Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy

by Melissa Macfie

  The cave was ever changing, evolving. A living thing, the rush of the water over the stones father back and the slight pull here at the beginning of the lake, making the pools deeper. A chill pricked her skin. The statement that nothing would hurt her here was a misnomer. As long as she didn’t move she’d be okay. A slight misstep in a thousand different places on the tourist trail would have her fall to break a bone or worse. Even with the hand railings looked rickety and slick next to the solidity of the rock all around.

  She edged closer feeling for solid surface with her feet and scooted closer on her bottom towards the light from the lone lantern. The light, a beacon of safety linking her to civilization, was weak, consumed just a few feet from the lamp by the encroaching ancient darkness of the cavern.

  Brenawyn jerked her head trying to pinpoint Finvarra but his voice echoed off the walls. “Extinguish the lantern, priestess.”

  She moved to protect it, pulling it into her lap, both fists wrapped around the handle. “No, it’s the only light.”

  “The light needs to be snuffed in order to move away from the illusion of safety and logic.”

  She huddled closer to it as if the small heat thrown off by the fluorescent light was enough to heat her chilled skin. “Safety, logic, and warmth are good. I’ll stay here, thank you.” She heard the sharp intake of breath probably through his nose, Liam used to do that, the first sign that he was losing patience.

  “I am approaching ye on yer left. I would appreciate it if ye didna lash out.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and sat next to her. It didn’t seem like he was having trouble in the darkness but why would he? He was a god after all. “I am going ta hold yer hand until ye get comfortable. Is that acceptable?” His fingers closed over hers. “Well met.” He squeezed her hand, “Tell me, Brenawyn McAllister, why did ye accept yer legacy?”

  She turned to him, even this close, the dark made it almost impossible to make out the details of his countenance. “Well, um … ”

  “I ken the reason, but ye need ta hear yerself say it.”

  “For Alex … Alexander. I didn’t, I don’t want him to be hurt.”

  “So yer humanity made ye act the way ye did.” He scoffed. “Try again.”

  She shied away but he tightened his grip on her hand, “Och nay, priestess, ye canna escape me. Ye will answer in the dark.” He reached over and wrenched the lantern away. It crashed against the near wall, the light guttering. “Confession in the dark,” he unclasped her hand, but remained next to her. “Convince yerself that t’is only ye ta hear.”

  Brenawyn remained silent, consumed with more than a childish fear of the dark; it was the instinctual dread of the unknown, of the complete blackness of the bowels of the Earth. She cringed toward him, a lesser evil, but he hardened, another rock formation carved out over millions of years. There was no succor there.

  Why had she accepted the terms? It certainly wasn’t because she was a believer. She may eventually be able to accept these others considering themselves to be deities but she knew her God. That didn’t answer anything though; it didn’t bring her closer to the truth. Perhaps she was looking at this wrong, perhaps she was making this too complicated.

  Alexander. Why Alexander? She was drawn to him. She needed him. The runes. Accepting the fact that they were … fact, they gave some credence to … what? Didn’t they? She felt they had a connection to her feelings but she couldn’t put it to words.

  Brenawyn opened her mouth, not in confession but for herself, “All my life I have felt like I didn’t belong, like I was born at the wrong time. Things happened in my life: my mother’s death, I was so young. I don’t feel like I ever had a connection with her. My father, he put the distance there, holding me at arm’s length. He made it so there wasn’t a deep connection. Liam, that was all a lie. Then there is my grandmother, the only one I have a connection with. And somehow I think this,” igniting her runes so they flared over her skin, “had something to do with that. Then came Alexander, and a deep connection that belies the short time we’ve known each other. I am compelled to go to him.”

  “I am reminded o’ the children’s toy that uses equal distribution o’ weight.

  She laughed surprised, “What are you talking about?

  “Two children sitting on opposite ends teeter back and forth.”

  “Do you mean a see-saw? What reason do you have for considering a piece of playground equipment … no, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.”

  “The design is no’ unlike the early conception o’ the catapult; but I digress. Suppose one child was much heavier or on the other hand, non-existent. What would happen ta the game?”

