Rarely did faeries look rattled. Possibly their race was naturally good at deception, or maybe they were all so damned old they had a lot of practice. But this keeper blinked once, his eyes widened, and he stepped back. Interesting. Whoever Ewain was, the keepers knew. What else hadn’t they told the druids?
Without another word, the faerie bowed and scurried away as though someone chased him. While Aaron waited, he pondered the conversation between Munro and Ewain. How had Douglas tapped into Tràth’s temporal talents? Douglas’ memory was markedly better than before, almost photographic. Was that what Ewain meant? What abilities of Joy’s might Aaron tap into? He reached inward, caressing his bond with Joy. As usual, she seemed nervous. After they bonded, he realised her confidence and happiness were a mask made of pure willpower. Inside, she cringed with terror. Their bond was strong, but at the same time, their connection felt fragile to him, like exposed flesh unprotected by even a thin layer of skin.
A few moments later, Keeper Oszlár entered the foyer and bowed his head to Aaron. “My lord druid,” he said. His tone betrayed caution, and his eyes were steely and serious. “Come. Let us go somewhere we can talk.” He turned, leaving Aaron to follow.
They went to the keepers’ private quarters. Aaron had never been back here before, but he didn’t spend as much time at the library as Munro or Douglas had. When they reached a small cluttered study, Oszlár sat and indicated the opposite chair. “Please.”
“Who is Ewain, and why can I hear his voice?” Aaron asked as he took a seat.
Oszlár watched him closely. “You’ve never encountered the name?”
“Not before today when I overheard him talking to Munro.”
Unlike the other faerie, Oszlár revealed nothing by his expression, but he hesitated before continuing. “You may recognise his title,” the keeper said. “He was also known as the Father of the Sky.”
“The…” Aaron’s voice trailed off, and he leaned back in the chair to catch his breath. “I’m hearing a faerie god in my head? A faerie god talking to my dead friend?”
“A hundred generations ago, he was draoidh. One of the first. He features in some of our earliest surviving stories. Over time, he became a legend, or, if you prefer, a god. Few remember the truth.”
“What about Munro? He was talking with Munro. If Douglas hadn’t heard the same voice, I’d think I was going mad.”
“Lord Druid Douglas encountered him as well?” Oszlár’s expression darkened.
“That’s why I sent him to Zalia with Prince Tràth. Something drove him, compelled him even, to feed the Stone. He believed the Stone was manipulating him, trying to drive a wedge between him and Tràth. I suggested he leave the Halls of Mist. After he did so, I began hearing the voice. Keeper, what is going on?”
“I’m not certain,” Oszlár replied.
“Who was Ewain
really
?”
“A powerful draoidh. His talents, as you may have guessed, were azuri. Spirit, in fact. That much we know.”
“What happened to him?”
“Because of his deviant practices, his brethren banded together to be rid of him.”
Aaron grappled to absorb the information. “Deviant how?”
“This is where the stories are unclear at best. They claimed he raised an army of demons.”
“Demons?” Aaron stared. “Is there such a thing?”
“I have never seen one,” Oszlár said. “But I’m not
that
old.” A smile flickered over his lips, then vanished. “The writings from the time are few, and the stories sometimes contradict one another. Ewain once held the kingdom we now refer to as Danastai. Nearly ten thousand years ago, the draoidh banded together and severed Danastai from the rest of Otherworld and destroyed its gates to the human realm. Every faerie within that kingdom at the time must have perished. If they survived being separated from the power of the Source Stone, which is unlikely, they would have been unable to reproduce. As you know, our kind cannot conceive without entering the human realm to make a sacrifice to the Mother. Thus, any remaining Danastai fae surely died off.”
“Why would the draoidh do this?”
“Because of the perversions Ewain performed. Although the tales sound fanciful to rational minds, some writings suggest he raised the dead.”
“So Ewain was trapped in this Danastai kingdom?”
Oszlár furrowed his brow. “No. His fellow draoidh captured and disposed of him.” He tilted his head. “Our order of keepers was formed several hundred years after these events. We possess no direct evidence revealing what happened or why.”
“He might still be alive,” Aaron said, his mind reeling.
