Tarnished Journey: Historical Paranormal Romance (Soul Dance Book 4)

by Ann Gimpel

  “Shortly after the bird’s visit, a beautiful man came to me in a vision. His hair was like spun gold, and his eyes the shade of uncut amethysts. I invited him to lay with me, and we remained in my bower for weeks loving each other. To this day, I have no idea who he was—or if he was even real. He told me we’d made a daughter and that she had to survive. He left how her survival happened up to me.”

  Rhiannon turned and ran her sharp gaze over her fellow gods. “I dinna trust your goodwill toward any get of mine where ye dinna know her bloodlines, and I couldna afford to have ye set her out for the crows or sell her into servitude.”

  She turned back to face everyone else. “I knew my child’s magic would be strong, which precluded placing her into a human home. Romani caravans were the only place left where a creature with magic might bide unnoticed, so I found a likely Romani couple and paid them extravagantly to raise my child.

  “To ensure my plan would unfold undisturbed, I threw myself on Arianrhod’s mercy. She invited me to bide in Caer Sidi, the place she oversees both moon and tides. I gave birth there, and kept my daughter close as long as I dared. She was able to communicate telepathically almost from birth. By the time she was two, it was past time to let her go. Had she grown much older, I feared she’d reveal the secrets of her parentage.

  “I located the gypsy couple and had them meet me in a Berlin church where I handed over my daughter. It tore out a piece of my heart, and I wept for months.”

  Yara took a step toward her mother. Tears sheened her cheeks, but Rhiannon waved her back. “Let me finish. There’s not so very much more. I watched over you while ye were in the caravan. When it broke up, I watched you still and made certain the book found its way to you.”

  Rhiannon spread her hands in front of her. “Out of everything I’ve accomplished over my millennia of existence, this was by far and away the most difficult. I have my birds and my horse, but I wanted my daughter with an ache that was all-encompassing.

  “And now my job is truly done. Yara rose to the task she was born for. ’Tis proud I am of who she’s grown into, even though I canna take credit for a whit of it. While I am certain she was born to conquer far bigger undertakings than today, ’twas the only challenge that’s made itself known to me.”

  She held out her arms. Yara barreled into them, and the two women clung to one another.

  Gwydion moved next to them and laid a hand on Rhiannon’s shoulder. Golden hair spilled down his wine-colored robe. “’Tis sorry I am, sister, that ye felt forced to trod the path ye did. Yet I understand your reasoning full well. Mayhap ’tis an omen that ’tis time for all of us”—he leveled a pointed glance at Manandan—“to fade out of time and memory.”

  “Mayhap so.” Manandan looked away.

  Rhiannon met Gwydion’s direct, blue-green gaze. “Ye may leave. I would bide a bit. Long enough to see my daughter married.”

  Whoops and cheers rang through the cave.

  Rhiannon let go of Yara and beckoned to Stewart. He walked forward, brimming over with emotion. Love for Yara. Gratitude to the Celts. Maybe in some distant corner of their minds, they’d known he had to remain single. To save himself for his one true love, who had yet to be born.

  None of that mattered and he covered the distance to Rhiannon’s outstretched hand, clasping it. “Ye have my blessing to wed my daughter,” she said, her voice loud and clear. “Three weeks from today, we shall gather in Invelochy Castle outside Inverness at sunset.”

  Before he could craft a response, the Celts vanished in a blaze of light and a mélange of scents from cinders to aged whiskey to new-mown hay.

  No one said a word for long moments, and then myriad conversations broke out at once. Yara wrapped her arms around him, and he hugged her back. “Where would ye like to go, lassie?”

  She hugged him tighter. “Somewhere I can peek under that kilt of yours. And take a bath. Not necessarily in that order.”

  He thought about it, playing possibilities through his mind. He’d left several trunks scattered throughout the Highlands. One of the deserted manor houses had a natural hot spring nearby, but so did Ben Nevis.

  He raised his voice so everyone could hear him. “Quiet for just a moment.” It took a while, but all the side conversations died away.

