Fidelma stopped. "The boy, Bran, is it?"
She nodded.
"He cannot come any farther. Males are forbidden here. Alis will stay with him."
Fidelma bent down till she was at eye level with Bran. "Stay here with my friend and play till your sister returns," the priestess said.
Bran walked over and grasped the girl's hand.
"Come. He will be fine."
Stories of Bandrui magic weren't new to her, but Bran was a shy boy, even more so since they'd fled their village. The woman must have bewitched Bran with her eyes to make him behave so. As she followed Fidelma across the grass, she resolved to avoid looking into the priestess's eyes.
The priestess pushed aside the thick branches of a bush at the base of the cliff, revealing a small opening. Inside, the space was large, and rush torches gave off a smoky, flickering light. At the back of the cave, to one side of a stone altar, an aged wrinkled priestess sat with her eyes closed.
Fidelma knelt before her.
"Ah, Fidelma." A papery whisper. The old woman raised her hand and rested it on Fidelma's head.
"Mother, I have brought someone you'll be pleased to meet." Fidelma beckoned her guest forward.
She followed the priestess’s example, and kneeled on the cold stone.
The old Bandrui opened her eyes. She was blind.
"Alaw is our seer." Fidela said.
It was unusual, though not unheard of, for a Holy One to be blind. Some held that it strengthened the powers of farseeing; others questioned how someone could be a proper seer if they could not read the clouds or the birds in flight.
As she kneeled in front of the of the ancient one, Fidelma guided the seer's hands onto her head, and at the seer's touch, power from the old woman's palms tingled against her scalp.
The old woman laughed, a youthful, soft joyous sound at odds with her age. "Child, I have waited a long time for you to arrive. Fidelma, make ready."
The blonde priestess bowed her head in submission and led the way back outside the cave. "The portents do not augur well for our people,” she said. “We do not tell the leaders for their courage must be unwavering. Those who are coming seek only our deaths."
She thought of her father and the soldiers in the woods. "Why? Why do they kill us?" she asked.
Skirmishes between one tribe and another were a part of life, but a god of death headed this army of foreigners marching across their land.
"Because they fear our Gods. They cannot control our priesthood, so they are afraid they'll never gain real power in our land.” Fidelma’s eyes were fierce. “If we surrender, they will butcher us."
At that moment, she accepted what her intuition had been telling her since her father led the enemy soldiers away. He wouldn't be joining them her or her brother here on the Holy Isle of Yfêlynys. He had already joined her mother. "What do you need from me?"
Fidelma pointed to Bran, standing nearby and holding a woman's hand. He looked trustingly up at the stranger who smiled down at him. Behind them, an older man, his hair streaked with gray, looked on with pride.
"Branwen and Gideon live on the far side of the island, high in the hills. They can keep him alive and provide him with a home and a future. They are childless. Look at their faces."
Her heart sank when she saw how they gazed at Bran—as if they had waited a long time for this moment. His early life and memories of her would fade; he'd grow up with two parents and have a good life. Her breath caught in her throat. "May I say good-bye?"
"Of course, child."
Bran grinned as she ran over to him. "Branwen has a pony. She says I can give him any name I want and he'll be mine."
She knelt in front of him, stroked his hair, and imagined him riding in the hills, a smile of pride and joy on his face. "But you must learn to care for him, won't you?"
"And you're coming too, aren't you?"
"Not right away, Bran. I have to remain here and help."
Bran looked as if he might cry.
Branwen put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll teach you to ride before she comes. Won't that be something to show your big sister?"
Bran's smile was like the sunshine after a storm. She captured that picture. This was how she would remember him.
The man, Gideon, leaned forward. "We have to leave now. We have a long way to travel before dark." He spoke firmly, no trace of harshness. He wasn't Bran's father, but their father would rest peaceful, knowing another good man was willing to bring up his son.
Fidelma spoke. "We, too, have to depart. Time is short."
