Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy

by Melissa Macfie

  “And this conversation—a measure of my fortitude?”

  He chuckled, “Fortitude is measured, in truth, by adversity. That has no’ shown its face as o’ yet.” He looked through his bushy eyebrows at her, “It will ‘afore long, mind ye.” He clicked his tongue and rode ahead leaving her to contemplate the weight of his words.

  Left alone in her solitude surrounded at a distance by the rest of the party, half the Keep’s garrison it seemed, it was awhile before Brenawyn thought to match the gait of Amergin’s horse, and once done they rode in silence for a bit longer. She broke the silence asking, “Do you know when the transition in belief came about?”

  “T’was in increments. Invasion is violent and that is what is remembered; but true conquest is insidious, an act accomplished by gradual assimilation once everything seems ta ha’ returned ta normalcy. It worms its way into the hearths and hearts slowly starting on the outskirts with a promise o’ hope and help. This one was an easy step, too; many o’ the tenets were similar: the Triple Mother was replaced by the Trinity, the Wheel of Time replaced by Days of Obligation, fire feasts replaced by High Holy Days.

  I say, go inta any kirk, and look at their idols—Christian and Druid mixed ye’d find. Christ and the Green Man—Cernunnos himself, being carved at this very moment for the chapel in Sinclair’s Keep. I ken why, I doonae blame him. He is a man who kens the truth and has ta play the game, too. It doesnae e’en matter much where his beliefs lie. I cannae blame any o’ them, except for the hypocrites. Sinclair has seen too much ta disavow loyalties. He’s no’ one o’ those—those that say they are devout, but hide in fear, or worse use fear mongering ta incite others ta rash actions.”

  “So, what news are you expecting from your contact?”

  “They will ha’ been made aware o’ the arrival o’ the bishop for one, and might ha’ an inkling o’ how far afield the story o’ ye traveled. There e’en might be word o’ yer husband…”

  “Not my husband!”

  “I am sairy, my lady, my apologies, truly; but that wee bastart has made himself scarce since Sinclair sent him off.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “Sinclair claims that he’s his man, but I ken him. He is too ambitious, too eager ta breach the veil. He’s no’ gifted enough ta succeed, but that makes him dangerous for he’s willing ta gamble. T’is no’ the last time we’ll see him.”

  Amergin pivoted in his saddle and shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun through the clouds. He cupped his mouth and made a series of sharp pitched sounds much like the bird calls she had been hearing from the brush. A responding call was heard from far afield, and he turned to her and squeezed her hand smiling. He kicked his horse into a canter and wheeled around to find the captain of the guard behind them.

  After brief instructions with Amergin doing all the talking and the guard just nodding his head in her direction, Brenawyn saw Amergin head off across the field at a gallop, hunched low against the horse, and the captain, the same guard who was charged with watching her in the Keep surge up to meet her. “Well met, my lady.”

  “Good afternoon. Are you to keep me company then?”

  “Aye, my lady, until the Myrddin returns.” He turned and in response Brenawyn’s horse followed suit. “We are ta await him elsewhere.”

  “Has our destination changed?”

  “For the noo. I hope it willnae cause ye undue strain ta make camp in the woods. The Myrddin thinks it wise ta avoid the Abbey.”

  “Whatever you think best. Lead on.” Brenawyn absentmindedly fidgeted in the saddle, rubbing her posterior as she looked over her shoulder in the direction of Amergin’s departure. She wondered what the change was: was it the bishop or Liam? Hysterical mob with pitchforks and torches? Witch hunters?

  It was hours of plodding along in a different trajectory before they stopped. By then Brenawyn had to ask for help in dismounting but she still wound up in a crumpled heap practically under her horse that nosed her with interest, probably to see if she had any more apples. The animal’s velvety lips tickled her neck and the horse whinnied in response to her giggle.

  Camp was made efficiently around her. Her horse was led away with the rest a short distance off, and she found her way to an empty boulder next to a young man pulling string from his sporran.

  Brenawyn announced her presence, “Hello there,” waving stupidly. “May I sit with you?”

