If there was any light left in this world, today it has gone out. For the Lady Meadhbh is dead. Slain by the Godslayer Morrígan.
Gods, ink upon paper shall never do justice to the devastation she wrought today, wielding the elements as if they served only her. The earth, I fear, is no longer our own as long as she walks upon it.
I would have joined the dead, crushed by the darkness of the pit, had it not been for Farris.
Farris Silvertongue. The traitor and turncloak, prevented me from riding out to join the cavalry charge. He saw the trap for what it was, and for that, the thrice-damned bastard saved me.
Once the chaos died down, we started the unsurmountable task of counting the dead. Though Morrígan had seen so many of them already buried, there were few bodies left for us to give back to the land.
She destroyed all of our ships, killing some forty-odd members of their crews: those that stayed aboard to prepare for a return journey that would never come.
Most of our camp is destroyed, though it’ll do for tonight, given we have so few left to shelter. Tomorrow, we march to the Academy in Dromán, where we’ll take refuge as we consider our next steps.
But what those could be, I can only guess.
Farris claimed to have been there when the Lady died at the hand of the Godslayer. He said Her last words were that Firemaster Fionn was alive, despite being among those who fell to their deaths deep in the earth.
I had tried to make him see reason, but he refused. He took a handful of fools, Chief Engineer Nicole and Lady Carríga, among them, and raided the sapper’s tent for shovels and entrenching tools. They wish to dig the young Pyromancer out from the mass grave.
I should not make light of it. The minds of men are broken easily in war. And this has been no normal war. I curse the others though, for enabling the Simian’s delusion.
Though as I write this, deep into the night, they have yet to return.
Could it be that Farris is right? He saw Morrígan’s trap for what it was before anyone else did. And he did save my life.
It is growing cold. Colder than I ever could have imagined it be. My body craves rest, but I don’t think I can sleep knowing they’re out there in the dark, digging for a man surely dead.
Dearest Journal, what should I do?
Journal of Padraig Tuathil, 15th Day under the Moon of Nes, AC404
***
Nessa wiped sleep from her eyes as she straightened her stance. Although she had been pulled from bed mere minutes ago, she was now wide awake with excitement rising in her chest. However, the same couldn’t be said for the other four girls, standing on either side of her, each of whom seemed to be struggling against sleep.
Don’t they know who it is this time? thought Nessa, suppressing a smile as Madam Mac Cába marched up and down the line, fixing and fussing over each of the girls’ appearance in turn.
The tiny brothel nested in the corner of Barrow’s Way had always been more glamorous than its competing businesses—something that certainly wouldn’t be inferred by its exterior. The hallway where Nessa stood was circular, with silk curtains draping over every inch of stone wall. Heavily scented perfumes covered the typical stench of Barrow’s Way, though Nessa had grown used to both odours over the past two years. The secluded and elusive nature of Madam Mac Cába’s establishment attracted all sorts of wealthy lords and merchants visiting the capital, though none quite as noble or high-born as tonight’s patron.
“Now, remember your manners,” said Madam Mac Cába as she fidgeted with Etain Ní Mháille’s hair. Not that it ever needed tending to. Etain’s hair was always beautifully straight; something Nessa could never quite figure out.
No matter, she thought, fixing her skirts. She won’t be smiling so much when he picks me.
“And don’t speak until he speaks to you,” continued Madam Mac Cába. “Some ladies of the court spend half their childhood learning how to act in front of a—”
The brothel’s front door swung open, and a chilling breeze ran into the chamber. From outside strode three figures, two Simians in thick armour, and a young man with his hood up. Nessa’s heartbeat accelerated wildly as the man stepped inside, for even before he lowered his hood, she knew exactly who it was.
King Diarmuid, Third of His Name, Nineteenth Incarnate, stood before the line of women. Unlike most men Nessa had serviced here, Diarmuid’s face was perfectly clean-shaven. Once his radiant blue eyes met Nessa’s and his slender lips formed a wry smile, it was clear the other girls didn’t stand a chance.
“Your Grace,” said Madam Mac Cába, curtsying deeply. “You honour us with your presence. It is said that your coronation was a sight unlike anything the kingdom has seen before. We pray that the same shall be said of your reign.”
