Kyra had eaten nearly an entire loaf of fresh-baked bread, a filet or two of salmon, and more cheese and berries than she could remember. Having gone nearly three full days without any real sustenance, she found that childbirth and breastfeeding raised the appetite. If it weren’t for the wet-nurse, she wasn’t sure she would be able to keep up with the demands of the twins.
Kyra was indeed thankful that Macklin agreed to share a room with Aiden until the twins were weaned. The wet-nurse, Maura, would move in with the family the following week when the cottage was complete, and would stay on to assist Kyra with the household chores as well. Twins were a handful, adding Winnie to the mix would make it near impossible for Kyra to manage; especially with Macklin and Parkin traveling so much between the O’Malley port and the MacCahan port. There was talk of stopping at two more ports for trade, but the finalities had not been set, although they expected in the coming week, during the games, for the clans to all reach their agreements and the routes to be secured for the future.
Tonight would be the oath ceremony. The Burke refugees would pledge their fealty to the O’Malley clan, and Jamie Burke would be named their representative on the O’Malley clan council. Tomorrow, the clan games would start, and men from each of the clans would battle each other in games of skill and feats of strength. There would be celebration and revelry for two days, culminating in the final feast meant to commemorate Bealtaine.
The bonfires would be lit, the villagers would drive their livestock between the burning heaps and out into the grazing fields, and there would be eating, dancing, chanting, and prayer the night long. Their hopes for a good harvest would culminate in one final prayer at midnight, and all the willing couples would be handfasted. The integration of the fifty or so fighting men sent from Lord MacCahan, Patrick’s father, to take up residence with the O’Malleys was welcomed. It seemed that nearly thirty-five or so had found a lass, and would be taking their vows this Bealtaine. It was the matter of the O’Malley offering that troubled Darina the most.
It had been years since the O’Malleys had participated in a betrothal contest. Yet, the neighboring clans had all tendered their interest when Patrick set about to host the Bealtaine feasts. It would be his official introduction to the region as the new Lord of O’Malley, and an opportunity to conduct business with the opening of the new port in MacCahan territory, his homeland. The McTierneys from the south, the MacDugals to the east, the Gallaghers to the southeast, and the Hogans, from even further south than the McTierneys; were all coming for the games.
Patrick discussed the matter first with Lucian and Galen, tempering their opinions before approaching the sisters. Darina was deadset against it. There hadn’t been a betrothal contest since before, well, since before her own great grandsire had founded the clan! However, it seemed that the four prominent clans, who were their strongest allies, knew they may be needed if a war between the O’Malleys and the Burkes took place, and they wanted an assurance of reciprocal loyalty. A betrothal contest would give them the assurance they sought—they insisted—and increase morale amongst their men.
The subject was broached one evening at dinner in the fifth floor master’s banqueting hall, just a few weeks prior. Sunday afternoons were reserved for family only time, and all the sisters were there, as was Payton MacCahan, and Rory and Ruarc O’Connell, Darina’s uncles, and their respective families. The hall was full, and Patrick glided over the request for a betrothal contest while discussing the upcoming games. The next oldest O’Malley daughter to be eligible to wed was Dervilla, and she would have none of it.
“Der-Dervilla, I r-respect yer de-decision,” Patrick replied. “I w-will t-tell the m-men, th-there will be n-nay co-contest.”
A discussion ensued between the men at the tables regarding the ramifications of denying the betrothal request, whether or not they would lose their support if a war was imminent, and how best to go about explaining to the clan leaders that they would not be making an offering. Dervilla acknowledged the unfortunate and precarious position her decision caused the clan, and offered to extend a one-year commission, whereby she would commit herself to the O’Malley militia as the chief nautical officer and apprentice scribe, in exchange for her release from the contest. That suggestion was met with hearty approval from the family, and the men were pleased.
Patrick obliged, and the matter was put to rest, until that is, Daenal spoke up.
“I will do it,” whispered Daenal.
“What?” gasped Darina.
“I said I will do it.”
