Magic Unbound: Book One in the Fae Unbound Series Read online

  "I was shaking you forever, and you didn't wake up. We should call Mom. Or the doctor. You look sick."

  "I just have a headache from the sun, okay? Plus, I hope I'm not going to have the world's worst sunburn." She would have treated him to a dose of the dreaded tickle-fingers to cheer him up, but she was pretty sure that if she did, his squealing would blow her head off. Instead, she gave him a smile and a weak punch on the arm to reassure him. She could see him relax a little. The delicious torture of a tickle session would have to wait for another day. "Come on, let's go inside. I'll make us some hot chocolate."

  "It's too hot for hot chocolate!"

  "It’s never too hot for hot chocolate, but if you think so, then I guess you'll need some ice cream to cool it off."

  Bobby's face lit with a giant smile, and he raced to the house as she followed more slowly behind him. She turned to look behind for a moment, expecting to see her visitor among the gnomes, but he wasn't there. Then, she looked down at the medallion on her chest to reassure herself that she hadn't dreamed it.

  No. It was real. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, she had begun her series of lifetimes under the name of Morgan…Morgan, whose memories now whispered to her from inside her own head. And then the others, who came after, all of them fluttering away in her brain, floating around the back of her mind with a soft beat like butterfly wings.

  Lizbet watched Bobby spoon up ice cream while he watched TV. She waited for her hot chocolate to cool a little and rubbed her temples in a vain effort to help her achy head. As she did, scenes from hundreds of years ago popped into her consciousness and then, just as quickly, disappeared.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a moment, trying to hang on to the flash of memory that was the strongest and most colorful, focusing as hard as she could to push away the sound of the TV and all the other trappings of modern life. The flutter of memory belonged to her first life, Morgan. As she focused on it, she was transported from the family room to a battlefield. She heard herself tell others to bring her the worst of the wounded. Off to the side stood a man in leather armor surveying the damages among his men with sadness. She knew him as Arthur. She opened her eyes again, a little shocked by the emotion she felt in the brief moment of memory.

  What lingered with her was sadness for the long dead, a King named Arthur, who was a human and a friend. And she felt nostalgia also for who she had been then; a healer, a sorceress, a druid, and half-fae. Cool! As soon as I remember what a fae is, I’ll be ready for the funny farm.

  During dinner, Lizbet picked at her food and hoped she could gather up the dishes and be excused soon. She didn't have to wait long—her mother didn't miss much when her children were acting strange. Lizbet picking at her food instead of fighting Bobby for the last serving was way beyond strange.

  "You look flushed, sweetie," her mother said, as she reached across the table to feel Lizbet's forehead, "but it doesn't feel like you have a fever."

  Lizbet let her mother do the mother thing and then said, "I fell asleep in the sun, and now I have a headache and feel kinda pukey. Is it okay if I just go to bed?"

  "Of course you can. I think I can manage the dishes for one night…you don’t even want your after-dinner hot chocolate?"

  “Um…yeah, maybe I better have that. It could help me feel better, right?”

  Her mother filled a mug with water and waited while it heated for two and a half minutes in the microwave, then carefully measured one full scoop of hot chocolate and one extra tablespoon of sugar into the mug. Lizbet watched, approving of the way her mother knew how to make her favorite food just exactly right.

  When Mom handed over the mug, she gave her a quick peck on the cheek and said, "Thanks, mom," as she headed for the stairs.

  Eamon was sitting cross-legged in her bedside chair. He was every bit as ugly as she'd remembered. He had bushy black hair and his features were large and sharp. His head was too big for his short, slender body. Despite that, she felt a closeness to him. She knew that all the lives inside her trusted him completely. After she piled up her pillows at the head of her bed so that she could lean comfortably against the headboard, she sat facing Eamon and savored her hot chocolate whenever she was listening instead of speaking

  "You're a gruagach, is that right? Apparently, human isn't the only thing going anymore."

  "Aye, I am that."

  "So…what's a gruagach?"

  "One of the fae folk."

