Spark and Sorrow

by Rachel A. Marks

  The other two goblins jump back into the cobbled ground of moss and bones, only their bulbous coal eyes blinking up.

  She rages! one screeches.

  She burns! gasps the other.

  The larger goblin simply sneers at me. “Do as you will to me, but my master will still own you. Your blood sealed it, My Queen.”

  “Your master be damned,” I say, thinking of the raven, of the shadow in my dream, “I’ll have nothing to do with him. He should be gutted and strung from a tree for the birds to peck out his insides.”

  No, no, not a he, the ghost bird chirps. Sacrilege, sacrilege, she is too fierce for such a mix and match as that.

  What corruption! one of the goblins says.

  Foolish queen.

  Not a he? Not the presence in my vision, then. “But you said it was . . .” Didn’t they say? Perhaps not. “The raven followed me. And my dreams—”

  “Dreams are a fool’s tool,” the larger goblin says, “woven by a weaker being than my master. She would not stoop to such a thing. Whoever watched, whoever joined you in your slumber, was giving a warning. Which you were too foolish to comprehend. And now you are sealed in your bargain.”

  “But it’s too soon. The bargain was for the legacy to be destroyed,” I say, trying not to look at the charred bones. My throat aches, but I manage to say, “His sister, his father king, the legacy of the crown still lives.” Not everything has happened yet. It can’t be over.

  The goblin slowly shakes its head.

  The king choked on his own finger bones, the ghost bird sings, and a princess tried to fly.

  One of the goblins peeks its fat head from the moss. And fell like a stone. It laughed. Leaping from her fiery tomb.

  Skull shattered like glass, the other chuckled.

  My breath stutters. It’s an echo of the vision in the mirror pool. Could this be another trick? “What?”

  “Swords larger than their own came and overtook them,” the lead goblin said. “A man far stronger than the fool on the throne within that keep. Cut his way in, burned it to a crisp. And there was no one to protect them.” It shrugs its boney shoulders. “If the prince had not followed you, perhaps things would have ended differently. Or sooner.”

  You saved the boy prince! the ghost bird chirps.

  If only for a little while, the smaller goblin says its features turning wistful.

  “They’re all dead?” I ask, having a hard time understanding.

  A fire. But how could it be true?

  They showed him these things in the mirror. They taunted him with it, drove him mad. Drove him to kill me.

  The weight of the truth nearly crushes me. All of them, dead. Goddess help me, I’m the one who’s cursed, not my poor sweet prince. Everything I touch, everything turns to ashes.

  The king has none of my sorrow, but Breanne, Gwyndolin . . . they were so kind.

  “Now you belong to our master, little castoff queen,” the larger goblin says. “She is the one who weaves your fate. From this day forth, you and she will be bound. A most delicious agreement will be made to honor the capture of such a great power as yours.”

  Confusion swirls around me, the need roiling in me to push back, to get away from these poisonous creatures, from the words being spoken, the harsh truth of everything surfacing in front of me. But even as I sit in my denial, in my desperation to escape this new reality, my spirit weakens.

  I am lost. Well and truly lost. So, I force myself to ask, “Who is this master, then?”

  The ghost bird flutters up in response, then flies down, perching on the charred skull at my feet.

  Smoke uncurls from the eye socket.

  Yes, yes, the master calls, it sings. She watches through my eyes, and she will come to you soon. The mother of Spirit, the mother of Death, she will hold you, as she holds us, little castoff queen. Keeper of blood and soul, she is—The Morrígan. The master of your fate.

  *

  “You must come with me, My Queen,” says a voice, pulling me from sleep. I dreamed only of fire, of his face, my prince. Lost to me in a moment.

  What have I done?

  “You’ve done only what you must,” the voice says in response. It’s a man.

  Did I speak my thought aloud? “Go away,” I mutter.

  “We are to leave this place now. I am Alias, and I’ve come to bring you home.”

  I squint my aching eyes. The goblins left me here, among the stones, once they’d given their message. I sat alone, beside the bones of the man I killed, and wept for what felt like years, centuries. Until I’d fallen into a weighty sleep.