“Why on earth would ye agree to such a thin—”, began Darina, before Patrick stood, and holding up just the palm of his right hand; silenced the entire room.
“Daenal,” he said deliberately and slowly, “wishes to b-be h-heard,” he continued, motioning for Daenal to speak.
“I will agree to be the offering for the betrothal games,” she finished sheepishly, toying with the food in front of her, and stealing a swallow from her wine goblet.
At nearly seventeen summers, Daenal was by far the most unusual and exotic looking of the sisters. Dark chestnut hair that lay in soft waves down her shoulders, to her mid-back, coupled with dark olive skin and striking green eyes; Daenal was a copy of her grandmother on her father’s side, and she was as meek as a saint. Soft-spoken and intuitive, she was friendly but restrained; an introvert by nature, and attuned to all things spiritual. Often found in the kitchens, she was known as a talented cook, and managed the kitchen staff on most days at Odhran’s request. She was also an accomplished gardener and herbal healer. Vynae tolerated her involvement with the sick in the village only because everyone spoke so highly of her, and because she had a certain graceful way about her.
“Daenal, ye canna’ mean it,” said Dervilla. “There is no reason ye should have to,” she begged Patrick with her eyes.
“No, sh-she doesna’ h-have to,” replied Patrick, nodding his head.
Daenal thought momentarily about her abrupt announcement. But in fact, she had been pondering her situation for some time. She wasn’t nearly as vivacious and outgoing as her older sister Dervilla, she wasn’t as strong or stubborn as Darina, and Darcy and Dareca were still too young.
She was a typical middle child. She felt completely invisible most of the time, and the men in her clan, scarce as they were, seemed to agree with that observation. None of the MacCahan soldiers had paid her any mind, mostly because she refused to participate in the silly courting games and rituals required to get her noticed. What she didn’t know, was that she exuded such striking beauty of both appearance and character, that most men were simply too intimidated to approach; for fear of rejection.
No, in her mind, an arranged marriage was her best bet of getting out of the castle and having a life of her own. She would be able to travel, to see the other territories, perhaps other countries even; and by marrying a noble or a lord’s son, she would have a respectable life, be well cared for and be able to continue her education, if her future husband would permit. And she hoped he would.
She dreamed of only one thing—extending her knowledge of plants and herbs, so she could become a disciplined healer. She loved Vynae and had learned much from her, but she knew there were other ways—Eastern medicines—and she wanted to learn it all. She would never have that opportunity if she stayed here, in the castle, and ran the kitchens for the rest of her life.
Although she loved to cook and could create nearly anything, she had no desire to find herself an old maid, unmarried, unloved, and unappreciated; slaving away in the castle kitchens. That wouldn’t happen. A good match with a lord’s son in a neighboring clan was her ticket out, and she would take it. Thankfully, Dervilla didn’t need to be convinced to say no. Now she just hoped that Patrick and the other clan leaders would think of her as an acceptable alternative.
“I said, I will do it,” she continued. “Dervilla is too important to our interests in the port. She has her work with Lucian, and she must continue it. Darcy and
Dareca are too young to marry. I am the logical choice. Our clan relies on continued good relations with our allies, and I will do me part. If Patrick and our family—if the council—approves the choice of contestants, and they are worthy men of noble birth, then I am sure they will make me a fine husband. I will do me utmost to ensure that this noblemon, whoever he is, is equally pleased with his wife.”
Darina shook her head in shock, and Dervilla patted her younger sister on the shoulder.
“R-Ruarc, would ye g-give her the…uh…details?” Patrick asked.
“Of course,” began her Uncle Ruarc. “There are four clans coming for the games; the McTierneys, the MacDugals, the Gallaghers and the Hogans. The Burkes have not been invited,” he snickered, “although the refugees are aware that once they are sworn in as part of this clan, they will have the same opportunity as the others to enter a man in the contest.
They will be entering the eldest, unmarried lord’s son—or nephew—as applies, from each clan to compete in three categories: archery, hand-to-hand combat and sword fighting. We will be using the wooden swords,” he laughed as he glared at his brother Rory, “no bloodshed for the lord’s sons.”
