Day 14 of Midwinter, Sunset

  Túr Crochta, The Deep Realm

  Annwn

  My adoptive father's funeral began in the usual Fomorian fashion. As the king's people paid their respects and left offerings, a low chanting began to thrum through the room. The voices of the prominent women of the community began to rise in a communal song. It began with unheard and unknown words, evolving into a refrain of words and phrases that spoke of the deeds of the passed king.

  These sacred songs, called "keening" by our people, could last for hours. It was believed the songs would hold the Bánánach at bay for the funeral. The wailing conveyed the shared pain of the loved one's passing and helped alleviate the grief of the community.

  The sound had another purpose. As I listened, the volume of the women's keening reached a climax, inviting the Caoineag, the bhean sí, or as she is known by those on Earth, the banshee, to share in their grief.

  As the keening song rose to its penultimate note, the wail of the Caoineag spirit joined it, silencing the other singers as it brought the song to its end. I opened my eyes, looking for the mysterious spirit, but she had already gone. Her presence, though brief, was a mark of respect and acknowledgment of the worthiness of King Neit.

  His absence felt surreal. Neit had been a constant guiding presence for his people. Though I had only a few years with him, I knew he had lived over a thousand times longer with his people. The deeply held secrets and special moments between Neit and these people were more numerous than one could count.

  Though my own time with him had been relatively much shorter, I had held a special place in his life. Together we had been planning a better future for our people.

  I turned to watch as Tethra came down the stairs into the throne room. She looked strong and graceful in the ceremonial golden armor that I knew she hated wearing. It felt strange to see her in anything but the green leather armor she favored. It had always seemed like it was a part of her.

  As she approached the pyre where the patriarch lay motionless and pale, a Fomorian warrior handed her a lit torch. Before she could set the flames to the pyre, the double doors to the hall creaked open and slammed against the walls on both sides. A powerful gust of air shot forward, extinguishing the torch. A veritable company of large men and women entered the room amid gasps and hushed conversations.

  Everything happened so quickly that I needed a moment to process it. No guards converged on the crowd of men. None of the Fomorian warriors at the funeral sought to defend either the room or the man being honored. I realized why when I saw the dark-skinned man leading the group of warriors. He wore Balor’s horned helm, which could mean only one thing. Corb was home, and he was now the wielder of the Evil Eyes.

  Corb's voice boomed, silencing the hushed whispers across the large room. “I see it is not too late to pay respect to MY father.”

  Dubhlinn ran forward to wrap her arms around her son’s waist. As the shock of Corb’s appearance wore off, a smattering of applause rang through the room. Many Fomorians looked conflicted as to whether to celebrate or condemn his arrival.

  Tethra stood near her father's pyre, looking too stunned for words, and that prompted my tongue to move on its own accord. “You are just in time to pay your respects to both Father and our future queen.”

  Corb leveled his glowing red eyes on me. I could feel the malice behind the metal and magic. He immediately stepped forward, towering over me. His new helmet put him close to three feet taller than me. He sneered. “The adopted son mourns for his ‘father.’” His tone was condescending. “And now the illegitimate son backs his illegitimate sister.”

  The room erupted into shouts and side conversations. I took a step toward the huge man. Corb only smiled down at me, seeming to have expected this reaction.

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  Tethra's voice rang through the room, calling for order. When the noise had quieted down, she turned to address her older brother. “It is funny that you talk about illegitimacy, as it was the man we all celebrate today who exiled you.” There were more murmurs from the crowd in the throne room. “Cai holds more claim over this throne than you do.”

  Corb’s wicked eyes darted from Tethra to me. “You do not belong here, Béstin.” His use of Tethra’s pet name for me came out mocking. It wasn’t nearly as endearing when he said it. “And neither does your fire-haired pet.”

  Ruadan had been standing behind me, but at Corb's words, shot forward to stand next to me, as if lending his support. His expression was cold and out of character for my normally cheerful friend.

