Caledonia Fae 03 - Enemy of the Fae (8 page)

“No,” Munro said, reaching for the stone.

She blinked slowly. “No?” Her lips curved into a smile. “I think you will find…”

“Show me the rune for passion,” he said, cutting her off. When she moved to take a new stone slab, he shook his head. “Wood, or paper if you have it.”

With a slight shrug, she indicated a wooden sheet. “This one?”

He ran his fingers over the various pieces and selected a thin and delicate one just thick enough to bear the pressure. As soon as the stylus touched the surface, he knew she had it wrong. “Passion,” he said again.

“That’s what I’m writing.”

He stared into her eyes. “Love that envelops you to the point of obsession.” He put his hand over his heart, covering Eilidh’s letter, hidden in his inside pocket. He thought about her signature and all the intent he could muster.

Ríona flushed as she chose a different stylus. Munro’s frustration grew. She worked too slowly, and was still off the mark.

“Better,” he said, “but not quite right.” He heard footfalls behind him and recognised the keeper’s voice, but he was too enraptured to respond. He was onto something important but couldn’t quite put a finger on it. He feared if he stopped, it would fade like a dream upon waking.

He chose another small piece of wood and took up a tapered-end stylus. He knew this rune well, but instead of trying to recreate the symbol, he felt for the flows. Stone was his native element, so working with wood felt awkward, but this was the right medium for this thought. He pressed the tool against the surface. “Not a crush or an infatuation,” he explained as he closed his eyes and worked, “but a passion that burns, smoulders, and consumes.” He didn’t think about the character he embossed into the wood; his hand formed the lines on its own. He lost himself the same way as when he shaped a talisman. “What you wrote merely meant affection,” he chided. “I mean searing fire.”

When he looked down, he saw he had indeed written the character used to write Eilidh’s name, the one with which she’d signed her letter. He showed his work to Ríona, afraid for a moment he was making an incredible fool out of himself.

Ríona glanced into his eyes as she took the small piece of wood.
Was she blushing?

“Do I have it?” he asked.

Oszlár answered from behind them. “Yes. You most certainly do,” the ancient faerie said quietly. “Remarkable.” He turned to Ríona. “You taught him this?”

“I…no. I can offer no explanation.”

Munro waved their conversation aside and pointed to the stone where she’d inscribed the rune for
druid
. “This is wrong,” he said.

Ríona shook her head, but she was less haughty in her denial than she had been the first time. “Passion. Yes. On that one, you were correct. We have many words. Many types of passion. But for
druid
, we write only one.”

Munro backed down. How could he explain his instincts? He said only, “It doesn’t feel right.”

“This rune also means bondsman,” she explained.

“You mean
slave
?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but Oszlár interrupted. “Show us the right one,” he said.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Of course you can,” the elder faerie said. “You have great untapped talent within you. As with the first one, do not worry about lines and shapes. Trust us to hear your intent.” He pointed to the stack of tablets. “Choose.”

Munro dug through until he found a thin piece of black shale. He closed his eyes and felt for his stone flows. This medium proved much easier, responding quickly to his touch. The flows responded to his tool like wet clay. He focused not on his bond to Eilidh, which was the seat of the word Ríona had written, but instead on the magic in his blood. He thought of the way the stone responded, and he gave back to it, listening and speaking, as though they told each other a story.

He heard more murmurs as people gathered to watch him work. Their voices reminded him of raindrops splatting against a rock.

He opened his eyes, and exhaustion pulled his shoulders into a slump. He could barely lift the shale. Intricate braid-work had been magically worked around the edge of the now flawlessly smooth surface, and he stared at his own work, barely recognising it. Into the braids were woven tiny leaves with curling twigs. When he tested them with his fingers, they didn’t seem fragile. They were as solid as though the rock had been sliced out of the hillside that way. In the centre was one single rune. He had carved it deep, so only the thinnest filament of rock covered the back of the piece. When he looked at the rune, he knew it like his own name.

Ríona stared at him as though she couldn’t peel her eyes away. “
Draoidh
,” she said.

