Triskelion

by Avril Borthiry

  At that moment, Lio lifted his head and pointed his nose into the trees, a low growl rumbling deep inside his chest. A heartbeat later, the wolf rose to his feet and growled again, his hackles rising.

  At once alert, Owen stood and squinted into the darkness, pulling his sword free from its sheath. The woods played host to both outlaw and wild boar. So far, though, they had not been threatened by either.

  “What is it, old friend?” he whispered to Lio. “What have you heard?”

  Then he heard it too – the gentle thud of hooves on the forest floor. Arrio, tethered nearby, shook his head and let out a soft whinny. Of welcome? Anticipation fluttered in Owen's belly.

  He exchanged a shadowed glance with John, who was already on his feet, sword drawn in readiness. A moment later, a horse and rider emerged from the trees, the dappled grey of the animal's coat shining blue in the moonlight. Owen recognized the horse. He also recognized the rider, who let out a French expletive and reined his mount to a halt.

  Owen breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his sword.

  “Guy.”

  “Owen. Bon Dieu. At last. We have thirty knights out looking for you. Lord Weylin calls you in. 'Tis a matter of great urgency.”

  John strode to Guy's side, his expression lit with hope. “He has found Katherine?”

  “He did not say, my lord. I know only that you must return to Rushen immediately.”

  ~ ~

  Weylin's curly beard had been tugged straight over the previous six days as he'd pored over maps and scrolls, searching for any kind of clue. Using his tactful prowess, he'd also cast a net of discreet enquiries over the isle, but caught nothing of any worth.

  The only blessing had been that the same net allowed him to keep track of Owen and John Harrington's location and progress. As the days passed, he realized their fruitless trail had likely been paved with discarded hope. Yet Weylin remained steadfast in his search efforts, driven by the haunted look he'd seen in John Harrington's eyes and the fear in Owen's.

  He had made some other discoveries. Firstly, the prior of Cartmel had never been officially invited to Rushen abbey. Indeed, after disembarking from the Kateryn, the blessed man had apparently vanished. If not for John Harrington's certainty, Weylin might have doubted the prior had even set foot on Mann. So why had he crossed the waves if not to visit his clerical peers? For some reason, the need for mercenary funding kept arising in Weylin’s mind, and a worm of suspicion wriggled in his gut.

  He'd long ago learned to trust his gut feelings.

  He'd also discovered that an abandoned cog had been found adrift off the east coast of Ireland, its origins a mystery. He felt certain the little ship had been the one used by Elric to bring Katherine to the shores of Mann. How the unfortunate crew and archers had been dispatched could only be surmised. Poison, he speculated, would have been the easiest and most efficient method.

  Nigh on six days had passed since the search for Katherine had begun – days filled with disappointment and frustration. Curious how the hands of fate dealt the cards, Weylin mused, sitting in one of his armchairs and staring into the empty fireplace. He rubbed the fresh bruise on his knee and smiled as he reflected on the day's events. Frustration had at last been replaced by triumph.

  By all things holy, the answer to the question of Elric's whereabouts had been right before Weylin's eyes the entire time.

  Early that morning, after easing his old bones from his bed, he'd stumbled over a deer pelt that lay beside his desk. As he toppled against the wall, he grabbed hold of the ancient tapestry that hung there. It broke his fall somewhat, and other than bruised knees and equally bruised pride, Weylin was uninjured. The tapestry, however, was torn from its hanging to land in an unceremonious heap on the floor. Aware of its age and fragility, he lifted the textile onto the table to study it for damage.

  Strange how one could look upon something day after day, year after year, yet never really see it. Oh, he knew well enough what the tapestry depicted. He'd simply never given it much thought until that morning, when a symbol stitched onto the fabric had caught his attention. As the realisation of what it meant dawned on him, all the soft white hair on the back of his neck bristled with certainty.

  In truth, Weylin had never been more certain of anything in his life – at least, nothing of such significance.

  Drunk on a sudden rush of euphoria, he'd let out an uncharacteristic whoop, clapped his hands, and danced a jig on the spot. Moments later, he uttered an equally uncharacteristic curse as his poor knees protested.

