The Absinthe Earl Page 17

  “You are the Morrigan,” said Edward, sword held high.

  The Morrigan. The battle crow. She was associated with war and death and, more philosophically, with change and rebirth. But there was nothing philosophic about the creature before me. She was a dark and palpable menace.

  “The time draws nigh for the seal to be broken,” she told Edward. “You must be ready.”

  “What does that mean?” he demanded, his voice clear and strong. His bright eyes, damp curls, and gleaming chest gave him a savage appearance. The light of the Danaan was not in him, and by this I knew that he was Edward still, but I wondered how long that could last.

  “The battle is coming,” she replied. “The boundary between our worlds has been weakened, but if you are to meet your ancient enemies on the field, that boundary must be erased. Diarmuid made the seal. Only Diarmuid can unmake it.”

  “What stake have you in this fight?” asked Edward.

  She smiled again and returned her attention to me. Cold seawater seemed to trickle down my spine. “Shall we ask your scholar?”

  “Her stake is the fight itself,” I replied, a tremor in my voice. “She takes no side.”

  The Morrigan gave a satisfied nod.

  “Hardly an inducement to trust your counsel,” observed Edward.

  She gave a slow, creaking laugh. “Perhaps not, my boy. Take it as you like. But if you do not wish to leave the fate of your countrymen in the hands of the bloodless race, you’ll consider my words.”

  “Bloodless” was a poet’s or bard’s word describing fairy creatures, who were considered ephemeral and cool-bodied—without souls, even. Yet folktales bore out that they could be quite hot of temper. To me, “bloodless” had always suggested their immortality.

  “Ada Quicksilver is an Englishwoman,” Edward replied. “Why are your creatures holding her?”

  The Morrigan raised her dark eyebrows and glanced at the keening women. “The banshees are not my creatures, though I asked that they lead her to this place, where the boundary is weak, knowing that you would follow.”

  Edward glowered. “Why not have them bring me instead?”

  The Morrigan shifted, resting her weight on her staff and readjusting her wings. “Had you been listening for the voice of your ancestor, you would not need to ask me. Your Englishwoman has a drop of Cliona Airgid’s blood in her veins. Once she arrived on these shores, they could not but seek her out.” The crow woman gave a chilling smile. “No more than could you, my boy.”

  I stared at her in shock. She seemed to be saying that what I had taken for Diarmuid’s mistake—that I was his long-lost love—was, to some degree, true. And the word I had heard as Airgid … In the same way that I had this night begun to understand all the Irish spoken to me, I knew that this word meant silver.

  This was a puzzle piece that allowed many others to come together—including Edward’s banshee vision on the night we first met, for Cliona was also referred to in some texts as queen of banshees.

  Yet I could not wrap my mind around such a thing.

  I studied the faces of the odd creatures who surrounded me. Some of them still watched me expectantly, while others had settled on stones near the shore, where they seemed to be washing items of clothing—blood-stained garments of the dead, according to legend. Some were aged and some youthful. Their hair and garments were trailing and vaporous, but they did not have the green cast of the absinthe visions, and their voices were substantial enough. Did this mean I was not seeing through the veil to Faery? That they were actually here?

  I perceived no threat from them and hadn’t since I found myself safely on solid ground again. Perhaps it was imagined, or merely a result of my previous studies of the fairy death heralds, but I did feel something like a connection to them. I sensed vulnerability and even empathy, and I felt a protective impulse, as I had toward younger orphaned girls at Lovelace.

  And now the question I must face: Was I like Edward? Would I, too, soon find myself in the thrall of a powerful ancestor?

  “I know of Cliona and her tragedy,” I said to the Morrigan, “but what is her connection to Diarmuid?”

  The goddess frowned. “When Cliona drowned, the sea god, Manannán, carried her body to Faery.”

  “To Brú na Bóinne,” I said, remembering the story the earl had read to me. “Where Diarmuid was buried.”

