Swan Witch Page 3

  He kept abreast of her. Avoiding his eyes, she stole a sidelong glance at the line of his broad chest. He was not even breathing hard. On her own part it was not exertion alone that set her simple heart pounding.

  Reaching the top of the stairs first, he paused and looked to her for direction. She nodded her head left to the blind arcade where molded corbels, decorated with sprigs of roses, arched above the black oak door of her chamber.

  He stepped beneath the cove, his long fingers clasped the door’s iron ring latch. He pulled. The loud squawk of aching hinges vibrated through the air.

  He chuckled. “You would do well to lard the hinges, milady. Unless,” his said, lips curving slightly, “you begrudge your suitors a silent escape.”

  Eithne frowned. She found no humor in it.

  He cleared his throat, full knowing his words missed the mark.

  She stepped through the threshold into her chamber. A fire glowed in the hearth casting leaping shadows on barren walls. Fresh rushes cushioned the floor and the pungent aroma of lavender wafted through the air. She crossed the room to the recessed window, climbed upon the stone seat and sat in the pooling rays of moonlight.

  She crouched there saying nothing, watching him with feral regard. She must keep her distance from him or her longings would overtake her.

  Like the others, he would cross the threshold. The door would swing firmly shut and entrap him with her until dawn. She would serve him with mischief, witchery, and pretense…or would she? Aye, this one was different.

  He did not cross the threshold, but stood circumspectly before its mouth.

  His gaze circled the room measuringly and stopped on her. “Milady, I shall escort you this far. But in no way do I wish to encroach on the privacy of your chambers. I will be content enough to spend this night with my horse, Samisen, in the stables.”

  His gallantry enchanted her. His restraint stunned her.

  Not one of her suitors had ever made such an offer…no matter how much she had attempted to maneuver it. Oddly, the one man she burned for, the one suitor her heart accepted…declined.

  Her eyes wide, she looked at him…searchingly. She tried to reconcile her own full-bodied desire for him with the knowledge that in seven days time his handsome face would be a ghoulish mask dressing the bridge of buzzards.

  Revulsion waved through her for her part in such darkness. It was right for him to leave her. She deserved no better. Evil tainted her. In weakness she had allowed herself to kiss him knowing full well he could not then resist her. ’Twas an enchanted kiss…more evil…more magics.

  The goddess forgive me, she thought.

  No matter how clear-eyed she might appear, no matter how sweetly their two hearts might pass this night, he should not stay.

  Yet, it was a full moon and in the light of a full moon no swan maid could deny her longings. And she had chosen him with her kiss.

  She gave him a deep soulful gaze. His own emerald eyes were guarded while he postured with courtliness. His earlier susceptibility seemed to have dissolved with the disengagement of their kiss.

  That should not be. She’d never heard tell of a mortal man immune to a swan maid’s kiss.

  Begobs! she thought, mimicking Gibbers. Mayhap he is not mortal.

  Now, she ached to question him, but should she project her thoughts again? She had given him fair warning when he rode across the bridge. A warning he did not heed.

  “Good night, milady.” He bowed once, turned heel, and strode down the blind arcade.

  Not ready to let him go, she conveyed her feelings to him. Do not leave. I would willingly spend this night with you.

  He paused midstride and turned his head as if he’d not heard right, then he continued off.

  Eithne jumped to her feet and ran to the doorway only to just glimpse his back disappearing down the stairwell. Who was he that he could ignore her heartfelt summons?

  How dare he turn his back upon me. I have chosen him with my kiss! He cannot ignore me!

  But he did. She glared at the chilling emptiness of the stonework. The sting of rejection did not sit well with her. It never had. Her life long she’d been rejected…she was ever the wicked “gurrul.”

  Standing in the doorway, she felt so deserted. Tears of futility clouded her eyes. She hated him for walking away…for turning his back upon her…but she hated herself more. She hated herself for seducing him…kissing him, entrapping him in the full moon sorcery of Rath Morna. Her hand gripped the door and she slammed it shut with such force that the resounding reverberation shook the candles in their sconces.

