Faerie Fate (19 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Taidhg rode as if a
banshee was hot on his tail. He feared O’Flinn would dispatch a messenger to
arrive before he could reach Ballenfaire to spirit Becca away. He would not
fail Ciaran in this. He pushed his horse hard through the night, stopping only
for brief watering rests. Worried any O’Flinn rider would know of a shortcut,
he pushed hard.

****

The day wore on
interminably. As each hour passed, her body aged a year. Each step Arien took
was sheer torment, but Becca clung to his back determined to make it to Tuam.
All would be right if she could but get there and fall into Ciaran’s arms.
Ciaran would keep her safe. Ciaran would keep her young.

Sensing his rider’s
discomfort, Arien picked his way gingerly. When he’d feel her knees lose their
grip on his sleek sides, he’d stop, waiting for her to regain her strength. As
the sun sank in the west, Arien wandered off the road seeking water and grass.
He found a small spring and dipped his head to drink. Becca slid off his back,
and sank onto the springy moss at the water’s edge. Fiery pain branded every
inch of her body. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to ignore the pounding in
her temples. A tear rolled unheeded down her cheek.

“I love you,
Ciaran,” she whispered to the last soft ray of sunshine as it danced across the
spring. “Now and forever.”

****

Taidhg rode through
the night, but at a more careful pace, letting his horse choose the way along
the rutted road. The sense of urgency still beat at him, but he knew any
O’Flinn was also at a disadvantage in the dark. He finally stopped in the wee
hours of the morning. His horse needed a good rest, and he needed a few hours
of sleep before he could press on. Taidhg made cold camp, rolling up in his
mantle and falling asleep as his head touched the wool.

The sun rode high in
the sky when Arien raised his head from the spring. His nostrils flared as he
got a whiff of a familiar scent. He whinnied.

His horse cocked his
ears and turned his head toward a copse of trees well back from the road. “What
is it, lad?” Taidhg listened. A whinny. His horse nickered back in greeting. On
a hunch, the man reined him toward the trees.

He immediately
recognized Arien. Then he caught sight of the huddled figure between the
horse’s feet. His heart leapt into his throat almost choking him. Jumping off
his horse, he ran to the body wrapped in a thin blanket. Becca. It had to be
Becca. He shooed Arien away and squatted beside the inert figure. “Mistress,”
he sighed softly. He rolled her over and gasped.

Becca opened her
eyes, and squinted against the bright sun. “Taidhg?” she whispered between dry,
cracked lips. She ran the tip of her tongue across them attempting to moisten
them so she could speak. “I couldn’t get to him. I tried, but I failed.”

“Nay, mistress,”
Taidhg disagreed holding his shock at her appearance in check. “Time remains. I
will get yee there.”

Becca couldn’t ride.
His horse had been ridden hard from Ailfenn to Tuam, and then back toward
Ballinfaire. Taidhg stripped the saddle from his horse and threw it on Arien.
As he cinched the girth, he spoke softly to the spirited animal.

“Yer her only
chance, Arien,” he crooned. “She can’t ride by herself. I must carry her, and
yee are the fastest and the finest horse in all the land. Only you can save
her.”

Arien nickered
softly, and brushed his soft lips against Taidhg’s sleeve. The soldier smiled.
“Aye, and yer a fine one,” he told the animal.

Taidhg looped the
rope that had been on Arien around his own horse and secured the end to the
saddle. The man gently gathered Becca into his arms, feeling the shudder of
pain race through her. He eased her up on Arien and then climbed up quickly
behind her. Taidhg settled her as best he could in front of him and urged Arien
back toward the road and Tuam.

Each step Arien took
was absolute torment for Becca. She bit down on her lip until it bled to keep
from moaning. Taidhg had come. There was a chance they would reach Ciaran in
time. Several hours into the return trip, she managed to ask, “Why not Ciaran?”

“The king would not
allow him to leave. O’Flinn claims yer his daughter, and that the MacDermot has
no right to yee. The MacDermot would have slit his lying throat then and there,
but for Conchobhar. Before Conchobhar could naysay all of us, I left for
Ballinfaire to retrieve yee. None of us would leave yee in that place a moment
longer than we had to,” he assured her.

