Maig's Hand

by Phillip Henderson

“My colleagues and I will see to it that that doesn’t happen.”

  “Really, how?”

  “How doesn’t matter right now. And yes, really,” she countered peevishly. “The church nobles will rally to your banner, as will the vast majority of the army. Eden will have no choice but to surrender the crown to you. That I have seen. You are going to be the next high king of Arkaelyon, Milord.”

  “We’ll see,” he said curtly. His mood was too sour to tell her what he really thought; that he hoped she was bloody right. That he was scared beyond imagining.

  An orange glow flared suddenly at the top of the stone tower, followed by a puff of grey smoke rising into the clear evening sky. He thought again of asking Fren what this “anointing ceremony” entailed. But fear of letting the old hag and her fellows see his apprehension stilled his tongue, as it had all week. A true leader kept his fears close; it was one of the teachings Joseph had drilled into them as children that actually made sense.

  A ram’s horn blared. Its low, mournful sound drifted out across the treetops to echo back from the wooded valleys and mountains around them. Nearby a flock of crows left their roost, squawking loudly. The horses whickered, and it took a spur and a slap of the reins to keep them moving forward. Kane understood their reluctance all too well as he watched the flock of black shapes circling the top of the tower. The mere thought that most of these birds were people transformed into animal form made his skin crawl.

  When the horn’s echoing blast died away, Fren said, “The first horn for the first star of the evening. We walk from here.”

  “First horn for the first star, and likely to bring Hendrix and Eden down on our heads,” Kane said grumpily.

  “That isn’t likely. They’re too busy chasing a rabbit around a valley, have been for the last week and the dunces will probably still be chasing their own tails when word arrives that the king suddenly died.”

  “Your doing?”

  Fren grinned at him as she dismounted. “What would you do without me, boy?”

  Kane drew his horse up but made no move to dismount. “Pray tell, why do we have to walk from here?”

  “Horses are profane beasts. Their loyalty lies with the First Mother; thus, they cannot be allowed to stand on the sacred ground of Maig’s Altar. Now, come, we must hurry.”

  Kane slipped reluctantly from the saddle and fell in beside her. Profane beasts? There was so much he did not know, let alone understand. He could see Fren’s little grin as they waded through the undergrowth towards the clearing around the base of the ancient watchtower. Her beady eyes flashed down at his hand on the hilt of his sword, then up at him. “Uneasy, Milord?”

  “Keep your jollity to yourself, Fren. I’m not in the mood.”

  “You soon will be. When you discover what powers you possess, the fear you feel now will be a small price to pay.”

  Kane didn’t reply, despite the more motherly tone in his aged nursemaid’s voice. He trusted her to look to his safety, but there was no doubt in his mind that she told him only what she wished him to know—or that it was far less than the whole truth.

  They pushed out of the thicket and across the weedy clearing, towards two black robed figures that stood to either side of a door at the base of the tower. Each guard had a sword buckled to his waist, and a torch to light the way in the gathering darkness. Stony-faced, they bowed as Fren and Kane approached.

  No words were spoken as Kane ducked under the stone lintel, with Fren following. In the dimly lit chamber, four stewards, attired in coarse black hooded robes trimmed in silver braid, moved to prepare them. With heads bowed, silent as the guards at the door, they went about their tasks, two of them slipping a gold-trimmed black robe around Kane’s shoulders and removing his sword belt while the other two laid a red-collared robe trimmed in silver braid over the frail shoulders of the high priestess. Kane didn’t give his new attire, the attendants, or the rubble-strewn chamber a second look; instead, his attention went to the stone stairs winding up to the tower roof. The low drone of a dozen voices chanting in some eldritch tongue drifted down to him, and fainter still were the distant squawks of the ravens and the high chittering of what he swore were bats as they circled the parapets. The thump of wing beats seemed to be growing louder.

  “They prepare the way,” Fren said in answer to his troubled look, before giving the attendants a curt nod.

