White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “It passes, Derina.”

  “It doona pass.”

  “It passes,” he said firmly.

  “What passes?” the princess prompted, wanting to know all. “Are you sick?”

  “I have been cut with a dagger,” he replied, “and my head aches.”

  “The Darkshade simmers your blood in the olden ways. It will only get worse.”

  He glared at the druidess. “Be silent, Derina.”

  “The princess needs to know so she may help.”

  It was hopeless, he realized.

  “Know what?” asked the princess, looking between him and the meddling one.

  “I speak of an evil enchantment from the long-ago times, affecting the guardian born,” the druidess said.

  “I am not guardian born,” he argued uselessly.

  They ignored him.

  “You speak of the dagger?” the princess asked, a deeper understanding lighting her lovely eyes.

  He had no desire for her to know anything more about him. “Derina, enough of the dagger. We have other things of importance this day.” He turned to the north, to the great expanse of ancient woodlands and mist. Sanctuary waited for them.

  “Derina, listen to me. If I can get you to the nematon, can you lead the children to our fey kin?”

  The holy well resided in the nematon, a circular clearing of divine and earthly union. Surrounded by a thorn thicket and boulders, the stone well was located in the woodlands, not far from where they were. The sacred place resided deep in the well providing an entranceway to the Otherworld. All waters, from a trickle in a stone crevice to a sacred loch, were entranceways, if one were born of the fey.

  “Boyden, you must listen to me. We must find the herbs to heal you.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, Derina, there be little time. Our enemy pursues us still. We must make haste and get the children to safety.”

  “You should have kept the horses then,” the princess complained. “The captain will.”

  He attempted to pull her forward but she planted her feet, refusing to go anywhere.

  “Scota, doona make me carry you.”

  “I do not mean to be carried but simply heard.”

  “I doona have time to argue with you,” he said.

  “Make it then.”

  He showed his annoyance with a tick in his jaw.

  She showed her annoyance with a loud sigh, but continued with what she intended to say. “The captain pursues you and the children so keenly because he wants me. Release me, Boyden. I vow I will not speak of the direction you take.”

  “You expect me to trust you?” he muttered incredulously.

  “I give you my word.”

  He gestured for the druidess and children to walk down the steep hill leading into a denser pocket of trees. “What worth is an enemy’s word?” he propelled her forward.

  “My word is my oath,” she said, trying to wrench free.

  He gave her a warning shake, and held firm to her arm. “That may be, Scota, but I willna risk the lives of the druidess and the children. The captain pursues us so intently because he wants me, not you.”

  “Nonsense,” she remarked.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” she said, almost too vehemently.

  He managed a wry smile and suspected she did not fully believe her own words.

  The druidess and children were already several horse lengths ahead, climbing between black roots the size of men, and creating their own path. The ancient one appeared surprisingly agile beside the children, and he once again reminded himself of her fey born heritage. Her aging years were not the same as a mortal’s, no matter how old she looked or pretended to be.

  The princess tugged at her arm, seeking release. “Let me go, Boyden. If you release me, I will lead the captain and his men in another direction.”

  “Why did you not escape when I went to comfort Nora?”

  Fury flashed in her eyes.

  “No answer?” he smiled smugly. “You like me.”

  “You are mad.”

  “Eventually.”

  “Let go of me!”

  “The captain has only one need grinding a hole inside him, Scota. It is greed and lust for power. He believes I am one of the fey born and can take him to a great treasure.”

  “I know that. I can dissuade him.”

  “Methinks not, Scota. He offered you to me as a reward if I would speak of the treasure’s location. He shows no respect for you.”

  She showed her shock. “That greedy bastard would not dare.”

  “I see you doona call me a liar. You believe me then.”

  “Of course, I believe you. That useless …” Her mouth snapped shut and she stared at him with a creased frown.

  He regarded her back just as steadily. “It says something when you believe the word of an enemy over that of one of your own.”

  Her lips thinned, but she did not voice an objection to his observation.

  “It seems we are in agreement.”

  “We will never be in agreement,” she spat.

  “Step over that root and watch your head, the branch is low.”

  He climbed over the root with her and avoided the gray vines.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  “Into the woods.”

  “I do not wish to go.”

  “Your wishes are of little concern to me.”

  She gave another tug. “Why have your eyes not changed back to the color of gray?”

  “Why have you noticed the color of my eyes?”

  “Answer me,” she commanded, a princess showing her true form.

  “What color are they now?” he asked, half-afraid to hear.

  She looked into his eyes, her gaze pausing, and Boyden felt caught in the allure of her.

  “They are the color of twilight, purple with flecks of gold,” she grumbled, but he could detect a small awe in her voice.

  He nodded, looking away. The fey marker of his birth now showed constant in his eyes, permanence he did not need or understand.

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  Beneath the woolen sleeve of her shirt, the muscles in her arm tensed.

  “Step over the roots.” He gestured for her to watch where she walked and guided her around a thick-trunked yew, yellow flowers peeking out from among the ground moss.

