“Did they find anything? Any sign yet?”
Soren walked over to her. “Nay. Why? What are you thinking?”
“I think we need to search the broch again. Do you have Einar’s map?”
“Nay,” he said. “I left it with the other drawing and the passage with the others. Their priests wanted to study it,” he explained.
“Can you get it and meet me at the broch?”
“We could both return so they can see you are unharmed,” he suggested.
She still felt fragile, not ready to face their new allies and the multitude of questions they would have. Or the knowing glances of Brienne and Aislinn. Not yet. Ran shook her head.
“Wait for me,” he said as he disappeared into the sky.
She nodded and walked to the highest point on the island, not very far at all, to look across the water to the Mainland. Where was the circle they needed? She’d not asked what they were supposed to do once they found it. Knowing priests, it most likely involved some kind of ritual.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember the map Einar had drawn. The broch was a large place on it, yet they’d seen nothing there. Some empty chambers, on several stories leading to the roof.
Soren reappeared in front of her and held out his hand.
“Come. I will carry you there,” he offered.
“Can you do that?” she asked. He shrugged.
“The first time I traveled with the winds, I kept my human form. If I can do that, I can hold you.” He took her hand and tugged her closer. “And if it does not work, you will drop in the sea and all will be well.”
How strange a thing to consider, Ran thought, as she moved closer and Soren lifted her in his arms. In the next moment, she was high in the air over the island, looking down at the water.
“This is extraordinary,” she said. “I have never seen the like.”
“Everything looks so different from up above,” he agreed. “This must be what birds see as they fly.”
It took little time at all for them to reach the outcropping of land on which the broch sat. Much like other brochs all across Orkney, it was round and had thick walls. Many believed brochs were defensive towers, where people in centuries past could gather if under attack. Their wooden steps could be pushed away and the door sealed.
When Soren put her down, she looked at the entrance and realized what had bothered her. The steps led up to the first story.
“What is beneath the floor?” she asked, walking up the steps.
“I think it is only the earth,” Soren answered. “My grandfather never mentioned any cellar or storage room.”
They opened the door and went within. The steps that led up sat within the inner and outer walls. Soren pointed at the floor adjacent to the stairs. It was a different color wood and did not fit well into the space. Ran stepped aside and he reached down and pried one of the slats free.
Then another one. And the last, which exposed a set of steps that led down. She smiled at Soren, knowing that this hidden chamber must be significant. Einar must have left something behind for them.
A torch sat in a sconce at the top of this newly found stairway, so Soren found a piece of flint and lit it. Holding it out before them, Soren led the way down the stairs.
The air was damp and dank as though water regularly filled in from the nearby strait. But when they reached the bottom, the dirt floor was hard packed and dry. Lifting the torch to light the room, Soren’s expression spoke of some great discovery. She climbed down from the last steep step and turned around to look.
Not an inch of the wall around this chamber was empty.
Most images were sketched in black, charcoal most likely, but some others had colors around them, too. Some symbols matched ones they knew—like the marks that she, Soren, Brienne and William carried on their arms. The one marking Ander and the priests and the other man Roger appeared all across the drawings. The most amazing part of it was the perspective, for this seemed to be an elaborate map left for them.
“Soren, this is a map,” she said, pointing to the way the mainland and islands appeared.
“Different though,” Soren said. “Almost as if he’s looking out in each direction with this as his focal point. Look. See here,” he said, pointing to one wall where a large city was drawn. “If we were to break the walls down and lay each out flat, it works clearly.”
“But this is different from the one on parchment,” she said. He took it out, opened it up and they both studied it. “See here? There’s much more detail on the wall than on this.”
Soren nodded, comparing the sketch to the wall. “Not so much to the north or even south, but out to the southwest, there are markings for places I do not remember. Mayhap this was his practice piece? Or his notes for the wall?”
“I think we need to show this to Aislinn and Marcus,” she said. “They have scribes who can copy this so it can be examined and deciphered.”
“I will bring them here or it will take days for them to travel here.”
He left, climbing carefully up the narrow steps as she remained there studying the marks. She would not know what they meant until the priests looked at them, but she noticed several things quickly.
There were eight different marks around the perimeter and ones like those of the priests scattered about. The eight marks were placed around the chamber and they were somehow imbued with magic or power. She could feel it when she touched the one matching hers. And Soren’s was exactly opposite of hers. The war hammer lay opposite the flames. The sun and the tree lay opposite of each other. The last two—the horse and the moon—as well.
Aislinn carried the crescent moon on her arm.
If all was as it seemed, Aislinn would be called to close one of the circles. Did she know that?
Ran heard someone above and climbed the stairs, leaving the torch in a sconce in the stairway. And she found the female priest waiting there.
“It is both frightening and exciting being carried that way,” the young woman said in a breathless voice. “It was almost how I see things when I am dreamwalking.”
