“It was twilight on the seventh day. The battle had been won by my people, the Tuatha de Danann, and the Fomorians were in retreat. ’Tis my task as a harper to walk the battlefield playing the coronach or spirit-call to the souls of my dead clansmen. In this way all find safe return to the faraway isles where they spend their next existence in peace and abundance.”
His hands felt warm on Eithne’s shoulders. The contact had seemed almost reluctant affection and gave her a sensation of light-headedness that she made a concentrated effort not to show.
“Of the thousands of bodies strewn over the landscape most were dead, but I heard moaning. My search took me to the edge of the battlefield. There I knelt down to hold the head of one dying youth. His golden hair was clotted with his own blood. He was of the sea clans. I spoke a hoarse ‘fare-thee-well and be proud’ and invoked him to let loose his spirit and return home. He died. I turned his body to the direction of the western sea and I slipped my cloak off my shoulders and covered him.”
The sorrow in Bron’s voice brought a swelling to Eithne’s own throat. She wondered why men fought such battles and over what? But she did not ask.
He continued, “I picked up my harp again. Nearby I could see shadows and hear movement in the fallen leaves. I peered through the closely woven branches, but could only make out vague shapes. That instant, I was hit from behind and when I regained my wits, I was on my knees surrounded by gibbering, squealing, Fomorian warriors. Looking up, I faced their chieftain in his battle chariot.
“He glared at me from an enormous eye. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a garbled voice. I dared not tell him for if he knew my lineage I would be killed at once. I kept my mouth shut. ’Twas my misfortune to cross-path with them as they fled. Even as we spoke, they surveyed the battlefield from fear of pursuit. ’Twas plain the chieftain sought one last revenge and ’twould be my head…until he saw the harp. The Fomorian are a bloodless race and have no continuity or life after death.
“With a single command from him, my arm was held out. Yelling out an exultant cry, his sword came down and sliced off my hand.”
Bron’s voice halted.
Eithne winced inwardly at the cruelty of the Fomorian’s deed. She turned over, gently touched Bron’s sword hand, and looked up at him. His unfocused eyes glistened with moisture. She did not know what to do…but instinctively she reached for him.
When Eithne’s arms encircled Bron, he became suddenly aware that he had held his shock and his grief inside all this time. He had needed to tell this story to someone. Contact with her body relaxed him and brought about a surrender within him that was long overdue. Feelings had been tapped inside him that he had spent months trying to suppress. The hideous visions of what he’d experienced in battle were revealed and released. He buried his face into the cloud of her hair and allowed the tears of deeper emotion to flow. Whoever or whatever she was, she was there. The slow rise and fall of her breathing, the beating of her heart all washed over and enfolded him like a golden net from the sea.
Chapter 5
Eithne woke to whistling, directly in her left ear. The sound was lilting and lighthearted. She cracked open her eyes. The room danced with morning sun. All came back to her as she found herself curled on her side and pillowed on the arm of Bron mac Llyr. Embarrassingly, one of her legs was looped between his own.
“A new day to you, milady,” he said with a lopsided smile that was just sardonic enough to disarm her.
Her first inclination was to jump up, but the chamber was chilly and beneath the blanket his body radiated warmth. Even so, she withdrew her leg. Now, the only trace of the black wolf was the mussed up tangle of his long dark hair. It was queer to be sleeping beside the same man who had almost shredded her to bits a few hours before and then confessed his innermost wounds.
“How is your head?” he asked in a tone of genuine concern.
She reached up, gingerly touched the lump on the back of her head, and grimaced.
“Aye, ’twill be sore.” His arm shifted and his fingers patted her hair gently. She felt his sincerity, a rare commodity at Rath Morna.
“We best be awake and at it, milady.” He carefully slipped his arm from beneath her head and sat up. She watched as he shook his hair off his shoulders and winged his muscled arms to wakefulness. “Have you a hairbrush?”
She nodded and moved her gaze to the small dressing table in one corner of the room. If he had one vanity, she realized it must be his hair.
He crossed the room.
