Moonlight Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Pronunciation Guide

  When Faith Endures

  Dedication

  WHAT A QUEEN WOULD DO

  CURSED

  ITS NAME

  THIS MEANS WAR

  BITTER COLD

  SHIELD MAIDEN

  RIGHTING WRONGS

  BEALTAINE

  UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

  THE TWELFTH KINGDOM

  SHE WHO WALKS IN MOONLIGHT

  TRIAL BY FIRE

  MOONLIGHT

  Fan Ann

  About the Author

  Terminology Guide

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Ann Hunter

  Cover copyright © 2014 Andrew A. Gerschler

  Editor: A.J. Sterkel

  Published in 2014 by Afterglow Productions/P. Gerschler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

  Moonlight / By Ann Hunter

  ISBN-10: 0-9892034-3-3

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9892034-3-2

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for purchasing Moonlight!

  Within these pages are creatures, lore, and names inspired by Celtic mythology.

  For your convenience and reading enjoyment, I have included a pronunciation & terminology guide.

  Enjoy the story, and remember….

  You are never alone.

  ~

  I hope you enjoy Moonlight!

  If you fall in love with Aowyn as I have, be sure to read the conclusion of her saga in…

  The Subtle Beauty

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Pronunciation Provided by http://www.abair.tcd.ie/?lang=eng

  Here are the authentic pronunciations.

  Feel free to say the names however you like - the author does!

  Click: Author Pronunciation Guide to see it.

  Aodhagáin “Eed-gun”

  Sulwen “Soul-win”

  Áodhán a Choróin “Eye-oh-wan” a “Ha-roon”

  Aodh Caoin Croí “Eed” “Keen” “Cree”

  Aohearn Rógaire “Ee-han” “Row-gear”

  Aodan Lorgaire “Eden” “Lar-gear”

  Aogán Eagnaí “Ee-gahn” “Ag-knee”

  Aowyn “A-oh-win”

  Aonwys a Stór “Ain-wis” a “Stow-er”

  Ciatlllait/Crwys “Key-at-el-let” (sounds a little like Cadillac)/“Crew-is” (Sounds like Chris)

  An Cuan Áille “Ahn Coo-an Ale-ya” (It means The Safe Harbor/Haven)

  Xander “Sander” (Xander’s full name is Barwn Xander Blacksteed of Blackthorn. Barwn Blackthorn is a shortened title)

  Maeb “May-b”

  Sylas Mortas “Syl-loss Mart-us”

  Donestre “Doe-nes-tre”

  fear departs when faith endures.

  ~ Naomi W. Randall

  To my mother,

  Who taught me true love

  WHAT A QUEEN WOULD DO

  They called him “Firebeard,” Son of the Sun. Aodhagáin, King of the Summer Isle. His crimson beard grew to his belly. His eyes burned like embers. But the queen beside him appeared as the night. She sat in a high-backed throne, her hand resting beneath the king’s. Sulwen, “White Sun,” was like the moon with hair the color of midnight, skin as milky as the stars, and lips the shade of the harvest moon. She had been chosen first among the lands to be queen to the high king, and all that knew her loved her.

  Their seven children stood before them in the throne room, each son named after the fire god, Aodh. But the sixth-born, a princess, Sulwen had named for herself. Aowyn. Aowyn resembled her father—kissed by the sun on her face and arms, bejeweled with bright emerald eyes, and hair that flowed and curled like the flame. Her brothers mimicked their father’s features, save for Aonwys a Stór, nicknamed Stór, for he was the last precious soul Sulwen could bear her husband. Stór copied his mother in appearance, but with one amber eye and one blue one.

  Aowyn’s gaze rested not on her brothers, nor the king, or the queen mother. It transfixed upon the handmaiden, Ciatlllait, standing by the queen. Ciatlllait’s mouth twisted at the corner almost imperceptibly. Her hair grew more golden than the broom; her unblemished skin akin to summer cream. Her eyes glittered like the sea. But something abided in her that got under nearly-14-year-old Aowyn’s freckled skin. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. Ciatlllait clasped her hands together and bowed her head as the king spoke.

  “Children,” he said, focusing on his wife, “your mother is ill.”

  Aowyn snapped to attention. Ill?

  She squinted at her placid mother. She didn’t seem ill.

