White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “The winds blow in threatening possession due to your prisoner, Amergin.”

  The Milesian leader turned to her. He took in her wheat-colored gown with a curious twist of his lips.

  “It is no wonder my warriors did not recognize you, Princess Scota.” He folded his arms across his chest, the bronze cuffs on his wrists dark in shadow. “Besides rutting under an enemy’s sword, you wear the farm clothes of a villager.”

  Scota glanced down at herself. “What I wear is of little importance.”

  “Is that so?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “Amergin, may I speak?”

  He nodded, and she began her defense of Boyden’s people. “The warrior you captured and hold is not your enemy, Amergin.” Grasping the folds of her gown, she approached him and stood by his side in shafts of moonlight. She knew he could not see the change in her eyes in this dim light and felt thankful for it. “Amergin, these people are not the enemy.”

  She heard him exhale.

  “That may be, but I vowed to find the murderers of Lord Íth and I mean to do it.” He turned away from her and headed back to the fire circle, effectively ending their conversation.

  She went after him, the guards trailing close at her back. “I have the murderers’ names, Amergin, but the one you hold captive knows who they are and where to find them.”

  He stopped and turned back to her, his focus penetrating.

  “Summon him,” Scota offered, the heat of the fire circle warming her right side.

  “Coll,” Lord Amergin called over his shoulder. “Bring the problem prisoner to me.”

  A guard nodded and disappeared into the fire-lit night.

  Scota waited anxiously, hoping her feelings would not betray her.

  “Does this warrior mean something to you, Princess?” A single dark brow lifted in question.

  For a long moment, she looked into her leader’s face and decided to err on the side of truth. “Aye, he does,” she replied, inadvertently mimicking Boyden’s speech.

  “‘Aye’?”

  Immediately, she corrected herself. “I meant yes.”

  “I see.” He turned away and strode closer to the flames, the orange light all but engulfing him. “You needed to travel across the sea to find an acceptable warrior for your bed. None of mine would do,” he complained. “This one must be exceptional for the warrior princess to defend him.”

  “He is, Amergin,” she answered quietly, unsure of the druidic bard’s changeable moods. He was known for his flashes of temper, yet he always dealt fairly with his warriors and she trusted him, trusted he would be fair to her, as well.

  He returned to her side, looking down at her speculatively. “Is this captive one of the tribal kings?”

  “He is the Wind Herald of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  “The Wind Herald of the faery tribe? I have heard of the faery tribe, but never did I hear of a warrior called the Wind Herald.”

  “It is difficult to explain, Amergin.” She saw the concentration in his face.

  On the other side of the fire circle, a man grunted with pain.

  Lord Amergin’s head came up. “Like the rest of these stubborn and prideful people, your herald refuses to submit.”

  “Only with me is he submissive,” she offered and bit her lip, not meaning to give away an intimacy.

  “I see,” he murmured again, and she wondered if he did.

  “I hope you do. I hope you will listen to us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes.”

  Hard intensity stared back at her. “Tell me the names of the murderers, Princess Scota.”

  “I will tell you their names,” Boyden declared loudly, his hands bound together in front of him with ropes.

  The Milesian leader turned to him, eyes large and black. “You are the Wind Herald?”

  Boyden glanced at Scota and nodded. “That is what I am named.”

  “Why?”

  He did not pretend to misunderstand. “I am blooded to the winds.”

  The leader lifted his eyebrows. “You are one of those fey creatures?”

  “He is of the between,” Scota presented in explanation.

  “I have heard of this in-between.” The druidic bard nodded and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Blooded to the wind is the fey part of you. I imagine that is why your eyes reflect the color amethyst with the golden shards of light. The rest is mortal. You are a mixed-blood.”

  “Aye,” Boyden replied, surprised by the bard’s understanding of his heritage.

  The Milesian leader came and stood before him, a man of near equal height.

  “I am Lord Amergin of the Milesians.”

  “I know. I am Boyden, Wind Herald of the Tuatha Dé Danann, tribe of the goddess Dana.”

