Night Ride of the Sidhe Read online

Night Ride of the Sidhe

  By Shana O’Quinn

  Cover art by Shana O’Quinn

  Copyright 2014 Shana O’Quinn

  Other books by the author:

  Lady of the Sidhe

  Secret Ones Volume 1

  Secret Ones Volume 2

  Beowulf’s Struggle

  The Chronicles of Lilith Book 1

  Be sure to check out her websites:

  www.sandozdesigns.com

  https://www.facebook.com/sandoz.driftwood

  https://zandoz.deviantart.com

  https://www.facebook.com/secretones1

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or night creature living dead or undead is purely coincidental. This work is offered free for personal use only. Any reproduction of this in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without express written permission of the author. Not responsible for any bed-wetting or delusions of grandeur after reading this work.

  The Faery Folk, once so in love with the green Earth and once its self-appointed protectors, grew weary of the mortal realm. Time runs quickly here compared to the land of Faerie, leaving the Elves far behind. They came increasingly seldom to Telamon with its shrinking forest and growing human population, while at the same time (though some thought perhaps because of this) the worlds continued to drift apart, until only at a very few points, or at certain times of the year, travel could be accomplished between Faerie and the mortal realm.

  The Sidhe would ride forth at these times, especially at Beltane and Samhain, with their coursing hounds creamy white with red ears braying in their eerie tones late at night. Mohrtei wouldn’t leave their cozy homes at night for fear of being taken off to Tir-na-Nog, never to see their families again.

  In the earliest times, well before humans had developed farming and husbandry, they worshiped the Elves as deities and spirits of the forest. They placated the capricious Fae with offerings and prayers and oaths of service. As Mohrtei grew in experience, knowledge and power, they began to resent the seemingly undying beings and to covet immortality. The Sidhe, whose ambition and curiosity driven days were over, were soon overtaken by the numbers and inventions of humans. They were driven back to their original homeland in Tir-na-Nog or to the mounds built up around ley line crossings and Doorways between the realms to better aid sustaining them with the energy they need to exist in Telamon. These were often mistaken for funeral barrows, which suited the inhabitants just fine. Tales of spirits, wights and other figures of dread grew up around these elven strongholds. Most of the country dwellers went out of their way to avoid the ‘fairy mounds’.

  It was from one of these underground living spaces that a Hunt came forth, riding for pleasure and not war--at least this time. The horses were shades of white or grey, the tack made of silver and gold, and the steeds stepped proudly after the Cu Sith (the Faery hounds).

  The riders astride these fine horses were no less striking: sitting easily on their mounts, dressed in bright mail and flowing cloaks, flowers in their long hair, bows slung across lean, lithe bodies. Long, pointed ears poked out of their silky tresses, and in the moonlight their skin seemed to glow. Male and female they were, laughing and talking as they followed the great white stag that had come from the land of Faerie.

  It was this sight that greeted Padraic, who was walking home late. He had been visiting family in town and gotten rather deep in his cups when he realized he should be getting home. His cousin insisted on him staying the night, but he wasn’t keen on that arrangement, since he knew how noisy the lot of them were; it would be drinking, shouting, singing and arguing all night.

  No, there was nothing for it but to take the old winding road through the forest home, and sleep in his own familiar bed. He was an older fellow, balding, but with a friendly face apt to smiling. He had a good singing voice which made him popular whenever there was a get-together, but he felt he was getting too old for such shenanigans. He passed a huge oak tree and almost got trampled by a dozen or so horses coming out of nowhere.

  “Here now! Watch it!” he cried out.

  “My apologies, good sir,” came a lilting voice from one of the riders.

  Padraic looked up to see a dazzlingly dressed, breathtakingly handsome young hunter looking down at him while trying to steady his horse. He was more robust than the other riders, his shoulders broad, with straight auburn hair and soft brown eyes. The old man rubbed his eyes at the strangers...they were Elves! Shiny, pointy ears and all! He could see them, what’s more. Normally, their glamour shielded them from most Mohrtei eyes.

