Gowthaman avoided thinking about how the flame brightened the golden strands of her short hair. He pushed away thoughts of the intensity of her bright blue eyes when she concentrated. When she traced the angled cuts of words with her finger he shuddered as if that finger touched him. He swallowed heavily.
“That... that is a recording of a curse.”
She turned a wide smile to him. “Then I shouldn’t try to read it out loud, should I?”
He drew his eyebrows together in confusion, then relaxed when he remembered the movie she had made him watch with her a month ago. She’d explained then it was a common device to have the innocent hero or heroine read a chant or incantation they didn’t understand, speaking the words out loud and thus releasing the danger. He struggled then found his own smile. “No, you should not. Unless you wish a sand demon from Bard’s world waiting on your doorstep.”
“I don’t think I’m in the mood for that today.” Replacing the stone rectangle on the table, she tilted her head to one side and studied him. “How about you, Gowtham? How are you?”
Gowtham. She was the only one to use the shortened, personal form of his name. A familiar, pleasant heaviness filled his chest. “I am fine.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t think so. But don’t worry, I won’t press. This time. So, what do you have to show me today?”
He wished he could show her the worlds upon worlds he’d been discovering in the ancient writings. Expose her to the amazing places described in the scrolls and volumes hidden deep in the library. Experience those worlds through her innocent eyes. To show her feelings, his feelings... about her.
With a tightening of his fist at his side he brought himself back to the reality of this world.
“You’ve been having dreams again, haven’t you? Nightmares.” Her bold statement startled him. He hadn’t been hiding the pain deep enough. What more did he need do to keep his agony secret?
“I can always tell. It’s your eyes, Gowtham, surrounded with lines of pain. Let me—”
“No.” He retreated two steps and lifted his hands before him to keep her at a distance. “No,” he said more softly.
“Why won’t you accept what I offer?” She sat and watched him, the sadness stark in downward turn of her full lips and the dimming of her eyes.
Did she realize she offered herself along with her healing touch? Of course she did, she was a woman grown. A woman who had offered him her love when but a child and who had never retreated from that offer. “No, Breanna.” Sweet Breanna, my love.
Ignoring her wounded expression, he lightened his tone and steered the discussion to a safer topic. “I have added to the family trees.”
Instantly, her expression brightened. “You’ve discovered more?”
Waving one arm to indicate the huge parchment covering an entire wall, he nodded. “Nothing new for the Zeroun clan, but I have discovered ancestors for others related to the rulers, including one of my own.”
She clapped her hands once, and he was struck by her youth. There was too much time between them but still her enthusiasm tugged at his heart. “Wonderful.”
“Yes. Many families have been entwined again and again for untold ages. Look.” He pointed to a branch of a small ornate tree set to one side of the large, multi-branched Zeroun genealogy.
Breanna felt her eyes go wide. “It’s me.”
Gowtham’s easy smile erased some of the pain from his face. The tight lines of his dark eyebrows eased to a slight arch. Tiny strands of black hair twisted into curls at his temple. Bree restrained the impulse to smooth them back, because then she’d want to touch his face. Nothing would delight her more than to trace the angles of his straight nose or the firm line of his jaw. She loved the contrast of her pale skin against the golden brown of his. In a wistful moment she’d once written in her diary that his skin reminded her of rich, cream-lightened coffee.
A dimple, barely beyond his lips, deepened. She tore her attention from his mouth to gaze into his eyes. A twinkle danced in the dark depths. This was the Gowtham she wished he could be with her help in healing.
He spoke softly, the words a caress. “Remember when you insisted you were to play Mustardseed?”
“I was determined, wasn’t I? That was the first time I performed in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She chuckled at the memory. At seven she’d astounded all the adults in the production by knowing every character’s lines perfectly. She couldn’t help if she followed the Zeroun clan’s obsession with the play.
“Follow the trunk to the roots.”
