Veil of Shadows

by Lindsay

  he said, and though he tried to sound proud, he looked terrified.

  “I have the Morrigan to guide me,” she said, ducking her head so that Trasa could slip the copper shield pendant over her head.

  “Thank you,” Cerridwen addressed the rest of the Sisters. “I will not forget your kindness when we return victorious.”

  “You speak as though we will remain behind, like weak women,” Trasa scoffed. She opened her robe and shrugged it from her shoulders, revealing a body encased head to toe in black leather, buffed to a shine and inset with gleaming metal plates over the shoulders, breast, abdomen and legs. “The highest form of worship to Our Lady is combat.” She pulled a sword from her back and touched the flat of the blade to her forehead before bowing. As Cerridwen watched in amazement, the rest of the Sisters followed suit, revealing themselves to be similarly garbed and armed.

  “You have our blades, if you will accept our help,” Trasa said, head still bowed.

  “Of…of course I will have them,” Cerridwen stammered. Then, she laughed. “What a secret to keep from me!”

  “We are a secretive order, Your Majesty. We do not wish to repeat the follies of the past.”

  She gave Cedric a hard look. She had not forgotten that he had laid the blame for their current state solely on the Humans.

  He gave them a respectful bow, now. “I am humbled by the presence of so many fierce warriors.”

  “Could you excuse us a moment?” Cerridwen asked the Sisters, and they filed out, leaving their robes behind like shed skins.

  When Cerridwen finally stood alone with Cedric, she could think of nothing to say. Finally, she said, “You were right. We needed a militia.”

  He nodded tersely. “I know we did.” He pointed to her head. “All of your hair is gone.”

  “Yes. They cut it, so I could wear a helmet.” She touched the couple remaining strands self-consciously. “It looks ugly now.”

  “No, it…” He faltered. “It will grow back.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and then, as if a line holding them apart had snapped suddenly, they rushed to each other. The armor held them apart, frustratingly so, when all she wished was to feel his arms around her and hear the rumble of his voice in his chest as he spoke.

  “I do not want you to go,” he said between frantic kisses, holding her face between his hands.

  She pressed her cheek against his, wound her arms round his neck as best as she could reach.

  “I cannot send my subjects to die while I hide here. I could not live with myself.”

  “And I will not live if you are killed.” He held her back from him. “You remember the battle against the Elves? This will be worse! More death, more destruction! Why not flee to the caverns and be done with it?”

  “Because I cannot.” She looked into his eyes and saw the cowardly hope in him die, harden to something that matched the drive in her. “And you cannot, either.”

  “I would, if it meant…” But he stopped himself, unable to finish those words. “Cerridwen, if something happens today, I want—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I do not wish to exchange these sentiments. I know what you feel for me, as you know what I feel for you. That would not change at the moment of death, so I do not wish to dwell on it.”

  He crushed her to him again, buried his face against the top of her head. “Do not try to be heroic. Lead your army, but then, let them lead. You do not have the training for battle, and…” He stammered the last part, as though afraid to speak it. “I—I do not trust this Goddess to deliver you safely.”

  She stepped back, her chest constricting like a vise. Until he voiced his doubts, she had not realized how much faith she had put into the Morrigan. Though she did not wish to part now in anger, his lack of faith disappointed her.

  If he noticed the change in her, he did not reveal it with his actions. He tugged on leather gloves that had been tucked into his belt, and inclined his head toward the outside wall. “We should go. It will be better to meet them on open ground, rather than fight them in the forest.”

  In the clearing, the militia had assembled. Behind them, the worried faces of the rest of the colony pierced Cerridwen with their eyes. They wanted her to say something, to tell them that all would be all right.

  She could not. But she could give them this: “The Enforcers have come. Humans, like many of you, but different in that they do not believe this world large enough to share. They come to force us underground, to send us scurrying, like vermin, into holes and tunnels and caverns, forsaking our way of life for hardship.

  “I say, let them come. Let them see that, though we may be peaceful, we are fierce. That Fae will not accept a lesser existence, that our Human friends will not be punished for choosing a life different from what the Enforcers will allow them.

  “I ask all who are able to take up arms today and follow us, to stand up to our enemies, and to the traitors who once lived among you as kin, but who would now shed your blood. If we fail today, we lose much. But if we do not try, we will lose more.”

  Please, she prayed, please let them follow me. “Who is with me?”

  Faeries, men and women came forward, and they were welcomed by the militia with victorious cries. Cedric leaned close to her ear and whispered, “They are not trained. They do not have weapons.”

  “They will improvise,” she hissed back. “They are not simpletons.”

  He moved past her, down the steps, and took the reins of a huge, black horse. “Will you ride her, Your Majesty?” he offered, patting the animal"s neck.

  She shook her head. “No.” A smile spread across her face, an overwhelming feeling of right flowed through her limbs. “No, I have something else in mind.”

  They heard the sounds of the Human battle machines before they exited the forest—the low, grinding growl of them as they gained speed and ground. When Cerridwen emerged from the trees, on the back of the white bull, she took her first glimpse of the Enforcers.

  She wanted to run.

