Her breathing deepened. Her lips moved under his with the desperateness of her need for his love and his protection. She leaned into his body, absorbing the hard structure of his hips, all of her clinging to his strength and presence. When his lips drew away, she pressed her cheek against his broad chest and held him close.
She would have been content to spend the rest of her days in that embrace, but his attention suddenly shifted.
“There is a curragh approaching,” he said, turning her away from him and to the sea. “It’s running contrary to both tide and wind.”
“Who could it be?” She squinted.
“It’s hard to tell in this light. But I will guess ’tis my father, the sea king. Only he could sail his Wave Sweeper so against the elements.”
The sail dropped and yet no oars hit the water, but still the curragh came on, beaching itself with the scrap of hardened timbers.
In the twilight, Eithne could see it was a small boat, but ornately carved with lines of blue fire that splayed out from the dolphin figurehead. Three figures disembarked and began moving up the beach. Single file they began climbing a cliff path.
“Aye,” said Bron, an expectant light in his eyes. “’Tis father, his man, Drunn, and the Lady Niamh. Let us meet them.”
His hand at her waist, Bron pressed Eithne forward. Reluctantly, she moved in step with him. The wind seemed cooler and she drew her cloak closely around her. Slowly the trio made their way up the hill.
“Arrah! Manannan mac Llyr,” he shouted out as they approached. Then he was in a full arm embrace with his father. Eithne remained reserved. In the graying light she met the kindly gaze of the Lady Niamh.
She was young, maybe younger than Eithne herself. Her face was thin, with eyes more gray than green and hair nearing the golden shades of sunrise. When Bron moved from his father to embrace Niamh, Eithne felt uneasy with possessiveness. She begrudged the other women in Bron’s life. Surely, they all loved and wanted him as she did…and she was in no mind to share.
The man, Drunn, received a slap upon the back from Bron and a great flashing smile. Eithne noticed that Bron’s cape discreetly covered his sword arm through the greetings.
“I would have you meet my Lady Eithne,” said Bron, stepping back to include her.
That he had spoken “my” rather than “the” Lady Eithne before her name put to rest some of Eithne’s apprehensions, but not all. How long would she be his lady? The sea king did not appear as though he would relish a gaggle of swanlings to bounce upon his knee as his grandchildren.
He was appraising her…even as she took his measure. The fading light shadowed the lines of his noble features and danced from the gold work of the royal circlet that held his long black hair.
“Lady Eithne.” He bowed, ever so slightly. Beside him, the Lady Niamh curtsied gracefully. Out of insolence, Eithne had refused to participate in the false courtly graces of Rath Morna…so she knew not what to do. Should she curtsy or bow? Should she speak a proclamation of fealty to this king? She knew not…so she did naught, but give a slight nod of her head.
“Come, then,” said Bron putting his arm around her waist. “A gale is brewing. Let us seek shelter.”
The sea king was standing with his back to the fire. Bron had hooked his foot around a stool and pulled it over to the hearth. Eithne slipped off her cape and began pouring up hot cups of tea. She knelt down beside Bron and with tongs snatched up buttery scones from the pan to serve to the others. Bron had not taken off his cape and was careful to move discreetly about, never exposing his sword arm to full view.
The Lady Niamh sat shyly upon the edge of the bed. The man, Drunn, seated himself on the hearth rug and scratched the old dog’s ears.
“So!” began the sea king. “I believed you as good as dead, after Carrowmore. ’Twas rumored the Fomorians captured you as they fled the field.”
Eithne offered him a mug of tea. He took deep gulps and set the cup aside, continuing, “Two days ago, I was fishing and that merhag Sarenn popped her head up out of the sea and told me you had returned to Tir nan Og. I came to see for myself.”
“And so you’ve seen,” said Bron quietly.
Eithne stole a glance at Bron’s face. It was immutable. He could not forever hide his deformity from his father. When would he speak the truth?
“Why did you not send word to me?” asked the sea king.
