Chapter 5

Abhean plucked a few notes on his harp, still smarting from Manannán mac Lir’s visit. He’d argued with the king. Again. Putting away his instrument, he stood with the inherent grace of his kind. Above his craggy ledge, the standing stones beckoned and he answered their siren song. King Manannán had not forbidden him access to their lives, but the order to let the mortal fools spend their precious chances irked him deeply.

He climbed the narrow path on nimble feet and entered the circle of stones. In the very center, the altar summoned him, colored fog already swirling above its cold surface.

He stood, feet spread, hands outstretched, and watched the mist. Hazy figures danced within its core. Abhean set his harp upon the rough stone and tugged a wooden flute from the folds of his mantle. As he put his lips to the chanter, a simple tune floated through the air. The mist formed, drifted apart then transformed, all in time to the notes. Spectral walls solidified and ghostly figures acquired shape and substance within the confines of Caisel Ailfinn—the home of Ciaran MacDermot, chief of Clann MacDermot. The frost in Abhean’s eyes was not warmed by the smile frozen on his face. Reuniting Ciaran and Becca had created the first of many rifts between harper and king.

People scurried through the foggy scene in front of him, carrying pots and trays laden with food and bread. By defying mac Lir, Abhean had thrown a boulder into the river of time and even now the ripples continued to affect the lives of many. A slip of a girl appeared and he fixed his gaze upon her.

****

Delaney watched from the arched doorway leading from the kitchens. The group of warriors strode in looking like Fenian warriors to her girlish eyes. Her foster father stood tall and straight, a full head taller than even the tallest among them. His eyes, the color of the midnight sky, searched the great hall for her foster mother. A delighted cry echoed from above her head.

“Ciaran!” Becca, her foster mother, skipped down the stairs, her booted feet barely touching the worn stones.

Delaney’s heart clutched at the love radiating from the two of them. She could only dream of finding so abiding a love. Ciaran met Becca at the bottom of the stairs, caught her in his arms, and kissed her. Delaney shrank back as the scene continued to unfold in front of her like some mummer’s play at Samhain. Ciara, her foster sister, followed her mother down the stairs. She tracked the other girl’s gaze, suspecting she only had eyes for Keegan, Delaney’s older brother. His expression lit up at the sight of Ciara descending a bit more sedately than her mother’s reckless plunge. The older girl paused long enough to hug her father, and then slid around her parents to join Keegan in the center of the hall. The two stared at each other but made no move to touch or greet the other beyond covetous glances. Keegan cleared his throat several times while digging the toe of his boot in the straw littering the floor. Ciara simply blushed, dropping her eyes for a moment, only to raise them to gaze at the slightly taller boy.

Delaney rolled her eyes. Silly fools. Those two needed to sneak off behind the stable and do some serious kissing and petting to get it out of their systems. Of course, whenever Ciaran returned from an extended absence, the whole place seemed enchanted. Love and some feeling she couldn’t quite define wafted through the very air, infecting everyone. The back of her neck prickled and she gazed around the room looking for the source of her unease. Her gaze collided with Riordan’s. Not as old as her foster father, he was still Ciaran’s cousin and much older than her. She always felt odd in his presence. He’d rescued her the night her family was slaughtered. Delaney felt the heat creep up her throat and across her cheeks, certain they were now stained red.

The light streaming through the door blurred again and her heart raced as she recognized the young man striding in. Conor. Foster brother he might be, but she harbored such feelings for him as surely Ciaran and Becca shared. She stepped forward, her hand rising in unconscious greeting and longing but stopped when her sister, Neasa, screamed in glee. The older girl brushed past her, almost knocking her down. Conor looked over, distracted by the commotion. Moments later, his arms were full of screaming girl, his face peppered by her kisses.

Delaney shrank behind the arch, her face flaming. How could she ever think Conor would notice her? Neasa was light to her dark, full of fun and frivolity. She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes, banishing the tears welling up, as her friend, Bronwen, skipped up beside her.

“Aren’t they fine for sure, Laney?” The girl issued an exaggerated sigh. “That Riordan is so handsome, as ’tis your brother and Conor. But any fool can see Keegan an’ Conor are both matched already.”

