Fey Born Read online

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  EPILOGUE

  Predestined

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  R. GARLAND GRAY

  Previous praise for PREDESTINED

  “Ms. Gray brings to vivid life the Celtic mythology, the Ireland of Fey, and the traditions that existed centuries ago. Her writing is evocative, her characters endearing, and the story completely captivating. A definite recommend for lovers of fantasy, Celtic history, paranormal, and gallant adventure.”

  — A Romance Review

  “From its hushed and beautiful opening sentence to its intensely romantic conclusion, Predestined fulfills its promise of love and fate, and hope against darkness. R. Garland Gray is a lyric star on the rise.”

  — Mary Beth Bass, romance author www.marybethbass.com

  “Ms. Gray is an exceptional author and one that paints a vivid picture with her words. The reader won’t be able to help but be drawn into her magical world…”

  — K. Ahlers, Independent Reviewer

  **** FOUR STARS!

  “Hope wars with fear. Honor wars with love… This is a good book.”

  — Affaire de Coeur

  “This is a powerful and magical tale of moonbeams, pixies and love. Readers who enjoy fantasy will want to put this on top of their to-be-read pile. SENSUAL.”

  — Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “PREDESTINED by R. Garland Gray is a wonderful and exciting mix of legend, the paranormal and adventure.”

  — Romance Junkies

  “A spellbinding love story that captures the attention from the very beginning, PREDESTINED by R. Garland Gray is a must read for all!”

  — Romance Reviews Today

  “… fans of mildly sensual Celtic fantasy will be absolutely thrilled with this thoroughly enjoyable book!”

  — The Romance Studio

  “I definitely recommend PREDESTINED as a fantastic fantasy read!”

  — The Best Reviews

  “Magic is center to this book and it flows fast and swift to snare the reader within the first chapter. Ms. Gray’s writing is a true joy to read as the reader gets a glimpse into her world and what she creates there left this reviewer awe-struck.”

  — Love Romances

  “R. Garland Gray writes Mythical Magic that you can sink your teeth into. I, for one, as a reader look forward to another banquet!”

  — Anne Elizabeth, romance author www.anneelizabeth.net

  “Sensual and scintillating, PREDESTINED is a magical journey where love walks with honor as prophecy leads the way.”

  — Sharon Horton, romance author www.sharonhorton.com

  Fey Born

  R. Garland Gray

  Published 2006 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2006 by R. Garland Gray

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

  10 987654321

  Second Edition

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the guardians of nature and all her creatures —

  And to Carol Ann and Michael, my faery godmother and her husband — with appreciation and love.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To Dov for hinting, “This needs a little more work.”

  To Mom and Bill for saying, “We want to read it!”

  To Edward for taking all those author pictures.

  Thank you.

  “Everything that deceives may be said to enchant.”

  —Plato

  FORWARD

  With the passage of time and memory, many names of historical heroes, Gods and Goddesses have been stripped into imitation figures, fitted into ancient culture and lore. However, every so often, a great guardian is lost to the ripples of time…

  … and is found once again.

  PROLOGUE

  Eire

  Long ago

  In nightshade and legend, they linger, a forever trespass into the past and present, a forever warning to those who would defile and ruin the living lands and waters.

  Deep in the ancestral memory of the faery realm, they reside, answering to the given name of Guardian. Remote beings of just cruelty, they are intolerant of weakness and flaw, intolerant of ugliness, rules, and falsity. Intolerant of most things, mortal men believe, knowing a guardian’s punishment to be swift, sure, and lethal.

  They are like no other.

  Beautiful.

  Selfish.

  Male bred.

  They are fey born, primordial, powerful, and none have ever changed… until now.

  CHAPTER 1

  Drumanagh, Eire

  Spring

  HE STOOD AT THE EDGE of the high ranging meadows where the horses of the tribe grazed. Darkly lashed eyelids closed in exquisite pleasure. Slowly, his head tilted back, long brown hair flowing down his bare back in dampening glints of red and gold. It began to rain, a gathering of gray clouds muting the light of the late afternoon. He sighed deeply, tasting the sweet air of Meitheamh, June, in his lungs and savoring the touch of cool raindrops upon his naked and responsive flesh. He was fey born, a purebred creature of sensations and selfishness. A legendary guardian of the waters, he was crafted of cruelty and enchantment, a being to be feared; a being whose true form must remain secret. He knew he should not be here and thought of the olden ways with a sharp surge of resentment. There was no sense in being bored, he thought rebelliously.

