Padraig pushed the stone into his pocket and strode through the damp grass. And as he walked back to his accommodations in Galway, he savoured the memory of Rosamunde’s kiss.
Even in a dream, it had been a sweet prize and was enough to put a spring in his step.
The spriggan Darg was not a creature Rosamunde was glad to see.
Solitude was better than the company of this thing.
That the small fairy had a red cord knotted around its waist was curious, and surely did not improve the creature’s mood. It hissed and spat, pinching her to wake her up then nipping at her heels to hurry her along.
«Make haste, make haste, the King is not inclined to wait.»
«Where are we going? I thought Faerie was like limbo.»
Darg chattered unintelligibly, as was its tendency when it was annoyed. The creature led her more deeply into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir and Rosamunde was glad to leave her past behind.
It wasn’t truly the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, though. Those caves and their pathways were well known to Rosamunde, having been her secret passage to the keep for decades. As a child, she had played in them, learning their labyrinth, delighting in their secret corners. But they were dank and made of grey stone, dark and filled with the distant tinkle of running water.
She did not know the passageways that Darg followed. Rosamunde had never spied that entry lit with golden light until the collapse of the cavern and the death of Tynan. She suspected that Darg had opened a portal for her, but knew not where it truly was.
This cavern could not be fairly called a cave or even a labyrinth. Indeed, Rosamunde did not feel as if she were underground at all. There was brilliant golden sunlight, the light that had spilled from that unexpected portal. The sky arched high, clear and blue, over verdant fields. The air was filled with music and fine singing, and every soul she saw was beautiful.
It took Rosamunde a while to realize that she only saw nobility. There were aristocrats riding and hunting, borne by finely draped steeds so majestic in stature that the beasts rivalled the famed destriers of Ravensmuir. The women were dressed in silk and samite, their garb of every hue, their long hair flowing over their shoulders or braided into plaits. They wore coronets of flowers, and gems were plentiful on their clothing, even wound into their hair. Many played instruments as they rode. Golden flutes and silver lyres abounded in this strange country. The women’s laughter sounded like music as well.
The men were just as well wrought, tall and slim, muscular. There was a glint of mischief in every eye. Their armour shone as if it was made of silver, their banners were beautifully embroidered and their steeds galloped with proudly arched necks. Silver bells hung from every bridle.
The land itself was bountiful, the trees lush with fruit and flowers blooming on every side. Rosamunde thought she saw fruit of gold and silver, and flowers wrought of precious jewels, but Darg did not delay their passage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautifully with the ladies’ tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.
Just passing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg’s killing pace, lightened Rosamunde’s heart. It healed her wounds and made her believe that she might live on, even without love. It made her think of the future with an optimism that she had believed lost.
It made her wonder where Padraig was.
It made her wonder how she might get from here to there.
«Where are we?» she shouted to Darg, who hastened ahead of her, muttering all the while.
«A foolish mortal you must be, to not know the land of Faerie.»
Faerie. Rosamunde was a pragmatic woman, one who had never believed in matters unseen or places to which she could not navigate. Was she dreaming?
A butterfly lit on her shoulder, its wings fairly dripping with colour, its beauty far beyond that of any earthly insect.
Rosamunde realized with a start that it was a tiny winged woman. The fairy laughed at her surprise, a sound like tinkling bells, then darted away, disappearing into the blue of the sky with a glimmer.
«And why do we not linger in this magical realm?» Rosamunde asked Darg.
«Late we are, late we must not be! Finvarra waits impatiently.» The spriggan tugged again at the red cord knotted around its waist. It spat in the grass with displeasure, then snatched at Rosamunde. «Hasten, hasten, by the moon’s rise, we must be safely at his side.»
«Who is Finvarra? And why do we go to him?»
«Questions, questions, instead of haste! Your queries do the daylight waste! We have far to go without rest: Finvarra will accept no less.»
They crossed a bridge; the river running beneath looked to be made of mead. Rosamunde caught a whiff of its honeyed sweetness and saw a cluster of bees hovering at the shore. A beautifully dressed suitor offered a golden chalice of the liquid to his lady, who flushed, fluttered both wings and lashes, then accepted his tribute.
«But why do we go to this Finvarra? Who is he and what hold has he over you?»
The spriggan spun round abruptly, facing Rosamunde with fury in its eyes. «A match I lost, the price my life. His demand was you as his new wife. High King of Faerie is his task, a man whose patience does not last.» Darg wrestled with the red cord, then released it with disgust. «This bond he knots, it burns me true; ’til you are his, this pain my due.»
«You traded me to the Faerie King?» Rosamunde demanded, bracing her hands upon her hips. «What if I have no desire to be his toy? Or that of any other man, for that matter? I will not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised.»
«I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra will have you as his wife!»
«I think not.» Rosamunde turned her back on her vile captor, having no inclination to make such a submission easier. She surveyed the beautiful countryside and spied a man tending a pair of horses that were drinking mead on the bank. He was handsome, and his gaze was bright upon her.
His hair was as dark as midnight, and if she narrowed her eyes, he could have been mistaken for Padraig.
Save that Padraig had neither wings nor pointed ears.
Perhaps he could aid her in finding Padraig.
When the Faerie knight smiled, Rosamunde found herself smiling in return. «I will take my heart’s ease here instead,» she said to Darg and turned her back upon the creature.
«No!» the spriggan screamed, as once it had screamed before in Rosamunde’s presence. She glanced back warily, then ran when she saw that the spriggan had become a large and menacing black cloud. When enraged it could change shape with frightening speed — the last such eruption had led to Tynan’s death after it had shattered the caverns.
«I saved your life, it’s mine to give,» Darg shouted. «I trade it now so I shall live!»
Rosamunde ran as quickly as she could, feeling the other faeries watching her with bemusement. She could not outrun Darg’s fury, however. Her heart sank as the dark cloud enveloped her, surrounding her with fog as black as night.