Rune 1149

Formless shadows, stealing through the dark. A scream, a shout, a child’s shrill wail. Alanna of Rune bolted up in her bed, turning instinctively to look for the slumbering form of her russet-haired son.

Like the night before, he was not there.

The small sleeping pallet was heartbreakingly tidy, undisturbed by a small boy’s restless slumber. Caradoc had not slept in his bed, not since he’d been taken two nights ago. Again she saw the dark shapes, felt the impossible power of the magic that had kept her frozen, horrifyingly unable to move while Gorsedd stole her son.

She uttered a low, keening, cry. Her child was gone. And if Gorsedd truly believed Caradoc to be the changeling child of prophecy, he would never be returned.

As a Fae princess and Caradoc’s mother, Alanna knew better. One night of violence had given her Caradoc. She wanted only to find her son and bring him home. That she had not enough magic to do so tore at her.

Once, like all of her kind, she had glowed bright with power. But the magic had been waning for a long time. Now, with the remnants of her power clinging to her like a tattered cloak, she could not even determine where Gorsedd had taken her boy.

Her beloved son. Caradoc.

Unable to sleep, Alanna began to pace.

“They will not harm him.”

Alanna spun. “Wynne.” Alone of all the Fae in Rune, the Oracle’s remaining magic still leant her that soft glow. Her silver hair, so gray it appeared the startling white of moonlit snow, matched the shimmer of her flowing gown.

“Aye.” The older woman’s lined face looked serene, the opposite of Alanna’s churning emotions. “I have spent the night trying to find out where Caradoc has been taken.”

“What did you-- Were you able--?”

“No.” The single word hovered in the air. “Neither mirror nor water would ripple for me. Like everyone else, my own magic has finally begun to fade.”

“I must find out where they took him.” Jaw aching, Alanna forced herself to unclench her teeth. She lifted her head and met the wise one’s gaze.

“They will not harm him,” Wynne repeated. “They believe him to be the child of prophecy, of power. They believe him to be son of the mortal Darrick of Thorncliff.”

“But he is not.” The words burst from her, pent up frustration and worry and rage making her voice as sharp as the ceremonial blade that had long hung above the throne.

“Are you certain?”

“You have seen him.” Bitterness made her throat ache. “Caradoc is not Darrick’s son.”

The old woman’s gaze was sharp. “Is it possible you are wrong?”

“I have wished to be wrong more than you know. We shared one night of love, Darrick and I, a fortnight before I was attacked. I prayed that it might be so. I didn’t know for certain until Caradoc was born. His coppery hair bespoke his parentage without a doubt.”

“And our magic has continued to wane.” Though no hint of accusation sounded in the Oracle’s calm tone, Alanna felt the jagged edge of it prick her skin.

“I’ve failed our people.” Anger made a sour knot in her belly. “Worse, I have failed my son.”

“They do not know… Then tell them. Tell the world. Name the one who sired Caradoc.”

Name him. Alanna opened her mouth, then closed it. She swayed as memories of that awful night flooded her. She’d been caught unprepared, for even then her magic had been weak.

She’d strolled in the forest dreaming of her upcoming nuptials. He’d been waiting for her, grabbing her when she’d walked past his hiding place. He’d tied her hands so tightly her wrists had bled. He’d muffled her screams with a wet cloth stuffed in her mouth. Then he’d taken her from behind, savagely, laughing as he brutally raped her.

She never wanted to speak his name out loud. To do so reminded her of what had been, until now, the worst night of her life.

But losing her son was far worse. She’d thought she knew then what it was to feel utterly powerless, at the dark mercy of another. But she’d been wrong. The horror of that night was nothing compared to this, the awful terror of not being able to find Caradoc.

“Morfran Mortimer,” she said, her voice brittle enough to cut through stone. “His hair is the color of flame. He is Caradoc’s sire. The one who raped me has long been enemy to Darrick and his family.”

“As he is still,” intoned the wise woman of Rune, anger coloring her unwavering tone. “When last I was able to see, I learned that much has changed in the human world since you left it. Gone to war and returned, Darrick is now fatherless, thanks to that one’s hand.”

Alanna thought her heart would stop. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to know. “Morfran has slain Oren Tadhg?”

“Aye. And even now, your betrothed attempts to defend Thorncliff against Morfran’s army.”

“He is not--” Alanna froze as Wynne’s words registered. “Why would Darrick need to defend that which is his by right of birth?”

Wynne shook her head, her closed expression one of dismissal. “You must go to him. Darrick of Thorncliff is the only one who can help you regain your son.”

“Help me? Why would he help me? Darrick knows naught of the boy’s existence, nor the reason why I broke our betrothal. He will hate me now.”

“`Tis of no consequence. You can help each other. Darrick is the one you must seek. Tell him the truth. This much I have seen.” Wynne pointed at Alanna’s heart. “If you wish Caradoc returned, you must go now to Thorncliff and ask Darrick’s help.”