by Trisha Telep
“With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.”
Una laughed but not because of his compliment. “You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart.”
“Which is that, my lady?”
Her eyes glinted with humour. “What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?”
Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort?
Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.
Una leaned closer. “To have her own way.” Her eyes shone with brilliant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. “I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift.”
“You have already been too kind . . .”
Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie Queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him full on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chill that shook him to his marrow.
And Padraig swooned.
Rosamunde dreamed of another day from her past.
The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. All the same, Rosamunde’s heart leaped at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as well as the lines of her own hand.
Ravensmuir.
Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over her.
Twice.
In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection. But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig.
Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologised to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.
And he had died.
Had she not died, as well?
Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tall and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.
By his masculinity.
With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company. Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter; he was clever; he dared to challenge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.
Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind folly.
“I will go into the caverns alone,” she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.
“I will accompany you,” Padraig said, determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into the shadows so others would not be compelled to do so.
She and Padraig had walked the periphery of society together, daring all as they challenged convention.
At each other’s backs.
While Tynan had upheld convention. He had found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favours abed, but he had never respected her or intended to honour her. It was no surprise in hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in truth.
“No, not this time,” she argued in her dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.
She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the ardour in his eyes. She saw his fear for her. She saw his valour and his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.
And Rosamunde regretted that she had surrendered her love to the wrong man.
She had suspected as much on that day. The ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic haste. “Take the ship,” she told him, in this dream as she had then. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.”
It had been their jest, all those years, that they would one day sell everything and live out their lives in Sicily. They had both preferred the sun’s sultry heat there to the chill of the north.
“But what of the contents?” Padraig’s displeasure was clear.
“Sell them, sell them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.”
“But . . .”
“I owe you no less for all your years of faithful service.” It was a facile lie and they both had known it, even then.
“But the ship?”
“Sell it as well, or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig.” Rosamunde uttered that heartfelt sigh, acknowledging the shadow of dread that touched her heart. “I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.”
It was a lie. She had never had Tynan’s love. She had had the illusion of his love, and had been seduced by that. She had had no more than the physical expression of his love, and that was a paltry offering.
On the other hand, Rosamunde saw in her dream that Padraig’s love had been before her, awaiting her invitation, for years.
“You will fare well enough,” she said in her dream, and the declaration of her gift of foresight struck her as ironic. “I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see will be true.”
“What do you see for yourself?” Padraig asked softly, his survey of her so searching that Rosamunde could scarce hold his gaze. He frowned and looked away. “I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes.”
There was a truth in his claim that she had missed on that red-stained morning. She declared her destiny to be at Ravensmuir, seeing in her dream how the notion displeased Padraig.
How could she have missed such an offering?
How could she have overlooked the affection of one who knew her better than she knew herself? She had been a fool and lost her life because of it. If only she had another chance, she would seize the opportunity Padraig presented to her.
“Farewell, Padraig,” she heard herself say. “May the wind always fill your sails when you have need of it.”
And Padraig embraced her, catching her close. She could feel the muscled strength of him, the resolve of him, the power he oft held in check. In her dream, she closed her eyes and savoured what she had lost through her own folly.
His voice was husky when he spoke. “We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I will consider you to be my friend.” His blue eyes filled with heat as he regarded her. “You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other.”
“No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you,” she said, her heart aching at her own folly.
“I did,” Padraig said, his words fierce. His gaze bored into hers, then he turned away, staring at the cliffs of Ravensmuir. “I did,” he added softly.
And in her dream, Rosamunde did what she should have done on that day. She reached out. She touched Padraig’s shoulder.
She saw his surprise when he turned towards her. Then she caught him close, hearing the thunder of her pulse in her own ears, and kissed him.
It was a sweet, hot kiss, a kiss that sent a torrent of longing through her. It was a kiss tinged with regret, filled with love, a kiss of yearning and potency. It left her dizzy. It left her hot.
It left Rosamunde wide awake and blinking at a ceiling she could not place.
Was she not dead?
It appeared not. She was simply alone. She touched her lips, caught her breath, and dared to wish.
