Page 2
Highlands of Scotland
1295
Three months.
Elesyria A? Byrn brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and stared out into the distance. Three months had passed since the wedding of Halldor O’Donar and Bridget MacCulloch. Three months and one day had passed since she’d lost her temper and so rashly used her Magic in a manner strictly forbidden to her.
Three months.
A long enough time that any normal person might be lulled into a sense of safety under the false belief that the Goddess had chosen to ignore her transgression.
But Syrie wasn’t any normal person. She was Faerie. And she knew that three months meant nothing to her people. Time passed differently for the nearly immortal race of Fae than it did for other, more short-lived creatures like the Mortals with whom she had chosen to live.
Regardless of how they viewed time, her people had an intense intolerance for disobedience. And the visit she’d had just this morning from the Tinkler, Editha Faas, confirmed that the Fae were well-aware of her indiscretion. Well-aware of it and preparing to take action.
Unable to stand still any longer, Syrie began to pace, making a circle around the parapet, taking in the scenery of the surrounding countryside, bathed in the glow of the setting sun.
She would miss the beauty of this world. She would miss the people here who had become so dear to her.
She would miss one person in particular more than all the others.
No doubt her punishment would entail her returning to Wyddecol, the Faerie home world. At best, she could expect to spend the next few centuries serving the Goddess in her Temple, lowest of the low in the order of Danu’s Maidens. One did not disobey the Earth Mother and expect to go unpunished.
But for her, a sentence of centuries might as well be a lifetime. Though she would age little, his life would be over before she could return.
With a sigh, she stopped and pressed her back against the outer wall. Life had rarely been fair to her, but feeling sorry for herself would hardly help. It never had. There was nothing to be gained from wallowing in this bout of self-pity. She was merely wasting what little time she had left here in this world. She had always prided herself in being able to find something positive in any situation, no matter how dark. This situation was no exception. Now, more than ever, she needed to reach for the light and find some small positive to hold on to.
Confinement to Wyddecol, to the Temple, would allow her to reunite with her friend, Nalindria Ré Alyn. Sweet, shy Nally, a woman so devoted to the Goddess she’d chosen permanent service at the Temple as the course for her life. Syrie couldn’t count the times she’d hoped some of Nally’s devotion and meek acceptance of life would rub off on her. She also couldn’t count the times she’d berated that same friend to be more assertive, more self-serving.
Seeing Nally again would be good. Life in the Temple would be good. Everything would be good, if not for the mess she’d made for herself.
She scrubbed her hands over her face before staring up at the darkening sky, her heart filled with a longing stronger than any she’d ever felt before.
If only he were here now. If only she’d controlled her temper better. If only she hadn’t used her Magic so rashly.
But she had. And though what she’d done was strictly forbidden, she couldn’t regret the act itself. Using her Magic to bring together all those souls who were meant to be together might be the single most important thing she’d ever accomplished in the whole of her life, even if it was forbidden for her to have done it.
Too late to worry over the consequences now. She’d done what she’d done and now the flow of events was set in motion and far beyond her ability to control or change.
Her one big regret was that they’d likely come for her before Patrick returned to Castle MacGahan.
There were so many things she would like to have said to him before he’d gone north to help his sister and brother-in-law settle in at Tordenet. But, as too often had been the case in her life, foolish pride had kept her from speaking up once she’d realized what feelings she carried for the big warrior. Foolish pride and fear that he’d likely not hold the same feelings for her as she held for him. Especially not after the way he’d reacted to that unexpected kiss.
His mistake, he’d called it.
Now, as she felt her time here slipping away from her, she deeply regretted not having confronted her feelings for him sooner. Regretted not having confronted him as to his feelings, if any, for her.
Patrick MacDowylt was hardheadedly stubborn, unrelentingly sure of himself, and easily the most annoying male she had ever met, Faerie or Mortal. But he was also thoughtful and kind, and handsome in a way that had wormed his very essence securely into her heart. The thought of never seeing him again carried with it a bitter pain that lodged deeply in her chest, threatening at times like this to steal away her ability to breathe.
“What will be, will be,” she murmured into the rising breeze. “It is as the Goddess wills.”
“We are surprised to hear you still acknowledge that little fact, Elesyria, based on how you’ve repeatedly ignored the will of the Goddess.”
Syrie pressed her back against the large wooden door, scanning the parapet for the owner of the disembodied voices ringing in her ears. Though she was alone, the voices continued, a murmur from somewhere behind her ears, deep inside her head.
“The time has come for you to pay penance for your disobedience.”
As she had known it would. If only-
Her thoughts were cut short as a wall of emerald-green light descended in front of her. Slowly, the wall began to part, like a curtain being pulled back, and the scenery before her eyes split and wrinkled, revealing the blinding green vista of Wyddecol.
Regret pounded in her heart like the blood pulsing through her veins and she turned her head for one final glimpse of the Mortal world as she stepped through the opening, leaving that which she held dearest behind her.