His stomach responded with a warm fuzzy feeling. He snorted and picked up the fork.
Once upon a time, he heard that desperate hunger could flavor food. Either Syther’s chef was excellent or that was truth. The delectable offering served to rebuild his strength, and therefore, his resolution to escape.
He finished and sat back against the cool stones, studying the empty plate. He waved his hand in a circle over the tray and grinned at his accomplishment. Why should Syther think he had eaten?
The replacement food, actually a Fae illusion, would fool anyone. Too bad, it would not have sustained him in reality. The tray and lid vanished. He stood with renewed hope, a twinge of satisfaction in his full stomach.
He scanned the chamber from wall to wall, corner to corner. Next, he paced out the size. Despite the odd shape of the ceiling, the underside of stairs, the space was quite large. Plenty of room.
Meekal walked to the center, positioned himself and began his moving meditation with the Celtic Cross. The action, starting out slow, served to focus his energy and calm his mind.
Some considered the Celtic Cross a replica of the infinity sign, or figure eight. Even breathing and continued motion began to build his auric field. The sensation gave him a sense of growing, centered power. With fluidity, he began his next moves, the Warrior’s Dance.
His first awareness of the Dance occurred when he had been fifteen, in hiding and curious about a world apart from his own. Leith, working through his courses inspired Meekal with the grace of a powerful snow panther—Leith’s animal form.
From that first moment, Meekal became an eager student. At sixteen, he began his sojourn into Annwn. There, Black Bryan taught him the significance of each required form and tutored him to find his own niche.
When Meekal returned to Chilkwell Manor, he learned Leith’s dance assisted in the final battle against Malvenue. Leith’s opponents did not understand his actions; therefore they failed to kill him.
Meekal went through his routine three cycles, ending in the center of the chamber. Breathing rapidly, yet with strength, he knelt and bowed his head. In prayer, he asked for abiding courage and full acceptance.
The castle embraced him. The air moved over him, bringing scents and sounds from time gone by. Every little breath and nuance of the castle’s magical existence encircled his power, melding them into one.
He threw back his head, arms wide in recognition of her abundance.
Violence in her history beat him on the ethereal level. He called out, feeling her pain. It became an integral part of his own survival. Mournful keening pierced his soul. Laughter. Singing. Voices through the ages saturated him.
He lay on the floor, staring up at the beams. Of its own volition, a hand rose in slow motion, edges blending with the stones around him.
“Edgelessness,” he murmured, awed by realization. “All is one.”
He rolled onto his knees and stared where skin and stone merged. Wow.
Now, the moment for step two in the process. He stood, and like a magnetic homing device, approached the north-facing wall. With one hand held over his heart, he drew three Pictish symbols on the stones: the triquetra, representing love, encircled for protection, and finished off with eight straight points of the star of truth.
When completed, the representation glowed white against grey stone. He used the tail of his snake pendant to pierce his index finger. Whispering, “Blessed be,” he placed his blood in the center.
Never again would he be separate from this structure. He studied his creation, sucking the blood from his finger, inhaled, and then stepped into the stones.
This journey within was different. Free of the earlier distress, he flowed naturally along, experiencing emotions and power never dreamed of before. Amazement grew as he saw her history and experienced the accumulated magic of 700 years.
Meekal swooshed along through the stones, not pausing to listen to indistinct voices coming from the castle chambers. Just moving gave him new experiences through the castle’s emotions and ageless knowledge.
Seasons changed, time shifted.
He stopped abruptly. “Whoa.”
The sensation shifted the rhythm of his heart. He stared in disbelief at a familiar face in the wide corridor.
“Carlyle,” a red headed man said, sneering. “You are to follow me.”
Vincent Carlyle, Cimmerian spy, stepped through the broad oak door.
Meekal spun on his heel and faced a large dining chamber. “Bloody hell. Is that?”
“Vincent,” a deep, salacious voice said. “Come in and join us for dinner.”
Vince approached the table.
