Faerie Fate (20 page)

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.

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 spread 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.