“Come, child. Just a few more steps.”
The images in the moonstone tantalized him, the phantoms in the steam captivated him, as in disbelief, he staggered closer. Faerie is burning? The Forest House is on fire? Horrified, in spite of his fear, he sidled to the rim and found he had to lean far over to peer into the depths of the brew. Steam swirled, and a foul odor rose up, engulfing him so that he turned his head to one side and saw the Hag, the round edge of a curved knife flashing red as her eyes.
His tail snaked out, pushed her aside, and he dodged, stumbled and fell. The moonstone was within his reach. Crystal smooth and crystal strong, make me fast and make me strong. He grabbed the moonstone, and the cauldron rocked on its base. The Hag shrieked. Timias ran.
The entire cavern quaked. Bits of lichen tumbled off the roof like falling stars into the green water where phosphorescent shapes roiled in the translucent depths. Boulders shuddered and heaved, and the stink of burning skin rose as the Hag grabbed for her cauldron and reached out for him. Timias heard the hiss but didn’t pause. He raced up and out of the chamber, his prize clutched close, her cries reverberating off the rocks.
The smell of cooking oats teased Morla out of sleep. She opened her eyes and lay for a moment, blinking up at the scattered stars twinkling in the purple sky above her, trying to remember where she was and why she was lying on what felt like a woolen blanket over a board. She remembered the goblins. She remembered random faces, both familiar and strange, through a fog of bone-burning pain. The pain, she thought, groping for her leg. The pain was mostly gone, replaced by a dull itch. She started up, realized she was inside a wagon. When and where and how long ago had she fallen asleep?
“Good evening.”
She turned her head to see Lochlan smiling at her as he stirred something in a black iron kettle. The kettle hung from a tripod over a rock-lined fire pit. Morla clung to the low sideboard and looked around, blinking and sniffing. She couldn’t remember oats ever smelling so good. “I’m starved.”
At that a smile stretched across his broad face and he let out a huge sigh. “That’s a good sign, thank the goddess. How’s your leg?”
“It itches worse than new wool.”
“Even better. Here, have a bowl of oats. I found some dried apples—not much but—”
She shoveled the oats into her mouth, gobbling spoonful after spoonful as fast as she could swallow them. When the bowl was empty, she licked the spoon and held out the bowl. “More?”
He filled the bowl to the brim, handed it back to her, then picked up his own. “I’m glad to see you eat.”
“I can’t believe I’m so hungry—it feels as if I haven’t eaten in a week.”
“Three days.”
She put the spoon down. “Three days?”
“You’ve been sleeping.”
“How much longer—?”
“We’ll be at Ardagh late tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
“I thought we were going to Deirdre?”
“You remember the woman who took us in? Grania? Between her map and what I know of these roads, Ardagh’s not much farther. Once I saw you were on the mend, I decided we’d make for Ardagh. What if we get to Deirdre, and find everyone’s packed up and gone to Ardagh? Why not just go there ourselves?”
“Where are we now?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest. I think this was an old grove that’s been abandoned. There’re stone walls over there—and pits that look like they were cellars, with stone pillars that were holding something up. And plenty of old wood to burn.”
Morla swallowed another bite, looking around nervously. Night was falling quickly; bats wheeled and screeched above their heads. She shivered. “Are you sure it’s safe here?”
He raised his spear, and in the fading twilight, she saw a shimmer along the blade as he indicated the edge. “I took the liberty, a few groves back, of taking a few bits of their silver and melting it down. So far, though, I’ve seen nothing, heard nothing of goblins at all.”
“You shouldn’t have taken the silver—they say the trixies’ll come after us.”
He shrugged. “I think all the trixies were asleep. So far nothing’s happened.” He ladled out a portion into another bowl, noticed her watching, and winked. “There’s more, here, don’t worry.” He paused. “Do you remember anything of the healing?”
She hesitated, her spoon poised above the food. She had the impression of horrible pain, a pain that seared all the way to the marrow of her bones, and his hands, those same hands he so lightly cupped around his own bowl, holding her, soothing her. “Not much.”
