“I forswore the promise.”
“What promise?” Bryna stared at the violet color of his eyes, and the familiar slant of his mouth. Anguish tightened his features.
“A past never forgotten, never forgiven.” He shook his head and sighed heavily, eyes dulled to lifelessness. “I am noble tribe. I am Tuatha Dé Danann.”
The Sorcerer was one of Tynan’s people? She could not believe it.
“Is he here?” he asked, a trace of excitement in his tone.
“Who?” she prompted.
“The one that is mine. The one whose scent clings to your fine skin.”
Tynan? “Nay,” she lied softly. This fiend wanted the Dark Chieftain for some horrible purpose. “He is not here. I come alone.”
“Foolish faery. Lies transform your face. You canna lie to me. No one can lie to me.” His features contorted into a mask of raw hatred and Bryna took an involuntary step back.
“I want him. I want my blood back!” He waved at the jewels. “I hold the faeries forever, if need be. For the Dark Chieftain, I wait. With his death, they will have no choice but to speak to me, for only I then will have the ancient blood. The prophecy returns to what should have been, and then I shall plant my seed in the territorial goddess’ womb and all shall be forgiven.”
Bryna took a shaky step backwards. He was maddened.
His gaze speared her with a lurid passion. A slow smile curved his lips, a deeper understanding dawning.
“Goddess,” he murmured. “You canna run now that I know your mortal form, goddess of the silver eyes.” He laughed, a vile, menacing sound. “ ‘Tis your womb I seek. You were meant for me.”
She shook her head, frightened by his directness. What did he mean by mortal form?
He pointed again to the red crystals. “Your brethren made me this way. Spite and willfulness, they doona forgive. Well, neither shall I.”
“DOONA LET HIM TOUCH YOU, BRYNA.”
He cocked his head. “Bryna.” He said her name slowly and then offered his hand. “I will not harm you, Bryna. Come to me, my silver-eyed beauty. You are my territorial goddess, destined from birth. You shall mate with me.” When she did not respond, he scowled and dropped his hand. “You deny me?”
“I am not the goddess.”
A smile of tolerance curled his lips. “The Dark Chieftain believes you are.”
“He is mistaken,” Bryna stated firmly.
“Is he?” The Betrayer’s gaze slid back to the red jewels. “You have come for the faeries, have you not? You wish to speak to them? Come, talk to them. I allow this.”
With a peculiar rolling gait, he walked to the far side of the crater, creating an illusion of safety in distance. His white robe swept around him, hiding his deformed feet.
Bryna touched her temple with trembling fingers. Insistent voices called to her from within the jewels, whispers of silk and petals in a warm wind laced with urgency. She stepped nearer the edge of the crater, drawn by the blue flames. At first, she did not see them, but then her eyes caught upon movement and her senses heightened and their ethereal images materialized. They were beautiful and magically intertwined within the flames, slim as birch trunks with catlike eyes and translucent skin.
“Pretty creatures?” the Sorcerer inquired, knowingly. “I have always thought them beautiful and treacherous. You are different from them.”
Bryna raised angry eyes to the Sorcerer. “Free them.” He shook his head. “I have felt their vile breath and prejudice. In a moment’s whim, they condemned me.” He spread his hands wide in supplication. “They lack tolerances you see.”
A rock fell somewhere behind the Sorcerer and he smirked.
“Come, my Centurion friend. Come join us.”
Bryna let out a startled gasp. “You.”
“Witcheyes, you have caused me much inconvenience. Are you surprised that your master is not dead? I am harder to kill than these barbarians.”
She struggled to remain calm. Deeply hollowed eyes focused on her with such hatred that she took a reflexive step back, only to collide with an immovable wall.
“Easy, Bryna,” Tynan reassured. “I am here.” Above his faerymate’s bright head, his gaze locked with the Evil One. In his mind, the faeries continued to call out to him, their demands insistent and sharp.
“Demanding sprites,” Tynan muttered in disgust, used to their ploys. “They have no patience.”
