Faerie Fate (21 page)

The Harper’s eyes
glinted with mischievous lights, and he grinned down at the beautiful woman
sitting at his feet. The puckish breeze teased her hair, wrapping a silken
strand of it around his leg. He sighed. He understood now why the mortal wanted
her so much, and why Mac Lir was so determined to keep her. Well, he had his
own score to settle with Mac Lir. “Oh, aye, I know them all and wrote most of
them,” he hinted.

“Then tell me a
tale,” she challenged.

****

Bits and saddles,
swords and pikes jangled in the early dawn light. Horses stamped, blowing steam
into the chilly air. Men spoke to their loved ones in hushed tones, not wanting
their words of love to reach the ears of the MacDermot. Already mounted, he
looked fierce and proud on his prancing chestnut stallion.

Niall pulled Siobhan
into his arms for one last kiss. “I’m glad yee never turned yer back on me,
woman, to walk away,” he whispered into her hair. “Yee know I’d marry yee in
the Church if that was yer choice,” he added.

Siobhan clasped his
face in her hands and laughed. “I do love yee, Niall MacDonagh, and I always
will. It never occurred to me to walk away, husband.” She kissed him soundly,
then pushed him toward his horse. When he had mounted, she leaned against his
leg, her hand caressing his thigh. “Watch him well, Niall, yee and Riordan.
Don’t let anything happen to him. She’ll find her way back, and he must be here
when she does.”

Riordan stared down
at the little maid who’d come to see him off. “Thank you, Alys,” he told her
sincerely. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled up at him, and he longed to kiss
each one. Instead, he leaned down to give her a quick buss. “Patience and
faith,” he whispered. “I pray for an abundance of both.”

Without a word,
Ciaran turned his horse and nudged him with his heels. As he rode through the
gates, the troops lined out behind him. There were no cheers, no fanfare as the
men rode out. Sorrow draped over Ailfenn like a shroud.

****

This time, Becca
knelt on the outside of the standing stones and placed her palms flat against
the smooth stone. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and stared into the
center of the circle. She gulped as the scene unfolded before her.

Men swirled in a
macabre dance of life and death. Swords flashed. Arrows sang through the air to
find their marks. Men cried out in pain. In the midst of it all, Ciaran stood
like one of the standing stones himself. Tall, hard as granite, immovable. His
sword dripped blood, and the pile of bodies around him grew deep. As he faced
two opponents at once, a third crept up behind him. Becca watched in horror as
the third assailant’s sword found its mark, slashing across Ciaran’s back and
sinking deep between his ribs.

Ciaran dispatched
the two before turning to the third. His sword flashed in the bright sun, then
struck the man, severing his head. He stood tall for a moment, and then Ciaran
collapsed, sinking to his knees in slow motion. Riordan and Niall were beside
him in an instant. They dragged him from the field of battle and found a safe
place. Men surrounded the area, prepared to die to protect their
Taoiseac.
An older man appeared with bandages and a wineskin.

Becca blinked.
Ciaran now lay on a pallet in a rough tent, much as she’d seen him after the
battle with the O’Briens. His face was drawn and pale, and sweat glistened on
his forehead. Becca stared at his chest, watched it scarcely rise and fall. She
heard the slow labored beat of his heart. She leapt over the altar to the
center of the stones.

“Onagh,” she called.
Nothing. Becca stamped her foot in frustration. “Onagh,” she demanded. “You
will attend me.”

In a swirl of
iridescent light, Onagh appeared before her. “Who are you, Child of the
Mortals, to command me?” the faerie queen responded imperiously.

“You once said he
could not die without issue,” Becca accused. She waved her hand and the scene
she’d been watching appeared. “Well, he dies.”

Onagh watched for a
long moment. “His wound need not be mortal,” she replied hesitantly. She
refused to meet Becca’s gaze, preferring to watch the scene unfolding before
them.

“He dies, Onagh,”
Becca insisted. “Look in his heart. It is empty. A man cannot live with an
empty heart.”

Onagh sighed. “What
would you have me do?”

