Emily's House (The Akasha Chronicles) (7 page)

“My hearing will return, old man, as you said, yes?” asked Dughall. The old wizard nodded yes.

Macha accompanied Dughall to their spot within sight of the Grove. Cian stayed behind as being a human man, he was susceptible to the Lianhan Sídhe’s song.

As Dughall approached, he felt the same stillness that the soldier had felt followed by the same slight breeze and sudden chill in the air. Then she appeared. Even more beautiful up close. He felt drawn to her even though he couldn’t hear her song. For a moment, he was worried, an emotion not common for Dughall to feel. He was drawn to her. Stupid Macha! He had been tricked.

But as he got closer he saw her lips moving. She must be singing, but he couldn’t hear her. Her beauty drew him to her, and he wanted to kiss her lips, but he kept his wits about him. He knew that giving into this one desire would doom his quest so he resisted her. Just as she bent closer with the softest rose petal lips to kiss him, Dughall shouted at the Lianhan Sídhe, “I rebuke thee! You do not charm me, woman. Be off with you.”

Just as her lips were about to meet his, as she heard these words, her beautiful visage changed instantly. Her eyes were again as red as flame, her hands talons, and her wings like a dragon’s. She screeched loud and piercing for just a moment then fell silent. She was still visible but became as a ghost, there but barely. Her ghostlike image wandered off into the wood, her face sallow and her mouth open as if in a scream.

Dughall still could not hear so he didn’t know that no sound came from her horrible open mouth. But he knew that he had defeated Lianhan Sídhe and that she would no longer stand between him and the torc.

11. Battle For The Sacred Grove

“Now what Macha?” asked Dughall.

“We must find the gate,” she replied.

“There's nothing here but vines and trees,” replied one of the soldiers.

“It’s an enchantment you imbecile,” sneered Dughall. “All of you, earn your keep and start hacking away at these plants,” he barked.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” interrupted Macha.

“And pray tell, why not dear Macha?” asked Dughall.

“Because those vines and trees aren’t ordinary.”

“Yes, yes, they are under a spell. I know. So we’ll just break that spell,” said Dughall.

“It’s not just a spell. The vines and trees – they are alive. They will defend themselves. You can’t break the spell by cutting them,” said Macha.

“Macha, I have over one hundred men here with axes, maces, swords and hatchets. These spindly vines are no match for the magic of steel. You heard me then, CUT!”

The soldiers hesitated. After seeing one of their own come back from the Lianhan Sídhe addle minded, they were becoming believers of the magic of the Sacred Grove. But their fear of Dughall was greater, so they began to hack away at the vines and trees thickly covering all of the walls and gate to the Sacred Grove.

At first it seemed to work but then, suddenly, the vines grew thicker. The trees, too, seemed to grow larger and bigger. Before they could see it coming, vines wrapped themselves around the men, axes and hatchets and all. Within minutes, all of the soldiers near the thicket were totally engulfed, swallowed alive by the living thicket. Their screams were loud and agonizing, all sounding at the same time. Even Macha covered her ears.

As their screams faded, the vines and trees returned to normal. The remaining soldiers stood still in their tracks, dumbfounded by what had just happened.

Dughall was beyond angry.

“Okay Macha, we’ll do it your way. What do you suggest now for getting through these evil branches?” asked Dughall.

“We need a spell to break the spell,” she said.

“And so say it. Say the spell,” Dughall hissed.

“I don’t know it,” Macha replied.

Dughall’s hand moved to his sword, and he was just about to slice the little faerie in half when the Dark Wizard stepped forward. “I can recite the spell,” he said. “But it will take time to gather the information needed to determine the right spell.”

“You have five minutes,” snarled Dughall.

Cian walked the perimeter of the thicket. He picked up leaves that had fallen and rubbed them between his fingers and tasted them. He held them to his ears. Then he stood quietly along the perimeter with his eyes closed for several minutes.

Dughall was losing his patience. “Your time is up old man. Say a spell now or so help me, I’ll run you through.”

“If you live a thousand lifetimes, it won’t be enough for you to learn patience Dughall,” Cian replied. Then he closed his eyes and circled his arms wide and held them above him as he cited the incantation.

