Fairy Queens: Books 1-4 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Newsletter

  Of Ice and Snow

  Of Ice and Snow – MAP

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter One

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Two

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Three

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Four

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Five

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Six

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Seven

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Eight

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Nine

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Ten

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Eleven

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Twelve

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Thirteen

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Fourteen

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Fifteen

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Sixteen

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Seventeen

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Eighteen

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Nineteen

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Twenty

  Of Ice and Snow – Chapter Twenty-One

  Of Ice and Snow – Epilogue

  Winter Queen

  Winter Queen – MAP

  Winter Queen – Chapter One - Clan Mistress

  Winter Queen – Chapter Two - The Balance

  Winter Queen – Chapter Three - Blood and Ashes

  Winter Queen – Chapter Four - Winter Dance

  Winter Queen – Chapter Five - Marked

  Winter Queen – Chapter Six - Tiam

  Winter Queen – Chapter Seven - Apples

  Winter Queen – Chapter Eight - Strong as Stone

  Winter Queen – Chapter Nine - Supple as a Sapling

  Winter Queen – Chapter Ten - Summer Queen

  Winter Queen – Chapter Eleven - Healer

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twelve - Dark of Night

  Winter Queen – Chapter Thirteen - Falling

  Winter Queen – Chapter Fourteen - Truth

  Winter Queen – Chapter Fifteen - Raiders

  Winter Queen – Chapter Sixteen - Rye Whiskey

  Winter Queen – Chapter Seventeen - Regrets

  Winter Queen – Chapter Eighteen - New Life

  Winter Queen – Chapter Nineteen - The Link

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twenty - The Council

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twenty-One - To the Death

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twenty-Two - A Promise

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twenty-Three - The Balance

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twenty-Four - Summer’s Gift

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twenty-Five - Winter’s Kiss

  Winter Queen – Chapter Twenty-Six - Aurora

  Of Fire and Ash

  Of Fire and Ash – MAP

  Of Fire and Ash – Chapter One

  Of Fire and Ash – Chapter Two

  Of Fire and Ash – Chapter Three

  Of Fire and Ash – Chapter Four

  Of Fire and Ash – Chapter Five

  Of Fire and Ash – Chapter Six

  Summer Queen

  Summer Queen – MAP

  Summer Queen – Chapter One

  Summer Queen – Chapter Two

  Summer Queen – Chapter Three

  Summer Queen – Chapter Four

  Summer Queen – Chapter Five

  Summer Queen – Chapter Six

  Summer Queen – Chapter Seven

  Summer Queen – Chapter Eight

  Summer Queen – Chapter Nine

  Summer Queen – Chapter Ten

  Summer Queen – Chapter Eleven

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twelve

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirteen

  Summer Queen – Chapter Fourteen

  Summer Queen – Chapter Fifteen

  Summer Queen – Chapter Sixteen

  Summer Queen – Chapter Seventeen

  Summer Queen – Chapter Eighteen

  Summer Queen – Chapter Nineteen

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-One

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Two

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Three

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Four

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Five

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Six

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Summer Queen – Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-One

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Two

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Three

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Four

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Five

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Six

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Summer Queen – Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Summer Queen – Chapter Forty

  Summer Queen – Chapter Forty-One

  Summer Queen – Chapter Forty-Two

  Summer Queen – Chapter Forty-Three

  Summer Queen – Chapter Forty-Four

  Summer Queen – Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Pushing aside the thick brush, Otec eased into the shadows of the ancient forest. Branches scratched at him like a witch’s fingernails. He tried to ignore the itch that always started under his skin when he found himself in a space that was too tight. Soon, midday had darkened to twilight under the impenetrable fortress of leaves.

  “Where’s the lamb, Freckles?” Otec asked his dog. “Go get her, girl.”

  Freckles perked her ears and sniffed the air. They hadn’t gone more than a half dozen steps before she stiffened suddenly and burst forward, right on the heels of a squealing gray rabbit.

  Otec shouted at her, calling her back. But Freckles was already out of sight. Even his own dog wouldn’t listen to him. Grumbling under his breath, Otec continued following the spoor his sheep had left earlier that day.

  Finally, he spotted an out-of-place patch of white under some brush. He knelt down and parted the angry thorns, then took hold of the lamb’s neck with his shepherd’s crook. She bleated pitifully and struggled weakly to get away. Her face felt feverish under Otec’s palm as he held her still. “Easy now, little one.”

  He gently took hold of the animal’s front and back legs and hoisted her over his shoulders, her wool coarse against his always-sunburned neck. And though she wasn’t that heavy, the burden weighed down Otec’s shoulders.

  Heading back the way he’d come, Otec didn’t bother to call for Freckles—she’d get bored or hungry and come along eventually. Just when he could see the way out of the forest, something warm and runny slid down the left side of his chest. He glanced down to see himself covered in sheep diarrhea.

