by Silver James
“I ride for Ballinfaire,” Taidhg said quietly to his liege. “I will bring her back or die in the attempt.” Ciaran didn’t move as the soldier slipped out of the castle, snagged his horse and rode north.
Conchobhar cleared his throat. He owed Ciaran MacDermot many things, including his life on more than one occasion. The MacDermot and his army had helped Conchobhar sit in the Chair of Tuam as King of Connaught. If Ciaran killed O’Flinn, the king would have to execute or banish him, neither outcome appealing.
“Loose him, Ciaran,” Conchobhar ordered. He kept his voice low and calm. “We will settle this when your man returns with the cailín.”
Ciaran stared deeply into O’Flinn’s eyes for a long moment. When he finally released the older man, O’Flinn almost fell.
“Tomorrow is Lughnasadh,” the king continued. “We will celebrate the Festival of Light, and when your man returns with her, we will deal with the situation,” he promised Ciaran.
Ciaran nodded once, turned on his heel, and marched out the door, followed by his men. O’Flinn sank to a nearby seat, rubbing his neck.
“The cold hand of death has been wrapped around your throat as sure as the sun coming up in the morning.” The king released a sigh, relieved. He wasn’t sure that Ciaran wouldn’t have killed O’Flinn on the spot.
The MacDermot men regrouped on the edge of the green outside the town. Many people had come to celebrate the bonfires and fair, but the troop managed to find a place away from the crowd to settle in. None let down their guard, and Niall set a tight perimeter. To a man, they would die for Ciaran and Becca if the need arose.
Ciaran wrapped his mantle around him and unconsciously fingered the MacDermot Knot at his throat. Becca had not worn the mantle the day she disappeared. Idly, Ciaran wondered if the Knot would have kept her safe. Too late now. The soft woolen folds of the mantle held her fragrance commingled with his own. Ciaran breathed deeply, drawing their combined scents into his lungs. He would not lose her. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Fifteen
Taidhg rode as if a banshee was hot on his tail. He feared O’Flinn would dispatch a messenger to arrive before he could reach Ballenfaire to spirit Becca away. He would not fail Ciaran in this. He pushed his horse hard through the night, stopping only for brief watering rests. Worried any O’Flinn rider would know of a shortcut, he pushed hard.
****
The day wore on interminably. As each hour passed, her body aged a year. Each step Arien took was sheer torment, but Becca clung to his back determined to make it to Tuam. All would be right if she could but get there and fall into Ciaran’s arms. Ciaran would keep her safe. Ciaran would keep her young.
Sensing his rider’s discomfort, Arien picked his way gingerly. When he’d feel her knees lose their grip on his sleek sides, he’d stop, waiting for her to regain her strength. As the sun sank in the west, Arien wandered off the road seeking water and grass. He found a small spring and dipped his head to drink. Becca slid off his back, and sank onto the springy moss at the water’s edge. Fiery pain branded every inch of her body. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to ignore the pounding in her temples. A tear rolled unheeded down her cheek.
“I love you, Ciaran,” she whispered to the last soft ray of sunshine as it danced across the spring. “Now and forever.”
****
Taidhg rode through the night, but at a more careful pace, letting his horse choose the way along the rutted road. The sense of urgency still beat at him, but he knew any O’Flinn was also at a disadvantage in the dark. He finally stopped in the wee hours of the morning. His horse needed a good rest, and he needed a few hours of sleep before he could press on. Taidhg made cold camp, rolling up in his mantle and falling asleep as his head touched the wool.
The sun rode high in the sky when Arien raised his head from the spring. His nostrils flared as he got a whiff of a familiar scent. He whinnied.
His horse cocked his ears and turned his head toward a copse of trees well back from the road. “What is it, lad?” Taidhg listened. A whinny. His horse nickered back in greeting. On a hunch, the man reined him toward the trees.
He immediately recognized Arien. Then he caught sight of the huddled figure between the horse’s feet. His heart leapt into his throat almost choking him. Jumping off his horse, he ran to the body wrapped in a thin blanket. Becca. It had to be Becca. He shooed Arien away and squatted beside the inert figure. “Mistress,” he sighed softly. He rolled her over and gasped.
