Stronger Than Magic, page 1
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Stronger Than Magic
Heather Cullman
Dedicated to the living and loving memory of
Richard Ottens,
Friend, educator, and gourmet extraordinaire. We miss you.
“All things considered, we would rather be dining at The Arches … with you.”
The Legend of Thistlewood Castle
Excerpt from The History of Thistlewood Castle by Randolph Warre, Fourth Marquess of Thistlewood, 1693
No chronicle of Thistlewood Castle would be compleat without an account of the legend of its birth. Though I give no credence to the veracity of this tale, many in the village of Thistlewood Downs hold steadfast to its truth. ’Tis for this reason, and this reason only, that I feel it of enough import to include it in this record.
The legend begins at Lammastide, the year of our Lord, 1315. On the Lammastide of our legend, the faeries were journeying from a hill near Copthorn Common to the one beneath the chalk cliff just west of where Thistlewood now lies. Leading the procession that day was Prince Aengus. With hair the color of flame and eyes the cool blue-green of a calm ocean shallow, Aengus, the eldest of King Dagda’s sons, was counted among the faeries as the most handsome of their princes.
’Twas late morn when they passed the place that is now Thistlewood Castle. In those days ’twas but a barren down sparsely blanketed with speedwell, harebell, agrimony, and a single cluster of wild thistle. ’Twas beside that lone knot of thistle that Aengus spied a slumbering mortal, a maiden of uncommon beauty. As ofttimes happens in tales such as this, he loved her at first glance. Thus smitten, he parted from his retinue, vowing to woo and win her.
Lest you think such conduct commonplace among faeries, I must hasten to note here that ’tis almost unknown for a faerie man to offer his love to a mortal woman. The reason ’tis so rare is because otherworld maids are unearthly fair, and few mortal women possess the beauty to tempt their men. Indeed, ’tis only once in every thousand years that such a woman is born.
This particular maiden, Rowena was her name, must have been a goddess of loveliness, for according to the legend she was the first and only mortal ever to catch the fancy of an otherworld prince. But catch it she did, and when she finally awoke ’twas to the sight of a dazzling youth, playing music of irresistible sweetness upon a golden harp.
Of course she loved him at first sight. How could she not? He was the faerie god of youth, beauty, and love, and not a woman lived who could resist his charms. When he saw her awake at last, he fell to his knees before her and pledged his eternal devotion.
Long they tarried there, sunshine silvering into twilight, twilight graying to dusk. And as dark spread across the land, ’twas beneath an infinite canopy of stars that they tenderly plighted their troth. When they at last parted company, sometime deep in the still of midnight, Rowena was a maid no longer.
Every day thereafter she returned to the thistle, always to find Aengus awaiting her. Always they made love, and when the leaves rusted in the autumn chill, she conceived a child.
As faeries are wont to know, Aengus knew the instant his seed took root. And as it ripened, he divined that not one but two babes, a boy and a girl, grew within her. Though he greatly yearned to dwell as man and wife with his beloved Rowena, he could not. For as a faerie, ’twas forbidden by God for him to live in her world, and for her to abide in his would mean the certain loss of her immortal soul.
Now to understand why ’tis so, you must first be acquainted with faerie nature. Faeries, you see, are fallen angels cursed by God. As such they have no immortal souls and are instead enlivened by a stuff called faerie essence. They are granted only enough of this essence to last a thousand years. When it fades, the faerie turns to dust and simply ceases to be. The same fate befalls the mortal who lives among them, be he willing or nay. Over time he loses his soul and becomes as they.
Aengus knew this, and because he desired Rowena and his children to have the chance at heaven that he was denied, he commanded his subjects to raise a mighty fortress from the thistles. The legend says that it took only one night for the faeries to do so. And as dawn broke upon the newly erected stronghold, he dubbed it Thistlewood Castle, in honor of the flora beside which their love was born. There lived Rowena, with Aengus dwelling in the nearby hollow hill.
Seasons passed, fall freezing into winter, winter thawing into spring. And just past midnight on Midsummer’s night, Rowena gave birth. As foretold by Aengus, one babe was a girl, whom they named Elinore, the other a boy called Lucan. Both babes were blessed with their mother’s glorious golden hair and their father’s remarkable aquamarine eyes.
Thriving beneath the grace of the faeries, the children grew strong and beautiful. From a tender age, Elinore showed a rare gift for healing, while Lucan excelled at the knightly arts. So fine a warrior was he that he was knighted at the tender age of sixteen.
Now while merely staying in the mortal world was enough to ensure Rowena a chance at heaven, the same could not be said for her children. Because they were the offspring of a faerie and a mortal, they had only half an immortal soul, the other half of their being made up of faerie essence. And as everyone knows, you must have a compleat soul to enter heaven.
What is not as commonly known is that by finding love, true love, with a mortal, ’tis possible for a half faerie to grow his bisected soul into a whole one. ’Tis said that the love of a mortal will make it swell with all that is good and righteous until it smothers and takes the place of his more fragile faerie essence. He then becomes a full-fledged human. If he lives his life with benevolence, he too can ascend to heaven.
