Swan Star Read online

  “No woman has ever sung to me a single note. What is a love lilt?”

  “’Tis an oath of trust and surrender. A swan maiden sings her love lilt to the man she wishes to mate lifelong with. After her love lilt is sung, her heart will never be given to another.”

  “Och, I don’t think I’ve met the woman I would mate lifelong with.”

  “Have you loved a woman?”

  “Once or twice.” He gave a rueful smile. “Since the warrior maiden, Calleen, I have trusted no woman. Before that I trusted them all.”

  “Did she betray your trust?”

  “Aye, she did, and seven years to this very night. She rejected me for the flatterer MacRoth. Oh, it hurt my youthful pride, but I bid good riddance to them both…that is, after I bested Calleen in a match of swords. Now, my heart is not easily won, nor my passion quickly aroused.”

  A silky thread of expectation glided beneath his words. His mind kept moving ahead. He looked over at her full-faced and grinned. She grinned back, and something clicked into place between them.

  She turned about and said, “I’d like to sit on the shore.”

  “Whatever you wish,” he yielded.

  She walked slightly ahead of him, conscious of his eyes upon her. A little warmth still glowed in the confines of her womb, a small contraction, as his hand brushed across her back. He spread his black cloak upon the ground and Arrah sat down.

  She had forgotten Sib. She cast a watchful glance across the loch toward the castle, then turned her attention back to Traeth of Rhune.

  There was nothing about him that was not rough and coarse. The stubborn line of his chin, the high cheekbones, the dark head set proudly on the powerful width of his shoulders, even his boots that were spurred with heavy silver and that reached almost to his muscled thighs. His brows were thickly ridged in the middle, making him look very serious, until he smiled.

  They both smiled, she thought, like smug, delighted children sharing a secret.

  His eyes swept over her and settled on her face. “When you return to your realm of Myr you’ll have a tale or two to tell now you have met a man.”

  “That I have. But it was not as exciting as I thought, and not much of a tale to tell.”

  “What?” His voice raised with mock offense. “Surely you’ll have something to say about your adventure.”

  She touched her chin thoughtfully. “I shall say…each of you must venture into the world of men and see a man for yourself, for a man is beyond description.”

  A sudden, she heard a familiar whilloo in the distance. She turned sharply to the sound. Where was Sib?

  “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  “Nay, it’s just that I should be returning soon…”

  The whilloo sounded again and this time even he turned an ear to the call.

  She knew Sib was waiting for her and dared not approach. Leaning forward, Arrah reached for the swan skin, which lay very close to the hand of Traeth of Rhune.

  Traeth had not intended to detain her, but oddly enough, he despaired at the thought of her leaving him. Never had he been so aroused by a woman, or so acutely aware of it. With much difficulty, he kept his attention on her face. It took a great effort not to follow the beginning curve of soft breast down to the flow of white hip. Flawless as alabaster, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  He felt his body tighten with desire as he imagined her lying beneath him on soft furs, her lips swollen from his kisses, her slender legs opening to his passion. He did not want her to leave.

  He caught her hand and put it to his lips. “Will you return again?”

  “Do you wish it?” she asked.

  “I wish it,” he said firmly. His fingers touched a swatch of her golden hair. He turned it over and over in his hand, examining its texture and moonlit shimmer. He let loose her hair and caressed the smooth curve of her neck and throat, up to her moisture-glistened lips. His thumb lightly brushed the softness of her mouth. A tingling from the faint breeze of her warm breath flowed over his thumb tip, lingering. He remained very still, his desire burning, all common sense slipping from his mind. He wanted her.

  “I will think on it. I have heard many things about this realm, and few are good.” She drew away her hand and reached again for her swan skin.

  He halted her arm. The deed was done so swiftly it was as if someone other than he had done it. Without taking his eyes from her, he captured and claimed her feather skin.

  In a widening flash, her eyes penetrated him more surely than cold steel. “That is mine. I cannot return to Myr without it.”

