Torquil watched Deòthas slink out of the great hall, quietly closing its vast oak doors and hiding the rest of her retreat from view. She was fire. She was defiance. She was power of a type he’d never before witnessed. And he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. Repulsed by himself, actually. He’d bent to her will so easily. How could he prove himself to her if she could control him like that? She’d never respect him unless he could match her, and right now the very idea of being her equal seemed like an impossible fantasy.
“Shit,” he breathed, summing up his feelings on the matter of his new partner in one simple vulgarity.
“That just about covers it,” Tancred responded, clapping his shoulder with a large, calloused hand. “But don’t worry about Deòthas; she’ll come round once you’ve killed a few marionettes. Just a shame she’s decided to go hungry again. She’s one of our best when her head’s on straight, unfortunately when she’s on her starvation diet she gets… well, you’ve seen how she gets. A hungry baobhan sith is a dangerous baobhan sith, as you’ll have realised. Thank the gods for the human genes that are in her. I suspect she’d be completely unmanageable without them.”
“Does she go hungry often?” Tor asked, not sure whether he wanted the answer because he needed to protect his neck from her fangs, or because he wanted to make sure they were somewhere Tancred couldn’t interrupt the next time she tried to get to his throat.
Where the hell had that thought come from? He’d become a warrior to fight, not to offer himself on a platter to the last baobhan sith this side of the veil. Her sorcery must have really gotten to him. Could he put that down to it having been a really long, tiring night? Could he save face that way?
“She does it too often. Always has, as far as I’m aware, and I’ve known her for over six centuries, ever since she got stuck on this side of the veil. I’ve never gotten to the bottom of why she does it. I suspected it started as some form of ritual punishment, though I can only speculate as to why she would feel the need to torture herself through starvation. I think it’s as much habit as anything now, though. She’s not used to feeding regularly so she doesn’t recognise signs of hunger early enough to avoid her control fraying. It’s a liability, and truthfully it’s one of the reasons she hasn’t progressed further through the ranks.”
“One of the reasons?” Tor queried.
Did his partner have more problems than ritualistic fasting as a form of atonement? Just how many skeletons did Deòthas have in her closet to make Tancred feel he couldn’t give her more responsibility despite her considerable age?
The chief smiled reassuringly. “That’s for me to worry about, not you. She’s a strong warrior and an experienced fighter. Deòthas is fast on her feet and her magic is a unique skill. She will make a good partner for you, even if first impressions aren’t what they should’ve been… Come on, I’ll get you another beer. Let’s try to put some life back into this party.”
“Will she come back, once she’s fed?” Tor asked.
Tancred’s forced smile fell at the question. “Not likely. She isn’t the party type. She hasn’t been to one of these things since she joined us, and she only sporadically attends funerals. She’s not one for attending functions of any sort.”
“She came to her own celebration though, surely?” asked Tor, but from the grim expression on the chief’s face he’d be mistaken in assuming as much.
“She didn’t join like the rest of us. She went through the trials, yes, but not because she’d been told she could. She snuck down to the proving grounds during the day, completed the trials without anyone knowing, and was left pinned to the ground by the sword she’d taken from a Taghadair during combat.
“That sword which was slung over her back when she came in? It’s the same sword. She didn’t have a weapon of her own when she went into combat, or so I gather. From the little I’ve managed to force her to tell me, I believe she took the sword form a Taghadair bare handed, in order to arm herself. When defeat became inevitable they pinned her to the floor with the thing, bleeding her out, as is their way, and giving Deòthas her weapon of choice all in one ghastly move.
“The fact the shield maidens left her alive was enough to let me know I was to give her my blood and make her one of us, but she didn’t feed from the captains the way you just did. There wasn’t a celebration. Too many of the warriors of the time were furious that she dared go against orders and throw herself into Tallamarbh without the Council’s approval. They found her unworthy and wanted me to exile her. Of course, in the end, she’s outlived all the naysayers. Only myself and Corvinus are older than she is.”
“Did she really outlive the naysayers?” Tor wondered out loud as he glanced around the gathered bhampairean. If he’d noticed the disapproving glares many of them had given Deòthas then surely both Tancred and the baobhan sith had too. “Or did she just outlive the mouthpieces of the time, people whose opinions have passed down through generations of warriors to haunt her? Has anyone actually invited her to one of these parties or does everyone just presume she won’t come?”
