Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy (16 page)

“A little late ta be concerned o’er much about the deal ye’ve made.”

“I guess you’re right. Go on then.”

Finvarra stood and a sword appeared in his hand. He grabbed the longsword and raised the hilt to his temple, blade near horizontal pointing at a would-be opponent’s throat. “The fighting was fierce, but it came down to each sides’ champions, Nuada, and the Fir Bolg’s Sreng.”

Finvarra-Nuada moved gracefully, changing the position of the sword angled up to what appeared to be in the vicinity of the opponent’s chest. His movements became quicker and more fluid. Brenawyn didn’t know where to look in the light cast by the lantern. Finvarra danced throughout the cast light coming to a stop in front of Brenawyn, sword poised at forty-five degrees angled over his head, looking down at her, “But then,” he whispered, “disaster.”

He was rocked back by an unseen blow, severing his arm just below the shoulder, the sword clattering to her feet. She was too shocked to scream, but only had forethought to plaster herself to the rock wall behind her.

The severed arm vanished before it hit the ground, the spurting blood gone. Brenawyn shook her head, but soon realized it was all an illusion. Finvarra-Nuada stood in front of her sans his right arm smiling slightly and sighed. “Nuada won the day, but was no longer able to lead.”

“He won the battle and was demoted?”

“Aye, that is the way o’ the Tuatha Dé. The leader has ta be whole, and Nuada was no longer. He was given care though. Dian Cecht, a healer, was employed ta stanch the wound and build a prosthetic arm.”

“Oh, huh. I thought they were a relatively modern invention.”

“Nay. They are no’. The arm that Dian made was o’ silver, but by the time the arm was finished, a replacement king was coronated. Bres, a half-Fomorian, assumed leadership.

Finvarra’s bone structure moved again and the scar disappeared. The short, cropped red hair grew and darkened into a black mane past his shoulders. A heavy brow settled over eyes as black as midnight. He added another six or more inches to his already imposing height, packing on more muscle to his chest, arms, and legs. Finvarra-Bres looked down on Brenawyn. “But, Bres was a tyrant, imposing ridiculous laws and enslaving the Tuatha Dé.”

Brenawyn nodded comprehension.

“Thaur were whispers o’ rebellion, but nay plan until Dian Cecht’s son and apprentice, Miach, without the knowledge o’ his father, cast a spell ta ha’ flesh grow over Nuada’s silver armature. Appearing whole again, it didna take long for Nuada’s resurrection ta spread, and without a single drop o’ blood lost, deposed Bres, and was restored.

Bres didna take the loss so easily. He went immediately ta his father, Elatha, and was sent ta his grandfather, Balor, king o’ the Fomorians. Nemed’s truce between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Formorians … ”

“The same Nemed whose war had you flee to the North?”

“Aye, the same. The ancient truce was broken and thus the second battle o’ Magh Tuireadh.”

“Between the Formorians and the Tuatha Dé.”

“Aye, but this time,” Finvarra-Bres’ bones moved again. The mane of dark hair became shaggier, and he shrank a bit, becoming broader in the shoulders and thicker in the belly. His face was grotesquely malformed to accommodate one larger eye socket. The sclera of this eye intruded on the iris clouding and covering it over until just the black pupil stood out in hideous contrast.

Brenawyn gasped.

“Balor’s poisonous eye killed Nuada.”

“Does that eye, and the Oracle’s have anything in common?”

“Verra perceptive ye are, but that can wait.”

“So, the Formorians won the second battle?”

“Nay, the Tuatha Dé did, but only because a new champion, Lugh, stepped up and killed Balor. Some claim it was luck that Lugh stayed out of Balor’s gaze, but I was thaur. Lugh had the spear talisman crafted in Findias with him which ensured victory.”

“So how many years between the second and third battle of … what did you call it?”

“Magh Tuireadh”

“Moy Tirra.”

“Good. Ye ha’ an ear for languages.”

“Thank you.”

“Many of yer lifetimes between the two, so many, in fact, that Lugh died, and the spear talisman was lost.”

“That’s unlucky for your people.”

“Quite. The Accord struck after the third battle represents the balance.”

Brenawyn laughed, “And you want me to do what exactly? Be a warrior, some kind of champion? Good luck. I’d just as likely sever a limb. I know nothing of strategy nor have the physical stamina that it would take.” Brenawyn stopped and sobered. “No, that’s not what you need me to do, is it? A diplomat? A politician to head some kind of interdimensional summit?”

