Shadows of the Keeper (20 page)

This time, fluttering tapestry
snapped.  So did Emily’s attention.  Broc’s chambers.  Dark
woods, darker corners no matter the scattered candles.  Only clue daylight
existed was Urkani accompanying her breakfast tray hours earlier.

“My . . . lady.”  Barely
heard, a male voice beckoned.  Emily whirled around, attention
encompassing as much as she could all at once, trying damn hard to see who
whispered.  Tapestry.  Something about . . .
I’ve lost my mind
.
 
I possess absolutely no sense whatsoever.
  She took a cautious step
closer. 
I’m now the idiot in a B-movie.
  Facing the intricate
design created by nothing more than colorful threads, Emily half expected it to
suddenly lung and fold around her, suffocating . . .
waaaay toooo many late
night horror flicks
.  In another life.  Far, far away from
here.  Deep inhale.  Possibly, her last. 
Okay, now I’m just
being melodramatic
.

Emily violently swept aside the
tapestry.  No ghouls.  No goblins.  No orcs, ghosts, headless
horsemen, and definitely no Michael, Freddy, or Jason. 
Kinda takes the
fun out
.  Her humor was short-lived. 
Well, now what
? 
Definitely a small door. Not even discreetly hidden.  No sconce to pull
down.  No loose stones to push. Tapping her bottom lip, she opted to try
the iron handle.  “Pfff, I’m an idiot,” she admonished, the thick little
door opening with well-oiled ease and a soft whoosh of air.  Emily stooped
and stepped through.

And was dumbfounded.

Before her, there yawned cathedral
high beams arched over a catacomb of corridors and alcoves, all of which
continued until darkness engulf wherever it was they ended.  “Oh, I’ve
sooo outdone Alice.  Forget falling down a rabbit hole, bloody Twilight
Zone beckons!”

Torches were docked in sconces at
each alcove’s entrance.  As she neared, they would light up with blue
smokeless flame. 
Pandora must be a distant relation because, I’m so
opening this box and exploring!
  Besides, she’d stupidly pulled the
door shut and couldn’t for the life of her find how to open the darn
thing. 
Seems some brainiac had the genius idea to neglect putting a
handle on this side of the door. Bummer.
  Emily was compelled to take
the alcove immediately on her left, though she stared for several long moments
at the row of others; however, this one seemed to call to her.  Heart
thudding enough to excite a rapper, she freed a torch and began the wide spiraling
descent of flagstones stairs.  And remembered to watch for the certain
steps intentionally a bit higher than the others.  Once upon a time, Aedan
had explained, uneven steps were used to trip their enemy. 
Yeah, what
enemy knew about these secret passageways?

Her body morphed a shadow upon the
curved wall.  She bent over a bit and held out her arm, her free hand
curved like a claw.  Her shadow looked like a witch about to offer an
apple.  Her chuckling echoed. 
Enough playing
.  She
hurried along, though steepness increased until she was nearly jumping down to
the next step.  Was this the way to Broc’s promised dungeons?  A
medieval escape route? Then again, maybe nothing more than what Broc had told
her.  After centuries of various battles and watching entire tribes be
vanquished, merely for being a different philosophy than their conquerors, his
two desires had been to retreat from history, and build onto his castle,
turning it into a massive fortress, cloaked with the illusion of
splendor.  He and his men had spent hundreds of years building, enlisting
the help of able bodies from various villages, as well as the village on the
modern side of the door.  Their position as gatekeepers had been carried
on through generations.  Back in the day, Broc had protected them from
marauders, and later, Highland Clearances. Now, they protected him from
moderns.  Broc also provided a large scale of employment to a village that
would otherwise have gone bankrupt, tourism only reaching this far during
summer months, winter months snowed in and closed off from civilization. 
It was during the summers that the village stood guard over various entrances
into Broc’s realm.  These past several summers had seen an influx of
backpackers, hikers, as well as ‘dodgy blokes who think ta’ take advantage of
Highland hospitality,’ Broc had warned.  Thus far, none had accidentally
found their way into Broc’s realm, but they were on high alert during the
summers, forever fearing such an event was merely on the horizon.  “What
will you do?” she’d asked.  “Should someone find their way here?”

“Pike their head, burn their body,
go through their pack, see if there’s anything worth keepin’.  A Cadbury
would be nice, but no’ the kind wi’ raisins.”  Reignsfeugh had guffawed
over her expression, reaching over to close her mouth. 
Bastards
. 
The memory caused a slight laugh to escape her, bouncing off the cold stone
walls.  She still plotted on how to get even.  Chill air swept over
her.  The deeper she traveled the colder it became.  Just how far had
she gone?  Almost, she missed a dark wood door. 
Okay, I’ve
reached the end.  Gah, nearly walked into the damn thing.
 
