“And to Ixia. You’ve not mentioned her since Ferryn came to us with the news.”
He picked up a stone and rolled it in his hands. “What would you have me say?”
“Something. She was taken by Nox. She is your sister.”
“If I have the chance to free her, I will. But my path has been written, Deira. And my path is to see you to the Lia Fail.”
I couldn’t keep the surliness from my tone. “Your path has only been uttered.”
Despite everything, Father’s words and beliefs still remained strong in me.
“This is an argument neither one of us can win,” Balen said with resignation. “I don’t deny your belief, Deira, but neither must you deny me mine.”
I let my braid fall. “You’re right.” I let out a heavy exhale. “I’m sorry. My father’s ideals and views have always struck a louder cord in me than the ways of my mother.”
He angled to stretch out his legs, crossing one ankle over the other. “In many ways, you are like Drem and I.”
“How so?”
“There are two sides to you. The Danaan side, the blood of Anu, and the legacy of your mother. And the human side, the side that conflicts so sharply with the other, the one which you embrace even though you have never lived it.”
“The blood of my father is stronger in me most of the time,” I admitted. “I have dreamt of coming here all my life.”
For a moment, he didn’t respond. “And what will you do once you’ve returned the Lia Fail? Will you return here or will you stay in Innis Fail? What does your future hold?”
My chest tightened. He asked a question I could not answer. “I don’t know. I guess that’s the difference between us.”
His head cocked to the side, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “True.”
That night, I dreamt of my father. Flashes of our short time together. The deep ring of his laughter. The smiles. His love for me that brightened his brown eyes. The red of his hair. The way he would wiggle his thick eyebrows at me to make me laugh. Our walks through the garden of Mother’s estate, he with a book tucked under his arm, me with plucked flowers in my hand and a skip in my step.
For a short time, my life had been perfect. When Mother heard her calling to the Place of Souls, it had been so hard to let her go. But Father had been there for me, had taken me into his arms and claimed I’d never be alone. Yet he’d left me too.
In my dream, I was that little girl again.
I ambled past the open arches that spanned the long length of the main corridor of our house. The curtains billowed softly. Gray daylight dimmed the colors around me, the mosaics at my feet, and the flowers beyond in the garden. A chill was in the air. Dead leaves fluttered in from the garden and skipped across the floor as I headed toward the study.
My heart beat quickened.
The house began to look old and ruined. Cracks appeared in the walls. As I went, paintings disappeared. The curtains became torn and stained. Outside, the garden shriveled, the crackling of stems as they shrunk echoed in the silence.
I glanced down at my feet and saw they weren’t those of a child, but of mine as a mature female. Yet I still wore the sheer white nightgown I’d worn the morning I discovered Father had gone.
You should stop walking, my voice warned. Turn around. Don’t go into the study. You know how much it hurts to go in there.
But I couldn’t turn back.
Even though I tried, my steps continued forward until I was at the open door. Dread coiled around me like a serpent, threading through my legs, around my torso and neck. I shivered.
Father sat at his desk, his profile to me, shoulders hunched over, furiously writing as he often did by the light of the tall window above the desk.
I’d seen this image many times, the way he’d pause, bite the inside of his cheek, then stare longingly out the window. He was a tall man, with wide shoulders and a bulky build. He had the look of a warrior and the eyes of a scholar.
He paused in his writing as though sensing a presence and then he glanced my way. I held my breath. My skin tingled and went cold as a frigid breeze swept inside. I wanted to shiver or hug myself but I couldn’t move.
“Ah, Deira, come in, come in,” he beckoned with fingers stained in ink.
My mind balked, insisting I not go into the study. But I stepped inside the room, hugging myself, seeking what little warmth I could. I felt so fragile in the thin gown, like a child, helpless and afraid.
“You see this,” he said, gazing down at the page while dipping the tip of his pen into the inkbottle. “This is your history. All about your ancestors. Your heritage. I should be done soon.” He nodded to himself and began writing again. “Very soon, I shall be done.”
I braced my palm on the corner of the desk and glanced out the window to the sound of Father’s pen scratching on parchment. The garden was shriveling, as though life was being sucked from every living thing outside. A current of wind swirled through the garden, picking up leaves and bursting the dried flowers that had once been vibrant and full.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how I remembered our home.
This was nothing but a horrible dream.
