Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy (17 page)

Chapter 15

Finvarra glamoured through the wall that held Alex prisoner. “She has undergone Widdershins.”

Alex pivoted to face Finvarra, “By herself? Whaur is she? How dae ye ken this?”

“Part of her bargain with my consort and that of your jailor, her father.”

“Did ye guide her? Ye ne’er dae anything ye are asked without yer own compensation.”

“She was very single-minded, nothing would ha’ distracted her; she is the most intriguing human I ha’ met. Comparable ta ye, in fact. I am looking forward ta when we meet again, but until she calls my name, I ha’ ta wait.” He approached and clapped him on the shoulder. “The end is near, either for good or ill. She will be our salvation or our destruction. Ha’ faith.”

“Aye, Finvarra, I dae ha’ faith, but thaur is no hope for me, the Wild Hunt is elemental.”

“Alexander Morgan Sinclair, all hope is not lost for whene’er she is, she is no’ alone. She carries yer progeny.”

A burning desire welled from the pit of his stomach. A desire so elemental, to find Brenawyn and cocoon her against all harm. He couldn’t do anything here, in this place, this glass prison, but out there. Yea, that was where he needed to be. He needed to exert his frustration and nothing spoke to that need like the Hunt. The sluaghs would bring him to ground; he’d welcome it this time, relish the pain, for through the pain came resurrection and heightened ability. If he could manage to run the course a couple of times, it had never been asked before by prey to willingly go into the Stalking Grounds, but he didn’t see a reason for the request to be denied. All he’d have to do was anger the god again. That would be easy. Such rage and frustration, held back after centuries of servitude. No, it wouldn’t be hard to anger the god. He wished he was a better judge on how time passed between the two realms to judge how long he had, how many times he could run the course. He’d have to get out before Samhain, so he’d be free to protect her from Cormac and the rest of the Coven. He turned to Finvarra, decision made, “Call Cernunnos. I want ta renegotiate.”

He couldn’t tell the passage of time from the light outside the window. Above the trees it was the same light as in Tir-Na-Nog, indirect and bright, but below it barely traversed the thick canopy. What little that did make it through was further swallowed by the thick sheets of moss hanging from the branches. Small ripples from questing fish broke the stagnant stillness of the water but even that was suddenly quiet as a more menacing shadow undulated just under the surface. If only there were more light, Alex would be able to see what it was that lurked there. Another predator, one he hadn’t come in contact with yet. Perhaps it would be its turn this time when he went in.

He paced the length of windows, falling into routine as so many times before. Was it his imagination that saw a wear mark along this path? He’s certainly paced it enough over the centuries.

Alex knew he wasn’t alone and turned, surprised to find Cernunnos standing there. He had to bend to fit inside the room, and even so then his antlers scraped against the ceiling, shaving off plaster so it fell like snow on his shoulders. “

“I was told ye want ta renegotiate. Ta go into the arena now. Is this true, Shaman?”

“Ye ha’ heard correctly.”

“Yer request is denied, superseded by another.”

“Ye ha’ no’ heard my reasoning.”

“It matters not; she has made herself kent ta me. Ye will bide until such time as she comes ta take yer place.”

“Take my place? How could ye dae that ta yer daughter who has been lost ta ye for nigh on five hundred and seventy years?”

“I ha’ a task for her. T’is none o’ yer concern, in fact, yer services are no longer required. An apprentice has been chosen and when it comes time, ye will transfer yer abilities o’ yer office. Ye will retain what ye ha’ gained from the resurrections, then all that remains will be the demands o’ the Wild Hunt.”

“I doona ha’ any illusions as ta my fate, it will be haur or thaur until the end o’ time, but t’is my obligation ta choose the next Merlin.”

“The responsibility has been taken from ye by the elders. “They feel ye ha’ lost yer objectivity. They ha’ chosen Cormac Domhaill MacBrehon.”

“Never.”

“T’is beyond yer control.”