  “Where he dwelled after the death of his mortal body. The Danaan warrior was so struck by her beauty that he woke her to immortality with a kiss. But she grieved so over the loss of her child—the living daughter whom she could not reclaim, and who was your own ancestress—that she drew all the fairy keening women to her, and thus she came to be called queen of banshees.”

  “And she and Diarmuid …” I began uncomfortably. “They became lovers.”

  “Which is how you were able to use Ada for bait,” the earl fumed.

  The Morrigan offered a wry smile. “Had you been listening for the voice of your ancestor,” she repeated, “there would have been no need.”

  “Lord Meath is truly descended from Diarmuid?” I asked, preferring to confirm as many facts as possible rather than argue with the goddess of war.

  “From Diarmuid’s mortal descendants by the lady Gráinne,” she said, “before his death.”

  Legend did say that Gráinne, the fiancée stolen from Diarmuid’s chief, had borne Diarmuid sons.

  “Diarmuid created a seal to protect Ireland from the Fomorians,” said Edward. That much Queen Isolde had told us, but he was clearly struggling, as I was, to understand all this. “The seal is now failing, and you brought us here because you want me—or Diarmuid—to break it and go to war with the Fomorians.”

  “The battle will come,” she replied. “If you are first to take the field, you have a chance.”

  “What will happen when the seal is broken?” he asked.

  The Morrigan frowned. “That which was divided will be joined. Those once separated will find themselves reunited.”

  The glower returned. “That is not an answer.”

  “Watch for your moment, Danaan warrior. Watch, and prepare.” The goddess’s wings unfurled, and she rose from the ground. She swooped once around the perimeter of the lake, the wind of her great wings extinguishing the beacons—and with them the great oaks themselves—before cawing loudly into the night and diving again beneath the gleaming surface.

  “I SHALL WALK”

  Ada

  Great clouds scudded across the sky, reducing visibility of our surroundings now that the beacons had gone out. Even the light emanating from the fairy creatures surrounding me had faded nearly to shadow.

  “Edward?” I called out.

  “I’m here,” he assured me. “Stay where you are, and I’ll come to you.”

  Peering into the gloom, I assessed the distance around the small lake. “How?”

  “I shall walk.”

  Oddly, a bubble of laughter rose in my throat and escaped before I could stop it.

  The rustling sounds accompanying the earl’s movements quieted. “Ada?” he called, his voice wary.

  “Forgive me,” I replied, mirth lifting the ends of my words. “I just …” I’m hysterical, I thought. No, I didn’t believe in hysteria. “Diarmuid, the Morrigan, Cliona, the water horse, and the banshees … Such powerful patrons, and here we are fumbling about in the dark like …”

  “Like mortals,” he said, still making his way to me. There was grounding in his words. “We are mortals, Ada.”

  “Do you really believe that? That we are now as we were before? For myself …” I hesitated, for my voice had thickened with an emotion opposite from the one I’d felt only a moment ago. I cleared my throat. “For myself, I am no longer sure what to believe.”

  A frigid wind gusted off the sea, and I shivered, crossing my arms over my chest.

  �
�There’s a path down to the strand,” said Edward, coming around the horn of the crescent-shaped body of water. “We’ll go and collect driftwood. There’s also an old stone hut nearby. We’ll build a fire to keep us warm until dawn, then discuss what to do.”

  The calm and cool in his tones quieted my anxiety, as did the warmth of his hands on my arms when he finally reached me. He was an anchor for my unmoored state.

  “What shall we do for light?” I asked.

  He pulled my hand through the crook of his arm and led the way. “I’m a sailor,” he said softly. “I see well enough in the dark.”

  The path down to the strand was rocky and rough. Edward had his boots, but I wore only thin slippers that were never meant to be used out of doors. My ankles were bruised and scraped by the time we reached the strand, but the light color of the sand made it easier to see there. When we each had collected an armload of wood, he guided me to the beehive-shaped stone hut. I could see the indistinct outlines of the banshees gathering around the ancient dwelling. They did not approach or attempt any interaction but rather appeared content to serve as otherworldly escorts.

