Despite herself, her heart quickened. She hastened to change her dress and brush her hair. He had never stayed away so long before. Last time when they had fought, she had told him never to return. She had held his brackish gaze and vowed that she would rather die than see him again. But in her heart’s depths she knew she would die if she did not see him. To love too well was at the core of every swan maiden’s being. It was the warp and weft she had woven the moment she touched eyes with him. The seeress, Bree, had warned her to guard her heart, but Ketha could not stop her heart from loving him.
In the beginning, he’d been honorable and honest, truly an awakened soul.
What had happened?
Over and over in her mind she had retraced the events that had transformed him.
When she and Sheelin came upon Rath Morna it had been abandoned. She had never wished to stay more than a night, but he had insisted. She had found him studying crumbling parchment scrolls until dawn. The days passed, servants began appearing and more. As if overnight, elegant furnishings filled the halls and rooms. Soon banquets were spread. Strangers danced and feasted in the hall.
“Who are these people?” she would ask Sheelin. “I know none of them.”
“Only travelers I have invited in. We are wealthy now,” he would declare, avoiding her gaze.
Her renown as a healer spread over the land and often those who came, came not for Sheelin’s lavish hospitality but for her own healing touch.
Sheelin watched and questioned her. “What magics, what spells do you chant? What is the source of this power?”
“I do not know. I chant no spells or call upon no magic but the magic of goodness. I know only that the healing touch is a gift from the goddess to my kind.”
After a time, upon Sheelin’s orders, any pilgrims seeking healing from Ketha were turned away at the gates. When she had confronted him, he replied, “You are too great a lady to soil your hands on the vermin infested peasants that seek a free healing.”
But Ketha knew better.
Sadly, she knew Sheelin was jealous of her gift. In all his dark undertakings, nothing compared to the healing touch. His jealousy fomented and emerged in other ways.
When Eithne was born he discovered she had inherited the singer’s voice. The voice he had bartered to the powers of darkness. Not only could she sing, but in her childhood innocence, her song could undo his own evil magics. She sang his rich tapestries into tatters and hummed his feasts into crumbs. Upon the eve of Eithne’s tenth rebirth day, Ketha learned that Sheelin plotted to steal Eithne’s voice.
In the dead of night, she took her daughter and together they fled Rath Morna pursued by the demons of Sheelin’s Unseelie Court. Once captured, in the face of Sheelin’s wrath, Ketha forbade Eithne to speak on threat of Sheelin’s stealing her voice. In that moment, Ketha learned one did not cross Sheelin for retribution would be most certain. He imprisoned her in Woad Bog Tower. He wrapped the tower in a cloak of invisibility where he alone could enter.
Ketha breathed a deep-felt sigh…and gathered her hair into a netting of rubies.
In those first months, she had wept and moaned. She had begged piteously for her freedom but Sheelin did not relent. After all the years she had made her peace with loneliness. She spent her days sewing an intricate cloak of feathers. The feathers were gifts from her kindred winged-ones, blown to her on the invisible wind to the ledge of her invisible lancet window. Many had heard of the disappearance of Ketha, the swan healer, as they migrated through the wild marshes, but not even the sharp eye of an eagle could penetrate Sheelin’s magics.
“Ketha.”
Ketha turned. She had not quite finished tying the bodice lacings of her gown. Sheelin stood before her, his entry as stealthy as a fox.
She felt dissected by his incredibly deep steady gaze. It was always so. He could probe the very depths of her heart, mind, and body. A part of her wanted to run into his arms and again feel the warmth of human touch. But pride kept her rooted in a demeanor of royal dignity. And always in the back of her mind was the hope that perhaps the old Sheelin had returned. The man who was warm, ever generous and friendly, despite his commanding airs. She searched his flawless features from the obsidian eyes to the ignoble turn of his lips.
How could she still love this man? He had betrayed her, deceived her, and imprisoned her. How?
