Morrigan (9 page)

Morrigan stayed quiet and solemn the rest of
the morning. She finished her breakfast with a shaky hand, while
Tiarn continued to sulk. He poked at the fire with a stick for a
while, pushing the smoldering logs to the side before he finally
covered them with dirt to extinguish the flames. Morrigan assumed
that meant it was time to start moving again. She grabbed her
backpack and motioned for the cats to follow. They obliged in their
usual lazy manner.

As Tiarn was packing up the last of his gear,
Morrigan couldn’t stop herself from admiring the subtle outline of
muscles that jutted through his animal skin tunic. She studied the
strong tanned arms that effortlessly hefted the heavy bags onto his
shoulder with unabashed longing and desire. He must have felt her
staring, because he turned to smile at her for the first time that
morning.

“See something you like, do you,
Princess?”

Morrigan felt her cheeks flush, but she
recovered quickly. “Do you? Or was it true when you told my
grandmother I wasn’t your type?”

Tiarn let out a loud belly laugh as he tied
his dreadlocks into a ponytail behind his head. “Oh, Your Majesty,
I see much I like. Yet, even if you were not royalty and I only a
commoner, it would still be forbidden for a witch and lycan to . .
. .”

“Mate?” Morrigan finished when Tiarn had let
the sentence trail off. She was amazed at her own brazenness.

Tiarn could only laugh again. “For lack of a
better word, yes.”

“You don’t seem the type of man who always
follows the rules.” She was teasing him, but he had turned serious
and a little sad.

“There are some rules, Morrigan, that even I
would not dare to break. No matter how much I may be tempted
to.”

The light moment seemed to have passed, and
Tiarn was all business again. They cleaned up the campsite as best
they could to keep the soldiers off their trail. Tiarn covered up
their tracks and rearranged the leaves and branches to make it look
natural and undisturbed. When he was done, they started on what
seemed like another endless trek through miles of green foliage.
Morrigan had always considered herself to be an outdoor girl, but
before long she found herself longing for a soft bed and a chance
to put her feet up. Her metal tipped boots were sturdy and held up
well against the elements, but they were not meant for hiking and
were giving her feet painful blisters. The long gypsy skirt kept
getting snagged on stray branches. At least the weather was on
their side. It was a mild day for the fall, without a single dark
cloud marring the beauty of the sky. The sun beat down gently,
warming and soothing her like a welcoming blanket.

As they walked along, Morrigan tried to take
her mind off her sore feet by thinking about her grandmother. Both
she and her mother had been able to communicate through some sort
of magic portal, but Morrigan couldn’t figure out how they had
managed it. She wondered if it was something any witch could do and
if there were any special tools involved.

“Tiarn,” she asked, “how are my mother and
grandmother able to talk with us from prison? I saw my mother in a
mirror the other day, and now my grandmother was in that stream . .
. Do you know how they do it?”

Tiarn looked surprised. “You really know
nothing about who you are, do you?”

“Only what you’ve told me,” Morrigan
admitted.

“Then maybe there’s hope after all.” His
voice took on that strange, faraway tone, and Morrigan was about to
ask what he meant, when he continued, “Every witch can control at
least one element. Your mother, Ceridwyn, is in tune with the
element of air. It was through the mist that she was able to lift
the veil between worlds and reach out to you. Your grandmother,
sweet old woman that she is, holds sway over the water.” There was
no hiding the sarcasm in his voice, and she wondered why the two
seemed to dislike each other so much when they were supposed to be
allies. “Hecate needs only a small amount of water to work her
magic, and Arianrhod would never deny her own mother a glass of
water to drink. So with just that small luxury, she was able to
contact me. It was just luck I happened to be near water myself. I
am certain it took several attempts before she was successful.”

“I guess that means my element is fire.”
Morrigan was beginning to understand. “And Arianrhod must be . . .
.”

“Earth,” Tiarn finished. “There is usually at
least one royal witch for each of the four elements living at any
one time. But as you have seen, it is rare for the four to exist in
harmony.”

