by Nina Mason
Gwyn sucked in a breath and held it as icy water engulfed her. When the need to breathe overrode the need to hide, she surfaced with a gasp. The archers had passed over her and, according to plan, were following Leith across the sky in a northerly direction.
She treaded water with growing despair. Just as the weight of futility threatened to break her last thread of hope, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The sight she beheld as she spun around replenished her optimism. Manannan mac Lir in his Wave Sweeper was heading right toward her. As the god sailed past, an unseen force hoisted her out of the sea and deposited her with a splat on the chariot’s deck.
Stunned witless, she sat there for a few minutes before clambering to her feet. Suddenly dizzy, she grabbed hold of the helm to steady herself. Up ahead, Leith was flying so low his back paws skipped over the waves. Meanwhile, his leonine haunches looked like an archery target.
“What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
In a blink, the Wave Sweeper overtook the archers, who didn’t seem to see them, either because they were too busy shooting at poor Leith or because they were actually invisible. When the chariot caught up with the flagging griffin, Manannan spun around, raised his arms, and called out in a booming voice: “I command thee waves to rise!”
The water beneath them began to churn, causing the chariot to pitch like a Tilt-a-Whirl with no restraining bar. As the motion knocked her about, she did her best to hold on. Then, her fingers slipped from the helm. The Wave Sweeper pitched before she could regain her hold. She landed hard on her hands and knees. Beneath her, the ocean was a churning cauldron of blue, green, and white.
She looked around for Manannan mac Lir. He was bent over Leith, now restored to his human form, with his back to her. She called out, but the roaring sea swallowed her voice. Just as she started to crawl toward them, the chariot listed hard to one side. Fear coiled in her gut as she began to slide toward the edge. If she went in, she’d drown for sure. She clawed at the deck, finding only slickness. A scream burst from her throat as she slipped from slippery deck into angry sea.
Down, down she went while all around her the ocean agitated like a washing machine. Her limbs flailed, her chest hurt, blood pounded in her ears. When she stopped sinking, she looked up. The surface was a long way away and her lungs already burned with the need to breathe.
She had to make it. Yes, it seemed impossible, but she hadn’t gotten this far to fail now, damn it. She would give the effort everything she had. For Leith and the baby, if not for herself.
With a hard scissor kick, she propelled herself upward. The sea was calmer now, but still swirling.
Something brushed against her legs. Her heart leaped into her throat. Holy crap. Icy electric eels swam through her veins. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer. Maybe she shouldn’t try. Maybe she should just give up. Drowning was supposed to be a peaceful death. Like going to sleep. Drowning she could handle. Being devoured by a water horse or some other unearthly creature, not so much.
The being, whatever it was, pressed against her back. The gesture felt friendly. A little too friendly, to be honest. Were those hands she felt on her hips? She could swear they were. Big, warm hands pushing her toward the surface. She made it just as her reflexes overrode her will. Gasping like a landed fish, she swallowed great gulps of damp, salty air.
Her rescuer’s arms were now locked around her midsection. She mopped the hair and water from her face. The Wave Sweeper floated in front of her. The sea god, still at the helm, looked back at her with a worried expression.
She ran her hands over the arms holding her. She knew those arms. “Leith?”
“Aye,” he said near her ear. “Who else?”
“But how? You were hurt.”
“It was naught but a wee scratch. And when I saw you’d gone over, I shifted and dove in after you.”
“Shifted? Into what?”
“A merman. What else?”
* * * *
Just as Brocaliande came into view, Glorianna’s charm wore off. The curse returned with a vengeance. By the time they reached the beach, Gwyndolen was slipping in and out of consciousness.
Scooping her into his arms, Leith exited the Wave Sweeper, bid the sea god farewell, and carried her up the beach. Resentment pulsed hot through his veins. It seemed so fucking unfair that, after all they’d been through to try and break his curse, she still might die. Then again, the fates had stolen everything good from him. His wife and son, his dignity, his ability to earn a living, and all hope of ever knowing love again. So, why should they not take his darling lass from him, too?
