“Do I need a cloak?”
The ancient shook her head. “Nay, the sun is warm.”
Bryna straightened and smoothed down the folds of the gown. “I am ready.”
Her teacher nodded and gestured to the door. “We will walk slowly.”
Bryna smiled. “As always, my teacher.”
They walked through the sunlit courtyard out to the village at the ancient’s pace. Children played with the wolfhounds, tossing sticks in the warm air for the dogs to catch.
When they came to the end of the courtyard, Bryna turned and asked, “Where is he?”
“This way, child, in the meadow between the village and fortress.”
They came upon a group of twenty men battling with practice swords in the field. Loud voices rose in taunt, others in advice.
“Thrust under,” one man called.
“You thrust under,” another answered in annoyance.
Bryna stepped closer to see. Tynan stood with his back to her, parrying with another tribesman, whom he quickly overwhelmed.
“Go to him, child.” Her teacher pointed to the waiting servant girls with water buckets on the side. “Bring him water to quench his thirst.”
Bryna walked over to the water buckets.
“I think that is enough for today,” Ian offered, striding into the circle, having noticed his chieftain’s faerymate.
Tynan said nothing. He still wished to fight. His gaze snagged on the bright head making its way through his men.
Bryna.
His fingers eased on the sword. He quickly sheathed the practice weapon at his waist and nodded to Ian, acknowledging the man’s attempt to warn him.
“My thanks, Ian.” He nodded. “Time for rest. Go clean up. There are plenty of sweet cakes this eve for everyone.”
Ian stepped away. “Practice is ended,” he called out to the men. “Go and clean up.”
Carrying a water bucket, Bryna pushed through the multitude of sweaty men. Placing the water bucket at Tynan’s booted feet, she knelt before him in the dirt. With two unsteady hands, she filled the wooden ladle.
“Water to quench your thirst?” Would he refuse her offering and embarrass her in front of his men, or would he drink from her hands?
Tynan knelt and cradled her hands. Leaning forward, he drank from the ladle. Bryna felt soft lips brush her thumb, his breath tickling the index finger of her other hand.
She sensed the men dispersing quietly all around them, but that was all. Her world centered on her mate. His black hair had been plaited with two braids at each temple. The rest of the raw silk fell in a single plait down his back.
“My thanks,” he murmured.
Bryna held still under his slow appraisal.
“More water, Tynan?”
He nodded.
She dipped the ladle into the bucket and held it out to him.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Aye, I feel much improved.” She was so glad to be near him. “My thanks for the gift, Tynan. The gown is lovely.”
“The color suits you.” He took the ladle and drank, lashes lowering, locking her out.
Bryna did not know that images of dark blood flashed in his mind and that he could still feel her cold, limp body in his arms. Had she been more aware, she would have realized that her chieftain mate blamed himself for the death of their unborn son.
“My thanks for the water.” Dropping the ladle in the bucket, he rose and walked away.
Bryna stared after him, unable to match his actions with the burning need in his eyes. He did not want her, she understood with a sudden clarity. Her gaze fell to the ground, a familiar comfort when in turmoil. Tynan’s geas stirred his body, changing the amethyst in his eyes to black amber. The man himself did not want her.
Swiping the tears from her cheek, she remembered Blodenwedd’s warning, “ . . .should the chieftain tire of you, I will take him.”
“Fool of a chieftain,” her teacher grumbled from behind her. “He does not see the truth.”
“He is no fool.” Bryna answered, climbing to her feet. “Forgive me, Teacher. I feel suddenly fatigued and need to return to the keep.” She walked quietly away, her heart returning to numbness, as it had been when she had served in slavery to the Romans. In the days that followed, she did not approach the Dark Chieftain again, but found value in simple things and in helping his tribesmen.
Yet, when the nights approached, she would cringe inside, for they were the most difficult to get through. In the evening, she would take her meal in the bed-chamber alone. Afterward, she would curl up in the bed, staring into the shadows on the wall that were born by the fires in the hearth. When the moon rose high in the night sky, he would come to their bed. Lying atop the pelts, his back to her, he slept without a sound.
