Brenawyn saw this as the precursor to rape and her blood boiled. Her interlace flared to life and the ground shook. Liam came around the wagon on horseback and called for a cease. The trees beyond uprooted, and a deep crevice was forming in the midst of the road. Liam jumped down, paying Brenawyn no mind, and grabbed the man’s cowl and tore it back. A knife appeared in his hand and he sliced through the man’s carotid artery bathing Isla in his blood. He threw the man’s convulsing form at an angle away from the woman and helped her up. Only then did he turn his attention to Brenawyn.
“She’s safe. She’s whole. Stand down or I will kill her right now.”
Brenawyn had limited control over her powers. In the handful of times she’d used them only twice had she invoked their aid purposely. The first was to help revive Alex under the guidance of her grandmother, so that wasn’t useful now. Nana wasn’t here to guide her through mediation to accelerate the process of calming her emotions. The second though, what had she done? She was in the hall about to be formally presented publically so sanctuary could be granted and she brushed the child in passing. She felt the child’s difficulty and knew what was wrong before she looked down. That was healing, her intuitive response through a projected offense, but this was defensive. It felt as if the magic came from a different place. She was angry and frightened as she had been in her grandmother’s house after Cormac gutted Alex. She didn’t understand it at the time, but the effect of causing the beams to crack was a physical one. Her muscles strained as the wood snapped but it wasn’t the source of the magic then. It felt as if it originated in her gut because the moment’s relief afterward was a visceral one. It made no sense, because it also felt like the source was her thinking—that she had to find a way out of that room somehow. Exiting through the downstairs store via the front stairs was blocked by Cormac. The body of Alex and the Oracle stood in the way of her escape down the back stairs. Her powers were tied to her emotions obviously, but she couldn’t pinpoint what their source was.
She gained her feet, the crevice becoming wider, zigzagging its way to the fallen man, who was gone now, the last of his heart’s blood seeped into the hardened earth. She didn’t hear Liam, so intent on her ire, but when the body of the would-be perpetrator sunk into the earth, her anger leveled. With a wave of her hand, the banks of the crevice crashed in on each other with a muffled whoosh. Gone was any remnant of the guard.
Liam looked at the point where he had been and smiled. “I say again, stand down, priestess. You may be able to counter me before I kill her, but you will not be able to do anything for Leoncha or…Maggie.”
At the name Brenawyn snapped out of her trance interlace becoming brighter, “You know where she is?”
“I know where she’ll be. If I don’t make it to our destination, she’ll be dead.”
“You’re lying.”
“Perhaps, but there’s no way to tell. Stand down.”
The wind was taken out of Brenawyn’s sails, and she slumped, her interlace fading.
~ ~ ~
Tavish returned to camp with six hares cleaned and already gutted; no use in attracting unwanted wildlife by the stink of offal. His stomach growled in anticipation of breakfast, but his wife was nowhere to be seen. He gave the job over to a junior member of his guard, silently swearing because the meat would be charred beyond recognition and barely be edible.
Where was that woman? He shouldn’t be surprised, trouble seemed to find her. If he didn’t know her better, he’d think she courted it. But truth be told, she was just naïve and gullible. Still, a sinking feeling settled in his gut. He should have been more specific. He should have told her to stay put. Where was Brenawyn? He shook his head, chastising himself for overlooking the obvious. He was better than that. Isla’s confounded basket was missing. They were off together gathering herbs.
He sighed and left to track them down. He caught their trail immediately upon entering the tree line, thanks to the soft loam of the forest floor. It was easy to follow once he found the first tree, its soil disturbed at its base. He crouched down pinching the dirt to rub between his fingers. He smelled it, and detected a slight fruity scent. Ah, its mushrooms, she’s after. They’d be close, roaming, looking for more. He scouted beyond and chose a direction.