  Still no recognition.

  Eamon said, "I've been through this enough times to know that it'll take a fair amount of time for the memories of all your lives to integrate fully there in your mind, but I'll not accept you've forgotten what a fae is." Eamon said,

  Lizbet shrugged. "Well, I have."

  "Och, A fairy, ye ken? 'Fairy'!" Eamon spat. "I hate that word. I blame the Victorians and their fascination with the wee, magical folk for that name. And you shouldn't need to have me telling you this. Morgan was half fae herself. Her mother was a nymph. The fae in her was what made her such a powerful sorceress. Part of her came from magic."

  "Wait a minute, seriously? The Morgan I'm remembering is Morgan La Fae from the stories about King Arthur? She wasn't real. This is so not re…" Lizbet stopped herself as memories of Morgan's life crashed down on her. She leaned her head into her hands, rubbed her forehead firmly, and took a deep breath, "Oh. Right. She was real…but, seriously…I'm half fairy?"

  "Morgan was. You, lassie…technically, no. There are no fae in your world for fifteen hundred year except for me poppin' in and out every so often. The fae were pushed out and fenced off into just a piece of reality where you can't see us or interact with us anymore."

  "Good. Then I'm only slightly insane. At least when they cart me away, I won't be claiming to be a fairy." Lizbet quieted for a moment, her blue eyes tilted up to the left as she searched for a memory, then returned to meet Eamon’s gaze when she found it. "Morgan was a nurse, right? That's what I keep seeing. I guess I have something in common with her, because I've always wanted to be a doctor."

  "Not a nurse. A healer. You've been a healer in all life times. You really don't seem to be able to help it. You were Arthur's healer, and he respected you above all other women and most men. You accompanied him on the battle ground. All those stories about Morgan doing evil, those were all just tales made up by the priests and the kirk after they finally destroyed druidic ways. They didn't understand a world in which women could have power to lead their people as priestesses and warriors and queens, so they smeared the reputations of the ones who did and wrote a false history that spoiled their names."

  "Alright, gruagach. I can't pretend I'm not remembering things that never happened to me, but why are you here?"

  "Because I've done again and again what Morgan charged me to do hundreds of years ago. I served your house then, and I continue to serve. Some things never change. You don't always have that thick red hair, but in each life you have Morgan's radiant smile. I'd know you anywhere."

  "So, what does Morgan have you do?"

  "I bring you your memories, among other duties. Eight other times, so far. And this time, I'm a little early, because the fae are in great danger. The Tree of Life is about to be destroyed. If it's destroyed, the fae will perish. The Tree is the only thing that sustains us in the shadow world we’re trapped in. I'm here because all of the necessary conditions are finally in place for the spell to be broken. You're the only one who can break the spell and save the fae. To do that, we've got to get you to the old world, Scotland, very soon."

  Lizbet was having trouble taking it all in. It was too ridiculous to be sitting on her bed talking to a three foot tall man who claimed she was going to have to save the fairies. No matter how many times she rubbed her head, it didn't ease the pain. She sat her now empty mug on the nightstand carefully. "My head is splitting, and I feel like I've been beat up from the inside," she said, "I really need to sleep."

  "Aye, that's the amulet doing its wo
rk. It gives you back your memories, but it's my understanding that it's fairly unpleasant when they remerge. Sleep may help, but I warn you…tonight, your dreams may be more than dreams."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dream A Little Dream

  Lizbet fell asleep within minutes of fluffing up the pillow for her aching head and gently settling into it. It was not a restful sleep.

  She could smell the clean air of the forest around her. Ahead of her, a man walked slowly along a path through the woods, leaning heavily on his staff. He moved stiffly and carefully. As she watched, three men stepped out of the forest behind him. Each was clad in a rough, brown robe and wore the round tonsure shaved onto the crown of their heads that was required of monks of the Roman orders. She watched them through Morgan's eyes as they fell upon the old man.