“Never. MacBrehon was discarded as a choice the last time. Six hundred years have not mellowed him. He is arrogant and cruel, corrupted by power and eager for the kill. He murdered Colleen, after she … ” a cry ripped from his throat and he turned his back on the god. “She was my woman, I had nay claim ta her, but I loved her nonetheless. Meeting clandestinely for stolen moments during the Choosing. I couldnae help myself; she was so …  gods, she was beautiful and innocent.

After I was chosen, he got to her, played on her insecurities. I would have found a way to be with her, but I was called away so often in the beginning and he was thaur, freed from the selection process. He listened ta her frustrations about the separation. I doona ken when he started ta court her; I wasn’t privy ta that part. Just forced ta watch, as part o’ my torture haur. Ye should ken that, ye ordered it ta break me.”

“She was not worthy of you.”

“I’ll never know.”

“Can a human change so much?”

“Depends on the circumstances for each person I think. Some

                                                                                                        will never change, like Cormac, except to slide more into darkness. Mark my words, he is a heretic.”

Chapter 16

How long was Brenawyn supposed to wait here for something to happen before she gathered her nerve and found her way out of here? It would be easier once she poled her way back to the dock, but she had just the lantern, unless the electricity worked from the switch on the wall somewhere to her left.

She let the pack slide down her arms and reached for the lantern getting to her feet before lighting it. The battery powered light glowed yellow illuminating the
empty
platform. No candles, no stones, no push button for the electricity anchored to the limestone on the left wall.

Panic set in. The lantern thumped on the stone, cantered and spun teetering on the edge for a second before falling. In slow motion, she lunged for it but it was too late, the lantern landed six feet below, still lit, in the pool of the stream bed. She skittered back from the edge and crouched with her head in her hands.

Breathe.

This is what you expected to happen
—
pull yourself together, get the gear together, go for the lamp, there is an exit this way too.

Brenawyn flung the pack onto her back tying the straps around her waist for extra security. She scooted to the edge and rolled so her belly was flat on the precipice, her legs dangling off. She tore at her nails, ripping off the edges so they wouldn’t be in the way as she gripped the finger holds she found in the limestone. Inch by inch, she climbed down, unsure of the footholds she found, tensing on each, until she knew they could hold her weight. It was tough going, the rock slick with moisture, but she touched down on the rocky stream bed next to the natural pool and collapsed to sit. She hooked the lantern’s handle with the edge of her boot and hauled it to her, shaking off the water. The lantern still glowed as bright, but here in the deep recesses it didn’t illuminate as far. What was she to do if the light gave out? Then she remembered. Did Finvarra’s gift make it with her?

She reached into the deep pocket to find the dust. Oh thank God! She took a handful out, careful not to drop any. What was the phrase?
Taispeáin an solas dom
and blew on the dust. The sand ignited and spread through the air, moving at an alarming speed, then flew up and raced against the ceiling, casting light on all below. Brenawyn switched off the lantern to save battery power.

She walked picked her way carefully on the slippery rocks, heading deeper into the earth. She blew on more dust periodically, muttering the same phrase, rewarded with light to further her journey. She hiked through the rocks, scrambling over stalagmites that fell eons ago, Following the twinkling lights, she came to a dead end and looked up to the spiraling lights as they twisted up. Brenawyn put her pack down, knowing what she needed to do if ever she was going to be free. She thought of going back but the steep climb was more than she could bear. She tried the dust anyway, but the lights only went up. She’d be lost forever in these caves if she went back down. She no longer had the man-made trails to judge her whereabouts.

The shaft was tight, little more than a body’s width, and if that were the case, she’d be able to use pressure to keep from falling. There was a coil of nylon rope in the pack, along with a grappling hook and carabiners. She went slowly, wedging her back against the wall before venturing up, more concerned with finding a secure foothold than what was keeping her from falling to her death, broken on the slabs below. The space became tighter as she put her hands on rock covered in light dust that glinted and faded out as she passed. At least she couldn’t frighten herself by looking down. Her fingers and toes ached from gripping. The muscles in her legs and arms screamed. The space was getting smaller, closing in on her. This was no time for claustrophobia. She came to the end of the line, where the reminder of the light clustered in front of her. Now what? She couldn’t go down.

