One in particular met Connla’s eyes and headed straight for him—his first victim, the hawkish man. He was grinning broadly. A faint rust-colored stain was just fading from the front of his tunic, where Connla’s sword had delivered its killing thrust.
“Well fought, mortal man!” he said, clapping Connla on the shoulder. “I like you. We shall have much fun together, you and I. When next we fight I will kill you, I think, for I am actually much better at fighting than you are. But it was only simple hospitality to let a new arrival win the first time.
“Oh, by the way,” he added as an afterthought, while Connla stared at him, speechless with shock. “My name is Fiachna and I am a Master of the Blue Sword. I will teach you something of my art if you like, so we will be more evenly matched.” So saying, he turned away and a beautiful fairy woman ran into his open arms, smiling up at him. “Sweet wife,” Fiachna murmured, bending his head to hers. The couple strolled away with their arms around each other’s waists.
“He is ... not ... dead,” Connla said very carefully, as if each word were a stone almost too heavy for him to lift. “I did not ... kill him. Or anyone. Yet I struck killing blows.”
“You did,” Blathine agreed. “If Fiachna teaches you the secrets of the Blue Sword, you will be a fighter almost without equal.”
“But why aren’t they dead?”
She answered him with the gentle exasperation of a mother whose child refuses to learn a simple lesson. “We do not suffer. We do not die. We do not quarrel in real anger, but only enough to incite a battle which everyone enjoys. Our menfolk get to demonstrate their grace and artistry with weapons and we women cheer them on. When the battle is over, all are restored to fight again, of course—whenever the mood takes them and they find pleasure in it.”
Her eyes were twinkling. “But there are other pleasures, my Fiery Hair. You have had a lovely battle; now come with me to my bower and experience some of the other delights my kingdom has to offer.”
Dazed, Connla let her lead him as she liked.
They encountered other men and women of the fairy folk, also walking very close together, gazing fondly at one another. All seemed headed in the same direction, a cluster of lacy spires and domes which, upon closer inspection, proved to be pergolas fashioned of precious metal and surrounded by scented hedges. Each pergola formed a small, private chamber, open to the sweet air but closed off from the curious eyes of passersby.
Blathine led Connla to one of the most beautiful of these outdoor rooms, a bower entwined with vines of some trumpet-shaped purple flower that added its own heady perfume to the scented air. A tiny gate swung open at her touch; birds sang an invisible welcome from the shrubbery.
“Welcome to my home,” Blathine said.
Connla looked around. There was no furniture, no solidity to the leafy walls, no roof. For all its dainty charm, this bower could hardly be called a dwelling place. “But where do you really live?” he could not resist asking.
“Here. Or there. Anywhere I like.”
“Outside always? What protects you from...” Then he stopped himself. He had almost said, “What protects you from the weather?” before he realized she would laugh at him again. Had she not already explained? There was no inclement weather on the Isles of the Blest.
Connla struggled to learn faster. “What protects you from the grass when you—when we—lie down? Is there no dew?”
His reference to “we” made Blathine’s lips curve in a smile of incredible sweetness. “Your cloak will make a bed for us,” she said. “There is indeed dew. When you feel the need of its particular type of refreshment, just gather enough to wash your face, and all the little lines and sags of mortal flesh will be rinsed away. But for now, do not think of such things. Do not think of anything but me, Connla.” She tilted her face up toward his and he saw the delicate sheen of her eyelids, moist with youth; the curve of her perfect lashes; the invitation of her soft lips.
The coppery cloak was flung on the earth in a heartbeat, and in another heartbeat Blathine was in Connla’s arms.
How yielding her flesh was! As tender and firm as mortal flesh, it gave itself freely to his touch, letting him explore the fairy-form with growing wonder. For Blathine was not quite like a mortal woman. Even as he touched her shoulder or her breast she somehow looked into his mind and saw exactly how he liked that portion of a woman to be, and shaped herself to suit him. So his hands created perfection, according to his own standard and desire, and when he had caressed her entire body other women were ruined for him forever. None could hope to equal what Blathine had become, to please him.
She said a thousand flattering things to Connla, indicating that he was as perfect for her as she for him. Whatever he wanted to ask of her, she gave before he could ask it, and whatever he did, she delighted in.
Within the bower of Blathine, Connla discovered the true enchantment of the Sidhe.
No time passed.
He was tireless. She was radiant. The boundaries that separate men and women in daily life dissolved between them, and they lay with their hearts touching in spirit as well as in truth. For this, Connla thought, I gladly leave Erin and Hundred Battles and all the worries and sorrows of that life. For this I gladly leave life itself. Let me dwell forever, he implored whatever gods might be listening, in this mist of glamour.
Around them, birds were weaving wreaths of music so tender Connla held his breath to listen. Blathine lay quietly in his arms, with her eyes closed, and he wondered if she was asleep. Then he remembered her telling him that her people did not sleep. Yet, when he looked at her, the rise and fall of her breast was so calm, her eyes so still beneath their glossy lids, he felt certain she slumbered.
Could this mean that other things she had told him were also untrue? Or could this merely be another instance of his misunderstanding? So many things in the realm of the fairy folk defied his understanding.
