Authors: L. K. Rigel
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mythology & Folk Tales, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban, #Sword & Sorcery, #Fairy Tales, #Mythology, #Arthurian
A Glimmering Girl
WYRD AND FAE BOOK FOUR
A Glimmering Girl
l.k. rigel
Also Available in the Wyrd and Fae Series
Give Me
(Wyrd and Fae 1)
Bride of Fae
(Wyrd and Fae 2)
Fever Mist
(Wyrd and Fae 3)
A Glimmering Girl (Wyrd and Fae 4)
Goblin Ball
(Wyrd and Fae 5)
Sign up for email notice of new releases
A Glimmering Girl (Wyrd and Fae 4)
Copyright 2014 L.K. Rigel
Published by Beastie Press
The Song of Wandering Aengus
by W. B. Yeats
in the public domain
Cover design by eyemaidthis
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States by Beastie Press 2014.
Table of Contents
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
~ The Song of Wandering Aengus
« Chapter 1 »
A Wyrding Woman
12th century. The cliffs near Tintagos Castle
A
S ALWAYS, TRAVELING OVER WATER IN
the dense mist gave Igraine a feeling of vertigo, and she gripped the edge of her bench seat for balance. Velyn’s oarswomen paddled in rhythm with unconscious competence, and when the mist lifted they had come well into Tintagos Bay. Sighting the world tree at the top of the cliffs, Igraine relaxed.
The
Redux
slowed to approach the shore. Farther north, a stretch of sandy beach offered a more hospitable landing spot; here there was only rock and the cliffs. But here also was a hidden path, known to wyrders, which led safely up the wall to Igdrasil, the sacred tree.
Igraine believed Igdrasil welcomed her return to the mundane realm. Sometimes she faltered. She clung to the sacred island and its eternal spring. Who of sound mind would leave Avalos for a life of sorrow, drudgery, and pain? But she’d committed to serve as wyrding woman and healer for the people of Tintagos, and she would not allow herself to regret it. When she had doubts, Igdrasil gave her strength.
The world tree reached up to the high gods and down to the chthonic forces, not creating but tapping into and sustaining the mystic—the sacred energy which flows through all things. When Igraine beheld Igdrasil, she remembered her own part in that sacred flow.
“Oars up.” Velyn deftly brought the boat parallel to the rocks where a set of steps had been carved by a forgotten person of a past generation. In a few strides, Velyn stepped forward to catch Igraine’s forearm and steady her. They shared a warm glance, but said nothing to each other.
The slippery steps made it difficult to gain a secure foothold, but she found her bearings and gave the boatman a nod. Pulling her cloak close against the cold, she raised a hand in farewell, and Velyn’s crew pulled away, rowing silently. The mist swallowed up the retreating boat, and Igraine found the hidden trail.
Igdrasil was an ancient oak which clung to the edge of the cliff with expansive branches that spread over land and sea. Igraine stood between its two largest roots and rested her cheek against the trunk, closing her eyes. She listened to the sound of the surf below and felt the cool breeze in her hair.
She imagined all her thoughts, significant or trivial, taking form as butterflies and flitting away, leaving her mind empty and open, ready to receive anything Brother Sun and Sister Moon wished to instill.
Let me out! Help me!
Igraine gasped and backed away. She looked behind her and all around, but the woman’s desperate cry had not come from behind or around. It had sounded only in Igraine’s mind, and it had come from Igdrasil, formidable as always, humming with mystical energy as always, but otherwise now silent.
Trembling, Igraine waited, but there was nothing more. Finally she set out on the three-hour walk that lay ahead. She couldn’t wait to ask Kaelyn about this.
However, it appeared those three hours were to be extended.
“Wyrding woman!”
Though early morning, the sun was high enough that Mrs. Thresher was visible in the distance, hurrying through the field. As she came closer, Igraine noticed she wore a long green tunic of good quality, her hair tucked behind a scarf of the same dyed fabric, exceptionally fine for a farmer’s wife.
“Oh, wyrding woman, praise Sun and Moon I found you! I was about to send a servant to the cave when I saw you on the road.”
Wyrding woman.
No one ever called Igraine or Kaelyn by their given names.
“If it’s serious you should send for Kaelyn,” Igraine said. “I’m only her assistant.”
“There’s no time. Rozenwyn is dying, and her father will surely kill us if she does.”
“Sir Yestin.” Igraine had seen the man before, a knight who served Lord Tintagos, the baron of the castle.
“Aye, you know him then.” The distraught woman glanced at Tintagos Castle in the distance then back to Igraine, her eyes pleading.
“I saw him only once, within the castle keep.”
The smith there had the baron’s charter to use Dumnos steel, which made the best swords but also excellent cauldrons. Igraine had gone to the forge one day to purchase a pot for Kaelyn, and Sir Yestin had come to collect a sword being repaired.
She remembered the knight bragging to all within earshot that his daughter Rozenwyn would likely soon marry a lord, and then he’d be back for a fine new sword of Dumnos steel.
That was a year ago.
“Why do you say Rozenwyn is dying?” Igraine said.
“The baby won’t come out.”
“Take me to her.”
On the way to the farmhouse, Mrs. Thresher babbled nervously. “Sir Yestin sent her to us to hide her shame and to get her out of the way of court gossip.”
“Of course.” So the lord had not married Rozenwyn after all.
“He’s paid very well for her lodging.”
That explained the dyed cloth and long tunic, extravagances for a farmer’s wife.
Opening the front door, Mrs. Thresher paused. “Mr. Thresher is sure her bastard belongs to someone of consequence.”