Fey Born Page 2

  “WHY DO YOU STAY AMONGST MORTALS AND NOT YOUR OWN KIN?”

  Boredom, he thought and arched a brown brow at her reproachful tone. The fey born always believed themselves superior to mortals, though they themselves were not immortal, only extremely long lived.

  “FOOLISH,” she spat when he did not answer. :

  “Not foolish,” he said very slowly. The tedium of life had led him to their mortal brethren, an inner curiosity, an interest to be part of their responsiveness to the land.

  “I SAY FOOLISH.”

  She was in a foul temper, he mused, nothing new. He adjusted the cuff on his wrist. “Foolish is the territorial goddess who continues to desire the Dark Chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Danann for her own when the Faery King has pledged her to another.”

  Her gaze slid away and he felt a twinge of regret for his harshness.

  “I NO LONGER DESIRE HIM,” she murmured.

  “Good.”

  “I DOONA LIKE THE NEW ONE EITHER.”

  “If you doona like the king’s choice for your mate, Blodenwedd, then you should tell him.”

  “TELL? HE DOONA LISTEN TO ME,” she said with an impatient turn of her hand.

  “Who did he choose for you?”

  She looked back at him, a dark light in her eyes. “You.”

  He smiled only slightly at her mischief. “Why are you really here, great goddess?”

  “YOU DOONA BELIEVE ME, RAIN?” There was an open challenge in her voice, a menacing quality to her tone.

  “Careful, Blodenwedd,” he warned silkily, his resentment aroused. He could detect the fragrance of her, the changing scent meant to dull his senses. “I am not like mortal men who bow to your every wish.”

  “YOU ARE MALE BRED,” she said, her eyelids lowered, and he felt the inspection of his man-parts.

  A flicker of annoyance gleamed in his eyes when he saw appreciation light her face. He waited for what he knew was coming.

  “RAIN, I WISH YOU TO BE MY CONSORT.”

  He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “The king dinna pick me, did he, Blodenwedd?”

  “NAY,” she grumbled, admitting to the devious lie, and whirled away.

  “Blodenwedd.”

  “I WANT YOU INSTEAD.” She tossed her silken mane.

  “You doona want me.”

  She turned back, her gaze hot and expectant, roaming boldly up and down his naked body.

  “I CAN MAKE YOU WANT ME, Báisteach.”

  He did not like it when she used his olden fey name. Báisteach meant Rain. Keegan locked his hands behind his back in rebuff and looked up at the clouds. He could feel her anger and resentment brewing just below the surface. “Goddess,” he said with extreme patience, “you canna make me want or do anything I doona want to do.”

  “BE YOU SURE OF THAT?” she murmured coyly.

  He looked into her cold, lovely face. The game she played no longer amused him. “Be you sure, Blodenwedd?”

  At his returned challenge, she pulled back in stunned silence. He guessed his defiance rankled her a wee bit. The look she bestowed on him was filled with such hatred he felt his only recourse was to… chuckle.

  “HOW DARE YOU!” she spat in a full temper, the urge to kill shining in her eyes.

  He peered at her with a strong conviction. “Why did you come here?”

  She made a distasteful sound in her throat. “WANTS YOU NOW TO COME.”

  “Who wants me?”

  “THE HIGH KING. COME NOW.” She turned away, expecting him to follow like an obedient slave.

  He did not move.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder, golden tresses glimmering with raindrops. “RAIN,” she said in irritation.

  “Blodenwedd,” he cajoled.

  He saw she struggled with his sweet and patient tone. “COME NOW!” She actually stomped her foot at him.

  “I will come after the storm abates and twilight passes into night.”

  “NOW, I SAY.”

  “After.”

  Her wraithlike body stiffened, her face turning cruel.

  “YOU NOT BE SPECIAL, NOT EVER, GUARDIAN OF THE WATERS. I DOONA KNOW WHY I WANT YOU.”

  A passing fancy, he mused. Whenever Blodenwedd did not get her way, he knew from experience she could become malicious.

  “After,” he said calmly, which only infuriated her more.

  “YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED AT BIRTH.”

  “Then who, lovely goddess, would you dream about?”

  Her slender chin jutted out and she hissed at him.