  I look up. A man stands over me, dressed in intricately etched black leathers. He’s blond, tall and muscular, a large dagger at his belt, two swords strapped to his back. A soft point to his ears. An alfar? Alias, he called himself. A hunter. “You’re taking me home?”

  “Yes. And you’ll remain there until the Cast brings its verdict upon you.”

  What could he mean?

  It doesn’t matter. I can go home. I want to go home.

  Tears spring into my eyes at the hope of Lailoken, his arms surrounding me. I should be dry of tears, so many have been spilled into this moss. And yet, they climb my throat and coat my cheeks once more in only a moment.

  I nod and allow Alias to help me stand. But my legs crumble, unable to hold me. I have nothing left within me. I close my eyes, afraid my gaze will fall on the remnants of my horrible sin. I can’t bear to see the burnt fragments again, now only more bones to join the rest already collected here. I have given everything I had left to this place. My power, my fate, my will . . . my love.

  The alfar lifts me easily, tucking me against his chest. He smells like grass after a rainfall . . .

  He carries me through the stones, boots splashing into the mirror pool. Before he pulls a blood-stained rag from his gambeson and presses it to the left side of the mother oak; his key, the blood of a demigod, like me. The opening cracks, fissures appearing, then widening with a high-pitched sigh, as the passage strains to join the magic of one space with another, until the spell weaves its web from branch to branch, finishing its work with a weighty hiss.

  And the alfar steps through the doorway.

  Taking me home.

  Though, not the one I was hoping for.

  *

  I am not permitted to see my fields again, nor my woods of Caledonia. My guardian, Lailoken, is kept from me, “For the time-being,” as the hunter, Alias, says before he leaves me within the abbey walls once more. “You’ll see him once you’ve been settled in your new home. And I’ll return soon to take you there,” he promises after he’s handed me over to several flustered sisters. They blush and blink at him as if he were made of starlight.

  “When?” I ask, unsure if the answer really matters.

  “Once the Cast has made its verdict known, then I will be here to fetch you to the proper place. For now, this abbey is the only safety you’ll find.”

  And so, he leaves me where I began this journey.

  I don’t have the will to be angry at him or feel as if he’s tricked me. It’s the way it must be. It’s right that I’m placed back within my prison. I should be punished for my sin.

  Home is where I knew innocence. That’s out of reach now.

  And so, I pour myself into the daily tasks of the abbey, working in the gardens, tending the goats, roasting the oat cakes, collecting the honey, and I try to become lost in the numbness of it all. I stay quiet and do as I’m told. I become a silent, hallow shell.

  Sister Agnus is nowhere to be seen. When I dare to ask Mother Catherine where she’s gone, the abbess gives me a troubled look, saying that the cruel sister had been breaking her oath to the Church, she’d been spying for a pagan master, and was being used as a tool of some sort for the goddess, Morrígan.

  If I had any fire left within me, I’d have felt betrayed by the Church. They hadn’t protected me as they were meant to. I would have wished to rip Sister Agnus’s heart o
ut for what she did to me, what she drove me to with her torment.

  Instead, I’m only numb. And wholly unsurprised.

  The other sisters all seem to know where I’ve been and what I’ve done, whispering when they believe I’m not paying attention, phrases rise to the surface like “fallen thing” and “cursed” and “burnt him to a crisp.” I pretend not to hear, and simply go through the days’ duties.

  But my heart aches with the words. They’re true. And I must bear them.

  “What do you think the Cast will do with me?” I ask Mother Catherine one afternoon as we’re readying for Vespers. On my first night back within the abbey walls I laid my soul bare to her. I couldn’t keep my agony a secret. Not with her. So, I told her of my ignorance, of how I loved, wholly and completely. I confessed it all.

  She didn’t blame me for what happened as she could have, she didn’t scold me. She only kissed my brow and let me cry into her robes for a long while. She told me she’d known love once too, loved a man she wasn’t allowed to have, that it wasn’t a sin to embrace another, to hold them to you while you could. It wasn’t wrong to want your soul woven together with another. She promised me I would love again.

