White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  Glancing at her toes, she nodded to herself, and returned inside her tent to wait for the inevitable confrontation. She must be strong and make Boyden believe she no longer desired him. If Amergin ever suspected Boyden had killed his favored captain, she dared not think of the consequences.

  She ate little of what the guards brought her and set the bowl aside. Sitting cross-legged in the trampled grass of her tent, she decided to wait. Patience was not her usual course of action, but it would be this day. The temperature was comfortable, not too hot or too cold. She did not mark the passing of time for it went too quickly to suit her. By late afternoon, the two guards posted outside spoke of an agreement reached.

  She leaned forward and listened to their conversation …

  The Milesians would rule the above while the Tuatha ruled the below and what land remained untouched by invasion.

  Scota released a sigh of relief.

  As long as it ended the blood spill, she cared little for who ruled which hill and loch. Closing her eyes, she strived for inner calm.

  He would come to her soon.

  She must be ready.

  Lifting the flap of brown cloth, Boyden stepped inside Scota’s small tent with a frown. He thought a princess would demand better accommodations.

  “Why are there guards posted outside?” he inquired, seeing her meager surroundings of two blue blankets for a bed and three spent candles.

  She rose gracefully to her feet, a warrior cast in dimness, and turned to him. He hardly recognized her. Gone was the vitality he so admired, and in its wake stood a pale and lost creature.

  “How did you get in?” she asked.

  He pointed to the entranceway covered by the flap of cloth.

  “The guards allowed you to pass?”

  His brows drew together. “Why would they not?” This was not the return welcome he expected. He studied her, feeling the sharp bite of her coldness.

  His warrior wore her black hair in plaits, pulled away from a face masked with stillness. A brown tunic and breeches hung about her frame, giving her a thinner appearance than he remembered.

  “Have the leaders come to an agreement?” she asked with a clear voice. “Is it over?”

  “Aye,” he replied, giving her a steady look. “Neither liked what the other one said, but they agreed. Your people are to hold the land they conquered, a concession we made. My people are to hold what remains, a concession Lord Amergin made.”

  “Including the faery realm below?” she asked thoughtfully.

  He was deliberately slow in responding, trying to understand her. “Including the fey realm below,” he answered. “The High King of the Faeries will be most pleased that he willna have to kill your people.” He smiled gently.

  She did not smile back, her gaze instead shifting away. “Amergin does not comprehend the mystery and riches that reside in the fey realm.”

  “Methinks he understands well enough, Scota. He chooses to ignore it, at least for now. We would never give up the fey realm, Scota. It belongs only to us and our brethren.”

  “I am glad, Boyden.” She glanced back at him, something strange and terrible living within her eyes.

  He moved to take her in his arms, and she stepped violently away, turning her back to him.

  “Since you left, I have thought much about us and changed my mind about many things,” she spoke quickly, filling the air with her rejection.

  He stared at the back of her head. He had thought about them, as well, and wanted her in his life despite all that came before. Given his blood ancestry, forgiveness came exceedingly hard for him, especially when combined with thoughts of betrayal. However, a life without her proved inconceivable to him.

  “What things?” he responded ruthlessly.

  “My people need me to guide them in the times ahead,” she explained with a normal-sounding voice and faced him once again. “You told me you would stay with me until the babe is born. There is no need, Boyden. I will send the babe to you upon its birth. I do not want it.”

  His features grew hard from hurt.

  “I do not want the babe,” she reiterated, a forcing of belief. “We come from two different lands,” she continued stiffly, looking past him. “I feel it is better this way, Boyden.”

  “You little liar,” he accused softly. “I am not deceived. State your true reasons. You have never been one to give up without a fight. Doona play submissive maiden with me, my warrior.”

  She came at him with a ferociousness he never expected.

  Plowing into him with a hard smack, she flattened her hands against his chest and attempted to shove him out the tent.

  “Get out!”

