Aoife and Scathach, Shadow Twins
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Michael Scott
Cover image used under license from Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Regina Flath
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
Ebook ISBN 9780449819180
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
Penguin Random House LLC supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to publish books for every reader.
ep_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Aoife of the Shadows
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Scathach the Shadow and the Clan of Eriu
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About the Author
Aoife of the Shadows
I am Marethyu.
And I am Death.
I am called the Destroyer of Worlds.
I have had other names—many other names—and once, when I was still fully human, I was known by a humani name. But that was a long time ago, and no one has called me by that name in millennia.
Look at me now, and it would be hard to put an age on me. My age is no longer measured in decades or even centuries. I have lost count of the number of years I have moved across this earth and through the adjacent Shadowrealms. I have traveled to places where time does not exist or flows according to different rules. In some myths, I am known as the Ancient of Days.
Eons ago, I made a bargain with a monster who had once been beautiful. He gifted me with the ability to move at will along the time streams, though perhaps it is not so much a gift as a curse. But it allowed me to see what was, what is, and what might be. I realized that the future was never fixed; it was constantly in flux, fashioned and shaped by events in the present. I discovered that a single action could change the future of the world.
I have seen things that were never meant for human eyes. I have traveled far into the future, to that time when the sun has grown huge and red and the creatures that walk the earth, though descended from man, are unrecognizable. I have followed the time streams back into the past, to the Time Before Time, when the rulers of the glittering empires which stretched across the globe were serpentine and monstrous and the humani little more than food and slaves to them. I have gone beyond this world and walked the Shadowrealms, those places of myth created by creatures of legend. Every Shadowrealm is different, each one unique, all of them wondrous and terrifying, and while some are paradises, far too many are deadly. And I should know, for I have created my own Shadowrealms, and destroyed them also when I grew bored of them.
And I fought the creatures in the shadows.
The ancient rulers of the earth had been defeated but not destroyed. They lurked in the dark places, and plotted. And because they were ageless, they conceived plans that took generations to come to fruition.
In time I came to understand that my role was to not only protect the humani from these creatures that threatened their very existence, but also to record the stories of those who stood with the humani against the Earthlords, Ancients, Archons, and Dark Elders. Some of their names and adventures have passed into the myths and legends of every nation. Too many of the stories, however, have been forgotten. Now the humani believe that the Isle of Danu Talis, which they call Atlantis, never existed; they believe that the Great Flood, which swept across the world ten thousand and more years ago, never happened and that there were never giants on the earth and thunderbirds in the skies.
But at the heart of every legend, there is a grain of truth.
Traveling through time allowed me to see that history is made and remade in the tiniest of moments, in the most obscure places. And it is true that I sometimes nudged events in certain directions. I ensured that Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel received the Codex at the correct time, that Machiavelli would encounter Eugene Vidocq in Paris during the Terror, and that Sophie and Josh would be in San Francisco that fateful summer to discover the truth about the bookseller and his wife.
I learned to place trusted agents on significant Shadowrealms in the hope—the belief—that their very presence would alter the history not only of that realm, but of all the worlds attached to it.
Two of my most trusted agents were the Shadow Twins: Aoife and Scathach. I could fill volumes with their adventures down through time and across the uncountable Shadowrealms. Their names are woven into the legends of a hundred worlds; they are worshiped as goddesses on a dozen more, considered to be the incarnations of destruction on twice as many. Inseparable from birth, they fell out over a boy, and they spent centuries loathing one another. I did my best to ensure that they were never in the same world at the same time, so I would send them off into distant Shadowrealms in search of clues to the lost past and artifacts from our forgotten history. Though they were separate for many years, they were twins, linked by that most mysterious of bonds, one which I knew all too well. I always knew that they were destined to be drawn back together.
From the Codex
The Journal of Marethyu
Translated by Nicholas Flamel, the Alchemyst
On the Shadowrealm Isle of Tir na nOg
1
A flash of light in the gloomy forest below, a blink of silver in the shadows.
It lasted less than a single heartbeat, vanishing in the same moment that the Airgead Sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only the Óir Sun low in the purpling skies.
“Stop!” The slender young woman in the long waxed cloak, scuffed black leather jerkin and trousers raised a clenched fist as she reined in her tall spiral-horned mount.
