Today, like most days, she wore a comfortable tunic and breeches, her hair in tight plaits behind her ears. “Where is our daughter?” she asked, moving to the stone wall her guardian mate built behind their home.
“No doubt, still swimming with our son,” her beloved responded, freeing the two brown oxen from the yoke of their plough. “Did you find the brooch?”
“In her bed again, wrapped in cloth. She must have slept with it.”
He chuckled and nodded.
“I worry she will stab herself with it.”
“The brooch will never hurt her, my love.”
Lana watched the play of muscles across his bare back as he worked, the horrible scars thinned with the passage of time. As usual, he wore only a pair of low riding breeches during the warm months.
She looked in the direction of the sea. “The children love the waters. They are very much like you.”
He slapped the animals’ rumps to herd them into the green pasture. “Are you saying I need to bathe?”
“Aye,” Lana laughed softly. Indeed he did, covered in dirt and soil from a full day of toiling in the fields.
“Do I stink?” he asked, glancing at her with a twinkle in his eye.
“Never, my love.”
He laughed knowingly and closed the wooden gate to the pasture. Her guardian mate would always smell of rainstorms.
Lana smiled warmly. She adored him. His once pale skin turned golden this spring, disguising the truth of his faery blood. Red and gold fire streaked his long brown hair, which he wore in plaits now, like herself. She learned he loved to be part of the growing of things and often watched his delight in the sniffing of fragrant blooms and herbs. In the eve, he shed his clothes, not that he wore much these days, and took long swims in the sea. Sometimes she wondered if the water faeries ever spoke to him, but never would she ask. That life lay behind them.
They returned to the land of men a few summers before and settled on a piece of rich farmland near her family and the sacred fey woodlands.
At the prompting of the other guardians, the Faery King had given pardon to her guardian mate, though he could no longer be what he once was, and that suited them well enough.
To her, Keegan would always be fey born, always a bit mysterious, even though they were farmers now, setting ancestry in the land. The magic within them was forever resident and pulsing, as was their love for each other.
Her guardian mate came up beside her on silent step. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned a hip against the trunk of the rowan tree, his lips curved in a sensuous smile.
“Should we not call the children back?” she asked. “They have been playing in the sea all day. Their skin will be wrinkled.”
“ ‘Tis not the first time. Besides, Derina sits on the shore with her basket of food. They are safe.”
“I know,” she murmured in agreement. She gazed down at the silver cuff on his right wrist, a fey born etching of sea waves. It remained there always, as the dragonfly cuffs remained upon her arms, a lingering of the past and enchantment of their flesh.
“This morning, I saw you give our children three large fey apples.”
He chuckled low and nodded. “For my favorite stallion; I think you know who I mean.”
She laughed softly, too. “Lightning. Methinks that horse be a long-lived fey born. He appears almost ageless.”
“It would not surprise me in the least if he was. And like any true fey born, he chooses to show up at the most inconvenient times.”
Lana’s eyes sparkled in devilment. “Is this an inconvenient time, my love?” she inquired in a sultry tone.
His head tilted, brown lashes lowering over eyes turned smoky with desire. “There is a brook in the woodlands,” he offered in a seductive caress. “Care to bathe me, my love?”
Aye, she thought, her mind momentarily slipping back to the past. He was so beautiful, his spirit steadfast and true. There were no reasons to what had happened. Only an acceptance of inner peace, pushing the scars into faded memory. He chose a mortal life alongside hers, rich in emotions and experiences.
She healed too, a final acceptance of inner worth and understanding. Value came from one’s self. Never should merit be sought in another’s eyes. Wholeness, she had come to realize, always came from within.
Except now, while her body quickened in response to his desire, she knew the enchantment that had once brought them together held little sway in their love and devotion for each other.
He watched her for a long moment and then offered his hand.
Lana recognized the slow heated grin and slipped her hand into his much larger one. Her body went fiery with excitement as it always did when he touched her.
He swept her up in powerful arms and murmured huskily against her neck, “I thirst for some magic, my love.”
Wrapping her arms around his strong neck, she proceeded to nibble at the exquisite contours of his left ear. “So do I, my love.”
— The End —
NOTES ON TEXT
Bodhran - A Celtic war drum.
Báisteach - Rain.
Claíomh - Sword.
Dana - Universal mother goddess.
Daoine Sidhe - Faery folk.
Duil - Desire.
Dúnmharfóir - Murderer.
Eire - Ancient Ireland.
Fey - Faeries.
Feypaths - Underground secret passages created by faeries.
Fortnight - Fourteen days or two weeks.
Fir Bog - Belgians, mystical settlers of Connacht, known as the bag men.
Formorians - Sea raiders.
Freagarthach - The Answerer, a powerful sword and one of the talismans of the faery realm.
Months - Aibrean (April), Bealtaine (May), Meitheamh (June), Mean Fhómhair (September), Deireadh Fhómhair (October)
Sennight - Seven days or one week.
Sidhe - Gaelic name for the faeries in both Ireland and the highlands of Scotland.
Teastaigh - Madness and want.
Temair na Rig - Tara of the Kings.
