Fey Born

by R. Garland Gray

  “Aye, I have served the fey, but my remaining years be dwindling and I have much to say.”

  He set the goblet aside. “I listen, ancient one.”

  “Valor be missing.”

  All amusement left him. “I will find the dark sword.”

  “Will you, First Guardian of the Waters? And where, may I ask, do you look?”

  “I will look toward the waters.”

  “Loch or sea? Do you also consider the black pools of our Otherworld below, where your senses are dullest?”

  “I will sense the sword when the waters touch her,” he retorted.

  “Too late, you will be.”

  For several long moments, Keegan toyed with the stem of the goblet while he regarded the lined face of the ancient. “How do you know this?”

  She shrugged.

  “Share your thoughts with me.”

  “You must take the claíomh host for your guide.”

  Sword Host? He went rigid inside at the reference to the olden fey legend.

  “Do you even know what you speak of?”

  “Aye, I do,” she snapped in defiance. “Being old doona make my mind weak.”

  “I never said your mind was weak, Derina.”

  She huffed, not completely appeased.

  “Tell me,” he soothed, lacing his low tone with the soft compulsion of a fey guardian.

  “You doona need that easing voice with me.”

  He smiled, bowing his head in acknowledgement of the fey coercion. “Tell me what you know then,” he urged in a normal voice.

  “The sword spirit, Valor, can only exist within a female host. When the union takes place, the female host gives up her humanity, transforming into the immortal blade.” She took a sip of her mead-laced milk.

  Keegan waited then asked, “What else do you know?”

  “I know if the enchanted sword tastes fire for too long a time, the host will burn and die. I know if the enchanted sword lies beneath the surface of the waters for too long a time, the host will drown. I know Valor gives incredible strength to whoever wields her.”

  “You know enough,” he grunted.

  “In every generation, it be said, a rare few be born with the chosen host mark,” she continued.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “She bears the birthmark of the sword spirit, Keegan, and I have seen the duil, desire, in your faery eyes.”

  “I feel no desire.”

  “You have the teastaigh, the madness and want.”

  Keegan scowled at the druidess. The teastaigh spoke of intensities, of yearnings, and of bone deep feelings. A guardian experienced none of these things.

  “Know of whom I speak?” she prompted in a taunting tone.

  His mouth thinned in concentration. A vision of fair-haired loveliness formed in his mind despite his inner protest. “Not the frail Lana?”

  “Aye, Lana.” She grinned triumphantly.

  Keegan shifted in his seat, a feeling of unease settling within his being. “I doona believe it.”

  “Why?”

  “She is weak. A sword host is strong.”

  “True,” the druidess agreed.

  “She is pure mortal,” he argued, “untouched by faery blood.”

  “True,” she answered again. “Yet, there be another olden legend that says the sword host be not born of faery blood.”

  “I have heard whispers of it,” he grumbled.

  “Do you believe it?”

  “I believe the host canna be pure mortal, bear the mark, and be so… so scrawny.”

  The ancient grinned, showing gaps in her teeth. “Well, she be.”

  “You make no sense,” he said in open quarrel.

  “Your fey body hungers to lie with her.”

  Keegan’s eyes narrowed at her swift change of subject. He pushed the goblet away from him, the sea waves etching on his cuff scraping along the table’s slightly uneven surface. “If I like a maiden, I take her, but I doona hunger,” he corrected her through clenched teeth.

  “Horse dung.”

  He released a frustrated breath. “I am forbidden a mortal bride, Derina. There can be no mixing of the olden blood. You know this.”

  “I dinna say bride, guardian.”

  He had an urge to whisper a few words of enchantment so she would remain silent for the rest of her days.

  “Lana be one of the rare claíomh hosts”

  “What of the older sister, Rianon?” he asked, finding that one’s curves more pleasing.

  “Rianon’s skin be unmarked. Only Lana bears the sacred birthmark.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I attended Lana’s birthing and saw the mark on her pale skin.”

