FOREVER ENCHANTED

by Maggie Shayne

  And then, suddenly, the whitecapped waves and blue, blue water seemed to take shape amid the fog. She walked farther, as the path leveled off, and broadened, and became a finger of rocks that jutted into the lake. And she knelt there, on that rock, and wished she could see beyond the mists. Wished she knew of a way to get off this wretched island. She was a fairy, yes. But her powers were severely limited without the aid of her pendants. And she was unsure what sorts of spells of this ancient wizard's she might have to get past in order to work her own.

  She was a fairy, not a wizard. She could not conjure materials that did not already exist. She could, however, command the elements to do her bidding. In most cases. So... assuming there was a boat somewhere on this island—which there must certainly be—she could perhaps bring the boat to her.

  Stepping closer to the banks, she peeled off her slippers. Then she stepped into the frigid water, plunging one foot in ankle deep. And she kept the other foot on the wet rock. She tipped her head back and lifted her arms to the sky.

  "Wind and water,

  Hear your daughter,

  Find the wizard's boat.

  Wind to blow it close to me,

  Water let it float.

  With me inside,

  Then move your tide,

  Return me to the shore.

  That I may to my own home flee,

  To rule forevermore!"

  She finished with a shout, clapped her hands together three times, and knew her spell had been effective. She felt the change in the winds, felt the water move in a different motion around her foot. Squinting in the mist, she watched for the appearance of her vessel... Ah yes, something was coming. Moving toward her from amid the fog. But it was too big to be...

  It towered high, rolling toward her at an alarming rate. She turned to run, but too late. The monstrous wave hit her hard, swamped her in cold lake water, and then tugged her in its cruel grip, right out into the depths of Cayuga.

  As she fought to find the surface, to find air, Bridin could have sworn she heard the disembodied laughter of the long-dead wizard. Gods, why hadn't she heeded Tristan's warnings?

  Tristan had a feeling something wasn't right. It began as soon as she confessed that she was glad he was alive after all. Because the Bridin he knew would never have admitted such a thing. And the longer he thought about it, the more he realized that such declarations were sometimes said when one person wasn't certain of seeing the other one again for quite some time. If ever.

  And that train of thought led him to the logical conclusion that his beautiful, mischievous Bridin was up to no good. Probably planning an escape.

  He wasn't overly concerned that she might pull it off, of course. This was an island and his boat was hidden. But it was an enchanted island. One filled with mysteries and magic. And Bridin could very easily get herself into serious trouble by rushing headlong where even angels would have sense enough not to tread.

  So he returned to the bathroom to check on her. The door was unlocked. He didn't knock. Just turned the knob, half expecting to peer through and see her reclining like a pagan goddess in the tub.

  Instead, he found a tub filled only with rapidly cooling water, and a chair pulled close to a newly unlatched window.

  Bridin, of course, was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He pushed the windows apart, only to be greeted by a gust of wind so sharp and so chilled that it took him by surprise. It tasted of rain, that wind. Black rain. Still he leaned out even farther to tip his gaze skyward, to see that the heavens matched its flavor with their face. Deep, glowering gray, with storm clouds boiling like the liquid in a bubbling cauldron, where before there had been only crystal blue and sunlight.

  Something was wrong. Something... was happening.

  Tristan blinked that notion away, gave his head a shake. It was a storm, nothing more. Apparently his morning exploring Sharan legends with Bridin had affected his own imagination as much as it had hers. She was fine. There was no reason in the world to think otherwise. She was out exploring the island and probably enjoying it. And if she hadn't come in when she'd seen the storm clouds brewing, well, that was understandable. Fairies adored thunderstorms. Everyone knew that. She'd probably plant herself on the highest spot she could find and wait there, arms outstretched, to greet it.

  There was nothing wrong. And he was only going out after her... just to make sure.

  He didn't go back through the echoing stone rooms of the mansion to the front doors. Instead, he stepped up onto that chair and pulled himself out the open windows, just as she had done. And then he rose, and looked in every direction, his eyes narrowing on the mist-enshrouded corkscrew trail, as if he could conjure her image there simply by staring hard enough.

