A shock went through me when I realized that the man I saw in my mind was a younger version of Rourke. Even stranger was the sensation of understanding what he was feeling, and even thinking.
Rourke was searching for Conor, a nephew whom he loved deeply. He opened his mouth and tried again to locate the missing boy with his voice. The sound vibrated in an unwavering note. If Conor were close, he would feel him in the chord. But there was nothing. The boy loved to hunt for rodents along the craggy shoreline, but he had been gone long enough that even Rourke was worried for his safety.
Rourke reached the top of the cliff. A few feet from the safety of a wind-hollowed cave, Conor lay asleep, curled inside a swaying bubble of sea foam. Colors of the rising tide from hundreds of feet below swirled in patterns on the rim of the fragile orb.
A woman with red hair sat on her knees in the dirt, reaching for Conor over the edge of the cliff.
“Saoirse, stay there, I’m coming,” Rourke yelled against the wind. He stumbled on the loose shale and found his footing.
In the midst of Rourke’s memory, I was stunned to hear the sound of his voice for the first time. It sounded deep and rich, with a heavy accent.
“Stay back,” Saoirse spat. Her red hair, usually plaited and pinned, now swarmed around her head in the storm. She laughed, and the sound faded with the wind, skipping into the cave and back to where Rourke stood near its entrance.
“Fool!” she spat. “Get back.”
Rourke shook his head, trying to make sense of what he heard.
Saoirse stood, still pointing toward Conor. “I’m glad you’ve come.” She twisted her wrist, and the bubble rotated in the air above the water.
Rourke heard the words Saoirse said, but he couldn’t fathom how they could be coming from the mouth of the woman who had tucked him into bed as a child.
“Saoirse, what are you doing? Bring him back to the ledge.”
“Why would I do that, after going to all the trouble of putting him there?”
Rourke had known for some time that someone on the grand council had betrayed them. Never would he have believed it was Saoirse. The thought made him sick. And now Conor’s life was in danger.
“What of all the years of service to my father, and my uncle?”
Saoirse made a striking figure in the fading light. Her face glowed unnaturally, and her eyes were hard and sharp. She had always been beautiful to Rourke, even when he was a child. The memory made the reality of what she was doing hard to accept.
“The years of service were like centuries of slavery.”
“And what good is the throne to you, Saoirse? Your position as Grand Councilor has given you the respect and luxury of a queen in Falias.”
Saoirse raised a hand to the roiling clouds, her head bent back so that her laughter sounded strangled and cruel. Raindrops fell from the sky, and the folds of Saoirse’s dress writhed in the wind. Rourke stepped back until he was pressed against the cave entrance.
“I am already a queen. Your throne will merely be the launching ground for a new start for my people.” The ends of Saoirse’s cloak were changing. Thick tentacles coiled from her belt, each ribbed with pulsing, bulging discs.
Memories tumbled in Rourke’s mind. In his early years, Saoirse had told him tales of the Cecaelia, a mythical race of underwater people—part human, part octopus. He thought she had created the stories for his young, adventure-craving mind. But in one terrifying moment, Rourke knew that the stories were true.
He felt as helpless as Conor. Unless he did something to stop her, Saoirse would kill them both, ending his father’s bloodline and leaving all of Falias open to war.
The song welled up inside his throat before he even opened his mouth. When he released it, Rourke focused on his sleeping nephew, pulling the bubble cage toward him with the music.
Saoirse lunged at Rourke, her tentacles rolling across the ground as she moved. She pinned his neck to the cave wall with a fleshy tentacle, smacking his head against the stone as he fought for consciousness.
“You will not sing your songs against me,” she snarled. “I’ll snap you like a twig.”
Saoirse stiffened as a roar split the air, drowning out the surf and thunder. Behind her, a dragon swooped toward them in the drizzling rain. Rourke coughed as Saoirse loosened her grip and spun around to face the dragon.
The dragon’s wings were spread wide—great claws reached out and cut the air into ribbons. Scales of metallic gold and blue overlapped each other to form a natural armor, and his craggy head was knotted with horns and deep lines that notched his leathery skin. The normally pleasant look on the dragon’s face had been replaced with a fierceness that frightened even Rourke.
