Mists of Velvet

overtaken by a dying mortal, who didn’t even realize he loved her—wanted her and fantasized about being deep inside her.
    If he could only have her—just once, to feel her and keep her memory alive. Just once, and she would live forever in his memory.
    A gentle tapping at his hand made him open his eyes. Cliodna, his little wren, pecked gingerly at his thumb. All seers—or shamans, as they were known in Annwyn—had animal allies who bonded with them; he had been chosen by this wren. It had always made sense to Keir that this little bird had chosen him. In the Otherworld, the wren, or dreathan-donn , was a sacred bird, considered to be a messenger from the deities. Cliodna’s magical musical voice and complex song were a source of divination for him.
    Picking her up in his palm, he met her black gaze. “What is it you wish me to know?” he murmured while brushing his thumb along her back.
    Cliodna began to sing, and while she did, he focused on her gaze, the feel of her soft plumage beneath his thumb. He quieted his thoughts, so her magical song could bring him into a trancelike state. He was weak, having not fed from Rhys’ energy in days, which made it much more difficult to alter his state of consciousness.
    Patiently, his wren sang, until he could at last enter his meditative trance. Instantly, his spirit was transported to Annwyn, while his physical form remained rooted in the mortal plane. He saw himself in a dark chamber, a woman’s form on a bed, draped in white.
    Keir felt his mind begin to race, despite his deeply entranced state. It was Rowan. He felt her and the instant desire to take her and claim her. But she was still, her face covered with the white cloth.
    Cliodna sang louder, and he glanced away from the body on the bed to the wren. That was the trouble with divination. One could not pick and choose when it came to visions, or bring one to an end when it became too disturbing.
    He didn’t want to continue, but the wren sang on, forcing him to interpret her musical notes as verbal directions.
    Pulling the sheet off, Keir was not shocked to discover that it was Rowan lying beneath the sheet. He knew her shape, her scent, as intimately as if he had lain with her. But he hadn’t, and he likely never would. Perhaps that was the reason he stood now, studying her, absorbing every nuance of her beauty and innocence.
    She was naked, her body full and voluptuous, despite her illness. Her pale skin was smoothed and unmarked. The turquoise eyes he found so enticing were closed, giving her the appearance that she slept. But her chest was still, her breathing silent. It was not the repose of slumber; it was the repose of death. A feather quill, an inkwell, a candle, and a piece of folded paper were placed above her head. An athame, its blade tip stained with something rust-colored, was placed to her left. Beneath the blade, three perfect drops of blood glistened upon the white sheet. And in her hand, peeking out from between her fingers, was a feather. Cliodna’s feather .
    The wren’s song pierced his thoughts, and he heard words rise up between her musical notes. “So must it be done.”
    “No!” he roared, severing the astral link. He awoke as his mind and soul slammed back into his physical body. Sweating and breathing hard, Keir opened his eyes, his mind whirling with what he had seen, his body exhausted from the journey. Cliodna was still perched on his hand, her head cocked to the side as she studied him with eyes that suddenly looked sorrowful.
    “Was it a vision of what is to come, or a possibility that may be altered?” he asked.
    And for the first time since his little wren had chosen him, Cliodna’s song was that of silence.

    In the darkened hall of the temple, Bronwnn stood in awe of the great king. His magical powers were palpable, and the fear he lit within her was very real.
    “You are the seer Cailleach speaks of?” he asked.
    She nodded, and started at the sound of a bird approaching. Cailleach’s oidhche , no doubt. The owl was not just Cailleach’s pet, but a spy she enjoyed sending out into Annwyn.
    “There is nothing to fear,” the king murmured as he cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his mysterious, mismatched eyes. “’Tis only a wren.”
    The little bird flew out of an alcove and then out through the arched window that led to the inner courtyard. She had seen that particular dreathan-donn on her travels through the woods. The bird’s hauntingly lovely