“Thank you for your kind words,” said the young king, his gaze not leaving Nessa’s. For that moment, she could have sworn the two were alone in that crowded room. “I hope all of our prayers are answered.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” said Madam Mac Cába. She gestured to the other women. “These are my most experienced girls. Though it is customary for our clients to pick just one, given the circumstance we can—”
“That won’t be necessary,” cut in Diarmuid. He strode towards Nessa, promptly taking one of her hands in his. Her hands would have been trembling, Nessa was sure, if the king’s grasp wasn’t so strong.
She looked up at those blue eyes, framed by radiant golden locks. What felt like a thousand eternities passed before the king spoke again.
“What is your name?” he said, another smile escaping his lips.
Nessa struggled to find the answer but smiled back instead. Either the king knew her name already or no longer cared to hear it, for the next thing Nessa knew, he was leading her away from the other girls.
He picked me, Nessa realised as they crossed the hall. Of all the women in Cruachan, he picked me!
***
Fionn gasped for breath when he returned to consciousness. Enveloped in darkness, the only thing he could make out from his surroundings was the fact he was surrounded by others. Many others. His body lay in a crooked position, with his legs bent painfully backwards. All around, low groans came from amidst a mass of twisting limbs.
What happened? Fionn asked, but Sir Bearach did not respond. The mage shut his eyes and tried to recall what had transpired earlier.
Morrígan, and the army. We fought and—
Terror struck his body.
The earth. The earth opened and devoured us all.
Before panic could set in, however, some more memories came back to Fionn. A woman named Nessa held hands with a much younger King Diarmuid. Fionn strained to recall what else happened.
Just another dream, Fionn thought, turning his attention back to the problem at hand. But before he opened his eyes, a blue light blurred his vision. The same blue light he had seen back in Meadhbh’s temple.
Then everything went dark once more
***
“Well?” said the girl. “Do you know what it’ll be?”
Cillian the White sighed deeply. He removed his hand from the girl’s enlarged belly.
She really thinks it matters, he thought. They all think it does.
“It’ll be a boy,” said Cillian, straightening his healer’s robes.
“A prince?” cried the girl, her voice growing shrill with joy. “I’m going to have a little prince?”
“Yes,” said Cillian, trying hard not to roll his eyes. “You are due in another four moons.”
At this, she shrieked in joy again, as if she would even live half that long. “Oh, I can’t wait until Etain finds out I’ll be having the king’s son!”
“Of course,” muttered Cillian, turning away. He slowly strode across the clinic to his study. Taking a seat at the table, he picked up a quill and inked it. “Before you leave, remind me. What was your name again?”
“Nessa,” said the girl. “I never knew my parents, so I don’t have any other name than—”
“That’ll be all, Nessa,” cut in Cillian. “Please, close the door on your way out.”
The girl practically skipped from the clinic, humming a jolly tune as she went. Fool. She really had no idea. In any other circumstance, a healer would recommend medicines and schedule follow-up appointments to ensure a safe pregnancy.
“Shame,” muttered Cillian. He set the quill to the page and began scribbling.
Nessa, he wrote. Slender, with dark curly hair. Due in the first week of the Moon of Dana. Located in Madam Mac Cába’s establishment on Barrow’s Way.
He folded up the note without signing it. There was no need to elaborate more than that. The Wraiths never needed much information to get the job done.
***
Fionn’s eyes flashed open once more.
“What’s going on?” he muttered. It seemed much time had passed since he last woke. The writhing and moans around him had stopped, and the darkness that engulfed him had somehow grown even deeper.
He had seen the girl Nessa again, but this time, through the eyes of a healer named Cillian. Fionn strained to recall the details of the dream, or the vision, or whatever it was, when everything around him went dark once more.
A blue light shone.
***
Bronach Mac Cába burst into the girls’ chambers. Fortunately, Nessa herself was the only one sleeping there tonight.
“Wake up,” Bronach said, pulling the bedclothes off the girl. “You haven’t much time.”
Nessa looked up at Bronach with weary eyes.
“Madam Mac Cába, what’s going on?”
Gods above and below, thought Bronach, striding across the room to fetch an overcoat and boots for the poor girl. She really has no idea.
