“Apprentice to Merlin? As in the legendary Merlin? King Arthur and Camelot.?”
“Doona believe the stories that ha’ been presented ta ye. The Merlin is a title for the Shaman o’ the Order. Ye are in search o’ the Merlin Who Was. Everything is in readiness but for the memory o’ the ritual. “Will ye allow me?”
Brenawyn felt herself nod. In for a penny, in for a pound. Her priorities were adjusting; she wasn’t sure if it was a good thing. “What do I need to do?”
Finvarra clasped her face between his two large hands, the movement startling in the dark. “Relax, this is no’ going ta hurt.” He leaned in, “Count ta three and inhale sharply.”
One, two, three. She smelled wildflowers and freshly turned soil—the dark of night, a bonfire, a straight backed old man chanting over five candles, a young man prostrate on the ground, only visible from the glowing runes. A shift in position, the old man sagged, his runes dulled, helped by the other, whose sigils turned painfully bright.
Brenawyn felt Finvarra sit back but he still held her face though softly now.
“The Rite o’ the Phoenix properly done. Now for Widdershins.”
He leaned in again. “The same as before, priestess.”
She inhaled the cloying aroma of wilted roses, the edges of the petals dry and curling, the smell intense but with an underlying hint of decay assailed her sensed as her mind’s eye saw a lone woman kneeling in the midst of pillars of flame. The words she uttered incomprehensible, but the thought compelled Brenawyn to focus on them. A word became understandable, then another, three, more. The she was gone. The flames burned low in her absence.
“This is the basis for what ye need.” He held her face for a long second. “Come. All is in readiness. I will help ye into the boat.”
Brenawyn followed close enough to feel his subtle body movements. She stopped when he did and grasped the slick metal handrail when guided. The squeak of the gunwale on the foam rubber padding along the dock gave her a direction to face even though her eyes would not adjust to the darkness. The weight of vulnerability was easier to bear if she faced the general direction.
“Haur,” Finvarra took her hand. Step forward. Dae ye feel the edge?”
Before she could answer, she was swept off her feet and deposited on the vinyl seat bench. “What’s next?”
“Ye travel alone from haur.”
“What do you mean alone?”
“I must leave ye haur. It must be this way.”
“But what if I am not who you hope I am.”
“Ye are the priestess, ye ha’ taken the mantle voluntarily. The only point o’ contention remaining is if ye are the prophesied priestess. Everything ye do from point o’ agreement must be done through yer own volition.”
“But how do I … ”
“Thaur are things ye must ken. I canna tell ye the time or place ta which ye travel.”
“Do you mean I won’t even be in the same place?”
“Widdershins balances the universe by returning order. Whaure’er, whene’er the rift first began, the traveler goes ta correct and heal.”
“So, I will be alone? Don’t answer that. I have a feeling it won’t sound any better hearing it. Can I ask a question?”
“Certainly, priestess.”
“Why didn’t Cernunnos take me when he had the chance? He knew who I was the moment I touched him.”
“He is the King o’ the Wild Hunt with prey in sight. He is a slave ta his own instincts and that took precedent. The lure o’ free will is lost on humans. Ye doona see what an incredible ability it is ta choose. Once the agreement was made, ye bound yerself ta him for all eternity or at least until the independent spirit finally dies in ye. He will be a harsh taskmaster, pitting ye against more difficult tasks designed ta make ye choose. The three months until Samhain is a single heartbeat. He is waiting in anticipation for yer arrival.”
“This will not interfere with the duties of the high priestess?”
“Ye have little knowledge o’ the affairs o’ the gods. T’will no’ interfere, in fact, for the Order, t’is a good thing that ye are in service ta Cernunnos. Yer life will be extended much, much longer than what it would be. As a mere woman, in good health, ye would live eighty, ninety years, as priestess four times as long, and in servitude ta a god, nigh immortal, if ye are clever enough ta keep his interest.”
“Will my presence draw attention from Alexander?”
“Aye, though I canna estimate yer worth in diversion, though if it were me ye promised yerself I could think o’ many ways ye could entertain. Are ye sure I canna entice ye? My will supersedes his own.”
