The Silent Goddess: The Otherworld Series Book 1

by N. K. Vir

  Book One of the Otherworld Series

  The Silent Goddess

  By N.K. Vir

  Cover art by Patricia Reed

  Quite simply this work reminds me of my mother who would have been the first person to buy it. She may be gone but now she will never be forgotten.

  Chapter One

  The Vision

  The sun shone bright and high in a cloudless blue sky. The damp meadow grass beneath his feet was decorated with tall wisps of creamy, graceful meadowsweet. With every step his bare feet took a sweet almond fragrance wafted around him. The scent enveloped him, cradled him and caressed him. He paused, closed his eyes and just inhaled. A sense of peace filled him. His clenched fists slowly uncurled finger by finger as the sweet breath he drew into his lungs circulated through his body. Warmth radiated down his arms to his torso and legs. His rigid muscles relaxed under the delicious heat. He remained still holding that one breath, afraid to let it go. His lungs burned with the effort. He could hear his heart as it pounded in his chest and struggled to give his body what it needed to survive. But still, he refused to breathe. He felt the blackness as it crept in, his body swayed as he fought to keep that one breath buried deep inside him forever.

  The survivalist in him screamed and begged for fresh air. The part of him that hungered for death laughed loudly and wickedly back. It was the softest of whispers that forced the breath he had been holding out of his body.

  “Breathe.”

  And he did.

  His legs buckled and his knees crashed onto the soft damp earth. His lungs worked feverishly on their own as they sucked in air and quickly pushed it back out. His heart rate slowed and gradually regained its natural rhythm. He clenched his eyes tighter as he struggled for control. Shaky hands rose to his face to cover it in frustration.

  His eyes popped open as his nose inhaled that beautiful sweet scent again. A single tear of relief escaped his eye. He laughed, if only to stop any more wayward tears. Next the sound of water drew his attention. His body moved without thought. It pushed off the moist ground and propelled him towards the sound.

  His eyes focused on a single spot across a green lush meadow where two graceful willow trees swayed gently in the light breeze next to a dark watered loch; their long branches dipped and seemed to beckon him closer. He blinked and when his eyes refocused he was standing beneath the weeping limbs.

  Their light leaves danced on his shoulders raising gooseflesh wherever they touched. A tingle started at the base of his spine and raced its way through him. His eyes closed in the pleasure of the sensation; a sigh escaping his lips as he slowly opened his eyes and dared to hope.

  Before him a mist rolled over the dark waters of Lough Gur. It rose over the water and limited his sight but he could feel. His once dead heart awakened as it came to life only to allow him to feel the pain of it breaking again. He howled in frustration. He had at some point convinced himself one more time would have been enough but he knew that to be an evil lie the pain had told him. He howled again, this time it was deep, primal and full of pain fueled rage.

  He swung his arms out wildly, and tried to grab what had eluded him for so long. He would steal it back from this misty veil that tried to hide it. He would steal it back and keep it with him forever, defend it till the last breath left his body and even then he would try to hold on to it for eternity. His arms pushed through the thickening mist, his desire to capture what was stolen from him seem to overpower the mist, weakening it. He could feel how close he was…

  “Mine,” he growled.

  A burning pain started at his fingertips and raced up his forearms to his biceps and still he would not remove his arms from the mist which had now morphed into a wall of fire. He could almost touch…

  “Soon,” whispered a voice from his past.

  He gasped in pain but pushed his arms further into the flaming wall. “I can almost touch you,” he ground out between pain clenched teeth. “Please,” he begged.

  He felt the warm caress of the willows on his back, a breath on his neck and the scent of meadowsweet. Such gentle gestures broke the spell of determination he had fallen under. He yanked his arms back to his body. His arms screamed in agony but the burning in his arms was less painful than the sting of tears gathering in his eyes. He fell to his knees and threw his scorched, blistering arms around his stomach. He rocked himself back and forth as his eyes, which had, until now, refused to shed a tear, were suddenly overwhelmed by them.

  “Cry not moi-rah,” came a gentle whisper in his mind. “But find me. Let your heart, your soul feel the pull of mine. Follow that path to me.”

  He awoke in a ball of agony, writhing on the cold white marble floor; his cheeks still wet with tears.

  “Get up Dark Warrior,” said an authoritatively feminine voice from above him. Not the same voice from the lough; but similar, stronger, harsher and more powerful. “Tell me what you saw and omit nothing.”

  He sucked in a deep ragged breath and nodded as respectfully as he could to his queen.

  “Compose yourself,” she said with unusual kindness. At her words his eyes flew unconsciously to her face. Her serene yet stern looking face raised a questioning brow at him. Her dark eyes seemed to hold the promise of laughter at his boldness. He had never known the queen to laugh or show any mirth at all.

  She sat above him in her natural position of power. Her regal dress of red silk spread around her feet in an uncanny reminder of her powers over mankind. The simple wooden chair on which she sat began to transform into a magnificent onyx throne. Her message was clear enough, she may show him some sympathy, but she still ruled and held power over him.

