Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy (19 page)

He got up from the chair and walked over to her, around her, she felt his eyes boring into her. He stopped in front and lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “Ken my brother, dae ye?”

“I, uh, um, I do, I think.” She looked into eyes the same shade, focusing on the graying hair at the temples. This was not Alex.

“Taller than myself, wider in the shoulder, same eyes as our mother, and though yer no' likely ta ha’ seen, but I have ta ask, dae ye know if he had um …  scars, um, on his … chest?”

“Not scars but something else.”

“Markings in blue, and red the newest addition, the last time I saw him?”

“Oh, God.” she sobbed in relief, “You are his brother.”

“Tell me, when did ye last see him? Whaur? Is he in good health? Tell me.”

She wanted to tell him everything, to release the burden of holding everything in, all the fantastic, and unbelievable; she wouldn’t have believed if it didn’t happen in front of her eyes. Caution held her back. What should she tell him? The last time she saw him, what could she reveal without giving hint to the otherworldly. She’d hold that for now, the whole experience and focus on the image of him standing amid their camp, shirtless promising more pleasure; she felt the blood rise to her cheeks, “He was well when last I saw him, not too long ago.”

He chuckled, “Aye, t’is good ta hear that he still has that effect on the lasses.” He hugged her to his chest, “Thank ye for giving me news on my brother, Alexander. Tell me, is he coming home soon.”

He must have felt her stiffen, because he gave a small cry and hugged her harder, “Forget I asked. Doona tell me.” Trembling he set her away from him. “Let us focus on the immediate. I doona kin what ye expect o’ us, but some explanation needs ta be given for ye. Dae ye mind being named as Mistress Fordoun’s niece? All know she has family a ways off.”

“I mean to be gone soon.”

“With no guard, nothing o’ yer own?”

“I know that these are borrowed, but if I could have my clothes I arrived in back.”

“Impossible. They were destroyed, burned ta prevent anyone learning o’ the circumstances o’ yer arrival.”

“All of my clothes?”

“For yer own safety, aye. Doona fear, though, ye are in no danger from the likes o’ this house. All will be well. Ye may stay in my solar until yer formal presentation ta me. I will be granting ye asylum. Under penalty o’ death, would anyone dare ta touch ye.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Until later, my dear.” He turned on his heel, the cape billowing out behind him. The door openly automatically by the same guard who brought her there, to allow the lord passage from his apartments.

Chapter 17

Brenawyn had to stand public presentation, whatever that entailed. Hopefully, it stood on formal ceremony, not much time for unanswerable questions. Let Fordoun claim her as niece, she’d have to remember to ask her given name before this ruse came to a screeching halt but if accepted by the populace here, it wouldn’t seem amiss if she had more freedom and access to the outside world.

Time passed slowly but when the door opened, Brenawyn wished she had more time alone with her thoughts. The young guard again escorting her. The hall had undergone a transformation in her absence mostly due to the people crammed cheek to jowl in the expansive space. They didn’t enter through the same archway, he took her along another pass, circuitously circumventing the crowd until at last they came into the room behind everyone else, then moving close to the elevated dais. She was tall enough to see over most heads to where Lord Sinclair sat with his sons, the boys that she had first met, both of whom looked bored. Their father, reserved, sat in the ornate chair, waiting until the murmur died down. He stood and a hush swept the crowd, “T’is good to be home,” to a raucous cheer resounding off the rafters.

“My lord,” at first he wasn’t heard, Brenawyn only did because the man was a few feet away from her. He cleared his throat, “My Lord!” louder. The people around him shushed but gave him a look. He stepped forward, pushing the crowd out of his way. She could hear grunts of resistance, and an occasional yelp, but the unknown man gradually made his way to the front to garner the attention of Sinclair. “Yes?”

“I beg pardon, my lord, but a most distressing piece of news made it to mine ears. Can ye confirm that the sleeping lady has been found by yer own sons?”

Silence reigned; the only movement was the craning of Sinclair’s neck to look at his boys, who had identical looks of fear on their faces. “But da, we only … ”

“Hush now. Off with ye. I’ll find ye later.” Waiting patiently for the boys to get up, he did not turn back to the questioner until they departed. By then, whispers of the sleeping lady made it back to Brenawyn. She wanted to run. The crowd packed closer together when he opened his mouth to speak, pulling her into the tide its rush. There was nowhere to go. The guard was miraculously still next to her.

He took her by the arm; she could feel through the fabric of her dress that his knife was no longer in its sheath. “Hush, let me hear.” Too distracted by the knife clutched in his free hand, she didn’t care who the lady was, her only thought was why he thought to pull his knife. There was danger here.

“Tell me true, my lord. Shall we rejoice that trying times are at an end? Do the portents tell of the end of the suffering and the wasting sickness with the coming of the sleeping lady? Tell us, my lord.”