He knew only that he was happy. He had found a paradise. In the Isles of the Blest there really was no suffering, at least not in any permanent sense; even warfare was merely a game in which men might battle as much as they liked, secure in the knowledge that there would always be another battle.
Connla rolled over onto his back and his coppery cloak snuggled around him, fitting itself to his form and making him even more comfortable. Folding his arms behind his head, the young man stared up at the sky. The serene, cerulean sky.
Which would always be serene. Would always be blue.
Always. Always.
Seven
BLATHINE OPENED HER eyes. “Were you sleeping?” he asked her.
She smiled. What a bewitching curve her lips had! “Of course not. But we do rest sometimes, just to give ourselves the pleasure of contrast between quietness and activity. Do you feel a need to sleep?”
He considered this. “I do not. I feel wonderful.” He was surprised to find this was true. He had made a long journey, fought a desperate battle, loved a beautiful ... creature, and yet he felt as fresh as if he had just arisen on a spring morning.
Suddenly Blathine sprang to her feet, holding out her hand to encourage him to join her. “Let me show you more of your new home,” she invited.
Hand in hand the two of them explored the far reaches of the realm. In wonder, Connla saw azure mountains rise from broad plains where there had been no mountains when last he looked. Trees appeared, budded, blossomed. Landscape shifted; changed. When they required a pathway, the grass lay down before the couple, offering them smooth footing. When they climbed a hill, it seemed to tilt beneath them so that no effort was required to ascend—it was as easy as walking on level land. Yet when they got to the top, they saw marvelous views in all directions.
No sooner did Connla think of picking an armful of flowers to give to Blathine, than a veritable garden bloomed beside them. Connla had only to turn and reach to select an array of gorgeous blooms.
The young man was curious to know just what plants thrived in the fairy kingdom, so he
waded in among the flowers and bent to examine individual ones. Blathine followed him.
“That is foxglove,” she pointed out. “The blossoms are the right size to glove the hands of the smallest of my people. And there you see harebell, and primroses that make the invisible visible. Do not tread on them, they are valuable!
“The cowslips over here are called the key to gold, Connla. They mark the places where we have buried our treasure. And oh, see the beautiful violas and the bluebells! These are my favorites, I think.
“And just look up—do you see that low hill? With wild thyme growing upon it? In your land, a hill like that would be a fairy mound, and if one of the mortals gathered the tops of the thyme and made a tea of them and drank it, he could see us at our revels.”
“Does every plant and flower have special properties?” Connla asked.
The fairy woman nodded. “They do. Each thing that lives has its purpose. Your druids know something of this, my love.”
With an effort, his mind reaching back to a fading memory, Connla recalled his father’s chief druid, Coran. The man who had burnt his mother.
“What a dreadful scowl is on your face!” Blathine said.
“I was thinking of the druid I know best, an evil man. He sacrificed my mother in a wicker basket, in an effort to keep me from you.”
“He is a wicked man indeed,” Blathine agreed. “I told you, we have no use for druids here.” Her voice dripped contempt like a corrosive acid.
Blathine, Connla thought to himself, was a bundle of contradictions. “Yet you spoke of them with respect just now,” he reminded her. “You said they know something of your wisdom.”
Her eyes were hard as anthracite, and deep within them sullen fires glowed. “And how do you think the druids acquired that knowledge, foolish mortal? They stole it from us!”
“From the Sidhe?”
“So it was. In the youth of your race we moved freely among your people, letting them see us, enjoying their company. There seemed no harm in them, not at first. They had the clear eyes of animals or children and had no difficulty observing all we did. Then they began copying us. At first it was just our herbalism they employed, and some of them showed quite a gift for it. Not as good as we could do, of course,” she added with a sniff of pride, “but they did learn how to heal simpler illnesses and less-than-deadly wounds. Not content with that, however—for mortals have never learned how to be content—they began to attempt our more complex rituals. Some showed talents for these as well. There were men of your people who could change the weather almost as well as we could, and others who could work various enchantments on their fellows.
“All this they learned from watching us. But they had no restraint, no temperance. They soon moved past employing fairy arts to make life more pleasant, and began using those arts to gain advantage over one another. They started doing dangerous things with magic, using its power in ways that made the gods shudder. Power is neither good nor evil, Connla; it just is. The good or evil comes from the way it is employed.
“I will speak frankly. The way mortals began using the magic they had learned from our people frightened us. We could foresee great harm being done, and we did not want the responsibility for it. The Sidhe dislike responsibility. We find its weight crushing and so we avoid it, as mortals avoid carrying great boulders around on their backs.
“When mortals organized themselves into priesthoods we began avoiding them. We were confident our magic was still more powerful, but we felt robbed and we were angry. Weaving spells we had not shown to your kind, we made ourselves invisible to mortal eyes except on occasions of our choosing. And we gave them no further bits of knowledge they could misuse.
“But we acted too late, I fear. Those who called themselves druids, your most gifted users of arcane arts, continued to develop their abilities on their own. From generation to generation they passed down the wisdoms and the rituals they remembered from the time when human and fairy shared the earth in friendship.