  The tanks that Charles had spoken of, the source of the terrifying noise, were larger than anything she had ever seen. They lumbered over the hilly field like giant, metal roaches, one long, slender rod extending from them like a questing antenna, feeling its way over the battleground. Human vehicles like the ones she had seen previously came with them, but they halted at the top of the largest rise, and the Enforcers spilled out, their guns drawn. Behind them, the Traitorous Fae.

  How primitive her own forces must look, she realized, scanning the line that stretched to either side of her. Ten were seated on horses: Cedric, Trasa and a handful of her crows, Fionnait and Colm. They looked straight ahead, their faces grim. Behind them, the soldiers who had walked to the battle, some armed with weapons, others with torches and farm implements. But fifty of them, altogether.

  “All is not lost,” Cedric said quietly next to her, and when she looked at his face, she saw he truly believed it. That gave her strength. “Do you wish for me to lead them, Your Majesty?”

  No, she did not. She wished for him to turn back, to hide himself somewhere safe. But when she opened her mouth to say so, the words would not come out. At least, her voice knew better than to shame her in this moment, if her heart did not. “Yes. Gods be with you as you go.”

  He nodded, then, pulling the reins tight, he lifted his hand and shouted the charge.

  The militia flowed onto the field, like water through a broken dam, and she watched them go.

  Those on horseback were the first to reach the line, behind them, the Fae that had chosen to fly. The Humans and Fae on foot came next, though a few hung back, knelt on the ground to ready their bows and arrows.

  Beneath her the bull shifted restlessly. Cerridwen patted its neck absently, her eyes trained on the figure that rode at the head of it all, his sword raised high. One of the huge machines belched a smoking charge, the deafening report coinciding with an explosion of dirt and debris from the ground. The
cloud of settling dirt obscured her view. When it cleared, she did not see Cedric.

  The Enforcers used their weapons mercilessly, cutting down the Fae who flew above them in explosions of blood and screams. But as they concentrated on the creatures above, the handmaidens of the Morrigan rode fearlessly into their ranks, slashing with their swords.

  Faeries on opposing sides struck out at one another in the sky, while the tanks fired more echoing shots, blasting clusters of bodies into the air. They went up whole, but seemed to come apart as they rained down. Cerridwen"s stomach lurched.

  She could still not see Cedric.

  Her hands tightened on the bull"s neck. It took an agitated step forward. She felt for the sword at her back. Cedric had taught her how to use it, in theory. She had never had a chance to test her prowess against someone who was not going easy, in fear of damaging them. She had no place in battle, would last no longer than a few seconds, at best.

  But she could not see him.

  A horse ran, screeching in panic, back toward the forest. She could not tell them apart enough to know if it was his. Battles in stories always seemed to go on for hours, but it appeared to Cerridwen that they were losing quickly. She must do something. To save Cedric. To see him dead. Either way, to have her answer. To die on the battlefield with her army, who she had led there, to their deaths. Still, she could not move, could not force herself into the nightmare of blood and fire that unfolded before her eyes.

  The bull made the decision for her. It bellowed and broke into a run. She clung to it, eyes squeezed shut, then, not wishing to appear cowardly, not wishing to be cowardly, she opened her eyes and sat up as best as she could without being thrown from the animal"s back.

  Bodies littered the ground, seemingly more of them than had come to fight. Perhaps, she thought, growing sick at the thought, they were in more pieces than when they had arrived.

  She squinted through the smoke and dirt, desperate for any sign of Cedric.

  She saw him, his pale hair stained with blood—his own, gauging from the huge gash that split his forehead. His sword crossed with another Faery"s, but he turned his head, distracted by her sudden appearance on the field, and in that moment the Faery sank his blade into Cedric"s side. He cursed and gripped the blade with gloved hands, pushing it from his body with enough force to send the Faery who wielded it flying back. With a shout of fury, Cedric charged and sliced his own blade down, and the Faery fell, cleanly halved, to the trampled grass.

  Cedric ran toward her, calling her name. Cerridwen looked frantically around her for the danger he tried to warn her of. At the top of the rise, one of the tanks fired; the crack of it reached her ears just as the ground opened in front of her and the bull reared back.

  She clung to the creature with her legs, arms wind-milling for purchase in the air above her head. Chunks of rock and debris blasted her face, and she felt skin come away. The hot, wet taste of blood flooded her mouth, and she gagged. Then, she was falling, away from the animal. She hit the ground, disoriented, and saw only the contorted form of the bull"s enormous back as it crushed down upon her.

  Cerridwen opened her eyes to find herself standing in a field. Alone. Panic seized her.

  Something had happened, something she could not remember, though she tried. She opened her mouth to call for help, and realized that she did not know who she would call to.

  The ghost of some strong emotion plagued her. She had been searching for something, she was sure of it. She had set out from somewhere, somehow, to find something. Every moment that she did not recall what that was, her heart thundered louder in her ears. She heard her name on the wind, a desperate cry, but no one had spoken.

  “Cerridwen.”

  The voice that had uttered her name aloud was calm and familiar. She turned, tears in her eyes. “Mother?”

