Lady of the Mountain

by Lyn Armstrong

  LADY OF THE MOUNTAIN

  By

  Lyn Armstrong

  Book four in the Celtic series

  Copyright © 2008, Lyn Armstrong

  Published October 2008 by

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  Edgewater, Florida

  All rights reserved

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  The Celtic Series

  The Last Celtic Witch

  The Celtic Witch & the Sorcerer

  Heart of a Warlock

  Lady of the Mountain

  Witch Hunter

  Lady of the Mountain is dedicated to one of the most special people in my life. This incredible lady taught me to be fearless and to aim for the stars.

  To treat everyone with respect and show compassion for those who don’t.

  That happiness is a choice, not a result.

  Therefore, with great honor, I dedicated this book to her.

  My beloved mother,

  Rose.

  Chapter One

  Scotland, Highlands

  In the middle of an empty chamber, an enchanted golden staff stood upright, regal and tall. A rainbow of lights shot from its tip, illuminating the white room in a multicolored glow.

  Drucilla’s gaze remained fixed on the staff of Merlin. She lowered herself to the cold marble floor and sat, her ankles tucked neatly beneath the magical gown of creamy silk. With a loving caress, the smooth material settled around her legs, its warm energy giving her comfort, as if she was not alone in this place of illusion.

  But she was alone.

  Alone in a hidden palace within Mount Suilven, and supported only by the power of the wizard’s ancient staff. Without it, Drucilla would have no shelter or provisions. She would be trapped in the dark mountain until the day she died.

  Drucilla sighed with longing. A stilled silence filled the chamber.

  She looked up at the array of lights shooting toward the open roof of the chamber. High above her head, the black inner cavern of the mountain reminded her of the darkness beyond the palace walls.

  She wondered what it would be like to go outside the mountain. To talk to people, walk through a market on a rainy day or see the blue ocean waters. These were experiences she could only read about and imagine in her library.

  However, as much as she longed to experience these things, she would gladly give them all up for the gentle sensation of a man’s kiss. She touched her lips, her gaze drifting upward.

  Being the daughter of the devil’s mistress, her knowledge of males was limited. Well, perhaps limited would not be the right word. She had never met a man before. Growing up in purgatory was not the ideal environment to seek companionship. Even there, her mother had sequestered her away from the other tortured souls.

  When the day came that Mother brought her to earth’s surface, she thought at last she would have ordinary people to talk to, but she was mistaken. Mount Suilven held her imprisoned. Even if escape were possible, she would die the moment she reached the world of the living, unlike her mother—the devil’s mistress could come and go as she pleased.

  What would it be like to have a family? To know who her father was or to have a surname?

  “This is foolish,” she said with agitation, her voice echoing in the chamber. Pushing to her feet, she stood. “I must not waste my time on watching Merlin’s staff. It only makes me want something I could never have.”

  Turning around, she jolted to find a silver unicorn watching her.

  “Silas, you scared me.”

  She ran her hand down his velvety nose. The tall unicorn swished his black tail back and forth. His black-tipped ears twitched, and his pearl horn glistened with millions of stars.

  “How is it you can steal behind me without making a sound?”

  Silas snorted and shook his head.

  “I am glad you are here, my friend.” Drucilla grabbed the mane and lifted herself onto the unicorn.

  “Take me to our special place. I am in need of the healing waters of Suilven’s springs.”

  She was about to ride through the empty halls of the palace when the white walls darkened with a smoky hue, covering the sunny luster.

  The unicorn’s head jerked up along with her own.

  “Mother is home,” she said, her heart leaping with excitement.

  Sinking her heels into Silas’ flanks, she raced along the halls to the wide marble stairway. The unicorn pounced into the air and flew over the stairs; its hooves floated above the gray steps.

  Drucilla tightened her grasp on the mane, jolting forward when Silas skidded along the smooth floor of the entrance hall.

  Regaining his balance, he turned and cantered toward the outside solar. Like her, Silas could sense her mother’s dark presence.

  A cloying scent of old jasmine, subtle at first, became stronger as they neared.

  Drucilla found her mother standing in the solar. A false sun beamed brightly through the glass roof, bathing her youthful appearance in splendid light.

  The snug red gown she had made for her mother clung to her slender back and small waist. The magical velvet material fell to the floor, a long train splayed behind, giving her a regal appeal.

  Drucilla rarely used her powers, but she did love to enchant her gowns with life. The one her mother wore was a perfect fit for her dominant temperament. Its deep color accented her smooth raven hair and pale skin. Drucilla felt not for the first time, a pang of jealously. She wished her own brittle and thick hair were as silky and straight—to be as beautiful as her mother.

  Swinging her leg over, she dropped down from her unicorn and lowered into a curtsey.

  “Mother, ’tis a pleasure to see you.”

  “I told you not to call me that. My name is Torella.”

  “I know, I know. I cannot help it. Though you look as young as me, I still see you as my mother.”

  “Well, try to remember, darling.” She gave Drucilla a half smile. “I have a gift for you.”