Padraig awoke abruptly, his heart racing and his breath coming in quick spurts. He was hot and tight, the taste of Rosamunde upon his lips.
He had also slept, apparently, in the field.
The sun was rising in the east, gilding the hills and setting the dewdrops ablaze. He stared around himself. He was alone. He was cold and his clothing was damp with dew. The stone circle was a dozen steps away, silent in its secrets. The women were gone, if indeed they had ever existed, and there was no music echoing in his ears. No lyre, no small faeries, no footsteps in the grass.
Padraig heard a man shout at a cow as he drove her along the road to town.
He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue across his lips. He tasted the kiss of Rosamunde again, closing his eyes at the rush of pleasure he’d felt beneath her touch.
Rosamunde had never kissed him.
Except in his dream.
He had indulged too much the night before. It was the ale, confounding him, feeding his desire and leading him astray.
Padraig shoved to his feet, grimacing at the distance he had to walk back to town. His feet were still sore and his head ached. He made to brush himself down, removing the twigs strewn across his clothes, and realized there was something in his hand.
It was a stone. The stone was round with a hole in the middle of it. It was the colour of gold. Was this the golden ring he believed the Faerie Queen had given him?
Padraig smiled at his own foolish dream. He had been in his cups. Still, a stone of such a shape was unusual. It might be lucky. He was possessed of all of the superstitions of a seafaring man and a few more besides, courtesy of his mother’s upbringing in these hills and her respect for the fey. If nothing else, it would be an error to cast the gift aside where the donor might witness his rudeness.
Padraig pushed the stone into his pocket and strode through the damp grass. And as he walked back to his accommodations in Galway, he savoured the memory of Rosamunde’s kiss.
Even in a dream, it had been a sweet prize and was enough to put a spring in his step.
But Rosamunde, she had not died
In truth she breathed still.
She was a captive of the fey
And lost beneath the hill.
Such marvels she did see while there
Such beauty, wondrous still
Still Rosamunde did not wish to be
Captive beneath the hill.
The spriggan Darg was not a creature Rosamunde was glad to see.
Solitude was better than the company of this thing.
That the small fairy had a red cord knotted around its waist was curious, and surely did not improve the creature’s mood. It hissed and spat, pinching her to wake her up then nipping at her heels to hurry her along.
“Make haste, make haste, the King is not inclined to wait.”
“Where are we going? I thought Faerie was like limbo.”
Darg chattered unintelligibly, as was its tendency when it was annoyed. The creature led her more deeply into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir and Rosamunde was glad to leave her past behind.
It wasn’t truly the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, though. Those caves and their pathways were well known to Rosamunde, having been her secret passage to the keep for decades. As a child, she had played in them, learning their labyrinth, delighting in their secret corners. But they were dank and made of grey stone, dark and filled with the distant tinkle of running water.
She did not know the passageways that Darg followed. Rosamunde had never spied that entry lit with golden light until the collapse of the cavern and the death of Tynan. She suspected that Darg had opened a portal for her, but knew not where it truly was.
This cavern could not be fairly called a cave or even a labyrinth. Indeed, Rosamunde did not feel as if she were underground at all. There was brilliant golden sunlight, the light that had spilled from that unexpected portal. The sky arched high, clear and blue, over verdant fields. The air was filled with music and fine singing, and every soul she saw was beautiful.
It took Rosamunde a while to realize that she only saw nobility. There were aristocrats riding and hunting, borne by finely draped steeds so majestic in stature that the beasts rivalled the famed destriers of Ravensmuir. The women were dressed in silk and samite, their garb of every hue, their long hair flowing over their shoulders or braided into plaits. They wore coronets of flowers, and gems were plentiful on their clothing, even wound into their hair. Many played instruments as they rode. Golden flutes and silver lyres abounded in this strange country. The women’s laughter sounded like music as well.
The men were just as well wrought, tall and slim, muscular. There was a glint of mischief in every eye. Their armour shone as if it was made of silver, their banners were beautifully embroidered and their steeds galloped with proudly arched necks. Silver bells hung from every bridle.
