Page 9 of Tair

“I should be immune to your tàladh, but I cannot resist you,” the woman admitted. “I doubt any Fae could. Only you must take care with bedding the Fae. We’re far stronger than mortals, and in the throes we may easily snuff out your fragile life.”

The Fae woman had taught him a great deal over the winter he spent with her. She’d gifted him several enchanted stones which protected him from harm and slowed his aging. Osgan might have stayed with her forever, but one morning he woke to find her and most of her servants gone.

“Our lady has returned to Elphyne, and shallnae return,” the stablemaster told him as he led the woman’s finest mount to Osgan. “She wished you to have this mare. I’ve room at my cottage, if you need shelter and food, maister.”

Sometimes his ability to charm others at first sight could be quite inconvenient, so he lied to the burly man. “I shall return shortly.”

He never had, choosing instead to search for another immortal Fae he could seduce. In the years after that he’d travelled and found dozens that had taken him to their beds. Through those liaisons he had acquired more objects of power to aid him and render his life easier. In time that had led him to meet the queen of the dark Fae, who had become utterly smitten with him. She refused to give him anything worthwhile, however, so when Osgan had gone with her to Elphyne he set about discovering what was her greatest treasure.

Satiating the queen’s sadistic desires kept her distracted long enough to allow him to test the cluet, and then steal it. Escaping the Fae otherworld with the treasure had been even more difficult, but thanks to another immortal he’d seduced, he’d managed.

It had been perfect, until he arrived in the mortal realm and discovered the cluet no longer reacted to any wish he’d made. As soon as the queen discovered Osgan and her treasure gone she had sent her chief assassin after him. Since the power of the cluet would no longer protect him, Osgan had to think up another way to deal with Rune. He’d eluded him for a time, changing his appearance and taking refuge with old, powerful lovers who could protect him. One of them who had dwelled for centuries in Elphyne before fleeing to the mortal realm to escape a vengeful adversary had provided him with the answers to both problems.

“You’re a fool for leaving the otherworld, but it’s good you did not steal the queen’s cluet,” the immortal told him after listening to his carefully crafted lies. “The treasure doesn’t grant wishes to mortals.”

“She permitted me to use it in the otherworld, and it granted my wish for a feast of all the best delicacies from Scotland,” Osgan countered.

“All living beings become immortal while they live in Elphyne,” she said, chuckling. “That’s why I said you’re a fool. Had you stayed, you could have kept using the thing and lived forever.”

Osgan thought quickly. “If I had managed to steal the cluet, and became an immortal here, it would obey me.” When she nodded he said, “Truly, how could any mortal become as eternal as you, my love?”

What she’d told him sent him to the highlands, where he’d buried the treasure in a remote spot before he’d gone north to a very special Fae hollow his lover had described. Once there, Osgan had allowed his presence to be known, which had lured the dark Fae assassin to a meadow near the hollow.

The battle had been brief but ugly, thanks to the assassin’s vicious attack. Osgan used an object of power to make his badly-wounded body appear dead, and when Rune had limped off he’d crawled into the hollow. Wedging himself under the roots of a sacred oak tree, Osgan had surrendered himself to the hollow’s curative sleep. After a hundred years he had awoke completely healed and an immortal, and went to collect his prize.

He winced as he recalled how confident he had been riding back to the spot where he had buried the treasure. His head had been full of the wishes he would make as soon as he unearthed the cluet. He would order it first to shield him forever against all attacks from mortal or immortal kind; that would prevent anyone from taking the treasure from him. After that he would need a fine home in the highlands, perhaps a castle he could fill with beautiful females, fetching males and all the warriors needed to protect them. Then he would wish for a feast that lasted forever, like the one he’d wished for while in Elphyne. He could have anything he wanted now, Osgan recalled thinking, and no one could ever harm him again.

A fool’s belief, as it turned out.

As he rode away from the village, Osgan remembered the happy days of his boyhood, before the tàladh had rendered him so irresistible to others. The Taezali had always been farmers and cattle breeders, uninterested in war or any kind of strife. The Romans had easily chased them from their lands, forcing them to become nomads. He never knew who sired him on his timid mother, who died of fever when he was still a baby. The tribe’s women all raised him after that, doting on him as much as their husbands until he reached manhood, when their affection took on a decidedly carnal tone.

Osgan had always been a content lad, but finding out the pleasure he could give and receive by facking had changed everything for him.

Now as the trees thinned out and the banks of the loch appeared Osgan reined in his mount and stared at the massive silhouette rising from an island in the center of the waters. The enormous stone stronghold against the darkening sky seemed like a slumbering monster that might awake at any moment. As it had struck him the first time he’d seen it, the reality of the castle weighed on him like it had been built on his shoulders. A hundred years ago it had not existed, but now it did—and not atop his body, but sprawled over the heavy, flat-topped rocks in the very center of the land.

The exact same spot where Osgan had buried the cluet one hundred years ago.

He tethered his horse to a tree and walked to the very edge of the water, where he stood and stared at the MacRune walking the flat tops of the two curtain walls surrounding the stronghold. He’d gone to great lengths to establish a new identity and position for himself, but he would have to continue to be on his guard. Using others to face the dangers and do the difficult work always worked best for him. Thanks to his tàladh his lovers always believed his lies and agreed to help him no matter what he asked of them, like the two he had seduced recently. He needed one more, Osgan thought, who could act as his spy. He would ensure that this one fell so completely in love with him that they would do anything he commanded, even if it meant risking their own life.

Osgan smiled. The ease with which he seduced men and women made his quest simple. If any or all three of his lovers died in the process, it would be nothing for him to simply acquire more.

Chapter Three

“Would you please put me down?” Tired of being hauled around like a sack of potatoes, Lucy turned her head and blew the tangle of hair out of her eyes.

That gave her a much better look at Scottish Ancient Warrior Number Two, although glimpsing the cold, dark face belonging to Dorchad made her regret that. With his gleaming black hair hanging in perfect spikes over his forehead he could have modeled for any major fashion brand, except for his face. He had flawless features that for some reason seemed almost demonic, and made her wonder if staring at him too long would drive her crazy.

“Quiet,” was all he said when she repeated her request.

He was the scariest-looking man she’d ever seen—even more so than the laird—but the sound of his voice seemed to echo in chilly whispers in her head.

On the way into the castle they passed a lot of other big, dark men who carried swords, daggers and in a few cases long bows. The archers wore quivers stuffed with arrows, but at their hips, not on their backs. Everyone seemed surprised to see the chieftain carrying her, but they all looked away as if pretending not to have noticed her. No one stopped Dorchad or asked who she was or why he was lugging her around like this, which worried Lucy a little more.

A few murmured “Chieftain” and bowed their heads as they passed, like Dorchad was someone important.

The chieftain carried her through two gates and into the castle, which seemed to be a labyrinth of stone passages and arched doorways with heavy wooden doors bound by black iron hinges. Everything looked suitably medieval, although very dark and rather grimy. The torches that burned had been shoved into rusty metal sconces, and so much dust and dirt had been pounded into the cracks between the floor stones that it now had nowhere to go, and formed dry puddles everywhere. A faint smell matched the interior décor, and made her think of both an overflowing septic tank and a stagnant pond filled with algae, which made her stomach churn.

Is this really fourteenth century Scotland?