Epilogue
An image flashed through her mind, of blood. So much blood. Of electricity charging the air, of creatures much like Shammall, but dark, their skin so black it shone blue in the sunlight. The Dark Ones did not fight her themselves. She couldn’t get to them. Instead they’d sent down an army of Orcs. She knew them as soon as she saw them. The gray-skinned horrors appeared half man, half some ancient primate. Their long arms reached nearly to the ground when they ran, and their shorter, more compact bodies held the strength of two men. The gods had not gifted them with excessive brainpower, but thinking was not what Orcs were needed for. They were here to fight. They felt no fear, not even of their own deaths.
The screams of the dying filled her ears, and an ocean of blood washed over her. Anger. So much anger within her that these beings threatened her people. She hit them with wave after wave of fire and ice. The stench of burning flesh fouled the air. She slaughtered them in waves, and still they came. Her people were dying. All that she knew and loved would die with them. There would be nothing left. Travanya would grow up with neither a mother nor a father to teach her their ways. And if she lived, she would be alone again. No matter what happened, she would lose Roanen.
She couldn’t let him go. Not again.
A Dark Elf Priestess appeared in the midst of the Orcs, her force urging them on when the sheer numbers of their dead might have turned them. Nafésti. Ayailla raised her staff and struck its tip hard into the ground, screaming out her rage and defiance as Nafésti prepared to let loose her own Magic.
“Die, ye foul Daemoness! Die!”
From across the horde of the dead and dying Nafésti raised her eyes to stare at Ayailla, a sneer on her face as she held up her hands, blocking Ayailla’s wave of rage. Hundreds of the Orcs went down, but still Nafésti stood. Again Ayailla pounded her staff into the ground, her focus narrower this time, with a clear path to her target. Nafésti staggered, nearly knocked to her knees, her attempt at blocking so much weaker this time. She was grinning as she stood back up, a look so malicious that something inside Ayailla went cold with fear. Nafésti raise her staff and pointed.
She aimed not at Ayailla, but instead picked the weakest point in Ayailla’s defense. “Roanen!” she screamed. He turned toward her, but he would not see the threat in time. Ayailla dove toward him, knocking him out of the Dark One’s path. Her own defenses failed. She felt them shatter like a wall of ice collapsing upon itself. The force of Nafésti’s bolt broke through, hitting Ayailla so hard she went flying, slammed to the earth atop Roanen’s body. “Forever and always, my love,” she whispered as he reached for her. “Forever and always.”
* * * * *
“Ayailla!”
She sucked in her breath hard, fighting to remember that it was Ayailla who had died, not her. No. It was her. Marylin and Ayailla were both dead. She was little more than a reanimated corpse.
“‘Twas a dream, my love. But a dream.”
She understood fully, now, what the Mage had been trying to tell her. She was Marylin. But she was Ayailla as well. She had lived out their lives, as she had Gwenevier’s and Catherine’s. Nylanéfer lived on in each of them in turn, questing always for her lost love. Lifetime after lifetime she found Sennedjem again, but the ending was always the same.
Anger such as she had never known bubbled in her veins. “The dead should stay dead, Roanen. ‘Tis wrong for the spirit to meet itself. The lives we have lived before are meant to be no more than soft memories we revisit in our dreams. There is a reason the Summoning is forbidden. What ye have done is wrong. Did ye think I would not remember? I remember too much!”
He reached for her with arms that begged for forgiveness, but she would not be placated. Not this time. She pulled away from him to stalk the length of the hall, trying not to feel his pain as he watched her. “How many times, Sennedjem? How many times are we doomed to relive this lie? Did ye think ye could change our fate by bringing me back? Ye could not last time, nor the time before that. How many times am I destined to watch you die? Can ye not see what ye have done to me? Once, just this once, ye felt what I have felt. Over and over ye find me. Over and over I lose ye. How many lifetimes? We’re doomed, Sennedjem! The gods will no’ let us have what others have! I chose to end it, once and for all. But ye, ye could no’! Can ye no’ see what this does to me? I do no’ want this life any more! I cannot love ye just to lose ye again and again!”
“Forgive me, Mel~amin. ‘Tis so much easier to be the one who lets go than the one who is left behind. I did no’ understand.”