“That’s good,” he said. He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.
There was so much she wanted to ask, so much she wanted to know, but the nutty scent of the oats forced her to swallow her own portion as quickly as she could. For a while, the only sound was the scraping of their spoons against the inside of the bowls. The more she ate, the more she remembered, for it seemed that with every spoonful more and more memories fell into place. But the details of the healing, except for Lochlan’s hands wrapping the bindings that held her down, eluded her. From under her lashes, she glanced at him. He was looking at her, and she felt herself blush as their eyes met. To cover her discomfort, she blurted, “Bran’s in TirNa’lugh, don’t you think? He’s all right there, right?”
He looked startled, but replied, “We’ll know as soon as we find a druid, Morla, though it looks to me as if every druid in Brynhyvar has packed up and gone to Ardagh. That’s another reason I want to get there ahead of Meeve. I’d rather she not know we lost her boy.”
“You think she’ll notice he’s gone?”
“Morla, why’re you so angry at Meeve?”
Their eyes met and Morla felt herself flush. A breeze ruffled her hair, cooled her warm cheeks and she put down her spoon. “How much meal did you put in that pot?”
He looked at her as if he thought she’d taken leave of her senses, but he answered her. “A few handfuls, I suppose. Four or five. I wasn’t counting.”
“Look on the ground. Did you drop any?”
“I suppose I dropped a grain or two—what does it matter? What’s your point?”
“It matters a great deal if you’re watching the supply dwindle down to nothing, and you’re not sure where your next mouthful is coming from.”
“Morla, surely you understand that was all for the ambassador—”
“We were starving in Dalraida. We were counting grains, one by one, in some places. Children, old women—even young men in their prime—for they were the ones who did without first. Blight hit us hard.” It’s not about you, she wanted to say. “You know what I remember most about my homecoming?” He had the grace to look embarrassed as she continued. “The food in her antechamber—I guess it was for the three of you? I walked past that food and I knew it would’ve fed a family in Dalraida for a week.”
Lochlan was silent. “Why didn’t you send to Eaven Morna for help?” he asked at last.
“Of course, I did. And each time, nothing.” She paused, stared out over the darkening landscape. The sun was going down, the shadows were beginning to thicken. “I assumed times were hard all over Brynhyvar, I assumed Mother had enough mouths of her own to feed. After the third or fourth time, when nothing came, I stopped asking.”
“But—” Lochlan broke off with a puckered frown “—Meeve’s not like that—”
Morla shrugged. “What would you think, if you were me?”
Lochlan looked away. “I didn’t realize it was as hard for you as it was in Dalraida. When you were asleep, you dreamed, and you said things.”
Startled, Morla blinked. “I did? What did I say?”
“Nothing that made a lot of sense. But enough. You buried a lot of babies.” He looked uncomfortable. “This troubles me, Morla, for in truth, it’s not the way Meeve is. If she knew things were as bad as they were—”
“As they are. The only reason I agreed to go to Far Nearing was because she
swore she’d send grain. I had to come myself to get even a promise of help from her. What would you think? If you were me?” she demanded again.
Lochlan sighed. “I can’t tell you I’d think any differently, I suppose. But I can tell you that’s not how Meeve sees it. She’s well aware of how you’ve made her strong. Your mother’s built her peace because she knew she could count on the peace of Dalraida. She never fails to speak of you with anything but the highest regard.” He dipped his spoon into the oats.
“Words are easy to spend.” Morla put the bowl down. She wasn’t hungry anymore, but she wasn’t quite so angry, either. “But why didn’t Mother send help?”
Lochlan shook his head as he spooned down the last of his food. “I don’t know, Morla. All I know is, it isn’t her. Words may well be easy to spend, but a reputation’s not so easy to earn.”
“They didn’t even know me at the gates, Lochlan.”
“You’ve not been back in ten years,” he returned. “I wager they knew your name. How do you expect anyone to know you if you never come back?”
