“How will I know if I’ve opened it? How will I know if we’ve passed through into Tír na nÓg?”
Mother’s eyes were heavy on mine. She had told me about the strange land the Folk called home, when she was drunk enough to lose herself to the memories. She described birds who sang with the voices of the long dead. Multicolored seas of hope and honey. Palaces thatched with leaves of glass. She told me how those who returned from the battles came back different—their tongues no longer possessed the power of speech, or their eyes saw only in darkness, instead of light. Wounds bled vines instead of blood, until flesh became bark, branches sprouting where limbs once grew…
“You’ll know, a stór,” she said with flat finality. “You’ll know.”
She looked away so suddenly I flinched. Then she made a dismissive gesture, and I knew the conversation was finished. Rogan tossed his mantle over one shoulder and strode toward the door. I moved to follow him, but Mother’s voice stopped me.
“A moment, Fia.”
I stopped. Mother waited until Rogan passed out of her chambers before turning to me.
“Rogan will retrieve my daughter.” The queen’s face was silk but her voice was iron. “Eala may be bewitched as well as enchanted, snarled in Folk magic. But Rogan is handsome and tall and good—he will be able to break the spell and beguile her back to where she belongs.”
I agreed wholeheartedly. And part of me hated him for it.
“Fine,” I said easily. “But I know you have not raised me by your own hand, training me in the ways of war and educating me in the ways of the Folk, for me to guard a Gate and wait for a prince.”
“You’re right.” Mother almost smiled, and my spirit lifted, like a flower turning toward the sun. But the smile faded before I could feel any hint of warmth. “I did have another task for you, a stór. One nearly as close to my heart as my daughter’s rescue, yet twiceas difficult.” She hesitated. “But after you believed I would willingly call for your death in service of this mission, I am loath to tell you of it. I would hate for you to believe that I would so easily risk your precious life. Perhaps it would be easier for all of us if I asked Rogan instead—”
“Tell me.” Renewed contrition and a desperate desire to prove myself sent the words tumbling from my mouth. “Anything you ask of me, I will do. No matter the difficulty—no matter the cost.”
The queen appraised me, as though weighing the meaning behind my words.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Cathair will tell you the details while I attend to my other duties. Tonight, you’ll join me at the feast, and we will discuss it further. Tomorrow, you leave for Bridei with Rogan.”
I bowed to my queen and mother, then followed Cathair from the throne room.
The druid’s chambers were unpleasantly familiar. Sandwiched between the dungeons and the scullery, the sprawling, low-ceilinged rooms were lined with shelves and trimmed with cluttered workbenches. The air reeked of black walnut and cheap mead. Starlings roosted noisily in the beams. Manuscripts and grimoires fought for space with magical artifacts and grisly souvenirs stolen from Tír na nÓg: jars of pickled mandrake root, broken ollphéist fangs, vials of unknown toxins.
I crossed my arms against the permanent dank chill of the vault, wondering how many years of my life I’d wasted down here, learning the history of the Gate War; the lore of the Folk; espionage and poisons.
“Why did the high king travel into Tír na nÓg some twenty years ago?” Cathair’s voice echoed over his shoulder as he reached a few heavy books down from a high shelf.
“Fódla was in peril,” I responded automatically. Though humans and Folk had never been friends, before the Gate War there had been careful amity between the realms. Diplomacy was not unheard of. “Plague had taken root in Delbhna. Blighted grain threatened famine in Bridei. Raiders sank ships along the eastern coasts. The high king went to the Fair Folk to ask for aid.” And the Folk had killed him for it.
“He went to ask formagic,” Cathair corrected, slamming a heavy volume on the table. I’d pored over the tome countless times—The Book of Beotach, a bestiary of the Folk. “Half an age ago, in the time of Amergin, the Fair Folk stole all the wild magic from the human lands. It weakened our world, like carving organs from a body. All so they could hoard that magic in Tír na nÓg for their own use. They channeled it into four precious Treasures, objects of immense power wielded by their ruling Septs.”
“The Septs, I remember—they are the four noble clans of the Folk.” I stared at him. “But you have never told me of these Treasures.”
Cathair flipped open the book. I glimpsed diagrams: a hairy, moon-faced gruagach, amusing itself by dispersing herds of cattle after stealing milk. A shrieking bean sidhe, clad in grave shrouds, bringing death with her keening. A bloodthirsty dearg due, with its gore-tipped claws and teeth. A shapeshifting aughisky, with its slender equine features and rows of shark teeth. Aquatic murúcha, solitary brùnaidhean, malicious púcaí. But Cathair riffled past these drawings of the lower Folk, stopping only when he reached the last chapter. The chapter about the treacherous, bewitching aristocracy of the Folk.
Trepidation prickled along my spine. I’d been young the first time I’d read that chapter. Nightmares had plagued me for weeks after—delicious, devious dreams of bladed tongues and bejeweled talons and indistinct voices calling me deeper into the forest. Even now, the lure of those drawings set my teeth on edge. But when Cathair tapped on an open page, I dutifully dropped my gaze.
He was pointing to a circular design, cross-sectioned into four—almost like a coat of arms.
“I have spent half my life unraveling this, the Folk’s best-kept secret.” Cathair’s smile was self-satisfied. “Each clan corresponds to the wild magic they funneled into their Treasures. The Sept of Fins wields the Un-Dry Cauldron. The Sept of Antlers, the Heart of the Forest. The Sept of Scales, the Flaming Shield. And the Sept of Feathers claims mastery of the Sky-Sword.”
My eyes followed the diagram as he spoke. Intricate geometric designs braided across it, layering into a dense pattern of illuminated flora and fauna. Color swirled in a gradient around its face—the azure of the ocean deepening to the emerald of the forest; the crimson of fire cooling toward a violet twilight.
I didn’t understand why he was telling me this now. “So?”
“These Treasures are capable of vast magic, little witch. The power to raise mountains or drown cities. Burn forests or reroute rivers.”
“Cure plagues.” I was beginning to understand. “Improve harvests. Defeat raiders.”
Cathair inclined his head. “And this Gentry lord who keeps Eala prisoner? Your darrig friend said he is tánaiste to one of these Septs. Heir to its Treasure. The queen wishes you to steal it from him, little witch, and return magic to its rightful place in Fódla.”
I stared at him, a thistle of dread growing in my chest. I had sparred with warriors and slain Fair Folk and spied on drunken lords and seduced princes (the last, somewhat unsuccessfully). But I had never even met any Gentry, much less plotted against them. To steal a potent, precious Treasure from one of them? Mother had been right—this was a far greater task than I’d ever been set before.
