For her father’s people, Anya was prepared to stand steadfast and do her duty, but her soul would surely wither within her, piece by little piece, once she was wedded to the Beast who had killed so many of her family. As he had killed her father and brother.

The tears slid off her cheek to fall on the simple tunic she’d worn to aid in the birthing. Turning away from Maeve, Anya gazed helplessly at the still, cold form, swathed in white linen, in the cradle at her feet. Even in death, a king’s heir would not lie naked. The boy had dark hair, like his mother. Born early, he’d been too frail to breathe so much as a single breath. Her nephew, the king-who-was-meant-to-be, had passed from the womb directly to heaven.

As she wept over the dead infant, the air over the cradle began to shiver with translucent blues and reds.

Recognizing that ethereal shimmer, Anya pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding her gasp. She had not seen this so close since childhood, when others had laughed at her foolish visions. She was no longer a child, but still, she was aware when the fae pierced the Veil between this world and the next. She knew when the faerie court went riding.

To her knowledge, they had never before entered the castle.

Muttering and shaking out fresh linen, the midwife had her back to the bed. Only Anya could see the cradle rock. Transfixed, she watched the shimmer form a fog that hid the child within. Surely, a dead child could not move? Her heart raced, and she feared to stir.

The mist parted, and a man appeared. Biting her tongue to keep from crying out, she studied the apparition standing tall, straight and strong. Hair the dark red of drying blood fell to his shoulders. A scar marred his harsh jaw. No smile softened his expression, but as he leaned over the cradle and rocked it, the streak of a single tear glistened, as if he wept for the dead King.

Standing again, he caught her eye, nodded and vanished.

In the cradle, the new King whimpered hungrily.

Anya froze, until the midwife swung around at the sound. She breathed again that she was not imagining what she had seen. Or heard.

Seeing the cradle rock, Breeda cried out to all the blessed saints and hurried across the room, her gnarled hands wrapped in her apron, her face lit with disbelief.

«It is a miracle, Breeda,» Anya whispered. Terrified her anguish had led her to visions of what she wanted, and not what was, Anya leaned over to touch the crying child. The live child. She could feel his warmth and solidity. Tufts of dark hair crowned his delicate skull, just as she’d noticed earlier. She unwrapped his perfect limbs, and strong feet kicked at his covers. A tiny fist popped deliberately into a rosebud mouth.

But even though his limbs had been hidden, Anya knew this was not the puny infant that had been delivered dead a few minutes ago. This one was healthy and strong.

Committing the first lie of her new life, Anya placed the changeling against the Queen’s breast. «Your son, Maeve, your beautiful son.»

The Queen died with a smile of peace upon her pale lips.

And the bean sí wailed again.

Two

Fionn stood outside the stone bailey wall of the grand castle that had been built on the hill where his timber fort had once stood. With the passage of time in the Other World, he’d buried the melancholy of losing all he knew and loved. But now, he had to let his son go — to mature in the human world where he belonged. He grieved mightily at the loss of his boy.

Below him, he could see that the Druid Oak was gone, no doubt reduced to ash for a winter fire as people forgot the old ways. The greensward had worn to a barren hill of rock beneath the passage of so many horses and carts — prosperity took its toll. At the foot of the hill, a ditch had been half completed — a fine defence once it was finished and filled with water. Aobinnhe had been kind in choosing a time when his son could return to his rightful position.

He could leave now. Should leave. He was no longer chieftain here. He was from the past, a time forgotten. He had watched from the safety of the Other World as battles were fought and won, new gods were worshipped, new families ruled. Time did not change the dimension he inhabited. He was the same now as he had been then, but the human world had moved on.

But he still possessed a warrior’s fierce heart, and a warrior protected his own. Fionn had heard the bean sí’s cry, seen the worried face of the lass inside as she sat beside her dying queen. All was not well here.

The lass had not been frightened when he’d appeared. Fionn smiled for the first time in a long, long time. He wanted a woman of courage to care for his son, a woman who might understand that the old ways had passed but the gods lived still beyond the Veil.