The doorman reached up and placed a sinewy hand on Vince’s shoulder, trying to force him into submission with physical roughness. “On your knees, Carlyle.”
Vince, by no means a small man, rounded with lightning speed, fingers grasping the man’s jugular. With combined physical strength and magical essence, Vince held the man off the floor, anger seeping from every pore. “Do not touch me.”
The man flailed and gagged, his fingernails scraping ineffectively on the strong wrists keeping him airborne.
“Do you understand?” Vince asked, loosening his grip slightly.
The man attempted to nod.
Vince grunted and pulled him, still gripping his scrawny neck, back to the door then shoved him out of the dining hall. He shut the door firmly and turned back to the table where the men waited. Vince approached his audience and knelt as he got closer. Head bowed in respect, he said, “I’m sorry for my delay, sir. There was an interruption.”
Meekal snorted, high respect for Vince renewed. He knew him quite well and at the moment was glad of the friendship.
Malvenue smirked, humor lightening his face. “You may stand, Vincent. Join us for some dinner.”
Vince rose in one fluid movement, and then looked at Malvenue’s three lieutenants and their dinner. His gaze stopped at Bane Nott’s face, eliciting a challenge. Then to Malvenue, he said, “I have a rule, sir. Never eat before a duel. I hope you don’t misunderstand, but it’s a strict observance. I do believe I’m expected to face Nott at tonight’s meeting. Is that still the plan, sir?”
Malvenue arched a well groomed brow. “Sit anyway,” he said, pushing the plate away from the only empty chair. “You don’t have to eat. It’ll be easier for us to converse if you’re sitting.”
Vince sat and reached forward to push the water goblet aside, well out of his way.
Meekal grinned from his hidden position within the stone wall next to the fireplace where he easily viewed the scene.
“So,” Nott said, sneering. “You come into our little duel without sustenance to strengthen you—to fight like a man.”
A chortle escaped Meekal. The coming duel between Vince and his nemesis was legendary.
“The better to beat you, Nott.” Vince grinned and eyed Nott’s plate, a bare T-bone crossing its span. “I won’t be weighed down with heavy food. You, on the other hand, look as though you have pigged out sufficiently.”
Nott rose and snarled.
“Sit down, Bane,” Malvenue said. “Save it for the duel. If young Vincent chooses not to eat, then who are we to say whether he should or should not?” He turned his attention back to Vince. “What news do you have of the Chalice Well wards?”
Vince reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded paper and handed it to Malvenue.
Meekal took a moment to study Malvenue’s face as he read the notations Vince, James and Leith and his grandfather compiled. “To crumble from within,” Meekal murmured, and then smiled when the words blended into the stones around him. That was the intention of any information imparted on the magical paper Vince just gave Malvenue.
Malvenue’s brows came down into a sharp scowl. “The blood of the son?”
“Aye,” Vince replied.
Bane Nott and Syther now shared the paper, viewing it and muttering in low conversation.
“This is prepost
erous!” Malvenue roared. “How are we going to get the blood of the son if he is under the Avertable Charm?
“Avertable Charm, sir?” Vince asked.
Meekal laughed.
“Yes, Vincent. The whole Chilkwell family has disappeared. That can only mean they and the Well are under the Avertable Charm.”
A mask of contemplation covered the angles of Vince’s face.
“Damn,” Meekal said, “he’s good even if he’s only just turned eighteen.”
Nott threw the notes at Vince, wearing a disdainful expression. “Off the mark on that one, Carlyle. Your notes are the misguided impressions of a school boy.”
Vince glanced at the crumpled paper as he passed an index finger across his bottom lip, mimicking Professor O’dara. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, looking Malvenue in the eye. “Then how is it people are still able to visit the Chalice Well and Chilkwell Manor? I have always been taught,” he said, and paused to sneer at Nott. “That to be under the Avertable Charm, no one knows where the protected individuals or place is.” Head swiveling, he asked, “Isn’t that true, Lord Malvenue?”
“Yes, that’s usually how it works.”
“Then why can people still visit the Well? Is there a loop hole?”
