As the monk expounded upon the virtues of dying for the faith, lecturing on ways that men could devote their lives to God, Morren saw Trahern shifting in his seat. Several of the older adolescent boys were growing restless, staring outside as if pleading for an escape.
When the monk paused to drink a sip of ale at the end of one of his tales, Morren moved towards Trahern and leaned to whisper in his ear. “Why don’t you tell a story of your own? I remember how you used to make us laugh, last winter.”
He started to shake his head, but she leaned down to whisper again. Her cheek brushed against his, and the warmth of his skin seemed charged with an unexpected intensity. “Please, Trahern. I think we’re all tired of hearing about dying pilgrims.”
Before he could say no, she rose to her feet. If Trahern needed prodding, she was glad to do it.
“Thank you, Brother Chrysoganus. I’m certain you must be hungry after so many tales. Why don’t we have another story from Trahern, while you go and enjoy your own meal?” She reached out and offered the monk a bit of bread.
The older man’s face creased into a smile. “That’s kind of you.”
Trahern eyed her as though he didn’t care for her actions. She knew it had been many months since he’d told stories to a crowd. But surely they were still there. When she’d been hurting that night, he’d eased her pain with the power of his voice. He’d made her forget about her loss, weaving a spell around her grief.
The people needed an escape right now. She settled back down, gesturing for him to sit in the center of the crowd. When he rose to take his place, he studied the group as if determining the type of story that was needed.
Trahern began with a tale of Lugh of the Long Arm, his deep baritone voice filling up the small hut. He described the journey Lugh traveled on his way to greet King Nuada. And with his words, he drew everyone into his story, letting them envision the young Lugh who longed to enter the kingdom.
“Before they would allow him entrance, Lugh had to demonstrate a skill.” Trahern unsheathed his sword, brandishing it in the air like a champion. His muscles flexed, and a few of theLochlannachwomen smiled. Morren kept silent, but she stared at Trahern’s strong arm. She’d felt those same arms around her, shielding her.
Though she’d been cold before, now a warmth began to rise up beneath her skin. She leaned closer to hear his tale more closely.
“Now it came to be that Lugh intended to show his prowess with his blade,” Trahern continued. “He offered his skill to the guard, and was denied entrance. ‘We have swordsmen more skilled than yourself,’ said the gatekeeper.” Trahern sheathed his sword, sitting down once more.
“Not to be deterred, Lugh offered his skills as a harpist. Then as a poet. And once more, as a sorcerer. When he was turned away each time, he was despondent, for he could think of no other skill that would get him inside. He had seen the fair maiden Nás at a distance, and longed to be with her.”
His gaze settled upon Morren, his low tone enfolding her like a caress. As he spoke of Nás’s virtues, Trahern didn’t take his eyes off her. He focused upon her mouth, and Morren brought her hands to her lips, remembering the dizzying kiss and the way he’d made her feel.
She wondered . . . what it would be like if he touched her elsewhere. Would she fall beneath his spell, enchanted like one of his stories?
As Trahern continued the tale, describing all of Lugh’s efforts to gain entrance to the palace, Morren found herself caught up in the story. She wrapped her arms around her knees, watching the way Trahern had restored the good humor of the clan.
He was meant to be a storyteller, she realized. A man who could command a group to join in his vivid imagination, bringing them entertainment in the midst of such ruin.
She found herself leaning forward to hear the end of the tale. “And finally, when Lugh came forward for the last time, the guard reminded him that they had someone who could perform each of the talents. ‘But do you have one who can perform them all?’ Lugh responded. The guard could think of no man with such power. And so, Lugh was allowed to enter the kingdom of Tara.”
Trahern left his seat to loud cheering and applause, and he inclined his head. Though he remained quiet, there was a satisfaction on his face, almost as if he’d missed the storytelling.
The rain had softened enough for the women to return to their own hut, and before Morren followed them, she stopped to speak with Trahern. “You’ve a gift as a bard, Trahern MacEgan. I’ve missed your stories.”
He answered her smile, and when she saw him without the mask of anger, returning to the good-hearted man he’d once been, she felt a warmth on the inside.
After he’d gone, she held the story within her, as if holding a part of the man himself.
Althoughanhourhadpassed since the storytelling, restlessness gripped Trahern. He moved to the far end of the cashel, his mind filled with errant thoughts.
He’d met Ciara on a night such as this. He’d told her stories, watching her face light up with interest. And their friendship had gradually transformed into a love that had filled him up inside.
He leaned back, sitting against the palisade wall in the shadows. Remembering her didn’t hurt as much as it once had. He could still see her smile, almost imagine her arms around him. She’d been a woman like no other, one who had laughed and brought her warmth to those around her.
But she wasn’t coming back. He didn’t want to accept it, but he understood the truth. He closed his eyes, letting the grief wash over him and through him. Morren was right. If she were here now, Ciara wouldn’t like the man he’d become. He’d let the hatred shape him, and he’d lost all sense of himself.
Tonight, when he’d told the story of Lugh, he’d resurrected a piece of his spirit. He’d felt . . . content. And when he’d watched Morren smile, it had made him grateful. She’d been through so much darkness, he wanted to give her more.
The kisses they’d shared were unlike anything else he’d known. Even with Ciara. The way Morren clung to him, the way she opened up to him with such trust . . . it was humbling. He didn’t want to leave her, though he had to. Like before, he’d make the journey alone.
And will she die, while you’re away?an inner voice taunted.Will she truly be safe?
He wasn’t certain. Though he tried to convince himself that Morren belonged here, among her sister and kin, the truth was, he wanted her at his side. He wanted her for himself.