  The young man smiled in return, and moved over clearing most of the boulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready ta set some snares since we’ll be sleeping wild tonight.”

  “Mistress Fordoun packed enough to feed an army.”

  “Aye, that she does, bless her heart. Always looking out for us, she is. The provisions she’s packed though are meant ta supplement with whate’er we hunt on the road.” He picked up his knife and started carving a notch in a fallen branch.

  “What can you catch with this type of snare?”

  “Rabbits mostly, or similarly sized animals. Don’t have much meat on them, but they make a soup taste better.” He pointed to several other men around the perimeter with the hilt of his knife. “They’re doing the same. With any luck, we’ll ha’ rabbit ta supplement our breakfast. Why don’t ye go and see if ye can get something ta eat? T’will be a long night and there’s a chill in the air.”

  Brenawyn wandered over and caught the eye of the only other woman in the group. The woman waved her over and offered her a bannock smeared with honey. Brenawyn accepted it with thanks, and stuffed it into her mouth in response to the rumbling in her stomach. It was fresh and heavenly and tasted like more.

  “T’is good, aye? Freshly made this morning, they were, and packed while they were still hot. Though,” she lowered her voice as if the mistress were amongst the company and could overhear, “when they are stale, ye’d ha’ a time getting them down yer gullet with a whole flask o’ ale.”

  Brenawyn choked on her last bite, and then recovering, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I am Isla, ye ken my husband, Tavish.” She pointed to the captain of the guards.

  “Oh, he never told me his name,” even though Brenawyn had asked on several occasions. “Pleased to meet you, Isla,” as she extended her hand.

  She looked at Brenawyn’s hand, and closed it with her own giving a familiar pat. “I apologize for me thick-heided clout o’ a husband,” shaking her head, “they doonae think that something as simple as a name would be useful. Can ye imagine, callin’ them all by, ‘Hey, ye!’” Tavish turned toward her, and she laughed turning her back to him dismissing him out of turn, “Aye, I’m speakin’ ta ye, ye ol’ bampot,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Brenawyn laughed. “They are certainly single-minded at times, but as the saying goes, you can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them.”

  She sighed, “Aye, that’s the truth o’ it. So I am ta serve as yer lady in waiting.”

  “What? I don’t need…”

  “Oh, d’ ye ha’ a way ta get in and out o’ yer stays then? Of course we’d ha’ ta be in an inn for that ta actually matter. Sleeping with the night’s sky as yer blanket, ye need ta be ready if anything were ta happen. T’is only good sense ta dae so.”

  “Under those circumstances, I thank you then.”

  Isla nodded her head and handed her a blanket roll. “Come we’d best find our rest while its still ta be had.”

  Brenawyn woke some time later to the soft snoring of Isla next to her. The fire had died down to embers and there were shadows of two guards keeping watch. She recognized one as the snare man she spoke to earlier. She heard soft nickers of the horses and the light clinking of their harnesses. The rest of the company was identifiable as blanketed lumps sparsely positioned around her, instead of the fire. Their placement seemed strategic but the why of it slipped from her mind.

  She rose to her feet wrapping her shawl tight around her shoulders. It had come loose in her slumber and just a
s predicted, there was a chill in the air that made gooseflesh rise on her arms. It wasn’t cold enough to see her breath, but she could smell the promise of it on the air.

  Brenawyn carefully chose her path to the trees beyond to relieve herself. The guard nodded to her pulling at his forelock as she passed. She held her skirts as she stepped into the underbrush, and lurched in, blinded by both darkness and foliage as to where she was stepping. There was no way she would make a good hunter. Every cracked branch and crushed leaf echoed around her announcing her position. Any animal would have scampered away at her first footfall, so she was utterly surprised to find a stag facing her when she rounded a tree.

  She stood still, trying to think of what a survivalist guide would say about wild animal contact. It was a buck, but she had seen Animals Gone Wild, even laughed at the predicaments that dumbasses got themselves into, and here she was facing down one with twelve points. Gored by buck was not the way she wanted to go regardless of the time she was in.

