Warrior Tithe: Faerie Tales

by T. J. Deschamps

  She took a sip. The water was from a well. It did her good, but she didn’t care for water that sat in one space. It was as if she could taste its confinement.

  The lad sat in the chair farthest from her, eyes on the cauldron, not Aoife.

  “Am I not appealing to ye, lad?”

  “No mortal can compare to a fae when it comes to pleasing looks. Surely ye ken that. Why bother teasing me?” He turned his gaze to her.

  She licked her lips. Even dirty and ill-fed, he stirred passion in her. “Surely ye ken that yer not an average mortal in regard to fairness of the face and sweetness of countenance.”

  He scoffed. “Sweetness of countenance. That’s pure nonsense if I’ve ever heard.”

  “Fae cannot lie. I find ye bonnie and sweet. I’d not mind having carnal knowledge of ye.” She smiled playfully and enjoyed the way his cheeks flushed scarlet. “I think we might both enjoy it.”

  He grunted in response, gaze falling to her injured leg. “Yer hurt.”

  “Not where it counts.”

  In reply, the lad crossed the room, carrying the chair and set it next to the hearth. Occasionally, he stirred the pot. The dingy cottage remained quiet for a long time, the lad keeping as much physical space between them as possible, his thoughts unreadable.

  Aoife bet his witch mother taught him how to block out fae. Witches were not their enemies, but those mortals were the most enticing. How could a witch bare such a prude? Her gaze found a crude crucifix on the wall. She shuddered. A Christian father, then. That explained it.

  “Do ye fear ye’ll be punished by yer Jesus for laying with me?”

  That earned a chuckle from him. “No. I’d take whatever purgatory had to offer to know ye. However, I’d rather not know what it is to possess ye and give myself to ye in return, then go back to this dismal existence.”

  He stirred the cauldron once and then turned those cobalt eyes in her direction. His gaze bore into her, as if seeking the very core of her being. She hoped he couldn’t see she planned on giving him to the queen of the faeries.

  “I see it in yer eyes,” he said. “Ye plan to leave me and never come back. Dinna give me a sweet memory to cling to, kelpie. If I have nothing in this world to cling to, my inevitable demise will be easier to bear.”

  To that, she had nothing to say. She found her will to give him up to the queen faltering.

  4

  Roi

  Cu Roi mac Daire stared at the portrait of Bláthnat, the first bride who had run from him. His shame. His death bringer. Bláthnat was beautiful with her dark hair and lovely blue eyes, her figure full and skin softer than anything he’d touched...until he had Aoife. Half-fae, no human could compare to Bláthnat. That was why, when he and Cuchulainn raided her home, Roi had claimed her as his spoil. He’d given up a hefty amount of gold, livestock, and other spoils for her lovely, treacherous hand.

  He’d thought she’d grow to love him. All women he’d ever desired succumbed to his charms, even fae. He’d bedded Aoife twice before he asked her to wed him. He didn’t want another cold and limp lay. Now he had two women to find. Manannan would not let him seek the hand of any of his other daughters.

  In the periphery, a crone in a brown tattered robe appeared in his study, accompanied by two of his soldiers. He dismissed the soldiers with a flick of his wrist, not bothering to face them fully. They bowed anyway and removed themselves.

  “Did Manannan not give ye the aid ye sought?”

  He turned to the ancient crone. Lines etched her face, her eyes were milky with cataracts, but her hair was jet black like a raven’s wing and looked just as silky.

  “His lack of love for the King of the Seelie was not as great as his need to unburden himself of an unruly daughter. He bade me to woo and marry one of them. They all have the sight, and can enter any faerie, so I thought it a good idea.”

  The crone cackled. “Marry a maiden to find yer wife?

  Roi clenched a fist, but he stayed his hand from striking the crone. He needed her help, so he’d endure her insolence. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Bláthnat is as good as dead when I find her, so why not find happiness in the arms of the one who helps me with my current dilemma?”

  The old hag made a show of scanning the study. “Where be yer new bride?”

