The Ice Queen

  Up and up they climbed, up stairs and up hills, through streets and markets. The sprawling citadel seemed to have no end, and people lined the streets to see them pass.

  Mab smiled. “Do you see? You are their light, and their hope. You will not fail them.”

  “I do not know if I will fail them or not,” Caer fought back the tears kept at bay with her fury.

  As she spoke, several women in white robes came towards them. One, seeming to be the chief, looked familiar to Caer, though she could not quite place her.

  “Milady, you have come.” The woman smiled, bowing over and over again before Caer. “I am Athellind, the chief healer of the city. I attended your birth.”

  “Yes, my daughter,” Mab said to Athellind, who looked old enough to be the immortal fairy’s grandmother. “But we have now more pressing business.”

  “Yes, of course.” Athellind turned to where the fairy pointed. Gasping his name, she rushed to Headred, weeping when she felt his cold skin.

  Athellind led them into a gated garden now dead and covered in snow, in which the entrance of the healing house lay. Once they stood inside the gates shut, sealing off the throngs in the streets.

  “The demon attacked Headred,” Caer said, her voice quivering. “Can you help him?”

  Athellind glanced at her, worried. “We will try, dear child.” She turned to Mab “Can the power of our kindred save him?”

  “I have done all I can. My magic sustained him on the journey. Perhaps with the healers’ help he can be spared.”

  “Perhaps,” Athellind murmured. “Perhaps.”

  They laid Headred on a stretcher and spirited him away. When he disappeared into the house, the tears came to Caer, rivers of tears.

  “She cannot have him,” Caer sobbed. “I will not let her.”

  “Some things are the will of the fates.” Mab frowned at the house where they took him. “We are not meant to decide the course of fate, or to question the judgment of gods.”

  “I am their child, as are you,” Caer said, her face contorting in anger.

  “They who cast Moloch into Miðgarðir, rather than destroy him themselves. They caused this with their stupidity and pride, and now more death must be riven for them.” Mab looked deep into the young woman’s eyes. “And yet always the blood of the innocent spills, so the lives of many more can be saved. Caer, Headred still lives. If the healers of Ull are still skilled, all hope may not yet be lost. They too descend from the line of Dana, she gave them their gifts.”

  “Pray he does. Pray he lives.” walked away, unwilling to stand in the shadows, unwilling to go on searching for the light.

  *****

  Athellind’s pale face appeared as she rounded the corner of the healing house; in her plump arms she carried tray of herbs and poultices. Her handmaidens managed cloths and a pitcher of water. Simple seemed best. Her eyes met with the eyes of the immortal Fairy Queen, standing just beyond the room where Headred struggled in fever.

  Athellind knew the truth. All they could do for Headred they already did. Now the wait would begin.

  “My Lady,” Athellind murmured and continued on. At the sound of the fairy’s voice she crooked her head to listen.

  Mab bowed her head and murmured in the tongue of her people, the words forgotten in the long absence of the fairies from Sul.

  Athellind’s voice fled as sadness gripped her heart. Mab’s stare caught her eyes, and hope returned in the gaze of the Fairy Queen and in the knowledge their savior came among them at last.

  “Athellind!” a voice called from Headred’s room.

  Athellind glanced once more at the Fairy Queen, whose eyes no longer cried or clouded. And after a swipe of her arm to wipe her tears away, Athellind moved toward the room where a feverish Headred waited.

  Mab again stood alone, in silence, watching as the women worked. So many have passed, she thought, so many have perished and been lost because of the demon.

  She remembered the battle of long ago, of the last great war against the demon Moloch, and the prayer she lifted up to the gods, the song she sang in the midst of the battle. “Dia soaf ben yen, dia soaf ben yen.”

  Athellind stopped her work for a moment at the sound. Her eyes found the form and the bright eyes of the fairy Queen who sang in her native tongue, and she felt the deep sadness tempered by the strange peace they forged in Athellind’s heart.

  The battle is ended; the battle is ended.

