by Jan Delima
The shift hurt like a son of a bitch. Gritting his teeth as the final bones snapped into place, he wasn’t sure whether he would ever get used to the change. Luc had promised that he would—but Cormack wasn’t convinced. Tugging on his jeans, he went in search of Porter. The man had announced his plans the evening before and should be doing a final perimeter check of the island.
Gravel bit the freshly formed soles of his feet as he took a shortcut through the graveyard of the Walkers. Cormack slowed when he noticed the doors of the tombs hung ajar. One Walker sat on the ground with his head between his legs, his body racked with sobs. Another sat in a puddle of water, slapping the surface like a child might do in a wading pool.
Aeron, the female, was wrapped around Porter. The newly dense forest barely concealed their location.
And Aeron’s voice carried. “Do you want to die, warrior who bears a Celtic cross?”
Porter frowned down at the armful of an awakened Walker. “Not in this century, I don’t.”
Head thrown back, Aeron laughed as women do when they drink too much wine. Her hands roamed downward.
Porter muttered, “You’re getting a wee bit cozy down there, aren’t you, now?”
She giggled, obviously pleased with what her wandering hands found. “May I pleasure you?”
Dumbfounded, Porter just blinked. “Bloody hell . . . Are you trying to torture me, because I’m thinking you are?”
“Not in a hurtful way.” She lowered to her knees and rolled up her eyes. “Please . . .”
A groan fell from his mouth, and his hands fisted in her hair. “Am I supposed to be saying no to an offer like that?”
“No, you should not.” Aeron gave a smile that promised heaven with a kiss. “What is your name, warrior who bears the Celtic cross?”
“Porter.”
“Your given name,” she clarified. “Do I not deserve to know that at least?”
He hesitated only briefly. “Finnbarr,” the porter of Rhuddin Village hissed between his teeth. “Just call me Finn.”
Finn, was it? It suited him better than Porter, but Cormack suspected he’d had a valid reason for guarding his given name—until now. With some Irish luck, Aeron might even keep his secret. If not, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had fallen because of a female. And this modern society considered women the weaker sex. Idiots.
Knowing Finn would be in no mood for interruptions, Cormack pivoted and searched for another who’d serve his purpose. Besides, it was an act he had seen many times before. As a Bleidd he’d been invisible to their kind. Since he couldn’t speak their secrets, people ignored his presence—everyone but Elen.
Cormack nodded to Mae as he returned the way he came. She sat next to one of the Walkers, patting his hand. A crowd began to form around Tesni as she led the one named Gawain to the outer bailey. It was a gift, perhaps even the greatest given this day, to see the Beddestyr walk again in this world. Perhaps their kind wasn’t doomed after all.
When Tesni noticed Cormack, her pretty face spread into a wide smile. She’d offered him what Aeron had Porter. And, yes—he’d been tempted. However, he’d been waiting four hundred years for Elen, and he was not going to risk losing his only chance with the woman he loved by tiddling with anyone else.
It was Elen’s hands, and Elen’s mouth, he wanted on his flesh—almost as much as he wanted his on hers.
Entering the castle, he found Teyrnon, Cadan and Gareth sharing a pitcher of ale in the dining hall; all three men were healed after shifts and quiet with their cups.
Cormack pointed to Gareth’s sword, moved his tongue to form words, and fisted his hands in frustration. His speech never formed the way he heard it in his mind.
“Teach,” he finally managed. “Me.”
It was Teyrnon who lowered his cup. “Teach you to use a sword?”
“Yes,” he growled. “To fight.” Teach me to defend Elen. Because he had no doubt Pendaran would return for her.
And when he does, Cormack vowed, I will be an adequate warrior for all her needs.
Maybe then she could love him as more than just a friend.
* * *
Inside Castell Avon, Taliesin stared at a mischievous child with eyes the color of copper and leaves. He sat in Avon’s library, with Luc and Rosa snuggled on the opposite sofa, while Dylan waited for Elen to say her farewells before bringing her home to Rhuddin Village.
