Faerie Fate (22 page)

“He lives,” she told
Niall joyously as her mate entered the room behind her. Niall wrapped his big
arms around her and held her close. “What magic have you wrought, my love?” he
asked, awed at his wife’s power.

“No magic of mine,”
she declared. She sniffed the air and caught the faint scent of roses and
something clean, like sea air or snow on the mountains. She stared down at
Ciaran. “Love,” she whispered. “
’
Tis the magic of love.”

Chapter Eighteen

The greens and
browns of September rolled into the frosty nights and boisterous colors of
October. Autumn came to Ailfenn, painting the countryside with glorious
oranges, riotous reds, and rich yellows. Though still slowed somewhat by his
wound, Ciaran was up and about, overseeing his clann once again. His face was
lined now, and he looked older than his thirty-one years, but he regained
strength daily.

As the days grew
shorter, the people of Ailfenn prepared for
Samhain
. Inventory was taken
in the larder and the buttery. Crofters finished harvesting their crops and
shepherds brought their herds back from the far grazing lands. The weakest
animals in the herds were killed and dressed, the meat preserved for eating
during the cold months to come.

Women cleaned their
houses, airing their linens and clothing in the soft light of the last warm
days of the year. At night, families gathered around their hearths and told the
old tales and some new ones. All the girls longed to hear the tale of the
taking of
An Taoiseac’s
true love by the faerie. The boys scoffed at the
story, wanting to hear about the glorious battles in which their fathers had
fought.

Each night after the
evening meal, Ciaran, dark wolf that he was, retired to his den. Sitting on a
chair made soft with sheepskins and woolens, he stared into the flames,
imagining he saw Becca’s face reflected back at him. As midnight approached and
the flames died, he vowed to love her until the day he died. “And I plan to be
a bloody old fool before that happens,” he spat into the fire. When the last
ember burned to black, he heaved out of the chair. With plodding steps, he
climbed the stairs to his chamber. He went the oaken chest at the foot of the bed
and took out one of Becca’s gowns. Pressing his face into its folds, he drew
hungry breaths deep into his lungs, savoring the faint scent of her still
lingering there.

Reverently, he
replaced the gown and climbed into bed. Drawing his mantle into his arms, his
fingers traced the MacDermot Knot over and over, occasionally caressing the two
fiery stones in its center. “You will come back to me,” he whispered repeatedly
into the darkness. “Love of my heart, light of my life,” he murmured as he
drifted off to sleep.

****

“Light of my life,
love of my heart,” Becca whispered. “Oh, Ciaran how I miss you!” Her fingers
stroked the altar at the standing stones like a lover’s caress. She laid her
head down, and her tears gently fell upon the stone.

Manannan, King of
Tir
Nan Óg
, stared at the beautiful woman, his body hard and aching for her. He
knew she came to the stones each day, and he knew why. He’d chastised the
Harper for telling her their secret. Now his heart was heavy. He watched this
Child of the Mortals survive each of her lifetimes, growing stronger and wiser
with each, yet her heart remained empty, and her soul filled with sorrow. He
above all the other faerie kings and queens took any covenant with the mortals
to heart. It was he who watched over the chosen ones to ensure that they were
bound together each lifetime.

He’d thought to
spare the Child of the Mortals any more suffering in mind or body by bringing
her to
Tir Nan Óg
rather than returning her to her former life. Manannan
realized he’d been wrong. As he watched her melancholy grow each day, he
thought his own heart would break. He considered taking her himself, for laying
with her would erase her memories of those other lives, but each time he sought
to do so, something stopped him. He wanted her as he’d never wanted another
mortal woman. He ached to feel her long fingers wrap around his cock, to taste
the sweet essence of her. But whenever he looked deep into her eyes, he knew
that neither he nor any other in
Tir Nan Óg
would ever be able to sate the
hunger of her soul. There was only one who could. He could not force her.
Unlike some others of his kind who took what they desired regardless, to
Manannan, even a seduction against the woman’s will was still rape. He turned
away from Becca, steeling his heart against her pain. He could not return her.
He would not. Not without the binding.

