by Anthea Sharp
For a few heartbeats, Claire wondered if she should trust him, but after a while she realized she really had no choice. She cast a quick glance at Onyx, still perched above her. The bird blinked at her, but otherwise, expressed no alarm. Taking a deep breath and hoping she was making the right decision, she began her descent.
When both feet were on solid earth, Claire peered up at her rescuer. He was lean, but very tall, and she would bet Aunt Ethne’s prize ram he was stronger than any of the lads in the village.
“If you would follow me,” he said.
“Alright. Just let me call Onyx down.”
Once Claire managed to coax the bird onto her shoulder, she turned and headed back toward the stranger. He had fetched his horse, and the eagle had returned to his leather-clad arm. Claire came to a halt, staring at the magnificent bird.
“She’s beautiful,” she said, gesturing toward the eagle when the man turned around.
His hood was back in place, the upper half of his face once more hidden in shadow.
“He thanks you for your compliment,” the man replied, his tone dry.
“Oh.”
The bird fluffed up his feathers and gave a great shake, then peered at Claire with citrine eyes. She smiled. Onyx clicked his beak in slight fear and tucked himself even closer to her neck.
“It’s alright. He won’t hurt you,” she crooned, stroking the crow’s glossy feathers.
“We will walk to the spring. It’s not far,” the stranger murmured.
They set out heading west, deeper into the forest. Claire didn’t have to work hard to keep up. Despite his longer legs, the stranger did not rush. Beside them, the horse followed along obediently, like a large dog.
Claire cleared her throat. “My name is Claire, by the way.”
The man said nothing for a while, the crunch of their boots over autumn leaves the only sound greeting their ears.
“Conall,” he eventually murmured.
Claire almost missed it.
“Conall?”
He nodded. “And the eagle’s name is Forneart, and the horse is Stoirm.”
“Pleased to meet you all,” Claire piped, smiling a little. Then she added, gesturing toward the crow, “This is Onyx.”
Her cheer did nothing to lighten the gloomy mood, and the small party descended once again into silence. Conall led her down the trail for several minutes, then abruptly turned to follow another path she never would have found on her own. As they trekked deeper into the forest, Claire gazed around in wide-eyed wonder. Strange creatures, animals she’d read about in her fae-tales book, blinked at her with glowing eyes or fluttered away on metallic wings. Twigrins, small creatures made entirely of what resembled tiny branches, moved through the boughs and shrubbery, trying desperately to hide from the two Faelorehn and company.
They gradually turned in a more northerly direction. The underbrush grew thick, softened on occasion by banks of ferns gone golden brown for the autumn. Above, the gray sky promised a cold night, and Claire wondered if she’d have to sleep in a tree again.
Finally, after what felt like hours, they came upon a large, sloping meadow. The grass had gone brown, and most of the trees were bare of leaves, except for the occasional silvery fir or spruce.
“There,” Conall said, jerking his head to the right. “The source of your stream.”
Claire rushed forward, heading toward a pile of boulders. A large pool had gathered before a partially frozen waterfall. The stream had slowed before during this time of year, but it had never stopped flowing. As Claire moved closer, however, she noticed the cause for the blockage. An ancient oak, probably centuries old, had fallen, its thick branches creating a natural dam for debris to gather and hold back the water.
Her heart melted in relief. This was something she could fix.
“I just need to clear some of the branches away, and perhaps the flow of water will do the rest,” she said aloud.
Then, turning to Conall, she asked, “Do you have an axe I might borrow?”
He lifted one dark brow.
Claire smiled brightly and held her hands out before her. “I may look small, but I’m rather strong, and anything I can’t handle I call upon my glamour to help.”
Claire pulled on that well of magic nestled beside her heart and allowed some of it to flow to her fingertips so that its color showed. Blue-green light flickered in her palm before she closed her fingers over it, snuffing it out.
“Very well,” Conall said. “Follow me.”
