The Raven Lady

Chapter 1: UNMOORED

Connacht, Ireland – 1883 

KOLI

Winter is no friendly season for voyaging across an ocean to offer yourself as a hostage to a sworn enemy.

I was resigned to it. But how tempting it was to read ill omens into gale and tempest—might be that was inevitable. As a child of the Elf King, you could rightly say that I was an ill omen incarnate.

Standing on the deck of the Danish mail steamer in the pelting rain, I could not beat back my resentment. I had been offered as consort to King Finvara, the lord of the Irish fairies. Our union was meant to reinforce a peace accord signed after the Battle of Ben Bulben, where my people, the Icelandic shadow elves, had fought alongside Fomorians, the ancient enemies of Ireland. Such unions were a longstanding tradition for good reason—they often worked. Yet in spite of tradition, even in spite of the wishes of his powerful cousin, Queen Isolde of Ireland, the haughty Finvara would not stoop to a union with a “goblin”—a slur his people often used against mine. And my mighty race—defeated decisively in the bloody battle for possession of Ireland—had no recourse but to agree to our enemy’s revised terms.

I wish not to be misunderstood. I had no desire to wed the fairy king. But I was proud of my lineage. I could have chosen any elven lord—any Fomorian prince, even—and would have made him a formidable ally, a curse upon his enemies. In obedience to my father, I had accepted my exile to the lower isle, and yet Finvara offered only scorn in return.

Now I would enter the stronghold of our enemy, offering myself as a political prisoner. I would be despised for the dark magic in my blood, as well as my fierce appearance. My hair was black as a cloudless night, and even the light of the Irish summer sun would raise no gleam upon it. The iris of my eye was a shade of gray so near to black that it unsettled mortals. Across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose had been stamped the small, star-shaped marks of the highland elves, so ancient they remembered an Iceland with trees.

If my mixed elven-mortal ancestry had taught me anything, it was how to live among those who would only ever see my otherness.

On the morrow, I would begin my life as a hostage among the soft and bloodless descendants of the Tuatha De Danaan. I would not run a household or hold court. Nor would I produce heirs for a noble husband. But I would serve my father and lord as a spy in the house of his enemy. For my father and his Fomorian allies would never accept defeat. They would bide their time and remain bound by the accord with the Irish for only as long as they must. As their appointed agent, I would gather the information they needed to mount a new offensive.

As prisoner rather than mistress of Knock Ma, this charge would not be easily carried out. But neither would I be required to live a lie, nor bear the children of a man I could never love.

“We approach Galway Bay.” Ulf, a captain in my father’s army who’d served many years as my bodyguard, joined me on the foredeck. Menacing as he was—large and wolfish, with flesh both scarred and inked, and forever scowling—he was visible to no one onboard but myself. All the other passengers were mortal, and the elves were Hidden Folk. They had lived among Icelanders for many centuries—for the most part, without ever being seen by them. It was a subtle magic, requiring blending in with the surroundings. Yet, there were still seers who could perceive Hidden Folk.

I had a foot in both worlds, and my elven kin’s ability to hide in plain sight was one I did not share, though I could melt into a shadow easily enough. Neither was I immortal, though time had not marked me—despite the fact I had outlived my mother, so far, by nearly sixty years.

An angry wind whipped the ends of my hair against my face, stinging my skin. Ice needles rained onto the deck and collected in my traveling cloak. As Ulf studied the waves, my gaze came to rest on the upside-down ash tree branded into his neck—the mark of the Elf King, which both symbolized and mocked our ancestors, the ancient gods of the Northmen. It was a mark we shared, though mine had been inked between my shoulder blades when I came of age, rather than burned into the flesh. The mark served as a reminder that however far I might venture from Skaddafjall, my father’s stronghold on Vestrahorn Mountain, I was still his to command. Trusting me with such an important task had demonstrated his faith in me—though as an unmarried daughter, I was in a unique position to serve. And I was eager to prove myself.

My gaze followed Ulf’s, settling on the Irish ironclads guarding the mouth of the port. Only three months ago these ships had destroyed the entire Fomorian fleet. It had happened in a harbor just north of here, turning the tide of the battle for Ireland. Early in the fight, the Irish goddess of war—for reasons neither mortal nor immortal would likely ever understand—had becalmed the ironclads, snuffed their steam engines, and bewitched their powder, rendering their cannons useless and forcing them onto even footing with the Fomorian longships. But King Finvara himself had raised a wind that freed the ironclads. Vain and vile though he might be, I must never let myself think of him as weak.

