She moved to Peter’s side, taking a defensive stance with her sword outstretched. He wanted to dismiss her protection, to insist that he could take care of himself. Then he remembered two things.
First, he had never even heard of the Light Clan before this day, so it seemed less-than-wise to dismiss the danger they posed just because they were represented by a glowing rainbow horse. (Even though, seriously, what kind of clan symbol was that? Who would view them as a legitimate threat?)
And second, while he might have just enough magic in him to see the fae folk, that was pretty much where it ended. His ability paled in comparison to the fully magical fae around him. When push came to shove, he would have to stand back and let them handle the fighting.
His pride didn’t love it, but his self-preservation approved.
“Does this mean they’re—”
Regan slapped a palm over his mouth before he could finish the question.
“Don’t. Speak.”
Peter opened his mouth, intending to lick her palm—a childish impulse, but an overwhelming one.
He froze before his tongue connected with her skin.
The entire forest around them shimmered like the glow from the unicorn’s horn. Then there was a flash of blinding light. It took Peter’s eyes several long moments to adjust.
When they did he almost wished he’d stayed flash-blind. There, where moments ago there had been nothing but the strange birch trees, was an entire force of white-swathed fae. Glimmering golden weapons drawn and aimed at the Moraine intruders.
They were surrounded.
8
The fae around them were obviously a highly trained unit. Then again, the warriors of the Light Clan were renowned through the fae realm as the most vicious and merciless of any army.
Like the fae of legend, they were all tall and lean, with flowing hair in shades from near-white to pale gold to the gray blue of a brightly overcast day. Their eyes were equally pale, in various colors, and their skin was so light it was almost iridescent.
They appeared more as specters than flesh and bone fae.
While their ghostly appearance was mesmerizing, it was their weaponry that drew Regan’s attention the most.
Each carried an impossibly long sword. The blades must of been equal in length to the fae’s height and though wide as warrior’s palm, they were as thin and supple as a blade of grass. As they moved, the gleaming metal emitted a humming sound that for some reason made Regan think of death.
And from each blade, the reflection of the now-setting sun cast rainbows over the group gathered in the clearing.
“You trespass on the land of the Light Clan,” one of the fae said, though Regan could not have said which because the sound seemed to reverberate from everywhere at once.
“Who are you?” another voice, this one female, demanded, “to tread so carelessly into our territory?”
Regan stiffened as the prince stepped forward, addressing the tallest of the fae warriors.
“I am Cathair O Cuana,” he said, “High Prince of the Clan Moraine. We come at desperate times to seek the assistance of your queen.”
None of the light fae moved so much as a muscle.
For several long seconds they only stared, as if unseeing, at the dark prince who dared to seek audience with their queen.
The longer the fae stood silent, the more nervous Regan became. She tried to place herself in the position of these warriors, a force who saw themselves as the only line of defense between their kin and an invading army. Were she on the other side of this faceoff, she would probably take the lot of them prisoner. Or, if she saw even the slightest hint of intent to harm, slice their throats without hesitation.
The very thought made her nervous. She instinctively moved her hand to the hilt of the small dagger hidden in her waistband.
The weapon was barely more than a table knife. In a true fight, it would do little harm. But it was the only thing she had that belonged to her parents. Her father had carried it on his waist just as she did now.
While it might not save her life, just the touch of the ornate handle had the power to calm her. To give her confidence and reassurance.
Before her fingers could connect with the cool metal, she felt a hand at the small of her back.
“Shhh,” Peter breathed right next to her ear. “Let’s see where talking gets us. Don’t start something that hasn’t begun.”
She flicked her gaze at him over her shoulder, but remained silent.
“The prince knows what he’s doing,” Peter continued. “We’ll be fine.”
Regan stood speechless, not only because the human spoke sense—Tearloch had often warned that her temper would get her into trouble some day—but also because his hand was doing something strange where it touched her. Rubbing the spot right above her waist in small, soothing circles.
Normally, physical contact made her more tense, more nervous. Few sought such contact with her. She wasn’t used to it. But for some reason, this action was actually calming her.
It worked so well that it took her several seconds to realize she had missed half of the the conversation between Cathair and the Light Clan warriors.
“Very well,” the tallest warrior said, stepping out of the shoulder-to-shoulder formation to face Cathair. “We shall take you to our queen.”
They did not sound terribly happy about the situation, but the rules of diplomacy—the rules of the comhaontu—were clear. A royal envoy must be shown the courtesy of an audience with the ruling fae.
The Light Clan warriors remained in a tight circle around the group, forming a living fence that made sure that none could escape or take any surprise action. They also took possession of all the group’s weapons, with the lone exception of Regan’s dagger. Even they saw that it was not much of a weapon.
The palace of the Light Clan made that of the Moraine look like a crumbling old ruin. It looked more like a work of spun sugar art than a building. The roof was dotted with spires that reached high into the sky, all in gleaming white stone that seemed to glow with rainbows from within.
As they walked through the main gate and across the courtyard, the people of the Light Clan turned to start at the party of dark fae who had ventured into their realm.
