The warrior in the center wore a crown atop his armor and a glowing ring on his right hand that rivaled the sun, nearly blinding us.
This was the Milesian king.
“Kneel or flee,” he told us. “We could fight from one moon to the next, but you will never defeat us. Submit to us, give us your children to raise as our own, let us wield your faery magic for our purpose, and you may remain here in your homes.”
He paused, waiting to see if any of us would take the knee before him. None of us did, though we all grew unsteady on our feet. It felt like poison came into my lungs with every breath, making my muscles soft and my bones frail. Those around me began to cough, a slow trickle of blood coming from their noses and mouths.
If we continued to stand here, this silver was going to kill us.
“What is our other option?” I asked, refusing to even bow my head. As the Fair Folk Queen, I was his equal.
“Flee. Quickly.” His voice came out as an angry growl. “Your people have a fortnight, maybe less, before my men hunt you down and kill you in your sleep. Or we might poison you along the road, if we think you are taking too long. Trust no one. Take no spoils. Do not return to your homes.”
I held my breath, hoping he was merely banishing us to the southern tip of our isle. But he wasn’t.
“Leave Ireland and never return. Your kind is no longer welcome here,” he said.
At that point, the king and his two soldiers stepped aside, allowing us a narrow path of escape. As we each began to dart past them in single file, they reached out to touch us, some on the leg, some on the arm, some on the face.
We bear those silver-scorched burns to this day. Even the Standing Stones cannot heal the wounds we received on the day of our banishment.
We will never forget the Milesian Invasion or the loss of our homeland.
Chapter 2
With my husband gone, I feared for the lives of our young twin sons. They were now the rightful heirs to the throne, but there was treachery afoot, within our faery camp and without. I could feel it brewing in whispers and cautious glances, in the way some people gathered behind warriors who had done well in our last battle. It was no coincidence that the Milesians had attacked us in a part of the country where we had no Standing Stones. We might have been able to withstand the Druid’s sorcery—if only we could have drawn away to a stone ciorcal in small groups and strengthened ourselves.
‘Twas the work of spies, sure enough. Some of our people must have made maps and given directions to the invaders.
We had but a few days left to make it to the shore, where our longboats waited, all stocked with supplies, enough to last us when we made it across the Muir Éireann—the narrow span of ocean that separated us from Albion. I’d wanted to go to Alba, the northern part of our neighboring isle, for we had friends there. But the Milesians barred that exit.
They didn’t want us to band together with our friends. They only allowed us to flee into the arms of our enemies.
So, the road of escape went on forever, wending through forests and hills, over mountains and rivers. We marched past fields and through villages. Sometimes the Duine came out to weep at our banishment, tossing flowers in our path. Sometimes they hid behind trees and threw rocks.
We never knew what the next village would hold.
One morning—just after thick storm clouds parted—we passed through a small, muddy village. Tiny huts lined a narrow road and an old woman ran toward us. “My queen, my queen,” she called out. Her white hair blew in the breeze, catching the sunlight, and making it look as if she wore a halo. With head bowed, she lifted a fresh loaf of bread, wrapped neatly in a clean apron, and she handed it to me. The fragrance of yeast and rosemary made my mouth water.
“I been hopin’ ya would pass this way, Seanchaí,” she said, never raising her eyes to look at my face.
“Thank you for your kindness. A blessing of good harvest on you,” I said to her, my right hand resting on her shoulder. The Milesians had chased us out, but we still had our magic. I gave it to the Duine freely as I passed through the large cities and the small villages.
For a moment, her entire body glowed. The woman gave me a toothless grin.
I took a bite of the warm bread and swallowed, proving there was no poison or Druid silver. Every day, another tale circulated through our camp of how our own Duine had turned against us. We feared the bits of Milesian silver that had been hidden throughout our land, charms hanging from signposts, silver nails pounded into the roads, necklaces draped from oak branches.
But this bread was pure and wholesome and given by someone with a good heart. I broke the rest of the loaf into two halves and gave it to my sons. The pair of them rode beside me, together atop a small white horse. My children devoured the loaf like little, hungry wolves.
Faelan rode his massive black horse past mine, not bothering to look at me. “There could have been silver in that bread,” he said, his words like a curse. “You could have killed your own sons.” He used this opportunity and many others to drive a wedge between me and my faithful followers, both faery and Duine.
Ten days ago, I was a queen. At that time, no one in my House would have dared to criticize me. Now everything had changed.
My sister’s husband, Faelan, had quickly taken charge of our army. At first, I welcomed this, for I was bone-weary from the battle and I’d had to sing many of my sweet faery warriors to death with my banshee voice. After the battle, the rest of the Tuatha de Danann feared Faelan, for they saw how he drew supernatural strength from drinking the blood of his enemies. When he rode atop his horse, the pair of them looked like one magical creature. A nuckelavee, perhaps—a half-horse/half-man demon. Instead of skin, he had thick, short coarse fur, black as his horse, and his eyes were pure gold. His ears curved up and back—much like Mares’ ears—while his teeth were long and came to sharp points.
