Predestined

by R. Garland Gray

A hint of rosemary scented the air.

  “She is gone,” the ancient druidess whispered shakily, standing in the center of his bedchamber.

  The vile scent of acid sweat overpowered his faerymate’s soft lavender fragrance.

  “Eamon,” he said icily.

  “Aye, that one.”

  Shadow whimpered, pacing back and forth in the corner near the window.

  Tynan went to the dog and knelt. Three drops of blood glistened on the floor.

  With a swift downward thrust, he buried the tip of his sword in the floor. The dog jumped back on all fours, teeth bared, hair bristling at his shoulders.

  Reaching out, he patted the dog on the head to reassure him. “Not you, dog.” He stood slowly and turned back to the blind druidess with the white hair.

  “Teacher.” He called her by the name Bryna used, showing his respect. “Where does he take my faerymate?”

  “The feypaths,” she said, almost trancelike in her pose. She turned, empty eye-sockets piercing him with a sudden chill. “Dark Chieftain, my faery sight canna see beyond the purple light of the feypaths. You must start your search there.”

  Tynan’s gaze settled on his sword, the tip buried deep in the wood floor. It still wobbled from the force of his anger. “Eamon knows but one feypath, to and from the faery woodlands.”

  Eamon grinned in triumph. It proved incredibly easy to slip past the servants and take what belonged to him. A druid’s unobtrusive dark robes had served him well in his enemy’s place. He could barely contain his delight.

  He cast his eyes to the territorial goddess walking in front of him. The floor length lavender cloak hid her slender form. Flame colored hair fell down her back in unruly lengths.

  She belonged to him now. He could hardly wait to take her womb and become the Dark Chieftain.

  “Is it always this dark in here? It strains my eyes.”

  Bryna looked up. The unreal light shifted, tarnishing the rocks and walls of the feypaths with its sepulchral smear. “It is not this dark, usually. Shades of purple light have muted and blurred into gloominess,” Bryna answered softly. “We trespass here.”

  “I doona like it.”

  “Most mortals would not.” For Bryna, the color soothed her faery soul. A cool breeze blew in the tunnels, carrying the murmurs of thousands of vindictive sprites. If Eamon heard the sound, he did not acknowledge it.

  “After I have you, I will be powerful and immortal.”

  “Think me immortal, Eamon?”

  “You are a goddess.”

  “Immortality is a gift, Eamon, a gift that I dinna receive. As a goddess bound by prophecy to a chieftain, I live a mortal’s life.”

  “I know you are immortal. Doona lie to me.” Bryna stepped gingerly around a sharp ledge of shiny black rocks. “I doona lie, Eamon.” Her bare feet were cut and bleeding from walking on the rocky dirt path.

  “I doona want to talk of it now.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Stop talking.”

  Bryna bowed her head in acknowledgement. Dampness clung to the air, weighing down her limbs. The sound of Eire’s wild sea, lashing against the cliffs, echoed in the tunnels. Tenderly, she felt for the swelling at her jaw. It still hurt to the touch, a minor ache, compared to her throbbing feet. Ahead, gray walls of stone flowed into the feypath’s purple light, yawning outward into a black void.

  “It stinks in here,” Eamon complained.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  Distaste showed clearly on her captor’s face and she felt a sense of pleasure upon seeing him so discomforted.

  “Fey spitefulness,” she replied.

  “Speak up.”

  “You breathe faery spitefulness.”

  He scowled at her. “Nay, ‘tis the rot of some dead animal.”

  “You think so?” She continued walking.

  “So serene, so cool, my icy goddess,” he taunted. “You lost his heir, Bryna. Think he will come for you after that?”

  Memories of that horrible night flooded her mind in a blur of feelings and colors. She had lain in strong arms, bleeding and exhausted with scents of Rose’s stonecrop and garlic remedies scenting the air, and the flicker of yellow candlelight on wall tapestries.

  “Do you remember?” he goaded behind her, confident in his superiority.

  “I remember,” she responded serenely to her captor, this vanquisher who knew nothing but his own envy and resentment and sought to rip her heart asunder.

