White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  Everything stilled inside Boyden. “You named her queen.”

  The king’s gaze narrowed at his unintended slip. It was knowledge he had kept hidden for so long, but now it was revealed. “AYE, WIND SERVANT KING. I KNOW OF YOU,” he said sharply. “BETTER I SHOULD NOT.”

  Peril loomed in the air.

  “Better you should have been honest with me,” Boyden countered.

  “I FELT THE TAINT OF YOUR HERITAGE AND ACCEPTANCE OF THE ELEMENTAL THE MOMENT YOU ENTERED MY HALL. DO YOU THINK TO INTIMIDATE ME WITH YOUR LETHAL WIND?”

  “I doona threaten you or the fey realm, High King. I seek only who I am.”

  “YOU HAVE DISCOVERED THE CLINGING BLOOD TAINT OF THE GAOTH SHEE.”

  “Aye,” Boyden answered. “I know what I am.”

  “SO DO I.”

  He dipped his head. “Given this, I ask you to accept Scota.”

  “NEVER.”

  He nodded wearily. “If you can not accept her, I ask you to allow us to leave your realm. Scota and I will settle north, far from Tara.”

  “YOU WILL REMAIN WHERE I CAN WATCH YOU. I COMMAND HER AWAY.”

  Boyden’s eyes narrowed, patience evaporating. “I willna send my bride and unborn away. Would you give up your queen?”

  “THEN NO CHOICE YOU GIVE ME BUT TO SPELL CAST YOU INTO FORGETFULNESS.”

  “You spell cast me and I will steal the very breath from your lungs,” he warned with a voice brewing with growing rage.

  The king was surprised. “DARE YOU THREATEN ME, WIND HERALD?”

  “I willna attack, but I will defend me and mine.”

  The king rose gracefully from his throne, eyes glittering, face smooth and unreadable in the ways of the fey.

  “SO BE IT.” He flicked his hand.

  In the next moment, Boyden’s mind fractured. He grasped pounding temples and stumbled back from the unexpected attack. Never before had the king acted upon his threats.

  “BORN OF THE WIND, MY PATIENCE WITH YOU BE OVER.”

  Boyden clenched his teeth with pain, fighting the dark spell seeping into his mind.

  “By the winds, you willna steal my memories,” he snarled.

  “I TAKE WHAT I WISH TO TAKE.”

  He dropped to his knees in the soft mold, ears bleeding, mind splintering.

  “DOONA FIGHT ME, WIND HERALD. YOU MAKE IT WORSE.”

  Boyden roared, giving voice to his agony.

  The enchanted blood threads in his mortal blood were not strong enough to stay the willfulness of a powerful fey king.

  His only choice…

  Scota learned more about Boyden’s tribe in the two days passing since he left her than in all the days she had spent with him.

  She sat cross-legged in the grass while Nora stood behind, plaiting her hair into some semblance of order. The druidess stood off to the right, making a circle of stones upon the gentle slope of ground near the holly bush.

  “Did you drink the goat’s milk I brought, Princess?” the ancient asked.

  Scota set the empty goblet aside. “Yes, I finished it.”

  “Good. Do you want more? I will send Nora.”

  “I need to finish her hair first,” the child complained.

  “No. I have had enough milk and honey for today.” Scota patted Nora’s hand soothingly. “I look forward to seeing how Nora does my hair.”

  “You need to drink more water and eat more fruit,” the ancient mumbled, and another stone was added to the circle.

  Scota returned her attention to the meadow. For the moment, everything seemed calm and purposeful. Children played in the sloping fields of wildflowers and trees, while families worked side by side to erect homes and futures in the bright warmth of afternoon light.

  Her fingers tore at the broken flower petals in her lap, giving way to her continuing unease. Nora stood behind her, sure fingers plaiting her hair in a similar fashion to the druidess’s white hair. The child was adding sparkling crystal beads instead of dried twigs of rosemary and Scota was thankful for it. She did not want decaying herbs in her hair, no matter how fragrant.

  “Do you like plaits?” Nora asked. “All the females in my tribe wear them in this manner during the day, away from the face. I chose the clear beads to reflect the blue in your black hair.”

  Scota reached behind her and gave the girl’s small hand a firm squeeze. “I like your choice of beads very much, Nora.”

