Shadows of the Keeper (26 page)

Numerous desks laden with unrolled
parchment and various quills and ink offered a distraction.  “Are they
crawling towards us?”

“Faster than I thought
possible.  We need to make haste.  It is never  wise to wander
through an Elvish domain.”

But Emily barely heard his
warning.  “This one looks really old.”  She was pointing to a stack
of yellowed papers, their leather and twine binding laying open.  “And I
see Broc’s name several times, though I can’t read this gibberish.”

Blade floated closer.

Emily shot a glance upward and
rubbed her arms.  “I find it odd that I can sense something rotting, yet
you can’t.”

Sword tip swung around and prodded
air at various locations.  A few minutes of this and he floated back
down.  “Aunsgar has spells cast around this room to protect it from
various forms of intrusion.”

“Guess he forgot to add humans to
his list.”

Blade chuckled.  “Just the
same, his magicks have matured quite nicely.  He’s learned much during his
punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“Elves live very long lives,
centuries upon centuries.  A few even step upon the threshold of
millennia.  None live as long as Aunsgar has.  Unless cursed.” 
Blade’s point angled so that it faced Emily.  “Aurelia slipping into
Otherworld would be cause for such a curse.”

Emily shrugged.  “Dezenial’s
alive, so?”

“He’s a god.”

“
What
?  No. Stop your
stories.  I don’t want to hear any of them.  Read this page.”

Blade’s scratchy voice began
narrating.  “ ‘
Tis a strange, warm day for this land.  Nothing
stirs.  Perhaps Pendaran is upon us, watching to see how we fare. 
Broc masters his shape shifting, though his choice of being a steed
—“

Emily wheezed.

“Are you ill?”

She waved her hand.  “Go
on.”  No bit or saddle was allowed to be used on a certain horse.  A
certain horse Garreck and Urkani had her train on.  My
God
! 

‘
Lass, should you find yourself
in danger,
this
horse will know what to do.’

This was the same horse that had
chased her all the way back to the keep’s main entrance, when she’d thought to
make her escape. Oh, so help me, if ever I ride that horse again, I’m going to
make sure I’m wearing spurs. Hear me, Broc?  Your back is gonna resemble a
pincushion!

Bastard would probably buck her
off.  She’d sell him to a glue factory.  Mentally, she laughed. As
for Garreck being in on the ruse, she’d burn him at the stake. 
Off
with his head—no, wait, that line’s already been taken.

Blade continued.  “
The
waiting disheartens us, stifling the very air we breathe.  Oligin slips
deeper into madness, though Broc has tried many times to draw him away from the
precipice of misery.  Seven-hundred winters have plundered the land, and
still nary a sign of Aurelia.  With much grief, Lord Broc, son of Lady
Larrin, has had to come to a dreadful decision.  Beyond my magicks,
Pendaran’s curse remains outside my reach.  I warned the druid, humans
would succumb to madness from living the immortal’s life.  The execution
was swift, painless, merciful, and carried out by Broc’s own hand.  He
wanted none of his men to suffer the guilt of such a task.  I was able to
procure Oligin into a sleeping stupor before his beheading
.”

Emily gasped.  “His
beheading
?” 
She remained motionless, not even blinking.  “How absolutely terrible for
anyone to have to end another’s life.  Mercy killing.”  She
shuddered.  And saw Broc in a different light. 
Whore.
Her pity
vanished.

“This is upsetting for you.”

She nodded, then rolled her hand
for him to continue.

“
Broc travels the tunnels,
refusing to face any of us, claiming he sees accusations.  He fails to
realize ‘tis sadness we feel for the burden he carries.  Urkani reports
the Outlander sits in her garden, perhaps to be close to her?  Roses
fisted, he sobs when he thinks none can hear him
.”

“Or was he crying over the clan he
lost?  The mistress who betrayed him by becoming pregnant by
another?  Even now, all these centuries upon centuries later, he still
reacts instead of asking questions.  He chose to believe the worst.” 
She stood.  “Well, between Broc, and this bastard Pendaran—“

“Never speak his name.”

Emily paused.  “Seriously?”

“He is the son of Xyn.” 
Blade’s voice lowered.  “He hears all.  He sees all.  To speak
his name is to call him.  The ancient peoples referred to him as
druid.  But I assure you, Lady Emily, he far exceeds the simplicity of druids.” 

Emily started making her way to an
obvious exit.  “If I’m this Keeper, why should I fear him?”

“His power far outreaches any you
have exhibited thus far.”