Raising the torch higher, she located an iron ringed door handle, but unlike
Broc’s door, this was crisscrossed with bands of rusted iron.  She turned
and looked back the way she came, then above.  Under the great hall? 
Maybe.  Deep down, but who knew how many floors were under the great hall
before reaching dungeon level.  She hadn’t really had a chance to run off
and explore.  Aedan had told her there were Roman baths somewhere in the
lower levels, but she’d thought him to be exaggerating.  Finding all these
tunnels, now she wasn’t so sure.  Furthering her intrigue was the fact
that the tunnels seemed to be free of dirt, cobwebs, bugs, spiders—she grimaced
over this last realization. 
It should be musty down here.  Filthy
. 
Forgotten.  Uh huh.  These were still in high use
.  A
quicker way to travel throughout the vast compound? She returned her scrutiny
to the mystery door.  Pushing down slowly, praying no alarm would sound,
she pulled.  And pushed.  It budged.  She teased it a bit more,
pushing harder.  Cold air rushed in.  Outside!  She peered out
the bit of opening she’d created, assuming snowdrifts barricaded the door from
opening more. 
Brambles?
 
No snow.  Weird.  Just
overgrown foliage.
 
Winter dead
.  Emily pushed the door
harder, using her hand and her foot to push aside overgrowth barring her, but
the torch in her hand was too cumbersome. Stepping back, she searched for a
sconce.  Several protruded, and clutched their own torches.  Broc
seemed to be on the up and up when it came to stocking his secret passageways. 
She’d have to educate him on the merits of creepy ambiance.  Maybe they
could have Halloween down here? 
That’s
how she could get her
payback—scare the holy shit out of the Forest Lords.  She’d dress up as
Predator.  Maybe get one of the guys to dress up as Alien. 
‘Course,
as short as I am, my attempt to look like Predator will come across more as a
gremlin
.  A huge grin lit her face, imagined male screams filling her
head. 

Emily went to work clearing the
doorway as best she could.  Needing no more than a space large enough for
her to slip through, she tugged at dried ropes of vine.  “Too bad I can’t
just wave my hand and have all this slither back and allow me passage.”

Déjà vu submerged her sense of
balance, her mind taking a sharp curve like a forced U-turn.  Oak door
doubled as her makeshift kickstand, vertigo tilting the small round room. 
Blue flames stretched.  In her mind’s eye, she could see her hand waving
over thistle, really more a clump of snow on a stem.  A very tall stem. 
Pushing through the dizziness, weird hallucinations replayed during her
self-appointed task.  Several breathers later, the little strength she’d
regained during her convalescence now waned.  Her head threatened to swim
to a new shore.  But it was worth it.

Emily stepped through the a
makeshift hole she’d cleared . . . into a life-size snow globe.

Overhead, a canopy of ice, snow and
waffle weaved vines camouflaged her and the garden from view.  Nothing
bloomed in this cold winter, yet nothing was truly dead either.  Time stood
still here.  Had Broc forgotten about this place?  A peaceful
wonderland of icicles, untouched snow creating a wall of sorts around its
perimeter, and rows upon rows of roses waiting for summer sun. They were as
tall as she. 
Well, not that I’m all that tall. Still . . . who would
allow such a beautiful place to become this overgrown
?  A stone bench,
algae green and gray, had been strategically placed to enjoy shade from the
massive oak, currently balding from the cold.  A short gate, rod iron,
hung partially open, its hinge having rusted loose.  It offered a walk
through more overgrown vegetation.  A machete would be needed to hack
through that madness.  Emily peered, but that’s about all she could do.

The rose garden, though in its
winter camouflage, pulled her.  Again, she looked above, wondering how the
snow didn’t come piling down.  A hothouse of sorts?  For the life of her, she
couldn’t see glass or plastic. 
Plus, if that had been the case, there
wouldn’t be areas of snow in here, and it would be warmer, right?
  A
shrug.  She strolled the length of the frozen dirt path, avoided the ice
patches, and marveled how the canopy overhead created a snow dome. 

A magical sanctuary. 

When these flowers were in full
bloom, it had to be an amazing sight to behold.  Not to mention the heavy
scent of all these roses.  She reached for a dried bloom.

And snatched her hand back. 

Visions assailed. In her mind’s
eye, her hand swirled over snow-covered blooms.  But those were shorter,
no higher than her knees.  Emily walked around until she found a plant of
the same height.  She didn’t care how ridiculous it felt, she imitated her
vision.  As the flat of her palm swirled air over the withered flower,
words filled her head.  Like before.  Emily yelped.  Memory of
her hands glowing.  Echoing chants in Broc’s hall.  Her hands pressed
hard against Aedan’s wound.  Emily studied her palms, flipped her hands
over, noticed a torn cuticle, and flipped her hands over again and again. 
“What the hell?” 

Unintelligible words returned. 
Hesitantly, she repeated the swirling, palm down.  And imitated, out loud,
as best she could, the garbled nonsense she heard in her mind.