Becca opened her eyes, and squinted against the bright sun. “Taidhg?” she whispered between dry, cracked lips. She ran the tip of her tongue across them attempting to moisten them so she could speak. “I couldn’t get to him. I tried, but I failed.”
“Nay, mistress,” Taidhg disagreed holding his shock at her appearance in check. “Time remains. I will get yee there.”
Becca couldn’t ride. His horse had been ridden hard from Ailfenn to Tuam, and then back toward Ballinfaire. Taidhg stripped the saddle from his horse and threw it on Arien. As he cinched the girth, he spoke softly to the spirited animal.
“Yer her only chance, Arien,” he crooned. “She can’t ride by herself. I must carry her, and yee are the fastest and the finest horse in all the land. Only you can save her.”
Arien nickered softly, and brushed his soft lips against Taidhg’s sleeve. The soldier smiled. “Aye, and yer a fine one,” he told the animal.
Taidhg looped the rope that had been on Arien around his own horse and secured the end to the saddle. The man gently gathered Becca into his arms, feeling the shudder of pain race through her. He eased her up on Arien and then climbed up quickly behind her. Taidhg settled her as best he could in front of him and urged Arien back toward the road and Tuam.
Each step Arien took was absolute torment for Becca. She bit down on her lip until it bled to keep from moaning. Taidhg had come. There was a chance they would reach Ciaran in time. Several hours into the return trip, she managed to ask, “Why not Ciaran?”
“The king would not allow him to leave. O’Flinn claims yer his daughter, and that the MacDermot has no right to yee. The MacDermot would have slit his lying throat then and there, but for Conchobhar. Before Conchobhar could naysay all of us, I left for Ballinfaire to retrieve yee. None of us would leave yee in that place a moment longer than we had to,” he assured her.
Becca shuddered. One hand twisted into his shirt, and she rested her head against him.
As the sun sank, Taidhg eventually gathered enough courage to comment on her appearance. When he’d rolled her over to see her face that morning, he would have started praying had he been a religious man. Her once young, beautiful face had aged to that of a crone. Her skin was dry like parchment, and lines of pain etched her countenance. “What happened, mistress?” he finally asked.
“I am turning back into the one who was,” she murmured. “To stay the one who is, I must get to Ciaran before midnight, Taidhg, before the fires of Lughnasadh are extinguished.”
“Aye, Siobhan and the Druid had the right of it then,” His lip curled into a snarl. “’Tis the faerie who muck about in this.”
Becca shuddered again as a vicious spasm raged through her body. “I will hang on,” she promised. “No matter what, you must not fail us. Get me to Ciaran before the midnight turns.” Her body trembled and then stilled.
She was unconscious. He tightened his arms around her. “Aye, mistress. I will not fail yee.” He put his heels to Arien, and a screaming war cry erupted from his throat.
****
Twin bonfires lit up the green. Everyone for miles around gathered to celebrate the Festival of Light. More than a few couples took advantage of the old custom of handfasting. The Lughnasadh handfast was a trial marriage lasting for a year. At the end of the year, the couple could turn their backs and walk away—no harm, no foul—or they could remain together as husband and wife. Patrick’s Church frowned upon the practice and was trying to usurp the old ways. The Church refused to acknowledge eithe
r the joining or the dissolution of such unions. Regardless, the Celtic way was slow to die out.
A solemn group of men watched the festivities. Garbhan O’Flinn was deep in his cups, the hulking Darroch not far behind his father. The two sat on the king’s left. The O’Conor, flanked by two guards, sat on a small, raised platform. A full platoon stood nominally at attention at his back. Ciaran and his cadre sat a little apart on the king’s right. To a man, they looked ready to fight.
Conchobhar rubbed his forehead. This was a bad business that left a bad taste in his mouth. If O’Flinn’s charges were true, he’d have to take action against Ciaran and Niall. On the other hand, Ciaran had leveled serious charges against O’Flinn, claiming the man had tried to kill his own daughter. He just wanted the girl to appear so he could ask her what was going on, and put this whole unfortunate affair to rest.
Ciaran suddenly doubled over in pain. As one, Niall and Riordan stepped in front of him to shelter him from the view of the others gathered before the bonfire. After a long moment, Ciaran straightened, a grimace marring his perfect face. “’Tis hers,” he groaned softly through clenched teeth. Sweat dotted his forehead, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand. “She draws near.”