  Keegan looked away, mulling over the possibility of such absurdity. Both sisters born with the same bloodline, yet only the youngest bearing the sacred mark. “How can one daughter of the house bear the mark and not the other?”

  The druidess shrugged. “It be.”

  He frowned at her. “If Lana is a true host, I must have her with me. Her instincts will guide me to Valor.”

  “If Valor does drown before you get to her, the spirit of the enchanted sword must have a new host near or all will be lost.”

  “I need no reminder.” Keegan glanced to the open doorway once more where a new light formed across the horizon. “I will see this sword birthmark myself.”

  He felt the blind crone’s pleasure at his assent.

  “Lay your claim upon her with the mating bite,” she urged, taking another sip of her drink.

  That caused him to blink. The mating bite of the Tuatha Dé Danann was a confirmation of life, freely given by a male and freely accepted by a female. It was a binding promise to mate, which seemed to lead to handfasting ceremonies and babes.

  “The fey guardians doona participate in such as this,” he said firmly.

  She ignored him, which did not surprise him. “You must here. After you initiate the mating bite…” Her white brows drew together in open suspicion. “You do know how to initiate a mating bite, do you not?”

  He glared at her.

  “Well,” she held up a hand, “I dinna know since you say guardians doona participate in this.”

  He spoke very slowly, struggling with his irritation. “Say what it is you have to say.”

  “After you initiate the mating bite, say the Claim of Binding.”

  “Claim of Binding?”

  Her white brows drew together. “I thought you said you know the tribe’s mating rituals. Stop scowling at me.” She put both hands on the table and stared directly at him with those empty eye sockets. A lesser faery would have been intimidated, but he was not a lesser faery.

  “Guardian, you initiate a mating claim by nipping her jaw without breaking the skin. Then you suckle the slight bruise using your saliva to heal. This leaves your scent upon her, warning other males away. The binding words come next. Do you know them?”

  “Aye,” he said tightly. “I know of them.”

  “Good. After the binding words comes the promise to handfast.” She scratched her cheek in thought. “You may have to go through the handfasting ceremony in order to take her with you. Aye, that be the way of it, methinks. You should handfast with her quickly. Then she be free to accompany you on your quest for the sword without challenge.”

  “Who would challenge me?”

  She shrugged. “Other males might and the parents most certainly. You have chosen to live among the Tuatha Dé Danann, so you must follow their ways, guardian.”

  “What males?”

  “I have noticed a few of our males watching her. She be lovely.”

  “Watching is not taking. I can also cast an enchantment so no one will miss her and then take her with me.”

  “You could.” Her dismissive tone indicated she did not believe he would.

  His right hand fisted on the table. “Let me understand this. You expect me to bruise her jaw with my teeth, marking her as my possession?”

/>   “Aye, the mating bite.”

  “And then I should use my saliva to heal the bruise.”

  “Mating bite, not bruise,” she corrected. “And a male faery’s saliva has the same healing and scent marker as our males. The faeries are blooded kin to the Tuatha tribe. We have the same ancestors.”

  His jaw clenched at her words. “I know this.” Fey males and mortal males were not so different in many things.

  “Guardian, if Lana’s true destiny be a sword host, then she belongs to the sword spirit, yet…”

  Keegan grew impatient with her pause. “Finish your words.”

  “… other males may try and claim her.”

  Again, she brought up the interest of other males.

  “What males?” he demanded. “Give me their names.”

  She shrugged noncommittally and he had the distinct feeling of being led to where she wanted him to go.

  “If Lana be marked,” he stated, “she belongs to the sword spirit and only to the sword spirit.”

  “Our males doona know she be marked, for none of their hands have caressed her flesh.”

  Caressed. The thought of another male touching Lana irritated him.

  The druidess leaned across the table and patted his arm. “You must make a mating claim and protect her for the sword spirit.”

