“He’s below deck. They are tendin’ to his wounds, he got a nasty gash on his left shoulder, and they are a’ sewin’ him up.”
A hideous scream from below confirmed Deasum’s assumption. “That will be him about now.”
Parkin smiled. “No question he is alive then,” he muttered and rubbed his belly. “Pass me some meat, Macklin,” he said.
“Parkin, we have some wash buckets down below, and a change of clothin’ for ye. We need to get ye to the sick house at once,” said Deasum, handing him another cup of water.
“I do no’ believe I am in need of the healer, Deasum. I am verra well intact, all thangs considered. A bit more food and some water, a good night’s sleep and the morn will find me up and ready to greet the day. Deasum crouched down and motioned for Parkin to come near. Lowering his voice, he began, “Parkin, Kyra is at the sick house. Her time is come, but there are complications. She is no’ expected to…uh…survive through the night.” Patting Parking on the knee, he mouthed, “I am sorry, son,” and stood back up to shout orders at the shiphands.
Macklin placed an adolescent arm around his stepfather and squeezed him tight. “Kyra is strong, Parkin, dinna’ let ’em tell ye what will’appen. When ye go to her, her strength will renew and she will fight—fight with all she has in her. She kens no other way.”
Parkin stood and looked out over the waters, towards the Isle of Women, towards the mainland, and prayed. It wasn’t the first time he had prayed, but it was the first time he meant it. He couldn’t go on without Kyra, and Winnie needed her, and Macklin needed her, and he needed her like he had never needed for anything in his entire life. He would not give up, and he would not let her either.
SIX
Burke Lands— the Dungeon
She tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position within which to rest. The dreams had returned, and she wept audibly such that Tragus had come down three or four times now to check on her. The same dream, a recollection of a time gone by, a trauma so deep it cut a young woman to her core. What was she to do at just sixteen years of age, giving birth in that dreadful cave on the outskirts of the village? He was there, holding her hand, and comforting her as best he could. What did he know about birthing babes? Even the six Burke soldiers standing guard outside the mouth of the cave cringed and turned away.
It was the fact that she feared, no—she knew—her father’s intentions. She could not keep the child. He or she was to be sent to foster in McTierney lands, and she would never see the babe again. And Duncan, poor Duncan, he had agreed to return to Skye, to his mother’s people; she would never see him again. Her one true love. Duncan O’Malley, distant cousin to Dallin O’Malley. Their love was forbidden; she was promised to Dallin, and she would be wed to him the next Bealtaine—unscathed—and no one would ever know about the babe. Her father, the Lord Burke, would take the blame. He would claim the babe was his and a chambermaid’s, and he would send the bastard away. Thank the gods her mother had already passed, it would have killed her. No one would ever know. But she would know. Every night in her dreams; she would know.
Such a beautiful peaceful child he was. He was healthy, strong and beautiful; with only one small flaw. Oh Father, please can I keep him? I didn’t want to marry Dallin anyway. I love Duncan. Oh Father, he is so good to me; he loves me. We can be a family. Oh Da! Please!
Odetta kept to herself after the babe was sent away. Her father bore the brunt of the blame for the child, and sent him to McTierney land as promised. He knew that she would have no future if any suitors were ever to know about her bastard.
Blind from birth, they had said. But oh, such a wonderful, peaceful babe. Beautiful blond curls, and creamy beige skin. And happy, oh so happy. Duncan was true to his honor and left for Skye, and she would never hear from him again. Her letters were never returned. She even began corresponding with Dallin voluntarily, but still no word about Duncan. Heartbroken and empty-armed, Odetta withdrew; withdrew from her family, from her friends, from her life, and consulted with soothsayers, witches and druids. She took to the drink, and pined away in her chamber, night after night, consoling herself with the only hope she could think of for ever finding her son again—black magic.
Before long, she and at least a dozen other young women, had developed a steady meeting schedule, and their coven was born. She placed all her anger, resentment, jealousy, and rage into her craft; and she was successful. She would make the marriage to Dallin work, if only to have some semblance of hope of finding Duncan. Perhaps they could visit, or he would at least keep correspondence with Dallin, and she would know he was okay. She would make the best of the situation, if it was the last thing she did!