Behind her, a dozen huge-wheeled ox-drawn c
arts came to a lumbering, creaking halt. The long-horned oxen steamed and sweated in the chill air, too exhausted to bellow, and the drovers were experienced enough to remain still and quiet. Six mismatched mercenary guards fell into defensive positions, two on either side and two behind the last wagon, bows and crossbows ready.
Standing in the stirrups, the woman pushed back the hood of a heavy wire-lined cloak, revealing short spiky red hair. Shading bright green eyes against the low light of the setting Óir Sun, she looked ahead and to her left, down into the deeply shadowed valley below the narrow trail.
Moments ago, she’d caught a glimpse of something, but it had vanished as quickly as it appeared. It might have been a trick of the fading suns, the warm golden light of the Óir Sun catching a pool of water, a flock of birds, or weaving bats, but her instincts were telling her otherwise, and Aoife of the Shadows had long ago discovered that warriors who ignored their instincts had a very short lifespan. Though she looked no older than seventeen, Aoife’s age was measured in centuries, and she fully intended to live for at least a millennium.
Sinking back into the saddle, eyes wide and unblinking, she slowly moved her head left and right, not looking at anything in particular, nostrils flaring, confident that if there was anything out of place, then her unconscious mind would spot it.
“What is it?” Nels the wagon master demanded, interrupting her. The huge ox drover pushed his way through the steaming teams to stand alongside Aoife. He caught the horn jutting from the forehead of Aoife’s mount and held the beast’s head away from his face. The aonbheannach were beautiful but ill-tempered, with huge teeth capable of crushing a man’s arm. Even though Aoife was sitting on the tall slender animal, the wagon master’s bald and deeply scarred skull was almost on a level with hers.
Aoife shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she said quietly, still looking. “I saw something in the valley.”
“Where is it?”
“Gone now.”
“Probably nothing,” Nels grunted. “A reflection, maybe.” He tugged at the reins of the aonbheannach, urging it forward.
Aoife clamped booted heels against the beast’s side; the creature straightened it legs and refused to move.
Nels gave up. Though they were fine-boned and looked delicate and deer-like, the aonbheannach were as strong as his own oxen and only permitted female riders. The big man looked up at the Óir Sun and then back down the wagon train strung out along the narrow track behind them. “We need to move on. We’re leaving a trail even a blind snake could follow.”
“Most snakes have terrible eyesight but an excellent sense of smell,” Aoife remarked, glancing sidelong at the wagon master.
Nels exuded a sour sweat, which, mingling with the rich odor of oxen, enveloped him in an almost tangible miasma. Aoife suspected that there was Boggart or Torc blood in the stinking wagon leader; she had never seen a man so ugly, and it would certainly account for his perpetual ill-humor.
“The light is fading, and I don’t want to be out on the mountains after dark.”
“Afraid?” Aoife’s teeth were sharp white points against her pale, thin lips.
“Yes,” Nels said quickly. “And so would you be if you knew what lived in the woods.”
“I am Aoife of the Shadows,” she snapped. “I fear nothing.”
“Not even your sister?” Nels said slyly, but the smile died on his lips as Aoife fixed icy green eyes on him. Color drained from her face, leaving the scattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose looking like spots of bright blood.
“It would be a mistake to mention her name in my presence,” she hissed. Her hand fell to the hilt of the coiled metal whip fixed to her saddle.
“I meant no disrespect,” Nels mumbled abruptly, realizing that he had overstepped.
“Yes, you did. I will forgive you this time,” Aoife answered, “but not a second time. Do not test me. Do I make myself clear?”
Nels stepped away quickly, then turned and stomped back down the wagon train, checking the oxen, grumbling at the drivers. He was experienced enough not to raise his voice: sound would carry far into the gathering night…and besides, Aoife might hear him. And though he’d never admit it, there was something about the red-haired girl that frightened him…even though he was convinced she was not the Aoife of the Shadows.
He knew the legend of Aoife the Gateholder, of course. All of Tir Tairngaire knew the story of the red-haired, green-eyed warrior who’d stood alone at the ancient stone henge and fought the wriggling monsters who’d crawled through the opening. She’d defended that gate for three days and three nights, until the Sheking’s army finally arrived. And then, it was said, Aoife led the charge into the henge and carried the fight into the beasts’ lair. If she hadn’t held the gate, then the monsters would have overrun the island kingdom. Nothing would have survived.
