White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “What do you see?” she asked, arms wrapped around herself in protection.

  “Darkness.” Reaching back, he grabbed her hand and pulled her with him.

  CHAPTER 15

  SCOTA THOUGHT THE SKY TO be the prettiest blue she had ever seen in her entire life. They stood in the warm golden light of the summer sun, an easterly breeze lifting strands of their hair. “The fragrance of the land smells sweet to me,” she murmured.

  “Aye,” he agreed heartily.

  Scota glanced over her shoulder. A grouping of five horn-shaped boulders stood in a wild meadow. In the magical ways of the fey, gray-green vines crept back over the largest boulder, covering the secret of the embedded half-moon rock crystal.

  She returned her focus forward and breathed deeply of the outside, the panic inside her dwindling. Ribbons of running water crossed an embankment of green pastures disappearing into purple hedgerows as far as the eye could see. In the glow of late afternoon, horses grazed with ease, noble heads bowed and tails swishing.

  “I doona know this hilltop village,” her mate remarked quietly to himself.

  “Is it safe?” she asked, studying the small herd of white goats near a crumbling stone wall.

  He shrugged.

  Flowers named Meadowsweet sprang on reddish purple stems along the edges of the tiny streams, and she could see a wavering line of tall trees in the far distance.

  “It is beautiful here,” she remarked and felt the return of her composure and … the humiliation and shame of her dread.

  She glanced at him, speculating on what he thought of his warrior woman now. He had seen a weak and panic-driven part of her no other ever had, or ever would.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked, simply.

  “Yes,” she answered and thought to explain her earlier behavior. “Boyden, I …”

  He held up a hand. “Small places make me uncomfortable.” He gave her a grin. “I tend to bump into things.”

  And that was the end of it.

  I love you, Boyden, whispered inside her. I love you. She tucked stray strands of hair behind her ears. She thought perhaps she should tell him about his unborn babe, then quickly decided against it. Instinct told her to wait. It was not yet the right time to mention his babe or the sharing of her body with a primordial being who lusted after him.

  He stood to her right, sniffing the air, hands easily gripping the leather straps anchoring the scabbard at his back. He was untamable, her very own tawny-maned stallion scanning his surroundings.

  “What do you smell?” she asked.

  “Not scent, but presence,” he murmured. “I feel the Gaot—” He rolled his shoulders, catching himself.

  “The Faery Wind?” she finished for him.

  He glanced at her sharply.

  “I know the Gaoth Shee, Boyden,” she answered honestly. I know the magical from the wind guardians flows in your blood. I know you are a descendent of long-ago Wind Kings, she thought but did not say. They were two lineages, both demanding, both pulling him apart.

  “What do you know?” he countered, and Scota felt a living hatred emanating out of him. “Tell me what you know, Scota.”

  She answered carefully. “My people heard tales of a lethal enchanted wind coming down from the mountains to kill.”

  He turned away. “The wind doona come from the mountains.”

  “Do you know this wind?” She asked the question, knowing the answer.

  “Aye, I know it, and it knows me. The blood threads of her claim stream in my blood.”

  “Those blood threads are what make you who you are.” And our babe.

  “Scota, you doona know of what you speak.”

  “I do know.”

  “What do you know, invader?” he lashed out. “You come to a land to enact vengeance upon many for the death of one. You attack indiscriminately and burn whole villages.”

  “It was not I who ordered the villages burned.”

  “Who, then?” he demanded.

  “Amergin.”

  “Your bard leader?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “He will be among the first I kill.”

  “You will have to go through me, Boyden.”

  He strode to her, fury glittering in his eyes. She refused to cower, refused to back down. Catching her upper arms, he lifted her off her feet. His mouth swooped down on hers, demanding submission. It was a hurtful kiss, meant to dominate. His body pressed aggressively into hers with a potent heat, creating intolerable need.

  “Never stand between, Scota,” he rasped against her lips. “You canna hope to best me.”

  He pinned her wrists behind her back with one hand.

  She allowed it, seeing the shimmer of savagery in his eyes.

  “Is this how a destined king treats his mate?” she asked, reaching for his reason.

  His gaze narrowed. “You have spoken to Derina.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “She told me you are ŕigdamnai.”

  “Derina is daft,” he said firmly, releasing her as quickly as he claimed her, and moved away.

  “Is she, Boyden? I give you that she shares little of what she knows. She is a fey born after all. Both of you told me that. But there is truth to her words, if you listen.”

  “Doona trust fey borns, Scota. They follow different rules than we poor unfortunate mortals. I carry the blood threads of guardians and an ancient lethal wind in my body. I am not a destined king. I am of the in-between.”

  He turned back to her with unblinking eyes. “Doona ever stand between me and the enemy.”

  Her stomach in knots, she countered, using his inflection, “Doona ever stand between me and the enemy.”

  “Confrontation comes?” A brow arched.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  He looked away. After a moment, he sighed deeply and held his hand out to her. “Walk with me, my willful warrior.”

  It sounded like a royal command and so she obeyed.

