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Copyright © 2017 Lesley Livingston

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Ebook ISBN: 9780448493800

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to bodily persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely casual.

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Contents

Championship Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter 3

Chapter Four

Chapter V

Chapter Six

Chapter Vii

Chapter VIII

Chapter Nine

Chapter 10

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Affiliate Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter 15

Affiliate XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter 18

Affiliate XIX

Affiliate Twenty

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

A Note from the Author

Acknowledgments

For John

I

THE STEAM Ascent off the backs of the cantering horses faded into the morning fog. Our chariot raced toward the far end of the Forgotten Vale, and Maelgwyn Ironhand—my charioteer, abiding companion, and frequent adversary—pulled back on the reins.

"No!" I shouted. "Faster! Make them run faster!"

Mael didn't bother to spare a glance over his shoulder at me. He knew whatsoever argument would be futile. Instead, he gave the ponies their head and permit them run. We flew over the ground like ravens diving over a battlefield. The horses snorted and strained, hooves drumming the grassy runway and sending mist billowing in our wake.

I stood behind Mael with a spear gripped tight in my right fist and my feet braced confronting the swaying motion of the chariot's suspended deck. The wind screeched in my ears, and the ground was a blur below our wheels. We'd never gone then fast before, and my heart hammered in my breast. I shifted and moved past Mael, stepping out in front of the chariot'south platform to residual on the square-sided typhoon pole that ran betwixt the two horses.

"Fallon—be conscientious!" Mael called every bit one of my feet slipped on the wood.

I hissed through clenched teeth equally I almost brutal and nearly lost my agree on my spear. Switching upwards my grip on the weapon, I regained my residual and peered ahead at the far end of the vale, where the ground sloped sharply upwardly into the grave barrow of a long-forgotten occupant. A single, rough-hewn stone crowned the round summit, and at the base of the hill, we'd prepare a human being-high target—a tree stump padded with hay, wrapped in canvass, and painted with the image of a grimacing, snaggle-toothed Roman soldier.

I grinned, exhilaration prickling my peel. The wind whipped my hair back out of my eyes, and I saw everything with crystal clarity. Information technology was as if time had stopped and was waiting just for me.

Carefully, i pes in front of the other, I made my manner forward on the typhoon pole as the horses thundered on. I held my breath until I could experience the rhythm of their matched strides in my basic. Then I hitched the spear up onto my shoulder and ran the length of the chariot pole until I stood perched between the shoulders of the galloping horses, my feet braced wide on the wooden yoke harnessing them to the chariot.

My goal that morning was equally unproblematic as information technology was impossible: successfully execute a chariot maneuver called the Morrigan's Flight, named later on the fearsome winged war goddess who flew over battlefields collecting the souls of the worthy dead. I'd watched my older sis, Sorcha, attempt it time after time. The idea was to run out along the narrow pole between the horses of a careening chariot, throw a spear, striking a target, balance for as long as it took for the spear to stay lodged, and then run back to the safety of the chariot deck. Information technology was dangerous. Information technology was thrilling.

It was the supreme act of a true Cantii warrior.

And I'd never seen anyone do it. Not even Sorcha.

The concluding time Mael and I had attempted information technology, I'd lost my footing completely and dropped between the horses, barely managing to catch onto the pole with one arm and my knees. If I'd fallen, there was a good chance I would have been killed—trampled past hooves or run over by the chariot's wheels. But the goddess had not seen fit to take me that twenty-four hour period, and Mael had managed to pull the horses to a stop earlier I lost my grip. The bruises had taken weeks to fade, and Mael had shouted at me for nearly half an hour, his face flushed crimson, and swore we would never, ever endeavor such a thing again.

He should have known I wouldn't leave him in peace until we did.

