Darkly Fae: The Moraine Cycle

  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 danger 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.”

  Chapter 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.”

  His nostrils flared and his eyes were wider than usual.

  But there, underneath the anger, she saw something else. She felt something else. Something the anger hid. Wounded pride perhaps? Irritation that she had dared to suggest that he could not complete the test?

  No, more than that. Deeper. Beneath even that she saw...fear.

  He was truly frightened. He understood that he was risking his life for the sake of the fae, and that the survival of the entire fae realm might depend on him successfully completing the trial. He knew the risk, he was terrified of it, and still he intended to go through with it.

  Regan admired that kind of courage in the face of insurmountable odds.

  It also reassured her that, despite his outward appearance of recklessness and lack of concern, he was actually taking the Tastail Tine quite seriously. That gave her hope that perhaps it was not so impossible after all.

  “You are right,” she said quietly. “I am sorry to have voiced such doubts.”

  Now it was his turn to blink in surprise. Clearly he had not expected an apology from her.

  She could not be offended. He did not yet know her well enough to have learned that her humility was greater than her pride. Though it happened infrequently, she could admit when she was wrong.

  “The queen indicated one of us could accompany him to the gate,” Regan said, not looking away from the stunned human—from Peter. If he was going to risk his life for the sake of her kind, she could at least call him by his proper name. “I would like to volunteer for that honor.”

  “I don’t need an escort,” Peter insisted.

  “I am sure you do not,” Cathair replied, “but you will have one just the same.”

  Winnie nodded. “Take whatever help you can get.”

  Peter looked at each of them, as if trying to decide if he should stick to his proud independence or gratefully accept whatever help was offered. In the end, gratitude won out.

  He was showing himself to be more intelligent by the minute.

  “Okay then,” he said, turning to Regan. “Looks like we’re in this together too.”

  Regan only hoped she could provide some assistance, that in some small way she could help this brave young man save them all from a bleak future where the Dark Clan lived again.

  A sharp knock on the door jarred them all from their thoughts.

  Queen Onora entered ahead of her guards.

  “It is time,” she said. “The gate is prepared.”

  Regan’s palms felt damp and clammy as they followed the queen into the hall. The party was solemn, walking in a silent, single-file line as they made their way through the palace and to the door that opened onto a sacred courtyard that held the standing stones.

  “None but the three of us,” the queen said, indicating herself and Regan and Peter, “may enter.”

  Cathair patted Peter on the back and Winnie gave Regan a hug. Regan was not sure why, since she would not be entering the gate. Perhaps Winnie simply needed to hug someone and only Regan was available.

  For whatever reason, Regan did not dislike the contact as much as she usually did.

  Then the queen gestured to them, and the trio walked into the courtyard, leaving behind Winnie, Cathair, and the guards.

  “Know this,” the queen said as she closed the door behind them. “There can be but one attempt at the Tastail Tine.”

  “One shot,” Peter replied. “Got it.”

  Regan had never seen a sacred circle before. Use of the standing stones was restricted to the priests and priestesses of the clan, to those trained in the ancient rituals and in communication with the gods.

  It felt almost profane that she stood there now, a fighter who had hurt and killed more in her young years than many soldiers had done in their lifetimes. Never without cause, but still the memory of spilled blood weighed her down. She did not deserve the honor of this place.

  But she was not here for herself. She was here for her clan. And for Peter.

  “So this is it, huh?” he asked, not moving from the edge of the circle.

  “That is the gate.” Regan pointed at the arch made from two vertical stones with a third stone laid horizontally across the top. “It is through there that you must pass to undertake the trial.”

  “Doesn’t look like much.”

  Regan shook her head. Indeed it did not. It looked all too ordinary. Unmagical, even. Through the opening created by the stones she could see straight through to the other side of the circle.

  “What do you think I’ll see inside?” Peter asked her. “The secrets of the universe?”

  “I cannot even guess.”

  She sensed his shoulders slump slightly at her answer. A hint of despair fed her magic. She had thought he was joking, but he had been looking for reassurance. She could give him none. She had neither experienced traveling the gate for herself nor did she know any fae who had.

  She had heard the legends, though. The ancient tales of fae who traveled between realms, who journeyed through time, who visited the home of the gods and lived to tell of their adventures. All her life she had believed these to be nothing but stories made up to entertain children. Stories she wished her parents had been alive to tell to her.