  She stood abandoned in the middle of the most dismal of abodes. How she despised the cold stonework she stood upon. The gargoyles perched on each side of the hearth leered at her as if to say, “You are no different. You are evil and grotesque. This is where you belong.”

  Nay, she could not save this sea clansman from himself nor would she spend this night yearning for one who had outright rejected her. She was foolish to have kissed him, to allow herself to become entangled with him.

  Her very silence condemned him to death. Yet, she had no choice. All the lives of those in Myr balanced against his own.

  She walked slowly to the window cove.

  An intense yearning for her mother’s comforting arms and her consoling presence flooded Eithne. Stepping up on the stone seat, she thrust open the windows and breathed in the freshness of the night air. The stagnancy of Rath Morna suffocated and oppressed her.

  The spring night called the wildness in her.

  It was a night to fly. She would gather herself and transform. Flying above forest and fen, moor and meadow, again she would search for Ketha. Where had Sheelin imprisoned her? Where—?

  The rush of wings drew Bron mac Llyr’s attention. He lifted his gaze to see a great white swan fly across the face of the full moon. An omen of good luck he hoped. He would need good luck to find the swan healer, Ketha. He looked down at the illusion of his hand. It was amazing what appearances could do for a man…even false appearances. But he still could not play his harp nor wield a sword with the air of illusion.

  Aye, that was his difficulty. It would be easy enough for him to leap upon the enchanted Samisen and soar above the battlements of Rath Morna, but he could not do that until two mysteries were solved. The first was to find the whereabouts of Ketha. The second was to solve the riddle of Sheelin. Why did he so desire the speaking of the woman Eithne…if she were a woman at all?

  It had taken some doing to leave her. Even now, his gaze traversed the keep towers to discern which was her window. Intrigue had nearly kept him at her side. In her regard, he’d chosen not to break the illusion, even though he easily countermanded the spell of her kiss by his own clarity. The instant her lips had touched his own, he knew the coming kiss was one of bewitchment. And in that moment he had allowed himself the dubious luxury of enchantment, but as a sea clansman and a son of Manannan mac Llyr, he was well versed in deflecting the spell craft of the sisterhoods.

  His first love had been the sea nymph Sarenn. Her song had captured his innocent and youthful heart, luring him to her underwater abode where he remained a willing prisoner until his raging father appeared and freed him.

  Bron knew enough of fairy women to keep his distance. He knew enough of mortal women to keep him inconstant. The worst and most telling battles of his life had been on the terrain of the heart. He’d spurned love and had been spurned in return…still he searched…for what he was not sure. There was an empty place within him that needed filling…that needed to love and be loved.

  Mayhap the sea nymph Sarenn had spoiled him. Yet, what man in his right mind would risk involving himself with shape-shifting temptresses who could seduce him into unconsciousness.

  Unfortunately, the mortal women he’d known had never compared to those of the otherworlds. Even so, the by-the-by occupation of a harper was dalliance and more than once his presence had caused a public swoon. He flirted with highborn ladies and lowl
y peasant maids. He’d an infallible instinct for intrigue and seduction.

  And that was the rub…Without a hand he could not play his harp…seduce or be seduced, nor could he enjoin in battle. His main life pursuits were at an end.

  The thought depressed him mightily. He envisioned himself entering a holy order of hermits, or knitting with grandmothers, except that knitting required two hands. It seemed his arrival at Rath Morna was a presage. Here was his opportunity to save face…or better put, lose face by beheading.

  Samisen whickered and shuffled to and fro impatiently in his stall. He looked over. Aye, he’d fallen into a dark hole of self-pity…the dark hole of Rath Morna.

  He grimaced, seeing the stable for what it was, filthy and vermin infested. From the loft above, he could hear the loud snoring of Coup. He untied Samisen’s halter and led him into the open air of the outer cashel. The stallion shook his mane with apparent relief.

  “Take heart, our stay here will be naught more than seven nights.” He slipped a nose bag of grain over the horse’s ears, spread out a woolen blanket, and lay down.

