Mists of Velvet

Cailleach?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I think you do. I think you object to my warriors because you have no dominion over them. They don’t fear you and your wrath as the elves and the nymphs do. However, I did note that you left one warrior out of your condemnation—the Shadow Wraith.”
    “He is the only sensible ally,” Cailleach retorted. “As mysterious a race as they are, their powers are immense. It is almost impossible to defeat an opponent who can become invisible. And,” she said more slowly, “it is a gesture that will not be ignored.”
    The king’s gaze grew alert. “You desire an alliance with them. You know that from the Wastelands, the wraiths have no fealty to you, or to the Sidhe.”
    “Yes,” Cailleach whispered. “Theirs is the only race that does not flow with the power and blood of my order. Think of it, Raven—the power of the wraiths bred with the power of the goddess.”
    “What are you suggesting, Cailleach?”
    “That we draw the wraiths into the war to save Annwyn by wedding one of their kind to one of my goddesses. Uniting the two races would secure our control.”
    “You mean your control,” the king corrected.
    Cailleach ignored him. “I have the right woman. She is coming into her maturity. And as she is the goddess of sexuality and fertility, she is ready to procreate and cement the bond between the Shadow Wraiths and the goddesses, between the Wastelands and Annwyn. With her powers, she can propagate a small army—for my purposes.”
    Gasping, Bronwnn pressed her hand against the stone wall for support. She was the goddess Cailleach spoke of. She was the one to be sacrificed to a Shadow Wraith. Cailleach was making her a pawn. Yet, to be mated with a wraith would enable her to leave the castle, and to be free of Cailleach . . .
    “You leave my warriors be, Cailleach, and I will not interfere with your plans for the Shadow Wraiths.”
    “Agreed. Now, Keir, the wraith, is he here in Annwyn, or does he still lurk within that vile mortal club?”
    “He has been in Annwyn more of late.”
    “Yes,” Cailleach said softly. “The mortal woman, I presume. How does she fare?”
    “Not well. Her death is near, I think.”
    “I am sorry Annwyn was not able to slow her fate.”
    The king’s expression fell as he lowered his gaze. “Mairi is beside herself with worry. Her only hope is that she will be able to heal Rowan when the time comes—just as she heals me.”
    “And so the wraith visits the mortal, then?” Cailleach asked.
    “Along with Sayer,” the king answered. “The three of them are trying to assist me in finding Carden. I believe Rowan is an oracle of sorts; when Sayer enchants her, she is able to shed her conscious thoughts and help us to decipher the riddle to Carden’s whereabouts.”
    “I have no wish to interfere in your search for Carden. If he is to be one of your nine, he needs to be found. However, as soon as he is able, the wraith must come to me. He will be shrouded with the goddess Bronwnn, uniting our two races, and our power.”
    The king stood, caught Bronwnn’s gaze, then very slightly tilted his head, indicating the hall where he would meet her.
    “Raven,” Cailleach called. “The mortal, Rowan. She may be buried here in Annwyn if she and your wife wish it.”
    The king stopped and stared at the goddess before bowing to her. “Thank you, Cailleach. You are most generous. Mairi will be pleased to have it this way.”
    She waved away his praise. “She reminds me of someone,” Cailleach murmured. “Someone I should have taken better care of. Perhaps I may atone for the sins of my past with this gesture.”
    The door to the solarium opened, and Cailleach’s voice rose once again. “Do not think you fooled me, Raven. You named only eight warriors. Who is to be the ninth?”
    The king pinned Bronwnn with his gaze. “I am not yet certain, but I believe I know someone who will be able to provide me with an answer.”
    “Think on the elves, Raven. They are cunning, and at times, quite merciless.”
    The chamber door closed. Bronwnn watched as Cailleach sank into her chair and closed her eyes. The owl flew from his swing to land on the velvet sleeve of Cailleach’s robe. Shaking his head, he hooted softly until Cailleach raised her hand and brushed his snow-white wing. The goddess looked tired. Her light was fading. Reposed like this, she looked like a vulnerable woman, not the powerful Supreme Goddess she was.
    “You haunt me,”