Blue Keltic Moon (Children of the Keltic Triad) (2 page)

At first, each time she touched his mind to take away the agonies, he’d carried guilt nearly as intense and debilitating as the pain. She had been so young, only five, the first time she’d offered him healing.

Only five the first time she’d told him she loved him.

“Ah, Breanna.” The few birds inhabiting the oasis lifted in flight at his agonized cry. “You should not love me.”

He stared unblinking at the sun and whispered, “As I should not love you.”

Humans would find a relationship between them a matter of gossip for he was uncountable years older than she. But as Faerie, age held no meaning once she had reached adulthood. As a child she had been adorable and charming. Now she was a beautiful, vibrant woman. He should feel honored she cared about him.

The love shining in Breanna’s startling blue eyes when she looked at him was as painful to his heart as the dreams. The fact she was the only one who could comfort him, take the agony from his mind and return him to a functioning being tore through his soul. No one should have such responsibility for another. Or witness the extent of his pain and still love him unconditionally when he put harsh conditions on himself.

He pushed to his feet. She would arrive at the library soon to look over the latest information he’d discovered for the Zeroun clan. He suspected the information had initiated the onset of his dreams. The young lord’s uncle by marriage had been imprisoned in the world between worlds and once the immediate danger to the clan had been eliminated, most of their resources had been focused on finding a way to rescue him.

Gowthaman shivered and moved from the comfort of the shadows into the sunlight. The family was careful around him, knowing each mention of the gray nothingness reminded him of his time there. But more than that, the memory of the faerie witch who had forced her way into his mind and stolen his knowledge, his... self, was what caused him deep and abiding anguish.

Shoulders hunched, he stared into the golden distance. He should have remained in the world between worlds when the others escaped. His damaged mind would have had no stimulation and he could have forgotten.

He shook his head. He would never forget the torment of another clawing through his mind, taking his memories, his hopes and desires. Never forget the hopelessness left in the witch’s wake. The world between worlds may have been the kindest fate. At least there it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t forget.

No one would hear his nightly screams.

Gowthaman inhaled deeply. The desert air heated his lungs, but the warmth refused to spread to the rest of his body. Forgetting was not his destiny. Most days he didn’t much care, knowing he would survive as he had over the past years, little more than a shell.

He glanced again at the sun and steeled himself. No more moments remained for self-recrimination. Instead it was time to put on a face to show the world, at least those few who visited the ancient Fey library of Alexandria. A calm, untroubled face for Breanna’s sake. She had taken to the responsibilities as leader of the Alastriona with joy and determination yet arranged her duties so she could frequently assist him in the library. A smile relaxed his face. He was proud of her.

He quickened his steps as he crossed the hot sands. Hidden from human eyes in the guise of yet another unremarkable mountain of sand and extending far beneath the ground, the library held the texts of many races, Fey and human. In his aimless wanderings through the maze of hallways and tiny alcoves, Gowthaman had discovered scrolls and tablets he had yet to announce to any others.

Had these been discovered only twenty human years previously, the importance of the extremely ancient writings would have been overlooked. Or dismissed as fiction. Until he understood the vague references and hidden meanings relating to happenings in the Faerie and Alfar worlds, he would hold the knowledge close.

He drew a deep breath before passing into the cool library. This new information, the clues to helping the Zeroun clan, had precipitated the intensity of his dreams and the unintelligible voice. His steps slowed.

Temptation whispered into his mind. Perhaps it was time to allow Breanna to touch his mind, to heal...

He flattened his palm against the cool wall and knew he would not. Years had passed since the last time he accepted her offer of comfort and a short time of peace. He would not burden her further with his failings. Nor could he allow the woman she’d become access to his thoughts. If she touched his mind that intimately he would not be able to disguise his feelings for her. Then she would know how much she truly meant to him. How he loved her. Desired her.

He froze in the doorway of the small chamber he used as work space. Breanna stood to one side, her profile lit by the flickering soft candlelight he preferred to the harshness of mechanical lights. She studied a heavy stone tablet, angling it toward the flame to peer at the faint notches of carving.

