As a weeping child may be distracted by a new toy, I grieved, but was wide-eyed with curiosity all the same.
“Is this how it is now?” I leapt at the sound of my own voice. For I heard it for the first time, this voice belonging to only me, deeper than Bess’s and seductive, with a low richness like fine wine. The voice belonged in the bedchamber or singing sailors to the deep. It would not call in the sheep to supper or bargain over the price of bread.
Thomas Shepherd would never recognize that voice, yet it was my own.
Out from under the thistle bush scurried a little white-haired girl, ram’s horns on her forehead, her dress as snowy soft as down.
I smiled, charmed as I always had been by the littlest creatures, and this one was dear and sweet in appearance despite her curling horns. Then she held out a drinking horn shaped exactly like the horns on her head, offering it to me.
This horn—did it used to be hers?
“No, I could not.” I shook my head rapidly and my brows dipped into a frown. To drink from this would be not unlike sipping from someone’s fingernails, or carrying a basket woven from their hair.
Does the queen now reject the wee sprite’s gift?That same inner voice that had spoken from inside me while I lived in the realms of man? It sounded different, louder and deeper now. More difficult to deny.
The child—for she seemed to be no more than six, though fae appearances can be misleading—pouted, tears welling in her big brown eyes. She seemed to shrink, skin wrinkling, and her downy dress molting like a bird.
She dwindles from my disregard, withers like a flower when there has been no rain.
“That is to say, of course I will drink it.” I took the horn from her and drank heartily. I tasted purest nectar, like mother’s milk to an infant nearly starved. My whole body filled with strength and wellness. Thanks were never welcome here, so I patted the little sprite between her horns and told her, “You have served your queen well.”
The horned girl shone with happiness. Never had I caused anyone such joy before.
No, I had. Him I last saw laid out in pain in Carterhaugh. I swallowed down my sorrow.Behave as though you are happy, until it is no longer pretense.
Tentatively, I lifted my hand and waved.
I stood among my own people now. Nixies arose from a glassy lake nearby, their unearthly nature evident in the flick of their silvery tails. Goblins peeked their loathsome heads around the tree trunks; hobs and green-haired ashrays peeped out of the shrubbery, curious to behold their new queen. All these creatures belonged to me, like my own family never had; they stared at me in admiration, not pity for the birthmark on my throat.
That blemish had now left me, planted itself among the greens of Carterhaugh. Mab knew whether I would ever see it again.
Mairi Grieve took me away from all this. To keep me safe from what threat, I do not know.But I intended to find out.
Later.
The smaller, wee fae retreated, and a company of glistening Aos Sith came forth, lords and ladies all in silk, wearing drops of dew like diamonds or diamonds like drops of dew, who could tell? Some wore no clothing at all but their bare skin like the finest royal robes, their eyes of owls or deer or perfectly human-looking, yet somehow not.
A knight in silvery white armor came forward, leading a dove-grey steed whose mane and tail were braided with bells. The knight’s hair flowed pale as butter, falling over his slender shoulders as he inclined his head. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice melodic and light with youth, more the pitch of a young boy than a man. “Your steed awaits.”
For a moment, I stood transfixed, never having seen so beautiful a horse, nor so beautiful a man.
The horse gave me the greater pause, though; ’twas no knightly destrier but a palfrey as fine ladies do ride.
I had never been a fine lady. Eamon Grieve did use rouncy horses at times, minimally trained beasts for transporting heavy goods around the farm, but I always kept my distance from them.
Horses, of course, are shod with iron. Nailing one of their shoes above the lintel keeps the fae folk away.
As if sensing my thoughts, the steed lifted its front hoof. Silver-shod, it appeared, and the rear hooves shod in gold. So did they avoid the poisonous iron here.
Still, I swallowed hard, staring at the saddle before me.I am to sit up there?
“Your Majesty?” prompted the knight, lifting a perfectly arched brow.
“Yes,” hissed an all-too-familiar voice, slithering serpent-like around the shells of my ears. “Do let us see whether Her Majesty is able to ride.”
Queens do not walk, even in Faery, it appears.Could they not then have brought me a litter or a carriage? I did not fear riding in those.
’Twas another test, it appeared, and one I hated to lose.