He stepped toward her. His forefinger traced lightly over her chin, down the curve of her throat to rest on the swell of her breast. His touch burned. It always burned, but oh such a sweet burning. His dark sorcery called her own darkness. No matter how aloof she may pretend to be, she could not resist him. He knew she could not.
“Ketha.” His tone was a caressing of her name. “Love me. The moon shines full this night.”
He knew no swan sister could deny her lover under a luminous moon.
“I have missed you, Ketha. I am in need of healing. Can you heal my wicked heart? Can you mend my broken soul with your healer’s touch? Do try, my beloved.”
He kissed her cheek, her brow, her lips. Somehow Ketha knew she might kiss ten thousand men and never would she taste such fire. She shrugged off his hands.
“You must heal your own wicked heart, my lord Sheelin.” She stepped away, full knowing he would follow and she would relent. Sheelin had to win. He would risk anything to win short of his own life, and he might even risk that.
“And is my heart so wicked?” He stepped near, his lips touched lightly the nape of her neck. “I can still love you.” His words fell like sparks on the glittering mesh of her hair.
She whirled to face him. “You do not love me, you possess me. There is a great difference.”
“Come to me…that we might explore this difference.”
“Will you never tire of this game you play?” she said, a tremble in her voice.
“You burn for me as much as I burn for you.”
“I burn as one in hell. This tower where you imprison me is my netherworld.”
“Ketha, Ketha…” Like a beguiling serpent’s embrace he coiled his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers.
She stood still as stone, but her own being was molten with desire for him. Her lips responded with the desperateness of loneliness.
Rose and golden, dawn came to the marshes spreading over the rim of the horizon, touching reed and bird wing alike with the light of awakening. Rays of sunlight flowed through the small lancet window dappling the down coverings of Ketha’s great oak pillared bed. She reached over and laid her hand on Sheelin’s chest. She gazed at his sleeping face and knew he was a stranger to her. Tears of sadness trickled from the corners of her eyes. In the past years she always wept after making love with him because she felt the incompleteness, the holding back on his part, and his inability to surrender.
Aye, he had lust and passion, but no love…no vulnerability. He could risk all else but his heart. Softly, she began to hum.
He blinked, his features cloudy with the incoherence of waking.
“Stop!” The sharpness of his voice silenced Ketha as surely as if he held a dagger to her throat.
“I have commanded you never, never to sing in my presence.” He thrust her hand off him and sat up.
She lay there feeling the burn of his censure. She stared at his bare muscled back. The urge was overwhelming to throw herself against him, to weep, to beg him to become again the Sheelin she’d fallen in love with years before. But it would do no good, he had barricaded himself away.
She drew herself up and on her knees moved behind him. She pushed the tangle of her red hair aside and leaning into him she wrapped her arms around him. He felt cold. She might have as easily embraced a statue.
She whispered, “Who are you?”
There was a tangible quiet in the room. He seemed to almost have stopped breathing. Then he spoke, “I am whoever I choose to be.”
“And who do you choose to be?”
“I choose, dear lady, to be the ruler of Myr.”
&
nbsp; He said this with such cold force that a sickening feeling engulfed her. “No one rules Myr.”
Shrugging her off, he shifted and climbed out of the bed. His arrogant indifference made her shiver.
Imperiously, his black eyes met hers and he said, “I will!”
And in that instant she had no doubt that he would. She stared at him, all her emotion concealed. But within her outrage boiled. She knew that Eithne was the only bastion between Sheelin and Myr. She watched him begin to dress, and in her mind brewed her own stratagems.
“How many suitors have you beheaded?” she asked forthrightly, drawing beneath the warmth of the covers.
He looked up from lacing his boots. “Twelve!”
“She will never speak. You waste your time.”
“I think not. One has come…a sea clansman of the Tuatha de Danann. He will win her heart. I foresee it.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
He straightened and walked over to her. His large hand reached out ruthlessly capturing the circle of her neck. He pulled her toward him. His hostile stare penetrated her own. The darkness of him frightened her. “It will be your own neck on the chopping block. I don’t know why I did not think of it sooner.”
