Dark and Stormy Knight (27 page)

Reviled, she screwed up her face. “How in the hell can you tell what the gods want by looking at some poor dying person’s intestines?”

“There’s a wee bit more to it than just examining the viscera,” he said so matter of factly it made her shudder. “There’s also the way the person died: the death spasms, the dying screams, the way he or she fell, bled out, or burned. All of these things can be interpreted as omens.”

“Good God.” She swallowed her rising horror. “You speak as if you’ve practiced this barbarity yourself.”

“It is only barbarity if you believe death is the end,” he replied without expression, “which we do not.”

She started to say something, but Bran cut her off. “We should make camp soon, so you can rest up for what lies ahead. There is a cave not far off and we shall take shelter there.”

As they rode on, she wrestled within herself. She knew that the ancient druids practiced human sacrifice, so she should not have been shocked by Bran’s revelation. True, she hadn’t realized they divined using human entrails, but then, it wasn’t exactly a monumental leap from one practice to the other. And, as Bran very astutely pointed out, she had no right to pass judgment on beliefs she didn’t understand.

The path dipped abruptly, wrenching her from her contemplations, and then began to climb, taking them up and up until they reached the foot of a solitary hill—a smooth dome protruding above the tree line like the crown of a monk’s head. Her horse followed Bran’s as the trail wound round and round until they reached the crest. There, he commanded his mount to halt and waited for her to come alongside.

As soon as she was abreast, he pointed off into the distance. “Do you see those cliffs over yon?”

Her gaze followed his finger to an island protected by a wall of deeply etched bluffs. A halo of mist hovered overhead. The island had to be at least ten miles offshore.

“Yes.”

“That is Avalon.”

Waves crashed below them, drawing her attention to a wide expanse of beach at the foot of the butte. Vivid aquamarine surf lapped at its sugary shore. She’d never seen anything so inviting—or so daunting. They’d nearly reached the end of their journey together. Soon, she’d be on her own.

“How will we get there?” she asked, searching the shore for a boat. From this vantage point, she could see for miles in either direction. There was nothing resembling a boat anywhere in sight.

“The horses will take us part of the way,” he said. “And the Lord of the Sea will take you the rest of the distance in his Wave Sweeper.”

Her mind hopped between questions like a startled cricket. She licked her lips, unsure which of them to ask first. Deciding to start with the biggest one, she found Bran’s piercing blue gaze. “Are you telling me Manannan mac Lir, the sea god of the ancient Celts, is still alive?”

“Of course he is.” The druid gave her a disarming smile. “The gods don’t die just because people stop believing in them.”

She swallowed, struggling to fathom the ramifications of what he’d just revealed. “So, Zeus and Apollo and all the rest are still hanging around the Thitherworld somewhere?”

“Of course they are,” he confirmed. “They are eternal, but in exile, you might say. Like the Children of Danu.”

She regarded him with skepticism. “Um. Okay. If you say so. And tomorrow my horse is going to just swim on out in the hopes the Lord of the Sea will swing by to pick me up in his water taxi?”

Bran laughed, a sound as musical as birdsong. “The Ocean Sweeper isn’t a water taxi, lass. It’s a magical chariot pulled by a team of horses as white as the foam on the waves. And your horse will not swim. Rather, she will gallop over the surface of the sea as if the water were solid ground. And when she grows tired, if the Son of the Sea sees fit to support your quest, he will carry you the rest of the way in his chariot.”

As a lump formed in her throat, Gwyn swallowed hard. “And if he doesn’t see fit to support my quest?”

“Worry is a senseless destroyer of inner peace.” Bran waved one hand dismissively as he used the other to rein his horse around. “The gods will do what the gods will do. So, what’s the use of fretting about things over which you have no control?”

Way to sidestep her question, she thought with a frown as she followed him back down the hill. In other words, she would drown if the god did not approve her quest. And she could not see why he would be inclined to do so, given her mission.

“What if he wants the cup back?” She dug in her heels to urge her horse to close the gap between them. “I mean, isn’t it rightfully his?” The furrow in her brow deepened. “And what the hell does Cathbad want with the cup anyway? If you ask me, he could have sent you or somebody else to Avalon a long time ago if he wanted the damn thing so badly.”