“Now they turn those very spells against us. They try to keep us from our normal pursuits. They even search for ways to find our hidden gold and steal it, as if stolen knowledge were not enough. But then, as I said, mortals are never content with what they have.”
Blathine gave her delicate shoulders a tiny shrug. “This is a very unpleasant subject and I do not like unpleasant subjects. If I were not so fond of you, my Fiery Hair, I would not have spoken of it at all. Let us do something bright and gay instead!” She gave a tinkling laugh like the chiming of some tiny bell and skittered away from him.
Connla ran after her. “Wait!”
But she moved so quickly he could not catch up. No matter how hard he ran, the fairy woman effortlessly outpaced him. She glanced back over her shoulder, laughing and mocking him.
Their race drew the attention of other fairy folk, who soon joined in, shouting encouragement to one another. Soon, a whole ribbon of them was weaving over the undulating green hills, dancing amid the flowers, skipping over burbling brooks and bounding over butterflies. Every one of them could run faster than Connla and jump higher, and he began to grow suspicious.
“You are using magic to beat me!” he called out to Blathine.
She checked her pace enough to allow him to almost catch up. “Of course I am,” she replied. “Magic is one-seventh of what I am.”
Connla had never heard of fractions. “What is the rest of you?” he panted.
“Air,” she told him over her shoulder. “And water. Fire and folly. Art and imagination.” Then she showed him her silver heels and ran completely away from him.
The troop of the Sidhe sped after her, Connla in the rear and striving mightily not to be left behind altogether.
The hawkish-looking man whom he had fought and killed dropped back to run beside him.
“Fiachna, is it?”
The other nodded. “I am called Fiachna, when it suits me. No one should have to bear the same name forever; it would become too stale on the tongue. You will be known by other names yourself, Connla Fiery Hair.”
This was hard for Connla to imagine. “I like the name I have.”
“Happy for you, then. But when Blathine wants to be someone else you will have to change too, or be left behind.”
Connla frowned. “She won’t leave me, she loves me.”
Fiachna stopped in his tracks and gave the human man a long look from beneath peaked eyebrows. “Love? What has love to do with us? We are the Sidhe.”
“I do not understand.”
“Love implies responsibility, Connla. Both are human things; we avoid them. Pain and loss, worry and obligation—they have no place in the Isles of the Blest.”
It had never occurred to Connla that Blathine might not love him as he loved her. He knew he loved her; he could feel the emotion curled up inside his chest, warm and delicious. And she had gone to much trouble to win him and bring him back with her. That must mean that she felt the same.
When he said this to Fiachna the fairy man laughed. “You have a lot to learn. She wanted you, which is not the same thing as love at all.”
“You may possess the wisdom of the Sidhe,” Connla answered hotly, “but in this instance you are wrong. I know Blathine loves me.”
“Ask her, then,” Fiachna suggested.
“I will.” I will ask her, Connla repeated silently to himself. I will do it as soon as I have the opportunity, though I know I do not have to fear her answer.
So confident was he, he was in no hurry to ask the question. He was only in a hurry to catch up with Blathine.
“Tell me this, Fiachna, since you know so much. Can you make me run faster so I may keep up with my lady?”
Fiachna nodded. “Nothing simpler. Mind your heels.” So saying, he waved both his thumbs at Connla’s feet and at once the young man felt himself spurt forward, as if propelled by a mighty wind.
He had never run so fast. When he put foot to earth he snatched it off quicker than thought and had taken
three more steps before he realized it. He left Fiachna behind; he cut through the troop of the Sidhe like a sharp knife through stale bread; he came abreast of Blathine in a twinkling and called out to her joyfully.
“How nice to see you again!” she told him with a bright smile.
“Where are we running to?” he asked.
“Running to? We are not running to anything, we are running for the pleasure of running. And now we will stop, for the pleasure of stopping.”
And so she did, and the rest of the troop with her. But Connla could not stop.
Dismayed, he ran right past Blathine and sped onward. His mind told his feet to slow down but they would not obey. They would churn the earth, they would leap the air, but they would not stop and stand still.
“Wait!” Blathine cried. “Are you not going to stay here with me?”
“I would if I could,” Connla called back to her ruefully. “But my feet have their own mind about it. Fiachna put an enchantment on them and they are running away with me. Undo the enchantment for me, beloved.”
Something that might almost have been a frown—except that she never really frowned—crossed Blathine’s face, like the faintest shadow of a cloud in a sunlit sky. “I cannot. If one of the Sidhe began undoing the magic of another there would be no end of trouble about it.”
With all his strength, Connla was finally managing to force his feet to run in an enormous circle around Blathine so that he could at least talk to her. “But what will happen to me?” he wanted to know. “How am I to stop?”
Her eyes looked sad. “You will have to find your own way to do that.” Then she brightened. “But it will mean a grand war. As you are really a guest of our king while in the Isles of the Blest, it is his reputation for hospitality that Fiachna sullies by discomforting you in this way. I will go and tell the king at once, so he can summon warriors to attack Fiachna and punish him.”
The Isles of the Blest Page 8
