Swan Star Read online

  Swan Star

  The Swan Series: Book Three

  Betina Lindsey

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1994 by Betina Lindsey

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition October 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-145-6

  Also by Betina Lindsey

  The Swan Series

  Swan Bride

  Swan Witch

  The Serpent Beguiled

  Waltz with the Lady

  To my daughter Eowyn, who’s a pixie, a fairy sprite and a Renaissance maiden all in one

  Love is like a star,

  unchangeable in an eternal heaven.

  Love is here,

  Love is now.

  Chapter 1

  Star by star over the Loch of the Dragon’s Mouth arose the evening. Elusive as dreams, yet vivid as a promise given, even in midsummer, the loch was as solemn and chilly as a banshee’s breath. Across the face of the moon, appearing shadowy and huge, winged a pair of white swans. Spiraling down, both alighted and glided to shore. Wild-winged shapeshifters, a young woman and a girl shed their swan skins in a chimera of down, feathers and phantasm.

  A wigeon flew a little way, uttering a soft call. Arrah of Myr listened. Her watchful eyes scanned the forested hills and the rocky cliffs that shelved like giant stairways.

  “It seems safe enough,” she said to her young companion. She left her swan skin ashore and stepped back into the water.

  The silence cloaked her naked body as she floated in the loch. Night deepened and mystery crept around her from every side. Upon this midsummer’s eve, she felt her share of nervousness for succumbing to Sib’s pleas and her own need for just a wee bit of adventure.

  On a whim, she and her young swan sister, Sib, had left the realm of Myr and crossed over on a ley path into the world of men to have a “look-see,” as Sib put it. Myr, the ancient haven of the swan maidens, was an enchanted place and very much different from the world of men. All her life Arrah had heard tales of men, but she’d never seen one…and a part of her wondered if she truly wanted to. Tradition held that the first kiss between a man and swan maiden would leave the man hopelessly enchanted.

  “Which star did I come from?” asked Sib, now floating beside her.

  Arrah did not look over at her, but kept her eyes skyward. Sib always needed the assurance that she was star-born. Oh, Arrah could not blame her. Sib was impatient to transform from child to woman.

  Arrah remembered her own anxiety and gawkiness before chrysalis, the time when a swan maiden changes into a woman. She thought of the time she’d lived alone in the forest sulking and hiding from her own wretched reflection. She’d wanted to be beautiful, like the other swan maidens of Myr. She’d tried to sing, but nothing but a dull croak had ever passed her lips. Her skin had been rough and scaly and her eyes a dull gray. Her hair—she’d despaired that it would ever be more than a briery thatch sticking out from her head. When at last she’d accepted herself as she was, almost magically she’d begun to slowly transform. She knew now that one must find out for oneself that beauty’s perfection pays no heed to the surface, but comes from what lies beneath.

  “Listen,” she advised Sib. “Lose yourself in the silence. The silence stretches and connects to the stars and to the one star that your soul comes from. You will find your star in the silence among all stars.”

  Sib remained quiet.

  Arrah searched and found her own star amidst the myriad of sparkling diadems. She knew that each soul coming from a different star brought a different quality of love’s essence. Some brought love that was strong, others a love that was compassionate. Some brought love that was wise, expansive as a cloudless sky. Some brought love that was childlike, gentle, like the sweet fragrance of roses, while some brought love’s fire, scorching as sunset. Each time someone risked to feel the love of another, the light of their two stars joined.

  Suddenly, the blare of a horn broke the stillness. Sib splashed upright. “Where did that come from?”

  Her own heart quickening, Arrah said, “’Tis from the castle, on the far shore of the loch. Look, and you can see the torches lighting the battlements.”

  “Truly?” marveled Sib, squinting her elfin eyes. “Maybe we should go closer and see this castle.”

  “We’ll go no closer than this. ’Tis not safe for us. ’Tis the abode of the Fianna.”

  “And who be the Fianna?”

  Arrah was not sure herself, but repeated what she had learned from others who had crossed over in times before. “Men. Men who are ruthless warriors pledged to an even more ruthless chieftain.”

  “Beway,” breathed Sib with astonishment.

  “The Fianna are not of our kith. Though the bond of love can run deep and strong between our two races, it can end badly, for it carries a great price, including death.”

  “You tell me only the worst,” pouted Sib. “I have heard that such a union can also bring a joy that can live for centuries beyond death.”

  “’Tis an idle tale for young maidens to dream upon,” scoffed Arrah.

  Sib turned and began to swim toward the mossy bank.

  “Where are you going?” Arrah called out.

  “I’m going to fly over to this castle and take a look at these Fianna.”

  Sib was unpredictable.

  Arrah kicked up a froth of water in trying to catch up with her. She had learned the hard way, through the seasons of Sib’s childhood, that she was a sorceress of small disasters.

  Out of breath, Arrah climbed onto the bank after Sib. “Be warned, the Fianna take great sport in shooting down flying game with their arrows and crossbows. We should return to Myr.”

  “Not until I’ve seen the Fianna!” declared Sib stubbornly.

