Finally, Cyric pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. «Come,» he said. He pulled her out of the ruined room, down a stone corridor, then down a narrow flight of steps. «Careful,» he warned, leading the way.

Nia smiled at that. Cyric could turn into a bloodthirsty, frothing-at-the-mouth fanged beast that could rip a man in two, and he was telling her to be careful of the stone steps.

Finally, they reached the bottom. The roof of the castle was mostly gone, with wooden beams and sky exposed overhead. Cyric guided her to a wall where an old knight’s shield hung askew. He reached up, grabbed it and, with the tail of Nia’s cloak, polished it. He stared into it, grinned, and turned it around and held it up.

«See for yourself.»

Nia stared into Cyric’s mischievous eyes, then slowly let her gaze settle on the polished metal. Although no’ a perfect mirror by any means, she could certainly see her reflection.

Nia blinked and drew closer. She felt her mouth slide open in surprise, and she lifted a hand to her marred cheek.

Rather, the cheek that was once marred. Now, ’twas just a bit pinkish and ever so slightly puckered.

’Twasna nearly as bad as it used to be.

Then, Cyric’s image edged into the shield as he looked on with her. «Beautiful,» he whispered and, for once in her life, Nia felt it to be true.

He then set the shield down and walked Nia to what once was a massive landing overlooking the sea. He pulled her close and tucked her head beneath his chin. «You and I make quite a pair,» he said, holding her tightly. «I dunna ever want to let you go.» He lifted her chin, forcing Nia to meet his gaze. «Will you stay wi’ me? I canna offer much, other than warmth, food and safety»—

«Aye,» Nia said, joy filling her soul. «I never dreamed of finding someone who loved me as much as I loved them.»

A wide smile stretched across Cyric’s breathtaking face. Nia noticed how it curled one tip of the black Pict marking in his lip. «You love me, then? Beast and all?»

Nia wrapped her arms about Cyric’s waist. «I do love you, Cyric, Beast of Killarney Wood.» She raised on tiptoe and pulled his head down to her. She kissed him. «I’ll love you forever.»

Cyric embraced her tightly, then kissed her back with just as much fierceness as she. «I love you too, Nia of the Wood.»

With a deep laugh that reverberated off the walls and cliffs of the sea, Cyric scooped Nia up and kissed her some more.

Patricia Rice

Beyond the Veil

Connacht Region, Ireland — 161 AD

One

A blast of wind and hail burst from the roiling black clouds, battering bodies crumpled in a sea of red. Rain lashed at the valley and the grassy mound rising above the fallen warriors, as if to wash away the stench of death. But the carrion crows already gathered.

Mortally wounded and bleeding profusely, one soldier determinedly staggered up the greensward, away from the battle scene. Caught sideways by a fierce gust of hail and rain, he sagged to one knee. But his will was mightier than the storm. With gasping breath, he dug his fingers into a boulder and hauled his big body up again. A cut across his cheekbone bled freely down his square jaw and into his long, wet hair, staining it a deeper shade of auburn.

The great sword slung across his back dripped with the blood of his enemies, but Finn mac Connell knew, in the end, they had killed him. Others like him, warriors all, the kind of which legends are made, lay slaughtered in the valley below. The battle had been won, but at a high cost.

Finn lurched on to a rocky path, his gaze fixed on the wooden fort at the top of the hill, where he’d left his wife. The women and children had fled with the cattle to the woods and hills when the battle arrived at their doorstep. But Niamh had been in childbed.

He had fought furiously to protect his home so he might return to the woman who owned his heart, and the child she was about to bear.

He prayed to all the gods that she was safe. In response, the gale blew so wildly, Finn stumbled backwards, but he fought for his balance and pushed onwards. The gnarled Druid Oak sheltered him momentarily, allowing him to fill his lungs, giving him the strength to continue, although the gash in his side was deep, and he’d lost more blood than any normal man could survive.

No smoke curled from the chimney. She would be freezing in this blustery damp air. He would start a fire for her before he left — because he knew he was not long for this world. But Niamh must live. And his child. Without them, he had no home to defend, and brave men had died for nought.

Using his sword to hold himself upright the last few steps, Finn pushed open the crude plank door of his home.