  Apparently her brothers thought the same. Aowyn’s eldest brother, Crown Prince Áodhán an Choróin, named Choróin for short, voiced what they were all thinking. “What do you mean ill, Father? Mother is here. She is fine.”

  Sulwen leaned her dark head against the throne and swallowed. Her lips parted dryly. “Alas, I am not. I am dying.”

  Aowyn found little Stór’s hand suddenly in hers. Tears welled in his bi-colored eyes. “You cannot die. You are our mother.”

  Sulwen raised her hand, languishing. “All seasons must end, my beloved. My winter is coming.”

  Aowyn’s chest tightened and ached. Her gaze drifted to Ciatlllait as Rógaire Aohearn, twin to Lorgaire Aodan, implored, “But how? And why?”

  Aowyn saw Ciatlllait’s nearly imperceptible smile grow. Aowyn’s eyes narrowed.

  Sulwen lost consciousness. Aowyn’s brothers and her father rushed to the queen. Ciatlllait raised her head, and Aowyn knew the woman feigned concern. Aowyn clenched her fists and marched over to her family. She placed herself between her brothers and Ciatlllait. Choróin, Aodh Caoin Croí, Lorgaire and Rógaire bore their mother away to her chambers. Aowyn glowered at Ciatlllait as the handmaiden followed after her mistress. Aogán Eagnaí, Aowyn’s closest brother, stepped to Aowyn’s side and watched Ciatlllait leave.

  Aowyn made a fist and ground her thumb against her fingers. A crease strained her brow.

  Eagnaí regarded his younger sister. “I don’t trust her.”

  Aowyn glanced at him. “That makes two of us.” She studied her 15-year-old brother. Eagnaí was fairer than his brothers. He had the same amber eyes, but his hair was more ginger than red.

  “I am glad I am not alone,” Aowyn said.

  Eagnaí clapped her on the shoulder and offered a smile. “We’re going to get through this. No matter what happens to Mother, we will always be a family.”

  Aowyn reached for his hand and squeezed it.

  Aowyn loved to sit in her mother’s room and gaze at the moon. It shined in so perfectly, always casting its gentle glow upon Sulwen’s bed. Instead of sitting by the window tonight, she climbed into bed with her mother. Sulwen stirred as Aowyn snuggled close to her. Aowyn cherished the way her mother smelled of orchid and meadow saffron. Her dark coils of hair were like flawless threads. It tickled Aowyn’s nose. Sulwen’s hand clasped Aowyn’s fragilely. Aowyn winced at how weak her mother felt. How had she not noticed before? How many times had they sat by the window while Sulwen brushed Aowyn’s hair, and Aowyn had not noticed? She would stare at the moon as the brush smoothed over her unruly, curly locks and tell her mother stories. Stories so wild and free that she would lose herself in them, and all the while Sulwen sang softly and smiled. But she did not sing tonight. Her hand trembled as long, spindly fingers wove with Aowyn’s. The moonlight blanketed them. Aowyn pushed thoughts from her min
d of life without her mother. How could the queen grow so ill so quickly and unnoticed? Aowyn wanted to know why her mother had fallen sick. When did it start? How did it start? If Sulwen languished, why were the druids and physicians not intervening? Aowyn buried her face in Sulwen’s hair. None of it made sense. Sulwen must have sensed Aowyn’s uncertainty.

  “You must wonder what has caused me to feel this way. I know not. Only that strange things have been happening. My handmaiden, Ciatlllait, has been behaving peculiarly. Something has come over her. Something I cannot put my finger on. I would send her away, but I cannot, in good conscience, without evidence of wrong-doing.” With some difficulty, Sulwen rolled over to face Aowyn. She brushed a few stray strands from the girl’s face and smiled. “You were born a queen, my Aowyn. A good queen protects the king. She does not falter. She does not wane. When I am gone…”

  Aowyn shook her head. She refused to accept that she’d be motherless. Sulwen caressed her face and steadied her. “When I am gone, you must always keep your eyes to your king and your brothers. You must protect them. Above all, you must watch Ciatlllait. Nothing has been the same since she arrived to take the place of my last handmaiden. Promise me that.”

  Tears stung Aowyn. “I don’t want to be alone, Mother.”

  Sulwen gently pulled her close and cradled her head. “My love is like the moon—shining and eternal. And as long as it rises in the sky, you shall never be alone.”

