Smoke and Mirrors (37 page)

So the council met again, and a law was written forbidding King Dagda’s daughters to choose their husbands. But Dagda’s youngest daughter, a willful creature of singular beauty, strove to convince him otherwise. She argued that another prophecy - an older one - changed the meaning of the second. It spoke of an alliance after bloodshed, of an endlessly prosperous age beneath the rays of both sun and moon. It spoke of the melding of dark and light, of man and immortal fitting together as two pieces in a puzzle.

There could be peace, Aisling had argued, if there was trust.

There could be peace, even after war.

At last he conceded, and her privilege was graven upon a silver parchment. It gave Princess Aisling permission to choose her soul mate, even if he was of the race of man.

But the council was not so easily convinced. They added their own cunning twist, hoping to dissuade her. If after one thousand years, no matter the obstacles, no matter the deceptions, her husband no longer loved her, her life was forfeit and no future contact could be made with the world above.

To Dagda’s dismay, his beloved child accepted the harsh terms and entered the world of men stripped of title, immortality and protection.

Now he knew she had found love with the Northerner kneeling before him.

Until someone or something had silenced her.

She had been lost to him these many years.

Until today.

Memories crowded the king’s mind as he leaned, elbows locked, palms cold against the stone windowsill.

Still his visitors remained silent.

The Seer because she rarely spoke.

The Northerner because he was awaiting the king’s response.

Dagda stared through windows into a subterranean courtyard aglow with enchantment. Its beauty was nothing to the sun’s, he reflected sourly. Time may have left his land of Tir na n’Og unchanged, but the same could not be said for him. The loss of his cherished daughter - like the loss of the sun - was violent.

Yet…

The words of hope offered by the Northerner presented miracles too great to wish for.

“My king.” The Seer softly acknowledged his sorrow. “Perhaps the Northerner is right. Your daughter may not be lost to us after all.”

The Sidhe King whirled, his fists clenched like gnarled oak. “My daughter chose her fate - mortality and death.
Your
prophecy was fulfilled.” The king stalked closer to the pair. “Now her decision has brought us a new enemy,” Dagda let the words hiss as a blade being drawn from its sheath, “and we stand to lose what little we have left.”

For a time there was silence.

Then the rasp of the Northerner’s knuckles against his palm broke it. “Your Highness, allow me a chance to fight against the Dane and find out if Aisling is still alive. Your daughter believed the prophecy misinterpreted. She believed peace was possible, that a healing between our worlds was achievable. Your daughter…”

A sharp catch clipped the Northerner’s rich voice. Dagda considered that the man’s wounds, despite the Seer’s ministrations, would never completely heal.

“My wife.” The Northerner balled his fists and flattened his grimace of pain. “The mother of my son, your grandson, was valiant enough to search for love. I would be that brave. Test me as you wish. Prove to yourself that your warriors will be safe under my command.” The Northerner’s voice, low in timbre, clung like a burr to its listeners’ ears. “Allow me a final chance to find or, at the very least, avenge her.” Head bowed in obedience, the Northerner’s eyes were unreadable beneath his golden head of hair.

And, as the king recalled that Aisling’s tresses were like the wings of a raven, he thought further of her eyes. Like the moss of memory, they were. The moss of Eire. A place he’d taken his people in another lifetime. A sanctuary he’d once believed to be theirs. Only now it was a forgotten roof. A ceiling through which the sun could never shine.

Still, he was not certain of the Northerner’s motives. “My people long for harmony. Yours do not.” His words bore chill enough to freeze the underground lake before them.

This time, the Northerner’s blue eyes challenged the king’s silvery gaze. “My ancestors did not know your daughter, Your Highness. She changes much inside coarser men.”

The king sensed a smile of triumph upon the Seer’s mouth as she said, “A thousand years, My Lord, such things are possible with spells.”

Had the council’s clause left opportunity for interpretation?

Could the thousand years of prophecy be accomplished with magic?

Long moments passed as the king made a careful study of the man his beloved had chosen. “Would you know her after a millennia? Could you find her,” he said, the thought like a gust of unbidden wind, “if her soul was hidden? If her silken plaits and emerald eyes could not catch your eye?”