  Their first task complete, the four stewards bowed respectfully, then each took a lit torch from an iron ring and began to climb the stairs in single file, backs straight, their steps in unison. Like the pallbearers in a funeral parade, Kane thought grimly.

  He flinched when Fren gently took his elbow and smiled up at him with a look of understanding. “One step of faith,” she whispered, “and the world is yours. But you must make the choice yourself; none can make it for you.”

  Kane glowered at her and hissed, “You speak of choice when my father is as good as dead and your assassin’s blade will take my sister’s life in a few days. There is no choice, Fren—your scheming has seen well enough to that. Now, let’s be done with this.”

  To his annoyance, Fren’s grin broadened. “They say Larnius had a temper just like yours.”

  She motioned him towards the stairs, and they followed the attendants, climbing the tower’s five storeys to the roof. At each landing of the staircase, the ominous chanting from the rooftop and the screeching cries from the swirling cloud of birds above the parapets grew ever louder, as did Kane’s apprehension. An evening breeze slipped in through narrow windows to cool the air inside the tower, but still he found himself brushing away the beads of sweat on his forehead with an uncommon regularity.

  He knew without a grain of doubt that this had to be done. The vision that Fren had painted for him of these Children of Light had plagued his dreams and thoughts all week, and if he was to fulfil his destiny, he had to accept it first and embrace the powers that lay dormant in his blood. He licked his lips, reminding himself that whatever that might mean, he would not bow to any god or goddess. They chose me, not I them.

  He steeled himself as they climbed the last flight. He was a prince, and he would show no fear.

  As they emerged onto the roof, a small fire crackled directly ahead, a cauldron bubbling above it. To one side stood a table overlaid with a black cloth, covered with a miscellany of vials and instruments. To the other side stood a young woman, gagged and tied to a stake. These three things made a line at the centre of the roof, and forming a triangle with them was a stone chair, with empty chains hanging from it. The chanting came from a circle of hooded men and women, who stood in a perfect circle around this place of sacrifice, their faces bathed in the flickering firelight, their backs to the parapets and the swirl of winged bodies that filled the darkness beyond. Some of the attendants he recognised as members of the Druid Council while others he had not met.

  The chanting stopped, and robes rustled as the company went down on bended knee at Kane’s arrival. The birds, too, were returning to their roosts in the trees around the tower. Kane felt their eyes on him like a thousand needles pricking his skin, gauging him, weighing him up. He squared his shoulders and inwardly dared them to find him wanting.

  Fren’s voice broke the silence as she bade the company to rise, and as the chanting began again, she led Kane to the stone chair and sat him there before turning and raising her arms to the star-filled heavens. “Great Mother of Darkness, he whom you promised us at the fall of your son Brutarius—he who, it is prophesied, shall deliver us from our enemies—stands ready to receive your gifts and see his way. We beg your knowing eye, your blood, your promise; come amongst us now. Your faithful servants stand ready to do your will, to restore what was lost, to bring your name out from the shadows again, so that all may fall on bended knee before you. Rise, great one, and come among us.”

  A slight breeze swept through the trees and across the top of the tower. Kane clenched his teeth. This was farcical, impossible even, yet there was no denying
the noticeable chill that now hung in the air. Then he saw it and stiffened as cold, unreasoning fear knifed through him. A vapour rose through the treetops around the tower, but this was no mere evening mist—this whiteness moved with purpose, with consciousness. Like long, searching fingers it rose above them, then slowly closed like a fist, blocking out the stars. It had a sulphurous, decaying stench like rotting offal. Kane screwed up his nose, and soon he was blinking and coughing as it stung his eyes and caught in his throat.

  It was obvious that he alone was affected; fighting to stay calm, he looked to Fren.

  The hag had prostrated herself, her forehead touching the cold stone, her arms outstretched. Her robed colleagues were doing the same, and together they whispered in unison. Kane tried to make out the words, but even in the eerie stillness, they were beyond his comprehension.