The Lord of the Waves had given him a seal-leather loincloth to wear. Under the belt, he’d tucked the foot of the cup. At the crest of the dune, he saw Bran walking toward him. Leith bit his lip as gratitude and jealousy did battle inside him.
“Did you bring the cup?” Bran asked.
“We did,” Leith told him. “I just pray it’s in time.”
Bran’s expression turned grave as he noted Gwyndolen’s condition. “Cathbad and the others are preparing the altar.”
Alarm pinged in Leith’s brain. “For what?”
“The blood ritual to break the curse.”
The ping strengthened to a clang. “How long will it take?”
“A few hours.”
The clang became a screaming siren. “A few hours? What if she doesn’t have that long?”
“As the gods will it, so shall it be.”
Fury smoldered in every cell. Had his hands been free, Leith would have beaten the druid out of his contentment. The only way he could be so blithe about her death was if he’d never been in love.
Och, well. Of course he hadn’t. Passion and piety were incompatible—the reason so many holy men were celibate. Druids weren’t, of course, but might as well be. Sex for them was ritualistic. Devoid of feeling, in other words. The way it’d been with Morgan. How anyone could call loveless sex sacred was beyond him. He’d rather die than go back to the way things were before Gwyndolen dropped into his life.
Jaw clenched against his anger, Leith followed Bran through the trees to the base of a cliff. There, the druid pulled back a tangled curtain of vines to reveal the entrance to a cave. Inside, burning candles surrounded a pile of animal skins. He laid Gwyndolen as gently as he could upon the pelts. She moved a little and made a soft moaning sound, but that was all. His heart clenched in unison with his gut. Clearly, she didn’t have long.
“Can’t you hurry these preparations of yours?”
“If we do, the counter-curse won’t work. And then she’ll have no chance.”
Bran took the cup and left, saying he’d be back for them around nightfall. Not knowing what else to do, Leith crawled in beside Gwyndolen and gathered her into his arms. Nuzzling her hair, which smelled strongly of the sea, he whispered, “Just so you know, if you pull through this, we’re getting married.”
A wee while later, Leith jerked awake, his skin damp with sweat. Gwyndolen! Shit, he must have dozed off. Guilt gored his heart and thickened his throat. How could he squander even one of what could bloody well be their last precious moments together on sleep? He couldn’t bear the thought that he’d squandered one precious moment with her. She still breathed, thank God, but was paler and less responsive than before he’d stupidly shut his eyes.
A glance toward the cave’s entrance showed him the periwinkle light of early evening. The sun never set in the Thitherworld, but the moon did rise and the sky changed color when evening fell. At the moment, the heavens were a vivid shade of blue-violet and as luminous as the gloaming on the other side of the vale.
Someone stepped into the light, a featureless silhouette. “Come with me. It is time.”
In response to Bran’s summons, Leith climbed off the pile of pelts and bent to scoop up Gwyndolen.
“No,” the druid said. “Only you.”
Objection blazed in Leith’s chest. He couldn’t
abandon her the way he’d abandoned the others. If she perished while he was away, he’d never forgive himself.
“But—”
“Cathbad is waiting,” Bran told him. “We must make haste.”
Leith opened his mouth, ready to argue, but closed it again. Better to go along with the plan than waste time quarrelling.
As he followed the druid out of the cave, he threw a backward glance at his beloved wee mouse. Please, let this not be the last time he saw her alive.
The prospect nearly split him in two. Whatever the druids planned had better work. That’s all there was to it. He couldn’t go on without her—or with himself if his weakness should cause another death. Losing her wouldn’t just break his heart, it would shatter his soul as well.
The druid led him down a path and through a barricade of trees, which opened onto a dell about the size of a football field. The full moon looked down on the clearing like a watchful father. At the center stood a stone altar made from stacked, chiseled boulders. Cathbad, wearing a hooded white robe, stood on the other side with eyes closed. A large, flat stone the size of a double bed lay in between.