  Otec swore—he was wearing the only shirt he owned, so it wasn’t like he could change. He set the lamb down and jerked his shirt off, careful not to smear any of the excrement on his face. Then he tossed the shirt into a bush. The thing was worn so thin it was nearly useless. Besides, after he spent an entire summer in the mountains, his mother always made him a new shirt.

  The shadowy breeze crawled across his skin. Shivering, he took hold of his shepherd’s crook and was about to pick up the lamb again when something out of place caught his eye—a splash of red in a square of sunlight. It was far enough away he could cover it with an outstretched hand.

  Squinting through the tangled limbs all around him, Otec automatically quieted his steps and moved at an angle toward the strange shape and color, hoping the lamb he had left b
ehind would remain quiet. As he came closer, the color shifted and he could make out a pair of bent legs clad in black trousers with a bright-red tunic. Strange clothing.

  Otec pushed aside some brush and saw a figure bent over something. Even at fifteen strides away, he could see that the face was fine featured with deeply tanned skin, enormous brown eyes, and thick black hair.

  He knew two things at once. First, this wasn’t a man as he’d first suspected—but a woman wearing men’s clothing and sporting hair so short it barely touched her ears. And second, she was a foreigner. What was a foreigner doing on the edge of the Shyle forest?

  She was close to Otec’s own age of twenty, and she was almost pretty, in a boyish sort of way. But what intrigued him most was how engrossed she was in what she was doing, the tip of her pink tongue rubbing against her bottom lip, and her brows furrowed in concentration.

  That concentration stirred something inside him, an uncanny sense of familiarity. Something about the forward bend of her head, the intensity of her gaze, sparked a deep recognition. He shouldn’t be watching her—should be moving the sick lamb to the village, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes away. Eager to see what she was doing, Otec moved as close as he dared, coming to the edge of the shadows and peering at her from behind a tree.

  A sheet of vellum was tacked to a board on her lap. Her hands were delicate, beautiful even, as her fingers worked a bit of charcoal in what seemed a choreographed variation of long and short strokes. Bit by bit, the drawing began to take shape. It was of Otec’s village, which was spread out below them. Surrounded by the crimson and gold of autumn, Shyleholm was nestled deep in the high mountain valley. This foreign woman had somehow managed to capture the feel of the centuries-old stones, cut from the mountains by glaciers, rounded and polished for decades before they were pulled from the rivers by Otec’s ancestors.

  She had depicted the neat, tidy fields of hay set up against the harsh winters, even managing to give a hint of the surrounding steep mountains and hills. But what she hadn’t captured was the chaos of wagons and tents set up on the far side of the village. They were a little late for the autumn clan feast, but Otec couldn’t imagine any other reason for them to be there.

  After his five months of solitary life in the mountains, the mere thought of the mass of people set Otec’s teeth on edge. Already he could hear the incessant noise of the crowd, feel the eyes of hundreds of other clanmen who, when they found out he was the clan chief’s son, expected him to be the leader his oldest brother was. The warrior his second brother was. Or the trickster who was his third brother.

  They learned soon enough not to expect anything at all. When Otec wasn’t in the mountains, he was carving useless trinkets or playing with the little children who didn’t know he was supposed to be more. To them, he was simply the man who brought them toys and tickled and chased them when no one was looking. And that was enough.

  The woman’s darkened hands paused. She set aside her drawing and twisted the charcoal between her fingers. Wondering why she had stopped, Otec looked past her and saw another foreigner with the same strange clothes and dark features climbing the steep hill toward her.

  Just as the man crossed under a lone tree, an owl stretched out its great white wings. It was easily as long as Otec’s arm. He’d never seen its like before, white with black striations. And stranger still, it seemed to be watching the girl.

  Still in the shadows, the man spoke to the girl drenched in light. “Matka, what are you doing out here?” He had a strong accent, his words flat and blunt instead of the rolling cadence of native Clannish.

  Matka didn’t look up at the man, but Otec noticed her shoulders suddenly go stiff. “I can’t—can’t be around them, Jore.” Her accent was milder.

  Jore rubbed at his beard, which clung to his face like mold to bread. “You have to. For both our sakes.”

  The charcoal shattered under Matka’s grip. She stared at the destruction, surprise plain on her face. “This is wrong, Jore. I can’t be a part of it.”

  “It’s too late, and we both know it.” His voice had hardened—he sounded brittle, as if the merest provocation could break him.

  She tossed the bits of charcoal and rose to her feet, her gaze defiant. “No. I won’t—”

  Jore took a final step from the shadows, his hand flashing out to strike Matka’s cheek so fast Otec almost didn’t believe it had happened. But it had, because she held her hand to her face, glaring fiercely at Jore.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but Jore took hold of her arm. “I’m your brother—I’m trying to protect you.”

  All at once Otec’s sluggish anger came awake like a bear startled out of a too-long hibernation. He forgot he’d been eavesdropping. Forgot these were foreigners. Forgot everything except that this man had hit her—a woman, his sister.

