“She has asked for ’em,” said Vynae. “She wishes to see Winnie and Macklin, and Parkin as soon as he is located.”
Bloodcurdling screams echoed down the hallway towards the solemn group. “She is awake,” said Vynae. “I must go to her.”
***
Odetta Burke ran a bloody hand over her forehead, and searched frantically with her fingers up and down and over and around the circumference of her head—hoping to staunch the bleeding. It was steaming hot and pitch dark in the dungeon, and nearly impossible to move with her left wrist and right ankle shackled to the rocky wall.
She couldn’t blame Tragus, not really. It was not entirely his fault after all. Had she not tried to escape at every turn, mayhap she wouldn’t be in this predicament. Nigh on seven months in captivity, she sighed to herself. With neither a word nor an idea what had become of her adopted daughter, Orla, or the other prisoners who managed to escape this very dungeon.
My dungeon—ironic how things turn out, she mused. The priest, the two young boys, Naelyn, her very best friend—and only confidante in the world, and Cordal McTierney, her first and only love—the one man who betrayed her in the worst way, and married her sister in secret, the father of Orla—her Cordal. How would she ever be able to tell them all the horrifying truth? That everything she had ever done, no matter how cruel it may have seemed at the time—was for their benefit—their safety?
Even subjecting Naelyn to the dungeon on that Samhain eve so many months ago, was designed entirely to protect her. Odetta knew that her Dark Visitor was planning something, and she knew he knew nothing about the dungeon. She would be safe there. Eaton was looking for a new host, and she wasn’t about to let Naelyn become his human casing. She overheard his plans to take her brother Cynbel once, and instead she killed her brother herself. All a part of her pagan witch ruse, an act she performed convincingly. She couldn’t tell them the truth. They would think she was insane, as it stood, her witchcraft explained away most of what prying minds imagined and even garnered her respect—in some circles.
Eaton, the Dark Visitor, had taken her new husband, Easal, the captain of her guards, instead. The violent transformation, the blood, the stench, the unrestrained horror in her beloved’s eyes—had not accomplished what Eaton wanted. Still determined—she would not serve him—at least not in the open.
Odetta instead embarked on a campaign to undermine Eaton at every turn. With Dirk’s help, she managed to get nearly two-thirds of the Burke villagers relocated to nearby clans, with their families and friends. Many had gone to McTierney lands, and still others traveled to O’Malley lands as refugees. All she could hope was that they were welcome there, and not scorned because of the age-old feud between the Burkes and O’Malleys. And she hoped, beyond hope, that Orla was safe and still alive.
She softly scratched her withered right hand, burned in the fire at the armory, along with her scrolls and sacred texts. Eaton made a point that her craft was nonsense, and he would have none of it. Every last scroll was destroyed in that fire, alongside Dirk. Every curse, spell, or incantation she had ever or would ever use or need was gone from her now. Any binding oath was broken that day in the fire. She had no idea how to find the eldest O’Malley male, as the storm curse was gone. She had no control over any O’Malley males being born, as the curse of the eldest was gone. But she knew she had to find the eldest male—before it was too late.
Eaton is a fool. How her Dark Visitor expected her to locate the nexus without her trappings, she had no idea. Thankfully, the texts weren’t the only cradles of information about the ancient wreckage. The caves near the shore, they held prophecies and Vedic drawings—I must get there! If I can’t use my magic, I will have to use my head. But how am I going to get out of here? Quite sure Tragus hadn’t intended to hit her as hard as he had, she hatched a scheme to save herself—and Tragus too—he just didn’t know he needed saving yet.
She was finished crying. Utterly convinced she was incapable of any further emotions than she had experienced of late, she sat down on the cold stone ground and prayed for death. But death would not be forthcoming. Immortal. That is what Eaton said. But how? she wondered. I haven’t really tested the theory—yet.
TWO
O’Malley High Castle—Council Chambers
“Evathang is set and ready for the Fealty ceremony to’morra eve,” explained Lucian, the elderly clan scribe. “Ruarc is still at the sick house with Kyra, ’tis no’ lookin’ well for her,” he whispered and bowed his head. “Parkin has no’ been found; we have sent out three boats searching for the ship, and we have tightened security along the borders.”
