The Absinthe Earl

by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  “I am unequal to it,” she breathed, leaning into my chest.

  I gave a half-choked laugh. “May God have mercy on us.”

  “For good or ill, my love, I fear we have traveled beyond God’s mercy.”

  I froze at these words that seemed to spring from the voice but not the mind of Ada Quicksilver.

  Freeing my hands from her dress, I took hold of her shoulders and turned her. “Ada?”

  She pressed the front of her gown to her chest. Her eyes were wide and bright. “That was not I,” she said.

  I took her hand and pressed it between mine. “I understand,” I assured her. She was not as accustomed to these invasions as I was. “Do you know what she means by it?”

  She stared at me bleakly. “A long desolation has stretched between them,” she said, and I could hear that desolation in her voice, as though it had traveled across a windswept English moor. “They have lived here together for centuries, but having lost their mortal forms, they have been unable to experience more earthly, blooded passions. This is why they reach for each other through us.”

  To hear her talk so openly of “earthly passions” was enough to stir my blood again, but I was determined to be master of these impulses. “And why does she say they have traveled beyond God’s mercy?” I asked.

  She frowned. “I’m not sure. But I think because they are immortal and drifting.” Her gaze, too, had taken on a drifting quality as she spoke, and it troubled me. She stared beyond me as if she was seeing something that I could not. I worried about her communing more closely with her ancestress.

  “They are two of only a few Danaan with surviving descendants,” she continued. “Cliona clings to her humanity still, and to her bond with the daughter she lost.” I noted the flash of some new understanding in her eyes, and her focus returned to my face. “Diarmuid exiled his people not just out of love for her, but also to assuage his guilty conscience. His decision to gift her with immortality separated her forever from her daughter.”

  So relieved was I over the return of my Miss Q—and so struck by the passionate concern in her expression—I gathered her in my arms. I wanted her so desperately, I felt it would be the death of me. I wanted to climb beneath the furs and coverlets heaped on my ancestor’s bed, make love to her, and sleep an age in her arms, the rest of the world be damned.

  I had no way of knowing whether this was my desire or his.

  If anything, her disclosures had reaffirmed my instinct to preserve some boundary between us—between our ancestors—for as long as I possibly could.

  “Let us join the others,” I murmured, “and we will see what aid they may offer.”

  OF TWO MINDS

  Ada

  The earl donned a simple dark tunic and breeches and then watched, barely suppressing a smile, as I tried to subdue my hair. In the end, I settled for a loose plait coiled at the base of my neck.

  “I suppose it will do,” I murmured.

  “You are beautiful,” said he, “and endlessly fascinating. Had I such a remarkable feature, I would leave it wild for the world to admire.”

  I laughed. “Had you been ‘admired’ by the world so often as I, you might hesitate in such a course. But you are kind, my lord.” I continued to use his title out of habit and also, perhaps, due to uncertainty about the nature of our relationship. But even to my own ears, the words sounded like a caress, kissed with tenderness.

  Smiling at last, the earl replied, “Shall we go?”

  In truth, I was loath to leave this sanctuary. The path ahead was unknown, and I longed with all my body and being for the intimacy we had aborted. “I suppose we’d better,” I replied.

  “I believe we will be safe in this place,” he said. “But let us keep close to each other.”

  We made our way back down the passage and along the route Caer had followed when she left us. We soon found ourselves in a central chamber with a large banquet table. Four people were seated at the table, but what first caught my attention was the tapestry that ran the length of the wall opposite the table. It depicted two figures in a close embrace in some woodland bower, which reminded me of the tapestry in Diarmuid’s chamber. I found I could not shift my gaze from the lovers—and soon discovered that the couple bore a striking resemblance to the earl and me.

  Heat crept from my cheeks down my throat and across my chest.

  “If it isn’t the Bog King of Connacht,” said the earl suddenly, and I felt him stiffen. “What is your business here?”

  My gaze fell from the tapestry and alighted on a familiar face—and an angry one.