She saw the slight gather of tension in Bron’s well-formed shoulders. Suddenly, he stood up. He threw his cloak to one side, held up the nub of his sword arm, and faced his father.
For long moments the room was so silent Eithne could hear the flames eating away at the dried peat. Her heart ached for him.
The sea king stood with arms folded, his eye steady on his son as if he did not see his handless arm.
Then Bron himself broke the silence. “I was as good as dead without my sword hand.”
The sea king uttered an oath that startled even Lady Niamh on the bedside. “Arrah! By all the gods of earth and sea, you are a fool to think it! A man is not a hand or foot.” He stepped forward and drew Bron into the large oval of his arms. In an unrestrained show of tenderness and love, he cried aloud, “You live, my son. You live!”
The moment became a time of renewing bonds, and then for smiling. When Bron released his father they were both smiling.
“Let us eat and rejoice in the living,” said the sea king. His gaze shifted to Eithne and she hastily lowered her eyes and released the breath she was holding in one full sigh. “Spread the table, milady, we will feast.”
“I’m not so sure that scones and tea are much of a feast, Milord Mac Llyr,” she openly declared.
“Aye, then, see yonder.” He pointed. The man, Drunn, began to unwrap a bundle he’d carried up from the curragh. A great silvery- and black-finned fish was revealed. “Niamh, put it on the fire spit.”
Niamh jumped up and was at it faster than Eithne thought possible. Soon, the smell of roasting fish filled the croft. In no time at all the four sat themselves around the table and set their appetites to scones and succulent sweet roasted white fish.
During the meal there was hardly a word of conversation. Often, Eithne looked to Bron and found assurance in his gaze. His demeanor had lightened. How could he have believed his father and clansmen would shun him? His father loved him. There was no mistaking it. Manannan mac Llyr held all the qualities that she wished for in her own father. He radiated power and patience, strength and tenderness. She sensed no avarice in him.
Later, after eating, while Bron, Drunn, and the sea king spoke of the battle of Carrowmore, Eithne sat with Niamh before the hearth roasting hazelnuts.
“’Tis my place to say that you may encounter the Fomorians sooner than you had wished.”
Overhearing Bron speak this, Eithne turned to the three men who still sat at the table.
Drunn shrugged. “I would welcome the opportunity.”
The sea king was less enthused. “Why say you this?” The firelight painted his concerned thin features in sharp angles and planes.
Bron caught the gravity in Manannan’s eye and clarified. “For want of greater power, my Lady Eithne’s father, the sorcerer Sheelin, may now be forming an alliance with the Fomorians.”
“How would that involve the sea clans?” asked Manannan, looking at Bron.
“His object is to invade the land of Myr.”
“Arrah!” breathed Manannan. “I did not think that possible. In Myr dwell the swan sister clans who hold the last vestige of old earth and the powers of transformation. How could he, a man, invade Myr?”
“Through the power of the singer’s voice that he even now usurps from his own daughter, Eithne.”
Manannan’s gaze riveted to Eithne. She quickly lowered her own under the sheer shock of his surprise. She thought, now he knows his son loves a woman not of his kith. He will surely despise me. Stealing a glance at Niamh’s impassive face, she wondered how this news would be taken by her and the others of
their clan.
She listened as Bron’s soft words further enlightened the sea king. “Eithne’s mother is Ketha, the swan sister and healer. Sheelin has kept her imprisoned for many years. Now Ketha is free and has returned to Myr, but Eithne cannot. If Eithne enters Myr it will enable Sheelin with his Unseelie Court to follow. Even now, he drains her essence and attempts to take upon himself her singer’s voice.”
The sea king scratched his chin with irritation. “I will not ask how you became the lady’s champion, but you must answer true whatever I ask.”
“I will,” pledged Bron.
“How do you know the sorcerer is coming here?”
“Eithne dreamed so,” replied Bron, his eyes unwavering from his father.
“Arrah,” he muttered gravely. “On first tide, Drunn and I will take word to our other clansmen to gather here at Tir nan Og.” He shifted upon his seat and turned his attention toward the Lady Niamh. “How soon, Niamh? How long do we have to prepare?”