  He would not be shoved until she gave him the truth. Leaning into her, he planted his feet, refusing to budge, using his superior strength and weight.

  “Get out!” she choked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Grabbing her wrists, he yanked her arms wide, unbalancing her. A horse whinny sounded somewhere outside, adding a sense of normalcy where there was none. It stunned him to see her undone like this.

  Her knee came up swiftly, and he barely avoided being brought down.

  She fought him, cursing and hissing like a trapped and injured animal. A frustrated screech rent the air.

  “Scota, you had better tell me what is going on,” he growled back. He flipped her around, his chest pressing into her back, trying hard not to hurt her. An elbow slammed into his ribs and he doubled over in pain. With a swift kick, she took out his legs from under him, and he fell backward with a loud thump, his body hitting hard ground.

  Slightly dazed, he felt her climb on top of him. Small hands pressed against his chest, strong thighs locked around his hips.

  Holding his palms up in surrender, he waited, yielding to her unexplained rage.

  She was shaking all over and breathing in rapid bursts.

  He was afraid if he moved she might break in two.

  Slowly, his hand moved up her left arm. “Tell me what upsets you, Scota.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, a strangled moan escaping into an unending silence.

  She shook her head despondently, black plaits falling to his chest. He watched a single tear trail down a flushed cheek and felt it plop on his throat.

  “Scota.” He pulled her down, cupping silken temples, feathering kisses across her eyes, cheek, and chin, tasting the salt of her grief. “What is wrong, my warrior?” Her breath was warm with remembered sweetness, and he captured her mouth. She made a queer sound in her throat and rocked against him. He could not restrain himself and drank of her, taking her air into his body, and offering his own.

  Scota clung to him in trembling misery and desire. He tasted of life and dreams she would never experience again. Her one remaining joy was her babe. The child would grow up in its father’s world, a land of mysterious beauty and enchantment. In her heart, she silently wished for a son to be born as valiant and golden as the father.

  Abruptly his body tensed below hers, warm lips stilling in their passion.

  A male-sized shadow fell across her, and she pushed sharply off Boyden, nearly knocking the thick candles over with her foot.

  “I see he can be submissive when he chooses to be,” Lord Amergin noted tonelessly, standing just inside the tent.

  Boyden climbed slowly to his feet and glanced over his shoulder at Scota. She stood staring at the ground, blinking hard. What hold does he have over her? he wondered.

  “Your chieftain awaits you outside, Wind Herald.”

  He nodded, but did not move.

  “The princess wishes to remain with her people. Did she not tell you?” the druidic bard inquired.

  “Aye, she lies poorly.”

  The Milesian leader folded his arms across his chest. “Do you think so?”

  “You doona know her,” Boyden said with a voice of open challenge.

  “Indeed.” A brow arched with disdain. “I know she protects you, Wind Herald.”

  “No, A
mergin,” his lovely and troubled mate disputed. “It is as I answered you.”

  Boyden looked back at her, questioning. “What did you say to him?”

  “I asked her who killed Captain Rigoberto,” Lord Amergin answered for her.

  “I did,” she exclaimed, her jaw working. “Please have him leave, Amergin. I grow weary of his presence.”

  Amergin replied with a mocking tone, “You did not look weary a moment before while you thrust your tongue down his throat, Princess.”

  “Amergin, I accepted your judgment without protest, please let him leave.”

  Boyden looked at her in astonishment and growing anger. Never had he heard his warrior princess beg, never saw her near to breaking. It enraged him, and he faced the leader.

  “I took the sniveling coward’s life,” he growled low and brutal. “He threatened what was mine.”

  The Milesian leader unfolded his arms, his lips thinning with anger.

  “He lies!” Scota cried, stepping in front of Boyden. “I killed Rigoberto, Amergin.”

  The leader looked at both of them, his face unreadable. “Guards,” Amergin called over his shoulder. The two men posted outside entered the tent. Each gripped a sword in readiness. “Bring Captain Rigoberto’s men to me.”

