He grimaced, a gleeful spark in his eyes. “You’ll niver get the truth at Rath Morna.”
“And what is the truth?”
“Musha. I’ll niver tell.”
“Niver?” mocked Bron. “Surely you have a price.”
His mouth cracked open like a bottomless cavern. “Indade I have.”
“What is it?” Bron tried to be playful, but beneath it he wanted to reach over and squeeze the green-veined cords of Gibbers’s scrawny neck.
“Shhhweets. I’m partial to sugar violets.”
“Sugar violets.” Bron chuckled. “Very well, you shall have your sugar violets. Now speak.”
“Begobs, do ye think me a divil’s fool to spake a’fore I’ve me tribute?”
“Mayhap you think me the fool to give you sweets and then learn nothing. Nay, I will ask you one question. If your answer pleases me, then, you’ll have your sweets,” Bron said equitably, gambling that Gibbers craved his “shhhweets” enough to risk telling beforehand.
Gibbers hissed his vexation.
Bron merely yawned and shrugged. “And to think while I walked in the woods yesterday I passed a patch of violets in full bloom.” He glanced sidelong. Gibbers was fairly salivating. The temperament of a troll was mixed; not wholly good nor entirely evil, but balanced between the two, sometimes generous, then descending to petty meanness.
“Ye slatherin’ tormentor, ask yer question, but only one. I’ll have my shhhweets by sunrise…or I’ll sarve ye ill.”
Bron concealed his delight and his spirits began to elevate. He had a thousand questions, but could only ask one. Which one?
He fingered his chin thoughtfully.
“Begorra, cud ye make haste?”
“Aye, aye…” Of all the riddles that traversed his mind, the most obvious came to his lips. “Why will Eithne not speak?”
“Musha, cud ye not ask one harder? A pooka cud tell ye that. Ye’ve frittered—”
“Enough!” Bron declared, his patience gone. “Tell me the answer if you can or be off.”
Gibbers’s pointed ears twitched and he leered at Bron. “Humph! The wicked gurrul will not spake fer right reason. She was born with the singer’s voice. Sheelin will grab her voice and the seycrets of that power.”
It made perfect sense…aye, he thought, a pooka could have told me. “Where does Eithne disappear to at night?”
“Lave off yerself! ’Tis only one question I’ll answer.” With that, Gibbers slipped down into the sinkhole. “A morrow at sunrise…my shhhweets…!” his voice lisped as he disappeared.
Bron was left to ruminate over his predicament. He must decide his priority. Was it to find Ketha or to rescue a resistant Eithne from her father’s evil? Mayhap both…and mayhap one would lead to the other. But first he must win Eithne’s trust…and how was that to be done? Stubbornness and defiance were her second nature. Arrah! that was the question he should have posed to Gibbers. How to win Eithne’s trust?
Chapter 9
It was twilight.
The sun had set in a purple burning which spread soft hues over halfheaven. A solitary star rose in the east. Bron gazed above the cashel walls to the rising moon on the deepening blue horizon.
Whistling a lilting tune, he groomed Samisen’s snowy coat. The stallion’s flanks rippled with pleasure. Over the broad slope of the horse’s shoulders, he kept the tower in view. Eithne’s silhouette was framed in the window casement. He knew she knew he watched her. She’d been pacing. Now she sat quietly. Had she expected him to come to her chambers this night? Did she pace from disappointment or an overburdened conscience?
“Aye,” he said softly in Samisen’s ear. “She’s restless this night. I wager she’ll fly before midnight. Be ready. She’ll not tarry for us.”
He gave Samisen a handful of grain, then he stretched his length on a grassy patch. The scents of sweetbriar and hyacinth wafted over the cashel walls. Night birds warbled in the woods beyond the moat. Sighing deeply, he could not feel more relaxed. He clasped his hands behind his head and settled comfortably to wait.
A dunlin’s whilloo woke Bron from his dozing. His eyes flew to the tower. The window gaped open. Leaping to his feet, he caught Samisen’s trailing white mane and climbed upon his back.
He began a rhythmic chanting as ancient as the sea. Samisen pawed the earth with a silver shod hoof. In a final command Bron said softly, “Unfold your wings and take flight.”
