Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy (15 page)

She pressed her grandmother in the direction of relative safety. “You have to go now before he changes his mind.”

But Leo pulled out the neck of Brenawyn’s shirt and dropped the medallion in. “Remember, never take it off. Promise me,” holding her hand over the fabric covered medallion.

Brenawyn pulled her to her feet. “I promise. Now, get out of here.”

Chapter 13

Finvarra rose and slung his bow over his shoulder, “Come, we must go.” He walked to Brenawyn and held out a hand. “I’m ta deliver ye ta yer instructor. T’is a long way even for sifting time.”

Brenawyn slunk down to sit on the ground, the rough boulder at her back. It didn’t even register that her shirt rode up in the back and she got scraped from her efforts. The only thing that mattered was obstinacy.

Finvarra looked amused, not the response she wanted. He chuckled, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, “I like ye, Brenawyn McAllister for yer impertinence.” He patted her rump. “But doona be deluded inta thinking ye ha’ any control.”

She screamed all combinations of expletives as she pummeled his back but he neither noticed nor cared.

Her surroundings, as much as she could see with her hair over her face, were blurred but she had the impression of moving quickly between realms. Brief glimpses of the incandescent light and shimmering dryads of Tir-Na-Nog and the vibrant bright green world of her own flashed by. Somewhere along the way she gave up fighting and hugged his midsection so her head didn’t bounce so much.

Holding her head that way strained her muscles so when he finally stopped and bent to take her off his shoulder, she cried out, clutching her midsection. She batted his hands away, turning her body to curl inward, to ease the screaming of her abdominal muscles. She shifted back but he was persistent. He gripped her thighs and yanked, her weight offering little resistance and he straddled her hips. Her body went rigid and bucked to get him off of her. Capturing both her wrists he held them above her head, “Hush, priestess, I am trying ta aid ye.”

“Bullshit, you’re trying to help yourself,” she spat.

“Believe me, priestess,” shook his head and Alexander’s eyes looked into hers. “I ha’ ne’er had ta resort ta force …  especially when I ha’ other means o’ persuasion at my fingertips.”

She went still. Alexander—his eyes, his face, it couldn’t be! If Brenawyn didn’t see it herself, she wouldn’t believe it.

“Dae ye ken that Alex was the only one who can shift? Who dae ye ken taught him ta dae that trick? Though he’s no’ gifted with the ability ta shift inta other than animals.” He ground his hips down into hers. “Interested? No, I didna kin so.” He placed his hand on her abdomen, lifting the shirt as he did, she started at the intimacy but he hushed her again, forcing her to lie flat. His hands were too warm and she had the conflicting urge to lean into them, press up against them, pleading for some of the warmth pooling in her belly to seep into her extremities. “If ye e’er ha’ the penchant for a tryst,” he leaned close, “call my name.”

~~~

She awoke some time later shivering, hearing the echo of small movements and a distant drip, almost imperceptible. The darkness was consuming. She saw nothing, not even her hand in front of her face, as her eyes tried to adjust. Where was she? Her cheek was pressed against the damp smooth surface of a clay brick walkway, the solidity of rock at her back. There was a metallic click off to her right and—light! She squinted, trying to clear the large black spots from her vision. Once her irises adjusted, she saw that the feeble light shed by the lone battery lantern barely illuminated the slick surfaces off the surrounding walls. A stray drip, liquid ice, found its way through the gap in the neckline of her shirt. She knew where she was without having to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, if they ever would. She had seen this place in her vision, in her childhood, and as recently as that afternoon. She was in the caverns.

Movement off to her right startled her, “Doona fear. Nothing haur will harm ye. When ye are ready, we will begin.”

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 moved 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?”