Page 22 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"Please?"
"A dullahan infant is born with thegun cheannspell etched into the skin of its throat, as the original curse dictated. Do not ask me about the source of the original curse—our race has many different tales to explain it, and none of them match each other. But each dullahan baby must have theColbh Dromarite performed before its twelve-month, or it dies. During that rite, usually performed by a druid, the golden collar is formed. It is magical, so yes, its shape alters as the child grows.
"Dullahan walk the line between Death and Life. Their original purpose was to give humans power, a defense against the wicked attacks of Unseelie Fae. A human could speak a particular spell, perform a blood ritual, and become bound to a specific dullahan or an entire family of dullahan. Then the dullahan would be bound to serve the will of that human. Ideally, a human would use such power to defend their villages and families against terrors like shapeshifters, dark Fae, and the monsters of old. But of course, humans most often use a dullahan against their fellow man, to wreak vengeance or to claim power."
My grip tightened on his hand, but this time he did not stop speaking. "You are going to ask how the collar works. Once someone has bonded to a dullahan like me, they become theCeannaire, the master of that dullahan. When the Ceannaire has a target in mind for death, all they need to do is speak the spell written on the collar, along with the name of the individual to be killed. The order can also be given in writing. The instant I read or hear an order from my Ceannaire, I must carry it out. The change is nearly instantaneous—my skull separates from my body and I must ride to kill. Until the murder is done and the victim's head is removed, I remain headless. Sometimes I meet my Ceannaire in the forest, and they give me a command, or they send a hawk with a strip of paper around its leg."
I interrupted without bothering to squeeze his hand. "Could you simply refuse to meet them, or refuse to open the missives?"
"I cannot. The band around my throat compels me to acknowledge the messages and to do the Ceannaire's will. The longer I am bound to their service, the more difficult it is for me to resist."
"How did it happen? How were you bound to such a person? Who is it?"
"A spell lies upon me that prevents me from saying the name—and even if there were no spell, I would not tell you. The knowledge would put you in too much danger. My Ceannaire would lose everything if sh—if they were discovered—"
I latched onto the half-word he dropped. "You almost saidshe."
"Damn it." He jerked his hand away.
"It's all right. I am not much closer to the discovery. So, if I understand correctly—you do not have a choice when it comes to the killing? You are essentially a slave to this Ceannaire?"
"Yes. Dullahan can speak the spell themselves and perform murders of their own volition, to suit their own ends. But they may not work against the wellbeing of the Ceannaire or their bloodline. So I cannot free myself that way."
"Damn it." I echoed his curse, the words deliciously forbidden on my tongue. "That is what I was going to suggest."
"I would not willingly end any life," he said. "I am not a killer. Not by choice. It is a terrible sorrow, taking a life."
"You are a bondslave yourself." Realization dawned in my mind. "That is why you are determined to serve the medical needs of the slaves. You know how they feel, how they are helpless, trapped by circumstance and by the evil of men."
"No. I may understand some aspects of their plight, but I can never truly understand how they feel. That pain is theirs alone."
His words caused yet another shift in my mind—a new piece of the vista opening up, another truth uncovered. "Of course, you are right. I am sorry—I keep discovering wrong twists in my own thinking, and I have to untangle them."
"What matters is that you learn, and you try." Warmth deepened his tone. "So many people do not even care. But you—you see this evil of slavery for what it is?"
I fumbled for his hand, and he allowed me to recapture it. "Yes. I do. When I come into my inheritance, I plan to free every single soul that my father claims to own."
His fingers pressed mine. "That is a bold statement, Katrina. Do you understand what it will mean for you? The censure you will experience, the impact on your father's holdings?"
"No," I replied truthfully. "I do not understand all of it, not yet. But I know that it is the right thing to do. I am not afraid of working hard with my own hands, or of paying laborers what they deserve. That is what I will do."
"And your partner in this endeavor—will it be one of these suitors you mentioned? Brom Van Brunt, perhaps?"
"No!"
The Horseman chuckled at my decisive answer. "I thought you said he was a friend."
"I am beginning to realize that many of my friends do not share my values of kindness and decency. Brom is cruel. And he is not without guilt for Ichabod's death. Although I suppose I bear a share of the guilt as well."
"You?" The Horseman scoffed. "I do not believe it."
"I was going to try to help Ichabod." My voice dropped to a shaky murmur. "Brom was beating him out of jealousy and spite—but when I approached them, Ichabod was flung against the sharp branch I held, and it pierced his throat. I—I killed him."
"An accident, pure and simple." The Horseman tightened his grip on my fingers. I did not even mind that his palm had become sweaty; the comforting strength of it was the only thing keeping me from bursting into sobs.
"An accident is merely a situation in which someone should have been more careful." I repeated my mother's favorite words. "It is an error that could have been avoided through prudence and diligence."
"That seems a harsh way to live," said the Horseman. "It leaves no room for human frailty, for mistakes."