  “Then you will see alone!” announced Arrah just as stubbornly.

  Already Sib was reaching for her feather skin and melding into her swan form.

  “I’ll not go with you!” reaffirmed Arrah, seeing no advantage in herself being endangered along with her foolish sister. Helplessly, she watched Sib winging upwind across the loch toward the castle’s three towers. She sat down on the soft, mossy growth and sighed with defeat. She would wait until Sib returned. If return she did. Oh, why could Sib not behave herself? Where was her common sense?

  Arrah’s emotions were churning. She’d never had such a clash of wills with Sib. In Myr their differences were easily and harmoniously settled. What had gotten into them both?

  Mayhap it was the crossing from one realm to another. She wriggled her toes in the lap of gentle waves. The old tales told that before the loch this place had been the abode of a giant fire-breathing dragon that guarded the boundaries between the mortal world and that of Faerie. A power-hungry sorcerer had tricked the dragon into opening its great mouth to spew out fire, whereupon the sorcerer conjured a cloudburst that filled the dragon’s mouth and doused its fire. The loch was formed, and since that time the borderlands had been left unguarded and become wild, spell-haunted places where no mortal or fairy could be safe.

  Arrah sighed sadly. Even now in Myr dragons were a rarity, and in the world of men they were no more. She had little tolerance for the
puffed-up gallants who thought it their knightly duty to slay dragons. Surely that was the difference between the world of men and Myr. In Myr one did not slay dragons, one embraced them.

  She shifted and looked over her shoulder. Was she alone? She breathed the air, and a hundred fragrances bombarded her nostrils. Since childhood she’d assisted Terwen, the herbalist, on herb-gathering forays into the forests and meadows. With her eyes closed, by fragrance alone Arrah could ferret out both rare and common herbs.

  To fill the time, she began sorting scents. Cloyingly, heliotrope wafted on the air at her left, while from forest shadows swirled the deceptively sweet but poisonous monkshood. She breathed deeply and attempted to release her nervousness.

  She felt chilled and made to reach for her feather skin, but in the darkness she could not see it. Instead, she drew up her legs and rested her chin in her hands upon her knees and listened for the wingbeat of her sister’s return.

  Faintly, she could hear the whisper of harp drifting over the loch from the castle. Now, the curious part of her wished she had gone with Sib to spy upon the Fianna behind tall stone walls. She would like to see the fine ladies who wore more than feather cloaks and down spun gowns. She might have glimpsed a bold warrior in fiery torchlight walking the battlements. She’d not seen a man close up before…and decidedly not one so notorious as a Fiannan.

  As she contemplated this, something akin to discontent troubled her for the first time. The peace, tranquility and primeval forests of Myr seemed not to be enough; nor was the wild rejoicing of flight when every feather sings, nor the wonder of Myr’s magical realm, nor even the dance of the swan maidens on the night of the full moon.

  Arrah longed for something more…but she was not sure what that something was.

  She could not tell when she first knew she was not alone. The eerie sensation began to tingle unpleasantly at the ends of her nerves; she felt a sudden urge to turn and flee. But she forced herself to sit quietly, lifting her eyes to the sky above. Subtly, fresh sweat and an ambery-musk scent hit her nostrils. Her chin lifted and with a slow inward breath she smelled the air. The scent was familiar, yet new. She sifted through a myriad of possibilities, and then the knowing struck her. She smelled a man…

  On bent knee, Traeth of Rhune crouched on the forest edge. His black eyes held hard on the lone woman sitting beside the loch. With fascination he had watched her small companion transform into a swan and fly off. Like most, he knew well the lore surrounding the race of swans. To kill one would bring death to the killer. To kiss one would bring endless ecstasy…but at great price.

  He shifted his bow to rest upon his shoulder and contemplated the advantage in capturing her. Her feather skin lay within his reach. He had but to claim it and she would be his.

  Wisely, he hesitated. Traeth was a cautious man. He’d no wish to fall victim to a swan maiden’s bewitchments. In his youth he’d been warned often enough by his mentor, Carne the Aged, “to be leery of women, especially fairy women.”

  Yet, he watched the swan maiden. Pale and golden-haired, her elusive charm held him spellbound. But he was no fool: She would be a weaver of magicks.

  He stepped out of the forest cover, seeing where this enchantress had laid her swan feathers, and stepped to one side of her feather skin.

  He spoke forthrightly. “What is your name, lady, and from where do you come?”

  She jumped to her feet and turned about. Wariness marked her fair features. Her eyes darted to her swan feathers and then back to him before she spoke.

  “I am Arrah, and I am from the realm of Myr.”

  Her voice was sweetly lilting. He did not doubt her words, for one of the swan race could not lie. “You are a swan maiden,” he affirmed.

  “Aye.” Her body tensed and her gaze covertly slipped back to the swan skin. “You must be a man.”

  He smiled. “Aye, I am that.”

  “I’ve not met a man before.” Her eyes held him, spilling into his a sense of childlike curiosity, a rare innocence and a sense of wonder.