“I didn’t think there was anything to come back to.”
“Old Tamkin remembers you kindly.”
She laughed, despite the emotions now swirling through her and felt tears spring to her eyes. “Old Tamkin hasn’t remembered breakfast in twenty years.” Their eyes met and she laughed out loud, as the tears spilled down her cheeks. She wanted to believe him, she wanted to think that the message had never been delivered, even though she knew better.
Lochlan set his bowl down. He hesitated just a moment and then stood up. “Let me have a look at your leg?”
Morla hesitated. Her last memories of the wound were of something black and festering. But beneath the loose linen bandage, all it did was itch. “All right.” She placed her own bowl to one side, then pushed aside the blanket. Her linen under-tunic was slit almost to her hip. Gingerly, she peeled back the bandage, and gasped. In the purplish twilight, her skin was very white and very smooth, marred only by the puckered red line. “Great Mother, look at that.” She looked up at him. “You were right.”
He took a step back in mock disbelief. “Where’s the druid to work the date?” He looked up at the sky. “Did you hear that, Mother? Did you hear that, Herne? She said I was right.”
“Stop that,” Morla said, swatting at him. “What’s got into you?”
“Maybe I’m glad you’re on the mend. We got the silver in it just in time.”
Their eyes met again and she felt an almost audible, tangible sense of connection. If only he hadn’t disappeared after Beltane, she thought. They might’ve talked about it, come to terms with it. She remembered the humiliation of asking for him, more than once, in the practice yards and among the other young men. At first she’d gotten shrugs, and then sympathetic looks that reeked of pity. The wound began to itch, distracting her. She flexed her hands into fists.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.
“It’s hard not to scratch.”
He gestured over his shoulder. “There’s a spring over there—looks like another healing well. You want to try it? Might help the itch.” He unlocked the latch that held the side of the wagon in place, then held out his hand. “Come on. A bath’ll do you good. I’ve even got soapweed. That hair of yours looks like a rat’s nest.”
“A bath will do us both good,” she snapped without thinking. “You reek like a cess-boy.”
“Such thanks,” he replied. “Come on, then.”
She swung her legs over the side, and the ground tilted up to meet her as the world spun, a crazy kaleidoscope of black trunks and pebble-strewn grass. She clutched the side of the wagon, hanging on to the wooden planks. “I’m not sure I can walk,” she managed.
Without a word he picked her up. She tensed, but her body had other ideas. With every step he took, she felt herself relax a little more. More was coming back to her, too—the gentleness with which he’d tended her, the truth of what had really happened after Beltane. It didn’t matter how she felt about him, she realized with a pang. He was Meeve’s. He wasn’t just a lad fresh from prenticing, on his way to seek his place in the world. He was Sir Lochlan of Eaven Morna, the First Knight of all of Brynhyvar. If she had a part in her mother’s peace, so did he. And only a consort or a king outranked him. It wasn’t Beltane that changed it all between them. It was Meeve.
He set her gently down beside the spring. It bubbled up between the rocks into a moss-lined pool. She turned to face him and her breath stopped in her throat as their eyes met. The shadows were deeper now, the sky above them lilac pink, and the first stars flickered in the east. They were less than a handspan apart, she thought in some rational corner of her mind. Then his mouth came down on hers and she had no more rational thoughts.
He gathered her in his arms and through the linen of his shirt, she was sure she could feel his heart pounding against her breasts. The world tilted and spun again and she closed her eyes, giving herself up to his kiss for just a second, until the more rational, logical side intruded like a splash of icy water. She turned her head and pushed away. “Morla—” he began.
“Why’d you have nothing to do with me after Beltane?” The words burst out of her like runaway horses.
For a long moment he stared at her. “I was sent away. Didn’t they tell you?”
“I asked after you—no one seemed to know. All I got were shrugs and looks. And pity that made me feel like a moon-mazed calf.”
He reached for her hand, brought it to his lips, and the kiss he pressed into the palm seared her flesh and made her nipples hard. “I should’ve known—” He broke off and turned away.
