Concentric Circles (29 page)

“Ow!” He landed hard. “Well, won’t be doing that again.”

The feeling of swooshing air passed over him. The next thing he knew stone literally surrounded him. He gasped and shoved outward. Nothing changed. Blinking, he tried to see. Gray and black filled his vision, tight like a death shroud. He shivered at the fleeting thought and moved with caution.

Raucous laughter filled his senses. He followed its resonance. Somehow, he was inside the stone walls. Unable to gain freedom, he allowed the building’s breathing to carry him. Realization that he was in a castle grew from instinct. He moved faster, seeking a door.

A gothic arch rose, obscuring his progress. He pushed his left palm forward, seeking the air past the stone’s edge. Nothing. He growled, fighting a niggling panic and tried again. Instead of being an exit, the open arch proved an impenetrable barrier.

To his utter frustration, he was unable to leave the interior of the wall. Breathing rapidly, he moved on, seeking another escape. After what seemed like hours, Meekal acknowledged there was nothing. Discouraged and tired, he returned to the windowless chamber and collapsed, falling into an exhausted sleep.

Just on the edge of dream, Black Bryan’s voice spoke within his mind.

“Magic leaves traces. Everywhere, Meekal. Use it to your advantage. Some call it the web of power or the spiritual essence of all beings and things.”

Present day Meekal moved forward, blending the memory and his current dream.

Youthful curiosity had overwhelmed him that day. “What do you mean? How can something like a single stone or even water be connected? They are two different things.”

“Does water not flow over stone?”

“Aye.”

“At the root of existence, there is a basic spiritual law. All is One. When you can finally understand that, then my grandson, you will be open to your boundless power.”

Meekal sat up with a sudden start. Heart racing, he stared into the dimness around him.

A clatter broke the silence, coming from near the door into his prison. A silver tray with an ornate cover appeared, shoved magically through the oak barrier.

He quirked a brow, wondering if he should chance it. His stomach answered.

Caution still ruled his mind. He gripped the ornate handle and lifted the top. Divinely scented roast beef, sprouts and sugared carrots. “Eat healthy, my prisoner?”

His stomach roared its opinion of the potential feast.

Meekal grunted. “Be quiet, traitor.” He eyed the two containers of water lying on their side. Damn, he was thirsty.

His stomach squelched and rumbled in abject protest.

“What about poison, you dolt?” he croaked, voice dry with thirstiness. “Do you really think Syther cares about how you feel?” The attempt to reason with his midsection failed, resulting in continued protest.

“Bloody hell. I’m having a conversation with my stomach. I must be radgie. Wouldn’t Harry love to hear about this craziness. Good thing walls can’t talk.”

Blonk!

It was like a two-by-four to the head. He fingered the back of his skull, searching for evidence of a lump and stared at the stones surrounding him. “Okay, Chilkwell. Now, decide to eat before we attempt our next trick.”

Shoving away any thought of potential failure, he embraced complete faith and held his hands open; palms faced down over the plate then closed his eyes. Focusing on the food’s energy, he pulled the information needed from it. Finally, after a few moments, intuition nudged him into acquiescence. No poison or drugs.
Let’s eat.

His stomach responded with a warm fuzzy feeling. He snorted and picked up the fork.

Once upon a time, he heard that desperate hunger could flavor food. Either Syther’s chef was excellent or that was truth. The delectable offering served to rebuild his strength, and therefore, his resolution to escape.

He finished and sat back against the cool stones, studying the empty plate. He waved his hand in a circle over the tray and grinned at his accomplishment. Why should Syther think he had eaten?

The replacement food, actually a Fae illusion, would fool anyone. Too bad, it would not have sustained him in reality. The tray and lid vanished. He stood with renewed hope, a twinge of satisfaction in his full stomach.

He scanned the chamber from wall to wall, corner to corner. Next, he paced out the size. Despite the odd shape of the ceiling, the underside of stairs, the space was quite large.
Plenty of room
.

Meekal walked to the center, positioned himself and began his moving meditation with the Celtic Cross. The action, starting out slow, served to focus his energy and calm his mind.

Some considered the Celtic Cross a replica of the infinity sign, or figure eight. Even breathing and continued motion began to build his auric field. The sensation gave him a sense of growing, centered power. With fluidity, he began his next moves, the Warrior’s Dance.