  “Betrothed. We are not yet wed. A misunderstanding occurred. I’d secured her, but her father wanted to make sure. He betrayed her, and she believes I had a hand in it.” It was close enough to the truth. He didn’t need the crone to know that he’d planned on consummating the match in front of every witness present. It had been degrading that a king would have to fight for a woman he’d already bedded, and he thought she needed some humbling. Gift of sight and beauty beyond compare notwithstanding, Aoife was still only a woman. Cunning, but nowhere near as intelligent as Roi.

  “That, yer majesty, doesn’t answer my question.”

  He wiped his hand down his face and turned away from Bláthnat’s portrait to face the crone. “I do not know.”

  “The price is the same. The firstborn of yer seed. Dead or alive.”

  “You can have whatever I cut out of Bláthnat’s womb.” Whatever was in there wasn’t his anyway.

  “That was the price for gaining ye admittance to Mannan mac lir’s isle. No. I want the sea god’s grandchild.”

  Roi had already promised the firstborn to Mannan if it were a girl child, but the crone did not know. Could be a boy. He had a strong seed. If it were a girl, he’d let them fight it out later. A girl was useless to him. If he had a boy, he’d simply kill the crone before she could have him. Perhaps Aoife could give the hag a dead changeling or some bastard he sired on one of his whores. It didn’t matter. That was a future concern. All that mattered now was finding his skittish betrothed and he using her to find his traitorous wife. He walked to the window overlooking the castle’s gardens and placed his hands on the ledge, pretending to labor over the decision.

  He blew out his breath in an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. Ye shall have my firstborn from both of my wives. Dead or alive. ”

  The crone studied him for a minute before nodding. She cocked her head. “Do ye have something of hers: hair, fingernails, a bedsheet with the blood from her maidenhead?”

  A memory of Aoife’s expression the moment they joined as one flashed in his mind—so joyful, so full of delight. After enduring Bláthnat’s frigid tolerance of his affections, Aoife’s warm and passionate embrace had severed all reason. Roi had forgotten his purpose of seducing the fae to use her maidenhead as proof to Manannan that they were already wed. He’d had his way with her in an alcove. He had, however, stolen a lock of her hair to remember the triumphant feeling. To remember he was a man, desirable to beautiful women. The lock and the memory, a prize he didn’t want to give up.

  He eyed the crone. “Why?”

  “To track yer betrothed. We couldn’t track her majesty because she left not a single thing of herself.”

  He could strike the witch for reminding him how well Bláthnat had deceived him, how thoroughly she had humiliated Roi. Making her pay and protecting himself trumped his fond memory of tupping Aoife. Still, he didn’t like giving anything he cherished to this crone.

  “You will not use it to wield power over her? Her will must remain her own.” He wanted all the control over his bride and didn’t trust the witch to not betray him. He valued Aoife’s affection and would not have it used against him.

  The hag’s thin mouth curved into a smile. “I am simply a witch. No mortal can control the will of a fae without their true name.”

  Her words irked him. He’d demanded Manannan give Aoife’s true name so he could call her back, but instead the sea god had banished Roi from his realm until the kelpie was found. Frowning, he took the necklace from under his tunic and removed the lock of hair he’d bound with a bit of leather.

  He almost snatched away the bright auburn curl when the crone’s boney fingers pinched the lock.

  “Take me
to your kennel,” she bade in a papery voice.

  Roi didn’t like being ordered about, but he did as she asked, allowing her the use of his arm as he led her through the stone hallways of his keep. His boots crunched on the rushes underfoot.

  The descent down the stairwell into the common yard took maddeningly long. The crone treated each stair as treacherous, though the steps had an accommodating breadth.

  The damp air and stench of pigs and other livestock bit at his nose as they crossed the outer courtyard to the kennels. Once inside, the crone bid the hound master, a gray-bearded man in simple, piss-yellow tunic, to bring the king’s two best trackers.

  The older man gave the king an asking look. He took pride in the dogs and likely didn’t want the witch anywhere near his beasts. Roi gave his consent with a nod. The hound master’s head bent and shoulders sagged, but he did as he was told.

  “Do ye love these beasts?” the crone asked the hounds master.

  The man raised a bushy white eyebrow but answered the question. “Aye.”