Cursing, Saoirse whipped out another tentacle, so fast Rourke didn’t have time to react. His gasp was cut short as his airway closed, the tentacle’s gripping suckers twisting into his skin as she tried to strangle him. He struggled against her, but knew he could not last long.
The dragon swooped under Conor, cupping the bubble in his great talons. But before the impressive creature could pierce it, Saoirse pointed a finger to Conor. The soapy exterior of the bubble shifted, and Conor disappeared.
Rourke stared at the empty bubble, and struggled against Saoirse. She let go of his neck, but held him pinned against the cave wall. He gasped, taking air back into his lungs. The dragon landed on the edge of the cliff, folding his wings to his sides.
“What have you done with the boy?” The dragon’s voice was deep and penetrating. It resounded in the cave behind them and echoed back like the booming of a drum.
“He’s perfectly safe, as long as I am.”
“I never liked you Saoirse, always slithering around in other people’s business.”
“Your opinion hardly matters to me, Ansul.”
Ansul tilted his massive head to the sky and roared. A reddish-gold flame reached heavenward, piercing the gray clouds that swirled overhead. Heat from the inferno wrapped around Rourke.
Saoirse flinched at the heat, letting go of Rourke and recoiling her tentacles beneath her skirt.
Rourke knew that Ansul could flame Saoirse with one exhale, but the dragon’s hesitation to kill her meant that he didn’t know where she had hidden Conor. Rourke slid along the cave wall—inching closer to the bubble that spun, now empty, above the sea.
“Release the boy, Queen of the Seas, and I will let you survive this day,” Ansul spat.
Saoirse laughed. “And what do you think will happen to Conor if you kill me? I’ve waited too many years for this moment.”
“A pawn for a queen Saoirse? Perhaps you should have considered more carefully. Go back to the ocean depths where you belong.”
Saoirse put her hand to her chest. “How silly this is Ansul, when we both really want the same thing.”
The dragon narrowed his eyes.
“What are you up to Saoirse?”
“With the last of Riplin’s line dead, my people will have the strength to take back what is theirs.” Her voice soothed like the hum of a rattlesnake’s tail before a strike. “And when these two are gone, you will be freed from the curse that has plagued your family for generations.”
Rourke knew of the dragon’s curse. But Rourke had never thought that Ansul minded protecting the royal family. Now he looked up at the impressive dragon, wondering if Ansul wanted to be free.
“I will fight for my freedom in my own time, in my own way, Saoirse.” The dragon drew himself up to full height. “Where is the boy?”
“There is a bubble drifting along a current in the depths of the sea. I simply displaced him from this bubble to that one.” She raised her head in triumph. “As long as I live, Conor will remain safely inside his bubble. But time, and air, are running out for him.”
Rourke looked out over the expanse of sea that stretched toward the horizon. Conor slept beneath the roiling waves, far below the surface. Anger boiled in Rourke’s throat. His voice was sore from Saoirse’s grip, but he could st
ill make noise. He opened his mouth and threw a stream of sound at the sea witch.
The force of the outburst pushed Saoirse off balance. She screamed, turning her body around and curling her tentacles around the rocks at the edge of the cliff to keep from falling. One of her limbs wrapped around Rourke’s legs.
Fearing that he would fall, Rourke closed his mouth, stopping the torrent. Saoirse found her footing, but tightened her grip on him, dragging him toward the drop-off.
Ansul crouched, spitting fire as he spoke. “If you drop that boy, your people will never even find your ashes.”
“But if you strike, you lose the last of your charges. You know what happens then, don’t you Ansul? Ansul said nothing, but showed no sign of backing down. Saoirse panted from exertion. “It appears we are at an impasse.”
Rourke wondered how long he would teeter on the edge of the cliff wall while Saoirse and the dragon outlasted each other’s patience.
The sun had dipped toward the ocean before Saoirse spoke again. She’d settled onto the ground, her arms braced behind her in an effort to hold Rourke over the cliff. He could feel her body shaking from exertion.