Father’s hand suddenly closed around my wrist. He stared up at me, his eyes burning with intensity. His skin appeared ashen. Gray shadows curved under his eyes. Pain shot through my wrist, his grasp hard and cold and unwavering. “Deira,” he whispered urgently.
“Aye, Father, I’m here. I’m right here.”
He blinked then looked up, as though seeing me clearly for the first time. His expression turned vehement, blotches of red staining his cheeks. “I will never leave you.” His voice, always so gentle and fun, was angry and rushed. “Never.”
His grip tightened. I cried out, pulling away from him, but he didn’t budge.
My throat closed. Tears stung my eyes. Dear Dagda, I wanted out. Out of this nightmare.
Suddenly he released me, and his face became normal again. He smiled gently, the singular smile he’d always reserved for me, and only me. “Now, go on and play in the garden until supper.”
CHAPTER 16
I woke at a snail’s pace, my eyes eventually adjusting to the hazy, muted slice of daylight through the trees. From the angle, I could tell it was just after dawn. I lay on my side on my cloak, facing the burned-out campfire.
Balen was not across from me.
I sat up, finding Drem perched atop a rock peering at me with that maddening calm. I got the impression it enjoyed the affect it had on me. I shot it a hostile glare, pushed to my feet, refusing to let it frighten me, and shook the leaves and pine needles from my cloak.
The morning light illuminated the gray mistiness in the air. Dew sparkled on the ground, leaves, and rocks, shadows and light everywhere I looked. It was magical. I breathed in deeply, the air wet and fresh.
And then the shadows moved.
Drem pushed off from the rock. Its shiny black wings caught the light as it flew into the air, its caw echoing through the forest, pricking the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I whirled in a slow circle, realizing I was surrounded. I clutched the cloak to my chest, eyeing the ground for a weapon. A rock. A branch. Anything to protect myself.
Hands landed on each of my shoulders. I screamed, spinning around, and kicking.
“Deira.”
“Balen!” I kicked him in the leg.
It was too late to stop it. Pain shot up my foot, but from the grunt that issued from Balen, I’d say it hurt him worse than it hurt me.
“Damn it. What did you kick me for?”
“You were gone when I woke up, and then I thought I saw...”
But I hadn’t been mistaken, the shadows within the forest had moved. Men and women gathered in a circle around us. Cloaks of faded green trimmed with red covered their shoulders and beneath they wore white tunics and brown leggings.
“These are the fathá,” Balen said.
One came forward, the only one with colorful stripes on his robe. He lowered his hood, revealing thick red hair shot with gray. It was long and hung in braids over his shoulders. His eyebrows were white and the lower part of his face was covered in a beard the same color as his hair. He had shinny blue eyes that stared at me with wonder.
He bowed at my feet. And when he did, so did the others.
Confused, I looked to Balen. He shrugged. “They did the same to me,” he said under his breath.
And I knew to them we were like gods.
Me, a goddess. Ha! Just the idea of it made me smile. Would that Lidi could see me now. She, like me, would be highly amused by the notion.
The man in the colorful cloak straightened. “I am called Liath Airgid. We’re honored by your presence, Dia.”
I smiled even wider at the term Dia, the general term for god or goddess. I thanked him for his kind words.
“Please come. We have shelter, food, and a place to rest and bathe.”
Liath led us into the forest, the others filling in behind us. Someone began a soft song, and soon all the fathá joined in as we journeyed through the sparkling forest.
I bumped Balen’s shoulder. “Where are we going?”
“To their temple complex. They believe we’ve come for the festival of fire. I saw no reason to let them think otherwise.”
I avoided a collection of rocks jutting from the ground. “They are fortunate then,” I said, smiling, “to have a god of fire in attendance.”
“Fortunate indeed,” came the amused reply.
I listened with a light heart to the sounds of the singing. For so long, all I’d wanted was to be accepted. And here, in Éire, I was more than a halfling, more than a servant, more than noble, more than a queen. I was divine. The novelty made me smile all the way to the center of the fathá faith where the trees gave way to a vast open grove.
In the center was a hill, Tlachtga, and atop it an enormous circle of stones. Around the base of the hill, circular wooden houses with thatched roofs had been built. There were several long rectangular wooden structures, and these, I guessed, were the lower temples, great hall, kitchen, and bathhouses. Smoke trickled from rooftops. Children played, and people went about their daily rituals.