Circle of Fire (Prophecy of the Sisters, Book 3)

by Michelle Zink

  Brigid reaches over to pat his hand. “We stayed on there so that my mother’s family could help care for me, but when I was a girl of ten years a visitor arrived who changed everything.”

  “My father.” I think of his many trips and wonder which of them made it possible for me to find the final key so many years later. I wonder what I was doing while he was orchestrating the events that would secure my possible future.

  Mr. O’Leary nods. “I suppose it was. At first I didn’t want the commission to be the caretaker of this desolate place, but Thomas promised me a good house in which to care for Brigid, and a pension for the rest of my days. It seemed a chance for a fresh start, and I thanked God for it even as I feared the things he told me.”

  “And what did he tell you?” Dimitri asks.

  Mr. O’Leary looks down at the scarred tea table. “That the mark my lass carries on her wrist meant something evil would come for her. That our only hope was to disappear.” He raises his eyes to mine. “Disappear and wait for you.”

  I shake my head. “Why didn’t you say something? We thought you were… that is, we wondered if you might be working on behalf of the other side.”

  Mr. O’Leary chuckles. “We thought the same of you. Your father didn’t give us your name. He thought it would be dangerous should someone—or something—attempt to…” He squirms uncomfortably in his chair. “Should we be pressured to reveal your identity.”

  “How did you know we would come at all?” Dimitri asks.

  Brigid speaks from the chair next to her father. “We were simply told a woman would come. That she would bear the mark on her wrist and that she would be looking for the Stone. But we were told others might come for it as well. And that they would be people to fear.” She looks at Dimitri. “He didn’t mention that a gentleman would be in the woman’s company, and we’ve had a number of questionable ‘researchers’ over the years. Researchers we have turned away to protect the Stone in anticipation of your eventual arrival. We’ve learned to be wary, and when you didn’t return after your trip into Oldcastle, well, we assumed you had found something there to aid you in your search for the Stone, especially since it happened to be the equinox.”

  I look down at the exposed mark on my wrist before looking at Brigid. “I was so careful to hide my mark from you.”

  Brigid smiles. “I as well.”

  I feel a sudden thrill at the realization that we now have the final key and the Rite. That we are two steps closer to ending the prophecy for good.

  But this victory is bittersweet without the Stone.

  As if reading my mind, Dimitri speaks. “But surely you are aware that the Stone isn’t in the cairn? We were there this morning with Maeve McLoughlin during the equinox. It was clear that the Stone is meant to be there, to be illuminated by the sun once each year, but I’m afraid it’s not.”

  Mr. O’Leary does not look surprised. “Maeve is harmless enough, but she has a bad habit of drawing attention to the cairn each spring as she waits for the equinox. We couldn’t risk that she might lead the wrong person to the Stone.”

  “Which is why,” Brigid says, reaching into the bodice of her gown, “I have guarded it with my very life for some years now.”

  Her fingers grasp a silver chain, which she pulls until it reveals a black satin bag at its end. She lifts the chain from around her neck, grabbing hold of the bag and pulling it open. When she turns it upside down, a large rock falls into her other hand.

  I expect it to be beautiful. To shine and shimmer with power. But it appears to be a simple gray stone, albeit a perfect oval.

  “Are you… Are you certain this is the right one?” I do not want to offend the O’Learys, but it is difficult to believe that such a rock, one that looks like all the others within the cairns at Loughcrew, holds the power to aid us in closing the Gate to Samael.

  Brigid smiles, and I realize the smiles we have seen touch her lips until now have been nothing but window dressing compared to the brilliance of this one. “Trust me—when it is lit by the sun, it shines so brightly it puts the other rocks to shame. That’s how we found it. How we knew it was the one. But that isn’t the only reason.” She holds it out to me. “See for yourself.”

  I feel nothing but nonchalance as I reach for it, but as my hand nears the Stone, I am oddly drawn to it. By the time my hand closes around it, I feel its power. It is not as strong as the power that was once in Aunt Abigail’s adder stone, but I feel the same hum, the same energy, buzzing beneath the smooth, cool surface of the rock.