Audrey blinked at him, tilted her head. “You made the lady sad.”
His lips quirked. Yes, there had been many sad ladies over the years because of him. And some of the women—bless their naughty hearts—hadn’t been ladies.
Still, her question made him curious. “What lady are you talking about?”
“The lady in my dreams.” Audrey held up her fisted hand and spread her fingers to reveal a crumpled leaf. She padded over to Rosa. “She said this is for you. She said it’s from your tree.”
Unease settled on Taliesin’s spine, a tingle of awareness despite the absence of his Sight. “Can I see the leaf, Audrey?”
Shaking her head, she said, “It’s Rosa’s leaf, from Rosa’s tree.” She returned to stand next to him, crawling into his lap.
And he was awakened in the Vale.
With Audrey in his arms.
The child pointed a pudgy, iridescent finger to where his mother stood. “The lady is over there.”
Ceridwen wore a light blue dress, plain and cinched at her waist with a gilded tie. Her fair hair hung to her waist and her heavy-lidded gaze regarded him with wariness and sorrow. “I will not listen to cruel words, so mind what you say to me now if you ever wish my company again.”
Cobbled before he spoke—was that not the entirety of their relationship?
How she still had the capacity to surprise him was as unsettling as this new development. Shaken, he managed to state the obvious. “You’ve assigned me a new Walker.”
“The others are useless.” She made a disparaging sound. “It is my wish that you will not be as cruel to a child as you were to them.”
Acid churned and he swallowed his reply, but it was some time before he could speak without rancor. “What have you done with the others?”
“Their services have been terminated.” She returned his frown with one of her own. “If you have no respect for their warnings . . . what use are they to me?”
“So you killed them,” he said through clenched teeth.
Her eyes widened. “What? No, I have sent them home,” she snapped. “Why do you always assume the worst of me? Aeron is accosting the porter of Rhuddin Village at this very moment.” She shook her head. “Finnbarr may not be able to walk come morning. Such a good boy, too . . . I always liked him. He respected his mother.”
Finnbarr O’Connor was not a good boy. Decent, yes—but also hot-tempered and prone to finding trouble.
“Finn will be fine, I’m sure.” The news made Ceridwen’s little zinger less irritating. “Having them awakened was worth losing my Sight.”
“Do not act like a martyr, Taliesin. I took your Sight from you in an attempt to stop you from interfering.” The spectral forest darkened with her mood. “But, alas, you have done your worst damage without it.”
“I stopped a war,” he felt compelled to point out.
Unimpressed, she made an absent flick with her hand. “Your Sight is returned. See what you have done.”
His throat clogged as images flooded his mind’s eye and he foresaw what his interference wrought.
“Pendaran was meant to die,” she raged. “Merin, blessed be that warrior’s heart, she would have broken the darkness and balanced the light had you not stopped her. And now it will grow like a poisonous weed. The war you thought you ended has just begun—because you interfered.”
Too stricken to speak, he let out a ragged breath as guilt and denial roiled in his gu
t. In the midst of his turmoil, Audrey patted his cheek. He held the child on earth and in the Vale; therefore he actually felt the gesture.
“The lady is mad at you,” Audrey whispered. “Did you do a bad thing?”
“Yes, I did a very bad thing, I’m afraid.” He was good at doing bad things.
After another soft pat, she nodded with understanding. “You should say the sorry word. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. But it’s not so hard to say, so you should try.”
Taliesin looked to his mother. She appeared absorbed—though in a way that suggested she dared not move for the importance of his reply. Even the imaginary air in this forsaken Vale stilled as if waiting.
Some words were harder to say than others, especially if they forgave a lifetime of abandonment. But he was no longer a boy left in Pendaran’s care and he could atone for his own misdeeds.
Chagrined, he offered, “I am sorry, you know.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “As am I, Taliesin . . . As am I.” Her lip trembled slightly, much like Merin’s when she refused to watch her children suffer because of her presence. “I cannot cry. I will leave for a moment. Rhiannon is teaching me meditation techniques. Stay in the Vale! I will not be away long . . .”