  They walked across flowing meadows of feathery grasses up the slope of a hill to the rough-hewn and primitive village. A grouping of stone circles, belonging to some druid no doubt, lay to the right. In the round cottages ahead, she hoped to borrow some soap made from tallow or ash and wash every pore of her skin and every strand of her hair.

  “Brush your hair in front of your face, Scota.”

  “Why?”

  “Your eyes carry the fey marker, and these people will recognize it and be leery.”

  “What? Your eyes are not fey marked?”

  He looked at her, the amethyst hue returning to the silvery gray as when they first met. The golden shards remained, but they were dulled and unnoticeable.

  “How did you do that? Your eyes changed back.”

  “I am learning control.”

  “Does that include your temper?” she prompted.

  “Nay,” he said in a seductive caress. “Only you control that.”

  She snorted. “I doubt it.”

  His slow smile warmed her before he turned away.

  Up ahead, a group of villagers gathered around a wooden plough, watching their approach with blank faces.

  “We are farmers, Scota. Our village was burned, our home was destroyed, we barely escaped, and are seeking food and shelter.”

  “You do not look like a farmer to me,” she offered, observing the thickness of his arms. Those muscular slopes came from sword wielding, not ploughing soil.

  “Indulge me. Keep silent and let me speak to them.”

  “I wish to bathe.”

  “You need it,” he offered, pulling her close with a wicked grin.

  Using a spear as a walking stick, one of the village men moved to greet them. Plaits of graying hair swung about his shoulders. He wore a farmer’s working tunic and breeches, woven of wool and horsehair.

  They met at the crest of the hill near a stone shaped like a giant’s foot.

  “I am Boyden. This is my mate, Scota. We seek food and shelter.
Our village and farm were burned.”

  “I am Aedan, village leader. What tribe are you from?”

  “The Tuatha Dé Danann,” Boyden replied easily.

  “I thought so. Your female carries the shards of the fey in her eyes.”

  If he only knew the truth, Scota thought and stared defiantly back through her hair.

  The man turned back to Boyden. “We doona want the magical here in our village. It brings trouble.”

  “We seek only food and a place to rest for a while, Leader Aedan,” Boyden reassured. “We have traveled far and my female is in need of rest and food.”

  Her stomach rumbled at just the precise moment, and Scota clamped down on her teeth. The older man looked at her, nodded, and gestured them to accompany him. “Come, then. We have food.”

  Aedan led them through a village of small round houses and various food and herb gardens. She could smell the cooking of meat, and her mouth watered. They paused outside a small cottage littered with tools for milling grain in the side yard.

  “Nia,” the village leader called, tapping the edge of his spear against the doorframe. “I bring strangers in need.”

  A woman with flowing brown hair emerged from the cottage dressed in a gown of blue wool.

  “Our simpler, Nia, will care for your female while we speak.”

  Scota glared at Boyden, then nodded sweetly to the simpler.

  “Come inside,” Nia offered, taking her arm gently.

  Scota allowed the healer woman to lead her inside a cozy main room.

  “You come from the faery tribe?” the healer asked as she moved about her dwelling gathering clothes and soap.

  “Yes.” Scota nodded. She waited near the dying embers of a fire circle.

  “You doona speak as we do.”

  “No.” She offered no further explanation and locked her hands behind her back.

  “Your mate dinna look much the farmer to me, either.”

  “He is not, Nia.”

  “Good, you doona lie.”

  The older woman handed her the soap.

  “I try not to lie.” Scota sniffed the soap. The scent pleased her. It was a mixture of fragrant herbs that calmed the spirit.

  “What is your name, child?” Nia asked.

  “I am called Scota.” Clothes settled in her arms.

  “Many of the Tuatha tribe have strange-sounding names.”

  She did not know if it were true and so simply agreed. “Yes.”

  “How old are you, Scota?”

  “Twenty-one summers come the end of season,” she answered.

  “You look younger.”

  “It is the dirt.”

  The simpler nodded, laughing softly. “You answer my questions without impatience. A woman of true spirit. Come, this way, Scota.”

  Scota followed the short simpler into a tiny back room framed with colorful bunches of drying herbs.

  “When I heard strangers were coming, I asked the village boys to bring buckets of water from our streams for your bathing. Aedan always brings me the grimy ones.”

  “My thanks, Nia.” Scota walked into shafts of fading sunlight spilling onto the plank floor from the window. Warmth caressed her weary legs.

  “Those pots are for you.” The simpler pointed to three extremely large clay pots. “Those others be for your mate and the boys are bringing more. They will leave the water outside and wait to empty the dirty water.”

  Dropping to her knees beside one of the pots, Scota looked up to see Boyden looming behind the simpler.

  “Help your mate and wash yourself.” Nia shoved him gently forward. “I must prepare more food. I dinna think you would be so big.”

  Boyden nodded, his gaze troubled. “My thanks, Nia.”

  The simpler disappeared back into the main room, leaving them alone.

  Walking around the clay pots, Boyden immediately placed the scabbard, sword, and dagger aside, then stripped out of his clothes.

  Grabbing the soap out of her hand, he broke it in two and handed the smaller piece back to her. Kneeling next to one of the larger pots, he bent and splashed water onto his chest and arms.

