Legend of the Storm Hawks

Children of Promise

Children of Promise~

Isobel Iverach

Monaughty, Iverach

Isobel pushed damp dirt around a barberry rooting. She stepped back and searched for space to crowd more feverfew into the potting tray Daor Ranald built.

“You were supposed to take the rarest ones,” said Rosalee. “How big a garden do you expect Lord Sethlyan to allow you?”

Rosalee sat at the foot of her bed in the room they’d shared since they were girls, enjoying what might be her last luxurious hair brushing from Bess.

After Calum’s birth, a string of caregivers came and went in rapid succession at Monaughty, with Dowan berating and dismissing one after another. When a young nanny arrived with no references, little experience, and no ties to anyone in Iverach, he hired her on an interim basis, and only because he’d run through all the local help. When Isobel came along four years later, Bess Spruill was still Monaughty’s interim nanny.

Bess was still young when she began raising Iverach children, full of the life that thrived outside Monaughty’s walls, though always properly deferential when the Beast of Monaughty was around. Bess filled the role their troubled mother could not. While Lady Jenna struggled to appease Dowan, Bess tried to buffer her children from harm.

“The daor built a sizable tray for you,” said Bess. “But not as a challenge to fill every inch.”

“I have to take more than one of each,” Isobel said in her defense. “If one dies in the move, I’ll have the other. Who knows when I’ll get these into the ground again?”

Their caregivers shared an interest in gardening, though Isobel sometimes wondered if Ranald was more interested in Bess than in the healing properties of her herbs. It was through Ranald’s position of authority in the household they first won Dowan’s permission to add a few herbs to the formal rose gardens.

Bess introduced them to the soothing scents of lavender and rosemary, the licorice aroma of hyssop, and the crisp tang of mint. At first, the glorious fragrances captivated Isobel far more than the lore of what each herb could do, or how mixing them could soothe an ache or cool a fever. She and Rosalee simply liked making sweet sachets. Until Dowan bellowed they had the castle smelling like a brothel and tossed all their lovely sachets into the fire.

“You’ve transplanted enough, dear,” said Bess. “Stop now, or you won’t have time to clean the dirt from under your fingernails.”

Isobel rubbed her hands on her skirt and grimaced at her nails. She could scrub later. She retrieved a list from her pillow instead.

“Did you finish dividing our paints and brushes?”

“Yes,” Rosalee sighed. “I told you yesterday.”

“And yes,” said Bess. “I packed and sent them down to be loaded.”

“Your fondness for order must be curbed, and soon,” said Rosalee. “You’ll drive your husband mad with your silly lists.”

Isobel drew another line across the paper. Order gave her the illusion of control. Without it, she would come unraveled.

“Stop bustling about like a marsh hen,” said Bess. “You’ll be too tired to climb into the carriage come morning.”

Once the carriage left Monaughty, there’d be no turning back. She’d known it was inevitable, that once she came of age, she’d have as little say over her life as a cow at auction. She could’ve told Calum she didn’t want the Callan lord. He wouldn’t insist she wed, at least not this time. But eventually, he’d be expected to find her a husband, and she’d be expected to comply.

Not that she preferred living with the ghosts of the past. She wouldn’t miss the servants’ pitying looks or the townsfolk’s gossip. A fresh start was a bittersweet exchange. Life at Monaughty had never been pleasant, but at least no one had owned her days since Dowan died. Tomorrow she would leave behind what little freedom she’d ever known. She would belong to a stranger named Sethlyan.

Isobel jumped at the thud of boots kicking at their door. No, not Dowan. The Beast is dead.

“It’s Calum,” came a muffled grunt. “Open the door for me.”

Rosalee hurried to let him in. Calum sidestepped through the doorway, carrying a wire crate under each arm.

“I brought presents.” He wobbled his awkward load and grinned. “Pigeons.”

“Pigeons?” Rosalee scrunched her nose.

“Carrier pigeons. Homed to Monaughty.” He lifted a crate. “This one flies the route from Dundarien.” He held up the other. “This one from Glenayre. Don’t get them mixed up, or I invested in their training for naught.”

“What a clever gift,” said Isobel, impressed he’d managed to have the birds readied so soon.

Calum set down the crates and held out his arms. “Come. Indulge me.”

Isobel embraced her brother fondly. He pulled them both close and propped his chin on Isobel’s head.

“If you need me…” His husky voice wavered. “I’ll come straight away.”

“So will I. No matter the reason,” she said. “I’m going to miss you, Calum.”

“Yes, well. We’ll…I’ll miss you, too.”

