Book 1: Brutality

Premonition

30

"Changing the currents of Fate, even by accident, comes at a heavy price." ― Gwen Mitchell

~Trigger Warning~

All faerie music is enchanting. Dancing to it is utterly intoxicating. I swoop and glide around the square with Gael, prancing around each other, stamping our feet and clapping our hands as required by the dance.

A part of me is still pinned under Barathalion, screaming and struggling. But another part is enjoying this. It's good to dance with Gael, who is graceful and quick and carries me through with assurance.

And the music is, of course, utterly wonderful, out beneath the New Year stars and the New Year moon.The song comes to an end, and Gael bows while I curtsy. That was lovely, Gael signs to me. His eyes dance.

I give a silent laugh. And for me too. But I'd better go back to the Knot.

"Yes," he says aloud. "Lots more blood to be spilled tonight." He watches me go back to Valindra.

As I reach her, I brace myself for one of her glares and nasty Gael-remarks. I can't imagine she approves of me dancing with him. But instead she looks up with a small smile. "Did you have fun, Albia?" Elora sleeps in her arms while Lindor snoozes with his head in her lap.

I nod. I'll take Elora back now.

"No." She tightens her grip on my daughter. "Let me hold her. Just a little longer."

Her tone is so melancholy. She watches the dancers with strange, sad eyes. What's the matter? I ask in concern.

She hesitates, opening and closing her mouth. "I'll tell you," she says at last. "But later. Not here."

I have no choice but to nod and head back to the Knot. But still I watch her as she sits, rocking the babies, and watches the revel as though she'll never see anything like it again.

As soon as we're home and the babies are safe in their cradles, I turn to Valindra, folding my arms.

She sinks down onto the bed. She looks so weary. She rubs her forehead, between her eyes. "Albia," she says at last, "you have to promise not to tell anyone what I'm about to tell you."

I nod, placing my right hand over my heart. It thumps with urgency and foreboding.

She takes a deep breath. "How familiar are you with faerie precognition?"

I know faeries can have premonitions, I sign warily. But they're unpredictable, and usually incomplete. I cock my head. Have you had one?

"Yes," she says dully. "A few weeks ago. I had a premonition of my death."

Her words slam into me. I gape at her, too aghast to sign, to think.

"Sometime in this new year," she continues, voice flat, "I'm going to die. I don't know exactly when or how, but it will happen. I won't see the next New Year revel."

I find movement then, signing frantically. No! There must be something we can do—

"No!" Her voice raps out, so loud and vehement that Elora stirs, snuffling, but doesn't wake. "No, there's nothing we can do," Valindra says in a softer tone. "Trying to avoid Fate just hastens it. You should know that."

I bow my head. I know enough stories to know that's true.

"Don't look like that," she says gently. "No faerie truly lives forever, you know. Sooner or later, something gets every one of us." I blink at this, surprised to hear my own deductions spoken aloud, so simple, so matter-of-fact. "I've lived three thousand years, and that's more than most of the Folk get. I have only one regret." She reaches out, laying a gnarled hand on Lindor's cradle. "My son," she says sadly. "The only child I ever bore. I won't live to see him grow up."

I hurry over to her, sitting down beside her, and take her free hand. She squeezes back. Then she turns to me, face full of a new determination.

"I believe the unicorn brought you to me for many reasons, Albia," she says. "And I think this may be one. So you must promise me, Albia—promise on your heart—that you will love and care for Dogwood after my death. That you will, to the best of your ability, shield him from harm and raise him to adulthood if at all possible. Promise me this."

Her eyes are blazing, determined and pleading. Looking into those eyes, I place my right hand on my heart. Then, reaching out, I place it on hers. I nod.

She sighs in such sweet relief. "That takes a weight off my mind, Albia," she says softly. "You have no idea." Her gaze travels to Elora. "Or maybe you do."

Yes. Maybe. But I can barely think of that past the enormity and horror of the news. Valindra. Dead. I can't imagine it.

We go to bed, pulling on our shifts and settling down beside each other, drawing the curtain as if this is some ordinary night. Valindra soon falls asleep. But I lie awake, blinking against the darkness and praying to a half-remembered God that she's wrong.

For a few months, it seems the human God may have answered my prayers.

Life goes on, full of work and baby-business and activity. I keep a sharp eye on Valindra, but though she's quieter than before, she keeps up her usual round: spinning in the morning, weaving in the afternoon, interspersed with housework, selling cloth and caring for Lindor and Elora.

This may not sound like much, but, speaking as someone who's lived in terror most of her life and even now carries a deep, deadly secret, bleeding me constantly, I'm in awe of her courage.

It takes more nerve and resolution to live calmly and stick to your routine under certain doom than it does to singlehandedly face down the Wild Hunt.

So life goes on. We keep up our activities, doing housework and going out to gather colours, Valindra spinning while I mind the babies and keep a more anxious eye out than usual.

We have a few run-ins with predators and hostile fey—most seriously when a group of Unseelie kobolds try to ambush us—but I'm fast with the salt and the knife these days and we all escape unscathed, darting up the trees while our enemies scream and claw at their eyes or moan over the poisoned cuts I've given them.

"Not bad, Albia," Valindra says breathlessly, leaning over the tree-way railing to observe the shrieking kobolds. "That poison does have its uses."

I smile, patting the pouch with its death's head butterfly warning. It seems to be working: faeries eye it fearfully and keep a safe distance—except, of course, when they're begging for my healing hands.

Which is just how I like it. Let their need be tempered with respect, and their respect tempered with fear. But I don't think my salt or my reputation can keep Valindra safe forever.

~Fun Fact~

An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.

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