Ceridwen disappeared for a short time and when she returned she seemed more settled. “Already you listen to this Walker better than the others. I think Audrey will be a good match for us.”
“The Council will hunt her,” he said as concern grew.
“Which is why I have already given her a message to deliver when the time comes.” She approached slowly. Her hand whispered over the child’s hair. “Do you remember the message you are to say if someone tries to take you?”
Audrey nodded. “I am Beddestyr. I am a messenger of Ceridwen.” She enunciated each word carefully. They had practiced this more than once. “If you take me, you will be reminded of why she is also known as the Crone.”
“Perfect, my sweet child.” His mother clapped. “That was perfect.”
Audrey beamed.
And, yes, even Pendaran would honor that announcement. The risk of it being true wasn’t worth the wrath of the Crone.
With conviction, Ceridwen ordered, “I want her fostered by Rosa Beatrice, wife and mate of Luc, son of Merin, Penteulu of Avon, and keeper of the Beddestyr.” She held up her arm toward the end of the pathway where a sapling shimmered, tiny like Audrey. “Rosa brought forth a Tree of Hope, the first of its kind in over fifteen hundred years. She will protect this child from the darkness.”
Awed, when very little caused such a sentiment these days, Taliesin had to ask, “It exists in both worlds?” He had killed the last living Tree of Hope on the day he’d condemned the Walkers to their three-hundred-year coma.
“Yes. It exists on earth and in the Land of Faery.” A soft smile touched her face. “It is a gateway, a small one, but it weathered your storm. Let us hope it can weather a greater one to come.”
“I’m tired of the storms,” Taliesin admitted.
“I know.” She lifted her hand to touch his arm, but like all their other visits in the Vale, touches were just whispers and apparitions. “I felt your heart on Avon’s broken bridge and it has taken another piece of mine. Humankind is gifted with free will and choice—and they are tangled in their own war of good and evil. The demons cast from their heaven want the very essence of their souls, while you are torn between worlds and must answer to both. If you interfere with their gift, darkness grows and light ebbs—”
“And the earth becomes unbalanced,” he finished. Because of him. Again. “I messed up.”
“Yes,” she readily agreed. “This one was not good, Taliesin.” A stricken look folded her features. “Elen, daughter of Merin, will face a great trial ahead. Pendaran will come for her in the arms of seduction and it may be stronger than the pure love she was meant to have. And Cadan . . .” She sighed as her spectral forest wilted with her sadness. “He will have his own challenge to confront when he seeks freedom outside of Avon.”
Taliesin’s chest constricted when he viewed their future. Why is evil always drawn to pure hearts? “And I can’t help them,” he choked out with resentment.
“No, human blood runs in their veins as well as Fae, and we mustn’t interfere with their free will. But . . .” Mischief entered her gaze and the Vale crackled with anticipation, like the warmth of sunbeams on a frosty morning. “I have been given a gift, and when given a gift as precious as hope, I am inclined to give one in return.”
Wary, because Taliesin couldn’t foresee this gift—and that could only mean one thing: it was pure Fae. “Is the gateway large enough for travel?”
“It serves well enough.” Merriment lightened her spectral image. “Might is not determined by size, Taliesin, but by fortitude and honor. We lost this battle, but we shall see who wins the next.”
Oh, What a Mighty Creature Hope Befalls
Elen broke ground in her garden with ferocious jabs of her shovel. Sweat pooled on her spine and her arms throbbed but she continued the task, needing the mind-numbing escape of planting a tree and not thinking about Cormack.
Or the fact that he had snuck out of her room before dawn—and then refused to return with her.
Something flowering was in order, she decided. A lilac perhaps, because it had been a vexing few days and nothing made her feel better than a tree that blossomed every year to remind her that life also brought peace and beauty and not just turmoil and ugliness.
