Fey Born
Page 22
Seeing Valor no longer threatened him, the coward scrambled backward again, promising all kinds of treasures for his life and freedom.
Keegan ignored his words and continued stalking his prey. “Bress,” he snarled.
“I am not he.”
“You are he. Do you not recognize one of the fey guardians you once ruled and had dominion over? For seven years you sat on the high fey throne and all you could think of was yourself.”
“I brought treasures to the throne.”
So, he abandoned his denial. “To yourself only,” Keegan replied. Leaning forward, his right hand shot out and locked around Bress’s neck.
“Nay!” the young man choked, hands futilely pulling at Keegan’s wrist.
The coward was no match for his superior guardian strength. He lifted the man’s weight easily, feeling the rapid pulse of life beneath his fingers, and wishing to end it.
“You should not have tried to reclaim the fey throne.”
Staring into Bress’s rolling eyes, he continued to slowly squeeze.
“RAIN, RELEASE HIM!” Lugh commanded from somewhere to his left.
Keegan held on to his flailing quarry. He felt nothing. The young man’s eyes were bulging out, blue lips locked in a silent scream, feeble hands scraping at his wrist, trying to wrestle free.
A large hand settled upon his left shoulder, fingers digging in. The glint of Answerer wavered before his face.
“RELEASE HIM, RAIN.”
“Why?”
“THE GODS OF THE LAND WISH IT,” Lugh answered simply, unemotionally.
“I doona wish it,” he snarled in reply. Let him use Answerer, he thought defiantly, I have Valor.
“THE GODS WISH IT, RAIN. CONTROL YOUR HATRED AND RELEASE HIM.”
The fey warrior’s recognition of his uncharacteristic show of feelings tempered his rage.
He was a guardian of the waters and emotions did not rule him. His fingers eased their deadly hold. He released the nearly unconscious enemy and watched him crumple to his knees before him.
Stepping back Keegan made way, allowing others to pull the gasping Bress back to his feet.
“Doona kill me,” he croaked, begging for his life. “I can ensure the cows of Eire always give milk!”
Keegan arched a brow in disbelief. Even the fey could not do that.
“I can teach to you how to harvest four times a year,”
Bress shot back, seeing no one believed him.
“ONE TIME SUFFICES,” Lugh replied coldly.
Keegan studied the warrior faery. Was this the reason the Gods ordered Bress spared?
“I can teach you when to plow, sow, and reap for the most crops!”
The coward continued promising to share knowledge of farming and increase crop yields, if only they would release him.
Disgusted, Keegan strode a few paces away and took up a stance near a large boulder. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared off into the twilight. He remembered a long ago day when Lana had come into her father’s fields, offering goat cheese and a shy, bright smile. She had suggested placing a knife on the plough to lessen the workload. He glanced over his shoulder at the receding backs of the men who dragged Bress away. It was the kind of knowledge the coward only wished he possessed to trade for his miserly life.
“RAIN.”
Keegan turned to Lugh.
“YOU HAVE FOUGHT BRAVELY,” the warrior faery said.
Grief, vengeance, and retribution possessed him, not bravery.
“BUT EMOTIONS RULE YOU NOW, A DANGEROUS THING FOR A GUARDIAN.”
Keegan did not reply. Instead, he found himself studying the great sword Answerer in Lugh’s hand. Would the warrior faery have used it on him?
Back at Dowth, before he foolishly attempted to save both Lana and Valor, he overheard Cadman’s boastful speech. He wondered if it were true, if Valor could destroy the great fey talisman Answerer, the one blade that inflicted only mortal wounds.
“YOU WISH TO SPEAK?” Lugh inquired, sheathing Answerer in the scabbard at his back.
Keegan shook his head. He did not want to know if Valor could destroy Answerer. Some things were best left unanswered.
“YOU HAVE CHANGED, RAIN.”
Keegan glanced at the ground, a momentary acknowledgement, and then looked once more to the sanctuary of twilight.
“WHEN THE MOON HAS RISEN FOR FIVE DAYS HENCE, BRING VALOR TO ME AT TARA. WE TALK THEN.”