Bran said nothing for a fertile moment. Then, in a strained voice, he said, “He did send another envoy. Many moons ago. Not just to claim the cup, but also to negotiate an alliance between Brocaliande and Avalon.”

When he did not go on, she grew impatient. “And what happened?”

“Queen Morgan locked the envoy in the dungeon in chains and had her eyes put out with a hot poker.”

Fear gripped Gwyn’s heart, but she refused to give it power over her. “And what makes you think she won’t do the same to me?”

He pulled his horse to a stop and, as she came next to him, drew something small from his sporran. Holding the object out to her, he said, “This is what allows me to hope you will prevail.”

The object was a card. Taking it from him, she studied the image of a dark-haired woman in an emerald cloak holding a golden chalice as she stepped into the sea. In the sky, a glowing full moon hung directly over the brim of the cup. Golden hills very like those surrounding Loch Broom stood behind the woman, as did a stone chair or throne carved with Celtic symbols. The chair brought to mind the one Cathbad had been sitting upon when they arrived in Brocaliande.

“Is this supposed to be me?”

“Aye.” He plucked the Queen of Cups from her grasp and returned the card to his sporran. “And the fact that I drew it in answer to your request to enter Brocaliande tells me the gods look with favor upon your undertaking. Be assured, Cathbad would not have sent you otherwise.”

Had there been a bridge across the narrow channel between nearby Fort George and Chanonry Point on the Black Isle, Leith’s trip to Fairy Glen would have been a mere hop, skip, and jump. But there wasn’t a bridge, nor was shifting or hiring a boat convenient, so he could only drive the circuitous thirty-mile horseshoe that took him across the Beauly Firth via the new cable-stayed bridge linking Inverness and Kessock.

Thus, a trip of just over five miles as the crow flies took close to forty-five minutes by automobile. He was now in a sleepy waterfront village called Rosemarkie, cruising down a High Street lined with huddled shops, businesses, and dwellings.

Only the merchants had changed since the last time he visited some hundred years past. Gone were the dressmaker, glover, draper, general store, tearoom, and haberdashery. The old ironmongery had become a deli, and what had been a shoe shop last time, was now a posh apothecary.

Thank goodness the old stone mill turned public house still hugged the curve of the road to the glen. If Sir Axel refused his request, he’d be in need of a dram or two to dull his devastation.

He’d rolled the window down to let out the smoke from his cigarette. If not for the asphalt, the low sputter of the Jaguar’s engine, and some of the modern signage, he might have believed himself still back in the days of horse and buggy.

Fairy Glen was just ahead on the left. When he’d first been banished, he used to ride up here on horseback from time to time to catch up with Sir Axel. Luckily, his old comrade’s sense of loyalty cut both ways.

As much as Leith hated deceiving someone he considered a friend, he could hardly be truthful. The Cup of Truth worked in the manner of a metaphysical polygraph. If the speaker believed the lie he told, the chalice would fail to pick up on the subterfuge.

Spying the entrance to the car park, Leith turned in just as a big green touring coach pulled out. Good. He’d planned to arrive near dusk apurpose—to avoid the tourists who now flocked to the picturesque glen during daylight hours.

He pulled the long-nosed Jag into a space near the trailhead, grabbed the gun out of the glove compartment, and climbed out. He felt a qualm of regret as he turned to lock the door. Would he ever come back for the car? The thought that he might not tightened his chest, and not just because of his fondness for the vintage roadster. If Queen Morgan had indeed learned he’d tricked her with regard to Belphoebe, thereby enabling the birth of the prophesied drone, there would be no appeasing her.

She would kill him, but not before he suffered greatly for his sins. He shuddered as the agonized screams of those who’d crossed her in the past rose from his memory. Her dungeon was designed to inflict unspeakable suffering.

Tucking the pistol under his belt, he inserted the key in the lock. As he turned it, doubt avalanched down on him, burying his courage. It also stole his breath. Setting his hands atop the car’s convertible top, he wrestled with his doubts.

If he turned back now, he could return to Glenarvon and let Gwyneth fare as well as she could.

She was braver than she realized and certainly able. If she succeeded, she’d return one day and all would be well.