  He pushed himself into a seated position, never taking his eyes off hers. Her already raised brow shot up even higher at his boldness and the laughter that had danced in her eyes now became real as it spread to her full ruby lips; her mouth turning up in a genuine smile. Her face transformed from one that usually inspired fear to one of the highest beauties in the realm, save for one.

  “You are brave and bold Duncan,” she said with a slight shake of her head.

  He held his tongue. Brave, bolder men then he had been toppled by the Battle Queen.

  “Yes but they were selfish and refused my help,” she replied to the thought he had left unspoken. “You are not and that is how you are different.”

  The pain from the visions had weakened the mental control he usually held over his thoughts. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he reset the iron walls around his mind. As he slowly exhaled and opened his eyes the walls recreated themselves and pushed her away.

  The queen responded to the eviction with a dignified snort and looked away from him; her face reverting to its beautiful hardened mask of control. He knew she hated the ejection from his inner thoughts. It was a talent, a power, only he seemed to possess. A faint smile of triumph appeared on his face. He quickly removed any sight of it as she turned back to glare at him. But a small part of him remained defiant. He returned her icy glare with one of his own. He couldn’t be sure but he could swear her mask slipped slightly to show surprise and maybe even respect. She quickly recovered and hid the slip by smoothing her red silken gown.

  “It seems we were unwise to listen to others when the solution to our problems was standing at the foot of our throne.” Her words dripped with authority as the Morrighan was back in control.

  He forced his eyes down to the gleaming marble floor, as seeing the queen in her full glory could be deadly. Now he had a reason to live.

  “I have never been gifted with a foretelling,” he replied calmly.

  “No! Nor I in this matter. Why
then now Dark Warrior?” the queen inquired.

  He knew she was speaking more to herself than to him but he replied anyway. “I know not.”

  He could hear the rustling of her skirts as she rose and began to pace the floor, her soft soled shoes making no sound. “Tell me what you felt. I know what you saw, for I saw it as well.”

  His downcast eyes followed her shadow cast upon the floor, her nervousness projecting even to her shadow. He willed his body to relax, instinct and intuition taking over. The queen seemed almost as desperate as he was, almost. His instincts told him she was an ally, but just barely. He also sensed a struggle buried deep within her.

  “Rise and come here my wrath has left me to be replaced by hope.”

  He did as he was told. The Battle Queen was beautiful to look on. Her dark hair was plaited into seven sections that fell to her waist. A dark cloak covered her bare shoulders and trailed elegantly behind her. She was beauty and pain, love and war, life and death. Each of these reflected in her dark, almost black eyes. A smile brightened her usually serious face. Her delicate powerful hands came to rest on his shoulders as her dark eyes locked onto his.

  “Tell me what you felt Duncan.” He felt her test the iron walls in his mind for a weakness as she spoke. “Tell me,” she commanded softly.

  He took a step away. “I am sorry my Queen but I cannot.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “Both,” he whispered honestly.

  The vision was too new, too raw to be put into words. He had felt her in the air around him. Her scent still clung to him as though she had just left his arms. He could still hear her voice echoing in his ears. It was as if she had never left, never been taken from him and the pain he felt when he knew she was truly not coming back gripped his insides tightly once again. Wounds he thought had at least started to heal were once again ripped open. He was so lost in his own mind that he barely heard the Battle Queen when she spoke.

  “You will do as the misty voice requests.

  Bring her here to me, which is my behest.

  But remember well the pain and burn.

  For if you touch her, you will both learn.”

  He recognized too late the melodic, beautiful tone of an enchantment curse and the underlying order that was spoken and yet not spoken.

  His eyes flicked to meet hers. She knew. Somehow, some way she and slipped past his defenses and she knew how he felt. She turned then to take her leave. He was left standing in shock. He had allowed her to breach his one and only defense against her. Her soft chuckle brought his glazed over eyes back to her. She did not turn to face him as she spoke.

  “I know how you felt because it is how I feel.”

  He exhaled the breath he had been holding slowly nodding his head in passive agreement. Sometimes it was easy to forget that his moi-rah was the daughter of the Battle Queen. Where one was dark the other was light. Where one inspired fear the other gave hope, and both seemed to be able to read him well.

  “And Duncan,” the Battle Queen called over her shoulder. “By Midsummer I would think. Any later than that and we may all be in danger.”

  Chapter Two

  The Dark Warrior

  He had waited centuries to become whole again; to remember how it felt to feel and breathe again. Waiting ages to reclaim what was stolen from him. Every hint, every scrap of news feeding his hope, fueling his desire to recapture the beautiful treasure he had lost as well as his own humanity. Where there was hope he followed, and that hope always led to disappointment. In turn that disappointment had grown giving birth to the bitterness he now carried. His once cheerful disposition had rotted away, consumed by his constant companions; disappointment and bitterness. All this had led him to this one moment, this one last time. He made a vow to himself, this time would be different and this time would be the end of his exhaustive search. This time he would listen to his own heart, his own soul. But doubt, like an evil mist, still existed.