  The guards nodded and ducked out of the tent, first one, followed by the other, to do their leader’s bidding.

  “Outside, the both of you,” Lord Amergin commanded, uncharacteristically turning his back and leaving the tent.

  The instant the leader left, Scota felt large calloused hands cup her face. She looked up and said sharply, “You made a mess of it.”

  “Obviously.”

  He kissed her fast and fierce, a terrible instant of dread clutching at her heart before she burrowed into him. Worse his kisses made her feel, until she could no longer breathe, and pushed forcefully against his chest, seeking her freedom. She turned to dart outside, and his hand locked around her wrist.

  Breathing heavily, she turned back to him.

  He looked at her, golden shards glittering with dark amethyst fire, a faint scowl creasing his handsome brow.

  “We face whatever this is together, my warrior.”

  No, she thought wildly.

  He pulled her firmly to his side and guided her out of the tent into a fading afternoon lit by fire.

  Choking back an objection, Scota swallowed down turbulent emotions and let him lead. She doubted she could free her hand even if she wished it. Joined by four more guards, they were escorted to the camp’s center fire circle, a bonfire of orange flames and raging light. Her mind raced for a solution.

  “The fire god senses blood letting,” Boyden murmured, skimming the faces of the gathering men. Some men stood only in breeches; others were fully armed with sword and shield. He felt their vehemence, but also their curiosity.

  “Your chieftain stands there,” Scota said softly and Boyden looked to his right.

  Several paces away, Lord Amergin spoke in confidence with the chieftain. Surrounded by tribal elders and several other tribal kings, the Dark Chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Danann nodded, and Boyden knew the two leaders had agreed to his fate.

  Whatever deemed, he mused. He would protect Scota in spite of herself.

  “You were foolish to lie to him, my warrior,” he admonished her, seeing the turbulent emotions below the surface.

  Her cheeks flushed the color of a summer rose and her chin lifted. “My intention was to kill the coward, therefore it is not a lie.”

  He did not answer, attempting to follow her reasoning.

  “Besides, I was trying to protect you, you big oaf. You are …”

  “… devoted to me?” he finished for her.

  She hissed between her teeth, not even looking at him.

  He was glad to see the return of her feisty spirit and could not help the twitch of a smile.

  She swore at him beneath her breath, words he never heard before.

  They stood on hard ground, the low clouds of an incoming storm shutting out the growing brilliance of the stars. The tops of the trees swayed with the wind, leaves gesturing wildly to the call of the moving air. He lifted his gaze and felt the Gaoth Shee waiting in the shadows beyond the fire, a silvering of the air.

  “The lethal wind waits near, Boyden.”

  “Aye, I feel her.” He glanced at his mate. Like him, Scota was now attuned to the wind. His fiery mate was linked to the ancient darkest sister of the winds, as he was, a link never to be broken, a link already forming with the growing babe in her womb. His babe, he thought, fiercely defensive of them both.

  All Scota could think about was protecting Boyden. She knew Amergin, knew his swift justice would not be stayed. She had nine months to convince him to spare her life, nine months before the babe entered the world. Now the blessed end was coming, and she could do nothing to stop it.

  Amergin returned to her side. Moments later, the three spineless warriors of the captain were brought before them, one with a beard, one slender, and one broad. All had faces flushed red with mead and whoring. They smirked at her, confident of their place. These were the men who filled the Milesian leader’s head with untruths about her.

  “I am told the Wind Herald never lies,” Lord Amergin addressed his people loudly, “therefore he is removed from my judgment.”

  Two guards grabbed Boyden by the arms and pulled him roughly from her side.

  Scota did not move or offer objection. She knew what was to come and prepared herself.

  “Except for our guests, all here know of my rules.” Lord Amergin locked his hands behind him. “I do not tolerate deceit among my warriors. These three men told me Princess Scota killed Captain Rigoberto out of spite.” He lifted his head higher. “When confronted, Princess Scota agreed with them, though I suspected differently. She accepted my judgment meekly, which immediately told me she protected another.” He glanced at her. “As we all know, Princess Scota is never meek.”

