“Do you wish for more water, my warrior?” he inquired.
She shook her head and patted her stomach. “I am full for the moment.”
They planned to leave in the morn and travel north by feypath to White Fells, the ruined castle fortress of the Wind Kings. In his mind, he saw misty images of the fells, upland pastures. They were faded and dull near a ridge of clouds.
“Derina, you doona need to journey with us,” Boyden said quietly, putting his bronze goblet down. He was concerned about the stamina and well-being of the wise woman.
“I must guide you to White Fells, Boyden. ‘Tis not an easy place to find.”
“We will find it.”
“No doubt you would eventually find it,” she agreed. “Your blood directs you, but it be hidden well in a faraway land you doona know.” She pointed at Scota’s stomach. “You doona have the time to search for it, if you wish your sons born in the northern lands. Besides, I must attend the birthing.”
“I am many months away from giving birth, Derina,” Scota added, her voice husky with restfulness. “We can send for you when my time draws near.”
A short silence passed, and the druidess shook her head. “Your time will come earlier than a single babe birthing, Princess. Many moonrises earlier.” She held up a hand to stay the questions. “I will explain.”
When she did not, Boyden arched a brow in inquiry. “Derina?”
“I am gathering my thoughts.”
“A long or short gathering?” he asked politely.
“Long to some, short to others.” She patted his knee in a motherly fashion. “Time moves differently in the fey realm and in all feypaths. This particular feypath I must take you through be verra old.” She shifted on her hip, relieving a dull ache down her leg.
“How old?” he inquired.
“It be from the beginning-time of the guardians. Few know of it, still fewer have ever traveled it.”
“You have traveled it?” he asked.
She nodded, giving no further explanation.
“This feypath be the only way to reach the northern lands?” Scota asked, feeling a slight trepidation.
“Aye, it be the easiest and best way to go if you wish to reach it before the babes be born. It exists deep, winding beneath land and water.” The ancient rubbed her temple.
“Go on, Derina. I would hear all of it,” Boyden said.
“When you and the princess returned to the above from the hall of the High King, a sennight went before, yet you felt only a few hours had passed.”
“What are you trying to tell us, Derina?” Boyden frowned, his voice low.
“This feypath be of living shadows, a journey long and hard. I must guide you, Boyden. Seasons pass in the above while you travel for what feels to you only days. When you leave the darkness of the feypath to return to the above light and air, the birthing time of your sons arrives.”
“How can this be?” Scota looked to him for explanation and he could only shake his head.
“It be, Princess,” Derina said. “Doona ever question the magical, never would you find answers. I canna give you an exact time of the birthing. Methinks sometime in the whirling month, Feabhra.”
“Mi Na Ngaoth,” Boyden murmured thoughtfully, scratching his chin.
“What is Mi Na Ngaoth?” Scota asked, looking between them.
“ ‘Tis the month of the winds, Princess,” the druidess answered. “The month of the winds, a magical time.” She finished her mead, set the goblet on the ground near her right knee, and pushed to her feet using her walking stick for balance. “Doona worry, I willna slow you down. I move quicker in the fey realm.”
Boyden reached over to assist the ancient and found his hand grasped firmly. “Derina, my thanks for everything,” he said, unable to find the right words to express how he truly felt.
She smiled in understanding, giving his hand a quick squeeze before releasing him. “My thanks for the food, Boyden. I dinna like the mead, too sweet, but the mutton tasted well enough. Mayhap a wee bit more time cooking over the fire, and I would have enjoyed pudding with my meal.”
He grinned at her criticism, and she arched a brow at him. “I be old and tired.”
“Not so old,” he said fondly, “not so tired.”
She huffed with feigned displeasure. “Good eve to you.”
He nodded. “Good eve.”
“Good eve, Derina,” Scota offered beside him.
In silence, they watched the fey born wise female disappear into the growing night.
“She is not what she seems.”
Boyden thought his warrior bride extremely perceptive. “I suspect so, but Derina willna ever reveal what she keeps hidden. She is fey born, Scota. Their ways are different, and I learned long ago not to question, but to accept.” He took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. “I am merely grateful to be considered among her friends.”
She smiled. “So am I, Boyden.”
Her gaze slid away from him. “The month of gray blasts seems so far away, Boyden. Yet, Derina says when I leave the feypath …” she shook her head, hesitating, looking back at him with concern. “Can we not remain here until after the birthing?”
He knew it not possible for them to stay and wiggled his brows to ease her disquiet. “And test the terrible temper of the High King?”
A smile spread across her face. “I suppose not,” she said and added, with a touch of devilment, “I would not want you to hurt him. He is the High King of the Faeries, after all.”
He could not restrain himself and looked at her sideways. “Aye, that be the way of it. Me hurt him.”
Her eyes sparkled, an intense shimmering making him grin. She looked a highborn queen, her black hair pulled away from her face in shiny plaits woven with crystal beads. He would do anything for her.
Behind them, a dog barked and a child called out to his father, a reminder of life and simplicity. They both looked over their shoulders.
Fires lit up the warm night, families gathering in rest from a hard day of work.