He picked up the hairbrush, but paused, and studied curiously the various vials and bottles on the dressing table. He took the glass stopper from a vile of scent and sniffed. His dark brows lifted with approval and he dabbed some on the hollow of his throat.
Eithne could not help but smile. The sweet fragrance was one that markedly attracted bees, butterflies, and woodland fairy folk. She dared not wear it out-of-doors.
Finally, he sat on the single stool and unwound his braid slowly, pulling the brush through his hair with irritated strokes.
Eithne took pity on him and came to her feet. She crossed over to him and put a halting hand upon his own. He looked up at her, reading the unspoken offer in her eyes and gave up the hairbrush readily.
“Aye, ’tis a woman’s touch it needs. I would long ago have cut it, but the men of my clan wear their hair thus.”
The braid had set waves in his hair and as she combed it out it clicked and sparked. Something inside her clicked and sparked as well. His nearness became as beckoning as a half-heard call. A connective current danced over the hairbrush and across her fingers. With supreme difficulty she managed to keep on the task, loving the feel of his silky hair. Her own hair was unruly with curl and more nearing the texture of a pony’s mane.
Patiently, she smoothed out the tangles. She gave him more attention than she needed to. Almost playfully, she ran her hand under his hair and wound its raven flow around her wrist, then opened her hand and let it fall in cascading waves to dust the floor.
Carefully, she divided his hair into three thick strands and began to plait. Then her hands bound the ends with a leather thong. A sign she’d completed her task, she snapped the length of his thick braid like a whip against his back.
“Arrah.” He laughed. “You’ll not strangle me with my own hair I hope.” He looked up at her flirtatiously and let flash his white teeth in a warming smile.
He might be immune to her kiss, but she was not immune to his charm. She turned away and raised the hairbrush to her own hair. She felt a halting hand upon her own.
“Milady, can I repay the favor?”
His fingers cupped her hand a long moment. With a half-headed nod she relinquished the hairbrush to his hold. He stood and moved behind her. The instant he touched the strands of her hair something shocked through her. Gently, he brushed, taking more care than a doting nanny.
“’Tis a fiery mass you wear upon your head. I fear just touching you will set me aflame.” He had pulled back her hair on one side and leaned to speak these words in her ear. The heat of his breath caused her skin to tingle and fluttery sensations to whirl in her stomach. She was the one aflame and had been since first she set eyes on him. He drew away and let loose her hair. It fell and splayed over her shoulders and down past her waist. She was not ready for him to be finished.
He had gone to the window and opened it. He leaned out saying, “There is nothing like a spring morning to fill a man with life and wonder.” Then he turned around. “If you are the one to provide for my needs…my need at this moment is food. But only under stipulation that I will see it prepared from scratch even if I must crack the eggs and knead the bread myself. Please lead me to the kitchens, milady.”
She studied him, her eyes narrowed cannily. Why would he say this unless he could see through Sheelin’s illusions? Light raining down upon him, he returned her probing gaze with an affable smile. He was indeed, handsome, but there was more to him than bold good looks. The darkness t
hat permeated everything at Rath Morna somehow did not touch him. Something about him, she could not quite put her finger on it, was immune.
Aye, it was a new day and a new adventure. She would take him to the kitchens. She bid him to follow with a curt wave of her hand.
He followed, a lilting tune upon his lips as she pulled open the great oak door and led him down the spiraling stairs, through the deserted feast hall and out into the yard. Softly whistling, he followed beneath the connecting stone arches of the inner bailey toward the brewery house.
The kitchen and storage buildings were situated beside the brewery house and linked to the banquet hall by an underground tunnel. She pushed on the door and cracked it only enough to spy the hairy flank of a fat sow blocking the entrance. Twice she pushed on the door, but could not budge it or the sow.
“Allow me, milady,” offered Mac Llyr. He stepped forward and thrust full force a broad shoulder against the door. Eithne heard the disgruntled snort of the sow as the door yawned open. Dislocated piglets scurried between her feet. Bron muttered something about his breakfast escaping right before his eyes.
