But it’s only because I’ve been lonely. So lonely . . .
Now I shiver and hug my woolen shawl around my shoulders at the memory. Wishing I could understand what’s happening to me. I am the Daughter of Fire, and I cannot get this cold to leave my bones. It’s been there since the Bonding ceremony. It won’t shake off.
My human watcher, Lailoken, says it’s the king’s energy lingering from the new connection, that it will pass and the worst is over. But it feels as if I’m being taken over. And I’m terrified of what this Bond is doing to me, who it’s making me become.
Perhaps I’m being foolish, still the silly girl who thought lust was more fun in secret, only worth pursuing if it was forbidden. And then a boy paid for my folly with his life. The only reason I’d pursued him was because he was the son of the human king in the south. I didn’t mean to fall in love. Or to kill him. And now I carry that with me. Always.
But for a time, just after the Bonding, I thought a miracle had happened and a piece of my love had returned to me.
My courses had been absent—each moon I waited, but there was no blood show. At first I thought nothing of it, then my bodice felt as if it were suffocating me, and my cheeks grew plump. My powers became unpredictable—I burned the curtains in the gallery on an afternoon when I accidentally spilled my wine. It was as if I’d become a novice again, in need of a torque. I’d seen this happen in women before. I knew I’d been blind. I denied the reality too long and needed to face it.
I was with child.
I didn’t speak of it to Lailoken, not even him. Certainly not to my king—he would surely have had the child ripped from my womb. He would have seen it as a betrayal, even though I would never be able to give him children, no matter how many times I came to his bed, our origins making such a thing impossible between us. But I don’t see him as a man to share his playthings. No, he’d wish for my womb to be as cold and dead as this icy keep.
It seems his wish has been granted.
“Where are you, Mother?” I ask the flames, my loneliness threatening to consume me now, thinking of the babe. “Tell me what I should do. I can’t let myself surrender to this place.” I put my palm to my belly, my throat aching.
Three nights ago, I began to bleed, and the child within me was lost. I feel as if my Bond with the son of death sealed the poor babe’s fate. I ensured its demise.
“You warned me of my foolishness,” I say to my mother, “how it would lead me to a broken heart. And I didn’t listen.” Tears fill my eyes. I let them come, as if my lover has died all over again. “But I’m listening now. You are the keeper of the hearth, the home. You know how to help me. Please, goddess, I wish for the child’s life to return to me. I wish for my heart to be mended. What should I do, Mother? I will obey you, I swear it. Just speak to me.”
I wait, expectantly. Still, I’m shocked when the embers shift, sparks rising up in a rush.
Surrender to him, the fire whispers, drawing out the sound with the sizzle of wood. The fire born within you shall bring rebirth. Surrender, child.
And then it fades. I listen intently but nothing else comes. I couldn’t have heard correctly, though. She can’t mean for me to give in to this. She’d wish for me to fight, to escape.
No, I couldn’t have heard right.
My stomach roils and I stand, wandering over to the cage where my new owl sits with watchful eyes. The bird hoots at my approach and ruffles its feathers. “Are you feeling smothered in there, little one?” I ask, understanding what it is to be caged. I open the latch and reach in, urging the bird onto my hand. “You should come with me to dinner tonight. Perhaps then I’ll have someone to talk to. The king barely says two words to me.”
It flaps its immature wings and hobbles its way over to perch on my wrist. My heart settles, looking into its wide black eyes. It baffles me that the king would give me a gift of such vulnerability and innocence.
I consider the words from the fire, but they don’t make any sense. I can’t understand why the goddess would wish for me to accept the darkness into myself. She must know that the king is far stronger than me. He’ll take me over. I’ll lose myself. Could she truly want to see my heart destroyed? Perhaps I should speak to Lailoken and see what his thoughts are. I’ll have to tell him of the child, but I think that would give me relief. I’ll go now, before dinner. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m planning to show him the bird.
I settle the owl on the arm of my chair, then pull the cord for my ladies to come in. The three winter pixies enter, immediately getting to work dressing me for the evening, their thin fingers chilly against my skin. I ask to wear my sturdy boots and my good furs. None of them comment or ask why; they merely nod, their icy cheeks sparkling in the firelight. Once they’re done tying up my unwieldy hair, tucking the orange curls into the gold netting, they silently slip out, as if they were never here.
The owl wobbles back onto my wrist, and I lift my hand, urging him to perch on my shoulder. He grips the fur of my cloak with his talons and nestles into the crook of my neck.
“What should I name you, sweet one?” I ask. “You look like a Fionn. How does that sound?” The bird clicks its beak.
I leave my rooms and walk down the hallway, through the gallery, and down the back staircase. I’ll go through the kitchens and find the owl a piece of meat. This isn’t my usual time to visit Lailoken, but I’m sure he’ll be in his cave. As a monk, he spends his time focused on the solitary activities of prayer and reading, which keep his old legs weak and his eyes dim.
The goddess never seemed to approve of him, perhaps because he’s a human. Most of the underlings sneer at my dependence on him, a Christian monk, which is why he never comes to the keep. But when I was orphaned as a girl, he raised me as if he was my father. I asked him once if he was my human father. He claimed that he’d never been with a woman in that way. Then he kissed my head and said he loved me as much as any natural daughter.
“I see you’re enjoying my gift.” A deep voice echoes up from the bottom of the staircase. “He suits you.”
I pause on the stone and spot my Bonded looking up at me. His thick gray furs cover him like a cloak, a dusting of snow still on his broad shoulders. His raven, Bran, flies in the window and perches on the sill, tipping his head, giving the fledgling a curious look.
“I was taking him for a walk,” I say.
“A storm is moving in.” The king unhooks his heavy furs from his leathers and drops them to the floor. His shade servant, Eric, appears, picking them up and taking them away as the king starts up the stairs toward me.
My muscles clench instinctually, but I tell myself there’s no running.
“The gates are being closed,” he says. “You were off to your monk, no doubt?” I’m surprised—there’s no anger or disapproval in his voice.