  Time was a scarce commodity, yet Weylin had no desire to relate such vital information through a messenger. The location of Elric's lair was remote, the access complicated, and the need for stealth prudent. From his sources, he knew that John and Owen were last seen but a few hours' ride from Rushen. So thirty knights had been dispatched without further delay, ordered only to find the two men and have them return forthwith.

  With nothing else to do, Weylin left the door to his chamber wide open, sat himself in a chair by the fireplace...and waited.

  Every passing hour pulled at his patience like a petulant child, testing the limits of his tolerance. On several occasions he rose to stretch his dormant limbs. Each time, he wandered over to the tapestry, seeking the same sweet sensation of discovery he had savoured that morning. It sustained him more than the paltry nibbles of food he managed to push down his throat.

  By nightfall, Weylin took to dozing fitfully in his chair, his anxious mind stirring at the slightest noise from the hallway beyond his door. Then, as candlelight surrendered to the early light of dawn, he heard familiar voices and the clatter of feet on the stairs.

  “Praise be,” he muttered, wincing as he struggled to his feet. “At last.”

  Moments later, the two dishevelled searchers stood before him, their expressions lit by anticipation. Lio sauntered past them to settle himself before the fireplace with a dog-like grunt of relief.

  “Lord Weylin.” John Harrington drew hard breaths as his fingers played a nervous tune on his sword hilt. “You have news?”

  Weylin's reply faltered, choked by shock at John's appearance. The knight's face, with haggard skin and lifeless blue eyes circled by dark shadows, reflected a broken spirit.

  His Saxon blonde hair, dark with dirt, hung lank to his shoulders.

  Owen, too, had the desperate look of a man near defeat, his pale face also shadowed by fatigue. Weylin swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.

  “Master?” Owen's voice held a hint of cautious hope. “What have you found?”

  In response, Weylin lifted a hand and pointed to the table where the tapestry lay.

  “I know where Katherine is.”

  John Harrington closed his eyes and made a sound like a man given reprieve from impending death. Owen glanced at the table and frowned.

  “I don't understand, my lord.”

  “Then let me explain.” Weylin beckoned the men to the tapestry and brushed his fingers across the fabric, feeling the same rush of excitement as before. “This is an ancient textile. I know not of its origins, but I do know of its depiction. It shows the arrival of our blessed Saint Maughold to this isle, cast to sea as he was by Patrick of Ireland. There he is, standing next to the small church. The location is that of Maughold Head, named in his memory. 'Tis a desolate place on the northeast coast of Mann.”

  John fidgeted. “Are you saying Elric is hiding in a church?”

  Weylin shook his head. “Nay. The church was built soon after the death of Pendragon and now stands in ruins. But those ruins sit atop another temple, one created long before the birth of our Lord. 'Tis a dark labyrinth that lies beneath the earth, used as a place of worship and sacrifice by the ancient ones. It has been abandoned and forgotten for many centuries. Few people would even know of its existence.”

  “And you believe Elric is there?” John stared down at the tapestry. “With respect, my lord, how can you be so sure?”

  “Look at
the symbol woven beneath the church. I'd never paid it much attention before. Nor would I have done so had I not fallen this morning and pulled the tapestry from the wall trying to save myself. As soon as I saw it, I knew what it represented. I also knew, without a doubt, that I had discovered Elric’s hiding place. And Katherine’s prison.”

  The symbol had faded over the passing of time, yet it remained quite distinct, woven with obvious care in fraying silver thread.

  Three spirals.

  “My God.” Owen ran his fingers over the stitches. “The Triskelion.”

  “Aye,” said Weylin. “The Triskelion. The same pagan symbol mentioned in the prophecy. In this case, it serves to demonstrate the existence of the old pagan temple beneath the Christian one. Elric is there, I would stake my life on it. And so, then, is Katherine.”

  An hour later, Weylin stood in Rushen's quadrangle, looking up at the two men, each mounted and ready to leave. Crovan’s big horse, who had been left behind for the previous sojourn, also stood with them, rolling his eyes and snorting in apparent delight. It had been decided to take him as a spare mount, carrying supplies and weapons, lightening the load for the other two horses. Lio circled, no doubt sensing the anticipation that hung in the air.

