The Shield of the Vanir

Coppery-orange hair draws my gaze to Maeve, who stands near her mother.  She's a counterpoint to the rest of Mab's entourage, holding a utilitarian bronze spear and wearing blackish-brown dragon scale armor.  Her brilliant green eyes seem every bit as cold as her mother's.

Our eyes meet.  Her face remains an expressionless mask.

“I wish we could have parted under better terms,” I say.

Though her expression remains the same, there’s a slight tremor in her bottom lip.

Drops of blood spatter the area between us.  Barnabas flies down and kneels before his queen.  A red puddle forms beneath the pixie's knee.

“Heal him,” Mab orders, and a sylph functionary flies around to do so.

Mama says that manners are almost always better than a bloodied fist.  From the feast, Herla’s words come back to me—give Mab a nice, deep bow... maybe two.  Riiight.  This is the first time I’ve met Mab since then.

I bow to the queen.  Deeply.

When I rise up, her expression has shifted minutely.  I have the impression her aggravation has turned to mild curiosity.

With a bright smile for Queen Mab, I bow again, take a big step back, and fall off the cliff.


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