So hither we were, racing at breakneck speed across the floor of the Forgotten Vale. Because at the break of dawn that morn, I, Fallon, youngest girl of Virico the king, principal of the Cantii tribe of Prydain, would plough seventeen years erstwhile. Quondam enough to be made a member of my father's war band, but like my sister before me. And I was determined that earlier that moment came, I would master the Morrigan'southward Flight.

And Mael, with his clever, steady hands on the reins, would see me do information technology.

From somewhere in the Otherworld, I imagined Sorcha watched every bit well.

"On the field of battle, you lot're either a warrior or yous're in the way," my sister had scolded me one afternoon as my wooden practise sword missed its marker by a wide margin. She'd already proved herself to be one of the finest warriors of the Cantii tribe, and it was a lesson she had drilled into me over and over again until the solar day she died—killed in a skirmish defending the Island of the Mighty from Caesar's invading legions.

"Are you lot a weapon or target?" Sorcha had asked. "Cull, Fallon!"

And then I chose—that twenty-four hour period and every day after.

The weight of the spear on my shoulder and the sword at my hip were as familiar to me now every bit my tunic and boots or my favorite cloak. Every bit comforting as my father's rough laugh or the roaring burn down in his great hall. Every bit heady as i of Mael's slow smiles that, more than and more oftentimes, seemed meant just for me . . .

The thrumming of the chariot ponies' hooves raced through my limbs like the pulsing of my blood. In another moment, Mael would have to steer the chariot into a sharp plough to avoid running up against the steep sides of the Forgotten Vale's barrow.

Now or never . . .

My fingers tightened on the spear shaft, and the target loomed large in forepart of me. I leaned frontward over my bent articulatio genus, felt the spear tilt into a moment of perfect residual . . . and threw. The slender missile arced through the air like a deadly bird of prey, blackness confronting the dawn-pink heaven.

I held my breath.

"A hit!"

Not perfect—the spear struck the target a handsbreadth to the left of where a flesh-and-claret man'southward heart would have beat out—only yet, information technology was a skilful, clean blow. Mael's elated shout confirmed that. I punched my fists skyward in victor

y earlier sweeping my artillery out to either side, stretched wide every bit wings. I felt for that fleeting instant as if I actually were the goddess Morrigan in flying, swooping low over a battlefield to collect the souls of the glorious dead.

And so, as Mael eased the chariot into the turn, one of the ponies stumbled.

The animal scrambled to regain its stride, and the yoke I was balancing on bobbled with it. My gesture of triumph turned into a frantic flailing equally I lost my residue and grabbed at the air to try to correct myself. I heard Mael's jubilant shout distort into a weep of warning equally I pitched sideways over the shoulder of the horse and cartwheeled helplessly through the air. My head striking something hard, and the earth spiraled into darkness.

Dull silence muffled the first strains of a distraction's song.

• • •

"Fallon!"

The warmth on my cheek was either the buss of the lord's day or the spill of my tears. Or was it blood? That was probably it, I thought dimly. I'd hit my head and split my skull open, and now I was going to die. On the morning of my seventeenth year.

"Fallon!" Mael cried again.

His vocalization sounded very well-nigh and very far abroad at the same time.

"I must be dead," I murmured. "Or else I'm dreaming . . ."

If this was a dream, information technology was a bright one. One equally articulate as the dream that often haunted my nights, when the Morrigan, goddess of death and battle, would appear, terrible and magnificent in a cloak of raven feathers. In a voice similar fume and ashes, she would telephone call me "daughter."

My eyes fluttered open, and I found myself staring upward into Mael'southward face, his nose only inches from mine. I realized that the warmth I'd felt on my cheek had been his breath.

"You're not dreaming, Fallon," Mael said, his optics broad with worry.

I grinned up at him.

Who cares for merely dreaming virtually the Morrigan, I thought, when you can fly similar her?

Like I just had. The thrill of that moment still tingled in my claret.

"Well, if I'm not dreaming," I teased, "then I suppose I must be dead."