“My tribe will find peace here,” he murmured, “both in the rolling hills of the above and the magical of the below. They will become whole and part of the faeries, a final changing and acceptance of destiny.”
A hand rested lightly on his thigh. “We will find peace in the land of your ancestors, Boyden.”
“Aye.” He covered her smaller hand with his and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” she replied gravely.
He lifted a brow. “You ate but moments before.”
She touched her stomach. “Tell them.”
He chuckled and she gave him a weak scowl, her eyes dancing with truth and mirth. He looked up at the purpling sky, a lingering weariness still plaguing him. “Twilight leaves us for night. Come, let us seek an early rest.”
He climbed to his feet and took her hand, helping her stand.
“Our bed awaits, my Wind Queen.” He led her to the holly bush where he spread out blankets and white goatskins in preparation.
“Derina told me the holly guards the inner realms of the fey.”
He nodded, yawning. “The fey willna bother us tonight.” He took her hand, guiding her down onto the bed he had made.
“Are you sure, Boyden?”
“Aye.”
He lay on his back. She settled down and snuggled close, her finger lightly tracing his jaw. “Derina said the qualities of the holly bush support courage and maleness.”
“Why do you think I chose this bush? I want my sons to be strong.”
“What of your bride?” She lifted her head to look at him with those glorious eyes.
He grinned and gently pushed her back down to his shoulder. “Strength and courage abound in her already. I wish only for us males to keep up.”
“Honey talker, they could be daughters.”
“Nay, methinks not this time. Sleep, Scota, the days ahead will be long.”
They were in the feypath.
“It is not so bad if you do not dwell on it,” she offered calmly, standing in murky shadows. After all she had lived in this magical land, she no longer feared closed-in places.
He looked at her menacingly. “I doona dwell on it, I breathe it.” He eyed her up and down, his hands shifting to the straps on his chest that anchored the sword scabbard and leather bags to his back. “How do you feel?”
“The same as when you asked me but moments before.”
He hiked the provisions on his back higher and scowled.
“I am well, Boyden,” she answered.
He studied her quietly and possessively. Leaning forward, he caught her chin and kissed her gently. “I love you, my warrior.”
Unaccustomed to such open affection, she held still.
He stroked her hair, a glide of soothing fingers. “I have always loved you,” he said huskily, his mouth brushing hers. Her lips met his, and she grew lost in the taste of him, a momentary reprieve from the discomfort growing in her body.
Up ahead the druidess called shrilly, “Boyden!”
He stepped back and winked, a hot glance simmering. “I am chastised.” Bowing, he swept his arm wide. “After you, my rounded warrior.”
She glared at his seductive smile. Cupping her stomach, she walked around him.
The druidess frowned deeply at her, displeasure clearly outlined in the set of her mouth before she turned and walked away into shadows.
Above their heads, moisture no longer dotted stone crevices and dripped chill upon them.
With each new step into the moving drafts of heat and cold, Scota felt her body changing. She felt pressure and heaviness and stretching, even though her stomach appeared no bigger than when they first entered the feypath.
They were nearing the end of their journey, the druidess leading the way in the purple smear. Vines, dark and black, climbed out of stone cracks on one side, while spirals, triskeles, and etchings of the wind decorated the flat stones on the other.
All sounds belonged to them, echoing into hollow nothingness. As she walked around a bend and entered another draft of warm air, Scota felt movement within her womb. She reached out a hand to steady herself. A sudden fatigue came into her, a difficulty in balance and in walking. She held her rounded stomach. Feeling discomfiture, she expected it to expand suddenly in a magical weight gain at any moment. She wore a baggy woolen shirt Boyden had given her. It belonged to him, a lavender shade many sizes too large for her. The loose brown breeches fared no better, barely staying above her hips even with the laces tied tight. The only things fitting true were the black boots on her feet.
She took a deep breath to regain her equilibrium and felt an ache grow in her lower back. To her way of thinking only a fortnight had passed. The fourteen days were not many, but Derina warned her to expect quick changes in her body.
“Scota?”
A large hand pressed into the small of her back, offering comfort.
“Is it your back?” Concern tightened his features.
She dragged air into her lungs, battling a momentary shortness of breath. “I am well, Boyden,” she reassured.
“You look white as snow.”
“I do not doubt it.” She gave him a weak smile.
“Her time nears,” the druidess said.
Scota looked up.
With an expressionless face, the ancient stood in a shaft of fake moon shadow. She pointed to a half-moon rock embedded in stone. “We have walked under land and sea to land again. Magic and passings have come as in the before-time. Once we be granted passage through the half-moon rock, time resumes in the mortal ways and the birthing begins. Be you ready, Princess?”
Scota nodded and went to join Derina.
She gasped in surprise as a painful cramp rippled through her womb. In disbelief, she looked down at a slightly larger stomach.
“Loosen those breeches and carry her, Boyden,” the druidess commanded. “She enters labors. It be as I expected with multiple babes; the four winds be rebirthing.”
“Four?” He sounded disconcerted, but not nearly as much as she felt.