“No one gets invited, Tor. These things just happen. It’s tradition. If she wanted to come, then she’d come.”
Tor rubbed his brow, more disturbed by Tancred’s assessment than he cared to admit. Deòthas hadn’t looked like she felt welcome, like she belonged. She looked a lot like he felt when he was with his family; an outsider.
“I mean no disrespect, but maybe she needs an invite in order to feel welcome, sir.”
If he thought he’d earned even a modicum of Deòthas’s respect, Tor might have gone and invited her back himself. As it was, she was probably disgusted by his weakness. Either way, his party spirit had departed along with her and, despite the temporary unconsciousness which had followed gulping down the blood of the chief and the captains, he felt exhausted. He wasn’t really in the celebratory mood anymore. What a let down.
“You know what, forget the beer. I think I’ll head up to the library and do a bit of research. I feel thoroughly unprepared for what’s coming. Then I think I’ll hit the sack early, make sure I’m fit as a fiddle for my first full day as a ghaisgeach.”
“Your brothers and sisters want to celebrate with you, Tor.” Perhaps Tancred saw more in his need for retreat than his words had conveyed alone as he advised, “Be careful you don’t make enemies by defending someone who needs to sort out her own head before she can fit in the way we want her to.”
The concern in Tancred’s expression intensified as he admitted, “The Council functions on trust, that’s the point in the last trial, the test that has you kneel and put your faith in us. There needs to be a bond between you and the rest of the group, and that begins here. It’s why we do this. Don’t put yourself outside it. Believe me, I’d love for Deòthas to join in, to be a part of the family as well as the army. But I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself because she’s not ready for that. She may never be ready for that.”
Tor bit his lip. The last thing he wanted to do was offend Tancred, who he had all but worshipped for as long as he could remember. Stories of the bravery and honour of the oldest surviving ghaisgeach had fuelled his longing to join up, to share his purpose. But in that moment he couldn’t quite force himself to follow to Tancred’s guidance, at least not the bit concerning Deòthas.
“Forgive me, sir, but before the trials you told me I should trust my instincts and have faith in myself, and right now my instincts are telling me that bonding with her is far more important than bonding with everyone else. You want me to be her partner; not Aodh’s, nor Seren’s, nor any of the other warriors’. You want me to be Deòthas’s partner. She’s the one I’m going to need to trust, and have trust me, more so than anyone else in this room. She has to be able to trust that I’ll have her back. Maybe that’s true even when there aren’t any ‘enemies’ in the room. If she’s on the outside, then I’m going to be on the outside, because you’ve decreed I should be her support, not anyone else’s.
“I’m sorry if that’s a disappointment to you, and I certainly don’t want to disobey you on my first night. I just… I just think she needs someone to trust more than the rest of you do, if I can ever earn her respect.”
Tancred studied him, the chief’s charcoal eyes boring into him until Tor wondered if he was looking for signs of rebellion, signs that he wouldn’t fit any better than Deòthas because he wasn’t made of the right material for the job. He tried to meet the older warrior’s gaze openly. He didn’t want the older warrior thinking he had anything to hide and truthfully he was only following his instincts, as he’d been advised. Hell, he wanted to fit there, to be part of the family. He didn’t want to feel ostracised the way his blood family had always made him feel. But he didn’t think Deòthas deserved that either, no matter how she’d joined the Comhairle. It wasn’t like there were any of her own people on this side of the veil for her to turn to.
“Others have tried to help her, you know. Tried to bring her into the fold. Even after a place was finally carved for her, she didn’t want to come.”
Tancred paused, running a hand through his dark hair in a gesture of weary frustration and Tor wondered if it had been the chief himself who’d tried to support the unwilling fey.
“I’ll not stop you if you want to try and help her. You’re right, I have made you her partner and it would be better if you both felt you could rely on one another. Just don’t expect miracles. She’s as stubborn as a mule, as her kind are want to be.”
Tor nodded and forced a smile.
“Thank you,” he answer earnestly, though how the hell he was going to help Deòthas, he had no idea.
