Swan Witch

by Betina Lindsey

  Swan Witch

  The Swan Series: Book Two

  Betina Lindsey

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1993 by Betina Lindsey

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition October 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-144-9

  Also by Betina Lindsey

  The Swan Series

  Swan Bride

  Swan Star

  The Serpent Beguiled

  Waltz with the Lady

  For my children, Eowyn, Tessa, Stryder, Ethan, and Shae, that they may keep their hearts open and learn to love more than to fear.

  A special thanks to Stryder for his expertise in all things magick…and to James, a wise soul, and to my parents, Jess and Wanda.

  Let those love now who never loved;

  Let those who have loved love again…

  —Coventry Patmore

  Chapter 1

  In the season of rains, when the rivers of Banba roar past the rocks along their banks and winter-dead leaves swirl away in the rush of sun-lit water, a solitary warrior by the name of Bron mac Llyr traveled westward. His sword arm hung limp at his side wrapped in a swaddling of linen. With but a stump for a hand, he rode to the inner kingdoms in search of the legendary swan sister, Ketha, the only healer in Banba who might restore it.

  The stain of dried blood darkened the gold and silver running border of his sky blue cloak. His long raven hair was braided like that of a king and his emerald eyes held the knowing of the Tuatha de Danann, the people of the goddess Danu.

  Attached to the leathers of his saddle was a shield, dented by the blows of battle and emblazoned with a dolphin leaping the crest of an ocean wave. A harp hung beside the shield. Before the battle at Carrowmore there were few in the Western Isles who would not traverse a league to hear the harper Bron mac Llyr. Now few walked across their own threshold to exchange a common greeting.

  The late afternoon was peaceful enough as he broke from the forest of oak and ash. Ahead rose the circular rath of an ancient stronghold. He had not expected it. He drew up his steed, hesitant to ride into the queer ground mist that seemed to foment from the rath’s moat. The stench of rotting flesh wafted on the breeze. Bron constricted his nostrils and began to breathe through his mouth. His great war-horse, Samisen, snorted, no stranger to the smells of death and battle.

  With his good hand, Bron stroked the horse gently and with a canny eye surveyed the stronghold’s expanse from flagged towers to dry-stone cashels.

  In a low tone he spoke to Samisen. “’Tis a prosperous but dark abode. I would give you your head, but I have no inclination to charge into the unknown. Then again what have we to lose? We have wandered a fortnight in these strange lands without cross-pathing a living soul.”

  Cautiously, he nudged his destrier forward, hearing only the sigh of the wind in the trees and the creaking of his saddle. As he approached the bridge, he reined in, for along the railings like so many apples were piked the decaying heads of men. Ten on first count.

  “Mayhap we have arrived at the kingdom of the dead,” he said as a crook-necked scavenger took wing.

  He swallowed back his distaste, and in a natural reflex the swaddled nub of his arm moved to rest on the hilt of his sword. He winced with the anger and frustration of his own impotency. A moon month had passed since his defeat in the battle of Carrowmore. The wrist wound festered as brightly as the vivid memory of the Fomorian chieftain slicing off his hand. Many times since he’d wished the Fomorian had killed him outright, for a warrior and a harper was better dead than handless.

  A bird’s whilloo from the battlement walk above caused him to look up. He spied no bird, but the slender form of a flame tressed maiden. Her face was in shadow, but the crimson light of the setting sun haloed her hair and figure as if it were afire with netherworld witchery.

  She leaned dangerously over the parapet; never had he seen such a look of deterrence on so beauteous a face.

  Be gone! See your fate! Her mouth did not move nor did a sound pass her lips, but like the unseen wind he was as sure as earth the warning came from the maid.

  Who was she? As Bron stared at her, she met his gaze full force. For the first time in many months, he felt an emotion stirring in him that was not despondence.

  In the same instant a guard bellowed from the barbican. “A welcome to you, traveler. I’ll raise the gate.”

