Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  She was being ridiculous, she decided. Fengus was simply upset, especially given the way he’d found out. He wasn’t foolish enough to either hold her hostage, or worse, kill her. Everyone knew she was here. But only Fengus knew she wanted to leave. She did something with the remnants of her hair, covered her scalp with a coif…then tugged her kirtle into place.

  The riding clothes she’d worn here had disappeared, taken, Fengus claimed, to allow his mother’s women to fashion garments in her size. But the only garments Fearne’s seamstresses seemed capable of producing were kirtles such as the old women themselves wore, and the long, confining tunics that went under them.

  A cough from the antechamber brought her out of her reverie. She took another look at herself, pinched her cheeks and walked out to meet Fengus. He was squatting by the cold hearth, peering up the chimney. “Looks like a bird’s roosting,” he said. “Have to get that looked at before winter comes.” He rose, dusting the soot off his hands. He wiped them on his thighs and indicated the door. “Shall we, my lady?”

  “Fengus—I’m so sorry. I want to apologize—I never meant for you—”

  “There’s no need, my lady.”

  “But I think there is. It’s not I’m not grateful. It’s just—”

  “You love the dead knight.” He shrugged. “I understand. I knew that, before we left White Birch. I guess I—” He broke off, looked down. “I guess I thought you understood our marriage wasn’t just between us—it was a symbol of something.” He took a deep breath, then said, “But if it’s not to be, it’s not to be.” He indicated the door. “Let’s not keep them waiting. Tomorrow before you leave, we’ll discuss how to explain the change in plans. But for tonight—” His mouth flexed in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and he stood back to let her pass before him, then planted his hand squarely on the back of her cream-white kirtle. The outline of his sooty hand showed clearly. “Oh, my, look at that. I’m so sorry, my lady. I forgot myself. Would you like to change?”

  She opened her mouth, put her hand on the door, unsure whether or not it was really an accident, when a young boy’s high-pitched voice rang out from somewhere far below: “Fengus-da! Fengus-da! Tully’s home—Tully’s back—home from White Birch Grove!”

  Fengus practically flew down the steps, Morla slowly following. Tully might be a blessing in disguise, for he might distract Fengus tonight, long enough, at least, for her to sneak out of the castle after he’d drunk himself into a stupor.

  But at the bottom of the steps, she was amazed to see Fengus with his hands wrapped around Tully’s throat, even while his knights worked to free the old man. “What do you mean, she’s missing? How can she be missing? How could you have let her go?”

  “We didn’t let her go, chief,” Tully answered when he could. Morla actually felt sorry for the old man. He had been extremely devoted to Fengus’s daughter, she remembered, haunting the passage outside her room, bringing fresh flowers every day for her bedside table. “You don’t understand all that happened…I can’t explain it, none of the lads can, but they’ll all swear to it. Just ask.”

  “What?” demanded Fengus. He shouldered away from the four men who held him back. “Don’t tell me you were ambushed?”

  The hall was getting crowded. Morla eased away from the bottom of the staircase, slipping next to a pair of serving maids who’d crept up from the kitchens.

  “N-no,” said Tully. He glanced around the room. “Are you sure you want me to speak here?”

  A vein popped in Fengus’s forehead and his cheeks turned nearly purple, as he bellowed: “Answer my question! That’s my daughter you’ve lost!”

  “I can’t, Chief. I’ve got no answer.”

  With a roar, Fengus launched himself on Tully, dragging the old man to the ground, pummeling him. Six knights converged on top of them.

  As the men rolled and struggled, a voice spoke directly into Morla’s ear. “Old blowhard. Sure you want to marry him?”

  Morla looked around surreptitiously. The two serving girls had scurried off, no one else was close to her. The crowd that gathered were comprised mostly of men, who closed around the fight in a tight-knit circle.

  Something poked her back and she jumped. “Or was it some deathbed promise to Meeve?”

  Morla’s coif tumbled off her head, as if it had been pulled from behind, exposing the tight dark curls that clustered all over her head in silky ringlets.