  Only the bronze torc remained about his neck, and without clothes he looked larger, much larger.

  “By the winds, it is cold.” He shivered and ducked his head in the water, washing his hair with soap and rinsing. Straightening, he flung his head back, spraying her with water. “Do you plan to stare at me with needful eyes or wash? I doona think Nia would care if I spread your thighs here.”

  A flicker of displeasure crossed her features. “I am not needful.”

  “I am.” He watched her with hooded eyes, an inner fire coming to flame.

  With great effort she looked away from him and quickly removed her clothes. Doing the same as he, she gave her hair a thorough dunking and washing.

  “When you entered, you looked troubled. Is something wrong?” she asked, trying not to shiver from the cold water.

  “Aedan has seen a band of warriors roaming near the trees.”

  “Do you think it is the captain?” Scota asked, tossing her wet, clean hair over her shoulder.

  “Aye.” He washed under his right arm. “The pig nose hounds me like the blasted wind.”

  Scota nodded at his description of the captain. “They track us quickly.”

  “I suspect this village is not far from the passage tomb we were in.”

  “Captain Rigoberto searches in ever-widening circles. That is our way.” Scota offered in explanation, washing her neck and breasts. “I would not expect him to search the land without first checking the tombs, though.”

  He washed under his left arm. “He may have done that. Instead of hours, I suspect many days have passed while we were in the feypaths. Derina told me time moves differently when in the fey realm.”

  “Days? How many days do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Methinks at least a sennight.”

  “Seven days,” she murmured without questioning him. The ancient knowledge inside her confirmed his words. “We do not have much time and should leave as soon as possible. I do not want to bring blood spill to this village.”

  “Agreed.” He washed his lower stomach. “I must find a way back to my tribe.”

  She met his gaze, her hands full of soap. “Boyden. That is not the way to end the war.”

  “How would you end it?” He continued with his washing.

  “First, you must give me your word not to kill Amergin.”

  “I willna give it, Scota.” He rinsed himself off.

  “Then I can not share my thoughts with you.” She soaped her stomach and splashed water onto herself.

  He dropped what was left of his piece of soap into one of the clay pots, watching her with agitation. “Tell me, Scota. I will listen to your words.”

  Indecision warred within her, her heart and mind battling. “Amergin can bring ending to the war. Kill him and all hope is gone.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am Amergin’s emissary, Boyden. He will listen to me.”

  “What are your words?”

  “The Tuatha tribe are innocent, as many in this land are innocent. Seek the ones who wronged us and stop the killings across the land.”

  “True words,” he murmured with approval. “Will the bard leader listen to you?”

  “I will make him listen … if you tell me who killed Lord Íth.”

  “I told you I was not there, Scota. I doona know the truth of what I heard.”

  “Tell me what you heard, Boyden. Trust me.”

  He blew air out of his nostrils, his gaze searching her face and finding what he needed. “In the north part of the land, Íth was met by three tribal kings, MacCuill, MacCecht, and MacGreine. Received in honor among them, a misunderstanding pertaining to the land somehow occurred.”

  “What misunderstanding?” she prompted.

  Boyden cleaned the rest of the soap from his lower body and legs. “I am told Íth greatly admired the beauty
of our lands. When he left to go back to his ship, the kings reflected on his words and grew worried. They believed Íth meant to return with many men and claim the land for his own.”

  “They killed him, thinking he would bring invaders,” Scota said with understanding.

  “Aye.”

  “MacCuill, MacCecht, and MacGreine,” she whispered the kings’ names aloud. “They know what happened, three men for many lives ended.”

  “Aye.”

  “We must find these kings and bring them to Amergin,” she said firmly, scrubbing her legs.

  Boyden climbed to his feet, clean and greatly refreshed. “Nay, Scota. We must go directly to Amergin. If he is the man you believe him to be, then he will listen to you and stop the invasion. With the help of my tribe, we then find the kings and bring them to Amergin to hear their truth or untruth.”

  Their gazes met and held, and Scota nodded. “Agreed.”

  Footfalls approached, and they both turned.

  “I willna have rutting here,” Nia commanded, mistaking the intensity of their glances for a sexual dance. She walked back into the room unannounced, carrying clean brown breeches and a tunic. “These should fit you, warrior who is not a farmer.” The older woman laughed softly, scooped up their dirty clothes, and disappeared once more into the main room.

  Boyden picked up the clean breeches. “Misunderstandings seem to happen more often than I thought.”

  “I suspect your condition has something to do with it,” Scota offered.

  Fully aroused, his body gleamed with returning health.

  He looked down at himself and quirked a brow at her. “ ‘Tis what happens when I am near you, my warrior.”

  Scota plunged her face into the cold water, battling a smile. She hurried to finish up. Using a cloth to dry herself off, she reached for her clothes. “We must make haste,” she remarked and paused. Instead of sturdy breeches and tunic, her hands clasped a linen gown spun from flax.

  “I can not wear this,” she complained, holding it up for inspection. A simple farm-girl gown, it was embellished with a thin belt under the seam for the breasts.

  Boyden chuckled behind her and she glared her annoyance at him.