The stallion reared, snorting and tossing its head, and then plunged upward…into the air. Bron held tightly as the great wings miraculously fanned out and lifted them both skyward. The night wind sliced across Bron’s face, filling him with expectancy and exhilaration. Up…up…above cashel wall, above turreted towers and spearing treetops, rider and winged-steed flew.
He searched the shadowy landscape for any trace of Eithne. By and by, Samisen carried him toward the deserted moorlands of the North. The rising moon cast an eerie light over lonely marshes and cattail choked quagmires. With disappointment growing, Bron doubted she would seek out this wild realm. Then he saw it…or did he?
He blinked and squinted into the darkness below. A short word to Samisen and the stallion began a lowering spiral. Mayhap he was mistaken, but Bron thought he saw a tower rising up from the marsh.
The horse stooped to find foothold among the reeds where the mud could barely hold him up. Not far, out in the middle of a large stretch of pond, rose the gnarled old stump of what once had been a great tree…or was it? Fingers of mist distorted his vision until he perceived that aye, there was a tower there…and then in the next moment it was a tree stump. More illusion?
He urged Samisen onward into the murky water. The stallion shied slightly. “I know you do not wish your fine coat soiled, but put your vanity aside, ’tis a mystery we’re about solving.”
There was little solid ground, but Bron trusted his steed’s instinctual sense to carry them safely along. The closer he came the more substantial became the vision of the tower, until he reached to touch cold stone.
“Aye, ’tis a tower…mayhap abandoned. And built for what purpose I cannot guess,” he spoke aloud to himself. Guiding Samisen around its base, he soon discovered it had no entrance. The only opening was a tiny casement window high above facing to the south.
“Hallo!” he called out. The wind twisted his voice into a faint howl. He had no expectation anyone would answer. It was too lonely a place.
At that moment Samisen lost his footing and down he stumbled into the scrotum-numbing waters, dousing Bron to the hips.
“Arraah!” he gasped. “Let’s be off.”
And with that, Samisen reared and plunged upward, gaining lift in a strong pull of wings.
Sometime later, Bron spied the holy circle of stones outside Rath Morna. He remembered his promise to Gibbers and realized that he must make good his word. Circling, he saw below the small copse of beechwood surrounding the spring fed pond. It would be a good spot to recuperate. Samisen could graze and he could search for violets…though in the darkness he might not have great success.
The pair came to rest beside the pond. He dismounted and let Samisen wander. He stripped off his brackish smelling clothing, winged his arms with vigor, and plunged in the tepid pond with a deep-throated shout.
It was the perfect night for a moonlight swim. Too bad he must be alone. Too bad he had slept too long and missed following the elusive Eithne. Floating upon his back like a turtle on a summer pond, he imagined her being there with him. But he was foolish to dream for it would only bring disillusionment in the end. Aye, heartbreak was the price of love’s ecstasy.
After a time, he climbed from the water onto the mossy bank. Beside him splashed Samisen, shaking the water from his withers and spraying diamond drops with the toss of his mane.
“Be away with you!” grumbled Bron, slapping the horse’s flank with his hand. “Go roll yourself in a bed of blossoms.”
He did not bother to dress himself, but like a spriggan, he wa
lked naked into the woods to search for violets.
He had a good nose and it was not long before the subtle, sweet fragrant scent stole from beneath furze and fern. Indeed, ’twas a fool’s task to pluck violets in the dark of night and then he must go to the kitchen and dip them in sugared froth. All this before dawn or he would lose his best tattler.
Crawling about on his knees, he not only felt the fool but the acute disadvantage of his one-handedness. Mayhap he’d be the wiser to wait until dawn. Even so, he persevered through thicket and briar, hawthorn and hedge.
When he returned, a hard won nosegay of violets in hand, Samisen grazed contentedly. What next captured Bron’s attention was the silhouette of a lone white swan on the water. Its silk-soft neck arched hill high, it preened and glided serenely on the moon-mirroring surface.
Some things one just knew. And he knew it was his Lady Eithne. He lay the nosegay beside his clothing and stepped back into the water. Eddying swirls lapped his body, exciting him as surely as a touch.
