The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  Vera’s cold fingers caught at Catriona’s on one side and Elizabeth’s on the other. The three stood together to watch.

  “This is his trade, my lady,” Vera whispered. “He could not have survived so long were he not skilled at it.”

  Within moments, Malcolm stood on the roof of the gatehouse, the fires smoking in the bailey behind him, the hot oil at the ready. On Ravensmuir’s side of the hedge, a long row of bowsmen were arrayed, a small army including his former comrades and their squires. What they lacked in numbers, they would make up in experience and ferocity. Each was equipped with arrows and Catriona doubted that with the fog, the earl’s men could discern them.

  On the other side of the hedge and moat, the earl’s army had mounted their horses. They rode toward the gatehouse, their steeds riding in the formation of a point. She could see that at least one plant at each end of the hedge had disappeared in the night, widening that gap. Malcolm’s men had prepared for such an event as instructed, and Catriona could only assume that the old plants in the hedge had trunks so broad and tough that they were not readily cut down.

  “I demand that you leave Ravensmuir at once,” Malcolm called to the army perched below.

  A single rider separated himself from the throng and Catriona recognized the earl’s colors. “I demand that you surrender Ravensmuir, to me, the Fifth Earl of Douglas.”

  “Never!” Malcolm cried. “Again, I demand that you leave my holding.”

  “Not without the seal in mine own hand!” the earl replied, finally declaring his ambition aloud. An arrow was launched by his company, sailing over the gatehouse to embed itself in the bailey.

  Malcolm gestured and Ranulf touched a tinder to the cloth he had wrapped around one of those metal balls. The flame caught immediately, and Catriona guessed the cloth had been doused with some substance. Ranulf stood and hurled the ball at the army, and she gasped as whatever he had poured into the spigot ignited with a flash.

  The ball spun through the air, a fireball that spewed both flame and smoke. It landed amongst the earl’s army and rolled, spraying flame and smoke in such quantity that it spun in place on the ground. The horses screamed and scattered, disarray spreading from that point. Malcolm gave a minute nod and boys ran down the ranks of the archers, lighting the cloth wrapped around the tips of the arrows they cocked into their bows. Dozens of arrows were launched in unison, balls of flame burning through the air.

  There were screams as weapons found their mark, and flames lit in the company below. Tabards and caparisons burned, and the horses were agitated. The arrows continued, a concerted volley from inside the bailey intended to dissuade attack. Catriona saw Guilia disperse the arrows she had treated with toxin and she knew the dead would begin to fall. Indeed, Ravensmuir looked like a vision of Hell already, and she fingered the hilt of her knife as she watched.

  There was a cry and the first of the attackers tried to come around the end of the hedge. Catriona saw Tristan seize a brand and shove it in the man’s face, setting his garb afire. He stumbled, Tristan stabbed him and he tumbled—with the aid of Tristan’s kick—over the side of the cliff. There was no chance to celebrate, for the next came fast behind. Within moments, both ends of the hedge were besieged and the men there fully occupied with repelling attackers. Catriona wanted to lean out the window that faced the hedge, the better to see every detail, but Vera cautioned her with a touch.

  “Remember, my lady, that they would be glad to see you dead.”

  The battle was not a quick business, though Catriona might have hoped otherwise. The fight settled to a rhythm, Ranulf launching his Greek fire, an endless stream of warriors coming around the hedge, arrows being launched in burning storms. The oil was dumped over men who screamed in pain, but still more came from behind them. To Catriona’s relief, the earl’s men abandoned their horses early and continued their assault on foot.

  The bodies began to mount, and Malcolm’s forces were not invincible. Arrows came over the hedge from beyond, and more than one found a mark. The bowsmen were diminished in number. Catriona saw a man break through the ranks at the end. He fell upon a bowsman and slaughtered him before Reynaud left his post and attacked him from behind. They battled, the attacker finally subdued, but no sooner had Reynaud stood up than he was assaulted from behind himself. The men turned upon the breach and there was a melée of hand-to-hand battle before the gap at the end of the hedge was controlled again. Reynaud did not rise, nor did the others fallen in that scree, and blood stained the bailey of Ravensmuir.