  “Already Tynan warms another’s bed. Do you remember when he rejected your water offering in the meadow? Proof that he no longer cares for you. He has abandoned you, where I would take you willingly in my arms.”

  “I am pledged to the Dark Chieftain,” she replied simply, unwilling to be drawn in by him.

  “You will be mine, Bryna. I would never hurt you like he has.”

  The scent of lies fouled the air. She covered her mouth and coughed, turning away.

  “Aye, it stinks of rot in here.” He shoved her forward. “I would sooner leave this place. Move faster.”

  Bryna walked on, leaving a blood trail for Tynan to follow. She did not pause, her bleeding feet carrying her forward.

  “Must you touch everything?”

  “I am the territorial goddess, Eamon. The land calls for my touch.”

  “Your touch,” he growled, “slows us down.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her forward.

  Bryna allowed him to pull her along without a fight.

  The purple light in the tunnels dimmed and the sound of the dark sea had grown distant. She prayed to the mother goddess for strength, fighting the urge to ask Eamon to slow the pace or even to stop and rest for a moment. Wet pain licked at her feet.

  She stumbled and could not help a painful grimace.

  “What?” He stopped and faced her. “Tell me,” he demanded.

  She stared at the long scar wrinkling his chin.

  “My patience grows thin with your silence, Bryna.”

  Bryna found herself pushed roughly against the wall. The folds of the lavender cloak opened, revealing the bloodstained hem of her white bedrail.

  He looked down and cursed. “You think to leave a blood trail for him?”

  “Tynan does not need a blood trail to find me.”

  Her captor’s face turned red in fury. “I will just carry you, then.”

  Tynan crouched low in the cool purple light of the feypaths. A thin gold torc rested on his collarbone and gold arm bands wrapped around biceps.

  It was always twilight in the feypaths, always foul with faery spitefulness. His long black hair fell un-adorned down his bare back. Kneeling, he caressed the single strand of auburn hair between his fingers.

  He wore the runes of Kindred upon his chest, a vow of protection and promise cast in blue dye. Black breeches glistened with sweat from his long chase. He curled the single strand of hair around his fingers and reverently tucked it into his waistband beside his jeweled dagger.

  Looking up, he regarded the two tunnels before him.

  He had a choice to make.

  Tynan reached for his battle sword. He had placed it carefully on the ground when he found a strand of Bryna’s hair. With one fluid motion, he swung the sword back into the leather scabbard tied at his back.

  Slowly he stood, his features hard and feral. Breathing in the damp air, the coppery scent of her blood rode the currents of the feypaths and he knew that she had intentionally left a blood trail for him to follow.

  He emitted a primitive snarl of vengeance and bolted for the right tunnel.

  CHAPTER 18

  “EAMON, PLEASE PUT ME DOWN,” Bryna made her request in a small, breathless voice. He had flung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain hours ago, and she gritted her teeth from the soreness in her stomach.

  “Shut up,” he growled. “This is your own fault, stop complaining.”

  Biting her lip, Bryna’s head drooped low. In her misery, she thought of Tynan and felt a deep regr
et. Silence roared in her ears, a kind of melancholy set in, for she could not fathom a life without him.

  “Damn faeries.” Eamon stumbled and then muttered an oath. “I have had enough carrying you.” With a grunt, he leaned forward.

  Bryna slid off his shoulders and landed on shaky legs, feeling slightly faint. She took a moment to regain her composure, grateful for the small respite that her captor seemed to give her.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded. Hard fingers cupped her chin, tilting her face up for closer inspection.

  “Never have I realized the beauty of our fey brethren. The sight of you fills my body with need.”

  Bryna pulled out of his hand, sickened by his touch. She pointed behind her. “Look there, Eamon. The half-moon rock is just to the right.”

  He peered around her, a sly grin appearing on his face. “Aye, I remember it.” He walked over. His hands slid up and down the purple crystallike stone, searching for the indentation.

  “Where is the lever? Ah, I found it.”

  The fey rock slid open in silence.