As he moved closer the swan glided farther away, leaving ripples in its wake.
“Arrah! I’ve no heart for magic this night. Show yourself to me, my Lady Eithne,” he challenged outright.
The swan continued to skirt the outer perimeters of the pond. He knew a true wild creature would not court him, but would have flown when he first appeared. Almost immediately he realized aggressiveness would get him nowhere. He tried a new tack, turned over, and floated in place. Gazing at the starry heavens above, he whistled indifferently. On occasion, in a sidelong glance, he caught the movement of the swan circling closer to him.
Finally, he stopped whistling. Silence, still as an hourglass, reigned. The swan drifted nearer.
“Don’t fear it,” he said softly, and wondered if he spoke to her or himself. It was no easy thing to open oneself to true love. In that moment, under night’s secret shade, he sensed he might make claim to true loving.
Cunningly, the swan disappeared beneath the obsidian water and a few seconds later surfaced, a full-fleshed woman…glistening droplets of water falling from her hair.
He gazed into her eyes…and like his dream, he saw the pouring forth of pure love.
In trembling voice, his mind anxious, he softly whispered, “I love you, Lady Eithne.”
She blushed and smiled so warmly that his fears fell away.
He was not sure who moved to whom first, but her arms were suddenly around his neck and his hands were on her smooth hips. Her yielding form he pressed close, and with a deep-felt sigh he surrendered to desire. He was pulling her in slow circles through the water. They stared into each other’s eyes soulfully. Hers glistened with the pale fire of stars.
Beway, sea clansman. I am afraid.
“No more than I am myself. After this night there will be few secrets between us.”
Why did you not tell me you’ve a flying steed?
“Mayhap the same reason you did not tell me you were a flying swan. What other secrets do you withhold from me?”
Her body nudged against his, inflaming him. He swallowed hard. She was indeed beautiful and irresistible.
As many as I choose…And who are you that you ride a steed of the Tuatha de Danann? Surely you have more secrets, Bron mac Llyr.
Her features held a hint of wary trust. He knew that he must abide her way of cautiously manifesting herself in layers. It was the movement of her pupils and the curl of her lips, a fear of being outmaneuvered. He must be patient, but not too patient. His awareness of her thighs and breasts brushing against him was so acute, it was almost pain.
“’Tis no secret that I am the son of the sorcerer sea king Manannan mac Llyr.”
Her eyes widened. I did not know this. Does my father?
“Nay, he knows only that I search for the healer Ketha.”
Ketha!
He felt her surprise. “Aye, Ketha. She is the one woman in Banba that might restore my hand.”
Her black-winged brows arched with surprise. Why did you not tell me this before?
“I did, the first night of my arrival…in your father’s hall.”
I did not hear it…then I came late.
Not taking his eyes from her he said with underlying intensity, “Do you know of Ketha? You must tell me.”
Her dark lashes lowered. Ketha is my mother.
“You are a swan witch as well?”
Aye.
“Can you take me to her?”
Her features became troubled. Nay, I do not know where she is. My father imprisoned her many years ago. I fly at night searching. Sometimes I fear…she is no more. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
With compassion, Bron leaned to her and kissed the welling over of her despair. The taste was salty upon his lips, reminding him of his sea home. He remembered the loss of his own mother, who sailed away to the faraway isles when he was very young.
“Beway…beway…” he comforted softly. Her delicate breast rose and fell with long repressed emotion. He slipped an arm under her knees, lifting her from the water. On the bank he set her upon her feet and together, hands clasping, they walked to the circle of stones. As if invisibly led, they came upon a fairy ring of white mushrooms in the circle’s center. He gazed at her and she at him in a harmonious knowing. It was love’s magic.
Eithne sat down beneath a moon that poured out light like a shower of pearls, and drew him to her. He looped his arm and she leaned into him. “I have naught to cover you with, but my own nakedness.”
Her bare skin shone pearlescent. The water beaded like tiny crystals over her small, firm breasts and belly. In an act of modesty, she pulled her slim legs up in front of her and coiled her arms around her knees.
