Bryna felt the heat and energy of the fire like a living thing. Properly cleaned and chaperoned, she now sat amidst a group of aging females who wore bright, fringed cloaks that fell to their ankles. Thick pelts had been thrown on the ground where Rose now sat beside her.
She had been told the challenge would begin when her woman’s courses ended.
The time had come last eve and the simpler wasted no time in insisting she be prepared for the sacred handfasting ceremony. Rose had explained that in doing this the women showed their preference for the Dark Chieftain.
So, in the middle of the night, beneath a full moon’s buttery glow, Bryna had endured a bath in the woodland’s icy stream. Black waters murmured of their endless journey, gliding past her thighs and disappearing around the bend while she shivered uncontrollably. Maidens lined the banks, holding white candles, while old women washed her hair and rubbed fragrant soap into her skin until she pleaded with them to stop.
Shaking with cold, Bryna moved to the hard bank, only to be scented with lavender oils, wrapped in a red cloak, and escorted to Rose’s home.
An aura of expectation gripped the women and as they walked from the stream, their voices whispered of faery magic and a male’s hard desire.
The simpler waited at the entrance to her home in a warm blue cloak with silver fringe that moved in the night’s breeze.
“Come, Bryna.” Rose wrapped her arms around her quivering shoulders. “We must prepare you.”
“P-prepppare? Rose, I’m sooo coold, I canna feel my body.”
“ ‘Tis the cleansing. Come now.”
Bryna allowed the simpler to lead her into the small roundhouse. They allowed her to sit on the hard bench in front of a trestle table. On the table top lay bunches of dried herbs and fragrant wreaths so that a pleasant sweetness filled the air. White candles burned in clusters of three, illuminating the darkness.
“Mmmaid, Mmmother, Cccrone,” Bryna said, her teeth chattering with cold.
Rose came around the table and smiled.
“Maid, mother, crone. Aye, we are all of them, but you are faery as well.”
“I’m so ccccold.”
“Aye, Bryna, I know. But that soon will pass.”
Numb with fatigue, she could raise no objection to the women who surrounded her and began to weave rose ribbons and gold beads into her wet hair.
They pulled the red cloak from her shoulders despite her protests, and urged her to stand. A rose red gown was dropped over her head.
Warmth came instantly, a cascade of heat scented with a light fragrance of wild roses. Bryna looked down upon herself in wonderment. Clusters of shiny stones and gold threads decorated the bodice, which hugged her breasts as if made for her. The rest of the otherworldly fabric draped in a clinging silhouette with slits on either side exposing her from ankle to mid-thigh. The fey gown felt petal soft against her skin. Red slippers, infused with heat, were also placed onto her feet.
“The warmth comes from the enchantment,” Rose said.
Bryna looked up at the simpler. “I feel it, Rose. ‘Tis warm and woven from the wild roses that grow in the meadows.”
“Aye, the gown is a gift from the faeries. It is spun from spring roses and tears of joy. It will keep you warm.”
And it had.
Now in the predawn darkness, the warriors of the Tuatha Dé Danann gathered around the bonfire.
Sitting on white pelts with her legs tucked under her, Bryna filled her eyes with the dawn spectacle.
She did not feel the crisp temperatures of the new morning, for the warmth of the fey gown and red cloak bathed her in comfort and calm. She would have preferred a brooch to hold the cloak closed, but for now it was fine. The drape overlapped in front.
The simpler tapped her arm and pointed to the far side of the fire. “Look, our men gather.”
Bryna left thoughts of the previous night’s activity behind. The men of the Tuatha Dé Danann were tall and muscular in their sleeveless tunics and dark breeches. Unlike the Romans, they wore their hair long and adorned with beads. Bronze and silver arm bands glittered on their arms and belted daggers shone at lean waists. They looked wild and formidable, mirroring the land that they protected.
A feeling of expectation pulsed about them, a kind of primitive competitiveness and sexual desire.
Bryna felt glad they had seated her at a small distance away from all that male expectation.
“The men feel our chieftain’s turmoil and grow anxious by it,” the simpler remarked. “Look, my husband and our leaders come now.”