Bran stopped and gestured toward the slab. “Sit. And when you are told to recline, do so flat on your back with your arms and legs extended.”
Leith gazed down at the stone. The rust of dried blood stained the grooves of the pentagram carved into the surface. Vestiges of previous offerings to the gods, no doubt.
He did as Bran instructed. He still wore nothing more than the loincloth given him by Manannan mac Lir, and the boulder felt cold and rough against the backs of his bare thighs.
As Bran continued toward the altar alone, dozens of other druids, also in hooded white robes, emerged from the trees. Each carried a burning white candle. They quickly formed a circle around the edge of the meadow.
Leith looked up at the blue-violet sky, ready to appeal to whichever deity would listen.
Please let this work. If it fails, I don’t know what I will do.
In a few short weeks, Gwyndolen had come to mean everything to him. He’d forgotten how love could creep up on a person. His attachment to her certainly had. To her peril.
He flung the thought away. He must be positive. Thoughts manifested. He couldn’t afford to jinx his one chance with doubts.
Sucking in a deep breath, he blew it out, along with his negative thoughts. This would work. It had to. Druids were powerful magicians. They knew what they were doing. They had the Cup of Truth. The gods smiled on their endeavor. Gwyndolen had told him as much before she succumbed to the curse.
He squinted toward the altar, straining to make out the objects thereon. In the middle stood the Cup of Truth. Two unlit wax pillars flanked the chalice. Around these, a ceremonial dagger, what had to be a wand, a pierced-brass censer, and assorted bowls were purposefully arranged.
The image on the Five of Cups passed through his mind. He now understood its full meaning. The cup that cursed him could also save him, but he’d been too busy coping with the problem to seek its solution.
Please, Danu, Cernuous, Jesus, or whoever might be listening up there, let it be so.
Cathbad, eyes open, took up the cup and lifted it to the heavens.
Bran claimed one of the bowls and moved toward the gathered druids. The bowl contained salt, which he poured onto the ground to form a circle around the altar and slab. As he passed by, each robed figure came forward and placed his or her candle just outside the perimeter.
“I conjure thee, O circle of power, as a shield between the forces of good and evil.”
The invocation, spoken in old Gaelic, recalled Leith’s attention to the altar. From its surface, two small flames winked through the white smoke streaming from the censer Cathbad swung back and forth. Hints of clove, frankincense, and sage intertwined with the natural fragrance of the woods.
“O circle of power, we ask that you join forces with the ancient and mighty ones to protect and preserve the power we shall raise within thy boundaries.”
Impatience picked at Leith’s scabbed-over temper. While the priest monkeyed about with his incense, Gwyndolen’s life hung in the balance.
As the younger druid passed by on his way to the altar, Leith grabbed hold of his arm.
“Can’t he bloody well get on with it?”
“The Old Ones must not be hurried.” Bran jerked his arm from Leith’s grasp. “We cannot know what they know or see how all the pieces fit together. We must trust in their wisdom and take refuge in the knowledge that all things work together for the greater good. Peace comes when we allow things to unfold as intended without undue interference.”
Every cell clenched in rebellion. He’d like to interfere with Bran’s unflappable serenity with a hard right hook. He could not, would not, accept that Gwyndolen’s death—or his curse, for that matter—might somehow serve a higher purpose.
“Lie back”—the druid nudged his shoulder—”and focus on clearing your mind rather than imposing your will on the natural order of things. Magic moves more swiftly through a clear channel.”
Leith’s hands still trembled with the urge to punch Bran in the mouth. Striking the druid might not help Gwyndolen, but it sure as hell would make him feel less impotent. Frustration had reduced him to tatters. Limp, useless tatters. Everything he cared about was on the line and all he could do was sit here like a bump on a rock.
Having so little control was beyond maddening. Biting back the urge to lash out, he lay back on the hard slab and looked up. A heavenly violet canopy spread out above him. He shut his mind against the fear of losing her. No, don’t go there. Don’t even think it. Focus on the here and now. The stars, the purple sky, the faint line of pink clouds scudding across the glowing golden moon.