  He arched a brow.

  She shimmered then, dissolving into threads of golden light and nothingness, or as the piskies would say, winked out.

  Spoiled, self-indulgent goddess used to having her own way. He knew her infatuation with him would pass in time, as it had passed when all she could talk about was the Dark Chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, he closed his eyes and threw back his head.

  “Drench me,” he called out to the clouds. Heavy rain fell from the sky. He could not command rainfall. Only when the clouds were full with moisture could he beseech them. Being a full guardian of the waters, he sensed all things having to do with water and always knew when rain was about to fall.

  “More,” he whispered and fell to his knees, arms outstretched in entreaty, hands open. He glimmered in the way of his faery brethren, his body changing, eyes tilting at the ends, ears pointing. Gossamer wings unfolded from his back, forming into a webwork of shimmering silver, gray, and black filaments.

  He stretched out his magnificent wings fully, relishing in the freedom of his true fey form.

  CHAPTER 2

  STANDING UPON A HILLTOP BATHED in a new moon’s light, Keegan watched the fey woodlands shimmer out of a wall of white mist. A faery place seen only to some and hidden from most, he considered it a shadow place far from the sky.

  The mist curled around his bare feet in a cool beckoning. He walked down the hill and disappeared into the woodland’s night and vapor. Yellow balls of faery light winked in and out among the moon-kissed darkness and the tall ancient oaks. It was a haven of muffled sounds, of life-giving dampness, and of haunting enchantment left over from the before-time. A pulsing of life making him feel trapped. He much preferred the openness of the lochs and sea, so he took the long way, walking along the edge of a small creek for his own comfort, the sound of the clear water music to his ears.

  To his left lay the sacred nematon, a circular clearing in the woodlands with a stone well at its center. It was a place of divine and earthy union for both the fey and their mortal kin.

  He paused to look at the square stone well, feeling the silence of it. Rising before a thicket of silver thorns, four stone columns grew out of the well at each end, rising high with tips blunted at the end. At its base, brown vines and white roses twisted providing both protection and sweet fragrance.

  Beauty must be in all things faery, he knew, and here it was at its most dangerous peak. He turned away from the sacred well and walked down a path lined with green and lavender ferns. The feathery plants parted for him in greeting.

  After a time, he came upon two identical oaks whose massive trunks were thick with age and threads of silvery fey light. Long, knobby branches stretched outward, clutching the cool night air in silence. Within the leaves, silver glittered with the breath of tiny, watchful, and invisible piskies.

  “I have come,” he whispered, ignoring their scolding at his delay. Piskies bore the souls of the virtuous so Keegan always treated them respectfully. In spite of their prankish ways, they more often helped those who were aged rather than caused havoc.

  “WHY DO YOU NOT TAKE YOUR TRUE FORM?” they asked in melodious voices. “WHY DO YOU NOT WINK AS THE OTHERS?”

  Why indeed? he mused. It seemed his preference for the ways of the mortals spilled over into this as well. However, when the need required, he assured them he would wink in or out like any other proper
faery.

  They were not at all satisfied with his answer, but Keegan knew they would question him no further. Guardians of the fey did as they pleased without explanation.

  He continued walking. To his right, he caught sight of a white owl perched on the end of a long branch. Blodenwedd, he mused, and dipped his head in acknowledgement of the territorial goddess. Circles of pale, golden, radiating feathers surrounded her forward-facing eyes. She turned her head away in silent disdain.

  He grinned at her rebuff and walked beyond the trees. A boundary of black boulders led to the entrance of the hallowed place. The temperature dipped to coolness all around him and he felt the gleaming of the in-between, the place where mortal and fey met. A clearing of lush green grass rose up before him, spreading outward to a sacred waterfall tumbling from a tower of shiny rocks to a small black pool. Considered a sacred place of revealing, the Falls of Orchids was known only to his brethren, a secret kept from all mortals except the tribal chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

  He looked around, finding it odd the Faery King bade him here instead of to Tara, the faery’s new grassy hill fortress.

  Keegan breathed in the new, clear night. A full moon bathed the land in eerie glow, casting shadows as if it were day. He came and stood before the edge of the rippling pool, drawn by the sounds of the water. Lichens and mosses clung to the fissures in flat rocks and along either side of the moving waters.