  Aowyn settled into a deep sleep. She dreamt of a summer ago when she and her brothers and mother went to their secret place: a glassy secluded pond lush with trees of fragrant pink and white blossoms, tall emerald grasses, and alive with the music of chirping crickets and buzzing dragonflies. Aowyn sat on the shore beside Sulwen, basking in the sun. They were a stark contrast. Aowyn babbled like the spring brook, spinning a story of the sun god Aodh, son of Aobh. She told how Aobh’s sister acted jealous of Aobh’s children and conspired to kill them on a journey to see Bodb Dearg, the King of the Tuatha Dé Danann. But for love of the children, the servants would not slay them, and so Aobh’s sister cursed the children to live as swans for 1,000 years. Sulwen smiled serenely as she listened. She tipped her face toward the sun and soaked in its warmth. Aowyn’s brothers swam in the crystal-clear pond, splashing and wrestling. Stór, jokingly accused among the court of not being one of the king’s own, stuck low to the ground studying bugs and rocks and the way the light dappled the surroundings as it sifted through the trees. When Aowyn grew quiet, Sulwen clasped her hand and squeezed it. “You were born to be a queen among queens, my love, always remember that. Until that time, reign over our safe haven here, our An Cuan Áille.” Aowyn smiled brightly and didn’t give it a second thought.

  Aowyn woke to the song of sparrows. Sunlight streamed in. Aowyn propped herself up on her elbow to peer outside over her mother’s shoulder. She became aware of soft crying. Aowyn glanced at the foot of the bed to see her nursemaid, Maeb, weeping. Aowyn’s brothers were there, save for Stór. Aodhagáin stood behind them. Heads bent in reverence. Maeb motioned to Aowyn to come toward her. Aowyn’s brow furrowed. She touched her mother’s shoulder. “Mother, why is everyone here?”

  Sulwen did not answer.

  Aowyn nudged her. “Mother?”

  Maeb shook her head and moved toward Aowyn.

  Aowyn knelt in the bed and peeled back a drape of black hair from Sulwen’s face. Her eyes widened as realization set in. Sulwen lay stiff and ashen. “Mother. Mother!”

  Maeb grasped Aowyn’s arm. “She has gone to Mag Mell.”

  Aowyn shrugged off Maeb. “No.”

  Maeb attempted to pull her away.

  Aowyn shook her head fiercely. “No!”

  Maeb sought the aid of the king and his sons. Aowyn’s brothers gathered around her and embraced her before pulling her from the bed. Aowyn struggled. “No. No! Do not take me from her!”

  Attendants closed in around Sulwen to prepare her for burial. Maeb followed behind, singing a soft song of mourning. Aowyn continued to struggle, reaching out behind her to the shell of her mother. “Mother! Sulwen!”

  Six princes, a king, and Aowyn surrounded Sulwen on an altar near the Cairn of the Ancestors. A storm brewed on the horizon. Wind kicked up debris from the forest floor. The votive candles flickered in the gust. A vein of lightning bled the sky. The princes cringed, but Aowyn could not help notice how her father did not flinch. A silent tear slipped down his ruddy cheek into his crimson beard. The forest grew darker as they kept vigil. Thunder growled. Lightning cracked. No rain fell. When at last it settled, the sky gloomed black with evening. The candles cast an eerie glow. Sulwen’s hair spread out around her like rays of midnight. Aowyn turned her face skyward. Many stars glittered. A breeze picked up again. One by one the stars began to fall. The moon forsook itself. Aowyn shuddered. Aodhagáin raised his head, and a deep song of longing crested from his throat in rich baritone. A tear slipped down Aowyn’s face. Her brothers gathered around and lifted Sulwen on their shoulders. Her body had been bound in linen. She wore her favorite sapphire gown underneath with a small belt of gold about her waist. Her stiff hands clutched a ceremonial dagger over her chest. Her head had been crowned with wildflowers and tiny jewels. The princes raised their voices and joined in Aodhagáin’s song as they bore the queen down into the cairn.