Keegan nodded. “I will be there.”
Lugh left him standing alone on the meadow in silence.
Slowly, he became aware of a sense of dread radiating into him from the enchanted sword. Something felt wrong between the great sword spirit and the willful claíomh host. Keegan suspected he was the cause of the rift and felt secretly gladdened by it, a selfish notion.
His thoughts turned inward to a promise he made to Lana. He would check on Glenna before going to meet his punishment at Tara.
———
“Derina?” Keegan called softly from outside the druidess’s cottage. It was early morning, the sunrise peeking over the horizon in shades of gold.
The ancient appeared in her doorway smelling of mead.
“Morn to you, guardian” she grumbled in greeting. Empty eye sockets peered up at him while she shoved pieces of bread in her mouth.
“Hungry?” she inquired, and held a crumbly piece of bread out to him.
He shook his head. “Not this morn, Derina. My thanks.”
“I am hungry all the time. Besides, I canna sleep. The fey keep winking into my home. First Blodenwedd,” she ticked off a list, “then you, then a water faery in my pail of water here,” she pointed to her pail, “and now you again. How be MacLir?”
“Dead.”
“Oh.” That stopped her tirade.
“I dinna wink into your home.”
She frowned at him. “Same thing. I am up and not asleep.”
He could see that. “How is she?” he inquired about Glenna.
“The claíomh host sleeps.”
“Has she awakened at all?” It had been five days since he left her here in the druidess’s care.
“Aye, she has been up and has eaten, too.”
He felt better. “She will live then.”
“If she chooses to.”
He eyed her with disquiet. “What do you mean?”
The druidess did not answer. She walked past him to stand quietly in the waning darkness of the new morning. “I doona know what I mean, guardian.” She brushed the crumbs from her hands and tucked them into her brown robe. “This one be filled with sadness and loss.”
“Is she not happy to be free of the sword spirit, Valor?”
She shrugged. “It be too early to tell what she feels.” The ancient glanced back at him. “Where be Valor now?”
“She is safe. I am to deliver her to Tara this day.”
“To the new king?”
“Aye, the fey have chosen Lugh.”
“A fine and fair king he will make.”
“Aye,” Keegan agreed.
He removed his wrist cuff. “Derina, will you give this to Glenna?” He placed his mother’s gift in her withered hand.
“Why do you wish this?” She looked up at him with white brows arched in a grave frown.
“I give it to Glenna because I canna give it to Lana.”
The ancient’s fingers curved around the sea-etched cuff protectively. “I will give it to her, guardian.”
He took one last look at the silver cuff, the only thing left of his mother’s memory, and turned away. He would not need it at Tara. “My thanks, Derina. I must go now.”
“I wish you good morn then. There be still time. Do you not wish to break your fast with me before you leave?”
He smiled and declined once more. “My new king awaits. I bid you good morn, too, Derina.” He turned to leave, but found he could not. Glancing over his shoulder, he stared into her lined face. “What color are her eyes, ancient?”
“Blue,” he repeated and turned away. They were not black, not the color of the darkest night, not the color of his beloved’s. He took comfort in that and winked out, returning to Valor.
CHAPTER 18
WITH VALOR SECURED IN THE scabbard at his back, Keegan returned to Temair na Rig, the place known as Tara of the Kings. A wind-swept grassy hill, it stood tall above the surrounding land, a place of great prospect and of banks, mounds, ditches, and stones. The unknowing found it unremarkable, lacking grandeur, certainly not a dwelling for the fey born, or an entrance to the Otherworld. How little they know, he mused in silent contemplation.
He walked between two standing stones, one taller than the other, and took in the lush surrounding countryside. The grass curled between his bare toes. The smell of life was strong in the air and in his lungs, the scent of blood and battlefield fading into memory. Tara was the forever hill, a sacred and revered place of the above and below. Five roadways led to it, if one knew where to look, and he knew where to look. He exhaled, finding the openness regal and strangely comforting.
