Hearts of Clay and Tempest, page 1
Nymeria Publishing, LLC
First published in the United States of America by
Nymeria Publishing LLC, 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Elizabeth Hunter
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of
1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or
retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Nymeria Publishing
PO Box 85981
Lexington, SC 29073
Visit our website at www.nymeriapublishing.com
Print ISBN 979-8-9851572-0-8
eBook ISBN 979-8-9851572-1-5
Printed in U.S.A
To Kindred Spirits
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Acknowledgements
There are SO many folks who have been virtual or real hugs for me on this journey. Writing a book isn’t a solo time and if I thanked everyone who pushed me over the finish line, we’d have a whole other book to write. My internet fam on social media, every kind comment or supportive DM has meant the world to me. I’ve made incredible friends on this journey and want to thank a few important people to me.
To Tiffany Chiang, aka Read by Tiffany. You support me through heartbreak and joy and have rooted for me every step of the way. Thank you for being the kindest friend I could ever ask for.
To Karen Haxton, I started sharing this story with you during finals week and we brainstormed about Darcy for too many late nights. Darcy wouldn’t exist on page without you!
To my sister Tammy - you deserve the world. Thank you for being the first person to hear my stories.
To Sarah, thank you for sticking by my through thick and thin and always rooting for me.
To Zoe, I’m so glad you were the first person to hear my book news.
To twitter mutuals, aka book twitter, aka the best corner of the internet. Y’all have kept me motivated!
To my Disney fam who always help me believe in magic: Shay, Sienna, Sofi, Lindsey, Taryn, I hope Darcy’s story helps you capture your dreams.
To my Granny Hunter, who always believed in me. I miss you all the time Granny and wish you could be here to hold a copy of my story.
And for my parents, my dad for asking to read my writing, and my mom for all the Rod and Staff English lessons. Diagramming sentences paid off.
Chapter One
Darcy
Tonight, the clouds hide the moon. I rest my elbows on the harsh wood of the window frame, absently picking dirt from my cracked fingernails. It’s been hours since the sunset, though dense fog meant the day was short, dark as dusk. Rain still threatened, and we’re likely to wake up to soaked grass and another short day of fog and clouds. Late winter thunderstorms, ending with water dripping off our roof’s thatch and pooling puddles at our doorstep.
As if in answer to my thoughts, the sky rumbles. I raise my chin, glancing at the clouds. They weave their way past, covering my favorite stars. The same stars my Uncle Kian is using tonight as he sails home.
Wind rustles my hair, and I squint past the sandy cliffs. My cousin is still out there. Anya can’t sleep without a late-night walk on the beach even though her walking leaves her hair drenched with salt and ocean spray.
I turn from the window, releasing a sigh. I unpeg the heavy cloth, letting it shut out the evening. I don’t need to see the dark sky tonight to worry over my Uncle’s trip. Anya would be the first to tell me to go to bed and not wait up for her. If my Uncle or cousin caught sight of me now, they’d both roll their eyes at my worry. I could almost hear my Uncle Kian chiding me about chewing my nails, his quiet, constant reminder that the ocean isn’t a monster to fear. Yet even with his calm voice, I can’t picture the ocean as anything but a threat.
He said as much when he boarded his ship ten days ago. Uncle Kian longs for the end of winter, the end of the deadly storms that lash our coasts. As soon as sunshine starts to coat the water, the bite of winter air lessening, my Uncle is ready to sail. Every spring, my Uncle and a half dozen men from our village leave for weekly trips across the miles-wide bay that separates our coast from the rest of the world.