  Wearing his mortal appearance, he lived among the tribe of the Tuatha Dé Danann now. A fierce, loyal, and constant warrior — he slowly grinned — answering to the given name of Keegan. The name meant “highly spirited.” An admirable name, he chuckled darkly. If only they knew…

  Lana, a farm girl of unimpressive worth, at least that is how she thought of herself, stumbled back behind the ancient oaks and nearly dropped the druidess’s basket of herbs. She had been making her customary visit to see Lightning, the aged sorrel stallion, when fat raindrops plopped and splashed upon the land. Dashing into the tall oaks for cover, a shortcut back to the village, she had never thought to see him.

  Like that!

  Lana set the basket down on a dry spot beneath a thick canopy of branches and took a moment to catch her breath. Swiping a drenched blond curl out of her eyes, she peered around the thick tree trunk, unable to help
herself. The fading light caught the silver glint from the cuff he always wore on his right wrist.

  She looked at the lines of his body and blinked to clear her vision. Lightning and three black mares calmly grazed around the naked warrior in acceptance of the afternoon rain showers. From what she could see, Keegan’s silvery gray eyes were closed, his angular face tilted upward as if listening to the rain’s chant of faery whispers. The corners of his lips slowly curved and Lana had the impression the raindrops sang to him of their joyous journey from the stormy clouds to the green land below.

  She watched him in silent fascination as any female would. His lean, well-built body was turned slightly away from her, offering a splendid view of long limbs and curved buttocks. If she leaned right, she might get a glimpse of that very impressive male part of him. Good sense took hold, however, and she decided to stay under the protection of the trees. Besides, she could see him well enough from here, she reasoned. He looked taller without clothes. All that smooth skin she could just imagine running the tips of her fingers over the ripple of muscle and strength.

  Lana drew back. She must learn to curtail her overactive imagination. She might be impulsive, but she was not stupid. The gentle sound of the rain pattered consistently in her ears, and she tugged the laces of her damp tunic closer with cold fingers. Never could she hope to know the remote Keegan in that way, or any warrior, given her frail condition.

  He stood not ten horse lengths from her, his dark hair falling in wet plaits down his broad back. He was not born of her tribe. However, he had earned the right to belong to the warrior class of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He came during the time of shadows only two summers before. A freeman, he worked hard and trained hard with sword, spear, and shield. Last year he fought bravely in the battle of Kindred, the recapturing of their ancestral home from the invaders, yet still he was considered an outsider by many.

  He did not partake of their ways, and did not seek payment for his fine skills. Instead, he offered to help her father in the fields. A warrior on a farm? She shook her head in bewilderment and rubbed her wet nose. If she remained much longer, she might catch a chill, but feminine curiosity took hold of her and she could do nothing else but look.

  “Caught in the spring showers, too, Lana?”

  Lana straightened abruptly in surprise, her hand clenched across her chest. With flushed cheeks, she stared guiltily at the white-haired druidess, Derina.

  “Your heart bothers you?” the druidess asked in concern.

  “Nay,” Lana choked, embarrassed at being found gaping at the naked warrior. She took a recovering breath, feeling the familiar twinges inside her chest. Everyone in the village knew of her weak heart, lack of stamina, and occasional fainting spells. However, unlike some others, the ancient was always helpful and sympathetic, which was odd since most members of the druid class were callous. She heard so, anyway.

  “Come to visit that mean-tempered stallion again?” the druidess prompted, moving under the protection of the canopy. “What be his name?” Her white brows drew together and then she answered her own question, a common occurrence. “Lightning, methinks.”

  “Aye.” Lana bristled slightly at the description of her friend. “Lightning is not mean-tempered, at least not to me,” she whispered, hoping the naked warrior could not hear them. “He has mellowed much over the years.”

  The druidess was not listening to her.

  She shifted right and appeared to be looking, if looking could be used to describe one who had no eyes and yet could see.

  “Ah,” the ancient said in a hushed tone, understanding immediately. She pointed her walking stick. “You be visiting another kind of stallion today.”

  Lana turned apple red. “I am not visiting,” she said firmly in a hushed tone.

  “Watching then.”

  “I am not watching,” she protested.

  The ancient smiled. “I would.”

  Lana looked away, wondering how the blind druidess could possibly know.

  “He fascinates you, Lana?”

  “Please lower your voice. I doona wish him to hear us.”

  The druidess nodded and hunched her shoulders, leaning forward. “He fascinates you?” she repeated her question with less volume and more emphasis.

  “Aye, he does.” Lana admitted grudgingly. Keegan captivated her interest since he first came to the tribe two seasons before. He always smelled clean and fresh like the rain even when soiled with toil and sweat.