  “I know,” he said. Her vulnerability lay not in the swan skin in his grasp, but in her pure innocence…an innocence he himself had lost a hundred battles ago.

  He hoped she would not fall down upon her knees and beg, for he’d no intention of giving in. Admirably, for all her naïveté, she held nothing of humility in her demeanor. Defiance marked her form and offense her fine face.

  “Did you hear me?” she said again, her tone circumspect.

  “I did,” came his steadfast reply.

  “Then let loose of it.” Her lips tightened.

  “No,” he said in the unyielding tone of a seasoned warrior. “I claim your swan feathers and your woman’s body as my own.”

  And then he saw the shift in her eyes from a cajoling magenta blue to red-hot fire. “You, Traeth of Rhune, are lower than the lowest crawler in the bog to take that freedom which is mine. I did not choose you!”

  “No matter.” His voice was wholly arrogant. “I have chosen you.”

  “You have chosen trouble, foolish man,” she spat. Her voice was not so lilting now.

  Traeth was not moved by her threat or insult, though deep within he knew she spoke true. He was choosing trouble.

  “As long as I have your swan skin, you have no choice but to come with me.” He picked up her feather skin and folded it neatly. Then he offered his hand to her and without condescension invited, “Come, Lady Arrah.”

  Of course, she refused to take his hand. He had expected her defiance.

  She folded her arms mutinously across her chest and sat rooted upon his cloak. “Where am I to come?”

  “You are to come to Rhune Castle with me. ’Tis my abode.”

  “I do not like castles,” she said haughtily.

  “Mayhap, you’ll like this one.”

  “Mayhap, I won’t.”

  Anger surged through Arrah’s blood, warming it to life again. She was well aware of the figure she made, huddled on his cloak like nothing so much as a waif. He stood above her, seeming as tall as the dark hills behind him, his boots wide apart and his thumbs in the wide leather belt at his waist.

  “I’ll not ask twice,” he said.

  “I’ll not come once,” she said.

  He turned about and, with the feather skin tucked tightly under his arm, began walking.

  Never before had she felt such ire as she did sitting upon his cloak beside the black loch. Never before had she met and been attracted to so callous a person as he. Nor had she ever imagined the world in which she so unexpectedly found herself, where a person might take another’s freedom at his whim.

  Begrudgingly, she came to her feet, stepped off the cloak, snapped it in the air and wrapped it around her shoulders. Sullenly, she followed a few paces behind him. By his long stride she saw he felt confident she would follow. She had no choice—he possessed her swan skin.

  Chapter 2

  Arrah struggled against the panic rising slowly in her throat and the sense of foreboding as she looked upon the high towers of Rhune Castle. It towered, a great mass of grim stone, above the Loch of the Dragon’s Mouth. Marveling, she saw the battlements etched high against the night sky, and the tall towers that reflected the moonlight in their embrasures while the sheer wall beneath lay in cold shadows. There was nothing about the castle that was not stark and forbidding. Carved from somber stone, it had a bleak air as inhospitable and threatening as the wild mountains surrounding it.

  As she surveyed her first castle, her mouth hung open and her eyes widened, for in silhouette it appeared to be a magnificent gray dragon rearing up over the loch. She pressed her chilled hands against the warmth of her body beneath the cloak and reminded herself to be strong. She watched the iron portcullis lift slowly above the carved arching dragon gate. Back straight, though her heart was still coursing with apprehension, she walked at the heels of Traeth over the drawbridge and beneath the iron-fanged portcullis.

  “This pile of stones is my home,” said Traeth over his shoulder. “Please follow me into my dwelling, milady.”

  She begrudged him the long, effortless stride that marked him as one who was adept at scaling rocky crags and breaking through forest thickets. He had covered the distance with a careless swiftness that won her respect and her irritation. She would have preferred to fly, but then he was clutching her swan skin in his warrior’s hand. She’d vowed not to let him or her swan skin from her sight. At the first moment she would steal it back and fly.