Taidhg cut his horse loose and spurred Arien. Becca hadn’t uttered another sound, and her body grew light and insubstantial in his arms. They were close. He could see the glow from the bonfires up ahead. Glancing at the stars, he swore. They were almost out of time.
“Run, Arien,” he urged the horse. “Run like you’ve never run before. Run for her life and his.”
Arien faltered for a step then found his second wind. With pounding hooves, he charged through the darkness toward the promise of the glowing light ahead. As they got closer, people clogged the roadway.
“Get out of the way,” Taidhg shouted. “Move afore I run yee down!”
The big horse swerved around a tent, scattering people in his wake. Horse and man had but one thought—get to the bonfire. Taidhg tightened his arms around Becca, fearful she’d slip through them. As they reached the edge of the firelight, she shimmered in its reflected glow. Taidhg stared in fascination. For a moment, her face was that of the Becca he knew then it flickered, and her features changed to that of the Becca she’d once been.
She stared at him, sadness radiating from her eyes. “You did your best,” she whispered. Then she was gone.
Ciaran watched the dark horse and rider approaching, and his gut knotted with fear as he rose to his feet. Taidhg had Becca, but it was too late. Ciaran knew it in his heart and his soul. Horse and rider slid to a stop on the other side of the fire. Everyone there saw her form shimmer and change, and then disappear from Taidhg’s arms.
A huge man, glistening from head to toe as if clothed in drops of water, appeared beside Arien. He was so beautiful, the throng had to squint. He held Becca in his arms. With a wave of the giant’s hand, Arien trotted off, taking a bewildered Taidhg with him. The Tuatha dé Danaan god set Becca on her feet, and as the flames of the bonfire flickered down to embers, her form wavered between youth and age.
“What witchcraft be this?” Conchobhar roared.
“Not witchcraft but fae,” Ciaran exclaimed, drawing his sword, but knowing it would do no good.
“Do you know me?” the giant roared.
“Aye,” Ciaran answered coldly. “You’d be Manannan Mac Lir, god of the sea and one of An Tuatha dé Danaan.”
The giant waved his hand. “The fires of Lughnasadh grow cold,” he pronounced. He turned to Becca. “Your time here has ended. You are not bound, and so you return with me.”
“NO!” Two anguished voices blended as one.
“But I choose,” Becca’s solitary voice cried out.
“’Tis too late.” Manannan’s pronouncement rumbled from his deep chest.
A log crashed in the fire and embers danced up into the midnight sky. All the mortals present blinked, and when they looked again, fae god and human woman had disappeared.
“NO!” Ciaran’s cry was torn from the very darkest chasm of his soul. He sank to his knees knowing his heart had been torn out, and he would never be whole again. “No,” he pleaded, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks. His anguish was palpable to all standing near.
No one moved. No one spoke. Then another log fell and more embers waltzed skyward. When the smoke cleared, two figures stood beyond the flickering fire. Ciaran raised hopeful eyes to the pair.
“Fool!” Finvarra, King of the Connaught Faeries, spat at Ciaran. “She’d worn the Knot. Why did you not bind her fate to yours?”
“Fool!” Onagh, his queen, sneered at Finvarra. “Why did you bind his fate to ours?”
Every man there gaped in wonder at the woman. Tall and willowy, her gown shimmered with silver lights, and her long golden hair danced in the firelight. She was the most beautiful creature any of them had ever laid eyes upon. All but one. For Ciaran, no beauty would ever compare to Becca’s.
Onagh turned to stare at Ciaran with cerulean eyes. His pain and anguish was more than she could bear. A single silvery tear formed in her eye and spilled down her cheek. It glittered and glistened, changing from silver to blue to a fiery opalescence combining all the colors of the rainbow. With one graceful finger, Onagh caught the tear. The iridescent drop quivered on the tip of her finger as she drew it to her mouth. With a gentle puff, Onagh lent wings to the drop. It flew across the fire and hovered for an instant in front of Ciaran’s eyes. Then it mingled with his tears and fell to splash upon the MacDermot Knot at his throat. There, it coalesced and solidified, turning into stone. Where one fiery tear had once graced the eternity knot, two now resided.
