Fire and Bone

by Rachel A. Marks

  I find the spot where a new section starts and look over the unrecognizable language. I pick up the adder stone and bring it to my face, peering through the hole.

  The script shifts, the ink re-forming in the weave of the paper. Familiar words begin to appear: forgotten, punishment . . . until it’s all in English.

  Seven hundred and fifty-three, anno Domini, the third earth-child born of Our Holy Goddess Brighid, first of the female line, occurred within the short summer of the lily: born, Líle Ó Braonáin, of a human male. Named for the sorrow of her days to come, and the promise of a rebirth within the ashes. She is Daughter of Fire, Queen of Spark and Sorrow. Ever shall she burn.

  A chill works over me as I absorb the words.

  My sister’s title was Queen of Spark and Sorrow. The name sends a twist of sadness through me for some reason. I push it away and keep reading. I shouldn’t feel bad for a murderer.

  In which the life of Líle Ó Braonáin begins on earth: An envoy of the Holy Goddess Brighid brought across, from the Otherworld, the first female child of fire and gave the newblood as a changeling to a smyth’s widow in the south, a rare practice as it were. The babe held back the woman’s sorrow for a time, but it soon came to the widow’s attention that her daughter had many oddities, and she feared that her true child’s soul had been taken by a sprite. The human woman became aware of the glamour placed on the child, seeing the truth of what had been done to her.

  And so, in the long summer of wyne, the babe was abandoned within the Caledonian wood by the widow, for she hoped that the fae would take back their trickster gift and that the gods would be appeased. But no wolf or beast consumed the child. It lay, surrounded by the arms of ash and birch, and soon was found by a humble monk of unknown title to be raised in seclusion until her twelfth year, when her Emergence began.

  Three years of the demi’s life are marked here as void.

  (Note here: As a matter of suspect, we believe the goddess collected her and kept her in the Otherworld for a time, but the reasons are unknown.)

  It was upon her fifteenth year that the demi reappeared on the moors, near starving. She was taken in by the Church, found to be a girl of rebellious nature and stubborn of will. Many times she was chastised, to no avail. Soon she was sent by the Cast to live in a nunnery. There she would pass her most fearsome days, until she could be taught the value of balance.

  (Note here: It was during this time that the first of the Great Breaking occurred.)

  The demi lived in seclusion within the southern cloister for five seasons. On her eighteenth Beltane, it is thought she met with the human boy, the son of an earthly king within the southern realms. A Bond was formed in secret between the Daughter of Fire and this boy. And so it was upon the full moon of the summer solstice that the inevitable occurred; she fed from the human prince in her vicious rebellion many times but eventually lost control of the fire, killing him in a most conspicuous way. And so, to solidify her sin, in her ignorance she confessed it to the priest of those lands, allowing for the earthly king to learn a part of the truth, the most dreadful of all mistakes made in the name of love.

  A punishment was established, and she was Bonded to a more powerful soul, in agreement with both deity creators, in order to contain her. Though it was a first in occurrence, the joining of two separate Houses and powers, it was deemed necessary. (Note here: See also v. VII, ch. III, within these Painted Annals.)

  We know from the accounting of this first daughter, and her inability to keep her powers hidden, why the first human factions of the Church split with the Cast soon after this. Many druids were burned at the stake and disemboweled at this time, and the Christian priests only grew in strength, destroying more of our ranks. We must see and recognize here how the first crack was borne upon us. And we must understand, above all, that what was done next in the Bonding of the Morrígan and Brighid bloodlines did not end the destruction this Daughter of Fire would bring. Instead, we brought this retribution of impurity upon ourselves. Her eventual descent into that most horrifying madness was inevitable, considering what we allowed to occur.

  It seems we are eternally trapped within the culture of human weakness we helped to shape.

  (Note here: See a more detailed account of the first Daughter of Fire within v. XVI, ch. V, of these Painted Annals. See also “The Visions of Bartious Lucius,” in which a priest recounts her confession, and the tales of “The Vicious Flight,” though a more unreliable source, still worthy of comparison. If the collections of Time Scrolls are within access, seek those out as well, v. XII, ch. VI, of the Black Years to Come.)