“Nay, they do not,” the Sorcerer agreed, which did not surprise Tynan in the least. He had always suspected the Evil One was bound to the faeries in some way.
“Tynan.” His faerymate whispered urgently, gripping his bloody forearm.
“I am all right.” He pushed her gently behind him for safety.
“She must stay,” the Evil One said firmly.
“Out of harm’s way,” Tynan snarled.
“Agreed. The goddess appears to care for you, great chieftain. I find it odd, but then you carry the ancient blood and it does call to them.” The Evil One gestured to his left. “Have you met the invader of our land?”
Tynan looked right, taking in the cowardly Roman who had run when his soldiers had fallen.
“At last I know who I had held in my chains.” The coward shook his sword at him.
Tynan acknowledged the gesture with scorn.
“At last,” the Evil One said, and Tynan turned back to his true enemy, detecting a tone of elation in the fiend’s voice, a warning of the wickedness yet to come.
“I am here, Evil One. Release the faeries. Imprisoning them serves no purpose.”
“It serves my purpose. Let them wait and learn patience as I have. They have grown too demanding. Did my spell hurt you, chieftain?”
“Little,” Tynan said.
“A minor dalliance spell laced with darkness. I would have thought you would be injured more. ‘Tis the fey blood that gives you the strength.”
“No spell of darkness holds me. I see yonder rat still scurries to do your bidding.”
The Centurion’s swarthy face turned bright red with the insult. “Bastard.”
“We must all have our servants.” The Sorcerer waved for the man to stay. “My aim has always been to find you and then weaken you.” He paused. “Be you mine, Tynan?”
Tynan stiffened at the familiar phrase.
“Ah, you remember my sacrificial altar.”
“I remember your stink.”
“Do you remember how weak you felt?” The Sorcerer raised his arms, white sleeves billowing outward. “Remember, chieftain.”
His withered voice rose in a dark incantation. Black darkness shot from his outstretched hands, wrapping around Tynan, binding him with weakness.
Tynan felt his soul withering. His sword tilted down, the tip grazing the ground. He stumbled forward, lost in the darkness . . .
With his last thought, he reached out for Bryna. Suddenly a chant of pure beauty filled his mind. Bryna’s faery voice joined his brethren in song, an instant knowing of it. Her small hand reached for his wrist.
The darkness wavered and he saw the Centurion and Sorcerer cowering. The song hurt them somehow, even as his soul returned from the encroaching oblivion. He squeezed his faerymate’s hand, was whole again, and pushed her behind him. He looked up and locked glances with the repulsive fiend. A violet lunacy glared at him from across the red crystals.
His faerymate had broken the spell. He did not know how, but thought only of what he must do to save Kindred.
“Evil One,” he snarled. “Is that the best you can do? A Roman rat and a weak spell?”
The fiend straightened, spittle running down his chin. “Goddess Witch, curse you.”
“Your fight is with me, not her,” Tynan growled. “Come and test the Dark Chieftain’s sword. If afraid, send the cowardly rat who waits for your direction.”
“I am the true Dark Chieftain,” the Sorcerer bellowed, “I am the ancient blood liege of KINDRED, not you.”
“You speak idiocy.”
“Do I?” He pulled his hood back, a jerking movement of wretchedness. “Look at me, Tynan. Look at me! Doona you know me?”
Tynan gripped the sword hilt tighter. “It matters not to me by what name you call yourself.”
“It matters, Tynan. I am Cormack, Lord Knight of the Tuatha Dé Danann.” His mouth turned upward in an ugly way, both grimace and triumphant smile. “I am your father.”
Behind him, his faerymate choked back a gasp. My father? He cringed deep down inside, where all the childhood needs and weakness had hidden on his journey to adulthood. Hurt, loss, rage, and finally disbelief fought for control of his heart. He studied the cruel skeletal face and gleam of violet eyes . . . and knew the Sorcerer’s words for truth. This repugnant creature was his father.
“Father,” he said.
“So, you believe me?”
“I heard whispers that the Evil One belonged to the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
“The whispers are true.”
“The truth changes nothing.”
