Blue moonlight filtered through leafy oaken limbs above a small, forest glade where the Veil thickened, where a cloaked woman walked alone, her thoughts weighed down with the irony of a decision.

She paced through damp autumn leaves, dew seeping through the soles of her doeskin boots, and brushed back the long, thick locks of her honeyed hair, looking to the sky. Through gaps where the trees had shed their fiery coiffure, the stars confirmed she had come to the correct place on the proper night, and the only task left to her was to wait—a skill she had never mastered.

She did not doubt the choice she had made, but pondered its cost. At best, her Queen would be furious. The woman's life, and the lives of those she loved, were forfeit if she could not protect them, and that is what brought her among the trees, to fall upon the mercy of a mortal enemy on the last night of harvest.

All began with a promise, but not to the Queen. She had been trusted by no virtue either possessed, but by a mutual lust for power and a selfish disdain for those that walked beneath them. She valued nothing beyond the perimeter of her own skin, or so they both believed, and for centuries it had been an reasonable substitute for trust.

Then she was sent to kill Cionaodh.

Cion, a mere mortal, had shown her that life, like love, was not a jewel to be hoarded, but a flowing river that grew as it united with others. It stung the remains of her pride that something so fleeting and fragile could bind her as utterly as she had once tethered her prey. The first and hardest thing she had sacrificed was her pride. It had not been burned away so much as starved into an impotent specter, protesting weakly from within. That pride lived on only as a memory of her past, of the person she could become again if she allowed it.

The fall was painful but not without grace, and it changed her less than she would have thought. Her dignity remained and would until the day they tore it from her—along with her beating heart—but she was not a goddess, as many had believed, as she had almost come to believe herself. She was a woman, and to her very great surprise, she discovered it was enough.

Clearly, she lacked the wisdom of a goddess, she reflected, having been drawn out of hiding because of a rumor without the least assurance she would meet the one she wished to see. The conditions were right, and now she walked only to pass the time with what hope she dared embrace.

Without warning, something vast crashed through the growth behind her, but she did not startle. Divine or not, she had power. Woman or not, she would not hesitate to wield its considerable might in her defense. The thing drew up short of trampling her, stamping its hooves into the cold ground as she turned slowly to greet it. Ivory and silver ornaments hung several feet above her head, suspended from the moss-covered antlers of an enormous, black elk. On its back rode a little girl.

"What is your purpose in my wood, devil?" came the voice of a child—no, not a child, a fully grown woman, though small, with brilliant, red hair, dressed in a short, white gown, and barefoot. Two hulking fomorians, which the people called firbolgs, lumbered forward on either side. They moved slowly, but were immensely strong and notoriously difficult to harm. From behind, a thuggish fachan stumped into the glade on unwieldy, ill-shaped limbs. Underestimating its speed or dexterity, or the alacrity of its single, glaring eye, would be a fatal mistake. A dozen more creatures stirred just out of sight, surrounding the humble clearing.

"I have come to see the Fool," announced the woman. If she felt any fear, it was masked behind a solemn, even haughty, nobility.

The girl cocked her head and starlight twinkled in her large, emerald eyes. "An assassin comes to this place, on this night? Are you here as a challenger for the title?" Hints of mocking laughter echoed from shadows between the trees. The woman ignored the insult and took a step forward. More crashing broke from the woods followed by heavy, padded footfalls, but this time, instinct told her to face it. A huge barghest—which some called a dire wolf and others a hellhound—bounded into the glade. It slid to a stop on fallen leaves as the little girl put up her hand.

"Wait, Galgo," she purred. "Let us hear what the Morrigan has to say. You may play with your meal once she has properly entertained the rest of us."

The woman turned again and spread her arms, palms forward, in a gesture of peace. "I am not here on behalf of the court. I seek asylum."

