Clare C. Marshall's Blog

Fingal

Fifteen Years Ago

“I won’t let you take her,” Fingal said.

“You won’t let me take my daughter back to her rightful home?” The fae warlord Riklar Dheediannil laughed incredulously, stirring the amusement of his followers with his wide grin and unfeeling gaze. “You’ve been thoroughly enchanted by her. A survival instinct. A good one. She takes after me.” He beamed at the girl—not with pride, but with opportunity.

Larsk seemed equally intrigued by Riona, as he had when he’d spied on them through the window earlier that day. Yet the boy’s expression dimmed as Riklar neared the girl. He cautiously slid from his seat and shadowed his father, preparing for whatever move the warlord would make next.

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Present Day

The fae militia, led by Riklar Dheediannil, surrounded Riona and Connor. They illuminated the marsh with their magic and their enchanted blades. Around them, the river, the expanse of the wetlands—there was nowhere to flee but to the sky. Impossible for Riona. Before them, Ollivan groaned, rubbing his head from where he’d fallen on the boardwalk before the fae. She shielded Connor with her left arm, for even his uncontrolled, potent command of his talent would be no match for a seasoned warrior like Riklar...

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“Your reputation proceeds you, Riklar Dheediannil,” Kentinough said, with deliberate emphasis and care taken to pronounce the name just so. “I’ve read of your many…deeds. Your rank was lieutenant? Er, sciacath, if I’m not mistaken?”

“My rank,” said Riklar Dheediannil coolly, “is scialeir criona. I was in the queen’s inner circle.”

“Ah.” Kentinough slid his gaze to Fingal with a small smile. His mistake had been deliberate.

Damn the security, damn the airgid, Fingal thought. He should have run with Riona when they had the chance. He hoped beyond hope that the girl would not give in to her natural curiosity and remain in her room. He hoped none of these courtly fae ran off to find the girl, if they knew she was hiding here…

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As the Imperial guards realized their most valuable, most dangerous prisoner was loose on the streets of Drohoven, Riona dodged patrols and trudged through alleyway puddles as the light rain seeped into her clothing. She recalled the description of the Scav from Ollivan and matched it to the one from her memory of the fight in the woods, reached into the pouch in her belt, and retrieved a golden coin. The spell might not work, as the coin had doubtless touched many a hand including hers, but she had to try. If she could track him down, perhaps he would lead her to Riklar Dheediannil, and much-needed evidence to bring justice to Kentinough’s tragic murder.

She drew deeply from the sleeping Spirit Mother and calmed the wild magic with the gentle rain, cupping the coin and focussing on the bandit who had savagely wished their deaths. If it was a fight he wanted, he would get it from Riona, and next time, she wouldn’t hold back. The scent of roses, enhanced by the rain, filled the narrow alleyway as she worked the spell. The coin flashed hotly and then steadily, began to pulse, like a heartbeat...

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Note: this episode contains a content warning. Listener discretion advised.

Fifteen Years Ago

Fingal felt like his mind had awoken inside a vivid dream as he and Brendan strolled through the massive corridors in Kentinough’s Lairts’cre villa. Aefrun had promised an official tour, but that was before they’d received word of the courtly faes’ arrival. Perhaps after they’d gotten this dinner over with, Brendan would be up for some midnight exploration.

Unlike the castle in the capital, whose undecorated walls had been mostly utilitarian as far as Fingal knew during the occupation, Kentinough had utilized the wide, long corridors to show off his vast collection of antiques, modern and historic tapestries, and other oddities on raised pedestals. They were supposed to be down in the main hall at least ten minutes ago, yet Fingal and Brendan kept a leisurely pace as they took in and admired every painting and unique art piece in sight.

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Riona’s defensive spell took all of her concentration. Her connection to the Spirit Mother remained tenuous at best, as if attempting to parse a faraway conversation while underwater.

