Concentric Circles (31 page)

Naias moved to the side, allowing room for her to step into the Chalice Well.

She swallowed her nervousness at the comprehension that she would be succumbing to the water’s power, and moved forward.

Like the legends of old telling of willing clerics and their brush with death’s nirvana, it was her turn. Faith. The toe of her boot broke the surface, and then she stood, balanced between Naias and Prester, their watery arms encircling her body.

Without warning, the bottom dropped out from under her.

There was no sensation of drowning. Instead, her very adamantine particles, joined by a body composed of water, blended with her wet surroundings. The sensation of air brushed over her, and then the earth appeared, solid under her feet.

She coalesced from the night’s mist, arriving in the highlands. Somehow she knew, without question, that was where she was.
What now?

Naias’ laugh sounded within her mind. “Follow your heart. Be safe and well, my child. If you have further need, just call.”

“Safe journey,” Prester said, as they wafted away on a cool night breeze.

After they left, she stood in a quandary, surrounded by Gnomonn inspired darkness. “Where should I begin?”

“Follow your heart,” Naias said.

Shayla closed her eyes against the suffocating powers of Gnomonn’s swarthy black shadow. She focused on the essence of her heartbeat. Breathing in deeply, gave a magical calm to its rhythm. Now centered, she had a vision in her mind’s eye of Meekal trapped within a wall. She cupped her hands and whispered, “I am here.”

“Shay, no. Go back. The shadows. It isn’t time yet.”

“No.” Stubbornness roiled within as she heard the sounds of wind through the trees. She opened her eyes. 

“
B
EHIND YE
!” C
IARAN
L
EXISS
said.

She spun.

Three Thyrza stood within a moving shadow. “The Fae bitch has arrived.” The sneering voice cut across the darkness with sheer evilness.

“Really?” Her question sounded strong even to her own ears. In a lightning fast move, she flung her wrist as though throwing a Frisbee. The hematite and flint flew through the air. The shiny black stone hit one Thyrza in the temple with the grounding power of hematite’s magnetic magic. He froze, glued to the earth, unable to move.

The other Thyrza did not fare so well. The flint embedded in his heart. Realization of death passed over his countenance, and then he shimmered to the ground, eyes still wide, reflecting the unexpected appearance of the moon.

Surprised at the sudden appearance of lunar light, Shayla glanced at the luminance in the sky. Wailing drew her attention back to the dead man’s face. Death’s shadow swept his soul away. “Must have been a contributor to the umbra power,” she said, frowning at the man’s pale face.

The third Thyrza, recovered from his surprise, pointed his wand, and began to curse her.

“Alalia!” She stopped the curse in mid-utterance with the spell Meekal had taught her.

Terrified silence greeted her. While the man scratched frantically at his throat, she reached down and pulled the sharp flint from a stilled heart. “Ugh! Blood.” She shook the feeling of absolute repulsion away and stiffened. Then, repulsion transformed into relief. In the face of death, she had survived. She reached for the voiceless Thyrza, holding his sleeve in a death grip. “Take me to your lair. Now.”

Fear emanated from him as he gave a swift shake of the head, his only response to her demand.

“Fine then,” she replied with determination. “I’ll just follow my heart and this newly spilled blood. Did you know that blood itself isn’t evil? It’s one of the essences of life and flows freely without judgment. Ever think of that?” she asked, making casual conversation.

Wide-eyed silence answered back.

“No? Well, now you can, because you will have plenty of time to contemplate while I rescue Meekal.” She let go of his sleeve. “Hematite.” Sudden coolness and the weight of the stone felt comforting in her palm.

The Thyrza jumped away in his effort to flee. The magnetic pull of the stone proved too much for him. He froze in place, facing his partner in crime—grounded within a bodily prison.

“Wicked,” she said, allowing a tonal British accent to flourish while she studied them. The aberration of shadows around her moved almost in response to her voice. She spoke confidently to the night’s demons. “You may as well disperse. Although I may appear to be alone, that’s a fallacy. Gnomonn have no influence over me since the last time you emerged. Be gone.”

The night shapes moved, howling their misery at the sudden loss of power. The absence of fear and Fae based magic of the elements earth, water and fire, carried the essence of the Gnomonn away on the night’s chilly air.