  “Protect her?”

  “Aye, guardians doona have… hunger and yearnings as you say. They take what they want. Why should it matter to you? She be frail, after all.”

  A knot of frustration coiled in his stomach. “You wish me to make a mating claim upon one who the sword spirit may have already claimed. ‘Tis forbidden,” he growled in strong objection, “not to mention madness. I could be castrated by the Gods and Goddesses.”

  “‘Tis a simple enough answer to your problem: doona share your body with her. Doona take her virgin sheath and you doona trespass upon the sword spirit’s claim. You be knowing our handfasting ceremony. It be a trial marriage, a temporary arrangement for a year and a day to ensure an heir.”

  Keegan muttered forcefully under his breath. “I know the tribe’s handfasting ceremony. If no heir is born within that year and a day, both the male and female part without shame.”

  “By handfasting with her, you protect her for the sword spirit.”

  “If she is this claíomh host…” He pushed away from the table and stood, but the conniving old crone was not done with him yet.

  “Make a mating claim upon her and doona forget the binding words, or Lana be wondering why your claim be unfinished.”

  “By the white moon, you strain my patience, Derina.”

  “I know,” she said, grinning at him with those gaps in her teeth.

  He stalked out into the growing light.

  He was going to have to initiate a mating with a frail mortal female…

  One he could never have…

  Then, if she had the birthmark, he was going to have to go through a tribal handfasting ceremony to protect her from other males. He shook his head.

  He should just cast an enchantment upon the whole tribe and take her, but deep down he knew he would not follow that path. It felt wrong and he was not a creature to go against his instincts. He realized he should have asked the manipulating crone the location of Lana’s birthmark, but it was too late now. He would have to search her for it. Lifting his face to the new morning light, he inhaled deeply, searching for Lana’s heather scent.

  CHAPTER 3

  MINUTES LATER, HE FOUND HER where the low tides surged relentlessly against the shore, sculpting and mating with the land. She looked north, a frown creasing her lovely brow. He lifted his face and sniffed. The scent of her carried to him on the warm air currents, and the scent of her moon time was not present. If she suffered her womanly courses, he would never have approached her with this intent. His lips thinned, yet he had to know if she bore the birthmark.

  She stood quietly looking out to sea, her body turned slightly north, unaware of the teeming life just a short distance from her small bare feet. There was an abundance of life here; lobster, eel, salmon, shark, and the sea pig made these coastal waters their home.

  His gaze skimmed the pinking horizon. To his right he could hear the joyous sounds of the gray seals hunting the sweet flesh of squids this morning.

  He looked at the brown and red clusters of seaweed moving gently back and forth in the shallows in a feathery dance. A misleading tameness, he thought. For, beneath the surface lay a ruthless hide and seek existence of which his brethren were well aware. Far-away kin dwelled in the living, liquid depths, protecting and guarding the bejeweled waters that would turn bluer in the spring and summer months. Often times a white light shined out upon the far away waves, a sign from them all was as it should be. No light this morning, he mused, a dark omen of disquiet. He listened to the waves gently lapping over pebbles and broken shells. The salty scent of the sea filled his lungs in treasured coolness. The dampness lying upon his skin was familiar and welcome.

  His focus returned to Lana, returned to the long blond hair cascading down her slim back. The breeze moved the green cloak about her dainty ankles and he felt the dull, desire, coil in his loins. He was a guardian born of the Good People, those faeries who protected all living things. His distant kin were the prankish Piskies who were no taller than a mouse, the nasty Spriggans with large heads, and the versatile Knockers who worked underground, to name a few. Only the Good People were still tied to mortality’s fate, only the Good People could still mate with a mortal and be bound by that destiny.

  Though a first guardian faery, Keegan learned to appreciate the ways of the mortals, the emotions they felt, the surprise and wonder in their hearts. He was curious about it, and in rare moments he actually ached for the memory of it, which had been forgotten when his ancestors crossed over into the magical world of in-between and became faery.