But alas, Dallin scorned her. Called off the wedding and refused to speak with her, or her father. At first, her father blamed her. Perhaps word had gotten out about Jamie—her son, and Duncan—her love. Duncan was more honorable than that, a man of his word, she promised her father. That could not be it.
Anya O’Connell, daughter of the shipbuilder. She was the one causing all the fuss. It was another woman! Never in her wildest dreams did she believe Dallin capable of such betrayal. But, who was she to judge? She had been with her betrothed’s cousin, fallen in love, had a child, and hatched an unsuccessful scheme to leave with him; to India, to Rome, to England, to anywhere they could be together. The priest, the god-fearing priest, Kurt—he was going to help them. But in the end, neither the old gods, nor the new one, held any power. That was just it, the only power to be had was her own, and she planned to use it so that everyone paid. Paid for her loss, her poor baby, blind and alone in the world; without any protection, without a mother’s love, and no power in heaven or in hell—would stop her. She would make them pay. All of them!
She had gotten over the loss of Duncan well enough; it had been twenty-four years after all. Enough time to mourn the loss of a man not strong enough to demand what was his. Anyone willing to walk away from their love and their child, was certainly not man enough for her. But her son, that was another matter altogether.
Odetta knew he was well cared for, and it was probably best he wasn’t still in Burke lands. He was blind, and would be treated as a leper or beggar, and would never hold the place of respect he should; at least not while her father was alive. He would never be heir to the title, with an infirmity such as his. Yet—she wondered what sort of life he led. While her father remained alive, she heard word occasionally, from the McTierney clan. Growing strong, well adjusted, intelligent, and fluent in three languages. Trained as a soldier, spiritually attune, and wise beyond his age. All of the things she could never imagine for one born without sight. Bastard. Unwanted. Unloved. Those were the words that drove her to tears, and tortured her subconscious in the wee hours of the night. The words of her stern father, over and over again.
It was as if she were there, back in that cave again; holding her precious child. Duncan, fearful and regretful, was crying as well. Such a connection they shared, such love and acceptance. Knowing his cousin would take her to wife shook him to his core and sent him over the edge. She promised she wouldn’t go through with it. No matter what, if it came down to it, she would leave, she would not sleep with his cousin, would not be his wife and she would not, under any circumstances, bear him a child. She would rather die, she would—she would jump off the rocky cliffs to certain death.
Yes, thank the goddess for Anya O’Connell.
***
Dervilla O’Malley poured over the nautical maps once more. Darina’s younger sister had been working with the clan maps and shipping routes since she was old enough to hold a quill, although she preferred a reed. With a steady hand, she traced the last-known route of the Muirin, and shook her head back and forth in confusion. “Galen, I jest dinna’ understand what could o’ ’happint to em,” she said. “I’ve traced their planned route, and all o’ the alternative routes, and there is simply no way they wouldna’ have arrived by now.”
Spreading out the
last of the nautical maps across the wide council table, she pointed towards the outer islands which lay to the northwest of the mainland. “If they came across that way, they shoulda’ arrived a fortnight ago. If they came across this way,” she said pointing between the islands and the mainland, they would ha’ at least arrived five nights ago. The waters are rougher, but there have been no storms, mind ye,” she reflected, stroking her chin. “We sent Deasum with the others, on the Mura, and they scoured ev’ry square inch of deep blue between here and the outer shelf, mind ye,” she said half speaking to Galen, and half muttering to herself.[1]
“I jest dinna’ get it either, Dervilla,” responded Galen. “Dervilla, ye went o’er all the planned routes with the men, did ye no’?” he asked.
“A’ course I did, Patrick requires it now,” she remarked. “They were all prepared on time, and we went o’er all of ’em with Lucian as well. The work was impeccable. No’ a missin’ element, no’ a’ one,” she sighed. “Nothin’ unusual, same routes, same courses, plenty o’ provisions, plenty o’ deckhands, nay surprises, Galen—really. And—nay storms to speak of, nay celestial anomalies; we checked everthang we always do.”
