* * *
The legend’s told
by men today,
since the days of old
of the one they say
was a queen born poor,
one Meghan O’Bries
On the windswept moor
where the blackbird cries
* * *
I
The plains were eerily silent as Meghan rode, black clumps of soil spraying out behind as her horse sped along the overgrown road. Pale, colorless skies stretched overhead, casting a sickly light on the path, but dark, brumous clouds gathered on the horizon. That did not bode well. She needed clear weather for her journey tonight.
Slowing her mount to a canter as she crested a hilltop, Meghan scanned the open fields, searching for signs of danger. She had seen no evidence of soldiers so far, which was surprising, considering her mission. Dairn MacGabhann, leader of the Free Folk, had sent her to negotiate an alliance with her mother’s people, the Sceabhan Clan. Heich, their chieftain, was her cousin several times removed, and Dairn hoped Meghan’s connection might sway the Sceabhan in the Free Folk’s favor.
If she was successful, the alliance could guarantee the Free Folk’s victory over the Nornish invaders. Then Dairn could claim his birthright as high king over the Free Folk, and the land of Ern would be restored at last.
With such high stakes, it was a wonder she’d not encountered more difficulty. True, she’d been forced to leave behind her escort in the last village to dispatch with the local guardsmen—but they would soon meet her at the rendezvous point, a shabby hut which she could already see just down the hill.
The lack of resistance bothered her. It wasn’t right—however preoccupied the Norn may be with the Free Folk, surely they must have had word of her mission. Surely, they would have sent men after her to stop the meeting from happening…
Yet apart from the guardsmen stationed in the village, she had seen no soldiers.
None.
Except… there was the black rider.
Thinking of him woke a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Meghan tightened her fist and furrowed her brow, remembering when she had first seen him, silhouetted against a glowing sunset astride a tall black horse, seeming both noble as a king and ominous as a crow. She could not see his face; only the black shadow of his being, framed with the light of the setting sun.
Again, she had seen him, but a few miles later, and that time she’d notified her escort. But before any one of them had turned their eyes to the hilltop, he vanished. Meghan could not shake the feeling that he was watching her, and her alone. The thought both unsettled… and intrigued her.
Since then, she had not seen him. Even now her eyes swept over every inch of the spreading plains in search of him, but in the whispering quiet of the windblown hills, there was nothing.
Relaxing her fist, Meghan sighed and took a sip from her water-skin. With one last glance at her surroundings, she urged the horse forward again, trotting the rest of the way to the little hut which would serve as her shelter for the night.
II
Meghan’s legs ached as she dismounted, but she put aside her discomfort until she had given the gelding a proper rub down. She sighed deeply as she entered the hut. Now that she was sheltered at last, she could feel her exhaustion setting in.
With relief, she shed her coat and bent to coax a fire to life on the hearth, eager to be warm for the first time since leaving Dairn’s side three days ago. She would wait here until her men joined her and, in the morning, they would continue to the High Hills where Heich awaited her.
But first, fire. Then rest.
Swallowing, Meghan smacked her lips, trying to ease the dryness in her mouth, and took another swig of water. Now that she had time to think, she didn’t feel well at all. Her head and muscles ached, her lips were raw, and now her mouth was dry. She couldn’t afford to be sick now—not when so much depended on this meeting!
There. A small flame licked around the twigs and grew larger. She watched until the fire gained its strength. When she stood her head spun, and a terribly thirst drove her to her waterskin once more.
Her head continued to throb and spin as she seated herself at the table, and her eyes drooped heavily. Sleep tugged at the corners of her mind, and she did not resist. Too weary to even move to the cot, she put her cheek in the crook of her arms and lay draped across the table.
Then something flickered inside of her, a warning, as if there were something she’d forgotten. She forced her eyes open for one moment, peering through the window—and there, on the hilltop, was the black rider.
Starting, Meghan bolted into wakefulness. She stood swiftly, shoving the chair aside and rushed to the window. He was gone! Again, she had missed him. Cursing in disbelief, she turned to the door and thrust it wide, casting her gaze over the plains, searching. She had a mind to rush out to the gelding to hunt for the mysterious stranger and demand to know his purpose. Yet even as she considered it, something held her back. That strange warning pulsed in her mind, and she retreated into the shelter of the hut.
For long moments, she scanned the horizon, but seeing nothing, she closed the door and turned away…
… and froze.
The rider was there on the cot, looking up at her eyes so dark they seemed to swallow her whole.
“Meghan O’Bries,” he said softly, his voice smooth and level.
Meghan gaped.
III
The stranger sat with one ankle propped over his knee, looking quite at ease. He was long-limbed and pale, with a slender build and strong, square shoulders. His black hair was swept back and tied at the nape of his neck, contrasting sharply against his clear, narrow face. Clad entirely in black but for the silver embroidery that embellished his cloak and belt, he made quite an imposing figure, despite his casual position.