  It didn't work, of course, so he started forward. And all the while he battled the grim, deathlike whisper taunting his mind. If she only went exploring the isle, Tristan, then why did she slip off this way? Why didn't she simply use the doors? You'd already told her she was free to roam the area. So why creep away like this? Unless she's plotting something. An escape attempt, for example.

  He ignored the voice in his head, but with great effort. It made no sense to think Bridin would attempt to escape this island. There was no way off it. No way she could succeed.

  But as much as she detests you, Tristan...

  "Shut up," he muttered aloud.

  She'd do anything to get away from you!

  "Shut up!" He shouted the command this time, shouted it at a voice that wasn't real. One that in all likelihood emanated from within his own mind, giving form to his own doubts and fears. Though it didn't feel that way. The voice felt foreign and malevolent.

  He reached the treacherous footpath, and all his attention was needed to focus on keeping his balance. The ever-sharpening, cold wind seemed to blow more mist in upon the isle, and to swirl and toss that which was already there, making it even more difficult to see so much as a few inches ahead. Stones rumbled away. The ground itself, in places, gave beneath the weight of his boot. He hugged the steep edge to his left and continued downward, wondering how the hell Bridin had managed the tricky descent. Why hadn't she turned back when she'd seen how dangerous a trek this was?

  Ah, but fairies are fleet of foot and graceful. Her own mother had been one of the very last of the winged ones, who had been, naturally, the most delicate and poised of any fay creature. But the wings were lost unless the lineage was kept pure. Pure royal blood, pure royal fay blood. And Bridin's father had been a mere mortal man, smitten and enchanted by the love of her mother.

  Winged or not, though, Bridin's agility and grace would have taken her safely down this trail. She could have danced down its rocky surface and never once stumbled, he told himself.

  And yet, when he glanced into the shimmering, swirling, seemingly bottomless mists below, he shivered. And for some reason he could not fathom—or did not want to—he walked a little faster, even knowing it was a reckless pace he set.

  It was just as he reached the bottom of the towering, volcanolike peak, where the trail spread into a tablet of stone, and the steep angle of the descent leveled off into a smoother shape—that he heard the terrible roar. It was, he imagined, very much like the sound a dragon would make as it swooped down over a defenseless village, flapping its mighty wings and blowing great gusts of fiery breath that would incinerate anything in its path. A deafening, thunderous sound, and he pivoted quickly, his head jerking toward the direction from whence it came. The great wave swallowed the entire shore. With so much force, it struck, that it seemed to push the dense fog aside with its pressure. It crashed down upon itself, frothing and seething and boiling with a living fury. And then it was sucked away again. It receded like a living thing. Like a slippery, stalking creature, stealing away with its booty. It left rivulets streaming after it in an effort to catch up. Puddles and pools amid the rocks where none had been before. The stony hillside dripped with teardrop beads. And the fog began to close in again
.

  But not before something drew Tristan nearer, closer to the soaked shore. And not before he'd seen it.

  A single black slipper, its satin shiny wet, lying bent like a fragile, broken bird, among the rocks. The sight of it sent an impact through him that was not unlike being struck hard in the midsection. The air seemed forced from his lungs with the blow. His jaw gaped and he half ran, half stumbled forward. "Bridin," he whispered. Then louder. "Bridin. Bridin!"

  He had almost reached the slipper when a smaller, more natural wave swept over it, clutching it in a greedy little grip, and carrying it back into the depths of Cayuga. Tristan could almost believe it had never been there. That he'd imagined it.

  But it had been there. He'd seen it.

  His gaze scanned the surface as far out as he could see, which wasn't far enough, with the dense fog still hanging over the water. He called her name. Again and again, he shouted to her, but there was no answer. And he started forward, stepping into the water, not even having the presence of mind to remove his boots; such was his panic. Gods, Bridin! He slogged deeper, water lapping over his knees, and then his thighs . . .