“First the Aban, then the Muirin, and now the Seachnall,” he replied. “Three missin’ ships, and all in a manner of a month. With the Montgomery due any day now, Patrick grows more worried.”
“I dinna’ have a plan here for the Montgomery, Galen,” Dervilla replied exasperated, shuffling through piles and piles of parchment.
“Nay, nay, no’ ‘the Montgomery’ – I mean with Flynn Montgomery arrivin’ soon.”
“Flynn Montgomery,” she replied, scratching her head. “Remind me, Galen, who is Flynn Montgomery?” she asked, and slumped down onto the stool beside him.
“The Lord’s kinsmen, from Shiant, the Island of Skye,” he said.
She shook her head back and forth in confusion.
“Ah, ye prob’ly have no’ been told yet,” he said and slapped his hands on his knees. “Patrick has sent for his cousin, Flynn Montgomery; he has given him a commission as the new chieftan of the military operations.”
“But what about me Uncle Ruarc? ‘Tis his job,” she retorted.
“Nay, nay, ‘tis nothin’ of that sort, Dervilla. Patrick is makin’ Ruarc the champion of his personal guard. Ruarc shall head the Lord and the castle’s sentries. ’Tis imperative that the castle be secure and that Patrick be well guarded—as well as Darina and Braeden, and yerself I might add, milady.”
“I’m more than capable of takin’ care of meself, Galen,” she responded, standing back up and once again stooping laboriously over the pile of weathered parchments. “Does Patrick fear for his safety, Galen?” she asked.
“I’m sure Patrick is capable of seein’ to his own safety. However, as he said, he canna’ be in more than one place at a time and Darina is with child, and Braeden is…well…Braeden is a young lad and verra, verra energetic and…well…with the threat of war from the Burkes; ’tis better for the clan that the safety of all of the Lord’s house is secure,” he said, waving his arms wide in the air in a pompous fashion.
Dervilla chuckled and looked up from work. “Elise, I didna’ see ye standin’ there.”
“Dervilla,” she said bowing slightly, “Galen,” she continued, “Dervilla, Kyra has asked for ye. She is in the sickhouse. Darina and Moya are attendin’ to her. Her time is come, and ’tis no’ lookin’ good for her.”
SEVEN
The Seas
“We should make the mainland by midnight, Flynn,” said Captain MacGrath. “Barring any unforeseen delay, that is,” he added matter-of-factly. “Ye feelin’ a might better than ye were last night, son?”
Flynn grunted, and heaved over the side of the vessel. “I’ve neva’ been one for sailin’, me da knew as much. Mayhap he was right to get me the commission for military service on the cold, hard land,” he chuckled between retches. “A fortnight is jest too long to go without the firm foundation of green earth,” he added, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. “If I didna’ know any better, I’d say that we have no hope of seein’ land agin. ‘Tis been so long, mind ye, since I’ve actually seen any. I fear we have lost all sight of it, and mayhap we will fall off the cliff of the earth to sudden doom.”
‘’Tis no’ so,” chuckled the aging Captain. “I’ve journeyed this way, more than once meself. I can assure ye there is land, and ’tis no’ far. Ye’ll be seein’ some rocky crags and high bluffs a’fore we finish with our sup’ t’night lad. Neva’ ye fear.”
Flynn sunk low against the wooden fortress he had called home for the preceding weeks. Bone-tired and literally fed up with salted salmon and dried vegetables, he promised himself he would eat no less than a dozen oat cakes gladly, without complaint, if he could only make landfall before his stomach turned itself completely inside out. Even raw fish sounded good. The fact that the ship’s rats were taking on an inviting allure, made his stomach lurch again.
“Have some ale,” said the captain handing him an overfull mug. “May settle ye stomach, and if it doesna’, then ye willna’ care, cause ye will be wobblin’ and weavin’,” he chortled, “and ye may possibly catch yerself some sleep.”