  His arms behind his head, contemplating the starry night sky, he lightened his mood with thoughts of Lady Eithne. His mind lingered on the wild beauty whose eyes changed colors like marsh fire. She speaks with her eyes, he mused. She has no need of a voice.

  Sheelin was quite the sorcerer to bring to form a woman who hauntingly matched Bron’s ideal. The sunset halo of hair, skin so translucent she seemed fey which, he smiled to himself, was probably the case. He played with the vision of her true form. Mayhap she was an elemental…a tree or water sprite…or worse.

  For now he would forestall unveiling the illusion. Life held enough disillusionment without fully tipping the cart. Yet, he must keep his clarity or the enchantment could consume him. Some men preferred to live out their lives in deception, he was not one. He chose to walk the earth awake and clear-eyed, taking full responsibility for his choices.

  A part of him wished he might someday find a woman he might take into his heart. The woman Eithne in appearance beguiled him, charmed him, and seduced him, but he wanted more from a woman than bewitchment. He wanted honesty, full-bodied intimacy, and love without manipulation. He’d had enough of female manipulation through his escapades. He had also played the manipulator.

  His own seventh sense told him that Eithne would be a mistress of manipulation. That knowledge intrigued him for life would never be dull in her midst. He had discovered that though she would not speak, the woman could throw her thoughts like a puppeteer. He wondered if it might work both ways. It could be diverting to dose her with her own brew. His gaze followed the glittering trails of shooting stars until he drifted into sleep.

  Just before dawn, a putrid smell roused him to wakefulness. Opening his eyes, bulging luminous orbs peered into his own. “Arrah!” he growled, pushing a ghoulish face away.

  “Begorrah, presarve me!” squealed the little beastie.

  Bron sat up. “You queer devil. Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m Gibbers and I’m seein’ ye.” He crouched in a lump like an obnoxious carbuncle.

  “Why are you seeing me?” He examined him, realizing the bog creature was more pathetic than harmless.

  “To see if yer nilly noggin will suit me.”

  “Are we to switch heads?”

  “Musha, don’t insult me!” he sniveled. “I meant for my bridge.”

  “Ahh!” said Bron, with slow dawning in his voice. “You must be the bridge troll.”

  “I am. And ye are Bron mac Llyr, another fool doomed to die fer the wicked gurrul Eithne.”

  “Eithne, wicked? Why say you that?”

  “Och, look at my bridge. ’Tis all her refusin’ to do her father’s will. Ssshe’s a wicked, wicked gurrul. Full of mischiefs and magics…Be warned, Bron mac Llyr.”

  “And what is her father’s will?”

  “Sssure yer knowin’ it. The druid wishes her to speak. Och, ’tis a mistake. The tongues that wimmin have! Begobs, they’re sharper than a dragon’s tooth.”

  “Why does he wish it so?”

  “Ask yer questions to the wicked gurrul. I’ll not tell more. I want yer nilly noggin fer my bridge.”

  “At least you are truthful. But I have no plans to adorn your bridge.”

  “Ye shid be honored.”

  “Hah! If it is such an honor, then put your own head on a pike.”

  Gibbers frowned darkly. “Yer a rudie to say it. It cud not sarve me.”

  Bron laughed. “Nor would it serve me either. On that basis we should be friends. Surely you have more pastimes than waiting for poor fools to lose their heads?”

  “Indade, I do.” He grinned, exposing nothing but toothless gum. “I be a collector of sssecrets.”

  “Whose? Your own?”

  “Nay! I’ve naught one tell-tale of me own.”

  “That surprises me.”

  “It shidn’t.”

  “Are you a teller of secrets as well?”

  He laughed with a kind of glee, and gurgle bubbled from his mouth. “Niver! They’d not be sssecrets then.”

  “I suppose not,” admitted Bron, feeling as if some-one had just touched his shoulder. He turned his head. He saw no one. Puzzled, his gaze left Gibbers and his eyes were drawn to the keep. He saw her. The Lady Eithne stood in full view from her high window.

  “The wicked gurrul wantsss ye,” hissed Gibbers, his voice oozing with salacious innuendo.

  Bron turned back to Gibbers. “And she shall have me, but on my own terms. Can you keep that secret, Gibbers?”