  “Are you going to answer my question, Boyden?”

  “Nay.”

  “Are you one of those fey born creatures?”

  He looked sideways at her.

  “Well, are you?” she prompted.

  “If I answer, will you be quiet?”

  She nodded.

  “I am not fey born.”

  “What are you, then? Never have I seen eyes this color.”

  Taking her had definitely been a mistake, he decided. “The amethyst shade be a fey hue of what resides in my blood,” he replied, unwilling to share more.

  “The blood threads of the wind guardians …” she murmured, “… that is why your eyes changed to twilight gold.”

  She was too quick. “Leave it be, Scota.”

  But he knew she would not. This one was too inquisitive, too full of life.

  He watched her study the children walking in front of them, the boy holding his sister’s hand in guidance and support.

  “The children are fey born,” she murmured.

  “Nay,” he replied.

  “Nay?” she mimicked his inflection. “Not the sightless crone?” she said with hushed skepticism, looking at him with wide eyes.

  He did not think Derina would like being called a sightless crone. “Derina is a druidess, one of our wise women.”

  “Is she?”

  He pretended not to hear her, and she exhaled loudly.

  “Is she fey born, Boyden?”

  “Aye, she is fey born.”

  She continued to watch him, and he knew he would have no peace unless he explained what he wished not to ex
plain.

  “The children and I are one of the idir, the between.”

  “What does between mean?”

  “We have the blood threads of the fey in our blood. We stand between the worlds of both mortal and fey …”

  “… as you soon will be,” the druidess said from up ahead.

  Boyden looked toward the druidess, brown robes held high over skinny white legs. “Derina hears in the ways of our fey brethren, exceedingly well.”

  “She heard everything we said?” the princess lowered her voice.

  “Aye,” the ancient replied, not even looking back at them. Her voice was soft, but it carried clearly in the cool silence of the woodlands.

  “I am Milesian,” Scota said tersely.

  “It matters not,” the old woman replied. “You walk this land now and the wind accepts you.”

  “Enough, Derina. Keep walking.”

  Lovely turquoise eyes turned to him for answers. “What does she mean by that?”

  He shrugged, not understanding or liking Derina’s words, either.

  In the archaic tree shadows and the multifaceted reality of her existence, the Gaoth Shee followed, silvery whispers touching branches and fluttery leaves—waiting.

  CHAPTER 6

  THEY WALKED THE REMAINDER OF the long day into night shadow and isolation, a constant progression into thick mist. The trunks and branches of the large trees about them were covered in creeping moss.

  Blackness flanked them. Sounds were muffled and strangely close. Scota could not see a thing, not even her hands in front of her face.

  “We rest here,” the warrior said, a moving shade beside her. He left her alone, giving aid and direction to Derina and the children. She dropped wearily to her knees in the soft muck. Even if she wished to escape, which she did, she could not muster the strength or risk running headlong into a tree or a ditch. Hungry and chilled, she felt lost in a strange land of seeping night.

  “Get up.”

  He grabbed her bound wrists, pulled her to her feet, and guided her forward.

  “I can not see.” She balked.

  “I can. Sit here.” He pushed her down, her thigh resting against a tree root. A cool breeze rustled the leaves, and Scota shivered.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Liar.” He settled down behind her, and she stiffened.

  A powerful arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her back.

  She elbowed him in the stomach. “Let go of me.”

  Her back hit the ground, and a heavy weight settled atop her.

  She could not see his face, only the glint of angry shards of gold. He held her arms above her head, warm breath puffing alongside her cheek and temple.

  She tried to butt him with her forehead, but he sensed her intent and grabbed a handful of hair, staying her.

  Breathing furiously, she waited.

  Boyden held her under him, determined not to hurt her. His impulse was to kiss her into submission, but the pain raking his blood stole all purpose.

  “Scota, listen to me well. I am tired, ill-tempered, and wish to seek my rest. The children and druidess sleep close together, sharing their heat as I am offering to share my heat with you.”

  She shifted under him, and he moved his hips away, conscious of her every curve.

  “Why would you offer to share your body’s heat with me?” she asked.

  “You are shivering.” A simple answer, he gave her.

  “I am enemy.”

  True. “You are my responsibility.”

  “A strange captor you are,” she whispered.

  “Or I can tie you to a tree while I sleep. Your choice.”

  “I do not sleep well when tied to a tree.”

  “Neither would I. Do I have your word that you willna elbow me in the stomach or escape?”

  “I give you my word I will not escape this night. I can not control what I do in my sleep.”

  “Fair enough.” With a hand remaining on her arm, he easily moved around her. “We can fit between the roots if you press back into me.”

  She scooted back, the curve of her bottom fitting snugly against his hips.

  “A strange captive you make,” he said softly. “Put your head down.”

  She did as he requested, and his arm came to rest in the curve of her waist. He pushed several of her hairs off his chin.

  “You tremble.” He pulled her back into him and in a few moments, her shaking stopped.