With their dark clothes and their dark (by comparison) hair, they stood out like flies in butter.
The warriors ushered them into the palace proper and through halls that sparkled with golden and crystal decorations. Every surface seemed to have some kind of leaf or scroll or intricate pattern. It was like an elaborate gown or a priceless necklace—but on a colossal scale.
After passing through what felt like half the realm, they finally reached the throne room. Which put the rest of the palace to shame.
High ceilings arched toward the sky, decorated with inlaid mother-of-pearl, diamonds, and topaz. Floors mirrored the same pattern in iridescent marble and quartz and gold. Delicate golden columns swept from the edges of the floor to the peaks of the arches. The throne itself sat atop a platform that required no less than a dozen steps to reach and was carved from a single quartz crystal so flawless that it appeared as glass.
Regan was not prone to unexpected emotions—or emotions period—but for some reason, the very essence of this room brought tears to her eyes.
“Welcome to the seat of the Light Clan,” a female voice said from atop the throne platform. “Tell me, why have you sought an audience with the queen of your enemy?”
Regan jerked back as the prince—her prince—knelt to the ground before the Light Queen.
“You are no enemy of the Moraine, Queen Onora,” Cathair said in a deferential tone. “We have come to seek your help regarding a situation that will put all fae clans at risk. Unseelie and seelie alike.”
“And what is this situation?” she asked with a hint of disdain. As if any situation could put the seelie fae—especially the Light Clan—at risk.
“One of our own,” Cathair said, still on one knee, “
a traitor to the Moraine, intends to resurrect the Dark Clan.”
Her gasp echoed through the room as loud as a thunderclap. The queen, her attendants, the warriors who had escorted them in—each knew the consequences if Ultan succeeded. Each knew it would mean certain doom for much of the fae realm.
“We have come to seek your help,” Cathair said, “to make certain that never happens.”
9
The Light Queen looked down her nose at the intruders who had dared to enter her palace. Peter had seen her sort before. Beautiful, powerful, and arrogant to a fault. Thought she was better than everyone, thought she knew better than everyone.
Probably spent her ainmhi as a swan.
“Impossible,” she said. “The Dark Clan cannot be resurrected. Their destruction was absolute.”
“Forgive me, your highness, but there is no such thing as an absolute.”
Peter had to agree with the prince on that one. To the ordinary humans without the gift of sight, the very existence of the fae around him was an absolute impossibility. In his years as part of the seer guard, serving since the age of twelve, he had seen many things that none would believe. He had learned not to consider anything truly impossible.
“When the Dark Clan was dissolved,” the queen said, “the united clans put in place every protection known to fae to ensure that they never returned. And now you dare to suggest that something was missed? Or that perhaps we left a path to resurrection in the destruction ritual?”
“Not at all.”
Cathair finally rose to his feet, and Peter felt Regan tense next to him.
He moved instinctively closer to her side. His reassurance had kept her from diving into unprovoked action back in the forest. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he could stop her if she truly chose to fight, but he would try whatever he could do to keep this situation from going ballistic.
“What I am suggesting,” Cathair said, stepping closer to the throne, “is that something unknown to fae might allow the traitor to resurrect the dark clan.”
“Unknown to fae?” The queen sounded confused.
As if nothing could ever be unknown to her.
Peter shook his head at the arrogance.
“Unknown to fae,” Cathair repeated, “but not unknown to—”
“The gods,” the queen finished, finally realizing what the prince was saying.
She flashed a self-satisfied grin.
Peter bit back a laugh.
Cathair nodded. “Precisely.”
Peter knew of the fae gods. Had heard tales of their creation and destruction, giving and taking, feats of heroism and feats of pettiness. Great Celtic deities whose origins were rumored to date back to the nymphs of ancient Greece. But he had always thought they were more mythology than reality. More legend that actual beings.
Maybe he was wrong.
There went another one of those absolute impossibilities.
“When the comhaontu was signed,” the queen said, rising from her thrown and descending the golden steps, “it was with the blessing of Morrigan herself.”
Her voice had dropped to a whisper, but the throne room was so silent that even from twenty feet away Peter heard every word. As did everyone else in the room.
“To seek her help,” the queen continued, now mere inches from Cathair, “there is but one way.”
Cathair nodded.
Peter felt his pulse quicken at the queen’s ominous words.
“None but the truest of heart may speak with the great goddess.” The queen smiled without humor, a sad, pitying grin. “One must complete the Tastail Tine.”
Regan’s face went ashen white.
Tastail Tine? Peter’s fae Gaelic was a bit rusty, but he thought that translated roughly as Fire Trial. He’d never heard of that one. Maybe it was a Light Clan ritual.
“I understand,” Cathair said, “and I willingly—”
“I volunteer,” Regan blurted before Cathair could finish.
The entire room—including Cathair and the Light Queen—turned to stare at her. Not only had she just interrupted a royal, mid-sentence, but she had just volunteered for this dangerous ritual.