She lay awake, feeling his physical exhaustion and listening to his breathing. With a heavy heart, she would wonder when he would send her away and call for Blodenwedd. When her eyelids grew heavy, she would sleep and dream of terrible things.
At dawn’s first light, he would leave again.
Inspect the new chariots, mews, and stables . . .
Supervise the restoration of the tomb and farms . . .
Practice with his warriors . . .
Search the countryside with his patrols for Eamon . . .
And another night would come and pass.
Many days and nights went like this until last night . . .
Last night had been different.
Bathed in the white light of the full moon, he had held her with surprising reverence, thinking her asleep. His bare chest pressed into her back. She remembered the warmth of him and the whisper of his words. I doona know what to say to you, faery. How you must hate me.
When morning came, he had left her alone again. Bryna stared at shafts of morning light streaming in from the window. She dinna hate him. Why would he say that? Did he think she blamed him for the loss of their babe?
Guilt washed over her at her own selfish need. Why did she not see that he had suffered as greatly as she did?
She climbed out of bed with a new sense of purpose, determined to talk with him. Standing in front of the hearth, she sought warmth from the cool morning air, composing herself. It was time for both of them to heal and move on with life.
“Creature of twilight, what do you see in the burning embers?”
Startled, Bryna turned around and faced a druid in a hooded brown robe. He had closed the door securely behind him.
“Eamon?” She recognized that voice.
“Aye, ‘tis Eamon.”
He came into the room and moved beside her, un-threatening.
“What do you see in the embers?” he asked again.
Bryna glanced at the ashes and smoldering remains of last night’s fire. “Why are you here?” She felt uncomfortable in his presence. “Your chieftain sends men out searching for you.”
“Aye, but they will not find me.” He continued to stare at the dying fire.
“What do you see in the embers? Do you see your fate?”
Bryna glanced at the hearth. “They are but embers, Eamon, nothing more,” she answered, slightly perplexed by his fascination.
“Nay, they are signs of a life ending.” He dropped the hood back and turned to face her.
Bryna flinched at the feral look that came into his eyes.
“I have come to claim what should have been mine,” he snarled.
She bolted for the door, but a large hand grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked.
Bryna went flying backwards and landed hard on her hip in front of the hearth. She swallowed back her cry of pain, unwilling to show him weakness. Instead, she glared defiantly back at him through tear-filled eyes.
He knelt before her. “You are lovely, I have always thought so.” His arms braced on his knees. “Faery whore,” he said with vehemence, “you should have been mine.”
“I belong to Tynan.” She kicked out, catching him in the upper chest and sending him backwards, b
ut like most warriors, he recovered his feet in one fluid motion.
Bryna scrambled back on all fours.
His lips curved in a sneer. “Faery whore, you belong to the man that wears the mantle of the Dark Chieftain. And soon I will be that one.” He towered over her. His gaze raked her body. “I smell the stench of him on you.”
Bryna scrambled to her feet and backed away.
“But his seed does not root in your faery womb,” he gloated, pressing her back. “ ‘Tis a sign of weakness in him.”
“The weakness is mine, not his.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms. He smelled of bitter ale. Bryna shoved against him. “You have no right. Let go of me.”
His face darkened in fury. “No right?” he choked. With a massive fist, he clipped her jaw.
Pain exploded up her cheek. Blood pooled in her mouth and dimness strayed into her vision. Her head rolled listlessly on her shoulders.
“That is better,” he breathed. “I like the silence of a woman’s breath.”
Her eyes glazed. She could no longer think clearly.
He dragged her back to the bed and tossed her down on the furs, but she slid to the floor in a limp heap.
He chuckled softly and opened the heavy lid to her trunk, pulling out her lavender cloak.
“Stand up.” Grabbing a handful of silken hair, he pulled her to her feet.