&n
bsp; She had long ago stopped wishing for something that could never be.

  But she had never forgotten the stories.

  “None of it will be real,” she said, her voice softening into a soothing tone she did not know herself to be capable of.

  “What do you mean?”

  “According to the legends,” she continued, moving closer to his side, “nothing of what you see or feel when you are in the gate will be real. It will seem real, your senses will insist that it is, but it is an illusion.”

  Peter smiled at her. “Good to know.”

  She felt a sensation of warmth in her chest, pride for knowing that, in some small way, she had helped. Whether the advice would prove useful was yet to be seen. But for now, she was glad she had made him feel even a little bit more at ease.

  “The window closes,” the queen called out from the doorway. “You must enter the gate now or wait until the next sunset.”

  Regan knew they could not afford to delay even a single day.

  Apparently Peter did too.

  “No time like the present,” he said with a grin. And then, without a moment’s hesitation, he started for the gate.

  As he approached the center of the circle, Regan’s heart pounded so loud she could hear the blood throbbing through her ears. Her magic soared with the power of his fear.

  “I will be here,” she called out. “If if you need me.”

  He looked back over his shoulder, winked at her, and then stepped into the gate.

  Chapter 11

  Searing pain.

  The instant he walked through the gate, the only thing Peter could feel—or see or think or hear or even smell for that matter—was the absolute blistering pain of the hottest flames. He nearly passed out from the excruciating agony.

  After a few seconds that felt like a lifetime, his other senses began to work again. First came his hearing, in the form of a piercing scream. It took another several seconds to realize that the scream was his own.

  As much as his entire being wanted to keep screaming until the suffering ended, he forced himself to stop. Forced his mouth to shut, for his screams to quiet into gasping sobs.

  He had never felt so much pain in his life.

  Every self-preserving instinct in his body begged him to run, to turn around and flee back out the way he came. He could. He knew it would be as easy as taking a few steps backward.

  But he remembered the queen’s words. There can be but one attempt.

  If he failed, their hope of figuring out what Ultan was doing so they could stop him would be lost. The fae realm would be lost. He couldn’t let the Moraine down. He couldn’t let his friends down.

  So he stood there, trying to keep as still as possible, while the flames raged around him.

  Nothing else happened.

  How long was he supposed to wait? Was he supposed to call out for Morrigan? Was she waiting for him to say the words? Because he didn’t think he could. If he opened his mouth again, the screaming would pick up where it left off.

  And so he stood.

  As long as he could bear it.

  He had no idea how much time had passed. Seconds? Hours? Years? Every breath—if he could call lungfuls of fire breath—felt like an eternity.

  He couldn’t take it any more. His body was too weak. No, his mind was too weak. No one was strong enough to withstand this kind of pain for this long. The Light Clan had devised this is some kind of unwinnable torment. It was a trick.

  There was no succeeding.

  He took a step back. There was no point in sticking it out. He wouldn’t get what they came for anyway.

  A small voice in the back of his mind told him this was the real trick, that he was talking himself out of the trial. That this was the trial. But then another flame licked across his back and the voice went silent.

  He took another step back. Only another few and he would be free. His torment would end.

  He was just about to take another when a different voice penetrated the roar of the fire. This one came from outside of his mind. From outside of the gate.

  “Peter? Peter, can you hear me?”

  Regan’s voice sounded like she was right next to him.

  But she couldn’t be. She wasn’t supposed to enter the gate. She couldn’t. It would destroy her magic.

  “Stay away!” he shouted, surprised that his voice actually managed the words. “Don’t come in here!”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’m at the gate’s edge. Just outside.”

  Good, he thought to himself. Good.

  She needed to stay outside.

  “You are doing wonderfully,” she told him. “You are so strong.” There was a brief hesitation, and then, “I believe in you.”

  Her words went straight to a spot somewhere between his heart and his throat. They created a warmth—a very different warmth from the searing heat that surrounded him. They warmed him from within. Calmed him. Gave him the strength to persist. To believe.

  She believed in him. She was not the kind of fae to give her faith without cause. He believed in her belief. She made him believe in himself.

  For the first time since he had volunteered for this ridiculous ritual, he thought he might actually succeed.

  He remembered what she said before he entered the gate. None of it will be real.