  “Duncan!” I cried, stepping forward. He had stood up, his brow so dark I anticipated a rumble of thunder. And indeed, there was lightning in his look—his eyes were bright and strange, reminding me of Diarmuid.

  “Finvara, please sit,” the lady of the house urged.

  She seemed to be speaking to Duncan, and I glanced between them, confused. According to lore, Finvara was king of the fairies, and he resided in the west of Ireland. In the stories about him, the fairies went to war with the ancient Irish, lost the war, and then were said to be exiled to an underground world that was probably Faery.

  But what had he to do with Duncan? And what was it that had set Edward off?

  Turning to question him, I could see by the light in his eyes that Diarmuid was ascendant.

  An ancient rivalry, whispered my ancestress.

  Could it be that Duncan, like Edward and me, was a descendant of Faery? I glanced at him again, this time noting that beside him sat the resplendent queen of two worlds, Isolde, looking bored and annoyed.

  “Must we?” she muttered.

  “We must,” replied Duncan, “if he will begin by insulting me.”

  “Please,” said Caer, glancing at the earl and me. “Won’t you join us?”

  As we moved to take the seats she indicated, I discovered that my eye had greatly deceived me about the tapestry. The scene depicted a sword fight between two men. How could I have been so mistaken about its subject?

  Then I realized that the tapestry’s combatants were the very men now bristling at each other across the banquet table.

  “Welcome, friends and allies.” This greeting came from the man who occupied the raised seat at the head of the table, and it had a dampening effect on the ireful looks passing between Edward and Duncan.

  The man’s countenance was kindly. His dark hair was streaked with white, and he wore a circlet of some plain, lusterless metal. But a large moonstone was set in the center of the band at his forehead. His eyes, like the stone, were a nearly white shade of gray. Caer sat at the place beside him, and I realized that this must be Angus, Diarmuid’s foster father and the Danaan chieftain at Brú na Bóinne.

  Caer poured an amber liquid from a pitcher into two goblets and handed them to us. The vessel felt strangely light, and the metal caused a slight tingling in my fingertips. I placed it on the table before me.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Edward, sounding himself again. “And my lady.”

  Glancing at Isolde, he continued, “I must confess that I am both confused and surprised to find us all gathered here.”

  “We have assembled to discuss our plan for battle,” said the queen, frowning at him. “Had you done as I asked, you’d know that. But the important thing is, you’re here. I thought you’d gone mad entirely, jumping out the window like that.”

  “I’m not sure that I haven’t,” replied the earl. “But we’re here, primarily, because we’ve caught a creature who’s sworn fealty to the Fomorian king, and he has told us of a plot to spoil Ireland’s potato crop. We foiled his attempt, but he has indicated there are others in progress—perhaps directed at other crops—and that they are too far along to be stopped. I assume this to be the blight you spoke of at Kildamhnait.”

  “Potatoes?” asked Duncan—or Finvara—so
unding dubious.

  “We caught him carrying a sack of diseased potatoes through a Gap gate,” I explained. “We inspected and disposed of them ourselves. If other servants of Balor crossed successfully into Ireland, many people could starve.”

  “Many Irishmen will die,” agreed Finvara. “’Tis but a foregone conclusion now. We are here to talk of the battle to come.”

  “It could be that something may yet be done,” I countered, holding his gaze. If Duncan was also Finvara, our situation had been greatly complicated. The Finvara I knew from the lore certainly had no love for the Irish, despite his fabled penchant for mortal women. Was it possible to appeal to his Irish counterpart?

  “Think of your family, Duncan,” I pleaded. “Your brothers and their families. Perhaps they would survive, but what of your father’s tenants?”

  Finvara stared at me as he considered, and I prayed that my words might wake his descendant. But after a moment, he shook his head. “These ideas—they are cut from the same cloth as those that brought about our exile. I, for one, have had enough of it. For you, lady, I will fight for Ireland, but it is not my business to save her people.”

