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  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)

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  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

  A Wyrding Woman

  Daughter of the High Gods

  Wandering Aengus

  Wings

  Everyone Wants to be Fae

  These Dreams of You

  From War to Rumors of War

  Tailor and King

  In the Glimmering

  The Iron of Dumnos

  The Fisher King

  Because a Fire Was in My Head

  Candle and Goblin

  Coffee and a Secret

  Igraine’s Altered Eye

  Patience

  Choir of Angels

  Ride With Me

  Nine Hazel Lake

  Entwined

  The Falcon and the Dove

  Gobs Can Dance

  Abomination

  Lord Dumnos at Faeview

  Wennie

  Mistcutter

  A Simple Choice

  Apples of the Moon and Sun

  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

  AS 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.”

  “I see.” Igraine followed the farmwife into the house and through the great room toward the
staircase.

  “Is it a fairy you have there, Margaret?” An old woman sitting by the fire squinted at Igraine. “Is it a fairy?”

  Mrs. Thresher heaved a great sigh and changed course. “No, Mother. It’s not a fairy.” She picked up a shawl at the old woman’s feet.

  “Get the salt!”

  “Be good, dear, or you’ll have to go to your room.” Mrs. Thresher spread the shawl over the old lady’s shoulders and came back to Igraine. “My husband’s mother. She sees fairies everywhere. We all tread lightly, in fear of having salt or holy cakes thrown at us.”

  Mrs. Thresher led the way to the first bedroom at the top of the stairs, and as Igraine crossed the threshold, the stench turned her stomach. She put down her bag and, ignoring the November cold, drew back the window curtain and opened the shutter to clear the air.

  “Have boiled water brought up from the kitchen, and I want three candles burning at all times.”

  “But the sun is up. Why… why so many?” Mrs. Thresher knocked the wood of the door frame and touched her forehead. “Is three a wyrding number?”

  “I’d rather it were ten,” Igraine said, but only to shock the woman into accepting the expense of three. “It’s to burn away impure tempers in the air. Three will suffice.”

  As soon as the steaming water arrived, Igraine infused it with rosemary and sage and wyrded it with a healing spell. Not that it would matter to poor Rozenwyn—Igraine knew the smell of coming death—but perhaps the baby could be saved.

  “He’s wonderful.” With strength she should no longer possess, the dying girl grasped Igraine’s hand, nails gouging skin. Her face glowed with misplaced faith. “He won’t forsake me.”

  “A prince among men, I’m sure.”

  Igraine eased her hand free, instantly regretting her sarcasm. What good did mockery serve now? She wrung out a cloth soaking in the wyrded water and laid it over Rozenwyn’s forehead. Another birth pang robbed the poor thing of her beatific smile. She’d been in labor all day, and was no closer to giving birth.

  “Anyway, he’s my prince.” Rozenwyn’s face drained of color, and she grimaced and turned, unable to settle until the contraction passed. Then she said, “You’ve never been in love then.”

  “Love takes time,” Igraine said. “You don’t look old enough to have been in love.”

  “You know nothing, wyrding woman. You’re in the keep, buying bread. It’s an ordinary day. You’re the same dull nothing of a person you’ve always been. Then you see him. He rides through the gate, his thighs clasped to his mount, hair flowing, and his smile lights up your heart. In the flash of a fish’s tail, everything changes. He’s marvelous in your eyes—and the simple joy of being caught in his gaze tells you you’re beautiful.”

  Great gods. “It must be love then.”

  “Besides, I’m eighteen,” Rozenwyn said. “Old enough. Older than you, I’ll warrant.”

  Igraine was in fact twenty. And she did have an experience of men—one man—though the affair lacked any fish-tail flashes of transcendent love.

  “Ach!” Rozenwyn’s body convulsed in another spasm. “Oh, why did he go away? I’m going to die, wyrding woman.”

  “Not if you conserve your strength.” But Igraine didn’t believe herself, and she couldn’t make the words ring true.

  “I’m going to die, and I’ll never see my Ross again.”

  “There, there. Try to breathe through it.”

  Rozenwyn’s pain proved too much for the potion Igraine had given her, but any more might stop the girl’s breathing.

  The light from the window changed, dimming as the afternoon grew late. Igraine bent over the wyrded water and inhaled the soothing vapors, trying to shake off her exhaustion. It felt like days since she’d heard Mrs. Thresher’s frantic call. Had it only been this morning?

  The three candles and three more were long ago used up. Igraine wanted more light, but asking for a fourth would put Mrs. Thresher into an apoplexy. She dug two beeswax candles out of her bag that she’d made for Kaelyn while on the island and lit them with a quick spell.

  “Oh!” Rozenwyn’s eyes grew wide, and she crossed herself against the magic—then looked sheepish at being caught.

  At the moment, Igraine wasn’t worried about mundane sensitivities. She fixed the candles into the wall sconces above the bed.

  “He’s honorable and good,” Rozenwyn said. “My Ross will marry—unh…” Another birth pang took hold, and Rozenwyn grunted and panted through it.

  Igraine kept mostly to Kaelyn’s cave and the roads and byways to and from Igdrasil. She’d been to the castle keep only the one time, but she wasn’t a hermit. From time to time a local inhabitant came to the cave seeking the wyrding woman, and occasionally she’d gone with Kaelyn on a call. In five years on the mainland, Igraine had never seen Sir Ross.

