Naamah's Kiss (Moirin's Trilogy #1)

"Flesh."

"And this is your true form?"

"Aye." I gestured with the arrow. "You may put down the peaches and leave now."

Cillian continued to stare at me. "You're just a little girl!"

I was beginning to get annoyed. "Well, and so?"

A wide grin crossed his face. "You don't imagine you could hurt me with that toy bow and bit of elf-shot, do you?" I do.

We regarded one another. "Why do you not vanish?" he asked, curious. "I've had my glimpse, have I not?"

"I can't," I said irritably. "You're looking at me." So?

"It doesn't work that way. You can't hide from an eye that's already on you."

He chuckled. "Then you must have a right great fondness for peaches."

I loosed my bowstring. The arrow thudded into the bulging canvas satchel. Peach nectar oozed around the shaft. I had another arrow nocked before he could react.

"Are you mad?" he shouted, holding the satchel in front of him like a shield. "I come bearing a gift!"

"And spying!"

"Well, you didn't have to show yourself, did you?"

"Apparently I did, if I wanted the bedamned peaches!" I shouted back at him.

"You shot the bedamned peaches!" For the space of a few heartbeats, we glared at one another. Then Cillian sighed and lowered the satchel. He took a step backward, raising both hands. "Truce, eh? I spoke you fair. I mean no harm. I wanted only to see what was here."

I lowered my bow. "Why?"

"I was curious." His tone was frank. "All these years and no one's ever had so much as a glimpse. No one imagined there was a child."

My heart thudded. "Do you mean to tell them?"

"Tell them what?" Cillian smiled ruefully. "That I well nigh got shot by a woodsprite with a child's bow?" He looked at my expression and sobered. "Nay, I'll not speak of it if you wish. I'll make you a bargain. Give me your name and I'll give you my silence."

I paused. "Moirin."

"Moirin." He nodded. "My word on it."

I made another gesture with the tip of my arrow. "You should go now."

"All right." He turned, then turned back. I had already breathed a cloak of twilight around me. Cillian blinked. "Moirin?"

I didn't bother to make myself visible. "Aye?"

"May I come again?"

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I like tales of magic. This is the nearest I've come to living in one. I'll bring more peaches," he added when I didn't answer.

I plucked out the arrow that had pierced the satchel and licked the gleaming nectar that coated it. It was thick and sweet, tasting of long hours ripening on the branch and sunshine's promise fulfilled. "These are the last harvest."

"They are?" Cillian sounded startled. "Apples, then. Whatever you like." ..

"Apples," I agreed. "And honeycakes."

He grinned. "Apples and honeycakes it is."

CHAPTER FOUR

"Cillian mac Tiernan," my mother mused. I nodded. "Are you angry?"

"At who?" She bit into a peach. "Him for spying? Or you for showing yourself?"

"Either."

"Neither." She shook her head. "He's a lad; they're full of curiosity and daring at that age. And mayhap I've protected you overmuch. You're old enough to begin making your own choices. I've no fear that Lord Tiernan will meddle in our affairs even if the lad talks. The Dalriada know to leave well enough alone." She took another bite, chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. "It would have been a shame to waste such good peaches."

I was relieved. "You're not angry."

"I am not."

"Good," I said. "Because I told him he could come again."

For the first time, I found myself keeping track of the days. Ten passed before Cillian returned. I daresay I would have sensed him this time—I'd not let my awareness lapse as I had before—but there was no need. As though to apologize for his former stealth, he made a racket this time, clattering through the underbrush. Before he was even in sight, he called.

"Moirin?"

My mother and I were mending clothes on the hearth. I glanced at her. She raised one eyebrow in reply.

My choice.

"Aye," I called. "Down here."

Cillian's head appeared over the ridge, then the rest of him. He froze for a moment on seeing both of us, then scrambled down. I was pleased to see he was carrying a satchel even larger than the first one. He reached the hearth and looked uncertainly from one of us to the other and back.

"Lady Fainche?" he inquired, a little breathless.

"And who else would it be?" My mother sounded amused.

He colored and offered a courteous bow. "Forgive me. Well met, my lady. I am Cillian mac Tiernan."

"Well met, Cillian mac Tiernan," she said. "You've a look of your father. Is he well?"

"He is." He proffered the satchel. "Apples and honeycakes. And I thought a wheel of cheese wouldn't go amiss."

She smiled. "You're a thoughtful lad. I'll store these in the back and do you the courtesy of returning your satchel."

Cillian watched her walk into the cave. "Is that her true form?"

"Aye," I said. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You—" He paused, flushing again.

"I don't look like her," I said softly, understanding. "Is that it?"

"Aye….. no. Yes and no." He blew out his breath. "You do and you don't. No mind." He glanced around. "This is the whole of it? Your home?"

"You should know," I said. "You spied on it long enough the other day."

His flush deepened. "Dagda Mor! Are you always so rude?"

I blinked. "Am I?"

"Aye!"

"I suppose so, then." I thought about how I might best make amends. "Would you like me to show you how to catch a trout with your bare hands?"

Cillian shrugged. "Why not?"

I showed him first working in ordinary daylight, reckoning it was only fair. It worked that way, too, only it took a lot longer and you had to be almighty patient.

"'Tis no match for a hook and line," he observed when I finally caught one. "Have you not got one? I'll bring one next time."

I shook my head. "No need."

"Don't be daft—"

"Watch." I deposited my fish in the creel and summoned the twilight, conscious of his gaze on me. He made a soft sound. Lying beneath the willow tree, I eased my arm back into the clear water. In the twilight, the swimming trout had a silvery gleam. Almost as soon as the slight ripples I'd created faded, I caught one.

