Elphame's Choice (17 page)

The next flash of lightning illuminated his sister’s widened eyes.

“The MacCallan talked to you, too?” she asked in a rush, with decidedly more animation than she’d shown since they’d found her by the ravine.

Cuchulainn frowned.

“Are you telling me that he has appeared to you and you said nothing to me?” he said incredulously.

“Well, Cu…” She hesitated, suddenly almost glad she was injured. At least he couldn’t get too mad at her. “I know how you dislike the spirit realm.”

“Dislike!” he shouted. When his sister winced in reaction he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “El,” he said slowly, “it isn’t simply a matter of my dislike for the spirit realm. Think about all that has happened since we have arrived. You have never felt even the slightest touch of magic from the Goddess, and suddenly it is as if you have become a living conduit to Epona. There are forces at work here that we do not understand, El.”

Elphame made a weak gesture with her hand and tried to shake her head, but the motion ended in a grimace.

“Shhh.” Her brother was instantly apologetic. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m not angry at you.”

“I know, Cu,” she said, blinking hard to clear her vision and order her thoughts. “But you must remember that it is differ
ent for me. I do not fear the spirit realm. And you cannot believe that The MacCallan or Epona wish us any harm.”

“Of course not,” Cu said, wiping more bloody water from her face. “But I want you to remember that just as good exists, so does evil. And evil in the realm of spirits cannot be defeated with strength of arms.”

“No,” she said softly. “It must be defeated with honor and truth and strength of will.”

Cu studied his sister in the dim light. He realized that she was changing. He didn’t want to admit it, but that realization made him uneasy. Lightning flashed again and he could see that she was smiling up at him. His heart wrenched. She had been his best friend for as long as he could remember. Didn’t he love her enough to allow her to become the woman of her destiny, even if part of that destiny seemed foreign and incomprehensible to him?

“Just promise me that you will tell me about any more of your spiritual visitations. Especially if they are with any of our ancestors.”

“I promise,” she said, sounding relieved. “By the way, did you notice the resemblance between you and The MacCallan?”

Cuchulainn snorted. “Please! I am nothing like that caustic old ghost.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Let me see if I remember it correctly…yes, it was something like,
‘Cuchulainn, are ye no more than a muscle-bound clot-heid? Go after yer sister, the lass has need of ye!’”
He growled in an excellent imitation of the gruff old spirit.

Elphame was still alternating between giggles and grimaces from the pain they caused when Brighid and the rest of their party clattered noisily into the Great Hall. Brenna climbed awkwardly from her horse and moved to Elphame’s side, frowning severely at Cuchulainn.

“I told you to keep her talking, not to make her hysterical.”

Lochlan shadowed the three of them, watching through the pelting rain to be certain that Elphame arrived safely at her castle. They disappeared within, and were soon joined by the rest of the group that the female centaur had so easily outdistanced. He continued watching all through that grim night, and only allowed himself to return to his shelter to sleep when Elphame emerged from the castle the next morning leaning heavily upon her brother to walk stiffly to the tent the workers had hastily erected as soon as the sun had begun to lighten the sky.

Lochlan smiled. He had known that Elphame would not be content to retreat to the village and be cosseted and cared for there like a delicate flower. He was a little surprised to see her leave the castle walls, but that was probably a compromise she had agreed to make with her brother. His sharp eyes focused on Cuchulainn’s stern expression. Yes, the warrior would prefer that she recover in the village. Did he not understand that she drew her strength from the very stones of her castle?

He should not judge the brother harshly, Lochlan chided himself. Cuchulainn loved her dearly, and only wished to save his sister from harm, just as he did. If only the two of them could be allies….

Far to the north Keir raised his pale head as if he was scenting the air, but in truth the gesture was unnecessary. It was not a physical trail he detected, but a spiritual string, a strand of which lay unwound at his feet.

“Yes.” His voice was a hiss of triumph. “Lochlan took his departure through here.”

Beside him, Fallon’s wings stirred with excitement as she gazed at the small, partially hidden trail that led deep into the mountains. “Are you quite certain?” she asked, hardly daring
to believe. “We have searched this area before and found nothing of him.”

