FIVE
The next two days passed in a whirl of feasting, music and the most delightful flirtation. Sive had never been courted so ardently and certainly not by a man so pleasing. Elatha, like her, had most of the day free while Bodb and his chieftains conducted their business, and he made it clear he wished to spend as much of it as possible at Sive’s side. By the time evening fell and it was time for her to sing, she felt half-drunk with the heady wine of first love, and she knew her voice was more powerful and moving than ever before.
On the fourth day of Bodb’s gathering, Sive sang at the midday meal. It was a smaller crowd, as Bodb had taken many of his guests hunting on the bare grassy mountains and deep valleys of his land. Elatha had been brought along to witness their feats and adventures and recount them that evening. “It is one of the duties of the poets, to sing the praises of their hosts and guests,” Elatha had said resignedly. “But tomorrow is our day!” They had been delighted to learn they both had the last day of the gathering free and had planned a long ride into the countryside together.
As she had been taught, Sive swept her gaze around the room as she sang, including all the audience in her song. Many of the faces were familiar to her now, but it was a new face that caught her eyes in passing and held them fast. Though years had passed since their first meeting, Sive recognized him instantly.
Far Doirche. The searching, greedy way he stared at her made her voice catch and falter on its note. She was trapped in his green eyes, eyes bright and hard as emeralds, and the hair rose up on her neck as she realized she could not pull her gaze from his.
With rising panic, she struggled both to keep the song flowing from her lips and to free herself from Far’s hold. When at last, with a gentle smile, he released her, it took all of her will not to run from the room. She finished her pieces, but it was a poor performance, for the confusion and fear would not leave her. How had he done that to her— and why?
A meal in the same room as him was more than she could face. Sive waved a quick thanks and hurried from the hall, heading straight for the refuge of her chamber.
“…IGNORANT, RUDE , dim-witted, coarse-tongued, ill-made…”
Sive had closed the chamber door before realizing that Daireann was back and in a full-blown temper. Her half-sister struggled out of her travel-stained clothing as she cursed, while three of her women stood by in cautious silence.
With a cry of anger Daireann balled up cloak and gown together and hurled them at the fireplace. Reaching for the clean gown one woman offered wordlessly, she registered Sive’s presence at last and rounded on her.
“Who gave you leave—oh, it’s you. Wonderful.” She sighed, control returning by degree. “Take my advice, Sive. Don’t believe those stories of the high deeds of mortal men. If I am just after meeting one of the best, they are all stupid and boorish beyond telling!” Two spots of color burned high on Daireann’s cheeks as her anger threatened to flare up again.
Sive tried to gather her frayed wits as she edged over to the settle. Evidently Daireann had been unsuccessful in her pursuit.
The same woman who had offered Daireann’s bed to Sive worked up her courage and spoke.
“But my lady, you are so beautiful. Surely he could not fail to be captivated. Is it possible he did not understand what you offered?”
Daireann was mollified enough by the flattery to answer. “He said he would stay by his men.” She sniffed. “His precious Fianna. I told him he could bed down with them too, then, since they outweighed any woman in his heart.”
A bitter smile curved her lips. “And then I put him under a spell to make him curse and insult his men so offensively that there will be no Fianna remaining for him to lead!”
She flounced her head, bringing Sive once again into her vision. Daireann’s anger faded as she took a long, appraising look.
“What’s the matter with you? You’re pale as milk. Are you ill?”
Sive shook her head.
“What, then?”
Now Sive wished she had claimed illness, for Daireann would not rest until she pulled out the whole story. On the other hand, she might know something about Far Doirche.
“A man in the audience frightened me,” she confessed. How childish that sounded.
Evidently Daireann thought so too, for she burst into tinkly laughter, her own troubles forgotten.
“Dear, dear, little sister. Are you not a bit old to be afraid of men?”
Sive could not summon a smile to meet the teasing. “Daireann, his name is Far Doirche, and when he looked at me, I could not pull my eyes away no matter how I tried. Do you know of him?”
“Far Doirche! He is here?” Daireann was serious now. “There are many who avoid him and those who speak against him, but that is because he is a druid of tremendous power. Of course there will be detractors and jealous resentments.”
“But Daireann, what does he want with me?”
“You?” Sive’s sister shrugged. “I doubt he wants anything. I expect he was merely amusing himself.”
Daireann went into the adjoining room to stand before the long copper mirror, frowning before her image.
“Too dark,” she said to her women. “I’ll fade into the walls in this. Bring me the new red silk.”
BY THE TIME BODB and his men came clattering and shouting back to the dun with a couple of deer and a boar strung onto poles and, from the sounds of them, a head start on the night’s drinking, Sive had convinced herself that Daireann was right. Or perhaps Far Doirche remembered how she had fed his servant, and had held her that way to warn her against interfering again. Well, she would heed his warning, if that’s what it was, and stay well out his way until it was time to return home.
Still, she wished she could see Elatha. He would be closeted away until nightfall, feverishly composing his lay, and Sive would have to be content with the memory of his kisses and sweet words. He had already promised to visit her soon in Sidhe Ochta Cleitigh. Perhaps then he would speak to her father about a match.