“After ten thousand years?” Oszlár said. “The draoidh were not immortal. In those days, the lifespan of even the fae was much shorter, a mere two hundred years or so. It has taken many hundreds of generations for us to achieve such longevity.”
“You said Ewain was accused of raising the dead,” Aaron said. “If he managed that, couldn’t he keep himself alive?”
“These are rumours. Ancient stories. Fictions unworthy of truth-seekers and scholars,” Oszlár said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I heard his voice, and Munro’s, not half an hour ago.” Aaron wasn’t getting anywhere. Time to change tactics. “You said your order of keepers was created after these events. Surely there must be clues in your history.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. The Stone is our primary concern. Any scholars could tend to the library and our collection of writings and artefacts, but the Stone requires special care.”
Aaron leaned forward. “What kind of care?”
“The Stone is the oldest and most powerful artefact of our race. If the Stone were to be destroyed, we would perish.”
That’s not an answer.
“Could Ewain have been trapped inside the Stone?”
“No,” Oszlár said, frowning as though contemplating. “The Stone is a rock. How could a man be held within it?”
“A rock with peculiar qualities. You must admit, it seems strangely life-like, almost sentient at times. The Stone calls people, makes decisions, listens to requests, asks to be fed with the power of druids.” His stomach tightened with worry. “Prince Griogair saw a hand reach out of the portal, a mere projection of the Stone. That hand took Munro.” He paused, staring hard at the keeper. “Ewain’s hand. Which suggests he’s still alive. If he’s alive, so is Munro.”
“Impossible,” Oszlár whispered, his hands trembling.
∞
Cen led Joy to the portal. Prince Griogair, two Caledonian Watchers, and Lisle followed, having left Jago in the nursery with the princess. Joy clutched the small rattle awkwardly. After all, it had been made for Maiya’s baby grip. If only she knew better how to use her spirit flows, maybe she could work out why the princess had given it to her. She’d had a teacher once, Pana, but he lost his fingers and Joy her eyes because of their clandestine lessons. Unable to feed or tend himself, Pana took poison rather than allow Joy to spend her life taking care of both of them. The loss still pained her.
Now this infant, Maiya, expected Joy to perform a miracle. What was she supposed to do? She approached the eerie glow of the portal. Her spirit senses showed her a perfect orb, shining bright like a blue sun. Circling the portal, she tried to connect with her spirit flows. How much easier the process would be if she could even whisper.
Remembering the moment she’d bonded with Aaron, when she formed the necessary words, told her what to do. Her damaged throat no longer allowed the warm vibrations of a voice, yet she’d successfully used it to enter a magical contract even though for azuri fae in Zalia, sound of any sort was forbidden. Even a click of the tongue was grounds for punishment. She paused to breathe and calm herself. She needed to put Zalian tradition behind her if she wanted to succeed.
The spirit aura she’d sensed in the portal still lingered. Neither Aaron nor Cen understood, but her spirit senses were foreign to any who’d never experienced them. Curiously, Aaron claimed no other spirit fae existed. She knew several in Tafgul. At least half the shadowlings she’d encountered shared her sphere. Why couldn’t one of them, one older and more practised, one not hindered by blindness, have bonded with Aaron instead?
Why me? I don’t deserve this honour. I’m not sure I am up to this task.
Doing her best to push the fears aside, Joy reached for the portal. The fragment within definitely mirrored the weak essence she’d sensed in the Caledonian Hall, presumably the queen. When her druid fell, Eilidh’s spirit must have ripped. In fact, the part of the queen’s spirit Joy detected had been melded with another. Before she’d bonded with Aaron, Joy wouldn’t have understood. Now she recognised the pattern of entwined souls. Hers and Aaron’s had begun the same process. Likewise, Tràth and his druid bore identical spiritual marks. Their connection had suffered some devastating injury, but their auras were slowing healing the wound.
Tempted to give up and retreat to the Druid Hall, Joy faltered. What was she supposed to do? She’d never attempted anything like this, barely even understood
what
she saw. How could she capture the errant spirit and bind it to the queen? Finally, she could stall no more. She had to at least make an attempt. Mouthing words she scarcely allowed herself to
think
over the past century, clicks of the tongue and strange growls in her throat beckoned the spirit.
