Soul Fire

by R. F. Long

  Daire surged forwards, his first attack nearly knocking the blade from Lorcan’s grip. The fire inside him sped along his veins, making him feel stronger and faster than ever before. It sang as it travelled through his body, his heart pumping, his muscles burning. The sound of bronze blade on blade rang out like the tolling of bells. Only in the height of battle could such weapons sound so melodious.

  His lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus grin as he circled Lorcan, each attack parried, each parry met with a riposte. But this was just the early stage, the time needed to see what had changed, what was different from the hundreds of other times they had fought. Though his need was great, rashness would gain nothing for either Rowan or himself.

  But Lorcan had not changed, would never change. Not like Daire had. Let the Dark Sidhe posture and talk, it would gain him nothing. There was nothing Lorcan could say which—

  “Aynia’s probably killed your little witch already.”

  An empty place burst into existence amid the light glowing in his core. Daire’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring with alarm. His heart pounded in the base of his brain, so loudly, so powerfully that it threatened to drown out everything else. He attacked, driving Lorcan back. His blade blurred as he forced his enemy to stumble in a retreat towards the nearest trees, his body twisting aside from attack and battering Lorcan’s defences. It took only a moment. He dashed Lorcan’s sword to one side and thrust with all his strength, pinning Lorcan’s sword arm against a tree trunk.

  Lorcan howled, trying to tear himself free, but Daire left him there, impaled and helpless, threatening to rip himself apart to escape. Daire barely cared. He picked up Lorcan’s sword and untied the piece of red silk. It smelled of her, that distinctive scent that could drive him beyond sanity. Holding the cloth to his face, he breathed in jasmine and rose and Rowan’s blood. He closed his eyes. She was not dead, not yet. Her scent carried on the breeze, in spite of everything else, just as it had that first night. Rowan was very much alive. He sensed fear, but also determination.

  Brave, self-possessed, focused, his Rowan was very much alive.

  Daire put both hands to his sword hilt, ripping it free of both Lorcan and the tree. The Dark Sidhe fell to his knees, cradling his arm and bowing his head, expecting only death.

  “Aynia won’t let me near her,” said Daire. “Not as a free man. But as a captive… She’d welcome me with all-too-eager arms.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Rowan lifted Matthew’s head and balled up his jacket to make a pillow for him. The fire blazed before her, uncomfortably hot. Sweat dampened the front of her blouse while her back shivered from the touch of the oncoming night. She tried to ignore Aynia, while still keeping a wary eye on the Dark Sidhe.

  Aynia paced around the fire. Perhaps things weren’t going her way? Rowan prayed that was true, that the Sidhe Host were winning the day, that Daire was coming.

  But how could she rely on that?

  Besides, Aynia would probably kill both herself and Matthew before the Sidhe even came into view.

  Each time Aynia circled the fire, she unwittingly gave Rowan a precious moment of time to prepare herself. She would be ready, she promised herself, when the time was right. If only she could wake Matthew. Her jeans pocket yielded a single glass phial of iron filings, one precious and much-needed weapon. Rowan opened it, shielding it with her hand, and let the blood still dripping from her cut face fill it. Each time Aynia reappeared, Rowan slid it back under Matthew’s body. She had to pick the right moment. Otherwise she would lose, and if she lost against Aynia, she lost everything.

  The distant rumble of battle filled the air and still Aynia paced. Every so often she lifted her head and then one of the Dark Sidhe would sprint out of the darkness, drop to his knees while he gave a report. Rowan studied Aynia’s face as covertly as possible during such moments. The news was not good and Aynia’s mood grew more threatening. Overhead, storm clouds knotted together, centring on Aynia, drawn to her by her anger.

  Aynia lifted her head again, firelight filling the deep darkness of her eyes. Rowan felt static dance through the air. The hairs on the back of her neck and all along her arms stood on end. But this time, no runner came with news.

  A voice rang out from the tree line.

  “Aynia, I have him.” Lorcan stumbled forwards, dragging a wretched figure behind him. Rowan gasped in dismay as she recognised Daire. He trailed on a rope behind the Dark Sidhe, almost falling as Lorcan jerked him forward.