Spinning on his heel he strode towards the door, escaping his own celebration even though he’d dreamed of fitting in with the warrior band all his life. Behind him he could hear confused voices asking if the party was over, and if something was wrong… If Deòthas had scared him off.
Like the enigma that was Deòthas could scare him off... She was incredible.
Behind Tor, back among his warriors, Tancred laughed, hiding any concerns he may have retained regarding the turn of events. He answered the queries jovially, easing any uncertainty.
“Of course the party isn’t over. Our newest warrior just has a far harder task ahead of him than killing a few marionettes! While he’s away preparing for that challenge, we can get roaring drunk for him. Eleanor, pour another round!”
The warriors would be fine. Tancred would keep the drink flowing and hopefully by tomorrow Tor’s mini rebellion would be too hazy in everyone’s memories to be an issue.
As he trudged up the stairs towards the library, he tried not to be over-awed by the grandeur of the place the warriors called home. The sweeping staircases and decorated ceilings were stunning. The dark wooden wall panels and heavy oak doors didn’t make the atmosphere oppressive, the way Tor would have expected them too, and he could safely say the place was beautiful. He couldn’t imagine it ever feeling like home, though. Living in the fortified castle would certainly take some getting used to.
He idly wondered where Deòthas slept. He’d never visited the castle before his trial because trainees had their own compound. His previous barracks had been a converted country hall in a neighbouring village, and the candidates had little contact with the full-fledged warriors until they were ready to join them. He had no idea which of the Council’s soldiers slept where, or even where Tancred’s office was situated. He only knew the location of the library because it was opposite his new room, which had only been allocated once he survived the trials, and his own accommodation was the only accommodation he’d discussed with Aodh.
Hopefully someone would show him round the sizable fortress he now lived in, preferably before too many nights passed. Last thing he need was to get lost in the maze of corridors that made up the castle, especially if he were on duty when it happened. Initially he hoped his partner might give him the tour, but having met Deòthas, he could pretty much guarantee that she wouldn’t find him worthy enough to waste her time on. Tor could only pray he’d make up for his earlier weakness quickly.
He was so angry at himself for falling under her spell, especially so quickly. What was it she’d said? Little more than food? Gods, she was right. Despite the trials, despite his training, Deòthas was right. No wonder she didn’t want to be lumbered with his care.
When he reached the library he glanced towards the door of his new room. Tor supposed he should ring his parents, tell them he was no longer at the Longhirst compound training as a guard but had moved into the Council’s headquarters, the location of which wasn’t publically available information. Of course the moment he admitted that, his parents would realise he’d not only disobeyed their orders by training at Longhirst as a guard, but he’d ignored all their warnings and done exactly what they’d expressly forbidden; faced the trials to become not only a guard but a ghaisgeach.
It was a conversation better had in person, really. Unless he chickened out and dialled their phone number after all. Or text his brother. Gods, he could face the Taghadairean but heaven forbid he should have to face the wrath of his father. Was he thirty or was he five, for goodness sake?
Not that thirty meant much in an immortal species where the average age of death was several hundred years. At least two centuries could be expected, provided a child reached adulthood at all. Child mortality was a huge issue, however. While adult bhampairean were stronger and faster than humans, and immune to disease, their young weren’t. Their young were frail and susceptible to illness. Most died before they reached five years of age.
Tor guessed it was a balance thing, the adults paid for their strength with the weakness of their youngsters. His parents had been lucky, really, to have three of their children survive. They could afford to let one risk himself protecting supernaturals. Not that they’d see it that way, no matter how he justified his new duty to the ancient band of warriors, his father would still be furious. Even at thirty, Tor was still very much a bhampair ‘youth’, and his father would take his new status as immature insubordination.
Torrann’s hammer, he didn’t want to deal with that now. One problem at a time was quite enough. He’d try to find out something to help him with the Deòthas situation tonight, and then tomorrow he’d deal with the family fallout caused by his new position.
Having decided upon that somewhat cowardly plan, he pushed his way through the library door, and became immediately awestruck. Row after row of shelving filled what turned out to be a substantial room. The antique wooden bookcases were filled with everything from contemporary novels to dusty old tomes of bhampair history and lore. The older books had leather spines, cracked with age and embossed with Gaelic titles that were beginning to fade into illegible jumbles of half visible characters. The books were old, and older yet were the ancient scrolls in the glass fronted cabinets along one wall. The history that must be contained here... It boggled his mind.
