“The stink worsens,” someone muttered up ahead. She agreed, but thought the smell nothing unusual. Derina often remarked on the unearthly stink, saying it bore the faeries’ taint of spitefulness. “Spitefulness for what?” Bryna had asked. “It is spitefulness born out of envy,” her teacher had replied, but never explained.
Now she covered her nose and mouth, shaking her head at the foul air and focused on the path ahead.
Thin rock formations hung from the stone ceiling, dripping tears of milk. Beneath their feet, black pebbles crunched in the soil.
“By the light of the faeries, it stinks in here,” Edwin complained hoarsely in front of her. “How much worse can it get?”
“Far worse,” Bryna answered, knowing it for truth. “Doona think of it.”
Like the rest of the men, Edwin wore a gold neck ring and matching arm bands. Blue dye marked their naked chests in the runes of Kindred. All wore daggers sheathed at their waists and gripped swords and shields in their hands.
Up ahead, the feypath narrowed, causing several of the larger men to crouch and grumble.
Bryna tried to look over Edwin’s shoulders. “Have we reached the change in the fey light?”
“Aye, it appears up ahead. It is as you said, the strange light guides us.”
Lavender light permeated the feypaths. Mysterious and flowing, it thrived in the shadows, a symbiotic life not of this world. Yet, the closer to Kindred one came, the lavender deepened, shades of violet and plum, an opulence not seen before.
Bryna felt the light on her face, felt all things in this path that were of intolerance and faery. In preparation for her journey with the warriors, Rose had woven sprigs of rowan into her hair to ward off the evil. It was the only concession she agreed to. For, unlike the rest of the warrior women that preceded them, she avoided the girdles of chain and other personal adornment, choosing instead to wear her old gray gown in case of capture. She reasoned, if the Roman’s believed her taken against her will, she might be able to help Tynan and his tribe.
“Verra close,” one of the men called up ahead, his voice lost in the cry of the winds that lived in the tunnels near the sea. The unearthly lament echoed in their ears, hauntingly beautiful, sending chills down Bryna’s spine.
“I doona like this.” Edwin planted a hand against the wall. “The tunnel narrows up ahead.”
“The feypaths were not intended for the big men of the faery tribe, but for the willowy shape of the faeries. It worsens the nearer we are to the fortress,” she reassured as best she could.
He looked at her, strands of red hair blowing across his youthful face. “How do you know, my Lady?”
She pushed aside her hair and tapped an ear. “Listen, Edwin. You can hear the echo of the sea crashing into the cliffs below the fortress.”
He looked back down the tunnel. “With this wind, I can barely hear it.”
“We are close, trust me.”
They continued to follow the path marked by the three stone markers of those who went before. Steps quickened, a feeling of anxiousness filtered down the ranks.
Bryna felt it too, except . . .
The sound of the winds had changed.
She listened, warm air lifting her hair off her nape and shoulders.
Red fire and crystals flashed in her mind. Jewels.
Red Jewels.
A faery prison.
A golden territorial goddess, enraged.
She stopped and held her head, lost in the black anger that had engulfed her mind, a mountain of red jewels and blue flames that did not burn.
“My Lady?”
Bryna struggled against the fury consuming her senses — and then it was gone, lost in the wind, lost in her mind.
She gave him a reassuring smile. “I am fine, a momentary weakness. Please Edwin, we fall behind the others.”
His face showed his indecision, then he nodded. “Stay close to me.”
“I will. Please, let us go.”
Up ahead, the warriors had disappeared around a corner.
Edwin and Bryna hurried their steps. They came to a sharp corner and stopped. On the opposite wall, a blue shimmering half-moon rock had slid aside allowing the warriors to slip through in small groups.
“We are beneath the fortress,” Bryna said excitedly.
“Aye, it will not be long now.”
Waiting their turn, they stepped into the opening of the half-moon rock.
Purple darkness invaded their sight.