The fairy king, our returning warriors had told us, was mortal, or at least had once been. He was the youngest son of an Irish earl whose immortal ancestor—the King Finvara of ancient days—had taken possession of his body and mind before the battle of Ben Bulben. In fact, a number of the Irish nobles—including Queen Isolde herself—had immortal ancestors who had worked through them to assist the allied armies of Faery and Ireland.

What must it be like, I wondered, to commune with the spirits of ancient heroes within your own head? Navigating the marshland of my complicated ancestry had been challenging enough.

The steamer drew alongside Claddagh quay, and I studied the mist-shrouded waterfront, just stirring to life in the gloomy morning light. The rain had now lightened to a drizzle, and I prepared to disembark with the other passengers, but without my escort. Under the terms of the agreement, I could bring no attendant of my own kind.

I bid farewell to Ulf, who had been my constant companion since the death of my mother. As he conveyed my father’s final command, the mark between my shoulder blades tingled.

“Remember where you come from.”

In the court of the fairy king, I would hardly be allowed to forget.

Making my way along the quay, I watched as my fellow passengers were greeted by waiting friends. It was a snug and orderly harbor, filled with fishing boats. When I reached the end of the walkway—beyond which was the village with its neat, white cottages—I looked for a carriage from the fairy king’s court. I watched the passengers proceed into the village, friends carrying their bags or straining under the weight of their trunks. I watched as some of them climbed into carriages, while others walked along the waterfront. I watched the steamer’s crew transfer bags of mail to waiting carriers.

While I had expected no fanfare, neither had I expected to be kept waiting for longer than the steamer’s paper cargo. I glanced at the ship, which was already drawing away from the port. My trunks rested alone on the stones of the quay.

As the last straggling passengers moved past me, they failed to hide their curious, pitying glances, and I grew hot with anger under the confining layers of clothing that had been forced on me before I left Iceland. The fact that Irish women would tolerate such purposeless torture was a sure sign I would never fit in among them. No one could bowhunt in such clothing, or even breathe without making noise. I swatted at the mourning veil that masked my alien features—the star markings, and the curved and pointing tips of my ears. Shoving the dark net back over the top of my hat, I glanced up and down the waterfront.

Sighing heavily, I tipped back my head, welcoming the cold winter rain on my fevered cheeks.

He will answer, I vowed. I was nearly a hundred years old and had spent many of my days staring out at the ever-changing Atlantic, wandering across the lava fields and black-sand strand, watching the aurora borealis painting itself upon Iceland’s sky. I knew how to bide my time.

FINVARA

The truth of it was, I forgot her entirely.

Ireland was navigating stormy seas. The doors to Faery had been thrust open at the Battle of Ben Bulben, and open they had remained. None of our lives would ever be the same—least of all my own.

Born Duncan O’Malley, a bastard fourth son of the Earl of Mayo, I had been largely ignored by my family and allowed to come and go as I liked for the first three decades of my life. My mother, orphaned young and fostered by a pirate captain, inherited his ship and took up smuggling, which led to her meeting my father on Claddagh quay over an illicit purchase of weaponry. The sealing of the deal turned carnal, or so I am given to understand, after my mother offered him a pull from her hip flask. The earl was smitten, and soon extracted a promise that my mother would one day return and marry him. I would never have known about any of this had my mother not related the story—my father was laced too tight to ever discuss it with me. That my parents loved each other was obvious to anyone who saw them together, but still it was hard for me to imagine how my mother had abided with him the short time she did—she died of fever barely a year after their union was legitimized.

After I came of age and spent a few years on my mother’s crew, I too had chosen—and enjoyed—the freewheeling and masterless life of a sea captain. Until last year, when Ireland’s ancient enemies had threatened, and a fairy king of legend—one of the Tuatha De Danaan—revived his connection with his mortal descendants by invading my mind and body.

Early on, he and I struggled for control of this earthly vessel. In the end we joined forces to defeat our Fomorian foes, and after the battle, we formed our own accord.

As part of that agreement—and at the urging of my cousin, the Irish queen—I exchanged the life of a smuggler for the bonds of public service. I assumed my ancestor’s title as king of fairies. His centuries-long reign lived like the memory of a dream in the depths of my mind. Yet he and I parted ways—he moved on to the Land of Promise and no longer spoke in my mind, as he had done in the days leading up to the Battle of Ben Bulben. He would never again overpower my intellect, but I had acquired his magic, which drew on the elements and the land itself—though perhaps I would never be as adept at wielding it as he was.