  “My thanks for sharing your heat,” she murmured tiredly.

  He said not a word and closed his eyes. His mind and body were worn out from the Darkshade and hard travel. Moments later, he slipped into a light sleep.

  Scota remained awake long after, listening to his breathing and wondering at the unexpected offering of warmth from her enemy.

  In the late afternoon of the next day, Scota continued to ponder the actions of her brooding captor. She lay on her back listening to the hum of the oak-woods, the children and druidess resting near. She stared up at the summer-solstice trees. They were sacred to her people, as well, representing strength, fortitude, and loyalty.

  The oaks were entranceways between the light and the dark halves of the year. She scratched her eyebrow, staring up at the thick branches. The trees also tended to draw lightning. A most uncomfortable propensity when hiding under one in a storm, she mused and exhaled loudly. The air felt unusually warm, and moisture dampened her skin, making her hair flatter and straighter than usual. She could hear the sound of rain on the green canopy above, tiny drumbeats echoing constantly, but not a trickle of water landed on the ground where they rested. It was difficult to tell the time of day in the veiled light and shadow of these woods when one was unable to see the sun.

  They had traveled a good deal of the day and though exhausted, she felt too agitated to close her eyes and seek rest.

  To her right, the children nestled together in a cradle of black roots and green moss, sharing their small horde of berries. She had learned that both of them loved horses and that Cavan considered himself an excellent rider. Behind them, the crone curled in feigned sleep under a low hanging limb dangling with green clumps.

  “How feels your stomach?” Scota asked, since the druidess complained constantly.

  “Better if I had food to fill it.”

  Scota had the impression of the sightless woman blinking. The druidess complained often about her empty stomach, except when speaking about the garden of woman herbs in her backyard, which, no doubt, was burned and gone like the village.

  She thought Amergin’s orders to burn the village a waste of resources and men, but there was no arguing with a vengeful bard.

  A silent sigh escaped her lips as she continued to study the children, now homeless and alone. She did not expect to like them, but she did. She liked the in-quisitiveness of the girl, the silent strength of the boy, and the unending patience of the druidess. The brooding warrior was another matter entirely. She did not like the way he looked at her, all silence and mystery, as if he saw into her very being and knew her intimate pain and isolation.

  “Why did he kidnap me?” she asked the crone.

  “He wants you.”

  She snorted with disagreement. “I am enemy.”

  “Are you?”

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Your eyes follow him.”

  “How do you …” Scota frowned, looking into those sunken eye sockets a bit longer.

  “Think I canna see, Princess?”

  Scota turned away with harsh dismissal of the crone, a peculiar feeling seeping into her stomach.

  She always achieved whatever she set her mind to, and she set her mind on escape. Whether it be through seduction or battle, her captor would not win over her.

  She shifted to a more comfortable position and breathed in the woodsy scent, a subtle and magical life fragrance in this land of unfamiliarity. They were taking an hour of stolen rest before they
must move again.

  All around them, black and brown tree trunks rose like massive pillars, leaving behind orangey shadows spilling over enormous twisted roots. The oak-woods felt primordial to her. Besides representing strength and endurance, the oaks also symbolized male potency. Even in winter’s dormancy, mistletoe sprouted with white berries, semen of the woodland lord.

  Speaking of the lord … resting her hand under her cheek, she peered at him.

  He sat far apart from them all, near a holly, his profile to her. She smiled in thought. The qualities of the holly were warring instinct and courage, a male dominion of energy. He definitely fit the description of a dominant male, all leanness and muscular quickness. One powerful arm rested on a raised knee while he scanned the shadows for threat, a guardian of the children and crone. Her gaze dipped to the bare span of ribs and the easy breath. Liquid quivering touched the low reaches of her woman’s place. He may be enemy, but her annoying body wanted him submitting to her ride. Her gaze dipped to the scabbard resting on the ground beside his brown-clad leg, easily reached if needed.

  “Would you like some of my berries, Princess?”

  Scota looked up at the girl child in surprise. Clear blue eyes marked with shards of gold regarded her from an oval face smudged with dirt. The girl plaited her hair with horsehair taken from her chestnut mount.

  “I found them myself,” Nora said proudly.

  Pushing up to a sitting position, Scota tucked a leg under her. Her mouth watering, she cupped her hands and a small pile of dark berries tumbled into her palms.

  “We did not find many, but these taste good.” The girl clasped her berry-stained hands in front of her. “I like mutton for supper and pudding, too, but we doona have any.”

  She understood immediately. This was all the food there was. She should eat the berries to keep her strength and return none to the child. “Would you share the berries with me, Nora? There are so many here, I do not think I can eat all of them.”

  “Nora,” her brother called in hushed command.

  “I canna stay.” The girl leaned forward and held out her hand.

  Scota cupped the girl’s hand, which proved difficult, given her bound wrists. “Here, take them. I only need a wee bit.” She poured the majority of the berries back into the purple-stained palm.