“No, thank you. I have enough on my plate now.”
“Up haur, next ta me is a bag of ritual supplies ta set up whaur ye will along the way. After the incantation, all will seem ta remain the same until ye depart the cave. Behind ye, I ha’ provided better clothes ta traverse the rock and various small tools ye will need ta do so. Ye must ha’ the rucksack on yer person ‘afore starting the incantation or risk leaving it behind.”
“Give me the lantern then.”
Finvarra handed it to her in the dark, “Ye willna need it.”
“You are not confident about the destination. What happens if the walkways are gone and I have to spelunk? A thought that obviously entered your thinking else the backpack stuffed with cave exploration supplies wouldn’t exist. I will be caught down here, far from the surface, with no light, no life down here, except perhaps a bat colony, before the disease hit that killed them off in this time. Of course there is the moss, but that can’t be counted because its existence is only possible through manmade interference of electricity.”
“If having the lantern makes ye feel more confident, take it.” He rose, the boat moving at the change in the dispersement of weight. “If thaur is nothing else, I will help ye ta the back o’ the boat. The pole awaits.”
He picked her up again to deposit her on the short platform at the stern and handled a pole to her. “I will light the lantern for ye ta ease yer way.”
Brenawyn could now see his face illuminated by the weak battery light of the camp lantern, but it did little else to light her way down the Lake of Venus.
He shifted and was gone. “Wait,” she called out, and he was back whispering in her ear though she didn’t feel the boat shift this time. “Haur, open yer hand.”
“What is it?”
“Pulverized rock from the stream bed beyond. Repeat after me and blow on the dust. Taispeáin an solas dom. It means, ‘show me the light.’”
Brenawyn nodded and translating the words in her head to speak aloud and blew on the handful of dust in her hand. The dust hung in the air swirling on an unfelt breeze and then ignited expanding to the roof of the cavern and spreading down the twisting length of the waterway. Brenawyn looked up in wonder at the night sky with tiny twinkling pinpricks.
“Haur. Keep this in yer pocket.”
She shoved the sand into her pocket careful not to drop any. A most useful trick. She’d certainly use it.
“Ye must go. Doona use the remainder haur. Save it until ye get ta yer destination. Ye can call the light.” With a whisper of a caress on her cheek, he was gone, and she had the arduous task of poling her way to the dam. She didn’t need to spend any time deliberating the location she needed when she remembered always daydreaming about the spot when she was younger. The tour guides never could tell her. Logic dictated that they didn’t know themselves, but alone in the womb of the Earth perhaps they didn’t want to name their fear or scare people. What was beyond the drop?
Brenawyn’s muscles ached by the time she could see the double chains glinting off the magic illumination. She tested the depth, two feet perhaps, and steered to the last alcove, slamming the bow against the rock scraping the length of the boat to slow its forward momentum. She lost her balance with the initial jarring but recovered in time to save herself from a dunk in the cold water before she was ready.
Scamper
ing over the benches, she collected the materials for the ritual and hooked the backpack onto a shoulder. Testing one last time, she decided to bring the pole to test the waters further up and to use as a walking stick, awkward but for the length. She had no illusions for a smooth surface on the lake bottom.
She sat on the gunwale making the large boat canter to the side at an alarming angle. Not good. She had no choice but to reevaluate, taking the backpack off her shoulder to place it where she could reach it on the bottom of the boat with the candles and stones. She used the pole to judge the depth again, estimating a large flat rock. Saying a quick prayer that she didn’t strain an ankle she vaulted into the water. She wasn’t prepared for the icy temperature, never gave it a thought before, but with a constant temperature of near fifty degrees raising gooseflesh on her naked arms in the cave, its water left her breathless and shivering. It took endless seconds for her to regain motor control and gather the items she stored. Trudging through the water, the rocky outcropping mere inches above the waterline looked like heaven.