The Northerner, king of another place, of another people, seemed unperturbed by the strange words, and he opened calloused hands. “I would be given the chance.”

Honesty was something the King of Sidhe had not known Flesh Eaters to possess. He shuddered, shielding a flicker of hope, and finally allowed himself to believe as his daughter had. “You will permit my Seer to do as she wishes. If she is satisfied, my warriors are yours, and you may seek your revenge against King Svein of the Danes and his witch wife, Sigrid. If they have done half of what you say, your cause is a just one.”

The Northerner’s tears greened the leaves beneath him. “My love will not fail Aisling, Your Highness.”

But the King of Sidhe was not so certain. He averted his gaze as the Seer approached his daughter’s husband. Fighting the mind’s demons was a challenge indeed, even for those who lived by the sword. For the king had seen traitorous Sidhe killed by the Seer’s spells, and the Northerner was but a man.

F
iona was jerked into reality by the screaming of brakes. She faced the subway train’s window, her pale, tear-stained reflection staring back at her. Already the vision was fading, but the terror and despair it had brought left her numb.

She struggled to her feet and lurched off the steps, stumbling before catching herself on a newspaper stand. A full-page photo of the world’s reigning fashionista mocked her own disheveled appearance, and Fiona banished a fleeting urge to throw herself onto the third rail.

She scrubbed a hand across her face and neck, pulling her dark mass of hair from the coat’s hold.

It was Friday. The restaurant would be crowded and she could lose herself in the monotony of work. Heading up the stairs into the light of the winter morning, she concentrated on what she could feel. On what was real. An icy wind. Snow. Not pain and screaming, thank God.

But the air above ground reeked of bus fumes, and it took her a moment to control an urge to vomit. Struggling to remember what her therapist had said, Fiona closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her mouth. When she exhaled, she repeated the mantra her therapist helped her create.

“I can see the sky. The meadows are green. The sea air is warm and salty.”

Stomach grudgingly under control, she reopened her eyes. People - mobs of them - bustled to and fro around Government Center. The large bricked area was dusted with a fine white powder.

Snow was good. It hid the dirt and grime.

Snow was clean. It had a fresh scent.

Fiona picked a new path across its increasingly marred surface and forced herself to forget the vision.

She’d had worse.

“Lose yourself in your work. It’s good for you.”

Again her therapist’s wisdom echoed through her mind. She was right, and because it was her therapist’s cousin who had been kind enough to employ Fiona, she was desperate not to disappoint either of them.

Hand on the chilled brass railing, Fiona headed down the long flights of stairs to Faneuil Hall. Christmas lights made the famous market more festive than usual, and she experienced a sharp sense of relief that decorations had been left up past the holidays. The lights reminded her of something, but like everything else about her past, the memory was an elusive, shadowy thing. Without thinking, she reached out and touched one of the bulbs. A second vision assailed her - this one an image of candles garnishing an ethereal fir.

The tiny flames spat and sizzled against an unexpected blast of arctic snow and air. A tall man entered the cozy space, his silver eyes laughing. She reached up for him and felt the warmth of his embrace fleetingly before the vision vanished in the puff of blown-out candles.

“Fuck.” The word, harsh and inappropriate, escaped her lips. Her therapist had laughed when she’d said it. Laughed and then, with censorious eyes, reminded her that respectable people didn’t use it unless they were alone or out of earshot.

But she didn’t suffer from the same rips in memory, the little tears which opened like paper cuts and closed again just as quickly, leaving the throb of hurt and frustration behind them.

Fiona whirled away from the lights and headed toward the wharf-side restaurant where she worked as a seafood buyer. The shops along the way were open, their heat escaping through doors displaying a dizzying array of items, all discounted.

Why?

Always, she would wonder why.

Four long years of speculating as to why this or that was done. Why everyday objects seemed wholly unfamiliar. Why her Gaelic and Norwegian pronunciations and vocabulary were so different from those of others. Why she had to learn English again. Why she hated physical contact. Why she had nightmare after nightmare about people who didn’t exist.