Becca shuddered. One hand twisted into his shirt,
and she rested her head against him.

As the sun sank,
Taidhg eventually gathered enough courage to comment on her appearance. When
he’d rolled her over to see her face that morning, he would have started
praying had he been a religious man. Her once young, beautiful face had aged to
that of a crone. Her skin was dry like parchment, and lines of pain etched her
countenance. “What happened, mistress?” he finally asked.

“I am turning back
into the one who was,” she murmured. “To stay the one who is, I must get to
Ciaran before midnight, Taidhg, before the fires of Lughnasadh are
extinguished.”

“Aye, Siobhan and
the Druid had the right of it then,” His lip curled into a snarl. “
’
Tis
the faerie who muck about in this.”

Becca shuddered
again as a vicious spasm raged through her body. “I will hang on,” she
promised. “No matter what, you must not fail us. Get me to Ciaran before the
midnight turns.” Her body trembled and then stilled.

She was unconscious.
He tightened his arms around her. “Aye, mistress. I will not fail yee.” He put
his heels to Arien, and a screaming war cry erupted from his throat.

****

Twin bonfires lit up
the green. Everyone for miles around gathered to celebrate the Festival of
Light. More than a few couples took advantage of the old custom of handfasting.
The
Lughnasadh
handfast was a trial marriage lasting for a year. At the
end of the year, the couple could turn their backs and walk away—no harm, no
foul—or they could remain together as husband and wife. Patrick’s Church
frowned upon the practice and was trying to usurp the old ways. The Church
refused to acknowledge either the joining or the dissolution of such unions.
Regardless, the Celtic way was slow to die out.

A solemn group of
men watched the festivities. Garbhan O’Flinn was deep in his cups, the hulking
Darroch not far behind his father. The two sat on the king’s left. The O’Conor,
flanked by two guards, sat on a small, raised platform. A full platoon stood
nominally at attention at his back. Ciaran and his cadre sat a little apart on
the king’s right. To a man, they looked ready to fight.

Conchobhar rubbed
his forehead. This was a bad business that left a bad taste in his mouth. If
O’Flinn’s charges were true, he’d have to take action against Ciaran and Niall.
On the other hand, Ciaran had leveled serious charges against O’Flinn, claiming
the man had tried to kill his own daughter. He just wanted the girl to appear
so he could ask her what was going on, and put this whole unfortunate affair to
rest.

Ciaran suddenly
doubled over in pain. As one, Niall and Riordan stepped in front of him to
shelter him from the view of the others gathered before the bonfire. After a
long moment, Ciaran straightened, a grimace marring his perfect face. “
’
Tis
hers,” he groaned softly through clenched teeth. Sweat dotted his forehead, and
he swiped at it with the back of his hand. “She draws near.”

Taidhg cut his horse
loose and spurred Arien. Becca hadn’t uttered another sound, and her body grew
light and insubstantial in his arms. They were close. He could see the glow
from the bonfires up ahead. Glancing at the stars, he swore. They were almost
out of time.

“Run, Arien,” he
urged the horse. “Run like you’ve never run before. Run for her life and his.”

Arien faltered for a
step then found his second wind. With pounding hooves, he charged through the
darkness toward the promise of the glowing light ahead. As they got closer,
people clogged the roadway.

“Get out of the
way,” Taidhg shouted. “Move afore I run yee down!”

The big horse
swerved around a tent, scattering people in his wake. Horse and man had but one
thought—get to the bonfire. Taidhg tightened his arms around Becca, fearful
she’d slip through them. As they reached the edge of the firelight, she
shimmered in its reflected glow. Taidhg stared in fascination. For a moment,
her face was that of the Becca he knew then it flickered, and her features
changed to that of the Becca she’d once been.

She stared at him,
sadness radiating from her eyes. “You did your best,” she whispered. Then she
was gone.