  There was smoke aplenty both within the hedge and without, fires burning as if they had stepped into the inferno itself, and the smell of death rose even to Catriona’s nose. Still the men fought on, still the sun burned red in a misty sky, still she watched Malcolm with fear.

  When the sun touched the western horizon, she was exhausted from just the watching. How long would the battle endure? How long could the men continue to fight?

  Elizabeth lifted a finger, calling Catriona’s attention to the way the mist seemed to shimmer with new light. “They come,” her husband’s sister whispered.

  Catriona frowned as that glimmer passed over the land, sparkling in a most uncommon way. Vera crossed herself and murmured a prayer.

  And rightly so, for the Fae came out to dance as darkness stole across the land. The bogles roared in the dungeon and the pixies swung from the rafters in the hall. She could see the fir darrigs in the hedge seize upon thorns with glee. They wielded them like lances but did not seem to care which men they struck. Indeed, they fought a battle of their own, one against all mortal men.

  Malcolm’s men bore the brunt of that assault, by dint of proximity. Just when it seemed the battle might have turned Malcolm’s way, the Fae were everywhere, wreaking havoc, biting and stabbing and vexing Malcolm’s men. Ranulf dropped a missile as he was bitten, then seized it too late to throw it. Though it was hurled into the army below, Catriona heard his cry of pain and saw him bent over his hand.

  Avery began to cry, though he had been fed recently enough. Catriona exchanged a glance with Vera and sang a tune softly to him, hoping the music would soothe him.

  She would not draw the eye of the enemy by choice, nor would she have her child’s cry attract these men.

  “It was a dark dark night, with no light;

  they waded through red blood to the knee:

  For all the blood that’s shed on earth;

  runs through the rivers of Fairie.”

  “True enough,” Vera murmured.

  The will-o’-the-wisp burned in the distance, distracting the men, for the blinking lights hinted at targets that did not exist. Arrows were launched that hit only the empty ground and Catriona watched disarray touch Malcolm’s forces.

  “He saw the thorn upon the hill,

  and he did hear the sea.”

  The three women gasped as the earth heaved and split, the entire Fae host riding into Ravensmuir’s fields. There were warriors aplenty, each garbed for battle in his finery according to his size. Some rode horses and appeared as beauteous knights. Others rode voles and carried thorns as lances, nut shells on their heads. Still others flew, landing upon the earl’s forces to sting them truly. Their beauty was treacherous, their danger absolute. They rode toward the gatehouse of Ravensmuir in terrible splendor.

  “‘Oh do you see yon narrow road,

  so thick beset with thorns and briars?

  That is the path of righteousness,

  though after it but few enquires.”

  The Fae host fanned out, forming a circle outside the gatehouse of Ravensmuir, one that nearly encircled the earl’s troops. Catriona saw frost spread across the ground, creating a circle of snow upon the earth. She clutched Avery close as the music began, that wild Fae music that filled her veins with starlight and tempted her to dance.

  Some of the earl’s men turned in wonder, their faces alight as they began to dance. The Fae danced with them, cavorting and fiddling and spinning them
through the carnage of their lost fellows.

  “And do you see that broad broad road,

  that lies across the little leven?

  That is the path of wickedness,

  though some call it the road to heaven.’”

  Catriona caught her breath as the splendor of the Unseelie court was fully revealed. She saw a man with a long dark beard ride into the circle, his mount climbing from the earth below. Rings glimmered on his fingers and she could nigh feel his gaze land upon Malcolm.

  “Finvarra,” Elizabeth whispered.

  The king of the Fae offered his hand to a woman, as tall and as beautiful as he, her hair long and dark. Both of them had whirling marks upon their flesh, dark tracery that betrayed their kind. They walked together across the circle of frost, the other Fae and their dancers parting to let what could only be a royal procession pass. They paused before the gatehouse and looked up at Malcolm, their manner expectant. A river of starlight seemed to open itself between him and them, one that flowed through the air like a ribbon, one that would take him to his doom.