Anya says spring is a sign of promise. The sunshine and warmth mean the ocean is safe again. Even when the seasons change, when few are scared to sail, I’m still terrified for Uncle Kian. The sea is frightening enough in the daylight, sparkling innocently in the sunshine. The sparkle hides the menacing dark depths of cold water. I don’t know how Anya can stand it, how she paces on the beach at night. Black, deep, never-ending waters. There’s nothing innocent in the inkiness of the ocean. Anya swears there’s nothing prettier than the waves breaking on the rocks, the white caps glistening in the moonlight. I can think of prettier things – the rocky, windswept cliffs at noon, the sunset glittering across a field of golden wheat, or best of all, a clear, dark sky splashed with tiny pricks of light.
Thinking about my Uncle sailing makes me nauseous on stormy days like this. The water takes so much; I can barely stand to hear the waves breaking on the beach. With my Uncle gone, half the village treading the waves, my stomach is tight with worry. While a chance late winter thunderstorm storm simply drenches our village and wheat fields, the unexpected storms can easily take my Uncle’s life.
Anya could slip on a rock, fall into the cold waters. The ocean takes without a second thought.
At least, the wind hides the sound of the waves tonight. I sink unto the bench, brushing my hands over our loom.
Weaving will take my mind off the ocean. Voyaging keeps us fed. But the cloth Anya weaves keeps us comfortable. We aren’t as wealthy as some of the new towns cropping up with the Saxon settlements. But my Uncle trades the cloth for iron kettles, leather for shoes. Next year, he promised to bring back glass for our open window.
I look up as my cousin swings the door open. Her eyes are wide, flecked with fear, and my hands still on her loom. The wheel rocks back and forth, my feet steady on the pedal, “What is it,” I can barely breathe the question, my cousin’s face frightening, whiter than a midday cloud. I’ve only seen her white like that once before, the day her fiancé jumped into the rough, icy water to drag out a screaming child.
The child survived, his thin arms caught around his savior’s neck. Anya’s love died, his lips nearly frozen blue, eyes still like ice.
She stands trembling in the doorway, “Darcy,” She repeats my name. I watch her hands clutch the door frame, wind raging behind her, “You can’t hear her?”
I feel my heart skip a beat, “Who do you hear, Anya?”
She steps over the threshold, hands fisting into her skirt. The door slams shut behind her, wind howling incessantly. I keep my mouth tight, watching her. She stops in front of our hearth, stooping until her knees brush our dirt floor, “I hear her, Darcy.” She whispers, barely loud enough for me to catch the soft words.
My cousin doesn’t need to elaborate. With the bare fear on her face, I can read my cousin’s thoughts. I stand, the stool scraping on the dirt floor underneath me, “If we were to lose anyone,” I set my hand on her shoulders, “I’d hear the Banshee too.”
She shivers violently. “Don’t say her name.” She looks up at me, her eyes wide. The Banshee is a childhood story, a ghostly woman who screams when someone you love is dying. I’m sure the Banshee had a human name at some point, before whatever magic cursed her to spend her days screaming in children’s nightmares. Anya catches my hand, and I search for something to distract her. Anything to calm her fear of the wailing woman, “It’s just the wind.” We hold our hands together, her calluses rubbing into my palm. Her fingers are freezing. I squeeze her palm, and Anya whispers, “I know the wind.”
Outside our cottage, the gusts shriek louder. My heartbeat remains steady, but my cousin is still catching her breath. She glances at our gapping windows; with winter ending, we’ve loosened the oak boards keeping the frost away. “He’ll be home soon,” I offer the words. She looks back at me, and I can almost see her thoughts. Uncle Kian out on the sea, he’s gone for nearly two weeks. The men should be back in a day or two, or even a whole week. We both know how the voyaging works.
She drops my hand, bending back to the fire. Reaching for the pot of gruel, muttering about the wind as she stirs the mixture of wheat and milk. “We aren’t the only ones with loved ones’ voyaging,” I speak softly, trying to find a way to comfort her. To see her lips curve into a soft smile, the tension loosening from her shoulders, “If anyone else in the village heard the banshee, we’ll hear about it in the morning.”