  “I cun. But again be warned, Bron mac Llyr, her heart is a cold pitatie.”

  “I care not. It’s not her heart I am after.”

  “Thin what are ye afther?”

  “My hand…a harper is no harper without a hand. I must find the healer Ketha.”

  Gibbers’s eyes livened. “Ketha?” he echoed.

  “Aye, Ketha,” returned Bron suspecting that like everyone else at Rath Morna, Gibbers knew something about Ketha. “I was told by a seeress that she alone in Banba could restore my hand.”

  “Yer hand looks fine to me.”

  Bron spread his fingers and chuckled. “’Tis Sheelin’s illusion. I am not the whole fool. And I know you know more than you let on. Tell me, what do you know of Ketha?”

  “Naught that I will tell.”

  He wanted to reach out and squeeze his scrawny little throat into speech. Irritation marked Bron’s words. “You are a confessed knower of secrets. Ketha is one of those secrets I’ll wager.”

  “Wager all ye wan. I cun be as mute as yer wicked gurrul.”

  Bron gave him a slow, tolerant smile.

  Gibbers smiled back…more a grimace than a smile. The troll was shrewd, but he was bound to have at least one weakness which might loosen his blaggard’s tongue and Bron vowed to discover it.

  He rubbed his stomach. “I am hungry. Is there something truly edible within these cashel walls? I want no more of Sheelin’s gross cookery.”

  “Ask the gurrul to sarve ye. ’Tis anythin’ ye wish fer seven days and nights. Plaze yerself. See.” He pointed a bollyworm finger. “Ssshesss wantin’ ye still.”

  Bron looked back over his shoulder. Her silhouette filled the arch of the open window. He turned full around to face her and gave an exaggerated but graceful bow. “The sun rises on a new day, Lady Eithne,” he shouted. “Let us meet in the feast hall.”

  Immediately, she disappeared from view. He thought like most women she would take time to prepare herself. He turned back to Gibbers…but he too had disappeared. Bron scanned the cashel yard. Where had the little beastie gone? He sniffed the air, allowing his nose to follow the sour scent of troll. A few steps away he discovered the long drag of his tracks, leading to the base of the stone wall. Surely he could not vanish into stone.

  Samisen whinnied and nosed a clump of grass. Then Bron figured it out. He lifted the circular clod of grass and discover
ed a sinkhole through which a mush boned troll could slither and be gone.

  Eithne raced through the all but deserted hall. Her teeth clenched together in anger, she dashed outside and down the steps of the keep. She wanted none of Gibbers’s interference. What had he told Bron mac Llyr?

  Filled with indignation she stomped past the warrior.

  “Good morn, milady.” His voice was hospitable but she did not even deign to give him a look. She fell onto her knees and peered down into the dank earth of the sinkhole.

  Hear me, Gibbers! I’ll not have it! Ye’ve snooped and stirred in my affairs enough! Come within the cashel walls again and I’ll set Sheelin’s hounds upon ye!

  “He is gone,” supplied Mac Llyr behind her.

  Not for long, the little wart, she fumed inwardly, knowing he would be back to stir the pot of intrigue. He fed on gossip like other people did on food.

  Mac Llyr was at her side, offering her a hand up. She ignored it and came to her feet under her own power.

  “Did you rest well?” he asked kindly.

  She cast him a dismissing glance—the one Sheelin often used upon her which made her feel no bigger than the fleas upon the hide of the Fir Darrig. She’d spent many an hour perfecting it in front of her looking glass and now at last she’d an occasion to use it.

  While she flew last night, she’d sorted it all out. She’d made a decision to behave rudely to Bron mac Llyr…more rudely than she’d behaved to any of the others. This way he could not charm her, woo her, and win her sympathy. Why ever would he want to? Except to save his own life. He cared not a whit for her…no one at Rath Morna did. His gallantries were only motivated by his desire to survive.

  When Coup severed his head, she would not shed a tear or feel a single pang of emotion. She would hold her features as frozen as the gargoyles on the cashel battlements. Aye, she’d worked it through and had her plan.