They’d tried to explain it - more than once. The police, that was. Explaining her situation to the fishermen who’d found her, explaining to her therapist, explaining over and over that her parents were dead. That she had been thought dead as well.

“She was kidnapped when her father’s yacht was hijacked on its way to Europe. Eight years later, she turns up - clinging to debris off the coast of Newfoundland. Likely been used for recreation by fishermen off George’s Bank and escaped when their ship broke up in a gale. Can’t remember much, poor girl, just babbled a lot of nonsense in Norwegian.”

Despite their explanations, it still made little sense.

She cursed again as her boot - a high-heeled affair donated to ‘The Fiona Cause’ - slipped on the slushy surface.

A firm hand clamped her upper arm, and Fiona gasped. The burn of the sommelier’s touch was far worse than the thought of crashing headlong into the cobblestones beneath her. She could never quite banish the hazy memories of assault, but four years of watching and practicing hadn’t been in vain and she forced a smile.

“Thanks, Sean. I think I’ve got it now.”

Her co-worker’s ruddy eyebrows conveyed doubt, but he let go and opened the door to the restaurant. “After you, Fi.”

She slipped into the elegant building. It was one of the oldest in Boston. Low. Brick. Full of character. Sitting on the edge of the harbor, it drew prosperous crowds of lunchtime businessmen, hedgefunders and attorneys who reveled in the sumptuous atmosphere and exquisitely presented seafood dishes.

Dinner drew a different crowd, but one no less prosperous. Red Sox pitchers, Patriot quarterbacks and Celtic point guards rubbed elbows with homegrown directors, aging rock musicians and up-and-coming actors. Local politicians were also frequent patrons, dropping in for a few pints of Guinness in the hopes of catching the fading rays of Camelot.

Despite her irrational fears and almost schizophrenic behavior, Fiona was able to navigate the pricey tableau with less trepidation than she felt answering her phone.

She dropped her bag and coat in the staff room and made a face at the morning’s newspaper. “That woman is everywhere.”

“What woman?” Sean tossed the lid to his Starbuck’s coffee into the recycling bin and peered over her shoulder.

Fiona pressed her finger into the fashion designer’s elegant face. “That one. Kirsten Sommer. A Vera Wang who can model her own clothes.” Something about her made Fiona physically ill.

Fortunately, the soothing scent of black Burundi Kayanza wafted up from Sean’s cup. “I never pegged you for the jealous type, Fi,” he teased, “But it says she’s heading for Milan, not Boston. There’s still time for you to have your way with me.”

Fiona flipped the paper and headed for the storerooms. “In your dreams.”

The sound of Sean’s chuckle followed her through to the chilling larder. Considering Sean was happily married, Fiona contemplated his real point as she searched for her keys. Why was she so rattled by a woman she’d never met? It wasn’t as though she was at a loss for interested men. Plenty of rich, good-looking, successful ones made overtures - not that she’d accepted any…

Still, Sean kept trying to get her to date. He’d even set her up with his brother - despite the fact the sommelier was loosely aware of Fiona’s problems.

He knew she hated being touched.

That she avoided talking about anything other than the mundane.

Unfortunately, he had little idea why.

Fiona had considered telling him about the patches in her memory. About the kidnapping. The rapes. But she’d never been able to bring herself to do it. Hell, she couldn’t remember them completely herself. They were sketches, vignettes of horror orchestrated by a blur of drunken, Danish fishermen.

Pushing away the distracting thoughts, she finally managed to unlock the door and process the previous day’s order. Everything was accounted for.

“Everything except the Scottish Salmon,” she breathed irritably.

“What?” Sean’s voice was muffled by the thick walls.

Fiona tapped the empty shelf with an unvarnished nail. She’d waited until nearly eleven the evening before for the delivery van from the airport. Only it had never come. She had hoped it would appear on the early morning truck. It hadn’t. Damn. She yelled back, “The salmon. It hasn’t come in yet.”

“Oh.” Sean’s voice edged toward a slurp. “Maybe it’s with the noon delivery.”