  But not now.

  Now, he needed to know.

  Claíomh host.

  Sword host.

  “Keegan.” His lovely quarry smiled. “I dinna see you there.” She turned back to the calm sea, unaware of his sordid intentions and the danger she was in now. The druidess’s words echoed in his mind. “If Valor does drown before you get to her, the spirit of the enchanted sword must have a new host near or all be lost.”

  “‘Tis a fine morning, ‘tis not?” she murmured in an agreeable voice which carried swiftly to his sensitive ears. “The sky be bright with pink light.”

  He did not answer, did not stir.

  Lana looked back at him and frowned slightly.

  He remained silent in response to her greeting, an unusual occurrence. He watched her with light gray eyes, which were fixed and unblinking. Her heart picked up a beat. He stood unmoving in a green tunic and breeches. A strange intensity marked his handsome features. “Keegan?”

  In the next moment he was beside her, as if wings had given him speed. Large hands cupped her face possessively. She could not escape even if she wanted to.

  Lana stared up into smoldering eyes that swirled with hot streams of amethyst fire. She grabbed hold of thick wrists, the curve of his silver cuff cutting into her fingers. For the first and only time in her life, she felt a slice of fear. Always before, he remained remote, but now… “Keegan?”

  “So fragile you are, how can it be?” he rasped, his face a mere breath from her own.

  How can what be? She stared up into his uncommon eyes, the rich clean scent of him filling her lungs along with… “You smell of my father’s mead.”

  A mocking smile curved his lips. “Derina’s milk is sweet.”

  “Her milk has been much sweet of late. I dinna know you favored the drink before the day begins.”

  “You are not frightened of me, Lana?” he asked.

  “Nay.” She bit her bottom lip in nervousness.

  His potent gaze lifted and locked on hers. “You should be fey daughter of the sword.”

  “What did you call me?”


  “Daughter of the sword,” he said with soft menace.

  She tried to pull back, but he would not allow it.

  Warm lips lowered and lingered over hers in wetness. “You said you were not afraid,” he breathed.

  “I am not.”

  White teeth tugged gently at her bottom lip.

  “Have you been kissed before, my fair one?”

  “Nay,” she admitted softly. Never could she have imagined this.

  His satiny tongue pushed inside her mouth.

  Her heart lurched and Lana closed her eyes against the growing excitement and fear.

  He tasted of mead and of the clear essence of rain.

  Something ancient and mysterious combined in her bloodstream, silver threads entwining into a new yearning, a coercion of spirit.

  Strong arms tightened around her.

  Lana felt her legs weaken under her, but he held her steady, his mouth feasting on hers, igniting a new found feminine hunger in her bloodstream.

  Her mind became clouded with images of him, a compulsion of need.

  The silvery tint of his eyes across the glows of the fire…

  The gleaming sweat of his flesh in her father’s fields…

  The perfection of his form, unclothed in a rainstorm…

  His mouth slid moist passion along her cheek and settled over the right side of her jaw.

  He suckled and wild pleasure rippled through her…

  Lana clutched at his powerful arms, holding on.

  His teeth scraped along her flesh causing her to gasp and drag air into her lungs.

  “So sensitive you are,” he murmured with male pleasure. Strong fingers locked around her chin and slid down her neck, caressing every inch of her heated flesh, searching. She felt enveloped in wantonness, her mind succumbing to a power of some unknown force. She couldn’t seem to think beyond the craving of her body and the fervor of the male pressed up against her.

  “I must see.” His voice was hypnotic, mesmerizing.

  See what? she thought in a jumble of imagery.

  The bronze brooch holding her cloak closed landed in the sand with a thud. Then her cloak came away from her shoulders as if caught in a strong wind. Powerful arms slid around her back and under her knees. Lifting her, he laid her gently upon the soft folds of the cloak, his large body following her down.