  “I hope all of you will come to our wedding. Ye heard Rhiannon. Three weeks from today at sunset at Inverlochy Castle. It looks like a falling down ruin, but use your magic to enter. Once ye’re inside, go up to the third floor. The Celts’ council chamber is at the end of the hall.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can we follow this corridor within Ben Nevis down far enough to get out of the storm?” Jamal asked.

  “Aye. Give me a wee moment to see this Romani laid to his rest, and then I’ll lead you to a spot close to that lake we passed halfway up.”

  People scuffled about picking things up. Stewart carried the dead Romani past the boulder to Ben Nevis’s summit. He placed him tenderly inside the uppermost of the stone buildings, chanted the Druid prayer for his soul to find eternal rest, and set mage fire burning to purify his remains. When the fire was done, there’d be naught left but ashes, and the wind would blow those away.

  When he returned to the cave, Meara was bent over her fallen shifters near its entrance. She stopped chanting long enough to say, “I’ll find my own way down. See you at your wedding.”

  He gave her a quick, hard hug, and the old shifter hugged him back.

  Everyone else was ready to leave, and he took his place at the head of the line with Yara next to him. “Want me to take one of your sacks?”

  “No. They’re not heavy anymore. My book is gone. I searched everywhere while I was waiting for you.”

  “Ye doona need it any longer, lass.” He clasped her hand in his and started down the winding passageway, calling on air sprites to light their way.

  “I didn’t think about it quite that way.” Yara sounded thoughtful. “Maybe I don’t. Mostly, that book was Mother watching over me, and she doesn’t need to anymore.”

  Cadr and Vreis were right behind him. “Where are ye headed tonight?” Vreis asked.

  “The hot springs behind the inn at the bottom of Ben Nevis, first. After that, I have no idea,” Stewart replied.

  “I know of a spot not far from here,” Cadr said. “They’re kin of mine, and they’ll let us bide a night or two.”

  “That’s terribly kind of you,” Yara said. “Maybe just until we figure out how to turn a gold coin or two into pounds.”

  Cadr snorted. “Aye, they may kick us out after a day or two, lass.”

  Stewart tightened his grip on Yara’s hand. No matter what came next, they’d be together with magic strong enough to tackle damn near anything. Even absent their combined power, knowing Yara would be his bride ignited a bone deep longing. They’d need lifetimes together to quench that yearning, and even that might not do it.

  “Lassie,” he murmured. “Love of my life.”

  “Och, such a sweet tongued boyo.” She aped his brogue. “Speaking of which, we have to find Ilse. I want my sister at my wedding.”

  “Where is she?” Vreis asked.

  “Ireland.”

  “’Tis a big place,” Cadr said. “Can ye narrow it down at wee bit?”

  “Sure. I mentioned it that first night I joined my fortunes to yours. She and Ian are in Galway.”

  “Vreis and I will find her,” Cadr said. “’Twill be our wedding gift.”

  Stewart’s throat thickened with emotion. Cadr and Vreis were the best of companions. “Thank you.”

  “Hear that?” Vreis demanded.

  “Och aye, and I certainly did,” Cadr countered. “He finally thanked us for something. He doesna deserve us, but we’ll stick to his hide like burrs no matter what.”

  “Through thick and thin,” Vreis managed before he broke out laughing. It was so infectious, everyone close by joined in.

  Chapter 22

  Yara strolled outside the decaying
ruins that marked where Inverlochy Castle once sat. Her wedding day had dawned clear and cold, and rain had yet to mar it. She snugged a plain, black cloak tighter over a long dress of cream-colored linen. Rhiannon had come up with it from somewhere, and it was delicate and lovely, sewn with seed pearls and tiny diamonds and emeralds. Its original owner had been shorter than Yara, and the gown hit her mid-calf, but that made it easy to keep it out of the muddy streets.

  Sunset would be in less than an hour, and she’d escaped the flurry of preparations within in favor of peace and quiet. She would have liked to share the pearl gray sky and brisk air with Stewart, but he’d been banned from her side these last two days to honor some Celtic tradition about the groom not laying eyes on his bride before the wedding.

  Ilse and Ian had shown up a few days ago. Seeing her sister again warmed her, and they’d picked up the threads of their closeness as if no time at all had passed. Perhaps thinking about Ilse drew her because footsteps marked a staccato rhythm as they hurried nearer.

