The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1)

The Iron Sword

By

Jocelyn A. Fox

All Rights Reserved

This edition published in 2014 by Jocelyn A. Fox

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this work are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the authors of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chapter 1

Q
ueen Mab, ruler of the Unseelie Court and all its beholden lands, monarch of the Night and the Winter, once the most powerful being in any world, was not accustomed to waiting. She shifted slightly on her delicately carved throne, the silver bells sewn into the hem of her dress whispering a soft melody into the silence of the room. A few of the gathered Court steeled themselves against the sound, for Mab’s bells were intoxicating even to the Sidhe.

One of the Court Historians walked forward with an ancient scroll held carefully in his hands like an offering. The Historian, too, was ancient, but his slow and stately gait was the only indication of his age. He bowed low before the throne. Mab said nothing, regarding him silently until he straightened after a few long moments.

“My Queen, with your permission,” he said.

Mab nodded, barely inclining her head. The Historian carefully focused his gaze on her crown, her diadem of blazing stars, because to look the Queen in the eyes was a grave insult, unthinkable—and her power would ravish his mind, stripping away his innermost secrets, laying bare his soul. Even her own people, the subjects of her own Court, feared such power, though they feigned cool indifference. He held out the scroll. “We have found the Prophecy.”

“So it seems,” replied the Queen, her voice terribly, dangerously beautiful. “And tell me, is the half-mortal girl the one?”

“My Queen,” said the Historian softly, “it is never certain with Prophecies. But the Seers and the Historians have gone through the records, and we believe she is the one foretold.”

“That is well,” said Mab, settling back onto her throne, “since I have already summoned her.”

The Historian’s eyes widened slightly—ever so slightly—in surprise. A few of the Court glanced at each other, their eyes heavy with unspoken words. And then the Historian bowed again, lower this time.

“Does Her Majesty require anything else of her Scholars?” he asked.

“Continue to scour the oldest records. My instructions stand as before,” Mab ordered.

“Yes, my Lady,” the Historian murmured. He touched his brow in obeisance and left the throne room, cradling the scroll in his arms as gently as a newborn.

“Leave us now. I wish to speak to my Knights.” The Fae Queen’s voice rang across the room, filling every crevice with its power. She watched with cold eyes as the rest of her Court left silently, their beautiful faces carefully blank.

Three Knights knelt before her: her Named Knights, her champions, her favorite and most feared warriors.

“The girl has until sundown on the morrow to heed the summons,” Mab said silkily. “If she resists, then you, Vaelanbrigh, will go and fetch her from her mortal world.”

The Vaelanbrigh stood and bowed, but not as deeply as the Historian. He wore a sheathed sword at his waist, and the blade hummed softly as he straightened from the bow, his blue eyes grave. “As you command, my lady.”

The Queen stood and looked down at her three Knights. “Let us hope, for her sake, that she does not keep us waiting.”

***

Twilight settled softly over the rolling rocky hills. The cedar trees crouched low to the ground, spreading their branches possessively, grasping at the sky with clawing fingers. While the last glow of the sun lit the western skies, a silence settled over the hard country, glazing the gray rocks and cedars and spruce like ice. The land held its breath for a handful of minutes, waiting for the stain of sunlight to fade from the sky. As the velvety darkness of night caressed the curves of the horizon, the Hill Country slunk into life again.

We sat in folding plastic chairs on the crest of a swell in the land. Behind us squatted the cabin, really nothing more than one large high-ceilinged room. I shifted in my chair. The plastic webbing squeaked and complained beneath my weight. I watched the swallows as they danced in the dusk, folding their wings to dive and whisk through the long grasses for unsuspecting insects. Sullenly, I wished that the swallows would do a better job of hunting—maybe then I wouldn’t be slapping away mosquitoes. Texas mosquitoes, I decided, must be an evolutionary step above their Eastern cousins. I practically bathed in bug spray, the nasty smelly kind that is supposed to be reserved for deep-woods hiking and will probably give me cancer. But despite my sticky skin, the mosquitoes took a liking to me. I probably tasted different. Or my skin was softer, because I glanced sideways at Molly and she sat unconcernedly, her pale legs splayed out in front of her. I tucked my legs under my chair and rubbed my shins against one another. Maybe Texans, too, have evolved to be immune to mosquitoes.

“There, Austin, put ‘em in the fire ring,” drawled a voice in the dusk. The sound traveled like smoke through the cooling air, drifting slowly through the half-light.