  The baron’s son had left Tintagos to go on a crusade with a lord from Winchester. That was about six months ago. Poor Rozenwyn must know her lover might never come back—to her or to anyone.

  “Turn away from fear, Rozenwyn. Let go of dark thoughts. Open yourself to the energy which flows through all things.”

  Rozenwyn’s eyes widened again, as if really seeing Igraine for the first time. “You’re the wyrding woman.”

  Igraine sighed. She again rinsed out the cloth and pressed it against the girl’s temples.

  “Let this drive away all morbid spirits.” She said the words only to comfort. There was magic in the wyrded water but no miracle. She rubbed Rozenwyn’s wrists and ankles with soothing oil of spearmint. “Think of your child.”

  Rozenwyn. Shining rose. At the moment, it seemed a cruel joke of a name. Sweat-streaked, dull brown hair coming out of its braid lay matted against Rozenwyn’s sickly forehead and cheeks. She’d cried and vomited to dehydration, leaving her eyes swollen and red and tearless.

  “He’s so good and brave and handsome,” Rozenwyn said.

  “They’re all good and brave and handsome.” The baby had moved well down, the crown of the head now visible. For the first time, Igraine had hope both mother and child might come through.

  “Some say the scar below his eye is ugly. I think it makes him look dangerous and…” The corners of Rozenwyn’s mouth turned up slightly, and the furrow between her brows softened.

  “He must be something.”

  “It isn’t lust. I love him.” Rozenwyn grunted, and her scowl returned. “He’ll come for me. He’ll marry me and claim his son.”

  “Not if there is no son to claim,” Igraine said, more harshly than she’d intended. “Let’s get you to your knees. Take the pressure off your back.”

  “Aaiiieee!”

  “Breathe.” Igraine moved the girl’s braid to the side and wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. “It won’t be long now.”

  Rozenwyn faded again and collapsed, rolling over onto her back. Her shift had run askance over her writhing stomach, and the sheets were a noxious mess of sweat and blood and other bodily fluids. “My son will be baron one day. He’ll be a great man.”

  “Where is she?” A commotion erupted from somewhere else in the house, and a brutish male voice boomed up from below. “Let me see my daughter!” Heavy boots sounded on the stairs then outside the thin bedroom door.

  “Don’t… don’t tell!” Rozenwyn lurched forward, her eyes blazing. She scrambled to pull up the bedcover but dropped it, she was so weak. Her eyes rolled, unfocused, and she reached for Igraine but clutched air. “He doesn’t know who…”

  Sir Yestin pushed in to the room with Mrs. Thresher on his heels.

  “Oh!” Rozenwyn cried out—and fainted.

  Behind the knight and the farmwife, two monks followed. One Igraine knew, but at the sight of the other she took an instinctive step backward. Brother Marrek of Tintagos priory was a gentle spirit with an honest faith, but the stranger beside him bore a malicious scowl that chilled her bones.

  “What is she doing here?” Sir Yestin said. He glanced from Igraine to the
monks. He grimaced in embarrassment more than anger.

  “I… I didn’t know what else to do, Sir Yestin.” Mrs. Thresher moved to Rozenwyn’s side. “Your daughter took such a bad turn. I thought—”

  “Get out!” The knight growled at Igraine. “I’ll have no witch near my grandson.”

  “Sir Yestin, with respect,” Mrs. Thresher said, “Rozenwyn is so very weak. She might die. The wyrding—”

  “Prior Quinn of Sarumos will attend to it.”

  Sarumos. Said with more reverence than seemly in a knight of Dumnos.

  The unfamiliar priest fixed on Igraine, his loathing plain, but as their eyes met something happened. Quinn’s expression froze, then softened. His lips parted, but he uttered no words. All as Rozenwyn had described, in the flash of a fish’s tail.

  A sickening chill passed through Igraine, and she had to pull away from the prior’s gaze as if it had physical hold of her. She snatched up her bag of potions and herbs, as it was clear she wouldn’t be allowed to do any more for Rozenwyn.

  She wanted to get out of the room, away from that man, but she paused and offered a silent prayer. Igdrasil, ease Rozenwyn’s way. Let the high gods accept her soul into heaven. And may Prior Quinn do no harm here.

  Quinn’s tenor voice cut through the pungent air like an exquisite dagger. “You do mean to say London, Sir Yestin.” His tone well conveyed a conviction of superiority over the Dumnos knight—over them all.

  London? Oh, yes. The name for Sarumos preferred by a certain faction of knights and bishops, those who pressed King Henry to nullify the sovereignty of the northern and western kingdoms and consolidate all under the English crown. And, not incidentally, to give greater power to the monasteries, just as Queen Elfryth had done in the time of King Jowan.

  If only Dumnos still had a true king! Jowan had been a champion of the wyrd. But after his son Galen died without issue, England’s influence over Dumnos had grown. With that influence, enmity for the wyrd had crept westward.

  Sir Yestin seemed ready to take offense at the priest’s manner—and then to think better of it. “London,” he said with an uneasy laugh. “Still not used to the name.”