  I sit back, lowering the scroll to my lap. There’s more, but I’m not sure I can digest it. My heart is racing. The words read like something out of an old textbook, not like anything I’d usually be swept up in. It’s silly to let myself get so engrossed.

  But it feels very real.

  And I guess it is. She accidentally killed her lover when she was young, was forced to marry Kieran’s brother because of it, and eventually, if Faelan’s right, she killed that man too. And went mad? And then birthed the Black Death.

  Reading it in this dry accounting twists the knife of the revelations even deeper. There’s a deep callousness there, and it makes me sympathize with the girl that my sister was. Could this happen to me?

  I never thought I’d relate to someone accused of being a killer. But after what I did to Ben and nearly did to Faelan, after everything I felt with Kieran, I barely know who or what I am anymore. Am I evil or righteous?

  My attention turns back to the scroll. I need to understand as much of this as I can. I need the truth, wherever it leads.

  I take a deep breath and dive back in. I read until my eyes burn and my vision blurs. I devour every word, every odd story in the scroll, until I drift off, falling into a dream.

  Fionn opens his wings, taking flight from his perch on my arm. He’s small for a full-grown owl but no less fierce. I lower my gloved hand and watch him disappear into the trees, masked by the white flurry of snow.

  The black steed shifts under me, his muscles flexing. I reach down and pet his regal neck, his shiny onyx coat striking in the white surroundings. “It’s all right, Spark. He’ll return to us. Hopefully he’ll catch some of those mice plaguing my greenhouse.”

  The air is crisp with new snow, the bite of the cold lessened a little by the storm. I’m surprised that I can sense the slight shift in temperature at all; apparently, I’ve been here in this frozen land far too long—nearly six moons now. By my calculations it should be nearly Samhain, summer beginning to blur into autumn back home. And yet on this mountain, it’s still ice and rock, the trees bare, only the ghosts of ash and birch standing as sentinels.

  My blood is crying for the vivid green of home. I’m losing my mind among all of this death.

  I’ve made my decision to leave, if only for a little while. I know my king will bring me back, like an escaped prisoner, but I must see my woods again. And so tonight, when he is on his hunt, I’ll slip away.

  The sound of snow crunching underfoot comes from the path behind me. A rider moves up beside me. It’s the demon himself, clad in heavy black fur, his large raven perched on his shoulder.

  I rode ahead of him on the pathway, needing a second to breathe without his silver eyes on me. Since I lost the child three moons ago, he’s been watching me like a hawk. I’ve barely had a moment’s peace except when he leaves me at my bedroom door at night.

  There’s an unspoken urgency in the air between us now. I haven’t been able to bring myself to do as my mother said and surrender to him. If anything, my iron will to stay out of his sheets has only grown stronger. I could never love this beast.

  Lailoken believes I should obey, but he says that I’ll know when the time is right and not to rush. He’s a monk, however, so what he knows of the bed and the heart is all of nothing.

  The king is silent as he watches the sky. His raven, Bran, lifts off his shoulder to settle on a hi
gh branch, and the rush of his horse’s breath curls around us. The gray steed is a beast—like its master. His speckled wolf pads past us, wandering ahead on the path, looking for hare or mice.

  The only sounds around us are of crackling ice and branches creaking under the weight of the snow. Soon Fionn reappears overhead, emerging from the trees. I hold out my arm, and he lands heavily, a vole crushed in his beak. “Well done,” I whisper to him, scratching his puffed-out chest.

  “You’ve trained him well,” the king finally says. “He’s very loyal.”

  Fionn lifts off again, finding a branch ahead so he can consume his meal.

  We nudge our rides forward at a meandering pace, side by side. I decide to speak freely since our ruse of being civil to one another will likely be broken by tonight when I take flight myself.

  “Do you believe you’re training me?” I ask.