Austin dumped his load of cedar branches into the raised metal ring. He tucked in errant branches and then arranged a little ball of tinder on top, looking up for approval before whipping out his lighter from the back pocket of his blue jeans and holding the little flame to the dry tinder. The tinder ignited, the flames devouring the dry grass and newspaper in next to no time. Austin squatted on his haunches by the fire-ring, poking here and there in the fledgling fire with a stout, long stick. The yellow light accented the hollows of his cheeks and the shadows nestled beneath his chin.

We’d moved into our dormitory during the lingering balmy dusk of an August night, already planning out the year ahead. It was the first year that Molly had put up pictures of her family. She’d talked about them, but not often, and I’d assumed it was homesickness that made her shy away from framed photos. We were twenty-one years old, balancing on the edge of the real world, sitting in a fluorescent-lit boxy room with bags against the closed door like sandbags against a flood, stemming the slow seep of reality.

“Oh,” Molly had said in the pitifully bare room as I sat nursing coffee from the cafeteria in a chipped blue mug, “Austin and I don’t look alike at all.” Her pale mouth quirked in a cynical smile. “He got all the good genes I guess.”

“Don’t say that,” I replied with all the staunch support of a best friend.

“No, really,” she continued stubbornly. “He doesn’t even have to go outside to get a tan, and I’m…” She held up her forearm, pasty white in the unforgiving dormitory lights.

“You look like a model with your pale skin, so don’t even try and pull the pity card with me.” I took a sip from my cooling cup and looked longingly at the packing-box containing my coffee-maker.

“People don’t believe me when I say we’re brother and sister.”

“I believe you,” I said, taking another sip of lukewarm coffee.

Molly smiled, her lips curving softly. “Thanks, Tess. You’ll love Texas…it’s all wide-open sky and space to think.” And then, with a sidelong glance at me, hesitantly she added, “How’s Liam?”

I leaned forward in my chair, balancing my elbows on my knees and twining my fingers together. “As well as can be expected, I guess. It gets cold in the mountains at night, so I sent him some warm socks and thermals. I send him letters, and emails when I can, but the forward operating base’s internet is horrible at best.”

Molly laid a light hand on my arm. “I know it’s hard, but…I mean, he’s gone through the toughest training that the military has to offer, right? That counts for something.”

“It had better,” I said, feeling the familiar, gnawing worry begin to bloom beneath my ribs, tracing the bones with acid, spreading in the space of one rapid breath like a spilled glass of water.

Molly smiled a little and shook her head. “What’s he going to think, when he hears your grand plan to join up after graduation?”

I shrugged. Six years older than me, Liam had been everything an older brother should have been, although my mother wasn’t particularly thrilled about his encouragement of my tomboy ways, to put it lightly. Liam had taught me how to fire a shotgun and throw a mean right hook, making sure that his little sister had all the tools she would need to defend herself in the wide, rough world. Now I was the one worrying about him, deployed off in the far mountains of Afghanistan. But he’d never needed my protection. What help would I ever be able to offer him? He stood a good head taller than me, muscular from football and lacrosse. If Liam couldn’t handle it, I’d bet that no one else could either.

“I don’t know if Liam’s objections are the ones I should be worrying about,” I said, more to fill the silence and still my own thoughts than anything else. “I don’t even want to think about what my mom is going to say.”

Molly made a noncommittal noise in her throat, reaching into her backpack to pull out a fashion magazine, clearly ignoring the boxes still cluttering her side of the room.

“Well, I’m sure Austin will want to show you his boxing skills. No live demonstrations.” Molly gave me a significant look and turned back to her magazine. “I don’t want to have to explain to my parents how my younger brother got his face rearranged. After all the Thanksgivings I’ve spent at your house, though, you might get a free pass,” she said thoughtfully. Then she made a face. “Although your mom always tries to feed me vegetables. I hate vegetables.”

I laughed a little. “Molly versus the vegetables. It’s been a showdown for three years running.”

Molly’s low laugh filled the spaces between our bags and boxes, curling down against the shadows in the room.

And so now I sat on a hilltop in front of a blazing fire, looking at Austin’s broad face, the well-balanced features and high cheekbones, deep brown eyes and blonde hair. I couldn’t help but sneak another glance at Molly, her face pale in the fading light. The angles of her face were sharper, more exotic than her brother’s wholesome, all-American handsomeness. She caught me looking at her. I refused to act like I’d been doing something wrong, so I held her gaze, a little challengingly. Her eyes were catlike, mottled dark brown and gold and green. The shadows settled in her short, dark hair, brushing featherlike against the sides of her face.