“I see,” Daenal responded.
“Each mon will compete agin’ the others in each category, until there is a winner. The remaining three will compete in archery. The final winner in the final category will become yer betrothed. Ye will have from the night of the final game until Lughnasadh, to perform the wedding ceremony, and consummate the marriage. The bride, we have agreed, will decide how soon she wishes to wed,” he added, “given that there are only a few weeks between the end of games and Lughnasadh, ye won’t have long.”
“However,” interrupted her Uncle Rory.
“Aye, however,” replied Ruarc, continuing. “The leaders have agreed to permit the bride the right of refusal. She may choose either the first or second-place winners of the games, but not from the others, if she finds she has a difference of spirits with the first-place winner.”
“I see,” said Daenal. “That seems more than fair.”
EIGHTEEN
O’Malley High Castle
Patrick shook his head in disbelief. What Parkin told him troubled him—to his bones. So much so that he called a council session, and had Parkin repeat everything word for word, to the others. There was no pirate attack, no inclement weather, and no failure of man or vessel that caused the Night Star to fall. Instead, the ship and its crew had fallen victim to what appeared might be magic—or worse yet, and more precisely—black magic.
The ship had, in fact, burned, just as Deasum reported; and there wasn’t much left, save for the handful of near-starved survivors. It wasn’t a runaway galley flame or even lightning that set the wooden fortress ablaze. It was the unexpected folly of falling fire that overtook the ship. From. The. Sky.
Great big orbs of blazing blue fire. By the gods, what could this mean?
Parkin wasn’t lying. From the look on his face, he was even more terrified than he let on. Thankfully, they had gotten the dinghy untied and loosed from the main vessel before it caught alight. With only one oar, two skins of water, and an overstuffed life boat—they managed to float towards the outer island where they remained for a fortnight; awaiting rescue. Feasting primarily on raw fish, they suffered from starvation, dehydration, and the unkind result of eating uncooked seafood. If it weren’t for his worry over Kyra, Parkin may have been tempted to give up.
Lucian rose before speaking, solemnly tracing his steps about the council chamber, over and over, until Patrick thought he may scream. Touching the mantel of the hearth with his right hand, he contemplated his next move, shook his head, turned back around and then stood facing the council.
There was Patrick, Gemma, Ruarc and Father Galen Fleming, as well as Murchadh—all the council members sitting at the triangular tabletop. The advisers sat at the nearby trestle table listening to Parkin, the witness. Payton, Rory and Darina listened as well, invited by Patrick. Lucian paced again and walked near the council table. He quickly removed a lavender sprig from the vase atop the table, and placed it three feet from the council on the floor. He then backed slowly away several steps, and stood looking at the flower.
“Lucian,” said Gemma, “what are ye doin’?” she asked.
“H-hold on,” said Patrick, patting Gemma on the forearm. “W-watch.”
Lucian raised his right palm, hip height and facing forward, as if he were about to open a door. Of a sudden, a blue beam of light pulsed from his outstretched hand and danced there in midair, until Lucian gave a small nudge, and it went flying towards the flower—consuming it when it landed.
Gemma gasped, and Darina stood up. “Do that again,” she said.
“I canna’,” replied Lucian.
“Why no’?” she asked.
“Well, it took all that I had to conjure up that energy. But ye see what it did, did ye no’?” he asked, pointing at the burned up sprig.
“Aye,” said Parkin, obviously confused.
“Exactly how did ye do that?” asked Galen, jumping in. “Are ye a wizard?”
“N-no, n-nothin’ l-like th-that,” added Patrick.
“But that was magic, right?” interrupted Ruarc.
“That depends,” said Lucian.
“Depends on what?” asked Galen.
“Depends on what ye think magic is,” he replied. Rubbing his now tingling hand, Lucian returned to his seat at the council table, all eyes on him. Patrick cleared his throat and rose to address those gathered. Lucian nodded his agreement, and Gemma nodded as well.