“He has been away too long and he grows careless. I have said many times that his obsession makes him weak, and this only proves it. He has relaxed his thoughts and I sense him again. If you would concentrate, you would know that it is so,” he said, his voice a steely admonishment.

With an effort, Fallon did not cringe. It would only make him angrier, and Keir’s anger hovered too close to the surface without enticement. Fallon could sense the madness too clearly in Keir. She could feel how it waited for her mate to give in—to be finished fighting for his humanity and to embrace the dark heritage of their father’s demonic blood. She could see it lurking like an oily stain within his eyes. The longer Lochlan was gone, the wilder Keir had become. It seemed that Lochlan had taken with him a piece of her mate’s humanity. Yet another reason that they must find Lochlan and the hoofed goddess of his dreams….

Fallon closed her eyes, ignoring the insistent pain that tapped at her mind as she beat back her instinctive flare of anger. Lochlan should have allowed them to accompany him. His quest was too important. One slip—one mistake—and they would all be doomed to the madness that lived within their blood. Keir might be right; Lochlan could have become too obsessed with his dreams to be trusted completely. With an enormous effort she cast aside her whirring thoughts and concentrated on gray eyes that sparkled with humor and patient understanding—and she felt it. A small tug that beckoned her forward. She opened her eyes and smiled at her mate.

“I do feel him!”

Keir’s scowl relaxed, and the blackness within his gaze lightened. He nodded, satisfied with her response. “Let us tell the others.”

THE SUN HAD
just broken over the tall pines of the forest when Brenna announced that Elphame could sleep.

“Drink this.” The Healer held a mug to Elphame’s lips.

The tea was warm and thick and tasted vaguely of honey and mint. Almost instantly Elphame felt her eyelids become unnaturally weighty.

“You didn’t need to drug me. I’m already tired,” she slurred.

Cuchulainn smoothed a thick strand of hair back from his sister’s pale face. “Just sleep. Brenna knows best.”

El tried unsuccessfully to focus on her brother. He still looked so worried. Dark shadows bruised the area beneath his eyes.

“You need to sleep, too,” she said faintly.

“Soon, El.”

Elphame sighed and closed her eyes, allowing sleep to finally claim her.

Cuchulainn dropped into the chair next to his sister’s bed.
He rubbed his temple and rolled his neck, trying to work out the stiffness.

“She was right, you do need to sleep, too,” the Healer said without looking at him while she straightened the linens around Elphame’s sleeping form.

Cuchulainn noticed that Brenna’s voice had softened again and she turned away from him as she spoke. Actually, she hardly sounded like the same woman who had not long ago been firing orders like a warrior. He watched Brenna as she tidied the little piles of herbs she had steeped into his sister’s tea. The Healer’s growing friendship with Elphame had already made Cu predisposed to think kindly of her, but the expertise she had shown in dealing with his sister’s accident had solidified his respect for her. And, he admitted to himself, she fascinated him. One moment she made him feel as if he should protect her, as he would his sister, and the next she was shouting orders and showing a confidence that was reminiscent of his mother’s no-nonsense attitude. She was a mixture of women, and like no one else he had ever known.

The light in the tent was muted—only a single candle flickered on the small bedside table. As usual, the bodice of her shift was modest and completely covered her breasts, ending just under the line of her throat. He was used to seeing women’s breasts; traditionally, the women of Partholon felt free to display as much enticing cleavage as they desired. Even his sister, who habitually covered the bottom half of her body from prying eyes, wore filmy bits of silk that often left little of her upper body to the imagination. Just as her personality stood out as different, Brenna’s conservative dress stood out as unusual, especially in such a young woman. Cu understood that she must be covering more scarring, but the thought came and went quickly through his mind. What lingered was his desire to see beneath the concealing cloth—and not because
he was curious about her injury. He wanted to really see her, to know the woman beneath the scars. His eyes lingered on the ivory skin of her delicately rounded upper arms.