Another chorus of murmurs went up around him, and Munro turned to see them surrounded by at least a dozen faeries. “What does this mean?”

Oszlár whispered, “
Sorcerer
.” He said the word with reverence.

She inclined her head to Munro with respect. “Forgive me.”

Something had changed in a deep and significant way, but Munro was too tired to question the faeries further. For now, he needed sleep.

“Come, druid,” Oszlár said. “The keepers would have a word with you.”

“I’m exhausted,” Munro said, scrubbing his hand through his short hair. “Can it wait? I’ll be back at dusk.”

“Certainly,” the keeper replied.

Munro stood. “Thank you, elder,” he said with a slight bow. “Ríona?”

She shook her head, looking shame-faced and embarrassed. “No. I have work to do. I…” she reached toward the rune Munro had created but pulled her hand back as though the stone might burn her. “I’m sorry.”

Munro wanted to offer some comfort, but he didn’t understand what he’d done to distress her so much. Not for the first time, he wished Eilidh was here. She would have been able to explain.

Munro picked up his rune-slate and headed for the Caledonian Hall and what he hoped would be dreamless, restful sleep.

For what may have been the second—or perhaps the dozenth—time, Flùranach woke. Her eyes opened easily this time, and she felt more clear-headed.

A cool hand rested on her forehead. “Thank the Mother. Her fever has broken,” a woman muttered, sounding relieved. “Fetch Elder Oron at once.”

“Yes, Muime,” replied a much younger voice.

Flùranach opened her eyes and turned toward the soft moonlight shining pale blue through the window. The shapes around her blurred as she tried to see. “You are worried,” she murmured to her nurse.

“You have been so sick, child.” The face began to come into focus. The faerie woman sat in a hanging chair beside the swing-bed.

Liar.
Flùranach squinted, as though crinkling her eyes would guide her to the truth. She couldn’t help but laugh softly.
How foolish I am. It’s not my eyes.

She moved to sit up, and the soft, white blanket fell back. Flùranach stared at her body. Her breasts had grown round and full.
How long…
she stopped herself, and concentrated on speaking aloud. “How long have I been unconscious?” She ran her fingers over her features and down her body. A long lock of red hair fell beside her face. Her hair had been blonde. Reddish blonde, yes, but blonde.
I’ve always wanted red hair.

“More than a fortnight,” the woman replied.

Flùranach ignored the thoughts swirling in her head and pulled back the blanket. She was taller, her hips curved and her legs long and supple. A thatch of curly hair covered the cleft between her legs. A smile curled her lips.
A miracle.
She had wished for it and something happened. What, she didn’t know.

“I know it’s difficult to understand,” the woman said. “The change has been a shock to us all. They’re trying to find a way to reverse the process. Now that you’re awake, maybe Prince Tràth will be more helpful.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Flùranach snapped. “Why would I want to become a child again?” She stood and noticed with surprise that her earlier pain had faded. She did remember the pain: the dull, cloudy darkness that had filled her mind.

Ungrateful child.
The woman’s thought came to Flùranach’s awareness like an echo. Anger flooded her.

“I know why you’re worried,” Flùranach said. “And it’s not for my sake. The child you carry will be fine. My fever was not contagious. You were a fool to take the risk though. Yes, why would you endanger the life of a fae child? To impress Elder Oron with your loyalty? Idiot.” She put her feet on the floor and ignored the nurse’s gasp. Sitting upright felt strange. Flùranach had the sense she’d spent most of her life floating.

The nurse stared at Flùranach with her mouth agape, annoying Flùranach. “Go away,” the girl snapped.

“I can’t,” the nurse said. She was hardly worthy of the name
faerie
with the way she whimpered. What was wrong with her? “Please. You should lie down until your grandfather arrives.”

“I need to relieve myself,” Flùranach growled and stood. The weight of her breasts, the several inches added to her height—the changes disrupted her balance. She teetered as she made her way to the small washroom.