“Dreamwalking?”
“It is something I can do. A gift from the gods. I travel in my dreams, walking to find places or people,” Aislinn explained.
“Down this way,” Ran directed, going first down the steps. “We have only one torch so it is not very bright.” She heard the fast intake of breath behind her when Aislinn first glimpsed the chamber.
“Do you feel it?” Aislinn asked, holding her hands out as she turned round and round the chamber. “Do you?”
“Only if I touch that one,” she said, pointing to her mark on the wall.
Aislinn walked around the perimeter of the chamber, not touching the drawings and marks, but simply gliding her hand in the air near them.
“There is power here. Power and . . . magic,” she said, awe filling her voice. “Someone very powerful did this.”
“Einar Brandrson, Soren’s grandfather,” Ran said.
“It would have to be a priest of immense ability, Ran. These are not simply drawn or sketched. They are imbued in each stroke with blessings and spells. Very few of us could create such a thing. I doubt Marcus even,” Aislinn said.
“You doubt I could what?” Marcus asked, coming down the steps with Soren behind him.
Neither of the women said a word; they waited only for Marcus to see the chamber. His first expression was of surprise, but then the older man’s eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward. Soren managed to grab his cloak and keep him from hitting the dirt floor. Unlike when Father Ander fainted, Marcus did not fall to the ground.
He began chanting and walking around the chamber, stopping, Ran noticed, at each of the eight marks. His words blended together and became like a song, the tune of which Soren began humming under his breath. When she glanced at h
im, he shrugged.
“My grandfather taught me words and songs,” he said. “I know not what they mean. I never have.”
The three watched Marcus for several minutes until he slowed and then stopped completely. Aislinn walked to his side.
“Marcus, are you well?” she asked.
Marcus blinked over and over and then wiped his forehead and shook his head. “What happened?” Then he looked at Aislinn. “Do you feel it, Aislinn? It is wondrous, truly wondrous.”
“What is it, Marcus? A map certainly, but what made you do that?” Soren asked, motioning with his hand in a circular pattern.
“These are the signs of each of the Warriors of Destiny, you know those,” Marcus explained. “But these words are the blessing the gods needed to seal the gateway. And these, these”—he pointed at words scattered all around the chamber—“these are the words the ancients used to capture the evil one.”
“Chaela?” Ran asked.
Marcus spit on the floor and whispered something like a curse before saying anything to her. “I will not speak her name. To use the names of the gods gives them power but to say hers is to call her attention. We never want her aware of us.” He pointed at the marks around the chamber.
“See there. Every time a name is written it gives power to the symbol. But see those? The priest destroyed her name to avoid saying it.”
“And you can read these words? Understand them?” Ran asked.
“Only when the gods allow me to,” Marcus said. “But now? Nay. Not a one. But the priest who created this would have.”
“Why do you keep saying that Einar was a priest? If I am a stormblood, would he not have been one, too?” Soren asked.
“In days long ago, when the bloodlines were created, each was kept separate from the others. To keep them pure and keep their power undiluted. But when the gods sent the bloodlines out into the human world, they did not remain separate.”
Marcus looked at her and Soren. “Your families intermarried, here and in other communities until their powers mixed. Only in some generations are there purebloods strong enough to call on their powers.”
“Like this generation?” Soren asked.
“The gods are good to those who believe, Soren. We priests have long believed that when needed, the Warriors of Destiny are created to battle this evil who can be contained but not destroyed.”
“And old Einar?” she asked.
“He was a generation ahead of the rising,” Marcus explained. “He collected much wisdom and heard the call of the gods, but did not teach you as he should have, Soren.” Turning to face her, he added, “Or you, Ran. Great priests such as Einar are sent to teach.”
“What do we do now, Marcus?” Aislinn asked. “So much of our history is told through stories and not written down.”
“I think we should copy all of this so we can study it. The time is coming and we need to find the gateway. These drawings”—he motioned around the walls—“are clues and signposts for us. They are an immense source of knowledge not to be ignored.”
They left the chamber and snuffed out the torch. With care, Soren replaced the wooden slats covering the secret steps. If someone happened along and entered the broch, they would not find the chamber easily.
Outside, Soren and Marcus decided which priests would be needed and Soren brought them using his stormblood powers. It took several trips, and on each one he brought a nervous priest, writing supplies and torches. Soon, everyone who needed to be brought or taken was seen to and only Soren and Ran remained.
“They know,” Ran whispered to Soren.
“And are you embarrassed?” He took her chin and studied her face. “You never worried over it before,” he said. “Should I disavow the declaration you made to me in passion just hours ago?”
“Passion does not answer all the questions yet standing between us, Soren,” she said.
“No it does not,” he said. “We will see to those other questions, Ran. I owe you an explanation but it is not time for that. First, we must see to your father’s safety and to this matter we are caught up in.”