Gowthaman avoided thinking about how the flame brightened the golden strands of her short hair. He pushed away thoughts of the intensity of her bright blue eyes when she concentrated. When she traced the angled cuts of words with her finger he shuddered as if that finger touched him. He swallowed heavily.

“That... that is a recording of a curse.”

She turned a wide smile to him. “Then I shouldn’t try to read it out loud, should I?”

He drew his eyebrows together in confusion, then relaxed when he remembered the movie she had made him watch with her a month ago. She’d explained then it was a common device to have the innocent hero or heroine read a chant or incantation they didn’t understand, speaking the words out loud and thus releasing the danger. He struggled then found his own smile. “No, you should not. Unless you wish a sand demon from Bard’s world waiting on your doorstep.”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood for that today.” Replacing the stone rectangle on the table, she tilted her head to one side and studied him. “How about you, Gowtham? How are you?”

Gowtham. She was the only one to use the shortened, personal form of his name. A familiar, pleasant heaviness filled his chest. “I am fine.”

“Uh-huh. I don’t think so. But don’t worry, I won’t press. This time. So, what do you have to show me today?”

He wished he could show her the worlds upon worlds he’d been discovering in the ancient writings. Expose her to the amazing places described in the scrolls and volumes hidden deep in the library. Experience those worlds through her innocent eyes. To show her feelings, his feelings... about her.

With a tightening of his fist at his side he brought himself back to the reality of this world.

“You’ve been having dreams again, haven’t you? Nightmares.” Her bold statement startled him. He hadn’t been hiding the pain deep enough. What more did he need do to keep his agony secret?

“I can always tell. It’s your eyes, Gowtham, surrounded with lines of pain. Let me—”

“No.” He retreated two steps and lifted his hands before him to keep her at a distance. “No,” he said more softly.

“Why won’t you accept what I offer?” She sat and watched him, the sadness stark in downward turn of her full lips and the dimming of her eyes.

Did she realize she offered herself along with her healing touch? Of course she did, she was a woman grown. A woman who had offered him her love when but a child and who had never retreated from that offer. “No, Breanna.”
Sweet Breanna, my love.

Ignoring her wounded expression, he lightened his tone and steered the discussion to a safer topic. “I have added to the family trees.”

Instantly, her expression brightened. “You’ve discovered more?”

Waving one arm to indicate the huge parchment covering an entire wall, he nodded. “Nothing new for the Zeroun clan, but I have discovered ancestors for others related to the rulers, including one of my own.”

She clapped her hands once, and he was struck by her youth. There was too much time between them but still her enthusiasm tugged at his heart. “Wonderful.”

“Yes. Many families have been entwined again and again for untold ages. Look.” He pointed to a branch of a small ornate tree set to one side of the large, multi-branched Zeroun genealogy.

Breanna felt her eyes go wide. “It’s me.”

Gowtham’s easy smile erased some of the pain from his face. The tight lines of his dark eyebrows eased to a slight arch. Tiny strands of black hair twisted into curls at his temple. Bree restrained the impulse to smooth them back, because then she’d want to touch his face. Nothing would delight her more than to trace the angles of his straight nose or the firm line of his jaw. She loved the contrast of her pale skin against the golden brown of his. In a wistful moment she’d once written in her diary that his skin reminded her of rich, cream-lightened coffee.

A dimple, barely beyond his lips, deepened. She tore her attention from his mouth to gaze into his eyes. A twinkle danced in the dark depths. This was the Gowtham she wished he could be with her help in healing.

He spoke softly, the words a caress. “Remember when you insisted you were to play Mustardseed?”

“I was determined, wasn’t I? That was the first time I performed in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
” She chuckled at the memory. At seven she’d astounded all the adults in the production by knowing every character’s lines perfectly. She couldn’t help if she followed the Zeroun clan’s obsession with the play.

“Follow the trunk to the roots.”