“Once, just once ye have known the grief of losing me. How many times have I lost ye? Ten? Fifty? I thank the gods I cannot remember them all. Alone I live, an old woman, unable to love until I find ye again, only to lose ye once more! Shall I spend what time we have left together trying to pretend it will no’ happen again? We’re cursed! I am destined to know no happiness, no’ in this lifetime nor the next. In my nightmares I see nothing but thy dying body stretched before me a dozen times. How long will it be this time? Do I have a year with ye? Ten? Then decades to mourn ye? I am old and bitter inside already! I wanted to die! I wanted to end this wretched curse!”
“No!” Roanen roared. “Better to have these few years than nothing at all! I love ye, Ayailla! I have loved ye, since first I saw ye. Ye ask me to unmake my heart. To give back my soul. I can no’. I can no’ cease to love ye more than I can cease to breathe at my own command. But tell me you love me no’, and I will give thee thy freedom, for this and a thousand lifetimes. I will walk away, Nyla, from ye, from everything we have built together, from everything we have been together, from everything we shall ever be. But tell me ye love me no.’“
“Love ye? Love ye? I have loved ye across a dozen lifetimes! I can no more stop loving ye than I can stop the breath from my lungs. But that does no’ make thy parting any less painful, my love. Can ye no’ see? We must end this! Pawiaeadja Adhamhán Élanadhache I call on thy name! Release us from this foul curse, I beg of ye!”
The air in the room shimmered with power. A breeze blew through, so frigid it must have come straight off the glaciers. The power coalesced into a tower, like a small tornado, tilted, then righted itself. For a moment Ayailla thought she saw an apartment-sized Dragon forming there in the center of the vortex. But when the power faded, there was just a man.
Well, not just a man. Pawiaeadja, Divine Speaker of Runes, Consort to the goddess Bast, the reason for Nylanéfer’s lifetimes of suffering.
“Break the curse? And how would you have me do that, Nyla? You could not give him up the first time I asked it of you. Would you give him up now?”
Ayailla screamed in rage. She knew this man who stepped out of the shadows. Had known him long ago as the consort to Bast, her goddess. “Pawiaeadja? Ye are Pawiaeadja? What are ye that ye have plagued me across the centuries? Whoever, whatever, it matters not! ‘Twas ye who cursed us. ‘Tis ye who can release us!”
“Think what you ask of me, Nyla. Never to know Sennedjem again. Never to see him again. To face your future alone, then to die, never to love him again, without even the memories of what you have had together to comfort you? Is this what you would have of me?”
“Never to know…never to love…” Blindly she reached for Roanen, clinging to him as the tears streamed down her face. “No. No. Ye can no’ take him from me again. Ye can no’ take everything from me.”
“What you call a curse I gave you as a gift, Nyla.” His voice was low, soft, the tone of a father scolding a child who had disappointed him badly. “You knew when you asked me to spare his life that I could not. I am not a god. I cannot change the fates. You asked me for more time. I gave you the only gift I could, that of remembrance, that you might find each other again. ‘Twas all I could do. If you ask it of me now I will give you the gift of forgetfulness.”
Ayailla turned back to stare up into Roanen’s face, nuzzling his hand as he wiped the tears from her eyes. “I have tasted but a small bit of the pain ye suffer,
my love, and I would no’ go through that again. I would do anything to spare ye that. Take the gift Pawiaeadja offers. ‘Tis little enough after all the centuries of pain I have given thee.”
Ayailla drew in her breath, a long, slow, dancer’s breath, the way Gray had taught her. Breathing cleanses the soul. “Forgive me, my love. Even knowing what fate awaits us, I would not give back one day we have had together. All I am, I am because of my love for thee. All I shall be, I shall be with thee at my side. If I must lose thee again, then I will accept our fate, and when that day comes, I will cling to the knowledge that I will remember, and ye will find me again. In this lifetime or the next, it matters no’. I am yours. Forever and always.”
Pawiaeadja sighed deeply. “Mortals. You can never make up your minds.”
“Fairies,” Roanen returned with a smile, his arms wrapped tightly around Ayailla. “Forever leading us to believe we had a choice, when in fact we never had one at all.”
