Shapeshifter Read Online Free Page B

Daireann drifted into her sleeping room and admired herself before the tall mirror mounted beside her bed. She arched her neck, tossed back her yellow hair and slipped another bracelet up her white arm. Sive waited, knowing there was more to come. Daireann never left a gracious phrase unbarbed. “In any case, I don’t suppose we shall see much of each other. There are several men courting me, and you’ll be busy with the other workers.”
    With a sisterly smile as venomous as a poisoned arrow, Daireann excused herself and bustled off, leaving Sive to discover for herself where her women had been housed and when dinner might be expected.
    HE HAD A TUMBLE of dark curls and black eyes that flashed when he smiled, and he was sitting to Sive’s left at the next morning’s meeting called to organize the performers. Somehow her attention kept drifting toward him rather than the master of revels, an earnest fellow with a droning voice. The schedule was not taxing: over the five-day gathering, performers were asked to share their art at every other dinner and at two midday meals. “You all are our esteemed guests,” gushed the revelmaster. “If there is any comfort or hospitality lacking to you, you have only to let me know.”
    A proper bed would be a start, thought Sive. After a night spent bobbing in a sea of cushions, she was less than rested. Her women had fared better, sharing one room but each with a freshly stuffed pallet, clean bedclothes and a rack to hang out her gowns.
    During the introductions that followed, Sive discovered she was the only female singer—there was a pair of sisters who played flute and harp, and two male singers— and the only artist not from the west. The young man who had caught her eye was Elatha, a poet from a sidhe on the ocean’s edge, in the rocky, wild country that thrust out like fingers from the southwest corner of the Island. As they were leaving, Sive managed to put herself in the arched doorway at the same time as him.
    “You’ve come a long way,” he said.
    “Aye,” she agreed. “And so have you, to be sure.”
    “Yet my sidhe is within Bodb’s realm, while yours is not. Not to malign your talents, which I am sure are marvellous, but I wonder what led our king to invite you.”
    She glanced up, looking for a slight, but the dark eyes showed only friendly curiosity.
    “Ah, well. There’s a family connection.”
    Elatha pointed to the right, where several of the artists were ambling through a small door that led outdoors. Bright sunshine spilled onto the flagstones each time it opened.
    “There is a delightful garden out there. Shall we take a look, and you can tell me more about your family ties?”
    Elatha held out his arm, and Sive took it.
    It was a perfect golden autumn day, and the garden was a sprawling delight. Sunny banks of flowers, herbs and fruit trees gradually gave way to cool shaded pathways. At last they emerged onto a long strand edging the lake. Someone had thoughtfully provided benches to rest on.
    “I would love to live by the water,” Sive said. “I am drawn to it like a salmon.”
    “This is not water, but only a mucky pond,” Elatha teased. “You should live where I do. There is water everywhere.”
    “I have hardly ever seen the ocean,” Sive confessed.
    “How can that be?” He feigned astonishment. “Have you no ocean in the east?”
    “Only on the coast, where I, sadly, do not live.”
    “Yes, and speaking of where you live”—Elatha gave Sive a little nudge with his elbow—“what are these connections of yours?”
    “Do you know Daireann?”
    “Oh yes.” Did she imagine it, or were his eyes suddenly guarded? “Everybody knows Daireann.”
    “I am her half-sister. We have the same mother.”
    There was no mistaking it. Subtly, but definitely, Elatha straightened up so that the space between them became politely formal. “You are Daireann’s sister?”
    “ Half -sister,” she corrected. And then, throwing both caution and