“Regan, no,” Cathair said.
Regan dropped to one knee and bowed her head. “It would be my honor, my prince. Please do not deny me this service to my clan.”
Cathair looked equally stunned and awed.
Peter had to admit he was leaning more toward the awe. He didn’t know what this Tastail Tine was, what it entailed, but Regan had stepped in and volunteered without a moment’s hesitation. She would take that huge risk, assume that terrible danger, for the sake of her clan. For the sake of her prince.
Peter admired that more than he could put into coherent thought.
“That is very brave,” the Light Queen said. “You are a honor to your clan.”
Regan didn’t move from her kneeling position. If Peter were in her position, he’d have been quaking in his leather boots to have the Light Queen staring down on him like that. Arrogant thought she was, the woman had intimidation down to an art.
But Regan was still as a statue.
The Light Queen waved a dismissive hand. “However, your bravery is wasted. You cannot undertake the Tastail Tine.”
Regan looked up, eyes wide with shock and anger. “Why not?”
The queen’s guards moved forward, ready to defend her from the insolence of the enemy fae. She raised her hand to hold them back.
“Because,” the queen said, “this particular Tastail Tine can only be undertaken by a human. Any fae who enters the gate will be immediately stripped of all magic.”
“What?” Regan shook her head. “Why?”
“It is a safeguard,” the queen said, flicking her gaze to Cathair, “to protect the realm from those things unknown to fae.”
The prince nodded. “To prevent a corrupt fae from unravelling the ritual.”
“Precisely,” the queen replied.
Peter’s mind raced. His respect for Regan. His love of the Moraine. The risk to whoever tries this Tastail Tine. The risk to the entire fae realm if Ultan succeeded in raising the dark clan.
In the end, courage—also known as stupidity—trumped self-preservation and he heard himself say, “I’ll do it.”
He half expected someone—anyone—to try to talk him out of it. But what other choice did they have? The only other human around was Winnie, and while he considered himself an equal opportunity feminist, she had only just been introduced to the reality of the fae world. He had spent a lifetime training to serve his clan. Undisciplined and rebellious though he might have been, he was still a guardian. Still honor-bound to do whatever it took to protect the realm.
Besides, no way could he let the future queen of the Moraine take this kind of risk.
Cathair nodded in approval, a silent thank you that Peter had volunteered so Winnie wouldn’t have to. Because they both knew she would have, in a heartbeat.
Winnie stepped forward, like she was going to volunteer anyway, but Regan held her back.
The fae guard stared at Peter with her stormy eyes, looking completely shocked. And maybe a little bit impressed. Did she think she was the only one who would volunteer for the clan?
Did she think she was the only one willing to risk everything for something greater than herself?
He smiled and winked at her. Which only made her frown.
His smile grew.
The Light Queen turned her pale gold eyes on him, raked her gaze over him, judging him. “You will fail.”
Peter laughed at her proclamation. All fear of her was gone, replaced by the certainty that whatever he faced in the Tastail Tine would be a million times worse.
Besides, who was she to say whether or not he could pass the test? He might not have been much to look at—a bit tall and gangly, pale skin, flaming red hair—but he had been well trained. And though he didn’t always choose to be, he could act as bravely as any fae. Heck, he’d already faced more dan
ger in his time as a seer than most humans did in a full lifetime.
He wouldn’t fail the Tastail Tine because the consequences of failure were too great. Just this once, he had to believe in an absolute impossibility.
“I won’t,” he said, making the promise to himself and to the fae realm. “Tell me what I need to do.”
10
While the queen readied for the ritual, one of her guards led Regan and the others to a private chamber. No doubt as much to keep them contained as to allow them some time to prepare the human for the Tastail Tine.
He had no idea what he was getting into.
“So what exactly does this Tastail Tine entail?” he asked as Regan closed the door on the chamber. “I’m picturing toasted marshmallows and ghost stories around a campfire.”
Regan shook her head in disgust—or perhaps fear. “Are you never serious?”
“Not if I can help it,” he replied.
“It’s a test of will,” Winnie explained, ignoring their exchange. “Kind of like walking on hot coals.”
That was a vast oversimplification, but at this point Regan thought her observation would be unwelcome.
The human made a dismissive gesture. “No big deal. I’ve walked on way worse than hot coals.” He lifted his foot, as though they could see through the leather to the skin inside. “Still in tact.”
Winnie winced. “This is a bit more intense than that.”
“Impossible,” Regan blurted. “There is no way we can prepare him for this in such a short time. The priestesses of Morrigan train for years to endure the Tastail Tine.”
“What have we learned about the word impossible?”
“You are impossible!” She threw up her hands. “You will die in there.”
“You have a better plan?” the human retorted. “You want to send Winnie in?”
Regan jerked back, stunned by the anger in his voice, even as the emotion fed her magic.
“Or better yet, you want to go in? Lose your magic? Piss off the great and powerful Morrigan?” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “There are no other options. If we want to stop Ultan, then I have to do this.”
When Magic Burns Page 4