by Candace Sams
Blain didn't know exactly what all that meant, but it sounded important When they entered the clearing his eyes widened in shock If he'd been under the influence of some drug, he couldn't have been more surprised Fairies of all shapes and sizes walked about Their wings were unfurled and shimmered in the afternoon light The sun made the skins of some look as if they'd been dusted in silver or gold glitter Though his heart beat wildly in anticipation, he felt no fear Some of them looked up as he passed by, and he noted their whispered comments. Some openly stared. He couldn't see that any of two creatures were exactly alike, yet they all appeared to sense a difference in him. At least that's what their reactions indicated. Maybe that was because he was new. Whatever was happening, he was definitely not in Kansas anymore. Here were real fairies, just like himself and Lore.
When he turned back to his companion, Lore had changed into his true form. The man's hair was pure white and hung down his back to his waist. His eyes glittered a forest green and matched the lighter shade of his skin. As with the others, his ears were now pointed and matched the defined slant of his eyes. The man's wings were large and a kind of blue-green. But they seemed to change shades just a bit as the light hit them differently.
"Welcome home, brother." Lore grinned and clasped Blain's upper arm in greeting. "You're welcome here among us."
"Thank you, Lore. I was afraid I wouldn't be," Blain responded earnestly. "What do I do now?"
"You meet some of the others. There are fairies here from all over the world. Over there are members of the Italian fairy faction," he said as he motioned toward some decidedly Renaissance-looking creatures. "Then there are the Nordic fairies, the Baltic factions and some of your own Highland race. The smaller members of the fairy clan are pixies, sprites and others you'll learn about. Our one common link is that we all have, or had, wings at one time. Many of us can shape shift, others can't. You may have been told that we can fly. This is true, but only for a very short distance, and it's more like gliding really. Ask any questions you want of anyone. Don't be afraid. No one here harbors ill will toward you for any reason. Your separation from us was old Freyja's fault, not yours, and may she be damned for it wherever she burns."
Blain watched Lore walk away to speak to the others and knew he had a true friend in the fairy leader. What a world of wonders this was. If anyone had told him he'd be in the middle of it, he'd have laughed his ass off at the very idea. Yet here he was. And it was all as real as the sunlight on his green skin, the air in his lungs and the dark blue wings on his back.
He stopped his cursory inspection of the beings when he saw a table at the far end of the clearing. On it, objects of metal and wood lay in carefully arranged groups. He was about to walk toward them when a soft hand grasped his bicep. He turned and was confronted by one of the most enchanting sites he could ever hope to see.
The woman before him was young, light blue-green in color, and had long hair that matched her skin. Her eyes shone like two sapphires from a heart shaped face. She smiled at him as he openly stared.
"I see thou hast not seen the like of me, Blain McTavish. My sisters, cousins and I will help thee become accustomed to thy new life in any way we can. We are of an old English faction of the fey race. My name is Morynn."
"Thank you, Morynn. I'll probably need a great deal of help." Blain admitted.
"Come, Blain. You've a weapon to choose and training to begin," Lore said as he approached and led Blain toward the far end of the green.
When they were halfway across the clearing, Lore glanced back toward Morynn. "Be careful of her kind. They're lovely to look at, but they thrive on stealing a man's senses away and leaving him a babbling idiot when they're through. It took me three days to get over lying with one once."
"Don't worry. I have no intention of letting anything, or anyone, with that much seducing magic near me. I could almost feel it closing around me like cement. Besides, there's someone else I want to be with."
"Aye, that would be fair Afton, would it not?"
"It would," Blain heartily responded.
"She's a fine lass. And it's good you can sense different kinds of enchantment about you. The seducing enchantment you're speaking of has led many a good man to his ruin. Morynn and her kin should find themselves some randy Satyrs. Those are the only beings who can satisfy her breed."
Blain started to ask more about Morynn and the Satyrs, but the sun's glare off metal distracted him.
They stood in front of a long table. He eyed what looked like museum quality medieval weapons. There were broad swords, axes, staffs, bows of different lengths, maces and assorted other deadly items he couldn't name.
"These things are archaic. Why not just use guns like the rest of the world?" Blain blurted and immediately felt guilty for his tactlessness "I'm sorry, Lore, I didn't mean to say it like that. It's just that it must be hard to defend yourself against some thug with gun."
"It's all right, my friend. What you say is quite true. But unlike the weapons of the outside world, ours are made to be totally untraceable. Some can even be carried without authorities questioning their presence." Lore pointed toward the staffs. "These, for instance, don't look like anything but sticks to help people walk over rugged moors. Many other weapons, like wooden cross-bows, can be packed in luggage. They don't set off metal detectors at airports. Best of all, virtually every weapon you see here is silent." Lore lifted a bow and arrow. His deft fingers notched the arrow to the string and sent it flying, soundlessly down the green. It landed in the direct center of a knothole some seventy yards away.
"Holy Mike!" Blain muttered.
"When I have to travel with some of the metal weaponry, the authorities are fooled by false documentation telling them I'm a collector of rare antiquities. In this age of fully automatic weapons, none of the outsiders appreciates just how deadly these things are."