In the back of the room, her guard managed to wedge himself behind her, leaving her exposed. He leaned over. “Stay very still,” he whispered, and slid the knife between her skin and the corset. “Can ye reach it?”

She nodded swallowing the tears that threatened. “Yes.”

“Good. Always keep it with you.”

“John.” Sinclair found her in the crowd, but spoke to her guard, “John, bring our guest forward.”

The crowd parted, most gawking at her. She’s too young, that’s no’ her.” Chanting, “The sleeping lady. The sleeping lady.” One woman crushed her, pleading, pulling at her sleeve, “Please,” depositing a child in her arms, “touch my child, say a prayer for her, heal her.” The child wailed in her arms, could she help her? The child was rigid, back bent in pain, heart racing, pumping blood too fast. The head. The problem was in the baby’s head. The crowd rushed them on, the woman trailed in her wake refusing to let go of her sleeve. Brenawyn had seconds before the child would be taken out of her hands. Her runes lit up and the crowd stepped back. She felt her guard leave her side, felt the dagger against the skin of her back, and heard the slide of metal on metal. Dagger and short sword at her back. If she could only … there it was, the damaged blood vessel, she felt it begin to heal. The child’s headache ease. The little body relaxed against her. She looked around for the mother to find her prostrate on the ground beside her. She bent to give the child back to her, touching her arm as she squatted next to her. The woman looked up; face ashen, avoiding her eyes. Brenawyn forced the bundle back into her arms but the mother was resistant. “Listen, your child lives.” Grabbing her chin and forcing her head down, the baby cooed, its fists waving happily in the air against her. The woman’s eyes sprang open, “Ye ha’ answered my prayers, milady. Oh thank ye, thank ye!”

The guard took Brenawyn’s elbow and hauled her to her feet, “What ha’ ye done, milady? What were ye thinkin’?”

“Silence.” The word boomed out, Sinclair on the edge of the dais. “Bring her forward.”

The last of the crowd parted and Brenawyn shook off the guard’s steadying hand to walk alone to face the Sinclair publically.

“Milady.” He bowed his head to her, and addressed the crowd, “t’is true, ye see before ye the sleeping lady. The one whose return the auld story foretold.” Holding a hand to Brenawyn, “Come take yer place on the dais, milady.”

Before she knew it, she was lifted onto the dais and physically turned to face the crowd, a strong hand on each shoulder, Sinclair, looking so much like Alex, put her in front of him.

“The priestess has come home.”

People crowded the dais, cheek to jowl, trying to get a glimpse of her, their hands reaching for the hem of her skirts. She gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles white.
Jesus, I can’t control what people think, but to get them actual proof? What was I thinking? What have I done? I don’t even know where I am.

He must have felt her stiffen next to him, because he covered her ice cold hand with his warm one, enfolding it in his, and smiled at her. It was so like his brother’s, they both smiled with their eyes, with one exception, the deep laugh lines on her host’s face.

Cheers went up from the room, but Brenawyn looked into the faces of those nearest the dais. Most were partaking in the general jovial ambiance, but there was a small handful that did not. Their faces were devoid of emotion, standing stock-still staring at her. One. Two. Three. Four. This was where the danger lay, with these four and however many more she did not see.

And I just marked myself as a Druid—a witch. They think me a witch! Shit.

Her host lifted her hand and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. He indicated with a flourish of his other hand, “Come, we must ha’ music! T’is time for a celebration!”

The sure grip of the lord of the house gave her a shred of assurance, and she dared to look again into the sea of people. She met the eyes of a young woman.
Nope. Not confident enough to make eye contact with anyone else yet.
The room was large, and it was standing-room only. From her raised position she could see the four enormous fireplaces each with a fire blazing, located at equidistant points on the four walls. A new platform had been erected since her last visit to this room, on it the band stood readying themselves for another set. The instruments were different, but she recognized a few: the lute, bagpipes, one similar to a guitar but smaller, not as small as a ukulele—this was definitely the wrong part of the world for that, she thought.

They struck the first chord and off they went into the crowd in different directions, the music of their individual pieces to meet again blending in the rafters.

“We are lucky ta ha’ Lughar and his troubadours settle in our lands. They ha’ blessed us with their music and their tales, and ‘til a time when my coin doesna lure them any longer, we’ll enjoy the entertainment.”

“He has a most pleasant voice, my lord.”

“I am most pleased ta ha’ ye say so.”

The song ended with Lughar in front of the dais. He bowed to Sinclair and to Brenawyn in turn.

“Dae ye ken the devinalh
[1]
about the sleeping lady o’ these parts, Lughar?”

“Aye, I dae. Shall I tell it then?”             

“Please dae. The circumstances warrant a telling o’ the auld story.”

“One hundred years ago or more there was a battle; this battle was like none ye’ve e’er seen ‘afore. T’was a battle within a battle. A battle for far more than land, more than wealth, more than position, more than honor!”