He located several more sites, but neither Isla nor Brenawyn. He whistled, knowing the sound would travel farther. She’d hear it and backtrack, meeting somewhere in between. It didn’t even occur to him that they could have separated, or never had been together in the first place, when he came upon her basket overturned, its yellow mushrooms scattered in a wide arc. She’d tossed it down.
He took a guess that Isla was following Brenawyn. There was no additional track, only his wife’s small foot, the sharp indent evident of new shoes directly from the cobbler before they left. They were his gift to her to replace the much repaired old boots she had.
Where did she go? He paced the area before seeing the retreating footsteps. The footfalls were different, more determined, heavier on the heel. He followed the prints as they zigzagged from tree to tree almost as if she were using them for cover. She’d stopped here. Tavish looked around, scanning the area. Two trees beyond he saw crushed foliage. She’d taken to her belly. Whatever had taken place it had been close to have her taking further cover.
He came to the next tree and saw evidence of a struggle. She’d gotten up. was forced up—there was too much disturbed ground to imagine otherwise. He backed up and looked at the site through squinted eyes, trying to block out all else other than the clues: uprooted saplings, and an unearthed rock. Tavish touched the empty space the rock previously occupied. Small indents, her fingers, prying it out to use as a weapon. On the trunk of the birch there was an area chest high where the bark had been ripped off; dirt marked the exposed wood. Could that have been her?
He looked back. A body lay amidst the bracken. He went to investigate, pulling the hood back—it was Duncan, his guardsman with his wife’s paring knife sticking out of his throat!
Tavish sat back on his haunches. Duncan was trusted, but as the body lay here, dressed an unfamiliar robe much like the one Amergin wore, it pointed to deceit.
He reenacted the scene from the clues. If this was she, Duncan towered over her. She’d know that she’d need to use momentum to her advantage. He’d had taught her that. She was petite, but agile. He’d taught her how to defend herself. If she was taken, and she was, who was he fooling? She’d not have gone without a fight. He rounded the tree and located another bunch of spilled mushrooms. There was another set of footprints, larger but still dainty. They must belong to Brenawyn. Then two larger sets. One matched the tracks beyond, the owner walked with a limp. The left foot fell awkwardly, heavier. He’d slow them down. That was important.
Having made mental notes of the rest, Tavish marked the tree with a swift swipe of his blade, and ran back to the camp calling for arms.
Chapter 19
Amergin opted to step through the veil into Tir-Na-Nog instead of performing the Rite of Widdershins. He normally liked to keep a low profile, erring on the side of caution, for it was far better to go unnoticed than to broadcast his comings and goings to the gods, But the Coven was emboldened by the looming possibilities that the coming fire feast offered. He needed to confer with Oghma, the God of Communication.
His intent and purpose must have preceded him because the god was quietly waiting for him when he turned from sealing his passage.
“Greetings to you, Myrddin. How do you fare?”
No matter how many years passed, Amergin would never get used to the god’s speech. Each word said with perfect inflection, each syllable enunciated with the proper pronunciation, volume, intonation—flawlessly eloquent. A simple greeting uttered by anyone else would be powerless, the opening volley of meaningless small talk, but under the god’s use—danger lay. It was the allure of the word that was his glamour. All gods had one, a means of seduction to make those of weak minds susceptible to influence.
Amergin was no weak-minded fool, but the pull was great even for him—a skilled interlocutor who had apprenticed under Oghma’s tutelage. Greetings to you—the salutation is the first of many stressors. It is the proclamation of opening engagement; Oghma noticed him. Then the question, how do you fare? So innocent a query, but from a god, he’d have to watch. He mustn’t reveal too much else he’d end up bound by word.
“I am troubled.”
“These are trying times that have come upon us. There are many pieces in motion now.”
“Aye,” Amergin sighed, “but ‘afore I return ta my charge, is all in readiness with the Covenant? I will need ta apprise the priestess prior ta the start o’ the ceremony.”
“Yes. There is a list of proposals from the Tuatha Dé and the Formorians. You will have the other?”