Indeed, Dafyd and the tribe elders had moved to stand in front of the bonfire.
For Tynan this was the beginning, a sensation of hunger and battle pumping through his blood. The icy mask of the hunter slid into place, a predator waiting for the battle yet to come. He glanced sideways and Eamon nodded tensely. Ian stood beyond, a trusted friend and guardian of the chieftain.
Tynan turned his attention back to the elders and ceremony. From the opposite side of the fire, they approached, men and women of age and wisdom, their youth long since past. Clean white robes rested on stooped shoulders. Massive hoods draped lined faces so out of place in this moment of primitiveness.
Dafyd tapped his staff into the dirt. “Ian, step back.”
Tynan nodded and his friend backed up, out of his line of sight.
“Step forward, Lord Tynan. Step forward, Eamon. We must begin in the East and ask for the blessings of the element of Air, which brings truth, wisdom, and vision to us. We are Tuatha Dé Danann, the proud and spirited people of the goddess Dana. Only she understands our ancient lord’s blood geas and sacrifice. Only she knows the fire that burns within him.” The elder turned to Eamon.
“Eamon, I am disappointed by this challenge, but not surprised by it. Do you still challenge our lord’s honor-mark?”
“I do,” his cousin responded, and Tynan felt the quickening of battle grow within. They had played together as children and grown together into manhood. Never had he imagined his cousin as an enemy.
“If you should win the day,” the elder continued, “you have first claim to the maid, but only with her approval. Do you agree, Eamon?”
“I agree.”
Tynan waited for Dafyd’s dark eyes to slide to him, feeling the heavy responsibility of his tribe and what was expected.
“Lord Tynan of Tuatha Dé Danann, is your honor-mark on the maid Bryna of Loch Gur true?”
“It is true,” he answered, a quick response.
“If you should win the day, we will honor your request for the handfasting. Be that as it may, you must not consummate the vow until our faery brethren give their approval.”
Tynan’s dark brow rose slightly. “Did you think I would not?”
“Lord Tynan, what I think is of little importance here. You are the ancient lord of prophecy, the chosen one.”
“Let us not forget that, tribe leader.”
The leader’s walking stick pounded into the ground once again. “I will not forget that, you arrogant cub.” He stepped back. “Mark him. Eamon, step aside and wait by the fire.”
Tynan’s eyes narrowed considerably at the two youngsters accompanying Hawk. He did not like this. The children approached him, each with a clay bowl of blue dye made from the woad plant.
“I dislike the dye, Dafyd.”
“This dye will not make you itch. It has been specially prepared for you and you will be marked. As Kindred’s ancient liege, we offer tribute, as is our brethren’s way. Carry on, young Hawk. Your father awaits this honor.”
The two youngsters had stopped at his growl of protest, but Hawk came forward without fear.
Tynan stared down at his son’s quick movements. Kindred’s runic inscriptions of loch, sky and earth were fast being drawn on his lower stomach and left forearm.
They were symbols of protection, blessing, and success. There was no hope for it, now. He knelt obediently on one knee so his son could reach his shoulders and back.
&
nbsp; From across the clearing he felt the gazes of the women. He looked up slowly, awareness of his faerymate burning within him, her name echoing in his head. Bryna.
Her silvery eyes captured and held him, locking the world out. Her fear, a concern far deeper then any of the others, warmed his soul. Within this small measure of time, their bond had grown.
His son patted his shoulder. “I am done.”
Tynan stood, his gaze never leaving Bryna.
Sudden mirth lighted her face. He looked down his body, at his son’s intention. A figure took shape on the area of his breeches that shielded his manhood.
“Hawk, what are you doing?”
The boy stepped back with a big grin. “The hawk symbol gives you strength.” He looked into his son’s bright gaze and blue smudged cheeks.
“So it will. My thanks.”
“This is foolishness,” Eamon complained.
Tynan glanced over his shoulder. His cousin was flushed, his body tight with anticipation of the fight. He gently pushed his son back into the safety of Dafyd’s waiting arms. Checking to make sure the other two children were safe, he turned and faced Eamon, his dagger drawn. His cousin’s strength was legendary in his tribe; he would have to be swifter. Much depended on his victory this day.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elder lift his walking staff high for all to see.