****

The week before
Samhain
,
Ciaran himself oversaw the laying of the bonfires on the hilltop above Ailfenn.
Odhran chanted over each piece of wood added to the two piles, sending up
special supplications to all the gods, old and new. All around Ailfenn, people
bustled about, preparing. The last of the harvest had been laid by, meat cured
for the cold, dark times of winter, and the people were ready to celebrate. While
their joy was tinged with sadness, the folk of Clann MacDermot had much to
rejoice this
Samhain
. Ciaran had returned to them, though his soul ached
for the loss of his true love.

Tinkers, minstrels,
and harpers arrived daily, their chanting spiels and music filled the air. The
tanner and weaver offered their finest goods for the women to haggle over.
Breads, sweet treats, and rounds of cheese spilled across overloaded tables.
The blacksmith laid out his wares, as did the silver and gold smiths. Life was
finally returning to Ailfenn.

Men raced their
horses in the meadow below the hill, wagering good-naturedly on the outcomes.
Lads and cailíns cast loving eyes at each other, sneaking away from the adults
to hold hands and kiss behind the assorted tents. Children danced with delight
from one stall to the next table, oohing and aahing over each newly discovered
treasure. The clann gathered from the four corners of the territory to
celebrate before the dark days of winter arrived to shut them in.

Ciaran walked among
them, greeting each by name, stopping to share a moment of conversation, to
learn about a marriage or a birth or, sadly, a death. At his throat, the two
stones in the MacDermot Knot glimmered softly in the muted sunlight. The men
exchanged cheerless glances behind his back, while the women breathed poignant
sighs after he passed. Many of them had sought to woo the
Taoiseac
, and
now they knew he would woo none back. The story of Ciaran and his true love had
spread far and wide among the people who owed allegiance to Ailfeen.

Samhain
arrived at last. All the fires in Ailfenn were
extinguished, and the people gathered on the hill. Ciaran struck flint with
iron. A small spark jumped from the flint into a small wad of wool. The wad
flamed, and Odhran the Druid fed the sacred fire with rowan and oak. The flames
grew stronger, lapping at the kindling laid around it. Soon, it had ignited the
entire pile, and flames danced merrily across the bonfire. Ciaran stuck a torch
into the first bonfire. When it flamed brightly, he tossed it into the second.
Harpers, pipers, and drummers struck up a lively tune as couples danced around
and snaked past the fires. Shepherds drove their herds between the two piles.
Soldiers carried their weapons and led their horses through, all to protect and
purify everything that belonged to Clann MacDermot.

His heart heavy,
Ciaran turned away from the fires and the dancing couples. Walking among the
tents and tables laden with food and wares, the excited giggles of a group of
children drew him. A harper settled in to tell tales. Ciaran cocked his head,
trying to place the man. Handsome in a cold, dark way, the harper was a
stranger to him.

“And would yee like
to hear the tale of the first MacDermot,” the harper began. The children
squealed with delight.

“Tell us about his
battles,” one boy shouted.

“Yeah, tell us about
the Fenian Warriors,” another agreed.

“I shall tell yee
the tale of how the MacDermot saved the life of King Finvarra and thus won his
true love,” the harper said in a voice as sweet and rich as spun sugar.

****

“I cannot listen
anymore,” Finvarra decreed.

“How do her tears
not break your heart?” Onagh said to Manannan.

He shrugged, the
gesture more nonchalant than he truly felt. “There is naught any of us can do,
Onagh,” he replied, his voice thick with some unnamed emotion, for in truth,
her tears continued to break his heart.

****

The fires died down
as midnight approached, and people lit their torches for their walk home.
Ciaran stood between the fires, his legs spread wide, and his hands stretched
to the heavens. He’d stripped down to nothing but his trews and boots. His
muscles rippled as he beseeched the stars. Firelight danced across his bronzed
skin, the flickering flames defining each well-developed muscle. All stopped to
stare in awe for he appeared to be some faerie warrior of old.