  Her mother stood before her, her long, flame-red hair still, despite the wind. A long, white gown draped her slender limbs. She looked different, somehow younger, than she had appeared on Earth.

  On Earth. That struck her as strange, but she did not know why.

  She went to her mother and collapsed gratefully in her arms. It had been so long. Why had she stayed away?

  The realization struck her as her mother stroked her hair and murmured comforting words.

  She looked up. “I am dead.”

  “Yes,” her mother told her. “You have come home.”

  “My father…” She remembered those last moments, her mother leaning over his body, her eyes shrouded in tears. That was why she had looked so old in that last moment. Her grief.

  Another hand fell on her back, large and warm and sure, and she looked up into Malachi"s face. He was younger, for certain. No mortal lines of age marred his face, no scars from battle. The joy in his expression filled Cerridwen"s own heart, almost to bursting, and tears flowed down her face. “You are here. How?”

  “Do not worry about the how, or the why,” another voice said, and she turned, never leaving the warm circle of her parents" embrace, to see the Morrigan, the triple Goddess, walking toward her, across the field. Instead of one person, they were three: a girl, a woman and a crone, their hands linked as they came toward her.

  “You did well,” the crone said, lifting her wobbling chin with pride. “Better than we could have hoped for.”

  “What did I do?” She fought to push her mind through the haze that clouded it.

  “You brought your subjects to a new understanding. You learned what was worth fighting for, and taught them, in turn.”

  A flash of blood and fire swept across her vision, and she staggered, kept upright by her mother"s strong arms.

  “This will pass,” she whispered into Cerridwen"s ear, as another anguished cry floated over their heads. “It is disorienting, if you have never been here before.”

  “The Astral?” Cerridwen stared at the ground beneath her feet. “I knew it was somewhere. It could not have just…gone.”

  “It did not,” the Goddess said from the young woman"s mouth. “It was here. They just needed someone to lead them to it.”

  “To lead them to death?” Something seemed wrong with that. “But I did not mean to.”

  “Not to death. To hope. Those that will die will come home. Those that do not will know that they can return.” The young girl aspect lifted her face to the sky as Cerridwen"s name tore through the gray clouds.

  She knew that voice. She knew it, but she could not…“I was not finished.”

  The girl gazed at her, unblinking. “You achieved your purpose. You are a great hero. They will never forget your name.”

  Cerridwen groaned, doubled in pain. It made no sense. If she was dead, how could she…

  “You are dying,” Malachi told her gently, lowering her to the ground. “You have not completely crossed over the divide. This will pass.”

  She did not want it to pass. There was something she wanted on the other side, something she had not finished. She sat up, clutched at his arm. “This cannot be. I have…something I was searching for.”

  Her mother and Malachi looked to each other with pained glances, as though there was something they wanted to say to her, but could not. She turned to the Morrigan. “There is something I was doing…. I have to go back.”

  “Why do you need to go back?” the crone asked, cocking her head to the side in a birdlike gesture. “You could stay here, be with your mother and father. This place is your heritage.

  Your home and your birthright. Why would you want to leave it?”

  “Because…” She looked around the field. It was unscathed, as though no one had set foot on it before. As she watched it, though, it wavered, revealed smoke and bodies, fire and pain.

  And she remembered.

  She climbed to her feet, and stood before the Morrigan. But this time, it was the triplicate Goddess with three faces, dressed for war. She regarded her with cold respect, a glint of humor in her eyes.

  “I must go back,” Cerridwen argued. She
turned to her mother and father. “I will return. I swear, I will return one day. But there are too many. They are in caves and underground cities like the ones we endured. This battle was only the beginning.” She faced the Morrigan again.

  “You must let me go back.”

  “Your Earthly form was destroyed,” the Goddess said. “You cannot return to it.”

  “I will return in the body of a gnat, if I must!” she shouted. “I will not let my kin die slowly underground! Not when they can return to their home!”

  As if she did not care, as though the trials she had seen Cerridwen through meant nothing to her, the Morrigan shook her head. “Only a God can grant them access.”

  “Then send one with me!” Cerridwen looked helplessly around her for inspiration. “Make me a priestess of your order…grant me the power. Or let me tell one of them what to do. I cannot live here, happily, while the rest of them are…locked out. Tell me what to do!”

  “Become a Goddess,” the Morrigan said simply, spreading her hands.

  “You mock me,” Cerridwen whispered.

  The Goddess narrowed her eyes. “Do you challenge me?”

  There was no reply that she could give. She cast her eyes down.

  “There is a reason you are here. There is a reason that you are one of my chosen,” the Morrigan continued. “You will return to them. But you will not return as a Faery. You will not return as a mortal. You will go to them, as their Goddess.”

  Cerridwen stared. “Why?”

  The Morrigan did not answer. Ayla and Malachi said nothing.

  “Why?” she asked again, the frantic pain racking her once more. “I have done nothing to deserve this. I betrayed my mother. I caused the downfall of the Lightworld. My father is dead because of me, and I killed out of vengeance.”

  “You recognized what others did not,” the Morrigan said evenly. “You did not despair because the Astral was missing, you sought to find it. You did not care only for your race, but for the mortals, as well. And you convinced others to believe.”