Soon, I’ll discover where he has imprisoned my mother and together we will flee to Myr.
“Niver be so foolish to think he’ll not follow ye with his legions of demons and magics. Ye’ll nade a clan of warriors at yer back the likes of yer fair-faced fool on his great beastie.”
That one has seen battle enough, he is already missing a hand.
“No hand? Och, he who has no hand will soon have no head.”
She glared at him. Do not speak so.
“Indade, I’ll shpeak as I plase. Bekase of ye, he’ll lose his head. Yer a wicked, evil gurrul.”
She lowered her eyes and turned away. We are all evil at Rath Morna.
Chapter 2
Torches blazed bright and golden goblets brimmed with crimson wine. Servants carried tankards and trays of choice delicacies, garnished roasted game to overladen feast tables. Richly dressed minstrels played leaping melodies for the dancing knights and bejeweled ladies of Sheelin’s court.
There was no one as hungry as Bron mac Llyr. While beckoning to each and every servant who passed, he filled his plate with baked quail and steamed fish, cheese and bread, honeyed berries and plump cream pastries. Not even in the high king’s court had he experienced such splendor.
A thought niggled in his mind and caused him to pause midchew. Aye, there was a sense of excess and decadence within the walls of Rath Morna. Though wellborn, he’d been raised to live simply, that others might simply live. In his travels he’d waylaid in high courts and lowly hovels, feasting with king and supping with cottager, but never had he witnessed such a flaunting extravagance.
As if reading his mind, Sheelin asked in a prideful voice from his high seat, “Tell me, Bron mac Llyr, have you ever seen the likes of this in your travels?”
Bron turned to the black-eyed druid and answered truthfully, “I have not.”
In that moment a drunken Fir Darrig jumped upon the table and leered into Bron’s face. His wizened body was incongruous with his fancy attire. Whiskery rat ears pointed out from beneath his tall hat and a hairy rat tail curled from beneath his red velvet coat. In truth, his grotesque appearance was an oddity amidst the elegant court. He snatched a meaty bone from a platter and retreated to sit on the arm of Sheelin’s great throne.
Sheelin’s lip curled in a sneer. He gave the Fir Darrig a hard slap. It tumbled to the floor and scrambled under the banquet table with his bone. Bron knew that Fir Darrigs delighted in treachery of a rather gruesome nature. He fought the impulse to look under the table to see what the creature was about.
“What brings you to the inner realms? Your crest marks you as a sea clansman,” Sheelin queried forthrightly.
“I am seeking someone,” began Bron honestly, lifting his gaze from beneath the table.
“And who do you seek?”
“As you see I have but one hand.”
“Yes…”
“I am seeking a healer, the swan sister Ketha. I believe she is the sole healer in Banba who might restore my hand.” From under the table came a shrill cackle.
Sheelin’s complacency shifted into affront. The laughter and talk of those surrounding them ceased and a tense silence held the air. All eyes watched Sheelin. His dark eyes narrowed. Bron felt the mire of that darkness like a cloud hanging in the hall.
“I know no one by that name,” Sheelin announced too loudly.
Along the benches Bron saw many exchange uneasy glances and he suspected here at Rath Morna much was hidden. If Sheelin did not know of Ketha, others did.
“If missing a hand is all that keeps you from enjoying yourself, observe…”
His fingers fanned the air over Bron’s arm. Suddenly before his very eyes, Bron’s hand was restored.
After the first shock of pleasure, he lifted his arm and exercised his fingers with a tentative skepticism. The appearance of a whole hand was before him. Yet, he felt no sense of touch or strength in his fingers. He looked back at Sheelin.
“This swan witch is not the only one who might heal your hand,” said Sheelin, arrogance strolling over his features. “Now enjoy yourself. Eat, be merry.” He stood and waved his arms through the air and the hall fairly dazzled with abundance and luxury.
Suspicion whirling in his mind, Bron closed his eyes and whispered beneath his breath, “If this be illusion, veil fall.”
