The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of hundreds of vampires tromping through his castle. This was not the afterlife he had imagined when he’d been human. It was not what the bards had promised every warrior would enjoy when his last battle was fought. Cullen opened his eyes and looked once again at the tower. No, Morrígan had cheated him of that. But then again, would he really have wanted an afterlife without her in it?

  He smiled a wicked little smile and left the parapet, moving swiftly through the castle to the north tower. Climbing the stairs with determined strides, he didn’t even bother to knock at her door. Morrígan was standing in front of the window, staring down at the spot he had recently vacated. At his entrance, she turned and he felt a twinge of guilt at the sadness in her eyes.

  “If you’ve come here to fight with me you can turn around and walk right back out of that door,” she snapped.

  He closed the door and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. “But we are warriors, Morrígan. Fighting is what we do.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think you’ll get enough of that in the days to come?” she asked.

  Cullen shrugged. “There are a couple of them who might give me trouble,” he replied as he pushed away from the door and crossed the room. “But I have never drunk from a human. The blood of the great goddess Morrígan runs undiluted in my veins. Not a one of them has a chance of defeating me. Now,” he said, reaching out and wrapping one lock of her black hair around his finger, “about the fighting . . .”

  “I don’t feel like it tonight,” she said petulantly.

  “Really?” he murmured, sliding his other hand over her hip. “What do you feel like?”

  He pulled her against him and felt the shudder roll through her body. With a word or two whispered in her ear he could bring her to climax without ever taking off her dress. And he loved her for that.

  Cullen stifled a grin as he watched her jaw clench.

  Morrígan turned her black eyes up to his. “What do I feel? I am a harbinger of death,” she said coldly. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Liar,” Cullen whispered as he claimed her mouth, sliding his tongue inside as he pulled her hips against his.

  They were almost the same height and a perfect fit. He knew the moment her icy reserve melted for him. She let out a ragged moan, a familiarly frantic sound that usually preceded the tearing of clothing. With a growl of triumph he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Breaking the kiss, he looked down into her beautiful face. She was flush with desire – for him. Always for him, only for him. For over one thousand years they had made love and war, and they would do so for the next thousand years.

  Cullen cupped her face with one battle-scarred hand. “I hate you,” he whispered tenderly.

  His goddess smiled up at him. “I hate you, too.”

  “Aye,” her warrior laughed, “but you will always love me.”

  Eternal Strife

  Dara England

  Conmaicne Rein, Ireland – 800 AD

  Sinead shivered in the early morning cold, tugging her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she peered into the gloomy grey world ahead. Her breath hung in pale clouds on the air and mingled with the wispy mists rolling in off the water. Here along the lakeshore the earth was soggy and made wet sucking noises each time she pulled a booted foot free of the clinging mud.

  Heart pounding, she held on tightly to the clay pitcher in her hands and searched for the resolve that had seemed so strong when she set out. She thought of her mother lying ill and alone in the draughty little cottage she had left behind. That was enough to bolster her determination.

  It didn’t matter that Mother would have forbidden this desperate act had she been aware of the plan her daughter had in mind to save her. All that mattered was that Sinead was finally taking action.

  Courage temporarily renewed, she walked with confidence, stepping free of the cover of the overhanging willow branches and wading through the waist-high grasses leading down to the edge of the waters. She refused to think of what might be crouching, slithering or lurking among the weeds, as she knelt to peer into the murky depths below.

  Tiny minnows darted away from her shadow. The light was still too dim for her face to look back at her from the mirrored surface but she knew what she would have seen if it had: a thin young girl of eighteen, with hip-length hair as dark as the feathers of the raven. Somewhere amid that mass of wild, unruly hair would be a plain face, unremarkable but for its pale, tightly drawn features. Her wide green eyes – her most predominant feature – were doubtless large with apprehension at the moment. Yes, perhaps it was as well she couldn’t see.

  Reluctantly, she inched further forwards until her toes were near the water and her skirts dragged in the filthy mud, so that she could scoop the pitcher into the deeper water.

  She moved gingerly, making certain nothing save the pitcher touched the waters. All knew the folk of the lake guarded their watery home jealously and hated to be disturbed. Moreover, they could move as swiftly and silently as the fog; in one breath a man or woman might think themselves alone, in the next they appeared from nowhere to drag an unsuspecting victim down, screaming, into the icy depths of the lake.

  Sinead flinched at the thought.

  Her pitcher came up filled with cloudy, brown water carrying the stench of the lake. Twigs and bits of decaying leaves floated in the water so that the liquid looked more likely to sicken the person who drank from it than heal them. Nevertheless, a tea made with the special waters of the lake combined with the petals of the joyflower, which grew in the near meadow, and a little fever-wort from the nearby forest, was famed for its healing powers.

  Certainly Sinead had tried everything else. Her new-found confidence about as substantial as the shifting fog swirling around her, she hugged her brimming pitcher to her breast and began backing away from the water’s edge.

  An instant later, she collided with something solid and damp at her back. With a startled shriek, she dropped the pitcher, its precious contents spilling out across the ground.