She maneuvered and the hook scraped on the wall. She gripped the handle and took a half swing that was all the space would allow at the point. The rock gave easily, crumbling away, showering her with chunks of limestone. She gave another series of whacks; more chunks fell away. She could feel a breeze and it gave her strength to keep hacking.

It was a long time before she had an opening large enough to pull herself through but when she did, she had no interest in looking to see where she ended up. Somewhere in the vicinity of the caverns, but it was dark, night, and she was so tired. Crawling away from the opening she curled up in a depression behind a fallen log, pillowing her head on her pack before dropping off to sleep.

She came awake in increments, listening to the sounds of the birds and small animals scurry around her. Soon enough she’d have to deal with where she was, but she would keep her eyes closed for just a few more minutes.

What was that?

Brenawyn heard voices whispering. They had seen her. Shit. Time to deal. She opened her eyes and at first didn’t see anyone. “Hello?”

“Och, she’s awake. The sleeping lady’s awake. Da’s got ta be told.” A rustle of leaves and brush, identified the retreating forms of two gawky boys in kilts. “Bide,” the taller told his brother, “we canna lose her.” The younger looked back at Brenawyn, conflicting emotions racing across his face. He obviously wanted to stay to claim whatever bragging rights there were to be had, but he was skeptical, looking at her as if she were a snake. She stood up and took a step towards him, and he shied away. Perhaps she’d be able to get a location from the father when he arrived.

She judged the boy was no danger and sat down on the log. She was in a ravine; a stone bridge spanned the gap above her. She was no expert, and certainly never looked at the structural quality of anything, but didn’t concrete and steel buttresses need to be there for support?

“What’s your name?” she called.

His mouth gaped as he turned his head in the direction of his now absent brother and took a few steps back.

“I won’t hurt you.” She tried to allay his fears, still sitting on the log. “I’m lost. Could you tell me where I am?”

Again, nothing. She gave up. If he wasn’t going to answer her she’d better find someone who would. Perhaps if she went in the direction of the brother she’d run into someone who could give her information. But in the time it took her to swing the pack on her back, she heard a group approach.

“Och laddie, it be too many o’ the auld stories ye be hearin’ around the fire. Be speakin’ ta yer da tonight, I will.”

“I doona need ta confess. Ye’ll see.”

The two came around the bend and the woman stopped midstride so the brother walked into her rocking her forward on her feet.

Brenawyn stood up brushing at the wrinkles in her overalls, as if that would help. The woman was petite, with a kerchief holding back her long greying hair. The first real indication that she was in the past was the woman’s dress. She wore a rough woven blouse and skirt under a long apron. She had a cape wrapped around her to guard her against the cold.

“Och, St. Bride save us. T’is the sleeping lady.” She was shaking visibly, “Laddie, go find yer da. Bring him back ta the keep. Go, take yer brother too.”

“Hi, um, I’m Brenawyn McAllister. Could you tell … ”

“No’ the now. Come, ye canna be seen as ye are. T’is indecent.” Rushing to her side, she twirled the cape off her shoulders and onto Brenawyn’s, in one fluid movement, effectively hiding her coveralls. “Come, I’ll slip ye inta the keep, find ye something suitable ta wear, and then ye’ll get yer questions answered.

“But, if you would just...”

“I doona mean ta be discourteous,” she said, looking around at the surrounding shrubbery with suspicion, pinning the ends of the cloth with a silver broach, “but thaur are people who would be frightened and it wouldna bode well for ye.”

Brenawyn had no choice but to trail after her. She was in a different time, and she could have appeared in much less desirable circumstances. She’d follow this woman for the time being, allow her to find appropriate clothing that would help her fit in better, until at least, she opened her mouth and announced that she was from some other place. She was obviously in Scotland or Ireland. She’d never paid any mind to the different dialects, and didn’t know if the distinction would help her now. What could she say about her own place of origin? A woman, her speech and her pronunciations markedly different, traveling alone? Could she ask to see the Merlin? Should she make reference to the Druids? Her first instinct was to reveal nothing until she had a better bead on where and when she was.

The grade of the land became steep, calling for all of her focus to not trip over the folds of the cloak. The woman, who was not even short of breath from the climb, had to turn and wait for her frequently.