Tore - A neck ring, commonly made of gold or bronze.
Lus na mban sidhe - The herb of the faery woman.
Tuatha Dé Danann - Collective term coined in the Middle Ages for the people of the goddess Dana.
Undines - Water faeries.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Myth, magic, and archaic legacy are open to many interpretations. Most historians believe ancient Ireland was invaded and settled by successive tribes over different periods. The book, Leabhar Gabhála or Lebor Gabala Erren — the “Book of Conquests” or the “Book of Invasions of Ireland” — contains the stories of these successive invasions and settlements. Some believe this book does more of the retelling of legends than of truths — I will let the wiser of us decide.
Another resource for Fey Born comes from the Cath Maige Tuired, The Second Battle of Mag Tured (Moytura), translated by Whitley Stokes in 1891. This story centers mostly on the race of Irish deities or faeries, known as Tuatha Dé Danann.
I found the ancient text at:
http://www.ancienttexts.org/library/celtic/irish/2nd_moytura.html.
There are many other sources offering analysis and the retelling of those times. Myth and the real world could be argued from many points of view. I invite you the reader to draw your own conclusions.
Remarkably, some of the locations in Fey Born continue to exist today. Knowth and Dowth, the Faery Mound of Darkness, are passage tombs in Ireland. They are located north of the River Boyne. Official tours are available from the Brú na Bóinne Visitor Centre, although Dowth, at the time of this research, was closed to visitors.
As always, any incorrectness in my portrayal of the times of ancient Ireland are, of course, like the fantastical notions, very much my own.
Also available from Medallion Press,
R. Garland Gray’s first novel:
PREDESTINED
PROLOGUE
Eire
Long ago
THE PEOPLE SPEAK OF IT at night, in hushed whispers, away from the non-believers.
It is an old Irish legend come down from the north.
On the last eve of the full moon when spring and prosperity had reigned, the first generations of the Tuatha Dé Danann became the faery folk. The people named them the Daoine Sidhe, their tongues pressed to the roof of their mouths in speech. The “Deena Shee,” they said, the dwindled gods.
Before enlightened memory, the Tuatha Dé Danann had shed their mundane mortality like unwanted cloaks seeking divinity and their own forever.
Others of the tribe struggled to remain mortal, resisting the temptation that would change their destiny evermore.
Still others wavered in twilight, caught between two worlds, both mortal and faery.
Myth says the Tuatha Dé Danann are the faeries. It was said that one, separate and apart, would save them all.
Chapter 1
Drumanagh, Eire
Kindred, ruins of a faery fortress
HE FELT SLUGGISH AND GRAY, locked in a cold oblivion not of his making. Drugged eyelids crusted open, struggling for focus. Shadows lingered beyond the candlelight in the crumbling tomb of the ancient faery fort.
Tynan shifted cramping muscles. Iron manacles dug into the raw flesh of his wrists and ankles. Painfully, he lifted his head and surveyed his surroundings. He lay on his back on a sacrificial altar of stone, naked and chained, an offering to the otherworld gods, he supposed, his mind still foggy. They had extended his arms above his head and spread his legs apart; leaving him vulnerable.
His head fell back with a heavy thud. He wished he could wake up from this dark dream.
“Doona fight so; let the drug release you.”
He startled at the soft lilting voice, so out of place here. A small figure came into view and Tynan blinked to bring the hooded shape into focus.
“Where am I?” he asked. His voice sounded rusty to his own ears.
“They brought you to the lower tombs of Castle Kindred.” The figure moved to stand near his hip, an obscure form carefully crafted to hide the identity of the woman within.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
He felt blurred and queer inside. His body ached in places it had never ached before. The last thing he remembered, dusk had fallen while he bathed in the woodland stream. Low ceiling and stone walls surrounded him now. The damp air attested to the nearness of Eire’s wind-swept sea. Black candles burned low in stone crevices, oblivious to the moisture that would extinguish their flames forever.
A movement on the floor caught his attention. He lifted his head. “Aile Niurin,” he muttered. Hell Fire. Red beady eyes blinked brazenly back at him before scurrying beneath soiled straw.
“They are only rats looking for food. They will not harm you, warrior. If you feel you can, drink this.” She held a flask out to him. “There is little time before they return.”
Tynan tried to see the face behind the enticing voice, but the hood’s drape hid all features.
“Who comes?” he asked.
Small hands held a silver flask out to him.
“What is in it?” he asked, leery of any offering.
“Water and a crushed apple.”
He frowned with indecision, not trusting but needing nonetheless.
“It is safe, warrior,” she reassured. “I prepared it myself before coming here.” She took a sip from the flask to prove it.
He nodded, too thirsty to argue and opened his mouth.
She supported the back of his head. Fingers buried in his hair, shifting the black length so it spilled down the stone at his shoulder.
“Slowly, warrior.”
The flask touched his cracked lips. Tiny beads of apple slid down his raw throat. The unexpected tartness of the fruit quickly revived him, his mind finally clearing. When finished drinking, he pulled away.
The hooded figure just stood there, watching him, a slight tilt to her head. The scent of lavender teased his nostrils. “Let me see you.”
