The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 27

She shuddered as the reality of that sank in and tried to comfort herself. At least out of all of this, I may yet save Mother.

Back at home in the little cottage nestled at the foot of the hills, Sinead brewed up a strong tea over the hearth, using the lake water, the joyflower and the fever-wort herb.

Her mother was scarcely conscious and it was with difficulty that Sinead managed to trickle a portion of the tea into her mouth.

Then she crawled into a pallet of straw on the floor and fell asleep wondering if all she had done would be enough. What if she had bargained away her life to the creatures of the lake, meadow and wood for nothing?

She awoke early to find her mother's fever-induced sleep had gone in the night, to be replaced by the deeper slumber of true rest. She had pa.s.sed the point of crisis and was on the mend. Sinead rejoiced at the healthy pink glow in the formerly pale cheeks and was relieved on pressing a palm to the lined forehead to find it cool to the touch, the fever fading like the last stars of the night.

Fading stars. Sinead recalled the awful events of the day before, the rash promises she had made. She wondered which magic would come and claim her first that of the lake folk, the Fae of the meadow or the half-beast creatures of the wood.

Reluctantly, fearfully, she stepped out of the cottage and into the grey light of early morning. There was a chill in the air. The gra.s.s under her feet was still heavy with dew and on the horizon a faint tint of rose lightened the sky.

How like yesterday it all seemed! Almost she could believe she had simply dreamed the events of the previous morning and afternoon. Almost she could wish she had.

It was just as the tip of the bright sun appeared over the far treetops that Sinead became aware of the magics. She could not be sure which of them she first sensed.

A great rushing sound, like the roar of a river overflowing its bank, came sweeping down over the hills from the north. It seemed to carry on it the call of the lake folk: a mult.i.tude of watery echoes flooding her way.

Instantaneously, another sort of magic began to well up from the opposite direction. This magic was visible to her eyes as a bright ray of sunlight, a shining, golden stream gleaming over the hilltop and flashing down towards the cottage in the valley. Sinead could almost hear the laughter of the faeries riding on the sunbeam, could almost smell the overpowering scent of meadow flowers and hear the drumming tread of delicate feet pounding out a steady, endless dance of mirth and madness.

And finally, at that very moment, a third magic came pouring towards her from the western hills. This magic took the form, not of a sight or an audible call to her ears, but of a silent urging, a pulsing of the earth beneath her, an insistent tugging of the wind, on which was borne the scent of moss-covered bark, rotting leaves and fertile earth. Sinead had but to close her eyes and she could envision the peaceful clearing with the babbling brook, the soothing shade of the overhead canopy and the strangely compa.s.sionate half-stag awaiting her coming. Oddly, the scene was no longer a dreaded or troubling one.

Onwards all three streams of magic travelled down the hills, racing towards her competing, Sinead imagined, to see which would claim her from the other, for clearly she could not belong to the water, the meadow and the wood.

She could do no more than stand motionless and wait to discover her fate. Running would have been fruitless. Dashing into the frail little cottage? What good could that do? No, she summoned her courage and waited, waited.

They were all but simultaneous, the magics, as they slammed into her. It was impossible to guess which had reached her first. Caught up in the heart of the roaring whirlwind of the clashing powers of lake, meadow and forest, Sinead was knocked to her knees.

The gale whipped her hair into her face, showering her in a hail of forest leaves, of forest sights and scents.

She sensed invisible torrents of water beating at her, tossing her helplessly about like a twig in a stream.

The brightness of the sunlight was blinding, burning, scorching through her.

With angry fury the three magics fought over her, until Sinead thought surely when they were done there would be no sc.r.a.ps of her left for any to have. Perhaps that was their intention?

And then suddenly . . . The storm abated. As swiftly as they had descended upon her the three magics now abandoned their fight. The torrent of lake voices seeped away, back into the northern hills. The bright beams of sunlight faded back to the dull grey of early morning. The powerful gale of forest magic died down to a whisper of a breeze, then swirled away back over the hills to the wood beyond.

At last Sinead was left alone.

Exhausted after the ordeal, it seemed to require a great amount of effort for her to pull herself upright. Yet when she stood and looked down it was to discover herself still very much a living human being. There were no scales or gills, no delicate feet worn frail and b.l.o.o.d.y with endless dancing, no antlers or fur. She had not been transformed into anything mad or grotesque but remained simply . . . herself which suddenly seemed like a very plain thing to be.

Why did none of them take me? I don't understand.

And then, she did. It is left to be mine. My choice. Since none of the magics could prevail they had struck a compromise, had left their victim to choose the manner of her doom.

Yet oddly enough, it hardly felt like any doom at all. Not any more. Her decision was all too easily made.