Tracing her fingertip down the parchment, she discovered a barely pronounceable name with a notation below it in a gilt edged rectangle. She read silently then gasped. “He was the inspiration for Shakespeare’s Mustardseed?”
Gowthaman gave a rough chuckle. “You know better than that. He was Mustardseed.”
“Amazing.” She swept her hand over the wall of family trees. “I see what you mean about families being intertwined. Guess we just can’t get away from each other.”
Gowthaman stepped back. “There is another addition to the ancestries.”
“Hmm, I see.” Next to the thin trees recording her family history was another newly labeled tree with few branches. She easily found Gowthaman’s name on a top branch. Smiling to herself, she wondered if he realized he’d drawn their families so close together. And that his branch stretched toward hers. Maybe there was hope for them. “You’ve discovered your ancestors?”
“Ah, yes. And look...” He leaned over her shoulder making her ache to lean into the heat of the sun he’d brought in with him. Or maybe it was the heat of the man. She squelched the longing and glanced at the tree’s roots.
“The kidnapped Indian prince?”
Two
At one point in his life, Morghan had counted time in human years. His age, the passage of centuries, the brief moments a companion remained with him. Even here he’d begun by keeping account of the years. In the beginning. But his efforts ended when he could no longer determine time.
In the beginning he had been able to use small puddles to watch the human world and communicate with the place where he’d been pulled through. But the water had dried and an impenetrable haze thickened around the place he had called home.
Then, in the beginning, he’d raged against fate, and constantly sought out the being who had wrenched him from life. But after a few fruitless battles, the creature had disappeared into the gray landscape, laughing, taunting, always before him, always heard but never seen.
Then, in the beginning, he’d tried to remember the things he’d read, the spells he’d memorized before his fight with the fire elemental. The mere thought of Brandr Ur and a growl would rise from deep in his chest, a sound of hatred and determination. Then, he’d ached to finish what his spells should have done—completely banish the elemental from all worlds. Then...
When was then? Morghan shrugged and turned in a circle surveying the gray, mist-shrouded landscape. Rare now were the times he wondered how long he’d been held here. Rarer still, the times he cared.
A flash of light blinded him. When he stopped blinking and the bright balls of fire disappeared from his vision, the shadowy form of a comely wench swayed before him. The shadows grew colors. Intense, vibrant, unbelievable. He shook his head knowing he should remember this woman, then smiled. She’d come for him. Finally.
He took a step forward. The uneven gray ground sucked at his feet, holding him back. He struggled to reach for her. Thin clothing fell from her orange skin. The bright yellow waves of her hair flowed down and curled intimately against her body. A brief memory surfaced in his consciousness then fluttered away. Startled by the feeling, he ached for her.
She moved closer, not walking, but floating. As she disturbed the gray, tendrils swirled from her body, coloring the mist blue, purple, green. He pulled his feet from the stony ground and the sucking pop echoed, coloring, adding swirls of violet and fuchsia. Twirling, twisting, merging then flowing awa
y, the colors drew him to her. He strained, called to her, watched his words float away on iridescent dragon wings.
Close. So close. He smelled sea flowers in the colors, felt the cool of her body, tasted how she would feel to his mouth. The sound of her voice sang to him in pure crystal hues. Fingers twitching, curled as if to hold her, he leaned forward. The tip of one finger touched her.
Bursts of light, aroma, sound and color flared outward then collapsed, imploding, and rapidly disappearing. Into the gray. Into nothing.
Morghan collapsed to his knees and dug his fingers into the ground. He lifted the dry gray mass into the colorless air and cried out his frustration. No colorful sound escaped from his mouth and he sank back on his heels.
Had she been real? Imagination? Hallucination? Morghan let the dust trail from his open hand then scrubbed his fingers over his face and speared them back through his tangled hair. The sharp tugs caused pain and that pain gave him the illusion of life. He howled in anguish, the sound muffled by the thick air. What was life—he didn’t even ken if he’d ever lived. Mayhap his memories were only the dream of some sadistic being.