“No one visits the Well anymore,” Nott said, voice dripping with spiteful venom.
“Really?” Vince asked. “Then why did I see them coming and going myself?”
Malvenue’s expression changed to quick anger. “Now, that is a good question. Nott, why have you reported that there has been no activity around the Well?”
Nott swallowed, ramrod stiff with visible tension. “There hasn’t been, sir. How can he say that when he hasn’t even been there?”
Vince chortled.
“Well, Vincent?”
“I was just there, sir. In fact, that’s where I was when you summoned me.”
“That’s a lie!” Syther roared.
Meekal scowled from his vantage point in the wall.
“Is that so?” Vince said, shaking his head. “How would you know that when you were nowhere near the Well? Surely, you can see this argument is going nowhere. I was there and you cannot prove otherwise.”
“You cannot leave school grounds.” Joshua Grymm, Cimmerian lieutenant and professor at Nemeton Academy glared at Vince. Silent until that moment, he insisted, “You lie. You were nowhere near Glastonbury today.”
Vince snorted. It grew to laughter as his brown eyes sparked. He looked at Malvenue, shoulders shaking, and pulled the left sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow. He smiled wickedly, removed a red leather cuff, and then ran a finger over his Black Thurisa Rune, the tattoo marking him as a Cimmerian. “That’s right,” he said, pausing to sneer at Grymm. “I’m not allowed to leave school grounds. I guess that means I’m in trouble. Detention, Carlyle, Thursday night. Be there, eight p.m.—sharp.” Vince replaced the cuff on his arm and continued to laugh.
Lord and master of this cadre of wickedness, Malvenue joined him in laughter. “You never cease to amaze me, Vincent.”
Sudden, unexpected knowledge pummeled Meekal. He frowned, realization dawning when he heard the timbre change of Malvenue’s voice as he spoke Vince’s name. Meekal looked between them, calculating.
Bane Nott growled at their friendly interaction while Grymm glowered, picked up his wine glass and emptied it.
Vince lifted a shoulder in nonchalance.
Malvenue picked the crumpled paper up, smoothed it and renewed studying the information written there. The mood shifted discernibly. “That’s all well and good; however, Vincent, I would still like to know any ideas you have regarding our perplexing problem.”
“I don’t think there’s an Avertable Charm. As you can see from my notes, I believe there are actually five wards in place. That’s why you could not cross into the exterior gardens, sir. As to the issue of the son, well, I confess I don’t know where he is or how you will find him.”
Meekal laughed and waved, knowing with absolute certainty his presence was concealed even from a magical perspective. “Wow, this is so kewl,” he said, and then listened to the echo of his voice through the sheltering stones around him.
“I figured,” Vince said, glancing at Malvenue’s inept companions. “That your lieutenants would be able to find him.”
Meekal couldn’t resist. “Hidden in plain sight. In more ways than one,” he added with a smirk toward Professor Joshua Grymm. “Meow.”
A sigh of resignation escaped Malvenue. He set the paper aside and poured a refill of brandy. Spinning it in the snifter, he studied the amber glow.
“There’s more bad news, sir.”
A sip, and then Malvenue returned his attention to business. “You’ve just informed me that the Chilkwell whelp is nowhere to be found. What else is there?”
“Faitour. Headmaster Farryl has him in custody.”
Malvenue set his brandy glass down with a loud bang.
“I know you wanted the deserter captured. I was unable to get to him. He was accosted in the Atrium by several cats.”
“Meow,” Meekal said, accomplishment renewed by the memory of Faitour’s capture.
“Professor O’dara froze him, and then transported him to the Headmaster’s sanctuary.”
Malvenue stood and began pacing in front of the fireplace.
“It’s a lie,” Joshua Grymm insisted. “I would know if it were true.”
“I hope he wasn’t well informed, sir. I’m sure Farryl and O’dara won’t hesitate to use any means to get him to talk.”
“I tell you, sir. He’s lying. My spies would have told me,” Grymm added, glaring at Vince.