“Doona be flippant.”

“I am not who you think I am. I can’t stop a war.”

“Regardless of yer feelings, ye ha’ been recognized by the gods as the priestess. Ye are who we’ve been waiting for. Ye must do yer duty.”

“And what is that exactly?”

“You are descended from the Milesians, to whom the Tuatha lost the last battle. Your ancestors wrote the Accords that allowed a contingent of the Tuatha De to remain in Tir-Na-Nog.”

“Why would they do that?”

“We had something they wanted.”

Brenawyn thought for a moment, “Ah, magic!”

“Aye. Magic. Negotiations lasted almost a lifetime.”

“Neither side wanted to yield.”

Finvarra bowed his head, “But I am patient, and Tanaris, the God of Death more so, many who come ta stand in front of him try ta negotiate a longer life bartering things in their minds were theirs to give, but in fact, they ne’er possessed. T’is only a matter o’ time ‘afore they wear themselves out, and come ta accept the inevitable.”

“And was it the same negotiating this contract?”

“Alas, nay, t’was no’.”

“What was different?”

Finvarra looked at her askance, and smirked. “I always get what I want.”

“That had to burn then?”

His brows rose, “Priestess, do ye think this was not exactly what I wanted?”

It was Brenawyn’s turn to be surprised. “Okay. So why would you want to have the bulk of your people exiled?”

“Ask yerself, why.”

“Had to be something in it for you. Power?”

He bowed his head again. “Why?”

“To claim devotion and perhaps fear.”

“Many o’ the Tuatha De didna kin the Milesians worthy o’ our magic.”

“So none of them are still around.”

Finvarra laughed, a melodious baritone. “Nay. They are no’.”

“So you’re an opportunist, but it still doesn’t explain why it has to be me.”

“Ye are the only daughter of an only daughter, going back through the ages ta a time before the Accords.”

“That can still be coincidence.”

“But in the time before the first were exiled, Formorian blood was intermixed with yer own. Then Tuatha Dé blood was introduced. Finally, the last was added.”

“Milesian.”

“Aye. Ye are the Accords.”

Chapter 14

“Dae ye believe Maggie was taken from ye?”

“Yes, you and my grandmother give the same account. So I believe it.”

“A’richt, dae ye believe Alexander was taken from ye?”

“Yes, because I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Dae ye believe that he is being held until Samhain?”

“That was outlined in the verbal agreement. So, yes, I have to believe it, don’t I?”

“No, ye doona, but let’s put that aside for now and proceed on the premise that everything that ye ha’ been told is true. On the belief that Alexander is imprisoned, ye ha’ accepted the role prophesied and ha’ agreed to the terms of Cernunnos.”

“I suppose I have.”

“In order to do that, I must aid ye in performing the Rite o’ Widdershins. This incantation will take ye bodily back ta a time when thaur is a need. Usually t’is done in service o’ some wrong that needs ta be righted. In yer case, ye need ta find a mentor, since the one at hand is now unavailable. Ye will be unprepared and thus, at a great disadvantage. I kin no’ which era ye must return ta, ta seek the answers. The information ye need is beyond me, beyond any o’ the other gods. Ye canna travel the way we do, and thaur was ne’er a need for us ta travel any other way. The only way ye will find yer path is ta offer ta make yerself apprentice ta the Merlin.”

“Apprentice to Merlin? As in the legendary Merlin? King Arthur and Camelot.?”

“Doona believe the stories that ha’ been presented ta ye. The Merlin is a title for the Shaman o’ the Order. Ye are in search o’ the Merlin Who Was. Everything is in readiness but for the memory o’ the ritual. “Will ye allow me?”

Brenawyn felt herself nod. In for a penny, in for a pound. Her priorities were adjusting; she wasn’t sure if it was a good thing. “What do I need to do?”

Finvarra clasped her face between his two large hands, the movement startling in the dark. “Relax, this is no’ going ta hurt.” He leaned in, “Count ta three and inhale sharply.”

One, two, three.
She smelled wildflowers and freshly turned soil—the dark of night, a bonfire, a straight backed old man chanting over five candles, a young man prostrate on the ground, only visible from the glowing runes. A shift in position, the old man sagged, his runes dulled, helped by the other, whose sigils turned painfully bright.

Brenawyn felt Finvarra sit back but he still held her face though softly now.