She trailed after him, leaving the spring behind, and walked another half mile before coming to a rocky outcropping nestled atop a small hill. Beech, ash, oak, and birch dotted the hilltop, providing plenty of cover. Conall led the horse around the side of the hill and lifted his arm to send Forneart into a nearby tree.
Claire sat down on a large stone, eyeing a well-worn path that snaked between the other boulders as it climbed the slope. Conall returned shortly and inclined his head toward the hilltop.
“I keep the axe inside with my other tools and weapons,” he said, his voice still devoid of any emotion.
Claire scrunched up her face and gave him a curious look.
“This is where I live,” he clarified, nodding his head up the trail where Claire noticed the dark mouth of a cave, mostly hidden by the landscape.
“Oh,” was all Claire said as he took the path upward.
When Conall returned, he held out his hand, his fingers wrapped around the handle of an axe. Another axe hung loosely at his side. Claire took the one he offered without a word.
“I’ll help you with this task,” he said.
“Thank you,” she breathed as she clutched the axe close. “I appreciate it.”
He nodded once and gestured for them to make their way back to the glade. Soon, both of them were chopping away at branches and pulling limbs free. At one point, a sharp splinter of wood pricked Claire’s hand and remained stubbornly in place.
“Here,” Conall said, pulling her small hand gently into his.
Claire held her breath, her heart thudding sharply against her ribs.
Long, agile fingers, aided by a bit of glamour, carefully removed the splinter. During the whole ordeal, Conall murmured what Claire guessed were soothing words under his breath. To her surprise, she found herself relaxing as he dealt with the offending sliver of wood. She imagined him bent over injured forest animals, using his calming voice and gentle touch to heal their hurts. Her heart melted a little at the thought. Most of the young men she knew were more concerned with proving their strengths, not their kindheartedness. If they even possessed such compassion in the first place.
The splinter removed, the two of them got back to work. An hour into their task, Conall and Claire had cut away enough debris for the water to start flowing again.
Claire dropped to the ground, exhausted but pleased. Conall came to stand over her.
“I hope that fixes the problem,” she sighed. “It would be just my luck to find five more felled trees blocking the stream on my way back.”
She smiled and tilted her head to glance at Conall, only to catch sight of something extraordinary growing in the canopy above.
“Gods and goddesses of Eile,” she breathed, using the axe as a crutch to slowly gain her feet.
There, perched in the topmost boughs of a gnarled oak, its leaves and branches draping like some gilded chandelier, was a clump of golden mistletoe. Ordinary mistletoe was magical enough on its own, providing extra protection against dark magic and ill-mannered spirits and beings. But golden mistletoe could cure any ailment. And most certainly would chase away Aunt Ethne’s disease for good, not just ease her pain the way the glamour-infused water did.
She turned blinking eyes onto Conall and immediately felt cold. He was watching her closely, his muscles tight again as if some internal demon fought against his will to burst free of his skin.
“The mistletoe,” Claire breathed, turning back to gaze upon the plant again.
/> A bit of sunlight had worked its way through the clouds, making the golden leaves glitter and the white, pearlescent berries gleam. Without thinking, she took a small step forward, only to hiss as a strong hand grasped her upper arm in an unyielding hold.
Claire turned dazed gray eyes upon the face of the handsome woodsman.
“It is sacred. The spirits watch over it. None can touch it,” he bit out, his voice rough, pained almost.
“It would cure my aunt,” Claire responded in a small voice.
“It cannot be touched,” Conall repeated, his tone unchanged.
Claire bit the inside of her cheek and dropped her eyes. Conall loosened his fingers on her arm.
“I understand,” she managed. And she did. There were some things in their world that could not be had, and should not be had, by anyone. “There is abundant magic here, and that is why the water heals and why the golden mistletoe thrives. We cleared the fallen tree, so the water should flow again. It will be enough for my aunt.”
It wouldn’t be the same as an undiluted dose of the golden mistletoe, but it would make things the way they had been before.
