The Raven Lady Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  E-book published in 2020 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by K. Jones

  Book design by Kathryn Galloway English

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced

  or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the

  publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any historical figures and events referenced in this book

  are depicted in a fictitious manner. All other characters

  and events are products of the author’s imagination, and

  any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-982573-15-7

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-982573-16-4

  Fiction / Fantasy / General

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

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  For Robin and Beth, who work so much magic on my behalf

  “If thou wilt not, Count Oluf, dance with me,

  Then sorrow and sickness will follow thee.”

  She struck him a blow across the heart,

  Never before had he felt such smart.

  —Catherine Martin,

  “Erlkönig’s Tochter”

  (“The Elf King’s Daughter”)

  from The Explorers and Other Poems, 1874

  GLOSSARY OF IRISH TERMS AND NAMES

  Absinthe: Anise-flavored alcoholic spirit also referred to as “the green fairy;” drinking absinthe allows some people to see into the fairy world.

  Alfakonung: Old Norse and Elvish name for the king of the Icelandic shadow elves; also referred to as the Elf King.

  Argr: Old Norse and Elvish for “cowardly.”

  Battle of Ben Bulben: Fought between the Tuatha De Danaan, allied with the people of Ireland, and their enemies the Fomorians and Icelandic elves.

  Barrow-wight: A reanimated corpse or ghost from an ancient tomb.

  Connacht (KAH-nucht): Region and ancient kingdom in the west of Ireland.

  Diarmuid (DEER-muhd): A legendary warrior of the Tuatha De Danaan.

  Diarmuid’s seal: A centuries-old boundary between Ireland and Faery, broken before the Battle of Ben Bulben so the two could fight together against their common enemy, the Fomorians.

  Draug: Old Norse and Elvish word for a reawakened dead thing.

  Elvish: In this text, Old Norse, the language of the Icelandic elves.

  Faery: Land of fairies and Irish immortals; also refers to the collective races of fairies.

  Firglas: Irish woodland fairies and guardians of Knock Ma; literally “green men.”

  Fomorians: Ancient seafaring foes of the Tuatha De Danaan; often portrayed as a race of monsters; sometimes referred to as the Plague Warriors.

  Freyja: Norse goddess associated with love, fertility, and magic.

  Gap, the: A space-like void between the overlapping worlds of Ireland and Faery.

  Gap galleon: A type of sailing ship that can travel inside the Gap, between Ireland and Faery, and inside Faery.

  Gap gate: Means of travel between Faery and Ireland before the seal between worlds was destroyed.

  Grace O’Malley: Sixteenth-century pirate queen of Connacht; ghostly captain of the Gap galleon that served in the Battle of Ben Bulben; and ancestress of Duncan O’Malley and Queen Isolde.

  Hidden Folk: Icelandic equivalent of Irish fairies; includes elves, dwarves, and trolls.

  Hrafn: Old Norse and Elvish for “raven.”

  Isolde, Queen: The Queen of Ireland, descended from the mythological figure Queen Maeve; cousin of Duncan O’Malley.

  Knock Ma: Connacht court and stronghold of the fairy king Finvara.

  Lady Meath (Ada Quicksilver): Englishwoman descended from Cliona of the Tuatha De Danaan; a scholar of fairy lore who married Edward Donoghue, Earl of Meath.

  Loki: Norse god of mischief; blood brother of Odin; in this text, father of the Icelandic elves.

  Lord Meath: Irish earl, Edward Donoghue, descended from Diarmuid of the Tuatha De Danaan; cousin of Queen Isolde and Duncan O’Malley (a.k.a. King Finvara).

  Morrigan, the: Irish goddess of war; crow shapeshifter; also called “the battle crow.”

  Odin: Most revered of the Norse gods; also called All Father; blind in one eye and associated with ravens.

  Oisin: A warrior, poet, and historian of the Tuatha De Danaan.

  Shadow elves: Icelandic Hidden Folk; in this text, descendants of the Norse god Loki and allies of the Fomorians; sometimes derisively referred to as “goblins.”

  Skaddafjall: Stronghold of the Elf King on Vestrahorn Mountain in Iceland; Old Norse and Elvish for “shadow mountain.”

  Tuatha De Danaan (Too-AH-hah day DAHN-uhn), abbrev. Danaan: Ancient supernatural people of Ireland, often associated with fairies; people of the Celtic goddess Dana.

  Notes: With regard to the Tuatha De Danaan, this text conforms to the naming conventions and spellings used by W. B. Yeats.

  For more information about the fairies’ return to Ireland and the Battle of Ben Bulben, see book one in The Faery Rehistory series, The Absinthe Earl.

  PROLOGUE

  Craters of Laki, Iceland—1785

  Njála waited.

  Her light blue eyes scanned the mist-shrouded horizon, wind whipping her hair against her woolen cloak. Cold seeped into her boots from the so-called “church floor,” a rock formation near her village that looked like flagstones set into the turf. She would have taken some comfort from waiting inside the actual church, where Pastor Jón had delivered the sermon last summer that had stopped the devil’s fire from destroying the village.

  But it was the devil she now waited for, and he would not set foot inside a church.

  The dreaded visitor was late, and the longer she waited, the more her heart misgave her. Njála, like her countrymen, was a Christian. Also like her countrymen, she knew the Hidden Folk lived among them—elves and other earthy beings, making their homes in the rocks, caves, and crevices of Iceland. Her visitor was in fact one of these beings—the Elf King himself. But he was born of shadow and might as well have been the devil.

  She had refused to marry him, intending instead to accept the yoke of shame bestowed on a woman for bearing an illegitimate child. A child that would create a bond between Icelanders and the Hidden Folk and prevent the elves from ever threatening her countrymen again. Last year, the Laki craters had been made to spew poisonous vapors into the air. Though her village had been spared, the eruptions had caused rivers of fire to overrun farmland, resulting in the death of thousands of Icelanders, and even more of the animals upon which their lives depended. In the Elf King’s plot to rid Iceland of its mortal population, he had all but rendered the country unfit for the habitation of his own people, and that, in the end, had helped persuade him to go along with the peace.

  Such calamity was perhaps inevitable, descended as they were from the old gods—from Loki, who’d been imprisoned beneath Iceland by the All-Father, Odin.

  The proposed treaty also offered a prize the Elf King could not refuse—Njála. The elves held Icelanders in contempt, as they possessed neither the resources nor the ambition to be warriors. But Njála—one of the last descendants of the mighty Gunnhild, an ancient Norse queen and sorceress—presented an opportunity to enrich the elven bloodline.

  So that the people of Iceland might never feud with the Hidden Folk again, Njála
was to bear a child—an elven prince or princess. A child that would be the only thing left in the world to her. For she well knew that while the villagers lauded her sacrifice now, one day, when they were again safe and thriving, they would scorn her as a fallen woman, tainted by her unholy union with the Elf King.

  If she survived the ordeal to come.

  The wind shifted, blowing her hair back from her face, carrying with it a smell like gunpowder. She shivered. The choking gray mist swirled, and from the direction of the Laki craters to the north, a shadow approached.

  Njála was a milkmaid, a simple farmer’s daughter. But she knew her history—her own mother had made sure of it, even over her father’s objections. She thought of her powerful ancestress now.

  Lifting her chin, she stepped off the flagstones into the grass and strode out to meet her fate.

  UNMOORED

  Koli

  Connacht, Ireland—1883

  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.