“Th-thank y-ye,” replied Lord Patrick O’Malley, tapping his fingers on the large triangular-shaped council chamber table. “G-Galen, h-have the cl-clerics decided to st-stay or to re-return to Rome?” he stammered.
“The Bishops will remain and the Cardinal must return.”
“V-verra well,” Patrick said.
“Patrick,” interjected Lucian, “I am no’ quite certain the clerics can be o’ any further assistance. As it stands, their only real accomplishment has been de-frockin’ Father MacArtrey, I mean, in removin’ Kurt MacArtrey’s commissions and ex-communicatin’ him from the church.”
“I s-see,” replied Patrick. “Is he w-waitin’ ou-outside?”
“He is,” replied Galen, the village priest. “He is verra worried and upset, and fears ye will banish him from O’Malley lands.”
Two stories beneath the O’Malley High Castle, the council chambers were situated directly under the great hall. Carved from the limestone foundation, the cavern was cool and dark but well lit, and bustling with activity since Patrick had become the Lord of the O’Malley clan. Patrick, Lucian, and Galen were all more than weary from clan business; but Patrick MacCahan-O’Malley was intent and as persistent as any man the clan had ever known.
Lucian shot Patrick a sideways glance, and Patrick nodded in his direction. The matter of Kurt MacArtrey had to finally be put to bed. Lord O’Malley was a patient man, having waited almost seven months for the Catholic Church to conduct their own investigation into his involvement with the Burke Witch, his possession of the scrolls containing the curses Odetta Burke placed on the O’Malleys, and the possibility that Kurt was a spy working for Odetta herself. Seven months, and in all that time, all the clerics could establish was that the former priest was coerced into serving the witch after his own kidnap, torture and imprisonment. They had declared him ex-communicated and left his fate and residence in the hands of his clanspeople—the O’Malleys.
In the interim, Galen Fleming was given his commission as priest for the people, and Patrick seated him on the clan council. Galen and Lucian, the elderly scribe and archdruid, got along well and worked together; to the surprise of many, much to the chagrin of the Roman guests. It mattered not to Patrick; as long as the people were happy, he was happy.
“Ga-Galen, is K-Kurt still re-residin’ with y-ye?” Patrick asked.
“Aye, me Lord. We are sharin’ the small cottage next to the chapel.”
“Is th-this s-somethin’ y-ye m-might con-consider co-continuin’?” asked Patrick.
“A’course, me Lord. ’Tis really no trouble at all. But..”
“B-but, what? asked Patrick.
“But, we will no doubt run outa’ comfortable room after a bit,” sighed Galen.
“I s-see. I will sp-speak to Deasum and see that a c-cottage is bb-uilt for h-him in the s-s-sou-southlands, alongside the B-Burke exiles. They w-were his p-people at one time, were they no’? It sh-shouldna’ take more than a f-fortnight to set him up with s-s-suitable shelter.”
“Thank ye,” breathed Galen, before he and Lucian burst into chuckles.
“I’m guessing he has no’ got his drinkin’ under control yet?” asked Lucian between chuckles.
“Nay, no’ yet,” replied Galen, rising from the bench and stumbling towards the hearth as if he were completed blottered himself.
Pat
rick grunted and smiled from ear to ear, turning white in the process. “Have no’ we all cr-crosses to b-bear?” he asked sheepishly.
“Some more than others,” replied Lucian, raising his mug in mock toast to his friends. “Some more than others.”
The heavy wooden door of the council chamber creaked ominously upon opening. Accompanied by three armed guards, Payton MacCahan entered, carrying a satchel of scrolls, which landed with a mighty “thud” in the middle of the chamber table.
“Milord, Lucian, Galen,” he stated matter-of-factly looking each man in the eye, before plopping down next to Galen on the bench. “I have the rolls,” he said and took a deep breath.
“G-go on,” Patrick bade him with a wave of his hand.
“Well,” he inclined, speaking to Lucian who was busily scribbling notes, “Of the some six hundred or so adult Burke refugees, we have managed to divide them into ten separate units of sixty or so each, with at least ten strong adult males in each group,” he said.