  In the wavering sunlight, Bron pulled his eyes from the maiden to the guard and back again.

  She had disappeared.

  The screak of iron groaned in the air. Bron’s eyes narrowed. Intrigued, he was not so great a fool to rush in.

  “Cross now or never. I have more to do with my day than await your knightly pleasure. My supper grows cold.”

  Still Bron kept his seat, his eyes giving the dry-stone cashels one more swift scan.

  “Be you named Coward Heart?” came the guard’s impatient challenge.

  Bron grinned at the insult though his warrior’s sense shouted that something was amiss here. Still, the mention of supper shifted his wariness. “Nay, friend. I am called Bron, Bron the hungry.”

  The guard laughed. “Enter and be fed, Bron the hungry.”

  Enter and be decapitated, thought Bron more circumspectly. He readily saw that the stronghold gate so quickly lifted to the lone traveler could serve the dual purpose of imprisoning him inside. “May I ask the name of this stronghold and the name of the lord at whose table I might sit?”

  “You can. ’Tis Rath Morna, the abode of Sheelin the Druid.” Bron searched his memory but had not heard of this place or this druid, Sheelin. But then he was not so familiar with the inner kingdoms of Banba for his roots were among the off land isles of the sea. He whispered to his steed, “The choice is yours, Samisen. I’ll rely upon your creature instincts as always. If fortune turns, must needs be we will fly out.”

  The stallion shook its cascading white mane, shuffled backward as its great silver shod hooves thumped indecision on the wood planked bridge. Then, with a confident snort, he arched his head and tail nobly. He trotted forward past the grotesque and gaping heads, beneath the sharp-fanged portcullis and into the stronghold’s center yard.

  Not a second after Samisen’s flowing tail passed, like a rattrap in a peasant’s prison, the portcullis garroted shut. Bron did not look to his back, but composed his features with boldness and faced all watchers gallantly. Indeed, the smithy held his hammer midstrike, the candle maker’s tallow solidified in his ladle, and the children ceased their game of kick gut. Except for the sleeping babes in their mother’s arms every gaze within the stronghold branded him.

  He slipped back the hood of his cloak and announced with a deferring nod, “I am Bron mac Llyr.”

  “Greetings! Bron mac Llyr,” came a commanding, deep voice. Bron’s gaze lifted to a high casement of the keep. “I am Sheelin of Rath Morna.”

  Despite his shocking white hair, Sheelin’s bold-featured face held not a wrinkle of age nor was his pleasant greeting marked in his dark eyes. Bron tightened his lips and inwardly weighed the wisdom of entering the gates of a man whose smile did not reach above his mouth.

  “Honor to you, Sheelin of
Rath Morna,” deferred Bron, bowing his head and touching his breast.

  At that moment a young servant girl ran down the keep’s steps with a bouquet of bittersweet and white roses. After a short curtsy on tiptoe she presented the flowers to Bron, which he took in his good hand.

  “We are in need of new diversion at Rath Morna. My castle is yours, Bron mac Llyr. Let it never be said I am an ungenerous host. Stable his horse, Coup,” Sheelin ordered, his voice echoing clearly in the stiff silence of the center yard. “Enter, and be welcomed.”

  The druid’s silk capped head disappeared within the keep. The gateman hastened forward and reached for Samisen’s gold bridle.

  Still silent, all watched Bron mac Llyr. The servant girl swatted at flies, but mainly like everyone else she waited to see what he might do. Bron rubbed the stubble of his beard consideringly. Then he spoke to the gateman. “First, I will see to my mount myself.”

  “As you please, milord.” Coup stepped back affably.

  Bron slipped down off Samisen and without need of lead reins the horse followed him as he in turn followed the gateman. “So you are called Coup.”

  “Aye, Coup de Grace.”

  Bron smiled, then sobered. “Then ’tis your handiwork I saw displayed on the bridge pikes.”

  “’Tis.”

  “What was their crime?”