“You need to leave,” Bronach said. “There are men coming who want to hurt you. And hurt your baby.”
“No!” cried Nessa. “Not my prince! I won’t let them hurt him!”
“Good,” said Bronach, throwing the overcoat over Nessa.
I won’t let them take another one of my girls.
“Listen to me,” Bronach whispered. “There is a caravan leaving the city in an hour. I’ve spoken to the merchant, and he’ll take you far away. Once you leave the capital, you’ll be on your own. But safer than you are now.”
Nessa nodded and stood.
A knock thundered through the building.
“Go!” rasped Bronach. “Through the window. The caravan will be at the North Wall. Go!”
Nessa scrambled over the empty beds towards the open window. Without looking back, she darted out, leaving Bronach alone.
She waited there, for a moment, silently praying that Nessa would somehow leave the city, and somehow find a safe place far from the reach of the Church.
The door to the private chambers creaked open behind her, but Bronach did not turn around.
“You’re too late,” she said over her shoulder. “She’s long gone. You’ll have to kill me twice before I tell you anything.”
“That can be arranged,” croaked a wicked voice. A hand reached out for Bronach’s shoulder, pressing down hard and forcing her to turn. “The Lord is capable of far more than you can imagine.”
The last thing Bronach saw was the Wraith’s hooded figure, heavy dark robes revealing nothing but a twisted smile.
***
“Bronach… Nessa....” mused Fionn as he woke again. “Who are they?”
But before he could finish that thought, the pulsating blue light engulfed him once more.
***
On weary legs, Nessa stumbled across the road of a strange city. She had travelled through so many towns and slept in so many odd places she had long since lost count. The sky above roared with thunder as more rain pelted down upon her, but Nessa’s stride did not slow.
I’ve come so far, she thought, a hand placed over a stomach almost as heavy as herself. I’ll keep you safe, little prince.
Although the names of the places where she had travelled were lost to her, Nessa never stopped keeping track of the moon’s turn. If the sky was not covered in thick storm-clouds, the Moon of Dana would be shining down on her.
It’s almost time, she thought as she crossed a street so thick with rainwater it could have been mistaken as a river.
She stopped short once she saw what stood waiting for her across the way. The tall, slender figure stepped forward in silence, raising a single hand towards her.
“No!” Nessa cried. “You will not hurt him! He’s mine. He’s the king’s. Your king’s!”
“The child belongs to nobody but the Lord,” said the Wraith, hissing each word through his teeth. “And the Lord has been looking for you for quite some time.”
“My prince will be born soon,” sobbed Nessa, taking a step towards the ghostly figure. “He’ll grow to be a great leader, and he’ll hang your kind from their toes!”
“No,” muttered the Wraith. He reached into his cloak. “The bastard will never be born. He’ll perish in a gutter along with his whore mother.”
Before Nessa could react, the Wraith pulled a crossbow from under his robe. With a smooth manoeuvre, he fired a bolt that struck Nessa in the chest. She fell forward and landed with a splash in the rainwater.
No, she tried to say, but blood already filled her lungs. Not my baby. Not my little prince.
***
Alone and afraid, the young mage lay in his coffin made of flesh.
“I’ll die here,” thought Fionn, struggling to move. But once he shifted his body, he found he had more room than before. Although nothing but bloodied flesh surrounded him, something quickly became apparent. This was not the pit in the fields of Dromán.
This is from my old dream, Fionn realised. Not the chasm Morrígan created, but this.
He pushed at the walls, kicking with his feet. Indeed, the walls were not made from the bodies of the dead, but of flesh from something else.
He twisted where he lay and kicked again.
I will not die here, he thought. He punched and clawed against the walls over and over, not quite sure what he was hoping to achieve. Suddenly, a glimmer of light fell upon his body. He paid little mind to what the light illuminated, but instead kicked again and again. A small hole had opened somewhere below, letting more light enter the bloody chamber.
For what felt like the first time in his life, Fionn inhaled in a mouthful of air.
I’m almost out, he thought, kicking again and again, until there was a cool breeze upon his face.
***
Bláithín the White held her tongue as Brother Niall and Brother Dillon struggled to find the words to explain what had happened.
“We were walking out at night when we found her, dead in the streets, s-sir,” stammered Niall. “We brought her back, and our healers said she had been gone for three days.”