Was this hell? No, he didn’t think he believed in the human need for a place of evil. Or did he? He pulled harder, willing the sharp sting at his scalp to focus his drifting thoughts. It seemed forever since a clear thought had remained for longer than a breath.
Morghan curled into a ball on the cold ground. Taking handful after handful of dry earth, he let it sift through his fingers, the dust merging with the gray, misty air. This was real. An unreality had become his reality. Or was it reality that was truly unreal? He clutched a handful of dirt to his chest when a soft sound captured his attention.
Sound was unusual in this gray world, so any instance was cause for investigation. Frowning, he strained to hear the continuing sound. At least he should discover the source, shouldn’t he? He rolled to his hands and knees and crawled forward. He knew this sound, a knocking as if on a door. No, not knocking... speaking. No, not words... moonlight.
He clamored to his feet. He heard moonlight. Stumbling forward he followed the sound. There was a reason for the light and the moon. He stopped. If only he could remember.
Faster, then, he ran on until he moved beyond the small patch of the gray earth and rock he’d claimed as his own. Heated anticipation burned through him. Something was happening. Something important. He needed to be there. In the moonlight.
Rhythmic pounding sounded behind him. He touched his face, curious at the rise of his eyebrows. Another followed the call of the moonlight? Who of the damned would sense such a call? A flash of fire. He struggled to capture the thought then shrugged as the memory blinked from his mind.
Morghan paced in a small circle. Why had he been running? There was nothing different in this world of sameness. After another slow circle Morghan found his direction. Slowly he moved across the barren landscape until he found his chosen place. Cross-legged, he sat, rested his chin on his fists and stared into the dim, hazy distance.
Breanna perched on a bird-splattered picnic table at the edge of the park across the street from her parents’ home. Though the sun blazed down on the green expanse before her, it was cool in the shade. A breeze ruffled the pages of her journal, denying her the chance for long, rambling trains of thought. That didn’t matter, she was having difficulty concentrating anyway.
Finally she closed the book and escaped into the Sunday afternoon entertainment. It was a busy day at the park, with all the shelters and picnic tables filled. The shrieks from at least three birthday parties kept the resident birds and squirrels on alert. Freshly washed and polished antique cars filled the parking lot while the promoters of the event scurried to set up a long grill and a cotton candy machine.
The couple directing the set up looked a bit flustered. Bree grinned. Many times she’d assisted Pop-pop setting up events at The Castle, Jaysson’s permanent faire site. So she understood all the things that could go wrong. But telling the hot couple, now involved in a low-pitched argument, to simply take a few deep breaths to calm down wouldn’t help. She was glad Pop-pop and Jaye had decided to close Zeroun’s catering, although they still helped out at the Castle. Sometimes she missed the excitement of a successful event.
She let her gaze wander to the group of teenagers reenacting battles with padded, wooden and plastic pipe weapons. The young people were dressed in an interesting combination of medieval, fantasy and modern garb. Today, there was even a Samurai. Their enthusiasm and dedication were real, though if they fought actual battles, there would have been no survivors. Once when she’d been the same age, she’d tried to join them, and show how battles really would be waged.
She’d been laughed out of the park by a handful of know-it-all boys. Now one of those boys was a banker. Another ran a comic book store. A third, who had actually listened to her, worked as a knight in the jousts at The Castle.
Chuckling, she shooed a fly with a wave of her hand. She’d seen him practice. He still had much to learn.
And she was the leader of the Alastriona, the defenders of mankind. She proudly equated her faerie warriors to a special ops group—no discernable presence, but on the ready, nonetheless.
A fine irony.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“Dad. Come to join my critique of today’s battle?”
“Nope. I’ve got a message for you from lord Jaysson.”
Bree’s shoulders tightened, shedding the pleasant relaxation of the summer afternoon. Jayse usually just called her. To receive a message like this meant important, official faerie business. Her heart thudded heavily. “Lord Jaysson?”