  “The crime of folly.”

  “Do not all men share in this crime? Why then is folly punishable by death at Rath Morna?”

  “You have not heard about the proclamation?”

  “Nay, I am a stranger to these lands.”

  “Hah and ha-ha!” Laughter shook his barrel chest. “Our friendship shall be short. ’Tis too late for you. You enter our gates more the fool of folly than the poor devils who greeted you on the bridge.”

  “Pray, can you not make a fool like myself the wiser, before you sever my neck and chin?”

  “I might, then I might not. What profit to me if I make you the wiser?”

  “If you think to inherit my fine destrier upon my death, think again. ’Tis Sheelin the Druid who will take possession of so rare a beast.” Bron knew anyone with two eyes might see that Samisen was a faerie horse of the Tuatha de Danann. He was a rare breed of horse—fleet as the wind, with the arched neck and the broad chest and the quivering nostrils, and the large eyes that showed he was made of fire and flame, and not of dull heavy earth.

  Coup scratched his bearded jaw. “Aye, you speak true. Be sure, I am not greedy, but a man does what he must to earn his way. What else have you to barter for a bit of information?”

  “Naught, for as you see my sword hand is severed.”

  “What of this harp?”

  “Mayhap I can play you half a song…but only half, friend. If oft time you go a courting I can teach you a song which will win a maiden’s love.”

  “I have no voice for it.”

  “You need not sing. Merely spoken, the verse will melt even the coldest maiden’s heart.”

  “Truth?”

  “Truth!”

  “There is a woman…She will not have me near her. She says I stink of death. But I have been thinking of retirement and would fancy being tended in my old age. By dung! ’Tis a trade—my words for yours.”

  “Then speak, man, if my life is short I’ll not waste the moment more. Tell me of this proclamation.”

  “Sheelin has a daughter. Eithne is as clever a witch as she is beautiful—and that is saying a great amount for she is one of the fairest who has walked the earth. He has proclaimed that any man who can answer in truth a question Eithne will ask, and will ask a question she can in truth answer, should have her for his bride along with treasures beyond imaginings.”

  “That does not seem so difficult.”

  “Not to the fool of folly. But, my foolish friend, Eithne is mute. She does not speak.”

  “I see.” Now it was Bron who scratched his chin. “Is it too late to turn back?” he asked, challenged by this paradox.

  “For a knight like yourself, once you crossed that bridge, the only way out of Rath Morna is the chopping axe.”

  “So I must make the mute maiden speak if I am to live.”

  “Take heart,” said Coup as he slapped Bron good-naturedly on the shoulder. “For seven days and seven nights you will live as a king. All at Rath Morna will be at your disposal.”

  “And then…”

  A compassionate twinkle lit Coup’s dark eyes. “For a friend, I will hone my axe mercifully sharp!”

  Her teeth clenched with rage, Eithne peered over the stone wall and glared down at the stranger in the center yard. Would it never stop? How many more heads would roll at her feet before this nightmare ended?

  Tears stung her eyes. Her slim fingers dug into the stone and her knuckles whitened. No matter the consequence, prince and peasant, vagabond and tramp one by one still came to Rath Morna to cross the “bridge of buzzards” for that is what it was called now. What kept them coming? None loved her. None even knew her. The promise of riches then? Nay, her father lied. He would never part with a tittle of his great wealth nor let her loose from his sorcery—of course the fools did not know this.

  She watched while the snowy steed dipped its head proudly and its master rode straight backed with eye-fixing presence. She listened as Sheelin greeted him with all the cunning of a buttery-tongued dragon to his lair. She cried silent tears as the raven haired knight bent to take the proffered bouquet from the gentle child, Gilly.

  Would the man ever come who could match Sheelin? The one man who was different, the way gold is from bronze, or diamonds from glass shards? She picked out details—the fall of his fine black hair over tarnished chest armor. The neatly swathed hand and darned leggings. He appeared cleanly, at least. Her probing gaze moved to the ornately carved harp hanging against the horse’s well-groomed white coat. He must have a talent, she decided.