Tracing her fingertip down the parchment, she discovered a barely pronounceable name with a notation below it in a gilt edged rectangle. She read silently then gasped. “He was the inspiration for Shakespeare’s Mustardseed?”

Gowthaman gave a rough chuckle. “You know better than that. He
was
Mustardseed.”

“Amazing.” She swept her hand over the wall of family trees. “I see what you mean about families being intertwined. Guess we just can’t get away from each other.”

Gowthaman stepped back. “There is another addition to the ancestries.”

“Hmm, I see.” Next to the thin trees recording her family history was another newly labeled tree with few branches. She easily found Gowthaman’s name on a top branch. Smiling to herself, she wondered if he realized he’d drawn their families so close together. And that his branch stretched toward hers. Maybe there was hope for them. “You’ve discovered your ancestors?”

“Ah, yes. And look...” He leaned over her shoulder making her ache to lean into the heat of the sun he’d brought in with him. Or maybe it was the heat of the man. She squelched the longing and glanced at the tree’s roots.

“The kidnapped Indian prince?”

A
t one point in his life, Morghan had counted time in human years. His age, the passage of centuries, the brief moments a companion remained with him. Even here he’d begun by keeping account of the years.
In the beginning.
But his efforts ended when he could no longer determine time.

In the beginning he had been able to use small puddles to watch the human world and communicate with the place where he’d been pulled through. But the water had dried and an impenetrable haze thickened around the place he had called home.

Then, in the beginning, he’d raged against fate, and constantly sought out the being who had wrenched him from life. But after a few fruitless battles, the creature had disappeared into the gray landscape, laughing, taunting, always before him, always heard but never seen.

Then, in the beginning, he’d tried to remember the things he’d read, the spells he’d memorized before his fight with the fire elemental. The mere thought of Brandr Ur and a growl would rise from deep in his chest, a sound of hatred and determination. Then, he’d ached to finish what his spells should have done—completely banish the elemental from all worlds. Then...

When was then? Morghan shrugged and turned in a circle surveying the gray, mist-shrouded landscape. Rare now were the times he wondered how long he’d been held here. Rarer still, the times he cared.

A flash of light blinded him. When he stopped blinking and the bright balls of fire disappeared from his vision, the shadowy form of a comely wench swayed before him. The shadows grew colors. Intense, vibrant, unbelievable. He shook his head knowing he should remember this woman, then smiled. She’d come for him. Finally.

He took a step forward. The uneven gray ground sucked at his feet, holding him back. He struggled to reach for her. Thin clothing fell from her orange skin. The bright yellow waves of her hair flowed down and curled intimately against her body. A brief memory surfaced in his consciousness then fluttered away. Startled by the feeling, he ached for her.

She moved closer, not walking, but floating. As she disturbed the gray, tendrils swirled from her body, coloring the mist blue, purple, green. He pulled his feet from the stony ground and the sucking pop echoed, coloring, adding swirls of violet and fuchsia. Twirling, twisting, merging then flowing away, the colors drew him to her. He strained, called to her, watched his words float away on iridescent dragon wings.

Close. So close
.
He smelled sea flowers in the colors, felt the cool of her body, tasted how she would feel to his mouth. The sound of her voice sang to him in pure crystal hues. Fingers twitching, curled as if to hold her, he leaned forward. The tip of one finger touched her.

Bursts of light, aroma, sound and color flared outward then collapsed, imploding, and rapidly disappearing. Into the gray. Into nothing.

Morghan collapsed to his knees and dug his fingers into the ground. He lifted the dry gray mass into the colorless air and cried out his frustration. No colorful sound escaped from his mouth and he sank back on his heels.

Had she been real? Imagination? Hallucination? Morghan let the dust trail from his open hand then scrubbed his fingers over his face and speared them back through his tangled hair. The sharp tugs caused pain and that pain gave him the illusion of life. He howled in anguish, the sound muffled by the thick air. What was life—he didn’t even ken if he’d ever lived. Mayhap his memories were only the dream of some sadistic being.