Tor finally felt grateful that his parents had forced him to learn the old tongue, which was an emotion he’d never previously felt on the subject of the bhampair variation of Gaelic. But now the language would have a use. He’d at least be able to translate some of the older texts, the ones written before English had taken over as the dominant language spoken by his people. Who could’ve guessed that his parents’ traditional values and their desire to prepare him for a career in bhampair law would actually be a benefit to him?
“Can I help you?” a blonde woman asked as she stepped out from behind the first row of shelves.
Tor jumped, surprised to see anyone when he’d thought every bhampair was at the party he’d just absconded from. The woman didn’t bear the tattoos of a warrior, though, and Tor wondered how she'd come to be there. Her scent told him she was bhampair, certainly, but was she a guard or some form of staff? Did the Council have many staff in this secret hide away? Even their scribes were supposed to be warriors, and the only none warrior employees were mortals whose minds could be wiped if they ever decided to leave.
“Oh,” the stranger murmured as her eyes scanned appreciatively over his body, seemingly captivated by his only partially dressed state. Tor suddenly and self consciously realised he was still only in the gi trousers he’d worn for the trials. He so should’ve gotten dressed before coming to the library.
“You’re the new warrior,” the woman added, as if that wasn’t obvious. Then she held out her hand, “I’m Aifric, the librarian.”
“Tor,” he answered, briefly gripping the offered hand and feeling somewhat relieved that he may not have to search the entire library himself. After all, he had no real idea what he was looking for. “Er, I’m a ghaisgeach, as you’ve already identified.”
Aifric smiled again, her lavender eyes sparkling as she laughed. “Yes, the markings, outfit, and your presence in the castle do give you away, just a little.”
Her gaze drifted over his exposed chest again and something which may or may not have been a sigh of longing left her, causing Tor to feel thoroughly uncomfortable.
“Anyway,” she said at last, breaking the disconcerting silence just as Tor was debating making his excuses and fleeing. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Um,” he breathed, momentarily lost as to what he was doing in Aifric’s library in the first place. Oh yes, Deòthas.
“Um, I’m looking for information on the sealing of the veil. And on Deòthas too, if you have anything. She’s going to be my partner, Deòthas is, or so Tancred says. I didn’t make a very good impression on her, so I’m not really sure how that’s going to work out, but I thought if I knew a bit about her it might help, you know, make me seem less of an idiot than I already do. I’d really appreciate it if you could help me, as I’ve already made a right mess of introductions and I don’t want to offend her any more than I already have, so I thought if I knew about her and the customs of her people I might avoid digging myself into a deeper hole…”
Why, in the name of the Great Father, was he babbling like a lunatic?
“Better with a blade than with women, are you?” Aifric requested without sarcasm.
“Don’t worry about it,” she added upon noticing his blush, “most of the warriors are. I suspect it comes of spending all that time preparing for the trials rather than socialising. Edward’s terrible. He can take on a marionette like the task is nothing more difficult than picking daisies, but ask him on a date and he looks like he’s been caught outside at sunrise. Total blind panic. Corvinus is one of the few who reacts to attraction with grace, but he doesn’t go for bhampairean. His last relationship was with a succubus. There were even rumours he used to cross the veil to be with a fey too, before it was sealed. Not that that’s relevant to what you’re looking for.”
Tor stared, wide-eyed at the librarian as she chattered away, words flowing out of her in a rushed torrent. The woman could certainly talk. Did she spend too much time alone in the library? Did she feel the need to fit as much conversation as she could into any moment of interaction granted to her?
“As for Deòthas there’s a bit about her in the Histories,” Aifric continued. “But most of those dusty old books were written by dustier old men who’d fought for too long and weren’t keen to accept change. I’ll get the books for you, but I wouldn’t trust everything that’s in them. Deòthas is undoubtedly rough around the edges, a loner, but she’s got a good heart, even if not all her ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ amongst the ghaisgich see it…
“She’s the reason I’m here,” the librarian explained. “I lost my family as a child and she made Tancred take me in, even though I had no interest in learning to fight. I’m the only non-warrior, non-human on staff. Tancred wants me to take over as scribe, but I have more interest in looking after already written books than filling their pages.