  “I know,” the ancient replied as if reading her mind. She tapped a bent finger on a wrinkled cheek. “I may be one hundred and…”

  “… three,” Lana offered.

  “What?”

  “You are one hundred and three summers.”

  “I know how old I am,” the ancient grumbled. “Now, what did I want to say? Ah, I may be one hundred and three summers, but my fey sight remains strong. This gift be from our fey brethren.”

  “I know.”

  “It allows me to see shapes and movement; otherwise I would be walking into trees and tumbling into lochs.”

  “I know,” Lana repeated patiently.

  Empty eye sockets crinkled in merriment. “Now tell me, why does he interest you?”

  Lana shrugged. “He is different, ancient.”

  “Different how?”

  She wished the druidess would keep her voice down. Taking a moment to stem the flow of her tumultuous thoughts, Lana found she could not describe what she felt and instead blurted, “He looks perfect.”

  “You think so, do you?” The druidess laughed and Lana quickly motioned her to lower her tone.

  The druidess nodded and then whispered, “I would not call him perfect, young Lana. His voice is too deep.”

  “Nay, ‘tis not.”

  “His hands and feet look a wee bit large, methinks.”

  She shrugged. Mayhap. “His eyes are the pale gray color…”

  “… of rainstorms,” the ancient continued with hushed gaiety.

  “Aye,” Lana answered in all seriousness. “And his ways are different than ours, too.”

  “This be true, yet has he not earned honor among us?”

  “Aye,” Lana acknowledged easily, having seen the quickness and strength of his battle skills.

  “What else be bothering you about him, young Lana?”

  She took a breath. “Derina, a warrior does not work on a farm.”

  “That one does.”

  The druidess made her answer sound so simple. Lana pointed over her shoulder. “He stands in the rain unclothed.”

  “Mayhap he needs a bath.” Leaning heavily on the walking stick, the ancient looked around her, lips curving in what seemed to Lana a bold appreciation indeed.

  “I have decided the shape of those hands and feet be perfect. Our fey brethren could not have crafted a finer male form.” The ancient laughed softly at a secret known only to her. “Do you wish to discuss another part of him then?”

  Lana shook her head self-consciously. Thank the goddess the warrior could not hear their conversation.

  “Then I be curious and ask, did you find my linseed, Lana?”

  “Aye, I have it here in my basket.” Lana walked back to where she left the basket. “It is still early yet, but I have found a good patch.” The blue flowering herb soothed the coughs and problems of the chest several members of her tribe occasionally suffered.

  “Good,” the ancient remarked, and followed. She tapped her walking stick against the tree trunk. “The spring shower has paused for us so you may walk back with me. Come, my robes be damp, my bones be aching, and my stomach pains me again.”

  Lana could not help but smile. “Your stomach grumbles, does it now?” All in her tribe knew of the ancient’s complaints. She picked up the basket and settled it on her hip.

  “Lana, has your father made more of his sweet mead?” the druidess asked nonchalantly.

  “Aye,” she said and laughed softly, “I will bring some to you this eve.”


  ———

  Keegan let a smile curve his lips as he listened to the ancient one’s inner thoughts.

  “I have fetched her away,” Derina remarked in her mind so that he heard.

  “I am in your debt, ancient.”

  “You should be.” She gave her thought to him in a huff. The druidess kept his secrets, an olden pledge always to serve the fey. She came as he bade. Being fey blooded herself, she responded to his mind call and claimed his inquisitive onlooker from the small grouping of trees beside the meadow. Lana was a lovely, sickly female of little worth. He valued strength and had little tolerance for fragility and weakness. Still, she was pleasant to look upon and he enjoyed the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled.

  He turned away, his nostrils flaring in recognition of a familiar scent.

  He did not want Lana to see the golden territorial goddess who also came to the rain drenched meadow and now stood in silent splendor, watching, waiting, her sweet fey scent filling the air.

  Lana and Blodenwedd, though mortal and faery goddess respectively, were crafted of the same sunlit hues. Lana’s mortal shades were softer than Blodenwedd’s and he found her black eyes strangely alluring, certainly more so than the goddess’s piercing amber.

  Keegan felt wisps of gold in the air touching his skin and heard the horses move away.

  “RAIN,” the golden perfect one said.

  He did not answer, did not move.

  “RAIN,” she hissed at him in exasperation, using his faery name.

  Keegan lowered his head and stared down into flashing amber eyes with silver tipped lashes.

  “Blodenwedd,” he replied, bowing his head respectfully to the territorial goddess.

  She pulled back the white webs of her robe’s hood and Keegan once more looked upon the excellence of her features.