“The Rite o’ the Phoenix properly done. Now for Widdershins.”

He leaned in again. “The same as before, priestess.”

She inhaled the cloying aroma of wilted roses, the edges of the petals dry and curling, the smell intense but with an underlying hint of decay assailed her sensed as her mind’s eye saw a lone woman kneeling in the midst of pillars of flame. The words she uttered incomprehensible, but the thought compelled Brenawyn to focus on them. A word became understandable, then another, three, more. The she was gone. The flames burned low in her absence.

“This is the basis for what ye need.” He held her face for a long second. “Come. All is in readiness. I will help ye into the boat.”

Brenawyn followed close enough to feel his subtle body movements. She stopped when he did and grasped the slick metal handrail when guided. The squeak of the gunwale on the foam rubber padding along the dock gave her a direction to face even though her eyes would not adjust to the darkness. The weight of vulnerability was easier to bear if she faced the general direction.

“Haur,” Finvarra took her hand. Step forward. Dae ye feel the edge?”

Before she could answer, she was swept off her feet and deposited on the vinyl seat bench. “What’s next?”

“Ye travel alone from haur.”

“What do you mean alone?”

“I must leave ye haur. It must be this way.”

“But what if I am not who you hope I am.”

“Ye are the priestess, ye ha’ taken the mantle voluntarily. The only point o’ contention remaining is if ye are the prophesied priestess. Everything ye do from point o’ agreement must be done through yer own volition.”

“But how do I … ”

“Thaur are things ye must ken. I canna tell ye the time or place ta which ye travel.”

“Do you mean I won’t even be in the same place?”

“Widdershins balances the universe by returning order. Whaure’er, whene’er the rift first began, the traveler goes ta correct and heal.”

“So, I will be alone? Don’t answer that. I have a feeling it won’t sound any better hearing it. Can I ask a question?”

“Certainly, priestess.”

“Why didn’t Cernunnos take me when he had the chance? He knew who I was the moment I touched him.”

“He is the King o’ the Wild Hunt with prey in sight. He is a slave ta his own instincts and that took precedent. The lure o’ free will is lost on humans. Ye doona see what an incredible ability it is ta choose. Once the agreement was made, ye bound yerself ta him for all eternity or at least until the independent spirit finally dies in ye. He will be a harsh taskmaster, pitting ye against more difficult tasks designed ta make ye choose. The three months until Samhain is a single heartbeat. He is waiting in anticipation for yer arrival.”

“This will not interfere with the duties of the high priestess?”

“Ye have little knowledge o’ the affairs o’ the gods. T’will no’ interfere, in fact, for the Order, t’is a good thing that ye are in service ta Cernunnos. Yer life will be extended much, much longer than what it would be. As a mere woman, in good health, ye would live eighty, ninety years, as priestess four times as long, and in servitude ta a god, nigh immortal, if ye are clever enough ta keep his interest.”

“Will my presence draw attention from Alexander?”

“Aye, though I canna estimate yer worth in diversion, though if it were me ye promised yerself I could think o’ many ways ye could entertain. Are ye sure I canna entice ye? My will supersedes his own.”

“No, thank you. I have enough on my plate now.”

“Up haur, next ta me is a bag of ritual supplies ta set up whaur ye will along the way. After the incantation, all will seem ta remain the same until ye depart the cave. Behind ye, I ha’ provided better clothes ta traverse the rock and various small tools ye will need ta do so. Ye must ha’ the rucksack on yer person ‘afore starting the incantation or risk leaving it behind.”

“Give me the lantern then.”

Finvarra handed it to her in the dark, “Ye willna need it.”

“You are not confident about the destination. What happens if the walkways are gone and I have to spelunk? A thought that obviously entered your thinking else the backpack stuffed with cave exploration supplies wouldn’t exist. I will be caught down here, far from the surface, with no light, no life down here, except perhaps a bat colony, before the disease hit that killed them off in this time. Of course there is the moss, but that can’t be counted because its existence is only possible through manmade interference of electricity.”

“If having the lantern makes ye feel more confident, take it.” He rose, the boat moving at the change in the dispersement of weight. “If thaur is nothing else, I will help ye ta the back o’ the boat. The pole awaits.”

He picked her up again to deposit her on the short platform at the stern and handled a pole to her. “I will light the lantern for ye ta ease yer way.”