The dread vanished from Mael's face, chased abroad by a expect of hot fury. "You lot're not dead either," he snapped, the anger in his voice barely leashed. "Though damned well not for lack of trying."

"Why are you so angry?" I asked irritably, grunting with the effort of raising myself up on one elbow. In the almost altitude, I could see my spear where it yet quivered in the practice dummy'due south body. "Expect!" I pointed over his shoulder. "We did it—"

"You did it," Mael said. "And then I most killed you!"

"That wasn't your faul—"

"It was!" He glared downwards at me fiercely. "And if you ever make me exercise something as stupid and reckless as that once again, I only might kill you, and it won't be by accident!"

"Mael—"

"Are yous trying to fulfill Olun's prophecy?" he asked. "Is that what you're trying to exercise?"

I rolled my optics. Information technology was true my father's chief druid, Olun, had divined that I would ane day follow in my sister Sorcha'south footsteps. Simply she had been killed on the field of battle. The Forgotten Vale was nothing more than a placid meadow.

"I was a fool to let you talk me into this." Mael shook his caput. "You seem determined to test the volition of the Morrigan."

I opened my oral fissure, merely for in one case no sharp-tongued retort was forthcoming. It wasn't as if I weren't used to him scolding me—we'd grown upwards together, since I was five and he was vi, and we had spent most of those years enthusiastically arguing. Mael was the youngest son of Mannuetios, king of the Trinovantes to the north, and as young boys, he and his blood brother, Aeddan, had been sent to foster with our tribe—to grow to manhood as one of u.s.a., ensuring peace between the two kingdoms. One of the showtime things Mael had done upon coming together me was break my baby finger with a wooden practice sword in a play fight.

Ever since that moment, he'd harbored an abrasive streak of overprotectiveness that was at constant odds with his natural inclination to fight with me at every opportunity. It drove me mad. The 2 of united states together were like flintstone and atomic number 26, forever sparking off each other. Most of the time I was hard-pressed to decide if I couldn't stand Mael . . . or if I'd be lost without him. Just every bit I looked upwards at him, I saw genuine worry in his eyes. I realized he really had thought I was hurt.

"Mael," I said, reaching upward to castor back the strands of dark hair that fell in his face. "I'm sorry. I—"

His lips on mine silenced my apology, muffling my words with his sudden, hungry buss. My eyes went wide . . . then drifted close, plunging me into a red-lit darkness. My eye was a glowing ember bursting into flame, and all I could remember was that this was what joy felt like. Violent and demanding. My eyelids fluttered open again, and I gazed up at Mael, at the flecks of nighttime silver in his eyes. They glinted similar the raw iron our blacksmith melted downward to forge swords and daggers and all manner of dangerous and beautiful things. Suddenly, I knew the answer.

Lost.

I would exist completely lost without Mael.

My pulse surged loudly in my ears, and my fingers tangled in his long hair every bit I drew him down to me again. Mael'south full weight pressed me back into the damp grass, and his broad easily slipped below me, fingertips slowly sliding from my shoulders all the way down to the small of my back. My spine arched as he lifted me up off the mossy ground, wrapping his arms around my torso and pulling me close to his breast. His oral cavity traveled from my lips to the side of my pharynx, beneath my ear—so I heard myself gasp, first with surprise and and so in protestation, every bit he all of a sudden tore himself away from me.

The breeze that at present flowed between us prickled my skin equally Mael threw himself onto his dorsum with a sigh. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving and face flushed, and I wondered if we'd done something horribly incorrect. It was the outset time I'd ever kissed anyone like that.

But then he rolled his caput toward me. His gray eyes flashed dangerously.

"Today," he said in a ragged voice.

"Mael?" My head spun dizzily.

"This morn." He saturday upward and rolled back onto his knees in forepart of me, grasping me past the shoulders and pulling me toward him. "This very morning, Fallon."

I gazed at him in wary confusion. "What about information technology?"