She pushed the bags on top the shelf sure to keep them away from the edge and the encroaching darkness beyond. She hoisted herself up, ripping at the zipper, eager to peel the wet jeans away from her chilled skin. She rummaged through the backpack and found serviceable overalls, pilfered from the gatehouse from the looks of them. She didn’t care, they were dry and warm, pooling at her ankles and covering her fingers. She’d roll them up in a bit once her teeth stopped chattering.
Brenawyn looked back along the waterway. Was the light becoming dimmer? Shit. Where was it? Did the pocket get wet? She didn’t want to contemplate the effect of water on the dust. There, oh thank God, it was still dry. She poured it out carefully into the oversized pockets of the overalls, turning the pocket inside out to try to get the remainder. She’d have to remember to conserve the remainder, perhaps she could use a portion of it at a time, rationing it out. It would take her considerably longer to exit the cave. Shit. Could she find more? Would it work?
Calm down. What was the use of panicking now?
Brenawyn pulled the other bag toward her, extracting the five new candles and stones, the same kind as before, just highly polished and faceted. She arranged them around her, holding the fifth candle for spirit with the bloodstone wedged between her knees as she knelt on the rocky edge.
Once done, she took inventory of the backpack, a nylon tarp, glow sticks, matches in a sealed plastic container, before jamming her wet jeans into the bag, rolling them in the tarp, unwilling to leave anything behind. She flipped the pack over her head slipping her arms through the loops and attached the lantern with the thin bungee cords that laced the front of it.
With a deep breath bringing the image Finvarra placed in her mind of the lone woman she began.
In the name of all the spirits both shade and light
Grant me sight so I may know truth
To piece together purpose in prophecy
Lost and blind, knowing not how to restore balance
But recognized by fate and acknowledged to fulfill the will
Guidance by Surcellos I beg …
Chapter 15
Finvarra glamoured through the wall that held Alex prisoner. “She has undergone Widdershins.”
Alex pivoted to face Finvarra, “By herself? Whaur is she? How dae ye ken this?”
“Part of her bargain with my consort and that of your jailor, her father.”
“Did ye guide her? Ye ne’er dae anything ye are asked without yer own compensation.”
“She was very single-minded, nothing would ha’ distracted her; she is the most intriguing human I ha’ met. Comparable ta ye, in fact. I am looking forward ta when we meet again, but until she calls my name, I ha’ ta wait.” He approached and clapped him on the shoulder. “The end is near, either for good or ill. She will be our salvation or our destruction. Ha’ faith.”
“Aye, Finvarra, I dae ha’ faith, but thaur is no hope for me, the Wild Hunt is elemental.”
“Alexander Morgan Sinclair, all hope is not lost for whene’er she is, she is no’ alone. She carries yer progeny.”
A burning desire welled from the pit of his stomach. A desire so elemental, to find Brenawyn and cocoon her against all harm. He couldn’t do anything here, in this place, this glass prison, but out there. Yea, that was where he needed to be. He needed to exert his frustration and nothing spoke to that need like the Hunt. The sluaghs would bring him to ground; he’d welcome it this time, relish the pain, for through the pain came resurrection and heightened ability. If he could manage to run the course a couple of times, it had never been asked before by prey to willingly go into the Stalking Grounds, but he didn’t see a reason for the request to be denied. All he’d have to do was anger the god again. That would be easy. Such rage and frustration, held back after centuries of servitude. No, it wouldn’t be hard to anger the god. He wished he was a better judge on how time passed between the two realms to judge how long he had, how many times he could run the course. He’d have to get out before Samhain, so he’d be free to protect her from Cormac and the rest of the Coven. He turned to Finvarra, decision made, “Call Cernunnos. I want ta renegotiate.”
He couldn’t tell the passage of time from the light outside the window. Above the trees it was the same light as in Tir-Na-Nog, indirect and bright, but below it barely traversed the thick canopy. What little that did make it through was further swallowed by the thick sheets of moss hanging from the branches. Small ripples from questing fish broke the stagnant stillness of the water but even that was suddenly quiet as a more menacing shadow undulated just under the surface. If only there were more light, Alex would be able to see what it was that lurked there. Another predator, one he hadn’t come in contact with yet. Perhaps it would be its turn this time when he went in.
