Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series

by Delaney Rhodes

  “Praise Parkin,” said Lucian, grinning widely.

  “In-indeed,” added Patrick.

  TWELVE

  Burke Lands—the Shores

  Odetta Burke sat before the fire in the murky cave and ran her long, lithe fingers down the length of her still damp, bone-straight, black hair. What she wouldn’t give at that moment for a hair comb and some “essentials” of hygiene, as her chambermaid had called them. Unaccustomed to caring for her own needs, she tinged with the realization that she was indeed, very helpless after all. Not incapable, mind you, but helpless nonetheless.

  As lady of the castle, she enjoyed the pampering that came along with the title. Sometimes—a little too much perhaps, she mused. Oh, she had managed to bathe herself along the years, but was never without assistance in dressing her hair, or her body for that matter. All manner of effort was required to drape her tall shapely frame in the intricate designs she was blessed to be adorned in. No expense was ever spared when it came to her apparel. She was the Lord’s daughter, after all, a princess of sorts, a high-born lady for sure, and most recently, the new Lord’s wife.

  Her quick marriage to Easal, former captain of the guards in Burke lands, was necessitated and pre-empted upon her own brother’s death. As eldest living child, she would rise to the position of clan leader, but as a female, she would need a husband to seal the deal. Easal had done that for her. She had enjoyed Easal’s company, and they made a frictionless match. He was impossibly infatuated with her and eager to please, and she was clever enough to know just how to manipulate him.

  She knew her soul was in peril. The thought made her shudder. Gone, lost perhaps, to some dark place where irredeemable spirits reside, because of what she had done. Yes—she had killed her own brother. She killed him, in cold blood, and inside the sanctuary in front of all its inhabitants, on that eerie Samhain eve months before.

  She had no choice. She would not permit Eaton, the Dark Visitor, to snatch his soul as well. Eaton intended to claim her brother Cynbel’s body as his own, and use it as host to house his own immortal, foreign spirit. In doing so, Cynbel would have endured an unfathomable death. Transition was perhaps a better word, for what would have to occur to permit Eaton to reside within the confines of Cynbel’s human form. No—she had really had no other choice.

  The haunting gray eyes that stared back at her when she plunged that dagger into her brother’s chest, would haunt her the rest of her days. Never would she be able to explain to him why she had done it. She was being merciful she told herself over and over again. It was much better that he die quickly, at her hand, than he be turned literally inside out in a painfully time-consuming, appalling, metamorphic experience. She had paid dearly for stealing Eaton’s intended host; her husband’s life for her brother’s. The universe was nothing if not just.

  Tragus caught a falling tear in his big worn hands, and cupped Odetta’s damp face. “Milady,” he whispered, “do no’ be afraid.”

  “Tragus,” she started, “I…I did no’ hear ye return,” she blushed. “I am sorry. I was jest thinkin’ about me daughter, Orla. Have ye heard, what may have become of her?”

  “Aye. Easal received a dispatch several weeks back. She is with the others in O’Malley lands. Under the care of yer seesta, I do believe and Cordal, Cordal McTierney. It seems that Cordal had given up his right to any of the McTierney estates, and has instead settled in with the O’Malleys. He has joined the militia I believe. Orla was on the roles of the Burke clanspeople expected to swear fealty to the O’Malley Lord.”

  “Did Easal tell ye this, Tragus?” she asked.

  “Nay. ’Twas most peculiar, milady. He dinna’ seem particularly interested at all in the names on the rolls. I reviewed them with Henry and we called a few of them out verbally, but he didna’ raise his headwhen I said Orla Burke. ‘Twas as if she was jest any other village person, and not a member of the Lord’s family,” he said.

  “Thank the gods,” she breathed, letting out a long sigh.

  “Well, dinna’ ye find that peculiar?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she uttered. “Not really. Considering ’twas Eaton…uh…I mean, Easal.”

  “Well, I would certainly think that a mon, especially the Lord of this clan, would recognize the name of his own stepdaughter,” he remarked somewhat sarcastically.