  A moan caught his attention, and he glanced over to the girl tied to the stake. Her terror-filled gaze was fixed on him, pleading for help. He stared back, and that was when he felt it: his vision blurred at the edges and his skin began to tingle. It felt as if the mist was invading his mind, making his thoughts fuzzy and indistinct, collapsing them into one another. He shook his head to clear it and almost lost his balance. Odder still, he could plainly feel his unease begin to dissipate of its own accord, and a warm contentment fill the void left there.

  Fren stood, drawing his attention. “You felt it, Milord?”

  Kane grinned, feeling as if he had consumed too much wine. “I feel something.” The fear had gone, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

  “It’s just the beginning. Don’t fight it, and it will go easier.”

  Kane didn’t want this sensation to go anywhere, and he watched giddily as Fren walked to the table and picked up a dagger and an earthen jug. Then she went to the prisoner and motioned for him to follow.

  He made the distance without realising he had moved, as if he were floating on air. The girl stared at him in astonished horror, muttering something about witchcraft and “the evil ones.”

  “It is time, Milord. In blood, open the door of the soul, and see what is yours to take. You are the chosen Hand of Maig, and this day you will know yourself completely.”

  Kane accepted the knife from Fren’s hand and turned to the girl. There was no real thought; he just knew what he must do, and did it. The steel blade flashed in the firelight, and hot blood spurted from the girl’s slit throat, spattering his face and clothes. Kane realised he was laughing and swaying like a drunkard, his own voice a maddening, disjointed sound in his ears. Hands caught him as he stumbled, and the next he knew, the cold stone of the chair cradled him, and chains were being fastened to his wrists and ankles.

  An odd feeling of betrayal passed over him as he watched himself be bound. He blinked, trying to make out what was happening around him, but his vision was beginning to play tricks. The warm sensations were changing, too, becoming darker and colder. Between the strange images flashing before his eyes, he saw Fren concocting something in the cauldron; the misty air was all a swirl with chanting voices. The stewards who had led him and Fren up the stairs were crouched, painting symbols in blood on the stone around his chair, their brushstrokes oddly loud. The stench of death took him suddenly, and he screwed up his nose at it and groaned in protest. Then a horrid scream came at his ear. He shook his head to be free of it. No one else seemed to hear it. It came again, louder and longer this time, shrill and cutting to the bone. Birds! The thought exploded in his head, and in that moment there was a flutter of wings, and the crows and bats took to the air. He squinted at the thousands of rushing shadows flitting through the mist. He knew their intent, heard them talking to one another, yet his scream was lost in the thunder of wing beats as they fell on him, their beaks and talons tearing at his flesh.

  Then the flying creatures vanished. Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes with a jolt and found Fren standing before him, her face hazy, voice distorted, as if seen and heard through a waterfall. All was quiet.

  “Drink…this…Milord.”

  She pressed a cup to his quivering lips. The warm liquid burned his throat, and the taste made him gag and retch, but for a moment he felt some lucidity return—felt his face awash with sweat, his heaving chest, his mind struggling to attach meaning to what was happening. Then, as quickly as it had come, the clarity was slipping away again. His chains rattled as he snatched at Fren’s hands, desperate to stay conscious, and whimpered, “Help me!”

  Fren smiled at him, or at least he thought it was a smile. “I am. Don’t fight it. Maig awaits you on the other side.”

  He heard her words as if in a dream. He tried to explain that he really didn’t want to go to the other side, but Fren’s face was already dissolving, the face of the girl slumped at the stake forming in its stead.

  She hissed at him, her throat bloodied and torn, and her cheeks pale in death. “Murderer! You paid your passage with my life. May the gods damn you eternally.”

  “You’re dead!” he yelled, not believing his own eyes.

  “As are you!” And having said that, she drew up a knife and struck him. Kane screamed at the explosion of pain as the blade plunged savagely into his flesh.