Despite herself, Eithne smiled. He returned the smile and bowed gallantly, while she stepped through the doorway. “We have breached the wicket and rousted the bacon.”
The kitchens were deserted and less than tidy. In truth, it appeared more the barnyard than the kitchen. Chickens roosted in cupboards, mouse tracks dusted the work surfaces, and ants trooped across the chopping block. Eithne poked through wilted greens and fruit rotting in baskets, her nostrils pinched with disgust. In the end, it came to sifting weevils from flour and stealing eggs from a hen’s nest in the hearth pot.
“I would help, if you but show me what to do,” he offered. Obliging, Eithne plopped the dough in front of him and pointed. “And what am I to do with it?”
Of course he knew what he was to do with it! Eithne wriggled her fingers motioning that he should knead it.
“Ah,” he said, mimicking a dull wit. “You wish me to knead it. Why didn’t you just say so?”
Not amused, she turned away from him and began cracking eggs. But such a ruckus of pounding and thumping caused her to turn back.
The air clouded with flour dust as he vigorously kneaded the dough. He looked a graybeard. Eithne pinched her lips together squelching her mirth.
His eyes sparkled with tease. He picked up a handful of flour and puffed it right into her face.
She sneezed.
He laughed. “Among the sea clans sneezing is a favorable omen. It means your just due will come to you.”
Aye, she thought, and your just due will come to you, sea clansman. Caught in the playfulness of the moment, she threw an egg at him. It splatted right in the middle of his forehead, trickling down his face.
Now it was she whose lips stretched wide in smile. He clowned for her, rubbing the dough and egg about his face. He growled and sputtered like the Fir Darrig in her father’s Unseelie Court.
It felt good to smile. She could not remember when last she had truly smiled. He began throwing dough globs at her, which she caught and threw at him. He darted back and forth toward her with the mock ferociousness of a snarling wolf until she felt laughter rising in her belly.
“Have you had enough?” he asked jauntily.
She shook her head, her lips parted— And then, just as swiftly she clamped her hand over her mouth. She’d nearly spoken! He had taken her off guard. Her eyes met his. In the long moment she saw his delight and glimpsed something more…
It had been so long…so long since she’d gazed into eyes that looked back. Was that why he was different from all the others?
He had continuity! He had said it himself the night before when he spoke of the bloodless Fomorians. Like those creatures, no one at Rath Morna had a soul. All were illusions. All were her father’s illusions…perversions of his own twistedness. It made her heart sick to think of it.
“Milady? You are as wide-eyed as an owl at midnight. Is something wrong?” He stepped closer.
Eithne blinked once, then twice. And slowly shook her head wonderingly.
He reached, and with a single finger gently dusted the flour off the tip of her nose. He then leaned near and kissed the shined nub. It was a call for her attention. But her attention was in unraveling this puzzle. Why hadn’t she seen the difference in the feast hall when she kissed him? Why hadn’t she realized before?
“Milady?” Bron inquired again.
She focused her eyes fully on him.
Taking her hand he said, “Come, a meal here is not likely. I think we would do well to wash ourselves beyond the cashel walls and fend off the land. Show me your escape route from this prison. Surely you have one better than that little troll’s sinkhole.”
Eithne nodded, her eyes still delving his own.
“Lead on!” he rousted, putting his hands about her waist and abruptly facing her forward.
A thousand quandaries danced on the periphery of Bron’s mind. He was not a man to play games, but he had now stepped into the most intriguing game of his life. Before him walked the woman of his dreams and that was exactly what she was…a dream, an illusion. After last night he could not doubt it. A mortal woman could not display such tricks. Mayhap he’d a weakness for nymphs, enchantresses, and witches.
He followed the apparition of his ideal through the cashel yard, down into the maze of lower dungeons of Rath Morna. He crawled behind her through a drain tunnel leading to the outer walls. Wiping the mud off his knees, he came to his feet on the banks of the moat.