“She will not speak, even to save my life.”
“You underestimate the power of love, Ketha.”
“And what do you know of love? A man who puts ambition above all.”
His fingers released her throat and entangled within the soft filaments of her hair, dragging her face to him until his lips hovered above her own. “I know enough to keep you burning for me. I know enough that when I leave, you weep. I know enough, Ketha…” He covered her lips in a moist kiss that sent flame ripping through her body.
She twisted away her head and pushed him off. “You know nothing of love, Sheelin,” she spat out. “Nothing! You know of lust and darkness and usury. Leave me! Leave me!” she screamed from her very depths.
She buried her face in the pillows and wept.
It may have been hours or only minutes, but when at last she lifted her head and wiped the curtain of tears from her cheeks, Sheelin was gone.
How she hated him! How she loved him!
Chapter 7
Footsteps broke the silence of the night. Eithne’s heart quickened a single beat. Her eyes left her own reflection in the gilt frame looking glass and riveted to her chamber door.
She listened.
A muted knock came. She did not immediately rise to her feet; instead she continued to sit on the velvet tufted stool and stare at her reflection. She frowned—if only she were as beautiful as the illusions of Sheelin’s court. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and ruminated over how she might remedy her appearance with magic. Her mother had taught her the rules of white magic. Use it honestly…and never do harm.
Slowly, she fanned open her right hand and with her fingertips touched her forehead’s reflection on the glass…a golden circlet appeared on the crown of her head. She touched the hollow of her throat and a choker of emeralds magically graced her long neck. Her hand moved to her breast and suddenly her rough spun gunna transformed into a fall of holly green silk which pooled about her slippered feet.
Louder, the knock sounded again.
Her nerves thrumming, Eithne rose and walked to the door. Her hand trembled as she reached for the great ring latch. The first night she had begged the sea clansman to stay and he had left. The second night she had called him, but feared his coming. Tonight she no longer feared him.
As Eithne pulled the door open, the hinges groaned like an old woman asked to fall upon her knees.
The figure that met Eithne was a surprise. She blinked once to be sure it was he. How grand he appeared. She guessed he must have availed himself of his own magics.
Her inspection roamed from his jeweled turban hat offset by his lengthy black hair, to the satin blue shimmer of his intricately embroidered cloak. A gold filigree belt slouched about his narrow hips and black silk leggings outlined the muscular shape of his long legs. He drew up, removed his hat, and in a flowing gesture graced her with a half bow, straightened and tossed his cloak rakishly over one broad shoulder.
“Milady.” Though his lips posed solemnly, his face relaxed with warmth and greeting.
She tilted her own head in a shy welcome.
Yet, out of nervousness she held back. She withheld her smile. She withheld words she might have spoken if she could speak, and she withheld her heart.
What she could not withhold was her need for him, her yearning, her longing for his touch that so consoled and comforted.
He stepped toward her and she opened her arms to him. She felt the largeness of him fill the expanse of her embrace as his own arms encircled her. He pressed her close, her cheek rested on the soft silk of his tunic. The heat of him burned through, caressing her skin like starshine dusts the moon. His heart pulse murmured deep rhythms to her own. How could she have lived so long and never known that touch and nearness could be so restoring?
The last safe haven in her life had been in her mother’s arms, years ago. Eithne could still remember being dragged away, crying and calling for Ketha. The wave of memory caused her to tighten her arms around Bron as if he too would be torn from her. Even so, in this moment he seemed content enough to be her mainstay. Through the morning storm, within the cover of the stones he had comforted her…kissed her cheek and hair. No one had done such a thing to her that she could remember.
Gibbers would be aghast if he knew that someone kissed the “ugly, evil gurrul” and did not break out in a plague of warts. She peeked just to be sure Bron was not showing speckles upon his face.