She blew out, assisting them in their dispersion. Once more, she closed her eyes and focused on her heart. There, Meekal’s heart beat in tandem with her own.

“I know you’re still here,” he said within its rhythm.

“Yeah. You think I scare that easily? You have a lot to learn about me, baby.”

Meekal responded with a grunt. “I already know. You’ll have to slip in by the use of air. But let the mists carry you instead. They are expecting you to wind-ride to the outer walls.”

“How many are there?”

“Last count, twenty.”

“Well, now they’re down to seventeen.”

“What?” His surprise echoed within her ears.

She raked the frozen Thyrza with her eyes and spoke aloud so they would hear. “I captured two. One is dead.”

“Bloody hell.” Meekal’s voice traced itself through her, reflecting both awe and surprise. “Still, use caution. There may be more outside the castle walls.”

“A castle huh? So the maiden comes to save the knight.” She chuckled. “Who’s going to write this story?”

“Funny. Have C
IARAN
L
EXISS
ready. Remember, I told you; he has been here before and can guide you. I best be silent, they may pick up magically on our communication.”

She froze when realization of his missing voice pulled her attention around to the hills surrounding her. The wind pushed against her face, chilling to the spine. Shayla squinted into the surrounding deep shadows, positive more danger lurked. 
Naias
.

The night mists comprised of Naias’ energy returned, swaddling them in a tight cocoon, hiding their presence from the arrival of several more Thyrza. From within the foggy embrace, Shayla counted five Thyrza, two women and three men.

Naias’ essence caressed her mind.
Move forward. You are safe now
.

Shayla floated away on the mist. The stones of a castle keep loomed. Before leaving the moist air, she murmured, sending her voice upon the mist. “Keep them at bay, please. Thank you, Naias.”

“Prester has captured four others in muddled, foggy confusion.” Laughter tinged Naias’ feminine voice. “They will not find their way back for some time. Blessed be, Shayla.”

“Nine and three. Humm, that evens the odds more. Thank you, and tell Prester for me.” The stone wall proved no barrier to her advancement. She wafted through an open window.

“Scottish night mist. Maybe a trap?” She posed the question generally to anyone or anything that would listen as she dispersed her life-force energy from the damp air and her boots found the steadying stone floor.

Sheitan’s breathing and purr greeted her.

“Hello, black angel,” she said, reaching out and scratching a silky ear. “Some guard you are. Do you suppose Syther knows about our bond?”

Sheitan licked her fingers in affection.

A soft laugh bubbled up from Shayla. She reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved a special treat.

Fast footfalls approached in the corridor on the other side of a heavy carved oak door. In reflex, Shayla moved back to blend in with the shadows around the tied back draperies of a window.

“No!” Meekal yelled. “Stay away from the walls! Skirr instead.”

“Huh?”

He gave her an exasperated sigh. “
Sacred Travel in the Wizarding World
, page three hundred ninety-four. Mask your presence.”

“You have it memorized?”

“You’ll still be here, yet unseen,” he said with deliberate quickness. “Do it now. Spin a doorway.”

She spun her hand in a spiral. An opening materialized and she stepped through just before Syther entered with Dragar close behind. “I don’t remember you telling me about that one,” she said, stepping away from Syther’s path. “Remember, you wouldn’t let me read the book?”

“Aye. There wasn’t time.”

Dragar paused, his hand on the black iron door latch, and then in apparent glee, shoved the heavy oak back against the wall. Bang! He guffawed in amusement, its resonance enhancing the continued abusive attitude toward the wall.

Meekal grunted in pain. “Bloody hell! Ouch! Told you, but Harry,” he said and paused in his speech to pull in a deep breath. “He was teasing you about Indians.” Although he laughed in the end, his voice faded.

“Meekal!” Confusion swirled in her mind. “What’s happening?”

Another painful grunt, and then he answered. “They’ve been abusing the walls on purpose. I feel everything. You wouldn’t believe. Ow!”

“Meekal, talk to me.”

He responded by hissing through his teeth. “When I get outta this wall.”