  “I like your hair,” the same voice whispered.

  But there was no one there. She picked up the coif and fled up the steps, certain she heard the rapid tap of boots behind her. She glanced over both shoulders, but saw no one.

  She dashed into her room and would have slammed the door shut, but a hand—a big hand—inserted itself between the door and the frame and a boot appeared on the floor, preventing the door from closing. She stifled a scream, fumbled at her waist for her dinner knife and stumbled back as the door opened, and against all hope or reason, Lochlan stepped into the room.

  He slammed the door behind him and slid the lock closed. For a long moment they stared at each other, and then in one smooth, near simultaneous motion, they reached for each other. His arms slid around her body, hers closed around his neck, her head fell into the hollow of his chest as if it had been made to fit. Her eyes filled as the most irrational joy flowed through her, and the tears spilled down her face as his mouth came down on hers. “I thought you were dying,” she said when she could.

  He wiped away the tears with his thumbs, and she saw his own eyes were wet. “Fengus’s daughter—Catrione the druid—saved me. The others were just going to leave me to rot. I don’t know why—my suspicion is Fengus paid them off.” He took a single step toward her. “But I could not let you marry him, Morla, without coming to you myself—”

  She cut him off, drawing his face to hers once more. For a long moment, they simply stood there, locked in a long kiss. When at last they separated, he grinned down at her. “Does that mean you don’t really want to marry Fengus?”

  “You know I don’t want to marry Fengus. But tonight—just now—I—Oh, I am so stupid.” She broke away, and explained what happened.

  “How’d he take it?” asked Lochlan, an incredulous look on his face.

  “Better than I thought.”

  “Hmm. Not well at all, then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Morla, why’d you think Meeve would never agree to marry him?” Lochlan crossed to the door, opened it a crack, peered outside and turned back to her. “Listen. We might have an opportunity here to slip out while he’s distracted. Are you willing?”

  “But—but how? Just walk out?”

  “Well, we could do that. Or, we could use this cloak Catrione was kind enough to let me borrow.”

  “What cloak? That cloak you’re wearing?”

  “Aye. In the shadows, it has special properties.”

  “Oh? Like what?” She took a few steps toward him, drawn by the need to simply touch him, to feel his skin under her fingers, to inhale his scent into her lungs.

  As Fengus’s bellowing rose even louder, Lochlan drew her close. “It’s a magic cloak—it’s how I got in here without being seen. Deirdre made it. Catrione thought maybe you should have it. At least long enough to get out of Eaven Avellach.”

  “You think Fengus won’t let me go?”

  “My dear Morla, we’re going to have work on your tendency to blurt out the truth. I think at this point, Fengus would hold you captive—I heard talk of nothing but the wedding the whole way here. His pride’s at stake along with his grab for the High Crown now that Meeve’s gone. Marrying you is part of his plan.” He broke off, and raised her chin with the tip of one finger. “But now that Meeve’s gone—”

  “Now that Meeve’s gone, I don’t intend to marry anyone but you.” She threw her arms around him and pressed up close against him, as if to reassure herself he was real. “Assuming you can get us out of here.”

  He chuckled softl
y, pulled her close, and held her tightly for the space of just a couple heartbeats. Then he drew the cloak around himself and held it over her. “You have a bargain, lady. Assuming we make it out of here, first we marry, and then—” he cocked his head in the direction of the hall. “And then we’ll do our best not to go to war.”

  The day was turning down to dusk and the golden light was nearly as incandescent as Faerie, when the salt tang in the air and the cries of seabirds overhead told Catrione she had reached Far Nearing at last. “I think we’re here, Catrione,” said Bran, above the cries of the seabirds. “Can you smell the sea?”