  Drucilla’s lips parted in surprise.

  “I know you have been restless of late and I do hate that you must stay within the mountain, so I thought this might bring you happiness.” Torella placed her arm around Drucilla and turned her toward the corner of the room.

  Waving her hand in an arc, her mother commanded, “Reveal.”

  Upon a bed with lacy black curtains, a man of fifty winters appeared to be sleeping, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Drucilla walked around the bed, studying his every feature. Even in the books she had read, no man ever looked so angelic on the pages. Wavy blond hair and slight winkles gave him a peaceful, kind face. His body was wrapped in blue and green plaid.

  This was the first man she had ever seen in real life. Although much older than herself, he was pleasant to look upon.

  “Who… who is he?” she asked.

  Her mother glided around the other side of the bed and leaned over to kiss him on the lips.

  He remained undisturbed.

  “This is Laird Phillip Roberts.” Her mother glanced up, her green eyes shining. “Your father.”

  “Scotland is a godforsaken land,” Braen Ambrosius grumbled and pulled up his black cloak to cover his ears from the biting snow.

  He had faced many obstacles in his life. Being the only male ancestor
of the legendary Merlin brought with it certain expectations. Those expectations were cursedly hard to live up to. His abilities as a magician were limited without Merlin’s legendary staff. He had been searching for it all his life. Without the staff, his family fortunes were lost and success eluded Merlin’s kin—ill luck invading their every move—including him.

  If only his father had taken better care of Merlin’s staff in his foolish youth. It would not have been stolen from his estate in Wales when his eyes were turned by a bonny lass.

  The attractive wenches always did distract his lovesick father.

  Braen sighed and clenched his jaw. He would not make the same mistake. A woman would never divert him from his quest, no matter how beautiful. He would recover the staff and restore Merlin’s heirs with their ancestral power.

  Just when he thought he had hunted it down in an old thatched cottage of a Welsh court jester, he was too late. After Braen threatened to turn the clumsy man into a warthog, the jester confessed he had stolen the golden rod for the sorceress while she distracted Braen’s father. She was a powerful lady of dark beauty. With one touch of her hand, she had sent the jester into a trance and he was willing to give her anything she desired.

  He was about to throttle the pathetic thief when he had blubbered about someone who could help him find the staff.

  The oracle.

  It was rumored an old woman with the gift of sight lived in the remote highlands.

  With little choice, Braen rode north until the grassy path turned to ice and his horse spent most of the day thigh-high in snow. How the highlanders could stand this cold miserable weather that changed within a swipe of a sword was beyond him.

  Braen pushed his horse to cross an ice-laden stream. Snowflakes landed upon his eyelids, blurring his vision.

  “Not far now,” he said, patting the horse’s warm neck. “The ancient oracle is said to be among these scraggy hills.”

  The placid stream rose to the stallion’s stomach. His leather boots filled with freezing water, his feet stabbed with a thousand tiny daggers.

  “Knowing the curse of the Ambrosius’, she is probably frozen to death.”

  Reaching the embankment, he stopped his mount, and scanned the hills for any sign of life. The bay steed beneath him shifted restlessly, and the horse’s warm breath billowed out like a cloud. Beyond the thick trees on top of a hill, a curl of smoke floated upward, mingling with the gray sky.

  “I pray that be the chimney of the oracle,” he said, and urged his steed forward.

  The sight of a timber hut welcomed him, its dark wood contrasting against the milky snow.

  Lowering his chilled limbs from his horse, he tied him to the railing and stomped the snow from his boots before knocking on the door.

  The door swiftly opened. An elderly lady with a streak of blue tainting her gray hair greeted him.

  Her lips pursed as she studied him, her keen brown eyes narrowing to slits. “Master Braen, you are taller than I expected,” she croaked.

  “You knew I was coming?”

  “Aye. Come in and warm yourself by the fire.”

  The wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, and he sat in a rickety chair. He glanced around the untidy hut filled with a hanging turkey, pots and fragrant stale herbs.

  The crackle of burning wood in the small fireplace swung his attention back to the oracle as she hunched over a cauldron, stirring the contents with a big wooden spoon.

  “You seek the staff of Merlin,” she said without looking at him.

  “Aye.”

  She shook her head and muttered something he could not discern. The sound of the spoon scraping the cauldron’s edge was the only noise in the undersized hut.

  Patience was a virtue he never did possess. Tapping his foot, he broke the silence. “Do you know where I can find it?”

  Turning her head, bloodshot eyes peered at him. “I may.”

  He arched his eyebrows, waiting for more.

  Straightening, she lifted the spoon of black liquid and poured it into a bowl. The oracle hobbled over to him and handed him the bowl with steam steadily rising.

  He smelled a hint of nutmeg and looked up at the oracle. “What is it?”

  “Does it matter? You need to drink it.”

  Without a thought, he tilted the bowl to his lips and drank the spicy liquid. The weathered features of the oracle blurred while the clutter surrounding him swayed. His eyelids weighted heavily. His arms and legs grew languid despite his heart racing with alarm.