That brought a fit of quick laughter from the girl, a musical, playful sound. "I grant you a well-earned victory! You have sought and won the crown, O' Queen of Fools, and I am humbled before your most estimable majesty!" Then her eyes went wide and with a gasp, she leaned forward, palms flat against the broad back of the elk. "Does that now make me the supplicant? Oh, dear, this has become confusing." A chorus of muted cackles echoed from their audience.

The woman's patience neared its limit. "Do not trifle with me, forest child. Summon your master!"

The chorus of laughter died as the girl's taunt ended. Resting her elbows on the great beast, she tucked her chin into her hands and replied with a teasing smile, "I have no master."

A rare moment of confusion darkened the woman's features while she looked quickly around, seeking answers from the night. "You?"

The girl inclined her head almost imperceptibly in affirmation. "What brings you so recklessly to this of all places? I am curious to hear what method of insanity could court a demon to its death."

The pale woman scoffed. "I am no more a demon than you are a child. Your reputation suggests something . . . I would say, greater. If the Queen knew what you were, she would—"

"She would do little she has not already tried," the girl cut across her sharply. "I do not fear her. The true king may have died long ago, but I serve him still. What do you want, Left Hand?"

"I bear that title no longer. Mab seeks my head."

The news brought more laughter from the girl. "Oh, dear spirits, why do you torment me? Shall I mourn for you, slayer? May the Queen of Ice find your skull a suitable ornament for her mantle." When the woman failed to give a response, the girl spoke again. "Why do you come? Tell me truthfully."

"I have a son."

At her words, the wood fell into a grave silence. The girl's smile faded and she became suddenly, coldly sober. "You lie," she hissed.

"He is named Drustan ap Cionaodh. His father is a good, kind man, and both their lives are forfeit if they are discovered. Please, if you refuse help for my sake, then I ask for them."

"You come to me with a 'please'? What can you possibly need that I can provide?"

"Trickery and deceit. You have hidden many from the courts, but I have no talent for such subterfuge."

The little red-haired girl barked a humorless laugh but said nothing. They locked eyes, neither turning away though moments dragged on.

"How can I trust you?" the girl asked finally. It was not an unexpected question.

"I have nothing to say on my behalf that you will accept. I come begging for the life of a changeling boy and a human man. If that is not evidence of my motives . . ." The blond woman withdrew a bronze collar from her cloak and cast it to the ground between them where it caught and held celestial light. "Do you recognize it?"

The torc had been cast in a braid with two heads facing each other, one a wolf and the other a bear, bracing a knotwork seal between them. The girl stared at it suspiciously.

"How did you come by this?"

"It belongs to my husband, Cionaodh, son of Aodh, son of Amorgen. A bard."

"Not a bard only if that is his." She made a face. "I knew Aodh. The life of his son's son holds nearly as little value to me as your own."

"That is why my beloved sends this gift. He has renounced the grove and his father is slain. He would not have come by this if an elder yet lived."

"A druid does not leave the Brotherhood."

"A good man might."

The girl stared at the collar, considering her words before continuing. "I have heard rumors. Do you honestly intend to win my heart with a tale of patricide? It is common enough for men to kill for power."

The woman shook her head. "He is innocent of his family's blood, but they are dead by his betrayal. Merowech himself led the attack on the Grove."

The diminutive figure slid off the side of her beast, dropping a dozen feet to the ground. "A shallow distinction at best. You claim your man has betrayed the Brotherhood and you have betrayed the Court, and this trinket is your proof? Your bloody, burned, and mutilated corpses would be more convincing. And you say all of this is because of your son?"

"It began before. I was sent by the Queen to claim Cionaodh as answer for his crime in the name of the Grove."

"And retrieve their lore."

"Of course."

The girl seemed to struggle with her expression. "It clearly did not go as planned."

"It did not."

The little girl's eyes softened for a moment, belying her next words. "I should let you hang, Left Hand, for the pain you have caused."

"I would have earned it many times over, but as I told you, I have renounced those titles. I can defend my family, but not forever. They need succor, a place to hide until they are forgotten."