When she’d finished and returned, she was disappointed to find the woman still sat in the same exact position. But as Flùranach gazed at her, she saw the nurse as a child, then as an elderly woman, then as a younger woman. Her baby died before reaching adulthood, she miscarried, her baby grew old. The past and the future intertwined. Possibilities, fates, all lies.

Flùranach felt sick. Hands grabbed at her, but she shrank back from the nurse’s fingers. The contact only made it worse. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.

She needed Rory. She cast her mind about, seeking him out. Her astral powers warped inside the flows of time. He was everywhere he’d ever been, ever would be. Magic could not serve her now. Shaking her head sharply, she went to her wardrobe. Rory was human. He wouldn’t like her to show up naked. Such a spectacle would embarrass him. He might not want to share her body with the eyes of other men. How silly she’d been as a child, less than a moon before. How much she understood now which had been hidden from her before.

None of her clothes would fit. The best she could find was a silk robe. It had once glanced her calves, but the hem now rested mid-thigh. Her new curves made it gap, revealing the roundness of her breasts, and it barely closed at her hips, no matter how she cinched the belt.

The nurse continued speaking, but what the woman actually said, Flùranach had no idea. She went out her door and proceeded out of her grandfather’s house with purpose. She would find Rory.

She stumbled, rushing toward the druids’ villa like a colt first learning to walk. A roar sounded in the distance. Time followed her, trying to pull her back into its embrace, but she refused to look. Only chance and luck had protected her from being lost forever, from waking to find herself ten thousand years old. She stopped in her tracks as the thought floated around in her head. Her consciousness drifted back…ten years, a hundred, a thousand. The further she moved from
now
, the louder the roar became.

“Flùranach?” Rory’s call pulled her into the present moment. She heard him run toward her and knew he would save her. His arms enveloped her and lifted her from the ground. When had she fallen?

Thank god.
His thought seeped into her awareness and thrilled her to the core. He was as happy to see her as she to see him.

Rory carried her into the house then helped her stand.

“Whoa,” Phillip said when he saw them. Flùranach met his eyes. As soon as they locked gazes, she sensed his deep earth powers. He could do so much more than he realised.

“One day, you will be able to walk on the surface of the water as though it was solid ground,” Flùranach said distantly. She sensed a small bud at his centre, and knew instinctively it was the cord with which he could someday bond a faerie. A shadow passed over his face. “If you live long enough.”

He stared at her. “If I live?” He glanced at Rory, then back to Flùranach. “What happened to you?”

“Flùranach?” Rory said quietly. “When did you wake up?”

She turned to him, and her heart crumpled. His bond was not a natural fit with hers. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t allow it.”

“What’s wrong?” Rory said. He pulled Flùranach close. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. “Don’t you worry.” To Phillip, he added, “Get Oron. Quick.”

Munro took charge of the library research, with Ríona teaching him at a feverish rate. He used his newly emerging ability to interpret the runes on dozens of stone monoliths. She instructed him how to touch the runes without changing them with his stone magic, to sense the runes around the original, feel their sway without being overcome by their own meaning and the runes influencing them.

Munro listened to the runes himself, needing only the guidance of someone more experienced. Now that they were looking for the right rune, the sorcerer mark, they found hidden knowledge in many old stories. The pair took to sleeping in the library and working into the daylight hours, sometimes forgetting to eat until someone brought them a tray of food.

Oszlár or one of the other keepers who had watched Munro craft the druid rune would sometimes observe their research, sitting quietly, then disappearing without a word.

The further back in history they went, the more the tone of the stories of druids changed. In the tale Ríona had read to him that first day, human
bondsmen
and faeries were distant, even enemies. But when they looked for the rune
draoidh,
they discovered a different context. The draoidh
lived with the fae, worked with them, even sometimes teaching them. They created powerful talismans and were masters of rune creation. The fae revered them and their writings. For a faerie to mate or bond with a draoidh
was the highest honour. Ríona explained that historically, draoidh
were thought to be fae sorcerers, not bonded druids. Learning the draoidh
may have been human turned every one of the stories on its head.