He blinked, opened his eyes, and for a brief second he saw the court of Rath Morna for what it was. The delicacies on his plate were not rare sweetmeats but maggots and slugs. The silken tapestries draping the walls were ragged shreds and the bouquets of flowers bedecking the hall, dried weeds. The angelic-faced servants were wretched beasts enslaved by sorcery and beneath all the sweet fragrances the odor of swamp stench stung his nose. The dancers who swayed and shimmied before him still smiled, but with the visages of blood-sucking kelpies.
Lastly, he looked at his hand and saw it too was an illusion. He was not immune to the disappointment and felt resentment toward Sheelin for his deception. He realized he sat within an Unseelie Court of weird and conjured monstrosities.
There was great power at Rath Morna and his glimpse beneath the illusion was brief. When he blinked again, the illusion returned more vividly than before.
In front of him, what seconds ago had been rabbit dung and rotted fruit, now became plump pears and sugared grapes overflowing a silver platter. With his hand, he reached and attempted to clutch a goblet. His fingers passed through the stem. He swallowed with distaste. With his functional hand he pushed aside his plate, his appetite wholly diminished.
“I see my powers have left you at a loss for words, Bron mac Llyr,” said Sheelin with expectancy.
Bron near laughed aloud, but he schooled his features with reserve.
“You need not thank me,” continued Sheelin. “’Tis a common enough feat. Now eat your fill!” he commanded, lounging back in his high seat. He began to laugh heartily. “There is more where this came from.”
“Indeed, I believe you.” Bron frowned, his emerald eyes smoldering with the knowing of Sheelin’s ruse. He himself was no stranger to such sorcery being the son of the sorcerer sea king, Manannan mac Llyr, who held the power of invisibility and seeing through the illusion of others who were.
However, Bron had no inclination for the sorcerer’s avocation and resented its misuse. Dung dressed in illusion and dipped in honey was still dung no matter how grandiose the gala.
Sheelin leaned toward him. “If whatever you want is not here, merely ask and I will personally see to it.”
Bron tipped his head politely and spoke, “My thanks, your graciousness. Your table is beyond belief, but I have feasted enough. My stomach swells and my appetite cowers in the face of another bite.” He reached for a quill toothpick and waved off an approaching servant.
“No matter.” Sheelin smiled as he pushed away from the table and came to his feet. “Your dessert comes.”
At that moment a maiden stepped into the hall and Bron turned his gaze to her. She was lily fair, with masses of red-gold hair, her figure truly lovely with seraphic breasts and round hips. Slender and fine, she moved flowingly like the sea. Was she a sorceress? Like an exotic wildcat’s, her wide eyes mesmerized him. He stared, recognizing her to be the woman who had given him the warning not to enter Rath Morna.
“Eithne, you are late!” Sheelin chastened sharply. “Come sit! Sit beside your suitor.”
Gowned in clouds of dragonfly silks, she fairly floated through the hall and dipped an indifferent curtsy before her glaring father, taking the seat opposite from where he’d directed.
She fully faced Bron mac Llyr. Before he’d not seen her in good light. He saw that her eyes were an intricate mosaic of swirling color. For a split second she leveled the full magnificent potency of them upon him. Then, as he sat there feeling as if he’d just been given divine audience, she shuttered her eyes and looked through him as if he were a pillar holding up the hall.
Again, he tried to catch her eye. She would not have it. Her
rowan lips were tomb tight and her brow arched to haughtiness.
She was a beauty to be sure, though from experience Bron had learned the greater the beauty, the greater the artifice. He toyed with what she might really look like beneath her father’s finely crafted illusion. Mayhap she was a merrow hag or grizzly Grendel. He saw himself lying in her hairy arms, her single long nailed claw stroking his perspiring forehead.
Now the wiser, he raised his false hand to cover the emerging mirth which curved his lips. For the moment he had no inclination to spoil the illusion and chose to rub along with the night’s sorcery. He had no fear of it. Conjured monsters were the playmates of his youth, each and every had been a loving gift from his father to school away his fears, test his strength, and awaken his compassion. Yet, he’d never gone so far as to bed one.
“Might I have the attention of one and all.” Sheelin clapped. The minstrels paused midsong and the hall settled with an air of anticipation.
Bron’s eyes remained on Eithne while hers swirled with glazed detachment. Though he’d been studying her a goodly time, he was not sure of their color. The dark and lights of her pupils shifted like opal rainbows.