The land itself was bountiful, the trees lush with fruit and flowers blooming on every side. Rosamunde thought she saw fruit of gold and silver, and flowers wrought of precious jewels, but Darg did not delay their passage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautifully with the ladies’ tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.
Just passing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg’s killing pace, lightened Rosamunde’s heart. It healed her wounds and made her believe that she might live on, even without love. It made her think of the future with an optimism that she had believed lost.
It made her wonder where Padraig was.
It made her wonder how she might get from here to there.
“Where are we?” she shouted to Darg, who hastened ahead of her, muttering all the while.
“A foolish mortal you must be, to not know the land of Faerie.”
Faerie. Rosamunde was a pragmatic woman, one who had never believed in matters unseen or places to which she could not navigate. Was she dreaming?
A butterfly lit on her shoulder, its wings fairly dripping with colour, its beauty far beyond that of any earthly insect.
Rosamunde realized with a start that it was a tiny winged woman. The fairy laughed at her surprise, a sound like tinkling bells, then darted away, disappearing into the blue of the sky with a glimmer.
“And why do we not linger in this magical realm?” Rosamunde asked Darg.
“Late we are, late we must not be! Finvarra waits impatiently.” The spriggan tugged again at the red cord knotted around its waist. It spat in the grass with displeasure, then snatched at Rosamunde. “Hasten, hasten, by the moon’s rise, we must be safely at his side.”
“Who is Finvarra? And why do we go to him?”
“Questions, questions, instead of haste! Your queries do the daylight waste! We have far to go without rest: Finvarra will accept no less.”
They crossed a bridge; the river running beneath looked to be made of mead. Rosamunde caught a whiff of its honeyed sweetness and saw a cluster of bees hovering at the shore. A beautifully dressed suitor offered a golden chalice of the liquid to his lady, who flushed, fluttered both wings and lashes, then accepted his tribute.
“But why do we go to this Finvarra? Who is he and what hold has he over you?”
The spriggan spun round abruptly, facing Rosamunde with fury in its eyes. “A match I lost, the price my life. His demand was you as his new wife. High King of Faerie is his task, a man whose patience does not last.” Darg wrestled with the red cord, then released i
t with disgust. “This bond he knots, it burns me true; ’til you are his, this pain my due.”
“You traded me to the Faerie King?” Rosamunde demanded, bracing her hands upon her hips. “What if I have no desire to be his toy? Or that of any other man, for that matter? I will not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised.”
“I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra will have you as his wife!”
“I think not.” Rosamunde turned her back on her vile captor, having no inclination to make such a submission easier. She surveyed the beautiful countryside and spied a man tending a pair of horses that were drinking mead on the bank. He was handsome, and his gaze was bright upon her.
His hair was as dark as midnight, and if she narrowed her eyes, he could have been mistaken for Padraig.
Save that Padraig had neither wings nor pointed ears.
Perhaps he could aid her in finding Padraig.
When the Faerie knight smiled, Rosamunde found herself smiling in return. “I will take my heart’s ease here instead,” she said to Darg and turned her back upon the creature.
“No!” the spriggan screamed, as once it had screamed before in Rosamunde’s presence. She glanced back warily, then ran when she saw that the spriggan had become a large and menacing black cloud. When enraged it could change shape with frightening speed – the last such eruption had led to Tynan’s death after it had shattered the caverns.
“I saved your life, it’s mine to give,” Darg shouted. “I trade it now so I shall live!”
Rosamunde ran as quickly as she could, feeling the other faeries watching her with bemusement. She could not outrun Darg’s fury, however. Her heart sank as the dark cloud enveloped her, surrounding her with fog as black as night.
Then she was snatched from the ground, as helpless as a butterfly caught in a tempest, and carried away. She thought she heard someone cry out, but Darg did not slow down.
Finvarra’s wife. King or not, Rosamunde had no interest in his attentions. The very fact that he would trade a faerie’s life for a woman, with no consideration of any desire beyond his own, was no good endorsement. She struggled and fought, knowing it was futile, and she wished again for a loyal friend to fight at her back.