Galen nodded his head in understanding, poured Payton a mug of ale, and passed him a trencher of cheese and dried meats. Payton nodded his thanks, took a swig of ale and continued. “Well, as ye ken, we jest finished construction of the last of the round row cottages in the southlands. There are ten manors, each surrounded by thirty round houses. Each group of the ten, the Burke Ten we are callin’’em, each of ’em has elected a Leath-Ri to govern, as representative for their group. The Leath-Ri council of ten has in turn elected their own Tighearna to govern the Leath-Ri, and to represent the refugees’ interests to this council. The O’Malley High Council”
“G-Good work,” said Patrick. “And wh-who is th-this Tighearna?
Payton looked around the table at Lucian and Galen hesitantly. “Are ye ready for this?” he asked cautiously.
“Aye,” said Galen, “spit it out, mon.”
“They have elected Jamie Burke as their Tighearna.”
***
Soaked, starving and sea-weary, Flynn Montgomery longed for his journey to end. Two more nights, the captain assured him, and they would make shore at O’Malley lands. A fortnight is simply too long to remain at sea with no pleasant company. Aisling had not met him at the piers, and his worst fears were realized. The marriage was off, and he was on his way to a foreign land, to lead the militia of a clanspeople he had never met; under the rule of a family he had never known.
Sleep was a luxury he had not enjoyed on this journey. If the sea was gracious, perhaps it would remain docile for an hour or two at a time, but he would most certainly be awakened by the unwelcome interruptions of the rats. Infested. The vessel was infested; and as many as they could gather and throw overboard, there were still more hiding in the dark places and dank crevices of the ship’s interior. The captain had warned them not to waste arrows on the rats. The diseases they might carry aside, they needed their weapons in case of a pirate attack, and pirates were to be feared more than any disease-ridden rodent.
“A moment for yer thoughts, mate,” inquired Captain MacGrath. “Ye look lost, son.”
“Aye. I feel lost, some—at leastt’day,” Flynn replied.
“Thinkin’ about yer wee lass?”
“Well, it appears she is no’ mine anamore,” Flynn retorted.
“Dinna’ worry yer head none, son. Women are somethin’ we may never understand. ’Tis probably better ye find out this way than the other.”
“What do ye mean?” Flynn replied. “Find out what?”
“Well, find out that she hasna’ got it in her,” the Captain replied. “She hasna’ got the steel it takes to follow her heart and her love to wherever it leads. ’Twas a big thang ye asked of her, lad. To leave her family and her home and follow ye to the other side of the world. Better ye find out now, than later.”
“I guess I neva’ thought of it that way. I’m no’ sure what she could have done once she got there, at least she would be here with me now,” said Flynn, bracing himself against the bulwark. The ship tossed and lurched and an ominous black cloud positioned itself over them—ripe and ready to burst open.
“I’ll be guessin’ that’s yer black cloud followin’ us, eh son?” laughed the Captain.
“It sure seems that way,” replied Flynn, chuckling.
“I’ll tell ye what she could be doin’ right now, she could be givin’ ye the business like ole’ missus Reid o’er there,” he said pointing to a raucous and rotund, red-faced woman briskly wrapping her portly fist about the shoulder of an elderly gentleman. “She has no’ given that mon a second o’ peace since they stepped foot on this galley. Hasna’ given that hole under her nose a moment of breath either. I tell ye, I have neva’ heard someone say so much and so little at the same time in all me sheltered life,” he laughed. “Wouldna’ surprise me at all to hear if the Mister Reid didna’ fall o’erboard even; accident or no’. I’m sure he’s given it some thought.”
THREE
O’Malley Council Chamber
“Wh-who is J-Jaime B-Burke?” asked Patrick, to the dumfounded looks of the rest of the chamber.
“Um…uh…well, ye see Patrick,” started Payton.
“Spit it out,” shouted Lucian slamming his fist on the council table.
“Jamie Burke is the younger brathair of Odetta Burke,” said Payton.
“There was another Burke child?” questioned Lucian. “Cynbel was the eldest, and then came Odetta, the witch, and then Mavis. I have neva’ heard tell of any other.”