“’Tis the time to acquaint my fair Eithne with her suitor, Bron mac Llyr. From the depths of my heart I hope she will accept him with good grace and geniality.” He turned to Bron and said with apology, “Never was a maid so winsome, yet unwilling as my Eithne. Your task is to make her winsome as well as willing.”
An odd, vulgar chuckle rippled through the hall.
“You’ve seven days and seven nights to answer in truth a question Eithne will ask, and ask a question she can in truth answer,” Sheelin continued on. “By the end of seven days, Bron mac Llyr, you will have all or nothing. I call a toast for a favorable outcome.” He raised a golden goblet high. “All hail! Long life to Bron mac Llyr!”
“Long life,” echoed those in the hall.
Bron came to his feet and took his cup in hand. “All hail!” he summoned. He bowed gallantly to Eithne and said, “My cup I lift to a lady fair, beautiful and comely. My voice I raise in selfish plea, a flowing tongue to Lady Eithne!”
Laughter shook the air but none spilled across the lips of Eithne. Bron saw her demeanor was as taut as a hunter’s bow and her gaze a thousand arrows aimed solely at him. Well, he thought bemused, I have at least caught her attention once more.
As all others drank the toast, she suddenly took a goblet in her delicate hand. She lifted it, not to her lips, but poured its contents in a spreading pool on the table before Bron. Her insult was clear…her intent not to speak even clearer.
This intrigued him for he had not thought an illusion could mimic such independent behavior, unless perhaps she was no dressed up ghoul.
“Eithne!” came a black warning from Sheelin. She did not turn eye or head to him. Bron saw the heavy flush of temper cross his face as he muttered, “You hag spawn, do not pretend you do not hear me! All know you hear as well as speak.” Then he hissed under his breath. “’Tis your stubborn neck I should set on the chopping block.”
With ill ease, Bron witnessed not a father’s impatient reprimand, but a thrust of pure malevolence. Aye, he’d suspected she could speak, but why at the cost of so many lives did she choose not to? The mystery of Rath Morna deepened.
He quickly set aside his cup and rose to his feet, inserting himself between her and her father. Bowing, he requested, “My lady, Eithne, will you dance with me?”
Ignoring him, she kept her eyes lowered.
“Eithne,” came the sharp spearing nudge of Sheelin’s voice. “You will dance with him.”
Surprisingly, she nodded an acceptance as if she could no longer tolerate her father’s proximity. Lifting her chimera of skirts she stood and Bron followed her lead to the dancers’ circle.
Since the battle of Carrowmore he had shunned women. A maimed warrior did not pay court to wellborn ladies. Now, in the illusion he could. He presented his sword hand. Within his heart he wished it were not an illusion and she as fair as she appeared. With a pause of hesitation, her own slim fingers reached for the illusion.
Her fingers clasped thin air.
In the moment of awkwardness, her eyes softened from the angry hues of marsh fire to a sympathetic magenta. The last thing he wanted was her sympathy. Yet, he’d been the fool who for a short moment had unwittingly believed the illusion. No, he amended, he’d not believed it…he’d wanted to believe it. There was a difference.
He offered his other hand instead. She took his palm. He felt her warmth and substance. But was that real, he wondered? Still, in this moment he’d no desire to expose the illusion.
Adroitly, his mind and muscles began to move with the rhythms of the courting dance. In the slow grace of the steps his eyes followed her bows, her crossings and curtsies. When she lifted her skirts for toe pointings he was relieved to spy a slim, well-turned ankle instead of a kelpie’s hairy hoof. He could accept the illusion of his hand, but as he followed her willowy languor and lightness of movement he did not want to believe that her grace, beauty, and animation were illusions as well.
Illusion or no, she aroused him.
As Eithne danced with Bron mac Llyr, she wondered what had transpired before she came into the hall. She assumed her father was at his tricks. She despised him for thinking that it would make any difference to her whether the suitor had one hand or two.
Nevertheless, the sounds of pipe, harp, and drum, the tap of heels, the clap of hands, and the bold grace of Bron mac Llyr filled her flagging heart with life. He was taller than she, with a warrior’s broad-shouldered build. His hard thighs were clearly outlined by his snug-fitting leggings and his soft leather boots hugged his firm muscled calves. His fine hewn face belied his large frame. Within features encircled by waist length raven hair, she saw a poet and cavalier.