"Magic," Cillian murmured. "Did you make yourself unseen?" Aye.

"Yet I could see you. It was only that the air seemed to dazzle about you." He frowned. "Because I was already looking at you, is it?"

"Aye." I wondered if he were a bit slow. "Did I not say so the other day?"

He laughed. "Peace, lass! 'Tis not every day one meets a witchling child. What other magics have you?"

I tied the lid of the creel shut. I didn't wish to speak to him of the man with the seedling. "None."

"No?" he teased. "Can you not summon the wind and catch it in a bag? Can you not charm the birds from the sky?"

"It would be an abuse of the Maghuin Dhonn's gifts to charm a bird for sport," I said with dignity. "And no one can summon the wind."

"They say the Master of the Straits could summon the wind." Cillian leaned back against the willow's trunk and stretched out his legs. "He could cause the seas to rise at his command and call lightning from the sky. But he gave away his book of magic and it's hidden away forever." He gave me a curious glance. "I've heard you speak no spells."

"Spells?" I repeated.

"Incantations. Words of power. Invocations to the gods."

"No." In the twilight, words might have a certain power, but I didn't think that was what he meant. "It's just a gift."

His grey eyes were bright. "Could you teach it to me?"

"I could try," I said dubiously. "But I don't know if it would be right. I'd have to ask my mother."

"Will you?"

"Aye, all right." I trotted back to the hearth and put the question to my mother. Her eyes crinkled with amusement.

"So that's what he's after, is it? Oh aye, let him try till he's blue in the face. He'll take no harm from it."

She was right.

I explained it and demonstrated over and over, but it made no difference. Cillian couldn't get the knack of it because he hadn't the gift. He couldn't raise so much as a glimmer in the air around him. His figure remained stubbornly, solidly visible. After two hours, he stomped around in frustration, kicking at willow roots. I sensed a shiver of distress in my favorite fishing tree as his boots scraped away chunks of bark and laid bare the pale root-flesh beneath.

"Please don't," I murmured. "You're hurting it."

He scowled and knocked on the trunk. "Trees don't feel."

"They do."

He glanced at the sky. "I should be going anyway."

"All right, then." I went to fetch the empty satchel for him. If it was magic he sought to acquire, after today's failure, I didn't think he'd be coming back. The thought made me sad. "Thank you," I said. I tried to think of something else to say that wouldn't be rude. After all, he had brought honeycakes. "It was interesting to meet you."

He slung the satchel over his shoulder. "Is there aught you'd like me to bring next time?" he asked, casting a critical eye over the neatly folded pile of mending on the hearth. "Clothing that's not in rags and tatters?"

I was surprised. "You're coming back?"

Cillian looked hurt. "You'd rather I didn't?"

"No, no!" I smiled. "It would be nice if you did. Thank you." I thought about his offer. I'd no need of fine clothing, but there were other things I liked. "Sausages, mayhap?"

He smiled back at me. "Sausages, it is."

After that, Cillian became a regular visitor. Sometimes eight or ten days would pass between his visits, sometimes only a few. I couldn't teach him magic, but I taught him many things about the woods. Although he hadn't the deeper senses I did, he was still able to pay attention and learn a great deal.

And he, in turn, taught me.

It began the first time I returned to our camp from foraging in the hickory copse to find him already awaiting me. He was sitting cross-legged on the hearth, gazing intently at an object he held in his lap—so intently he didn't hear me approach. I decided to play a trick on him and set down my basket softly, summoning the twilight. Unseen, I crept near and plucked the object from his hands.

Cillian gave a startled yelp.

I giggled.

"Moirin!" He grinned. "Show yourself, woodsprite."

I did. "And what is this object that held you so fascinated?" I inquired, waving it in the air.

"'Tis a tale of the Master of the Straits." He grabbed at it, but I danced out of reach. "I thought you might enjoy it, oh ungrateful one."

"A tale?" I examined the thing. "How is this a tale?"

"It's a book, Moirin." Cillian paused. "Not a book of magic, just a tale. Do you, ah, know how to read?"

"Read?" The thing was shaped like a leather-bound box, but it fanned open to reveal myriad square leaves with markings on them.

"You don't, do you?"

I held the book to my ear and heard nothing. I smelled it, then touched the tip of my tongue to the finely grained leaves. "I know the words book and read, but I do not know exactly what they mean," I admitted. "How is this a tale?"

He took it from me. "I'll show you." Holding it open, Cillian gazed into it and recited the opening words of a tale. I sat to listen, but he stopped. "Here." He pointed to the markings on the first leaf. "These are the words I spoke. Written here. Each of these is a word."

"No!" I marveled. Aye.

"That's a fine magic!"

"It's not—" He paused to consider. "Mayhap it is at that. I never thought on it."

I scooted closer to him. "How do you do it?"

"See these shapes?" Cillian pointed again. "Each one contained unto itself? Those are letters. They represent sounds. You put them together to make words."

"Show me."

He did, drawing on the flat stone of our hearth with the tip of a fire-blackened twig. I marveled over the process, taking to it like a duckling to water. I was so absorbed, I didn't sense my mother returning with her bow over her shoulder and a brace of pigeons dangling from one hand.

"What are you playing at, Moirin mine?" she asked.

"Oh!" I startled. "Cillian is teaching me to read!"

There was a shadow behind her smile. "Is he, now?"

Cillian got to his feet and bowed. "Not against your wishes, Lady Fainche. Speak, and I will cease."

"You're enjoying yourself?" she asked me.

I nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes."

"So be it." My mother laid a hand on my head. "You have my blessing. But do not trust this new knowledge overmuch. Great truths should be contained in the head and the heart, not consigned to the page. There was a time not long ago when the ollamhs railed against the practice."