  Corb's massive hands snapped out, clutching Ruadan’s face. There was a sickening crack and Roo’s body fell limp beside me. Shocked, I fell with him, trying to catch his body before it could hit the ground.

  An audible collective gasp came from the onlookers. And before I had even hit the floor with Ruadan, I felt rage well inside me. Ruadan was dead. If the full weight of his body hadn't given it away, the lack of swirling energy that I constantly saw around living people and places would have. Ruadan’s body was inert and devoid of any energy except residual heat.

  Tethra surged forward, placing herself between Corb and me before I could rise and draw Fragarach. As I stood, she raised her arms, holding me back. She stared at me, then down to Ruadan's body, repeating, “He’s not really dead. He’s not really dead.”

  Corb stood behind her, still smirking. “She's right, you know. Not only can he not die, but that one likely has copies of himself on every continent and every island in this world… but not here, not anymore. He will not be able to spy on us any longer.”

  “Ruadan wasn’t a spy!" I shouted. "He stole the Spear of Victory for us and fought beside us at Brú na Dallta. How dare YOU, of all people, challenge HIS loyalty?”

  Corb looked unsurprised by my outburst. He casually strolled to his father's open coffin, placing a hand on it. “It is not Ruadan I wish to challenge… There is no longer a need.” He paused to let the meaning of his words sink in and then drew his blade.

  “I challenge Tethra’s legitimacy for the throne. I challenge her skill and combat prowess in single combat." His malevolent gaze swept the room. "I wish to have the most skilled and wise heir lead our people into the future. Here, on the precipice of war, I, Corb of the Evil Eyes, say that I am your champion and rightful king.”

  Several cheers rose from both Corb’s soldiers and from Fomorians who had been loyal to Neit. I cast my eyes around the room. The earlier haze I had seen no longer wrapped itself around Ruadan. It had grown thicker, its tendrils wrapping around both me and Tethra.

  Tethra saw me studying her and in her eyes, I could see the recognition of what I had warned her about. I shook my head at her, begging her silently not to do what I knew she would.

  “I accept.” Her simple words rang through the room. The room erupted into shouts, the noise rising into a cacophonous nightmare. There were so many people shouting that I couldn’t make out wisdom from the frenzy.

  Tethra reached for Orna, turning to face her challenger. Desperate, I leaped to the top of a nearby stone half-table. I reached out to the nearly endless vibration energy in the room. I flattened the sound waves themselves from the vibrations coming out of the mouths of each person in the room and the vibrations bouncing off of the carved stone walls of the room.

  In less than a second, the sound level went from uproarious yelling and screaming to complete silence. All eyes were on me. I had the floor to say whatever I wanted, but the only thing I wanted was to protect Tethra.

  She glared at me, not knowing any more than I did what I was about to say. I searched my brain for the right words. I couldn’t say anything to undermine Tethra’s strength. It would be political suicide.

  I cleared my throat. “Many of us are still sleep-deprived from war. Many of us carry with us the injuries from only a few short hours ago. This test of arms would be better served after the funeral of our king.” I thought back to what Tethra had said about Corb’s mother's official stance on this very transition of power. “As Dubhlinn said earlier today, let us separate the celebration of death from the coronation.”

  There were shouts of agreement from the crowd and skeptical looks from many of the Mná na Mara. To my surprise, it was Tethra’s mother, Morvra, and Dubhlinn who stepped forward. Morvra offered a hand up to me, a polite gesture that clearly communicated “Get off the table.” Her hand felt like iron in mine, but her eyes were kind. Her eyes held mine, seeming to peer through me. I felt a silent gratitude in her gaze.

  Dubhlinn spoke, grabbing the attention of the room. “Maccán’s words are sound. Let each moment of import have its own time in the sun.” She nodded to Morvra.

  Morvra turned from me and said the words I was hoping to hear. “Today, we honor our former leader. In two days' time, we will convene to settle this challenge and honor our new leader.”

  And just like that, it was decided. Tethra and Corb both lit the pyre of the king. The people dispersed from the great hall. Alone in the room, I watched as the ashes of my adopted father burned away into the night.

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