  ... and then he paused, tilting his head, frowning. There was something... It moved toward him, bobbing in the now serene water. The boat, his boat, the one Tate had assured him was tied safely in the hidden cave, floated toward Tristan now as if it were steering itself.

  And then it veered outward, away from him, its direction changing, though no one was inside to guide it. Surely some sort of magic was at work here. Some sort of...

  Magic.

  Tristan pushed off with his legs and dove, plunging into the chilled water, sinking deeply and arching upward again. He broke surface and began stroking onward, forcing all the power he possessed into the long, rhythmic sweep of his arms and the steady kick of his legs. The boat kept moving away from him. He could see it just ahead, but still out of reach. And moving. His lungs burned and his arms ached, but he poured still more will into moving faster. And he did. And finally he brought one hand forward swiftly only to have it connect with wood. He gripped that wood, clung to it. But the boat seemed determined to move ever faster, and he couldn't pull himself aboard. He could only hold on and pray that the magic propelling it was Bridin's and not some trick of the ancient wizard, as that monstrous wave must surely have been. He clung to the boat's stern with both hands, and its wake sent water surging up over his face and into his eyes and nostrils. But he didn't let go.

  And finally the boat slowed and came to a stop. It sat still, rocking with the gentle motion of the water. Tristan let go and paddled away from it, enough so it no longer blocked his view of the eerily calm waters around him.

  And he saw Bridin floating faceup in the water near the bow. Her eyes were closed. Her skin, beaded with droplets and lily white as the lake's water lapped over her face, receded, again, again. Her golden hair spread like tendrils out into the waves while the black of her dress moved like a dark ghost just beneath the surface. Tristan's heart pounded with such force, it seemed it would shatter his ribs, and he lurched toward her, his breathing choked in his throat, and odd, soblike sounds escaping in its place. He reached her, pulled her to him, freeing her beautiful face from the water's deadly kiss. And then he turned to grip the boat's port side, anchoring himself to it with one arm, and lifting her over it with the other.

  Her body thudded into the tiny craft, and Tristan pulled himself in as well. Lake water streamed from his clothing, puddling in the bottom. Bridin lay still, in a small pool of it. Not moving. Not breathing. For the first time, Tristan understood fully how she must have felt when she'd believed him to be dead. Looking at her now, he felt the same. He bent over her, clutching her shoulders, shaking her.

  "Bridin. Sweet, beautiful Bridin, open your eyes." But she didn't. "Don't do this... don't leave me, not now." With trembling hands he wiped the wetness from her face, touched her lips. "Live, Bridin. By the wings of the gods, live!"

  But there was nothing. No sign of life. No movement at all. Sitting up straight, tilting his head up to the skies, Tristan clenched his fists. A cry rose from somewhere within him. Some deep, hidden place. A cry of rage and heartbreak and horror and a hundred other emotions. The sound was swallowed up by the mists, but it echoed in his heart long after he'd uttered it. He was helpless. No wizard's magic could raise the dead. Not even he could perform such a feat.

  Only the rarest of the fay folk had discovered the key to unlock the mysteries of death. Only the fay...

  He bent to her again, his spine rubbery, and he gathered her up in his arms and held her close, rocking her, crying freely now, and without shame. His hands tangled in her long, wet hair, and he kissed her face, her closed eyes, her mouth. "I can't let you go, Bridin. I never could. Gods forgive me, this is my doing. If I hadn't brought you here..."

  As he spoke, Tristan felt heat. Burning. A brand searing the skin of his chest, and he straightened quickly, to pull what felt like a glowing ember from his skin.

  But it was no ember; it was the twin pendants he found himself yanking from within his shirt. They'd come alive, those mystical charms. They glowed with a pure white light that hurt his eyes.

  "Pendants," he whispered. "If you have the power to bring her back to me... do it now. Please, do it now..."

