Prologue
The first earsplitting shriek of abandonment echoes in the air as the baby wails.
The princess stares down at the child, the one she loves so dearly, and every inch of her trembles. This is not what she wants for it, but she cannot keep it. Not without risking its life. And she has already risked too much. The only answer she has is this.
A moon-drenched forest.
An old, hollow stone that has been used for this purpose for eons—an altar to the Old Ones.
And the silence, broken only by the baby’s quiet sobs as it stares at her face, its lower lip trembling as if it knows its fate.
“I’m sorry.” She falls to her knees, tentatively touching its soft face.
The night steals away its features, but she knows them as well as her own. Those green eyes, so alert, even from the moment of its birth. An old soul, this one. The thatch of black hair is different from the gold of her own, but the soft pillow-shaped curve of its mouth mimics hers, and she cannot help tracing those little lips with her finger.
She never knew love like this until the baby’s birth.
“This is for your own good,” she whispers. “I must keep you safe, no matter what it costs me. I must protect you. I love you, my little one.”
And so I must give you away.
Pressing one last kiss to the baby’s smooth forehead, she forces herself to stand, ignoring those whimpering cries even as her heart bleeds.
Shadows draw closer, as if sprites linger. The golden, unblinking eyes of demi-fey watch from the woods, curious and playful. And the baby wriggles fat, chubby arms, tearing free of its blankets.
She should go.
She needs to go.
But she cannot leave the child alone until she knows it is safe.
Hiding in the nearby trees, she tries to steel herself against the whimpering cries. It needs to cry if it is to be found. Old Mother Hibbert can hear the sobs of abandoned babies from a thousand miles away, and it is she the princess wishes to attract.
Minutes trickle past. It’s growing late, and she must be away before the sun rises. The child screams now, full-throated sobs that might attract any manner of predators.
“Please,” she whispers, clenching her fist around the hilt of her sword in desperation. “Please, come. Please take this child.”
Eerie blue-white lights gleam through the trees. Will-o’-the-wisps? Or something else?
The princess freezes.
And sure enough, the sound of bells tinkles through the trees on the heels of the glittering lights.
Relief slams through her. Thank all the gods.
An enormous reindeer draws the ancient sleigh, lichen clinging to the hairs under its chin, and breath steaming from its nostrils. A hooded figure hauls on the reins until the reindeer pauses.
“Here now,” the old woman calls. “What have we here?”
The princess draws back, pressing her spine against the tree so as not to be seen. Slowly, she peeps around the other side of the tree, to where a spill of moonlight falls on the altar and the child.
“Oh, look at you, my poor, poor sweet,” whispers the old hag, stooping to pick it up. The baby’s cries grow louder, but she tucks its wrap tightly around it and rocks it in her arms. “Now, no more of that, no more. Old Mother Hibbert is here.”
The baby snuffles and whimpers. It is but days old.
And the princess’s heart quivers in her chest as she watches another cradle it close, when she has known the feeling of it in her arms. This is for the best. It has to be.
But her yearning betrays her.
A stick cracks beneath the toe of her boot as she leans forward.
“Who’s there?” Old Mother Hibbert snarls.
The princess freezes.
The old hag cradles the baby with one arm, the other falling to one of the knives sheathed at her waist. “Aye, I can hear you breathing now, you little creeping wretch. Come out and let me see you.”
There’s no help for it. She cannot afford to let the old crone flee in fright.
She steps around the tree, her hands held in the air.
They stare at each other, and the hag puts the baby back on the altar, her nostrils flaring as she draws a knife.
“No, don’t! Please take it,” the princess begs. “I know I shouldn’t have stayed, but I just wanted to make sure the baby was safe.”
“Is this a trap?” the hag demands, her head turning this way and that. “Come forth, you bright and shining wretches, and meet my iron. I shall cut thee and rend thee and boil thee in my cauldron.”
“No! No, it’s not a trap.” The princess takes a step forward, then hesitates when the blade swings back her way.
“I can smell the stink of your power, girl. Why does a child with royal blood lie on this altar?”
“Because those in power will kill it if they know it survived the birth.” She bites her lip. “It was never meant to be born alive. It was… a curse of fate. Please. Please take the baby. They’ll kill it otherwise.”
Old Mother Hibbert’s nostrils flare, the tip of her knife slowly lowering. “You ask a great boon of me, Daughter of Maia. I can sense the twist of prophecy all around the child. This will only end in bloodshed and tears.”
“I will come for it in twenty years,” she promises. “I will bear the burden of its fate. I promise once. Twice. Thrice.” The shiver of winds whisper through the woods as Blessed Maia hears her oath. “Just give the baby time to grow and prosper, far away from these lands. Just let it have a chance. I will do anything to protect it. Anything.”
The hag looks down, though her brow softens as she looks upon that little face. “There are Shadows on its soul. It bears the taint of the Unseelie and worse, far worse.” Then she looks up. “Twenty years,” she says coldly. “I will protect this child and return it to you in twenty years. And you will owe me a boon of my choice.”
“I will owe you a boon,” she whispers, though she knows she risks everything in promising the Unseelie creature her soul—without limits.
But some prices are worth the cost.
“Then away with you. Before you are followed or found.” Old Mother Hibbert tucks the baby to her chest and turns to the sleigh.
Bright green eyes blink open as the baby stares over her shoulder, and the princess swallows. Hard.
Something flutters to the ground as Old Mother Hibbert leaps onto the sleigh and sets the baby among her furs. Grabbing the braided leather, she sneers at the princess before she slaps the reindeer’s rump with the reins.
And then the hag is gone, and the baby along with her in a jingle of bells and soft sobs.
And as the princess rushes to see what Old Mother Hibbert dropped, she can’t stop the tears streaming down her face.
It’s a little bootie.
And she can still feel the baby’s warmth as she curls the tiny knitted sock to her chest.
Chapter One
Iskvien
I wake with a gasp, still reaching for the child.
The image of it vanishes like the remnants of a tattered dream, my hand closing over nothing. My heart feels like it’s going to thunder through my ribs.
Sheets sigh, and then Thiago rolls toward me, sleep sloughing off him the second he catches a glimpse of my face. “What’s wrong, Vi?”