  “Come.” Grabbing her wrist, he dragged her through the opening. Tainted darkness bled into their senses, a lingering of in-between from a fey to a mortal place. With the next step, they passed through and entered a small clearing.

  They paused in moonlight and Bryna took the fragrant air deep into her lungs. She looked out upon the land of her heritage. A heart shaped boulder stood to the right. At its base, a spray of wild flowers, in shades of white and purple, fluttered from the increasing south winds. In the distance stood a tribe of wild goats, their white coats ghostlike against the night’s rocky landscape.

  She sensed a rainstorm coming and tasted the fierce sweetness of the tempest on the tip of her tongue.

  Eamon shoved her forward impatiently. “Let us go. I wish to be in the woodlands before sunrise.”

  Bryna walked out into the open fields, the feather caress of grass at her ankles. All around primeval moonbeams swept the land, lighting the way. Soil, centuries old and rich with enchantment, cushioned her, reaching out to heal the raw pads of her feet. Bowing her head, Bryna murmured heartfelt thanks to the land goddess for her soothing gift.

  As a slave, she had been impressionable, passive to those who demanded control. Stolen and molded by isolation, she had become something she should never have been. No longer would she drift through life insecure and controlled by others.

  She BELONGED now.

  In the midst of this ordeal, she was just beginning to understand her rightful place. She recognized the envy and resentment that drove Eamon, the fury that tainted his mind for things he had no right to. This trespass against her would never be redeemed in the minds of her brethren. For Eamon, it would be a journey into forever darkness.

  “I doona remember it taking so long to get there.”

  Bryna glanced at her captor’s scowling face. “It is the same distance as it always has been.”

  “The faeries play a game with me.”

  “The faeries doona play games with you, Eamon.”

  He pointed to their left. “I doona remember those rocks.”

  Bryna looked at the ancient ring bank of fissured and split stones. “ ‘Tis a sacred rebirth stone formation and has always been there. Mayhap my brethren allow you to see it this time in preparation for your arrival.”

  He gazed uneasily at her and Bryna perceived a crack in his confidence. He did not like that the faeries knew of his coming. He wanted to control them because he feared them.

  “My brethren’s enchantment stirs in the air. Can you not feel it, Eamon?”

  “I feel nothing. Keep moving.”

  Bryna walked on, her head held high. “You canna control my brethren.”

  “When I am Dark Chieftain I will control all things.”

  “The Dark Chieftain is the protector of all things, not the master.”

  “There is no difference. Look over that rise. The woodlands peek out of the white mist.”

  Bryna looked ahead.

  Her step became strong and true.

  Her captor no longer pulled her forward.

  She walked on of her own accord.

  Her faery spirit poised for the upcoming battle.

  Rain fell in torrents.

  With ghostly speed, Tynan raced into the heavy faery mist. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating his way. Thunder boomed in disruptive violence above him, angry at his delay.

  He ducked under an ancient canopy of oak trees, drenched to the core of his being. With his back pressed against a massive tree trunk, he dragged air into his lungs. Steam rose from the heat of his flesh and exertion. He felt oddly refreshed and renewed from the rainstorm’s enchantment, despite his long run. His lungs no longer burned. His heart no longer pounded in his chest.

  Pushing away from the ancient tree, he threw his head back and breathed deeply.

  He felt strong and refreshed, his body invigorated and swift.

  He scanned the woodlands, focusing with his senses. Branches of the massive oaks swayed in the rain cast winds. The smaller yews and hollies bowed in worship to the moving spirit of the storm. Nostrils flaring, he took in the familiar scents of this fey place.

  “Tell me where she is,” he called out softly to the woodlands.

  He caught sight of several pairs of yellow eyes. The pack of black wolves watched him in the darkness. Wild pigs, searching for acorns, grunted in wet pleasure, unconcerned by the close proximity of the predators. Enchantment streamed in their blood as it did in his.

  A rustling sound came from his right and a badger crossed his path, foraging for food.

  In the treetops, the kee-kee cry of kestrels echoed hauntingly above the wind and then he felt it — a presence of white and air.

