The Phantom Queen Awakes (11 page)

****

Near the end of the long march through the
forests of the Belgen, the news that Gwened had kept from her but
that had circulated freely through the campfires finally reached
her ears. Iaun Reith had taken a new wife, accepting an offer of
alliance from one of the western tribes. The clients Iaun’s new
bride represented had brought much wealth to the Veneti. Lys’ heart
filled with dread as she struggled to accept the idea of sharing
her husband with another woman.

“We are nearly there,” she told Gwened as she
recognized the line of seven hills visible in the distance. The
base of the Berg farther west that housed the sleeping dragon was
also home to her small tribe. She pointed to the wide river that
made her heart soar on their descent into the valley. “Look, there
is the Rhine. It is not far now.”

She smiled broadly when Condrusi scouts
engaged them and spurred their horses back to report their arrival.
Lys and her escort rode into the central compound of her village,
smaller than she remembered it, where a gathering of people waited
to greet her. She let Gwened help her from her horse and knelt
before the man she had not seen for over a decade. Her father had
aged favorably but walked with a slight stoop. His eyes were still
clear as they looked her over and his stern but kind expression
told her that she was welcome.

“Lys ab Gysell,” he said in greeting,
affection marking his tone.

“Vater,” her voice caught in her throat. All
the emotion she had saved up over the journey threatened to fight
its way out of her breast. She rose to face him. “I have brought
you gifts. And your grandsons have come with me.”

He looked her sons over, and she caught the
glint of approval in his eyes. They were beautiful children. Her
sons had Iaun’s dark hair and, in contrast, her deep blue eyes,
giving them an exotic, regal appearance. Her girls had inherited
both Iaun’s hair and eyes and fine features and Lys regretted not
taking them with her. She already missed their faces, although they
were an even sharper reminder of their father’s absence. She was
thankful they were there with him, safe from Cathubodua.

Lys settled quickly into the rhythm of her
people again and spent time with the holy men in the forest,
telling them of Veneti customs and their way of life. They
questioned her about the wise women and their ritual use of herbs
and plants. Her boys were taken immediately into their training.
Gwened kept to himself when he was not guiding patrols, but Lys
joined him often by the fire in the hut they shared with the
children. She enjoyed listening to him tell her about the day’s
events and found she looked forward to their time
together.

Gwened had returned early one afternoon to
have one of his men tended for a minor injury. Lys had taken to her
bed after drinking a potion of willow bark to ease one of her all
too frequent headaches. He lay down next to her and whispered the
words of a song used to ease frightened children to sleep. They
were alone in the hut, the others being busy with the tasks of high
summer.

Lys turned gratefully into his embrace. “I am
glad that you’re here, Gwened.” She whispered close to his ear, her
lips brushing his cheek. “I am also glad that you were always there
for my sons.”

“The twins will be fine men, Lys. Not a one of
your folk can match them even now on the hunt.” He pulled her close
to him, with only a thin wool coverlet between them, and rubbed his
hardness against her thighs.

She saw the want in his eyes. She let herself
enjoy the feel of him against her and trailed her hand along the
inside of his thighs. He cupped her breasts between his hands and
voiced the question they had already answered with their bodies.
“You would give me a gift fit for a king?”

She laughed at his teasing. “Of course, you
deserve nothing less,” and offered him her hips.

After they had taken their pleasure together,
they lay side-by-side for a short while, listening to the buzz of
insects in the summer heat.

“I don’t know that I could have stood losing
Iaun if it hadn’t been for you,” she said. “You miss Nolwenn, don’t
you?”

“She is a good woman, and I am sure she will
not be alone in my absence,” he said.

“Your brother is surely happy with his new
wife.”

“You are still fairer than all the women half
your age, Lys ab Gysell,” he said, stroking her hair. “Don’t worry
about Iaun. You have given him enough ― three healthy, brave boys
and two beautiful daughters. When you return, he will welcome you
again.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Iaun needs to produce something with his
bride first. I have heard talk that she takes something against the
monthly curse. She fears a swollen belly,” he said.

Lys laughed out loud. “Then she is more a fool
than I thought.”

****

After Lys gave birth to Gwened’s first child,
her third daughter, she faced the prospect that she must soon cross
over again into
Ande-dubnos
to fulfill the duties required
by Cathubodua. She sought the help of one of the Sighted women, a
shapeless mother who lived alone at the edge of the village. Lys
asked her for some herbal magic to help her reach the place of
shadow that her people called the
Anderwelt
. The woman moved
slowly and her hands had curled up into stiff claws. But she brewed
Lys a
Trank
from moonflower seeds and told her to barricade
herself in her hut to ensure solitude from prying eyes.

The potion did not seem to have any effect
until Lys found herself walking through a featureless landscape
that seemed to hang between nothing and something. She was met by
tall, slender creatures with ears that narrowed at the top. One had
hair of darkest red that flowed in long ringed tresses while
another had short hair of a shiny gold color that crowned his head
like the sun’s rays. None of them smiled at her in greeting. They
conducted her along paths lit by twilight to a calm, shallow sea
that stretched to the very edge of her imagination.

She bathed in the water as they sang songs of
power to her, the words chosen to instruct her on how to shape the
waves and bring a tide to the sea formed from the dreams of her
people. She felt their words flow through her. After the working,
she sensed movement, a susurration in the water, but the liquid
remained unnaturally calm ― just the opposite of the restless ocean
along the Veneti coastlands.