  To her right, someone snickered with agreement.

  “Amergin,” Scota started to dissent, and he held his hand up to silence her.

  “Except around the Wind Herald, it seems. He has somehow managed to tame her.”

  Scota flushed apple red and chanced a glance over her shoulder.

  Barely contained between three guardsmen, the Wind Herald burned silently with fury while treetops bowed to stronger winds.

  “These three warriors lied out of spite and vengeance,” Lord Amergin continued and one of the so-called warriors blinked bloodshot eyes at her. “I believe this as their tongues have grown loose with mead and feelings of false security. Reports came to me even before these three arrived in my camp. Captain Rigoberto left his post to pursue a yellow-haired enemy warrior, one he believed to be fey born, and one he believed would lead him to a great fey treasure. Is that not right, Wind Herald?”

  “Aye,” Boyden growled his response behind her.

  “You are that enemy warrior, Wind Herald?”

  “Aye,” came the angry response again.

  Lord Amergin nodded, and the three men before her shifted uneasily, understanding slowly rising above their inebriation.

  “Captain Rigoberto attacked Princess Scota to get to the Wind Herald. Is that not so, Princess?”

  “Yes,” she replied. Out of the corner of her eye, a guardsman with a mass of red hair approached. In his hand, he held the hilt of an unsheathed sword.

  “At first, I did not understand why one of my captains would attack one of my emissaries. I understand now. Princess Scota lied to me to protect her mate, the warrior we have come to know as the Wind Herald.”

  “Amergin,” Scota protested.

  He ignored her. “Since truce is struck this eve with the Tuatha Dé Danann tribe, I will not pose judgment on a misguided loyalty. Quiet, Princess. I am not done.” The druidic bard looked over his shoulder and addressed his firm command to the guards. “Hold the Wind Herald. He is not to interfere.”

  Scota did no
t turn around to the sounds of the scuffle behind her, but focused inward. Flexing her arms to ease the tension in her shoulders, she stood ready for combat. Quickness, she knew, would be her only chance for victory.

  “Since all lied to me, I deem the fates to decide judgment.”

  The guardsman with the red hair tossed her the sword.

  Scota caught the bronze hilt easily. She swept into the glow of the fire, the blade in perfect balance, an extension of her arm.

  Encumbered by mead, the men were slow and clumsy in reaching for their swords and responding to her attack. One even dropped his weapon. She chose him to be the first to fall and sliced open his neck without malice, then dropped and rolled. There was no room for vengeance here, only survival. Swinging her sword in a low arc, she clipped the back of another’s leg. Cursing, the bearded man fell sideways toward her. Avoiding his flailing arms, she jumped to her feet. With two hands gripping the sword’s hilt, she swung hard, lopping off his head, and spun to meet the threatening blade of the third.

  Less encumbered by mead than the other two, the broad warrior proved more of a challenge. His weight and strength nearly triple hers, she knew she could not meet him face-to-face and win. The mead made him sluggish, but filled him greatly with temper. She took advantage, dancing around him as if wings sprouted from her back. He was a slow goat trying to catch a graceful dragonfly. Redirecting the strength of his swipe with her weapon in a loud clash, she twirled, dropped to her knee, and thrust the blade of her sword upward and into his chest. Breathing heavily, she let go of the sword’s hilt and stepped back into the sounds of crackling flames.

  The dying man staggered back and fell to his knees.

  As the last breath left him, she looked over her shoulder. Four guardsmen had Boyden pinned to the ground and were even now having trouble containing him.

  “Even in this moment you look to him instead of me.”

  Scota lifted her eyes and gazed into a face shadowed by orange light.

  “Yes, Amergin,” she said, feeling faintly regretful.

  “In this victory, you earned the right to live. I give you back your life, Princess Scota, but I can no longer trust your word. You lied to me.”