He wondered if Lana could see the clear blueness of the wide sky. Could she smell the meadow’s colorful flowers still? Could she see the blackbirds with their orange-yellow beaks and eye rings from within the enchantment? Did she miss the rocky land and long stone walls across the hills? Did she grieve for home and the people of her village, the sounds of the drums and the winds off the sea? Did she yearn for him as much as he yearned for her? These questions would remain unanswered.
His lashes lowered. Through the closeness of the enchanted sword’s scabbard against his green tunic, he felt an exquisite and magical intimacy, a connection to his beloved’s presence. Along with the cherished link, however, he sensed an underlying fury emanating from the sword spirit. He had taken Lana’s virgin sheath, claimed her for his own when he had no right. No right, except for the love in his foolish heart.
He no longer cared about the punishment he would face this day. Lana was gone. He missed the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed. Missed the way her eyes brightened when she smiled. Missed the gentleness of her spirit and the way she made him feel so passionately alive.
He knew the time for the sword spirit’s retribution drew near. Dwelling on it would only weaken his resolve.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. “I miss you, my fair bride.” He tilted his face toward the sun, feeling its warmth and wishing to stand this way forever in quietness.
But he could not. The sun crested over the horizon, an orange fireball in the sky.
It was time.
He could delay no longer.
He dropped down on one knee in the dew-drenched grass and transferred to his true form. Tunic and breeches receded into silvery, moon-kissed webs, a familiar feyness over flesh and muscle. Stretching out his wings, he bowed his head and envisioned the main hall of the below. Folding his right hand across his chest, he dissolved into silver light and vapor.
In the next instant, he appeared in the main hall of Tara. In front of him was the glacier white dais where the king’s rock-crystal throne resided. It was empty.
He stared at the flat stone pavers and the tiny fissures where the green mosses lived, and waited for his arrival to be announced to the new fey king.
The air felt cool against his flesh, seasons and time suspended here. He could hear the trickle of water coming out of the cracks in the stone walls surrounding him, a natural refuge and residence for the water faeries.
He shifted his weight, still kneeling on one knee. The Good People gathered behind him, standing beside stunted trees draped with shaggy mosses. The spriggans had come too, tugging on their rock-encrusted coats. The pixies whispered among themselves while sitting astride their white snails. Others of his kin came as well, silent in their observation of him. They had all come, waiting to see the fair judgment of their new king.
To his right, a path led through a garden of pink flowers.
It is from there he heard footfalls approach.
The king had come.
He continued to kneel, his head bowed respectfully.
He heard the king step up on the dais. “RAIN.”
“My king, I have come as you bade,” Keegan replied.
“SHOW ME YOUR EYES, GUARDIAN.”
Keegan looked up.
The High King Lugh sat on a throne chair crafted of rock crystals, onyx, amethysts, and bronze. He wore the colors of the clouds, his tunic and breeches finely crafted of fey born weave. Diamonds shone in the woven plaits of his long brown hair. To his right, the territorial goddess Blodenwedd stood in a gown of white webs, her eyes unreadable.
“BE THAT VALOR?” The king gestured to the sword.
“Aye,” Keegan confirmed. Standing, he swiftly unsheathed the enchanted sword from the scabbard.
A hush descended on the hall.
“THREATEN ME, RAIN?”
Frowning, Keegan looked down at his hands. He gripped the white bone hilt, the tip of the sword pointing at his king.
“Nay, my king.” He knelt down again on one knee, confused by his actions. It was almost as if Valor had directed his body. Flipping the sword to rest horizontally on his open palms, he held Valor out in offering.
“RESPONDS TO YOU,” the king said observantly. Keegan could not deny it.
“She responds to her wielder, my king.”
“ALWAYS YOU DEFENDED OUR SACRED WATERS, OUR REALM, AND OUR MORTAL BRETHREN. NOW ‘TIS TIME TO RETURN VALOR TO THE FEY THRONE.”
Keegan nodded, fighting the urge to return Valor to his scabbard.
The king rose from the throne chair and descended the two white steps of the dais, “WILLINGLY GIVE UP VALOR, RAIN?” the king asked, standing before him in royal splendor, a just king, a fair king.
Confirmation locked in his throat. Keegan gave a quick nod of his head and extended his arms.