  He keeps his eyes forward, responding casually. “Is that what you’d prefer? To be trained like a falcon or an owl?”

  “I’d prefer to be free,” I say.

  He’s silent. Then he asks, “What would you do if you were, as you say, free?” He says the last word as if it tastes bitter on his tongue.

  I didn’t expect him to match my challenge. It takes me a moment to think about an answer. In the end, I simply say, “Everything.”

  Laughter rumbles from his chest. “Yes, you would, I’m sure. You are a true child of fire. Adventure and risk are in the blood.”

  Warmth fills my cheeks at his familiar tone. “And what is in the blood of a child of death?”

  His smile turns wry. “Many dark things, if allowed.” He turns his head to look at me. “But death can also be painfully beautiful, Lily.”

  I shiver at the sound of my human name coming from his lips. The last person who called me Lily, I loved. And then destroyed.

  My thoughts are broken by a sudden screech of pain. My head snaps forward, recognizing the cry of my friend.

  “Fionn!” I shout, kicking Spark onward, urgency filling me. We gallop a ways before I find my friend splayed out in blood-speckled snow, just off the path. An arrow pierces the owl’s chest.

  I slide from my mount and scramble over to the bird. Its wing is at an off angle, perhaps broken from the fall. It’s still as death.

  I hold back tears, reaching out, but then I hesitate. I could hurt it more with my touch. It’s foolish to have grown so attached to a simple owl. But this is the only soul in this place that doesn’t make me wish for horrible things.

  “It’s dead,” the king says, coming up on foot behind me. “A hunter’s shot. Perhaps it went for the intended prey.” He glances back at the trees, watching for the hunter.

  The tears on my cheeks turn to steam and anger fills me, melting the snow beneath me. “Be silent,” I snap. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He kneels down beside me. “You feel so much for the creature?” he asks, his tone curious.

  “Of course, he’s my friend.”

  The king turns his attention to the bird. “So you have come to love my gift.”

  I nod, my chest aching. It seems everything I care for turns to ashes.

  The king shifts, then reaches out, pulling the arrow shaft from the flesh with a swift yank.

  I choke out a sob at the violent movement, grabbing his arm. “Don’t touch him!” No doubt the beast would pull apart my bird right in front of me.

  He grips my wrist, moving it away, then places his other palm over the owl’s body and closes his eyes, muttering under his breath in the ancient tongue: “Broken vessel, weave back into place, the thing that was taken . . .” His voice is a low hum.

  I go still, listening in wonder, realizing what he’s doing. He’s calling the spirit back to the bird. A thin silver fog lifts from his arm and wraps around the owl, and I watch the tear in its breast fold back into place as he heals the flesh with his own ability to heal himself.

  Several feathers regrow. The smell of rich earth and warmth fills the air, steam rising in a hiss from Fionn’s form. The snow melts around the bird.

  Its wings twitch, its talons flex. And suddenly the bird is twisting back upright, flying up into the branches. I cover my mouth, saying through my fingers, “Holy Mother. What have you done?”

  The king hunches over, obviously depleted. “I stopped death for you, my love.” And then he collapses into a heap in the snow.

  THIRTY

  FAELAN

  It’s late into the morning and Sage hasn’t emerged from her cottage yet. Marius hasn’t come by to see how she’s doing yet either. Which is maybe a good thing. I feel like I need to talk to her first before I tell him my concerns about Kieran and the new torque. Before I confess what I’ve already kept from him, like the fire, and that kiss.

  I knock on her cottage door around ten. No answer.

  I sniff the air for smoke, but I don’t smell anything except the overcast day—the morning dampness of the plants, the crisp water from the lagoon pool. I search for her power, for the connection I should have with her after the ceremony last night, but I don’t sense anything. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I know it’s working to a point, since I felt her anxiety at the tribunal, but I still can’t tell how solid the connection is. It’s possible her power is rejecting it.

  I turn the knob, and the door clicks open as I call into the entrance, “Sage?” I step inside, looking around. The dim sunlight gives a gray tone to the room. I walk toward her bedroom door, deciding I should just wake her. But as I move through the small living room, I hear her breathing.