Brenna felt his gaze. She knew when a man was staring at her; she’d had a decade of experience with men and their poisonous looks. She felt her stomach tighten. During an emergency they tended to forget how she looked, but when the illness or accident or birth was over, the Healer once again became the Scarred Woman. It wasn’t that their stares were that awful. It was that, for all of their looking, they never really saw her, especially not the handsome ones like Cuchulainn; they saw only the ruin that the fire had left. Yes, he was kind to her, but Brenna knew that it was his devotion to his sister that prompted his compassion. The naked truth would be easy to read when she glanced up from the pile of herbs and met his eyes. She had pulled her hair back out of the way before she changed the dressings on Elphame’s wounds, and even though long habit caused her to automatically keep the scarred half of her face as hidden as possible, he was sitting very close to her. Her scars would be clearly visible to him. He would be staring at her with the look of mingled fascination and disgust that she knew all too well. Brenna sighed and lifted her chin to face him.

Cuchulainn felt his cheeks heat. She was looking directly at him, and he had been staring at her body like a gawking youth. He rubbed his hands over his face before lurching to his feet.

“Sleep, uh, yes. I should sleep,” he said, feeling like an utter fool.

Brenna’s candid gaze never wavered, and he found he was unable to look away from her gentle brown eyes.

“I will stay with her. If she awakens I will give her more of the tea. Sleep is what she needs most right now,” Brenna said.

“But aren’t…what…aren’t you tired, too?” He tripped over
the words and finally blurted the question. What had happened to his renowned charm and witty, impressive banter? Even to his own ears Cuchulainn sounded nervous and inexperienced. If he kept going like this he would revert to voice-cracking and sweating palms.

“It is my gift. I care for those who are injured.”

“Oh, right. Yes.”

Brenna cocked her head sideways and gave him a peculiar look. What was wrong with the warrior?

“You can trust me to care for your sister, Cuchulainn,” she said.

Cu’s look of surprise was obviously not feigned. “I have no doubt of that.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll go now. I won’t be gone for long, though.” He turned and fumbled with the tent flat, but before departing he looked over his shoulder and caught the Healer’s quizzical gaze. “I do not believe I have thanked you for the care you have taken with my sister. Thank you, Brenna.” He smiled nervously and ducked out of the tent.

Brenna shook her head. Elphame’s accident had obviously affected the warrior greatly; he didn’t seem himself. And what had been that odd expression on his face when he had been staring at her? And then he’d blushed. She felt her own cheeks warm in remembrance. No, she had to be mistaken. Why would Cuchulainn want to look at
her
body? Perhaps he’d caught a chill during the wet ride. That would explain the brightness of his eyes and his flushed face. Brenna made a mental note to check on the warrior’s health as she curled comfortably within the chair that was still warm from his body.

She leaned forward and snagged the strap of her Healer’s bag from the edge of the table. Rummaging through it she found the pad of raw paper and fished out a charcoal pencil. It would be a long day. Sketching would keep her awake and help the hours to pass. It would also calm her nerves, for she
felt suddenly, inexplicably restless and out-of-sorts. Her pencil moved over the surface of the paper in smooth, sure strokes as her mind wandered. Without conscious thought her hands sketched the image that had settled into her subconscious and as the day lengthened the strong lines of Cuchulainn’s handsome face took form beneath her restless fingers.

In Elphame’s dream she was being cradled by a soft warmth that she had no trouble recognizing. Wings, her sleeping mind thought, Lochlan’s wings. A delicious thrill hummed deep within her body and in her dream she could feel his gentle touch again, only this time he was not ministering to her wounds, he was caressing her body. Her desire built as she gave herself over to him…

…And her mother’s voice shattered the erotic dream, dashing guilty cold water over her growing need.

But she has been injured! I must go to her.

You cannot. She must learn to grow without you.

Confused, Elphame tried to open her eyes, but her drugged body resisted. She was in the nebulous realm of dreams, surrounded by clouds that swirled around her like half-formed thoughts, and echoing from within the clouds she could definitely hear her mother’s voice, as well as another woman’s.

She is my daughter; of course I need to go to her.

But she is no longer a child, Beloved.

That doesn’t make her any less my daughter.

Elphame thought her mother sounded uncharacteristically petulant. It almost seemed as if she was a child arguing with an adult.

She will always be your daughter, but she must grow into her own woman so that she can embrace her future, which is a thing she cannot do if you shield her from life’s difficulties.

But she
—her mother began but the other woman interrupted.

Do you trust her, Beloved?

Elphame felt as if she was holding her breath as she waited to hear her mother’s answer.