  “Tragus,” she began, “there is much that I need to say to ye. Thangs I need to explain—thangs that are not easily explained, and even less easily understood.” Rising from her position on the floor, she gripped him about his shoulders and squeezed hard. “But, if there is anyone in this land, that I ken will do his best to believe what I have to say, 'twould be ye, Tragus.”

  “Ye ken that I will believe ye, Odetta. I ken ye have no reason to lie to me.”

  “Good,” she replied. “But first, Tragus, show me what ye found in me hidden chamber in the monastery.”

  “Well, unfortunately, Odetta,” he started, “there was no food stores to be found in the chamber.”

  Dropping the satchel from his shoulder, Tragus bade Odetta sit on the cave floor, directly in front of him. First, he removed some fresh bread, a skin of wine, and a package of cheese and berries. Spreading them out in front of her as if they were peace offerings, he searched her face for any sign of approval or at least confusion. At her hasty charge to devour the bread, he concluded it was unnecessary to actually see her face to recognize her satisfaction. Humming as she chewed, Tragus couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Do ye like, milady?” he ventured.

  “Aye, verra much so, Tragus. I was a might nigh starved,” she squealed in delight. “I havna’ had fresh bread in some time. And this cheese is delightful. But if the chamber was empty, wherever did ye find these?”

  “Well, I am not much of a man for thievin’,” he began, “but seein’ as how we are in this predicament, I ventured jest a bit north of the monastery, to the widow Carey’s cottage. And, seein’ as how she wasna’ home at the present; I made meself familiar with her stores, as it were.”

  Odetta laughed. “She would skin ye alive for takin’ what is hers.”

  “Well, I thought of that. But since she wasna’ in, and seein’ as how I couldna’ rightly ask her for these thangs, with her not bein’ there and all…well…I set to doin’ some work around her lodge. In exchange like,” he added. “I fixed the goat pen, and then I repaired her thatched roof, and after a few hours more, when she hadna’ returned even yet, I fixed two broken stools. I put fresh water in her kitchen bucket and changed her linens, washed up the soiled ones, and laid them out by the fire to dry.”

  “Why, Tragus,” said Odetta. “Ye’d make a mighty fine wife!”

  “Me mam always said so” he sniggered.

  “Well, anaway, seein’as how it was getting’ dark, and I figured ye to be worried about me,” he said, looking at her inquisitively, “I started back this way. I reckon she musta’ thought at the sight of her cabin, that she had been visited by angels. That is until she caught wind of the missin’ bread and cheese and what not.”

  “Well, that was verra good thinkin’ Tragus,” said Odetta. “I honestly dinna’ think I could eat any more grouse or fish if me verra life depended on it.” Licking the tips of her fingers, Odetta patted her full stomach and leaned back against the cave wall to relax. Motioning for Tragus to hand her the wine skin, she pointed to the unemptied satchel. “What else have ye got there?”

  “I didna’ say the chamber was empty, Odetta. It jest didna’ have any food stores in it. I hope ye won’t be upset, but I saw these, and I thought ye might like to see them.” Pulling small scrolls from the satchel, he laid them out in front of Odetta, eager to see her reaction.

  “Oh my!” she remarked, sitting down on the floor to open up the pile of miniature scrolls. Thumbing her finger through the aged parchment, a vibrant smile lighted her face. “Oh thank ye, Tragus!” she exclaimed. “Thank ye, thank ye! And thank ye, Naelyn.”

  “Naelyn?” he as
ked.

  “Aye, Naelyn,” she replied, still examining the texts. “Me cleric, do ye remember her?”

  “Aye, I believe I do. I dinna’ ken

  “These are replicas of me scrolls. The ones we had in the main room of the monastery. They contained me ledgers, me rolls, and me,,,uh…me spells,” she said under her breath, looking up at Tragus hesitantly. “And me curses,” she continued under her breath. “’Tis not all of’em, but Naelyn, thank the gods, Naelyn got most of ’em down—in here,” she said, patting the pile of parchments with the palm of her hand.

  Tragus stroked his beard and shook his head from side to side, finally deciding to sit down on the cave floor as well. “I dinna’ ken,” he said again.

  “Eaton, I mean, Easal, destroyed all of the monastery’s records a’fore he threw me in the dungeon. “Evathang was lost, until now.”