As she made her way lightly up the hill path towards her destination, she looked ahead to her new life in a different, exciting home. She even found herself envisioning a particular figure awaiting her and felt an unexpected thrill of antic.i.p.ation.

Over the pa.s.sing years, the poor widow living in the little cottage at the foot of the hills found her life markedly improved. Once she had been an impoverished woman. Her health had been poor. She and her only child had dressed shabbily and often gone hungry.

All of that changed the morning she awoke to find her poor young daughter had disappeared, stolen away for ever by some cruel fate.

And yet . . . life suddenly became so much easier once her beloved Sinead was gone. Little piles of food suddenly began appearing on her doorstep at odd hours. Heaps of berries and dry twigs for her fire were often found nearby, left by an invisible hand. Fever-wort was a frequent gift from the widow's mysterious visitors; great bunches of the stuff decorated her windows and grew along the edges of the cottage.

And sometimes . . . sometimes when she rose in the early hours of the morning she would step outside to find two beautiful deer grazing on the dew-soaked gra.s.s at the edge of her garden a mighty stag and a graceful doe. Strangely, from a distance there was something almost . . . human about the pair.

Quicksilver.

Cindy Holby.

Ireland 545.

Conn Daithi ignored the mist that swirled around him and kept on riding. Even though he was well seasoned in the art of war, he knew his sword and shield would not be of much help for him against the undead spirits that hid in the shadows of the fog. 'Twas Samhain and the air around him swirled as the veil between his world and the next threatened to split apart. Those who lingered at the edge were anxious to show their displeasure at the prospect of Christianity coming to their kingdom even though the stones of the abbey at Sligo were only recently placed.

The mountains of Ben Bulbin were long behind him. He made for Imleach Iseal on the coast. He had seen the festival bonfires earlier but they had long since disappeared into the mist. Niul tossed his head as if to shed the water that dampened his dark-as-night coat and Conn placed a rea.s.suring hand against the stallion's neck. They were both weary of travel and of the ceaseless battles that raged across the Isle. Conn wanted nothing more than to escape the demands put upon him by the highest bidder for his sword arm yet he was forever trapped by the sea. He'd lost too many brothers, too many friends and too much time to war. Mayhap here, in this small fishing village, he could find a boat that would take him and Niul away from this place. Mayhap then, he would find some peace.

Conn could smell the sea and he took deep gulping breaths, hoping it would cleanse his lungs of the scents of death. He trusted Niul and gave the horse his head as they picked their way among the boulders that lined the slope between field and sh.o.r.e. As they moved downwards, the mist cleared somewhat, revealing thin lines of clouds that partially shadowed the full moon. Even though the air was chill, his skin felt moist beneath his leather jerkin and linen chainse, as if it were the middle of summer instead of the end of the harvest season. Stranger still, jagged flashes of light danced across the sky even though there was no sign of rain. Conn saw the outline of a tower in the distance.

Tur Ri. The tower was old and legends surrounded it. It was built by the Fomorian king, Conan, who then slaughtered the workers when the task was done. Wars had been raged and the Nemedians had defeated them, but it was said that the Fomorians were once more in possession of the island. There was also talk of a mighty warrior called Balor who could kill just by staring at his opponent with the one eye centred in his forehead. Conn put more trust in his sword than in whispered legends. If someone could kill him with a look he would have been dead long ago.

Niul snorted and jerked against the reins as they reached the packed sand that rolled into the sea. The wind strengthened and swirled about him, tossing his cloak in tandem with the thick mane of Niul. A shiver ran down his spine, a warrior's intuition that he always obeyed. Conn urged Niul into a quick gait and his eyes ran over the sand to see if there were, indeed, a threat.

He saw something rolling in the waves. Niul danced sideways as Conn urged him onwards. He drew his sword from its sheath and held it easily in one hand while he grasped Niul's reins with the other. A wave crashed on to the sh.o.r.e and with it came a body. Conn leaped over Niul's neck and landed in the sand on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet with his sword held before him.

The clouds suddenly parted from the moon and cast light down upon the beach as the waves carried the body back out. Conn waded into the surf and grabbed an arm. As he dragged the victim to sh.o.r.e, he realized that the body was that of a woman. She was completely nude except for her long pale hair, which was the same colour as the moonlight. It tangled about her hips and thighs like seaweed.

Conn buried his sword, point down, into the sand and knelt beside her. He leaned in close to hear her heart beat. She was tall and thin with small b.r.e.a.s.t.s and narrow hips but he paid no mind to her form beyond wanting to know if she was alive or dead. A gasping breath gurgled in her throat, which gave him hope. Conn pulled her up by the shoulders and bent her over his arm before giving her back a sound thump. She gagged and coughed and then spewed forth water from the sea.

"There, la.s.s," he said. "'Twill be better once it is gone."