Eerie mists shrouded the true brightness of the day. The buzzards on the bridge cawed and wing-flapped to flight. She lifted her skirts, a bare dainty foot peeked out, and before it disappeared into the murk, Bron glimpsed a skin of webbing between her toes. He’d not noticed this before—a freakish flaw was ever the giveaway of a witch. He paused and ruminated upon this discovery. Last night had been but a glimpse of the many guises she might take.
Something large and slithery passed through the greenish sludge, and Bron wondered if she could be of the same spawn. His ardor slightly dampened, he swallowed his disgust. He waded in, crossed the moat, and climbed up after her into a mist-free landscape.
For the first time since his arrival at Rath Morna he breathed deeply, fully, and cleanly. Here the air was fragrant with spring and dewy morning.
To his relief she let her skirts drop, covering lithe, long legs. She hastened the pace. His boots sloshing, he matched her stride, stealing sidelong glances. She seemed to have quite the mind of her own. That she could not speak proved in his favor…or did it? He had felt the impact of her emotions and he could read her temper in the color of her changeling eyes.
Aye, she could be dangerous, he mused inwardly. Aye, but not as dangerous as he.
A brisk breeze whipped her skirts and free flying hair. Gray wing clouds flew on the horizon alerting Bron to the fickleness of the spring weather. Ahead, great stones rose up and captured Bron’s full attention. He slowed, letting his gaze study the tall dolmens that stood on the heath like a circle of giant’s teeth. ’Twas a holy henge. Such places were worshiped as hallowed ground by his own people.
He continued to follow Eithne as she threaded through the henge. He stooped to pass beneath the capstone lintels which linked the tall dolmens of this ancient site. Just beyond, he heard the splash of ducks taking flight from water.
She cast a glance over her shoulder and gestured to a small pond. He came beside her. On the tranquil silver water-mirror a mother duck and her new hatchlings paddled about on a morning outing. Along the banks lapwings and swifts perched on swaying reeds, chattering encouragingly.
Eithne stepped behind the fern cover in a shady copse and began taking off her clothing. He lowered his eyes, aggravated at his own response to her beauty. Walking away, he took a seat on a boulder. He pulled off his own boots, one by one, and let the green swamp water drizzle out. Through the clarity of the water he could see fish darting
across the pond’s bottom. Catching fish barehanded was a skill he perfected during his sojourn with Sarenn beneath the sea…though he’d never tried it one-handed. That would be his challenge of the day.
He lifted his head and his gaze strayed to Eithne. She undressed as easily as if she were a sea snake shedding scales…mayhap she was. Yet, with womanly grace she stretched her arms skyward and gave a freeing sigh. Her red hair gleamed like polished copper and her fair skin glowed golden.
She stepped into the pond like a selkie into the sea. He knew beneath the illusion she must be water beast or fairy…no matter she was full of mischief and even treachery. Her head turned to him and her eyes flashed an undeniable invitation…an arrow of seduction, one aimed not to his heart, but well beneath.
Now, he thought. Now was the time to expose her. Now was the time he should break the veil of illusion. Yet, all he wanted to see was the perfect curve of her smooth hips, the flowing arch of her neck, and the dusty rose of her lips. Again, for reasons dark and light, he chose not to see past that. He looked instead down, seeing the illusion of wholeness of his sword hand which held form even beyond the sorcery of Rath Morna. And he knew the illusion held because he chose it to be so. And for now he would see Eithne as she was this moment…a beautiful woman, one he desired. Between one breath and the next, he surrendered to his own loneliness, his own need to love and his own woundedness that yearned for healing.
’Twas midday when Eithne walked up the mossy bank to where Bron roasted a thornback toadfish on a smoldering alderwood fire. The smell filled her nostrils, but she was not tempted in the least because she was not a meat eater. During her swim she’d satisfied her hunger by eating watercress and she’d munched on wild asparagus growing along the shore while watching Mac Llyr attempt to catch a fish single-handedly. When at last he did, she applauded happily. He’d persevered and succeeded. She admired this…she admired him.
Swan Witch Page 5