  Catrione smiled and clucked to the horse, and he picked up the pace obligingly. To the end of her days, Catrione would feel guilty about the wrath she knew her father would inflict on poor Tully, but she had made a promise to Cwynn. He had given his life for hers. She would make certain that his grandfather’s holdings, his sons and all who remembered him were safe. It was the least she could do. And then…

  And then she supposed she would have to go back to Eaven Avellach, and see what peace might be brokered between her father and the other chieftains. Fengus wanted to be High King; he would see Meeve’s death and his own heroic actions as reasons enough he should be chosen by the others. But he was a hothead, and he was about to be dangerously humiliated when Morla refused to marry him, assuming Lochlan arrived in time. The countryside she’d ridden across was rife with talk of his great contest of arms. A hundred hotheaded warriors, all flush with feasting and rewards, were very easy to mold into a formidable force, just in time to march across the harvested land. Not for nothing was autumn called the fighting time of the year.

  But here, today, it was high summer, and the soft air caressed her cheek. Bran whooped and trotted through the flats. The breeze was ripe with salt and fish, the gulls shrieked above the rhythmic pounding of the water. On the beaches, Catrione could see the golden glimmers that were children digging in the shadows, and the more complex patterns of color and light that were the village women. They sat amidst the twisted shapes of the driftwood, mending nets, shucking shellfish and telling stories. Catrione could feel them stop and point and stare as she rode by, and a few even motioned for their children.

  A query for the children of Cwynn MaMeeve, however, brought only questioning looks, and she had to rack her brain to remember his father’s name. Even that brought head-scratches and frowns, until one of the old women hawked and spat and said, “She means Cermmus’s boy, from up at the point.” The old woman leaned out of her chair and pointed straight down the narrow causeway. “That way—you ride up to the gate and ask for Argael the midwife’s house. She can tell you.”

  Catrione sketched a blessing over their heads and felt their eyes follow her the whole way up to the gates. The animal plowed through the bright, thick air, and Catrione felt her heart begin to beat. She had no idea how she’d be received, she thought, and it was obvious from the way Cwynn had acted, from his questions, that these people had little to do with druids. If they refused her help, she could still ward the village, perhaps not as effectively as if they’d all agreed to cooperate, but enough to prevent goblins from attacking.

  At the gates, a woman rinsing laundry raised her head when Catrione asked her a question, and she put a hand over her brow to shield the long rays of the setting sun. “You’re a druid.” It was a flat statement, not a question and Catrione nodded. “And you’re blind?”

  “I’ve sight enough to bring me here,” replied Catrione. “Please, can you tell me where the sons of Cwynn MaMeeve live?”

  “Cwynn DaRuadan, as we call him here,” the woman replied. “They’re my grandsons. Ariene, their mother, is my daughter.” She tossed the water into a gutter and picked up her board. “My name is Argael. Come. I’ll take you.” She looked at Bran. “You look like Cwynn as a lad.”

  Catrione dismounted and motioned for Bran to do the same. “This is Bran. He’s Cwynn’s brother. He’s druid, as well.”

  “Ah,” the midwife nodded. “They said his brother was coming for him. But no one ever showed up.”

  She wrapped the reins around her fist and led the big horse through the gates and up the roughly cobbled path that led between the buildings. To Catrione’s eyes, the keep was comprised of huge slabs of light and shadow. The sunlight was intensely bright, reflecting off the white stone, off the sand, off the shells scattered in front of every house.

  “Ariene!” Argael cried, as they approached a small cottage, set apart from the others. “Bring the boys. There’s a druid—two druids here—come to see them.”

  From somewhere deep in the house, a younger woman called back, “They’re down on the beach with Cwynn—they should be coming up for supper any time. You want me to fetch them?” The voice grew louder, and a silvery shimmer came through the door and out into the sun. An image sprang fully formed into Catrione’s mind of a girl with long dark hair and a broad forehead, big eyes and full red lips. But the shimmer flushed an ugly shade of red as Catrione turned to greet her.

  “Did you say Cwynn?” asked Catrione, even as some detached part of her noted Ariene’s negative response. Her heart began to pound, her breathing slowed. Could he really have survived Tiermuid and made his way back here?

  “She said Cwynn,” put in Bran.