“Captain,” interrupted a deckhand. “There appears to be some debris up ahead.” Flynn stood and locked gazes with MacGrath. In the distance, less than fifty yards out, were bowed wood, scorched sails, and stowage barrels floating aimlessly in the choppy waters. There were no signs of any survivors, at least not a first glance.
“To the bow!” shouted MacGrath. Flynn grasped the edge of the cap rail and sunk his nails into the wood. Leaning over as far as he could, he counted twelve, thirteen—no fourteen—floating barrels. He watched with anticipation as the boatswain swung himself down the rope ladder, and made haste to get to the small dinghy waiting below. Shoving his mug of ale into the Captain’s hands, he hurtled himself down after the boatswain. “I’m goin’ with ye,” he shouted, “wait up.”
MacGrath bellowed down, “Take this with ye,” he said tossing a leather-cased dagger below. The rowers had stopped, the first mate was securing the anchor, and an air of nervous anticipation overtook the galley. Deckhands scurried back and forth, adjusted the sails, securing the anchor and whispering amongst themselves.
“Looks like a fire!” yelled Flynn from the dinghy. Burnt wood floated atop the cresting waves, and the extent of the damage became clear the closer to the main debris he became.
A school of basking sharks circled the small dinghy, and Flynn grew wary. The boatswain swore under his breath, “There shallna’ be any survivors, I’d say,” he muttered. “We should head back.”
“Aye,” replied Flynn. “That we should, lest we’re hoping to be dessert.”
“No’ t’day,” replied the man, furiously turning the dinghy with his oars. “No’ t’day.”
***
She was dreaming again, this time about her Dark Visitor. Just a young lass when she first encountered the other-worldly being, Odetta had at one point mistaken him for a friend. Life in the castle could be terribly lonely, and Lord’s daughters were seldom permitted any real freedom. Her visits with Eaton, as he called himself, were brief but rewarding. She developed an uncanny ability to learn, truly learn and digest information, process language and understand mechanical matters—more so than her elder brother Cynbel—to the point that she was consulted upon by the Lord’s own advisors.
Her newfound love, Duncan, pulled her away from her time with Eaton, and he grew angry. In the beginning he was like an angel, an ethereal god of light and hope and promise—the promise of a future she could not fathom. One filled with mystery and adventure. And he was her secret. A special escape from the mundane existence she endured and the tyranny of her overbearing father. And he would take her with him. Far away, to a place she could only imagine, a place hidden behind the sun, beyond the moon, and far outside every star she could see at night, even with her looking glass.
That
looking glass. Eaton gave her the design for it and Reji, the glassmaker, ground it out and placed it in the bronze cylinder the blacksmith fashioned. Her father stomped it beneath his feet when he found her with it on the battlements. Sorcery, debauchery and nonsense, he said. Never an appreciation for her “contagious curiosity” as the young priest, Father MacArtrey, coined it. A disdain for all things contemporary—that was her father’s legacy.
Eaton transformed overnight it seemed, from the gloriously heavenly creature she had once known, into something more sinister. From his blond hair and blue eyes, and all eight feet of him; into a hideously transfigured dark remnant of a demi-god, she thought to herself. Anger, resentment, bitterness, and a “lifetime of waiting” he insisted, had propelled him into a “descent into madness,” for which there was no return.
Eaton never returned to his home as he promised he would. He insisted he required her help. Help in finding the “nexus”—the one thing that could propel him towards his origins—the necessary apparatus which had eluded him all these years. She was his only hope in recovering the nexus, and she would pay for that hope—with her mortality—and with the lives of the people she loved.
It was Eaton’s taking of Easal, her late husband, that plagued her dreams now. He needed a host; his anger and bitterness were literally decaying his otherworldly body. It could not abide any longer on this earth. His spirit must have somewhere to go, and Easal was the logical choice. He would be respected, obeyed, and feared. Feared. That’s what he wanted most. And—he would have it. Just not from her. Not anymore.
She struggled against the arms that held her prisoner. So heavy, she thought to herself. Lifting her arm, she realized it was still tethered to the cavern wall. The pounding in her head had not subsided. Her vision was cloudy, and she could feel her pulse in the drumbeat against her eardrum.
Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 4