I’d seen him eat live goats without using a knife, breaking off legs and crunching bones as easily as I ate a carrot.
It didn’t take long for him to take charge of my remaining army. They still protected me, but I could sense something in the air whenever Faelan was near.
I should have been more careful.
I should have taken my sons and my sister, and together we should have slipped away at night. We could have taken the swiftest horses. We could have made it to the shore and taken the first longboat. We would still be together to this day.
As it is, I fear I will never see my sister, Caer, again.
She is lost to me.
I mourn her as I mourn my husband.
Because of this, there is an ache in my heart that I fear will never be healed.
Chapter 3
I wept as we traveled, for I knew we would never find another land as lovely as this. There was nowhere as beautiful as this green island, filled with oak groves and emerald hills and Standing Stone monuments. And the people—ah, how my heart would burst at the sight of them. Working in the fields, lifting a hand in the sign of a blessing as we passed, leaving us offerings of bread and salt and milk. We’d find these gifts when we woke in the mornings. Even though we didn’t see the Duine following us, there was a loyal band that had not forsaken us. There were days I thought we would have starved, if not for them.
I carved their faces in my memory and I continued to bless them throughout our journey.
After a long ride, we finally paused to rest for half a day at Liagchiorcal Chaisleán an Ridire, beneath the shadow of the approaching mountains. There I took my sons by the hand and led them through the grove of whitethorn trees, past an avenue of kerbstones, then through the massive quartz portal stones.
“Why are we here, Ma?” Ambros asked, impatient. He raced through the ancient circle as if he still rode his pony. Benen, on the other hand, paused to touch the delicate stone carvings, and to marvel at the size of the stones.
“The Druids claim this is their ciorcal, but it was made by the Fair Folk, after the Ice Giants left,�
� I told them.
“Do you feel it?” my sister asked. Her children wandered throughout the open structure along with mine. Her three sons, Finn, Edmond and Bradan, were nearly grown and had fought in the battle alongside us. But her daughter, Riona, was the same age as my twins.
“Feel what?” Benen asked, his dark eyes sparkling as he turned toward us.
“Watch,” I told him. “Hold still.”
All of our children stopped what they were doing to face us.
Faelan stood beside Caer, his arms crossed, a dark expression on his face. He hated banshee magic and, yet, I could tell it fascinated him—as if he was trying to learn how to harness our power. My sister and I held hands, then we started to sing.
The stones began to glow, soft at first, and everyone within the circle made quiet sounds of awe. Then the light burst from earth to heaven, a golden beacon that could be seen for miles. At the same moment, tiny fingers of light spiderwebbed throughout the circle, encasing each one of us.
The light was both healing and strengthening.
“Do it again, Ma!” Ambros pleaded when the light faded away.
Benen stared down at the light that still clung to his fingertips. My heart skipped a beat and I quickly looked to make sure Faelan wasn’t watching us. Then I nudged my sister. Her eyes widened when she saw my son.
“‘Tis rare for a boy-child to have the gift,” she whispered.
I nodded, then I pulled Benen into the shelter of my cloak, hiding him. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to realize how strong this future king might be. Not when we were on our way out of our homeland, weary and wounded. Benen wouldn’t have the banshee voice—not like Caer and I did—but he might have something just as strong, something I’d only heard of in legends and myths.
A child of light, born of a banshee, had been prophesied to one day rule all the Fair Folk in the world.
Not long after that, we began the long, slow ascent of Sléibhte Chill Mhantáin upward and upward, as we headed toward our final destination.
At this point in our journey, my horse had grown weary and her steps were slow. My boys grew fidgety, as if they had eaten a handful of bees, and they climbed down from their shared pony. Together, they frolicked beside our caravan.
“Chase me!” Ambros called to his brother.
“I’ll win,” Benen shouted back.
They both laughed and I smiled.
Benen, my pensive, introspective boy, looked so much like his father, with his black hair and dark eyes, it was as if Fethur had been brought back to life. You could almost see the gold crown perched upon Benen’s head—although he didn’t have it. Not yet. Ambros, on the other hand, was my headstrong, wild child. He looked like me, with fair hair and blue eyes. When he ran, a storm followed on his heels, strong winds and churning clouds.
“They should stay away from the horses,” Faelan chided me. “One misstep, by child or beast, and your future kings will be dead.”
“Let them play,” Caer, my sister said.
He struck her, a blow across her face so hard it almost knocked her off her horse.
“You will not do that again, my lord!” I warned him as I rode my horse between them.
Three of my foot-soldiers were instantly at my side, their swords drawn and pointed at Faelan. It may have been a mistake on my part, to come between a husband and a wife, and with my crown so precarious.
It may have been my own undoing.
Though I think he had planned something for me all along, ever since my husband lost his head during our recent battle.
But Faelan was mistaken if he thought I would allow the Old Ways to stand in this New Age. He may have stolen Caer to be his bride, years ago, but she was not his property. She belonged to my House and, since I was the last living elder, that meant she was technically mine.
