Faerie Fate

by Silver James

  Chapter Sixteen

  Becca walked listlessly among the standing stones. Shadowy tendrils of fog caressed her bare arms. She shivered.

  “You cannot be cold,” a deeply masculine voice, one vaguely familiar, rumbled at her elbow.

  Becca turned to stare at the man who had appeared beside her. He was glorious. Tall, broad, every muscle defined in his sculpted torso. The gentle breeze combed his long hair with teasing fingers. Becca could not determine its color even as she stared in fascination. The strands first glowed dark chestnut, like her grandfather’s favorite mare. She blinked. Now it was a golden palomino color. Another blink and it was deep copper with rays of the sun caught in its silken web. The robe he wore swirled about him with a life of its own. The garment caressed the thick columns of his thighs and molded his broad chest. Unconsciously, Becca ran her tongue over her lips, moistening them. The man watched hungrily.

  “Who are you?” she finally asked.

  “I am Manannan Mac Lir,” he said, his tone intimating she should know who he was and that she might be daft for not recognizing him.

  “And you would be...?” She let her voice trail off, leaving the question open.

  “I am the King of Tir Nan Óg,” he rumbled in a basso voice that would mesmerize an opera diva.

  “And just what is Tir Nan Óg?” Becca shook her head to clear the cobwebs. She knew she didn’t want to be here, even if she didn’t know precisely where she was. There was something she needed desperately to do, but she couldn’t for her life remember what it was.

  The magnificent man at her side snorted. “Tir Nan Óg,” he repeated. “Land of the Ever Young.”

  Becca pondered that for a long moment. “Why am I here?”

  The man smiled and the whole landscape lit up, but Becca didn’t care. She felt detached from all this somehow. By all rights, as gorgeous as this man was, she should have been trying to figure out how to get him to kiss her. Manannan touched her gently on the arm, then took her hand and urged her to walk with him. They left the standing stones and, below them, a wide valley spread welcoming green arms in the soft sunshine.

  Her heart gave a little lurch. There once had been a man who held her hand like this. A man who... The fog rolled in again and Becca couldn’t remember. She gazed up at the Adonis beside her.

  “You are lovely, cailín.” His deep voiced roughened, dropped. He murmured a husky sound meant to be intimate. His hand brushed a stray tendril of hair back from her face, and he leaned down as if to kiss her.

  Becca averted her face. It was not his lips she hungered for. Who was that other? Where was he?

  “Why am I here?” she reminded him.

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “You have lived many lives, Child of the Mortals, and your time is done. You have earned the right to eternal youth.”

  Becca stopped dead still. Shadowy voices whispered in her head. Child of the Mortals, you have journeyed long through Imrama Anam. You have returned to An Domhan to fulfill your destiny. Your fate is tied to his, Child, and his to ours.

  She stared up at the man, hiding her sudden insight. She tilted her head, slanting her eyes toward him. She blinked slowly, hoping her long lashes kissed her cheeks in invitation, an irresistible temptation.

  His eyes turned to warm amber, and there was a sudden stirring beneath his ethereal robe. One corner of her mouth curled, gratified by his reaction. He was so tall she had to stand on her toes to wind her arms around his neck. She pulled him down to her so she could nuzzle the soft skin just below his ear. He shuddered in anticipation.

  “But, I don’t want eternal youth,” she whispered in his ear.

  His eyes narrowed, and his mouth formed a bitter slit as he pushed her away. “You have no choice,” he decreed in a thunderous voice.

  Becca glared at him. “I want to grow old with Ciaran.” She didn’t ask, she demanded.

  “You were not bound,” Manannan roared

  “But, we love,” Becca argued.

  “Love without the binding is simply lust,” he declared, crowding her body with his own. He gathered her into his arms and forced her to accept his kiss. She clinched her teeth and jaw, refusing to open her mouth to his probing tongue. “I will show you what he would not.” Manannan’s breath whispered a seductive kiss against her unresponsive lips. “I will show you for an eternity.” He held her pinned against the whole long, hard length of his magnificent body. “If yee’d but let me, cailín,” he beseeched, his voice sounding so much like Ciaran’s that Becca went weak in the knees. He ground his hips against hers to make sure she could feel his desire.