Bryna wavered on weak legs.
“Hold still,” he commanded irritably, draping the cloak around her shoulders. He pulled the hood up to hide her bright tresses and fastened the brooch at her shoulder to hold the cloak in place.
“Know how long I have waited to touch you?” he said. “I have wanted you since first I saw you.”
Bryna tried to focus on the voice and fuzzy image in front of her. Grayness invaded her sight and she collapsed, unconscious.
Eamon frowned as he caught her. “Mayhap I hit you too hard.” He pulled his brown hood over his head to hide his features and swung her up in his arms. “Come, goddess.” He peered out the doorway to an empty hall. “We go to the woodlands.”
CHAPTER 17
THE BIRDS REMAINED ODDLY QUIET, a distinct warning that Tynan could not ignore.
Heat shimmered in the late morning air, adding to the feeling of growing unease inside him. He could not shake the feeling of wrongness coiling in his stomach.
He crossed the muddy courtyard to the stables and stopped. Turning back, he scanned the area. A warm breeze blew his hair away from his face. His hand rested easily on the hilt of the sword at his waist. He searched his surroundings. Wolfhounds nestled by the front of the keep. Workers repaired the parapets. Tribesmen bartered in morning trades. Horses neighed in contentment in the outside corrals.
“What is it?” Ian called from the stables. Tynan shook his head. He could give no reason for his unease.
Edwin joined Ian. They both stood just outside the stable, watching him.
“What do you sense?” Edwin asked with concern. Tynan did not answer right away. “I sense a change in the wind, something dank comes.”
Ian stepped forward. “From Ulster?” He knew the messenger from the Ulster King had arrived yesterday.
Tynan shook his head. “Nay, he thinks us faery cursed and will have nothing to do with us.”
“So, it is as you said.”
“Aye. They fear us. We have no ally there.” Tynan did not believe they would fare better with the Connacht, Leinster, or the Munster kings. The Tuatha Dé Danann were the faery tribe, separate from mortal men and part of the Daoine Sidhe. He envisioned Kindred becoming like the faery woodlands, a haven of magic and heavy mist seen only by those of faery blood.
“Good then,” Ian stated. “I canna condone their superstitious ways.”
“Aye,” Tynan agreed. The other tribe’s blood practices were barbaric. “I doona believe in the sacrifice of innocents for fair weather and fertility.”
Ian nodded. “I’ve increased our presence in the village and posted more guards. Our search parties have found no sign of Eamon. Does your faerymate sense this danger?”
Tynan shook his head again. He dinna know what Bryna sensed. He had stayed away from her hoping his geas, his magical obligation to mate, would calm. But it did not. Each night he came to her bed, wanting the closeness of her. Each morning he left in the same state, plunging into the day’s work, hoping to exhaust his body and drive the burning lust out of his system.
Tynan faced Ian. He had come to see the first foal of the season and put Bryna from his mind.
“Show me Cloud’s foal.”
He followed Ian and Edwin back into the first stable. This building housed twenty horses at a time. The scents of fresh hay and leather combined with the smell of a new birth.
Standing outside a wooden stall, they looked in upon Ian’s dappled gray mare, Cloud. The mare’s large blue eyes watched warily from beneath long white lashes. She stood seventeen hands of sleek muscle, the fleetest horse in their stable.
Beside her, a pitch-black foal with one white fet-lock tottered on long, spindly legs.
“ ‘Tis a good sign for a birth this early in the year.”
Tynan joined Edwin in resting his arms on the top of the wooden stall. Their gold arm bands shone brightly. Unlike many of the other tribes that preferred bright colors, the men of Tuatha Dé Danann adapted the colors of the night and fey woodlands, dark blues and purples and shades of black. Swords and daggers were always sheathed at their waists, a readiness that he insisted upon.
Cloud nickered encouragement to the swaying youngster, testing his legs in the clean, yellow straw.
“His long legs hint of swiftness to come,” Tynan said in observation.