  How long she butchered him, he could not tell, but as suddenly as she had started, she stopped and stepped away, turning her back to him. He blinked slowly, the blood that trickled into his eyes turning to sweat, and his wounds vanishing as if they had never been. But the terror still filled him, burning in his blood, holding him fast in its talons.

  “Let me go…let me go, I say!”

  The girl was uttering some incantation…or was it Fren? For the stooped shoulders were hers, and the voice, too; he was sure of it—or as sure as he could be with his head spinning in sickening circles and his thoughts continually slipping just beyond his reach. “What have you done to me!” he demanded, his breath coming in gasps. “What have you done to me, hag!”

  A sardonic cackling filled his head, and when the woman turned to face him, he stiffened and tried to press himself further back into the chair, as if somehow the cold stone could swallow him whole. For standing before him was not his aged nursemaid or the girl he had murdered, but Danielle. She hoisted up their mother’s sword, calm resolve in her cold, merciless eyes.

  “It’s the way of it, Kane,” she said, her voice echoing around him. “Only in death can you know yourself fully. Yet the blood of two and the fear of one are the guardians of that way, and their due must be paid in full before entry is granted.” She brought the tip of the weapon to his chest.

  “Please, Dee…

  But she merely tightened her grip and stepped forward. Kane opened his mouth to scream, but only a grunt issued forth as the blade plunged through flesh and bone to pierce his beating heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “You said we had at least a month before they’d be able to begin his anointing,” James retorted angrily.

  Cargius was heedless of the glares levelled at his back as he made a sign on Danielle cheeks with his finger and then swept his hand over her head. His lips were moving in a silent prayer or spell, Danielle didn’t know which. But what she did know was that the pain behind her eyes was quickly fading and her strength returning.

  When Cargius was done he took her hand and helped her sit up on the bed.

  Ignoring the ranting going on around him he said, “We should be going, Milady.”

  “Like bloody vellum you will.” Steel rang as James drew his sword from its scabbard and pressed the blade against the back of the White Druid’s neck. “We’ll have an answer, Druid.”

  Danielle swept the hair from her face and swung her feet off the bed to get up. “James, remove your sword.”

  He balked at her request. “You believe him?”

  “I don’t know what choice we have. I know what I felt. Something is happening to Kane. And we all know he is going to come for me if it is what we think.”

  “And I suspect he will do s
o without delay,” Cargius said pointedly. “Your lady and I must leave at once. There are only a few hours before Lord Kane will awake. After that it will be too late for all of us.”

  “You seem to know that with considerable accuracy, yet could not predict Lord Kane’s anointing within a month of its happening,” Faith said, arms folded across her chest.

  Standing beside her Michael looked just as adamant. “My sister can’t make this decision alone. Our father must be informed.”

  “And even if the king agrees, where are you intending to take her?” James demanded.

  Cargius looked more irritated than ever. “That I cannot say. We cannot afford your brother the opportunity to find her. If we are to have any chance at all she must finish her anointing first in absolutely secrecy.”

  Michael began to argue; pointing out the questions and difficulties it would cause if Arkaelyon’s princess was to suddenly disappear from the face of the world.

  “Enough!” Danielle said. When she had silence she looked to Cargius. “What’s going to happen to those I leave behind?” That was her biggest concern. Everyone in the chamber knew she had to do this regardless of the trouble it would cause, and their concerns for her welfare and all the arguing in the world was not going to change that.

  Cargius softened his tone a little, saying, “Even with the power your brother’s anointing will manifest, he will need some time to master it to a level where he will be a threat to Arkaelyon’s armies. And with the Archbishop’s arrest, he will lack both a throne and the men necessary to fulfil the prophecy.”

  “They can raise the bloody dead …” James retorted.

  “They can, but not in sufficient numbers to be a threat, and such magic is only temporary anyway. An army raised in this way might last three days before the soldiers returned to corpses. Hopefully, we have long enough for you to finish your anointing before your brother becomes a real threat to the world. Assuming we get away from here in time. For it is you he’ll seek to kill first and seek with vengeance.”