DAIREANN COMMANDEERED her for dinner, and for once Sive was glad of her sister’s company. She did not want to risk finding herself seated beside the green-eyed druid.
When Elatha stood up to recite the day’s adventures, the cheering was rowdy and boisterous, quite different from the quiet respect given to his histories and love tales. Sive felt the color flush into her cheeks just from the sight of him and hoped Daireann was not watching too closely. He looked a little nervous, she thought, and no wonder: this was not only an artistic challenge but also a politically sensitive exercise. His lay was masterful, though, giving all the most important guests their moment to shine and with a subtle emphasis on Bodb Dearg’s prowess and generosity. He makes it sound like skewering a pig is a heroic feat, thought Sive. That was unfair, she supposed: wild boars really were dangerous, quite capable of killing a dog or a man. But her time as a deer had given her a new perspective on the hunt, and she could not help but think the boar’s spirited defence against a host of armed enemies the more courageous.
It was as Elatha finished, and the cheers and yells of the hunting party erupted, that Sive knew something was wrong. Elatha bowed and smiled his thanks, but the smile was a pale ghost of his usual merry grin and it did not touch his black eyes. Those eyes, sweeping the crowd as he held up a hand in salute, skittered over the top of her head and would not meet her own. Moments later they did come to rest upon something—or someone—at the back of the room. Sive craned her neck, trying to follow his sightline.
Far Droiche stood in a shadowed alcove, a dim figure erratically lit by the flaring walltorches. Glittering eyes in a pale face. He gave a little nod in Elatha’s direction, his expression unchanging.
Sive’s body drained of warmth, cold seeping into her bones where no cloak or fire could reach it. She looked back at her lover, not caring now if Daireann noticed. He was leaving, making his way slowly but obviously through the crowd of loud, back-slapping men that had gathered to congratulate him. Leaving without speaking one word to her!
Never run after a man—at least not in public view. It was one of Grian’s bits of motherly advice, but Sive turned a deaf ear. Elatha had already reached the door. She jumped up from her bench, ignoring Daireann’s startled exclamation, and hurried after him.
“Stop, please! Elatha! Just for one moment!”
He was striding across Bodb’s lawns with a speed that left no doubt he was trying to get away. He did not break stride or look around at Sive’s pleas, nor at the sob of hurt and bewilderment that escaped her. But just as she slumped to a stop, he made the slightest gesture of his hand, almost too subtle to see: an index finger beckoning her on.
Secrecy. He’s asking for secrecy, she realized, and she began walking again, slumped and slow as if she had given up, watching from under her eyebrows to see where he went.
Elatha made a turn behind an outbuilding and disappeared. How to follow, without following? Sive forced herself to walk in the opposite direction and think. If Elatha wanted her to meet him, he must be headed somewhere she could guess easily, but others would not.
He was waiting on the strand when she arrived. The lakeside had become a special place for them, but Elatha’s face when he turned to her was not the face of an eager lover.
“You did not tell me you were promised to the Dark Man!”
“The—? I am not. I do not even know who this Dark Man is!”
“The sorcerer, Far Doirche. He says you are his intended.”
The coldness was back now, cold that pimpled the skin on Sive’s arms and made her neck prickle. But there was anger, too, bracing as the wind off the water that lifted her hair and pulled at her skirts.
“Well, he is not my intended. Nor has he made his intention known to any of my family!”
The flare of anger faded away as Sive saw Elatha’s expression soften from accusation to sadness.
“Ah, dear heart. I should have known. He lied to me.”
He will not fight for me. She saw it in the slump of his shoulders, the resignation in his voice. The fire of his eyes replaced with pity.
Elatha grabbed her arms, suddenly urgent.
“Sive, listen to me. If you do not want this match, you must leave. Don’t wait until morning even. Just gather your people and go. Perhaps if you are not under his nose, his attention will fall elsewhere.”
“But why? Why cannot I simply refuse him?” She remembered once again the pull of those green eyes, the threat behind them, and wondered just how possible it would be to refuse him anything. Elatha’s impatient snort came like an answer.
“Do you think he is called the Dark Man in jest? He is a master of dark sorcery, Sive, and he does not hesitate to use it. Driven by his own will, he is, so hungry for power that no law or bond, not of friendship nor of blood, will temper his ambition. He has made it quite clear what will happen to me— and to you—if I am seen in your company again.” He looked at her now, and she saw that she had guessed correctly. He would leave her to Far Doirche, though it hurt him to do it.
“Go away from him,” he urged again. “I cannot help you, and for that I am sorry. But I swear by the earth and sky I would rather be dead in the grave than see you in his hands.”
He glanced up and down the deserted beach, as if Far Doirche’s eyes might even now be upon them. “We cannot risk speaking again. I will walk the strand and return by a different road. I wish you well, Sive.” But the sorrow in his eyes told her he foresaw a different fate. She watched the tall shoulders move away from her, knowing it was for the last time.
“Elatha—wait!”
He turned, reluctantly.
“Why does he want me?”
“Do you not know?” Elatha raised his hands in a half-stifled gesture that seemed to Sive both angry and defeated. “You have a power he does not. The Dark Man wants your voice.”
He turned again, and this time he kept walking until he disappeared from view.