  “So ’tis true?” he asked her sheepishly, brushing his thumb over the top of one of the parchments as if he were in a trance. “Ye are a witch?” he breathed.

  Odetta gasped and shrank back against the cave wall. The force of those words hitting her in the stomach. She grimaced and hugged herself, refusing to look Tragus in the eye. It was silent in the cave now, except for the crackling of the fire, and the light sound of waves crashing on shore. She could hear her own heartbeat and Tragus’ rapid breathing, growing even more rapid by the second. He was waiting on an answer, and she as may as well give him one, but could she tell him the truth?

  “Odetta.”

  “Odetta.”

  “Odetta, milady,” he said again, this time with more force.

  “Odetta, I didna’ mean to pry,” he said. “Ye dinna’ have to answer me question, ye ken.”

  She snapped suddenly back to reality, jerking her head around to face him eye to eye. To the place in time they were sharing, just then, in the cave. “Aye, Tragus,” she said. “I am a witch.”

  “Good,” he said playfully, “I have a few people I would like ye to turn into toads if’n ye dinna’ mind,” he added chuckling.

  “Yer laughin’?” she asked.

  “Aye, why shouldna’ I?”

  “A’cause witchcraft is a dangerous vice,” she said. “A’cause in some places, I could be put to death for admitting as such, a’cause if ye really believed me, Tragus, ye would be terrified of me.”

  “Well, I guess all of that is true, Odetta,” he began, “but…”

  “But what?” she asked.

  “But, I ken if ye wanted me dead, I already would be, magic or not,” he said, nodding to his own dagger that had come unhidden from beneath her skirt. “And I s’pose, that if ye have taken to the craft, Odetta, that ye prob’ly had a verra good reason for doin’ so, as powerful a woman as ye already are, with yer position as Lord’s wife and all, daughter of the Lord, and so on….” his voice trailed off. “And, I s’pose that if ye have taken to the craft, that there canna’ be many more powerful than ye are, and there woudna’ be much I could do to stop ye anahow if’n ye intended me harm.”

  “Aye, I s’pose ye have the right of it, Tragus,” she said.

  “But…” he added.

  “But?” she replied.

  “But I would like ye to at least tell me what ye need the magic for, milady. Won’t ye do me that small favor?” he begged, grabbing both her hands in his and pleading at her with his pale blue eyes. “Please?”

  THIRTEEN

  Burke Lands —the Cave

  Odetta stood and paced in front of the now roaring fire. It was becoming warm and stuffy inside, and she needed some fresh air. It was increasingly difficult for her to breathe, and she was quite sure she would faint if she didn’t get out of the cave that instant. Throwing the dagger at his feet, she wrapped his cloak tightly about her neck, and took off out of the mouth of the cavern, remarkably like the bat that had swept through only moments prior.

  Tragus was beside himself. What was that look she had given him? Despair? Fear? Confusion? Revulsion? Terror? Disdain? Shame? Of one thing he was sure, she was crazed and for some reason, she appeared almost inconsolable—and now she was gone. Lighting a torch, his charge to find her and bring her back was momentarily delayed by the sparks that fell from the fire, and threatened to burn up her precious parchments. Stamping them out with his boot, he cursed and spat, and bent down to straighten the pile of scrolls before taking off into the twilight to catch her.

  “Odetta,” he shouted into the wind, against the sound of the crashing shoreline. “Odetta,” he repeated. More cursing followed at the realization that the wet, stony shoreline would offer no bootprints to follow. The salty wind would mask the smell of her lavender touched skin, and the darkness would shadow against his black cloak, making it near impossible to locate her by sight.

  She ran, if you could call it that. She slogged forward between the rocky crevices, securing her footing here, reaching with her hands there, until finally she stumbled and rolled onto her back at the mouth of the cresting waves. She offered no resistance to the shore, and simply lay there, half-floating, half-sinking into the muddy sand. She was drenched, and now she was moving. Slowly, and out towards the sea, further and further she went. Her cloak and her clothes were weighing her down, and her feet were righting her due to the weight of her boots. She didn’t care. She wanted to drown. She prayed that she would. But she knew better.