“Holy Hawthorne, oak and ash

Twisted and gnarled, wound tight

Pray let these servants of Brighid pass

Through this gate to the Sacred Grove

There to do her bidding

In honor always to the Goddess

Blessed be the keepers of her Flame.”

At first there was no change. The air remained still. There was no sound of bird or bee, just the occasional snorting of the soldier’s horses.

Then a subtle change. The vines thinned. The trees moved farther apart. The thicket weakened.

There. Just a peek at first. Stones. Now large stone walls visible. Then finally, a large wooden gate. The Sacred Grove of the Order of Brighid, visible for the first time to outsiders.

Dughall’s face curled into a sneer, the closest his face ever got to happiness. Even Dughall was impressed with the magic that had protected the Grove all these thousands of years. Of course, the local peasants were no match for his superior intelligence and desire to have what lay inside these walls.

Dughall gave the order. “Tear down that gate!” he bellowed.

The men at once took their axes and hatchets and hacked away at the gate. In a matter of minutes, they had torn down the gate and funneled into the Grove on foot and horseback.

Dughall mounted his horse and sauntered into the Grove. Even he had to stop for a moment and admire its beauty. The light was softer here, especially as compared to the dark and harsh light of the thicket outside these walls. Inside the Grove, it was peaceful. There was only the sound of the wind through the trees, a distant babbling brook and the occasional cricket or birdsong.

But most lovely was the smell. The wind wafted the most delicious odor of fruit blossoms through the air. For Dughall, it called to mind happy memories from the homeland of his childhood. He was lost momentarily in his thoughts when Cormac interrupted.

“Sire, we are inside the gate.”

“I know that you idiot,” Dughall growled back.

“What is your next order Sire?” Cormac asked.

Dughall gathered himself. “Tell your soldiers, round up every person in this place. Do not kill anyone! I need them all alive. . . for now. Go!”

The soldiers spread out and ransacked every building they found, searching for the inhabitants of the lovely Grove. They searched the entire front half of the Grove and found not a single person. Dughall was frustrated and considered ordering them to torch the place when he heard a call.

“Sire, over here!”

The call came from the large building at the back and center of the Grove. As he entered he saw the priestesses, all in a tight circle in the center of the building. They were dressed in ordinary linen tunics tied around the waist with a thin cord.

“Do not kill any of them,” Dughall ordered. “Find the one with the gold torc around her upper arm. Bring that one to me. After you find her, kill the rest.”

At that moment, the women untied their sashes and ripped off their tunics. Underneath all were dressed in their battle clothes. Leather breeches with a dagger strapped to each thigh. A strong leather harness slung around their shoulders armed with hatches, maces, swords and Chinese blades. The priestesses quickly put on the helmets that they had hidden behind their backs. They armed themselves and readied for battle so quickly the soldiers were frozen in fear.

Dughall was incensed at the sight. Each woman wore the same item around her right arm. All of them wore a torc! How would he tell which one was the magical torc? He was ready to order the soldiers to kill them all, to hell with it! But Macha flew close to his ear and interrupted his thoughts.

“Dughall, it’s a ruse,” she whispered.

“What? What do you mean?”

“She isn’t here. The real torc is with her somewhere else.”

Her words sunk in. Look for her somewhere else.

“Yes, Macha, Cormac, old man – the three of you are with me,” he said as he turned to leave the Great Hall.

“Sire,” a soldier called. “What do we do here?”

“Kill them all,” he replied.

As soon as Dughall left the Great Hall, the women warriors spread out. Flying out from the center came Madame Wong! She was a jumping, bouncing, flying ball of sword and dagger. She slashed and thrust her sword so quickly that any soldier in her path fell to his death before he could be sure what had hit him.

The most trained and skilled women warriors flanked the outside of their circle, wielding their arms with grace and power. Intermixed with the Priestesses were many faeries, armed with bow and arrow and slingshots. And in the center of the circle were the younglings, well protected by their older sisters, the Fair Sídhe and Madame Wong. The younglings did their part by chanting their most powerful protective spells.