He stared at the teardrop guard, at the pommel carved of an unknown wood, and finally at the spiral-cut bone grip that translated the sword spirit’s strength into her master’s arms.
From beneath lowered lids, he watched the king reach for Valor’s hilt.
The blade began to glow… red.
The king pulled back his hand and frowned. “WHAT BE THIS, RAIN?” he demanded.
Keegan stared at Valor, unable to answer. His heart pounding, he felt Lana struggling within the enchantment, her unconquerable spirit battling the hard will of the ancient sword.
He felt her alarm and panic… for him. A strong impression of peril radiated into his flesh from the sword. Lana was trying to warn him, her impressions strong in his mind.
The High King of the Faeries must never hold Valor.
“RAIN, WHAT BE THIS GLOW?”
Keegan looked up into the sullen face of his king. “I canna explain, my king.”
“VALOR SPEAKS TO YOU?”
“Not Valor.” He hesitated.
“EXPLAIN.”
“The sword host speaks to me, my king.”
“SWORD HOST?” the king echoed in mistrust, showing his displeasure. “SINCE WHEN DOES A HOST BE SPEAKING TO A GUARDIAN?”
Keegan remained silent beneath the suspicious scrutiny. “ANSWER ME, RAIN.”
“I have no answer, my king.”
“VALOR CHOOSES A MASTER? CHOICE NOT HERS TO MAKE. SHE BELONGS TO THE FEY THRONE.”
“I know.”
“I WILLNA HAVE HER PARTED FROM OUR GREAT TALISMAN, ANSWERER. BOTH DEFENDERS BELONG HERE.”
Keegan knew the words were right and truthful, yet his heart did not agree. Valor did not belong with him, but Lana did. Lana did!
The king’s right hand shot out, long fingers expertly wrapping about the sword’s hilt. With a muttered hiss of pain, he lifted it.
Immediately, the connection Keegan felt with Lana dissolved into nothingness, leaving him hollow inside.
Climbi
ng slowly to his feet, he stepped back, wings moving in silent protest. He stood with clenched fists, battling the urge to retake her.
“INTERFERE, RAIN?” the king asked, sensing his intent.
Keegan shook his head in denial.
“VALOR BE FIGHTING ME. YET, I WIN.”
Slowly, the crimson shade of the blade faded to silver and with it, his heart.
“THAT BE BETTER,” his king soothed. He held the sword up for inspection and Keegan never realized how beautiful a blade could be.
“NOT TRUE,” the king whispered in open denial, and then turned and scowled darkly at him. “WHAT BE THIS, RAIN?”
Keegan waited for what he knew was to come.
“VALOR BE CLAIMING THE RIGHT OF PUNISHMENT. EXPLAIN.”
“I took the virgin sheath of the sword host. Lana belongs to me.”
“FORBIDDEN,” the king said, affronted.
“Aye,” Keegan agreed, “but I would take her in my arms again, if given a second chance.”
“TAKE THE GUARDIAN OUTSIDE TO THE CREST OF TARA,” the king commanded. “VALOR WISHES TO SPEAK WITH ME.”
Keegan did not fight when they led him outside.
He did not fight when they bound him between two standing stones on the grassy mound of Tara, a naked and sacrificial offering to the indignant rage of the sword spirit.
He did not fight when they forced him to his knees, cloudy fey webs wrapped around his wrists and forearms and around his thighs. The webs stretched his limbs hurtfully as he prepared to wait for the coming of twilight, the time of all fey punishment.
In the distance, he saw a pair of hares romping about, their white ears easily followed. He focused on the small animals, willing his body to remain calm. It was bad luck to hunt hares, he remembered; killing one immediately turned it into the corpse of a bleeding hag. Not that he had ever seen that happen. He shifted aching muscles. The hours felt endless until his king came and stood in front of him.
“RAIN, TELL ME WHY?” his king directed, unwilling to mete out the sword spirit’s punishment.
Keegan stared straight ahead. Shooting sunbeams sent lavender light across the sky and land. Punishment would be met at the onslaught of twilight. He had but a few remaining moments of wholeness left to him.