  Elizabeth gasped.

  “And do you see that bonnie road,

  which winds about the ferny slope?

  That is the road to the Fairie court,

  where you and I this night will go.”

  Catriona’s voice died as Malcolm descended the staircase. The portcullis creaked as he opened it, then she saw him place his foot upon the starlit path.

  He would keep his vow, and she would lose him forever.

  “Nay!” Catriona cried. She gave Avery to Vera and ran to the portal, unlocking it and racing down the stairs. She fled across the bailey, oblivious to all who battled there, uncaring who saw her. She flung herself through the open portcullis and snatched at Malcolm’s tabard. He had stepped fully onto the starlit path and moved like a man enchanted.

  To her surprise, Elizabeth was fast behind her. The maiden tugged on Catriona’s arm when she would have followed Malcolm, then touched the hilt of the blade in her belt.

  Elizabeth herself took the eating knife from her own belt and jammed it into the earth.

  Catriona remembered that detail from tales. A steel blade ensured that a mortal could return from the Fae’s realm. She removed her own blade from her belt, eyeing the elaborate hilt.

  You have but one knife, lady mine. It should be my best.

  Toledo steel. Catriona plunged the blade he had given her into the soil just outside Ravensmuir’s gate, securing their ability to leave the Fae circle at dawn.

  The starlight close to the blade dimmed, as if it recoiled from the steel. Catriona stepped onto the road, heard Ranulf catch his breath as he watched from overhead, but kept her gaze fixed downward. She thought of the tale of Elfin Knight and hoped it spoke of truth.

  She would eat naught.

  She would say naught.

  She would drink naught.

  And she dared not look into the eyes of this Fae king and queen.

  Catriona clenched her fists and willed herself to stillness, even as she felt someone step up behind her.

  Elizabeth. She smiled at Catriona with a confidence Catriona did not feel and nodded. They would face this foe together.

  A man cursed from behind them, and Catriona saw another blade slammed into the soil. To her astonishment, Rafael granted her a simmering glance. “Time ’tis to be a better friend,” he muttered and joined their small party.

  Catriona dared not agree or argue, not when the spoken word could carry such power.

  The Fae music soared and swelled, the men on the earl’s side dancing with renewed frenzy. The moon was rising already, not quite full, but casting sufficient light that the frost circle sparkled and shone. Malcolm’s forces stood their ground, for they could see the unholy temptation they were offered. The Fae forces continued to fight against the mortals, a foe unseen for the earl’s men.

  Then the Fae king unsheathed his sword and stepped toward Malcolm.

  Malcolm fell to his knees and bowed his head. Catriona knew he did not submit willingly, for she saw the shaking of his hands. He struggled against the spell but it was too powerful

  Finvarra smiled as the woman lifted a golden chalice before Malcolm, as if inviting him to drink. Catriona wanted to shout at him to not do so, but she kept her silence with an effort.

  The queen smiled in anticipation, then a small figure launched itself from the thorny hedge.

  “Mine!” the old man roared, darting before the Fae royalty with uncommon speed. Catriona nigh gasped in horror when she recognized her father, Hamish.

  “Mine!” he declared to her and snatched for the cross she had put around Malcolm’s own neck. “You would not give it to me, you ungrateful wretch of a child, but you gave it to him!” He seized the cross, his fury giving him the strength to snap the chain. “Aileen should never have taken you into our house when your whore of mother died. She should never have raised you as our own.” He spat on the ground. “Spawn of a foreigner, you should have died in your first year, just when your blood mother did.”

  Catriona’s mouth fell open in shock.

  Aileen was not her mother?

  Hamish was not her father?

  She was an orphan who had been taken into their home? Then who had her mother been? Her father? The cross must have come from them.

  The Fae king lifted his blade to smite Malcolm even as the queen held out the cup. The blade was so bright a silver that it might have been made of moonlight and the sharpened edge sparkled with menace.