Elinore was but fifteen when she met and wed a gentle knight, Alain de Warre. Theirs was a union forged of true love, one blessed with nine children and enduring happiness.
But Lucan—ah! His love was the thrill of battle. No thought of wedlock had he, though many a maid sought to woo him from swordplay to marriage bed. And who could blame them? His was a beauty to quicken even the most passionless feminine heart. Ever charming though he was to his legion of admirers, his heart remained unstirred until the day he beheld Alys le Fayre.
Alys, ’tis said, was as comely and golden as Lucan, and half the knights of the realm were smitten with her beauty. ’Twas at a Michaelmas fair where he first spied her. He was there to partake in a joust; she, to buy ribbons to bind her hair. And as with his father and mother before him, he loved her at first glance.
So enamored was he that he fell to his knees before her, begging to carry her new ribbons as a token in the joust. Of course she gave them to him. How could she say nay? He was the most magnificent knight she had ever beheld. ’Twas those ribbons that planted the first seeds of jealousy among her other champions; seeds that she cultivated with her wicked games.
Alys, you see, was a vain, fickle creature, and nothing flattered her conceit more than to pit the knights against each other in quest for her favor. To this end she would trifle with each admirer’s heart, flattering and tempting him until he declared himself. Then she would haughtily scorn his suit, inquiring why she should accept him when she could wed someone as brave and handsome as whomever it was she was setting him against. The name she always uttered after the Michaelmas joust was Lucan de Thistlewood. ’Twas this game that got him murdered.
It happened at the Midsummer’s tournament at Thistlewood. ’Twas a grand affair with a rich purse, and knights came from near and far to compete. Among those who entered that day was Bryan Fitzsimmons, the most bitterly jealous of Alys’s suitors. He came not to win the prize, but to slay his rival, Lucan.
Though Lucan was the superior knight, Bryan’s hatred made him strong and cunning, and during the melee he pierced his rival’s breastplate with his sword. Deep the blade plunged, goring Lucan just below the heart. Mortally wounded, he was carried to his chamber, where he lay through the day and into the night, writhing in unspeakable pain.
Alys, anguished at what her folly had wrought, remained by his side, praying, weeping, and giving him what meager comfort she could. You see, in her own way she loved him, though her selfishness had hindered it from deepening into the true love he needed to save his soul.
Why the faeries did not protect him that day, nobody knows. What is known is that once death marks a person he is doomed, and all the faerie magic in the world cannot save him. And Lucan died at the stroke of midnight, the hour heralding his nineteenth year, with Alys’s name on his lips. As his life left him, Aengus appeared in the chamber.
Keening and weeping in a way that rose a fierce storm outside, he gathered his son’s lifeless body in his arms and rocked him like a babe. Alys, recognizing him as a faerie and fearing his wrath, crept off into a dark corner to hide.
One by one Aengus’s brothers appeared, all seven score of them. The last two to appear seized the terrified Alys and dragged her forward to stand judgment before Aengus. Still cradling Lucan in his arms, he rose and charged her with murdering his son. Though she wept and pleaded, he remained unmoved
’Tis said that his father buried him in the mound beneath the cliffs, for ’twas on that night that the odd symbols appeared inscribed on the cliff face above it. Though many in the ensuing years sought to decipher those marks, all failed. Thus they remained an object of mystery and conjecture for the next two centuries.
’Twas in the year 1543 that an Irish tutor to the Warre sons recognized those symbols as the cipher of a long-dead Celtic tongue. As fortune would have it, or perhaps ’twas not fortune but a contrivance of the faeries, ’twas a language that had been kept alive through the generations of his scholarly family. After much labor, he transcribed the marks thus:
Smite by death untimely,
A man, half faerie, half mortal,
Shall live again, tho’ only once,
Through God’s hope that he find heaven.
So it shall be with Lucan de Thistlewood, Son of Prince Aengus, Otherworld god of youth, beauty, and love, And of Rowena, his beloved mortal wife.
Whether these words be a rightful translation, one can only speculate. Yet, as with the legend, many in Thistlewood Downs believe it to be true. And so they wait, wondering with the birth of every Thistlewood son: Is he the one?
They still wait.
Chapter 1
Sussex, February 1816
“He’s back,” Allura, Otherworld Chancellor of Affairs of the Heart, announced, staring solemnly at the woman before her.
“He?” Alys echoed, though she knew without asking exactly who “he” was. She’d been waiting for him for almost five hundred years, eagerly anticipating his return and the chance for freedom that came with it.
The fairy frowned slightly at her obtuse query. “Lucan de Thistlewood, of course,” she replied.
After all these centuries of hoping, wishing, and praying for this moment, Alys should have felt joy at the news, euphoria even. Oddly enough, she felt only a sick sort of dread. What if she wasn’t equal to the task ahead of her? What if she failed?