“Does it not?” Cormack stepped forward, sure of his power. “Have you no questions for me, my son? Are you not curious about your mother? About what happened to her?”
“She died,” Tynan replied without any emotion. He would not let it sway him to anger and foolishness.
“Aye, by my own hand.”
“Murderer.” Tynan snarled an oath of fury.
“This is your fault, goddess.” His father pointed at Bryna. “Your fault I fell under a mortal woman’s power and broke the promise.”
“Nay, ‘tis your own fault,” Tynan shot back. “You are a weak chieftain, Cormack, and do not deserve the promise.”
“Weak, am I?”
“Aye, weak in honor and heart. Weak in strength and power that you blame a woman for your own sins and weakness.”
“That creature standing behind you is not a woman. Have you seen her true form, my son? Have you gazed onto her real likeness and felt passion in your blood? Nay, you have not, or you would not defend her so.”
“Weak chieftain, you see only the outside wrapping and take no responsibility for your own actions.”
“I am not weak,” his father hissed. “For what has been done to me, you must pay, Tynan, you who came of a mistake and should never have been born. You will not steal my right of claim. I am the true Dark Chieftain. Your blood and the blood of the territorial goddess must mingle and spill into the land as one. Then my seed shall spill into her womb.”
“Come then, Father.” Tynan flexed his sword. “Come meet your fate.” He gave his faerymate a quick glance and turned away.
Bryna could not move.
She met the Sorcerer’s enraged gaze and through his eyes saw a reflection of another form, another self, willowy and cat-eyed. It terrified her.
“Roman, bloody my goddess for the mating.”
“Bryna, move!” Tynan roared, bolting toward her, but he was too late. Somehow, the Centurion had moved between them. With his sword, he swiped at her head. Bryna ducked, but he cut her back into a stream of blazing fire.
Stumbling in pain and shock, she ran around the crater.
“Fool! Doona kill her,” the Sorcerer shrieked from somewhere behind.
Suddenly Tynan was there, his powerful sword protecting her from the Centurion’s downward thrust.
She crawled to the edge of the crater, her body cold and trembling. Reaching behind, she felt for the wound, her hand coming away smeared with warm blood. It trickled down her rump and thigh to the soil. Everything tilted into narrowing grayness.
“COME TO US, BRYNA. COME TO US. WE CAN HELP YOU.”
She blinked back hot tears.
“Goddess.”
Bryna looked up into the Sorcerer’s white face. “Your mortal form is pleasing to me.” A dark, lustful smile lit his face.
“Stay away from me.” She scrambled back to the crater’s ledge.
He followed her, bent and vengeful in his pursuit. “Why did you not come for me those years ago?”
“I doona know what you are talking about.”
He came down on one knee beside her. “Did you wish to punish me for claiming another woman? If you would have but shown yourself, I would have set her aside. But you did not come! This is your fault. Now I must kill what should have come from your womb.”
Bryna shook her head, leaning away from him.
“With his death, only I remain with the ancient blood, then the faeries of Kindred have no choice but to speak to me, the true Dark Chieftain. You were destined for me, Bryna, not him. When I mate with you in Tynan’s blood, I shall fulfill the prophecy and be redeemed.” He pulled out a small black spider from within his robes.
“Know you this, goddess?” he asked.
“Nay!”
Tynan heard Bryna’s cry. He charged back to her with the Centurion shrieking in pursuit. Grabbing his father around the neck, he pivoted, pulling away from his faerymate just in time to meet the Centurion’s blade.
His father kicked out in response, catching Bryna hard in the cheek. She lost her precarious position on the crater’s edge, and with a startled cry fell down into the pile of red crystals, out of his sight.
The blue light of the false flames winked out.
Crystals exploded into a thousand shards.
Red light filled the cave with vindictive faeries.
“FREE!”
They focused on the true Dark Chieftain.
Warmth infused Tynan’s battle weary body.
His wounded shoulder healed instantly.
A river of fey strength surged into him.
With a swift sword thrust, he ended the Roman leader’s worthless life. The cowardly invader gurgled in shock, crumpling to the ground, dead.