  Rather than succumbing to his demands, Becca pushed against the hard wall of his chest, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes at his words. “I would choose one lifetime with Ciaran to an eternity without having known his love, without having known the magic of a true mating between mortal man and woman,” she spat.

  In a rainbow swirl that turned to dark thunderclouds and lightning, the fae abruptly disappeared. Becca looked around. She was completely alone. “Well, so much for that strategy.” She glanced over at the standing stones. There had to be a way. She had to get back to Ciaran. He was her life, her very heart and soul. She would find a way. “We will be together,” she promised to them both.

  ****

  August passed into the first weeks of September. The O’Neill raided in the north, seeking cattle and crops. Like a pack of wolves, the MacDermot and his troops swept the northern border. Ever faithful, Niall and Riordan stayed by Ciaran’s side, protecting him as much as possible. Ciaran’s legend grew among their enemies. He was a Fenian Warrior come to life. He could not be wounded nor killed in battle. A head taller than any man, he could be seen in the thick of the fighting, his bloodied sword cutting down foe after foe.

  When the O’Brien again reared their heads in the south, Ciaran led his pack in pursuit. They paused in Ailfenn long enough to re-provision and for the men to see their wives and sweethearts.

  Alone in their room, Niall buried himself time and again in Siobhan’s willing body. He tried his best to tup his brains out, and though his body finally succumbed to exhaustion, his heart still grieved for what might have been.

  Riordan had sworn off women until he saw a comely maid he’d not noticed before. When he asked, she told him her name was Alys, though she was vague about how she’d come to Ailfenn. In the course of the night, when they paused in their lovemaking, Riordan finally pried her secrets from her. Alys revealed she’d been the one to help Becca at Ballinfaire, and that Becca had sent the girl to Ailfenn for her own safety.

  The cailín cried against his shoulder.

  “I should have helped her sooner,” she sobbed. “’Tisna’ fair, her lovin’ him so fierce, and him her.”

  She gazed at Riordan through watery eyes. “She’ll find her way back,” she told him with a sniff. “I know she will. We just need patience and faith.”

  Riordan hugged her to his chest and kissed her hair. “We can only hope, sweet Alys.”

  “Bah,” Ciaran snorted in the hallway outside Riordan’s door. “Patience is for those with short lives, and faith is for those who cannot see beyond the next sunrise.”

  ****

  Finvarra looked sadly at Onagh. “Your words return to haunt, my heart,” he sighed.

  Onagh turned her luminous gaze on her consort. “Speak to Manannan,” she urged.

  Finvarra shook his head. “’Twill do no good, love. ’Twas hard enough to wring the first returning out of him.”

  “Bah,” she spat. “You males are all the same.”

  She disappeared in a swirl of gold and silver, leaving Finvarra to stare sadly at the empty space she’d just occupied.

  “We must be patient, my queen. Have faith in the Child of the Mortals.”

  ****

  Tir Nan Óg was an enchanted place. The temperature was always moderate, the grass always green, the flowers always nodding fragrant blooms in the gentle breeze which sprea
d their perfumes for all to share. Becca seldom saw any of the other inhabitants, and the ones she did come across were all Tuatha dé Danaan.

  She’d found a place prepared for her in the woods near the standing stones—a silken tent with a soft bed. Each day when she arose, a fresh garment was laid out for her, along with food and drink of the richest assortment. Despite the beauty of the place and all the luxuries provided, she’d never been so lonely in all of her existence. When she closed her eyes at night, she dreamed of Ciaran. When she awoke, she prayed he’d be lying beside her on the bed.

  Day after day, Becca was drawn to the circle of standing stones. Though it reminded her of the pictures she’d seen of Stonehenge, this place was smaller, more intimate, and sat on the crest of a high hill. At the far side of the circle, a massive stone, flat and worn smooth, lay across two smaller stones like a table or an altar. If one stood on the inside of the altar and looked out, misty, blue mountains stretched out to one side, the shining aquamarine sea to the other. Becca stayed there staring into the distance by the hour.