"Mab has a long memory."

"I am aware."

The girl scratched at her wild, red hair, staring into the trees for a long time before delivering an unforeseen reply. "I require payment."

"You what?"

"I will help, but you deserve no charity. What do you offer?"

The question stunned the woman. "You never—no one told—" She put a hand to her throat. "I lost all when I abandoned the court, what is left for me to give?"

The girl shrugged carelessly. "You hold the torc of a druid lord. What of the library? The Staff of Elders?"

The woman stiffened, her eyes wary. "I willfully surrender the torc as tribute. The rest remains with my husband."

"To what end?" The girl said, a hint of menace in her tone. "They would serve better in my possession than in human hands." The woman stood silent and unmoving, almost regal, as she took stock of the creatures slowly drawing near. She had been prepared for rejection, not negotiation.

"They are not mine to give. Choose another price."

"And what would you do with them?" asked the girl. "You alone have required little encouragement to slaughter thousands. How long before your man raises a hand against his people, or the queen, or my own wood?"

She did not move, but something shifted in the air and a deep growl from the barghest shook the branches overhead. He was powerful, but his size would not allow him to maneuver well among the trees. If the giants laid hands on the woman, she would be vulnerable. It would not change the outcome, but she could not afford an injury and had no wish to kill.

Whether by design or a savage lust for blood, the fachan rushed her, head low, attempting to force her within reach of the firbolgs' massive arms, but she did not retreat. Instead, she twisted to one side, as nimble as the wind, and caught him by his single wrist. The momentum wrenched the bone out of its socket, and he wailed in agony as she lifted him effortlessly with one delicate hand. In a brief moment of pride, she was once more the Morrigan, fierce, and immaculate.

With a shuddering breath, she quelled the desire to tear the fachan's limbs from its torso. Instead, she casually tossed him into the trunk of a stout alder tree where he crumpled, unconscious. He would live and his arm would heal with time and care, but he would not soon rise to fight again. The woman regarded the remaining host with eyes of frost and steel, gauging their willingness to take her attacker's place, then she faced the Fool again.

"I did not come for a fight, but I will not allow you to harm me or rob my husband of his birthright. You have my pledge that the relics of the Brotherhood will not again be used against you or those you harbor. I am not apologizing for my past, nor asking forgiveness. As for the price of your aid, I offer whatever service I can provide and what worldly wealth you require if it is in my power to obtain. If you will help, then help. If not, stand aside, or learn why the Queen chose me among all her people to enforce her commands."

The circle looked on as the Fool considered her words for several tense moments, glanced briefly at the body of the fachan, then finally nodded with no trace of anger or fear. "Very well. I will hide your son in the name of compassion, and your husband for his torc. From you I require..." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Two years."

"What?"

"You offered what service you can provide, and I am claiming it. Submit to serve under me for two years, during which you will not see your husband or your child. I will take them somewhere safe. If you convince me in that time that you are reformed, I will reveal their location and you may join them."

"I cannot leave—"

"You want them hidden," the girl interrupted, "and I will see to it that they remain so while you honor our bargain. That is my price. Accept it or leave this place. You will not receive a second offer."

The woman's face darkened, her mouth tight and eyes hard. The Fool only stared back, waiting.

"I accept your terms," the cloaked woman snarled, "but know that if my husband or my child are harmed while they are in your care—"

"You will kill me, naturally," the girl waved off her words and gave a quick, musical whistle. A short, wrinkled man appeared at her side, leering at the woman with cruel eyes. The Fool whispered something to him, and he cast one last grin over his shoulder before vanishing again into the shadows.

The woman's eyes narrowed with suppressed anger. "You put the safety of my family in the hands of this far dearig and dare to cast aspersions on me?"

"I trust Ragnall with my life. I would not trust you with breakfast." The girl looked back with an ironic smile that did not reach her eyes. "You have two years to change my mind."