Someone touched his left arm, bringing him back with a jolt. It was Bran with Cathbad by his side. The older druid held the Cup of Truth and a dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt.
As Bran turned Leith’s arm so his palm faced the sky, Cathbad moved the cup beneath his wrist. He then drew the blade across the bulging blue veins.
Wincing against the pain, Leith watched as blood welled from the wound and dribbled into the chalice.
When the cup was nearly full, Bran gave him back his arm and joined the circle.
Cathbad moved around to Leith’s head and dipped the dagger into the cup. As he touched the bloody tip to Leith’s brow, he said, “In the name of the goddess of the earth and god of the greenwood, I do exorcise thee, O manifestation of sorcery, and cast out all the impurities and uncleanliness of the powers of darkness.”
Leith fought the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t see how this could work, but it bloody well better.
The priest moved to his left side, dipped the dirk in the cup once again, and drew a pentagram in blood on Leith’s chest. Though cold, the knifepoint ignited something inside.
“Blessing be upon this noble heart,” the priest said. “Let all malignancy and hindrances be cast out and let love and goodness take their place forthwith.”
Leith’s heart caught fire. Sweat broke from every pore, pain radiated through his limbs, and his whole body began to vibrate.
Moving around to his feet, Cathbad anointed his soles. before handing the cup to Bran, who took the chalice to the circle and gave each druid a drink of the blood within.
Just as the last robed druid returned the cup to Bran, the sweet music of a harp plucked Leith’s ears. Pushing up on his elbows, he tracked the sound to the woods beyond the clearing. The music grew louder. He knew the melody, but couldn’t pinpoint the song.
All around him, the druids remained as still as the stones at Callanish.
A twig snapped a wee ways off and he could hear footfalls on leaves. Then, a thought struck. A terrible, suffocating thought. The harpist was coming to deliver the bad news.
His darling lass was no more.
His hands fisted against the idea. No, don’t think it! Thinking it might make it so. And it couldn’t be so. It just c
ouldn’t be. Without her, without love, he was an empty, useless husk. He couldn’t go back to the way things were, to pretending.
The druid circle broke and into the clearing came Belphoebe, softly playing her lyre.
Leith’s spirits lifted, but only fleetingly before sinking to new depths. He could guess why she’d come and couldn’t bear to hear the news.
Movement flashed behind Belphoebe. Another lass was with her, most of her hidden from view. She was shorter than the willowy faery and a wreath of flowers crowned her dark hair, which fell in soft waves over her shoulders.
Just the way Gwyndolen’s had.
Hope pounded on the door to his heart, but he refused to let it in. He must accept fate’s cruelty and refrain from indulging in wishful thinking. The time for “if only” had passed.
Belphoebe entered the clearing, still plucking her harp. Though beautiful, he barely heard the music. All his senses were fixated on that break in the circle.
As the second woman moved into view, hope kicked down the door he’d shut against it. He sprang to his feet, the urge to run to her overwhelming. He held back. Grief could play tricks on the mind.
The round face, wide-set eyes, delicate chin, and doll’s mouth appeared to be Gwyndolen’s, but she’d been deathly pale when he’d left her. This rosy-cheeked beauty was positively radiant. Were it his mouse, she’d been more than restored to health; she’d been raised to the status of goddess.
When her gaze found his, the usual electrical current surged between them. Joy foamed in his heart, making it full and light at the same time. He turned to Cathbad, his stomach fluttering. “Will you marry us here and now?”
The old druid smiled wryly. “Shouldn’t you ask the lady first?”
“Aye.” Embarrassment heated Leith’s face. “Of course.”
As much as he wanted to run to her, to throw himself at her feet, pledge eternal devotion, and beg for her hand, insecurity kept him standing there.
He’d failed Clara, Faith, and Belphoebe. He had no reliable source of income. He could offer her little more than his heart, his good intentions, and his useless title. Would she be content with so little?