  Around him, thousands of fragrant orchids grew. They were white and creamy blooms borne on stems surrounded by fleshy leaves.

  “RAIN,” a male voice said with displeasure. “AGAIN YOU HAVE COME TO ME IN YOUR MORTAL FORM AND DRESSED AS THEY.”

  Stepping back from the pool, Keegan looked to the right. The High King of the Faeries sat atop a boulder, watching him. While he wore simple dark green breeches and tunic, King Nuada gleamed in a long coat of silver, silver breeches, white stockings, and silver shoes buckled with diamond drops. Jeweled eyes stared unblinkingly down at him.

  “You know my preference, Great King.” Only then did he drop down on one knee and dip his head respectfully. “I have come as you bade.”

  “STAND, GUARDIAN.”

  Keegan stood.

  “YOU SPEAK LIKE OUR MORTAL BRETHREN, TOO.”

  He nodded. “Would you prefer I speak like the fey?”

  “I PREFER YOU COME WHEN I SUMMON YOU.” The king gestured him close with an impatient wave. “STAND BEFORE ME, RAIN.”

  Keegan moved in front of the boulder. A few summers ago, he set aside the faery inflection to speak as a mortal. He felt a strong presence move with him and then materialize behind the king, and immediately recognized the powerful faery warrior, Lugh.

  “REBELLIOUS,” Lugh offered in a bold tone so that he heard.

  He could not agree more.

  “KNOW WHY I SUMMONED YOU, RAIN?” the King asked.

  Keegan shook his head and glanced at Nuada’s false silver hand. During the Tuatha Dé Danann’s conquest of the Fir Bog, the king lost a hand. Considered blemished, he relinquished his throne to Bress, a hero of the battle. For seven years, the vain Bress ruled in a tightfisted and inhospitable fashion, demanding unfair tributes. The guardians experienced many disputes with the new king.

  All that changed when Nuada returned with a new silver hand, reclaiming his sovereignty and casting Bress out. Like many of his fey kin, Keegan was curious about the magical silver hand, but out of deference for Nuada, he never inquired. Only the whispers remained of a dark enchantment, joint-to-joint of it and sinew-to-sinew, performed by a girted and mysterious healer.

  “Do you summon me because of a problem with Lord Bress Mac Eladan, your predecessor?”

  The king shook his head. “BRESS HAS RETURNED TO HIS FATHER’S PEOPLE, THE FORMORIANS.” He waved his hand. “ACROSS THE SEA.”

  “He ruled unfairly.”

  “AGREED.”

  Keegan waited for his king to explain his summons.

  “YOU BE THE FIRST GUARDIAN OF THE WATERS, RAIN.”

  “I am first guardian.” Keegan nodded in concurrence. “LAST EVE I DREAMT OF MY SWORD DROWNING IN DARK WATERS.”

  An image of the fey’s great sword talisman flashed in his mind. “Is the Answerer not safe?” he asked.

  “ANSWERER BE SAFE AT TARA WITH OUR OTHER THREE TALISMANS,” his king replied.

  The Answerer was the fey name given to Nuada’s magical sword. When drawn, it would inflict only mortal wounds.

  Keegan frowned. “My king, if the Answerer is safe with our other talismans then of what sword do you speak?”

  “I SPEAK OF VALOR.”

  “Valor?” He stilled at the mention of the sword spirit of dark enchantment. Very few even knew of its existence and he saw it only once, a glimpse of bronze and spiral-cut bone.

  “THEY HAVE STOLEN MY DEFENDER FROM ME,” the king hissed, pounding his fist into his thigh.

  “Do you know who has stolen Valor?” Keegan asked with great care.

  The king shook his head, eyes glinting with outrage. “LAST EVE I DREAMT OF HER DROWNING AND WHEN I AWOKE SHE BE GONE.”

  “In your dream, did you see the waters? Was it loch or sea?”

  “ONLY MIST AND DARKNESS. I HAVE ENVISIONED HER DROWNING YET I DOONA FEEL HER THREATENED, ONLY…” The king shook his head, unable to form further words to describe his strange dream. He looked up. “FIND VALOR, RAIN.”