As soldiers began to fall in heaps, the remaining men got over their initial shock at the sight of the women warriors appearing out of what looked like a throng of devout priestesses. They had to contend not only with four foot tall Madame Wong slicing and dicing, but also the keen aim of the faeries’ bow and arrows.

They squared off, each soldier battling a woman warrior. More soldiers fell than women warriors but still, as the battle waged on, the Order of Brighid too shed much blood.

Suddenly they all heard the most loud and horrible screeching. For a moment, the battle stopped as all heard what sounded like metal scraping on metal while an injured cat howls.

Those fighting for the Order of Brighid knew instantly what made the awful noise. Bian Sídhe. And in an instant they also knew the reason for the Bian Sídhe’s cry. One of the ancient blood of Ireland had fallen.

12. Saorla At The Well

After Saorla had given her last blessing in the Great Hall, she met with the Fair Sídhe to confer on battle strategy. She then reinforced the incantations and spells that protected the Grove. Then she went to the Sacred Well and spent the rest of the morning in silent prayer and meditation.

At the appointed time, Cathaír silently appeared at the Well. They looked into each other’s eyes and without words spoke to each other all of the love they felt for each other.

As they heard the soldiers breaking down the gate of the Sacred Grove, they knew the time had come. They could wait no longer.

Saorla pulled her small-jeweled dagger from her cloak and without a single word, plunged it deep into her own belly. Blood poured from the gaping hole, crimson liquid staining the front of her white linen tunic and deep purple cloak. Within a few minutes, all color had drained from her face. Cathaír caught her in his arms as her body began to fall. He gently lowered her to the ground, her head resting on his thigh.

No words were spoken. Cathaír simply stroked her lovely red locks as he looked lovingly in her eyes. His lips touched hers one last time. As the life drained from Saorla’s body, the spells and enchantments that protected the Grove faded too. Even the light began to change and became a bit harsher and not so soft. The air became cooler too, and the sun began to fade behind gathering clouds.

The silence of the moment was broken as Saorla whispered her last word. “Sorcha.”

As the last breath passed from her lips, the golden torc loosened its grip around her arm and fell gently to the ground. Cathaír wanted to stay and hold her, to continue to stroke her hair. He wanted to plunge her dagger into his own chest to stop the ache now heavy in his heart.

But he had made a sacred vow to his beloved. He knew what he must do.

He picked up the torc, still warm from her body, wrapped it in a linen cloth and hid it deep in the pocket inside his cloak. Cathaír gently lowered Saorla’s head to the ground, kissed her lips one last time and then ran.

He ran as fast as he could run. He ran to the edge of the Grove, away from the Great Hall and the soldiers and Dughall. He ran and ran until he reached the edge and then he stopped to recite the spell required to lift the enchantment so he could get out of the tangle of vines and branches. But before he could recite the spell, he realized he didn’t need it anymore. After Saorla had departed, there were no more enchantments protecting the Grove.

Cathaír stepped out of the Grove and into a new world, a frightening world where there was no longer a link between his human world and the world of magic. The light seemed harsher, the air more acidic. Maybe it was, or maybe it was just his sorrow and anger that made the air he breathed taste like a bitter poison. He pulled his cloak over his head and tread out of that grove, never to return.

He slipped easily through the tangle of vines, his horse where he had left it, waiting for his arrival. Cathaír rode as fast as his steed could take him. The wind whipped his hair and vines and branches cut his hands and face as he rode through the tangle.

As Cathaír rode, he heard the mournful cry of the Bian Sídhe, her hideous screeching cutting through the air surrounding the Grove. Her cries only made him ride faster, away from the dead body of his love. Away from the woman that was the embodiment of the goddess on Earth. Away from the fallen Sacred Grove of Brighid.

He rode with a single-minded purpose. He must go to Sorcha.

13. The End Of The Order Of Brighid

“Saorla. . . killed herself?” I asked.

“Yes,” was Hindergog’s reply.

“But she should have fought,” said Fanny. “She gave up. She was a great warrior. If she and Cathaír had fought too, they could have whipped Dughall’s butt.”