  They measured each other’s worth and substance for long moments.

  Reaching behind his back, the druidic bard pulled something from his waistband.

  Boyden looked down at a dagger with ancient etchings and went very still inside. The Darkshade dagger.

  Behind the bard leader, he saw Scota clutch at her belt in realization of the missing dagger.

  Amergin held the dead captain’s dagger up to his face. “Wind Herald of the Tuatha Dé Danann, I ask my question. If I impale you with a sword or cut you with this dagger, your blood spills red and not the true white of faery?” he inquired. “I would know of who or what I am speaking with.”

  Boyden did not answer. It seemed Amergin only understood part of what was. Both red and white blood flowed in the veins of the fey realm. Guardians had true white blood, but some, like the territorial goddesses, bled crimson. Not all fey bled white blood. Not all fey died from the cut of a Darkshade, only guardians … and him.

  Holding the hilt, Lord Amergin turned the dagger over in his hand. “I heard strange tales about this dagger.” A finger traced the etchings on the blade. “I am told it is named Darkshade, a blade of sinister enchantment. I have never seen the like of it before and admire the talent of your craftsmen.”

  Boyden met the leader’s cold, calculating glare.

  “Princess Scota was kind enough to give it to me.” Amergin leaned forward and smiled gently. “You do not mind if I cut you, Boyden? I understand fey creatures spill white blood. I must know who or what I am speaking with.”

  Boyden stiffened, but before he could speak, his warrior mate pushed herself between them and grabbed the enchanted dagger out of Amergin’s hand. “This is a ceremonial dagger and worth much if not soiled with blood.” She wrapped it quickly in cloth and held it under her arm. “Use another dagger to cut him.” Swiping one from a guardsman standing near, she returned, took his hand, and nicked his palm before he could protest.

  “Scota!” He glared at her.

  “See? He bleeds red, Amergin,” she said clearly, tossing the dagger back to the guardsman. “Boyden is not fey born. You can trust him.”

  “My thanks, Princess Scota,” Lord Amergin said with a tone of mild displeasure.

  She released his wrist without apology and stepped back. Bringing his arms up, Boyden licked the small cut below his thumb while holding the leader’s intense gaze.

  “You have a defender, Wind Herald.”

  “That depends on your perspective,” he replied.

  The Milesian regarded him with suspicion and strong curiosity, good traits within a leader, Boyden decided.

  “Princess Scota does not choose her lovers lightly. I know of only one other than you.”

  He read the challenge within the leader’s voice.

  “She is unique,” Boyden offered in explanation for his interest. He would not share his feelings with an enemy.

  “Unique?” The leader smiled slowly, considering his comment. “Well said.”

  They stared at each other, a battle of wills between aggressor and defender.

  “I brought you here for a reason. Princess Scota feels you have answers for me.”

  “I know.”

  “Who kil
led Lord Íth, Wind Herald?”

  “Kings MacCuill, MacCecht, and MacGreine, but I doona know the truth of it,” Boyden answered. “We must bring them here to discover the certainty.”

  Shaking his head with disgust, Lord Amergin stepped back. “That would prove difficult, as these three kings are dead already.”

  “Dead?” Boyden echoed. Without the kings, how could he hope to prove his tribe’s innocence? “How?” he heard himself ask.

  “Did you not know?” Lord Amergin chuckled darkly. “Their wives betrayed them in order for this land to bear their names under our rule. They made me promise, foolish whores.”

  Fury consumed Boyden. If Lord Amergin had killed those kings, knowing them as murderers, then why did he continue with the invasion? “Did you know they killed Íth?” he asked, his jaw tight.

  “They denied it, as all the others do.”

  “The other tribes are innocent,” Boyden said firmly.

  Lord Amergin did not reply but went to stand near the fire circle, presenting his back in answer.

  “My tribe is innocent,” Boyden said forcefully and stepped forward. The guards were at his side immediately, staying him.