  Gone was the bride in a fragile gown of crimson veils, replaced by a steady warrior woman in a sleeveless brown tunic and breeches … with a rounding belly.

  “There.” The girl patted her shoulder. “I am done.”

  Tossing the mangled flower, she touched her hair. “My thanks, Nora.”

  The girl child grinned, and in the next moment thunder cracked above their heads. Nora’s eyes widened with fright.

  Scota climbed to her feet, searching a blue, cloudless sky.

  Like the druidess, the rest of the tribe straightened at the unexpected sound of storm.

  All looked to the sky, searching.

  Nora moved closer to the ancient, her face a mask of uncertainty.

  “There are no clouds, ancient,” the child whispered.

  Scota exhaled loudly with understanding. “They battle.”

  “Aye,” Derina agreed with extreme disgust. “It has come to that.”

  “I must go to him.” Scota reached for the leather scabbard and bronze-hilted sword she propped against the trunk of a yew.

  “To what end?” the ancient prompted. She dropped her latest rock and stepped over it.

  Scota secured the scabbard to her back and handed the druidess her hazel walking stick.

  “Princess, this battle must be between them, king to king.”

  She turned on the druidess. “Over me, Derina! They battle over me.”

  “Lower your voice; you frighten Nora.”

  Scota gazed down into the girl’s pale face. “You understand why I am upset, Nora?” she asked gently.

  Nora blinked and nodded.

  “You can do nothing to help him,” the druidess argued with sullen insistence.

  Stepping away from both of them, Scota reached over her shoulder for the sword’s hilt and pulled the sleek weapon free. With a few thrusts, she tested the balance. “I will not know what I can do until I get there.”

  The ancient’s mouth flattened. “How do you think to travel to the below of Tara? You are unwelcome there.”

  “You will take me, Derina,” Scota replied resolutely.

  The ancient snorted with disagreement.

  “Snorting will not change my mind, Derina. I wish to leave now, if you please.” With an expert flip of hand, she thrust the sword back into the leather scabbard and went to kneel in front of Nora. “My thanks for the hair beads, Nora. They are lovely.”

  The child smiled, but her eyes remained fearful.

  “I need you to return to your family now. Will you do that for me?” Scota asked.

  “Are you going to help the Wind Herald?”

  “Yes.”

  Nora nodded and wrapped her arms around Scota’s neck. “When I am older, I will be strong and tall, like you.”

  Scota hugged the girl child back. “Stronger, I think. Now go.”

  She climbed to her feet and watched the girl scamper across the fields to where her family had returned to the labors of erecting their new home.

  “What of your unborns, Princess?” the druidess asked, coming to stand beside her.

  “I will protect them. For now, my interest is in saving their father,” she replied without turning to the druidess.

  The ancient sighed heavily. “I canna change your mind?”

  “Why would you want to, Derina?”

  “Stubborn, willful …” she muttered under her breath and turned to her right. “May the gods and goddesses aid you. Now follow me and hurry up.” The druidess walked briskly with her walking stick, around the holly, to a grouping of leafy green yews a few horse lengths aw
ay.

  “Derina, do we not need to find a prism shield or trickle of water in order to enter the below?” She ducked under a low hanging branch and nearly toppled over the wise woman.

  The ancient had stopped abruptly and was pointing at a gray-dappled, lichen-covered, phantom tree, in a small clearing. “This be named the Best of Creatures, Princess.”

  “The Best of Creatures looks like a large tree stump to me.” It rose to the height of a man.

  Derina placed both hands on the knob of her walking stick and released an impatient sigh. “They be calling me the blind one. Climb up and see.”

  Scota stepped closer to the green moss and gold lichen growth and wrinkled her nose. The stump smelled of decay and measured at least two horse lengths in diameter.

  “Climb up.” The druidess gestured with her stick. “This be once a magical rowan tree, cursed and withered to stone from the before-time. Her roots sit above a feypath leading to the throne hall of Tara.”

  Scota looked at Derina. “I heard rowans provide sacred ways to the Otherworld.”

  “Aye, you heard well. They are trees precious to us.”

  Scota sunk her hands into green and brown rot and hiked herself up.

