Ch 1: PROLOGUE: SIR FIONNOBHAR THE BLACK AND ENDA OF THE FATHOMLESS DARK
AT THE OBSIDIAN-STONE TEMPLE OF ENDENRESTE, IN NORTHERN BRETENLANDE
Enda, Lone Priestess of the Fathomless Dark, knelt before the sacrificial altar under the naked stars. Dark trees ringed the clearing where the altar stood, their branches sharp and menacing in the moonlight. Enda alone knew of the altar, and she alone cut back the weeds and brambles from its glossy black stones, keeping the forest from encroaching closer. The altar was an ancient thing, carved with runes that pre-dated any modern language, whose alphabet had been lost to all but the most devout students of the arcane.
No one had used the altar in an age, not for worship and not for ritual sacrifice; no one else even knew of its existence, its location lost to time and memory. That was fitting, for none of the gods had spoken in an age, either. Not even to their priests or acolytes.
The gods’ silence did not bother Enda. She worshipped something far older and more powerful than any of the mere gods whose names were still spoken with reverence in the mortal world. Her god was one of the Ancient Ones, which had existed long before life or death, the continent or its rivers, or the planet Tærra itself: vast, roiling entities stirring in the darkness beyond the galaxies. The Fathomless Dark was what she called her god. Her mouth could not shape its true name, no matter how she yearned for it.
Just as her mortal tongue could not pronounce her god’s true name, her god’s true form could not manifest in the mortal world. The veil between Tærra and the outer reaches of space was too strong. To dismantle that veil and invite the Ancient Ones across, Enda required power, an unfathomable scope of power that was beyond her means.
“But I know of a knight both bold and foolish enough to gather it for me, should I ask it of him,” she whispered, kneeling before the smooth black altar stone with her face upturned to the blackness between the stars.
xXx
Sir Fionnobhar the Black was a man of action. He did not waste his days contemplating divinity, preferring to put his faith in the edge of his blade and the sharpness of his own senses. Gods, temples, churches, and religions were fine for other people, but personally, he had no use for them. He had hardly bothered to set foot in a temple before catching a glimpse of his beloved priestess in the woods one dawn, as graceful and lovely as a doe in the morning mist, whereupon he was immediately, hopelessly entranced.
In the temple dedicated to Endenreste, the Goddess of Death, Sir Fionnobhar knelt at the feet of his beloved. Enda was dressed in flowing black robes that flared over the steep stone steps where she sat at the base of her goddess’s altar, which rose up behind her like the back of a throne.
It was not the same ancient altar dedicated to the Fathomless Dark that she maintained in the woods, but a replica she had made herself, painstakingly crafted from glassy obsidian stone she had sourced from the far-flung reaches of the continent. Her temple was dedicated to Endenreste in name only, and of the few locals who visited to pay their respects to the goddess of death, none suspected that the temple was a front for something so much older and more powerful.
Her knight, Fionnobhar, who had so much more brawn than brain beneath his armor, suspected least of all. It took little effort on her part, paying him just enough affection to keep him distracted and disinclined from looking too closely at who she was or what she did.
The layers of her robes were finely woven like gossamer, impossibly soft and so dark they absorbed every atom of light that touched them, shifting around her with each subtle movement. A hood lay draped over her shoulders like a cloak under her hair, which was nearly as dark as her robes, and framed her pale face. Every inch of her was beautiful, as if carved from moonstone.
Fionnobhar swore he would love her even if her looks were chipped from granite instead of opal, and she made no argument.
He was biased, of course, because he was in love. It was true that Enda was strikingly beautiful, like a lily in the snow—but, like that lily, there was something cold and untouchable to her. Blinded by love, Fionnobhar was oblivious to the chill aura surrounding his lady love that promised a deadly toxin if he held her too close. To less besotted observers, her beauty was unsettling.
“You said you would do anything for me,” Enda said a low, musical voice, like a winter river over stones, as she ran one slender finger over the matte black ridges of Fionn’s armor.
“Yeah,” Fionn agreed, “but isn’t collecting the heads of a thousand magical beasts kind of overkill? Like, that’s a lot.”
“My goddess demands proof of your devotion. She will never condone my union to any man she deems less than worthy. Not when I am the sole caretaker of this holy place.”
The temple was small. Fionn didn’t know much about temples, but he had seen enough to know that the ones in cities were much bigger and more complicated than Enda’s. Even the temples and churches in small towns and villages tended to be bigger. Enda’s temple was small enough that she could manage it on her own, and so isolated, located outside the nearest town on the edge of the woods, that someone might wonder whether she had found an old abandoned building and converted it into a temple herself. Not that it was shabby or derelict, but it was intensely private, with none of the trappings or delusions of grandeur most temples held.
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More than once, Fionn had asked why she wouldn't move into a more populated area and devote herself to a more comfortable temple, but she was fiercely dedicated to the place, and refused to entertain the notion of either moving or accepting any additional devotees to help her manage it.