  “Someday,” she’d said. “Someday you’ll find you’ve healed. But you’ll never forget.”

  And so, I find myself asking her again, what she thinks will happen to me. “How will they punish me? What will they force me to withstand?”

  “You have broken many of your kind’s laws, Lily,” she says, twisting a strand of my hair to tie it up. “I have been among this strange world of Other for a long while, your kin have a very strong sense of the order and will not usually allow any transgression to pass. And you’ve now entered into a new bargain with the shadowed House of Morrígan. But let us pray the Cast will have wisdom and choose mercy.” She hesitates and then adds, “This is what I hope for you.”

  “I don’t deserve mercy,” I whisper.

  Mother Catherine says nothing in response, she only continues to tie up my hair. But I catch the scent of her sorrow at my words. I don’t understand how she can be kind to me, after what I’ve done. Whatever Sister Agnus lied about, I am what she said I was all along: I’m a demon.

  Time passes slowly. One day turns into three, which turns into a fortnight, stretching out into a new moon.

  “I believe you’ll be leaving us soon,” Mother Catherine says one evening after prayers, the moon dark in the sky, only the stars to light our way across the courtyard. “There’s a chill in the air that’s more than winter’s arrival.”

  I nod quietly, even though I don’t quite understand why she’d think it was nearing the time for me to go. It’s far into spring now, not even close to a new winter yet.

  “Oh, child,” she says, sadly. She takes my hand, stopping me from walking on. “You must know, I will miss you. But I am assured that you’ll be taken care of, that you have allies where you’re going. I only wish you wouldn’t torture yourself so horribly.”

  “I have done a horrible thing,” I say, my voice tight. “Something I can never take back, all because I insisted on my own will. You told me I would end badly, and so I have.”

  “Foolishness,” she waves at the air between us. “I’m an old woman. I say enough to stuff a fowl at a feast. Who listens to me, anyway?”

  I give her a half-hearted smile.

  “Let me tell you something,” she says, lowering her voice. She searches my face. “A secret. Would you like to know?”

  I nod, a spark of something like kinship lighting between us.

  “I wasn’t always the abbess you see before you.” She raises her brow dramatically. “Once I was the child of a being like you, a demigod, and a human. I was a fledgling druid. I knew spells, I had power, I knew the ways of your kind and was beginning to grow in my gifts. I was—I am, in a way, like you, little queen.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “I see you, child.” She squeezes my hand gently. “I’ve always seen you, it’s why your mother placed me as your guardian for a time. I see your heart, and it isn’t wicked. I was once as you are, cast from grace. But this you can be assured of: You’re not alone. And you are loved, Lily. You must take that with you on this next journey, as a promise of the good that is within you. Yes?”

  My throat aches. It won’t allow me to answer.

  “You’ve given an oath to obey me,” she scolds, a light sparking in her green eyes again. “And so, you must.”

  I nod hesitantly.

  “Very well,” she says, continuing to walk. “And you’ll not shy away from what’s to come. You’ll never lose that fire in your spirit, you’ll keep your oaths always, and you’ll trust that there is good to be found, even in the strangest of places.”

  “Yes, Mother Catherine,” I say, quietly.

  She leans close and gently kisses my brow as she always does. I allow the affection to seep into my skin this time, taking in her lavender and tallow scent. And I find myself wondering about her words, about her story, how she came to be in this place. Why did I never think to ask before? How did I not see her Other blood?

  She smiles at me as she straightens, revealing the small dimple just under her left eye, as she whispers, “Beautiful soul.” Then she turns away to find her rooms, leaving me in the dark passageway, alone.

  I watch her go, the sparse torchlight along the wall turning her woolen robes and habit the colors of the sunset.

  I don’t understand her kindness. But I understand now, why she isn’t like the others. And I’m more than grateful to her. In that moment I am very grateful to have known her. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I know, that moment of secrets and truths will be the last time I see her. Things are changing again.