Lys sat on the beach afterwards and relished
the invigorating tingle as the water of dreams dried from her skin.
The
Anderwelt
folk bade her farewell and wandered off,
singing to each other as they dwindled into a shadowy distance. One
of the very tall ones, a male with a regal face and dark eyes edged
with silver, remained behind to escort her back. She had never seen
this one before. He wore an elegant mantle of black shot through
with silver and gold threads that fell to his feet. His black hair
matched it in both length and color and was streaked with strands
of white and brilliant yellow.

He told her his name was Ankou as they labored
up a long dune of mute sands that darkened briefly under her
passing steps. “The crossroads,” he said as they were close to the
top.

“Is that where you’re taking me? Aren’t we
going back now?”

He smiled sadly. “It is where you are
going.”

She guessed what he didn’t say. Her people’s
dreams had been fading; the power of this place waning each year.
“Cathubodua told me our ways will disappear. What will happen
then?”

His voice was gentle, but grim. “When the
dreams ― and the memories ― fade altogether, our bond to your world
will lessen. Without your people, our substance and strength over
chaos diminishes.”

If the fées’ power was fading...Lys was afraid
to voice her deepest fear, but she had to know about her daughters,
if their sacrifice was the only way. “She demands my twin daughters
to save my people.”

“Ah, a choice, but not the only one.” His eyes
pierced her like a feathered arrow.

She looked down. “I love my children as I love
the men whose seed quickened them in me. My daughters are not with
me now, and my heart aches at their absence. I would have to bring
them here, only to send them to their death.” Lys held her hand
over her heart.

One slender finger touched her upper arm.
“Which do you think will save your people more? Sacrifice or
love?”

She looked up at him and felt the hardness
that edged into her words. “Neither. Strength against might will
save them. Naught else.”

“That is one of the reasons why you gave your
promise,” he said softly.

Lys stopped to catch her breath as they
crested the dune but found she had no need to. “What is the choice,
then?”

“To refuse the promise, you must give
something in its place.” He looked back over the still waters below
them as he waited for her to consider.

“Another sacrifice.”

He held his hands together on his breast, a
gesture Lys interpreted as one of distress. “We do not serve the
being with whom you made your bond. Nor are we at odds with it. It
will seek to extract a lasting sacrifice. It
is...vengeful.”

“What should I do, then?”

“Make your choice. If you choose love, I will
do what I can to lessen the repercussions of whatever
it...she...decrees.”

“You can do that?”

“I can but try.”

****

Lys bore Gwened’s son, her last child, in a
lake of her own blood, and she lay near death for several days. The
women took the baby from her to find a wet nurse. They tended her
as best they could and spoke prayers to the gods over her. She
recovered slowly with the help of strong meat broths and potions of
bloodroot to ward off corruption. Upon learning that her newborn
son was both hearty and hale, she rejoiced and chose life for
herself and her children. As the celebration of the waning of the
dark time approached, she walked longer and longer each day to
regain her strength. Lys named her son Niece, which meant choice in
the dialect of Gwened’s people.

Her daughters were soon due to receive their
first moonblood, and Lys knew she could wait no longer. The goddess
would require her sacrifice no later than the New Year, of that she
was certain. She went into the woods on her own to spend the night,
purifying herself beforehand to prepare.

The dancing light came to her and drew her
in.

This time the benign mother faced her. “You
are known to us, Lys ab Gysell. The first part of your promise you
have ably fulfilled. Now comes the time for the second. You must
send for your daughters soon. Their blood belongs to
me.”

Lys stood erect before the goddess. “I will
not sacrifice my daughters to you. But know this; I make the choice
in love and not to spite you.”

The young warrior sprang into view. She
laughed and ended it in a terrifying cry. “Sacrifice you will, for
you have given your word. Is this your final decision?”

Lys sank to her knees trembling in shame and
fear. “Yes. I have chosen.”

****

She had known something bad would happen but
not that it would come so soon. Lys watched Gwened and his men
leave with the rising sun to head off the vanguard of leather
corseted Romans who had begun massing along the Treveri borders.
She had watched as he stopped to speak to a gnarled old woman with
long, stringy hair washing clothes by the river. A fat crow picked
at the ground near the hag’s feet. Lys had not heard the words they
had spoken and none of the other men appeared to see the woman. Lys
ran to warn him away from Cathubodua in her guise of Death, but it
had been too late. The hag had sealed his fate.

The men who bore Gwened’s body back on a bed
of logs reported that the battle spirit had come upon him, and he
had challenged the Roman warchief in single combat to decide their
fate. Gwened’s frenzy had enabled him to kill the man and hide his
own fatal injury from the enemy until he had safely returned to his
men. She shrieked over him as they set him down within the camp,
her hands raking through the lime in his fair hair. Her sons stood
near her and mourned in silence for the man who had raised
them.

The veil of grief settled over her as she
arranged for the party that would return Gwened’s ashes to his
home. It had seemed appropriate to cremate him in the Treveri
style, as a large contingent of Treveri had arrived bringing gifts
of weapons and gold to throw on the fire for Gwened’s spirit.
Offerings from the Romans had also been sent with an emissary. Lys
included many valuable pieces of gold and Veneti glazed pottery to
travel with Gwened to his eventual resting place.

She placed Gwened’s ashes in an exquisite
bronze cauldron she had received from the Treveri for that purpose
and packed them with valuable iron tools and casks of wine. Songs
of his deeds had already been composed for his homecoming. She
instructed the men returning with Gwened’s remains to tell Iaun
that her daughters would remain with him and his people to maintain
the alliance. Gwened’s last act would not keep the thirsty wolves
away for long.