A life at sea is not without peril or adversity, but let me not understate how unprepared I was for what this transformation would entail. Until the seal between Ireland and Faery was broken at the Battle of Ben Bulben, the great king’s castle, Knock Ma, had been splendidly whole in Faery while only a ruin in Ireland. After the battle, the two overlapping worlds had attempted to merge—with varying degrees of success—and Knock Ma had manifested again in Ireland in its original glory. The very forest that surrounded its walls in Faery had regenerated, radically altering the Connacht countryside, creating all manner of difficulties with the local farmers. Even within the castle walls the worlds were merged, with corridors overrun by puck and sprite.

Suffice it to say, my transition from smuggler to statesman had much occupied my time and energy. Truly, it was no wonder that I had forgotten about her—the goblin princess that had been foisted upon me, and whom I had narrowly avoided wedding.

I was only reminded of her when a servant was sent from the kitchens to inquire about the dietary requirements of our guest, at which point a mad scramble ensued. Knock Ma was still working to establish relationships with local tradesmen, and I had no idea how a carriage was to be hired on such short notice. In the end, we paid a farmer for the use of his cart, and my household staff did what they could to make it comfortable. I understood the lady we were expecting to be somewhat savage, and I hoped that she would not be too deeply offended.

Before Queen Isolde had returned to Dublin, she had advised me to appoint a steward to help manage my affairs. I had not liked the idea at the time, but I was beginning to see the sense in it.

“Your Majesty?”

I did not immediately glance up as a servant entered my study, where I’d been looking over an ancient map of Ireland. I had always loved maps, from the time my mother had taught me to read them. This one depicted an Ireland so ancient it was almost completely blanketed by forests, its contours suggesting the country had once been more mountainous—and far less boggy.

“Aye?” I said at last, turning.

The fellow was one of the servants from my family’s estate. My father had sent them “so that there might be familiar folk about you,” but I suspected it had more to do with keeping an eye on me. The earl had always been fond of me, but until the Battle of Ben Bulben, he had never taken me very seriously. Understandably perhaps, as I had never taken myself very seriously.

“Princess Koli has arrived,” announced the servant. The man was ever grim-faced—I suspected he had not come to Knock Ma voluntarily—but at the moment he looked like he had swallowed a toad.

A smile twitched on my lips at the poor fellow’s discomfort, but I managed to conquer it. “Very well, Keane. See that she’s escorted to her chamber, and that she’s made comfortable.”

“Your Majesty,” the man cleared his throat nervously, “the lady is insisting—”

He was interrupted by a flock of ravens sweeping in through the door, filling the study with the noise of their great flapping wings and gravel-throated cries. The servant shouted and stumbled, and I staggered back toward the open casement.

Only a spell, I realized, fanning out one hand and murmuring, “Disperse.” The birds had been conjured, and it was a simple enough trick to wave them away.

Merely shadows, they flew out the window and dissipated the moment the light struck them. But the last of the birds raked my head on its way out, sharp talons scraping the edge of my ear.

“Blast,” I swore, swiping at the wound with the back of my hand. Glancing at it, I saw a smear of bright blood. There was something unfamiliar in that spell. Nothing deadly, certainly, but something angry.

When I turned again to the servant, I encountered a figure clad in mourning crepe, her veil obscuring her features.

“Koli Alfdóttir?” I inquired. She was straight and narrow as a reed, and nearly as tall as I.

“Your Majesty,” she spoke sternly, in perfect modern Irish, “I understand that neither of us is pleased by these circumstances, but was I to expect less than common courtesy from the king of fairies?”

“Forgive me, lady,” I replied, feeling truly repentant despite the stinging wound on my ear. “We’re topsy-turvy here, as you can see, and I quite forgot you were arriving today.”

I realized belatedly that I had perhaps been more frank than necessary. The creature snatched the veil away from her face, and her gaze burned into me.

“Did you,” she said, a quiet rage simmering under her words.

I had little experience with elves, though I had seen them at Ben Bulben. My ancestor’s impressions also resided within me, and they were tinged with both fear and scorn. Fierce though she was, the princess was more womanly than I had expected—her ears were curved and pointed, but there was no sharpness to her other features, nor were there antlers or long teeth. Her skin did not appear to be inked with designs—though it was impossible to guess what there might be beneath that ghastly dress—nor did she wear the face paint of a warrior.

“My apologies, also, for your … for your mode of conveyance. My court is newly established, and I had not—”

“I understand that I am despised by you, sir,” she seethed. “You have made that plain enough.”

How I wished she would shout, or outwardly storm. This barely suppressed violence was far more troubling. There were both light elves and shadow elves among the Hidden Folk, and my ancestor had had little use for either—he considered them all to be arrogant and untrustworthy. They were said to be descended from Loki, the Norsemen’s lord of mischief, who had disguised himself and fled the wrath of Odin after causing the death of one of his sons, discovering Iceland in the process. But the shadow elves had earned the reputation of goblins, sometimes murdering mortals in their beds. An Irish fairy might play a cruel or even gruesome prank, but the fairies were answerable to me. This woman was not.