  What if she was right? What if this searing pain, the sensation of flames surrounding him, smothering him, suffocating him, was all an illusion?

  If she could believe in him, then he could have faith in her words.

  Instinct warned that opening his eyes would leave him blind for life. He shoved aside the fear and forced his lids open.

  What he saw took his breath away. Instead of a field of flames, a hellish inferno that would make Dante turn away in horror, he saw a field of wheat. Seriously, he was standing in a field of waist-high grass. Not an ember in sight.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  About twenty feet in front of him stood a man. Or at least he resembled a man. He had the head and arms and legs of a man. But something about him—nothing Peter could precisely put his finger on, but something—was inhuman. Was superhuman.

  “You have passed the Tastail Tine,” the man said. “What is it you seek?”

  That was it? All it took was opening his eyes?

  What kind of impossible test was that?

  “Who are you?” Peter asked before he could stop the question. “I mean, I thought I was going to meet Morrigan in here.”

  The man shook his head and smiled. “The great goddess does not submit herself to such earthly quests.”

  Peter supposed that made sense. If he were a goddess—or, you know, a god—he wouldn’t want to show up for every little thing people asked for. He knew people. The list of requests would be never-ending.

  “I am Belemus,” the man said. “The god of fire. This is my trial you have passed.”

  “Belemus,” Peter replied. “Okay, then.”

  God of fire. That explained all the burning pain and whatnot.

  “What is it you seek?” Belemus asked.

  “Oh, right.” Peter shook his head, trying to get himself back on track. He could freak out about the idea of meeting a fae god later. “This really bad guy—Ultan, you know him?”

  Belemus only frowned at Peter.

  “No? Why would you?” Peter shrugged and took a step toward the god. “You’ll just have to take my word for it that he’s a horrible guy. Anyway, he’s trying to resurrect the Dark Clan, and from what I understand that’s a really bad thing.”

  Belemus shrugged. “There is no good and bad. Only natural and unnatural.”

  That seemed like the kind of woo-woo philosophy favored by cult leaders and serial killers. But Peter didn’t have time for an ethics debate.

  “If you say so, dude. Thing is, my friends in the Clan Moraine are pretty sure that if he does this, it will be the end of the fae realm. And we don’t want that to happen.”

  “That would be
...” Belemus searched for the word. “Unnatural.”

  “Yes. That.” Peter clapped his hands together. “So we need to stop him. The only problem is—”

  “You do not know how?” Belemus finished.

  Peter nodded. “Exactly.”

  “To know how to stop the resurrection, you must first know how to start it.”

  Peter supposed that made sense, but it also scared him. He didn’t think anyone should know how to do that. He certainly didn’t think he should know how to do that. Not that he was planning on resurrecting anything, but he didn’t want that kind of knowledge rolling around in his brain.

  “I don’t want the details,” Peter insisted. “Just tell me what Ultan needs to do so we can keep him from doing it.”

  Belemus stepped close and reached out with both hands. Peter stood frozen as the god of fire grabbed him by the shoulders.

  He mentally shook his head. There would be plenty of time for freaking out later.

  “When the united clans asked the gods to eradicate the Dark Clan, we knew that some day one would seek to see them rise again. We placed certain precautions in place, certain impossible elements that must be acquired in order to accomplish the resurrection.”

  There was that word again. Impossible.

  He really wished people would stop using it altogether. Just banish it from the world vocabulary or something.

  Clearly, if Ultan thought he was going to get the Dark Clan back together, the elements weren’t nearly as impossible as the gods thought.

  “Like what?” Peter asked.

  “One, in particular,” Belemus said, “seemed like something that would never come to exist.”

  Seemed like. Which sounded an awful lot to Peter like another way of saying does now. “And that would be?”

  “The blood of my child.” Belemus squeezed Peter’s shoulders.

  Freak out later, Peter reminded himself. Freak. Out. Later.

  “I never thought to sire offspring,” the fire god continued. “But as an eternal being, I should have known that never does not exist. I met a human woman and was enchanted by her beauty.”

  Peter could imagine what came next. He didn’t need to know the particular’s of Belemus’s love life—preferred not to, actually. He knew what they needed to do. If Ultan needed the blood of Belemus’s child in order to resurrect the Dark Clan, then Peter and the Moraine needed to find this child before he did.