not a one of them, and were dressed in green livery. Their faces were sharp, their eyes narrow, and their hair caught with twigs.
Padraig remembered her own words and knew who he encountered.
The Faerie Queen, Una.
“Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many seas,” she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.
“Greetings, beauteous queen.” Padraig bowed deeply, knowing wel the price of insulting one of the fey.
“Perhaps you have guessed that I have summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could be as one.”
“Heard my song?” Padraig glanced over his shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town.
“But that was miles away. You could not possibly have heard . . .” Una laid a fingertip across his lips to silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken velvet.
She smiled. “She is not dead, your Rosamunde.” Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze.
“And now my husband, casting his glance over al of Faerie, with the aid of his treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means to make her his own on Beltane.”
“I mean no offence, my lady, but Rosamunde is dead.” Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination to trick mortals. “I saw the fal en rock, I tried to retrieve her from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived in any way.”
Una smiled. “The spriggan Darg took her captive when she might have died.”
“Darg!” Padraig exclaimed. He recal ed the deceitful spriggan wel , and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.
Una watched him careful y. “You know this creature.”
“Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir.” Una’s smile faded. “No. It came in your ship.”
Padraig frowned. There had been items disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the spriggan liked so wel . It was possible that Una spoke the truth.
“It trespassed in our sid. It has wagered with my husband and lost, so it wil bring Rosamunde to him tomorrow. You must steal her from him.”
“My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king wil not live to tel the tale of it!” Una smiled. “With my aid, you wil not be detected.” She pressed a golden ring into his hand.
“Wear this and you shal pass unseen in any company.”
The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand fil ed Padraig with dread. He was not afraid to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.
“With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.” Una laughed but not because of his compliment. “You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart.”
“Which is that, my lady?”
Her eyes glinted with humour. “What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?” Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort?
Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.
Una leaned closer. “To have her own way.” Her eyes shone with bril iant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. “I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift.”
“You have already been too kind . . .”
Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie Queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him ful on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chil that shook him to his marrow.
And Padraig swooned.
Rosamunde dreamed of another day from her past.
The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. Al the same, Rosamunde’s heart leaped at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as
Padraig remembered her own words and knew who he encountered.
The Faerie Queen, Una.
“Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many seas,” she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.
“Greetings, beauteous queen.” Padraig bowed deeply, knowing wel the price of insulting one of the fey.
“Perhaps you have guessed that I have summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could be as one.”
“Heard my song?” Padraig glanced over his shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town.
“But that was miles away. You could not possibly have heard . . .” Una laid a fingertip across his lips to silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken velvet.
She smiled. “She is not dead, your Rosamunde.” Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze.
“And now my husband, casting his glance over al of Faerie, with the aid of his treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means to make her his own on Beltane.”
“I mean no offence, my lady, but Rosamunde is dead.” Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination to trick mortals. “I saw the fal en rock, I tried to retrieve her from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived in any way.”
Una smiled. “The spriggan Darg took her captive when she might have died.”
“Darg!” Padraig exclaimed. He recal ed the deceitful spriggan wel , and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.
Una watched him careful y. “You know this creature.”
“Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir.” Una’s smile faded. “No. It came in your ship.”
Padraig frowned. There had been items disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the spriggan liked so wel . It was possible that Una spoke the truth.
“It trespassed in our sid. It has wagered with my husband and lost, so it wil bring Rosamunde to him tomorrow. You must steal her from him.”
“My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king wil not live to tel the tale of it!” Una smiled. “With my aid, you wil not be detected.” She pressed a golden ring into his hand.
“Wear this and you shal pass unseen in any company.”
The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand fil ed Padraig with dread. He was not afraid to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.
“With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.” Una laughed but not because of his compliment. “You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart.”
“Which is that, my lady?”
Her eyes glinted with humour. “What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?” Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort?
Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.
Una leaned closer. “To have her own way.” Her eyes shone with bril iant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. “I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift.”
“You have already been too kind . . .”
Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie Queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him ful on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chil that shook him to his marrow.
And Padraig swooned.
Rosamunde dreamed of another day from her past.
The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. Al the same, Rosamunde’s heart leaped at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as
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