Brenawyn could now see his face illuminated by the weak battery light of the camp lantern, but it did little else to light her way down the Lake of Venus.

He shifted and was gone. “Wait,” she called out, and he was back whispering in her ear though she didn’t feel the boat shift this time. “Haur, open yer hand.”

“What is it?”

“Pulverized rock from the stream bed beyond. Repeat after me and blow on the dust.
Taispeáin an solas dom
. It means, ‘show me the light.’”

Brenawyn nodded and translating the words in her head to speak aloud and blew on the handful of dust in her hand. The dust hung in the air swirling on an unfelt breeze and then ignited expanding to the roof of the cavern and spreading down the twisting length of the waterway. Brenawyn looked up in wonder at the night sky with tiny twinkling pinpricks.

“Haur. Keep this in yer pocket.”

She shoved the sand into her pocket careful not to drop any. A most useful trick. She’d certainly use it.

“Ye must go. Doona use the remainder haur. Save it until ye get ta yer destination. Ye can call the light.” With a whisper of a caress on her cheek, he was gone, and she had the arduous task of poling her way to the dam. She didn’t need to spend any time deliberating the location she needed when she remembered always daydreaming about the spot when she was younger. The tour guides never could tell her. Logic dictated that they didn’t know themselves, but alone in the womb of the Earth perhaps they didn’t want to name their fear or scare people. What was beyond the drop?

Brenawyn’s muscles ached by the time she could see the double chains glinting off the magic illumination. She tested the depth, two feet perhaps, and steered to the last alcove, slamming the bow against the rock scraping the length of the boat to slow its forward momentum. She lost her balance with the initial jarring but recovered in time to save herself from a dunk in the cold water before she was ready.

Scampering over the benches, she collected the materials for the ritual and hooked the backpack onto a shoulder. Testing one last time, she decided to bring the pole to test the waters further up and to use as a walking stick, awkward but for the length. She had no illusions for a smooth surface on the lake bottom.

She sat on the gunwale making the large boat canter to the side at an alarming angle. Not good. She had no choice but to reevaluate, taking the backpack off her shoulder to place it where she could reach it on the bottom of the boat with the candles and stones. She used the pole to judge the depth again, estimating a large flat rock. Saying a quick prayer that she didn’t strain an ankle she vaulted into the water. She wasn’t prepared for the icy temperature, never gave it a thought before, but with a constant temperature of near fifty degrees raising gooseflesh on her naked arms in the cave, its water left her breathless and shivering. It took endless seconds for her to regain motor control and gather the items she stored. Trudging through the water, the rocky outcropping mere inches above the waterline looked like heaven.

She pushed the bags on top the shelf sure to keep them away from the edge and the encroaching darkness beyond. She hoisted herself up, ripping at the zipper, eager to peel the wet jeans away from her chilled skin. She rummaged through the backpack and found serviceable overalls, pilfered from the gatehouse from the looks of them. She didn’t care, they were dry and warm, pooling at her ankles and covering her fingers. She’d roll them up in a bit once her teeth stopped chattering.

Brenawyn looked back along the waterway. Was the light becoming dimmer? Shit. Where was it? Did the pocket get wet? She didn’t want to contemplate the effect of water on the dust. There, oh thank God, it was still dry. She poured it out carefully into the oversized pockets of the overalls, turning the pocket inside out to try to get the remainder. She’d have to remember to conserve the remainder, perhaps she could use a portion of it at a time, rationing it out. It would take her considerably longer to exit the cave. Shit. Could she find more? Would it work?

Calm down. What was the use of panicking now?

Brenawyn pulled the other bag toward her, extracting the five new candles and stones, the same kind as before, just highly polished and faceted. She arranged them around her, holding the fifth candle for spirit with the bloodstone wedged between her knees as she knelt on the rocky edge.

Once done, she took inventory of the backpack, a nylon tarp, glow sticks, matches in a sealed plastic container, before jamming her wet jeans into the bag, rolling them in the tarp, unwilling to leave anything behind. She flipped the pack over her head slipping her arms through the loops and attached the lantern with the thin bungee cords that laced the front of it.

With a deep breath bringing the image Finvarra placed in her mind of the lone woman she began.

In the name of all the spirits both shade and light

Grant me sight so I may know truth

To piece together purpose in prophecy

Lost and blind, knowing not how to restore balance

But recognized by fate and acknowledged to fulfill the will

Guidance by Surcellos I beg …