Padraig enjoyed music, always had, and song was the only solace he found in the absence of Rosamunde’s company. He found his foot tapping and his cares lifting as a local man sang of adventure.
«A song!» someone cried when one rollicking tune came to an end. «Who else has a song?»
«Padraig!» shouted his sister. She was a pretty woman, albeit one who tolerated no nonsense. Padraig suspected there were those more afraid of her than her husband. «Sing the sad one you began the other night,» she entreated.
«There are others of better voice,» Padraig protested.
The company roared a protest in unison, and so he acquiesced. Padraig sipped his ale then pushed to his feet to sing the ballad of his own composition.
«Ah!» sighed the older man across the table from Padraig. «There be a woman worth the loss of one’s heart.»
The company nodded approval and leaned closer for the next verse. Even his sister stopped serving and leaned against the largest keg in the tavern, smiling as she watched Padraig.
Padraig faltered. His compatriots in the tavern waited expectantly, but he could not think of a suitable rhyme. He remembered the sight of Ravenmuirs’ cliffs and caverns collapsing, his men holding him back so he wouldn’t risk his life to save Rosamunde. He put down his tankard with dissatisfaction, singing the last line again softly. It made no difference. He had composed a hundred rhymes, if not a thousand, but this particular tale caught in his throat like none other.
«Her absence was to all a dearth,» his sister suggested.
Her husband snorted. «You’ve no music in your veins, woman, that much is for certain.»
«The son she bore him died at birth,» the old man across the table suggested.
Padraig shook his head and frowned. «There was no child.»
«There could be,» the old man insisted. «’Tis only a tale, after all.» The others laughed.
But this was not only a tale. It was the truth. Rosamunde had existed, she had been a pirate queen, she had been both beauteous and bold.
And she had been lost forever, thanks to the faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered everything.
Padraig mourned that truth every day and night of his life.
He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should win her company for all eternity.
Because Padraig had loved her truly. His mother had warned him that he would be smitten once and his heart lost forever.
But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the fullness of his heart.
Now he would never have the chance to remedy his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had collapsed and Rosamunde had been lost forever, and still Padraig’s wound was raw.
He doubted it would ever heal.
He knew he’d never meet the like of her again.
Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his ale. «Let another sing,» he said. «I am too besotted to compose the verse.»
«Another tale!» shouted the keeper. «Come, Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.» The company stamped their feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favourite, and Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the room.
He, however, had lost his taste for tales. He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and headed for the door.
«We will miss your custom this evening,» his sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly in the shadowed tavern, and he doubted that she missed any detail.
«A man should be valued for more than the volume of ale he can drink,» Padraig replied, blaming himself for what he had become. His sister flushed and turned away as if he had chided her.
He could do nothing right.
Not without Rosamunde.
Was her loss to be the shadow over all his days and nights?
Far beneath the hills to the north of Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe, templed his fingers together and considered the chessboard. It was a beautiful chessboard, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board itself fashioned of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across the board at his unspoken will. His entire fey court gathered around the game, watching with bright eyes.
Finvarra was tall and slim, finely wrought even for the fey, who were uncommonly handsome. His eyes were as dark as a midnight sky, his long hair the deep blue black of the sea in darkness, his skin as fair as moonlight, his tread as light as wind in the grass. He was possessed of both kindness and resolve, and ruled the fey well.
His hall at Knockma was under the hill, and as lavish a court as could be found. The ladies wore glistening gowns of finest silk, their gossamer wings painted with a thousand colours. The courtiers were armed in silver finery, their manners both fierce and gallant, their eyes glinting with humour. The horses of Finvarra’s court were spirited and fleet of foot, gleaming and beauteous in their rich trappings hung with silver bells. He had steeds of every colour: red stallions and white mares, black stallions and mahogany mares with ivory socks. Each and every one was caparisoned in finery to show its hue and strength to advantage. The mead was sweet and golden in Finvarra’s hall, and the cups at the board filled themselves with more when no one was looking.
But all the fairy court was silent, clustered around their king’s favoured chessboard. They watched, knowing that more than victory at a game hung in the balance.
As usual.
Finvarra did not care for low stakes.
Finvarra played to win.
The spriggan, Darg, sat opposite the King and fidgeted. Recently of Scotland, the small thieving fairy had travelled to Ireland in the hold of the ship of Padraig Deane, a blue-eyed and handsome pirate possessed of a broken heart. Caught trespassing in Finvarra’s sid, a crime punishable by death, the spriggan played for its life.
Finvarra, in truth, tired of the game. The spoils were not so remarkable and the spriggan was a mediocre opponent. The splendour of the board, indeed, he felt was wasted upon the rough little creature. Certainly, his skill was.
Then Finvarra heard the distant lilt of human song.
As was common with Finvarra, the mention of a beauteous mortal woman piqued his interest. He turned his head to listen, just as the spriggan interrupted with a hiss.
«A laughing trickster Rosamunde did be, but she did not have the best of me.»