His skin was clear. She sighed with relief and nuzzled her cheek again to his broad chest.
He stroked her hair and whispered, “I am content to hold you here, but I think it best you allow me to step inside or word will go to your father that I have not gained entrance into your chamber.”
Reluctantly, she released him. His arm kept a protective loop over her shoulders as he moved inside. After a strangled creak, the door cannoned shut.
Bron jumped slightly. “It appears I am again your willing prisoner for this night, milady. I am ready to partake of your hospitality.”
Eithne followed his encompassing gaze as it traveled the expanse of her barren chamber. Except for the window seat and one velvet stool there were no chairs. Her bed was a down stuffed pallet before the flameless hearth. Her toilette and wardrobe were secreted behind a homespun curtain in one corner. But for the gilt looking glass it was a pauper’s haven in comparison to the rest of Rath Morna. She chose it so. Her room remained a sanctuary free of her father’s illusion.
I have none to offer, she enlightened.
He looked down at her. “You hedge. No more shape-shifting?”
She smiled. After last night I have learned my lesson.
“Nevertheless, you are to fulfill my every wish. What did you with the others?”
I did what I chose to do. I will not tell you for there would be no surprises.
He chuckled. “You speak like your gillie troll…the keeper of secrets. I would have no secrets between you and me, Lady Eithne. Mayhap that is my first wish.”
Then it may be your last. Rath Morna is the domain of secrets…dark secrets. She could play this game. Like most, he liked to know secrets as well as keep secrets. She sensed he could be adept at pulling secrets out of others and locking his own against all questions.
“But still it is my wish,” he insisted.
And how many wishes must I fulfill in seven nights?
“Now, you are the skeleton at the feast. Can you promise it will end at just seven?”
She pursed her lips evasively. I cannot promise.
“Then what can you promise?”
I do not make promises, because I might have to break them. No one should make promises or swear on things for the sensible reason that no one can predict with certainty what might happen. Promises a
re for those who like to fool themselves, and others, into thinking they are in control of their own future.
“Ah…” His eyes lightened with appreciation. “’Tis a fair philosopher you are. And if the future is so unsure then let us not waste our time together. Bring on the wine and dancing girls.”
I cannot. There is no wine and only one dancing girl.
“Is it too late for me to leave? I have been duped unless you have some better pastime.” She did not miss the expectancy in his voice.
She wanted to please him. She hadn’t wanted to please anyone for a long, long time. She would forget the circumstances and pretend, just for tonight. Well, maybe tomorrow night too.
She smiled mischievously. I do. Come sit down.
Bron searched for a chair and finally chose the window seat. He removed his hat and in a deft swirl, his cape. He arranged his long, loose-limbed body comfortably on the stone seat while looking at her with those sincere, serious, made-to-melt-the-coldest-heart eyes.
Inwardly, Eithne vowed not to melt. She pulled up the stool and sat at his feet.
You must close your eyes, she commanded so she could keep her concentration.
“I’m not so trustworthy. Might I keep but one eye cracked?”
She reached up and covered his eyes with one hand. Nay, it will spoil the wishing. Isn’t it enough that this night you can have your heart’s desire?
“I do not have a heart’s desire, milady. There is no profit in it for once attained what is the point of living?”
Eithne was taken aback. What philosophy was this? Only a knight of the road would think it. She tried again. Then what is your wish?
“I have told you. I wish no secrets between us. I wish you to always speak true.”
That would be very hard for me because I do not speak at all.
A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Then that is my wish.” He removed her hand from his eyes and turned the palm upward. His own fingers caressed hers softly, and she felt explosion in his touch.
His sea-watching gaze delved her own for an intense moment. “I would have you speak…speak my name and call me to your arms…to your bed…to your heart. In passion’s heat I would have you cry for me aloud…and beg my blade to find sweet haven in your sheath.”
Swan Witch Page 7