Anya purses her lips, brown eyes flickering in the light of the fire, “Papa didn’t hear,” She hesitates,
“She cried when mother died. No one speaks about her, Darcy.”
She meets my gaze, chin lifting, before she asks, “Have you ever heard anyone else mention her wailing? Ever?” I don’t want to answer. Anya has always insisted that she heard the Banshee the night her mother died of a raging fever. When Uncle Kian spoke to our village seer, Isolt, whispering about the voices Anya heard, the older woman assured him that Anya didn’t hear things. Anyone should be able to hear the forlorn wailing — especially those who listen. The Banshee, Isolt explained, lives to warn people.
Still, Anya is the only one I know who has ever heard the dreaded wailing. If anyone in our village has ever heard the Banshee, they’ve kept quiet. Anya’s gaze lingers on me, fingers twisting around the edge of her skirt, “You always have answers, Darcy. You’re the one always telling me how dangerous the ocean is.”
Anya doesn’t need me warning her about the sea; we’ve both avoided mentioning her dead fiancé for nearly two years. I don’t intend to break my silence on his memory just because she’s hearing things tonight. “It’s just the wind, Anya.” I speak firmly, sinking into my pallet, “Uncle Kian will return. The wind is just tricking you.”
I hear her stir the fire again before she sinks into her pallet. Her voice is soft in the still room, “I know the difference between wind and death.”
I don’t have an answer. I can’t believe Anya truly heard the Banshee cry, not when all I heard was the wind shrieking outside our thin walls. Uncle Kian is as much my family as he is Anya’s Father. If the wailing woman decided to warn us about his life, we’d both hear her cries. There can’t be anything more than the wind. Not tonight.
.
Anya and I don’t speak of the Banshee again. She’s gone when I wake up the next day and doesn’t return till near nightfall. It’s a smart way to avoid me, spending an entire day on the ocean. She knows I won’t willingly head down to the beach, not without a bit of coaxing.
When she comes back in the early evening, I want to ask her if she is still concerned, but she brushes me aside every time I start to ask. Besides, I already know the answer. Her lips pressed together, eyes nervous, her restless tossing all night long.
Instead, I chatter about the wheat planting or my weaving, or even the next time we might travel to a Saxon estate. Anya stares at me, worry still caught in her eyes. She picks at her weaving, but her hands tremble too much to finish the delicate patterns she usually works out with our cloth. I want to reassure her, promise her everything will be fine, but fear isn’t something you can talk away.
Two days later, the voyaging party returns. Anya and I race to the sea, her face white, lips chewed through. I scan through the familiar returning faces, our neighbors Fergal and Hugh, Iollan, and Quinn.
Their faces are rugged, unshaved with a week of hair. Clothes tattered, they’re dragging their feet.
I look past the men, noticing the frayed sails, signs of the rough voyage. Usually, the men would have crates of cloth and salt, trades from the fish they catch. But they leave the ship empty-handed; the crates must have been thrown overboard during a storm.
Quinn walks up to Anya, looking at her white face. I can see the news in his pinched eyes. He doesn’t even look at me, “I’m sorry, lass.” He touches Anya’s shoulder. “The sea is fierce. Your Father,” he looks down, “a good man, he was.”
Before he even finishes speaking, I catch Anya in my arms. She lets out a wail, her voice a shrill scream in the hushed throng. Another man passes by, murmuring an apology. Anya is crying violently, hot tears. The village clusters around us.
Our oldest neighbor, Isolt, steps to my side. Her gnarled fingers curl together, she lowers her head, raising a cloth over her face. As Anya weeps on my shoulder, Isolt begins to keen, high-pitched wailing.
Other women edge closer, raising their voices. The wailing rings around me, a steady show of grief. I press my lips together, holding Anya. I keep seeing her face, pale, the fear in her eyes. The unspoken words, I heard the Banshee. The Banshee only cries when those you love are close to death. A warning. The keening continues around me, wailing. Sobbing. More wailing. I should be keening too, but I can’t. Not with Anya in my arms. I should clasp my hands together, lungs burning as I wail for our loss.