“Aye. We will be prepared. My concern is for the other matter.”
He looked off in the distance, “There is unrest. A thirteenth has not yet been chosen to replace the one they lost. It will be one from their ranks, an unseasoned initiate. It draws close to the eve of his appointment.”
“They think ta compel her…”
Oghma pursed his lips and paced away. Amergin waited, knowing that omniscience wasn’t in the god’s aptitude.
“Come, we will consult the Well of Segais. There we might ascertain the path in which to follow.”
In all his years he had never visited the well. Travel with a god was efficient in the moral realm, vast distances covered in mere minutes. Travel in Tir-Na-Nog was instantaneous.
Before any thought coalesced in his mind, he was pushing aside branches to reveal a lovely secluded spot, dappled in shadow. A lovely, but unassuming environ guarded by the forest hid its secrets. Here past, present, and future melded together. It was a place where knowledge superseded time. Soon he’d have access to all things known in the past. He’d be able to see the truth in the present. He’d be able to use both to accurately navigate the future. A selfish desire housed in all men’s hearts surged, and Amergin knew why after millennia of watching men kill for it, the quest to find it, control it, and weld its power; the gods contrived for it to slip into human myth. The urge to use it selfishly was too great a temptation; and now the God of Communication invited him to its banks.
Amergin closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose until his lungs couldn’t take any more. He held his breath, focusing on his heartbeat. He exhaled before he had the need to breathe again, only to repeat the process.
“We will begin when you are ready.”
He opened his eyes to find Oghma squatting on the opposite bank trailing his fingers in the water.
“Proceed without me. I cannae guarantee…”
The god considered him for a moment, “Can I ask what the need is that makes this so desirable?”
Amergin sat where he was on the grass knowing that since the god was reposed he ought to be as well lest he offend. “Why do ye want ta know?”
“My dominion leaves me…curious. Knowledge fuels communication and therefore should improve relations, but from what I observed it only brings conflict ad infinium.”
“When I was young, truly, as gauged by human years, e’en ‘afore I was selected ta be Reliquary, I was strong o’ mind and body.” He snorted at a flash of a memory brought to mind a humiliating turn of events involving a woman. “Well, maybe it was just strength o’ body. Anyway, what I speak o’ is a’ one time my back was straight, my legs, arms, and chest were knotted with muscle.”
“Of course,” the god nodded, “but this was before you harnessed the Auld Ways.”
“Aye, but I speak o’ another type o’ strength. I bested men twice my size for the briefest o’ moments, and then it was gone.” He looked down at his hands, spotted and worn. “I used ta be able ta split wood for the fire with one fell o’ my ax. Now, I cannae hold it above my head and bring it down with any force without my arms trembling.”
“That is your mortal coil.”
“T’is a burden we must bear, but knowledge is its own power, one no’ dependent on strength o’ muscle. It doesnae atrophy with time.”
“When you became the Reliquary, and even more so when you passed that mantle for the Myrddin, you are among the strongest…”
“Magic, aye.” Static sparked between Amergin’s outstretched hands growing in intensity between his fingers; his hands molded it as one would a handful of snow, electricity sparking blue within its molded sphere. He clapped his hands squelching the energy, the sparse soft hairs on the backs of his hands erect from proximity. “But e’en now there are those who surpass me—I doonae covet her abilities nor his, mind ye; but ha’ only a quick regret that my time is coming ta a close. I willnae be here ta see the renewal o’ the Covenant.” He chortled, “My greatest achievement by far was besting the gods—no offense.”
“Tread carefully, mortal.”
He bowed his head, “Aye, forgive me, I speak out o’ turn.”
The god stroked his beard, a peculiar idiosyncrasy indicating reflection. They were usually so staid that for one of them to fidget like a human and show vulnerability was frightening. Not often was a mortal present for divine contemplation, and Amergin was the last to want that to become a common occurrence. He needed the boundaries to be clear.