For a moment, Bryna felt disoriented, lost in a swirling black emptiness of envy, jealousy and resentment.
“Doona stop.” Edwin tugged on her hand, pulling her with him.
They plunged out of the icy coldness into the dank dungeons of the Roman fortress.
Each breathed a sigh of relief as they regrouped with the others.
“What is that? Never have I felt such malice,” one of the women warriors rasped.
“A lingering of fey and spite,” Bryna explained. “ ‘Tis a faery realm of in-between, a rebuff that has no bearing on us.”
The woman nodded, already turning toward the battle at hand. The warriors began to disperse, according to their lord’s battle plan.
Edwin moved closer to her. “I will see you safely to Lord Tynan, my Lady.”
Bryna knew the youth would not leave her side. She looked around. Far larger, this dungeon looked older than the one she had rescued Tynan from.
Torches burned on the walls, sucking up the cool shadows with orange and blue flames. She stepped out into an empty corridor. The temperature this far below ground felt cool and damp against her skin, a constant no matter the weather above. Beads of moisture glistened on the gray stone of the walls. At their feet, rats scurried around corners, upset by this latest invasion into their domain.
She looked down the corridor. Metal gates hung open on their hinges, gaping jaws of death.
“I told you to wait in the woodlands.”
Bryna pivoted and looked up. At the top of a flight of stone steps, a painted savage glared down at them. Leather straps criss-crossed a glistening chest, anchoring the leather scabbard that held his sword on his back. A jeweled dagger glittered in his right hand.
“I had to come, Tynan.”
His breath frosted the cold air in rapid bursts at the top of the steps. “Why did you disobey me?” he demanded.
“The faeries call to me.”
“The faeries,” he echoed irritably, securing the dagger at his waist. He descended, taking two steps at a time, landing beside her on silent feet.
“Is Kindred ours?” Edwin asked eagerly, coming up beside her.
“Aye, lad, except for a few pockets of resistance, Kindred belongs to us once again.”
“You are hurt, Tynan?” Bryna touched his arm.
“Nay, the blood is not mine, faery.” He turned his attention back to his younger kinsman. A dark brow rose, an obvious demand for an explanation.
Hastily, Edwin bowed. “Sire, I brought your faerymate to you for safe-keeping.”
“In the middle of a bloody battle?”
“Sire, if I dinna bring her here, I feared she would come alone. Your faerymate is persuasive.”
“You mean mule-headed, lad.”
“I asked him to bring me,” Bryna came to Edwin’s defense.
“Asked him? I doubt that.”
“If you must be angry, then be angry with me.”
“I am not angry.” Dark amethyst eyes slid to her. “I would have sent for you, impatient one, if you but waited.”
“I could not wait. The faeries call to me.” She would not deny them her help this time.
“The faeries always call; you must choose when to answer or your life is not your own.” Turning back to Edwin, he gestured to the steps. “Lad, see Ian in the main hall.” He squeezed the youth’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing my faerymate safely through the fey-paths. I know that could not have been easy.”
Edwin bowed, then climbed up the ste
ep steps, leaving them alone.
Bryna found herself under scrutiny. He scowled at her small smile.
“So, faery, you are here now. Tell me why you could not wait until I sent for you?”
She was about to answer when the cool air in the dungeon suddenly changed to a foul, bone-chilling cold. Torchlight flickered on the walls.
“An evil cold searches and now comes to us,” Tynan muttered, looking over his shoulder.
Bryna followed where he looked and saw an entrance to a dark and ominous looking tunnel.
“Do you smell that?” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
“The stench smells of death. Doona move from here.” He stepped away from her to stand in front of the tunnel.
It was as if time shifted, removing all presence of life. Even the creatures that had called the dungeons their home seemed to have left rather than face this unknown sorcery.
“We are in the deepest part of the ruins near the ancient tombs.” Tynan ran his right hand along the stones framing the tunnel. “It is a place long forgotten.”