Morrigan nodded, letting it sink in. She had
planned on asking more about the ritual her grandmother had
mentioned when Danu and Dagda began to make an unexpected
commotion. They both stood to attention, with their ears pricked in
curiosity, as though they were listening to something. Tiarn
noticed as well and drew his sword from its sheath, anticipating a
threat. Yet, Morrigan didn’t sense anxiety coming from her pets. It
was more like they heard something familiar and were frustrated
they were unable to locate it easily. She was just about to give
them a reassuring stroke when, out of nowhere, they took off in a
sprint. In almost perfect synchronization, they darted past
Morrigan, through a patch of low lying bushes, and into the waiting
forest. Morrigan didn’t think twice before taking off after
them.

“Morrigan!” Tiarn shouted after her. “Damn
those felines! Damn all witches and their familiar nonsense!
Morrigan, come back!”

Morrigan heard Tiarn’s exasperated shouts,
but she had no intention of losing her beloved friends in the
forest. She bound off after them with reckless abandon. Her legs
and arms and even her face were jabbed and poked with stray
branches and thorns. She knew she was bleeding and the cuts stung,
but even that didn’t stop her. The cats were moving quickly, and
Morrigan couldn’t slow down or she would lose them forever. They
leaped over fallen tree limbs and plunged through foliage,
scattering leaves and startling birds and small mammals from their
resting places. Behind her, Morrigan could hear Tiarn cursing and
huffing as he tried to keep up with the mad dash while still
juggling all of his supplies. After a while, she wasn’t even sure
if he was still following at all, but she barreled forward, despite
the throbbing in her sides and the burst blisters on her toes.

Finally, Morrigan saw the cats disappear
around a corner that led down into a sharp incline. She pushed past
the stitch in her side and strained her tired lungs. When she
reached the bend, she stumbled over her long skirts and tumbled
down the small hill, landing in a patch of pointy bushes that cut
up her skin even more. She was sure those few precious seconds had
cost her and she had lost her pets forever. Thankfully, when she
looked up, she saw Danu and Dagda were only a few feet away,
standing in front of an adorable little country cottage.

It was just the type of house one would
expect to find in an enchanted renaissance world like Tír na NÓg.
The roof was covered in thick straw, and the little chimney had
puffs of smoke shooting from its flue. Unlike Dunham’s home, this
one was immaculately kept. There were luscious garden beds ripe
with vegetables ready to harvest, a shiny new bucket sat beside the
stone well, and there was not a speck of wear on the cobblestone
walls. Around the well and the pathway leading to the door were
strategically placed flowers, and despite the many trees that were
shedding for the fall, there was not a single leaf on the ground.
It was definitely the first place Morrigan had seen in Tír na NÓg
that felt like a real home.

In front of the beautiful cottage was a
sweet-looking old man. He wore a long brown tunic with a golden
sash around the waist. He had bent down to pet the cats, who purred
and entwined themselves around his legs. When he finally stood up,
his back was slightly crooked, and he managed to straighten
slightly with the help of a cane.

“So my old friends,” Morrigan heard him say.
“You have returned to Tír na NÓg at last. But where is your
mistress?”

The man looked up from the cats, and though
his colorless eyes were obviously blind, he seemed to stare
directly at Morrigan.

“Damn it all!” Tiarn cursed under his breath
as he stumbled down the hill and landed with a thump at Morrigan’s
side. He watched the exchange between the man and the cats for a
moment. Then he shook his head in disapproval. “Those vile felines
are going to give us away. We have no choice now. We must leave
them behind.”

Morrigan looked toward the blind man again.
He was scratching one of the cats behind the ears while the other
purred and circled his feet. He didn’t seem very threatening with
his bent arthritic back and his shiny bald head. His eyes were
blank and impossible to read because they were so glazed by
cataracts, but his smile seemed only gentle and wise.

“Are you afraid of a blind old man?” Morrigan
asked.

Tiarn snorted. “I fear no man. But things are
not always what they seem in this world, and I take nothing for
granted.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “I think you’re
just looking for an excuse to leave Danu and Dagda behind. If that
man were a threat, the cats would never have gone to him. Can’t you
see? They’re acting like they know him.”