  The entrance to the burial mound opened only as wide as two men and as tall as one. The ground sloped steeply into it. Wisps of grass grew over the entrance. Flickering torches cast long shadows inside. Aowyn walked slowly behind her brothers with her head lowered. She stepped lightly so as not to rouse the ancestors. Stór whimpered behind her, and Maeb hoisted the young boy to the cradle of her hip. He buried his face in her shoulder. Aodhagáin’s song continued to flow from his throat like endless bolts of satin. The princes’ voices echoed in recourse. Their voices bounced off the walls as they wound deeper and deeper into the cairn. At first the pitch of the tunnel ceiling was oppressive. Aowyn wanted to crouch to avoid it. As they went deeper and deeper, the ceiling lifted. Aowyn breathed a sigh of relief. She had not ventured down here often, save for misadventures with mischievious Rógaire and Lorgaire. They turned a corner, and the cairn opened up into a grand stone hall. Images of Mag Mell and Tir na Nog were carved into the walls. They depicted lush lands of eternal bliss and paradisiacal glory where one never grew old, or ill, or downtrodden. Aodhagáin’s song filled the entire room. Aowyn chewed her lip. She rubbed her elbows and shivered. Aowyn recalled rumors that the Tuatha Dé Danann, kings and queens of ages past with supernatural powers, and the ghostly ban sídhe, dwelled in burial places such as these. The cairn endured the name sídhe mound for a reason.

  The hall they carried Queen Sulwen through was clearly built for royalty. The open room had been decorated with a great feasting table and many chairs. Offerings of food and mead piled on empty plates as if awaiting a specter host. The walls narrowed around Aowyn and her family again as they descended further into the cairn. The walls widened into a passage guarded by two massive statues. The swords they clutched were as tall as a man and their points penetrated the earth. Crowns adorned their heads as they stared out through glassy, unseeing eyes. Aowyn gulped. The floor of the vast room was inlaid with precious stones. Alcoves in the walls hosted bodies bound in linen of varying ages. All wore stone masks of their once-living likeness. Aodhagáin’s voice stilled. He sank to one knee and bowed to his ancestors. He lifted his voice in invocation, asking that the ancestors accept Sulwen into their fold that her spirit might rest easy with the kings and queens before her. Aodhagáin lifted himself shakily. Though he helped carry his mother, Choróin reached for his father’s elbow and helped him stand. Aodhagáin lips trembled. A tear slipped down his high cheekbone.

  The air in the room rushed. Small bits of rubble tumbled down. Stór gripped Maeb tighter. Aowyn couldn’t help but skitter toward her nursemaid as well. Aodhagáin motioned to his sons to follow as they made their final descent. Aowyn’s heart rate increased. He
r eyes darted back and forth between the recesses filled with bodies. She jumped when Maeb placed her hand on the back of her neck. Aowyn’s hand went to her heart, and she took a deep breath. Maeb pulled Aowyn’s head down to her level and whispered that it helped to fix one’s line of sight on their feet in places like these. Aowyn watched her brothers’ heels shuffle until they reached Sulwen’s resting place.

  Aodhagáin, Choróin, Eagnaí, Caoin Croí, Rógaire, and Lorgaire delicately moved the queen into the alcove. The princes stepped back as Aodhagáin knelt by his wife and stroked her hair. Aowyn took Stór from Maeb and held him close. Aodhagáin sniffled and whispered into Sulwen’s ear before kissing her cheek one last time. He turned slowly to his children. Aowyn leaned her head against Stór’s. Aodhagáin was silent. A tear slipped down his cheek. He moved between the princes. Aowyn reached for his hand, but he did not notice and continued back the way they had come.

  The kingdom mourned Sulwen’s death. So sorrowful was the world that the moon refused to rise. Upon her passing, the stars fell, lamenting. Yet one soul’s countenance in the kingdom remained unchanged. When the moon had not ascended in three nights, she cloaked herself in the darkness and stole away to the Cairn of the Ancestors. A burst of green light shot from her hand and rolled back the stone guarding the entrance to the burial mound. She strode in, undeterred. Strange gusts of air blew around her as though trying to drive her out. She waved her hand, and they died down with a groan. She wound her way deeper and deeper into the sídhe mound. The spirits sought to turn her out, but she resisted with a wave of her hand, pushing the spirits back and aside. She forged onward to the ancestral burial chamber and made her way to Sulwen’s side. Torchlight shone on golden hair when the woman slipped back the hood of her black cloak embroidered with archaic rune symbols. Her cold smile twisted her mouth as she knelt beside the late queen. Druids had come to finish the work of the burial, and Sulwen now bore the stone mask of her living likeness. Her black hair had been dressed and wrapped under a wimple.