“Yet, he left Aurelia to die. 
At least she had power to save herself.  I have no such recourse.” 
She spun and faced Blade.  “Tell you what, however, if it had been me that
long ago ill-fated day when Lumynari attacked, the Elders be damned, I’d have
used all power in my possession to save Broc’s clan.  Humans versus these
Shadow Masters?  What kind of fair fight was there in that?  And
Princess Goody-Goody withheld her help simply for the sake of remaining
obedient to a bunch of old guys who never bothered showing up to help her. Nah,
you can keep your
power
.  You can keep your
Elders
. And you
especially
can keep your adoration for this
Aurelia
.  I’m outa here!”

“I have said something to upset
you?”

Emily stormed to the exit she’d
spied, hoping it would lead to a normal corridor out of this crazy
labyrinth.  Broc raged against a memory, forcing her to carry the shame of
another’s failures.  “I’m going home, Blade.”

“I will guide you back to your
chamber.”

“Not
that
home.  Home,
home.” 
I need to be surrounded by my everyday normal things.  My
normal duplex.  With the sound of normal traffic outside my bedroom
window.  Normal electricity.  Normal food.  Normal, normal,
normal
.
  Right now, even the God-awful heat of Texas will be a
balm.  I can quench my thirst at Starbucks.  For that alone, I’d swim
the bloody Atlantic.  Did I really just say ‘bloody’? Gah!

“You have suddenly been enlightened
of how to return to Quemori?”

“Nope, but I certainly know the way
to Texas.”  Disgusted with everyone’s need for her to be the goddess in
the portrait, Emily yanked open the door.

Her bloodcurdling scream filled the
chamber, scorched the stretch of corridor, and rattled antiquated glass windows
high up in the Elven towers of Aunsgar’s domain.

And drenched fierce, ancient Forest
Lords in pure terror.

A room once sacred . . .
private-perfect
for musing, was now nothing more than a memory crypt.  Broc stormed from
his precious library, centuries upon centuries in the making—
Pout Room
,
he could hear her voice echoing followed by contagious laughter.  A hand
snaked out.  Startled to see it was his own, it braced him against aged
walls of the long winding corridor.  War braids fell forward, his head
bowed, hot tears coursing shamelessly downward, splashing his boots.  A
Forest Lord crying?  Where was the pride in
that
?  What pride,
his conscious countered?  What pride does a mohn dare claim when he canna
protect the woman of his heart—twice? 
Twice
, he’d been gifted her
trust and her heart.  She’d admired him, even lusted on occasion. 
Aye, he’d seen it with his own eyes, even though in this life cycle of hers,
‘twas forbidden for him to act upon it. 

But all he’d seen in her were the
bodies of his slain clan, then
and
now.

She’d wanted answers.  Would
they have saved her?  How could he have forgotten about that damned
sword? 
No, fool, how could you have not taken better note of her
curiosity leading her to find the damn thing
?  Every mohn knew a
woman’s curiosity was a force ta’ reckon with.  Broc released his hold on
the wall, and stormed away from his inner demon.  His march brought him to
the great hall.  Ancient trestle tables . . . empty.  Meals had
become depressing.  No one wanted to laugh, spin their yarns, or drink and
wench all the while the wee lass was . . . where?  Where, where, where?!

But, he knew.  Lugh’s blood,
but he knew.  The thought of it made him stagger like a drunkard.
 His mind had already crossed the threshold of madness once.

Days and days, he’d scoured the
secret tunnels.  More days had found him probing every crag upon the twin
mountains, every cave, every nuance of shadow met with his sword.  She was
gone.  Dimness of memories, echoes of laughter, replays of anything he
could have done differently became piled rubble against his soul.  And
then, the yelling had begun.  He’d wondered who amongst them succumbed to
grief.  Animalist wailing.  Keening that caused him to ache.

It had been him.

Until Maeve had been brave enough
to approach with ancient Fey magicks, he had fallen to his knees, yelling out
the torment of his soul, the male cry of unbearable failure and loss.  Her
sweet incantation had lulled him into a deep stupor, allowing them ease from
his killing mood.  Several days had passed with him stupefied by Maeve’s
spells. Thinking she did him a favor, she’d actually sent him spiraling deeper
into madness by way of dreams.  Over and over, the black blood they’d
found on Aunsgar’s walls played in his mind.  Traces of red blood—human,
Aunsgar regretfully informed—confirmed a battle transpired in the long, unused
corridor high in the labyrinth of Elves’ towers.  How could a wee lass,
modern at that, even fall close to being associated with
battle
. . .
against Lumynari?  For that was their black blood splashed on the walls
and floors.

A worn bench, its scuffed corner, Emily’s
favorite spot, snagged his attention.  The ghost of her image shot up,
grabbed another bottle of poison she’d coaxed Allen to supply, a noxious brew
called tequila, while she raptly listened to their battle stories of
auld.  Broc grinned, watching her antics.  She flipped a gold
doubloon—how’d he’d roared with laughter, her expression of shock, when he’d
shared his exploits as pirate—that plopped into a glass.  He choked over
her audacity.  The lass had snatched the glass, downed its contents in one
swig, and spit out the coin with as much gusto as a mohn.  The laird shook
his head, erasing the memory, though the roar of his men cheering lingered.