"I'one thousand going to become to Virico, and I'm going to ask him for your paw." The words tumbled from him in a rush. "Now. So that he can announce it this night at the feast of the Four Tribes. In forepart of anybody and—"

"No!"

"What?" Mael said, faltering. "Fallon—"

I shook my head a picayune wildly. "My heart . . . it's already yours, Mael," I said. "Yous don't need to inquire for my hand—"

"Yeah," he said, adamant. "I practise."

"You tin can't accept it!" I felt a tiny shiver of panic in my breast. "Non yet."

"I idea . . ." He groped for words as his cheeks reddened. "I idea you—"

"I exercise."

How could I explain it to him? It wasn't that I didn't want him. I did, even if I'd merely just begun to realize how much. But in that location was something I wanted . . . needed showtime.

I needed the take a chance to earn my ain name.

I bit my lip. "It's merely that tonight my father is going to brand me a member of his royal war band. I know he is."

I watched as Mael's face clouded over. The feverish moment of our buss was slipping away.

"Please, Mael." I reached upwardly a mitt and pressed it to his cheek. "You have to wait for me. I tin can't let annihilation stand up in the style of this. I've worked too hard. I don't want to requite Virico whatever reason not to give me that honor."

Mael pulled away from my bear on. "Sometimes I wonder if you intendance more for your sword than for me," he said.

"How can you even say that?" I snapped,

ignoring the small voice in my head that hissed the very same thing. "You're already a member of the war band! You would deny me the honor and celebrity of fighting at your side?"

That stung. I could see it in his eyes. "No," he said. "I would never deny you lot that, Fallon."

I reached for his hands. "Only wait a picayune while, Mael, until I'm a truthful warrior. We can become to my male parent then, and nosotros can have everything we e'er wanted—together."

"All right," Mael said finally, his familiar grin returning. "I'll wait, Fallon, as long as it takes. Just possibly we can make the await feel shorter."

And then he kissed me over again, and for in one case, I forgot all about arguing with him.

II

THE DAY'S AFTERNOON was bright and brilliant and all the more beautiful for my having spent its forenoon kissing Mael in the Forgotten Vale. But inside my house in Durovernum—the house that I in one case shared with Sorcha—information technology was dark. I let the heavy leather door curtain fall closed behind me and moved through the room lighting the lamps.

Over the years, Sorcha had collected more than than a dozen of the things—shining, delicately wrought metal or carved alabaster or dirt painted with jewel-vivid glazes—and hung them from the ceiling poles in our cozy piddling firm on chains of dissimilar lengths. My favorite was the one shaped like a bird, with bits of blue and green drinking glass set into the wings that made it glow with a fey lite. The lamps had generally come from far away, as had about of my sister's precious things, brought over in ships past traders from places across the ocean. Places like Gaul and Greece and Aegypt. And Rome.

As much equally Sorcha had taken delight in professing her hatred for Caesar at any opportunity, that hate hadn't influenced her fondness for fine and decorative things from the lands his legions had conquered. Just another one of my sister's many contradictions, I suppose. I in one case saw a mosaic in a trader'south stall, and that was what imagining Sorcha was similar—a multitude of precipitous, shining pieces that, taken together, made upward a whole prototype. Told a whole story.

As I lit the last of the lamps, I thought well-nigh the day they'd told me my sis was expressionless, killed by the Romans. The women of the tribes of Prydain—Cantii and Catuvellauni, Trinovantes and Iceni—could choose to fight aslope the men or not. Many did and with such skill that they were feared every bit much as the men—more so, even. The legions thought that the women warriors of the Isle of the Mighty were demons, aberrations whose corpses they burned in heaps after battles and so that their blackness souls could never escape to inhabit another torso. Of course, I knew merely how ridiculous that was. A primitive superstition. The fighting women of the tribes of Prydain were as good as they were because they worked at information technology. I worked at it—difficult.

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