Caer and I had been the best of friends for thousands of years. No Leanan Sidhe upstart would come between us—not now, not ever. I didn’t care that our father had allowed this foul marriage.
But there were others who would have disagreed with me. I could see it in their shadowed faces.
A dangerous division was taking place in our Clan. I was losing followers with each passing day.
Chapter 4
We camped that night beside a deep corrie lake, with steep valley walls carved long ago when the Ice Giants changed the shape of the earth. I remembered the Ice Giants, that’s how long I’ve been here. The Tuatha de Danann moved out of their slow path and then returned to our island homeland when the frozen rivers melted. For centuries, there were massive blocks of ice left behind. One faery even chiseled himself a castle made out of ice. We laughed as it melted a little bit every year, growing smaller and smaller until finally, it disappeared one day, in a morning fog.
Still, it had been beautiful, while it lasted. Glittering in the morning sun like something made in a different world.
This was the faery way. Taking something tragic and turning it into something beautiful. This was where our magic drew its strength.
When we used it to transform, it blossomed.
When we used it to destroy, well, then that’s when we were destroyed ourselves.
“I’m sorry, sister,” Caer said as she knelt beside me.
The sun still graced us with yellow light, but the shadows would fall soon. My children and hers swam together in the lake, their laughter rising and echoing across the valley.
I took Caer’s hand in mine.
“The apology is mine,” I told her. “I shouldn’t have allowed you to marry him.”
She laughed, longer and louder than I’d heard in a long time. “No one could have stopped Faelan. Not Da, not one of our uncles, not even me. You know the Old Ways will always rule in our Clan. He kidnapped me during one of our festivals and not one of our menfolk would say it was wrong. A moon later, when we returned, we were married. There’s no ceremony needed.”
“I will come when you call,” I said, remembering the simple oath my husband and I had made.
“Yes.” She laid back with a sigh and stared up at the blue skies, this piece of heaven that belonged to the invaders now. “Haven’t you ever wished you were a Duine? I envy them their simple life. They marry for love, you know.”
“Not always. Their kings marry the same way we do.”
“But the peasants live as they please.” Caer gave me a sly look. “I remember how you favored Heremon before Fethur came along. Haven’t you ever imagined what it would have been like, night after night in his arms?”
I tugged one of my sister’s long dark braids and she pretended that it hurt.
“Heremon married well. I’m sure he was happy.” Then sorrow swept through me and I couldn’t stop the ache in my heart. He had fallen at our last battle, not long after my husband. I’d held Heremon in my arms and sang him into the everlasting sleep. ‘Twas the hardest part of the war.
“Ah, I meant to cheer you, dear one, not stir up memories of sorrow.”
I lifted my chin and forced a smile. Faelan was watching us from the other side of the camp, a suspicious look on his face, as if he thought we were plotting against him.
“‘Tis time to gather our leanaí from the lake, before the Ice Giants return and freeze them in place,” I said.
Caer laughed. She was younger than me and had grown up listening to my tales of how the frozen rivers had once covered the earth. Before I married Fethur and became queen, I was known as Seanchaí. I was the storyteller in our Clan. When we gathered around night fires, it was my voice that rose to tell the old lore. Others took my tales and crafted them into poems. These poems were then shared with other Clans and, eventually, even the Duine came to know them.
That was why the mortals loved me.
Not because I was their queen.
It was because I was the one who told the stories of our beginning, of the Before Time. Back before the Duine learned how to write, they learned my tales.
Seanchaí was what they called m
e most often. Not Eire or queen.
My husband had always hated it when they called me by a common title, rather than acknowledging my royal blood. On the other hand, my sister’s husband, Faelan hated it when the mortals combined my titles, calling me Queen Seanchaí. Even deposed and exiled, I still had my loyal Duine followers. Enough to raise another army, if I wished it.
After my children climbed out of the lake, they ran about, exploring the many caves in the surrounding hills. We still had time before the evening meal, so I called my favored manservant to my side.
“Greagoir, spar with me, lest I grow weak in my exile,” I said, loud enough for all in the camp to hear.
It was a warning to Faelan to never strike my sister again. He needed to remember that there was bite to my commands.
A cheering crowd gathered around me, as I battled against Greagoir, sword to singing sword, blade striking blade, each clash ringing out like a bell. The sounds echoed throughout the valley and it sounded like a true battle. Wagers were put down, though few of them were against me.
No blade had ever cut my skin.
I was the only invincible warrior in my Clan.
Chapter 5
I shouldn’t have sparred with my servant. I regretted it when the bets were being paid and the entire camp chanted my name like a drunken ballad. Many campfires burned across the valley as we settled down for our evening meal. I could hear the laughter and enthusiasm as my recent joust was added to the nighttime lore, whispers, and songs, all with my name in them.
“And then Eire, Queen of the Tuatha de Danann defeated one of her own men during their exile—”
“Her sword matched his, blow for blow until her final strike made him kneel before her, where he swore her everlasting fealty—”
“She’s known as Seanchaí and queen, and to her dear Duine, merely Eire, for she requires no titles from those who love her—”
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