“Go on, Patrick,” said Lucian. “Ye can do it.”
Rubbing his hands together briskly, Patrick lifted his right hand, positioned it in front of himself just as Lucian had done, and sent a similar ball of blue fire flying towards the ashen twig. The twig flopped over onto its side and steam arose from it. Patrick gripped his palm and pulled it towards him as if he were in pain. Galen stood and briskly walked towards the ruined plant. Picking it up, he quickly dropped it when it seared his flesh.
“How did ye do that?” he demanded. “Are ye a sorcerer?”
“N-nay,” replied Patrick, “’tis n-nothin’ like th-that.”
“Then tell us what ’tis like, won’t ye?” interrupted Murchadh.
Patrick retook his seat and Gemma rose this time. “I’ll no’ display the same…uh…ability as Lucian and Patrick, although I am verra confident that I could. But, I will attempt to explain at least, what ye jest witnessed. I will start by reassuring ye that neither Lucian nor Patrick are sorcerers. They are not warlocks or wizards or demons or tools o’ the devil,” she said looking directly at Galen, the priest. “What ye have seen is a simple demonstration of the ability of someone—anyone really—to harness their…uh…energy, in such a focused way as to be able to use it, for lack of a better explanation, in unusual manners. No doubt, they’ve spent a lot of time in meditation and concentration to be able to do such a thang.”
Galen gulped and looked around the council table at the other members. There was none so surprised and perplexed as he, and he began to wonder if he were the only normal person in the room.
“Now Galen, there is nay need to let what ye’ve seen frighten ye in the least,” she continued. “’Tis really no different than what ye saw when little Maggie Butler, as young as she was, was able to lift that wagon off of her da when the wheel broke, and it fell atop him. Now, I’m sure none of us here would be able to do such a thang, as heavily weighed down as that wagon was with his wares. But, little Maggie, no more than ten summers, she managed to do it—all by herself even.”
“’Twas a miracle,” replied Galen.
“’Twas a miracle indeed, Father,” she continued. “But ‘tis no different with what ye jest witnessed; there is no limit to the ability of the human mind or the body for that matter, when enough…uh…energy and focus is concentrated on a particular task. ’Twas only through prayer, meditation, and concentration,
that she was able to lift that wagon. I seem to remember her sayin’ she prayed and told God she needed to lift it, and then she told her back, her legs and her arms, and she felt a warm sensation run up and down her backbone and she jest lifted it and believed she could—and so she did.
So the difference here would be that Maggie only used her energy the one time, in an extreme situation, and well before she could talk her head out of believin’ she could do it. What Patrick and Lucian have showed us is that through enough trainin’, meditation and faith—jest about anathang can be done if ye believe it can be so.”
“What else have ye done?” spat Rory. “What else can ye do? Tell us. Show us.”
Lucian spoke next, “Rory, we are not in the habit of performin’ miracles of this nature. As ye can see, neither of us could maintain a spark long enough, or powerful enough, to even light the fire in the hearth. What this means, is that somethin’ verra powerful and quite possibly verra dark was behind what ’happint to the Night Star. It prob’ly was magic, and most certainly black magic.”
“What do we do?” gasped Darina.
“We pray,” exclaimed Galen.
“We fight,” demanded Payton.
“We wait,” replied Patrick strong and slowly. “We need f-first to d-determine who or what is b-behind the m-magic. What their intentions m-might be and h-h-how best to c-counteract their e-ef-efforts. In the m-meantime, Lucian, meself and Gemma will w-work together to de-determine wh-what or if w-we can find out t-to-together, using our p-powers. Payton and Parkin will work with Fl-Flynn Montgomery on sending g-guards to the B-Burke borders to see if they had anathang to d-do with this.”
“Flynn Montgomery?” asked Gemma.
“Aye,” replied Ruarc. “Flynn Montgomery is here. He is Patrick’s cousin from the Scotland. He has been brought in as the new chieftan. He will be o’er all of the militia beginnin’ t’nite after the ceremony. He will be sworn in.”
Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 10