  She had no thought to spare for it.

  Whirling, she found herself confronted with a vision from a nightmare – a creature of scale and fin, yet standing upright on human-shaped legs. One of the lake folk.

  Sinead trembled, too terrified even to flee as the creature looked down on her. Its form was vaguely akin to that of a woman but not even the quickest of glances could have mistaken this creature for a human being. Long slitted gills ran up either side of her neck, a broad, pale fin covered the length of her spine, and iridescent scales dotted her skin. Intertwined with her fair hair were long strands of green lake weed, which clung damply from the crown of her head down to her waist.

  It was her eyes that most horrified Sinead: two orbs of water, clear and colourless, without any hint of feeling or life.

  Sinead might have stood forever, paralysed by fright, had she not suddenly become aware of that dreaded icy touch. The lake woman had stretched out a long hand to clasp clammy fingers tightly around Sinead’s wrist.

  “Come . . . come . . .” The liquid whisper that poured forth from her lips was not a voice, but rather a thin, trickling sound like the dribble of water running downhill.

  “Come . . . come with us . . .” Others took up the chanted command and Sinead abruptly became aware of other lake folk creeping in from the water’s banks to surround her.

  She bit back a squeal as one crept in and wound its slender fingers through her loose hair.

  “Join us, join us,” the lake folk chanted.

  Sinead, cringing, slapped their hands away and tried to back away from the water’s edge. She knew it was a futile gesture; few were those who escaped once they had felt the icy grip of these otherworldly beings and looked into their cold, watery eyes.

  “No! Leave me alone,” she cried. “I don’t want to go with you!”

  But even as she spoke the words she knew it was no use. Wasn�
�t this what was said always to happen to those unwary enough to allow themselves to be taken captive by the lake folk? They were dragged down into the icy depths never to return; whether their fate was to drown or become one of the folk themselves no one knew.

  Sinead did not want to suffer the horror of either fate.

  As if reading her thoughts, the first lake woman spoke. “You have taken that which is ours,” she hissed, her voice at once as soft as lapping water and as firm as a roaring sea. “Those who partake of the magic, belong to the magic. It is the law of the Sídhe and we abide by it.”

  Sinead attempted to stumble backwards but found herself hemmed in on every side. The shelter of the willow trees might as well have been miles away.

  Desperately, she tried to reason with the folk.

  “Please, you don’t understand. I didn’t mean to offend the Sídhe – or you – but I have to take the water. My mother is very ill; the healing properties of the lake could save her. I must have the water and I must return alive to nurse my mother back to health. There is no one else to look after her any more, no one but me to sit with her. She lies awake every night, you see, burning with fever and struggling for every breath. There . . . there is no one else.”

  She could think of nothing more to add to the plea. As simply as this, her whole life had been boiled down to a few sentences, yet what a load of burden and responsibility those few words carried. Truly, there was no one else.

  She might have claimed she had a lover she couldn’t bear to leave behind. But she hadn’t. She might say she had small children who depended upon her or friends who would miss her. But the truth was, she had none of those either.

  At her impassioned plea, the lake woman’s eyes had grown even more opaque. “Your mother is not our concern. If you want the water, you must pay the price. It is the law of the Sídhe,” she repeated. “We must obey.”

  Sinead didn’t allow herself to despair yet. A terrible inspiration dawning on her, she summoned what courage she could. I have to do this. I am Mother’s only hope.

  Aloud she said, “Very well. I will pay whatever price you set and willingly. Only let me return to my mother first. Let me brew the needed potion and feed her, so that she may recover. Afterwards, if you still want me . . . I am yours.” She had to choke out those final words, so great was the sense of doom that accompanied them.

  She did not know what she expected from the lake folk, or why they should care for her bargain when they could easily drag her off right then with or without her permission.

  She could only feel surprise and then a vague sense of the inevitable as she watched them hesitate – given pause by her brave offer.

  Can it be they harbour something akin to human feeling or pity?

  The lake woman’s face remained as chill and expressionless as ever but Sinead imagined she could see a foaming turmoil within her eyes.

  From behind, one of the other creatures whispered, “It is best if she succumbs willingly.”

  The lake woman seemed to agree. After a moment of studying Sinead, she said simply, “The bargain is struck. You have until the rising of the morrow’s sun before the magic will come for you. Until then, take what you need and go.”

  As simply as that, she faded away – she and the others disappearing into the mist.

  If the grey fog near the lake had held one sort of terror for Sinead, her next destination held an altogether different kind of danger. Certainly the peaceful meadow stretched out before her looked safe enough. There was none of the marshy land or the wispy tendrils of mist to speak of gloom and danger.

  But Sinead was well familiar with the tales. She knew of the more alluring danger that the beautiful meadow before her possessed: the temptations of the Fae. The local tales were tangled and confused. Who could trust them? But on one point they all agreed. To enter into the chosen realm of the Fae was madness.

  And yet, as she had done at the lake, Sinead focused her thoughts on the price of failure and the reward of victory as she forced herself to tread through the tall grasses in search of the bright little blossoms of the joyflower.

