Swan Witch

by Betina Lindsey

  Around him, everything seemed shining. Eithne placed the chalice on a stone altar. She turned to him and showered upon him a gaze of voluminous love. He’d never experienced such opening, such overflowing, such radiance pouring from someone’s countenance.

  He felt power rising within him like a great sea swell. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, turned it, and kissed the palm.

  He opened his mouth to tell her that she was very beautiful, but he made no sound. Even so, between them was such an open knowingness that he knew she understood his thoughts without speaking them. He soul-gazed into the diamond clarity of her eyes and felt an incredible lightness of being…an incredible joy as if after a long, lonely journey he’d come home. He opened his arms to her and she stepped into his embrace. Aye, he thought…We’ve begun a dance and what a dance it is.

  Chapter 8

  Bron awoke before dawn, a wassailer in the ashes of magic. He lay in darkness, cold, and intemperance. Awareness came slowly. He remained in Eithne’s chambers, upon Eithne’s pallet, without Eithne. The forest…the drinking of pure love from the chalice in her hands, had all been a dream.

  He groaned. The bite of cinnamon clung to his lips. He realized she had drugged him with a sleeping potion. Aye, those lips! She had smeared it upon her own lips. He could not feel too sorry for himself. He’d been warned by Coup of her bewitchments. Clearly, he’d not yet won her trust.

  Still bedazed he sat up and reached with his sword hand to scratch his face. The linen wrapped stub met the grating texture of his unshaven beard.

  “Arrah!” he grumbled aloud. “That’s what comes of believing the illusion.” He’d allowed himself that perverse pleasure and now in the aftermath, he paid. He felt atrocious, used, and heart-bruised. He managed to stand up and walk over to the window.

  Moonlight filtered in. He deeply breathed in the crisp air. His head ached, his mouth tasted bad, and he couldn’t clearly focus. He sat down upon the seat internally chastising himself for not being more canny.

  Where had she gone, he wondered? Mayhap she vanished with the rest of the illusion, he thought sourly. Then his fingers touched something on the stone window seat. He picked it up and held it in the moonlight. It was a white long wing feather. A swan feather!

  Just as quickly, everything connected in his mind. The webbing between her toes, her quicksilver eyes, and her netherworld aura. Eithne was a swan maiden! The realization lifted the miasma of his spirit. She was not an illusion. He felt great relief at this discovery as if a weighty burden had been dropped not only from his shoulders, but from his heart as well.

  Aye, still she was a swan witch and not of his kith…but there was kith and then there was kith. The swan sisters of Myr were legendary for their beauty, wisdom, and healing gifts. The rare man who was chosen by one as mate was counted fortunate indeed.

  So, he continued ruminating, if Eithne was Sheelin’s true daughter then her mother was a swan maiden. And with that awareness, the purpose of his journey became forefront again. Through Eithne, he would find Ketha, the swan healer.

  A shadow crossed the face of the moon. He saw the lowering, spread wing spiral of an alabaster swan glide over cashel walls.

  She was returning.

  He paused, captivated by her form and grace as swan. The tradition of his sea clan held the swan sacred and the courier of transformation. He smiled to himself, thinking that since the first moment he saw her, he’d had nothing but transformation in his life…and not all of it was good.

  With haste, he went back to lie upon the pallet to pretend sleep. For the time being, she must not know he knew. Aye, there were many secrets at Rath Morna and he intended to unmask them all.

  Eithne transformed from swan to maid as she passed through the window casement. The transition left her momentarily unsteady on her feet and slightly disoriented. Thank the goddess! Mac Llyr was where she had left him, sleeping soundly. She wondered what visions filled his head. Surely, he’d sleep until sunrise from the potion. She stepped over the dried crush of wilted rose petals and slipped down beside him. Her night flight had left her chilled and she snuggled closer to him for warmth.

  A soft, pleasurable mumble sounded in his chest. He turned toward her spoon fashion and coiled his arm around her waist. His nearness was like a smoldering hearth. She relaxed against him. She might have been wrong to give him the sleeping potion, but still she could not trust him.