“Who are you?” Meghan asked, taking a step forward.
The man didn’t move, but regarded her with a calm yet peculiar expression, almost unreadable. Meghan thought for a moment he seemed amused, yet there was also a hint of melancholy… and something else flashed deep within his eyes… something utterly foreign.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “You are Meghan O’Bries, are you not?”
Meghan didn’t answer, too unsettled by his inexplicable presence.
The man looked her over and answered himself. “Yes… yes you are.” His voice seemed to hold a note of approval.
Frowning, Meghan’s eyes darted to where she’d hung her coat. There was a dagger in the breast pocket, and she’d been a fool not to keep it.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said the rider, raising an eyebrow.
Meghan sucked in a breath and clenched her fists, her shock finally giving way to welcome anger. “Who are you?” She demanded. “Why have you come here? And why have you been shadowing me these few days?”
The man rose and moved forward, gliding smoothly past Meghan as she shrank backward. When he turned to meet her eyes she realized suddenly how very tall he was.
“I am here because I have business with you, and I have watched you for the same reason.” He cocked his head, watching her carefully. “As for who I am, that I think you can guess.”
Meghan shook her head in confusion. “Do you mean to say I know you?
“In a way.” The man moved again, leaning his shoulder against the wall. From a pocket in his cloak, he pulled out a worn booklet and flipped it open, scanning the pages with a cool gaze.
“Yes,” he murmured, “you know me better than you think. Meghan O’Bries, five-and-twenty years of age. Born in the year 1530, to Lachan and Raeda O’Bries. Your father died in a skirmish with the Norn when you were but ten years.”
Meghan glanced at the booklet and frowned, nodding. “Y-yes.”
“During your fifteenth year you also witnessed the Fainhearn Massacre, in which you lost your mother, and you were taken as a ward by your father’s younger half-brother, the blacksmith Finn MacGabhann- correct?”
Meghan nodded again, more baffled than ever. The rider met her eyes for a moment before turning back to his booklet.
“And it was under MacGabhann’s care that you met his son Dairn, who promised to protect you with his life—Which was well, since Finn MacGabhann passed away less than two years later of an illness in the lungs.”
Meghan swallowed.
The rider continued, his voice dispassionate, and yet somehow not unkind. “On his deathbed, MacGabhann revealed that he was descended of the Old Kings, and he named Dairn his heir, the rightful king of Ern.”
Meghan blinked slowly and looked away, her upper lip curling. “Anyone could know this. You had only to question those who knew Finn or my parents.”
The man smirked and shook his head, turning the page of his booklet. “I’m not finished. In his dying moments MacGabhann also revealed that since your father, Lachan, was his elder brother, you yourself have a higher claim to the throne.”
The man folded his booklet and replaced it in the depths of his cloak. “As he closed his eyes in death, you and Dairn swore a vow in blood that there would never be any rivalry between you. You promised as one to vanquish the Norn and restore freedom to Ern, or to die in the attempt. Thus, eight years and six months ago, your fate was sealed.”
A chill passed through Meghan’s chest. Knowledge of her royal blood died with Finn, and no one knew the vow she had taken with Dairn. Dairn thought it too dangerous for anyone to know who she really was. They had never spoken of it since that day. She remembered when the two of them had set out to face the Norn on their own, fully prepared to die a glorious death—but then the first of the Old Clans sought them out, and hope ignited in her heart like spark on a bed of dry leaves. That hope had now become a roaring fire amongst the united clans, who dared for the first time in generations to call themselves the Free Folk. Not one of them knew how ready she and Dairn and been to die just months before…
Except this man.
“How can you know these things?” Meghan breathed.
The rider looked at her, his face twisted with what almost seemed like a challenge. “I know because I was there.” He moved toward her slowly, seeming taller by the step. “Your parents’ demise, the massacre, Finn’s passing, the vow… What common thread unites these memories? Surely you can guess my name.”
“The Norn,” Meghan began, a hard edge entering her voice. “Are you—”
“No.” The rider reached out and grasped her shoulders, and Meghan found herself drawn into his eyes, so dark and deep they seemed like endless chasms.
“Death.”
Meghan cringed, and withdrew from his grasp with a violent flinch. “Death? B-but that means you-you’re here for—”
“Yes.”
Her lips curled in a sneer. “I don’t believe you. Whoever you are, you’ve been sent by my enemies—”
“That’s true, in a sense,” he conceded, cocking his head in thought.
Meghan seized her chance and ducked past him, rushing for the door. She had almost reached the handle when his hand appeared there, blocking it. He looked down at her, tsking ruefully.
“You cannot run, Meghan,” he said.
Meghan turned and made for the window, but no sooner had she turned than he was there, crouching on the sill, looking almost amused.
“You cannot flee! I’m sorry, but your time has come.”