Malvenue rubbed his temples. “Nott, you should go. Prepare the circular chamber for our meeting. I will be down shortly.” He waved a dismissive hand at Grymm and Syther, indicating they should also leave.
A heavy silence fell in the chamber after they left. Malvenue continued to massage his head as though it ached miserably.
“Sir?” Vince placed a small vial on the table.
Memory teased the edge of Meekal’s mind. He worked to pull it forward as he watched Malvenue place three drops of elixir on his tongue. Then it snapped fully into place.
Sitting in a circle of friends, Vince nodded. “He’s still taking the potion O’dara prepared. He is actually taking more than required since he took three drops instead of two.” Vince quirked a brow. “He’s also enjoying his brandy.”
Fifteen years old when this holographic styled castle memory occurred, Meekal acknowledged in present day just how naive he had been. Elixir of Bilberry enhanced with witch’s grass—overdosed and combined with brandy. A most potent libido reducer. He chuckled and returned focus on Vince. The young spy had been protected from Malvenue’s advances by a potion and brandy. “Ah, the wonder of magic,” Meekal murmured.
“Thank you, Vincent.” Malvenue reached for his brandy snifter and emptied it.
“You’re welcome, sir. I figured it was best to wait until we were alone before I gave it to you.”
Meekal studied the men as they left the chamber to go below for the meeting and subsequent duel between Vince and Bane Nott. Meekal chewed his lip. What did he learn?
This castle belonged to Syther. Council intelligence always claimed Syther wasn’t in the thick of Malvenue’s plot to steal the Well’s Power and overthrow the Council of Brehons. “Why didn’t you report that info, Vince? Or did you?”
The air around him shifted, sending him through a vortex of noise and magical energy. “Ahh!”
He landed with a thump, leg colliding with a table. “What the?” In a rush, he stood and placed a palm on the tabletop. He was out of the wall.
“Ye fool!”
Meekal gasped, spun around and came face to face with Pernicious BranBalder.
A fist collided with Pernicious’ jaw, sending him flying backward, crashing into the wall.
Meekal grunted at the impact, doubly confused by the two-sided sensation. He rubb
ed his jaw and ogled the man who punched Pernicious.
Rigid with anger, Black Bryan Chilkwell stood, feet planted apart and fists balled, glaring, fit to kick arse. He paused in his rampage and glanced around.
“Bloody hell,” Meekal said, stepping forward. “Grandfather?”
Black Bry swatted the air.
Pernicious stood. “You know Lilith is the next guardian. That’s why I’m here in this time to help train her.”
Black Bryan grunted, palms outward, still feeling the air around them.
“What’s wrong?” Pernicious asked, watching with a concerned frown.
“Can’t ye feel that? Something queer.”
Meekal snorted. “Okay, so you can’t see me. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to kick your arse.”
“My purpose is honorable.” Meekal’s voice blended seamlessly with Pernicious’. Meekal shivered. It had been awhile since he experienced oneness with his past life soul—Pernicious BranBalder.
Pernicious pulled a small knife from his breeches waistband and laid it on the table.
“CIARANLEXISS,” Meekal murmured. “Lesson learned.” A powerful gust of wind grabbed him and plunged body and soul back into the stones. Bloody hell.
He traveled through every stone. Wisdom of the ages melded with his soul and every molecule of his being. He returned to the chamber, which he now recognized as the heart of the majestic castle.
With the ease of familiarity, he stepped into his sanctuary. It was no longer a prison cell. The chamber under the stairs had a new purpose. The center shadow-heart called to him. He sat crossed-legged and began to reach out. With each exhale, he extended himself further.
“Shayla.” He moved on the web of power, closer and closer to his heart’s desire. “Shayla,” he said, singing her name.
The stars and clouds went by. Trees ready for winter whispered to him on his journey. “Shayla.” Riding a ley line, he passed through the walls of his home.
A screech split the atmosphere of the library.
“Are you dead?” Her face traced with distress, Shayla stared at him.
“No, I’m alive.”
Concentric Circles Page 23