  Again her search had been fruitless. Where was Ketha? Could she even be within these cashel walls? In her mind, Eithne ran over and over the places Sheelin might have imprisoned her. Had she missed exploring one dark passage in the maze of the dungeons below? She could worm nothing out of Gibbers, and if anyone knew, it would be him.

  Ketha had always told her, “There is another world. It is hidden in this one.”

  Night after night she had flown above forest and heath, only to return to Rath Morna in despair. By his spells and magics, Sheelin entrapped her mother and herself in his dark web of power. Someday she would find the portal into that other world of Myr and reunite with the swan sisters. Yet, her fear was that Sheelin would follow. Until she found Ketha, she had no recourse but to remain at Rath Morna.

  She glanced over at the sleeping form of Bron mac Llyr. Even he was no true, safe haven. He himself could fall victim to Sheelin’s evil. Tears glazed Eithne’s eyes and hopelessness permeated her heart. In the glow of magic she had taken comfort in Bron’s proximity. She had dreamed a wee dream that he might take her to his isle in the sea, but ’twas only a dream and had no more substance than the evening past.

  Her fingers shifted, brushing against his own. His were slender and shapely, with strong nails that suggested an agile strength. Harper’s fingers. She would like to hear him play, but with a severed hand he could play little more than what a curious child might pluck in mischief. Sadly, she would never hear him play his harp. She would never see his homeland in the sea and she would never escape the darkness of Rath Morna. Grief welled up inside her, grief for what could never be.

  The moon set and soon dawn would break. Her chambers seemed a black dungeon in which shadows danced like tormented souls. As she lay there she sank deeper and deeper into misery. She knew her misery was the toll she paid for the night’s magic, but knowing did not ease the pain of her suffering.

  When the first rays of sunlight splayed across the walls, Eithne turned to see if Bron still slept. Her scrutiny followed the hard bones of his face to the black brows and even blacker hair. He looked dissipated. He was unshaven and bearing out scruffiness. The night past he’d appeared much grander, but now, oddly she found him unappealing. The cloying sweet scents were gone. He smelled musky…ambery, and, aye, cinnamony.

  A sudden, she concluded she was lying beside the biggest mistake of her life. How could she have ever allowed him to kiss her at all or imagined she might commune with the like of him?

  She peered hard at him. His eyelids flashed open…startling her.

  “You’ll not be kissing me back to fairy. I’ve had my fill for the time being. ’Tis worse than an endless winter’s debauchery.” Groaning, he rolled over and ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “Arrah! I’ve paid twice in one night for the magic. I’ll not pay again. Oh, fair maiden, keep thine enchanted lips to thy self.”

  Offended, Eithne sat up. In truth the sparkle had worn off. Her chamber was in tatters and so was her mood. He might be more appealing in morning light, but he was not so gallant to spurn her kiss. She could not help it. Her eyes began to tear. What ever did she see in him? She sniffled her dismay and made to stand.

  “While you’re on your feet, I’ll have a basin of water to wash off my lips.” His voice was brittle and commanding.

  She felt the heat of temper rising. I’m no menial to do your bidding.

  “’Tis the bargain. You were not so fleering the night past. I fall asleep with an angel and awaken to a banshee.”

  You be a spriggan yourself! Vexed, she
crossed the room to fetch the washbasin from her dressing corner. She tapped loose the thin crust of ice. As she returned, the water sloshed like a storm tossed sea over the basin’s edges. She stopped before him and held it out for him to take.

  He made no effort in that regard. “Now you are here, I’ll have you wash that foul potion off my lips yourself.”

  Begobs, you could not take off your own boots. Now, you cannot wipe off your own mouth. ’Tis feeble you are and ’tis soon you’ll be about the land, a one-handed beggar.

  It was cruel to say, and oddly she felt no remorse. Bron’s eyes fired with anger. Standing, he thrust his hand before her face. It was a perfect hand in the illusion.

  “Leave off! Or this one-handed beggar will box your ears and you’ll be deaf as well as mute.”

  Her lips curled in a sneer. She was not so docile as to stand there and take his threats. Abruptly, she tipped the basin over his head.

  “Arra-a-a-h!” he sputtered leaping away.