Conall drew in a deep breath and lifted his eyes toward the sky. “The hour grows late, and darkness will fall soon. You will have to stay in my cave tonight.”
Claire started. “Wh-What? I can’t stay the night with a stranger.”
Conall’s golden eyes turned feral when he gazed back at her. An alpha wolf standing his ground.
“You will be safe and warm, and if it is my presence that makes you balk, you have little to fear. I must patrol the woods this night, so I will be gone until dawn.”
He brushed past her, his stride swift and strong. Feeling a bit shaken, Claire slowly followed after him. What choice did she have? If she could trust him not to harm her, then he was right. She would be safe and warm in the cave.
“Ridiculous to fear a Faelorehn man over any renegade faelah or Cumorrig,” she muttered to herself, strengthening her resolve as she picked up her pace to catch up to him. The golden mistletoe and the enchanted glen was all but forgotten as she tried to bolster her nerves.
* * *
Conall left after dinner, a rather delightful venison and root vegetable stew, telling Claire she could have the bed.
“I will not return in the night to take advantage of you, but you are welcome to lock the door if you wish.”
She had gone white, then bright red with embarrassment and mostly anger as he slipped through the cave entrance on silent feet. If she didn’t know any better, she would guess his feelings had been hurt by her reluctance to stay in his home. Whatever it was, something was definitely bothering him. Ever since mentioning the golden mistletoe, he had grown more brittle, like a cranky bear waking from hibernation.
The cold seeping through the cave entrance had her seeking the bedroom before full dark. Inside, a fire crackled warmly in an earthen hearth, and the blankets were thick and warm. Trying not to think about Conall’s sudden turn in mood, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, for she would be gone in the morning.
* * *
Claire woke feeling warm and comfortable, wondering if Aunt Ethne was up yet. When she suddenly remembered the events of the past two days, she shot upright in bed and scrambled to gather her cloak and slip on her shoes.
Once fully dressed, she stepped into the main room to find Conall sitting quietly at a rickety table beside another fireplace. A cheerful blaze was burning, and he sipped at steaming liquid in a clunky mug.
“Tea before you go?” he asked, his voice no longer holding that sharp edge from the evening before, but still frosty nonetheless.
Feeling a bit ashamed of her defensive behavior the night before, Claire sighed and removed her cloak, folding it on top of the pack she had tucked away in the corner of the cave the night before.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, taking a seat across from Conall.
Silence settled between them, only the whispering flicker of flames in the fireplace and Onyx’s occasional ruffle of feathers from the corner breaking the quiet.
“So,” she finally said, clearing her throat. “Do you receive many visitors in this part of the world?”
A ridiculous question, but Claire couldn’t stand the quiet any longer.
Conall remained still for a heartbeat, his golden brown eyes focused on the table and not her. Finally, he said, “A handful of brave merchants and explorers have crossed my path these past fifty years, but no women.”
Claire arched a brow at that, her fingers tightening around her mug of hot tea.
“Did these merchants and travelers not have wives or daughters, then?”
Conall shook his head and sipped his tea. “They did not. They were loners, like me. Men who had no one to worry after them. No one to care for on the outside but themselves.”
A prickle of sadness touched Claire’s heart then. Carefully, she placed her cup on the rough-hewn table and simply watched the stranger in front of her. His somewhat unkempt hair fell into his face, making his expression difficult to read. No one should have to be alone for so long.
“Why are you here, Conall? Why live apart from society? Why not leave?”
He chuckled softly, then took a gulp of his tea.
When he looked up at her, his eyes had softened but his expression remained hard.
“You must leave here, Claire. Before the terrible creatures of the wood get wind of your presence. It is no place for those pure of heart. Your kind spirit does not belong in this accursed forest.”
He stood abruptly and headed for the cave’s entrance. Before disappearing into the cold morning, he cast over his shoulder, “I won’t be back before you go. Goodbye, Claire.”
And then he was gone.
“Goodbye, Conall,” she replied softly, that ache in her heart pricking her once again.