No. She wouldn’t fail … she couldn’t afford to. Alys drew in a shuddering breath, battling to vanquish her suffocating anxiety. The air was damp and musty … underground air … prison air. That air served as a potent reminder of what she stood to lose should she fail in her task, increasing rather than diminishing her apprehension.
Exhaling in a hissing sigh, she asked, “When?”
Allura picked up the gossamer-thin sheet of parchment and peered at writing too whisper-fine for Alys’s mortal eyes to discern. She frowned as she scanned the page, as if she were having difficulty finding what she sought. Then she crowed a victorious “A-ha!” and replied, “Aengus says here that he was reborn in 1783, the twenty-fifth of June to be exact.”
“1783?” Alys raised her upturned palms in a gesture of helpless confusion. “What year is it now?” One of the first things she’d learned about the otherworld was that time passed at a different rate than it did in the mortal world. Sometimes it passed more quickly, with ten mortal years equaling one fairy day. Other times it worked just the opposite, with what seemed like ten years in fairy time turning out to be just one day in the world above. It was so confusing that she’d stopped trying to keep track long ago.
“It’s the sixteenth of February, 1816,” Allura replied, sliding a slim volume across the desk and thumping the date with her long, white index finger.
Alys’s eyes widened in surprise as she stared down at the ornately etched calendar. The last time she’d been above ground was in 1753, when she’d been assigned to make a match between the high-and-mighty Countess of Mountbury and Frederick Coddington, a poor but pure-hearted cooper. Why, that meant that it had been over sixty years since she’d last been up in the mortal world.
That troubling thought furrowed her brow. When Prince, now King, Aengus had condemned her to other-world captivity, he’d turned her over to Allura, commanding that she be set to matchmaking in the mortal world. Hopefully, he’d said, she would become skilled enough in the vocation to successfully assist Lucan in finding true love when he was reborn.
Always conscientious of the duties of her office, Allura had assigned Alys to a dozen or more matches a century, and after each she sent her to report to Aengus. Upon hearing her account, he always asked her the same question: And what has your experience taught you about love? To which she’d stare at him blankly, not quite certain what he meant. Though she’d never once failed to bring her designated couple to the altar, to her bewilderment Aengus would then sigh and shake his head, murmuring, “Ah, well. Perhaps you’ll be successful next time.”
When she’d asked Allura what he meant, she too had shaken her head and cryptically replied, “Listen to your heart. Only it knows the true answer.”
As Alys stared unseeing at the calendar, a hideous thought crept into her mind. Had Aengus and Allura given up on her learning whatever it was she was supposed to have learned during her matchmaking junkets? Was that why she hadn’t been sent to the mortal world for so long? Was it the reason she hadn’t been called upon to help Lucan’s reborn soul find true love?
Alys swallowed dryly. It was apparent that she had been passed over for the assignment, for the reborn Lucan was what … thirty-two years old? Long past the age when most mortal men sought love and marriage.
With panic crawling up her spine, she raised her gaze from the calendar to meet Allura’s glittering green fairy one. If it was true, then she’d lost her chance to right the wrong she’d done him all those centuries ago … which meant that she would lose her immortal soul.
The panic shot the rest of the distance up her spine and grabbed at her throat. When Aengus had sentenced her to otherworld captivity, he had promised her that if she could find the reborn Lucan the love she’d robbed him of during his first life, thus making atonement to his mortal soul, then she would be released and restored to the mortal world with her physical being exactly as it was when she’d left. If she failed, she’d spend the rest of her existence locked in her underground prison, where she’d eventually become one with the fairies and lose her soul.
As if reading her mind, and indeed sometimes Alys suspected that the powerful fairy could do just that, Allura said, “I know it’s been a goodly while since you’ve been to the mortal world, but Aengus had a vision that Lucan would be reborn near the end erf the last century, and he ordered me to let you rest so you’d be equal to the task of finding him love when he reached manhood.”
Alys sagged with relief. “Then I wasn’t—”
“—passed over for the assignment?” Allura cut in and finished. She released a laugh like the tinkling of tiny bells. “No. Of course not. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to.”
At Alys’s querying look, she elaborated. “You see, Alys, every mortal, even a half mortal, is born with a certain preordained destiny … a chain of life events, if you will, which his soul is compelled to follow. When that chain is broken by himself or by someone else, it must be mended and then completed before the person can be considered for heaven. Now, when a person breaks it himself through willfulness or wicked deeds, then it is up to him to repair it. When someone else is responsible, such as was the case with Lucan, then the guilty person, you, must do the mending. So you see? Aengus has no choice but to trust you.”
Alys’s troubled brow didn’t smooth, though she did nod her comprehension. Glancing back down at the calendar, she murmured, “While I understand the reason why I must find Lucan love, I don’t see why Aengus had me wait so long to do so. I mean, wouldn’t Luc—” She shot Allura a questioning look. “I don’t know what to call Lucan now. Who is he?”
“Lucian James Warre, the seventh Marquess of Thistlewood,” the fairy replied with a significant lift of her brow. At Alys’s gasp, she nodded. “Yes. As most often happens with half souls, he has been reborn back into his own family.”