  “Odetta,” he called, over and over again. Finally, a cloud broke from across the face of the setting sun, and he saw an object floating, just thirty feet out from shore, and he knew it was her. She was not alone. She was surrounded on both sides by—something, bobbing up and down beside her and then swimming around her—they were circling her. Oh dear god, he thought to himself, sharks!

  Now he wished he had grabbed that dagger from the cave floor. Here he was, trying to save her, and he had nothing but his broadsword strapped to his hip, and that would most certainly weigh him down. He couldn’t use that. He would just have to fight them off, barehanded. Hurriedly, he stripped off his shirt and plaid, and hobbled, one leg at a time as he chunked off his boots, before diving into the frigid waters.

  He cursed silently to himself and dove under the water again, propelling himself forward and hoping to catch a better look at the two objects floating around her in the crashing waves. The clouds moved again and darkened what was left of the setting sun. It was completely dark; he would have to feel his way forward and hope he could find her. He clutched ahold of something in front of him and froze in panic. It was hairy?!?

  He came up gasping for air and found the water was over his head. Reaching forward, he felt the weight of his wet woolen cloak against his chest and knew he had her. Paddling with his left arm, he reached to grip her with his right, and made contact with the wet furry sea creature yet again. Commanding his brain to remain calm, he felt around in the water. Pulling against the cloak as if it were a lead, he made contact with her left wrist and grabbed her. Clutching her floating form to his chest, he suddenly realized that one of the creatures had been underneath her, keeping her afloat.

  The clouds broke across the face of the setting sun, and Tragus found himself staring into the deepest set of dark-brown eyes he had ever seen. Whiskers stood out at least six inches from its face, and a wet nose nuzzled his shoulder. Seals, he sighed. Thank god it’s jest seals.

  She mumbled and spat water from her mouth and began thrashing uncontrollably.

  “Odetta!” he shouted against the din of the crashing waves. “Odetta!” he commanded this time, “it’s me, Tragus. What do ye think ye are doin’?” Dragging her up towards the shore, he pondered his predicament once again. Naked—again. How is that she always manages to get me naked? Thankful at least it was dark, he settled her face up on the sandy shore and wrapped his plaid about him.

  “Odetta, what were ye thinking, lass?” he asked again, his back still turned as he dressed. He received no response and feared he wouldna’. Overshirt finally in place, he sat back down on the sand to survey th
e damage. She lie there, in a wet crumpled heap, turned on her left side and clutching her legs to her chest, sobbing.

  “Odetta,” he said gently, patting her shoulder. “Odetta, are ye alright?”

  “Nay,” was the solemn reply.

  “Were ye trying to kill yerself, milady?”

  “Not exactly,” she murmured.

  “Sit ye up and talk to me,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her towards him. When she didn’t budge, he grabbed her in both his arms and cradled her in his lap. She laid her cheek against his chest and wept like a child.

  This was not the Odetta Burke that he knew. The Odetta he knew wasn’t afraid of anything, and would certainly not feel remorse or shame. Had she not killed her own brother? She must have had good reason; he had reminded himself on more than one occasion. Was she not the Odetta that drove out the priests and overtook the monastery, when it was found that the bishop was stealing from the villagers? Was this not the same strong woman he had grown up with? Was this not the same woman who had just admitted to being a witch?

  Stroking her hair lightly, he pulled her chin up so he could meet her eyes, and asked again, “Odetta, please talk to me, won’t ye?”

  She wiped the sleeve of her wet cloak across her face and took a deep breath.

  “Aye,” she said.

  “Aye, what?

  “Aye, I was trying to kill meself.”

  He hugged her tightly and rocked her back and forth, squeezing occasionally, if only to remind her that she was not alone. For long moments, they sat this way, Odetta weeping, and Tragus rocking her with the water lapping at his heels. He didn’t tell her, but they were watching, in the distance, their brown eyes glowing amber against the glare of the breaking moon, casting an eerie glow about them. From time to time, they would surface, check to see they were still there on the shore, and then they would dive again, swimming out some distance and frolicking with one another.