  “Much better,” Weylin observed, lifting a hand to shade his eyes against the morning sun. “You both look...restored.”

  John gave a grim smile. “Somewhat, although not entirely. Not until I have my daughter out of harm's way.”

  Weylin nodded. “Myself and six of Rushen's knights will follow you shortly. I want to be there when you bring Katherine out of that dark place. The knights will only intervene if you fail in your attempt to detain Elric.”

  Owen snorted. “We have no intention of detaining him, Master. We mean only to kill him.”

  Weylin patted Owen's booted foot, where it rested in the stirrup. “I well understand your passion, Owen, but beware the blindness of anger. Do not lose focus. Elric's mind is as sharp as your blade. Go now. And God speed.”

  Chapter 20

  The discarded shell of Maughold Kirk formed a bleak silhouette in the moonlight. Beyond the ruins, the steep, rugged escarpment thrust stone fingers into a turbulent Irish Sea. The sound of waves breaking on the rocks accompanied the whistle of a west wind playing around two figures standing atop the ancient cliffs.

  Prior Cuthbert sucked in a lungful of air. “By all the saints, 'tis a blessing to be free of that dungeon. 'Tis a suitable lair for a dark devil like you, Elric. Are you certain the little witch hasn't seen any sign of a rescue?”

  Elric dragged his eyes from the moonlit sea and observed the prior with masked disdain. The deal they'd made, while still lucrative, had recently lost much of its sweetness. The thought of giving Katherine to the ruthless cleric after the ceremony tightened around Elric's throat like the squeeze of a hand.

  “None, my lord,” he replied. “Katherine has seen their search effort, but that is all. The labyrinth is long forgotten. I assure you, we shall not be discovered.”

  “Good.” The prior's lips curled in a smug smile. “To think, a few days ago John Harrington was in my study discussing the girl's marriage contract. It amuses me to know his gold helped fund her abduction. Since Edgar's not on the island, I can only surmise the ill-fated betrothal has been annulled. The thought of marrying a witch likely didn't appeal. I'm eager to see what this little wench can do, though, before I take possession of her. How much longer?”

  Elric glanced at the moon, which was navigating a silver path through the stars. A mild unease had weighed on him since leaving the labyrinth. True, he had left Katherine sleeping, but he had also left her alone – something he had promised never to do again. His manipulation of her mind had been well orchestrated, but his hold on her was as delicate as a silken thread. He had no desire to undo all he had done by breaking a trivial vow. By all the gods, her trust in him would be tested soon enough.

  “I shall fetch you when the moon breaches the fissure,” he replied, taking a step toward the ruins. “Indeed, if you've satisfied your need for air, my lord, we should go back now.”

  “Already?” Prior Cuthbert sniffed and fell into stride beside him. “Christ knows, I'll be glad when this night is over. That dungeon you deem to call my chamber is most unpleasant. I'm not at all happy to have been excluded from your preparations.”

  “With respect, my lord, your presence would have been –”

  “Distracting. Yes, yes, you made that quite clear.” The prior waved a dismissive hand. “Does the girl yet know of this heathen ceremony you insist upon performing?”

  “I think not,” he replied, although he knew Katherine harboured suspicions. Her gift of awareness, after all, surpassed that of most mortals.

  The prior grunted. “Aye, well. She'll resist you, no doubt. Perhaps you should use one of your elixirs to keep her subdued. Or bind her.”

  An image of Katherine's bruised wrists, marked by the ropes Crovan had used, flashed in Elric's mind. He curled his fingers and dug his nails into his palms, pushing the troubling image away. Compassion, after all, was for the weak, and he would not weaken. Not now. Not when all he had striven for was within reach.

  Since learning of the prophecy from Adela's people, Elric had studied the ancient scrolls, interpreting the mysterious script, trying to sort myth from truth. Yet the full meaning of the prophecy still eluded him. Tonight, at long last, the secrets buried in Katherine's mind would emerge. His stomach twisted with anticipation.