“Begin the challenge,” he called loudly, and stepped back.
Eamon lunged.
Tynan sidestepped his cousin’s upward thrust and knew instantly it had been meant as a death-blow. Eamon was not out for first blood, but for death’s blood. He tightened his grip on his dagger and moved in.
The orange glow of the fire flickered, shadow and light mingled in the field of battle.
Bryna could not look away from the fight. Dawn approached, pink ribbons entwined with flat gray clouds. The air whispered to her of a new storm, fueling the growing tension inside her. Even the faery gown’s gentle influence could no longer contain her dread.
Tynan’s strong back was to her now, his thrusts fast and strong. Eamon ducked and dodged.
“First blood,” Rose whispered into her ear.
Bryna gave the older woman a quick glance.
“The male to draw first blood wins the claim. You are in dispute, my dear. They fight for the mating rights to you.”
“But, I thought Lord Tynan’s honor-mark meant I belonged to him.”
“It would have, but Lordling did not voice his claim. Eamon had the right of challenge then.”
Bryna bit her lip. He did not voice his claim because he needed to wait for the faeries’ approval. Now, if he wins, he would be forced to issue it. Would the golden territorial goddess of her dreams be angry? Would the faeries be angry? Would they take their spite out on the land and Tynan’s people? She could not let that happen.
“The honor-mark is the faeries’ spell of binding and intent,” the simpler said. “Tynan’s body recognized you as a possible mate to fulfill the promise. The claim is Lordling’s final acceptance.”
“My faery blood doona matter to Eamon?”
“Only Lordling is bound to mate with a faery. Not Eamon.”
“If Lord Tynan should lose . . .” Bryna could not finish.
“The honor-mark will release him to find another faery mate.”
“What does that mean?”
“The attraction, the driving lust that binds him to you, is gone.”
“Gone,” Bryna repeated dimly, looking back to the fight. She thought, it was Tynan’s geas and not his heart that binds him to me. A kind of sadness came with that and she struggled to push it aside. All that mattered now was that he win.
“You will make a fine faerymate for our prideful lord. My only hope is that our faery brethren agree. They will be cross that Lord Tynan made the claim before seeking their approval. And they will be most annoyed that he has not yet freed those of them imprisoned.”
“He will free them,” Bryna stated with conviction. She recognized now that the fey voices calling to her at the fortress had been pleas for help. In her innocence and self-condemnation, she had not understood.
“Have you ever met the Evil One?”
“W-what?” Bryna blinked at the change of subject. “The Sorcerer, have you met him, Bryna?” The simpler’s voice was curiously intent.
“Once, on the parapets.”
“What is your impression?”
“My impression.” She thought back to that windy night on the parapets when she had first seen the Sorcerer. He stood unmoving, lost in the folds of his brown robe, staring outward upon the stars. She watched him for only moments before he had ordered her away. “He is a tortured soul, full of loss and vengeance, methinks. He seems to grieve for something, yet I doona know what.” She shook her head to rid herself of the disturbing memory. “There is much bitterness in him. I stayed away whenever possible.”
“Our faery brethren are unforgiving,” the simpler murmured.
Bryna did not understand the melancholy in the simpler’s voice and focused back on the men fighting over her.
“If Eamon wins, will I be given to him?” she asked. “Lord Tynan shall win.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I am always right, most of the time.”
Bryna did not find that comforting.
“Eamon knows our history and prophesy, Bryna. Envy eats at him. Neither is he the chosen male, nor does the ancient bloodline flow in his veins, and my proud Lordling is stubborn.”
Bryna looked at the simpler.
“Doona be upset with us, Bryna. You were destined for Lordling from the time of his birth. I have no doubt who will be blooded in this fight.” With that, the simpler smiled and Bryna turned back just in time to see Tynan slash at Eamon’s left cheek.
First blood had been drawn.
The fight was over.
Tynan stepped back, his body filmed in sweat and blue dye.