“Aye, he favors my Cloud. The foal is yours, Tynan.”
Tynan squeezed Ian’s shoulder. “I am honored, Ian. If the foal is as fast as his dam, my chariot will fly among the gods.”
Edwin chuckled. “That gray mare can outrun a hawk in full flight.”
“Nay, not a hawk in full flight,” Ian mocked.
“We shall see, Ian, we shall see.” Tynan leaned over the stall.
“What will you name him?” Edwin asked.
Tynan looked at the black foal. “I will call him Black Spear.”
“ ‘Tis a fine name,” Ian murmured.
“May he be as swift as a spear,” Edwin concurred.
Tynan watched the foal’s progress. “Within a few short hours he will have his balance under him and we will know.”
The foal looked up at them with curious black eyes as if only now realizing that he had an audience. Tynan wished to have shared this moment with Bryna.
He did not realize how long he stood in silence before Ian spoke.
“ ‘Tis not good to stay away from your mate,” Ian said softly.
Images of blood-stained sheets filled Tynan’s mind. Ian turned to Edwin. “Lad, give us a moment.” Turning, Edwin walked outside and closed the stables doors behind him.
Ian rested his arms on the stall in a thoughtful stance. “My wife and I have wished to keep this secret, but methinks you should know of it and mayhap it will help you. Aya and I lost our first child in much the same way as you and Bryna.”
Tynan looked over at the older man. “I did not know, Ian.”
“No one knew, except Rose, and she agreed not to speak of it to anyone. I tell you this more out of understanding than sympathy. There is no reason for losses such as this, and I blamed myself for touching Aya even after I knew she was with child.”
“I touched Bryna,” Tynan said tightly.
“I suspected. It does not matter.”
“It matters.” Tynan’s hands gripped the top of the stall, causing Cloud to shy away.
“Easy, girl,” Ian said. Reaching out, he stroked the mare’s muscular shoulder. The horse soon quieted and the black foal found his way to his first warm meal.
“We tried again for a babe. When Aya carried our second, I stayed away fro
m her. Yet, she lost that babe too. Only she and I knew, another secret kept out of shame.” Ian pulled his hand back and rested it on the stall. “The third time the goddess blessed us. Aya bloomed like wild flowers in sunlight. She grew strong as the child did in her womb, and her appetites increased.”
“Appetites?”
“I have five sons and two daughters, sire. They doona grow on trees.”
Tynan chuckled and patted his man on the back. “They are fine children, Ian.”
“Aye, they are. Do you understand what I am trying to say? It does not matter if you touched her or not. When death calls, there is nothing any of us can do. Go to her, sire. The worst thing would be for you to stay away. Bryna grieves, too, though she hides her tears well. Only together can you heal.”
Tynan looked back to the black foal and raked a hand through his hair. “I doona know how to approach her.”
“Do as you always have done.”
Suddenly, the mare’s gray head shot up sharply, pink nostrils flared in agitation.
“What, Cloud?” Ian straightened and glanced over his shoulder.
“She senses something,” Tynan said, his hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his waist.
Cloud neighed loudly and pawed the floor. Horses in the paddocks answered her with upset whinnies. Outside, the wolfhounds began barking.
Tynan glanced at Ian.
“Trouble,” Ian murmured.
Tynan agreed. “Take Edwin and a few of our men and begin a search,” he ordered, and bolted out the stable doors. Already, his tribesmen were at alert, groups fanning out. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the lead wolfhound, Shadow, sniffing at a servants’ entrance to the keep.
Drawing his sword, Tynan ran across the courtyard to the dog.
“Show me, Shadow.” He pushed the side door open, noting the broken lock.
The scarred dog took off at a run down the narrow corridor with Tynan chasing after him. Servants made way as they raced through the keep, the animal heading for the center staircase, his nose to the floor. A sick dread settled in his stomach when the dog ran up the stairs and headed straight to his bedchambers.
Tynan followed more cautiously, his grip tightening on the hilt of the double-edged sword.
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