But that had been hundreds of years in the past, and Nels believed that this was just another red-haired green-eyed Northern warrior who’d taken the legend’s name as her own. Though occasionally, like now, he was not so sure. Sometimes when she looked at him, he caught the same expression he’d seen in the eyes of ox drovers looking at their cattle: they were looking at dumb beasts needing protection. Watching her over the past few days, he’d come to the conclusion that she was not entirely humani. Maybe she was a half-breed and that was what was making him uneasy. She probably had Fir Dearg or Sidhe blood in her. But she was definitely not the Aoife of the Shadows.
2
Aoife maneuvered the jet-black aonbheannach to the edge of the trail. Leaning forward, she rested her chin on the beast’s bony skull and peered between its upright pointed ears. The valley below was in shadow. There was a creeping chill on the back of her neck that she had come to know and respect. Staring into the gloom, she allowed her gaze to roam over the dense covering of trees, not looking for anything, simply waiting for something to impress itself on her consciousness. Instincts honed on a hundred Shadowrealms and across centuries were telling her that something was there, something old.
There!
Deliberately not turning her head, aware of the object at the very periphery of her vision, she waited. There was a flash of gold-washed silver, indistinct, fragmentary against the gathering gloom. Then it vanished, lost in a swirl of leaves as she heard something ponderous move on the forest floor. Aoife’s nostrils flared as she tried to work out what could be prowling through these dark northern forests at this time of year. The air was moist with growth and rot, but she thought it smelled like a Torc Madra, a werewolf, though they usually moved silently. It could be any of the Torc clans: bear, boar, forest lion or elk. This world had more than its share of monsters. In the days following the destruction of Danu Talis, this Shadowrealm had been created by the Archon Cernunnos, a huge horned creature who had populated his world with all manner of beasts. It was said that he hunted them for sport and then took their heads for his trophy wall. Cernunnos did not distinguish between human or animal either.
The crippled Dwarf known only as Bes rode out from the main body of the caravan, urging a shaggy mountain pony over the muddy path. It whinnied nervously as it drew near to the aonbheannach, breaking Aoife’s concentration.
“What is it?” Bes asked, voice rasping and labored. Even though he was wrapped in a heavy oiled traveling cloak, the small man was shivering.
Aoife ran her fingers through her hair. “I saw something in the valley.”
“What did you see?” he asked.
“A light where there should be none,” Aoife murmured.
“Can you see it now?”
“The light is gone. Something moved through the undergrowth.”
“Dangerous?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “My instincts are always to err on the side of caution.”
“The veil between the worlds is thin within the Wildwoode,” Bes
said very quietly. “Who knows what creatures have come through from other realms.” The Dwarf’s single coal-black eye fixed on Aoife, and in that moment, she guessed that he knew her true nature.
Aoife had no idea who—or even what—Bes was; he had the copper skin and black eye of an easterner, his manners were elegant and refined, and yet his teeth were filed to points in the style of the cannibal Northsea islanders. She was aware that he spoke the Common Tongue with just the trace of an accent she’d never heard on this world before.
Nels hurried over. “We need to move now. We’re losing the light,” he said. When he’d seen the Dwarf talking to the woman, he’d tried to creep closer, but both the Dwarf and the woman had deliberately turned to look at him and he stopped. “I’ll not delay here simply because this woman has a vague feeling…,” he began.
Bes turned his head to face Nels squarely. He was missing his left eye, and the empty cavity was filled with a white marble etched with a swirling triple spiral. His bloodshot right eye fixed on Nels’s face. “I hired you to lead this wagon across the mountains,” he said, every word a rasping effort, “because you came highly recommended. Aoife I hired as guard because she was as highly regarded.”
“I don’t know this woman,” Nels grumbled. “I heard Aoife—the real Aoife of the Shadows—was killed by a thunderbird in the Westlands. This is probably some army deserter who has taken her name. Who recommended her, anyway? Some rogue—”
“The same rogue who recommended you,” Bes snapped. “Someone I respect, and someone who should not be insulted. Now remember who pays you. Get back to your wagon.”