The thread floated toward her, pulsing with a weak and diminishing energy. If she didn’t succeed soon, it would depart forever. What held it in this portal anyway? She’d not believed a spirit could survive severed from the flesh.
A seed of darkness formed in the portal’s glow. She urgently called to the spirit-thread, trying to lead it away from the growing aberration. The shadow swelled quickly and suddenly surrounded Joy, pulling her into the portal. Shouts sounded around her. Earth magic whipped nearby, and she recognised Prince Griogair’s unique aura. The darkness became more solid, a distinct pattern of spirit flows, more terrible and powerful than anything she’d ever encountered. Fear wracked her body, and she opened her mouth in a silent scream. Flailing in its grasp, the shadow lifted her. She couldn’t tell how high, and she lost all sense of orientation as she fought and kicked.
The rattle vibrated in her hand, almost causing her to drop it, but Joy held on.
Athair
, a voice called in her head. Maiya. Was this the same force that killed the princess’ father? The knowledge made Joy’s chest tighten with panic. If it ended a powerful druid lord, what hope did an untrained, blind, mute, outcast faerie have?
Joy struck the shadow with her fists. When the blood artefact touched the dark spirit binding her, it wavered and the grip on her loosened. Hope sparked within, and Joy funnelled her spirit flows into the rattle and pounded again. A loud rumble sounded, and the force tossed her in the air like a toy.
A roar like a man’s primal scream filled her ears, but Joy fought on, wrangling the flows she’d hidden from for so long. Clumsy and inept, still she struggled, focusing her energy on the artefact. This time, instead of striking the darkness, she pulled the rattle in and struck herself hard in the seat of her own soul, just below her stomach. When her root spectrum connected with the artefact, the blackness released her, and she fell.
The dark force surrounded but didn’t touch her. Her spirit vision grew dim. She could no longer detect the glowing souls of the people nearby. The barrier silenced the voices of her companions. Only the sound of her own breathing touched her ears. If not for the still-glowing spirit thread trapped with her, she might have believed her magical senses had been damaged.
Reaching out, her fingers found a cold surface which formed a sphere. She was trapped inside the portal.
Eilidh’s spirit-thread flickered, growing weaker. The fragment would not survive much longer. Joy, frightened and unsure, clicked her tongue, calling voicelessly to the broken soul. It approached and she opened her mouth and swallowed, cradling and protecting the wounded fragment within her body. She coaxed it downward until the light rested next to her own soul, allowing it to feed from her essence while she figured out what to do next.
She sat in the curved bottom of the sphere and tried to slow her breathing. The small amount of air remaining would not last long.
Something wrenched in Aaron’s gut: pain, fear, dread. “Joy,” he said, rising out of his seat.
“What is it?” Keeper Oszlár asked.
“My bonded faerie is in trouble.” He bolted from the small study without another word. She was close by, almost directly above his head.
The portal.
“Oh, shit,” he said, bounding up the stairs.
When he arrived in the courtyard, his eyes immediately went to the portal, which had turned dark and solid. “Joy!” he shouted. He sensed her within the immense black orb.
“Stay back!” Griogair warned. “The hand took her.”
“She’s inside,” Aaron said. “We need to break her out.” His mind spun, searching for some solution. She was alive. Afraid, but not panicked. He should have been there. Why did he not stay with her? He turned to Cen, needing his help. With Huck and Demi still in America, Douglas in Zalia, and Munro dead, that only left one druid other than Lisle, and what could a blood druid do? Then again, what could any of them do? “Go to the Druid Hall. Get Rory. Quickly!”
Pale and shaken, Cen nodded. He ran down the narrow bridge, moving so fast, his form blurred.
“What happened?” Aaron asked Griogair.
“As with Munro,” Griogair said. “I tried to pull her back with air flows. She fought the creature with Maiya’s toy, the rattle Jago made. It’s some kind of artefact.”
Aaron frowned. He’d helped the boy craft the object. Although the water druids had shaped the wood with the flows, they hadn’t imbued it with druid magic. The child must have done something on his own. Whatever he did, it likely saved Joy from sharing Munro’s fate.
Hearing footfalls approaching from the library, Aaron turned to see Keeper Oszlár behind him. “Joy is in there,” Aaron said, pointing to the portal. “What do you know of this?” Aaron strode toward the ancient faerie.