Molly’s father stumped around the half-circle of folding chairs and settled in the one straight across from me. The sound of the chair creaking as he propped up his boots on the rim of the fire-ring drew me out of my thoughts. Mr. Jackson pushed at the brim of his baseball cap with one hand and scratched his ear with the other. I sighed very quietly, waiting. “So, Tess, what’s a Yank do for fun?”

I tried not to blush even though it wouldn’t be visible in the darkening night. “We don’t sit around fires,” I said truthfully. “Unless we’re roasting marshmallows. Or at summer camp.”

“Wal,” said Mr. Jackson, “ain’t nothin’ more beautiful than sunset in the Hill Country. And you jes’ watch these stars.”

I tipped my head up dutifully, scanning the sky for the first stars emerging from the deep bruised blue of twilight. I sighed in exasperation when I found several brand-new mosquito bites dappling the skin of my leg.

“I can smell the bug spray on you from here,” Molly said. She laughed her low, sensuous chuckle.

“Well, it’s not helping much,” I huffed.

“Only your first night,” drawled Mr. Jackson, “an’ you’re tired of the bugs?” He chuckled, reaching beneath his chair for a can of beer. The pop and quiet hiss as he pulled the tab back on the can punctuated the fire’s monologue.

I slid down in my chair until I could rest the back of my head against the metal crosspiece. Silence settled over the five of us. I wondered if this was what we were going to do all night, sit around the fire and stare at each other with smoke blowing into our faces when the wind shifted. Molly scuffed the dirt with one sneaker. I stared at the brightening stars.

I leaned my plastic chair back as far as it would go, letting my ponytail hang over the back. A slight breeze stirred the fire, wafting heat onto my legs. Gooseflesh rippled over my skin at the contrast between the cool night air and the warmth of the fire. I had agreed to come to Texas with Molly for a week, since she had spent the last three Thanksgivings with my family in Pennsylvania. Here, with the unpaved roads and armadillos, she was like one of the cedar trees, wild and natural and completely unapologetic in her faded athletic shorts and oversize t-shirt. She belonged—or belonged more than she did at school.

“Shooting star,” I said as a streak of light shot across the night sky and disappear. In the distance, I saw the lights of the nearest cabin flick on, two tiny yellow squares on another hill, separated from us by a valley of darkness.

“Make a wish,” Molly suggested.

I closed my eyes and wished with all my heart for my brother to be safe.

Even though I wasn’t really a big fan of being eaten alive by mosquitoes while sitting around a fire for hours, I had to admit that once I got past the itching and smoke, there was something primal and beautiful about the untamed land. The star-studded curve of the night sky felt like a cathedral, free of the sounds of traffic and the neon lights of convenience stores. The quiet hum of life among the cedar trees and scrubby bushes carried on undisturbed by our presence.

I looked up at the stars and felt the freedom of the vast sky seeping into the top of my skull. I thought about what had drawn the first weather-beaten pioneers to these rocky hills and the valleys heavy with hot air, the cacti standing silent sentinel on the harsh plains of the deserts. The land became a part of those people, mapped in the leathery lines of their faces, the stony glint in their eyes. I wanted to feel a connection like that, to have something be so much a part of me it felt as though part of every breath I drew kept it alive.

The fire died down to embers nestled in the fire-ring. Kirby curled up beside Austin, tucking his nose under his tail and promptly falling asleep. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson talked quietly. The half-moon hung low in the rich black sky, no city lights to outshine its pale radiance. Molly nudged me. We stood and picked up our chairs, stacking them against the side of the front porch and prying off our muddied shoes.

Molly flicked on the light-switch, illuminating the one room of the cabin. On one side, there was a stainless steel stove and a sleek refrigerator humming quietly away; directly in front of the door, a bank of windows revealed the view of the Texas countryside. The high ceiling continued up to the very apex of the little house, paneled handsomely in polished wood. Handmade rugs covered the floor, and to the left of the door, a steep staircase—really no more than a glorified ladder—led to the loft. Molly pointed to the queen-sized bed situated comfortably under the loft, covered with a blue patchwork quilt.

“That’s where Mom and Dad sleep,” she explained, and then she pointed up to the loft. “We sleep up there. Normally Austin and I share the loft, but since you’re here,” she continued brightly, “he has to sleep on the couch.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Molly reassured me. “It’s a comfortable couch.”