Remaining motionless herself, Eithne’s gaze went to Niamh. She seemed more the pixie than the seeress as she chewed on the roasted mush of a hazelnut. “Not long. The rising gale is the portent.”
The sea king met eyes with Eithne and spoke pointedly. “I swear by my sword, the Answerer, Lady Eithne, to protect you from all harm. It will strike in your defense and shield you from all blows. Your enemies are now mine and my clan’s.”
“Thank you, milord,” breathed Eithne in a most grateful voice. She looked to Bron but his own gaze was locked upon his maimed sword arm. Her heart sank, knowing that he was cursing the fates that brought his father and not him to stand as her defender.
The sea king turned back to Bron and Drunn. Eithne listened as during the passing hour, in low voices, they conspired in plan making.
It was very warm before the fire. She wiped her brow and with tongs snatched out the smoking hazelnuts off the nest of peat. Once there was a loud pop and a nut jumped out of the fire onto the hearth.
Niamh giggled. “At home we put two nuts side by side in the fire and if they remain where you put them that means you and your lover will never be parted. Shall I do it for you?”
Eithne felt uneasy with such divinations…because they never worked in her favor. Before she could protest, Niamh had in hand two hazelnuts and set them together on the smoldering peat.
A little anxious, she watched the pair of nuts roast quietly. She started when she felt the sudden touch of Bron’s hand upon her shoulder.
He chuckled. “Why are you staring so intently into the fire?”
“We are seeing if she and her lover will ever be parted,” volunteered Niamh.
“’Tis no question to ask a pair of nuts,” said Bron, a touch of scolding in his voice. Amidst Niamh’s protests, and with a quick twitch of the tongs, he had the nuts out of the fire and on the gray stone hearth. He picked up one nut and gave it to Eithne with the request “Will you peel it for me?”
She watched him smile and felt relief. She did not want to know the future between them either. “Aye, milord.”
She peeled it and tossed the black bits into the fire. With her fingers, she offered the hot sweet mealiness of the nut to his lips. His tongue tip brushed her fingers pads teasingly, before his teeth bit into the nut meat.
He chewed, swallowed, and said, “More.”
“Well,” said Niamh lightly. “I see you have already found the advantage in being a one-handed man.”
Eithne turned hastily to Bron to see if her remark caused offense. His features remained softened with tolerance.
He sighed forlornly. “Believe me, my sister, when I say there is no advantage.”
Looking from Bron to Niamh, Eithne’s vision expanded and she saw clearly the kinship between the two. She should have realized it sooner…that Niamh was his younger sister. There was no point in being jealous of his sister. The part of her who always wished for a true friend of her own, and had no one but Gibbers, relaxed and warmed to Niamh.
“I myself am ready for sleep,” the sea king said, rising to his feet. “Niamh, you share the bed with Lady Eithne. The three of us will sleep in the stable.”
Drunn stood as well. Eithne exchanged a disappointed glance with Bron. She did not want to spend even a single night out of his arms. He must have read the message of her eyes and clearly felt the longing of her heart.
“’Tis but one night, milady,” he whispered to her ear. He kissed her cheek and then came to his feet. “I’ll be but a shout away…through the connecting wall with the stable.” It seemed she might melt under the compassion of his eyes. His parting smile was an endearment.
“Deep peace to you,” said the sea king as he led the other two men out into the dark night.
A cold gust touched Eithne’s neck as the door shut.
“Aye, a fierce gale is brewing,” said Niamh, stepping to secure the door more tightly. “Put more peat on the fire and let’s be to bed.”
When Eithne pulled back the blankets to crawl into the bed, Niamh was still sitting on the edge combing out her hair. “Can I do that for you?” asked Eithne, surprising herself. Her hair was so beautiful.
The lamplight reflected over the smooth curve of Niamh’s narrow shoulder, leaving her face in shadow. “Aye, you can…and thank you. I am called Niamh of the Golden Hair. ’Tis my pride.”
Niamh gave her the comb.