At the sight within, his roar of rage and agony surpassed the thunder, bringing him to his knees at last.

Niamh, his beautiful black-haired Niamh, lay in a bed of blood, her usually rosy cheeks now as pale and still as the winter snows. Her once flashing eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Her warm smile would never greet anyone again.

The warrior crossed his arms on the timber bed and buried his face against them. He was not a man who wept, but his heart howled like an infant—

Like an infant. His head shot up, causing his long hair to swipe the tattered shoulders of his tunic. The cry was real! Alive. Bellowing with hunger and rage — the cry of a warrior’s son.

Pressing his hand to Niamh’s cold forehead, he blessed her, kissed her cheek and closed her eyes.

With his last fading breath and hope, he lifted the cover concealing his son. Niamh had wrapped him in swaddling clothes and kept him warm for as long as she’d had life in her body, sacrificing her fading strength to save their child.

Hugging the howling babe to his chest, the newly widowed warrior wept, and prayed, «Aoibhinn, please, save my son, take him to your bosom, care for him as your own so that I may follow my heart.»

«And lose the finest warrior that ever walked this land?» a harsh voice asked from the doorway. «I think not, Fionn mac Connell. If you wish to save the child, you must do so yourself. Stand like a man and come with me.»

He had no choice. Much as he’d rather die beside his beloved Niamh, he could not let his son, Niamh’s flesh and blood, die here cold and alone. With the last of his strength, Fionn stood, huddling the now quiet babe.

The wraith in the doorway gestured impatiently.

Accepting that he left the mortal world for the one beyond, Fionn followed the cloaked figure in grey out of the door he’d just entered — into a world that looked like his own but wasn’t.

The wind and hail that had rattled the walls miraculously vanished — to reveal a sun shining in a sky of brilliant blue. Flowers danced in the valley where blood had moistened the trampled earth. The Druid Oak stood young and healthy, shading the richly garbed fae on their fine horses, awaiting his arrival.

The wound in Fionn’s side had already begun to heal. He knew he had to pay a price for this peace, but for his son — for Niamh’s son — he would forfeit whatever they demanded.

On the other side of the Veil, in the real world, a high keening shrieked over the roar of thunder.


Connacht Region, Ireland — 1161 AD


Anya O’Brion listened to the keening of the bean sí and shivered. She feared, in another few minutes, the wraith would have reason to wail again. The fine tapestries, rich panelling and precious gold adorning the high-ceilinged chamber could not stop Death.

Tears sliding down her cheeks, Anya sat on the bed beside her sister-in-law, holding Maeve’s frail, cold hand. The keening could be dismissed as the wind on a blustery night such as this, but Anya knew it was not. The bean sí always recognized the death of an O’Brion, and the stillborn child in the cradle was the last of them, except for Anya herself.

The priest called the sídhe «fallen angels», but Anya had been born with the caul, and had seen the Other World before she’d breathed her first breath. She would not call the fae ones by any name but «Good Neighbours». She did not worship their ancient gods of the earth, but she respected their ways.

She knew her family thought her soft in the head for believing in the old tales, so she’d learned not to speak of what she saw. Instead, she had trained to become the tough, decisive ruler required of a king’s daughter. That did not stop her from hearing the bean sí’s cry and feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck as the spirits walked.

Maeve whispered incoherently and attempted to squeeze Anya’s hand. The rising wind rattled at the windows. Murmuring a prayer, Breeda, both maid and midwife, shook her head sadly while removing sheets soiled by birthing.

Outside the richly panelled door of this tower room, guards waited, guards who would report to the household with great joy if an heir was born to their recently murdered king, Anya’s brother.

If Maeve did not bear a son, those same guards would lay down their swords and swear fealty to a man Anya despised with all her heart and soul. The man whose consort she would become once the heir was reported stillborn, and she became the last remaining O’Brion to defend her family’s keep.

«Sleep, Maeve,» Anya said soothingly, shoving aside her own fears to reassure the dying Queen. «You have done well. You’ve borne a son and heir. You have done your duty. Rest easy.»

Not quite a lie. Heaven would surely not deny her for easing a dying woman’s heart. Feverish, Maeve still fretted at the sheets.