"Be good, Bran. Do as they tell you. I'll see you soon." She hugged his little body tight, releasing him before the tears came and she told them, no, she couldn't let him go.
Bran, her young vulnerable brother, nodded. At the edge of the clearing, he turned and gave her one last wave as his new parents led him away.
Alaw gave special dispensation for her initiation that night. Neophytes spent years in preparation, but the Ancient One said urgency was paramount; they must take advantage of the opportunity sent by the Goddess, for she had revealed her will
"You will fast and purify yourself with prayer," Fidelma instructed and guided her back into the now-empty cave. She pointed at the altar. "The Goddess will help you."
The Bandrui left her alone in the cave with two grim-faced women guarding the entrance. As she offered prayers before the altar, a new purpose filled her, and she pushed memories of her father, Bran, and everything to do with her life before this moment out of her mind.
Fidelma returned at nightfall, and without a word, beckoned her to follow. When she attempted to question the priestess, the woman put a finger to her mouth, indicating speech was forbidden. She followed the priestess in silence as they climbed a steep hill under a lustrous full moon, arriving at last at another cave hidden high in the hills.
Time blurred as two young novices bathed and dressed her in clean white robes. They brushed her hair until it shone, and left it loose, falling in thick waves around her shoulders and down her back.
The Goddess had chosen her. Mother protect me. She repeated the words over and over as the novices guided her along narrow, dark tunnels until they emerged into a cavern so vast the ceiling and walls lay beyond the wavering torch shadows. She blinked while her eyes adjusted.
The seer sat on a raised seat of stone before a massive altar to the Mother Goddess; the Bandrui, too many to count, fanned out in a circle and filled the central space.
Her legs shook as Fidelma steered her toward the Holy One. Everyone and everything she'd ever known and loved had disappeared from her life. Whatever would happen to her in this new life lay in the hands of the Goddess. She had no choice but to surrender.
"Kneel," Alaw commanded.
Fidelma's firm touch on her shoulder pushed her into position, and she knelt, rooted to the spot, unable to take her eyes off the blind seer.
Alaw raised a hand, and the women started a low, rhythmic chant. The hypnotic hymn increased until it was so loud, the throbbing sound entered her bones.
Fidelma raised her arms high; in one hand she held a gold cup, in the other, red glints from the torchlight sparkled along the wicked edge of a slender gold knife. She went around the circle, from woman to woman, nicking each held out wrist with a flick of the blade, allowing a few drops of blood to fall into the gold cup before moving on to the next. Having completed the circle, Fidelma approached Alaw bowing deeply. The blind seer nodded–a quick slash and her blood joined that of the others.
Fidelma brought the gold chalice to where she waited. Her eyes watered from the torch smoke, and a searing pain in her skull throbbed in time with the chant. The priestess tilted her chin up, commanding her to drink. She stared up at the blonde priestess, unable to move, until the cup was brought to her lips. Unresisting, she drank the dark, warm blood till she drained every last drop.
At first, nothing happened and her gaze remained fixed on Fidelma. Then she blinked, and the priestess d
isappeared as an icy wind rushed into the cavern. She shivered uncontrollably. Her heart banged against her ribs as howling noises whistled around her and she tumbled into darkness.
When she regained consciousness, she lay on a pallet in a small hut. Rays of sunlight full of dancing dust motes fell through the small gaps in the roof. She tried to rise but was light-headed and dizzy, and she could hear voices in her head. Voices other than her own. She fell back onto the bed and into unconsciousness once more.
When she next awoke, Fidelma sat by the bed, her eyes soft with affection. The priestess helped her sit up and held a cup of water to her lips. "Rest. You've been in a trance for two days and two nights. We feared we had lost you."
She drank greedily. "What happened? I don't remember."
"Alaw prophesied your coming. A great one who has the power to commune with past seers, she told us. Such a one is rare. But we feared we lost you, for hosts with the strength to carry such souls are rare."
"I hear them in my head. They're loud, but I don't understand what they're saying."