“Take the prince,” Saoirse said. “But the younger one is mine.”
“Wait!” Rourke shouted before Ansul could agree to the compromise. “I’ll take his place.”
The tentacles loosened, and Rourke could feel the blood rushing back to his legs. “Please, let Conor return and reign in Falias. Let him live, safely and in peace, and I vow to leave this land.”
“Seal it. Will you seal it with a geis?” Anticipation twisted Saoirse’s face, and Rourke’s stomach hardened into a painful knot.
Ansul snorted his disagreement. His voice filled the cave. “Conor is years away from acceptable age, and the prince is to be crowned in a few months. The kingdom cannot wait so long for a king.”
Saoirse looked out over the ocean, smiling to herself about this change of plans.
Rourke knew that the geis would bind him to this aberration of a woman he thought he knew, and he would have to live out the curse she pronounced on him. Worse, he would have to live with the knowledge that she would have influence over Conor in his absence. It wasn’t a good choice, but it was the only way he could save both of their lives. He would have to come up with another way to save his kingdom.
Anger and loss burned in Rourke’s heart as he thought of his people, leaderless for another seven years while they waited for Conor to come of age. And what would happen when Conor became king?
He thought of Conor, sleeping at the bottom of the ocean, so blissfully unaware of the turmoil going on around him. For a moment Rourke forgot the peril, thinking only of this boy who was like a little brother to him. If Saoirse had anything to do with it, Conor would not know what happened to his uncle—he would believe whatever story she chose to tell him. Rourke had to take that risk. Binding Saoirse with a geis was the only way to keep Conor safe.
“I have to do this, Ansul. You can’t protect me from this.” He turned to Saoirse, his back to Ansul’s volatile breath. “I will seal it with a geis.”
Saoirse snapped her amulet from her neck and held it out to him in the palm of her hand.
Ansul drew himself up, fanning his wings until they enclosed the three of them inside. Rourke could see the flames kindling in the dragon’s throat, and he knew that Saoirse’s magic didn’t stand a chance against the ancient beast.
“Call for the Arbitors.” Saoirse’s words struck his heart like ice, freezing him in the moment that he had chosen for himself. He took his own amulet and placed it atop Saoirse’s, then laced his fingers through hers. The gems glowed, heating until he had to resist the urge to pull his hand away.
A full minute passed and nothing happened. Then a shrill sound filled the air. It sounded like a gull, screeching across the surf. Another voice joined the shrieking until the air was filled with the abrasive sound.
From out of the mist rose a dark apparition. She hovered in the open air above the sea, her skin a bluish hue in the fading light. Her hair twisted and fell around her as if she were suspended in water. Darkness pooled around her eyes like bruises. Her mouth turned neither up nor down, but remained slightly open, her breath eking from her throat in a raspy whistle. Long, claw-like nails were half-hidden by her cloak. Two more ghostly figures joined the first. They slipped in between the dragon’s wings.
Banshees. Rourke shivered. The banshees were wraiths who took it upon themselves to act as intermediaries between those who wished to bind a geis. They were protectors of Tír na nÓg and cared not for the participants of the agreement, only for twisted poetic justice.
“Geis be upon you,” Saoirse whispered. Her eyes glittered, and saliva pooled at the edges of her mouth. “Be banished to a world of men, where you will dwell until the seventh year. As long as this geis holds, you will never speak through song, and dance will become anguish.”
“Agreed.” Rourke’s voice sounded as if he were already far away. He knew the nature of a geis, and the intricate, dangerous dance required of those who chose to be bound by one. Ancient in its use, the geis had fallen out of practice, but Rourke had learned of the curse in his studies. Counter curses could temper the blow. He needed to make a quick decision.
“Geis be upon you—”
“No!” Saoirse’s face paled, and she tried to pull her hand away. The prince tightened his grip.
“You are forbidden from causing any harm to Conor or myself until the day that I return.” Rourke knew that until he returned, Conor would be under the protection of the Arbitors. Saoirse would not be able to harm him physically. But he couldn’t protect Conor from Saoirse’s lies.