  The hut was not currently occupied but had recently been in use—probably by hunters or fishermen, Edward said—and had straw mats on the floor to prevent the chill rising from the ground. He managed to start a fire using stones and beach grass, and the structure was snug enough to keep out most of the wind.

  After we warmed our hands before the flames for a few moments, he asked, “Are you feeling better?”

  I nodded. “Please forgive me for … for my lapse.”

  He laughed at this, and I glanced up. “You needn’t apologize for being human,” he said. “I was beginning to think nothing could shake you.”

  I gave a self-conscious smile. “I assure you, that was a mistaken impression, my lord. I merely have a gift for maintaining a stoic appearance.”

  This, too, made him laugh, and the sound of it warmed my heart. “My dear Miss Quicksilver, ‘stoic’ is the very last word I would use to describe you.”

  At the end of this observation, his tone took on a fond—no, intimate—quality, and I shivered. Mistaking this as a sign of chill—though a chill I did feel—he said, “I know it is cold. We shan’t stay here long. When the light returns, we will more easily find someone to help us. And I wish to hear your thoughts on our next course of action.”

  I stared at the opening to the dwelling, and lest I forget all that had happened in the past hours, a banshee passed before it, her figure ghostly in the gathering light of dawn.

  “If we believe all that we’ve been told,” I said, meeting his gaze, “I think we must try to understand more about the events that are unfolding.”

  He nodded. “I agree, though I confess myself at a loss how that is to be accomplished. The obvious course would be to consult further with my cousin, yet …”

  “You don’t entirely trust her.”

  Another small nod. “I believe she wants what is best for Ireland, but in my long relationship with her, I have not always approved of her methods.”

  “The queen mentioned her connection to a powerful ancestor—Maeve, the warrior queen. If Isolde gained access to Faery through this ancient bloodline, we should be able to do the same.”

  “Through our own connections to ancient bloodlines.”

  “Yes.”

  He studied me in the firelight. “Shall we speak of that? Of Cliona, I mean?”

  Sighing, I shook my head. “I hardly know what to make of it.”

  “It does not surprise me, Ada,” the earl replied. “I know little of the Danaan woman, but I do know that had my grandmother lived to know you, she would have pronounced you fey after your first introduction.”

  I gave an incredulous laugh. “There was never anyone so ordinary as I, I assure you.”

  “You say that,” he countered. “You with your crown of silver locks, your possession of an ancient name, your choice of Irish mythology as a course of study, and not least, your family mythology of congress with fairies.”

  My lips parted, and I studied him as I thought on all he’d said. “Well, when you put it like that …”

  We both burst out laughing, and it shattered the tension and uneasiness that had pressed in close around us in the darkness before dawn.

  “What we have now learned of Cliona,” I said, sobering, “is not a story I am familiar with. There are echoes of old tales in the story of her husband and her death beneath the waves, but I’ve read nothing of the part Diarmuid played. My knowledge of the Danaan warrior’s exploits ends with his death, and his burial at Brú na Bóinne.”

  I studied the flames of our fire, turning it all over in my mind. “Yet I have always imagined the mythologies to be incomplete—mere fragments of the originals. And they are also inconsistent among the various sources. If we add the fairies’ exile as orchestrated by Diarmuid, and the possibility of unfulfilled timelines, as discovered by your cousin … well, it is all unsettling, to say the least. It means that with all my years of study, I may actually know very little.”

  “What are we to do about that?”

  I met his gaze. “Update our knowledge, I think. I should like to return to Brú na Bóinne, but not the one at Newgrange. There is another Brú na Bóinne, perhaps below or somehow beyond our world. The sword must have come from there, because the archaeologists would not have missed it in the tomb. Perhaps the scrap of parchment you found, as well. I’m willing to bet that the ruin is another place where the boundary is weak, which would also explain the púca. After that, I should like to visit the Faery library.”