"Their voices will diminish with time, and you will become skilled at interpreting their words. Your arrival is a cause for celebration, even as we face the dread menace of war."
She had little opportunity to recover as messengers brought word of the Latinum forces reaching the coast and setting up camp on the opposite shore. The great battle would commence within days. She stayed close to Fidelma.
The Druid priests and priestesses had little opportunity to rest or sleep. They moved constantly among the warriors, praying, performing sacrifices to assure victory, and exhorting the men to destroy their enemies. More fleeing Celts, among them fierce Deceangli warriors, arrived under cover of night and swelled their ranks. During the day, the fighters continued to practice their skills, preparing and decorating themselves in the sacred woad patterns that rendered them indestructible.
This was a war to the death. The foreigners' Gods demanded they desert their own. This they would never do. Only one side would claim victory in this fight.
Night fled as the day of battle dawned. Celtic warriors massed on the shore, watching the sun climb above the trees in a blood-red haze. As the mist cleared, revealing the racing, silver-gray waters of the strait, sunlight glinted off rows of armored men on the opposite shore as they stood shoulder to shoulder, holding their metal shields in front of them. Further back, ant-like figures pulled large wooden machines forward to the front line, and soldiers crammed onto hundreds of flat-bottomed boats bobbing on the shoreline. Here and there, leaders rode horses into the midst of the ranked soldiers.
One Celtic chief struck his spear against his shield, and screamed at the enemy. Others joined with him, till the din of weapons banging against hide shields and the thunderous roar of insults filled the air. The spirit of the fierce tattooed fighters had the Latinum soldiers across the straits shrinking in fear. The Celts intensified the ferocity of their threats.
She was instructed to stay with the small group of women attending Alaw. A seat had been set up for the high priestess on a hill overlooking the beach and the straits. A young girl, barely out of childhood, sat at the ancient Bandrui leader’s feet, her voice a soft murmur as she related the events taking place below them.
A procession of torch-holding Druids snaked its way toward the beach. An immense roar erupted from the Celtic fighters when they saw the approaching spectacle. The Druids separated into two groups, with the priests arranged in a long line on the slope above the beach. Raising their arms to the sky, they chanted prayers in unison, invoking the wrath of Aeron, the god of battle and slaughter, to destroy their opponents.
The Bandrui continued to the shore and ran among the waiting men, their bodies darkened and smeared with ash from the sacrificial fires and their hair streaming wild. They also invoked Arawn calling down the terror of the underworld upon the enemy. The fighters’ hearts swelled with courage, and their bodies warmed with heat from the torches.
Watching from the opposite shore, the invading soldiers shuffled backward, terror taking hold as the Druid priestesses incited the Celtic warriors. The more the Druids and their army chanted, the more fearful the opposing soldiers became: the wild screams of the Bandrui terrified them in a way the battle-hardened army hadn't.
Standing with the Bandrui, she stared across the straits, at first detached, feeling nothing. She observed men on horses riding amidst the enemy, barking at them to conquer their fears. One took off his ridged helmet and shook it at the mass of waiting warriors.
Her heart missed a beat as the sun glinted, red-gold on the hair curling around his shoulders. She could not drag her attention away from him, fascinated as he wove a sorcerous spell over the troops. She trembled as their blood-lust rose, and the hairs on her neck stood on end as he noticed her, and his gaze lingered.
The enemy crossed the strait, a grim, bobbing flotilla.
She watched with horror as strange machines flung boulders and stones, causing havoc in the Celtic ranks when the devastating missiles landed, crushing bodies to a pulp. Once off their boats, step by viciously won step, the Latinum army gained a foothold, and they never relinquished an inch after they planted their boots on the sacred soil of Yfêlynys.
The curses of the Bandrui, the harsh bellow of the Latinum leaders, the roar of battle, the clash of metal swords on shields, of men killing and being killed created a torturous refrain. The enemy harvested all who stood before them for their hungry Gods, marching over the dead and dying in an implacable, ruthless advance.