  Poison!

  Using the last of his strength, he tried to stand, then fell to the floor with a thump.

  His chilled skin trembled as if a mountain of snow weighed him down. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears. He took comfort in its steady rhythm. As long as he could hear that beat, he was still alive.

  He tried to open his eyes, but they were seared shut.

  A croaking voice whispered into his ear, “What do you see, Master Braen?”

  See?

  See?

  His eyes were shut. What type of foolish…?

  Suddenly, images of a bonny lass appeared in his mind. Sitting on the floor, she appeared like a noble statue. Her rich, black hair and delicate features were stunning. Her emerald eyes sparkled with life and gentle humor, yet also with a sense of loneliness. The cleft in her upper lip framed her pretty mouth—a rosy mouth soft for the sampling.

  A bright light emanated beyond her slender form.

  Merlin’s staff!

  The gold metal glowed with power. Why did she have the staff? It was his to own. His birthright. Anger welled in his throat. He wanted to tighten his fist, yet his body remained paralyzed.

  “Tell me what you see,” the oracle repeated.

  “I see a lady, she has Merlin’s staff.”

  “Aye, tell me more.”

  Like a bodiless spirit, he flew through the enormous keep. Empty white chambers and wide halls dominated the strange abode. How could anybody live in such a colorless place?

  Suddenly, he was outside and everything turned dark. Where was he?

  “Inside a mountain,” the oracle answered, peering into his mind.

  “What mountain?” he asked.

  The oracle lingered in silence again.

  “What mountain?”

  A loud clap of two hands boomed near his head and warmth flowed within his body. Although still weak, his muscles came back to life and he raised himself from the floor.

  The oracle sat in a chair opposite him, her gnarled hands gripping the edges of the wooden chair. Indecision flitted across her face.

  “Tell me and I will give you gold.” Pulling out a bag heavy with coins, he threw them onto the floor near her feet.

  Her small eyes widened at the bag, then shifted away.

  Was that guilt on her face?

  “Tell me!” He had enough of her reticence.

  “Suilven’s Mountain. It is near the northwestern coast, across Fionn Loch. The terrain will be difficult and…”

  The oracle peered around her hut, as if expecting the devil to leap out of the fireplace.

  “And?”

  “It will be dangerous, very dangerous.”

  “I care not. Merlin’s staff belongs to his kin. It belongs to me.”

  The old lady motioned for him to come closer.

  He crouched near her.

  She whispered, “Beware the dark sorceress that guards the mountain. You must kill her if you want what is rightfully yours.”

  The image of the beautiful lady sitting upon the floor came to his mind. Surely, she could not be evil. But, she was the only one in the strange keep. Would he have to fight her for the staff? Perhaps he misread her eyes. If she were indeed evil, he must not let her use Merlin’s power.

  “There is one more thing. The mountain is guarded by a powerful spell, keeping mortals out. You cannot break this spell unless you have the combined power of a sorcerer, warlock and wizard.” The oracle grabbed his arm and
squeezed, her eyelids rapidly fluttering. “Go west for thirty leagues, to the Roberts clan. There, you will find a warlock and sorcerer.”

  Her hand fell from his arm, and she closed her eyes, exhaustion claiming her wrinkled face.

  Braen rose and walked outside into the snow. Finally, he was close to recovering the staff. He would convince the warlock and sorcerer to help him break the curse on Mount Suilven.

  In one swift movement, he swung onto his horse and gathered the reins. Shrugging further into his cloak, he gritted his teeth and galloped into the dark forest with one vow.

  He would fight to the death to claim Merlin’s staff.

  _

  Chapter Two

  Appearing in the shadows of the oracle’s hut, Torella crossed her arms and watched the old woman stir the cauldron. The cloying smell of onions and turnips overpowered the small, messy abode. How did the woman stand to live in such filth?

  “I know you are there, sorceress,” the oracle’s voice crackled.

  Torella pushed away from the wall and chose each step with precision, careful not to trip over a broom or dirty pot. She entered the warm light cast from the fireplace.

  “Did you think I would not hear the warning you gave the wizard?” she asked in a low voice.

  The oracle turned and shuffled back to her chair, a long gray woolen coat draped over her shoulders. When she sat, a cloud of dust rose around her.

  Torella’s nose twitched to sneeze. She turned her face and waved her hand in front of her.

  The oracle peered up from the chair. “I fulfilled my pledge. The lad seeks the warlock and sorcerer, and is coming for Merlin’s staff.”

  Torella sniffed and stared at the oracle with distaste; the woman’s wrinkles lined her face while she grimaced—as if all her joints ached, her brittle bones causing a once powerful woman into a feeble old hag. The oracle was everything Torella despised and feared.

  After being alive for over three hundred years, Torella loathed everyone who aged. However, there was a time when she was mortal, and to stay young and beautiful she had to kill Celtic witches for their powers. But that was in the past and now she wanted something more powerful than timeless beauty—and the wizard would help her get it.