She had not even realized that he’d lifted her up and returned her to the camp on the other side of the island while they conversed. Soren put her on her feet and changed form. Before she could let go of him, William and his man Roger strode up to them.
“Ander has gone missing,” William announced.
“He was here this morn,” Soren said. “I spoke with him.”
“He received a missive; an emergency arose with the bishop and he was called back to Kirkwall,” Roger explained.
“The bishop is not in Kirkwall,” Soren said.
William’s grim expression spoke volumes without saying a word. He nodded at Soren and the two walked off, whispering and planning something.
“He will not survive,” Roger warned her. “He is too full of godly spirit to survive de Gifford’s care.”
“Mayhap that will be his protection against the evil?” she whispered as she followed the men back toward the tents.
How many deaths would she carry on her soul if they did not find a way to defeat this fireblood? How many?
Chapter 16
After delays and disappointments, things were beginning to go his way. Hugh was furious when he lost control over the waterblood, but he still held her father. Even the man’s reaction to seeing his daughter as she truly was would not harden a loyal, loving daughter’s heart to his suffering.
The seas worked against his journey after she disappeared screaming into it. Hugh thought it was not something she did apurpose at all. More likely, it was the reaction of the sea and an untrained waterblood to his attack and her fury and guilt. He would use that when the time came. Her expression when she realized she held someone in her grip as he convinced her to kill him was something he would remember and rejoice in for a long, long time.
At least until he killed her. And her stupid, stubborn father. And, now, an added pleasure—the priest.
Hugh walked down the stone steps of the round church. He’d felt the presence of the chamber as they approached Orphir. At first, he mistook the feeling as the one he experienced when coming in contact with something of a sacred nature. A church was consecrated and holy, made so by the bones of the saint in the altar stone. Whether he believed in that God or his saints, the power was there. Once he’d forced the Roman priest to remove the altar stone and its relics, he felt the building tremble from the power beneath it.
Here was the portal through which he could worship his goddess.
Through which she could touch him with her fire and purify him.
Through which his own powers would be strengthened for the coming battle.
He laughed now, following the corridor to the end and pushing open the last door that stood between him and Chaela.
“Good Father,” he said, passing the priest who stood immobilized against the wall. “You carried out your task well. I shall make your death—when it comes—a swift one in honor of that service.”
The priest, not an old one, did not meet his gaze; he never had. He only prayed under his breath, relentlessly. Over and over the same Christian prayer. At the hour of our death. Well, he would be at the hour of his death shortly.
The other one chained there said nothing. Hugh was not certain whether Svein Ragnarson had lost his mind, for the waterblood’s father reacted to nothing now—not pain or pleasure nor words or threats. It mattered not to Hugh. Less resistance now was one thing he would not have to worry over when the ceremony was ready.
Neither of them matter now. Nothing mattered.
Hugh disrobed and stood there, waiting for the opening to reveal itself. He spoke the words of worship and praise over and over until the heat burst into the chamber . . . from the floor. Hugh walked around it, outlining it, memorizing it, honoring it. His body, now showing
the ravages of his true age, ached with every step.
But soon, soon, his goddess would come to him.
A scratching at the door dragged his attention from the portal. Eudes opened it and dragged in one of the sailors from Svein’s ship. Hugh pointed to a place and Eudes pushed the man there and left. Crouching before the gagged and bespelled man, he placed his hands on the man’s head and spoke within his thoughts.
You are privileged as few are. You will be my sacrifice to the goddess. Do not die too quickly.
All was in readiness. He knelt and then prostrated himself over the portal, preparing himself for the agony of Chaela’s blessing. When it came he knew that nothing could have prepared him for it, especially in his weakened form. His skin burned and he screamed as she touched him.
“Hugh, my faithful one,” the goddess whispered through the portal. “Always faithful.”
“Chaela, I beg your favor and have brought a sacrifice to please you.”
A terrible shriek echoed through the chamber and bursts of fire heated the floor where he would once again touch her. Looking into the darkness, he tried to see her but could not. Not yet.
“Accept my gift, O my goddess.”
Hugh lifted the man up and held him over the opening. Slitting his throat first, Hugh lowered him slowly into the void. With his throat cut, the man could not scream as the anguishing fire destroyed him, but that did not stop him from trying. The blood gurgled out, dripping on the floor all over the chamber, as the goddess consumed him. Hugh released him and listened until all he could hear were the goddess’s exhalations.
He created a wave of fire there on the floor, covering the portal, and called out to her again. Barely able to kneel from the agony of her first touch, he spoke again. There was so much more coming.
“If I have pleased you, grant me your favor, my goddess.”
Crawling forward, he thrust his hand into the portal and waited. The fire melted his skin and his hand turned like molten metal. His body burned in torment . . . and pleasure. He screamed and screamed at the pain of this joining with his goddess. When his voice was gone, she still did not let go.
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