She witnessed the souls of the dead rise, heard the air fill with plaintive laments as they left their broken bodies. What should have been a victory for her people became a massacre. The invaders moved beyond the shore, and the battle shifted to the fields behind as they pushed the outnumbered tribesmen inland, slaughtering as they came.
"We can only accept what the Goddess decrees," Alar said as she issued instructions. "Do not lament. Today, our warriors died in battle with honor. They have gone to the sun planet where they feast and rest eternally. But you must leave now. Where is the Blessed One?"
The priestess pushed her forward.
The old woman reached out, placing her hands on her head as she knelt. "My work is complete, and the ancient ones are safe. They will always be with you. Our enemies cannot kill our gods and goddesses, and they will rise again."
Alaw would not be coming with them, and the young girl remained crouched by her feet, refusing to leave.
She fled with the rest of the women, the howls of the wounded following them as they ran. An awful dread filled her heart as she hurried after the others into the woods. Thank the Goddess, Bran was safe.
"Stop," whispered the lead priestess, "soldiers ahead."
She halted, her heart thundering, and mouth dry as she peered through the trees at soldiers herding captured Druid priests toward the sacred oak groves.
The acrid smell of burning wood floated on the air.
"No, Mother, no," whispered one of the Bandrui as they heard the crackle and hiss of the holy trees as they burned, and clouds of black smoke plumed in the sky.
Gasping for breath, she ran behind the others as they tried another direction, but they ran straight into a second group of soldiers.
Laughing and forming a circle around them, their mad eyes spoke of blood-lust and sorcery. One grabbed hold of her arm.
Petrified, she stared up into his mournful eyes with a sense of recognition; the golden- brown skin and black hair awoke faint echoes of a memory.
He pulled her closer, and gripped her arm tighter, raising his weapon.
"Vanse," one soldier bellowed. "Angelus's orders are to take all the women priests to him. Alive! He insisted we keep them all alive!"
Though no one spoke, she knew without a shred of doubt, that Angelus was the blue-eyed leader with the red-gold hair on the horse whose gaze had lingered on her with predatory intent.
"He can have as many of the others as he wan
ts. But not this one." The soldier holding her lifted his sword, his voice heavy with quiet authority.
He twisted her around to face him, and a stillness washed over her. Sorrowful brown eyes and golden skin. Why was he familiar? How could she know him? She experienced no pain as his blade entered her body just below the ribcage on the left-hand side, angling up and piercing her heart.
Chapter Eleven: Taken
"Good morning." Changing Sky's voice interrupted her train of thought as he entered the kitchen. "I couldn't resist the smell of Sean's coffee any longer." He smiled. "You slept well?"
"Fine," she said. "You?"
The previous evening, after the Calling Back the Dead ritual ended, the shaman hadn't responded but sat staring at her for a few minutes. Tatya insisted he stay the night and called his driver. The shifter's antipathy was obvious as soon as he heard her voice. He acknowledged her message with a grunt and hung up.
Changing Sky had eaten a little soup, gone upstairs, and slept straight through the night in the spare bedroom. This morning, he looked refreshed. "I'm better than fine. Tell me what you witnessed," he said as she filled a mug for him, adding three teaspoons of sugar. He preferred his coffee real sweet.
"First, an old man came, but I couldn't make out his features—they weren't clear. The two of you spoke, but I couldn't hear anything."
"Good. You are making progress."
Changing Sky rationed his praise, and she swelled with pleasure at the compliment. This was the first time she'd played the drum for a Calling Back the Dead ritual; that she'd seen anything was remarkable.
"You beat the drum well yesterday. Did you understand what took place?"
"No, and I was worried. What happened at the end?"
"You did right not to interfere. My first visitor was Aditsan, a powerful Navajo shaman, known as the Listener. He sent me a gift."
She waited while he sipped his coffee, sighing with appreciation.
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