“Do you sense the Sorcerer, Tynan?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Do you, faery?” he asked, his voice intent.
A sick feeling of awareness stirred in Bryna’s stomach. “I sense darkness and power, red jewels in blue flames that do not burn.” Something horrible waited in that tunnel. “The faeries are down there, methinks.”
“I do not doubt it.” He turned back to the tunnel.
The unnatural cold abruptly dissipated.
Gone.
As if it had never been.
Bryna stared at Tynan’s stiff back. “Have you found Derina?” she asked.
He did not answer.
“Tynan?”
He looked over his shoulder. “The old druidess?” He shook his head, coming back to her. “Not yet. My men know not to harm the sightless one.”
He inspected the tunnel once again.
“What do you sense?” she asked.
“I think I hear faery calls. Their pleas for freedom are distorted somehow.” He shook his head. “I canna tell.”
“We must help them.”
“Aye, I will. But first, I must secure the fortress.”
A fight broke out at the top of the staircase between tribesmen and a few remaining Roman soldiers. Voices challenged, bellowing out in rage and battle.
He pushed her back against the wall, instantly protective. “Stay here, Bryna. Obey me in this.”
She nodded.
He raced up the flight of stone steps to aid his fighting tribesmen and then disappeared from her sight.
Bryna pushed away from the hard wall. Wiping cold sweaty palms on her gown, she stared at the tunnel with a mounting sense of urgency.
“I am here,” she whispered.
Streams of white light slowly crept from the strange tunnel’s entrance like the stems of flowers, budding into brilliance then fading into smooth blackness. Warmth surged into her body, so very different from the strange cold that had come before.
Her pulse quickened.
A flute’s haunting melody rode the shimmering air currents, the sound unpleasant, forced and distorted to her ears.
“COME, FAERY,” a faint male voice called to her in echo. “COME, BRYNA OF LOCH GUR.”
She looked into the tunnel. Sloping walls glistened with moisture.
“HELP US!”
She took another step. A heavy purple mist greeted her just inside the tunnel’s entrance.
“Show me the way to you.”
The mist retreated into the perilous tunnel, spent waves receding from the shore.
Bryna followed.
Tynan raised his sword and dispatched the last of the Roman soldiers from this earthly place. The small pockets of resistance were more of a bother to him than a burden. The fortress belonged to him now.
He forced himself to take a step back. His men swirled in over the fallen enemy and dragged the dead away. He did not like killing, but did what he must to reclaim Kindred.
The air shimmered suddenly.
His blood ran cold.
Blackness came out of nowhere and wrapped his mind in coiling malignancy. His heart pounded wildly, but not from the battle.
Wrongness.
It permeated his being.
His hand tightened on the sword’s hilt.
Then he heard it, faery whispers, distorted and dark, calling her to them. Bryna.
Fear for her sucked at him.
“Nay,” he bellowed. Pivoting, he ran back down the flight of steps.
“Bryna!”
Too late.
He knew it even as he raced down the steps, charged toward the tunnel and crashed into an invisible wall of spellbound darkness.
Pain exploded in his limbs.
Darkness clouded his vision.
Decay filled his nostrils.
Invisible, clawed hands tore at his shoulder, sinking into his flesh and drawing blood.
Tynan raised the reassuring weight of his double-edged sword and brought it down, fighting to free himself of the Evil One’s spell.
CHAPTER 13
A FEELING OF OTHERWORLDLINESS GRIPPED her, of dampness and in-between, a pulsing that predated history.
The faeries were near.
Bryna moved deeper into the shadowed tunnel, following the receding purple mist. The isolated sound of the sea warned her to go no further. On the high ceiling, roosts of insect eating bats waited for the passage of daylight, dropping feces on the tunnel’s floor. Blindworms and slugs slithered around her feet in the pungent layers of bat dung, retreating from the mist and the sense of death.
“COME TO US,” the faeries called urgently. “COME AND FREE US FROM THIS PLACE OF RED NIGHT.”