“Unfortunately I can’t really help with regards to information on the sealing of the veil. There aren’t any accounts of it seeing as no one knows how it happened. One night it was possible to traverse the realms, the next it wasn’t. Of course there’s a lot of speculation over which sorcerer or demon did the sealing, but that’s all it is; idle speculation. A number of sorcerers have been missing ever since, but chances are they’d crossed over for the Torrannféist and got themselves trapped along with the fey. Just like Deòthas became trapped on this side. So I can only apologise for our lack of books on that.”
“That’s fine,” Tor reassured the librarian, who seemed intent on bettering his babblefest with one of her own. “I’m grateful for whatever information you can give me, even if it’s just about Deòthas. Do we have any books regarding the baobhan sith; their civilisation, their culture, anything?”
“I’ll see what I can find.” Aifric smiled warmly, taking his arm and pushing him towards one of the numerous desks. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be back momentarily.”
When she did return she was laden with more books than Tor had anticipated. It appeared she’d brought the last six hundred years worth of Histories, as well as books on baobhan sith royalty, hunting methods, baobhan sith of historical significance, even a reference guide simply listing mortals who were suspected of falling prey to the blood-drinking fey.
“The Histories are fully indexed, and even list the pages individual warriors are mentioned on. You should be able to find all references to Deòthas easily enough. Although, like I say, it’s probably for the best if you take the descriptions with a pinch of salt. I’ve also brought what we have on the baobhan sith, although a lot of it is out of date as the books were written by the same dusty old fools who documented Deòthas’s early years as a warrior. She corrected some of the culture for us a century or so ago, but she hasn’t so much as picked up any of the books about her people in decades.
“I think she’s started trying to forget what she was, but I don’t see how she can, not when she isn’t sure what she is either... Sorry, I talk too much around sexy warrior types. I’m probably working in the wrong place really.”
Blinking, Tor tried to make sense of the breathless rush of words which had spilled out of Aifric. When he finally realised she’d called him sexy he began to wish he’d phoned his father instead of coming to the library. At least his parents were predictable.
“Tonight has been a really strange night,” he admitted, more to himself than to the outspoken librarian. “And I don’t mean because of the trials.”
“Sorry,” repeated Aifric, clearly understanding that she was one of the things making his life feel like a surrealist film. “It’s just you’re built. Like really built. You rival Tancred. Sadly I’m not his type, you know? Do you want to go for coffee sometime? Damn, you have that rabbit in the headlights look that Edward gets. I think I should go.”
With that she vanished back between the shelves, not giving him a chance to answer her one way or the other. Tor supposed her dash back between the bookcases saved him from having to figure out a way of letting her down gently. Funny thing was he kind of liked the enthusiastic eccentric that was Aifric, just not necessarily as dating material.
She would have come as a real shocker to his parents though, perhaps more so than his new occupation. After all, they still expected him to marry some super-intellectual career girl with earning potential, or a pretty home-maker who’d bear the next generation of his family. If he introduced Aifric as his girlfriend, his parents may actually keel over from horrified shock.
As he chuckled at that notion, he pulled the earliest book of Council History from the pile of volumes the librarian had left for him. The book was little more than a diary kept by the council scribe, documenting the day to day happenings of the Comhairle. Still, it might give him some clue as to why Deòthas was so out of place. Flipping to the index pages, he located Deòthas’s name and turned to the first page upon which she’d been mentioned.
Our new chief, the mighty Tancred of Germania, strength of our race, returned to barracks with a child of the baobhan sith trailing his footsteps. The girl was dressed in the traditional and shameful dress of her kind, her body displayed for all eyes to see, although I will not corrupt the histories by documenting her attributes, which are sure to bring disarray among our gathered warriors.
It would seem that the fey child, who claims to have just entered her sixteenth summer, was hunting alone in this realm when the veil was closed. She has introduced herself as Deòthas but refuses to give us any information on her lineage or reasons why she was not at the Torrannféist with the rest of her kind. There is speculation that the girl is in exile, though she is unlikely to reveal her crimes to us. We can only presume, based on her unseelie heritage, that her sins are of an unsavoury nature.