"And you really find a need to defend yourself with these weapons?" Blain asked, vividly recalling the incident with Hannah Biddies.
"The rare occasion arises now and again. Of course, all evidence of our having been involved is completely destroyed, and we only defend when we're cornered. Fairies can't call the elements and use them the way the Druids can. We have limited use of our dust or glamour. This is only used in the rarest of occasions to give us time to flee. It can temporarily blind a foe. So we rely on these," he explained as he waved his hand toward the collected weapons. "Of course, when the
Sorceress chooses someone to check out your Druid powers, you may have some or all of the elements at your command."
Blain sighed, glanced at the tree Lore had targeted and turned back to the table. He considered the weapons. "I'm supposed to learn to use all of these?"
"Aye, but you must choose your main weapon. Mine is the bow."
"Would've never guessed," Blain quipped. "How do I go about choosing?"
"Look them over. See what appeals to you." Lore backed away from the table and let Blain look over the weapons at his own pace.
Others gathered to watch. Blain was aware of their presence. He sensed this was some kind of momentous affair. This business of choosing weapons was probably some kind of traditional ceremony he had to endure. He took a deep breath and began to inspect each object.
He handled all kinds of dirks, swords and other cutlery. None of them did anything for him, so he kept looking. He was almost at the end of the table when a massive, double-bladed battle axe caught his attention. His fingers swept over the long wooden handle, or haft, and he felt a surge of energy. Used to handling axes on the farm, he appreciated the fine workmanship.
Without hesitating, he grabbed the haft with both hands and slowly lifted the opposite end. As he did so, the double blades rang out. The sound wasn't unlike two pieces of metal striking one another. Blain was aware of the crowds' awed response, but the axe claimed the better part of his attention. The two blades were engraved with Celtic design. The scrollwork etched across the metal like twining serpents. Despite the fac
t that it was a particularly gruesome item that could dismember a very large man or animal, it was still a riveting work of craftsmanship. Magnificently carved Celtic animals and knotwork circled the haft. All five feet of it were superb. Carefully running his index finger along one of the blades, he knew just how deadly the axe really was. Swung in a circular motion, it could maim or kill many men in close combat.
"You've chosen," Lore stated. "I should say the weapon chose you. It sang out. I've never seen such a thing happen. If anyone else had come forward and picked up that particular weapon, I would have said they were a bit too ambitious. It's an awesome thing to carry and must be wielded with precision. But the choice has been made. The axe is yours. Take care with it, Blain. It may guard your life or the lives of those you love one day."
Applause started from the back of the crowd and worked its way forward. Blain lifted the axe up and felt primitive power flow through his arms and chest. It was as though the weapon really had chosen him.
Lore's remark about guarding the lives of others hung in Blain's mind like a threat. There was something he should be remembering. Something of great importance. But he couldn't force the thought to come from the back of his brain where he could make sense of it. He had a feeling whatever he was forgetting would haunt him. He kept the axe very close.
Ten
Until late in the evening, Blain practiced wielding the heavy weapon. He guessed the thing weighed nearly twenty pounds. Swinging it several times was no chore. As the afternoon wore on, however, the weight became grueling. Perhaps he'd chosen the axe because it was the only weapon available that was familiar. No matter how tortuous the swinging became, he did as Lore and the others instructed and practiced the motions over and over. He thought his chest would explode from the exertion, but he wasn't about to let anyone see how tired he was. And all the while, that nagging dark forecast of doom kept persisting. The hard work hadn't driven it off as he'd hoped. Something was very wrong, and he should be able to put his finger on it but couldn't. But apparently no one but him felt the coming blackness. What could he say to them that wouldn't make him sound insane? For the thousandth time, he stuffed the fear down and refused to give in to it.
"Enough, Blain," Lore called out from the other side of the clearing. "You won't be able to lift a fork tonight if you don't stop."
Blain lowered the axe and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of one forearm. "I was hoping you'd think I could go on forever, even if I couldn't."
Lore laughed and slapped him on the back. "You've no one to prove anything to. It's doubtful anyone will challenge you for Afton the way you were swinging that blade."
"What do you mean? Who would challenge me for Afton?" Blain lowered the blades of the axe to the ground and leaned against the thick handle.
"Our customs are ancient. We claim our chosen mates during special times of the year in a ceremony referred to as handfasting. It's the same as marriage among humans, only we tend to stay with our chosen ones for life. Before the ceremony, if someone vigorously objects to the handfasting of a particular couple, that person may make a challenge to stop it."
172
"What happens then?" Blain asked, suddenly feeling a bit threatened. He didn't want to fight someone for Afton. She wasn't a piece of meat to be argued over, and he'd seen the size of the other men. He'd surely have to hurt someone if they fought.
"If it's a man challenging, he fights the handfasting male. If it's a woman, she fights the handfasting woman. It seldom happens, but when it does, sparks fly and tempers flare. In the distant past, men and women fought to the death over the right to handfast a particular man or woman. That's how the strongest survived."
"Are you trying to tell me that if a handfasting man is defeated by the challenging man, that challenger can claim the woman as his?"