“Och, gi’ me the bag. With all yer huffing, ye’ll sure attract the whole clan’s attention.”

Without the bag, it was easier, because it wasn’t pulling her off balance. They gained the edge and Brenawyn held her side, breathing deeply through her mouth, but the woman marched on, figuring Brenawyn to follow now that the ground was even.

She stood at the edge of a stone bridge, the same that spanned the ravine, with guard towers on either side. She saw movement in the shadows of the thin openings, eyes staring down at her. The woman hurried back, took her arm and led her on, beyond the sight of the tower. “I should ha' waited 'til the dark ta bring ye. When we get ta the end o’ the path, hurry, like yer busy at yer tasks, and for all that is holy, keep yer head down. Follow me but not as close as we would be seen walking together. Ye ken, aye?”

“Yes. I can do that. What is your name?”

“Later, lassie. Later.”

They passed through the matching towers, unmanned, and into an open courtyard. Brenawyn passed small structures easily identifiable as stables, smokehouse and a blacksmith’s forge were closest to the gate and furthest away from the main dwelling for ease and probably safety from fire. They passed a large draft horse pulling a cart full of peat as they reached the kitchen. This was attached to the main keep, the largest building and, it turned out, this was where they were heading.

Without looking back, the woman entered the kitchens. As she entered silence fell as the roomful of women stopped amid their duties, one with her hands still in the dough she was kneading, another taking bread out of the wood oven. A loaf fell in the cinders, showering the skirt of a gape-mouthed girl with embers. This made the women move, slowly at first, the one looking interestedly as the edges of her apron. Eyes wide with the implication, she emitted a small cry and began to pat at the smoldering cloth.

Her escort doubled back gathering Brenawyn and ushering her past the herd, “Back ta yer duties,” she said to the room at large.

The corridor off the kitchen led directly to a steep staircase and Brenawyn was shepparded up. The utilitarian stair led up five flights and out on a walkway on the outside of the building where she looked over the entire picturesque compound and a river beyond. She wasn’t allowed to enjoy it for long, though because the woman steered her to the corner turret. With the jingle of a key ring, she reached around Brenawyn, keeping a steel grip on her arm, to open the door.

Brenawyn stepped into the Spartan apartment. In it was a large bed, stripped down to the bare linen rush mattress, a serviceable desk, and a bookshelf stuffed with tomes and scrolls in a higgly-piggly fashion.

The woman looked abashed at the state of the room, “Please forgive us, lady, I will find the lass responsible for this. Do ye like me ta bring her so ye can exact punishment?”

Brenawyn was confused. “Punishment?”

“Aye, I will order yer rooms ta be made presentable.” She looked around the room with efficiency, mumbling to herself, checking off a mental list of supplies. She went to the empty fireplace, knelt, and in minutes a flame caught on the kindling. She fed it slowly, laying first a pile of thin branches, making sure they caught, and then laid the largest of the split logs across, careful not to smother it.

Brenawyn watched her for a long moment, her back still turned, as she crouched there, absently wiping her hands on her skirt. Brenawyn turned to unpin the broach and the cloak slipped through her fingers to the floor; she was unaccustomed to the weight of the dyed wool. She collected it from the floor, folded it in half, placed it on the end of the bed, and set the broach on top of it.

The woman turned. “Please, allow me ta help ye undress.”

Brenawyn stepped back and laughed, “I can handle it, thank you.”

“I will leave ye then ta make arrangements.” The woman looked back at her and sighed, tears glistening in her eyes before closing the door behind her.

“Wait,” Brenawyn called but the key slid into the rusty lock with a click as it slid home effectively making Brenawyn prisoner. She unzipped her pack, unfolding her garments still damp from the cave. She dragged the two ladder-backed chairs in the room over to the fire and laid the wet clothing over it to dry. She sat on the hearth rug and took off her boots, placing her bare feet as close to the fire as she could stand, the purple polish on her toes a visual reminder that she didn’t belong here. Why did she think that she should come? To what purpose? How was she to find Alexander in a time when any mention of Druid practice, or of Celtic gods would probably be misunderstood as witchcraft?