  I look up at Brigid with a smile.

  She nods. “It’s much, much stronger—and hotter as well—when lit by the sun. I…” She ducks her head in embarrassment. “I burned myself, actually, the morning we found it. It was so beautiful.” Her voice comes as if from far away as she remembers. “I couldn’t stop myself from grasping it, but when I picked it up, when at last I held it in my palm, it shook my body to the core with its power, searing my hand in the moment before I dropped it to the ground.”

  She turns her hand over to show us the raised white scar in her palm.

  I close my fingers around the Stone. “Is it… Is it safe to carry?”

  She nods. “I’ve been wearing it beneath my gown for years. It gets hot only when touched by the rising sun, and even that may be only during the equinox. Why?”

  “Because we must take it to London.” I look at Dimitri before turning back to Brigid, taking a deep breath. “And you must come with us.”

  For the first time since the mad dash to Chartres, I travel the forest without Dimitri.

  I am on horseback, racing through the trees with the Guard close on my heels. I know the wood to be in England, though it is night and so dark I can hardly make out Sargent’s neck beneath me.

  The Guard is still some distance behind me, yet I hear the beat of their horses’ hooves even as I seek to expand the distance between us. Low-lying tree branches whip at my face and ensnarl my hair, grasping at me like greedy fingers seeking to hold me back and feed me to Samael’s Guard. Leaning farther over Sargent’s neck, I spur him onward with desperate insistence, digging my heels into his flank as I whisper words of encouragement in his ear.

  There will be no second chance.

  I am beginning to think there is no hope, for the blackness is endless and the horses behind me grow nearer by the second, when I break free of the trees, emerging into a clearing. I sense the fields stretching before me, but it is the fire in the distance that calls to me like a beacon.

  Its flames lick toward the sky, the only light amid the bleak desolation of the rolling fields. I know without a doubt that it is my intended destination. I make for it with haste just as the Guard crashes through the trees into the clearing behind me.

  As I grow closer to the fire, shadows rise around it, first in a small ring very near the flame and then farther away, in a larger circle beyond it. By the time I approach the first grouping, I understand.

  Avebury. I am at Avebury.

  Massive stones stand like guardians around the fire, and as I cross them I know that I am in the belly of the serpent. As if in answer to my realization, the fire roars higher. It seems to reach the sky as a distant hum rises on the wind, across the fields, through my very mind.

  Fabric billows around the smaller circle of shadows, and I am nearly upon them, the humming growing louder and louder, by the time I comprehend what they are.

  The figures part as I approach, and Sargent makes his way into the center of their fiery circle before I have a chance to instruct him otherwise. Panic closes its fist around my throat as the circle becomes whole once again, trapping me within its center as the chanting of those who surround me continues.

  But I do not have time to dwell on their strange ceremony.

  The hoofbeats of the Guard’s horses are like a whip of thunder to the ground as they spread out, creating yet another ring behind the figures that surround me.

  I do not realize the sky is lighte
ning until the robed figures before me reach their hands to the hoods that leave their faces in shadows. As the first one pushes back the fabric, I am stunned nearly breathless to see Helene’s dark eyes meet mine. The others continue in quick succession—Brigid, Luisa, and, finally, Sonia, her chill blue eyes burning through mine with white-hot fury.

  It is enough to make me gasp aloud. And yet even this does not prepare me for what is next. There is still one. One figure who has not revealed her identity. One figure whose face remains cloaked in mystery.

  She reaches with delicate hands for the fabric that folds softly around her face. I can hardly bear to look as she pushes the fabric away from the fine bones of her face. But neither can I look away. I am transfixed as the fire and the swiftly brightening sky illuminate her features.

  It is Alice. Alice stands together with the keys while I remain set apart, surrounded not only by the hated Guard but by the very people with whom I’ve worked in concert to end the prophecy.