“You could have told
me. Instead of whispering in my mind, making me think I was crazy, you could
have bloody well told me what to do. Since you didn’t, you have to fix this.
Return me,” Becca demanded.

“I can’t.”

“Who can?”

Onagh’s eyes filled
with opalescent tears. “No one, Child,” she finally admitted. “Mac Lir will
have his way in this. He is
An Rí
of
Tir Nan Óg,
but I suspect
that even his hands are tied.”

“There must be a
way,” Becca vowed.

The next day, and
the next, Becca searched for the Harper. Abhean had disappeared. She tried
summoning him as she had Onagh, but he would not appear. He’d been the one to
teach her how to use the stones to see into
An Domhan.
He had to know of
a way for her to return. If he didn’t, she’d seduce Manannan Mac Lir himself to
find her way back.

Chapter Seventeen

Becca awoke to gray
skies that threatened rain. The sun always shone in
Tir Nan Óg,
unless
Manannan Mac Lir or one of the faerie was sad. In the distance, she heard the
plaintive trill of the pipes.

“Abhean.” Her breath
sighed from her lungs and her heart wanted to break from the mournful music.

She found him once
again on the boulder below the standing stones. “Tell me,” she said without
preamble. “Tell me how I can return.”

“There is no going
back,” the Harper snarled.

Becca rocked back on
her heels. Abhean’s angry tears had darkened the sky. “Abhean, what has
happened?” She choked back tears. Fear’s icy fingers wrapped around her throat,
and she could barely breathe. Something terrible had happened. She could tell
by the look on Abhean’s face. She prayed it wasn’t Ciaran.

Only then did she
realize that the Harper was dressed like a Highland Piper, replete with
Scottish plaid kilt and the full kit. “Abhean?” she repeated softly.

“I know what is in
your heart,” Abhean growled, stalking toward her. “As I cannot leave this
place, then neither will you.”

He grabbed her hand
and pulled her into a rough embrace. He tried to kiss her.

Turning her head
away from his advance, Becca pleaded with the angry fae. “What have I done,
Abhean? Why do you treat me like this? I don’t understand.”

“No, you wouldn’t.
You
are the Child of the Mortals. A
chosen
one,” he snarled.

Before she could react,
the fae’s arms tightened painfully around her. Her feet left the ground, and
then the air filled with glittering stars. Becca’s stomach sank to her toes, a
feeling similar to riding an express elevator at top speed. The stars blinded
her, and her stomach turned over. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the
dizziness away. In a few moments, she once again felt solid ground beneath her
feet. Hesitant to see where they were, she opened her eyes one at a time. Her
stomach still churned from the wild ride. She and Abhean stood on a rocky crag.
Below them, the dark blue sea lapped against a beach of pristine white sand.

“What do you see?”
Abhean barked.

Becca stared around
her. She’d never gone beyond the standing stones or her bower in the forest.
The ocean, a deep cobalt that reminded her painfully of Ciaran’s eyes, swelled
restless and prancing like a spirited stallion as it rushed toward the shore
below her. The sky was a blue, so brilliant she squinted against its
brightness. No cloud shadowed its expanse. She shrugged, not sure what she was
supposed to be looking for.

His hand grabbed the
back of her neck and forced her to stare out to sea. “Look again, Child,” he
ordered. Gone was the spun sugar and chocolate. His voice grated like the
storm-tossed gravel beneath their feet.

Becca blinked away
tears and saw a wavering outline, like a mirage far out in the ocean. She
blinked again and saw another and another. Abhean’s hand squeezed her neck
causing more tears.

“Ah, you see them
now, the Islands in Time,” he whispered, his voice low and seductive like
melted caramel. “Each island is a lifetime—yours or someone else’s. Mac Lir
thinks he is the only one with the secret to their manipulation. He believes he
is the only one with the farsight.”

Becca shuddered. Abhean’s
deadly cold voice froze her very soul.

Abhean continued.
“He is not the only Timekeeper. There are others who can tinker with the lives
of the mortals.”

“Can you?” Becca
whispered, almost daring to hope. “Can you send me back? Or at least show me the
way?”

