For as long as she lived, she would preserve what he had loved. No ax would ever touch these trees, nor hunter invade its borders.
And every time she came to this place, she would know that the two she loved more than life itself were happy and safe on the other side.
That certainty must see her through all the years to come.
“I no longer try to escape what I fear, Papa,” she said. “Hartsmere is my home. I will stay.”
She settled against the tree and closed her eyes. After a time, Lord Bradwell left her, and beasts large and small crept from the shrubbery to pay her homage. Even they did not see her weep.
The Land of the Young was a thousand times more beautiful than Hartley remembered it. He stood at the inner gate with Donal mercifully asleep in his arms and gazed down upon the endless emerald hills, the wildflowers of every hue, the brilliant azure sky. Here it never rained, except for the amusement of its people. Birds more exotic than peacocks fluttered among immense, gold-leaved trees.
In the distance winged Fane performed a complex aerial dance, and then broke apart, laughing. Others feasted at a broad table carved of the rich red heartwood that grew only in Tir-na-nog, heaped with every imaginable delicacy. Crystal palaces dotted the landscape, and fantastic spires pierced the pastel clouds.
It was such a place that mortals called heaven.
It was the home Hartley had been denied for centuries. Now he had earned his way back, and the price of his passage lay quiet against his heart.
But he had surrendered that heart forever.
The bejeweled gate that rose before him was untended, for few Fane had the patience to play guardian. Mortals no longer found their way to the threshold of the Faerie kingdom.
Hartley placed his hand on the diamond-studded silver bars. The intricate metalwork rang with his touch, but the vast doors did not open.
Winged Fane and riders mounted on enchanted white horses began to converge upon the gate, drawn by the novelty of a visitor. Hartley recognized many faces, but he felt no joy. The one he wished to see was not among them and could never be.
He ignored them all and raised his head. “Mother. Father. I have fulfilled your requirements. The child you demanded is here.”
An iridescent globe appeared over the gate and hovered there. Even to Fane eyes it was blinding: She had always been proud and imperious, the queen of the Fane, known on earth by a hundred names, first lady of the Sidhe and of the Tuatha de Danaan, rulers of Tir-na-nog.
“My son,” a voice spoke from the globe. Human music could not begin to approach such glorious sound. “You have returned.”
“Titania.” He bent his head in brief homage, and she resolved into a woman of flawless line and form. Her face was unmarred by any hint of emotion.
“This is the child?” she asked.
“My son.” He lifted Donal for her inspection, sickened as if he were still subject to the ills of a mortal body. “Donal.”
Her long fingered hand descended to touch Donal’s face. “He resembles you. Has he the power?”
“He has.”
“Then he is suitable to our purposes. Children come less and less often to us. We have need of fresh blood to strengthen our lines.” She reached out with both arms. “Give him to me.”
Hartley turned his shoulder to her. “You will not have the raising of him, Titania. He remains with me.”
One perfect silver brow lifted. “You were my youngest, and always most rebellious. You have changed in the mortal realm. How many of their years have passed since you last entered our land?”
“A thousand, and more.”
She shuddered delicately. “It is fortunate you have come, else you would be doomed.”
Doomed to remain among mortals, gradually to lose his powers and any hope of return to the Land of the Young. Doomed to “suffer” the love of Lady Eden Winstowe.
Titania made a dismissive gesture. “I grow weary of this. Pass through the gate, and I shall seal it behind you.”
The gate swung open. Hartley cradled Donal and bent his head to the boy’s brown, sweet-smelling hair.