His first awareness of the Dance occurred when he had been fifteen, in hiding and curious about a world apart from his own. Leith, working through his courses inspired Meekal with the grace of a powerful snow panther—Leith’s animal form.

From that first moment, Meekal became an eager student. At sixteen, he began his sojourn into Annwn. There, Black Bryan taught him the significance of each required form and tutored him to find his own niche.

When Meekal returned to Chilkwell Manor, he learned Leith’s dance assisted in the final battle against Malvenue. Leith’s opponents did not understand his actions; therefore they failed to kill him.

Meekal went through his routine three cycles, ending in the center of the chamber. Breathing rapidly, yet with strength, he knelt and bowed his head. In prayer, he asked for abiding courage and full acceptance.

The castle embraced him. The air moved over him, bringing scents and sounds from time gone by. Every little breath and nuance of the castle’s magical existence encircled his power, melding them into one.

He threw back his head, arms wide in recognition of her abundance.

Violence in her history beat him on the ethereal level. He called out, feeling her pain. It became an integral part of his own survival. Mournful keening pierced his soul. Laughter. Singing. Voices through the ages saturated him.

He lay on the floor, staring up at the beams. Of its own volition, a hand rose in slow motion, edges blending with the stones around him.

“Edgelessness,” he murmured, awed by realization. “All is one.”

He rolled onto his knees and stared where skin and stone merged.
Wow
.

Now, the moment for step two in the process. He stood, and like a magnetic homing device, approached the north-facing wall. With one hand held over his heart, he drew three Pictish symbols on the stones: the triquetra, representing love, encircled for protection, and finished off with eight straight points of the star of truth.

When completed, the representation glowed white against grey stone. He used the tail of his snake pendant to pierce his index finger. Whispering, “Blessed be,” he placed his blood in the center.

Never again would he be separate from this structure. He studied his creation, sucking the blood from his finger, inhaled, and then stepped into the stones.

This journey within was different. Free of the earlier distress, he flowed naturally along, experiencing emotions and power never dreamed of before. Amazement grew as he saw her history and experienced the accumulated magic of 700 years.

Meekal swooshed along through the stones, not pausing to listen to indistinct voices coming from the castle chambers. Just moving gave him new experiences through the castle’s emotions and ageless knowledge.

Seasons changed, time shifted.

He stopped abruptly. “Whoa.”

The sensation shifted the rhythm of his heart. He stared in disbelief at a familiar face in the wide corridor.

“Carlyle,” a red headed man said, sneering. “You are to follow me.”

Vincent Carlyle, Cimmerian spy, stepped through the broad oak door.

Meekal spun on his heel and faced a large dining chamber. “Bloody hell. Is that?”

“Vincent,” a deep, salacious voice said. “Come in and join us for dinner.”

Vince approached the table.

The doorman reached up and placed a sinewy hand on Vince’s shoulder, trying to force him into submission with physical roughness. “On your knees, Carlyle.”

Vince, by no means a small man, rounded with lightning speed, fingers grasping the man’s jugular. With combined physical strength and magical essence, Vince held the man off the floor, anger seeping from every pore. “Do not touch me.”

The man flailed and gagged, his fingernails scraping ineffectively on the strong wrists keeping him airborne.

“Do you understand?” Vince asked, loosening his grip slightly.

The man attempted to nod.

Vince grunted and pulled him, still gripping his scrawny neck, back to the door then shoved him out of the dining hall. He shut the door firmly and turned back to the table where the men waited. Vince approached his audience and knelt as he got closer. Head bowed in respect, he said, “I’m sorry for my delay, sir. There was an interruption.”

Meekal snorted, high respect for Vince renewed. He knew him quite well and at the moment was glad of the friendship.

Malvenue smirked, humor lightening his face. “You may stand, Vincent. Join us for some dinner.”

Vince rose in one fluid movement, and then looked at Malvenue’s three lieutenants and their dinner. His gaze stopped at Bane Nott’s face, eliciting a challenge. Then to Malvenue, he said, “I have a rule, sir. Never eat before a duel. I hope you don’t misunderstand, but it’s a strict observance. I do believe I’m expected to face Nott at tonight’s meeting. Is that still the plan, sir?”