The captains have advised our chief, the mighty Tancred of Germania, strength of or race, to find alternative lodging for the child. We can only pray that other fey kind can be located and she will become a ward of her own people while trapped in this realm. No good can come of having her stay within our walls, even though Tancred, strength of our race, seems to believe the girl is harmless.
Despite the reassurances of our chief, the strength of our race, many of us have seen the covetous way the baobhan sith watches a number of our ghaisgich. We fear the compulsions to which all of her kind are enslaved. We seek to keep her away from the warriors she desires, lest she takes them between her thighs and suckles from their veins, until their bodies grow weak and feeble and they lose the strength to serve the Comhairle.
Tor flipped forward several pages, not caring for the descriptions of the author’s unfounded fears. He documented no evidence that Deòthas had planned to cause any of the warriors of the time any harm what-so-ever. Yet, because of her species, she’d been treated as a threat, as a dangerous enemy who would destroy the council through fey tricks and wanton deeds. He’d forgotten there’d been so much prejudice directed towards the unseelie. Like all bhampair children, he’d covered the topic of interspecies prejudice briefly during his education, but as he hadn’t lived while the veil was open he hadn’t ever witnessed it before.
The baobhan sith child has requested to take the ghaisgeach trials. She claims she wants to protect others so they will never suffer as her kind must surely suffer beyond the veil. Such a blasphemous request should not have been tolerated and yet the chief, Tancred, has not removed her from our midst. Her belief that she can somehow change our ways, that she has a right to change our ways, is dangerous.
The captains have once again advised Tancred to cast out the girl before she can cause division within our ranks. Her requests encourage a change in the natural order. They encourage anarchy and should not be entertained. Yet he feels she needs our help, our protection, despite her unwholesome nature.
We fear for our leader. While there is no evidence that he is lying with the unseelie demon, we cannot understand why he would defend her if he were not making use of her body. He claims he has tried to explain to her that no fey can enter the proving grounds without dying at the hands of the Taghadairean, but we feel he should simply take her from this place and leave her where she will not find her way back to us. It is not wise to keep her amongst us.
The greatest sacrilege has taken place. The baobhan sith temptress has desecrated the proving grounds. She has fought the Taghadairean in some un-witnessed mockery of our most sacred ritual. Worse, Tancred, who does not deserve the titles we once bestowed upon him, helped the fey-born abomination to steal an honour which was not hers to claim. He has fed her the blood of his veins and she has been marked, as all ghaisgich are marked. Now Tancred, the undeserving, claims that the gods must have a plan for her even though the very thought must surely be abhorrent to the Great Father. May Ràsbàrd forgive us our blasphemy.
We will not flourish while that abomination is amongst us. She will see to our ruin and the ruination of those we protect. She will destroy us, just as she caused the fall of her own kind, for surely she must be responsible for the sealing of the veil. How did one so young manage to escape when all others are lost to us, if she is not responsible for the great crime?
If she stays here, impersonating a bana-ghaisgeach, the Comhairle will fall within a decade, decimated by her malice. She is anger and lust. She is the destruction of all that is pure and strong. Tancred, the undeserving, should have killed the loathsome seductress when he found her, before she could weave her sorcery and blind him to her evil. We can only pray that she will grow bored of toying with him, and see to his end. Only then can we elect a new, stronger chief to take his place.
Perhaps the greatest blasphemy is that the undeserving chief wishes for his whore to fight alongside honourable ghaisgich. She shall not fight. She will not make the kill that sets in stone her position in the Comhairle. She will be kept out of battle until the red marks on her skin fade, without ever becoming the permanent black that brands us, the Council’s true warriors. The captains will not allow her take make that final sacrilege, no matter what Tancred commands.
The gods will curse us, for we have failed in our duty to them and to the innocents we have sworn to protect. We have allowed evil to corrupt our ancient order and we deserve the punishment which must surely rain down upon us in the coming weeks. The baobhan sith has killed and the brands upon her loathsome flesh have turned black. They are black, as if she were one of our warriors.