  “No elixir,” he said. “The girl's mind must be clear for the vision to surface. I'll restrain her only if necessary.”

  “Pah! Of course it'll be necessary, you fool. Do you think she'll let you sink a red-hot iron into her skin without objection? Still, 'tis of no consequence, since I'll be there to assist you. She can't fight us both.”

  Elric frowned. “No,” he said, swallowing against the renewed tightness in his throat. “She can't fight us both.”

  Maughold Kirk languished in neglect. Moonlight poured through the roofless ruins and lit the weed-choked earthen floor. Sounds of scuffling betrayed the presence of small feral creatures who had made the abandoned church their home.

  To the rear of the building, a small arched doorway led to an older rectangle of stone, which also lay open to the sky. Thick vines of ivy draped the walls, the weave of coarse stems acting as a net, which slowed the destructive weight of time. At the northwest corner, marked by the flicker of a small lantern, lay a rusted iron grate. Below it, a dark staircase descended deep into the earth. Elric took the lantern and lifted the grate, allowing the prior to pass before following him down into the blackness.

  He paused to glance back at the moonlit entrance. If things went as planned, this would be his last night with Katherine – a truth that brought a sudden ache to his chest. Since the episode in the tunnel, her continued need of him had warmed his spirit, intoxicating him like the bouquet of a fine wine. He wondered, not for the first time, how he might live without it. Without her. Did he even have a choice? Of course he did. All he had to do was kill the unscrupulous servant of Christ who walked at his side.

  Prior Cuthbert.

  The man who had raised him.

  ~o~

  Whispers roused Kate from sleep, their strange words foreign to her ears, yet somehow recognizable, as if she'd heard them before.

  Elric would know what they meant, she felt certain. She had something he wanted – something that went beyond seeing visions of the future. Indeed, she felt like she should be looking back, seeking a vision from the distant past. The knowledge of it taunted her, hovering on the edge of her consciousness, like a familiar face hidden behind a mask.

  Her senses sharpened. Over the subdued sound of waves upon the rock, she heard the tell-tale scratch of Elric's quill on parchment. The air was thick with the smell of the sea and a subtle hint of burning coals. Why would he light a fire? True, the cavern felt damp, but not cold. Curious, she dressed and stepped from behind
the screen.

  Elric ignored her and continued writing. Kate frowned, knowing his feigned concentration was a ruse. The tension emanating from him was both palpable and uncharacteristic. Had she offended him somehow? Puzzled, she opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when she saw the source of the fire.

  A shallow iron cauldron sat atop the stone altar, its blackened shape accentuated by the glowing coals within. One end of a metal rod, its exposed handle wrapped in what looked like leather, had been buried in the searing depths. Heat, rising like invisible smoke, blurred the staircase beyond. Katherine was reminded of a blacksmith's forge. She was also reminded of something else. A vague memory stirred deep in her mind – a memory, she realized, that was not hers. A shiver ran up her spine.

  “I have questions,” she said, still looking at the cauldron. She heard Elric's soft sigh of resignation.

  “Ask them,” he said, after a pause.

  “I'm curious.” She turned her eyes to him. “About you.”

  The scribbling stopped. Elric lifted his head and turned to her with a brief expression of bewilderment. “About me?”

  She nodded. “I need to know who you are. I need to know where you're from. I need to know all about the man who is to take my life from me.”

  He set the quill down. “I have no desire to take your life from you, Katherine.”

  “That is not the same as a denial, Elric. I am, after all, at your mercy.” She glanced at the coals again. “You know everything about me. More, I suspect, than I know about myself. So tell me, please, about you. Tell me about this evil passion that drives you to such...ungodly behaviour.”

  He blinked and sat back, the hand that had been clutching the quill curling into a fist.

  “What drives me is none of your concern.”

  Kate laughed, a sound that smothered her simmering fear. “But it is entirely my concern. It is the reason I was torn from my home against my will. It is why I am here in this...” she gestured around the cavern, “...dragon's belly. For a reason I cannot quite fathom, I need to understand at least something of who you are. Please, Elric.”