  Her responding smile lacked most of her teeth. “Would they attack yer majesty if he were to strike ye?”

  The hound master darted a nervous glance in Roi’s direction. He scrubbed a hand over his leather hood, disturbing it so it sat absurdly high on his head. With a tremble in his voice, the old man replied, “I cannot say for certain, yer majesty.”

  “Lock them in the same kennel,” the crone ordered.

  Again, Roi had to nod his assent.

  The older man’s gaze darted between the witch and the king. “M-may I be so bold as to ask, h-have I displeased ye, yer majesty?”

  The man had served Roi and his father. Likely his father had served his grandsire. Loyalty meant much to Roi. The crone’s words didn’t sit well with him either, but the matter of his own life was in question. No matter how loyal the servant, his life mattered to him more.

  Roi hated Bláthnat viciously for bringing him to this.

  “No,” he whispered just as the witch grabbed the hound master’s throat preternaturally fast.

  The crone’s yellowed nails transformed into dagger-sharp talons, piercing the hound master’s windpipe before he could scream. The old man’s eyes bulged as he clawed at the witch, fighting for his life. It was no use. Magic, sharp and crisp, permeated the air. The crone, who could barely make it down the stairs in a timely fashion, had the supernatural strength of a man many times her size.

  In her papery voice, she murmured words in a foul language as blood poured over her hand. The hound master’s face turned pink, then red, and then a deep maroon before he finally went limp and ghostly white, drained of life and color.

  Roi watched, aghast, and took a step back when the witch turned her bloody claws in his direction. She wiped the sticky, sweet smelling liquid on his forehead—or more accurately, she drew a symbol with blood on her fingertips.

  She approached the hounds, who now barked excitedly. The clamor rose to a crescendo. She chanted. The barking suddenly ceased. Only a random whimper here and there as she marked the dogs’ foreheads.

  She drew a circle in the center of the kennel floor and peculiar symbols within. Roi didn’t understand this blood magic. She’d only taught him the one spell.

  “Fetch the hounds here,” she commanded Roi, adding when she saw the outrage that must have been on his face, “please, yer majesty.”

  Roi took the keys from the dead hound master’s belt and unlocked the cell. The two hounds walked into the circle as if in a daze.

  A shadowy figure, more mist than flesh, appeared between the dogs. The crone and the figure conversed in a strange growling language. Surprisingly, Roi could comprehend most of what was said. The mark. The sacrifice of the hound master’s life. It was all part of a bargain. A soul in exchange for the shade’s help.

  The shade produced a gold chain with an amulet.

  The crone beckoned Roi forward. Fear danced up his spine as he approached. The shade slipped the necklace over Roi’s head.

  The king stepped out of the way as the shadowy figure dispersed and consumed what was left of his servant. The man had a wife. No children, thankfully. He would say nothing. Men disappeared all the time in the Highlands.

  The shadows vanished, but Roi’s hounds were no longer the dogs that had walked into the blood ring; only gray, ghostly beasts with glowing green eyes remained. The crone broke up the auburn locks, feeding them to the hellish creatures.

  “Keep that charm about yer neck. The hounds shall obey only yer majesty as long as ye wear it,” the crone warned. “The amulet shall lead ye to wherever the hounds go. Be it on the land or sea, mortal plane, or the Otherworld.”

  Roi grimaced, knowing there would be a price to what he asked next. “By what means should it be possible for me to travel to the Otherworld?”

  “Ye need not. The hounds shall retrieve her for ye.”

  “I need her alive,” Roi hissed. He’d also prefer if she was not mutilated. He would have to keep his bargain with Manannan, and after all this humiliation, Roi didn’t want a lame wife. “And whole.”

  “Kelpies need only a body of water to heal. Now, she handed him the lock of hair he’d given her earlier. “Say, ‘This is whom you seek,’ then feed the hair to them.”

  Roi feared the beasts, but he wouldn’t allow the crone to see it. He snatched up the scarlet lock. Cautiously, he split the hair in two groups tossing them to the hounds.

  “This is whom you seek.”