“Indeed they do know me,” the old man
replied, though Morrigan had spoken in only a whisper. “Come out,
Princess Morrigan, so proper introductions can be made all around.
We are none of us strangers here.”

Tiarn was out of the bushes with his sword
drawn before the sentence was complete. The old man didn’t seem
alarmed, perhaps because he couldn’t see the blade. Or maybe he
knew he had no reason to fear it.

“There is no need for weapons here,” he said,
still with a smile on his face. “I am alone and unarmed. And more
importantly, I am a friend to the Princess, as I was a friend to
her father.”

Morrigan’s ears pricked at the mention of her
father, but Tiarn charged on without giving her a chance to
reply.

“There is no princess here, old man,” Tiarn
countered, weapon still pointed in his direction. “You must have
this lady mistaken with someone else.”

“Tiarn, leave him alone,” Morrigan ordered
and stepped between the sword and the blind man.

Tiarn grumbled and shook his head. “You would
stroke a dragon even while its flames consumed you,” he complained.
He lowered his sword, but didn’t put it away.

“I just want to talk to him for a few
minutes,” Morrigan whispered. “He says he knows my father.”

“And so I do,” the man agreed, startling her
again with his keen hearing. “Sorry if it unnerves you that I hear
your whispers. When you lose one sense, the others often grow
stronger. Though that is not how I knew your friend had drawn his
weapon. The swish of a sword being freed from its sheath is a sound
any soldier would recognize. Otherwise, that soldier would not be
long for this life.”

Morrigan smiled and nodded, then wondered why
she did so when he obviously couldn’t see her. Beside her, Tiarn
was openly fuming, but still making sure to watch the newcomer with
wary eyes. For a moment her guide’s words seemed to echo her
mother’s warning to trust no one, but the slight twinge of fear was
outweighed by her curiosity. Besides, the old man presented no
threat to a witch, a werewolf, and two Guardians. So she ignored
Tiarn’s warning in favor of her own instincts.

“I’m being rude,” the man continued. “My name
is Alden, and of course you are Princess Morrigan. But what is the
name of your tightly wound companion? Lycan by the smell of him . .
. .”

Morrigan snickered and Tiarn let out the
smallest of growls. “This is Filtiarn,” she introduced. “He’s
bringing me to the castle.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” he said
warmly. “You must be weary from your travels. Why not join me
inside for a short spell? I have warm stew still in the kettle, and
we have much to discuss.”

“We thank you for your kind offer, Sir Alden,
but we really must be on our way to the—oomph.”

Morrigan interrupted Tiarn by elbowing him in
the stomach. “We would love to join you.”

Again Tiarn snarled, but as her sworn
protector, he was obliged to follow his charge into the small
cottage. Alden walked inside without the use of his cane, so sure
of the path he must have walked a thousand times before that he
needed no assistance. Danu and Dagda followed happily and made
themselves at home beside the fire.

Morrigan couldn’t help but admire the quaint
interior which was just as welcoming as the yard had been. The
cottage was neat and clean with delicately carved furniture that
looked handmade. There was a collection of knick knacks in the
shapes of realistic animals lining the shelves on the wall. Each
one was carved from corresponding colored stones. There were birds,
wolves, rabbits, frogs, and too many more to name. Each one was
perfect right down the smallest detail. She picked up one in the
shape of a black raven. She could count every feather and feel the
points of the beak and each taloned claw.

“These are beautiful!” Morrigan exclaimed.
“Did you make them?”

“You sound amazed.” Alden laughed. “You do
not need eyes to be an artist, Morrigan. My hands recreate the
beauty in nature I can no longer see for myself. In this way, I
never forget.”

He led them to a table and handed them each a
copper mug filled with what smelled like apple cider along with a
bowl of piping hot stew. It was chock full of large potatoes,
vegetables, and what Alden identified as fresh venison. It smelled
so good it made Morrigan’s stomach rumble. She hadn’t had any
decent food since she had arrived in Tír na NÓg. Even Tiarn had
dispelled his earlier misgivings and tore into the meal with
reckless abandon. Though one hand still lingered close to the now
sheathed sword, he seemed much less apprehensive.