Abhean turned shrewd
eyes on her. “First you must grant me a boon,” he said in that spun sugar voice
of his as he turned her in his arms.

Becca eyed him
through narrowed eyes, not trusting the sudden change in his demeanor. “What do
you ask of me?” She swallowed, her throat working to clear the fear lodged
there.

Abhean smiled, but
it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Lay with me, Child of the Mortals. Let my
spear fill you up as no mortal man’s ever could.”

Becca stepped back,
her anger and distaste plain for the faerie to read.

“Am I not fair to
look upon?” he beseeched. He parted his robe to reveal his cock. “Am I not
ready and willing to give you such pleasure as you have never known, nor will
ever again?”

Becca stared at him
with the same fascination as a mouse cornered by a snake. He was gorgeous in a
dark, cold way, but he held no allure for her. “You wish to take my
maidenhead?” she countered quietly.

Abhean’s smile
broadened. “
’
Tis better for me to do so than that mortal you claim to
love.”

He snatched her hand
and guided it to his cock, forcing her to stroke and cup him. He purred at her
touch. “I will give you much more than that mortal you pine for. And I will
have what Mac Lir wants.”

“Mac Lir?” Becca
remained suspicious.

“Aye, Mac Lir would
have you for his own, Child. He would bind you to him and this place, and then
he would leave you with no memory of what went before.”

Becca shuddered
again, fear clutching at her belly. Abhean was playing some wretched game with
Mac Lir, and she wanted no part it. She didn’t doubt Mac Lir wanted her. She
often caught him watching her from a distance, and then she realized the faerie
stroked himself as he observed her. She felt dirty each time it happened. From
what she’d gathered, fae men were not used to rejection by mortal women. Sooner
or later, Mac Lir or Abhean would take her, and there would be little she could
do to prevent it.

Becca got angry. She
was not some prize in a sick game between immortal rivals. She squared her
shoulders. “If this is the boon you ask, then I will find my way without you.”

“But you declared
you would seduce Mac Lir himself to gain the secret,” he purred, sure he had
the trump card. “I have the secret, and I am infinitely more inclined to make
love to you. You would enjoy the experience with me, Child. Mac Lir would take
you only to make you forget. You would derive no pleasure from his touch.”

“I desire the touch
of no man but Ciaran.” Becca turned away from the faerie.

He snagged her hand,
jerked her back, and forced her to look at him. Her eyes glistened with silvery
tears. The hard-hearted Harper of the
Tuatha dé Danaan
felt his heart
melt at their sight.

“Do you love him
that much, cailín?” he whispered in an awed voice.

“He is my heart and
my soul, Abhean,” she cried. “I would give up a hundred lifetimes, nay a
thousand, to live just one life and grow old with him.”

The faerie harper
stared at her for a long moment, digesting what she’d just said.
Ah, to love
that deeply.
His heart felt like it was surrounded by a block of ice. There
was one he had once loved nearly that much—one Manannan Mac Lir had refused to
help.

He bent his head and
captured Becca’s lips gently with his mouth and murmured against hers,

“At
Albun Eiler
and
Alban Elued
, the spring and autumnal equinoxes, when light and dark,
love and hate, good and evil are equal, the veil between this world and the
next thins.”

Becca grew still
with hope growing in her heart.

“An unwavering soul,
one with unfinished business and a burning desire, might find its way back to
An
Domhan,”
Abhean told her softly. “You must find your own way, cailín, for
none here can help.”

Becca wiped the
tears from her eyes with a determined hand. She was not surprised to discover
Abhean gone when she could see again. “All I have to do is figure out how to
get through the veil.”

“Seek within your
heart, Child. Seek with your heart to find what is missing,”
a mystical voice as sweet as spun sugar sang in
her head.

****

Conchobhar once
again stood in the war camp of Clann MacDermot to inquire about the Black Wolf
of the MacDermots’ health. His heart sank as Niall and Riordan exchanged
worried looks. The king admired Ciaran for his prowess on the field of battle,
but the MacDermot meant much more than that to Conchobhar. Ciaran was an
honorable man, and there weren’t many of those in the world. He glanced at the
tent where Ciaran lay injured. Then he surveyed the faces of the men as they
sat in small groups around their fires. The smell of death hung like a pall
over the camp. Ciaran’s men knew, just as the king knew, but he still had to
ask, hoping someone would give him the answer he wanted to hear, not the one he
knew to be true.