She nodded as she clung to his arm. Her back was to him, revealing a long k.n.o.bby spine and the definition of her ribs. It was obvious she had not eaten for a good long while. Amidst the tangle of her hair he saw a symbol etched into her shoulder. He pushed her hair aside and examined a double blue triangle formed by three curving lines. He traced it with his fingertip.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and glanced quickly over her shoulder. He caught the flash of her quicksilver eyes and saw the tips of her ears jutting though her hair. In the next moment he was flat on his back, lying in the sand, and the point of his sword was at his throat.

"Sidh." He watched her warily. The Sidh were known for moving quicker than men and being deceptively strong despite their slim and willowy builds. It was the first time he'd ever met one face to face. "Until now, I did not think ye truly existed."

"As ye know what I am, then ye also know that I owe you an allegiance. Ye have saved my life." She knelt before him in the sand with the sword now safely pointed down. "I am Aine. What do you desire?" She kept her head bowed, but her quicksilver eyes looked up at him alluringly and he felt the familiar tightening in his groin. It had been a long time since he enjoyed a woman. A longer time since he'd fallen into a trap. She appeared so regal, alike to a queen, even though her position was submissive and she was clothed in naught but her hair. She stayed her place, waiting for his answer.

"I want my sword back," Conn said and was amused to see a flare of anger light her pale eyes. He held out his hand to help her up as he took his sword from her grip with the other. She put a hand to her head as she stood, looked at him with bewilderment in her quicksilver eyes, and then fainted into his arms.

Aine watched the man through slitted eyes as he placed more driftwood upon the fire. She had fainted. Too long without food or rest had weakened her, just when she needed to be strong. She'd escaped from Tor Inis, had a weapon and a horse at her disposal, along with a strong man that she could enslave, and instead she'd fallen into his arms like a youngling who drank too much mead.

He was handsome in the way of human men. Broader than the Sidh. Nearly as tall. Darker, and definitely more dangerous. His answer to her offering alone was enough to show his intelligence. He also showed kindness she now wore his linen chainse and was wrapped in his cloak. What would a man such as this want?

"Are you hungry?" he asked. He knew she was no longer asleep. She would have to be very careful around this man.

Aine sat up. He had caught a fish and cooked it while she slept. Normally the smell would have awakened her. She must be weaker than she thought. "Once more I am indebted to you," she said as he handed her part of the fish.

He settled back against his saddle and watched her with his dark eyes. His hair was a midnight black, with the straight ends brushing across his wide shoulders. He wore a leather jerkin, which opened against a broad chest and showed long arms bulging with muscle. His nose was proud and straight except for a b.u.mp at the top where it had been broken. His strong jaw showed only a day's growth of beard and a scar marred his left cheek from the corner of his eye to the curve of his chin. Everything about him bespoke a warrior, from the casual closeness of his weapons to the steady perusal of his gaze. He was sizing her up and trying to decide if she would be a friend or foe. His kindness to her could be perceived as a weakness by some. Aine decided to see it as a sign of a sharp mind. Men who overestimated their worth and underestimated hers had suffered greatly for their mistakes. Would he do the same?

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

"By birth or as of late?"

"Of late." He dipped his head to the sea behind her. "How came you to be on this sh.o.r.e?"

"I was held captive on Tor Inis." Aine licked the last of the fish from her fingertips. "By Balor and his minions."

He gazed out at the isle and the lightning that slashed across the sky. She knew Balor would soon find her escaped from the tower. She must be gone from this place before the tide moved out and the pa.s.sage between his isle and this sh.o.r.e was opened. Yet she could not leave until this man released her. She had traded one form of captivity for another.

"You escaped?"

"I threw myself into the sea from the tower," she said. "It was my hope to escape. Or die."

"'Tis the way of most things in this world." He sounded weary and bitter. There were more questions he could ask her, should ask her, yet he did not. Most men would. But then again, most men would have taken advantage of her weakness by now, and then regretted it when they realized her true power.

The fire popped and crackled as a piece of the driftwood split and fell into the coals. The flames shot higher and turned his face into shadows and light as if it were carved of stone. If she were to return to her home world, then she must do it soon, ere the chance would be lost for another year. Not that a year was much to her in this world. Still she had been too long gone and longed to see her people again.

"What is your name?"

"Conn Daithi."

Daithi. An old and proud name. As old as Ireland. "Who do you fight for Conn Daithi?"

"I fight for myself." His eyes were steady upon her, challenging her to say otherwise.

A roar broke the peace of the night and drifted across the water from the isle behind them. "'Tis a good thing then," she said. "As soon enough you will do battle."

Conn heard the war cry as it rolled across the waves. Aine spoke of Balor as her captor. Balor who was a myth, just as the Sidh were a myth. Yet a Sidh sat across from him at the fire. If the Sidh existed then Balor must also. It was the way of things.