  “The game would have to be amended to take into account the unequal weight. It is all about balance and if there is only one child, there wouldn’t be one at all.”

  “Hm. balance. The cosmos, fate, what ha’ ye, has a way o’ ensuring balance. The transmigration o’ the soul is aberrant, in this case, and perhaps yer feeling is an integral part o’ setting the balance ta rights.”

  “One person is not that important.”

  “To yer mere mind perhaps no’.”

  “Tell me about this balance.”

  “In order for me to do so I have to relay history.”

  Brenawyn settled against the rock as comfortably as she could, “From wherever you feel you should start.”

  “I am High King of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  “Hm, pleasant.”

  “I am as I was meant to be. I doona find it a hardship.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am part o’ a small contingent who chose ta remain haur. As part o’ the Accord drawn up after the third battle o’ Magh Tuireadh whaur the Tuatha Dé were defeated by the Milesians. We have limited access … ”

  “Third battle?”

  Finvarra heaved a sigh. “Let me begin at the beginning.”

  “Fantastic idea. Please do.”

  “The Tuatha Dé are descendants o’ Nemed, a Formoir, who had already inhabited the land ye refer ta as Ireland. We didna refer ta ourselves as such yet, not until long after. Thaur was a war, in which only few survived. We had ta flee, the original group splintering and going different ways. I was with the group that headed north. We suffered devastating losses but our hearts were set on vengeance, but we were weak, and those who could fight scattered. We heard whispers o’ cities that honed skills, and we set out ta find such teachers. Eventually we found them one by one, in the fabled cities o’ Falias, Gorias, Murias, and Finias. We acquired skills and developed attributes in the art o’ magic, learning glamours, manipulation o’ the elements, sifting time, shape-shifting, and augury. Each city had its own specialty, and when we were ready ta move on, we were given a talisman from each.”

  “How long did this take?”

  “Many millennia, but when our training was complete we were the Tuatha Dé Danann, ready ta go back ta reclaim our home and seek vengeance for our fallen.”

  “So you regrouped.”

  “Aye, and multiplied. So when we arrived on Conmaicne Rein, we brought a darkness that settled over the land for three days and nights.”

  “That ominous arrival probably did not endear you to the inhabitants.”

  Finvarra shrugged his shoulders, “What is no’ kent is feared, what is feared must be destroyed. Is it no’ this way with humans?”

  Brenawyn laughed sardonically, “It seems that sentiment transcends time, place, race.”

  “And realms too. Although it couldnae be helped, we ultimately invaded, though we did try diplomacy first. Our terms were rejected as we kent from prophecy they would be, the first battle o’ Magh Tuireadh was fought. The battle was fierce, our acquired skills only enabling a level playing field.”

  Finvarra moved the lantern closer. Brenawyn looked up and thought at first it was just the shadows changing on his face, but the longer she looked, the realization hit her that his face was changing. Bone structure and muscles m
oved beneath his skin. A white, puckered scar appeared bisecting his left eyebrow and ripping down his cheek. She moved closer, hand outstretched to touch his face.

  “Careful, if ye willingly touch me, ye’ll be mine.”

  Brenawyn paused in her movement as the changes continued. His long blonde hair was shortening to a severely cropped shock of red. “I’m sure I’ve touched you before in Tir-Na- … fairyland.”

  “My gauntlet, yes, I can still feel yer warm touch, even though it was through metal. That one wouldna affect ye as this one would. Our skin emits a marker. If ye touch the Lord of the Tuatha Dé, mortal, yer skin against mine, I’ll be able ta call ye whenever the whim strikes.”

  Brenawyn snatched her hand away, hugging it to her chest. “What the hell?”

  “Are ye sure, priestess? I could awaken pleasures ye didna ken existed.”

  “No, thank you. I have no desire to be your thrall.”

  Finvarra bowed, “As ye wish.” With a wave of his hand, he indicated his new appearance, “Nuada. Leader of the Tuatha Dé against the Fir Bolg.”

  Brenawyn resettled against the rock at her back. “Wait.”

  “Aye, priestess?”