  “Nachum ladai, es rea ladai,” Mab sang. More stopped to listen, and Headred heard through the veil of his dreams. “Dia soaf ben yen, dia soaf ben yen.”

  Mab stood above the battle in her mind, watching as Oberon fought the golems and the wolves attacking him. She felt the tear falling down her face, the fright gripping her heart, much like the fear Caer felt now for Headred.

  Our men are dead, on both sides dead. The battle is ended; the battle is ended.

  The peace and enchantment falling over the healing room faltered. The women glanced at one another, and at the Queen of the fairies whose sad song floated throughout the house.

  “Endor cumes. Laidan wilas. Dia soaf ben yen, dia soaf ben yen.”

  The shadow comes. Our death is near. The battle is ended; the battle is ended.

  And even as she struggled to find the hope in her heart, Mab feared it already fled. “Lithia cumas redan alis.”

  The light will come to save us all.

  A fresh tear fell as she remembered.

  Mab’s own scream interrupted her prayer, at the sound and the sight of metal and blood, the last stare of Oberon’s eyes as they met hers, and the cruel laughter of the enemy armies’ master as he pulled his sword from the chest of the fairy King, and hacked again, laughing as the king’s head fell from his shoulders.

  Athellind worked over the feverish body of Headred, whose mind stayed locked away in the evil dreams that so many who fought Moloch and his daughter descended into. Mab’s tears fell for him and all who fell against the demon and his child. She feared Headred would not live and prayed again to the gods for his life, and the destiny of Caer.

  “Dia soaf ben yen, dia soaf ben yen,” she sang.

  The battle is ended; the battle is ended.

  “Let this not be his end.” Mab finished and turned away.

  *****

  “Milady,” Yidrith called from behind Caer.

  Caer walked through the streets of Ull, away from the healing house where she left Mab. She turned to see a little boy, no older than six years, walking toward them.

  “Milady, my brother Dunstan,” Yidrith motioned to the smiling boy.

  “Are you Y Erianrod?” he asked her.

  Despite herself, despite everything, Caer smiled. “Why would you think so?” She rubbed his hair.

  Dunstan blushed. “My mother dreamed about you.”

  Yidrith sucked in his breath.

  “Does your mother see visions?” Caer asked.

  Dunstan nodded. “She says she saw you would return.”

  “Well, I am the daughter of Queen Beren. As for Y Erianrod...” she trailed off.

  The boy whooped. She jumped in surprise. People began to glance at them, and Caer laughed.

  “I see them look at me,” Caer told Yidrith, motioning to the people. “I hear them whisper, most good words, but some are ill.”

  “‘Tis the way of things, milady,” Yidrith replied. “They gather to see Beren’s daughter, and some will accept, and others will see a curse. And yet most see a candle come into the world of shadow.”

  Caer agreed.

  “I must go,” Yidrith said, trying to quiet his brother. “My brother must be home soon, or our mother will worry.”

  “Go with you.”

  He inclined his head and began to lead the boy down the street.

  *****

  The skies grew dark and angry.

  Headred ran through the woods, looking over his shoulder in fear. A boy of twelve years, he did not know what to do, did
not know what to think. His father left when they heard the wolves howl and left him alone.

  The wolves waited nearer than they thought.

  Tears streamed down his face when he thought of how his beloved horse fell after one kiss from the wolf, how he reared when the wolf jumped him, and how his blood fell onto the white snow.

  He ran, as the howls grew louder, the wolves in more numbers pursuing him through the frozen forest. Behind him paws crunched through snow. With their teeth bared, the wolves waited to taste his flesh, his blood.

  “Headred…” his father Hamald called.

  Headred looked around wildly and could not discern what direction the call came from. He could see trees and more trees, endless trees in this southern wilderness.

  They followed the path of light, traveling as pilgrims to the fairy sidhes, the dwellings of their cousins.

  The wolf howled, and his father disappeared, leaving Headred alone when they attacked.

  “Headred…” Hamald called again.

  This should be different, Headred thought, a tiny voice inside his head telling him this seemed wrong. Something changed. The wolves never attacked him.