  “Your tribe?” Lord Amergin murmured. “The faery tribe, an interesting people. Not many are left.”

  Gloom and futility settled in all around Boyden in a cloak of black suffocation. Shadows of death danced among the orange flames casting blue sparks into the night.

  Near the end of his tolerance, he looked to Scota gravely and released a slow breath. Either she reason with the bard or he would end it here in bloodshed.

  Their eyes met, one hot with frustrated fury and one with calm understanding.

  Scota walked over to Amergin and touched the leader’s arm. “Amergin, you must stop the bloodshed. Lord Íth would not want this. You have your vengeance. Kings MacCuill, MacCecht, and MacGreine are dead. Find a way to end the blood spill and speak to Boyden’s tribal king and the other kings if need be. It is time to end it.”

  “Do you believe those three kings killed Lord Íth, Princess?”

  “I do,” she replied with soft insistence.

  “I am uncertain.”

  She gripped her hands in front of her, wanting desperately to shake sense into him.

  Lord Amergin released a slow breath and frowned, rubbing his temple. “Perhaps it is time to end it. I grow weary of the slaughter. I did not anticipate the stubbornness of these people. Despite our superior numbers and weapons, they would fight me until the last child drops from my blade—and I am not a killer of children.” Lifting his head, he looked over his shoulder at Boyden.

  “Do you think your kings will speak to me, Wind Herald?”

  Boyden nodded. “I will bring my chieftain to you. He can speak for all of our tribes.”

  “Untie him,” Lord Amergin commanded with a wave of his hand.

  The guardsman Coll stepped forward and removed the ropes from Boyden’s wrists.

  “My thanks, Amergin,” Scota whispered, struggling not to show her elation.

  “Do not thank me, Princess. We have other matters to discuss.”

  He walked over to Boyden and she joined them.

  “You will leave this eve and bring your chieftain to me before the next full moon,” Lord Amergin said firmly. “The princess remains with me.”

  Scota stopped Boyden’s protest with a swift embrace. Burrowing against him, she pulled his head down and kissed him passionately, pouring her heart into him. “Go, Boyden,” she whispered against his lips and jammed the cloth-wrapped Darkshade dagger low into his waistband where it could not be seen. She stepped back, her heart aching. “I am safe here with my people.”

  He looked down at her, his gaze searching. “I will return.”

  With a nod to Amergin, the holder of her heart turned and walked away.

  Swallowing hard, Scota watched until he became but another shadow in the moving night. The winds seemed to calm, and the stars appeared brighter in the night sky.

  “Will he return with his chieftain?” Lord Amergin asked after a time.

  “Boyden is honorable.”

  “We shall see.”

  She lowered her gaze to the ground. “What other complaint is against me?”

  “First, tell me the why and the how of your eyes changing.”

  She exhaled. “You do not miss much, Amergin. One of the fey beings of this land saved my life and left the golden shards of claim in my eyes.”

  “What fey being?”

  “The wind,” she replied in truth.

  “Ah, Boyden,” he chuckled low with misunderstanding. “I am told these fey born males leave something of themselves behind.”

  Yes, she thought, unwilling to correct him. Boyden was much more than fey born. “Tell me of the complaint.”

  “How did you know there exists a complaint against you?”

  “I saw Captain Rigoberto’s men and overhead grievances before you summoned me.”

  “What did you hear?” he asked.

  “I am to be charged with the killing of Captain Rigoberto.”

  His black eyes bored into her. “Did you kill him?”

  She thought of Boyden’s defense of her and lied, “Yes.”

  He sighed. “You know my rules, Princess. Dispute among my warriors is forbidden and addressed in direct combat between them. I know you did not like him, but Captain Rigoberto proved efficient for my needs.”

  Scota nodded, silent and tense, waiting for judgment.

  His face strained. He spoke firmly as if the words tasted foul in his mouth, “I will not make exceptions for you.”

  Something deep inside her closed off. “I understand,” she replied without looking at him.

  “At dawn, your life ends.”