Of the two Imperial guards assigned to watch her within the room they had paid for at the Tennly Inn and Coaching House, only one had remained vigilant. He sat on the chesterfield, legs crossed, arms spread, and attention on the sights and sounds of the room. The second guard had fallen asleep on the chair, which she had moved a safe distance away from Riona to the door. Riona caught glimpses of the vigilant guard as she came to, experienced another round of gut-wrenching pain, and pretended to fall back asleep. Although the time between the attacks was lengthening and she felt considerably more capable than she had hours ago, the poison still wormed inside her. A full-blooded fae would have faired worse. Perhaps they would have died.

As she laid in bed, taking an in-depth account of her various aches, pains, and her overall tactical disadvantage, her mind turned to Connor. She remembered hearing a struggle. Her defensive bubble had repelled Imperial flies like a sweet vinegar trap. But then Connor had been arrested. For…murder. Surely that wasn’t right. His magic was untamed, but he wouldn’t intentionally kill someone. Unless it was Riklar Dheediannil, and even then, the young wielder would die in the attempt.

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Fifteen Years Ago

Kentinough’s residence in Lairts’cre was not just a free-standing house, but a massive villa on the outskirts of the maritime Isle town. The villa had two storeys and a pair of towering spires, which appeared to have been a recent addition, jutting into open skies. At first sight, the towers appeared to be the perfect opportunity to scout the surrounding forests and Lairts’cre itself, just a stone’s throw down the winding road. Unfortunately, Aefrun – the young man in Kentinough’s employ – promptly escorted them from the carriage and guided them through the anxious house staff who had greeted them, and into a confusing maze of corridors. They whizzed by relics displayed like museum pieces in overstuffed rooms, and curtained-off corners so laden with dust, Fingal was certain the staff had forgotten the corner existed. Fingal tried to figure out where they were headed in relation to these towers, but he failed to orient himself in the vastness of the building as Aefrun lead them to the guest rooms.

The guest room appointed for Fingal and Riona was nearly as long and as large as the entire Donmagh residence in Ashdown. Unlike the hospital and the Donmagh residence, this older villa on the outskirts of Lairts’cre had long glass slats for windows, which was common in the pre-war era, when tensions between humans and the fae had been at an all-time high. The slats ran across the length of the room, creating long bars of light across the two canopied beds, the antique dressers and nightstands, and the well-worn but stylish rugs covering the dark wooden floors. Dark ceiling-to-floor curtains waited in the corners to be slid across the slats for privacy, which Fingal would have done if they didn’t require the light for choosing their attire.

Unfortunately, Riona couldn’t fully participate in the fitting experience as Aefrun had also remained to help Fingal and Brendan choose appropriate outfits for their new positions. In fact, the racks of outfits had been waiting in the guest room when they’d arrived, much to Aefrun’s delight. Kentinough had thought of everything. Instead of trying on clothing, young Riona entertained herself by counting every slatted window in the room under her breath.

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The heavy numbness of his hand dragged him out of sleep. Although Connor was on the second storey of the coaching house, far from the rain-laden ground, the Spirit Mother could still warn him of danger. Bleary-eyed, Connor lifted his eyelids and noticed the door had been left ajar.

Grunting softly, stiff from his awkward sleeping position on the chesterfield, he sat up. He was uncomfortable wearing his new silk shirt and fitted trousers, but Riona had been right: he couldn’t remain in his soggy clothes. She had even shoved into one of the new frocks during a moment of lucidity and had dove back into the depths of unconsciousness. Ollivan had obsessed over his new purchases before settling into the chair, which he’d moved closer to the door…

…but now, he was nowhere to be seen.

Downstairs, Connor noted the soft rumblings of late guests and the sound of dice rolling across wooden tables, though the din had died considerably since he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t hear Ollivan. Perhaps he had gone outside to the privy.

