‘Twas the work of spies, sure enough. Some of our people must have made maps and given directions to the invaders.
We had but a few days left to make it to the shore, where our longboats waited, all stocked with supplies, enough to last us when we made it across the Muir éireann—the narrow span of ocean that separated us from Albion. I’d wanted to go to Alba, the northern part of our neighboring isle, for we had friends there. But the Milesians barred that exit.
They didn’t want us to band together with our friends. They only allowed us to flee into the arms of our enemies.
So, the road of escape went on forever, wending through forests and hills, over mountains and rivers. We marched past fields and through villages. Sometimes the Duine came out to weep at our banishment, tossing flowers in our path. Sometimes they hid behind trees and threw rocks.
We never knew what the next village would hold.
One morning—just after thick storm clouds parted—we passed through a small, muddy village. Tiny huts lined a narrow road and an old woman ran toward us. “My queen, my queen,” she called out. Her white hair blew in the breeze, catching the sunlight, and making it look as if she wore a halo. With head bowed, she lifted a fresh loaf of bread, wrapped neatly in a clean apron, and she handed it to me. The fragrance of yeast and rosemary made my mouth water.
“I been hopin’ ya would pass this way, Seanchaí,” she said, never raising her eyes to look at my face.
“Thank you for your kindness. A blessing of good harvest on you,” I said to her, my right hand resting on her shoulder. The Milesians had chased us out, but we still had our magic. I gave it to the Duine freely as I passed through the large cities and the small villages.
For a moment, her entire body glowed. The woman gave me a toothless grin.
I took a bite of the warm bread and swallowed, proving there was no poison or Druid silver. Every day, another tale circulated through our camp of how our own Duine had turned against us. We feared the bits of Milesian silver that had been hidden throughout our land, charms hanging from signposts, silver nails pounded into the roads, necklaces draped from oak branches.
But this bread was pure and wholesome and given by someone with a good heart. I broke the rest of the loaf into two halves and gave it to my sons. The pair of them rode beside me, together atop a small white horse. My children devoured the loaf like little, hungry wolves.
Faelan rode his massive black horse past mine, not bothering to look at me. “There could have been silver in that bread,” he said, his words like a curse. “You could have killed your own sons.” He used this opportunity and many others to drive a wedge between me and my faithful followers, both faery and Duine.
Ten days ago, I was a queen. At that time, no one in my House would have dared to criticize me. Now everything had changed.
My sister’s husband, Faelan, had quickly taken charge of our army. At first, I welcomed this, for I was bone-weary from the battle and I’d had to sing many of my sweet faery warriors to death with my banshee voice. After the battle, the rest of the Tuatha de Danann feared Faelan, for they saw how he drew supernatural strength from drinking the blood of his enemies. When he rode atop his horse, the pair of them looked like one magical creature. A nuckelavee, perhaps—a half-horse/half-man demon. Instead of skin, he had thick, short coarse fur, black as his horse, and his eyes were pure gold. His ears curved up and back—much like Mares’ ears—while his teeth were long and came to sharp points.
I’d seen him eat live goats without using a knife, breaking off legs and crunching bones as easily as I ate a carrot.
It didn’t take long for him to take charge of my remaining army. They still protected me, but I could sense something in the air whenever Faelan was near.
I should have been more careful.
I should have taken my sons and my sister, and together we should have slipped away at night. We could have taken the swiftest horses. We could have made it to the shore and taken the first longboat. We would still be together to this day.
As it is, I fear I will never see my sister, Caer, again.
She is lost to me.
I mourn her as I mourn my husband.
Because of this, there is an ache in my heart that I fear will never be healed.
Three
I wept as we traveled, for I knew we would never find another land as lovely as this. There was nowhere as beautiful as this green island, filled with oak groves and emerald hills and Standing Stone monuments. And the people—ah, how my heart would burst at the sight of them. Working in the fields, lifting a hand in the sign of a blessing as we passed, leaving us offerings of bread and salt and milk. We’d find these gifts when we woke in the mornings. Even though we didn’t see the Duine following us, there was a loyal band that had not forsaken us. There were days I thought we would have starved, if not for them.
I carved their faces in my memory and I continued to bless them throughout our journey.
After a long ride, we finally paused to rest for half a day at Liagchiorcal Chaisleán an Ridire, beneath the shadow of the approaching mountains. There I took my sons by the hand and led them through the grove of whitethorn trees, past an avenue of kerbstones, then through the massive quartz portal stones.
“Why are we here, Ma?” Ambros asked, impatient. He raced through the ancient circle as if he still rode his pony. Benen, on the other hand, paused to touch the delicate stone carvings, and to marvel at the size of the stones.
“The Druids claim this is their ciorcal, but it was made by the Fair Folk, after the Ice Giants left,” I told them.
“Do you feel it?” my sister asked. Her children wandered throughout the open structure along with mine. Her three sons, Finn, Edmond and Bradan, were nearly grown and had fought in the battle alongside us. But her daughter, Riona, was the same age as my twins.
“Feel what?” Benen asked, his dark eyes sparkling as he turned toward us.
“Watch,” I told him. “Hold still.”
All of our children stopped what they were doing to face us.
Faelan stood beside Caer, his arms crossed, a dark expression on his face. He hated banshee magic and, yet, I could tell it fascinated him—as if he was trying to learn how to harness our power. My sister and I held hands, then we started to sing.
The stones began to glow, soft at first, and everyone within the circle made quiet sounds of awe. Then the light burst from earth to heaven, a golden beacon that could be seen for miles. At the same moment, tiny fingers of light spiderwebbed throughout the circle, encasing each one of us.
The light was both healing and strengthening.
“Do it again, Ma!” Ambros pleaded when the light faded away.
Benen stared down at the light that still clung to his fingertips. My heart skipped a beat and I quickly looked to make sure Faelan wasn’t watching us. Then I nudged my sister. Her eyes widened when she saw my son.