Delaney squared her shoulders and peeked around the corner. Keegan and Ciara and Conor and Neasa certainly seemed oblivious to anyone but each other. Sadness settled around her like a tattered mantle. Would she ever find someone to love like that?

****

Riordan’s heart lightened when he saw the little cailín hiding behind the arched entry. Her presence never failed to make him smile. He watched her face light up as she saw him, and he smiled in return. Then he realized Delaney glowed because young Conor walked in right behind him. He felt oddly deflated until a saucy cailín approached, her eyes glinting with mischievous lights, and her smile so broad both dimples were engaged.

“Here to welcome me home, sweet Alys?”

The little maid threw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her up so he could buss her mouth. Even as he did, his eyes sought Delaney, found her hiding in shadows, her face sad as she watched her sister and Conor. His heart twisted.

Alys whispered in his ear. “’Tis not the time, Riordan. Not yet. But it’ll come an’ that’s a promise.”

He didn’t understand the meaning of her words but her kisses silenced his questions and drove any thoughts from his mind other than slipping away with her. Even so, he glanced back for one last glimpse of Delaney. Riordan smiled when he caught her watching him, and her gaze felt like sunshine spilling into his heart.

****

Abhean waved his hands, dispelling the misty scene. Dark, angry reds and blacks swirled in the depths of his eyes. The silly cailín longed for love in all the wrong places. And Riordan? The arrogant fool swore never to fall in love all those years ago without a moment’s thought for the soul of his other half.

“No.”

He jerked like he’d been slapped. With effort, he schooled his emotions and the mad whirlpool churning in his eyes stilled. “No what, mac Lir?”

“I know your thoughts, harper. I know your heart. Riordan MacDermot made his choice.”

“But what of her? Do you condemn her to life ever after, suffering because she loves a man who will never be hers?” Sadness flickered across Manannán’s expression, and Abhean pressed home his suit. “Is she destined to suffer an empty heart then?”

The king growled and stomped away, his back to the fae harper. “You try my patience, Abhean.”

“That goes both ways.”

“Why do you do that?” Manannán’s voice rang with a sadness so profound the birds stopped singing and the playful breeze died in a faint rustle of leaves. He turned and grief painted his beautiful face with sorrow.

For a moment, however brief, Abhean felt guilt. He remembered how many mortal lives the other fae juggled, and how the weight of caring bore down on his broad shoulders. “What is the duty of the harper, Manannán? The keeper of tales and legends, surely, but am I not also the voice of your conscience?”

He watched the king pace from the altar to the edge of the stones to stare out over the valley to the misty-blue mountains framing the horizon. Beyond those crags stretched the white-foamed sea that separated Tir nan Óg from the realm of human existence. Abhean had studied his antagonist for a millennium but still had little insight as to his current thoughts. That Manannán had a soft spot for the humans was a tightly held secret. And the harper knew the king doted on certain mortals—much to the chagrin of many in Faerie. Abhean would exact his revenge eventually. After all, what was the passage of time to an immortal?

Manannán spoke without turning his head. “What plot are you concocting now, Abhean? I can almost hear the thoughts boiling in the cauldron of your vengeance.”

“Vengeance, my king? You speak of such to me?” Bitterness coated his tongue as he spat the words. “Vengeance is an emotion best left to the mortals. In our existence, vengeance is a cold dish but the humans serve it hot and bloody as it’s meant to be.”

“Do you now regret my decision, Abhean? You who begged me on your knees for absolution?”

Abhean clutched his hand in a fist so tight he snapped the wooden flute. The sound cracked through the still air, startling a flock of birds. They shot into the aquamarine sky, their wings sounding like polite applause. “How dare you speak to me of absolution, mac Lir! ’Tis my forgiveness you should seek, not the other way round.”

The king did turn, finally, his face a mask etched in stone for all the emotion he displayed. “Do you wish to return to the mortal realm, Abhean? I can make it so.”

In a flash of light, Abhean disappeared. Manannán closed his eyes and breathed deeply, reaching for self-control. “If you persist in testing me, Abhean, prepare yourself to face the consequences! Do not play the fool, or the cost may be more than you are willing to pay.”