  He spoke to someone peering from a barbican above her head, his cool voice warming slightly with laughter. “Aye, ’tis fowl I bring to our table this festive night.”

  Arrah found no humor in such a remark.

  Rhune Castle was astir. The guardrooms on either side of the passageway through the keep were bustling with his clansmen at evening meal.

  In the yard, lit with flaring torches, great hounds snarled over bones and long-maned destriers snorted and pawed the earth restlessly. She saw more Fianna, tall men with broad shoulders, elven chain mail covering their chests and swords at their sides. She felt their unrelenting gaze rake over her.

  “Keep your eyes to yourself, lad,” he said curtly to one, and th
e youth dropped his eyes hastily. “Take heart,” he said, putting a protective arm about her shoulders. “They’ll not eat you alive…at least not yet.”

  His jest was little comfort. Boldly, with her chin up and her head high, she stepped past them, determined that none should guess at the fearful anticipation touching her.

  He took her through a tower door and up circular stairs. She’d never seen the like or been within so confined a space. It looked like a cave, and felt as darkly mysterious. His hand beneath her arm steadied her as they continued on an interminable distance. Finally, he paused before a tall door, heavily carved and studded with brass.

  “This is your chamber,” he said, and kicked the door open with a thrust of his boot. He stood aside, waiting for her to enter.

  She drew a deep breath, not knowing what to expect, for she’d dwelled the whole of her life in a clement forest beside a magical lake. How did one live in a castle?

  “Go along, milady,” he urged, looking as if he might give her a small push.

  The chamber was in near darkness. She walked only a few steps, then paused until her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Candles guttered fitfully in dragon sconces above an enormous fireplace. The fire had died to a bed of coals and black shadows stretched from the high ceiling to the far corners of the room to meet across the stone floor. Her eyes riveted to more dragons rearing up beside the hearth. She looked to the casement window that yawned open and a shiver trembled through her, for across the mouth were iron bars.

  I am a prisoner of Rhune Castle, she thought. Then she said aloud, “’Tis not a friendly place.”

  “Aye,” he smiled ruefully, as if he also knew that was so.

  He left her and crossed the room to a heavy chest. She watched intently as he opened it. He rummaged through the contents, took some garments out and carefully lay her swan skin inside. He closed the lid and took something small from a ring at his waist. Then she heard a click.

  “What is it you are doing with my swan skin?” she asked.

  “I am locking it in this chest for safekeeping.”

  “Safekeeping? Locking?…” She did not understand this.

  “Aye,” he said, holding up a small metal object.

  “What is that in your hand?”

  “A key, milady. ’Tis the key to the chest. I have locked your cloak inside the chest,” he explained.

  “If I do not have that key I cannot get it back,” she said.

  He nodded. “That is the idea.”

  “That is not right. I have never seen such a thing.”

  “You don’t have locks and keys in Myr?”

  “No. Why should we?”

  “To protect those things you value from thieves.”

  “There are no thieves in Myr. What belongs to one belongs to all. Besides, the feather skin is mine. ’Tis you who is the thief here and ’tis you who has the lock and key. That makes no sense to me.”

  Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Aye, you do have a point.” He shrugged. “Mayhap I am a thief, though none but you has dared to accuse me of such a deed before.”

  “How do you bear the shame of it?”

  “Like I bear all else, dear lady—like a man in the world of men.”

  “And how is that?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “I do not think there is such a thing as too many questions.”

  “Be sure that in this moment there might be,” he said intolerantly.

  She wanted to say more, but with great effort she held her tongue. Her eyes did not leave the key, which he hooked to others on a leather thong at his waist.

  Coming toward her and holding out the garments, he said, “You must wear clothing. We’ve no women or womanly things at Rhune Castle, so you will wear these leggings and tunic for now.”