But I can’t. Not while Anya’s tears soak through my wool dress. Not when I didn’t believe her, when
I only heard the wind. I close my eyes, tears burning. Kian was the only Father I ever knew. The Banshee should have cried for me, too. She should have warned me. I loved him—just as much as Anya. A childhood nightmare has betrayed me.
The sea crashes, thunder rolling. Someone pulls Anya from my arms, urging her to come with them.
The village will care for us tonight, make us a meal. We’ll sit for seven days, mourning Uncle Kian.
Then, we will burn his things and throw the ashes into the sea.
The women walk with Anya, still wailing. I stand on the edge of the beach, the sun hidden behind clouds. I wrap my cloak around my shoulder; my chest wet from Anya’s tears. I rub at my cheeks.
I know Anya heard the wailing. It wasn’t the wind. She heard the Banshee when her mother, my Aunt Nuala died. But that was years ago. Anya’s three years older than me. I was too young to listen for the Banshee when Aunt Nuala died. And my mother – she died when I was a baby. We were both too young to hear the Banshee then.
My shoulders start shaking, my teeth chattering. I look out over the sea, curling my toes into the stiff sand.
All I can hear is the wind. But I ache to hear more. I raise my palms, my shoulders still trembling. I rub my hands into my eyes before falling to my knees. Uncle Kian is dead. The Banshee cried. And I must have been deaf.
Brendan
Flavian hates the mountain, and I have to admit, it doesn’t make for a pleasant hiking trip. He kicks at the various rocks lining the path carved into the mountain’s sides, muttering about the blasted Finn. They are forcing us to meet them at the borders of earth and sea. I look behind me, nodding at the dozen guards trailing behind us. They silently climb behind Flavian and me, feet skidding on the slippery rock path.
“Tell me again, Brendan,” Flavian grumbles, “Why I have to traipse into the mountain just to collect the taxes?”
Hiking takes much longer than taking to the skies. I’m sure every one of us would rather abandon the earth and spreading our wings in the crisp mountain air. But the cliffs are too steep; we can’t sweep into a landing in these deep mountain passes. I ruffle my wings, wanting to roll my eyes at his complaining, “I didn’t hire you just to spend extra mornings in bed. Besides, what better way to learn a bit of diplomacy?”
Some of my men must have heard my last question. They chuckle, laughing at the idea of learning diplomacy from the Finn. Collecting taxes should be simple. Like everyone else in the Fae Court, the Finn, the Goblins, Fauns, and Leprechauns should send a representative to the Court. Each year, the various clans deposit the yearly taxes and promise fealty. However, the Finn’s specialty is being difficult. They won’t come to the Queen’s Court, so every year, a squadron from the Court has to hike into the mountainous yawning cavern adjoining the Fae territories to the Finn oceans. This year, it’s our turn. I drew the unlucky straw, forcing my squadron to wake up far too early this morning to hike into a mountain.
We reach the bottom of the trail, the ground leveling out into the stone path leading into the mountain’s center. The sun is just beginning to peek above the craggy mountain peaks when we slip into the cavern. The dark walls glisten, ancient riddles etched into the stone. Supposedly, the riddles prevent the Finn from ever crossing from their ocean waters into the land. I suspect that’s a bedtime story to comfort restless children, frightened by stories from the wars. I grew up on the stories, my Father grumbling about fighting Finn warriors before the Finn king reluctantly swore loyalty to our Queen.
I think that’s when the mountain was carved, two hundred years ago. Since then, the Finn haven’t crossed into Fae lands, refusing to visit the Court or walk past the boundary separating their ocean territories and the rest of the world. “I hate this place,” Flavian sighs next to me, “Nothing like darkness to eat away thoughts of breakfast.” “You haven’t had breakfast yet,” one of my men instantly reminds us.