  Except even that is not all.

  Sonia lifts her arms, reaching for Alice’s hand to her right and Brigid’s to her left. The others do the same, joining hands and re-creating their circle. Their marks are clearly visible in the dawning sun, and it is this that tells me how very wrong I have been, for as Alice reaches for Sonia’s hand, her wrist catches my eye.

  It is not the smooth, unblemished wrist of my sister.

  No.

  It is branded with the mark. And not just any mark. Mine.

  Even in the ethereal morning light I see the serpent writhing, curling around the “C” at its center.

  I slip from Sargent’s back almost without thinking. Stumbling toward the fire, I push up my sleeve, searching desperately for the mark I have always hated but now want to see more than anything, if only to prove I am still myself.

  But it is not there. My eyes are greeted only by unmarred skin.

  A moment later the sun makes its way a millimeter farther into the sky. As it does, I finally notice the Stone suspended on a tripod of wood above the fire. It is the same plain gray stone Brigid showed me.

  Until a small ray of sunlight touches it with gentle fingers.

  Then, the Stone sends out a shrill ping and a hum that seems to match that of the robed figures, still chanting, all around me. The vibration from the Stone sends a jolt through my body and I fall to the ground, writhing in pain as everything tips precariously sideways. The hooves of the Guard’s horses seem to gallop from within my mind, but it is not this that freezes my heart in terror.

  It is my unwelcome knowledge as I finally put it all together.

  The mark on my sister’s wrist. The smile on her face as she registers my realization.

  And my own understanding that even as Alice stands in my place amid the circle, I have taken hers. This time, I am not a savior to the Sisters.

  I am their enemy.

  I sit up in bed, a scream caught in my throat, my heart beating so fast and so hard that I have trouble catching my breath. I do not know what the dream means. Not really. But I know why I had it even before I lift my hand to my chest.

  The adder stone’s heat, even as it waned, has been ever present since the moment I awoke on Altus so many months ago. Now I close my fingers around it, trying to squeeze from it every ounce of warmth.

  It is cold.

  Aunt Abigail’s power is nothing but a memory. The Souls know it. Samael and his Guard know it.

  And now they will come for me with a vengeance.

  24

  Mr. O’Leary does not try to dissuade his daughter from making her way with us to London. It seems Brigid, too, is haunted by dreams in which she is chased by the Souls, the line between her earthly existence and the Otherworlds growing increasingly thin. She knows that which we all now realize: There will be no life of our own until the Gate is closed forever.

  After making preparations for the return journey to London, we depart Loughcrew with fresh supplies and one additional person. Brigid settles easily into the routine of rising, clearing camp, riding, and sleeping on the hard ground with only the tents for shelter. She does not complain, yet even as I am grateful for her accommodating manner, I find myself gazing at her with hidden suspicion. I remember her face from the dream of Avebury, her hands linked with those of the other keys, forming a circle with my sister. I remember it and cannot help wondering if Brigid will become my enemy.

  If the dream is a portent of things to come.

  The prospect that I am going mad seems more possible than ever before. I try to calm myself—to tell myself that it is not possible for everyone and everything to be my enemy. Even Sonia, as much as our friendship has suffered, cannot be called my enemy.

  It is only the prophecy, I think. The Souls. Samael. My own weakness. My own darkness.

  My dreams have only increased in intensity since the night I dreamed of Avebury. I have begun to feel claustrophobic from the darkness pressing in on all sides, as if I am already in the grave and trying to dig free of the soil with my bare hands.

  As if it is already hopeless.

  Brigid was relieved to unburden herself of the Stone, and I have worn it in the pouch around my neck since the day I discovered it in her possession. I hoped it might give me additional strength in the face of that lost with Aunt Abigail’s adder stone, yet it remains nothing but a cold, heavy rock around my neck.