Swinging around, Tynan dragged his thrashing father back to the edge of the crater.
“Bryna!” he called out.
His father panted in his arms. “She is dead! She is dead! Now both of us are doomed.”
“Nay, I’ll not believe it.” He stared into the thick swirls of pink smoke rising from the crater.
Suddenly, the air shimmered all around them.
Faeries took form.
Unblinking eyes stared with raw malevolence in bright shades of silver, gold, and copper.
“Nay,” his father spat at them. “I am the true Dark Chieftain.”
The faeries hissed in unforgiving rage. Sheer wings buffeted the air in flight.
“Nay!” Tynan called out, but retribution would not be denied. He staggered back, pulling his father with him. A deep painful droning filled his ears. Whiteness exploded in front of his eyes.
And then . . .
. . .the Evil One, his father, dissolved into gray dust and nothingness.
Tynan stepped back, his arms empty. “You had no right,” he said tightly, unable to condone his father’s death.
The buzzing eased.
“WE HAVE EVERY RIGHT, DARK CHIEFTAIN.”
He took a deep breath. “Clear the air so that I can see,” he commanded.
A warm faery wind rose in the cavern, clearing the pink smoke.
In the crater, among the shattered red crystals, Bryna lay face down, unmoving.
He took a step forward and felt an icy tingling.
Wisps of gold took form and Tynan found himself facing a creature of twilight. She stood between him and the crater where Bryna lay.
Beneath lashes tipped with silver, eyes of pure gold stared back at him, hard, fathomless, and covetous. White-gold hair waved about delicate, elfin features. A thin web-work of gold threads covered a white, wraithlike body. Wings of gold and white lace stilled on her back.
“I AM YOUR GODDESS.”
Tynan stepped around her.
“Bryna!” Sheathing his sword in the leather scabbard strapped to his back, he climbed down into the crater and knelt beside his faerymate. Blood glistened from the wound on her back.
“Bryna,” he whispered, terror clutching at his heart.
Her face
turned slightly to him. “Tynan?”
“I am here.” He kissed her cold cheek. Gently, he lifted her from the shattered jewels.
“The Sorcerer?”
“He is dead.”
He felt the cool press of her face into his shoulder. “I am sorry, Tynan.”
His lips brushed her forehead in response. “You are safe now, faery. Let me carry you out of here.”
He fitted her in his arms, careful of her back wound, and stood.
At the crater’s edge, the faeries gathered. They were slight and luminous creatures watching him with unblinking eyes.
“Are the faeries free?” his brave faerymate asked against his neck.
Tynan watched the golden goddess step forward, balancing on the edge of the crater.
She stared at him with cruel possessiveness. Wings of lace beat silently in the air, sending a chill down his spine.
“Aye,” he replied softly. He held Bryna close. “They are free.”
CHAPTER 14
TYNAN LEFT BRYNA IN ROSE’S safe care at Kindred. He had a promise to keep and could no longer delay.
In the fey woodlands, nocturnal creatures stirred from their sleep and stilled at the glittering faeries gathering in the clearing. It had not been this way since the first black-haired chieftain bowed and rejected the Faery Queen and she, in outrage, cast the magical geas upon him.
Tynan entered the clearing. He paused near an ancient oak and disrobed as was the custom. His guarded gaze swept the ancient stone well. Shards of light shimmered in silver, copper and gold from the faeries. The brightness hurt his eyes. He could just make out the tiny white roses growing between the vines and silver thorns at the well’s base.
He had been born the son of a weak chieftain and understood his obligation to his tribe and to the land. Over the years he accepted it, satisfied with what he had to do. Now, he found his heart aching for a flamehaired faery with gray eyes.
With his right hand, he picked up his sword. Leaning down, he gripped the shield with his left. Naked, except for his torc and arm bands, he walked toward the primordial well and stopped several feet in front of it. Dropping to his knees, he bowed his head in supplication and waited. The ground felt hard and warm against his skin. His hair fell unadorned in a black waterfall down the tense muscles of his broad back.
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