“Once upon a time,” she said, and her voice was that of a little girl speaking from the thin, lined mouth of a crone, “there was a Faerie queen, Meadhbh by name, who ruled the land of Cren Cru. She wore a bronze crown set with twelve bright prongs, and she drank a wine as red as blood, which some said was blood indeed. She fed it to her consorts, and when they died, one by one, it was said she killed them. For she did not desire consorts. She was queen, and she was beautiful, and she was a great power. She needed only her demesne, the Faerie realm Cren Cru.
“But rumor of her murderous games did fly across the Between and fall upon the ears of that queen my people called Bebo Moonsong. Bebo left her own demesne and traveled to Cren Cru, to find Meadhbh and question her as to her doings. But Meadhbh took offense and thought to prove her innocence in a battle. She fought to kill Queen Bebo Moonsong, and when she could not, she took her own life.
“She was a Faerie queen, however, so she had two more lives to live. But she had taken one of her lives of her own free will, and this was a sin, a curse, a blight upon existence such as none but a Faerie lord or lady may understand! The remaining two lives were too evil to her, too unbearable. Thus she took them as well, denying the gift of Faerie queenship and severing the ties with her demesne. She left no heir, for she had loved no man, be he Faerie or mortal.
“And so the demesne of Cren Cru fell silent as death. But a demesne cannot die, not with the blood of its Faerie queen spilled upon its ground. It drank up the blood, and it felt something like life, the lives Queen Meadhbh had forgone.
“So Cren Cru rose up, alive and not alive, disembodied and wandering. It had no queen and it had no bindings, for the land itself was devastated by Meadhbh’s evil. And it traveled, a being without spirit, without heart, without blood, without knowing of itself or understanding. Only a shadow of awareness. Neither alive nor unalive, but a force of instinct driven to find . . . to find a . . .”
Here Nidawi stopped and wrapped her arms about herself, unable to continue for a long while. Her teeth tore at her lips as she struggled to get the words out. Then she said:
“A home.”
Foxbrush tried once more to look at the Mound. But he could not bear it and hid his face in his hands.
“It took bodies,” Nidawi said. “Lost folk wandering the Between, immortals and mortals. It found them and it took them, and so it became aware of being, of life, of the need to belong. Twelve in all it took, and it melted down Meadhbh’s twelve-pronged crown to give each of them a piece, a binding. Twelve made one by the strength that was Cren Cru. Then it set about to lay claim to a world.”
Her voice became a whispering shudder, little more than a breath. “Many worlds it took. Each time, it latched hold and the Mound appeared out of nowhere. And the twelve warriors moved at the will of Cren Cru, believing still that they were their own. Every time it took hold, the warriors passed through the land demanding the firstborn children. They formed blood debts and demanded tithes, and if any refused to give of their firstborn, the warriors took what they wanted by force. Twelve days and twelve nights they would gather the tribute and pay it, driving the children, one by one, into the door of the Mound.”
Nidawi looked up at Foxbrush, and though he still hid his face, he could feel her gaze.
“The blood of the firstborn was not enough. So the remaining warriors would go out again. They would make more of their kind, and spread through the land, taking the second born, and after that, the third. And eventually, whole worlds were eaten up. Mighty kings and queens fell as the Parasite drank up their lives, ate up their people! And when it was through, and even the warriors themselves had killed one another, spilling their own blood in tribute, there would be nothing left. And Cren Cru would wander on. And he would gather new warriors and start all over.
“He cannot learn! He has no mind! He has no real being save that which he steals! So every time he destroys a world and still can make no place for himself, he moves on, and he does it again. And again. And again and again! And the spilled blood never brings new life, and the decimated lands never revive under him: He can only destroy, never create; even as Meadhbh only killed herself and never brought forth life.”
She stopped speaking. Foxbrush began to believe she was through. But at last she said, “I never thought to see him in Tadew. Then one morning, I woke. And there he was. And the Twelve moved through my kingdom, and they demanded tithe. I resisted and expected to die even as all the other Faerie kings and queens who resisted the Mound did die!”
Here she sighed, such a sad, such a lonely sigh that Foxbrush lowered his hands and gazed upon her with great compassion, wishing he had the strength to ease her sorrow.
“I am Nidawi the Everblooming,” she said. “Though he sucked out my strength, it only bloomed again, always new. Always bright. He could not kill me.” She bowed her head, a wrinkled, haggard shell of a woman. “So he took all my people, and he left me alone. Without a demesne. As homeless, as empty, as lost as he. I had only Lioness . . . and now, he has taken even her from me.”