A bird flitted about, landed on a branch of a nearby apple tree, turning its head sideways to watch her work. It was a winter wren, small and perky, with brown-and-white-striped wings and a creamy white throat under a dark beak.
Odd, though, how the top of its head glinted gold in the sun.
Dropping her shovel, Elen approached slowly for a closer look. Eye level, the wren lifted its chin in a haughty gesture. It held a square object in its left talon. The glinting bit on top of its head looked very much like a crown, an actual one of gold and not yellowish feathers.
Elen stilled, for this was no usual bird. The energy that reached for her was greater than the entirety of a healthy forest. “Should I welcome you to my garden, or should I be afraid?”
A glimmering cloud whirled around the wren to reveal a tiny woman with iridescent dragonfly wings edged by dark brown veins. She was lovely by human standards, but rather plain for an extraordinary creature; her coloring matched the bird, with creamy skin and striped brown hair, curled short and tucked under her coronet.
Elen blinked, squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again.
The woman with wings remained.
“What are you . . . a faery?” Not the most intelligent inquiry—but she was surprised and therefore deserved some lenience. A sighting of the wee folk hadn’t occurred, as far as she knew, since before the Guardians were given the ability to transform to wolves.
The woman lowered her tiny chin and issued an indignant glare; it was far more disconcerting than her size should allow. “We have much work to do if you cannot even tell the difference between a faery and a pixie.” Like a wren, her voice came out in piercing overtones and was clearly amplified.
“You’re a pixie,” Elen whispered, daring to take a step closer.
“You look disappointed. What were you expecting? Pink hair and sparkles? Beauty comes in many forms. And mine, you will learn, is knowledge.”
“I’m not disappointed.”
“Now you lie,” she clipped. “And I tolerate lies even less than stupidity.”
After receiving two scoldings in under a minute, Elen became less enchanted. “What are you doing here?”
“I am your new teacher, Elen.”
“What are you going to teach me?” She had a doctorate from Harvard and had apprenticed under Maelorwen. She could perform modern surgery and turn a man’s stick
as soft as worms. But she was always willing to study new things, especially from the Fae.
“Our kind has given you a powerful gift.” A delicate snort carried. “You must learn to do more with it than run rivers of moss and force transformations, especially if you are to fight the darkness that wants you. And you must learn to control it.”
“There’s a darkness that wants me?”
“To be sure, but we will get to him later.” The pixie hovered before settling into a cross-legged position on the branch. “First, let me introduce myself.” Apparently, the item she held was a miniature-sized book. She flipped the pages, searching. “I found two books of use to me in the library of Castell Avon: Etiquette for Travelers and Oxford Dictionary of Modern Slang. I had them transcribed to my size,” she explained while tilting her head over what she read. “It says here that teachers of this time and culture are assigned a prefix before their name of Miss, Mrs. or Ms., depending upon marital status. My personal relationships are none of your concern, so you will refer to me as Ms. Hafwen. Do you understand?”
Elen could only nod.
“Good,” Ms. Hafwen said. “Now, I will need a home, because it is inappropriate for a student and teacher to reside in the same dwelling.” Her wings began a whirling motion before she lifted off the branch and hovered around Elen’s garden. “You will build this home for me out of stone, mortar and wood.” Her voice carried sharp in the wind like a bird’s song. “Nothing elaborate; one turret, a window and a door is all I need. Here,” she announced, “under the hydrangeas in your shade garden.”
“Okay,” Elen agreed when pinned with a glare.
“It is my understanding that okay means yes.” She waited for verification.
“Yes.”
Still, the pixie hovered as if expecting more.
“Yes, Ms. Hafwen.”
She gave a nod of approval. “Thank you, Elen. You will build it today.” She flipped another page of her tiny book. “You and I have much to do. There is an axiom I found . . .” She flipped yet another page, pursed her lips, paused and frowned over what she read. “Mother fuc—” Inhaling a sharp breath, she caught herself before finishing the crude but common saying, and then gave an indignant sniff. “That is disgusting!”