She shook her head and took a small step back. “ ‘Tis safer not to see my face. If my Roman master found out I ventured to the tombs, he’d order me flayed.”
“You are a slave, then?” Tynan could not hide his surprise.
“Aye, to the Roman Centurion that holds this ancient place.”
“Do Roman centurions allow their slaves free reign?”
“I am trustworthy and given freedom as long as I remain within my master’s boundaries.”
“Your master’s boundaries do not include the tombs.”
“Nay.”
“Yet, you are here.”
“Aye.” She nodded slowly, no doubt wondering where these questions were leading.
He had but one focus lately. “Do you know where the Roman Centurion is holding the faeries?”
The hooded figure stiffened and shook her head. “I doona know anything about that.”
Tynan wasn’t sure if he believed her.
She turned to the back corridor where voices could be heard.
“They come, warrior. I must leave.”
She walked around the altar, and Tynan grabbed a piece of coarse gray cloak. “Who comes?” he demanded.
“The Sorcerer and his minions. They search for the Dark Chieftain of Prophecy.”
The woman tugged on her cloak. “Please release me, warrior. If you live, I will find a way to help you.”
If I live? He had no intention of dying. Tynan released her. “Hide yourself.”
Slipping the silver flask within the folds of her robe, she became part of the darkness, silent and gone as the moments from which she had come. He wondered briefly if he would ever see her again, ever gaze upon her features, but then pushed those thoughts quickly aside for the air became foul with the smell of garlic and sweat.
“The dark sovereign has awakened.”
Tynan peered into the shadows trying to locate the owner of the male voice. One thing felt certain, his captors knew his name. Tynan meant dark sovereign among his people.
“Are you the Dark Chieftain of Prophecy?” an older man’s voice inquired with a touch of excitement.
“Are you the Sorcerer?” Tynan countered instead. A cloaked man came to stand at his head, face hidden by the drape of the hood. Does everyone wear hooded robes and cloaks here?
“I have gone by many names in this life: Yn Drogh Spyrryd, Evil One, Dark Druid, but Sorcerer is the name I answer to now. Do you answer to the name of Dark Chieftain?”
Lord Tynan, the Dark Chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Dananns, calmed, for his captors did not know whom they held. In his mind, images of purple light and elfin faces flashed and swirled. The imprisoned faeries had become aware of his presence from within the sacred walls of the ancient faery fort.
“Silence will only cause you pain, warrior. I have brought many men down to the tombs to be tested. All have died.”
Calloused fingers grazed his temple and Tynan turned away, gripping the manacles.
“Your eyes are faery marked with the color of amethyst, warrior. It is a sure sign of the fey heritage in your blood. Mayhap, my search is finally over.”
Tynan ignored his captor’s ramblings and tried to see the man’s face behind the hood. The rough stone of the altar scraped his bare back. He caught sight of a strong chin and long, black hair, streaked with winter’s gray.
“Curious of my face, warrior?”
“Evil has many forms,” Tynan answered.
“Think me evil, do you?”
Crooked fingers placed a seventeen-inch black sword on his chest, the blood groove encrusted with lime. Dried leaves draped the double-edges of the iron blade. Tynan shifted, only now becoming aware of the two servants who had stood in the back, out of his line of sight.
The air stirred above him. He looked down his chest. The ancient sword quickly took on a threatening quality. A burning sensation spread into his flesh. He yanked at his chains. “What sorcery is this?”
His cap
tor came around and stood by his shoulder looking down at him, trying to see into his very soul.
“Your blood belongs to the faeries, of that I vow.”
He was more mortal than faery thanks to his father’s betrayal. “Many of my tribe show the faery claiming in their eyes.”
“Not like yours. I think you are their chieftain.”
Tynan did not reply.
“Tell me, who is the territorial goddess? I have searched widely for her. The fates are spiteful and keep her hidden.”
“The great Evil One cannot find the territorial goddess?” he goaded, trying to turn his captor’s interest away from the goddess. All knowledge of her had been lost years before, yet he alone must be the one to find her.
“Tell me her name.” The Sorcerer made his demand with spittle and venom. “Tell me or I will spell-bind you in darkness and silence.”
“Your threats are weak. I will tell you nothing, Evil One.”
“So be it. You are no different than the others before you and so shall suffer for it.” the Sorcerer raised his hands and began to chant, something murky and unholy and unrecognizable.
A blood-freezing cold washed over Tynan’s face. He reared up in surprise, yanking at the manacles binding him.
The world writhed and slithered into dark and silence.
Slowly his sight winked out. Blind.
Sound wasted away and became only silence. Deaf.
“Nay!” He struggled to breathe in the eternal night and cold stillness engulfing him. His heart pounded erratically in his chest, fear and terror overwhelming him. He felt suspended, lost in a vast ocean of freezing quiet and living blackness.
“Tynan,” the imprisoned faeries trilled in his mind. “Hurry and free us from this Dark place.”
Tynan’s jaw clenched.
“Dark Chieftain, the Evil One canna veil our fey gift to you. you be of our blood. see the shapes within the darkness. look into it with fey sight and know that you be not alone.”
Fey Born Page 27