Outside, the wind moaned like a lonely and frightened child. Something loose tapped and scraped against the door as if a lost soul begged safe haven in the wildness of the stormy night. The old sheepdog lifted his head and growled halfheartedly at the door and then returned to dozing.
“There are many likenesses between you and your brother, Bron,” began Eithne carefully.
“True, but we have different mothers. I am much younger than he. Did he tell you of us?”
“No,” said Eithne.
“I suspected it. He is close-mouthed in some ways. Do you love him?”
“Aye,” Eithne said plainly, continuing to comb through the silky tangles of her hair.
“You must know you are not alone in loving him.”
“Aye,” relinquished Eithne with resignation.
“Yet, you are the first he has called ‘his lady.’ I think that is significant. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to think. He is your brother and you know him well.” She felt a little defeated by Niamh’s insights.
“True, but not well enough. How does he compare to the other men you have loved?”
Eithne smiled to herself. There was something humorous about Niamh’s questions. No doubt she was a clever girl. She felt quite inexperienced in comparison. She could not compare Bron to other men because there had been none…except those her father had beheaded. She would not tell this to Niamh.
“He is the first man I have ever loved,” she confessed honestly. “I’m not so experienced as he in loving.”
“You need not be.” Niamh turned about and sat with her arms clasped around her knees. Putting the comb aside, Eithne pulled back the blankets and crawled under them. Her mind was brimming with more questions.
“Why do you say that?”
“I say it because I know it.” Niamh slipped under the blankets beside Eithne. “Men like to be all-knowing in matters of love. If you are more knowledgeable it is to your discredit.”
“Why?”
“I have wondered that very thing myself.”
“And?” prompted Eithne.
“And I don’t know why. ’Tis the way of things.”
Snuggling under the covers, Eithne said, “You know what I think? I think no one knows anything about love. They just pretend to. Bron tells me everyone seeks true love but they never find it. He says, ‘The secret is to love more than to fear.’”
Niamh raised herself on one elbow and asked Eithne, “He told you that?”
“Aye.”
“I must say ’tis very wise. I did not know my brother to be so wise.”
&nbs
p; “Aye.” Eithne smiled cannily. “The world can be full of surprises.”
Their eyes met in a mutual exchange of amusement. Then Niamh fell back onto her pillow and her ringing laughter mingled with the whistling of the wind.
Chapter 13
Eithne’s sleep was full of nightmares. A part of her knew she dreamed, but that was no consolation as she lay in the paralysis of fear’s phantoms. She woke often, finding comfort in the faint flicker of flame spreading outward from the hearth and the steady breathing of Niamh beside her. Outside, the wind moaned and whispered like the ghosts of her dreams. Her eyelids felt heavy. She was afraid to close them because as soon as she did the frightening images of her dreams returned.
In the gray light of morning she roused from the dark clouds of a fitful sleep. She heard a tapping at the door.
“Musha! ’Tisss cold asss cursesss,” came a faint, hissing voice.
“Who’s there?” grumbled Niamh as she stirred beside Eithne in the bed and shushed the old sheepdog’s growling.
Eithne knew that voice and temper anywhere. “Pay no heed. ’Tis,” and then she had to swallow hard for her voice was as weak as a wisp. “’Tis Gibbers,” she at last managed. Her arms and legs felt heavy as if she had never slept at all.
“And who is Gibbers?”
“Open the door and peek at your own risk,” she rasped out. The inside of Eithne’s throat felt like fire. She wanted water…all the water in the world.
Niamh had climbed from the bed and was stepping across the room to unlatch the door.
Eithne felt the gush of cold and threw off her covers to expose herself to its cool caress. Why was she so hot? The air seemed stifling.
“Begorrah and begobs! ’Tis a fine time to be commin’. Ye kape me out here the night through, an me feet al’ froze.”
So it hadn’t been just the wind blowing the night past, realized Eithne. It had been Gibbers outside the croft moaning to come in. She faced the wall and wished he would disappear in the bogs.
Swan Witch Page 14