  “I did touch the goddess in the clearing. Caer Ibormeith, was that her name?”

  Finvarra nodded, “And so ye did.”

  “Will she be able to call me?”

  “Aye, she will, but doona worry, she rarely does. As a limitation ta her dominion, she relies on touch in order to See.

  “So she won’t call me to thralldom then?”

  “A little late ta be concerned o’er much about the deal ye’ve made.”

  “I guess you’re right. Go on then.”

  Finvarra stood and a sword appeared in his hand. He grabbed the longsword and raised the hilt to his temple, blade near horizontal pointing at a would-be opponent’s throat. “The fighting was fierce, but it came down to each sides’ champions, Nuada, and the Fir Bolg’s Sreng.”

  Finvarra-Nuada moved gracefully, changing the position of the sword angled up to what appeared to be in the vicinity of the opponent’s chest. His movements became quicker and more fluid. Brenawyn didn’t know where to look in the light cast by the lantern. Finvarra danced throughout the cast light coming to a stop in front of Brenawyn, sword poised at forty-five degrees angled over his head, looking down at her, “But then,” he whispered, “disaster.”

  He was rocked back by an unseen blow, severing his arm just below the shoulder, the sword clattering to her feet. She was too shocked to scream, but only had forethought to plaster herself to the rock wall behind her.

  The severed arm vanished before it hit the ground, the spurting blood gone. Brenawyn shook her head, but soon realized it was all an illusion. Finvarra-Nuada stood in front of her sans his right arm smiling slightly and sighed. “Nuada won the day, but was no longer able to lead.”

  “He won the battle and was demoted?”

  “Aye, that is the way o’ the Tuatha Dé. The leader has ta be whole, and Nuada was no longer. He was given care though. Dian Cecht, a healer, was employed ta stanch the wound and build a prosthetic arm.”

  “Oh, huh. I thought they were a relatively modern invention.”

  “Nay. They are no’. The arm that Dian made was o’ silver, but by the time the arm was finished, a replacement king was coronated. Bres, a half-Fomorian, assumed leadership.

  Finvarra’s bone structure moved again and the scar disappeared. The short, cropped red hair grew and darkened into a black mane past his shoulders. A heavy brow settled over eyes as black as midnight. He added another six or more inches to his already imposing height, packing on more muscle to his chest, arms, and legs. Finvarra-Bres looked down on Brenawyn. “But, Bres was a tyrant, imposing ridiculous laws and enslaving the Tuatha Dé.”

  Brenawyn nodded comprehension.

  “Thaur were whispers o’ rebellion, but nay plan until Dian Cecht’s son and apprentice, Miach, without the knowledge o’ his father, cast a spell ta ha’ flesh grow over Nuada’s silver armature. Appearing whole again, it didna take long for Nuada’s resurrection ta spread, and without a single drop o’ blood lost, deposed Bres, and was restored.

  Bres didna take the loss so easily. He went immediately ta his father, Elatha, and was sent ta his grandfather, Balor, king o’ the Fomorians. Nemed’s truce between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Formorians … ”

  “The same Nemed whose war had you flee to the North?”

  “Aye, the same. The ancient truce was broken and thus the second battle o’ Magh Tuireadh.”

  “Between the Formorians and the Tuatha Dé.”

  “Aye, but this time,” Finvarra-Bres’ bones moved again. The mane of dark hair became shaggier, and he shrank a bit, becoming broader in the shoulders and thicker in the belly. His face was grotesquely malformed to accommodate one larger eye socket. The sclera of this eye intruded on the iris clouding and covering it over until just the black pupil stood out in hideous contrast.

  Brenawyn gasped.

  “Balor’s poisonous eye killed Nuada.”

  “Does that eye, and the Oracle’s have anything in common?”

  “Verra perceptive ye are, but that can wait.”

  “So, the Formorians won the second battle?”

  “Nay, the Tuatha Dé did, but only because a new champion, Lugh, stepped up and killed Balor. Some claim it was luck that Lugh stayed out of Balor’s gaze, but I was thaur. Lugh had the spear talisman crafted in Findias with him which ensured victory.”