Ciaran watched the
dark horse and rider approaching, and his gut knotted with fear as he rose to
his feet. Taidhg had Becca, but it was too late. Ciaran knew it in his heart
and his soul. Horse and rider slid to a stop on the other side of the fire.
Everyone there saw her form shimmer and change, and then disappear from
Taidhg’s arms.

A huge man,
glistening from head to toe as if clothed in drops of water, appeared beside
Arien. He was so beautiful, the throng had to squint. He held Becca in his
arms. With a wave of the giant’s hand, Arien trotted off, taking a bewildered
Taidhg with him. The
Tuatha dé Danaan
god set Becca on her feet, and as
the flames of the bonfire flickered down to embers, her form wavered between
youth and age.

“What witchcraft be
this?” Conchobhar roared.

“Not witchcraft but
fae,” Ciaran exclaimed, drawing his sword, but knowing it would do no good.

“Do you know me?”
the giant roared.

“Aye,” Ciaran
answered coldly. “You’d be Manannan Mac Lir, god of the sea and one of
An
Tuatha dé Danaan
.”

The giant waved his
hand. “The fires of
Lughnasadh
grow cold,” he pronounced. He turned to
Becca. “Your time here has ended. You are not bound, and so you return with
me.”

“NO!” Two anguished
voices blended as one.

“But I choose,”
Becca’s solitary voice cried out.

“
’
Tis too
late.” Manannan’s pronouncement rumbled from his deep chest.

A log crashed in the
fire and embers danced up into the midnight sky. All the mortals present
blinked, and when they looked again,
fae
god and human woman had disappeared.

“
NO!”
Ciaran’s cry was torn from the very darkest chasm of his soul. He sank to his
knees knowing his heart had been torn out, and he would never be whole again.
“No,” he pleaded, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks. His anguish was
palpable to all standing near.

No one moved. No one
spoke. Then another log fell and more embers waltzed skyward. When the smoke
cleared, two figures stood beyond the flickering fire. Ciaran raised hopeful
eyes to the pair.

“Fool!” Finvarra,
King of the Connaught Faeries, spat at Ciaran. “She’d worn the Knot. Why did
you not bind her fate to yours?”

“Fool!” Onagh, his
queen, sneered at Finvarra. “Why did you bind his fate to ours?”

Every man there
gaped in wonder at the woman. Tall and willowy, her gown shimmered with silver
lights, and her long golden hair danced in the firelight. She was the most
beautiful creature any of them had ever laid eyes upon. All but one. For
Ciaran, no beauty would ever compare to Becca’s.

Onagh turned to
stare at Ciaran with cerulean eyes. His pain and anguish was more than she
could bear. A single silvery tear formed in her eye and spilled down her cheek.
It glittered and glistened, changing from silver to blue to a fiery opalescence
combining all the colors of the rainbow. With one graceful finger, Onagh caught
the tear. The iridescent drop quivered on the tip of her finger as she drew it
to her mouth. With a gentle puff, Onagh lent wings to the drop. It flew across
the fire and hovered for an instant in front of Ciaran’s eyes. Then it mingled
with his tears and fell to splash upon the MacDermot Knot at his throat. There,
it coalesced and solidified, turning into stone. Where one fiery tear had once
graced the eternity knot, two now resided.

“
’
Tis all I
can do,” Onagh sighed, her voice as soft as the summer breeze. “Know that two
hearts should have been one, now and for all time.”

Finvarra had not
moved since his first outburst, held speechless and enthralled by his mate’s
reaction. Now he turned sad eyes to his queen. “Come, my love,” he whispered.
“We must go.
Tir Nan Óg
awaits our return.”

The woman turned her
baleful glare on the O’Flinns. “Know you are not innocent in this, Garbhan
O’Flinn. My wrath shall haunt you and yours for lives to come,” she decreed in
a voice so cold frost formed around her feet.

The fae king took
his queen’s hand, sadness still clouding his eyes. “Come, love,” he whispered.
The two figures wavered in the waning firelight, becoming insubstantial and
ghostly before disappearing all together.