  So, I try to hold the warmth of her affection tight before I turn and find my way to bed.

  I open the door to my quarters, unsurprised to find Alias is standing in the center of my room, waiting for me, his arms folded across his wide chest. A glint of a dagger is in his fist. “The Cast has made their decision. I am to take you to your new home.”

  My gaze falls to the blade. “Very well.”

  He notices my attention shift and says, “This is all you’re to be given.” He holds the dagger out to me in offering.

  I hesitate, not taking it. “Why?”

  “It was used to sever a hand,” he says, “the hand that killed the human king.”

  He choked on his finger bones, the goblin had said.

  I swallow hard.

  “This is the last of the blood legacy that bound you.” He steps closer with it. “The curse on this human line has now born its final fruit with these deaths and sealed your bargain, your new bond.”

  I stare down at the morbid gift, noticing a dark sticky substance smeared on the iron edge.

  “The blade passes to you as proof,” Alias says. “Any druid or witch can read it and tell you who’s blood it holds.”

  My stomach rises. I shake my head. “I don’t want it.”

  Alias gives me a confused look. “Surely you do not mourn.” He frowns at the idea. “The men that killed this king did so in retribution for the torment he caused their clans—namely their daughters. His was a bloodline of ill-fate; they broke their formed alliance with the dark goddess long ago. The end of this breed is a relief for many—”

  “Enough,” I say, tears rising in my throat. “Not all of those in the keep that night were wicked.”

  He looks down at the ground in a form of respect, obviously not agreeing, but unwilling to ague. “If you say so, My Queen.”

  I ignore the blade, ignore his opinion. I can’t expect this alfar to understand. He only knows what he’s told. “Where am I being taken?” I finally ask.

  “North,” he says.

  My hope surges for a moment. “To Caledonia?”

  “No, farther north. Mount Na Ndeor, the shield house of the First Son of the Morrígan, the King of Ravens.”

  The words hit me like a strike to the gut. “The King of Ra
vens?”

  The chill of the stone floor crawls up my legs.

  The son of my new master. The name I spoke aloud in my dream . . . Athan. The dark king’s name. But . . . how could this be? He was the one sending me a warning?

  “Yes,” Alias answers, “as I said. He has offered his protection, the Cast have agreed, and so, you are to become his Bonded, as soon as the fires of Beltaine can be lit. It is the will of—”

  I sway, the floor tipping.

  Alias rushes forward, taking my arm to steady me. “Are you unwell?”

  “It’s all wrong . . .” I mutter.

  He helps move to sit on the bed. “This is a mercy. The punishment could have been the Pit for the sin you committed. You have been granted clemency by the dark goddess herself.”

  Confusion fills me. Clemency from the one who tricked me into this horror of a tale? It doesn’t make sense. “Why would I be sent to the Pit? For falling in love with a human?” Demigoddesses like me fell in love with humans all the time. Even my mother goddess loved a human once.

  “No, the punishment would be for revealing your power to the humans—the woman Gwyndolin knew what you were. You must’ve confessed your true self.”

  “What? No, that’s not right. I revealed nothing.” Even though the prince begged so many times, I was true to my oaths, to the godslaw. “It isn’t my sin that the girl realized my blood carried power.”

  “That isn’t how the Cast sees it. Their judgement was that you revealed yourself. Several humans saw your powers. And in the end, it destroyed . . . someone of rank within the human world. You created a flaw in the weave of glamour that we all must keep.” His gaze falls to the floor again as his words tumble out into the room around us, cutting at me.

  My breath stutters.

  I am guilty of far too much to overlook, it seems. Far more than I thought.

  “Forgive me,” he whispers. “I know you are deeply troubled by what happened to the prince.”

  “Yes . . .” I try and steady my voice. “I understand.” It doesn’t matter what I know, or what I’ve done in truth. The Cast and the Penta have spoken. My judgment is complete. I am going to be captive to the whims of the Morrígan now. And her son as well, it seems. “So, then, I am to be Bonded to this king,” I say, feeling the idea settle on me like a knife hallowing out my insides.