She spat in his face, but Rourke did not let go of her hand. Saoirse knew that she was bound by the agreement. Surprise hardened into hatred, and she glared at Rourke through slit eyes. Saoirse gestured to the apparitions, and the three banshees drew closer to seal the geis.
Rourke could feel icy breath on his neck. A sickly-sweet smell, like rotting fruit, filled his nostrils. He shuddered.
As one, the Arbitors threw their hands on top of the clasp formed by Saoirse and Rourke’s hands. Saoirse raised her chin. He hoped he had made the right decision—that his words would hold true and protect Conor and his people.
The amulets shuddered and grew so cold they bit into his skin like shards of ice. The Arbitors wailed—their voices combined in the night, a warning of what was to come. Saoirse muttered something that was swallowed up in the keening.
Ansul roared and threw his tail in between two of the banshees. It landed on top of Rourke’s hand, and the three of them were fused together in a pinwheel with the Arbitor’s sealing power. Ansul muttered in an ancient language long forgotten to men.
Rourke’s stomach jittered and twisted. Black fuzz crowded the edges of his vision. Saoirse’s face changed as he lost focus, bulging and morphing in the cold blue light that rose from the amulets. He tried to cry out to Ansul, but no sound escaped.
A banshee gripped his arm, digging her fingernails into his skin. She pulled on Rourke, dragging him to the edge of the cliff. Rourke struggled in her grip, fearing the drop. Just before he tumbled over the edge, the banshee jerked his arm and they were falling. Over the face of the cliff they dove—straight down, leveling out right before they hit the waves below. Ocean mist sprayed Rourke’s face as they skimmed the water, traveling away from the cliff to where the mountain tapered off to a beach.
Cold air flew past them as the banshee picked up speed, rushing toward a crevice that opened into a cave on the sand. Before the banshee pulled him inside, Rourke looked back. As he faded, the last thing Rourke glimpsed of his land was Conor, high above him on the cliff, safely cradled again in the bubble, sleeping to the lullaby of the oncoming tide.
The music came to me first, a haunting melody that called me back. My vision swam, and when I took in air, my lungs felt like they had expanded twice their usual size. “I’m sorry, I think I blacked out or
something.”
Rourke sat on the floor with his eyes closed, his arms hung at his sides. The lizard propped him up like a pillow.
Confusion clouded my thoughts, and I tried to remember what I had been doing. Images of Rourke on a cliff and banshees surfaced from the fog in my brain. Everything came back at once, and I remembered the boy trapped in a bubble, the sea witch, and Rourke’s banishment. My heart pounded as I sat on the floor next to Rourke.
“What happened?” My small voice echoed in the spacious room. Rourke opened his eyes. He looked drained, but the intensity in his expression made me ask, “Did you make me see that?”
His simple nod opened a floodgate of emotions.
What I had seen was a memory—Rourke’s memory. The thought made me shiver. How could that vision be Rourke’s memory, with a dragon, and a sea witch who turns into an octopus? I was tired and exhilarated at the same time, as if I had mastered a difficult dance routine.
“And that was you—you’re the one who was banished?”
Rourke’s hands stayed still in his lap. His expression spoke of his hesitation to reveal his past.
Yes.
Strokes of ideas painted a larger picture on canvas in my head.
I broke the silence with my hands, What happened to Conor?
I don’t know, Rourke signed. That is my last memory of him. When the time is right, I can attempt to return home.
Where is home?
Far enough away that it ought not even exist. He looked past me, as if seeing something in the mirror behind me that I couldn’t. I remembered the terms of the geis Rourke had made with the sea witch in the vision.
Won’t you be able to go home when the time has passed?
The geis requires it, and the banshees make certain that the binding contract is upheld. But the sea witch has been joined by one of the three who bind the geis and keep it safe. The binding is weakened by her betrayal.
The banshee. I had forgotten that the banshee was involved in all of this.
Cliona. That is the banshee’s name in my world. Saoirse employed her to make certain that I never see my land again. Everyone who has been involved with helping me leave this world has been eliminated.
Awakening (Book One of The Geis) Page 17