  The buck sniffed the air and took a step toward her, nose flaring to get her scent. The action reminded her of Spencer. It was close enough that she could see by light of the full moon the little wrinkles on the bridge of its snout as he assessed. She missed her dog. How many times in the past weeks could she have used his canine comfort?

  The buck was close enough now that she could reach out and touch it, but her hands stayed at her side. It was the buck that closed the distance, nosing her like her horse, then it licked the back of her hand.

  Brenawyn let out her breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding and put a tentative hand up closed like how she was taught to approach an unfamiliar dog. Seeing no aggression, she opened her hand and touched its head between the antlers, and the buck leaned into her caress turning its head almost to give her better access. “Itchy, are you?” The buck mewed, and its back leg spasmed. “Oh, I see I got a spot.” She laughed, “Does that feel good, puppy?”

  The breeze sighed, “Priestess.”

  She jumped back, her spine plastered to the tree behind her and she whipped her head looking around for the source of the intrusion.

  “Relax. Doonae be frightened.”

  Brenawyn gasped when she found the voice’s source was directly in front of her. “No, no, no!” Hands cupping her ears, “You are not supposed to talk.”

  “Priestess, ye’re dreamin’”

  “No, no, no!”

  “Touch the tree. Dae it. Just touch the tree.”

  Without opening her eyes, she splayed her hand against the trunk she was leaning against.

  “Ye need ta look, my lady, ta see the truth in what I say.”

  She opened one eye, and looked down. The trunk was undulating under her hand. It was solid against her back, but liquid mercury under her fingers.

  “Believe me now?”

  “I’ve…I’ve seen this before.”

  “Aye, in Tir-Na-Nog. This is no’ that. T’is yer dreaming self, I ha’ no real power ta change much in another’s dreams. Just enough ta convince ye mayhap?”

  “Amergin? Is that you?”

  The buck lowered his head giving a good rendition of a formal bow complete with the leg extension. “T’is me a’ yer service.”

  “But how?”

  “One of my abilities, t’is no’ complicated. I could teach ye ta dae it in an afternoon. The connection was made when ye touched the buck.”

  “Are you telling me that we initiated a fucking mind meld? My mind to your mind and all of that?”

  “I doonae ken what ye are referring ta and I suggest ye hold yer whist. There’s things that I need ta tell ye.”

  Brenawyn bent low to look directly into the buck’s eyes.

  “Lass, I wouldnae suggest ye do that. I doonae ha’ complete control o’ the beast. Ye’re challenging him.”

  That sobered her and she stood taking a step back.

  “There’s a matter ta which I must attend. Ye are ta go with Tavish. He’ll bring ye ta Bryn Celli Ddu. I’ve already instructed him. I will join ye again as soon as I may. Be safe.”

  The stag turned to go, but Brenawyn called out, “But what do I…”

  “Go back, priestess, lay down on yer bedroll and awake for certain. All has been arranged. Be safe.”

  Chapter 16

  It was a couple of days, at least that was what it seemed, before Maggie noticed any break in the routine of her guard. Her leg still hurt like hell and since there was no painkiller that she was being fed, she was acutely aware of it. She lost all modesty and didn’t fuss when Andy touched her to tend to her hygienic needs. She didn’t know how long she had been here, but before long, he’d have to deal with another of her needs. Good, she hoped her period would bring friends. Perhaps at that point he’d foist off responsibility on Linda. It served them both right.

  The door burst open, scaring Maggie and Andy, too, who was sitting by the door reading.

  “He’s arrived. Come, Cormac wants us to greet him.”

  Andy tossed his book on the ground and stood, taking a tentative step in Linda’s direction, then stopped. He regarded Maggie, and looked as if he were going to say something. She waited, but he turned from her and disappeared.

  It was some time before Maggie heard the deadbolt release and the door open. Andy, Linda, and a figure cloaked in so much fabric she couldn’t tell gender or age entered. A gnarled hand appeared, and Maggie heart raced. Visions of the old woman in Leo’s shop and again in the forest rose in her mind, even though she’d seen that bitch die. Nothing about this was rational. She could have been resurrected, right? Alex was, and Maggie had been a part of that. If he could be, why couldn’t others?