Meghan’s heart pounded and she could feel her limbs trembling. Death stepped down from the window and approached her, pity crossing his face again.
“Come, Meghan. You’ve had a difficult life, but you’ve fought hard. It’s time to rest now.”
“But….” Meghan shook her head, unable to reconcile what her eyes saw with what her mind screamed. “I-I-I’m not done! I’m still here! I’m alive and well…”
Death shook his head. “No, you aren’t. At this very moment, you’re dying.”
He touched her shoulder and gently gestured toward the hearth. Slowly, Meghan turned, dread filling her every breath.
The fire burned low, and in the flickering light, she saw herself sprawled on the floor, pale-faced and glassy-eyed, body wracked with weak convulsions. Meghan clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. She stumbled to the window, unable to face what she had seen. Panicked tears burned at the back of her eyes.
“Poison,” Death stated matter-of-factly. “They put it in your water-skin. The Nornish spies, that is. Not so much that you or anyone else would notice right away, but after drinking enough… well, you see the results.”
Meghan’s mind reeled. Poisoned… after all the times she had escaped disaster, poison would have her at last. After all of her work to reclaim the land she loved, this was how it ended?
“Are you… do you always appear this way?” she asked, her voice quavering. She hardly knew why she asked, but she needed something to distract herself. She kept envisioning the body, twitching on the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Most die too quickly or suddenly to see me coming,” he answered. “Others feel me like a deep foreboding, and some see me as a shadow, or even a great black dog. It’s the slow ones who see anything at all; the ones who need convincing.”
“Convincing…” Meghan repeated. Bristling, she crosse her arms tightly and glared into the distance, refusing to meet Death’s eyes. “Well, I am not convinced. You’ve taken enough lives in this country, leave me be!”
“I do not dictate who goes or when,” Death stated flatly, a hint of annoyance entering his tone. “I merely uphold the law of life.”
“It’s too soon!” Meghan insisted, screwing up her courage. “I-I’m not finished! I have things to do.”
She moved back from the window and paced the hut, running her hands through her hair restlessly. Death looked at her askance, leaning against the fireplace with one leg propped beneath him.
“I have to meet with Heich and my kinsmen, Sceabhan. If I don’t, Dairn’s forces will surely fall in the next battle.” Swallowing, Meghan looked up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to understand. She gathered nothing from his cold expression.
“Our people have found hope under Dairn’s leadership, but with winter coming on, their strength will flag. We will be struck down, and all hope of reclaiming our land will fade into legend.”
Meghan looked down and covered her burning eyes, ashamed of the emotions she could not control. What a fool she was, pleading with Death himself like a common coward, afraid to leave behind a life she had never known she loved until now. With chilling clarity, she realized it was useless; yet if she was to die, she would do so with honor. Drying her tears, she looked up, stone faced and resolute. But as soon as she opened her eyes, she startled, for Death stood before her, so close that the tips of his boots touched her own.
“It is not for humankind to divine the future,” Death remarked thoughtfully, “but for your sake, in your dying moments, I may offer a gift.”
IV
Taking hold of her shoulders, Death turned her so that her back was braced against his chest and directed her gaze out the window. “Attend carefully.”
Meghan looked to the horizon, where the hills seemed to roll on forever, until they met the dim glow of the sky. Presently, that sky shifted, and twisting in her vision, merging with the ground and drawing her in, until the hut and the wooden panes of the window blurred and dissipated. Meghan gasped and felt her stomach drop as her surroundings melted into vague, dancing colors that swished by like branches in a forest. She felt Death’s grip tighten, and found a strange assurance in that firm hold. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him behind her, knowing that they still stood together in the hut, safe and on solid ground.
“Open your eyes, Meghan! Don’t be afraid.”
Steeling herself, Meghan cracked her eyes open and took stock of her surroundings. To her surprise, the world had fallen back into place—but it was not the hut where they stood, but rather the ridge that overlooked the village of Fainhearn, where Dairn and the rest of the Free Folk were preparing for battle.
She watched him move through the tents of the warriors they had gathered, talking with the generals at his side, patting the shoulders of the men he passed. Meghan smiled, comforted by the sight. If only she could see his face…
As if sensing her wish, he paused and turned, gazing toward the heavens for a moment in consternation. Meghan drew in her breath, at the change in his countenance. His whole body was marked with grief—fresh and tender, as if he mourned the loss of a dear friend. And yet, despite that, there was a calm resolve set deeply in his features which left Meghan in no doubt that he was bound for victory.
“It is for you he mourns,” Death spoke, his smooth voice slipping into the silence without causing so much as a ripple.
“Me?”
“What you see is the future.”
Meghan balked, speechless.
Death squeezed her shoulders. “When you fail to arrive at the meeting place, your cousin Heich will search for you. Upon finding your body, he and his people will be moved to join the clans for your sake.”