A heavy purple mist swirled around her ankles, masking the dung and squishy sounds her shoes made. It beckoned her to quicken her pace, crawling up her legs, warming her skin; the way freezing does before death.
“I come,” Bryna called. She pushed aside huge centipedes that crawled along the edges of a narrow opening and slipped through.
“HURRY.”
“Have patience,” she said in reproach, their calls shrill and hurtful in her ears.
The tunnel swept downhill and suddenly all forms of life disappeared. She squeezed around a stone obstruction shaped like a hunched man, the purple mist disappearing quickly ahead.
“Wait for me,” she ordered.
The mist slowed its pace.
Up ahead, light appeared.
“Where does he imprison you?” she asked the mist. “Show me so I can find you.”
“IN THE CENTER. WE CANNA SEE BEYOND THE BLUE FLAMES. HURRY.”
Bryna hurried, tripping over fallen stones that littered the dirt path.
“IN HERE.”
At the mouth of a wide cavern, the mist disappeared. She stopped, taking a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bluish light.
“Where are you?” She looked around. A feeling of openness and displacement skittered down her spine.
She stood at the mouth of a massive cavern with four white stone pillars marking the entrance. Hundreds of jagged cracks ran down the length of the floor, skirting fallen stalactites and opening into a large crater in the center of the cavern.
“IN THE CENTER!”
Bryna moved into the cavern. Enormous burn marks licked at the ragged edge of the crater.
The bluish glow providing the cavern’s half-light came from the huge crater.
Bryna blinked at the wonder of it. Within the crater rose a mountain of red crystals, an astounding sight of crimson and power.
“WE BE IN HERE.”
She moved to the edge of the crater of jewels and looked down. Shafts of heated air flushed her cheeks. Tiny blue flames danced and glowed in the individual jewels, gatekeepers locking the magical within. She took a deep breath to steady her heart.
“I am here.” She hovered at the crater’s edge. “Tell me how to free y
ou.”
“HE COMES,” they warned in shrill voices. “BEWARE.”
“Who comes? The Sorcerer?”
“THE BETRAYER.”
She looked up.
A white robbed creature stood on the opposite side of the crater. Unmoving, like a white pillar of salt against a backdrop of blue shadows, he stared at her in predatory silence. He stood taller than most men, a gaunt frame just beginning to bend with age. Deformed feet peeked out from beneath the hem of his robe.
He bowed from the waist, a gesture of respect that surprised her.
“SHOW HIM NO WEAKNESS,” the faeries warned in her mind.
Stepping back, Bryna’s skirt caught on one of the thousands of cracks that scarred the stone floor. She tugged on it, tripping momentarily on a fallen stalactite.
The Betrayer remained watchful.
Struggling to maintain her eroding calm, Bryna notched her chin up. As a slave, passiveness and insecurities had ruled her, but no longer.
She had found the imprisoned faeries. Tynan’s goddess was amongst them. She must find a way to free them, and her.
The Betrayer walked around the crater. The taint of him was unmistakable, foul and unclean.
He stopped a few feet from her, this being of malicious intent, his face in blue shadow. Bryna presented a strong front. Gnarled hands adjusted the white hood and then he leaned forward slightly, sniffing at her in a strangely familiar way.
“It would seem,” he said quietly, “I have found the missing faery.”
“DOONA LET HIM TOUCH YOU.”
Bryna forced herself to look up within the hood. Black brows slashed across a skeletal face, singed gray and heavily lined. She met deep-set, violet eyes that watched her with undisguised concentration.
“You are the Sorcerer?” She forced the question through her lips. She had never seen the man’s face. The question lay there in the silence, waiting for his response.
“You speak to me?” he said in swift amazement, and then regained his self-possession. He gestured to the crater. “They doona speak to me, ever. No matter how I plead, they doona forgive.”
Bryna glanced at the crater. “Why do you want the faeries forgiveness if you imprison them?”
Predestined Page 17