Swallowing hard, he rubbed the back of his neck.

And if she failed, could he live with the choice he’d made? Could he live with the knowledge he’d abandoned her to some terrible fate? Just as he’d done to Clara, Faith, and Belphoebe.

His gut tightened against the idea as the future played out in his mind. If he turned back, he would remain as he was. Shut away from the world, alone and miserable, wallowing in guilt and regret. Aye, the money from the film rights would alleviate his financial worries, but his guilt would be magnified ten-fold. Money could buy many things, but a clear conscience wasn’t one of them.

If he turned back and abandoned yet another pregnant lass, he’d never forgive himself. It was as simple as that. And that settled the matter. He would go forward, even if doing so accomplished little more than ending his insufferable existence.

With a steeling breath, he followed the well-tended path into the trees, where a symphony of birdsong and rushing water greeted his ears. He’d forgotten what a peaceful, mystical spot this was. All around were ghostly mists, plush mosses, colorful wildflowers, verdant groves, and tumbling waterfalls.

No wonder so many tourists flocked here.

Back in the day, the children of the village would come here to decorate one of the pools with flowers gathered in the glen—a ceremony to ensure the faeries kept the water supply clean. They needn’t have bothered. Sir Axel was a vigilant guardian of his post. Rumor had it, the big knight extracted a toll from any human who dared trespass on his territory. Virgins, legend told, were made to pay with their maidenhoods.

Not that Leith put much store in such tales. Sir Axel wasn’t capable of rape. Well,
capable
perhaps, but certainly not inclined. Besides, it was hard to imagine any unencumbered lass in this day and age not giving herself freely to the gentle ginger-haired giant.

Leith could more easily believe the rumors surrounding Sir Axel’s assignment as a portal guardian. It was said his seed produced only lads and Morgan grew weary of eating his sons. It was also said she’d freed the big knight from the bonds of sexual fidelity when she’d given him his post, though not from the bonds of enslavement.

The path led him deeper into the glen before veering off into the trees. His destination was the smaller of the glen’s two largest waterfalls. The biggest was where the burn cascaded over a steep drop before rushing onward. The smaller tumbled into a secluded pool a fair distance from the trail. Behind the latter lay the portal into Avalon.

As he rounded the bend, Sir Axel’s horse came into view. A sturdy black destrier, Odin was veiled from human view. The riderless stallion wore a studded leather breast collar and rump breeching with a medieval-style saddle. From the saddle horn hung the worn leather pouch containing Sir Axel’s runes.

Seeing the knight nowhere about, Leith looked skyward. There, as expected, was Sir Axel, circling in the guise of his alter ego, the noble gyrfalcon favored by Vikings and kings.

With a resigned sigh, Leith settled himself on a moss-covered boulder and lit up. As he enjoyed his cigarette, blowing smoke rings to entertain himself, his thoughts darkened as they returned to the portal and what awaited him on the other side. Assuming, of course, Sir Axel saw fit to deliver his appeal. Even if he agreed, a positive outcome was far from assured. Most likely, Queen Morgan would throw his sorry arse in the dungeon to wait out the days until Samhain. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t starve and torture him in the meantime.

Hah. What a good joke.

When had luck ever smiled down on him?

Never, that’s when.

His jaw clenched as degrading scenes from his time in Avalon bloomed inside his brain. Being forced to line up naked with the other knights while the queen chose that evening’s bedfellows. More often than not, she chose more than one and commanded them to see to each other while she looked on. If the goings on in
Beauty’s Punishment
shocked his wee mouse, she’d shit herself at the twisted shizz that went down in Avalon on a daily basis.

A sound behind him jolted his heart and made him turn. There stood Sir Axel in human form, as naked as the day was long. His shoulder-length red-gold hair shone like a copper roof in the tree-filtered sunlight. He’d grown a beard, but otherwise looked the same. Tall, proud, powerful, and composed. His ice-blue eyes gave away his Nordic heritage. Surprise flickered behind them as they fell upon his unexpected visitor.

From out of nowhere, the Viking produced a long saffron tunic and pulled the garment on over his head, his intense blue gaze fixed on Leith. “What brings you to Fairy Glen after so long an absence?”