Malvenue arched a well groomed brow. “Sit anyway,” he said, pushing the plate away from the only empty chair. “You don’t have to eat. It’ll be easier for us to converse if you’re sitting.”

Vince sat and reached forward to push the water goblet aside, well out of his way.

Meekal grinned from his hidden position within the stone wall next to the fireplace where he easily viewed the scene.

“So,” Nott said, sneering. “You come into our little duel without sustenance to strengthen you—to fight like a man.”

A chortle escaped Meekal. The coming duel between Vince and his nemesis was legendary.

“The better to beat you, Nott.” Vince grinned and eyed Nott’s plate, a bare T-bone crossing its span. “I won’t be weighed down with heavy food. You, on the other hand, look as though you have pigged out sufficiently.”

Nott rose and snarled.

“Sit down, Bane,” Malvenue said. “Save it for the duel. If young Vincent chooses not to eat, then who are we to say whether he should or should not?” He turned his attention back to Vince. “What news do you have of the Chalice Well wards?”

Vince reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded paper and handed it to Malvenue.

Meekal took a moment to study Malvenue’s face as he read the notations Vince, James and Leith and his grandfather compiled. “To crumble from within,” Meekal murmured, and then smiled when the words blended into the stones around him. That was the intention of any information imparted on the magical paper Vince just gave Malvenue.

Malvenue’s brows came down into a sharp scowl. “The blood of the son?”

“Aye,” Vince replied.

Bane Nott and Syther now shared the paper, viewing it and muttering in low conversation.

“This is preposterous!” Malvenue roared. “How are we going to get the blood of the son if he is under the Avertable Charm?

“Avertable Charm, sir?” Vince asked.

Meekal laughed.

“Yes, Vincent. The whole Chilkwell family has disappeared. That can only mean they and the Well are under the Avertable Charm.”

A mask of contemplation covered the angles of Vince’s face.

“Damn,” Meekal said, “he’s good even if he’s only just turned eighteen.”

Nott threw the notes at Vince, wearing a disdainful expression. “Off the mark on that one, Carlyle. Your notes are the misguided impressions of a school boy.”

Vince glanced at the crumpled paper as he passed an index finger across his bottom lip, mimicking Professor O’dara. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, looking Malvenue in the eye. “Then how is it people are still able to visit the Chalice Well and Chilkwell Manor? I have always been taught,” he said, and paused to sneer at Nott. “That to be under the Avertable Charm, no one knows where the protected individuals or place is.” Head swiveling, he asked, “Isn’t that true, Lord Malvenue?”

“Yes, that’s usually how it works.”

“Then why can people still visit the Well? Is there a loop hole?”

“No one visits the Well anymore,” Nott said, voice dripping with spiteful venom.

“Really?” Vince asked. “Then why did I see them coming and going myself?”

Malvenue’s expression changed to quick anger. “Now, that is a good question. Nott, why have you reported that there has been no activity around the Well?”

Nott swallowed, ramrod stiff with visible tension. “There hasn’t been, sir. How can he say that when he hasn’t even been there?”

Vince chortled.

“Well, Vincent?”

“I was just there, sir. In fact, that’s where I was when you summoned me.”

“That’s a lie!” Syther roared.

Meekal scowled from his vantage point in the wall.

“Is that so?” Vince said, shaking his head. “How would you know that when you were nowhere near the Well? Surely, you can see this argument is going nowhere. I was there and you cannot prove otherwise.”

“You cannot leave school grounds.” Joshua Grymm, Cimmerian lieutenant and professor at Nemeton Academy glared at Vince. Silent until that moment, he insisted, “You lie. You were nowhere near Glastonbury today.”

Vince snorted. It grew to laughter as his brown eyes sparked. He looked at Malvenue, shoulders shaking, and pulled the left sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow. He smiled wickedly, removed a red leather cuff, and then ran a finger over his Black Thurisa Rune, the tattoo marking him as a Cimmerian. “That’s right,” he said, pausing to sneer at Grymm. “I’m not allowed to leave school grounds. I guess that means I’m in trouble. Detention, Carlyle, Thursday night. Be there, eight p.m.—sharp.” Vince replaced the cuff on his arm and continued to laugh.