  As she stood her lonely watch one day, haunting music drifted up to her. She left the circle and climbed down the hill to find its source. Another beautiful man, lithe, yet well muscled, sat on a boulder playing the pipes. His beauty was darkly masculine. Not as big as Mac Lir, he would still tower above all mortals but Ciaran. Becca watched his strong hands as they danced along the chanter of his pipes. When she approached, he stopped playing.

  “Ah, the fair Rebecca. I wondered if I could lure you away from your solitary sentry,” the man said in a voice as pure and sweet as spun sugar.

  “Who are you?” She asked bluntly.

  “I am Abhean,” he said. “Harper of the Tuatha dé Danaan.”

  She glanced at the pipes. “I thought harpers played harps,” she replied caustically.

  A sardonic grin split the faerie’s face. “A harper plays many instruments.” He took her hand and tugged her down to join him on the rock. He sighed, looking her over from top to bottom and back again. “Ah, cailín but I could play you like the finest instrument of all.”

  One strong finger traced her cheek as he stared deeply into her eyes and saw the hunger, the longing that lurked in her soul. “But ’tis not me ’twill have the pleasure,” he added, the spun sugar in his voice no longer sweet but burnt.

  “What is this place?” Becca didn’t feel polite.

  Abhean sighed again. “Land of the Ever Young.” He tilted his head. “This should be a land of peace and joy for all mortals who find their way here. I fear ’twill never be so for you, cailín. Mac Lir thought to do you a favor when he brought you here. He did not want to return you to that other life, the one filled with pain and suffering. Without the binding, your heart would never be whole, so he sought to bring you what peace and solace he could.”

  “He tried to seduce me.”

  Abhean chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Nay, cailín. If he had truly meant to do the deed, he would have succeeded.”

  “Not bloody likely.” Her lip curled into a silent snarl.

  Abhean chortled, truly amused now. “Methinks Manannan Mac Lir underestimates you, Child of the Mortals.” He stared at her again. “Rebecca.” Her name dripped off his tongue like the finest melted chocolate. “Do you know what your name means, Child?” He took up his pipes and began another song, this one not quite so plaintive. He watched Becca out of the corner of his eye.

  Becca stared off toward the misty blue mountains, listening to the music. When Abhean stopped to catch his breath, she quizzed him. “Do you?”

  “Do I what?” he countered.

  “Know what my name means.”

  “I never ask a question I dinnit know the answer to,” he answered cryptically in his sweet, lilting voice.

  “So what does it mean?”

  “Bound. Or chosen, if you like.” He put his full lips to the reed of the pipe and played again.

  Becca gazed at the mountains, her chin propped in the palm of her hand. She glanced at the Harper out of the corner of her eye. A little smile tried not to twitch in the corner of her mouth. These faeries, or Sídhe, or Tuatha dé Danaan, or whatever they were called were an egotistical lot.

  “If you are the Harper,” she prodded, “then you must know all the old tales?” She cocked her eyebrow at him, daring him to answer.

  The Harper’s eyes glinted with mischievous lights, and he grinned down at the beautiful woman sitting at his feet. The puckish breeze teased her hair, wrapping a silken strand of it around his leg. He sighed. He understood now why the mortal wanted her so much, and why Mac Lir was so determined to keep her. Well, he had his own score to settle with Mac Lir. “Oh, aye, I know them all and wrote most of them,” he hinted.

  “Then tell me a tale,” she challenged.

  ****

  Bits and saddles, swords and pikes jangled in the early dawn light. Horses stamped, blowing steam into the chilly air. Men spoke to their loved ones in hushed tones, not wanting their words of love to reach the ears of the MacDermot. Already mounted, he looked fierce and proud on his prancing chestnut stallion.

  Niall pulled Siobhan into his arms for one last kiss. “I’m glad yee never turned yer back on me, woman, to walk away,” he whispered into her hair. “Yee know I’d marry yee in the Church if that was yer choice,” he added.