He paced the length of windows, falling into routine as so many times before. Was it his imagination that saw a wear mark along this path? He’s certainly paced it enough over the centuries.
Alex knew he wasn’t alone and turned, surprised to find Cernunnos standing there. He had to bend to fit inside the room, and even so then his antlers scraped against the ceiling, shaving off plaster so it fell like snow on his shoulders. “
“I was told ye want ta renegotiate. Ta go into the arena now. Is this true, Shaman?”
“Ye ha’ heard correctly.”
“Yer request is denied, superseded by another.”
“Ye ha’ no’ heard my reasoning.”
“It matters not; she has made herself kent ta me. Ye will bide until such time as she comes ta take yer place.”
“Take my place? How could ye dae that ta yer daughter who has been lost ta ye for nigh on five hundred and seventy years?”
“I ha’ a task for her. T’is none o’ yer concern, in fact, yer services are no longer required. An apprentice has been chosen and when it comes time, ye will transfer yer abilities o’ yer office. Ye will retain what ye ha’ gained from the resurrections, then all that remains will be the demands o’ the Wild Hunt.”
“I doona ha’ any illusions as ta my fate, it will be haur or thaur until the end o’ time, but t’is my obligation ta choose the next Merlin.”
“The responsibility has been taken from ye by the elders. “They feel ye ha’ lost yer objectivity. They ha’ chosen Cormac Domhaill MacBrehon.”
“Never.”
“T’is beyond yer control.”
“Never. MacBrehon was discarded as a choice the last time. Six hundred years have not mellowed him. He is arrogant and cruel, corrupted by power and eager for the kill. He murdered Colleen, after she … ” a cry ripped from his throat and he turned his back on the god. “She was my woman, I had nay claim ta her, but I loved her nonetheless. Meeting clandestinely for stolen moments during the Choosing. I couldnae help myself; she was so … gods, she was beautiful and innocent.
After I was chosen, he got to her, played on her insecurities. I would have found a way to be with he
r, but I was called away so often in the beginning and he was thaur, freed from the selection process. He listened ta her frustrations about the separation. I doona ken when he started ta court her; I wasn’t privy ta that part. Just forced ta watch, as part o’ my torture haur. Ye should ken that, ye ordered it ta break me.”
“She was not worthy of you.”
“I’ll never know.”
“Can a human change so much?”
“Depends on the circumstances for each person I think. Some
will never change, like Cormac, except to slide more into darkness. Mark my words, he is a heretic.”
Chapter 16
How long was Brenawyn supposed to wait here for something to happen before she gathered her nerve and found her way out of here? It would be easier once she poled her way back to the dock, but she had just the lantern, unless the electricity worked from the switch on the wall somewhere to her left.
She let the pack slide down her arms and reached for the lantern getting to her feet before lighting it. The battery powered light glowed yellow illuminating the empty platform. No candles, no stones, no push button for the electricity anchored to the limestone on the left wall.
Panic set in. The lantern thumped on the stone, cantered and spun teetering on the edge for a second before falling. In slow motion, she lunged for it but it was too late, the lantern landed six feet below, still lit, in the pool of the stream bed. She skittered back from the edge and crouched with her head in her hands.
Breathe.
This is what you expected to happen—pull yourself together, get the gear together, go for the lamp, there is an exit this way too.
Brenawyn flung the pack onto her back tying the straps around her waist for extra security. She scooted to the edge and rolled so her belly was flat on the precipice, her legs dangling off. She tore at her nails, ripping off the edges so they wouldn’t be in the way as she gripped the finger holds she found in the limestone. Inch by inch, she climbed down, unsure of the footholds she found, tensing on each, until she knew they could hold her weight. It was tough going, the rock slick with moisture, but she touched down on the rocky stream bed next to the natural pool and collapsed to sit. She hooked the lantern’s handle with the edge of her boot and hauled it to her, shaking off the water. The lantern still glowed as bright, but here in the deep recesses it didn’t illuminate as far. What was she to do if the light gave out? Then she remembered. Did Finvarra’s gift make it with her?
Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy Page 15