  I have become accustomed to holding myself stiffly upright, an expression of calm plastered over the exhaustion and fear eating their way through my skin. Yet, some part of me realizes that my ruse is only a matter of pride. Even as I attempt the show of strength, it is obvious that Dimitri knows my torment. It is he who races to the tent upon hearing my screams. He who holds me until I once again fall into a fitful sleep.

  Even so, I dare not allow myself the deep slumber I so desperately need, and my mind remains alert even in the dark of night. My bow and dagger are no comfort in those dark hours, though they are always at the ready. I am increasingly certain that I will wake one morning to find the black velvet of the medallion intertwined around my other wrist, the Jorgumand on its metal disc nestled against the mark on my skin.

  It is the afternoon of our fourth day riding when we exit the woods to find ourselves on a road winding through fields that gradually disappear in favor of an occasional pub or inn. The smell of the sea is in the air and it is only a short time later that we come to the rise of a hill and see Dublin and the waterfront in the distance.

  I turn to Dimitri. “Will Gareth be our escort across the water again?”

  “If all goes well.” Dimitri spurs his horse forward.

  I do not have to question the uncertainty in his voice. We have both learned that anything can happen when one is dispatched on behalf of the prophecy. I try to push aside my fear that something has happened to Gareth, but I do not breathe easy until we reach the docks and see him standing near a familiar boat in the distance. For the first time in days, a smile rises easily to my mouth.

  “Gareth!”

  As we bring the horses to Gareth’s place on the docks, the welcoming smile recedes from his face. In its place is naked worry. “My Lady… Are you well? Has something happened?”

  I sit straighter in the saddle, embarrassed at his reference to my appearance. “I’m simply tired, that’s all. Sleep does not come easily in this cold.”

  He nods slowly. “Yes, my Lady. You’re lovely as always, of course. Anyone would be tired with such a journey behind them.” His words are meant to soothe, but I catch the glance he casts in Dimitri’s direction and know they will discuss my health later, when I am not around to be offended.

  I work quickly to change the subject, keeping the details of Brigid’s presence simple. “I’m sure you remember Miss O’Leary. She will be accompanying us the rest of the way.” I realize she has no idea the part Gareth plays in our group, and I turn to her to explain. “Gareth is a childhood friend of Dimitri’s and has seen us through more than one perilous journey. He
will act as our escort across the water.”

  Gareth nods his head at Brigid. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. But forgive me for saying, you do seem a bit friendlier this time around.”

  A blush creeps into Brigid’s cheeks. “I apologize for my prior rudeness. There was some confusion, you see, about our ability to trust one another.”

  I give her a smile, grateful for her discretion, and Gareth nods in understanding.

  “There are no times more confusing than these.” He turns to me. “And speaking of confusion, I find I must correct you.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  “I’ve been given approval to be your escort beyond our landing in England. In fact, I’ll be your guide all the way to London.” It is obvious from his grin that he is pleased with the development.

  “Really?” I do not wait for him to answer. “That is the best news you could have given me!”

  Dimitri nods. “I have to agree. There is no guide, or friend, more trusted. And we need all the assistance we can gather.”

  Gareth waves us down. “Come. Make yourselves comfortable on the boat while I see to your horses.”

  We dismount, and Gareth gestures toward two men leaning against a sooty building not far from where we stand. They amble over, taking hold of the reins and tipping their hats to Brigid and me before turning to make their way down the dirt walkway.

  “Men of few words, are they?” Dimitri chuckles.

  Gareth makes his way to the edge of the dock, reaching for Brigid’s hand. “The very best men to have in circumstances such as these, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “There can be no doubt,” Dimitri says, holding my hand as I step into the boat after Brigid.

  Moments later Gareth and Dimitri untie the boat from the pier. I watch the water warily as we drift away from the pilings, the port and its accompanying noise growing distant behind us.

  Brigid leans out over the edge of the boat, gazing into the water as if she expects to find something hidden in its depths. I think I should protect her. Tell her to beware. To stay inside the boat and never, ever put her hands in the water.