“I hope, lady, that I have done no such thing,” I said in a conciliatory tone.

But I had rejected her hand outright, and her father would have told her so. The lady’s pride would of course be wounded. And lady she was, I could see that now. I began to feel ashamed of the various ways I had humiliated her.

There was aught I could do but try to smooth her ruffled feathers. Fortunately, my ancestor and I both had considerable experience in managing ruffled females.

“Come now, madam,” I continued. “You must be fatigued from your journey. I will escort you personally to your chamber so that you may refresh yourself.”

KOLI

Something about me had surprised him, that much was clear from the way he was staring. Was my appearance such a shock to him, or was it that he had expected to find a wart on my nose and a hump on my back? Hooves, or perhaps a tail? I, too, had been surprised by his appearance. He was not the fair and golden lord that I had anticipated based on the stories my people told about the Irish. His skin was brown, and his head was covered by tight curls that had been burnished reddish gold in places, presumably by the sun. It reached down past his shoulders, but he wore it tied back from his face. His lips, framed by his dark beard, were an ashy rose color and shapely as a woman’s. His eyes, like many an Icelander, were an unclouded blue.

Though he did not look like my idea of an Irish king, he was every bit as arrogant as I had expected.

“No, sir, you shall not,” I replied. “I prefer the company of the servant.”

I turned then, not bothering to ask his permission to withdraw, and walked straight out into the corridor. I heard him mutter something to his man, who scurried after me. I eyed the servant impatiently and he ducked his head in submission, or fear, or perhaps both, and then scurried around me.

“This way, my lady,” he murmured, walking ahead.

Good, I thought. Let them be frightened of me. If the servants kept their distance, it would make my task easier.

Had I still thought it possible that I might be regarded as a guest rather than a prisoner, I would have been disappointed when the servant escorted me not to the keep, but to the very top of the castle’s nearest tower. Still, its chamber was spacious and comfortable, and its barred windows offered sweeping views of the rolling hills, which were thickly wooded, with ghostly columns of mist reaching into the low clouds.

It would be a relief to finally be alone after the long voyage. If I could arrange for my meals to be brought up, I’d never need to leave—and perhaps that was just what they had hoped for. But I would not fulfill my purpose here by hiding in my chamber. Nor did I believe I could endure such confinement for long. At home, I had spent as little time as possible inside my father’s stronghold.

I noticed an unfamiliar object in one corner of the room, across from the bed. It was a tall cabinet with a clock case at the top—a grandfather clock. This was something outside the experience of an Icelandic villager—I recognized it from books I’d been given by my English tutors. But it differed from other grandfather clocks I had seen in that it looked to be made of an oil-stained metal rather than wood, and its gearworks were not contained behind the glass door of the cabinet. Rather, it appeared to have spilled its inner workings on the outside—toothy gears of all sizes were affixed around the base of the clock, and their movement produced a rhythmic chorus of clicks. There were even small pipes that occasionally released snake hisses of steam. The clock case contained two faces, one for displaying the time, and one for displaying, I believed, the phases of the moon.

“I will have that removed at once, my lady,” the servant assured me, and I could hear the shudder in his voice. “Such oddities have been popping up all over the castle.”

I turned to study him. “Popping up?”

“Yes, my lady,” he replied, nervously dropping his gaze. “We don’t know why. Captain O’Malley—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “His Majesty believes that with recent changes—with the ancients walking among us again—time may have become confused. No longer knows what belongs where—or when—if you follow.” He cleared his throat again. “One can only hope it is a temporary condition. I will have it removed at once, my lady,” he repeated.

“You will do no such thing,” I countered, moving to stand as a barrier between him and the clock. It was the only thing in Knock Ma that had captured my interest, and I felt a sort of kinship with it. Ugly and unwanted, ominous in its mystery. Unmoored from time and place.

The servant looked bewildered, but he bowed his head in assent. “I will send a maid to help you unpack your things.” Then he withdrew.

I turned and grasped the small knob on the clock cabinet’s door, tugging it open. I felt a movement of warm, strangely scented air against my face—it reminded me of incense, but tinged with something bitter. Inside, the clock was empty—a shadowy recess with no workings. I supposed it made sense, as the machinery had taken up residence on the outside.

I slipped my hand inside slowly, reaching to feel the back of the cabinet.

My arm passed through all the way to my shoulder before I yanked it out and staggered backward.

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