“The fight has gone
out of him,” Niall replied to the king’s question. “I don’t think he will
survive this time.”

The king turned to
Riordan. “You are closest kin,” he told the younger man. “The MacDermot men
look to you as they did Ciaran. Will you take his place as
An Taoiseac
?”

“Nay,” Riordan spat.
“Not while he draws breath into his body.”

Conchobhar shrugged.
This fierce loyalty was what set the MacDermots apart from all others. “
Onóir
bheith suáilce,”
the king muttered,
h
onor with virtue.
“Take him
home,” Conchobhar added aloud. “Let him die in his own place, then.”

The journey home was
slow and filled with grief. No man believed Ciaran would survive the trip. Not
one man in the troop thought the
Taoiseac
would ever see Ailfenn again.
Ciaran’s body, however, proved stouter than his heart. He survived the journey.

Riordan and Niall
laid him in the bed he’d once shared with Becca. Siobhan fussed over him even
as he slept, unmoving, unfeeling, uncaring, willing his heart to quit beating
so he could join his true love in the ever after.

A sennight passed,
and
Albun Elued,
the autumnal
equinox,
came, yet Ciaran lay still as death. Siobhan attended to his
wounds, and Riordan attended to his clann. Niall just paced the hallway
outside, willing his
Taoiseac
to live.

Six months ago,
Becca had appeared on the night of Albun Eiler. Niall thought back to his
feelings that night, his fear that something terrible would come to pass. His
premonition had come true, and he wished he could change things, make them
right somehow. Niall loved the fallen warrior with his entire heart and soul.
Loved him maybe even more than he loved Siobhan. Certainly loved him enough to
die for him.

Siobhan softly
closed the door to Ciaran’s room and watched her husband’s broad back pace away
from her. There was nothing she could do to change the outcome. She knew of no
spell, no prayer, no sacrifice that could be made. Even Odhran had all but
blinded himself studying the old manuscripts, looking for some way to bring
Becca back into this world.

Niall turned to find
his wife watching him. The look on her face broke his heart. “Come, love,” he
whispered. She fell into his arms, and he kissed her deeply, blessing again the
gods for bringing her into his life.

****

Becca stared into
the stones, the tears on her cheeks streamed unheeded. Ciaran’s once glorious
hair lay in a ratted nest around his head. Lines etched his face, ones that
hadn’t been there before. His lips were drawn, and his skin pale. He wore the
mark of death. Becca longed to lay her palm on his beloved cheek and kiss him
awake. “You must live, Ciaran,” she whispered, reaching through the stones. “You
must live for me and ours. You must love me enough so I can find my way back to
you.”

Ciaran opened his
eyes. Becca’s beloved face swam in front of him. He reached out to touch her,
and his finger captured a silvery tear as it caressed her cheek.

“How is this
possible?” His voice, rough from little usage, cracked.
To be so close and
yet so far from her,
his heart cried.

“Love, Ciaran,” her
sweet voice whispered again to his heart as butterfly wings fluttered against
his cheek. “Love lives forever, and through it, all things are possible. Hear
my words, and know your heart resides in mine for all time. Keep my heart in
yours. As long as it is there, our love cannot die. Your love for me will light
my way back to you. I
will
come back to you,” she promised.

“Becca.” Her name
tore from his soul, a prayer and an oath.

Love me, Ciaran.

“I do,” he promised
the darkness.

Dawn wasn’t far off
when Siobhan slipped out of Niall’s embrace. She’d heard a noise. She cocked
her head to listen, but the entire castle was shrouded in silence. She
shivered. The castle was never completely silent. Suddenly fearful, she slid
out of bed, wrapping Niall’s mantle around her naked body. She had to check on
Ciaran, afraid he’d finally gotten his wish—afraid death had come to claim him.
When she got to his room, she found his face wet with tears, and his heart
beating stronger than it had in days.