Emily’s sharp inhale would have
made Forest Lords grab their swords.

Dead bloom erupted into a small
blaze.  Crackling blue fire sizzled down the length of its stem where it
snuffed into a tiny plume of smoke.  She toed the area where the stem had
been rooted.  With words, she’d caused a plant to catch fire. 
Impossible.  Blue fire. Freaky.

Gotta do that again!

Three more stems blazed before
Emily convinced herself, and her nostrils, that she possessed strange
power.  She waved the air in front of her, relocating where the stench of
burnt plants wasn’t as prominent.  She flung her hand towards the door. 
It didn’t budge. 
Yeah, that would have been a bit much.  I’d have
thrown my head back and howled until someone arrived to take me away.
 
Well, this was fun.  Enlightening.  About four-hundred more
alcoves to investigate.

“Milady.”

Emily shrieked, choked down fright,
grasping her throat.  A quick scan.  She remained alone. 
“Shit-hell-damn, Allen, if this is you, I’m gonna make Garreck chain—“

Several stems vibrated. 
Earthquake? 
Scotland had earthquakes
?

“Milady, I am here.  Buried.”

Commonsense screamed
run
! 
Curiosity shackled her.  Braving a few steps closer, the roses
stilled.  Emily did likewise.  “Okay, now what?” 
Someone
played jokes. Somewhere, Forest Lords covered their mouths, and laughed
conspiratorially.  At her expense.  Oh yeah, this gig is up.

Moving pictures jetted around her
mind as if on a zip line.

She wielded a sword. 
Pivoting, fighting an invisible foe.  And oblivious to the brilliant
silver glow emanating from the blade in her grasp.  It was as if the blade
were burning silver fire!  Aunsgar and Broc were in the barn.  She
wrinkled her nose, horse dung
obviously
fresh.  Weird, in a vision,
she retained sense of smell.  Broc and Aunsgar stood like two males about
to trod their own death march.  Between them, on the ground, lay an overly
long iron box.  They were awaiting her.  She approached, furious and
betrayed.  Ornate artwork done in silver and inlaid with large rubies was
adhered to the lid.  The artwork, Emily noted, look very similar to
designs carved into various pieces of furniture adorning Aungar’s receiving
solar.  Emily observed herself placing the magnificent sword within the
box.  She stepped back, seething.  Aunsgar gave a slight nod. 
Broc kicked the hinged lid, making it slam shut.  Emily flinched. 
The laird hoisted the box onto his shoulder.  With an expression shot to
her of such contempt, he stomped away.  Vision cleared, and Emily found
herself in the snow-garden, minus the gagging barn odors.

And minus one incensed, disgusted
Laird Broc MacLarrin.

Reincarnation is how moderns
refer to it as
, Broc had explained during her healing. 

Yeah, well something’s going on.
Problem is, each time I see one of these mini-mental video playbacks of Broc,
there’s a rage that builds until I want to rip his face off
. 
Why
? 
Okay, so he and Aurelia broke up.  He replaced her with a shrew. 
Said shrew became physically and mentally abusive towards Aurelia.  So,
why didn’t the chic use her powers and either obliterate Na’Dryn, or, at the
very least, vacate Broc’s keep and travel elsewhere ‘til she found peace and
happiness?  Seems to me, this Aurelia was too obedient.  Granted it
was a different time, but with the powers she supposedly had, it wasn’t like
she really had to put up with the ignorance of mortals in that era. And, for
Broc’s part, he sure didn’t treat her like royalty.  More like one of his
pigs in the sty. 
Emotional battles of long ago weren’t her problem
today in the  here and now. 

Aurelia was dead. Broc remained.

And still holds onto much of his
anger.  If he hasn’t gotten over his Aurelia-issues in thirty-six hundred
years, then he never will. Not my problem
.  With a final glance at
roses now askew, Emily started to make her way back to the door. 

“Please, my lady, do not leave me
here.  I
beg
of you.”

“If you can call to me, can’t you
dig your own way out?”

“No, it must be from you. 
Only
you.”

“Says he, the corpse looking for a
bride.”

Chuckling.

Emily smirked.  “Obviously,
you’re six feet under.  And,
obviously
, I’ve taken leave of my damn
mind to be having this conversation.  Start giving clues as to how I’m to
free you, or I book.”

“Book?  You have become
parchment?”

Emily’s mouth scrunched, her lids
lowering to half-mast.  “Yes, and the first page clearly states: avoid
voices lacking a body and visibility.”

More chuckling.  “I see you’ve
retained your wit.”

“Oh, I’m just loaded with it.”

“I am here, having awaited you.”

A slow nod.  “Oookay.” 
God forbid it couldn’t have been a hot babe having awaited her.  Oh no,
she
had to get the iron box, coffin-deep in the ground. 
Lucky, lucky
me. 
“Box, rise.”