His imperious emerald eyes caught her at her perusal and she averted her gaze aware of the fierce heat flushing her cheeks. She dutifully clasped his whole hand, a cursory touch that confirmed its form, that traced its hard, callused skin. She wondered, could this hand be trusted? Would this man be different from all the others?
The dance which had begun slowly, ceremoniously, now shifted. The drum beat out a strange, throbbing, deepening cadence which became intoxicating. Her worries gave way to the power of Mac Llyr’s movements, his scent, his touching. Handed by and being handed to him bred a familiarity. He locked his arms around hers and whisked her around the floor as they moved through the sets and spirals to the center kissing ring. She easily followed his step which was low gliding and well marked. Within the kissing ring a couple teased and entreated and pursued each other by turns.
The music stopped. The couple’s lips met.
Eithne stole an apprehensive glance at Mac Llyr. His gaze met hers with a virile glow which shocked through her. Part of her wanted to run from the circle, the other part which was ruled by the night’s full moon remained rooted with swimming expectation.
Amidst smothered giggles, the other couple attempted to remain absolutely motionless. Jests poured forth from the revelers around the hall. Reviving the moment, the minstrels struck up again and the dancers leaped into full life. The pair whirled off, leaving the ring.
Eithne was not so adept to sidestep the center ring with Mac Llyr’s strong hand about her small waist. Every turn his smile gleamed over white teeth and his bold gaze provoked her sense of vulnerability. Her heart paced, her eyes dipped to the floor, and her mouth felt as dry as desert sand.
The minstrels ceased their playing.
With a gallant step Bron drew near.
Eithne knew she would allow him to kiss her because the estrus fever was upon her. Time after time she had resisted all the others. Wantonly, her look summoned him full force. He would see her wanting in her eyes…on the night of full moon she could not disguise it.
In the tense silence of the hall, motionless, she watched his well-set mouth lower to hers. His penetrating gaze smolder
ed and his lips firmed with self-assurance. Her fingertips, all nerves, lightly balanced against his hard chest. Her breath caught like the lapse of wave as she plunged into the sensation of his kiss. Though his mouth was warm, a shiver rippled through her nearly unlatching her knees. For support, her palms braced against his muscled chest. Everything receded, the laughter, the sporting jests, the sinister court…
For Eithne, nothing existed but the quenching heat of his lips.
Countless full moons she’d walked heath and moorland searching, aching, burning, never knowing for what. Now she knew. She sought this kiss. Bron mac Llyr’s kiss.
Her lips parted slightly, and his tongue, moist and hot, traced the inner softness of her lips. She opened full mouth, inviting deeper probing. A low chuckle vibrated in his throat. His tongue tip parried with her own and then with an abandoned lustiness he thrust full force into the cavern of her mouth. Eithne trembled with surrender. Suckling him, she tasted and savored his unfamiliar juices.
When the minstrels struck up once again, desire was rising between them like the moon between two arching oaks. As intimate as rustling leaves, their two bodies coursed with the urge to join flesh.
His senses rioting in the endless swell of the moment, Bron would not retreat. Her lips were puffy, swollen, virginal as spring, and her body a sensual promise of pleasurable dark nights to come. Ill fate whetted every entangling second, the hall rang with raucous voices. Still, he lingered because longing was sweet and the awakening erotic current of wild desire running through him even sweeter.
Aye, deep within the voice of reason reminded him she was a conjured visage of Sheelin’s sorcery, but in the instance of this kiss he was lost. She became the image of enchantment that he most desired, a beautiful illusion for whom he’d happily die. Before this kiss he’d been no prisoner of Rath Morna, but after…
Chapter 3
A steep spiraling stairway of a hundred steps led from the banquet floor to the high chambers. Eithne lifted her skirts with flourish and dashed upward wishing with all her heart that she had never kissed Bron mac Llyr. But the sea clansman followed, taking the stone steps by twos. He would be the thirteenth to tread behind her to his eventual doom. Her senses churned with regret and something new…wanton desire. This one was different. Even now, she could not outstrip him upon the stairs as she had the others.
Swan Witch Page 2