The long table stood empty. 
Ghosts of memories dispelled into mists of muse.  His booted feet dragged
him from the hall of their own accord and out the front doors she forever
admired.  Even out here in the bailey, her laughter rang out, her gasps of
surprise . . . she was everywhere in his head.  She was nowhere in the
flesh.  Ragged breath expelled from him.  Every sunrise and sunset
found his men repeating their routine: alternating teams would remain behind to
guard, switching with those leaving the castle compound in search groups. 
Even the Elves were unproductive in the hunt for shadowed paths leading down to
the Lumynari realm.

Broc knew what he must do.  No
other recourse offered an option.  And he would seek this journey
alone.  They’d stopped him in the beginning . . . when his Emily had first
been taken.  They would lose their life, should they again attempt such a
feat as to waylay his quest.

She was a thorn he’d come to enjoy
the pain of.  Now, nothing remained but the wound.

She’d been prisoner of the Lumynari
for six weeks and three days.  Mental images drafted their way into his
soul.  Lumynari were notorious for keeping their female prisoners unclothed. 
Nothing was more entertaining than complete degradation.  For sport, they
wagered their prisoners against other hapless victims in battle arenas where
trolls tore the ill-fated limb from limb.  Death was not release from
Lumynari imprisonment.  Any Shadow Master worth his initiation tattoo cast
dark evil spells against the wretched prisoner so that, in death, they were
still enslaved, only now they were ghouls.  Broc shook his head, forcing
horrific images back to the shores of oblivion.  Was Emily, even now,
beyond his reach?  Worse, if there could be such a thing, was she in the
dreaded breeding camps?  Child upon child begotten until her body, no
longer able to heal from multiple birthings, finally gave out to be fed to the
dark beasties crawling in the hellish chasms of Balkore.  Broc grabbed
fistfuls of his hair, the pain keeping him from screaming; the screaming
gleefully pulling him back into the madness.

It was time.

The forbidden incantation would be
uttered from his mouth tonight, forcing the earth to open, allowing him
passage; Elvin law be damned! 

He halted, incredulously scanning
his surroundings.  When had he come up to his chambers?  Emily’s
vanilla scent still lingered.  Broc stormed out onto the terrace, chill
air clearing his senses—and stilled.  Flicker of movement in the far
distance.  Quickening of his heart confirmed it was more than a mere
winter fox foraging.  And then, glittering in a warmless sun. 
Sentry-still, he watched.  Eyes burned and teared from the intensity of
his stare.  He refused to look away, even for a second.  Fumbling
blindly through his waist satchel, he yanked free an overused pair of field
glasses.  “Great Danu!”

A body, dark against pristine white
landscape, scuttled.  The face turned, lifted a bit, and gazed straight
back at him before plunging a long deadly sword into the frozen ground. 
The sword’s illumination grew until blazing like a beacon upon a kill. 
Blade
! 
He’d melt down the cursed weapon, hoping Danu heard his prayers to rush the
spirit to the dark valleys of the damned—but not before confessing he’d lured
Emily to her death!

*   *   *   *   *

“Three thousand years, we’ve sworn
fealty to ye’,” Garreck grumbled, watching his laird prepare for his journey.

“Aye.”

“Three thousand six hundred years,
give or take a couple of decades before the curse, we’ve followed ye’.”

“ ‘Tis a long time.”  Broc
tightened the saddled strap, half listening.  He didn’t have time for verbal
chess.

“Verra long.”

Broc grunted his assent, tightening
the baldric that strapped Elvish sword against his back.  An aged silver
and black hilt now protruded from over his left shoulder.

“I would ask ye’ to return the
loyalty to us.”

Broc dropped his hands and stared
at Garreck.  “
What
loyalty would ye’ ask?” 

“That we follow ye’ yet again.”

“Not this time.”  Broc
crouched down, inserting various length dirks into hidden pockets in his
boots. 

Garreck sighed with
exaggeration.  “ ‘Tis most regrettable.”

“Should I no’ return, you take
command.  I’ve spoken to the men.  They’d already resigned ta’ follow
ye’.”  Broc patted his chest, visually searching the ground. 
Locating the dirk, he sheathed it within the saddle.

“The men following my command isna’
an issue,” Garreck snorted.  He lacked ability to hide his grin. Broc
ignored the buffoon.  Slipping his foot into the stirrup, he hoisted
himself with the fluid motion of male power and grace.  Tugging the
reigns, he veered the horse away without a backward glance at his brother.