“I begin to understand. Without knowledge you would not have been able to deceive us.”
“Without knowledge and understanding, I wouldnae ha’ been able ta pull off the ruse. All the assembled miscalculated the new contenders.”
“Most were…still are, feeble and dull-witted.”
“And ye’ve paid for yer arrogance. So concerned ye were with the formidable strength o’ the Formorians that ye underestimated the danger on the other front.”
There was a movement in Oghma’s eyes, a shifting of color. Inky blackness filled the space and radiated outward over his cheeks.
Amergin backpedaled and cowered before the god, “I beg yer pardon, my lord.” He quaked, prostrate before him, “F…f… forgive.”
The god surged forward so he towered over the Myrddin. He stood still for a long moment and then the color receded from his cheeks and his eyes became clear again. He offered his hand to Amergin who took it. The god repositioned his grip and pulled the man to his feet. “It was a lesson never to be repeated.”
“Then take action now. The Coven intends ta supplant the priestess, taking her abilities and shift power in their favor. What will they be able ta dae once that happens? Summon the Reliquary, and gi’ both o’ us leave ta protect yer asset.”
“He is the charge of Cernunnos.”
“All the better. Cernunnos has an added stake in this. She is his daughter. He’ll want her safe.”
Oghma strode to the water’s edge and squat down. Amergin watched as Oghma pull out chunks of water reeds and throw them over his shoulder by the bank of the Well and dig in the mud until he had a small area cleared with water just on the surface. He was amused by the similarities the deity had to a child playing in the mud for the first time. The only, unsettling difference was that the child would have been covered from elbow to ear in muck, but the god was pristine. No mud caked on his velvet brocade sleeves, neither his hands, nor fingernails shown any dirt, even though Amergin saw him dig.
Oghma bent to write in the mud with his index finger. His hand glowed in the creases of his knuckles and the nailbeds, and as he formed the letters the same lumination spread to the script. The water rushed in to cover each letter as soon as he finished but a trace of luminescence was left for a moment until the next was started. Amergin couldn’t see what he wrote, but how many had the priviledge to see the God of Communication, the one responsible for the creation and teaching of the Druid alphabet, compose. There was no comparison. He made the most painstakingly, beautiful illuminated text look like chicken scratch and he was playing in the mud.
His pace quickened and the sleeves of his robe were a hindrance. He tore at the frog closures and let the garment fall off
his shoulders. The minute it settled on the grass, Amergin could see darkness creep up from the hem trailing in the water, and the mud splatters half way up the sleeves. A thought sparked in his mind that this was somehow important. The robe was not enchanted itself but only when it was on the god. He put it to the back of his mind and again gave his attention to the god.
Divested of the brocade and velvet robe, Oghma was clothed in a white alb and a brown homespun chasuble much like the garments worn by the Roman clerics. He had never seen such simple clothes on a god, and he wondered if the simplicity was significant in some way to his dominion in contrast to his outer robe. He must ask if he had the opportunity in the future.
Oghma was by this time writing with both hands in deference to the rate in which he now wrote. The shallow pool was aglow. He finished with a flare and scooped a large section out with his two hands. He molded it and chanted, “Lig é a bheith ar eolas.” Let it be known, Amergin mindlessly translated. The viscosity of the mud changed into the consistency of clay. Oghma blew on the packed ball igniting the same glow and he squeezed the ball. The clay crumpled and fell from his hands leaving a glowing spherical lattice. He blew on it again, and it dispersed like the seeds of a dandelion. Carried on remnants of his breath, they swirled low over the water, until the wind caught them and carried them away.
~ ~ ~
They didn’t have to wait long before Cernunnos and Alex arrived. While the gods conferred ,Alex greeted Amergin with a hearty pat on the back. “How goes it, old man?”
Amergin shrugged his shoulders, “Wish we met again under better circumstances, but t’is for the gods ta decide when ta make the next move.”
Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Page 12