  She took a step back. He must have noticed, for he said, “I will not harm you. You can speak and move freely.”

  Skeptically, she directed her gaze to the iron bars and then back to him. “You’ve just forbid me to ask questions. How can I speak and move freely under this admonition?”

  “Do not act the martyr. I did not say you could not ask questions, I only advised it in the moment. Go on—ask your questions, if it pleases you.”

  “When will you return my swan skin?” she said forthrightly.

  “When I choose to,” he said with cool dispassion.

  “Mayhap you will choose to very soon.” Her voice held warning; she was not without her own devices of retribution.

  He smiled at that, catching her unawares, and she felt discounted. His dark eyes were warm as fire is warm, and they were brought to life by the small flames flickering in their depths and the humor touching his mouth.

  “Nay, not soon. I’ll not tease you by allowing you to think it.” His face became grave, but the warmth of his smile lingered. “Again I say you’ve nothing to fear from me or the Fianna. Myself or one of my men will always attend you. Now dress yourself.” He turned toward the door.

  She wondered if he hoped to lull her into compliance; she figured he must be well aware that she, who came from the faerie realm, would not thrive in the harsh company of warriors.

  “You are not so nice as you were beside the loch,” she called after him. “What changed you?”

  He paused at the threshold, his shoulders filling the doorway, and turned back.

  “You will learn, milady, that in one man are many men,” he said, and bowed. When he straightened all warmth had left his face.

  “So you are more than Traeth of Rhune?”

  “Aye, I am Mage of the Dragon’s Mouth,” he revealed, pride touching his voice. He left, and the door closed firmly behind him.

  A mage. Alone, she brooded over his revelation.

  She could not doubt it. She had heard of such sorcerers who shapeshifted and conjured the unspeakable. Though he was Fianna, she sensed in him something more ancient. He came from the lineage of the old gods who dwelled in tree and loch. It was in his stride, the nobleness of bearing, despite his shaggy chestnut locks. With a single word, such men might call forth a furious gale, sweeping havoc across lake and sea. In battle his voice would thunder from the very heavens, and the sound of his commands would echo wildly down the deep chasms and corries of the mountains.

  Just the knowing frightened her. To be snared by a man was one thing, but to be entrapped by a mage was another. She was suddenly overwhelmed with a sinking feeling of despair. Dropping the garments, she slowly walked to the casement window and clasped the cold iron bars in her hands. The air of the chamber held the odor of confinement and stagnancy. She looked back to the chest and tears clouded her eyes.

  She thought of Sib flying free and hoped she would be wise enough to return to Myr on her own.

  Arrah had never felt so defeated. She eased down on her haunches, huddling in the strange room, and tried to cover herself completely with the black cloak. Though a fire smoldered in the hearth, the chamber held no warmth for her, and she wondered if she would eventually turn to stone like the hearth dragons.

  A tap at the door startled her. Gathering herself, she snatched up the leggings and tunic and hastily put them on.

  “Who is there?” she asked in a voice of false bravado.

  “I am Carne the Aged,” came the answer. “Are you hungry?”

  “Aye,” she said shortly, for she had not eaten since the morning.

  She opened the door to him.

  He was tall and gaunt with a face as bleak as the granite stones of Rhune Castle. Beway, she thought, not another sorcerer. The candlelight was behind him, shining in her face, and she hoped it was only a trick of the light that gave him such an appearance of dark mystery.

  “So, you are the swan maiden,” he said kindly. “My greetings, and my welcome to Rhune Castle.”

  He bowed, the great flowing sleeves of his saffron robe waving like ship’s sails in the air. Beneath a long white beard, shiny gold chains peeked from around his neck. He was dark-visaged, with white brows that met in a scowling line across his face.

  She stared, even though ’twas rude, and said, “Your kindness overwhelms me, though ’tis not by choice that I am here.”

  “I’m aware of that, my lady swan,” he said, his voice filled with benign understanding. She liked him.

  He stepped aside.