Isobel blinked away tears that would make it harder on him. Leaving Calum felt as if she were coming apart at the seams. They had survived Dowan together and helped each other stitch their broken pieces into some semblance of normalcy.

“I didn’t come for sad goodbyes. I have another present.” He reached into his pocket. “For your grooms. The goldsmith finished them yesterday.”

Isobel slid the ring over her thumb. A hawk spread its golden wings from an Iverach sapphire. Silver waves crested along each side of the ring. On the underside, the outstretched head of the stallion from Iverach heraldry completed the band.

She’d never seen anything so exquisite.

“Well? Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” she said in wonder.

“Absolutely perfect.” Rosalee admired an identical ring in her hand.

“Should fit,” he said. “Isobel isn’t the only one fond of lists. Ranald noted their sizes when they visited.”

“Of course he did,” said Bess. “He can tell you down to the quarter-inch the size of your betrothed’s foot, his waist, and the circumference of his head. In case you were wondering.”

“He didn’t!” Rosalee blushed. “He measured them like a tailor?”

“He showed remarkable restraint, for Ranald,” said Calum. “He stopped short of noting the length of your groom’s manhood.”

Rosalee shrieked and threw a pillow. Calum ducked and laughed as she turned a brighter pink.

“I’ll leave you to your packing. Though I don’t know what you could have left in here. You already sent down enough to load twenty horses.”

“Calum, please stay,” said Isobel. “Bess has been retelling our old stories. I want to remember them to tell my children someday. Sit and listen with us. Like when we were little.”

“The Rhi’Iverach cannot sit and listen to faery tales,” said Bess. “What would people say?”

“We’re the only people here, Bess.” Calum fetched the pillow and stretched out on the rug. “We say we want a story.”

“Like old times.” Rosalee sat beside him. “Please?”

Isobel’s few good memories were of the evenings, after the tense family dinners, when Dowan dismissed them to the children’s wing. Bess was a wonderful storyteller. She pretended to be from the faeryfolk who lived in hollow hills and ruled the forests. Orphaned and abandoned in the woods, the faeries adopted her and taught her their magic. When it came time to return to her own kind, they sent her to Monaughty.

Bess told it so convincingly. Her voice changed with the characters, and her hands played out the parts. Isobel could close her eyes and imagine the fantastic legends.

“I’ll finish the story if you stop fretting with that list,” said Bess. “Sit so I can brush your hair. Where was I?”

Isobel opened her journal to where they’d left off and read aloud.

“For a thousand years, the sons of the forest longed for the daughters of Aurel. For a thousand years, they lived and loved together. But in all that time, no children were born between them. This made the women sad, and they sent away their forest lovers.”

“Ah, yes. I remember,” said Bess. “The daughters of Aurel spurned the sons of the forest because they could give them no children. The faery sons pined with such sadness even the gods took pity on them. They wagered they could bring the Aurels and faery folk together again. They collected half the sapphires in Rhynn and ground them into a fine powder.”

“Ouch,” said Calum. “That always seems such a tragic waste of gemstones.”

“Hush. Let her finish.” Rosalee kicked at him. He rolled to his back and folded his hands.

“The gods sprinkled the sapphire dust in clear mountain streams. When the daughters of Aurel drank the water, they were enchanted by the sons of the forest once again.”

“So that’s my problem,” said Calum. “Here I’ve been trying to ply the ladies with fine wine.”

“For a thousand years, women bore children with their forest lovers. Their half-faery daughters were beautiful, but barren, as all hybrids are. This made the women sad, so they spurned the sons of the forest yet again.”

Isobel always wanted to change that part of the story. As a child, she begged Bess to tell it differently, but Bess always replied, “A horse and a donkey make a mule. No amount of wishing makes the mule bear a foal. It’s no different for women and faeries.”

Maybe not, but it was still sad.

“Well, we all know the gods hate to lose a wager. They visited the most beautiful of the Aurel daughters. They told her the Prince of the Forest yearned for her in a lonely cave by the sea.”

Calum opened one mischievous eye.

“Don’t make that face,” said Rosalee.

“I didn’t realize I was making any particular face.” He kept his wit to himself and let Bess finish.

“The gods promised if she went to the prince with a willing heart, she would bear the Children of Promise, the best of both peoples, and they would rule both realms in peace.”

“What was I thinking?” Calum slapped his forehead. “I have to call off the weddings.”

“But why?” said Rosalee. “We can’t just—”

“I should’ve been looking for faery princes, not Storm Hawks,” he said. “Then your gossamer-winged babies could fly deep into my silver mines and make me even richer.”

Rosalee yanked the pillow, and Calum’s head hit the rug with a thud.

Chapter 20