  Aynia slid a long blade from her belt, curved and wickedly sharp. It glinted red with the fire’s glow.

  “I told you to kill him.”

  “And save you the honour?”

  Daire didn’t look up. Rowan stared at him, willing him to break free, to run. She knew he could do it. How could Lorcan hold her Sidhe prince captive? He looked half-dead, limping ahead of Daire, his arm slick with blood and pain deadening his eyes. He looked like a man about to collapse and as he drew nearer she realised his expression was not one of triumph but of defeat, of shame.

  Rowan’s breath caught in her throat. Aynia must have realised at the same moment because she broke into a charge, the curved blade slicing through the air before her. Rowan’s skin tingled, itched, as she sensed Aynia gathering her magical arsenal as well.

  Daire thrust Lorcan to one side and the Dark Sidhe rolled, exposing his own hands bound behind his back—and Daire’s sword. He had not led Daire. Rather he had been driven.

  Aynia opened her mouth wide and shrieked as Daire flung himself towards her. It felt like a concussion in the air, as if somewhere far off a bomb had exploded, though there was no sound. The air pulsed around Daire and Aynia and then burst out in a ring, followed by a sonic boom.

  Rowan’s ears popped, her chest aching with an unknown impact. She sucked in another breath, insufficient to the needs of her dry mouth. Her heart throbbed, pain lancing through every cell of her body as they expanded and contracted under the force of Aynia’s spell. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back.

  Daire dropped like a stone when the spell struck him. His limbs stiffened and he opened his mouth, gasping for air. Aynia stood over him, breathing hard, the blade still clutched in her white-knuckled hand.

  “You could never match me, Daire.” The Dark Sidhe stood over him, the fingers of her free hand flexing convulsively, as if eager for him to rise and attack, ready at last to finish him. And yet she hesitated. “I was too gentle with you before. Sentimentality, I suppose.”

  Rowan struggled to her feet, the jar clasped in her hand like a lifeline. Their one and only hope. But Aynia stood too close to Daire, towering over him.

  Damn it, move, thought Rowan as she edged closer.

  Daire’s eyes snapped on her movement and his mouth tightened.

  No.

  Rowan could read his thoughts, as if they were her own. And his fears. He feared for her, wanted to protect her. When you got down to it that was almost all he had ever wanted. He had gone home and come back with an army in tow with the sole intention of protecting her. And he would protect her now with the only thing left to him.

  Drawing on all his remaining reserves, Daire snatched back control of his body and threw himself at Aynia. The Dark Sidhe responded instinctively with her magic, using the one thing which had always served her—the storm. Lightning crackled from her fingertips. She drew down all the fury of the storm above and sent it arcing through his body and into the earth. Daire held his ground for a moment, until the raw energy drove him to his knees. A ragged cry tore itself from his mouth. His body arched as he threw his head back and the sword fell from his grasping fingers, hissing and spitting as it struck the grass and the earth claimed the energy infusing it.

  “Daire!” Rowan screamed his name. “No! Let him go!”

  Aynia spared her only a glance, smiled, but her power faded slightly with the distraction. Daire hauled himself forwards again, still intent on attack though it took all he had to force himself
up. The movement caught Aynia’s eye and her body tensed. The lightning brightened and her attack redoubled. It drove Daire back to his knees and held him there, shaking and jerking while the elemental force destroyed him from the inside out.

  His eyes started to close, his head falling in defeat, but still Aynia continued. She was going to kill him!

  “Daire! No!”

  Rowan hurled the glass jar at the Dark Sidhe. In it, the mixture of iron filings and blood seethed, Matthew’s blood, her blood, the power of two Blood Witches activated by minute shavings of pure iron. Too late to see Daire clear and safe, too late to protect him, Rowan could only pray that it wouldn’t destroy him too, if Aynia had not finished him already.