  He had been ready to go to the queen and ask, no beg that she end his existence. What the others were only now beginning to feel he had felt since the moment he realized she was missing. To the other Fae she was summer and joy, light and warmth; she was the spark from which all life sprang. To him she was his life’s spark. So why when he was ready to give up did she finally speak to him? Just when he had begun to tell himself that he was searching for a ghost, a distant memory, she returned to give him the nasty feeling called hope.

  Dancing in between two worlds could play tricks with the mind, with one’s very sanity. Maybe he had died long ago and now rested in the world between worlds doomed to forever live his worse reality. A tiny part of him, the part he had kept safely locked away continued to encourage him. This time she would be there, this time he would not fail.

  All this and more raced through his mind as he gazed out his window. He could see the dark outline of the old oak trees that encircled the Commons. It was a place that vibrated with hidden dormant magick. Of all the places in the New World to hide she would pick the most magickal. Magick was an old thing in the natural world. Its building blocks were the four elements that when woven together created a powerful energy. This tiny city pulsed violently with that power. Few mortals felt it and even fewer understood it.

  By chance, earlier that day while scouting the area he bumped into one such mortal. Her hair was white with wisdom, and she leaned heavily upon her cane as if the knowledge she bore was a heavy burden. She had smiled kindly at him and nodded her head in gracious acknowledgement.

  “I have not seen one of your kinds since I was a girl, Faeriedae,” her words were spoken softly and had a soothing timber to them. “Hail and welcome,” she smiled again at him her blue eyes sparkling up at him.

  His facial muscles struggled with the effort but had finally managed to return the smile. “You see well wise woman.”

  “I can see well enough,” she agreed with the shrug of a shoulder. “I can also listen and speak as well. Call on me here if you ever have need of me.” She gestured with her head to the banner that waved above them. It read “The Crow’s Crown”

  The wise woman turned then and began pulling herself up the steep granite staircase. She did not look back. For a moment he stood frozen, unable to miss the signs in front of him. His patron the Battle Crow herself was offering him aide through this mortal wise woman.

  “Wait, wise woman!” he called after her.

  The wise woman paused but did not turn to face him, “Yes?”

  “Will she know me?”

  “No, not by sight,” she replied as she slipped through the darkened doorway and out of sight.

  He began rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm as if he could erase the memory from his mind’s eye. The wise woman’s words had haunted him all day. He had always assumed if he and his moi-rah were to ever meet again that some part of her would remember him.

  “Perhaps she had been gone too long or fallen under some dark enchantments”, his optimistic side whispered.

  “Perhaps you were never that important and she ran to hide from you”, his darker side bellowed. Unconsciously his hands became fists as he struggled for control and balance.

  In the beginning when she had first gone missing, he had been convinced she had been stolen from him and her people. As time came and went his rage grew strong at his failure to find her. He had begun to believe she did not want to be found; that it was from him she was hiding. He struggled daily with the battle raging inside of him. As a consequence he had thrown himself into any war, fought any foe that threatened his adopted homeland. He had needed that outlet to allow his rage to escape. His body had been battered and bruised but the pain was at least only physical. None of his internal struggle mattered. Whether or not she remembered him; whether she was enchanted or had fled, none of that mattered he reminded himself.

  “Liar,” muttered his heart.

  The Battle Queen had been weakened when her daughter had disappeared from the Otherworld. She had b
een gone too long and the magick that held the veil between the worlds was weakening quickly. Only the determination of both the Battle Queen and Battle Crow was it still intact. Even the Son of Lir could not repair what he had once created. Unless the three faces were restored the veil would fall and the Otherworld with it.

  “By Midsummer,” the queen had told him. Which meant the magick of the veil would only hold until then.

  Midsummer was an in-between time; a time when the veil would naturally be thin. It marked the brightest time of the year, and also the beginning of the growing darkness. It was a time of high magick, and the beginning of summer’s bounty. It was also her time; the time of year when she was strongest and brightest. If her power was returned to the Otherworld, the veil, that had stood solid and strong since the sons of Mil landed on Celtic soil, could be repaired and renewed. If not mortal humans who had forgotten the old ways would have the power to see and corrupt the Otherworld. The Unseelie would have the ability to conquer the Otherworld creating a shift in the balance of the universe that would throw both the mortal and immortal worlds into chaos and destruction.

  It would not be the first time he had faced down the double headed demon named chaos and destruction. In a way they were old friends, locked in a deadly dance, forever to do battle. A part of him had grown tired of battle. Almost unheard of where he was from. The battles a man fought defined him, not peace. But within peace there was life, the most powerful and ancient magick that existed. Within war lie death, endings and sorrow that could quickly break a man to pieces that could not be put back together again. He secretly prayed to the old ones that he would find peace before he shattered like glass; his soul fragmented into tiny shards capable only of making others bleed.

  He closed his eyes and pushed such thoughts out of his mind settling into his purpose; bringing her home.