  The flower was not difficult to find; the meadow was abundant with them and their bright colour combined with their sweet, heady scent led her to a thick patch all too quickly. Sinead gathered the yellow blossoms by the handful, stuffing them into a woollen pouch hanging from her belt. Then, relieved at finishing so quickly, she began to depart.

  How still it was here. How peaceful. The sun had now risen to its place in the sky, illuminating the meadow with warm rays of gold. A soft breeze stirred wisps of Sinead’s unbound hair against her bared neck and cheek. Her arms were now feeling heavy from the weight of the pitcher of water carried on one hip. Whatever had possessed her to fetch the water first rather than last?

  If she had not been strongly aware of the need to remain alert how easy it would be to stop right where she stood, to lie down and rest amid the meadow grass and wildflowers, to gaze up at the drifting clouds in the cheery blue sky overhead.

  She shook away the temptation as soon as she became aware it had entered her head. She had come here with a mission. She had accomplished her purpose as swiftly as possible and must be on her way.

  With thoughts such as these, so caught up did she become in the need to be alert towards what lay to her left and right that she forgot to look where her feet tread . . . Until the moment she realized she was no longer walking amid waist-deep grass. She trod instead on a circular path of well-worn earth, a heavily beaten ring in the centre of an otherwise grassy field.

  A faery ring.

  Horrified, she froze where she stood, her sudden, clumsy halt causing a small amount of water to splash out over the side of the pitcher and dampen her skirt. She scarcely noticed.

  How could she have been so careless? The very thing she had set out to avoid was now surrounding her. There was no spot in the earth filled with more powerful magic than a faery ring.

  Moistening her lips with her tongue, she clutched the pitcher more firmly to her side and tiptoed backwards – making her way to the edge of the ring. She almost thought she had made it, almost dared to hope her trespass had escaped their notice.

  But such was not her fortune.

  “Who is this, brother? Who is this that has come to dance with us?”

  Sinead flinched at the light, musical voice coming from beyond her shoulder. Heart heavy with dread, she forced herself to turn and meet the fearfully charming sight.

  A pair of Fae folk stood a short distance away, perusing her as though she were some unfamiliar object, some curious, foreign bird or flower that had suddenly appeared where it did not belong.

  They were male and female, the pair of Fae, and a very handsome sight they might have been to the unknowledgable eye. Youthful and attractively featured, they were similar enough to have been twins – save that one was a young man, the other a girl. Their clothing was all of gold and silk, their hair as yellow as freshly churned butter. Their very skin seemed to shimmer and sparkle under the light of the sun, as though gold dust powdered them from head to toe. Sinead did not doubt that it did.

  “I cannot tell you her name, sister, for it has not yet been given to me.” The young male’s voice was as tinkling and beautiful as that of the girl. He arched one fair eyebrow at Sinead. “Tell me, maiden, what is your name and why do you come here to steal away our secrets?”

  Sinead thought she detected a hint of mockery in those tawny eyes and her back stiffened. “I do not come here for your secrets but for your joyflower. My mother is gravely ill and a potion containing your joyflower may save her.”

  He appeared not to have heard that last. “Our joyflower? Why, that is even worse, is it not, sister? We would not have one fewer sweet blossom in this meadow than that we already have.”

  Despite her fright, Sinead found herself staring the pair of them down combatively. “That’s the most nonsensical thing I’ve ever heard,” she said sharply. “This field is drowning wit
h wildflowers and a few less cannot make any difference to you at all and might help me a great deal.”

  His response was quick. “Ah, but suppose it is not our wish to help anybody but ourselves? Therein lies the trouble. For Fae folk, as you must know, care very little for others and very much for themselves.”

  Sinead wearied of this verbal battle. “What is it you want from me?” she asked resignedly.

  “How tiresome these ordinary folk are, are they not?” he addressed himself to his companion. “Have we not already stated our purpose? Is it not clear to anyone with eyes and ears what the Fae folk want, what we enjoy above all else?”

  His sister rushed forwards. “Pay no mind to my brother, little one; he is simply in love with his own wit. He means no harm by it.”

  When the words were spoken in that lilting, musical voice Sinead found that she could almost believe them. Almost.

  “Never mind the false kindness. Simply tell me what it is you ask – or rather what you demand, for I’ve no doubt it will soon enough come down to that.”

  The golden brow knit and the rosebud shaped lips puckered into a pout. “You see, brother? You see how you have offended her? And now she will never come willingly to the dance.”

  Her companion glowered. “What matters it whether she is willing or not? She has entered the ring. She is in our power.”

  Sinead swallowed, for she knew his words were nothing but truth, whether he intended malice or not – and obviously he did.

  “I don’t understand,” she answered, feigning ignorance to buy herself more time. “What is this about a dance?”

  “How simple-minded you mortals are.” The male sneered at her. “Do not pretend ignorance. There can be no man, woman or child alive who does not know of the faery dance, the endless, eternal dance of bliss in which we pause only during the light of day to gain new partners.”