  I detected only traces of Edward’s charming and high-spirited cousin in the countenance of the man sitting opposite me. It appeared that when it came to their descendants, the male immortals among us were more interested in conquest than in alliance. I could only hope that in time, Duncan and Finvara, like Edward and Diarmuid, might at least agree to an uneasy truce.

  “Isn’t it possible we might find a way to stop the Fomorians without the need for war?” the earl asked reasonably. “If they are somehow foiled in their attempt to reduce our numbers beforehand, mightn’t they think twice?”

  Finvara’s fist came down suddenly on the table, making the goblets jump. “You are the reason for all of this. If no one else here will say it, I will. And I’m not interested in your proposals!”

  The bench we were seated on quaked as Edward lunged across the table, knotting his fist in Finvara’s shirt. “Blasted bog-crawler!” he growled, and Finvara took a swing at him, just grazing his chin.

  “sit. down.” Angus’s deep voice rumbled through the hall. “Both of you.”

  The combatants gave each other a shove and stumbled back from the table, seething.

  I stared at them, baffled. This enmity is about the exile?

  And a woman who made her choice, came the answer.

  Somehow, I knew which woman, and I had a suspicion about the choice. More complications.

  “Sit,” repeated Angus, and the men obeyed. “These decisions belong to the four of you,” he continued. “For Caer and me, the time has passed.” He glanced at his wife, and the look she gave him was loving and contented, yet tinged with melancholy. When Angus returned his gaze to the rest of us, he added, “But I would encourage you not to waste time playing out old dramas.”

  “What is ‘old’ to timeless beings?” growled Finvara. “We are as we ever were.”

  “Upon that, we can agree,” the earl muttered.

  “In some ways, immortality is a curse,” Caer agreed. “Without birth or death, there can be no true change.”

  “Our hall is host to beings of two minds,” Angus continued. “The Irishmen among you will, of course, desire to preserve their race. You of Faery will not abide a Fomorian takeover of Ireland. Some motives are more complicated.” He looked from Edward to Duncan. “If you cannot strive together, none will get what he wants. You will squabble and fight and accomplish nothing. It is as simple as that.”

  He eyed each of his guests in turn, allowing his words to work on them. A faint smirk curled Queen Isolde’s lips, and her gaze rested briefly on me. Her disdain for our masculine companions was apparent, and I could at least empathize with her impatience at their behavior.

  “As for this business of potatoes,” Angus continued, “the men and women trapped under the bogs of this country fall under your banner, King Finvara, do they not?”

  Finvara gave a short nod. “They do.”

  Edward—or, more likely, Diarmuid—gave a snort of quiet laughter, and I kicked him hard under the table.

  “If the ground has indeed been poisoned, might not their aid be enlisted?” asked our host.

  Finvara, after considering for a moment, gave another nod. “It’s possible. They have communed with the earth for centuries and are sensitive to disturbances.” He lifted his goblet and drained it. I thought I caught a softening in his expression, and he sank deeper into his seat before continuing, “Through the ages, many instruments of murder have been cast into the bog, only to be found the next morning lying on bare patches of ground in plain sight.”

  I understood now what Angus and Finvara were referring to: bog bodies. Several had been discovered by farmers cutting peat, or turf, the fuel used in Irish hearth fires. The bog waters were acidic and prevented the natural process of decay. In essence, the bodies were mummified. But what these two men seemed to be suggesting was that they were not entirely dead.

  “You know how to find these bog men, my lord?” I asked Finvara.

  His blue eyes, bright with the light of immortality, fixed on me. “Aye, lady. But it is you yourself who should speak to them, so they understand what they must look for. I will serve as your escort.”

  The earl stiffened beside me, and I, too, understood this trick—or perhaps it was Cliona who understood. At its heart, it was a bid for the lady’s companionship and attention. But it was also a compromise—or perhaps, in a less charitable light, a kind of bribe. He would help us, but he expected something in return.