  Siobhan clasped his face in her hands and laughed. “I do love yee, Niall MacDonagh, and I always will. It never occurred to me to walk away, husband.” She kissed him soundly, then pushed him toward his horse. When he had mounted, she leaned against his leg, her hand caressing his thigh. “Watch him well, Niall, yee and Riordan. Don’t let anything happen to him. She’ll find her way back, and he must be here when she does.”

  Riordan stared down at the little maid who’d come to see him off. “Thank you, Alys,” he told her sincerely. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled up at him, and he longed to kiss each one. Instead, he leaned down to give her a quick buss. “Patience and faith,” he whispered. “I pray for an abundance of both.”

  Without a word, Ciaran turned his horse and nudged him with his heels. As he rode through the gates, the troops lined out behind him. There were no cheers, no fanfare as the men rode out. Sorrow draped over Ailfenn like a shroud.

  ****

  This time, Becca knelt on the outside of the standing stones and placed her palms flat against the smooth stone. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and stared into the center of the circle. She gulped as the scene unfolded before her.

  Men swirled in a macabre dance of life and death. Swords flashed. Arrows sang through the air to find their marks. Men cried out in pain. In the midst of it all, Ciaran stood like one of the standing stones himself. Tall, hard as granite, immovable. His sword dripped blood, and the pile of bodies around him grew deep. As he faced two opponents at once, a third crept up behind him. Becca watched in horror as the third assailant’s sword found its mark, slashing across Ciaran’s back and sinking deep between his ribs.

  Ciaran dispatched the two before turning to the third. His sword flashed in the bright sun, then struck the man, severing his head. He stood tall for a moment, and then Ciaran collapsed, sinking to his knees in slow motion. Riordan and Niall were beside him in an instant. They dragged him from the field of battle and found a safe place. Men surrounded the area, prepared to die to protect their Taoiseac. An older man appeared with bandages and a wineskin.

  Becca blinked. Ciaran now lay on a pallet in a rough tent, much as she’d seen him after the battle with the O’Briens. His face was drawn and pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead. Becca stared at his chest, watched it scarcely rise and fall. She heard the slow labored beat of his heart. She leapt over the altar to the center of the stones.

  “Onagh,” she called. Nothing. Becca stamped her foot in frustration. “Onagh,” she demanded. “You will attend me.”

  In a swirl of iridescent light, Onagh appeared before her. “Who are you, Child of the M
ortals, to command me?” the faerie queen responded imperiously.

  “You once said he could not die without issue,” Becca accused. She waved her hand and the scene she’d been watching appeared. “Well, he dies.”

  Onagh watched for a long moment. “His wound need not be mortal,” she replied hesitantly. She refused to meet Becca’s gaze, preferring to watch the scene unfolding before them.

  “He dies, Onagh,” Becca insisted. “Look in his heart. It is empty. A man cannot live with an empty heart.”

  Onagh sighed. “What would you have me do?”

  “You could have told me. Instead of whispering in my mind, making me think I was crazy, you could have bloody well told me what to do. Since you didn’t, you have to fix this. Return me,” Becca demanded.

  “I can’t.”

  “Who can?”

  Onagh’s eyes filled with opalescent tears. “No one, Child,” she finally admitted. “Mac Lir will have his way in this. He is An Rí of Tir Nan Óg, but I suspect that even his hands are tied.”

  “There must be a way,” Becca vowed.

  The next day, and the next, Becca searched for the Harper. Abhean had disappeared. She tried summoning him as she had Onagh, but he would not appear. He’d been the one to teach her how to use the stones to see into An Domhan. He had to know of a way for her to return. If he didn’t, she’d seduce Manannan Mac Lir himself to find her way back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Becca awoke to gray skies that threatened rain. The sun always shone in Tir Nan Óg, unless Manannan Mac Lir or one of the faerie was sad. In the distance, she heard the plaintive trill of the pipes.

  “Abhean.” Her breath sighed from her lungs and her heart wanted to break from the mournful music.

  She found him once again on the boulder below the standing stones. “Tell me,” she said without preamble. “Tell me how I can return.”