The scenery shifted again, whirling into a battlefield, where the sounds of clanging swords and men locked in mortal combat rang out into the cold air. Meghan cast her eyes about for Dairn, and found him at last, in the center of the fray, wielding his broadsword masterfully. He was blood-spattered and damp with exertion, but he showed no since of fatigue. His face was twisted with fierce determination, and in the falling snow he looked every inch a king.
Death continued, still speaking softly, but somehow able to be heard over the noise. “Together, your forces will defeat the Norn and drive them back to their own land.”
The battlefield fell away, and the land beneath them sped away until Meghan saw Castle Cullorney rising tall and strong from the rocky fells. They seemed to be soaring down toward it through the sky, and as they grew closer Meghan heard the sound of a multitude’s triumphant cheers.
She peered closer as she and Death came to rest on the battlements. A great crowd was gathered in the courtyard below. Humbly, Dairn ascended the steps of the dais and knelt with his head bowed low, dark hair shining in the morning sun, accepting the crown offered to him by the chieftains of the Old Clans.
The crown roared and raised their fists in salute as he stood, and the sound of it brought tears to Meghan’s eyes. Slowly, Dairn turned to address his people, his face fixed in a bittersweet expression. “People of Ern…” he began, “my beloved kinsmen. My heart is warmed by your courage and loyalty. Indeed, you put me to shame, for you have continued when I would have quailed.” He swallowed, faltering.
“My friends,” he continued in a raw voice, “though I accept your call to rule, there was another who I would present in my stead. My cousin and friend, Meghan O’Bries, whose noble blood shone brighter than my own, gave her life for this cause. She will shape my deeds forevermore.”
Again, the people cheered, yet though this cry was raw and laden with grief, it seemed to Meghan all the more beautiful.
“He acknowledged me,” she whispered. “He told them of my birthright, and my involvement. I never asked for it, and yet he has given me a place of honor.”
She closed her eyes, and she felt Death release her arms slowly. When she raised her head and looked at him again, they were once more standing in the dark hut. The embers of the fire flickered dimly in the corner, so low now that the room was shrouded with shadow. Yet somehow, she saw Death’s face clearly. She found she could bear that quiet gaze at last.
V
“Thank you,” said Meghan softly.
Death gave a slight bow. “It is a privilege I can seldom give. For my part, I was glad to show it to you.”
Then, as if he sensed something she could not see, he shifted and glanced out the window. “Are you ready?”
Meghan looked down with a sigh. “I think so.”
To her annoyance, new tears pricked at her eyes. Before she had a chance to quell them, a hand cupped her chin.
Death looked down at her and brushed the tears away. “What is it, child?”
She chuckled irrationally. “Nothing! It’s just…”
Death looked at her expectantly.
“I never fell in love.” Meghan whispered. After seeing all of her wishes realized, how she could still desire more? Was she selfish to feel so unfulfilled? “I had always dreamed…. that after the war, if we won, I might live long enough for someone to see me, truly see me, and want…”
She trailed off, ashamed. But to her surprise, Death smiled for the first time. It was warm and compassionate, without a trace of mockery or amusement, carrying an unexpected trace of sorrow which made Meghan’s heart swell.
“I see all that,” he whispered. His thumb moved gently across her cheek, slipping down beneath her jaw and tilting her chin up.
Her breath hitched, her stomach fluttered, yet she did not pull away.
Slowly, he bent and kissed her cheek. His lips were soft, and warm, and felt impossibly human.
When it was over, Death pulled back and met her gaze. “Do not be ashamed of your wistful heart, Meghan. It is natural for you to hunger for life—for despite you the hardships, you have loved it, and you have lived it well. Because of that, you can now leave in peace. Trust me, you were and are loved… dearly so.”
Meghan held her breath, warmth tinging her cheeks.
Releasing her, Death stood in the doorway and held out his hand. “Come with me, Meghan. It’s time.”
Meghan dried her tears and smiled. She knew, after all, that it was time to leave. She had no regrets. With one last breath, she reached out and took hold of his hand. As his fingers closed around hers, Meghan closed her eyes and thought back to all she had seen, all she had done. It was true—despite her trials and sorrows, there had also been joy, and triumph, and above all, love. The love of her parents, the love of her guardian Finn, and of her cousins, Heich and Dairn. And someday, she now knew, the love of her people as well. He restless heart settled its wings, and a sense of peace came over her.
“Are you ready, Meghan?” she heard Death’s voice ask again.
This time the tears that flowed held no sadness or shame, only relief. She squeezed his hand.
“Yes.”
They stepped through the door.
* * *
In the winter’s cold
there blew a horn
when Free Folk of old
overthrew the Norn
In triumph Dairn
as king did rise
and the land of Ern
loved Meghan O’Bries
* * *
Glorious Stories 