THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

This was what he had sought for a thousand years. An end to exile. An end to sorrow, and pain, and loneliness. No more unwanted responsibility to the men and beasts of earth.

No more love.

He set one foot over the threshold, and stopped. The watching Fane burst into a flurry of agitated motion. Titania’s silver hair lashed about her head.

“What is this?” she demanded. “You cannot enter. You carry a burden that must be abandoned here, else you may not pass.”

At first he thought she meant Donal, and he drew back. “My son—”

“Not the child.” Titania stared at him in something like horror. “It is what lies in your heart.”

Then he understood. It came upon him like sunlight—not this perfect, silvery radiance that filled the Land of the Young, but the warm yellow glow of a very ordinary English afternoon. He looked within himself and saw what Titania feared.

It was love. Love that filled his heart so completely that it could not fit through the Fane gate. Love that was not the game at which the Fane played, but which came from the deepest reaches of a mortal soul.

Love for his son and for Eden.

He could love. He did.

And he was not afraid. Not for himself, not for Eden, and not for their son. Donal would become the best of both worlds. He would thrive, because he was loved.

He grinned at Titania. “I cannot pass?”

“No.” She drew herself up, merciless queen once more. “We have freed ourselves of mortal savagery and will have no more of it here. Submit yourself to me, and I will cleanse you of this taint, and all memory of the cursed realm of men.”

Hartley took a step back. “Thank you, Mother, but that is a gift I do not wish.”

A gaping Fane was a remarkable sight. “Have the mortals driven you mad? Come to me at once.”

“No.” He took another step back, and all the Fane rose up in a whir of wings and amazement.

“Do you know what you do?” Titania demanded. “If you do not submit to me, you will never enter the Blessed Land again. You will be confined forever to the mortal realm, to lose your powers and count your handful of days as the Iron wielders do. You will live among savages who kill each other and everything around them, and tolerate none who wields magic.” Her voice boomed like thunder. “Is this what you wish?”

He cast a final look about Tir-na-nog, and the curious, perfect faces filled with astonishment. A few Fane called out to him, urging him to stay. The only sadness he felt was that of leaving behind a once cherished memory.

“You are right, Mother,” he said. “I have been tainted by the mortal realm. Its humblest corner is more real and more wonderful than all the Land of the Young. The ‘savages’ value life because they can so easily lose it. And love”—he kissed Donal’s forehead—”love is worth dying for.”

The great bejeweled gate slammed shut. Titania blazed to the brilliance of an exploding star.

“You have chosen,” she pronounced. “You are forbidden to return to the Blessed Land. Let no Fane open this gate until the end of time!” She pointed at Hartley. “Begone, mortal!”

A great clap of thunder deafened him. He bent himself over Donal and felt the blast strike.

He found himself lying on a bed of leaves, Donal sprawled across his chest, and Grandfather Oak stretching high above. The forest—his forest—was still with that particular silence that comes just before dawn. He breathed air sweet with growth and decay and change, listening to the beat of his very human heart.

Eden lay asleep among Grandfather Oak’s twisting roots, an enchanted princess awaiting a kiss.

Hartley set Donal aside and ran his hands over his body, searching for the changes that must inevitably come. Eventually his hair would gray, his bones become fragile, his powers fade. He would be able to touch iron without pain and walk freely among men. Eventually, he would lie beside Eden in a mortal grave.

But not yet. Not nearly yet.