’Tis all right. We are exposed before each other now, you have seen my swanself.
“Why did you not reveal this to me before?”
I could not. I feared you were in league with my father. Once he has the power of my voice he intends to invade Myr and rule there with his Unseelie Court. His scheme to break me is more successful than he could have imagined. Though Bron had already learned much from Gibbers, he was stunned by the extent of Sheelin’s ambition. Eithne sighed. I ache to speak…yearn to sing…and now that you have come something else has happened to me.
“What?”
She did not send her thoughts to him. She looked into his eyes, filling him and emptying him in a glance. As surely as if she’d spoken aloud he knew what had happened to her, for it had happened to him as well.
His heart was beating a bludgeoning pace and he felt arousal mounting in his body. The power of his desire burned and flamed into his limbs. Yet, his disfigurement kept him constrained. His sense of manliness and his fear of vulnerability caused him to hesitate…thinking he’d best stand and clothe himself.
He made to draw back, but the promise in her marsh-fire eyes held him in place.
Love me, came her silent plea.
“Arraah,” he sighed hoarsely. He felt like a drowning man, and his senses lashed and thundered like waves on a treacherous coast.
Imploringly, her hands splayed across his bare chest. He felt the tips of her nails graze his skin.
Though I cannot speak it aloud, I call you to my arms…to my heart.
Like a butterfly, her lips alighted to kiss the base of his throat. Her breasts and long silken hair brushed his chest and he felt his own nipples harden in anticipation.
This was not illusion. She wanted him. There would be no shape-shifting, no magic or sleeping potions this night.
The taste, touch, and feel of her was real…soaringly so.
Eithne drew back. She lifted her eyes to Bron’s and saw reflected in them her own inner fears and doubts. She had no wish to bewitch him or dazzle him with magic. On this night, under this moon, she sought “true loving.”
Everything about him aroused her desire. The shadowy depths of his sea-watching eyes that were sometimes mocking and sharp; his confident benevolent disposition that bespoke gentleness and genero
sity…the funny way he whistled. Her perusal strayed to his flat wine-dark male nipples, over his broad chest smooth with male muscle, down the full length of his sinuous torso where the spear of his manhood swelled. He was strong, so vibrant in his maleness, so sure. All this and more captured her heart.
Love me true, she pleaded in an unspoken request.
“I do and will.” He sighed, completely disarmed. “You need not ask.” His hands cupped her face gently, and he held her gaze. “I’ll love you true…my swan witch.”
She touched his face, and his mouth lowered to hers. She melted against his warm bare skin, sliding her hands over his chest and twining her fingers around his neck. She closed her eyes, swimming into the liquid pleasures of their kiss. A kiss without enchantment, but wholly enchanted.
He kissed her lushly and long, with a caressing intensity that left her limp everywhere. She embraced him wholeheartedly, sinking into the essence of his virility. She felt his hands travel slowly, exploring the curves of her hips and waist. He lowered his head and kissed the white curve of her shoulder. With his tongue, he traced lower, to the swell of her breasts. His mouth swooped lower and caught a piquant nipple between his lips and gently suckled her.
Her breath stopped. Sweet, sweet goddess! Goose bumps shimmered over her skin. Her hands caressed his lowered head, and her lips kissed the black sheen of his unbound hair splaying across his muscled back.
Softly stretching, she lay upon the mossy turf. He moved his long length beside her, cushioning her in his strong arms. Her eyes searched the moon-fired depths of his own. His gaze set fires in her belly and beneath her ribs. Her breast throbbed and she felt her spirit rush outward to encompass his.
“You are beautiful, swan witch,” his deep voice purred. “When I first saw you leaning over the parapet, I thought you were a witch. Now I know I was not far wrong.”
And I thought you a fool. Beway…I thank the fates for fools, she revealed, wondering if she might die of delight.
A chuckle vibrated his chest while an inflaming gaze lit his eyes. He lowered his mouth to hers. Lightly, he nuckered the moist, soft sides of her lower and upper lips. Her mouth relaxed. She felt his tongue slip into her mouth, past pearl teeth. Slowly, he ran its tip across the roof of her mouth and licked the satiny folds of her inner cheek.
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