  She’s there, sitting on the floor, legs curled under her, head resting on the coffee table. Sound asleep.

  I move closer and see she’s lying on top of the scroll that I gave her. Her hand is resting beside a half-full cup of coffee.

  I crouch at her side and touch her shoulder. “Sage, wake up.”

  She sighs but doesn’t open her eyes.

  “Sage.” I brush her hair from her forehead and see she’s drooling on the ancient script. Good thing it’s protected by magic. I grip her shoulder and shake it gently. “Wake up, Sage.”

  She gasps, “Lailoken!” and sits straight up, eyes wild. “I need your help, Lailoken, I . . .” She pauses her panicked words and blinks, looking around. “What happened?” Her eyes find me, and she squints, reaching up to wipe the drool from her lip. “Faelan?”

  Shock fills me. How could she possibly know that name, Lailoken?

  She covers her brow with her hand and moans. “What the hell?” She sits back against the couch. “That was nuts. I dreamed . . . I think I was dreaming—what was it?”

  A dream about an old monk she’s never met? Could she have a memory of the other night when I took her to the Caledonian wood?

  “Can you tell me anything about it?” I ask carefully.

  She squints again. “I was . . . well, oh wow, I can’t remember. Damn. I was definitely freaked out, though. My heart’s racing.” She puts her palm to her chest and picks up the coffee, then cringes and sets it back down. “Ugh, I’m so tired. Whatever it was, it was probably because of everything I read in this scroll. I was up all night.” She yawns. “The part about her killing that guy and being put in the nunnery had me messed up in the head.”

  “You don’t remember any of the dream? You said the name Lailoken.”

  “Perfect. I’m making up gibberish names in my sleep?”

  “He’s a monk.” A hidden monk that only certain people would know.

  Her eyes grow. “A real one? How . . . how would I know his name?”

  A very good question. “He’s the one who brought you back after Kieran killed you. Maybe you remember some of that night? I took you into the woods, we went to his home. He lives in a tree.”

  She shakes her head, a lost look on her face.

  It’s all so strange. How in the name of the goddess could she know that name if she doesn’t remember that night? Unless . . . “You said you had memorie
s of Kieran,” I say as a thought comes to me.

  Pink fills her cheeks. “I hope they’re not memories. I think they’re a trick.”

  “But what you see is detailed?” I ask, ignoring her embarrassment. “They seem familiar, right? Do you think we could try something?”

  A gold mist of fear filters from her chest. “Like what?”

  “I think we should put you to sleep and have Aelia enter your dreams. Then we’ll be able to tell better how Kieran is messing with you.” The dark prince meddles in dreams. He could have sent visions to Sage, making her think she’s living things that she isn’t. It will be clear very quickly if her sleep is being messed with.

  She chokes out a laugh. “Uh, no.” And then she adds, “On second thought, make that a hell no.”

  “It’s painless.”

  “For you, maybe. Aelia is the last person in the world that I want rooting around in my subconscious.”

  I move to the chair across from her and sit, leaning forward on my knees. I don’t want to push her, but this is important. There’s a reason her power can’t be held by a torque, a reason she’s feeling drawn to Kieran. If I’m going to help her through the transition—do my job—we have to clear this up. “You only have ten days until the Emergence, Sage. That’s ridiculously soon. And choosing a House is the most important choice you’ll ever make in this world. Don’t you want to find out what’s going on with Kieran before you have to make it?”

  “No,” she says quickly. She blows out a puff of air and adds, “But yes. You’re right, I need to figure out what’s going on. It’s why I stayed up until my eyes bled reading those scrolls.” She cradles her head in her hands.

  “What did you find?”

  She sighs, leaning back. “A whole lot of sad. My sister had a bummer of a life. She killed her first boyfriend by accident, then ended up basically sold into a prison marriage, and I’m guessing she killed Kieran’s brother because he was some horrifying dickhead. It doesn’t say much about the Black Death or the murder, though.”