Mortals attacked our settlement, bringing fire and iron amongst us. Our ghaisgich fought bravely, but in their preoccupation the captains were not able to prevent the fey-born from entering the fray. She claims she was doing her duty, protecting us, but we know she simply desired to steal an honour not meant for one such as her. The cursed Tancred dared congratulate her on a battle well fought, on her bravery, but she has blinded him to the truth of her manipulative nature. Even now he is probably between her thighs, wasting his seed in her barren belly.
Worse, Corvinus, who had seemed to support our calls for the girl’s exile or execution, has fallen under her spell. He claims that she is a much needed warrior, even though she is not bhampair. He would bow to Tancred’s will and no doubt shares in the evil pleasures offered by the fey-born.
The melodrama would have amused Tor, if it didn’t disgust him so deeply. Deòthas had been so young, barely old enough to be allowed to hunt on her own, and she’d lost everything. Yet despite that, she’d chosen to fight, to protect, to stand, and for her strength she’d been subjected to scorn and cruelty. Was it any wonder that she found it hard to socialise with bhampairean when Council members had called for her abandonment or murder?
His hands fisted, his finger nails digging into his palms until he could smell his own blood. He longed to pound the author of this early edition of the Histories into a bloody pulp, but as the man had died centuries ago, that was a desire he’d never see fulfilled. Curse the scribe’s spirit. May the Taghadairean make his stay in Tallamarbh an unimaginable torment.
Tor pushed the first book aside, unable to stomach any more of the author’s unfounded scaremongering. Hopefully the next volume would be an improvement. Surely a century on the rumours must have died down? Surely some of the Council must have come to appreciate Deòthas as the decades went by? Surely?
It has finally been agreed that Deòthas of the baobhan sith should make a sacred oath to the gods, swearing never to seduce or feed upon a member of the Comhairle. Her life will be forfeit should she ever seek to corrupt the honourable warriors who were granted their titles fairly, in the proper way, without deception or trickery. The chief, Tancred of Germania, is against the proposal. However, the captains feel the fey-born must be forced to make an oath before the gods, lest she destroy Tancred and Corvinus completely, and the others who seek out her bed.
The baobhan sith has refused to make the required oath to the gods. She was taken to the ceremony site but she would not speak the words. Her disobedience proves her guilt. It proves her continuing need to shamefully corrupt the most virile of our race through wantonness, as surely as catching her in the act would have done. The captains would have her beaten for her defiance but once again Tancred has intervened on her behalf. He does not understand that the unseelie fey must pay for her sins, before the Comhairle falls to ruin.
This night is a grim night, and we slide closer to our destruction. Tancred has exiled Cailean, the brave warrior who saw to punishing the baobhan sith. The worthy ghaisgeach did as requested by his captains and beat the loathsome enchantress with a club. For fulfilling his duty he has been cast into the wilderness and the captains have been made to beat each other with the same club Cailean used on the unseelie seductress, as if they were as evil as she.
Nausea caused Tor’s stomach to churn as he stared in disbelief at the scrawl of hate-filled words contaminating the pages of the second book. How long had Deòthas been the focus of so much cruelty before the Council’s anger became a simmering disapproval and she was granted some small amount of safety within the ghaisgeach ranks? Why had she stayed, served, protected, and fought alongside warriors who would have killed her as soon as look at her? Was it for Tancred? Did she feel some tie to the one warrior who had tried to protect her? Had she loved him back then, in her horrific past? Was that why she stayed?
Fighting back the urge to push the books away, or better yet burn them, Tor picked up the first book again. He was determined to read each and every word written about Deòthas, even though each syllable disgusted him. Abhorrence at the long forgotten lies settled deep within his psyche, but he’d read until he knew every misdeed the Comhairle had yet to atone for. Tor refused to move from his place, even when the protective shutters slid over the castle’s windows and daytime came.
Aifric passed him on her way to her room, patting his shoulder and murmuring, “I warned you. At least you don’t appear to believe their lies.”
“I can’t believe the Comhairle, an organisation founded to protect all supernaturals, would allow this sort of abuse to continue.”
“They acted like humans,” the librarian answered simply. “When confronted with something unusual they panicked and attacked, just as mortals panic and attack us whenever we are discovered. By the time of the first world war things had settled down a little, becoming much the way they are today. That must have been a blessed relief for Deòthas.”