  “Be careful, we doona wish to upset the living force of the tree trunk. Do you see a half-moon prism rock?”

  “Yes, Derina.” Scota pushed the moss aside, and a gust of air hit her face, sending a chill into her blood.

  “That be your way to the great throne hall.”

  “How do I …” she sought to ask direction, but her hand passed through the prism as if reaching through water.

  “You carry the babes of the wind in your womb,” the ancient explained. “The olden entranceway recognizes you and allows passage. Remember, Princess. Doona challenge the High King of the Faeries. You canna win through force.”

  “It be far wiser if the High King of the Faeries doona challenge me,” she remarked, using the druidess’s word, and leaned down into the prism. In the next breath, she felt a sense of dislocation …

  … and landed on her rump in a tunnel of purple smear.

  Scota gripped her belly protectively and released a harsh breath. The feypath stunk of rotting crops, the residual scent of fey spitefulness.

  Beaded plaits whipped about her face and into her mouth.

  Through a teary gaze, she surveyed her surroundings.

  A single brown vine, splayed with white blooms, crawled along the stone wall as if pointing the way.

  She climbed to her feet and followed it.

  Around a small bend, she came to a crossway of multiple tunnels.

  Scota chose the one where the vine shot into shafts of pink light. As she trotted on, the stink of the feypath began to fade. Up ahead, the single brown vine joined a multitude of others above a stone archway riddled with white blooms in fey splendor. It was an entranceway to a great hall being blasted by winds.

  She reached over her shoulder and wrapped her fingers around the smooth hilt of her sword … and entered the turbulent wind gusts.

  Waves of dizziness drove him to his knees once again.

  “STOP FIGHTING ME,” the High King said tightly.

  Boyden snarled an oath and fought to retain all he was. The Gaoth Shee was turning the throne hall into a place of glacial winds. It had already toppled the crystal throne chair from the dais.

  He pushed to his feet. His mind was consumed with pain, a refusal to succumb to a stronger power. Icy water pierced his skin, driven from the cracks in the stones. Behind him, the white tops of the stunted trees were bowed nearly to the ground. He could feel the strength of the king increasing, battering at his will and spirit, and the Gaoth Shee waiting for his summons to kill.

  He lifted his head defiantly, blood streaming from his ears and down his neck. “I will never succumb to you.”

  A sudden movement caught his eyes.

  Crystal beads.

  He blinked.

  Out of a wall of swirling winds, a flash of brown charged forward, knocking the High King from the dais.

  Immediately, the boiling pain in his mind ebbed.

  When he blinked again, his warrior bride had planted one foot on the king’s chest and threatened the neck of the fey royalty with the tip of her sword.

  By the winds. They were in trouble now.

  “I should kill you for trying to hurt mine,” his bride spat in fury at the fey king.

  “Scota,” Boyden said, stumbling forward, “release him.”

  “I refuse to release this selfish bastard!” she snapped, full of righteous fire and brimstone.

  In the next instant, the king winked out from under her foot, nearly toppling her over in surprise. Shards of silvery light flashed in her face and she pivoted, instinctively, ready to meet the threat.

  But it was not in time.

  In a burst of white light, the king rematerialized with a sword in hand and swatted hers away with a single blow of incredible strength.

  Boyden bolted between them with a snarl of warning and retribution on his lips.

  The king’s eyes hardened.

  The velocity of the winds in the hall increased with a biting chill.

  Their breaths frosted fury and temper.

  Neither king gave way.

  Scota squeezed Boyden’s arm, his body a shield of tension in front of her. They were going to kill each other over her. She could not allow it.

  “Do not do this, my love,” she whispered into his bloody ear.

  “He refuses to accept what is, Scota.”

  The hurtful words echoed inside her, creating a well of sadness. “Boyden, he has the right to ask me to leave his realm. All he says is true. I did invade the land. Please, my love, we will find another way.”

  Her mate did not respond, caught in a male’s primitive insistence on protection.

  “Please, Boyden, I am cold.”

  Immediately, the winds calmed in the throne hall, the chill leaving the air.

  “Dim-witted and foolish!” the druidess called out with a shrill voice of bad temper from behind them. The ancient stomped into the hall, her walking stick leading the way. Face flushed, white hair disheveled, twigs poked out about her head. She looked decidedly windblown and mad.