  “Are you all right, neighbor?” the half-elf asked him.

  “I’m fine, lord,” the human stammered, not knowing if he was a fine lord but thinking he sure looked the part. He noticed beside him astride a white mare was a beautiful maiden whose ears were not as pronounced as her fellows, nor her appearance so otherworldly, yet still different as he was. “My lady,” Padraic lowered his head to her in reverence.

  She flipped her white-blonde hair over her shoulder and laughed. “My brother needs to pay better attention to travelers on the road,” she spoke, and glanced pointedly at the man on the grey stallion beside her.

  “You are right, as usual, Kanaidwen,” he laughed. “I think we are all surprised to see anyone else at this time of night. Chance-meetings on lonely roads are rarely due solely to chance, my mother used to say.”

  Padraic smiled up at the lordly folk. “Aye, that’s a wise mother ye have, sir. I am Padraic O Connell. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Well, it seems mortals haven’t forgotten their manners,” spoke the maiden. “I am Kanaidwen ni Imerra, and this is my brother Tirnen Halfelven.”

  Padraic bowed and trembled all over; he knew the old tales of the Lady’s Children, bearing the blood of both the highest Elves and noblest Mohrtei. “Blessed be my fathers! It is an honor indeed,” he blurted out.

  “Is your home very far? You could ride with us,” Tirnen asked the old man.

  “Oh, ‘tis not far,” replied Padraic, then paled. The old tales also warned against accepting gifts or rides from the Faery Folk. Once astride a Faery steed, they would bear you away to gods only knew where, forever and ever. “I wouldn’t dare to impose such lordly ones as you, off on your, eh, Elvish business and all.”

  Kanaidwen laughed, a full, throaty, quite human-sounding laugh that contrasted the unearthly appearance of her and her company. “Don’t frighten the poor man, Tirnen. We’re not to be trusted, you see.” Then she turned her large, liquid hazel eyes to Padraic. “You have nothing to fear, lonely bard. We can simply walk beside you and keep you company till we reach your house, if that is all right by you.”

  Padraic glanced round at the shining yet open, friendly faces of the Sidhe, and graciously accepted their offer. He began walking, and the Fae walked their horses slowly beside and behind him. The hunters called back their lively white hounds, who bounded around him wagging their tails. He wasn’t sure what could happen if one outright refused the Shining Ones--it was one thing the stories of his fathers wasn’t clear on. “Uh, Lady, how did you know I was a bard?”

  “Who would see us for what we are but a bard or a magician?” Kanaidwen answered. “They see and hear things that others cannot, or will not.”

  “Your voice gives you away as well,” Tirnen added. “It is as fine as any of our singers. If it would not tax you too greatly, I would ask for a song, Master Padraic.”

  The old man granted the request gladly. His heart was lifted in a way it hadn’t been in a long time, and his voice soared forth. He remembered part of a song that he heard when he was a lad, and it went thus:

 
; I am tired and I am alone,

  Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,

  I am tired and I am alone,

  Forever cutting the bracken

  Behind the knoll, the top of the knoll,

  Behind the lovely knoll,

  Behind the knoll, the top of the knoll,

  Every day, alone

  I am tired and I am alone,

  Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,

  I am tired and I am alone,

  Forever cutting the bracken

  In the fairy hill, oh I will be tired,

  And often my heart would be wounded,

  When others sing their songs,

  I will do nothing but drone

  I am tired and I am alone,

  Cutting the bracken, cutting the bracken,

  I am tired and I am alone,

  Forever cutting the bracken

  “I canna remember the beginning, but it had to do with a Fae meeting a mortal maiden and falling in love with her, and she him. Her parents wouldn’t let them marry and kept them apart, but the Faery man never forgot her,” Padraic explained.

  “It is beautiful and sad,” Tirnen spoke. “I know the troubles that come of such ill-fated love.”

  “I meant no offense, Lord Tirnen,” the old bard was quick to add. “I too thought it was beautiful.” Then Padraic