“That’s a’cause he is no’ well known,” said Payton, “outside o’ Burke Territory. It seems that Lord Burke, a’fore his death, had certain…um…relations with an…um…a maidservant, and she bore him a son. When the Lord Burke expired, Odetta sent him to foster in McTierney lands, and ordered him neva’ to return.”
“Wh-why is that?” asked Patrick.
“Well, from what I can gather,” continued Payton, “to protect her claim to the title, and a’cause he is blind. He has been blind from birth, from what I hear tell.”
“They have elected a blind mon as their Tighearna?” asked Galen.
“Aye, and that’s not all, Galen. They went and fetched him from McTierney lands. The Burke refugees, they talked him into coming back with’em. He did no’ even ken he was the heir to the Burke title, or Odetta’s younger brathair. The Burke Ten believe he is the rightful heir to the Burke throne—seeing as how he is the only living son.”
“An-and he a-agreed to c-come h-here with’em?” asked Patrick.
“Aye, Patrick. But there’s more.”
“What else could there be?” grunted Lucian, “There’s yet another Burke heir, he is blind, he was livin’ with our allies, the McTierneys, all these years; and now he is livin’ in O’Malley lands with the Burke refugees, and he has been elected their leader and will now sit on our council?”
“Well, there is somethin’ verra unique about Jamie Burke. The Burke Ten are jest now finding out for theirselves.”
“G-go on,” bade Patrick.
“Patrick, Jamie Burke was the McTierney clan’s fiercest warrior.”
***
“There! In the distance. Do ye see that floatin’ debris?” he shouted. Unsure if he was heard over the scuffle of ship hands and sail boys plowing through the rough waters just north of the Isle of Women, Deasum continued, “There, that large piece of wood, there is somethin’ on it!”
Macklin edged forward on the ketch, and cupped his hands around his eyes to block out the glare of the noonday sun. “I see it!” he retorted. “Stop and anchor” he shouted over the din of working men. “Avast! Avast! Stop and anchor!” he repeated.
“Ready the dinghy,” Deasum commanded to Macklin. “We need to get a look.”
“I will go,” exclaimed Parkin MacCahan’s stepson, fifteen-year-old Macklin, “’Twill be easier if ’tis jest me. The dinghy is small, and I am quick. Jest wait here,” he yelled up to Murchadh as he climbed down the ropes into the small dinghy below. “I’ll be back straightaway. Dinna�
� ye worry,” he added, as he landed with a thud in the dinghy waiting below. Untying the small, two-man boat, he manned the oars and made towards the floating object in the water.
“Do ye think he’s alive?” asked a ship-hand.
“I do no’ even ken if ’tis a person yet. It appears it might be, but alive, I couldna’ say. Awful rough waters to survive, alone, in the sea,” replied Deasum.
The sun-scorched bare back of a listless man greeted Macklin as he neared the floating wreckage. “Hello there,” Macklin yelled into the spray. “Can ye hear me?” he shouted louder this time. “Hello!” he screamed again and pulled alongside the large floating mass of wood. Tying the cornered edge of the debris to the dinghy, he began poking the body with an oar. After several moments, the man finally stirred. Bleary-eyed and frightened, he reached a weak weathered hand to Macklin’s and flailed over, toppling into the rough waters.
“He’s alive!” shouted Macklin back towards the ship. No doubt they can’t hear me, he thought to himself, before waving his arms and the oars above his head to signal instead. Tying a rope about the man’s waist, Macklin pulled and struggled, and finally succeeded in getting him flopped into the dingy beside him. Not Parkin, he realized reluctantly.
“Yer name sir,” he asked. The man grunted and shuffled his position on the floor of the dinghy, but did not respond. Handing the man a skin of water, he asked again. “What is yer name, sir?”
“Landers,” he moaned. “Landers MacDugal.”
“Did ye meet with some kind of accident, Landers?” Macklin inquired.
“Aye. We were on the Night Star—” he started.
“Parkin’s ship,” interrupted Macklin.
“Aye,” he replied.
“What has become of Parkin? Are there others? Any survivors?” Macklin demanded.
“Aye. Aye, they are takin’ refuge on the northern isle, eight cable lengths past the Isle of Women.”
Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 2