  Yara turned and waited for her sister to catch up. “I thought you were working on dinner,” she said.

  Ilse rolled her dark eyes and blew strands of coal black hair out of her face. “There are Celtic goddesses in that kitchen. Goddesses, I tell you. Half a dozen of them, and each wanted to order me about,” she sputtered. “Wouldn’t have been so bad, except their instructions contradicted each other. Some were using magic to prepare food. Others wanted a more natural approach.”

  “I’m surprised they let you leave.” Yara smiled.

  “They didn’t. I slipped out a side door while they were arguing about your cake.”

  “Really? It’s not baked yet?”

  “I guess when you command as much magic as they do, these things happen instantly.” Ilse shook her head, and huge, gold hoop earrings danced about her face. She was short, buxom, and had the dark, exotic beauty typical of Romani women. “I’m used to how the Rom plied magic. Ha! We were rank amateurs by comparison.”

  “Speaking of the Rom, it’s encouraging the caravans in Ireland are still alive and well. After the Netherlands and Germany, I was beginning to wonder if our heritage would die out entirely.”

  Ilse smiled softly. “It was a relief to me as well. Even though I left with Ian, I wasn’t totally certain he was telling me the truth.”

  Yara quirked a brow. “More like inducements so you’d run away with him?”

  “Something like that.” Her smile widened. “I really, really like Stewart. He’s a good man, and he’ll make you a fantastic husband.”

  “How can you tell?” Gypsy women were inveterate matchmakers, and Yara wanted to figure out if something beyond wishful thinking lay behind her sister’s words.

  “It’s how he looks at you. His heart all but spills out his eyes.” She bit her lower lip in a thoughtful expression. “He looks at you as if you’re a princess, and the most precious gift of all.”

  Yara’s face grew warm. She wanted Stewart to love her because she adored him. Even though they hadn’t known one another long, it was as if they’d been soul mates in another life. She’d floated the idea one night when they were wrapped in each other’s arms, and he’d explained that their souls were indeed joined.

  Rhiannon’s twin owls flew right at them, hooting indignantly, and Yara burst out laughing. “It appears they’re ready for us.”

  “No.” Ilse corrected her. “They’re ready for you. No one cares if I show up except me, but it looks as if they’re ready to begin.”

  Yara turned back toward the front of the ruins with Ilse next to her.

  “Good thing you’re with me,” Ilse noted. “When I first got here, it took every scrap of power Ian and I could gin up to get into this place. I was afraid I’d have to wait for someone with real magic.”

  Yara didn’t say anything for fear she’d hurt her sister’s feelings. The castle had yielded easily to her, and she focused a jot of magic at splinters that had once been part of a massive front door. Light glowed warm gold, and a wavery gateway formed. She herded Ilse through before following her.

  Inside, the place looked much as it probably had during its heyday centuries before. Paintings and statues and thick rugs graced its halls. Light flared from sconces inset into thick walls, kindling on their own when she walked by. They mounted two winding flights of stairs. Once they gained the long hallway spanning the castle’s top floor, Rhiannon poked her head out of a side door and beckoned.

  “There ye are. I had to locate you with magic. Once I did, I sent my owls to round you up.” Reproach scored her words.

  The owls in question whizzed past Yara and Ilse, still hooting, and settled on the goddess’s shoulders, their black and gray plumage bristling with outrage.

  “Yes, indeed. Here I am.” Yara smiled, hoping to defuse her mother’s ire.

  “See you soon.” Ilse bent close and kissed her cheek.

  Rhiannon dragged Yara into a side chamber big enough to host a small army and pulled her cloak aside, brushing her dress into place. “Good. Ye dinna wrinkle it.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. It’s a magical gown. Surely, it’s moved beyond anything so prosaic as an iron.”

  The corners of Rhiannon’s mouth twitched, and she settled a veil into place over Yara’s head, arranging its folds. Standing back, she cocked her head to one side, made a few adjustments, and nodded.

  “Will I do?”

  “Aye, daughter. Quite well. Come along. ’Tis time.”

  Yara walked next to her mother. “Lots of Celts are here. Did they decide not to leave Earth after all?”