  He remembered a girl. He met a girl while his father went to scout, a girl who wandered through the woods alone. She seemed such a small thing.

  She called him a boy.

  At twelve years old, Headred very much resented being called a boy. At twelve years old, Headred wanted to be recognized as a man. He believed himself to be a man, able to defend her if the need arose.

  Her grandmother arrived soon after, with his father.

  It all came back to him as the tiny voice grew louder. Beren chose Beoreth as Caer’s caretaker in Fenaslir. Headred remembered the Witch Queen, and her daughter Caer,Y Erianrod, promised by the gods to drive back the Mór-Ríogain.

  And Headred grew to be a man, a man who remembered.

  He left Caer in the pavilion and wandered into Glasheim to seek visions. Belial attacked him and broke his circle. She tried to kill him when she could not take what he would not give.

  He remembered the wisps of cloud piercing him, and felt the angry red welts on his chest. He remembered the cold as his body froze, as Belial sucked the life out of him and her laughter as she faded.

  And he remembered Beren as she knelt over him.

  Sleep now, my son, her voice echoed in memory. Sleep and dream, where you may fight the demon who takes your spirit from us, from the day.

  And dreams came.

  Headred stopped and heard the wolves and their master pausing behind him. He turned to face them and drew his sword and dagger.

  “You cannot have me!” he shouted at Belial and waited for the attack.

  The wolf flew at him swift as lightning, but Headred swung quicker. The dagger slashed through fur and spilled blood on the snow. Mayhem commenced as the wolves launched, driving him back, driving him down, and still he fought.

  They clawed, they bit, and they took what they wanted, but Headred felt nothing but the pain in his chest where the demon touched him.

  In the infirmary, the healers watched his fever begin to burn and rage again. He fights the death of the demon’s curse, they whispered. Others ran to get the chief of their order, but those who remained knew him not to be strong enough to wake.

  Headred saw his dreams change, the wolves vanish in the dark mists of his mind, and the blackness took him under.

  The world swam into view again. He remembered this time. He walked through the forests, on the path of light, before the council, before he met Caer.

  The sun streamed down, and the Niðafjöll mountains appeared sable against the backdrop of sky. Beyond them the Dark Lord hunted for Y Erianrod, hidden so well by the gods Belial would never find her. But she tried anyway.

  A woman walked before him, white hair spilling down her back, skin pale and frozen. And every so often she would turn and stare at him.

  Come to me, my son, she would say. Come to me and cast aside Belial’s curse.

  And she disappeared.

  The standing stones at Glasheim rose in the morning light before him, the place where he cast his circle, where he sought visions. There he saw Beren, walking and waiting in the south, the woman in his dreams who now plagued his visions as well.

  Not far away stood Vingólf. He walked there countless times, gazed down upon the face of the Ice Queen as she slept in her tomb of ice, the price she paid for her daughter’s safety, for the safety of these lands.

  He trudged through the snow towards Vingólf, watching the flickering torchlight. The Ice Queen walked before him, and beckoned him to come.

  And so he would.

  He entered, but Vingólf remained silent.

  “Milady!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. The call echoed through the woods, through the empty dream plain. No answer came.

  He glanced down and found her, frozen in the ice. A single tear formed in her eyes.

  I am here, my child, a voice said behind him.

  Headred turned to see the spirit of the Ice Queen behind him, crying as always, her tears like crystal raindrops.

  Rest now, my son. She placed a frozen hand on his shoulder as an act of comfort. Battle no longer. The shadow flees for a while.

  And again the dream faded.

  He stood in his circle in the sacred place. In the catacombs beneath Glasheim he heard the echoes of the ages past, of Queens and daughters who lay there, in the cold sleep of death.

  He called to the north, to the mother of the earth. He called to the south, to the father of fire. To the east and the wind he called; to west and the water he cried. And as the elements surrounded him, visions awoke in his mind.

  He saw the sacred place, framed in the moonlight, surrounded by doubt and the shadow of the demon. Within the stones stood two people, Y Erianrod and Mór-Ríogain, equals and opposite in the world of chaos.