Broc kept his head up, gaze locked
upon an endless horizon.  It pained him greatly to peripherally view faces
of those he most likely would never again break bread with.  They didn’t
wave.  They didn’t allow tears, though their heads remained bowed as he
passed.  Creaking saddle was the only noise in this depressing
silence.  Once he met up with Lumynari, his days would be numbered. 
Would he reach Emily in time before Lumynari annihilated her mind?  Before
they annihilated
his
mind?  He’d seen the challenge offered by way
of Blade being skewered into the ground, and he’d accepted.  Crossing his
drawbridge, he abruptly reigned in his mount.

Dressed for battle, some in tartans
he knew surely must reek of mothballs and cedar, at least a hundred men sat
atop horses.  Armed with their ancestors’ claymores, axes, and longbows,
Broc could only gawk.  These were
moderns
, from Emily’s
realm.  They were as inexperienced in the ways of battle as Emily had
been. 

Reignsfeugh guided his horse to
pull away from the armed regiment.  “We follow. Ye’ try an’ stop us, you’ll
fight each of us wi’ yer bare hands.”  Grey eyes challenged
obsidian.  “Swallow yer’ tethers, laddie.  We sleep as a clan, we eat
as a clan, we marry, birth, and fight as a clan.” 

Aedan nudged his horse into the
forefront.  “We die as a clan!”

Deafening cheers followed. 
Fists pumped air.  Broc’s heart clenched.  He gave a curt nod, not
trusting himself to speak.  Where he was going, he’d be a fool
not
to acquiesce their help.  “What museums did ye’ rob for yer’ plaids?”

Henry sat a little straighter in
his saddle.  “We’ve never  had the chance fer’ glory and
battle.  Time ta’ no’ just tell the stories of our ancestors, beggin’ yer’
pardon, but time ta’ become a legend told to our wee ones when they come of age
ta’ understand the pride o’ the tellin’.”

“Still trying to woo Annabelle?”
Broc asked, proud he was able to refrain from laughing.

Henry’s chest swelled. 
“Aye.  The lass swooned at the sight o’ me wearin’—“

“She swooned ye’ looked a fool wi’
yer belly half hangin’ from yer’ plaid!”

Broc lost his battle and guffawed.

“As I was sayin’, lass gushed at
the sight o’ me dressed as her da’ once had fer’ battle.”

Broc’s severity returned.  “We
ride.”

Aunsgar’s horse broke through a
parting crowd, a retinue of Elves following upon magnificent white horses.

“Nay, old friend.  My quest is
more than ever dangerous for you,” Broc warned.

“You will need my eyes, and I am a
better marksman than you.”  Elvish eyes narrowed.  “And you still make
errors with magic.”

“They’re not unfixable.”

Aunsgar’s pale brow arched.

Broc spied a few village men
stealing cursory glances at one another and back to Aunsgar and his warriors.

“We’ve yet to silence the cooking
pot.” 

Chuckles muted under Broc’s glare.

“Every time Maeve places it upon
her flame, it screams.”  Aunsgar shook his head.  Mirth quirked his
mouth.

“I was tryin’ ta’ show the woman I
could handle her kitchen.”

“By using magic?”  Garreck
asked, cantering up behind his laird.  Broc half turned in his saddle and
glared at his first in command.  “ ‘Tis not hard ta’ conquer the use of
fire,” Garreck admonished.  “Bad enough we ‘ave a ghost that never shuts
up, now we ‘ave a fat cauldron bellyachin’ like a drunkard at O’Sullivans!”

“I resent tha’!” someone shouted
from the crowd of moderns.

Broc remained sober.  “I canna
have history repeat itself.”

Aunsgar’s expression turned
grave.  “I’ve left able guards to defend those who cannot defend
themselves, but I will not be left behind like a feeble old woman.”

“I think, at long last, we ‘ave
tainted you,” Reignsfeugh stated, several clansmen nodding.

Aunsgar glanced at him
questioningly.

“Next, ye’ll be roarin’ in ta’
battle naked as the wild men once did.”

Horror flitted across the Elven
prince’s face, a rare show of emotion.  It was more than the Forest Lords
could handle.  Their mirth erupted, turning into loud cheers when Broc
reached out, he and Aunsgar clasping forearms.  The prince turned
slightly, gazing over his shoulder, an almost imperceptible nod escaping
him.  Broc lifted his gaze, following Aunsgar’s.  A dozen grizzled
men, ragged black tunics covering their bodies, similar in fashion to what he’d
seen worn in Jerusalem, inclined their heads.  Mentally, Broc dismissed them. 
Who knew what the damned Elf was up to.  If auld men chose to tag along,
who was he to say nay to death in glory versus simply passing away with age?