  Otec burst into the brightness. The man saw him first, his eyes widening. Matka was already turning, her hand going to something at her side.

  A mere three strides away, Otec called, “How dare—” He came up short. Jore had drawn shining twin blades, and the ease with which he held them made it clear he knew how to use them.

  “Who are you, clanman? What business do you have with us?”

  “You hit her!” Otec’s voice rumbled from a primal anger deep inside his chest. His hands ached to strike Jore. Ached to wrestle him to the ground. But Otec held no weapon save a weathered shepherd’s crook—he’d left his bow tied to Thistle’s packsaddles when he’d gone in search of the lamb.

  Jore surveyed Otec, his gaze pausing on his bare chest. Otec had forgotten he’d thrown his shirt away, too. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.” Jore said.

  Otec raised himself to his full height, a good head and a half taller than this foreigner. “I am Otec, son of Hargar, clan chief of the Shyle.”

  Jore stepped back into the shadows, his swords lowering to his sides. “You do not know our customs, clanman. I am well within my rights to discipline my younger sister.”

  “It is you who do not know our customs,” Otec said, barely restraining himself from charging again.

  Jore jutted his chin toward Matka. “Come on. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

  For the first time, Otec met her gaze. He saw no fear, only sorrow and pity. He wondered what reason she would have to pity him.

  She turned away and followed after her brother without looking back. Feeling a gaze on him, Otec glanced up to find the strange white owl watching him with eerie yellow eyes. The bird stretched its great white wings and soared off after Matka.

  The strange trio was halfway across the meadow when Freckles came panting up to Otec’s side. She plopped on the cool grass, her tongue hanging out. “Didn’t catch that blasted rabbit, eh?” Otec said to her, anger still burning in the muscles of his arms.

  It was then that he noticed Matka had forgotten her drawing. He picked it up. He’d never seen anything so fine, since clanmen didn’t waste valuable resources on something as extravagant as art.

  Otec traced the lines without actually touching them. With a few strokes of charcoal, Matka had managed to capture his village—to freeze it in time. Simply by looking at her drawing, he felt he knew her. She saw details other people glossed over. She felt emotions deeply. And she saw his village as he saw it.

  Otec remembered the lamb with a start and hurried back to the forest. After settling her back over his shoulders, he called out commands to Freckles, who circled the scattered sheep, gathering them together. Otec fetched his donkey, Thistle, from where he’d tied her to the trunk of a dead tree. He led her toward the paddock to the west of the clan house, where he lived with his parents, his five sisters and eight brothers, and three dozen members of their extended family.

  At the thought of them all crammed into one house for another never-ending winter filled with wrestling and lessons with axes and shields, Otec had a sudden urge to command his dog to drive the sheep back into the wilderness, to live
out the winter in his mountain shack or under the starry sky. But of course that was impossible. The hay would already be laid up for the coming winter. And his mother would never allow it, even if he was nearly twenty-one.

  As he unlatched the gate, Otec expected someone from the house to come out and greet him, or at least for his younger cousins and siblings to help bring the sheep in. The boys and girls were always eager for the toys he carved over the summer. But no one came, so he herded the flock into the paddock by himself and tied his donkey in one of the stalls.

  He went to the kitchen door, rested one hand on each side of the frame, and called inside. A thin whimpering answered from upstairs, something not unusual in a house bursting with children. Grumbling, Otec tied up his dog outside the door—dogs were strictly forbidden inside, except for after mealtime when the floor needed to be licked of crumbs and spills.

  Following the sound, Otec walked through the kitchen and the great hall, then climbed the ladder to the upper level. The sound was growing louder—someone crying. He finally pushed the door open to the room his five sisters shared. Sixteen-year-old Holla was huddled on one of the two beds, her wild blond hair a matted mess. She was his favorite, if for no better reason than because she talked so much he never had to. But also because she was the kindest, most gentle person he’d ever met.

  At the sight of Otec, she pushed to her feet and ran to him, then threw herself in his arms. He grunted and stumbled back, for Holla was not a waifish girl. She sobbed into his bare shoulder—luckily the side that hadn’t been covered in diarrhea.

  He rubbed her back. “What is it, little Holla?”

  “I’m not little!” she said indignantly. Some people found her hard to understand, for she often slurred her words. Before he could apologize, she lifted her tear-stained eyes with the turned-up corners and the white stars near her irises. He always thought she had the prettiest eyes. “I can’t tell.”

  Otec guided her onto one of the two beds and held her hand. “Remember what Mama always says—‘Never keep a secret that hurts.’”

  Hiccupping, Holla nodded solemnly. “I can tell you. You never talk to anyone.”

  He winced. Not seeming to notice, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I was waiting for Matka to come back—she always has pretty drawings. But Jore told me to get away.” Tears spilled from Holla’s eyes again. “I froze and he called me an idiot, and . . .” She paused, her sobs coming back. “He pushed me and I fell.”