Arch-Mage Ferdia looked down expectantly at the two Brothers, then he turned to Bláithín. She nodded curtly, as if to confirm the brother’s words, but nothing else.
It would be easier if I could just tell him straight, she thought.
“No, Niall,” cut in Dillon. “You’re leaving out the most important part. Arch-Mage, sir, the reason why we’re bringing this to your attention so late at night is because the woman was with child.”
“This I already know,” said the Arch-Mage. “If there’s more to tell, spit it out.”
Spit it out, echoed Bláithín to herself, her white robes still covered in blood after all that had happened. Surely the Arch-Mage was expecting a far more gruesome account than Dillon and Niall were providing.
“The child,” whispered Niall. “The child was….”
The brother’s voice trailed off again. Never in her twelve years in service to the Academy of Dromán had Bláithín seen such overt cowardice.
Why is it that learned men experienced in the grisliest aspects of healing and medicine balk at the mere mention of the female reproductive system?
“Tell me,” said the Arch-Mage. He leaned forward. “What happened?”
To hell with both of them.
“The child was already born,” said Bláithín, stepping forward. The two Brothers looked back at her blankly, and the Arch-Mage’s brow quivered with anger. Of course, she was breaking all sorts of rules of etiquette by speaking out of turn, but the way things were going, it would take these two fools all night to describe what happened. And she had many other patients to attend to.
“The child was already born,” she repeated. “When they were both brought here, I pronounced the mother dead by three days, caused by a crossbow bolt to the lung. But the child’s cord was still intact. It seemed he had been outside the womb for just a few hours when we found him.”
“Impossible,” said the Arch-Mage. “An unborn child cannot survive so long independent of its mother.”
“But this one did,” said Bláithín, hoping the others would catch on. They did not, so she continued. “For three days, the child lay awake in its mother’s womb, before managing to force its own way out.”
“Ridiculous!” The Arch-mage jumped to his feet. “What you say flies in the face of all we know about Human anatomy. How can this be?”
Bláithín gritted her teeth. Fools. Must I spell it out to them?
“By all rights, the foetus was never meant to survive the trauma of his mother’s death,” she said slowly, as if speaking to children. Once it was clear that the three understood this much, she went on. “But this child did not die. He did not die… when… he was… supposed to.”
At last, a wave of understanding moved over the Arch-Mage’s face.
“No…” he said. “Divine Penetrance. The Lord’s gift.”
“Exactly,” said Bláithín, aware that neither of the two Brothers had reached the same conclusion as the Arch-Mage yet. “The child is alive and well in the clinic. The morticians are dealing with his mother’s remains. What we are to do with the child is up to you, sir.”
The Arch-mage paused, deep in concentration. He stroked his narrow grey beard, as if hoping those old hairs would hold the answer.
“Nobody else can know,” he said finally. “The Wraiths of Seletoth have killed many to ensure no king can ever father a bastard. Right now, I fear for the child’s safety, and indeed our own, if anyone else was to learn the truth.”
“Understood,” said Bláithín. “The Academy has taken in orphans before. It would not be unusual if we were to raise this one as our own.”
“Yes,” said the Arch-Mage. “It will be done. Now, return to your posts, everyone, and erase this meeting from your memories.”
“Of course,” thought Bláithín, as she turned to leave. She would be happy to forget this terrible night.
For the sake of this child, she hoped the others would forget too.
***
Something changed in the air around him, and Fionn’s eyes blinked open. He strained to see, but all he could make out was light, dim lights of fires, from torches, perhaps.
“He’s breathing!” cried a man’s voice, laced with sobbing tears. This was a voice Fionn could remember, but from where? Not from the vision where he was Nessa, nor Bronach, nor Bláithín, but from before, when he was just Fionn. The accent he could place, from the Kingsland, possibly Cruachan. And when it spoke again, Fionn found that he could indeed put a name to it.
“Farris, I don’t know how you do it,” he said. “But you’ve proven me a fool twice in one day.”
“I told you, the Lady showed me,” said another voice. Simian, for sure. “She said he’d know what to do next.”
“We’ll let’s hope he does,” said the first voice. “For the sake of us all.”