  He felt an awkward shyness, an embarrassment, two emotions he’d exiled long ago. After all, he was a seasoned warrior of the Fianna; he could not display emotion.

  “Ahh,” he breathed slowly. “So, allow me to present myself.” He gave his most gallant bow. “I am Traeth of Rhune, a man.”

  There was a lengthy silence after that as she made a slow, deliberate appraisal of him. He supposed no one had ever told her that it was rude to stare, and he decided not to be the first, for he liked her clear-eyed gaze upon him.

  “So?” he asked finally. “What do you think of this man before you?”

  She shifted and clasped her hands together before her soft belly. Inwardly, he felt the strongest desire to reach out and caress that softness.

  “I…I think you are handsome.”

  “Handsome? Only that?” he quizzed lightly. “And how can you say that I am handsome if you’ve never seen another man?”

  She looked puzzled, then said, “I like looking at you, so you must be handsome.”

  He warmed to her honesty. “And milady, I like looking at you as well. Does that mean you are beautiful?”

  “Aye, it does,” she said without false modesty. “All swan maidens are beautiful. Did you not know this?”

  “I did not, though ’tis a matter of legend. But I’ve not always believed in legends.”

  “Why not?” she asked, taking a step toward him.

  “Because legends are legends and most end badly, especially legends about lovers.”

  “Mayhap,” she said, her brow wrinkling slightly, “we are fond of hearing tragedies because we hope that weeping over other people’s misadventures will spare us our own.”

  “Mayhap,” he echoed, thinking not of love gone awry but of how long it might take to seduce her into his arms. He asked politely, “Would you like to walk and talk beside the loch?”

  She giggled. The sound was a sweet chiming to his ears.

  She said, “You must be a poet or a rhymer.”

  “Nay, I am neither.” He chose not to elaborate that he was a slayer of man, beast and reptile, which ofttimes could be all in one.

  She had already started walking along the loch’s edge, halting occasionally to dabble her toes in the water. The moon, which was rising higher in the sky, had turned translucent silver and was casting a light that illuminated the perfect outline of her body.

  He caught up with her, admiring her natural state of gracefulness. She turned and walked on and he followed. She gave him an oblique glance and then slowed by a step until she was parallel.

  ’Twas not a common pastime of his to walk with a woman along the loch. Oddly, he felt as if he had never seen a woman before, at least not a woman like her. She was unusually tall, although he was taller. Her eyes attracted him. They were swirling rainbows of changing colors. Her skin was white, smooth as porcelain. Her hair was a mass of voluptuous golden tangles braided haphazardly, with here and there a tucking of flowers.

  As if she knew his thoughts, she questioned, “Am I different from the women of your realm?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you stare at me. In the realm of Myr ’tis rude to stare, but I know customs are different here.”

  He cleared his throat, feeling somewhat amused, but exposed. “Aye, you are different and the same.”

  “In what ways—ouch!” She stumbled and shifted her weight to one foot. “I’ve caught a thorn in my toe.”

  She sank down and sat on the flat surface of a boulder. He knelt beside her on one knee, took her small tapered foot in hand and examined it.

  “Do you see it? The light is poor,” she said, nose to nose with him. He plucked it out and then did an unexpected thing: He put his lips to her toe and sucked the tiny wound.

  Arrah felt as if she’d been touched by fire. Her face flamed like sunrise and she looked at him wonderingly.

  He drew back and in one glimpse saw her fluster. “I’m sorry
; it stops the bleeding.”

  She nodded her head, understanding that, but not understanding how his touch could have quickened her senses so fully.

  “Your toes,” he went on. “The women in my realm don’t have thin webbing between their toes. That is one way you are different.”

  He was still cradling her foot in his hand, and he caressed it gently as he spoke. The power of his touch was like a current surging up her leg and pooling in between her thighs. First stroking lightly and then pressing harder, he rubbed and played his thumbs and forefingers over her toes, then released them. But one finger continued to stroke, circling.

  Beway! Great Goddess! Arrah nearly passed out from the pleasure. There were few places upon her body that were as sensitive as the webbing between her toes.

  “Another difference is your eyes. I’ve not seen eyes with the shifting colors of opals,” he remarked, dropping his hand away.

  Arrah wanted to say, “Don’t stop!” She was inwardly humming from his ministering, from his musky scent, from the smell of his leathers. She imagined what his hair would smell like if she were to nuzzle her face in it. It was thick with the matte-chestnut sheen that comes from wind and sun.

  He offered her a hand up, and then as they walked he let his arm drop about her waist. She leaned into him, her hip fitting neatly against his, her shoulder resting in the concave beneath his arm.

  “Our eyes do change colors with our moods,” she said. “But ofttimes ’tis a disadvantage, for all can see if you are angry or jealous or sad. Nothing is hidden for long.”

  “I have never understood the whims of women. They cry for no reason, become closemouthed and fall into sulks.”

  “It seems you have a low opinion of women. Mayhap you’ve never been loved by one.”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Indeed, I’ve been teased and toyed with, but never loved.”

  “Then no woman has ever sung her love lilt to you,” she said sadly.