Rubbing his arm, the numbness abated as he crept to the door and peered into the hallway. Two flickering candle-lit wall lanterns lined this section of the corridor. Outside, through the window on the balcony door—the void blackness of the night. It had to be at least midnight, if not later.

Just as he was about to retire once more to the chesterfield, the door to the Islander gentleman’s room creaked open, and someone who was not the Islander emerged. The shadow’s gaze lingered over his shoulder, as if afraid to leave something valuable behind.

For a long moment, Connor considered returning to his makeshift sleeping spot in peace. After all, it wasn’t his business who the Islander was entertaining in the middle of the night. Drawing attention to himself was the last thing they needed. Attracting negative attention from the Islander would be doubly unpleasant. Connor dreaded hearing his father’s familiar lilting accent through a stranger in the night.

And yet…

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The first thing she noticed: her cloak was gone. Though it was flimsy protection from the human gaze, it was security nonetheless. Riona, soaked and shivering from their failed escape, inhaled the stale air hoarsely as her blurred vision struggled to focus. She felt as though she had been under for a long time, exploring in a dark, murky sea.

Then she remembered. The inn. Tennly. She stared up at the painted white ceiling, and felt Connor hovering beside her like an untrained healer tasked with the immense burden of curing her current ailment. His voice, low and scared, tried to give the impression of someone in control in this foreign environment.

“It’s all right. Sorry, I had to remove your cloak. It was sopping wet. No one’s been in here…”

She curled into the fetal position as she laid back on the bed, cradling her body with her good wing. The torn wing twitched. It was an effort, but the wing wrapped awkwardly around her left shoulder. She’d never felt this sick. Normally it was she who cared for Fingal, who even with his robust constitution, was not immune to illness.

“I know I should have removed the rest of your clothes, but we don’t have anything else for you to wear, and I didn’t want to leave you, and I didn’t want you to--”

Beside her, Connor sat in the chair. He was talking, always talking. He was still wearing his wet clothes. Foolish. Did he want to be sick?

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Fifteeen Years Ago

Fingal had been sick plenty as a child. Seldom had he hurled up his guts as he had aboard the ferry rolling the choppy seas on the two-day journey to Lairts’cre, on the southern tip of the Drahticht Isle.

He rolled on to his side and tried to keep the meager bread he’d just consumed down. Brendan, lying below Fingal on the bottom bunk, groaned in equal misery. Fingal couldn’t wait to get to the part of his life when he wasn’t dragged from one part of the continent to another, sleeping in forests, inns, and boats, and traveling to find or complete work. He didn’t want that for himself, and he certainly didn’t want that for the girl.

Before they’d left Ashdown, Nora had protested, begged Fingal to leave Riona with her. After all, she’d argued, Fingal and Brendan were going to the Isle to look for work—would it not be an inconvenience to care for the girl as well? Nora had married Donnoch Donmagh, son of a wealthy, entrepreneurial Islander family whose business held opportunities on the Isle for former Brigaders like Fingal and Brendan. Although momentarily sad to leave his sister Nora and her husband’s family, Brendan had embraced the exceptionally long trek from Ashdown—the small hamlet in the southern half of the continent—up to the port town of Drahway, to catch the ferry to Lairts’cre on the Isle. Fingal was happy for the excuse to leave with Riona in tow. Nora’s wails had little effect. So early the following morning, Fingal, Brendan, and young Riona had escaped Ashdown—and the ever-constant scrutiny of Captain Galen Stovel, the Imperial guard who had his suspicions about Fingal and the girl.

For the first few days, Fingal breathed easier than he had in a while, ever since Riona’s mother had forced Riona upon him on Liberation Day, in the castle. Brendan didn’t know Riona’s real name or her mother’s tyrannous heritage, but that was a lighter set of secrets to carry compared to her large, violet wings. They seemed to grow larger and wispier each day, along with her confidence to hover just out of his grasp. Every night, he coaxed her to the forest floor to sleep, afraid he would wake to find her stuck in the trees...

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