  The spectacle of him cursing and wheezing caused Eithne great satisfaction, but only up to the instant his fingers clutched her neck and an involuntary whimper tore from her throat.

  Panic filled her. Now he was like the others. Where was the warmth of touch and sensitivity of nature? The sickening dread that he too had become corrupted by the darkness of Rath Morna jangled her awareness.

  His grip only lasted for a heartbeat. A shift passed over his visage more felt than seen. He left her and strode across the room, picked up the water pitcher, and came toward her.

  Too late! Eithne dashed for cover.

  He did not throw the crockery at her, but the water. The bite of the icy water upon her face was like an awakening slap. Aghast, she stood breathless and dripping.

  Without taking his eyes from her own frightened ones, Bron said in explanation, “’Tis the backlash of magic.”

  He dropped the pitcher and half turned from her. Her own eyes lowered with the realization. They stood together and apart in a bitter epiphany. The sun might have come up and gone down again.

  When at last he moved, it was to encircle her shoulders with a light protective arm. “Forgive me, milady.”

  Eithne buried her face against his chest. She felt broken, beaten, and betrayed…betrayed by her own ignorance and by her own dishonesty. She was like a prisoner in a cage where the gate swung open, but still she could not find her way out.

  “Come,” said Bron. “’Tis time to speak with Sheelin.”

  Eithne stepped away. What about?

  “The truth.”

  Her head shook slowly back and forth with resistance. Nay, ’twill only be worse on us.

  “Why do you say this?”

  I know.

  “Eithne,” he said in a gentle imperative. “You must tell me the truth. What is happening here? Why does Sheelin wish you to speak?”

  Her lips tightened.

  He reached out and put his fingers to her lips, and under their soft pressure her lips parted slightly. “I know you can speak aloud. I bet you can sing sweetly as well. What keeps you mute? ’Tis not just the stubbornness of an unruly lass.”

  Beway, do not press me.

  He stroked her shoulder reassuringly, dropping his hand to her waist and pulling her close to him. “If you cannot trust, you cannot love.”

  I have no wish to love. But even as she spoke, she tingled from the power of feeling he stirred in her.

  He drew away and took her hand in his own. “’Tis high time for me to speak to Sheelin. I beg you to attend me.” He searched her eyes imploringly. “’Tis my neck on the chopping block. I have no wont to die. You need not love me to champion my cause.”

  She sighed, struggling with his demand and again her own duality. I do not well abide my father’s presence, but this once I will come with you.

  The atmosphere of the room brightened with this compromise. Early morning sun flooded the chamber and added a magic that only reality could conjure.

  Within the hour, Eithne led Bron through the maze of Rath Morna to a circular, turreted outer pavilion, used as a gaol for Sheelin’s collection of birds.

  She told Bron, Here Sheelin spends his morning and evening hours. She held back at the entrance. I will not enter this place. You must go alone, but I will listen.

  “Why won’t you come inside?”

  You will see. She turned and lowered herself to sit cross-legged upon the ground.

  The smell of rotting flesh hit Bron foremost and he covered his nose when he stepped beneath the portico. The interior was as gray as a winter sea…and as grimly foreboding. A menagerie of fowl, caged, tethered, and pinioned, met his aghast regard. Listless swans, long necks curled beneath ragged wings, nested on filthy straw. He’d been in dungeons which proved more hospitable.

  A hoarse chuckle rumbled from Sheelin’s side where the Fir Darrig tore at the flesh and feathers of a dead pigeon with his needlelike teeth. Bron knew enough of Fir Darrigs that by birth they were of low descent, sired by an evil spirit upon a degenerate Ghillie Dhu. This one was less than three feet high and wore a red roundabout, with red breeches buckled at the knee. A black chimney hat tipped crookedly over his hairy, withered face.

  Wearing a black fox fur cloak, Sheelin turned around and peered from his heavy-lidded, deep-set eyes. “Ah! Fir Darrig, we have a guest.”

  The stench was so overpowering that Bron replied, “You have, but do not let me disturb you. I can await you outside.”