Ayailla fought to absorb Roanen’s calm. Had he know all along how she would choose? Had he not feared she might take the other path, just this once? Was it always like this when she remembered? “What in the name of the gods are ye doing here, Pawiaeadja? Have ye no other mission in life than to plague me every few thousand years? Why are ye no’ dead?”
The Sidhe lifted one eyebrow in a modest show of surprise. “I am here because you spoke my true name. You summoned me.”
There is power in the name of a Sidhe.
“I meant only to call to the King of the Sidhe for help. I did no’ expect—well, ye.”
Pawiaeadja drew himself up to his full height, taking on an air of injured dignity. “I am Pawiaeadja Si Adhamhán Si Élanadhache, King of the Tuatha Dé Danann. The Sidhe, my dear, or Faeries, as your Roanen so casually calls us, are not bound to Human years. We are a long-lived race. We can live many hundreds of your lifetimes.” The tall, pale creature she had known as a god moved his head to stare into the great hallway’s shadows. “Or but a few, if we are not careful of our duties. Shaymmadah Lochlairnen Élanadhache, as long as I am here, there is the matter of your transgressions to be dealt with. You will return with me to Tir na nÓg to stand trial before a jury of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
Shammall. She had forgotten Shammall, and the crime he had committed. “He is but a boy, Pawiaeadja. He meant no harm. What he did he did out of love for the house he was assigned to protect.”
“I will thank you to call me Pajja, as most mortals do these days. My Sidhe name is not a thing to be tossed about carelessly. And this ‘boy’ you speak of so glibly was old enough to leave my house. He is quite old enough to be responsible for his own actions.”
“Yes, I am responsible, Father. I and I alone. You were not there. Judge me not. You would have done no different.”
Ayailla stepped between them, placing a hand on each chest. “What’s done cannot be undone. We cannot go back, only forward. Punishing the boy will no’ help him to be a better man. Was what Shammall did so different from what ye did, Pajja? Ye were young, once, and prone to acts that were more whim than thought. Can ye put him on trial without standing trial thyself?”
The image before her faded slightly, losing its aura of strength and power. The god-like figure she had known became more human, leaning heavily against an aged walking stick. “Always you were my Lady’s favorite. I could refuse you nothing, then or now, Nyla. His fate is in your hands.” He held up his hand when she would have spoken. The power was still there, different from the aura that had cloaked him, stronger, deeper. “If she will have you, you have your reprieve, Shammall. But I warn you. Another such violation of our code, and son or no, you will be brought before the high council.”
Shammall dropped slowly to one knee, his face so pale it might have matched the sun-bleached linen Nylanéfer had once clothed herself in. “It is to you I owe my apology, M’Lady. I beg your forgiveness. If you will have me, I will serve you well, M’Lady, and your daughters after you. I give you my word as a son of the First House of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
“It is enough,” Ayailla proclaimed. “Ye are my teacher, my friend, my protector. Ye have given all of thyself. All ye have is all ye can give. Thy fate is bound to this house, as is that of the Northlands.”
Shammall took her hand, touching his lips to the palm, traces of tears glazing his lavender eyes. She was wrong. He had already begun to learn the power of love. “I live but to serve you and your house, M’Lady.”
* * * * *
“Explain to me again how it works.”
“You focus on the one you wish to reach, M’Lady, even as you fall asleep. Once you enter the dreaming, you direct your thoughts to the point where you believe that person to be. It helps if have a knowledge of world geography.”
Or world history? She didn’t say the words aloud. By now Ayailla knew Shammall would object to her trying to reach Gray back in her own past. Too bad. He could object all he wanted to. Gray needed to hear from her. She swallowed the strong tea Shammall had made for her, trying not to gag at the taste. Old grass clippings would have tasted better, she was sure. Still, as she slipped beneath the covers, the warm haze of sleep reached out to her. She pictured the inn as she’d first seen it, nestled in fog, outlined against the white sand beaches.
It was working. She could feel him. Almost. Gray was here, she was sure of it. Though she wasn’t sure just where here was…”Gray? Are you all right? Gray? Where are you? Gray!”
It was as if he were drugged. Finding him was like chasing a kitten through a yarn store. “Gray, damn it, listen to me. Pay attention! I don’t have much time!”