  The High King’s jeweled gaze moved to the small, white-robed interruption.

  “DERINA. I DINNA CALL YOU.”

  “I come anyway!” she snapped and pointed her walking stick in their direction. “Either release him or accept her.”

  “ ‘TIS NONE OF YOUR AFFAIR, OLD ONE, BE GONE.”

  She walked between the two tall and feuding kings and climbed atop the dais for added height.

  With a quick turn, she poked the High King in the chest with her walking stick. “I may be old, but I am far wiser than you, dim-witted one.”

  The king rubbed the spot, a brow lifting. “YOU DARE TO CALL THE HIGH KING OF THE FAERIES DIM-WITTED?”

  “Derina,” Boyden warned and received a jab in the ribs for his trouble.

  “Be quiet, you.” She turned back to the High King. “I call you dim-witted, and I call the tawny-maned one stubborn. Neither of you be thinking clearly.”

  “THEN I SUGGEST YOU ENLIGHTEN US, WISE ONE.”

  “Do you wish to make the winds your enemy? Better to have an ally in the northern lands than both of you be dead. Release Boyden and let him return to the white fells of his ancestors.”

  Boyden stared into the king’s contemplative and faceted eyes while keeping Scota protectively behind him.

  “YOU SHOW GREAT RESTRAINT, WIND HERALD, BUT NEVER COULD YOU HAVE WON.”

  “Mayhap,” Boyden answered, poised for battle, yet hopeful for freedom.

  “STILL YOU REMAIN DEFIANT.”

  “Always,” Boyden replied.

  The king nodded, and the druidess gave a single snort of displeasure.

  “BE QUIET, DERINA.” The High King held up his hand. “YOUR WORDS SPEAK A TRUTH I DID NOT CONSIDER. ‘TIS WISER To HAVE A POWERFUL
ALLY IN THE NORTH.”

  Boyden waited for the king’s decision, the nails of his warrior bride digging into his arms.

  “WILL THE WIND SERVANT KING AGREE TO SERVE THE HIGH KING OF THE FAERIES?”

  “Nay,” Boyden answered, restricting his annoyance. “The Wind Servant King agrees to offer friendship and strength to the High King of the Faeries whenever he needs it and expects an equal commitment in return.”

  “THE FAERIES DOONA COMMIT.”

  Boyden smiled scornfully. “Neither does the wind.”

  “Stop this, both of you!” Scota stepped out from behind Boyden just as Derina jabbed the two willful kings in the ribs.

  Poke.

  Poke.

  “Ouch!” Boyden covered the tender spot and glared his displeasure at the white-haired attacker.

  Holding his side in turn, the king muttered under his breath. “I DOONA LIKE BEING POKED.”

  “Then listen!” Derina commanded, and the High King nodded.

  The hazel walking stick was a convincing weapon, Scota decided, much better than a sword.

  Scota looked between the two kings. “Friendship and agreement serves well both the High King of the Faeries and the Wind Servant King. It is a power no enemy can tear asunder. Do you not agree?” she asked innocently, silently thanking Derina and biting back a smile.

  The two kings wisely looked once more upon the druidess before both nodded.

  “I RETURN FREEDOM ONCE MORE TO THE WIND HERALD.”

  Scota stepped back, fighting tears of joy.

  “MAY HE BE A WISE SERVANT KING AND FOREVER FRIEND TO THE FAERIES.”

  Boyden nodded. “Forevermore do I offer friendship.”

  The High King echoed the commitment. “FOREV-ERMORE.”

  In the next instant, he winked out, leaving behind shards of silver light where once he stood.

  Derina whooped, tossing her walking stick into the air.

  With a joyous cry, Scota wrapped her arms around Boyden and fiercely kissed her Wind King until he fell over the toppled crystal throne chair.

  They had won their right to a future.

  CHAPTER 25

  LIGHT DWINDLED IN THE BLUE sky, and the warm breezes gave a restful day. They sat at the edge of a fire circle’s glimmer, the druidess strangely pensive. Boyden held Scota close to his side, the scent of his mating claim on her forever strong in his lungs. The glow and warmth of the orange and blue flames offered a peaceful respite, easing the lingering tension from his body.