  The bottle shattered and the concoction splattered all over Aynia’s body. The lightning failed and Aynia whirled around, clawing at her own skin, the liquid splashing all around her. Daire thudded to the ground, face down, unmoving as Rowan’s spell ate away his leaf shirt, tearing its way through the enchanted material to the skin beneath.

  Aynia shrieked again, slapping at herself while her skin blistered and burned, red welts stark on her pale complexion. Rowan circled her, aware that a wounded creature was even more dangerous. But she needed to reach Daire. She needed to know that he was okay.

  As she passed between Aynia and the fire, the Dark Sidhe locked eyes with her. Aynia’s face transformed and she snarled her hate. The blood and iron gnawed away at her flawless features, exposing muscle and bone and turning the beauty into a nightmare. With shrivelled hands like talons, Aynia charged towards her, intent on the kill alone. Rowan froze, unable to do anything but watch her enemy coming, unable to move for terror.

  Something grabbed Rowan’s ankle, warm and strong, an implacable grip. Daire jerked her legs out from under her, pulling her down beside him onto the grass. Rowan hit the ground hard. Unable to stop her murderous rush, Aynia’s feet tangled with Rowan’s kicking legs. For a moment, they snagged together and then Aynia toppled. No longer able to hold her balance or stop her fall, she plunged straight into the bonfire.

  She shrieked once, a terrible sound. Rowan threw her hands over her ears as the thunder boomed all around them. And abruptly, the storm dissipated.

  The night became very still. Rowan rolled onto her back to see a clear sky, a multitude of stars sprinkled across the darkness, and the moon full and high in the sky. Beside her, Daire lay motionless, though his hand still curled around her lower leg, a grip so stiff and cold that at first it stopped her breath deep down in her chest.

  Rowan shuffled over to his side and rolled him onto his back. Miraculously, his eyes fluttered open and warmed when he beheld her face.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “That’s three, isn’t it?” His voice was thin and worn, but she detected an undercurrent of humour she never expected.

  “Three what?”

  “Three times that you thought you had killed me.” He tried to smile, his lips lifting at the corner.

  She couldn’t help herself. He was smiling. He was alive.

  “Maybe next time.” The laughter brimmed in his eyes and relief flooded her body. “Are you, though? All right?”

  Quick as the blink of an eye, he seized her shoulders and tipped her onto her back, reversing their positions effortlessly. He kissed her, threading his fingers through her hair as if he couldn’t fill himself with enough of her, as if he needed to touch as much of her as he could. Rowan’s hands closed on the warm, smooth skin of his shoulders, finding resistance only in the hardened muscles underneath. Her fingers encountered something sticky, grained, and she opened her eyes to find the blood and iron mixture smeared across his flesh.

  She broke the kiss in surprise. “Daire? It didn’t hurt you?”

  He studied the area, bemused, testing it with cautious fingers. He had no answer for her. “A miracle perhaps? Or is it just that nothing you would do could hurt me, my Rowan?”

  He pulled her closer again, but the sound of tinkling bells stopped him. His face froze and Rowan felt her singing heart fall still. That now familiar ache began to seep back into her veins. The Sidhe were coming. And he would have to leave.

  Reluctantly, Daire helped her to her feet and turned away to watch for the Sidhe Host. Further back from the fire, Matthew stirred and Rowan limped to his side.

  “Matt?” her voice scraped along the inside of her throat.

  Matthew sat up, cradling his head in his hands. Rowan slipped her fingers under his arm and he winced. She understood. Everything hurt. With her help, he stood gingerly, wincing when he saw Daire.

  But the Sidhe prince only watched the procession arriving through the broken fence. Rowan’s eyes grew round in wonder. Two white horses, so white that the moon seemed a pale orb by comparison, led the way and upon them sat a woman and a man. They were older than Daire, though their age showed through reverence and their cultured mannerisms rather than their looks. Rowan had never seen anyone more beautiful in her entire life.

  Except Daire.

  She studied their faces and the resemblance became clear.

  Silver bells hung from the horses’ reins. The King of the Sidhe wore a thin band of gold, while a silver diadem held back the Queen’s hair from her flawless face. Behind them, Sidhe maidens with hair like spun gold drew a litter upon which Aidan lay locked in a deathly sleep.