  Edward gave a nod of commitment. “You shall set our course. But what of the seal between Faery and Ireland?”

  The seal remained vexingly mysterious. “From what little the Morrigan told us, you will not have to seek out the seal, but it will somehow seek you out. I hope that we will be more knowledgeable by the time that happens.”

  “Agreed.” He tossed the last bundle of sticks onto our fire.

  Rubbing my hands over my arms and shoulders to warm them, I said, “Of course, we shall be able to accomplish none of these things unless we can discover how to cross into Faery.”

  Edward

  Don’t be such a coward. This time, the critical voice in my head was all my own. My ancestor had, for the time being, receded.

  “Come, Ada,” I said, reaching for her. “I have little to contribute to our current strategy, but I can at least keep you warm.”

  She moved tentatively closer, and I wrapped my arms around her. The combination of her scent and her warm, soft skin managed to be both soothing and arousing.

  “There were two times this evening when I thought I had lost you,” I murmured.

  She did not reply but stirred against me as if she would move closer, were it possible. My heart swelled with a pure and mounting joy that I recognized from experience. A sign I was doing something I was meant to do—I had often felt it at the prow of a ship in fair weather. The blood moved through me with vigor and purpose.

  Thee, my own love.

  With the echo of my ancestor’s words, the music of my heart faded until I could hear it no longer. I didn’t want to be used this way. I didn’t want to wonder whether the feelings inside me were truly my own. The lady stiffened almost imperceptibly, and I knew that I was communicating these conflicted emotions.

  “How shall we cross into Faery?” I asked quietly, reaching for the peace I’d felt only moments ago.

  As she replied, I felt the vibrations of her words in my chest. “The Morrigan said this is a place where the boundary is weak. She crossed between worlds, as did the water horse, and the púca at Brú na Bóinne. We know that Isolde has done so as well. And Captain O’Malley—she used the Gap to cross the Irish countryside in little more than a blink. Because of our connection to our ancestors, we, too, may h
ave such means of travel at our disposal.”

  I nodded, warming her back with my hand. “But how?” Indeed, how was I to properly consider her characteristically logical hypothesis, with the fullness of her breasts pressing against me? With the memory of her body before my mind’s eye, and the taste of her still on my tongue?

  She straightened and looked at me, eyes lit with determination. “I think we must make a trial of it, my lord.”

  She got up and ducked out of the hut, and my body protested the sudden loss of her. Chiding myself for this boyish lack of focus, I kicked apart the burning sticks of our fire and followed.

  Outside, the risen sun had all but erased the nebulous forms of the keening women. But I could make out their dim outlines as we walked back to the lakeshore. They arranged themselves along the water’s edge, and Ada waded in, sucking in a sharp breath.

  “What are you doing?” I asked her.

  “I think I must go in,” she replied, watching the mist rise from the lake’s dark surface. “Like the Morrigan.”

  “Like the Morrigan,” I repeated, uneasy. “How will you do that?”

  She looked at me. “I shall walk.”

  Ada

  The water was shockingly cold, and sharp stones jabbed the bottoms of my feet through the thin slippers. I took one slow step after another until the water lapped at my knees, and my body quaked from the chill. The death messengers still watched from shore but offered no suggestion. If my hunch was wrong, they would soon have a job to do—I could not long survive this cold.

  “Ada,” cautioned the earl, “remember that we are trapped here for the time being. If you soak your clothing, I don’t know how I shall warm you.”

  His thoughts were obviously running in a similar vein, and perhaps I was being foolish. The cold was now all I could think of, and I could no longer understand why I had thought this a good idea. I had made up my mind to return to shore when I felt the water rush around my legs, tugging at my ankles and knees. The earl shouted a warning.