He snapped at that, growling in such a surly note that she almost laughed. “Listen to you? Who the fuck are you?”
“Gray, I love you. Remember that, no matter what happens. You’re—you’re like a brother to me. You’re my best friend. I love you. Whatever happens, don’t forget that. I’m not dead, Gray. Not the way they’ll tell you I am. Remember what you told me?”
“Mary?”
“Tell me you found what you wanted, Gray. Tell me you’re happy. I need to know you found someone who’s right for you.”
“Mary-Baby, I think I found someone I could love. She’s great! She’s wonderful! Her hair is pink!”
“Pink? Well, that should suit you!” Marylin laughed, then her voice grew serious again. “I found everything I ever wanted, Gray. I found my Warrior. I’m going to have a baby, Gray. The only thing I’ll miss from our world is you. But sometimes perhaps we’ll meet, here in the dreaming. I’m just learning how to reach out in the dreaming. Just starting to believe. It can be as real as we want it to be. I have to go, but I’ll find you here again.”
“Mary! Don’t go! Mary, she is in danger. What do I do?”
“Go to her, Gray. I know you thought you could never be my Warrior, but you were wrong. You’re a fighter. Don’t be afraid. You won’t let her down. Finish what you started. Don’t be afraid to love her, Gray.”
“Ayailla? Are you all right?”
Had she been talking in her sleep? Would Roanen understand? “I love ye, Roanen,” she whispered as she let him pull her more tightly against that broad Warrior’s chest. “Whatever happens, I want ye to know that. I will never be afraid to love ye again.”
She felt his lips smile as he kissed her cheek. His hands stroked over her shoulders in slow, lazy circles. “In this lifetime or the next, it matters no’. I am yours. Forever and always, my love.”
The Sidhe of Pawiaeadja Adhamhán Élanadhache
Tuatha Dé Danann: an ancient race we call the Sidhe, or the Faeries. Long before the introduction of Christianity to Ireland, Pawiaeadja Adhamhán Élanadhache led the Tuatha Dé Danann to the land that later would be called Ireland. It is thought that Pawiaeadja fled Egypt after the fall of the Pharaohs left his people alone in a land that no longer welcomed them. Thus the decision of the Tuatha Dé Danann to live alone, apart from the races of man.
Tir na nÓg: The island of the
Sidhe, or Faerie Folk. Once Ireland became populated by humans, many of the Sidhe felt that another home was needed. The King’s Court of the Tuatha Dé Danann left Ireland to separate themselves from Humankind, isolating themselves on Tir na nÓg, a magical island unknown to mortals.
The King’s and Queen’s Courts: About 3000 years ago two factions arose within the Faerie Nobility. The King and Queen disagreed over their role among Humans and their choice of a homeland. Those of the Queen’s Court felt that Humans, while flawed, showed promise, and should be given assistance through direct intervention and guidance. Those of the King’s Court feared the destructive nature of the Humans would destroy the Earth. They refused the Humans further aid. After the Cataclysm restructured the Earth, the King sent emissaries to the remaining Houses to try to guide the Humans away from their self-destructive ways. Although the two Courts now work toward the same goals, the King’s and Queen’s Courts have not yet reunited – but that is a story for another day…
Take Me With You
Stephanie Burke
Chapter One
“I am such a fool,” Gray sighed as he pressed his hands against the closed door for a moment, then turned to face the storm raging outside. The storm without was easier to face than the storm raging within. Turning away from the door, he set out across the small courtyard that separated their two rooms. As he walked, he shuddered as he felt the warm water plaster his waist-length hair to his face and back, but it was the clap of thunder that made his eyes widen in sudden fright.
“Damn!” he cursed soundly. He recovered and began to move at a faster pace. “Some hero, afraid of a damn storm.” As he hurried across the cobblestones, he stopped for a moment in the relative protection of the huge firebird fountain that dominated the courtyard, to dig his keys from his pocket. When they had first arrived, he had seen the huge stone bird and had been drawn to the power it seemed to emanate. Now, as it was back-dropped by the gray stormy skies and the wild pounding rain, it almost seemed frighteningly mystical.
Threshold Volume 2 Page 10