“ ‘Tis done, Eamon. Lower your weapon.” He clutched the bloodied dagger in his hand. His cousin’s warm blood trickled between his fingers. This would be the first time his cousin had been bested in a twoman fight. The quickness of the faeries had been with him this day.
He stared into Eamon’s burning eyes and waited.
Eamon could not believe that he had lost. Yn Drogh Spyrryd, the Evil One, promised him riches if he delivered the ancient lord to him. And he had. It had been so easy, slipping the potion in Tynan’s drink. Then everything went wrong. When he dropped the unconscious Tynan at the Evil One’s feet, he felt such hatred from the creature that the air seemed to boil. The promise of riches had been just that, promises only. The Evil One’s hard fist hit him across the face, and he’d been dragged out of the dungeon like a dog. He received nothing for his troubles. And then Tynan had escaped. He wanted to bury the dagger in Tynan’s chest and be done with it. Eamon dropped the dagger in the dirt and bowed his head in feigned defeat. His vengeance must wait for another day.
Tynan watched Eamon’s eyes, a great unease settling within him.
“ ‘Tis done,” his cousin rasped.
A crowd of men gathered around in anticipation of the relinquishing of his claim, and Tynan saw a flash of angry reaction in his cousin’s face.
“Do you withdraw your claim, Eamon?”
“Aye, Dark Chieftain. I relinquish my claim to the maid, Bryna of Loch Gur.”
“I accept, then,” Tynan replied. “You may leave, Eamon.”
His cousin cast him a final look of fury before disappearing into the crowd of men. A fathomless rage brewed there that Tynan did not understand, not just over the loss of Bryna, but something far greater. It would come back to haunt him, he did not doubt.
For now though, he had won his rights back.
He walked over to where the elders waited and handed Dafyd the bloody dagger. Hawk plowed through the aged tribe leaders and collided bodily with him, forcing him to take a step back to regain his balance. Small arms hugged h
is thighs in a death grip.
“Hush, Hawk.” His hand soothed the boy’s trembling shoulders. Tynan thought he heard a strangled sob against his thigh and shot an angry glance at the elders.
“He should not have been allowed to watch,” he growled.
“Your son would not leave and he is old enough to know the ways of our brethren.” Dafyd turned and faced the men. “Are there any other challenges for the maid Bryna?”
Tynan searched the faces of his tribesmen. Their eyes were bright, but no challenge did he see.
The elder turned back. “Your claim is free. We begin the handfasting ceremony.”
“Now?” Tynan remarked in surprise. “You wish to do it now? Should I not clean up first?”
His son suddenly pushed away from him to stand near the elder’s side.
“You must enter the circle marked with Kindred’s runes,” the boy said in a teary voice, slowly regaining his composure. “We worked on it all night so you could handfast today.” His son pointed and the men parted. There, just a few steps east of the bonfire, lay a large circle of stones and crystal rocks. His people fell silent, showing their confidence in him. Never did they think he might lose.
He gave his son a proud smile “ ‘Tis a fine circle, Hawk.”
The boy beamed.
“Now, with your permission, I must make my claim first.”
His son’s small chin bobbed up and down before he broke out in a grin. “You have my permission, Lordling.”
“Lordling?” Tynan echoed in amusement. “You have spent too much time with Rose. We will correct that.” Chuckling, he glanced over his shoulder.
The women were standing around his faerymate, an offering of her to him. Waves of burnished gold fell about her shoulders in a vision of loveliness.
Hunger surged through his heated body.
He could no more stop the faeries’ lust than a rock could stop the flow of water in a stream. Fever burned in his loins now, a reminder of his geas, of his spell-induced obligation to mate with a faery.
He felt the mindless lust reaching to take hold of his mind and fought it. He turned back to the fire and inhaled the heat.
His tribe waited for him to voice his claim.
He filled his lungs, the spirit of the fire touching him, sending a river of sweat down his face and chest. He welcomed it, a feeling of victory and a silent fervent prayer offered to the mother goddess that his mating claim would not offend the faeries, for it was their damned geas that had forced him to it.
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