  My companionship was an easy price. My ancestress and I had a stake in this game, and both she and Finvara had a connection with the dead. And while a request from the king might carry force, it would certainly lack the passion of my own.

  Movement behind him caught my eye, and I stared at the tapestry as the lines of the figures in the scene softened and disappeared, some colors fading while others intensified. New lines were drawn as the tapestry reorganized itself, and the scene now depicted Finvara and me, galloping on a great white horse across a wasted landscape. Did it foretell the future, or merely reflect the topic of conversation at the table?

  My eyes returned to the king. “Yes,” I replied. “Of course I will accompany you.”

  “No.” It was Diarmuid’s voice that now echoed in the hall.

  I turned to meet his fiery gaze. “My lord,” I insisted, “I must. Do you not see?”

  I pleaded silently with him, and at length he turned to glower across the table at the king. “Then I will go too.”

  “You will not,” interjected Queen Isolde, stern and incredulous. “You have warriors to command, as do I. We have strategy to plan. Have you even called your fighters? Broken the seal?”

  “You do not command me,” growled the Danaan warrior.

  “But I do command the body you inhabit, and he shall not defy me in this.”

  Before Diarmuid could retort, Caer interjected, “Queen Maeve is right, my son. Even as we speak, the minutes slip away from us. We must begin this battle on our own terms and not wait for our enemies to attack. You are two of Faery’s most renowned generals. You must set the course for battle and entrust these other concerns to your allies.”

  “Let us waste no time,” Finvara agreed. The light of triumph was barely, halfheartedly concealed behind Duncan’s clear eyes. “I must rouse my own court to readiness as well.”

  “The Danaan can expect the aid of the fairies?” said Angus.

  “I can speak for most,” replied Finvara. “But some will have allied themselves with Balor. The Sluagh most certainly will stand no friend to us.”

  The Sluagh was said to be a host of the restless dead. And there were other fairies more associated with evil doings than with good—redcaps like Billy, for example, and the púca. Aughisky, the w
ater horse, had a dark reputation, though she appeared to answer to Diarmuid.

  “Sounds like a failure of leadership to me,” Diarmuid observed dryly, and I held my breath.

  “The fairies are fickle,” replied Caer before Finvara could respond to the taunt, “and their alliances ephemeral. King Finvara is to be commended for keeping what peace he could.”

  Finvara nodded in acknowledgment of the praise. “We shall first return to Ireland and speak with Máine Mór, the bog man. Dana knows I would be pleased to live out the rest of eternity without traveling again under the flag of that O’Malley woman, but if we don’t, we’ll lose time in the journey to Connacht.”

  “I may be able to help with that,” I said. “Unless the others have need of him, we can take Billy Millstone. If there is a Gap gate near our destination, he can guide us there.”

  “Billy?” said Finvara, frowning. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  I explained that Billy was the redcap we had intercepted at the Gap gate.

  “The old wretch,” growled the king. “Aye, there is a Gap gate at Knock Ma. The bog man resides an easy distance from there.”

  I knew of Knock Ma, or at least the Ireland version of it. There were important ruins there, said by folklorist William Wilde to be associated with the first major Tuatha De Danaan battle. More to the point, the stronghold of King Finvara was said to have been at Knock Ma.

  “Gather your things, my lady,” said Finvara, rising. “Warm clothing, a weapon if you have one.”

  “Hold a moment,” said Angus, his gaze on me. “What of the banshees, lady? Will they take a side in this conflict?”

  The Danaan chieftain, fair minded and wise though he obviously was, presented an intimidating personage, and I hesitated in giving an answer I knew to be insufficient. But before I could inform him of my uncertainty on this point, I received guidance from my ancestress.

  The banshees will follow their queen. I repeated this answer to Angus, sounding much more convinced of it than I felt.

  Angus nodded, satisfied, and before rising from the table, I glanced from the corner of my eye at the still-smoldering immortal on my right, willing him to keep his peace.