An eager look of wicked anticipation rested on Syther’s face. “So, when do you suppose she will arrive?” He flicked his lethal bone wand, sending shiny black sparks at the stones behind his minion.

The wall shimmered even as more sounds of pain came from Meekal.

Dragar shrugged and glanced around the chamber, gaze falling on Sheitan. “Who knows? When she gets here, I want a piece of her.”

“Don’t we all,” Syther said, and then he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, calling his panther to his side. “Hello, my sweet little evil angel. Did you miss me?”

Shayla snorted as the panther purred and pounced playfully. “Berk. If only you knew.”

“We don’t want him to know yet, Shay. Before this is over, he will.”

“Yeah,” she replied, finally pausing to look around the well-appointed chamber. “So this is the noble house of Sir Syther, the Quitch.” Ancient portraits lent an air of nobility. Shayla frowned when a woman, dressed in formal eighteenth century attire studied the place where Shayla stood. She lifted a finger to her lips, giving the universal motion for silence, and added a quirked brow.

The woman shrugged and turned away.

“Aye,” Meekal said, answering her comment, his voice coming forth more British than she had ever heard it. “Except Syther isn’t a member of the Peerage. Although he’s descended from a sister of an earl. A magical Pict.”

She pondered on the thought of his accent.
Is it genetics or a combination of living in two different worlds?

“It’s a combination of all of the above.”

“Oh. Guess I forgot you’re in my head at the moment. What do you mean about a magical Pict?” The two men held her attention as she waited for Meekal’s answer.

Syther removed a cigar from a carved humidor on the broad mahogany desk, snipped the end off and took pleasure lighting it. Noxious smoke wafted around him.

Dragar coughed.

Syther chortled, returned the cigar cutter to the humidor and closed the lid.

“His name isn’t even Syther,” Meekal said. “It’s something he picked for himself. He’s actually Sable Malcolm Cumyn Graham. The family changed the spelling and split from the clan of Cumyn hundreds of years ago. They don’t consider themselves related—thus loss of peerage. It’s just another consequence of being Pictish and blending into society. One branch married into nobility, the other slipped into the obscurity of shadows.”

Syther placed the cigar firmly between his teeth and conjured a ball. He tossed it against the wall, enticement for Sheitan.

Meekal paused and grunted when a ball hit the stones next to the fireplace. Sheitan chased the rolling plaything until she caught it and slid, paws scratching on the floor as her body barreled into the opposite wall. “Bloody hell! Keep her away from me!”

She giggled and whispered, “Sheitan, go. Guard the door against intruders.”

Sheitan meowed and pranced out without a backward glance at the two Thyrza seated in winged chairs before the fireplace.

Shayla eyed them, speculation beginning to change to deeper curiosity. “Kal.”

“Come on. They won’t say anything important. I know because I’ve listened since they put me here. You need to find the chamber that I have fondly dubbed the over-shadower.”

“Why would you call it that?”

“Well, it may seem strange, but I think it’s the heart of the castle. I can feel everything; even have a sense of the stones breathing. The idea of a shadow heart, something that throws a shadow over everything just came to me. It’s under the staircase.”

“That’s not strange. The breathing, I mean. Have you ever been in a store when they turn the power off? It feels funny because the equipment sighs, like the building goes to sleep or dies.”

By now, she was in the wide corridor outside Syther’s parlor. She paused, a plush area rug under her boot holding her in place, enthralled. A look around at the heavy furnishings and wall tapestries told her of Syther’s wealth. “Yeah, it’s a castle.” The tapestry in front of her portrayed a foxhunt. She studied its intricacy. “So,” she joked, “you’re under the stairs?”

“Aye.”

“In a cupboard under the stairs.”

“Not a cupboard. A large chamber. There are no vents or windows. The only door is opposite the bottom of the stairs in the tallest wall. I tried to get out. There must be charms and enchantments to prevent wind-riding.”

“How can you be in the walls?” The only answer she heard was a deep sigh. “Meekal? Talk to me.”

“Shayla?” His voice sounded far off.

“What’s wrong?”

A shuddering breath, and then she heard a soft and troubled, “I don’t know.”

A strong sense of trepidation came over her, goose bumps rising in its wake. Shuffling footsteps sounded at the end of the far end of the corridor.