He should have left her in the water. Left her to drown. He would be in the village by now, drinking fine mead and eyeing a wench to help pa.s.s the long hours of the night. But alas, he did not, so he picked up his sword and walked to the water's edge.

"Is what they say of him true?"

"'Tis so," she replied.

How did one fight a man who could kill with a look? Conn glanced over his shoulder. She had come to join him, wearing nothing but his chainse. The wind whipped the tail of it across her body, along with her hair. Her pale locks swirled around her as if caught up in a whirlwind. She studied him once more with her quicksilver eyes, taking his measure. For some strange reason he did not want her to find him lacking. Conn flipped his sword around in his hands to loosen his muscles and relax his stance.

"He will come across the pa.s.sage when the tide reveals it." Her voice was steady and calm. "There is still time for you to go on your way."

Her words were like a punch to his gut. "Do ye think me a coward?" Why did he care what she thought?

She kept her eyes on the tower. "Nay, I think this is not your battle to fight."

Conn studied her profile. Her features were pleasant and without defect. Indeed they were most pleasing, yet he preferred his women to be buxom and curved. Still there was something about her. Something that called out to his soul. Something that he had not felt in a very long time. A thing that he thought long gone and lost in the blood of the many battles he had fought. "What does he want with you?"

She shrugged. "What does any man want with a Sidh woman?"

It was long said that if a man could capture a woman of the Sidh then that man would have his heart's desire. There were also stories of men who had attempted to capture a Sidh woman and suffered greatly from the curses the women put upon them. Some had lost their ears, some their eyes, some their sons and daughters, and some their very souls. Who was Balor that he would not suffer thusly?

Conn studied her closely. "If I go what will become of you?"

"He will take me once more to the tower and use me as hostage against my kinsmen. He thinks to have our treasures. He thinks that they are tangible things that he can place in a chest and lock away. He is a fool as most men of your world are."

"Ye do not have a great opinion of the men of this world," he observed.

"The men of your world seek to use me for their own end. And yet here ye stand, one who could have used me dearly in my weakness and chose not too."

"I am not a raper of women, nor am I a thief. I only take what is due me. My wages, some food, and most nights a dry place to pa.s.s the time. I earn my way honestly in all things."

"Ye have honour." She did not question it nor did she seem surprised by it as her earlier words would have led him to believe.

"'Tis all I have to keep me company." He was bitter and his words betrayed his weakness. "'Tis Samhain. Can ye not go back to your world?"

"He holds my key on a chain about his neck. Without it I cannot return."

"I will take you with me."

"He will follow me. If we go to the village he will tear it and the people within it apart to have me. No one around me is safe."

He knew it to be true. He'd seen men and women of power do the same. Was it not the reason he sought peace? He was tired of the senseless killing over the whims of others, especially those who wore the crowns. Was it not the purpose of the kings and queens to care for the people? At least this woman of the Sidh showed compa.s.sion for those who were innocent. She would not bring death and destruction to any village.

She spoke without conceit. She knew her value to Balor who thought she was the way to great treasures. Yet she said there were none. Mayhap Balor did not realize that the woman in herself was the treasure, or could be with tender care.

The wind shifted, a sure sign of the retreating tide. How long until the way was cleared? Long enough for him to think on his life and his mistakes. The woman, Aine, must have cast a spell on him ere he would have left long ago. It was his only reasoning for why he still stood with the surf lapping at his boots while he looked at the lightning that streaked about the tower. Yet she had urged him to go before Balor came on sh.o.r.e. There was something inside him that protested the thought of leaving her to the beast.

"How dost one fight someone who can kill you with a look?"

She gazed at him, her quicksilver eyes once more taking his measure. She tilted her head to the side and smiled. "There is a way but it would mean ye would have to put your trust in me. Do you think ye can do so, Conn Daithi?"

Trust her? He trusted no one. The only thing he had faith in was his horse, his sword and the arm that wielded it.

"Have ye charmed me?" He could not think of a time when she could have unless it was when he first saw her face. Conn closed his eyes as if to look inside his mind for the chains that linked him to her. She shook her head. He was in full control of his senses.

"'Tis your honour that bids you stay, naught else," she said as if she could read his thoughts. "Ye can not leave a woman to fend for herself, even though ye know that I am Sidh. Why is that?"

Her quicksilver eyes searched his face, daring him to let her inside his thoughts. He would not allow it so he turned away from her and once more looked to the isle although he did not see it. What he did see was a horrible memory.

He could still see their bodies and feel the flames. His mother and his two sisters, brutalized before they were thrown into the fire to die. Because there was no man there to defend them. How could this Sidh woman know such things about him, about his past? How could he put such thoughts into words? The memories were too horrible, too near.