  Aye, it had all happened before. She’d met each suitor with fierce resistance. Resourcefully, she’d single-handedly thwarted their advances. But it was always the same ending, one which haunted her dreams and tormented her waking hours.

  She could watch no more! She turned away, feeling as if she were drowning in his blood already. Whoever he was, he needed no more misfortune in his life. Why had he not heeded her warning?

  Down the tower stairs she stumbled, down through a door which opened into a maze of foundation passages. At last she reached the drain tunnel to the outer walls. On hands and knees she crawled through the dark channel and along the vine overgrown bank beneath the arched shelter of the bridge. Her heart bursting with misery she coiled her arms around her knees and rocked to and fro.

  “Begobs, gurrul, pwhat ye twitching about?” gargled a small voice. A gangling body emerged fully from an oozing sinkhole at the moat’s edge.

  Eithne lifted her head and attempted to wipe her tear sodden face but only succeeded in smearing mud moss over her cheeks. As was her gift to use when she chose, she opened her thoughts to him. Beway, Gibbers, I can’t bear it!

  “Pwhat is beyant bearing?”

  Her wretched eyes looked into his own boggish grimace.

  More than you, a swamp beast, will ever know.

  The translucent skin of his second eyelid glazed his gob green orbs and his lipless mouth cracked wide with morbidity. His pointed ears twitched and his skinny limbs curled around his distended belly with cloying interest.

  “Begorrah, another divil’s a cumm!” He chuckled with an ogre’s delight. “It’s beyant my understandin’. They be all fools a wantin’ wan woman whin the worruld is full o’ thim. Tell me yer throubles, gurrul. I like to hear thim.”

  Indeed you do. ’Tis not your scaled body their grasping hands paw with lust. ’Tis not your throat they choke in shaking you to speech. Nor is it your eyes they implore or your face they last see at the chopping block.

  “Thrue, but I wish it were.” He grinned salaciously.

  You little demon. You feed upon my misery like
a perverted green glutton and then you gossip about the countryside to any snail or slug who passes.

  “Don’t be shh…notty,” he sniveled. “Fer sartain no other cares a twat about you. Who else will hear yer throubles as I. Who else? Whoooo? Whoooooo?” he taunted, and flapped his stringy arms.

  No one, thought Eithne with heart dragging resignation. Since childhood, when her mother disappeared, she’d always come beneath the bridge to Gibbers. He might be spiteful, cold-blooded, and a gross gossip, but he was there.

  “Blathers…shpeak to me of this vagabone. The weight of his shtallion shook the boards of my bridge.”

  ’Tis no wonder for it is an uncommonly great beast and he sits upon its back with more arrogance than all the others put together. By gesture and voice he is highborn, but not highborn enough for me.

  “Musha, the Dagda himself would not be highborn enough fer ye. But I care not. Pwhat of his nilly noggin? How will his head beset my bridge?”

  Mayhap this one is too handsome for your bridge.

  “He’s not redheaded, is hee? Presarve us from babby faced redheads.”

  He’s neither, you bog child. He wears his raven locks in the long braids of a prince and warrior. He’s tall, with eyes as sharp as a Drusheen raptor and shoulders wide enough to turn the hearts o’ half the women in Banba. He is called Bron mac Llyr and bears the emblems of a sea isle clan. Eithne surprised even herself with her vehemence in praising him.

  “Will you be shweet with him this night?” he asked, leering. “Or make him dance with brimstone as you av’ the others?”

  You needn’t speculate. I will do what I must do. He’ll be no exception. The moat mist licked her toes and for a moment she yearned to be as the mist, without form, without mind, without heart. If only it could be different this one time.

  “Be sartain, in the end Sheelin will grab yer voice and the seycrets of yer powers. Yer mother cud not win against him nor cun ye.”