Her lips, flavored of enchantment as old as time, found Ciaran's in a kiss that promised the kind of love bards would sing of for a thousand years. Heart filled with joy, with love, with hope, Ciaran took his lady up into the castle tower to fulfill every vow they'd made to each other the day they had wed, and other covenants, more ancient still: to worship her with his body, to cherish her bright spirit, to drink of her dreams.
And the mist shimmered around them in a veil of rose and gold, silver and blue, weaving its ageless magic as if the fairies themselves were offering their blessing from the land where legends were born.
Epilogue
Maeve McGinty perched on the castle wall and popped a cherry into her mouth, her eyes twinkling as she peered at the figures below—two long-legged boys of nine and eight running and leaping with their handsome father, hurling sticks slicing the air.
Saffron-coloredleinebillowed about them, caught at the waist with thick leather belts as if they'd just stepped through the mists from the time of Cuchulain and Deirdre of the Sorrows.
"They are beautiful, are they not? And strong. So much like their father when he was young." Maeve smiled at the man beside her, a delighted laugh rippling from a throat smooth and fresh as new cream, cascades of sun-gold hair floating about her supple form.
"It's most unbecoming for a king to pout, my love, just because you've lost a champion. After ten years, one would think you'd get over your disappointment. After all, hurling is just a game."
"A game?" Jarlath folded his arms across his chest, his handsome face crumpling in a scowl. "Humphf! Just like a woman to spout such nonsense! 'Tis a tragedy I'm watchin' here. The finest man ever to raise a hurley, he was. And he could've remained so forever if he'd stayed inTir na nOg. Now, look at him. 'Tis a trifle gray at the temples he's growin'. And he's a wee bit slower, I'll be bound."
"Only because he keeps rememberin' last night, when he brought our Fallon here for their lovin'. He can't keep his eyes off her." Maeve cast an affectionate glance to where Fallon sat beneath a tree, attempting to dissuade a most determined toddler from eating the strings of an exquisite harp—Fiachra's, resurrected from the depths of the labyrinth, the most coveted prize to be awarded to the finest harper, entrusted to his keeping for the year to come.
"Sure, an' even you can't begrudge them such happiness," Maeve said. "The good they've done—well, it pure makes my heart ache. When they surprised Siobhan Moynihan by bringin' back her lost Michael, 'twas the most touchin' thing ever I saw. And Ailis MacGrath and her babe—the way they've cared for them—"
"I couldn't be carin' less about the doin's of mortals."
"Even when they keep the old magic alive?" Maeve smiled, tender. "Look about ye, ye great fool! This promises to be the most glorious festival ever. Every child who can lisp, memorizing the old epic poems to recite, Tom Dunne collectin' every musician in the county to play in the bard contest. Rememberin'—all of them rememberin' where they came from—the glory of it, the pride in it. The past. They'll keep the magic alive here, when the rest of the world stops believin'."
"Ye expect me to believe that people will stop trustin' what's in front of their very noses?"
"You don't seem to see what's in front o' yours," Maeve pointed to the family framed by billows of green hill. "Look at them, Jarlath. Her face pure glows with love for him."
"Love! Bah! I offered him immortality. He could have stayed, forever young, forever beautiful if not for your meddling."
Maeve's face softened, and she looked down tenderly at Fallon. "I had little enough to do with it. She was the one who broke the enchantment by winning his love. A love so strong not even fairy magic could hold him."
"I almost had him back, the night he sent that coward, Butler, runnin'. Got him up t' the castle, but then... then she made love to him there, tightened her hold, instead of lettin' him walk through the mist door, the way he was supposed to. But at least he would have suffered the way he deserved at that Redmayne's hands, if it weren't for ye, goin' in and snippin' out the tangles—bewitchin' that general, givin' him a name, a whole bloody past to cling to."
"The real James Butler won't be needing it anymore. He'll be spendin' forever in the mermen's Soul Cages beneath the sea with the rest of his crew. Besides, don't be blaming me for all this. Our Ciaran would never have lost his memory in the first place if you hadn't whapped him in the head with your own hurling stick."
"He was leavin' in the middle of a match, and Liam of the Green's men all but grovelin' for mercy! I had to try to stop him! Did it the only way I could think of in the heat of the moment."
"Ye knockin' him in the head and the rest of your fool team clutchin' at his clothes till he tore free—aye, that was childish behavior, Jarlath, and ye ten thousand years old."
He shot her a blistering glare. "What kind of man runs off in the middle of a match, anyway, and his king needin' his services?"
"Ciaran's loyalty never belonged to us, nor toTir na nOg. Always, it was pledged to the people here. When Fallon called him, no force in the land of mortals or the land of the enchanted ones could keep him from fulfilling his vow." Maeve pinched her husband on his stubborn chin. "Come, Jarlath, you'd stolen nine hundred years away from our Ciaran. Ye could at least let him go with good grace. It is the fair thing to do."
"Fair? Pah! You are even thinking like a mortal! That is what comes of all this nonsense—our own daughter runnin' off with one, then my champion. An' you wanderin' about entertainin' yerself with them like they was a little girl's poppet—what in the name o' Cuchulain is that?"
Maeve turned to see another figure burst from the woods. A wild tangle of auburn hair flew about Fiona Delaney Butler's winsome face. Her skirts, embroidered with gold-thread interlacing, were tucked scandalously into her sash, displaying scraped knees. Without pausing a heartbeat, the six-year-old girl snatched up a hurley abandoned in the heather just as Ciaran whacked a ball with bone-shattering force.
Both boys dove for it, but it whistled past their out-flung sticks with enough speed to carry it half way to Derry. The girl suddenly leaped into the air.
Jarlath gasped in amazement as she slammed her stick into the ball, driving it past the makeshift goal. A howl of outrage erupted from her brothers, young Hugh flinging down a hurley in a fit of temper.
"Make her stop, Da! She promised she wouldn't!"
"Only because you paid her two shillings," eight-year-old Connor said with a smirk.
"They were mine to do what I wanted with!" The boy cuffed his tattling brother with one grubby fist. "Uncle Hugh gave 'em to me! Girls aren't supposed to play hurley anyway!"
Ciaran laughed. "Especially when they're better at it than their older brothers, eh, Connor? You needn't be ashamed that your sister plays hurley better than any boy in three counties. Celtic women have never been the sort who sat sipping tea and sniffing smelling salts. In ancient times, they were warriors as mighty and powerful as the men. In fact, they were the ones who trained the young men in fighting."