Aware of the pounding of the distant sea and the rising dawn, Fionn called his horse from the Other World and waited for the sounds of jubilation and mourning to ring inside the castle.

His duty to his son was not yet done.

«Your Highness,» the elderly steward said, interrupting the prayers in the Queen’s chamber.

The steward had come from the formal courts of France and could not be convinced that the Irish did not bow to titles. He lost his bearings and grew confused unless he was «my lording» or «your highnessing» someone, and Anya had grown accustomed to his ways. She looked up from rocking her nephew, no longer annoyed with the man. How could anyone be annoyed while holding the future in her arms?

«Yes, François, what is it?»

«There’s a knight outside, says he’s been sent by the High King to serve the new O’Brion. His mantle is lined with fur, and the fibula must be pure gold! Shall I bring him here?» The last was asked dubiously since the upper chamber was filled with keening women.

Honouring a knight of the High King would be Anya’s first duty as the new King’s guardian. She had to play the part of ruler well or lose the respect she must command until the child could lead on his own. A daunting task for a gentle woman who would feed on dreams if allowed, but one to which she’d been raised.

«I will meet him in the hall, of course. Summon Garvan, if you will, and any of the other knights with him. Have the kitchen provide suitable fare for a man who has travelled far. I will be down shortly.»

Anya’s Norman mother had introduced many of the French ways to the O’Brion stronghold, but Conn the High King was pure Irish warrior. His men would not be gallant knights. Calling for scented water and her richest tunic and mantle, Anya pondered whether or not she should accept this «gift» of service. Did Conn mean for his knight to rule the O’Brions in the absence of a male O’Brion leader? If so, did she dare turn him away?

The maids wrapped silver ribbons in her long, blonde hair and one fastened the triple spiral gold fibula to her blue wool mantle. Anya owned nothing so fine as fur but would not have worn animals on her back anyway. Even her shoes were of matted felt and not leather. Her kingly brother had laughed at her odd ways, but her mother had seen the caul when Anya was born and accepted that her daughter was more attached to the natural world than most.

«Jewellery, please,» she told the maids eagerly arranging the red and gold striped train of her best gown. She might eschew fur, but her people produced the finest linens in the world.

«The queen’s jewellery?» one maid asked hesitantly.

«It was my mother’s,» Anya agreed. «Let us impress the High Court with our elegance so they do not think us weak barbarians.»

By the time she’d been fastened into torque and bracelets of gold delicately wrought to fit slender throat and limbs, Anya was anxious to meet the knight sent to honour her nephew. Anxious — and afraid.

She bent to kiss the infant nursing at the breast of a wet nurse. None would believe her tale of the child’s birth even should she relate it, so she had not spoken of what she’d seen. Straightening her mantle, she proceeded down the four flights of stairs to the castle’s great hall. Conscious that this would be her first appearance as the O’Brion leader, she held her head high and her shoulders straight, determined to make her ancestors proud.

Surely the whole army had turned out to meet the newcomer! The hall was packed with men milling about, pounding each other on the back, elbowing each other to silence as she entered. Her father and brother would have been right there with them, pounding and shouting.

She swallowed hard as the room silenced. Breeda held the train of her striped gown from the flagstone floor. No rushes rotted under the toes of the O’Brion ladies these days. The silence continued as Anya climbed to the dais where her father, and later, her brother, had sat at the head table. Two ornately carved, high-backed chairs faced the hall, with the enormous hearth at their backs.

Garvan, as her brother’s best friend and chief warrior, dropped to one knee and held his blade across his chest, declaring his fealty to the O’Brions, if not necessarily to her. Behind him, all the other men did the same. Except one.

Taller than any other man in the hall, wider of shoulder, an auburn-haired stranger in fur-lined mantle stood in the shadows of the hearth, watching her as if she were some new form of animal, not quite cat or dog. Anya wished she’d worn her hair up so she might look older and more commanding, but she’d been in a hurry — to meet this disrespectful oaf?

Instead of wearing his sword belted at his side, she could see he wore his weapon hung over his back like an uncivilized churl, despite all his finery. And his clothing was very grand, indeed, although not as fine as the form that wore it.