  He pulled her close again, until the glittering, glowing quartz points were pressed tight between Bridin's flesh and his own. He ignored the pain, just held her there, his arms trembling around her fragile form. And again he tipped his head skyward. "Maire, mother of Bridin and queen of the fay. Hear me if you can. These pendants came from you, fashioned by your own hands and imbued with your own magic. Help me to use them, to save your precious daughter. Please... this can't be what fate intended for her. Help her."

  As he sat there, tears clouding his vision, it seemed that the mists parted, and then came together again to form the cloudy, hazy shape of a winged woman. No features there. Just a shape. And he heard a voice, soft as a breeze caressing his ears as it whispered, "Why do you cry for her, Dark Prince?"

  He blinked, narrowed his gaze, trying hard to see clearly the shape in the mists. "I don't want to lose her," he answered.

  "No. Answer me truly this time, or I'll gather my daughter's spirit into my arms and carry her away with me. Why do you mourn her so?"

  Tristan's lips parted, then closed again. He looked down at the beautiful, pale woman in his arms, and he closed his eyes. "Because I love her," he whispered.

  The wind sharpened then, and when he looked up, the shape in the mists was gone. Panic gripped his heart as he feared he'd answered wrongly once again. Gods, could he do nothing to save her?

  But then the pendants heated still more, searing his skin until he grated his teeth against the pain. The glow they emitted grew brighter, until it seemed a sphere of white light spread around the two of them like a bubble. And it, too, was hot.

  And then, with one last blinding flash, it was gone. The stones cooled.

  And Bridin coughed very weakly.

  Bridin shivered with cold, and her lungs ached. She instinctively burrowed closer to the warmth beside her, and sighed as something gently stroked her hair. She felt safe and protected in this cocoon of strength, and she clung to it, savored it as the fogs in her mind slowly dissipated. And then she opened her eyes.

  Tristan lay upon the bed, his arms around her, holding her tight. Her head rested on his shoulder, and when she looked up and into his red-rimmed eyes, he smiled very gently. "You're awake."

  She felt groggy and lazy, and more than a little confused. She tried to remember getting into this bed with him, and couldn't. She only remembered standing on the shore and summoning a boat to come to her. And then...

  "The wave!" She stiffened, trying to sit up, but he eased her down onto the pillows, stroking her hair and staring down at her with worry in his eyes.

  "It's all right. You're safe now. It's all right." He tucked the blankets around her, easing himself into a si
tting position and reaching for something beside the bed. "Here," he said, turning toward her again, this time with a steaming mug and a spoon in his hands. "It's one of Tate's tastier brews. A broth, to strengthen you." He moved the spoon toward her lips, and she let him feed it to her. It was hot and spicy and good. She nodded and he spooned more into her mouth. As he fed her, the concoction's heat seemed to spread through her, warming her limbs and soothing the aches there.

  "That's it," Tristan whispered. "Good. You need to rest, Bridin. You need warmth and sleep. You're going to be all right, I promise you that."

  She rested her pounding head on the nest of pillows Tristan had placed beneath it, closing her eyes. "What happened?" she muttered.

  "One of our wizard host's tricks, I can only presume. You were swept away by a giant wave. Nearly drowned."

  She sighed, and shivered again, her memory becoming more clear. The icy cold water sweeping over her, ripping her out into the lake, pulling her beneath the surface.

  "You... you found me?"

  "Thankfully, yes. I found you."

  "You saved me?" Her eyes opened again, slowly, meeting his.

  "Your pendants saved you, Bridin. I could do nothing to help you."

  It wasn't true. She knew that Tristan had pulled her from the jaws of death, once again. She vaguely remembered seeing her mother, hearing her beautiful fairy voice whispering some great secret to her, but the memory was elusive and hazy. She lifted her hand to her chest, automatically reaching for her cherished pendants. But instead, she felt an odd shape there, a bit of raised flesh that seemed to imitate the pendant's shape.

  Frowning, she reached out, her fingers touching the charms where they hung around Tristan's neck. And then she touched his skin just beneath them, and found a similar scar there.

  "You... you tapped the magic of the necklaces? But.. . how? Only a fairy can—"