  “Nay, come and you will have the treat of seeing my peerless aviary.” And with an upward wave of his hand, Sheelin’s menagerie of inhumanity transformed into an exotic display.

  Too recently inebriated on magic, Bron experienced a gut-turning distaste. He needed no more illusion, especially at the expense of helpless creatures. Yet, he dared not offend Sheelin.

  For the moment, he endured Sheelin’s spectacle, watching him closely. There was an aura about him—an air of craftiness, indifference, and deceit. He did not necessarily look evil…but then how did evil look? And in this instance which was more evil, the illusion or the reality?

  Bron began circumspectly, “’Tis more than impressive.”

  A self-satisfied smile curled the corners of Sheelin’s mouth. “I’m partial to the swans,” he confessed stroking the hill-high arch of one’s neck.

  The faint suspicion that one of these birds might be Ketha, the swan sister, constricted Bron’s heart.

  Sheelin sprinkled seed about with the grace of a magnificent benefactor. “What is your reason for coming to see me?” he asked. Then he added with a lifted brow, “Has the Lady Eithne been uncooperative?”

  “Nay, she is a winsome companion…too much so.” Bron gave him an even look.

  Sheelin laughed suddenly. “Then what is amiss?”

  “Nothing is amiss. I wish to leave Rath Morna and take the Lady Eithne with me.”

  Surprise flashed across Sheelin’s features and was quickly concealed. The Fir Darrig burped, his attention taken from his meal.

  “And what think you of this, Eithne?” asked Sheelin, his eyes looking past Bron.

  Bron stepped back, and behind him in the portico stood Eithne. Disquiet marked her face. He’ll never agree to it, came her words as surely as if she had spoken aloud.

  “’Tis a pity she cannot speak for herself,” Sheelin said, his voice deadly cold. “I must decline your offer…on her behalf, of course. The agreement stands. The man who can answer in truth a question Eithne will ask, and will ask a question she can in truth answer, should have her for his bride along with riches untold.”

  “Aye.” Bron’s voice held the tone of cool derision. “That is the dilemma. There is too much untold and unspoken at Rath Morna.”

  Eithne shook her head as if to caution him to keep his opinions to himself.

  But he would not let it go just yet. “I would ask why ’tis so expedient the Lady Eithne speaks?”

  Magnanimity danced lightly through the occult darkness of Sheelin’s eyes.
“’Twould bring joy to a father’s heart…a miracle to Rath Morna.”

  He lies. I beg you, leave it.

  Bron glanced at Eithne and briefly met the urgent appeal in her eyes. For her sake, he would let it rest.

  Bron’s demeanor shifted. “Then I will do my utmost to bring about this miracle. Indeed, my own life truly depends upon it.” He bowed slightly and walked toward Eithne.

  He saw pain in her expression. He knew that being who she was she would simply suffer in silence rather than confront her father or escape Rath Morna.

  Once outside the pavilion, he breathed the fresh morning air into his lungs and expelled the morass of Sheelin’s aviary. In silence and deep thought, he and Eithne walked toward the bailey yard. He turned to her. Her eyes held a cloudy, misty, faraway gaze.

  I told you ’twas useless to speak with him. Truth cannot pass his lips.

  He stared at her a deepening moment, then said, “You have your own brand of dishonesty, milady.”

  She bridled, her temper flaring. I never lie and have done nothing dishonest.

  He reached over and gently touched a hand to her shoulder. “You have other ways of being less than truthful. You tell the truth, but only part of it, only what you wish to tell.”

  Surprise and hurt flicked over her comely features.

  He did not mean to wound her, but only find a foothold in her honesty. For honesty alone would be their salvation.

  With a toss of her brilliant copper head, she shrugged his hand off and turned her back upon him. Struggling between his own frustration and compassion, he stood quite still and watched her stalk away.

  “Blathers! Sheee…is throuble! Sartainly, ye’ve larnt yer lesson.”

  The voice Bron easily recognized. Gibbers was at his snooping again. Bron turned and spied his beaming moss streaked face poking up from the nearby sinkhole.

  Feeling beaten, Bron walked over and sat down beside Gibbers. “You seem to know so much about women. What would you advise I do to get to the bottom of it?”