  Daire had called his mother Queen Úna, and Rowan had never imagined anything or anyone who more defined the role of queen. Úna gazed down on them, her intense eyes seeing through the outer appearance and right inside Rowan’s faltering heart. She studied the young woman for a long, drawn-out moment without comment, then turned her attention to her eldest son.

  “Daire.” She inclined her head in greeting. “You won this day.”

  He bowed, as fluid and graceful a movement as any he habitually made, but Rowan sensed a hesitation to it. A touch of resentment perhaps?

  “We did, my queen.”

  This was his mother, wasn’t it? Why so formal?

  Úna’s chill gaze returned to the pair of mortals, only skirting over Matthew, but fixing on Rowan again with renewed intensity. Hostility. Rowan struggled to keep herself still, not to shrink back. She had been frightened by Aynia, terrified, but that paled to insignificance now. Aynia was nothing compared to Úna.

  “And this is your Blood Witch?”

  “They both are.” Daire glanced towards Rowan once he had answered and she saw his lips move slightly, the edges rising in reassurance before he continued. “Blood Witches, iron born and iron bred. Mother, may I present Rowan and Matthew Blake. My parents, King Finbar and Queen Úna.”

  The queen didn’t shift her gaze from Rowan, like a botanist examining a particularly interesting specimen. And yet… Rowan could not shake the feeling that deep down the queen resented her, perhaps even hated her.

  Finally Úna spoke again. “Did my son explain?”

  Confused, Rowan shook her head. “Explain what, Your…Your Majesty?”

  The king dismounted, as graceful and precise in motion as his son. The queen remained where she was, clutching the reins so tightly that the bells shivered in a ghost of sound.

  “Aidan was wounded when he fled this place,” said Finbar, his voice kindlier than his wife’s. “He has slumbered long in our world and all our magicks cannot rouse him. Daire believes you can break Aynia’s spell and wake him for us.”

  Rowan approached the litter cautiously. Matthew made to follow, but one of the girls stopped him with a single touch of her elegant hand.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, her voice like music. She examined his head while murmuring soothing words.

  Daire muttered something under his breath as he joined Rowan. But as he reached her, he took her hand, entwining his fingers with hers, and all thoughts of her brother melted away. He was safe now. Daire’s brother was not.

  “Please,” he said. “I know you can help him. If anyone can…”

  It made sense, of
course. He had returned out of honour and duty, but nothing was without cost. He had come back to her because he thought she could heal his brother. Otherwise, he would probably have been forced to leave her to her fate. She and Matthew were just mortals, after all. The queen had not said as much, but every mannerism made that obvious. Daire had thought like that when she first met him, she was certain, and maybe even the short time he had spent at home had persuaded him of it again. Why not? You just had to look at his family to see the difference between them and her battered, bloodied form.

  But he had still come back. She owed him this much.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do.” Rowan brushed a stray lock of golden hair from Aidan’s face. His youth showed though she knew that appearances in this case were most deceptive. He was older than her cottage at least. Yet there was enough of Daire in his features to see their relationship and to tell her what Daire must have been like when he was younger. She dreaded to think how long ago that was. But she would have given all the world to have seen him like that, young and careless, unembittered by Aynia and her deceits.

  “We want you to wake him,” Queen Úna said.

  “Please,” Daire added rapidly. He pulled Rowan’s body back against his and that familiar warmth spread through her.

  “Time grows short,” said the king. “We hold the gate static for now, but it cannot last long. Please, Rowan Blake. Ere long we must take our leave of you. Would you allow him to sleep his life away?”

  Rowan flinched, for despite the formal language the king used, she could not doubt the urgency in his voice. Her own selfishness shocked her. Aidan might sleep forever but she was not thinking of that. All she could think was that Daire would be going and God only knew when she would see him again, or indeed if she would see him again.

  He brought his chin down to rest on the top of her bowed head, as if he sensed her thoughts, and she closed her eyes to keep from crying. She would not cry. Not in front of them.