  The monk with the curly black hair hurried forward, grabbed the old man's staff, and struck him a vicious blow on the back of the head. She knew as soon as she glimpsed the monk's face that he was called Faolan. There was something about that name, some relationship to Morgan, but Lizbet couldn't quite grab hold of it before Morgan's memory moved on. Faolan rolled the old man over onto his back. When she saw his face, she began to cry Morgan's tears. It's Myrddin. It's my Myrddin.

  Faolan drew a knife and cup from beneath his robe. Each of the other two monks grabbed the old man by an arm and together they sat him up, still unconscious. Faolan held the golden cup beneath the man's neck, murmured a few words in the old tongue, and slit the old man's throat. Myrddin's life blood flowed into the cup and down his chest. Just before he died, Myrddin raised his head and looked directly at the point from which Lizbet viewed the scene. She knew he couldn't see her, that she wasn't really there, but she felt as though their eyes met in a last goodbye just the same.

  The pain Lizbet felt in Morgan's grief was terrible. However, the vision hadn't yet ended, and she felt trapped as it forced her along to follow the monks as they dragged the lifeless body of Morgan's lover through the woods. Soon, they climbed the hill that was the only feature of the otherwise monotonous landscape. The top of the hill was flattened artificially and ringed round with standing stones. It was a place of peace, where the Druid would meet the fae. In the center, there was an open pit containing a coffin hewn from a single block of stone. The pit was recently dug. They placed Myrddin's body inside it and muscled the rectangular stone that completed his coffin into place. The two young monks who accompanied Faolan made short work of dumping the dirt back into place around the grave.

  When the awful deed was done, Faolan stood on the fresh-turned earth, raising the cup of Myrddin's blood to heaven. He began to chant and then to scream words in the old tongue and words in the Roman tongue. The wind lashed the trees and storm clouds gathered. As the storm rose and lightning began to strike the ground, Faolan challenged the storm to move him from his spot, repeating the old words and holding the cup still aloft.

  He knelt on the grave and used the blood to make a complicated symbol Lizbet didn't recognize. He stood up, stepped back, and lightning struck all around him, scorching the ground. As rapidly as it started, the storm now stopped. And with that, Morgan's last vision ended. Morgan felt the fae part of her beginning to fade away; it was as though a piece of her was being excised by what Faolan had done.

  And then she knew what it was. Faolan had done it, finally. He'd carried on the work that the founder of his order had started. Mungo tried and failed to banish the world of magic before he died. Myrddin was the one who stopped him, but he did it at the cost of his grandson's love.

  Faolan, who had worshipped Mungo as much as he had worshipped Rome's god, had found another way. He'd used the blood of the most powerful wizard the Druids had ever known to package up the fae world and tie the binding tight. Morgan knew the spell well but had never thought its reach could be extended for Faolan's purpose. When the blood he had spilled was fully dry upon the damp ground, the spell would be complete. It hadn't been a vision—it had been the far-seeing. Her Myrddin was gone. Really gone. And magic had so little time left.

  But what could she do? Myrddin had been on his way to be with her because she lay abed in the last fever of her life. She had no time left to undo the spell, although she believed she knew how it could be undone. The fae might not be completely gone, not forever, but where they were sent would not be a pleasant place. Morgan gathered her wits again and summoned Eamon. When he arrived, what she believed was confirmed: he looked the slightest bit insubstantial, as though you could push right through him if you tried. She knew his appearance would only become more ghostly until he was entirely gone.

  Morgan worked frantically, and when she was done, she placed a set of wet clay tablets into a metal box, placing sheets of blank parchment between the layers so they didn't fuse together as they dried. She closed the lid and motioned to Eamon, who had waited patiently at the side of her bed while she worked. She gave him the box, then removed the silver medallion from her neck and handed it to him, speaking to him in a language Lizbet didn't understand. As Eamon took the amulet from Morgan's hand, Lizbet's dream ended abruptly.

  Lizbet tossed and turned in the half-wake/half-sleep where dreams mesh with reality. She was sure she heard a garden gnome in her room, speaking on a cell phone in something approximating her father's voice.