  The hooded person spoke. “Leave us.”

  Not the woman. A man. An old man. Someone new. She relaxed, as strange as it sounded; at least it wasn’t the devil she knew.

  Linda grabbed Andy’s arm and towed him out of the room, closing the door behind them. The hooded man grabbed the chair and pulled it, metal legs squeaking across the floor to rest in the center of the room well out of arms reach from Maggie, and sat down facing her. “When ye are accustomed, we shall begin.”

  He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. His arms disappeared in the wide sleeves of his robe. The majority of his face was still in deep shadow, all she could see were the deep wrinkles of his lips and around his mouth evidence of someone missing most of his teeth, and sparse, grizzled whiskers covering his chin and lower jowls. A soft snore rose in moments, causing Maggie to raise her eyebrows.

  She cleared her throat, impatient to get this over with. When he looked up, yawning, she could feel her ire rising. She indicated her wounded leg with exaggerated eye rolling.

  He knelt as one much younger and clucked, looking at the damage to her leg. “Hurts, does it no’?”

  She nodded trying to stretch out to get away from the pain.

  He placed a light hand on her thigh, “All will be well shortly.” He gasped and grabbed Maggie’s chin to force her to look him in the eye. He took off the hood and leaned close, “Tell me lass, do ye ken the priestess? Brenawyn McAllister, she calls herself, though no’ McAllister any longer.”

  Maggie tried to sit up. “Brenawyn? You’ve seen her? How is she? Is she home?”

  “Aye, she is well, out o’ her…element, but whole.”

  He sat back on his heels, staring at the wall chewing his lower lip.

  “Get me out of here, please. Take me to her.”

  “Och, nay. Ye’ll ha’ ta bide. Ye’ll see her ‘afore long though. Then I’ll be in a better position ta help both o’ ye.”

  He looked at the Velcro fastening of the splint and he grabbed the end to pull it back. Brrrrup. His eyebrows shot up. “Ooh. That’s fancy.” He touched the fuzzy side, then the hook examining each closely, closing it again, just to rip it open. “O’ all the ingenious things!”

  “Can we hurry this along?”

  “Och, aye, I suppose we must. Someone will
come ‘afore long.” He pulled the splint out from underneath her leg and cast it aside gently. He put his hands on her leg, covering the stitches in their entirety and she felt his hands warm. The warmth spread to her skin. It felt hot, hotter than the blood underneath. Her leg flushed and swelled. Bruising appeared and expanded. Her leg swelled further. She cried out in panic, but was immediately hushed by the old man. “I need ta bring the blood ta the surface ta prompt accelerated healing. It willnae get more uncomfortable than this.”

  At his word, the pressure lessened. She felt the blood recede and looked down to see the bruising fade, from dark purple, to blue, to yellow, signs of healing. He took his hands away and she was shocked to see the presence of new skin, red and shiny, but whole. The fragments of suture thread hung in pieces that she brushed off. She ran her hands over clear skin; what was once a mass of contusions and a jagged line of stitch work showed no evidence of trauma.

  She lightly pressed, no pain.

  She moved her leg, no pain.

  She persisted. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  The old man nodded his head, “That’s the idea,” and smiled. “Listen closely, because we doonae ha’ long. Keep yer head down, listen ta instructions, and doonae use yer sarcasm, if ye want ta live through this. I must go.”

  “Please don’t leave me!” Maggie pleaded.

  “Aye, I must, for now. I am nay use ta ye here. I doonae ken the field as o’ yet nor who the key players are.” He patted her hand, “Bide, lassie. Follow my direction. Ye’ll be safe enough for now.”

  Chapter 17

  Brenawyn awoke to mumbled conversation near her head. She opened her eyes to see Tavish bend to brush Isla’s hair away from her face and give her a kiss on the forehead. Neither of them took any notice of her. “Lass, I’m going ta check the traps I placed, call out if ye need me. I willnae be far.”