“’Tis all I can do,” Onagh sighed, her voice as soft as the summer breeze. “Know that two hearts should have been one, now and for all time.”
Finvarra had not moved since his first outburst, held speechless and enthralled by his mate’s reaction. Now he turned sad eyes to his queen. “Come, my love,” he whispered. “We must go. Tir Nan Óg awaits our return.”
The woman turned her baleful glare on the O’Flinns. “Know you are not innocent in this, Garbhan O’Flinn. My wrath shall haunt you and yours for lives to come,” she decreed in a voice so cold frost formed around her feet.
The fae king took his queen’s hand, sadness still clouding his eyes. “Come, love,” he whispered. The two figures wavered in the waning firelight, becoming insubstantial and ghostly before disappearing all together.
No human moved nor dared speak. Only the bravest among them even drew a breath. What magic had occurred this night? What terrible price had been exacted, they wondered, looking upon the ravaged face of Ciaran MacDermot and the cowed back of Garbhan O’Flinn.
Niall recovered his senses first. His strong, hard hands gripped Ciaran’s shoulder. “Come, Ciaran,” he commanded quietly.
“I can’t live without her,” Ciaran replied, his voice pitched so low only Niall heard it.
The older man knelt next to the man he’d have been proud to call his own. “You can, and you will. You must, Ciaran, for her sake and your own.”
Ciaran turned anguished eyes to Niall. “I can’t feel her,” he cried. “She is now truly gone from this life.”
Niall motioned for Riordan. Together, the two men hefted Ciaran to his feet and walked him back toward their camp. After a few steps, Ciaran straightened and pulled away from them. He whirled and marched back to Garbhan O’Flinn. He glared down at the old man.
“Know this, Garbhan O’Flinn,” Ciaran vowed. “Upon her life, you and yours will suffer.” Ciaran turned stiffly and returned to Niall and Riordan. “Saddle up the horses, men,” he ordered in a voice straight from the cold halls of hell. “We ride for Ailfenn.”
Riordan and Niall stared at Ciaran, both men deathly afraid for what was probably the first time in their lives. Ciaran’s eyes held no emotion. They looked as dead and empty as his heart must surely feel. In the space of an instant, he became a ruthless, cold instrument of
vengeance. The two men exchanged sorrowful looks. Ciaran had the look of death about him. They knew it was just a matter of time. This great warrior, this man they both knew and loved, would grow reckless on the battlefield. He would seek death and destruction, preferably his own.
King Conchobhar stood still, his feet frozen to the ground by what had just transpired. He was a more religious man than most, having embraced the Church of Patrick in his youth, yet deep within his Celtic heart, he knew he had just witnessed something beyond all human expectation. Tuatha dé Danaan. They existed. The Sídhe had returned to interfere once more in the lives of men. Conchobhar stared at the retreating backs of the MacDermots. So the old tales were true. A Fenian Warrior did still exist. He sighed, sorry now for his part in this affair. He turned around to stare at O’Flinn. The man had gone white, and the king could smell the fear emanating from his every pore. Looking once more at the broad back of Ciaran MacDermot, Conchobhar felt the fingers of fear skitter down his own spine. The MacDermot was not an enemy he would want. That went double for the fae.
Much later, as the disheartened troop rode silently for home, Riordan turned to Niall. “How do we keep him alive?” he whispered.
Niall shrugged, knowing in his heart the task was impossible. If Ciaran was truly determined to join Becca in the ever after, there was little they could do to prevent it. His arms suddenly ached for the feel of Siobhan’s soft body. Every part of him longed to touch her, to get lost in her. With sudden insight, Niall realized a man wasn’t complete without a woman. For some, any woman would do. For others, there was only one. He sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d been granted the boon of finding his.
For the whole long ride back to Ailfenn, Ciaran spoke not a word. He ate nothing and drank water only when Riordan or Niall insisted. He built a wall of isolation, retreated behind it and refused to join the world around him. Ciaran existed. Barely. But in his eyes, an ember began to burn, cold and bright. Death. In death he could join her, and by the gods, he would. He promised that to them both.