Bryce sat next to her and shrugged one shoulder. “It’s an official request for you to call him as soon as possible. Official requests require the proper titles and officious tones.”
“Now you sound like some of the counselors in Lucidea’s high court.” Bree chuckled and her father joined her for a moment before resting his hand on her arm. “He sounded stressed, so it must be important, honey.”
Rubbing her palms together, she watched her father’s face trying to determine if he knew more than he was saying. “Is someone hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so. They need you as Alastriona, not healer this time.”
“He still could have just called my cell.”
Bryce bit back a grin. “He did.”
“I didn’t...” She patted her pocket. “Where did I leave the silly thing this time?”
“Dining room table.” With an easy, practiced flourish—the culmination of years as a magician—he waggled his fingers then pulled her phone from her ear. “Call him now, Bree. He was pretty rattled.”
They rose together. Bree punched in the overseas number as they crossed the street and they made it to the porch. Her father had stepped inside before the connection went through. “Breanna. Come to Scotland. Now,” Jayse said without preamble then disconnected.
Surprised at his terse communication, Bree gave her folks a quick farewell and hurried across two connecting backyards. Jaye’s backyard was home to a permanently opened portal to Faerie, disguised from human view as a rose covered trellis. From there it was but a few short steps to create a portal to her destination.
She stepped from the bright, clear daylight of Faerie into the dark of a Highland night. Without her usual slow enjoyment of the area, she jogged to the manor and pushed open the heavy, scarred wood door. She paused a moment, listening, then followed the faint murmur of voices to the workroom.
The conversing trio fell silent when she entered and stepped back to reveal a tartan covered lump centered on a table. Tall and regal, Jayse, ruler of her faerie clan, motioned her forward. Then his shoulders slumped noticeably and he gathered his wife to his side.
Lucidea, ruler in her own right of another fey race, glanced up at him, shivered, then sat on one of the four chairs placed around the table. She held tightly to Jayse’s hand and he sat next to her.
Full of questions, Bree
turned to Coralie, who gnawed on her lower lip and gave a single shake of her head. Tears shimmered in the Alfar-Sindhu’s eyes. Coralie glanced past Bree’s shoulder, took a deep breath and sat.
It didn’t take much thought for Breanna to realize this meeting had something to do with Morghan. Lucidea’s uncle, and Coralie’s lover, the prince of the Alfar-Sindhu had disappeared into the world between worlds twenty years previously. But from the concern and sadness on the faces around her, she assumed she wasn’t there to hear good news.
“You know the history behind Morghan’s disappearance,” Jayse stated softly. “Of how he found a skull, a sacrifice, shortly before the fire elemental attempted his escape from the world between worlds?”
Bree nodded then turned slightly to look at the bust on a pedestal near the inner door. Lucidea’s father, Morghan’s brother, had been killed to open the way for the elemental. Morghan had prevented the elemental’s escape, but had been trapped in the world between worlds himself. A sculpture of him, one of Lucidea’s creations, stood at the other side of the doorway.
Jayse continued, “For the first year after Morghan’s disappearance, Lucidea and Coralie attempted to bring him home at each full moon. After that they—we—concentrated on the rare blue moons. But we must have always missed some clue, or maybe the timing was never right. I don’t know.” He stroked the back of his fingers along Lucidea’s cheek. “We just don’t know.”
“No,” Lucidea said and covered his hand with hers. She leveled her gaze on Breanna. “We do know there’s another blue moon in a week. We need to talk with Gowthaman. He’s archived most of the calendars and texts Coralie used... used the last time. We need to see if there’s another conjunction of blue moons in all those different calendars.”
The reluctance in Jayse’s movements as he angled to face Breanna sent a pang of longing into her heart. To love another so much, and to be able to show the world that love...
Blue Keltic Moon (Children of the Keltic Triad) Page 2