"That's the way of it. That's why some couples won't announce they're handfasting. They simply come forward during some celebration like Beltane or Samhain. They have Shayla handfast them as soon as possible, then they go into the woods and stay a few nights to consummate their vows."
"Well, no one is taking Afton from me, no matter what kind of weapon they use or what challenge they make!" Blain growled. If it was a fight someone wanted and the outcome was who would get Afton, then some man was going to limp off crying, even if the custom was sordid and ridiculous.
"So, you do love her." Lore smiled.
"Of course I do." Blain stopped as the realization hit him hard. He was in love with Afton. It was obvious to Lore. How could he not have known it? Somewhere in the middle of all the magic, sorcery and mysticism, he'd fallen in love. She'd been his friend, confidante and instructor. No one in his life had ever made him feel so complete, so at ease. She was the one he wanted to hold in the night and wake up with in the morning. Her sweetness and warmth had been a balm when he thought he was losing his sanity. She'd always been there for him, never asking anything except his understanding. Her heart was loving and tender.
He smiled. When he'd lost control and almost attacked her, she had wanted more than just friendship then. She'd wanted him as badly as he'd wanted her. If there was anything to this challenging business, he'd have to keep her very close until Lughnasadh or August Eve. If memory served him correctly, that was the next Celtic celebration, and it was still a few weeks away. Until then, he'd find a way to meet with her and win her love. It would be the sweetest task he would ever undertake. He would handfast with her, and to hell with anyone who tried to stop him.
"You're grinning like a dragon eating a fresh knight sandwich. What ails you?" Lore asked, breaking the silence.
"Nothing. But the reference to a dragon sandwich is making me hungry. Let's find some food."
***
"Remember, Pluck, please don't do anything to embarrass me tonight," Afton warned her elfin friend as they walked toward the main clearing. His short legs moved efficiently enough to keep up with her longer stride, and he was typically dressed like an elf with his brown suit, pointed cap and ears. The bearded Pluck was about her own age, but he often acted a great deal younger, as those of his kind did. The little man was up to juvenile antics constantly, and she worried about what he might do tonight in front of Blain.
"What could I possibly do to embarrass you? Are you saying that being seen with me is somehow beneath your dignity?" the little man asked, his anger rising.
"Of course not. It's just that you always say something about me that's...well...embarrassing," Afton explained.
"Like what?"
"Like the time you told the story about how I lost my knickers in the river while bathing, and I had to run home holding ferns to cover myself."
"You were only a little girl when that happened. Everyone thought that story was sweet," he insisted.
"Well tonight is special. Promise me you won't tell any of the stories about the times I've screwed up. Promise!" Afton stopped walking and faced Pluck.
"What's so special about tonight?" He paused and tilted his head while he gazed at her. "Afton O'Malley, you have your cap set for this Blain fellow, haven't you?"
Afton ducked her head. Pluck had known her all her life. They'd been infants playing in the woods together. Why she should feel so uncomfortable about the elf knowing she wanted Blain was a mystery. Perhaps she was afraid Pluck would say something that would make Blain think less of her. All she knew was that she didn't want Blain to hear about anything demeaning in her past. Today, she'd been in the woods practicing her elemental powers and had accomplished some unusually powerful feats. Perhaps knowing she loved and wanted Blain was all the motivation she needed to concentrate properly. The past wasn't something she could change, and she was certain her powers were growing. The future was what mattered. Blain gave her the will to practice her powers and concentrate harder than she'd ever done in her life.
"Afton, I'm sorry if the stories I told about you hurt your feelings." Pluck paused then continued, "You know that no one would play with me when
we were young because I was always the smallest elf and sometimes picked on because of it. You couldn't control the elements the way you were supposed to, but you were always there for me. We were misfits." He shrugged. "You're the last person in the world I'd ever want to hurt. I always saw you laugh when I told those silly stories, so I thought you didn't mind. You do know I was only joking, don't you?"
Afton heard the contrition in her friend's voice and smiled. "I do know, Pluck. I guess I smiled at those stories you told so no one would learn their laughing hurt me. And I know you didn't mean to cause me pain. It's just that Blain is ... he's ..."
"I know. He's special to you. Don't worry, Afton. I won't say anything to embarrass you. I promise."
"Thank you."
Afton began to walk toward the large clearing again. Pluck half-jogged along with her as his shorter legs sought to keep pace with her stride. Afton slowed down by degrees so Pluck wouldn't notice and accuse her of patronizing him. The top of his head only came up to her waist, so it was difficult changing pace without his noticing.
Earlier, she'd washed away her special botanic essence and bathed in sparkling spring water. Afton didn't want Blain lured to her through the use of some "herbal concoction," as Shayla had put it.
As they neared the clearing, reveling voices could be heard. Blain would be among them. Afton had heard he'd chosen the battle axe as his primary weapon. Only the strongest warriors chose such a blade, but she knew Blain could handle it. He had muscle to spare, and it was a source of joy that he had wanted that particular weapon.
"Look," Pluck cried as he ran forward, "Hugh has returned from the States. He's come back sooner than planned."