  Perched on the lower branch of a massive oak, a large snowy owl watched him with unblinking yellow eyes.

  “Messenger from the faeries, where is my faerymate?”

  The bird hooted at him as if to say, listen . . .

  Tynan tilted his head and paid attention with every one of his senses.

  Then he heard them . . .

  Faery voices.

  Calling.

  He took off at a run for the primordial well in the clearing.

  CHAPTER 19

  IN THE NIGHT SKY, THUNDER roared in protest of the rainstorm’s sudden abatement. It had come and gone in formidable power, leaving behind a fearsome silence.

  “Kneel!”

  Bryna hit the ground hard on her knees.

  “I am here,” her captor called out to the faeries, one hand wrapped hurtfully in her hair. “Show yourselves. I have brought my goddess.”

  Silence answered them.

  Tears welling in her eyes from his hold, Bryna stared at the thicket of silver thorns surrounding the base of the sacred well. Granite boulders stood behind in threadbare coats of green and brown moss.

  “Answer me,” he called out, muttering an impatient oath and releasing her. Stepping back, he removed the wet druid robe, flinging it aside. Underneath the guise, his green tunic and breeches were dampened. At his belt rested a dagger and sword. He looked around and came back to face her. “Why do they not show themselves?”

  “They will, Eamon,” she said calmly despite her inner quaking.

  His gaze narrowed at her and Bryna sensed a terrible intent.

  “Mayhap a little demonstration is in order,” he said, and then gestured. “Remove those clothes.”

  Bryna shook her head. “Nay, Eamon. I will not.” Her fists clenched tightly in her lap.

  “Do as I say.”

  “I will not.”

  “Doona test my temper. I said remove those clothes.”

  She shook her head defiantly. In the shadows of the ancient trees, a wind stirred the leaves. A clear whistling sound penetrated her ears.

  “WE BE HERE,” her brethren whispered.

  Bryna touched her ear in acknowledgement.

  Her captor
scanned the clearing. “What is that murmuring sound?” he demanded.

  “The faeries.”

  He grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her head back. “Why do they not show themselves to me?”

  Bryna stared up into hateful eyes. “In their time they come, Eamon. Release me.”

  He did, then back handed her across the face. Bryna fell back, her cheek stinging from the blow.

  “Doona play your fey games with me,” he growled in rising temper. He ripped the heavy cloak from her shoulders and tossed it into the mud.

  “Stand up.”

  She shook her head.

  He grabbed her by the hair once again and pulled her roughly to her feet.

  Dressed in only a sodden bedrail, Bryna glared back at him.

  “I see why Tynan has lain with you.” He released her hair and cupped her face. “I will not hurt you, Bryna, if you but obey me. My touch can be gentle too.”

  She pulled back in revulsion.

  “Doona turn from me when I speak to you.” His hands gripped her shoulders. There was a terrible entreaty in his voice. She flattened her hands against his chest and pushed against him, seeking her freedom. “I would rather die than endure your touch.”

  His body stiffened in front of her, large fingers digging into her flesh. Bryna bit back a cry of pain and looked up into his hardened face. He was watching her, eyes bright with hatred. “I will make you die little deaths each time I come between your thighs.” He shook her. “Shall we begin now in this fey place?”

  Suddenly, a blinding light burst upon them, a brilliance gone in the next breath, a faery intervention.

  Silver, gold, and bronze luminosity shimmered upon the dark branches of the trees. The clearing buzzed loudly with the drone of bees.

  “I see them!” He shoved her roughly aside and Bryna slid, landing in the mud on her side.

  “They come. I knew they would come at my call,” Eamon said excitedly. “They recognize me as the Dark Chieftain.”

  All around, the woodlands were alight with agitated faeries.

  “WE BE HERE.” They called to her, reassurances that rode the air currents of the night.

  “Come.” Eamon beckoned, his steps taking him to the clearing’s perimeter and away from her. Unwinking eyes stared out from the darkness. “I have come to mate with the territorial goddess,” he declared loudly.