Excerpt

"Frea is going to take a single shot at that red leaf," Cymbal declares. "Or she's going to try to."

"Why would I do that?" I ask dryly.

"Because you wish to prove that you're better than I am, but you aren't," he boasts. "You'll try and fail, and then I'll hit the red leaf."

"You could try first," I say, "and when you fail, I—"

"I will not fail," he hisses.

"Then go on," I say. "You picked out the target. It is only fair that you go first."

"I picked the target for you—"

"Yes, but if you can't hit it, it's hardly a fair target for me."

The elf wiggles his pointed ears. He's fuming, and I ignore him and turn to the others.

"What say you, Brennus? Drustran? Shouldn't he go first?"

"I don't care who goes first," Brennus says. "One of you shoot already."

"Neither of you can hit it," Drustran says. "It's too far even for us."

Cymbal flares his nose, and he brings up his bow, jumping to his feet. His shot spirals through the air.

In a flash, I straighten from my squat on the branch and fire off two arrows in quick succession. The first knocks his arrow off course, and the second clips the red leaf. It lazily falls, flittering about this way and that toward the ground.

I hold out my hand, using a summoning of wind to collect both of my arrows as well as the red leaf. With one hand, I secure my arrows and return them to my quiver, whereas I float the red leaf in Cymbal's face.

His features twist with wild cruelty, but the other two are howling.

"She won!"

"She bested you!"

"Frea One-Shot!"

"Frea One-Shot! Frea One-Shot!" they chant.

"You cheated!" Cymbal shouts. "You used your wind. There's no way you could have—"

He stops talking as I face him with my bow, an arrow pointed at his throat.

"I suggest you never call me a cheater again," I say coldly. "Otherwise—"

"You can't hurt me." Cymbal flares his nostrils.

With long silver hair, sharp features, a slender build, Cymbal should have been married long ago. He is handsome, in a way, but he is also very ugly at times with his behavior, his attitudes, his thoughts.

I have never liked him.

"Do not test me," I say, not lowering my bow.

A ball of fire forms above his hand, and I almost loose the arrow I have nocked. How dare he conjure here, in the forest, when an errant spark could set the entire forest ablaze!

"Come on, Cymbal," Brennus says. "Let's head to the south."

"Or the west," Drustran says. "The ocean waters are beautiful. Maybe we can try to rain arrows on the fish."

"No fish for Frea tonight." Cymbal glares at me.

"So be it," I say.

Little does he know that as much as I enjoy eating fish, I also hate the tiny bones that always seem to end up in more bites than not.

The trio jumps from one branch to another, almost dancing and gliding between the trees, and vanishes from sight in seconds, leaving me all alone.

Unnerved by Cymbal's threat as well as the ominous warning the seven magpies presented, I do not return my arrow to its quiver. I remain standing instead of crouching once more. The breeze has picked up some, billowing my long red hair. The curls are tight but controlled, and they never flutter toward my face.

I can understand why they think we have no reason to worry. My position faces the north, toward the human settlement of Derry. The humans speak of ghosts and monsters within the trees. They avoid the forest, believing it is haunted. Haunted is not the word. There are no ghosts or ghouls here, merely us elves.

In other parts of Ireland, long ago, the elves had allowed themselves to be a little more visible to the humans to the point that the humans named the elves aes sídhe. They thought the elves were fallen angels from the land of the dead, but that is not the case. We are not angels nor devils. Boudicca, who only a few times talked to me about the past, said that there are still some humans who believe in the aes sídhe and think we are spirits of nature.

We are not that either, not truly, although we care for and protect and preserve nature as best as we can. There are spirits of nature, though, and they dwell within the deepest part of the forest.

The people of Derry will not come to attack us. I do not have any reason to fear them. Perhaps there is no true need for there to be archers around the perimeter of our land at all times, but such is what is wished, and so that is what I will do.

My gaze remains fixed on the human settlement. They are going about their everyday lives, harvesting their field and herding their cattle and children—the men and women alike doing these tasks.

But then my ears hear something faint.

A scream.

And my nose smells something I hate.

Fire.

And then blood.

I return my arrow to my quiver and climb even higher, all the way to the top of the birch tree.

There are strange boats in the port, and men and women dressed in furs are wielding spears, axes, and huge round shields.

Derry is under attack.

And there is nothing I can do about this, nothing I should do.

We have always been told never to interfere. Whatever happens to the humans is their fate. We cannot alter or change fate.

But still, the omen of the magpies as well as the burning, the crying, the screaming, the killing…

What if these invaders press into the forest and attack Oxspire?