  “Nay, not at all, but they’re waiting until after the ceremony. They may not know you, but Stewart was near and dear to them all. Beyond that, they respect me.”

  Rhiannon pulled a door open, the owls hooting softly. “In ye go.”

  Yara’s eyes widened as she entered a chamber lit with hundreds of candles arranged in elaborate golden candelabra. People filled the hall, and the very air vibrated with their various magics. Where had all of them come from? And then she recognized banks of Fae and Dark Fae. Tairin, Elliott, Jamal, Ilona, Michael, and Aron nodded at her, smiling warmly. Ilse rose from her spot next to Ian and ran to her side long enough to give her a quick hug.

  Bagpipe music, haunting and lyrical, rose. When she hunted for its source, she saw Cadr and Vreis garbed in tartans, piping. They stood off to one side at the front of the room. Their plaids were different, and she assumed it had to do with their clan affiliation.

  The music gathered speed, and Stewart emerged from behind a crimson curtain near the bagpipes. Her knees weakened; breath whooshed from her. He was so striking, he was impossible not to stare at. His red hair was braided with jewels and beads in a Celtic warrior pattern. His tartan—red with black and green markings—wrapped around his tall, broad shouldered frame with a silver sporran spanning his waist. A cream-colored linen shirt with full sleeves sat beneath the tartan. Knee length boots fashioned from buff leather laced to his knees.

  He swept the room with his gaze until he found her, and then he held out both hands. She walked to his side to the accompaniment of the pipes. Fae and Dark Fae rose like a sweeping wave as she passed, bowing and cheering in Gaelic. When she got to Stewart, he clasped one of her hands and they walked the rest of the length of the room to where Rhiannon, Gwydion, and a dark-haired Celt she’d not met before waited.

  Yara had asked about the ceremony itself, but everyone told her all she had to do was be there, that everything would unfold as it should. She’d protested that all of them had been to a Celtic wedding, but she had no idea what to expect. Rhiannon had just smiled, told her to be patient, and then clammed up.

  “Ye’re so lovely, lassie,” Stewart whispered into her ear.

  She tightened her grip on his hand and whispered back, “You’re gorgeous. So extravagantly handsome, I could eat you up.”

  “I’ll hold you to that just as soon as we’ve gotten through the festivities.”r />
  They halted in front of the triumvirate. Stewart bowed formally, so Yara did the same.

  Rhiannon squared her shoulders. “I am Rhiannon, white witch and Welsh Horse Goddess. I give my permission for my daughter, Yara, to wed Stewart, a Druid High Priest.”

  Gwydion stepped forward. Today, his robe was heavy, embossed white silk, sashed in teal. “And I am Gwydion, master enchanter and warrior magician. I agree to this joining and shall sanctify it with my blood.”

  The dark-haired Celt stepped forward. “I am Arawn, god of the dead. I, too, agree to this joining and shall sanctify it with my blood.”

  Rhiannon inclined her head toward Gwydion and Arawn. “Thanks be to you for your assistance today.” She plucked a silver chalice from an elaborately carved table and drank from it. When she was done, she handed it to Gwydion who did the same. From there it went to Arawn, and then to her and Stewart, who handed the chalice back to Rhiannon.

  “Of what have ye drunk?” she demanded, sounding stern.

  “Of Celtic blood and glory,” Stewart replied, punctuated by a roar from the crowd.

  The chalice made the rounds once more, and Rhiannon repeated her question.

  “Of Celtic splendor,” Stewart replied to more roars from the crowd. Apparently, they were familiar with this ritual and adored it.

  Meanwhile, the bagpipes continued playing, filling the hall with achingly sweet music that plucked at Yara’s heartstrings. It had to be imbued with magic to evoke such a potent response.

  Once they’d cycled through “of Celtic magnificence” and “of Celtic glory enduring forever with no beginning nor end,” the owls left Rhiannon’s shoulder and circled them. One landed on Yara’s shoulder, talons digging deep, and the other landed on Stewart.

  Rhiannon extended a finger and dragged it through blood welling through Yara’s gown from the owl’s claws. She swabbed it over Stewart’s wound and then repeated the motion twice more.