“She deserves better than that,” Tor retorted furiously, contempt in every syllable.
Aifric smiled before she left him to his reading, “Well then, Tor son of Artair, it’s lucky she’s been assigned you as a partner, isn’t it?”
He rubbed his weary eyes and couldn’t help but feel his world, his dreams, had just been torn out from under him. He was finally a ghaisgeach, the one thing he’d wanted to be, yet at that moment he loathed the Comhairle. Just sitting in their headquarters made his skin crawl. Gods, why did he feel this pressing need to protect Deòthas anyway? Why would he sooner exile himself from the Council in order to take her away from the cruelty she’d faced rather than leave her to it? The force of his emotions was terrifying, inexplicable, and wholly unrelenting.
Perhaps he should read some of the later histories, the ones after the hatred had lessened. Logically, Tor knew he shouldn’t allow his perception of his current colleagues to be blackened by the prejudices of those who went before. That would be no better than what the ancient scribes had done. But somehow he doubted the more recent histories were going to improve his outlook much.
Deòthas of the baobhan sith killed a number of the separatists. Her skill with her Taghadair blade surpassed the abilities of many of our bhampair warriors. Only Tancred and Corvinus can match her efficiency. If it were not for the chief, Corvinus, and the fey-born, we may have lost far more in this uprising than our Craigmillar barracks, which had to be abandoned. It’s only through their proficiency and the strategy devised by Aodh and his sister, Caitrìona, that we escaped with our lives.
We lost but one warrior, Seren’s husband, Einion, her caidreach. It is a mercy that our casualties are so few, and yet the loss has hit us hard. Seren and Einion were mated, truly mated, marked by the gods as belonging to each other. Sacred matings are rare, and rarer still within the Comhairle, so to see such a bond broken is devastating. We pray that Seren will recover from her loss, but in truth her despair is so great that we fear we may lose her too.
We held a memorial for Einion on our second night in our new home, Bothal Castle, in Northumberland. Seren attended the memorial, and carved her husband’s name onto the wall where we will document the names of all of our fallen from now on. However, she did not have the strength to attend the feast which was held in his honour. We did not expect her to.
The only other absence was Deòthas herself, who has not yet attended a single celebration or funeral as a Comhairle bana-ghaisgeach. While she has great value as a fighter, she still makes no effort to become part of the greater community, despite the urging of Tancred, the strength of our race. Her reluctance to engage is causing division within the Comhairle. She has not yet repented for taking the trials without Council approval and many feel that she is not truly a Comhairle warrior, despite the brands upon her skin. Mistrust is now so entrenched between the fey-born and the bhampair brothers and sisters of the Council that she may never prove she belongs with us, despite her performance in the field.
For a full record of the siege of the Craigmillar Barracks, refer to the Record of Comhairle Battles, Vol. 367.
Not much was written about Deòthas after the separatist uprising which had briefly threatened to tear bhampair civilisation in two. After reviewing the indexes of the Histories, Tor skipped to the last entry regarding the baobhan sith, which had probably been written by the current scribe.
Tancred, the strength of our race, has decreed that all warriors are to be paired up. With the appearance of the marionettes, and while the intentions of the Manipulator remain a mystery, our chief has decided it is unsafe for our warriors to patrol alone. He has conceded only one exception to this order, for Deòthas, the baobhan sith.
None of our warriors would willingly be partnered with the non-bhampair, and she is defiantly unwilling to temporarily work with any of the existing pairs until a partner becomes available for her. She has declared that she works better alone, and that a bhampair partner would only hinder her in battle. She spoke as though protecting a partner would be an unnecessary distraction and her derision is reason enough not to force her upon any of our ghaisgich.
It is no doubt a great relief to many of our warriors that they will not be paired up with the baobhan sith. There is little trust between the ghaisgich and Deòthas, and without trust any partnership would be unlikely to offer up the benefits Tancred hopes to achieve by placing us in pairs. Putting Deòthas with any other warrior could well condemn them both. One can only surmise that Tancred, the strength of our race, also suspects as much.
“It was no doubt a great relief to many of our warriors that they will not be paired up with the baobhan sith…” Tor re-read the words, wishing they’d never been written. He would gladly be partnered with Deòthas, if only she would have him.