“Becca,” he shouted
to the firmament above. “Hear me. By the life that courses within my blood and
the love that resides within my heart, take thee to my hand, my heart, and my
spirit to be my chosen one.”

The three stared at
each other in wonder. Was it possible that the warrior had discovered how to
bring his true love home? The mortal’s voice echoed around them.

“The binding,” Onagh
whispered.

“At last,” Finvarra
sighed.

“She returns,” Manannan
decreed.

“To desire thee,”
Ciaran vowed, “and to be desired by thee. To possess thee and to be possessed
by thee
without sin or shame for naught can exist in the purity of my
love for thee. I promise to love thee wholly in this life and beyond, where we
shall meet, remember, and love again. There is no beginning, there is no end
but in you. Our love is a beginning without an end, until the end of time. You
are my chosen.” Ciaran sank to his knees, his chin falling to rest on his
chest. He was completely drained.

Becca blinked,
blinded by the fires on either side of her. A man knelt at her feet, his chin
sunk on his chest. His hair was so black the light cast by the fires burned
blue in its silken depths.

Ciaran looked up,
his dark indigo eyes met ones of cerulean. His heart turned over, and his gut
clenched.

“You,” the vision
before him breathed. She sank to her knees and placed her hand above his heart.
“Ciaran, by the life that courses within my blood,” she repeated. “And the love
that resides within my heart, take thee to my hand, my heart, and my spirit to
be my chosen one. To desire thee and to be desired by thee. To possess thee and
to be possessed by thee without sin or shame for naught can exist in the purity
of my love for thee. I promise to love thee wholly in this life and beyond,
where we shall meet, remember, and love again. There is no beginning, there is
no end but in you. Our love is a beginning without an end, until the end of
time. You are my chosen.”

Ciaran buried his
hands in her golden hair and claimed her lips with his own. Her mouth opened
for him, and his tongue drove into her mouth, teasing her with what was to come
from the rest of his body. Becca wrapped her arms around his neck, swearing
never to let him out of her sight again.

“Love of my heart,”
he whispered against her mouth.

“Light of my life,”
she replied.

He kissed her again,
so hard, so deeply that he pulled the breath from her lungs, sucking it into
his own. His erection pressed against the sweet vee of her thighs. He gazed at
her, wonder softening the hard sapphire color of his eyes to a rich cobalt.
Then he realized she was wrapped in his mantle and wore nothing else. The
MacDermot Knot shimmered above her breast. As he watched, the two fiery stones
blurred, turning into opalescent liquid and joining, coalescing back into one
large, heart-shaped stone.

“Two hearts forever
joined as one,” Ciaran whispered, fingering the brooch. “As she once promised.”

Becca stared up at
him, love and desire radiating from her eyes. “Take me home, Ciaran. Take me
home and love me tonight and tomorrow and forever.”

“Aye, cailín.”

Ciaran stood and
pulled Becca to her feet. He gathered her into his arms and held her against
his bare chest. The silent crowd parted as the magical warrior strode toward
his keep, his faerie bride in his arms.

Riordan was the
first to come to his senses. He grabbed a torch and thrust it into the fire.
Racing down the hill, he caught up to Ciaran and Becca, passing them at a full
run. He burst into the great hall, strode to the hearth, and jabbed his torch
into the waiting wood, lighting the fire already laid there. Jogging up the
stairs, he dashed to Ciaran’s chambers where he lit that fire and went about
the room lighting candles—no small feat with only a torch. He raced back to the
top of the stairs and touched the flame of his torch to the rush lights lining
the stairs as he descended.

Gair, the steward,
appeared with another torch. Together, the two men hurried to light every
candle, every rush light, and every fire in every hearth in the entire castle.

Ciaran and Becca
made it back to the great hall just as two men-at-arms entered. The men turned
to stand at guard as the MacDermot, with Becca still in his arms, entered. The
whole of Ailfenn followed hard on their heels.

Riordan smiled at
the couple, his heart full to bursting. Becca’s return was nothing short of a
miracle. His cousin’s bride was positively radiant, and he’d never seen Ciaran
so happy.