“Aye, we have been too long in the feypath.”
He removed the smaller dagger from her waistband.
“Boyden, what are you doing?”
“Loosening.” He pulled the waistband of her breeches away from her flesh, an easy task given their enormous size, and with a single swipe, sliced through the laces.
She made a grab to hold them up. “Was that necessary?”
“Aye.” He jammed her dagger next to the larger one in his waistband and yanked her breeches farther open.
“Boyden! Enough.”
He stepped closer. “You are beautiful when angry.”
“Do not attempt to honey talk me.”
“What better time to honey talk my mate than when she is about to give birth to my sons?” Boyden moved quickly and lifted her into his arms. “I willna have our sons born in the stench of a feypath.”
“They may be daughters, Boyden,” she disputed with a mild tone.
He guided her arms around his neck. “Next time, my warrior.”
“Hurry, Boyden,” the druidess urged. The half-moon rock slid open beside her.
Boyden followed Derina into the purple light, a sense of dislocation washing over him. Heat turned into cold drafts of air as he walked through. Bright lights flashed before his eyes. Scota strained against him, her body returning to the ways of the mortal time.
In his arms, she became suddenly … very rounded and gasped loudly in his ear. Alarm bolted through him and he stumbled on a rock, landing hard on his knees in cold virgin snow. Breath frosted in front of him, and he blinked to clear his vision.
They were in the side garden of a castle’s ruin, lit by cold sunset shades.
White Fells.
“Bring her over here, Boyden.”
Looking over his shoulder, he hauled himself up, holding tight to his squirming burden. “Hang on, Scota.”
“Hurry,” she rasped. “They are coming.”
Stepping around a collapsed garden wall of stones, he sprinted into a sprawling courtyard covered in freshly fallen snow.
Before their eyes, an ancient fortress of gray stone and mud rose in silent menace, surrounded by barren trees.
“Derina?” he called out.
“Inside, Boyden.”
“Almost there, Scota.” He darted toward the entry-way.
“So are they,” she hissed.
Climbing the five stone steps quickly, he squeezed around a dead tree and ducked under the fallen archway, coming to an abrupt halt in a vine-covered foyer.
“Derina!”
“Down the passage, Boyden.”
He dashed down the hall and entered a room of gray. Orange shafts of light streamed through openings in a ceiling. On the west side, the druidess waited near a large column of stones climbing high and disappearing into the ceiling. At the base of the stones was a blackened opening in which a magical fire lived.
“ ‘Tis called a hearth, Boyden. Bring Scota here.”
He did not question the ancient, but stepped around patches of snow and headed for the roaring blaze.
In the blink of an eye, the fey born ancient prepared a clean place for birthing. In front of the hearth lay a bed of white linen, woven blankets, strips of cloth, pots of boiling water, and bunches of women’s herbs. He did not ask how she managed to prepare all so quickly or where she retrieved the pots and water as the tips of his mate’s slender fingers were digging holes into his nape.
A groan burst under his chin, and he swiftly placed Scota on the white linen and knelt beside her.
“Easy, Scota.” With a quick shrug, he removed the leather packs of provisions he carried on his back. They landed on the stone floor behind him with a loud thud. He kept the scabbard and sword on his back and the daggers a
t his waist, in case they were not alone.
A hand shot out and grabbed a handful of hair, tugging him forward.
“Where are we?” his mate demanded, her voice breaking, eyes shiny with pain.
He met her concentrated stare. She was breathing in gulps, his nose touching the tip of hers.
“White Fells, I suspect.”
She released him abruptly, grimacing. “Good, I wish my sons to be born in the land of the winds.”
“I thought they were going to be daughters.”
“Shut up!” Her lips worked, panting with exertion. “This is all your fault.”
“Aye.” He could not deny it.
She started swearing at him, and he sat there, dumbfounded.
“Wash your hands and arms, Boyden.”
He rose and did as the druidess bid using one of the pots of water. Sweat dotted his brow. This was worse than he ever imagined.
“Spread the blanket out, Boyden. She gives birth fast and quick.”
“How do you—” A scream rent the air followed by a babe’s piercing cry and then another.
He watched with awe, feeling a surge of dizziness, while the druidess assisted his mate in bringing his four tiny sons into the world.
Two days had past. Her body sore, Scota lay on a makeshift bed of hay and warm blankets, watching the Wind Servant King quietly. Fire roared in the stone hearth behind her, adding warmth to the chilly air in the hall. Another morning had come to the late days of Feabhra, February.
Her king stood at the foot of her bed, looking down at their sleeping sons, the glow of the fire adding shimmer to his mane of hair, the front of him contoured in dark shadow.
Wrapped in swaddling cloths, the babes slept soundly on blankets near her hip. One of them sprouted a thatch of black hair on his pate; the other three appeared bald.
Her king looked up slowly and grinned. “Unreasonable, my Wind Queen. Four additional mouths to feed instead of one. How will I ever manage it?”
“Well enough, I suspect. Where is Derina?”
“Gone down to the village.”
“What village?” She arched a brow and tried to sit up.
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