“Tell me, Lochlan. Who sent you away? Why?” The warm water eased the itch, and now, tension was filling her body, tension from long-denied need.
“Meeve, I suppose, though I didn’t realize it at the time. It was only later—when I came back and they told me you’d gone to Dalraida to be married that I realized what I’d done—”
“What you’d done?”
“I told your mother how I felt about you.” He gave a little sigh, a little snort. “That’s how young I was, how full of myself that Great Meeve herself had chosen me for Beltane-god. She found me acceptable as a god, I thought she’d find me acceptable as her son—at least for a year and a day—until you tired of me.”
I wouldn’t tire of you, she thought, not quite sure she was hearing correctly. “So what did she say?”
“Nothing then, of course. She kissed me and we went at it some more. And then…” He sighed and squared his shoulders. “The next morning I was called to see my company chief. He told me I’d been selected by the queen to perform a great service for her, and I was sent off to Humbria with a message of some kind. By the time I got back, you were gone to Dalraida, to be married, they said.”
“But…” She stared at him through the drifting steam. The summer twilight was deepening, the shadows turning purple. Crickets sang. “But, why didn’t you tell me—”
“How?” he asked, almost savagely. “What was I to do? Ride to Dalraida and congratulate the groom? That was no Beltane marriage you made with him, Morla—it was sealed in blood and silver. And my chief made it clear the only reason I wasn’t dead was because you knew nothing. That’s when I learned you don’t get in the way of Meeve’s plans.”
“She still has plans, Lochlan.” Morla shifted, suddenly uneasy. Was this part of it? Meeve knew Lochlan’s feelings all those years ago—now that Meeve was dying, was this her idea of how to make some sort of amends? She pulled her hand free. “She still has plans and we’re still part of it.”
“Don’t you understand what I’m telling you, Morla? I love you. I loved you then. I love you now. I realized it when you were sick—when I thought you would die before I found a druid, and I thought I’d lose you before I could tell you, I…” He broke off, shaking his head, and stared out into the dark wood, where the dim glow of the fire pit provided the only beacon. He cupped her fac
e in his big hand. “We’ll go to Ardagh. We’ll find Bran. And then at MidSummer, I’ll ask Meeve to release me. After she hears about Bran, she may do that anyway. And then—” He broke off. A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “And then that depends on you.” He looked down, looked uncomfortable as only a man in the presence of a woman he wished to bed ever did. “What happens next depends on you.”
The air was still—the only sound was the bubbling water, the beating of her pulse. She was shaking. “I thought you…” She shut her eyes. I can’t remember what I thought. All I remember is one moment my mother led you from the hall, and I never saw you again.
“Think about it.” Lochlan got to his feet, and from a pouch in his belt, withdrew a packet of soapweed. As she twisted around, disappointed, he bent and pressed the packet in her palm, and a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’ll go tend the fire—you’re in no state for this.”
“No—” She held out her hand. “Don’t—don’t go.”
“You should get in the water and have a proper bath.” Standing, he was so tall, his voice seemed to drift down. “And I’m not sure I can be that close to you without your clothes and not touch you.”
“Touch me. All over.” She ran one hand down the front of his thigh, and she heard him groan.
He dropped to his knees and was beside her in the water before she had time to blink. He swept her up and she wrapped her arms around his sweaty, gritty neck, then pulled his face to hers. Their mouths came together. She twined her fingers in his hair, clung to him, feeling like the starving villagers of Dalraida suddenly set before a feast. Every sense was filled—she was enveloped by his scent and strength, his taste and touch and feel. She arched against him as his hand went up her back, rolling her tunic up and over her head.
“Anyone there?”
They both jumped. It was Meeve’s voice that cut through the purple shadows, and as Morla gasped, her mother, followed by at least a dozen of the Fiachna and a train of supply wagons, rode into the clearing.
“Mother?” Morla blurted, and instinctively drew closer to Lochlan, a gesture that made Meeve raise her eyebrow.
Silver's Lure Page 28
