I saw the doe first. She was poised and lovely, with depthless eyes and a constellation of white dots scattered across her brow.She knelt beneath a spreading oak, her forelegs tucked beneath her. She wasn’t alone.
Her tiny fawn was brand new. Spindly legs tipped in dainty hooves sprawled on the leaves as she struggled to stand. Bright white spots ran in uneven lines down the curve of her chestnut back; her coat was still dark and damp from her mother’s vigorous washing. Her bright fluff of a tail twitched and flicked as she wobbled, finding balance in her new world.
Time slowed as the pair danced through the ancient choreography of new life. I sensed the rhythm of their bonding, the joining of two creatures in a shared closeness. Until the fawn was old enough to fend for herself, she would rely on her mother for everything—from food to shelter to protection from predators. And the doe—she would give her child everything. Her milk. Her love. Her life, if it meant protecting her fawn’s.
A fist of sorrow gripped me. Had I ever had this? Had I ever been held, nurtured—loved—in the way only a mother could love her child? Or had I beenmade, as Cathair had always told me?Other—outside the infinite circle of birth and death.
The queen loved me—I knew that. But I suddenly—achingly—wished I’d hadthis. To be held by a mother like life held us all—loose in the palm of its hand, nurturing yet unyielding.
Eventually, the deer snuggled down into the long grasses, folding long legs beneath them. I reeled my attention back in to find myself kneeling in the underbrush, captured in the hot circle of Irian’s arms. His breath was soft and deep. The midnight hum of nature had lulled us both.
But when I shifted my gaze toward his, I found he wasn’t watching the deer—his quicksilver eyes were trained on my face. He lifted a hand to brush an errant strand of sable hair off my cheek. We were close enough for me to feel the brush of his writhing shadows, count the lashes lying like ink along his high marble cheekbones.
“This has made you sad, colleen.” His voice hummed. “Why?”
The intrusive question dispelled my meditative state. I stood sofast I knocked my head against a branch. Leaves fluttered down as I stared at him, wondering whether this was some new game—some calculated seduction to follow on the heels of the kiss he’d stolen last month. Irian looked taken aback by my reaction; his thumb skated unconsciously over the hilt of the Sky-Sword belted at his waist.
“Apologies, colleen.” His jaw tightened. “I only thought you might like to see the newborn fawn.”
“I’ve seen fawns before, Irian.” My words came out blunted, harsh. “They are easily born and easily slain.”
“Yes.” A muscle jumped high on his cheek. “And yet precious nonetheless, if only because they remind us of our own fleeting mortality.”
If the words were meant to disarm me, they served their purpose. I kept forgetting—Irian wasdying.
Cathair had told me the Folk lived long, ageless lives—yet because of the Treasure he’d inherited, Irian’s natural life span had been cut short. I wondered—perhaps for the first time—whether my own Folk blood granted me some unforeseen longevity. I shook away the thought—the question of my own mortality meant nothing to the thousands of Fódlan citizens dying of plague, of war, of famine.
“As compelling as your existential dread may be,” I snapped, “we had a bargain. Do you have a story for me, tánaiste? Or has your usefulness run out?”
“I see my efforts at subtlety are lost on you.” Irian stood briskly. “I have two stories for you, colleen. One of magic, and one of desire. I will only ask one story from you in return. But I decide what I want to know. Are we agreed?”
I experienced a burst of regret for my harsh words, and a flash of anger toward his. But I held his gaze and said, simply, “Agreed.”
“Once—in a time of falling stars and terrible prophecies—an heir was born to the Sept of Antlers.” I frowned—he had already told me Deirdre’s story. But I didn’t interrupt as he continued.“Hidden in her garden, she discovered a secret about herself—a secret she guarded jealously, if only because there was no one to tell it to. The secret of her anam cló—her soul form.”
“Herwhat?”
“Her animal avatar.” Irian’s eyes glittered. “Among the lineages of the Septs, shape-shifting was considered a mark of power. Prestige. Those rare few who possessed an anam cló were revered for their ability.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “The little boy who frequented Deirdre’s garden was never supposed to see her transform. But he witnessed his friend change, and he saw what form her anam cló took.”
Caught between moonlight and shadow, Irian was a study in contrasts—dark shadows, bright eyes; black hair, marble skin. I could not decipher his expression.
“What was it?”
“It was a doe.”
Surprise jerked my gaze back toward the deer and her fawn. But the dainty animals were invisible amid the undergrowth. “You told me Deirdre died.”
“She fell from a great height in her sorrow. The wild magic was released from her lost Treasure. Death was assumed, but no body was ever found.” Carefully, he stepped closer, looming over me. “If you have been paying attention, then you have surely guessed that Deirdre is who you remind me of. That night on the beach—she was who I thought you were, the first time I saw your face. The color of your hair, the timbre of your voice, the substance of your magic. Perhaps, if she somehow survived her fall, you might be—”
“What? Her… daughter?” The notion shocked a laugh out of me. But Irian wasn’t joking, and his expression sobered me. “And my father?”
“The only man she ever gave herself to. The human king who stole her heart and set in motion two decades of misery for both the Folk and human realms.”
That, I couldn’t laugh at. His words struck me squarely between the shoulder blades, cowing me. I reached out to steady myself against a tree, only to find Irian’s huge hands bracing my weight against his.
“It is only a theory, colleen.” His low voice gentled me. “But you are the right age. A child born to both worlds has not been recorded in living memory, but you—you seem neither fully Folk nor fully human. Perhaps you have some memories…?”
“None.” The word gasped out of my tight lungs. Moments ago, Irian’s words had seemed absurd and impossible. But now the notion squeezed my chest with hard, dark roots, seeking the softest parts of me with devious little fingers. Deirdre of the Sept of Antlers, my mother? Rían Ó Mainnín, my father?