* * *
Claire and Onyx made it back to her farm without incident, only to find a beaming Ethne waiting for them on the porch.
“You did it, my child! Look!” She pointed toward the pool, now half-full. “The healing water has returned.”
Claire gave her a wan smile, and over dinner that night, she recited her tale. When she began to unpack her travel bag, however, a small envelope fell out.
“What’s this?” Ethne asked, indicating the parcel.
Confused, Claire picked it up and unfolded the paper corners, only to gasp in shock at what she found inside. A clutch of several perfect, pearlescent berries attached to a clump of leaves dusted in gold lay before her.
“Golden mistletoe,” she breathed, brow furrowed in confusion. “Oh, gods. Conall put it in here.”
She glanced up at her aunt, eyes wide. “But he told me it was sacred! That it couldn’t be touched. I wanted to gather some for you, to cure your ailment.”
Ethne’s brows rose in an expression Claire couldn’t read.
“I don’t understand it, Aunt,” she proclaimed. “He was so aloof while he helped me, and so adamant that the mistletoe not leave the glade. Why would he do this?”
Ethne stood and placed her hands on Claire’s shoulders. “Sometimes, my dear niece, we meet people in our lives who manage to surprise us. Perhaps this Conall, for whatever reason, wanted you to form a certain opinion of him. It is up to you whether or not to believe it.”
Claire smiled and stood suddenly, kissing her aunt on the cheek.
“I know what to do,” she said. “But I’ll need a much larger traveling pack and a good deal of our dyed yarn.”
Ethne laughed, her joy suffusing the cottage as she helped Claire pack for another journey into Dorcha Forest.
* * *
Claire stood at the entrance to Conall’s cavern home, her heart in her throat. It had taken her all day to reach it, but she had no trouble finding it. Now, as she stood staring into the darkness, she wondered if she still had any courage left. Pushing away her fear, she called out to him before
she lost her nerve. He didn’t answer and the cave remained dark. Heart heavy with disappointment, she turned around to head back home, only to find Conall standing a few feet away, his eyes wide and his face paler than usual.
Claire didn’t give her heart a chance to balk.
“Why did you give me the mistletoe, Conall?” she demanded.
His shoulders fell, and he muttered, “I didn’t think to ever see you again.”
“Answer my question,” Claire insisted.
His eyes shot back to hers, hard but not unkind.
“Because I was a selfish, cruel person before the spirits of Eile cursed me to act as guardian of this forest. And because I wanted to redeem myself from the terrible life I’d led, even if it might be too late for me. And you were like a spark of brilliant color against a world gone gray.”
That last part was barely a breath of air.
Claire stood aside, waiting for Conall to enter his home. When he did, she followed him, and they both sat down at that old rickety table. She dropped the large bag she’d been carrying with her upon the tabletop. Several skeins of colorful yarn spilled out, and Conall eyed it with surprise.
Sensing the question he had not yet voiced, Claire said, “Tell me why you’re here, then I’ll explain the yarn.”
Conall sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his tangled hair.
“I used to hunt the animals of this wood to prove my strength and prowess. I made them into trophies, wearing their skins and hanging their heads on my wall while leaving their carcasses to rot. I was cruel to those weaker than me in my village. And so Eile’s spirits placed a geis on me, one hundred years of service, before I would be free again. I was charged to protect what I had once so callously destroyed. I fought the curse at first, but the magic was too strong, and I could not leave Dorcha. Anger overtook me for many years, then I began to appreciate the little things. The visitors, hearts as cold as mine, brought some light to my life, despite their unfriendliness. The animals, the turning of the seasons. I learned to see the worth in all of them. This alone kept me from falling entirely into despair. Cernunnos even took pity upon me and gifted me with a spirit guide. I was content for many years after that; my sentence was almost up. But then you arrived,” he whispered, his eyes finally meeting Claire’s. They had gone a deep, deep brown, and their intensity stole her breath.