  "Hello Sheila. I'll make it brief. I wondered if I could have Lizbet come visit for the next two weeks? I know that Bobby leaves for camp tomorrow, so I thought it might be a good time to spend some quality time with my daughter…"

  "…that's just great, then. Alright if I pick her up around noon?"

  "…no, no…no reason you would need to drop her off. I'm happy to run by and get her. I spoke to her earlier today, so she's probably packing right now. Gotta go. Okay, bye bye."

  Eamon suddenly dove under the bed. Lizbet rubbed her eyes and forced herself more fully awake. A moment later, her mother appeared in the doorway, looking concerned.

  "Just checking on you, sweetie. How do you feel? You don't look good."

  Lizbet gently fended off her mother's hand as it reached to feel her forehead and gave her a half smile. "I'm okay, mom. Still no fever. It's just a headache."

  "Well, your father just called to ask if you can spend the next two weeks with him. I said yes, and he wants to pick you up tomorrow. But if you're sick, I’d rather have you home."

  "No…" Lizbet said, as she turned to one side to raise herself up on her elbow. She tried to remember what Eamon had said. She didn't know why he'd said it, but the whispers told her just to go with it, she'd understand in time. "I'm fine. I talked to Dad about it earlier today. I think it'll be lots of fun. I'm even feeling better already." The last part was a lie, because she still felt weak and headachy and, after what she had just witnessed in her sleep, a little bit sick to her stomach.

  "How about we see how things are in the morning? I put a plate for you in the fridge if you feel hungry later. Bobby left you some mac and cheese—your favorite."

  She lay back down and yawned into the pillow as her mother left. "That's Bobby's favorite, Mom. I'm not a kid anymore."

  She heard Eamon crawl out from under the bed a few minutes later, but she was so exhausted she was asleep again before he tip-toed across the room, opened the window, slid out the screen, and then carefully pulled it back into place behind him before he dropped the full story to the ground and landed with a nearly silent, "och!"

  Lizbet knew she must be dreaming as she looked up in wonder at the tallest tree she'd ever seen. The leaves shone a brilliant emerald green. It was a real, living tree, but it looked like it had a shiny crystal top coat. Its trunk grew thousands of feet into the sky. It was beautiful, glowing with its own soft light. She looked up at it for a long time, entranced.

  Then, her gaze was directed down to the base of the tree. Around it, in a set of concentric circles, were the fae. There must have been hundreds and hundreds of them to ring a tree that huge so many times, all holding hands and
sitting quietly without breaking their circles around the tree. Each of them had their eyes closed, and their expressions were composed and serious.

  She turned around and saw a line of people with placards probably a half mile from where she stood. They seemed to be protesting something, but she was too far away to read their signs. They stood beyond a chain link fence and there were guards stationed near the bulldozers and construction equipment on the near side of the fence, keeping a watchful eye on them. The people and machinery were misty and insubstantial next to the solid appearance of the tree and the fae ring.

  She turned back to the Tree. The woman who owned the eyes she was viewing this strange world through called softly to one of the nearest fae, whom she could now recognize as a gruagach. "She's with me now. Quickly. Make your appeal."

  The gruagach jumped up, and the tall fae next to him with the vaguely Spock ears and shiny long black hair moved quickly to fill the gap by taking the hand of a woman whose hair was elaborately dressed with leaves. The gruagach bowed deeply to her and spoke, "If it please ye, mistress. Please help us. Once the buildin' starts, all is lost. When they destroy the Tree, they'll destroy us all. There'll be no fae ever again. We have only a few weeks left at best if you cannae intervene. I beg ye. Come to us, and help us. Eamon can show you the way."

  As the gruagach bowed again and rejoined the circle, Lizbet’s heart went out to him. He had made such a polite plea in such a desperate circumstance. He also seemed familiar, and then she recalled his name—Hamish, a friend of Eamon’s. Morgan remembered him as a teller of jokes and player of pranks. Morgan had laughed many a time as Eamon told her stories about him.