Yes, I trust her.

Then you must free her to claim her own destiny, just as it is part of your destiny to trust her, Beloved, and to trust Me to watch over her for you.

Elphame felt a jolt of surprise as she realized who the other woman must be. Epona! Was she actually listening to a conversation between her mother and the Goddess, or was she simply dreaming? Fascinated, Elphame heard her mother draw a long, shaky breath.

Parenting was easier when she was a baby.

The Goddess’s laughter caused silver glitter to sparkle throughout the snow-colored clouds.

May I at least send her a special shipment of wines and linens? The way she’s living is simply barbaric.

Of course, Beloved…

As the voices faded and swirling clouds darkened, Elphame’s sleeping lips tilted up in the hint of a smile. It was so like Mama to believe good wine and expensive linens would heal every wound.

In his sleep Lochlan felt her touch his dreams. Without waking, he responded, reaching for her. He could not see her, but he could feel her soft skin under his hands and in his dream he wrapped her within his wings.

Then she began to fade away from him.

He shifted restlessly, trying unsuccessfully to regain the dream, but the exhaustion of the past day took its toll on his concentration and her image slid from his grasp like sands through a loosely woven basket. Lochlan woke. He stared into the darkness of the cave. His desire for her was a tangible
thing—a force that had been building for a quarter of a century. He breathed deeply. The scent of her blood lingered on his body. When his wings began to quiver with his arousal, he did not try to stop them—he did not fight the darkness and cause the answering pain to slide through his mind. Instead he loosened the rigid control under which he usually held the strongest of his emotions. His body hardened. He closed his eyes and stroked himself, picturing Elphame, not as she had been the night before, injured and frightened; instead he remembered how she had looked the morning she had claimed MacCallan Castle as her own. She had blazed with power.

The force of his climax shot through him, pulling Lochlan into a vortex of hot, pulsing passion. When he regained his senses and opened his eyes his first thought was that he smelled fresh blood, which he instantly recognized as his own. The fingers of one of his hands stung. He turned his head to see that he had raked his fingernails down the side of the cave with such force that they had left a long, bloody trail as well as evil-looking scratches within the rock. His spent body slumped in despair as he cradled his hand. How would he ever be able to love her? He hadn’t even realized he had gouged the wall. What if she had been there? Would he have torn the soft skin of her body without being able to stop himself?

The words of the Prophecy mocked him. Elphame was the incarnation of a goddess; he could not deny that. And the Prophecy of his people, passed to them from his mother’s lips, was that only the blood of a dying goddess could save them from the madness that was the legacy of their dark heritage.

It was preordained that he would kill her.

Lochlan clenched his jaw. No! There had to be another way.

Please, Epona, do not let me harm her. I would rather die first.

Lochlan curled on his side, trying to bury his fear and loneliness in the remembrance of the kindness he had glimpsed
within Elphame’s eyes. She had not looked at him as if he was a creature of evil—she had seen the man, not the Fomorian.

He had been alone too long. He closed his eyes. Loneliness gnawed at him. How were his people? It was early spring. They should be planting the food that would help sustain them through the long winter. The hunters would begin the first of many treks to the sea so that fish could be caught and smoked. The snow would soon be melted enough so that wild mountain goats could be trapped to replenish their own domesticated herd. So much to do to survive in the harsh Wastelands…Were the children well? How quickly was the madness encroaching? He knew that Keir would have taken over his position as leader. Keir had coveted Lochlan’s position and the power that went with it. He could only hope that Fallon’s influence was helping him to lead wisely, and keeping a check on Keir’s dark side, which always seemed too close to the surface.

Lochlan’s eyes snapped open. What was he doing? Like water on flame he extinguished all thoughts of home. He knew how dangerous it was for his mind to dwell on his people. The psychic ribbon that tied his blood to theirs was naturally strong. Thinking of them would only reinforce it—and the last thing he needed was for them to discover the hidden pathway through the treacherous Trier Mountains into Partholon and track him here. To the people of MacCallan Castle a group of hybrid Fomorians would be viewed in only one way—as an invading army. And they would be an army, he admitted to himself, an army that had a single mind and purpose—to capture Elphame and to fulfill the Prophecy.