  She stiffened at his swift, harsh judgment and said, “I am with babe, an innocent.”

  His eyes narrowed at her disclosure.

  She met his gaze. “I ask you to allow me to give birth before my life is forfeit.”

  “Is Boyden the father?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I would have the babe given into his care and ask your word on it.”

  “Given.”

  Scota nodded her thanks, her legs shaky. In nine months she should be able to convince him to spare her life.

  “When Boyden returns, you will tell him you wish to remain among your own people. The babe will be brought to him upon birth, and he will be told you died in the child-birthing.”

  Scota nodded. She stood rooted to the spot as Amergin walked over to the guardsman Coll and spoke quietly. Raising her eyes to the moonlight, she pressed her lips together.

  She had managed to give the dagger to Boyden without Amergin noticing. The enchanted weapon could never be used against him again. The possibility of peace loomed in the enchanted land, and she had nine months to convince the druidic bard to spare her life. All in all, it was a fruitful day.

  CHAPTER 20

  SCOTA CHOSE TO SPEND HER time quietly until Boyden returned. It was worthless to worry about things she could not control, and so she did not. Like people, she thought. All her life, she experienced difficulty getting close to people. Most men thought her too outspoken and confident for a woman, ruffling feathers where she should not. Some women commented she was too self-assured and blunt, and she experienced several jealous confrontations because of it. Most thought her too strong … all except for Boyden. He valued her with an intensity that surprised her.

  She stood under the bough of a large oak, watching the arrival of dawn spread across the sky, and listening to the dull roar of the flowing river beyond. The sound felt like a forever echoing in this emerald land of mild but changeable weather. She had been told the river rose from a bog, a cloud-fed wetland of acidic peat and dead plants. Black waters poured east like a herd of wild mares mating with the stallion of the sea. It was a river brimming with life, particularly salmon. The fish was a delicacy for the warrior who experienced the good fortune of capturing one.
Roasted over a fire, one ate the salmon with honey. The Milesian warriors believed the flesh of the salmon bestowed restorative powers, a much-needed influence in the days of battle ahead. Strength meant survival. She knew this well, though she could not make herself eat. For the moment, her babe wished only for water. A problematic encounter yesterday with bitter stew and drisheen, or blood pudding, left her weak-kneed. No longer did she choose to eat whatever she wished. Her babe’s preference would dictate her likes in the coming months. Boyden’s babe.

  She did not have to close her eyes to see him, strong and wild like this unconquerable land of mist and hill.

  “Princess,” the bearded guard called from behind her.

  She bent her head in acknowledgment. It is time to return to my tiny prison, she mused. Turning her back to the dawn, she walked up the gentle slope between patches of feathery ferns to her tent.

  Supported by wood poles, her small tent of animal skins had been hastily erected about four horse lengths from Lord Amergin’s tent. He wanted her near, a lure for Boyden, she suspected.

  Walking around a hip-high boulder, she nodded to the second guard posted to watch her. Lifting the flap of cloth draped over her tent’s entrance, she entered. Three unlit candles waited beside her bed of wool blankets and tufts of grass.

  A pensive sigh escaped her, and she changed into a more comfortable brown tunic. Her fingers unaccountably clumsy, she laced up the front over her tender breasts. To her right, a green frog hopped into her tent. Not liking the accommodations, he hopped out again, seeking freedom, as she could not.

  As the days gave way to nights, she had watched the changing stages of the moonrise and moonset, gibbons, half moon, and crescent waning, followed by the new moon rising, the darkest of dark. Time was passing.

  She had slept little the night before. With a final tug, she adjusted her tunic.

  Shouts came from outside.

  Pushing aside the entrance cloth of her tent, she took a step into the cloudy gloom of dawn. Immediately, the two guards blocked her.

  She stood silent and tense, her bare feet ankle-deep in morning dew.

  Out of the mist, newcomers appeared like vaporous spirits.

  Accompanied by a group of fierce-looking warriors, Boyden entered Lord Amergin’s large tent without a single glance in her direction.