  “Do you not seek the blackest soul, my lord king?” Elizabeth cried suddenly and Finvarra froze. He eyed the maiden, his stillness making Catriona’s flesh creep. Why did she speak aloud in this place? Would she not be lost forever? “Should your tithe not be the wicked soul you can harvest?”

  The king smiled. “Do you not think we chose with care, my Elizabeth?”

  “I think that much can change in six months, in our realm.”

  The Fae king looked upon Malcolm, enchanted before him. He glanced at Rafael, who held his ground, though Catriona was sure he trembled. Then he looked down at Hamish, still caressing Catriona’s cross.

  Finvarra smiled.

  Finvarra chose.

  He lifted a finger and the queen offered Hamish the cup. The greedy creature seized it and drank lustily of its contents. Finvarra’s blade descended with terrifying speed, slicing Hamish’s head from his shoulders in one stroke. Catriona eyed Hamish’s twitching body with horror, still struggling to make sense of what he had said.

  The Fae king bent and seized Hamish’s head, lifting it by the hair so that the golden mead fell sparkling to the ground. “And so the tithe is paid,” Finvarra said, sparing but a glance at Malcolm and another at Rafael before he turned away. He smiled at Elizabeth. “And another debt is made.”

  She shivered beside Catriona, but the king turned away.

  Rafael exhaled in relief, but Elizabeth lifted a finger in warning before he moved.

  Catriona remembered. Dawn was hours away. They had to remain, silent and in place, in order to leave the circle alive.

  Still the earl’s men danced, and still the Fae held sway.

  How could Elizabeth so defy these rules? Would she be snared by the Fae?

  The maiden spoke to the Fae king as if she knew him, and Catriona feared the meaning of that. There might be another challenge in future, but she would grant what aid she could to Malcolm’s sister.

  For her vengeance upon Hamish had been exacted and her lord husband had been saved. Catriona stood, silent and still, as tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks, and felt blessed indeed.

  * * *

  Alexander was infuriated by his inability to go to Malcolm’s aid.

  Ruari had turned back to Kinfairlie when he had seen the earl’s army and though Alexander had mustered his troops, he had known that they could not reach Ravensmuir without heavy losses. He had stationed men to watch from the shelter of Kinfairlie’s forest and praye
d for his brother’s success.

  The tidings had been excellent all the day but when night fell, he could not wait any longer. Perhaps he could surprise the earl’s men at night.

  Alexander arrived to find the fields outside Ravensmuir’s gates curiously empty. He reined in his steed and surveyed the fallow fields, touched with the silver of the moon’s light. A mist gathered in the depths of the furrows, but there was silence other than the crash of the sea on the cliffs below the keep. Spent fires smoked within the bailey, where he had seen bonfires burning earlier. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he did not like that the keep was so dark.

  Ravensmuir was as still as the grave.

  What had happened to the army outside Ravensmuir’s gates?

  What had happened to Malcolm?

  He heard a baby cry in the distance, then saw dark birds flying closer. He shivered, fearing he had arrived too late and wishing he had not judged his brother so harshly.

  ’Twas then he saw Malcolm’s fallen body outside the gates. He looked to be asleep, or possibly dead. Three people kneeled motionless behind him, his sister Elizabeth, the mercenary who had called Malcolm Hellhound and a boy with fair hair.

  Nay, it was a women dressed as a boy, laced into a man’s jerkin.

  Alexander might have said something but a dark shadow separated itself from the shadow of the thorned hedge. Alexander frowned, for it might have been his uncle Tynan who strode toward him, though that man’s figure was insubstantial, like that of a ghost. He heard Ruari mutter a blessing behind him and he felt the men bless themselves.

  It was Tynan. That man’s ghost held up a warning finger then pointed at the rising moon. Alexander did not defy his uncle’s counsel. He sat on his destrier, fully armed, and marveled as the moon rolled across the sky with a speed he had never before witnessed. He could have sworn it was but a twinkling of an eye before it had set and the eastern sky began to light and his uncle’s ghost disappeared. Alexander might have thought it a trick, but he heard the distant bells of Kinfairlie’s chapel, rung at Matins each day.