  The hounds snapped fang-filled jaws, devouring the hair. The beasts turned their eerie eyes onto the door to the kennel, pointing. When the crone opened the door, the hounds took off in a run. However, they did not keep corporeal form. As their legs propelled them forward, they turned into tendrils of vapors until the running hounds disappeared into a fine swirling mist.

  The amulet glowed with strange green light and tugged in the direction of the mist. “Do I simply wait?”

  The crone shook her head. “Gather yer search party, yer majesty. It’s best if the beasts don’t have to drag her far. They won’t be gentle.”

  Roi felt a tinge of regret for seeking out the crone’s aid, for every time he did, the innocent died, but his need to find Aoife and Bláthnat outweighed his remorse.

  5

  Fagan

  Fagan crossed his arms and took a step back from the naked kelpie, cursing himself for making the offer. The water horse was a lot easier to manage asleep. He didn’t wish one more torturous night with her in his bed. For three days, she lay feverish, and he’d waited and waited for her to die. He poured iron around the cottage and prayed to the saints none of her kind would seek vengeance upon his head for her murder.

  Whatever fae were made of was stronger stuff than mortals, for she pulled through without herbs or magic.

  He nodded to the blanket on the pallet. “Wrap yerself in it, or I’ll not carry ye past the threshold let alone to the stream.”

  The kelpie eyed the blanket and then the door as if weighing which was worse.

  “Ye can’t pass it without my help.”

  She canted her head, reminding him of her erstwhile horse form. Her gaze glanced briefly to the crucifix on the wall. “Why may that be?”

  “I’ve laid down salt and iron. One of yer kind under my roof is enough.”

  She gave the blanket an odious glare and then fixed it on him. “Ye cannot carry me unless this wee bit of fabric lays between us. Are ye that savage ye can’t leave a naked body unmolested?”

  Fagan blew out his breath. “Ye promise if I touch ye, you won’t drown me for my trouble?”

  She played with her hair.

  Dear god save him, he remembered the way it had felt in his own hands. Fagan had brushed it best he could with his ma’s comb while the kelpie slept, heart racing the entire time. He had been sure she’d wake and drag him across the highland craigs to the sea for his trouble, but he’d loved the task and thought seeing her well cared for was worth it.

  Fi
nally, she spoke. “I’d rather drown ye then let ye succumb to the fate yer headed for.”

  Taken aback by her reply, he lifted his eyebrows. Could she see a violent demise? His ma had said that some fae were gifted with the sight. “What fate is that?”

  She spread her arms wide, and he had to fight to keep his gaze on her face. “Ye said it yerself. Ye have no kin, no lover to speak of, no one. If I drowned ye, at least ye wouldn’t die alone.”

  Fagan snorted. “Tis all the same to ye, I’d rather die in my sleep alone than thrashing about drowning.”

  She picked at the blanket. “Fine. I won’t drown ye, but I’d like to take ye with me to where I’m headed. Ye’d have all ye wanted to eat and drink, and ye wouldn’t die at all because no one full-grown ages under the hill.”

  His heart leapt, but he didn’t trust the invitation. He schooled his features to hide the joy she gave him. “Under the hill? Why would you want me to come to the Otherworld with ye?”

  The redheaded kelpie leaned back in her chair, drawing his attention to an unhindered view of her breasts. His mouth went dry. How long had it been since his bonnie Kate, from the next farm over, begged Fagan to pierce her maidenhead so that old man her father sold her off to wouldn’t be her first and only? How long had it been since his heart broke when she refused to elope with him? A year? Two? He had been a lad that had given into his passions once, and the pain still lingered.

  Fagan forced himself to avert his eyes, lest he stare. Staring would become wanting. He dared not want her no matter how many times she offered. His ma had said there was a price for laying with the fae, and it was worse than eternal damnation.

  “I am one of Mannan mac lir’s daughters, a princess of the seafolk. I happened to be on my way to see the Queen of the Sidhe.” The kelpie gave him a long appraising look. “Queen Mab is always looking for knights who are also pleasing to the eye. If I were to present ye to her and she takes a fancy to ye, she’ll bestow fae powers in exchange for service to her.”