  Caer faced the demon Lord.

  Lightning lanced and delivered the sword of Moloch at Belial’s feet. Caer unleashed her magic, the hope of her people, upon Belial, and the demon and her minions cowered.

  The sword touched his love, and she fell, and her blood spilled onto the frozen lands.

  Belial won, and Headred lost hope. He sank to the ground and wept, and shadows covered the earth.

  *****

  For twenty years Ull survived without the Witch Queens, and in some ways it fared well. In other ways it fared worse.

  The city still stood. Its population lessened as people left for the shores legend said lay across the great eastern sea. Some of its people, the priestesses and keepers of the old ways, and others who followed, sought their fortune in the wilder lands of the kingdom.

  And some people stayed in the city, for fear of the evil things beyond the high walls.

  Those within the city built glass sheds and heated the air inside. They watered seeds with melted snow and cultivated plants and herbs. But most knew even this could not sustain them forever, and the people would starve.

  Still, in other ways, the long wheel of time passed as the peoples’ lives turned hard.

  Game became scarce in the forests beyond the city gates, where once creatures roamed plentiful. Hunger developed in the walls of the White City, and despair with it.

  But now the daughter of Beren returned.

  Those who called her a curse in previous years reveled over her return. With a chance to defeat Belial upon them, a chance to end the winter, the people began to whisper, and hope came into Ull. Too long the people lived bereft of hope.

  Caer walked through Ull and saw the starved people, the children running through the streets while their mothers worried in the doorways. Mab walked beside her as Caer witnessed her people’s pain.

  “Time cannot be turned back,” Mab whispered as they walked, their boots clacking on the paving stones. “These people suffer, but they will suffer more if the demon and her winter are allowed to endure.”

  Caer nodded.
br />   “So much pain lies here, so much death,” Mab continued. “And yet life remains, however pitiful you may think it. And you bring hope back to your people.”

  “I know this,” Caer said, a little irritability showing. “I know I am the child of light, Y Erianrod, conceived in the dance of Cwen and Cerdic, born on the night of their joining, a child of power. I know it all.”

  “But do you understand, I wonder?”

  Caer stopped to look at the fairy. “Of course I do.” She resumed walking. “I just wish I could do something more for them.”

  “Perhaps you will.” Mab took her by the shoulders to guide her down another street towards Idalir, the Castle of the Sun. The fairy’s arms hugged her, but Caer felt a change in them, tenser than she ever saw Mab.

  “What did it cost you?”

  The fairy stopped.

  “What did it cost to save his life?” Caer clarified.

  “Perhaps too much, my child.” Mab’s eyes softened. “To save him, I gave a part of myself. I am diminished, and I cannot rest until I return to Elphame. I do not know how much I have given and lost, but it may be I will never return to this world above my own.”

  “Do you believe it to be worth the price?”

  Fatigue clouded Mab’s immortal features. “Perhaps. I must now go and rest.” Her wings fluttered with exhaustion. “I must regain my strength before the coming battle.”

  Caer nodded and watched her walk away.

  “Milady!” a voice behind her called.

  Caer turned to see Yidrith leading Dunstan. Caer tried to give the little boy a half-smile before giving up, crushed by her own misery.

  The boy, however, seemed to think the opposite. So little joy remained in her or in the lands, or even in her heart; she found it hard not to smile through her misery.

  “My brother didn’t want me to bother you,” Dunstan said, seeming to want to burst from his own skin at the chance to visit with her, and jabbing his brother with his elbow. “But I made him—ow!”

  Yidrith rewarded his brother with a cuff to the ear.

  “How sweet of such handsome gentlemen to fight over me,” Caer said, kneeling and exaggerating a slight faint. The boy bought it and laughed.

  “Yidrith wouldn’t fight over you; he’s been best friends with Headred for years,” Dunstan rattled on as his brother’s sheepish grin faded, as if he knew what the boy would say. “He says you’re Headred’s woman.”