AND RECOGNIZE NO QUEEN OTHER THAN MY OWN.”

  He held the icy glare of the king and realized the time of dispute was coming to a close. A newer battle was about to rage.

  “I remember my wind past, High King.”

  The king sat back on his throne with obvious displeasure and contemplation, regarding him coolly with an unblinking gaze. “MEMORIES BE MOST DANGEROUS.”

  “To whom?” Boyden demanded, nostrils flaring.

  “DANGEROUS TO FOOLISHNESS.”

  The air in the hall felt decidedly chillier, and an eerie breeze swept the perimeter of the room. It was not from the faery king.

  “Do you threaten me, High King?” Boyden asked low, pushing down his fury. He knew the shadowy tales of this king’s power, but refused to cower.

  “THREATEN? AYE. I WILLNA HAVE A TREACHEROUS WIND QUEEN TAINTING MY REALM.”