  “So how many years between the second and third battle of … what did you call it?”

  “Magh Tuireadh”

  “Moy Tirra.”

  “Good. Ye ha’ an ear for languages.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Many of yer lifetimes between the two, so many, in fact, that Lugh died, and the spear talisman was lost.”

  “That’s unlucky for your people.”

  “Quite. The Accord struck after the third battle represents the balance.”

  Brenawyn laughed, “And you want me to do what exactly? Be a warrior, some kind of champion? Good luck. I’d just as likely sever a limb. I know nothing of strategy nor have the physical stamina that it would take.” Brenawyn stopped and sobered. “No, that’s not what you need me to do, is it? A diplomat? A politician to head some kind of interdimensional summit?”

  “Doona be flippant.”

  “I am not who you think I am. I can’t stop a war.”

  “Regardless of yer feelings, ye ha’ been recognized by the gods as the priestess. Ye are who we’ve been waiting for. Ye must do yer duty.”

  “And what is that exactly?”

  “You are descended from the Milesians, to whom the Tuatha lost the last battle. Your ancestors wrote the Accords that allowed a contingent of the Tuatha De to remain in Tir-Na-Nog.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “We had something they wanted.”

  Brenawyn thought for a moment, “Ah, magic!”

  “Aye. Magic. Negotiations lasted almost a lifetime.”

  “Neither side wanted to yield.”

  Finvarra bowed his head, “But I am patient, and Tanaris, the God of Death more so, many who come ta stand in front of him try ta negotiate a longer life bartering things in their minds were theirs to give, but in fact, they ne’er possessed. T’is only a matter o’ time ‘afore they wear themselves out, and come ta accept the inevitable.”

  “And was it the same negotiating this contract?”

  “Alas, nay, t’was no’.”

  “What was different?”

  Finvarra looked at her askance, and smirked. “I always get what I want.”

  “That had to burn then?”

  His brows rose, “Priestess, do ye think this was not exactly what I wanted?”

  It was Brenawyn’s turn to be surprised. “Okay. So why would you want to have the bulk of your people exiled?”

  “Ask yerself, why.”

  “Ha
d to be something in it for you. Power?”

  He bowed his head again. “Why?”

  “To claim devotion and perhaps fear.”

  “Many o’ the Tuatha De didna kin the Milesians worthy o’ our magic.”

  “So none of them are still around.”

  Finvarra laughed, a melodious baritone. “Nay. They are no’.”

  “So you’re an opportunist, but it still doesn’t explain why it has to be me.”

  “Ye are the only daughter of an only daughter, going back through the ages ta a time before the Accords.”

  “That can still be coincidence.”

  “But in the time before the first were exiled, Formorian blood was intermixed with yer own. Then Tuatha Dé blood was introduced. Finally, the last was added.”

  “Milesian.”

  “Aye. Ye are the Accords.”

  Chapter 14

  “Dae ye believe Maggie was taken from ye?”

  “Yes, you and my grandmother give the same account. So I believe it.”

  “A’richt, dae ye believe Alexander was taken from ye?”

  “Yes, because I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Dae ye believe that he is being held until Samhain?”

  “That was outlined in the verbal agreement. So, yes, I have to believe it, don’t I?”

  “No, ye doona, but let’s put that aside for now and proceed on the premise that everything that ye ha’ been told is true. On the belief that Alexander is imprisoned, ye ha’ accepted the role prophesied and ha’ agreed to the terms of Cernunnos.”

  “I suppose I have.”

  “In order to do that, I must aid ye in performing the Rite o’ Widdershins. This incantation will take ye bodily back ta a time when thaur is a need. Usually t’is done in service o’ some wrong that needs ta be righted. In yer case, ye need ta find a mentor, since the one at hand is now unavailable. Ye will be unprepared and thus, at a great disadvantage. I kin no’ which era ye must return ta, ta seek the answers. The information ye need is beyond me, beyond any o’ the other gods. Ye canna travel the way we do, and thaur was ne’er a need for us ta travel any other way. The only way ye will find yer path is ta offer ta make yerself apprentice ta the Merlin.”