Fionn supposed the goddess Endenreste didn't care either way. Death was everywhere, with its hands in everything. Things were probably going to keep dying with or without grand gestures of worship.
“I swore I’d do anything for you, and I will. But my love, my lady, light of my life— Is it actually you asking? Because, with all due respect, I’m not courting your goddess. What she wants is kind of irrelevant. I want to make you happy.”
“Pleasing her is the only way to please me,” Enda returned. “Endenreste would have you bring her the heads of a thousand different beasts, each of them steeped in magic. That is the boon my goddess asks in exchange for my hand.”
Fionn didn’t see why Enda couldn’t simply hand the temple over to someone else and elope with him, but he refrained from saying so. He had only made that mistake once, early in their relationship. His cheek still stung red from the resounding force of her insulted slap. Asking again would only prompt a lecture on the importance of her dutiful devotion, or, worse, a disappointed sigh.
“A thousand, though. I couldn’t even name a thousand different beasts, with or without magic. Maybe a hundred.”
“They exist,” Enda said evenly. “Size is of no matter. The tiniest insect is as important as the greatest dragon, in Endenreste’s eyes. Bring them to her, and she will deem you worthy.”
“It could take me a year to hunt so many,” Fionn protested, shuffling closer on his knees to take Enda’s hand, fishing it from the depths of her robes. Her skin was cold to the touch; he pressed her hand between both of his to warm it. Her other hand remained atop his pauldron, impossibly pale and delicate against the heavy lines of his armour.
“That is the challenge,” she replied, tolerating his touch without encouraging more. “For you to dedicate yourself to this without tiring, without complaint—that is what will prove your worth. Will you do it?”
“If she wants a thousand heads, she’ll have them. She’ll have a hundred thousand, if that’s what it takes.” Fionn pressed closer still, until he was plastered to her legs like a fawning spaniel to its mistress’s side. “I’ll happily fulfil any quest set to me as long as you’re happy to give me your hand when I succeed. Because I will succeed,” he added, unable to help the boast.
“I wouldn’t have asked her to have you prove your worth if I would not be pleased with the outcome. Sir Fionnobhar, my knight. I know you will succeed in this, because I demand it of you. Will you obey your lady?”
“I’ll obey,” Fionn swore fervently. “I’ll obey—I’ll bend over backwards, I’ll kiss your feet, anything you ask of me, I’ll do it three times over in the hope you’ll bestow on me the faintest smile, the smallest mercy—"
“Your words are pretty,” she interrupted. “But I would have you prove yourself through action.”
He cleared his throat. “Right. Of course, my lady. I’ll let my sword do the talking. But before I go…”
She held back a sigh, her face revealing nothing.
“Might I beg a kiss from you, to steel my heart against the loneliness of the long and listing road ahead?”
Removing her hand from his grasp, she placed it atop his head, over the crest of his helm where the metal was as cool as her skin. Holding him in place with the lightest touch, she leaned forward to press her lips to his forehead, below the ridge of his visor right between his eyes, which fluttered shut in breathless appreciation.
Drawing back, she waited until he met her gaze before intoning, “With this kiss, I bind you to your quest. You are my knight, and mine alone. I will not receive you again until you bring me those thousand heads. And in that time, so I know your loyalty lies with none but me, you shall be no longer Fionnobhar, but only the Black Knight, and your face will be unknown to all you meet. No temptation, no distraction will keep you from your goal or from your path back to me. Knowing this, do you accept my kiss?”
“I do,” Fionn breathed, his face tipped up to her as a flower starving for the sun.
Cold as she was, enshrined to the Fathomless Dark which was even colder and less forgiving of life than any goddess of death, he would be starving for a very long time.
Her second kiss landed on his mouth. Her lips were as cool and dry as the winter sky, but Fionn leaned into that touch as if it were the most nourishing thing in the world. When she released him, she drew his visor down, the cold black metal blocking his face, as it would remain until one thousand magical beasts were slain and brought back to her temple like a bloody banquet for her devouring.
Fionn had slain no small number of monsters in his time. The addition of magic would make this quest a challenge, but no more than the sheer number of heads he was to collect. He would scour the continent from top to bottom and ford every river, carrying their corpses in his bag of holding until he was permitted to see his lady again. Not once did he question Enda’s words, nor why the goddess of death would demand beasts of magic to test him.
Holding onto her hands for as long as he could, Fionn stood from his kneeling position and turned to take his leave. He lingered in her company until finally, he could postpone his departure no longer. He backtracked to the temple’s high, arched stone doorway, at which point he forced himself to face the inevitable, and returned to the world of the living to commence his quest, allowing his beloved priestess to slip from his sight.
Enda watched him go with cold calculation in her gaze. Smoothing out her robes, she brushed away the memory of the knight’s touch from her skin. She was not a creature of sentiment. She hungered not for love, but power. The Black Knight was nothing to her until he returned successful from his hunt.