  “I will.”

  “FIND HER AND TELL NO ONE.”

  He found the request unusual, but agreed. “As you wish.” In the next instant, the High King of the Faeries was gone, leaving only silver shards of light flickering in the air.

  “NO ONE MUST KNOW VALOR BE MISSING, RAIN.”

  Keegan looked up at the warrior Lugh and was cautious in his objection. “Would it not be wiser to gather the other guardians and have them aid in the search?”

  Lugh shook his head. “NUADA WISHES SECRECY.” Keegan nodded slowly in acquiescence. Yet, he could not help feeling this secrecy was ill conceived. He bowed his head. “As you wish,” he replied in a tone of disagreement.

  “YOU OPPOSE THE KING’S DESIRE, RAIN?”

  “Aye, I do, but I will find his dark sword nonetheless. He fears her drowning, yet senses no threat. I suspect whoever took her knows her worth, knows what they have, and will be cautious.”

  Keegan took on his fey form and dissolved into silvery threads of mist and starlight, winking out, leaving behind only vapor and misgivings.

  He would never know Lugh believed him right, that the secrecy was indeed ill conceived.

  ———

  In the darkest black of the predawn hours, Keegan returned to the land of men and shed his fey form. He stood outside the blind druidess’s round, candle-lit cottage, inhaling her favored rosemary scent. All was quiet. A yellow glow spilled from the open door onto his feet.

  “Doona stand there like an old goat, come in then,” the druidess called at him from inside. The crone might have no eyes, he mused, but there was nothing wrong with her other senses.

  He entered the cottage. “I have come for my weapon, ancient one.”

  The druidess turned to him, holding an empty goblet in her hand. “I know. Blodenwedd has already visited me.” She tugged at her long brown robe, common cloth for her faith. “That goddess shows interest in things she should not,” she complained. “She tells me the king dreams of his dark sword drowning, yet senses no threat to her.”

  He simply nodded.

  “Odd dream,” she remarked. Her white hair fell down her back in wild disarray as if she had risen abruptly.

  He agreed.

  “He has chosen you to find Valor?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why? Because you be first guardian of our blessed waters and be sensing the blade when the waters touch her?”

  “If you know this, why then do you ask me?” he asked impatiently.

  She snorted at his tone then looked away. Turning left and right, she peered up at him with those empty ey
e sockets again, her mouth thinned in concentration. “Why do I stand here?”

  Keegan blew air out of his nostrils and glanced at the long wood table, at the three white candles in the center, at the two plates of food, and at the single bronze goblet filled with goats milk. “I doona know. Mayhap to fill the goblet you hold.”

  “Aye.” The druidess grinned as if remembering just that. She headed back to the long table, a slow shuffle of age and lack of sleep. “Come and break fast with me. I have two plates and food enough to fill the belly of even a large faery as you.”

  “I doona have the time. Where are my things?”

  She dismissed his question and said, “Sit down with me.”

  “Ancient,” he warned.

  “Sit and listen to what I have to say, fey guardian of the waters.”

  Disgruntled, Keegan walked over to the dark wood table at his right and sat down on a bench. A druid knew many things and this particular one committed all knowledge to memory. She did not believe in painted images and spoke her mind without care.

  “Eat,” she commanded with all the authority of a fey queen.

  He looked down and wrinkled his nose at the offending smell. The ancient had a fondness for tripe, which was sheep’s stomach. She would cook the stomach in goat’s milk for many long hours and season it with herbs. He pushed the plate aside.

  “You doona like tripe?” She sat on the bench opposite him.

  He shook his head.

  “Even faeries must eat.”

  “We do.”

  She pushed the goblet of milk across the table and under his nose.

  He grimaced. “I doona care for milk either.”

  “ ‘Tis not only milk,” she argued softly, and Keegan had the impression that if she could, she would have winked at him.

  Reaching for the goblet, he sniffed at the contents and tasted the offering. “You mix mead with your milk, Derina?” he said with an approving smile and took another sip. He developed a deep appreciation for mead while living among the tribe of men.

  “Aye, I do,” she replied smugly. “How else do I live this long?”

  He chuckled low. “You live long because you serve the fey.”