  “Aye, this time of day he’s on the beach, mending the nets. The boys like to—” Argael broke off and touched Catrione’s arm. “Cailleach? Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

  “We didn’t think Cwynn was alive,” said Bran. “Callie Catrione, come sit.”

  Catrione stumbled backwards, and the midwife caught her by the forearm. “Cailleach, sit. Here, you rest. Let me fetch you something to drink—we have a good sweet well, not one of those brackish ones. Just rest.”

  “How could he have got here?” Catrione muttered, more to herself than to Bran. “And all this time—we didn’t know…” As if in a daze, she got to her feet. She heard Bran call her name, but she ignored him and followed the crunch of the pebbled path to the beach, where a tall man perched on a rock, with a wide swath of fabric across his knees.

  A pair of dark-haired little boys of maybe two years dug in the sand at his feet. As she approached, the man looked up and dropped his mending with a little cry when he saw her. “Catrione?” he whispered harshly. “Catrione, by the Mother of us all, is it really you?” He ran to her, across the sand. The boys paused in their playing. They gaped, open-mouthed as baby fish as Cwynn caught her hands. “I’m so glad to see you—I’m so glad to know you’re—”

  “Cwynn, what’s this?” Catrione held up his hand, his whole right hand. “Your hand—you’re whole—what happened to you? Did you kill him? Did you kill Tiermuid? And how did you get here?”

  Cwynn turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “Go on up to Mammy now, and tell Gammy there’ll be extra for supper. Go, I’ll be there in a trice.” He waited until the boys went scampering up the path, then turned back to face Catrione. The soft air blowing off the water had just the hint of an edge in it, and it blew the tendrils around her face. Gently he pushed them back. “No. No, I didn’t.” He rammed his hands in his belt, looked down and shuffled his bare feet in the sand. “I don’t really remember what I did. I remember we were fighting—I raised that silver-coated hook to kill him, and the next—” He broke off and turned toward the water “—I was lying on this beach, washed up on the tide. Ariene and her mother found me screaming my head off in some kind of fit—”

  “Ah, the Afterward.”

  “You knew about this?”

  “When you’ve been in TirNa’lugh too long, that’s what happens. The effects wear off eventually.”

  “Argael told me I nearly died. I was in a mazed state for about a week.”

  “Sometimes that happens.”

  “Sometimes? I wished you warned me. But as it is, I woke up and, well, here I am, and now Ariene and me—we’re trying to make a go of it, Catrione, for the boys’ sake, you know?”


  “A go of what?”

  “A marriage, a Beltane marriage. We jumped the broom the new moon after MidSummer—that’s a good time to begin new things, right? The boys—they’re a handful, they need their father. And to tell you the truth, now I’ve got my hand back, well—I like to fish. You can be sure I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  Catrione swallowed hard. The wind was getting stronger now, and the tide was coming in. She could hear it lapping around the jetties jutting out into the water. “Are you telling me—” She broke off, trying to collect her thoughts into some semblance of order. “Are you telling me you don’t want to be High King?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Don’t you understand? You can’t just walk away from this. You’ve been healed, you’ve been made whole for a reason. Not so you can stay here and fish. You’re whole now—did you know Morla was branded? She can’t be High Queen, but you—you can become High King. That’s why the Hag made you whole. Don’t you know that? Can’t you feel it?”

  A wave washed over their feet and instinctively Catrione stepped back. But Cwynn stood his ground and when he spoke, his voice was so soft she had to strain to hear it. “The sidhe-girl, the Faerie queen, I think she was—she said the same thing. That’s why he let me go, you see—when the magic—whatever it was, was done, my hand turned to flesh. And he was getting ready to kill me, but she stopped it. She said I was to be High King. So I don’t think I want to be High King, Catrione. I want no part of Faerie. And it’s beautiful here, I wish you could see it. The water’s a clear, calm blue today, and the sky is just as blue. The sun’s shining orange, the gulls are white against the black rocks—”

  “I can see.” She cut him off savagely. “There’s going to be a kingmaking at Samhain. How can you say you will not come? Don’t you see this is your destiny? How can you refuse it?”