There was a communal snort of disbelief from the crowd.

“Aye, t’is true. On the surface, it may ha’ seemed that way, but thaur was another, in the secret recesses … in the fairy mounds, a battle between forces no’ o’ this world.”

The crowd melted from him, and his stage was laid bare. He was a storyteller true. He used movements, gesticulations, pauses, and the lone beat of a bodran somewhere off in the room. If anyone was a witch, it was him. He was mesmerizing. Children appeared at the edges of the circle made for him, sitting cross-legged at their parents’ feet to hear his tale.

“On the surface men fought for the things that men always fight for. Bluid for bluid was shed; the earth was drenched in it. Laments echoed on the winds o’ downed warriors: wives for husbands, mothers for sons, grandsons, children for fathers, grandfathers. So many laments the gods heard. The fighting fierce on land, the machinations cruel underneath, until they merged. Alliances made one to help the other defeat their foe, but they were made with short-sighted and daft men, those who couldnae see the wolf. The rivers ran red with their bluid, ran red for three days; until the coming of Amergin.”

Lughar paused for dramatic effect. He knew his crowd. They were entranced. Children excited, clutched their knees bouncing up and down, others pulled on the skirts and pants of the adults near. This was a favored story.

Amergin. Amergin? Can it be the same man from Finvarra’s stories? How common was that name?

“A wise one, was he, that Amergin. He played them, he did. Played the part o’ the innocent lamb, like all those leaders o’ men who had gone ‘afore him. But he saw. He saw and he waited. He was part o’ the first Accords meeting ta bring a truce, and still he waited for his moment.”

“Tell us! Tell us!” a child shouted out.

“Aye, that I shall, my lad, that I shall.” Lughar’s voice took on a more melodic sound, and the stringed instruments sounded.

“A truce was signed, a false truce that day, ta wait nine waves distant from shore. Amergin saw the deceit in the eyes of those newly trusted. But still he remained mute. They did no’ see his gift of Orpheus, so he ga’ no’ clues. Else they would no’ ha’ laid their plan. And when they set it in motion, the unearthly melody, his own voice rang. Some say he had the voice to calm the beasts. Others say he had the strength to make the lasses swoon. I say … ” The drum beat faster, “I say he had the power to command the elements!”

“He who calmed the storm! He who calmed the storm of the gods!” the children chirruped.

The rhythm slowed and quieted. “That he did. The waves eased, and then ceased to roll.

“The battle was fought on that shore and the second and a more lasting Accord was struck.” Lughar stood in front of Brenawyn. “The omens foresaw it.”

“The omens?” Brenawyn asked.

“When the last o’ the kings o’ the Tuatha Dé forfeit, the night sky lit up as day in colors as vivid as the heather on the moor. The waters in the river ran clear again, the boar and the stag ran wild in the wood.”

“Who was the interpreter of these omens?”

“Och, at first it was Caer Ibormeith, joined by her sister Aerten.”

“By they are Tuatha Dé. How could their word be trusted?” There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

“Aye, my lady, ye are correct. They are Tuatha Dé, but then they are no’.”

“Which is it? They cannot be both of them and not them.”

Sinclair interrupted, “But they are both. Their combined word affects the gods and mortals alike. Prophecy and fate canna be denied. They are revered and hated both. There is nay way they can be corrupted: one without a mouth ta say nothing beyond what was prophesied, the other without eyes ta see anything beyond the prescribed fate.”

“So what did they say of the omens?”

Lughar answered, “That a truce forged that day would hold until balance is lost. A new one only ta be restruck when the sleeping lady appeared again; and that only if she find what she seeks.”

“So my lady, what is it that ye seek? And how may we help ye in yer quest?”

At that moment there was movement, and the crowd amiably parted. A tall, fair-haired man walked in, his head down. The over-sized linen shirt and baggy pants couldn’t hide his lean muscular physique. Recognition dawned as she registered him as the father of the little girl who had come to Brenawyn’s room; she clung now to his knees. She smiled. The girl must be happy that her father is home. The smile faded because something was off. The way he stood, his stance was peculiar. Feet planted a shoulders width apart, back poker straight, hands balled into fists. It reminded her of someone … he lifted his face to her.

The metallic taste of blood, a loose molar, I breathed in through my mouth—broken molar, an exposed nerve, but no pain there. The pain radiated lower, my back screamed, pressure on my stomach. That was me. I inhaled sharply to move, praying that I could still do it, dreading the wave of new explosions of agony once I did. A scream that hardly sounded like it came from within me escaped my lips. Sweating. Shaking. Assessing. Broken tooth and wrist. Hurt to breathe. Broken ribs? The baby! My hands went to my belly, hard as usual. Interminable seconds and … nothing. I pushed on my stomach expecting, praying for an answering pressure. None. I felt lower, my hand came back covered in blood.