“So, uncle, did you convert the Vikings to Christianity?” Melusine believed twenty years should suffice to accomplish this simple task.
“I fear I failed in that matter.” Uncle Gwenvael showed no bitterness at all.
“Oh! I am sorry.” Melusine hoped her embarrassment at asking the wrong questions did not show. She picked up a piece of boiled meat with her fingers.
“This fierce people clings to very ancient beliefs,” Gwenvael explained. “But I was able to bring hope to the many Christian slaves and freemen who live in this fortress.”
Melusine lowered her voice. “How can you live among these savages?”
Far from taking offense, Gwenvael chuckled and signaled for a slave to refill the horns. “Did you notice the clay bricks, and the techniques used in building the fortress?”
Melusine shook her head. “The walls gave me the shivers, but I did not notice anything special.”
Gwenvael drank a long draft and sighed. “The Vikings are superior craftsmen. Their ships are the best in the western world. Not mentioning their military skills.”
“I see.” Melusine felt heat rising to her neck and cheeks. In her haste to judge, she had omitted to notice these important details.
“Their gift for commerce, and their import of ideas as well as rare goods, give them a precious advantage.” Gwenvael chewed on his meat. “I believe the people of this land can benefit from their knowledge and make a better life for themselves through peaceful trade.”
Melusine stared at her piece of meat. “What is it?”
“The flesh of a whale harpooned three days ago.” Her uncle nodded approval. “Very fresh.”
Melusine took a bite. “Tasty... Did you say a whale?” Her uncle must be jesting. Whales belonged to the stuff of legends, although she had seen carvings claimed to be made of whale bones. “It does not look or taste like fish.”
“No.” Gwenvael laughed good-heartedly. “How fares your mother?”
“Miserable, as can be expected.” Melusine could not suppress a hint of sarcasm. “Such a horrible fate, reduced to simple life after being queen.” She chewed her meat reflectively. “Do you know anything about my father’s whereabouts?”
Holding his wine horn, Gwenvael stared into the distance. He looked sad. “Such a cruel fate, to be deprived of the one you love.”
Melusine licked her fingers. “I agree. Our mother never recovered from it.”
Gwenvael almost choked on his wine. “Your mother had the love of the Ladies of the Isle, and she had you girls.” He swallowed another sip. “I was thinking of Elinas.”
Melusine refused to feel pity for the old king. “He is the cause of her doom.”
“He is.” Gwenvael gazed at his niece, his eyes full of kindness. “Still, he lost everything.”
“He was weak.” Melusine wiped the rich fat from her mouth. “Do you know where he hides?”
“I would not call it hide.” Gwenvael sampled a leg of mutton. “But I just heard from a reliable merchant that Elinas had settled down in Dalriada, earning a meager living as a town scribe.”
Melusine’s heart quickened at the news. “What is the name of the town?”
“I do not know... somewhere on the west bank of Loch Lommond.” Gwenvael bit off another chunk of whale meat and chewed noisily. “A miracle, really, that the old man survived famine and disease... he escaped to a country unaffected by the curse. He deserves some peace.”
“But he wronged my mother!” Melusine could not stand the misguided pity, especially from a grown man.
“Men are foolish when it comes to those they love, young lady. They trust those who shouldn’t be trusted, and often need to be forgiven.” He drained his drinking horn.
Disgusted by such talk, Melusine bit back a retort and decided never to trust her uncle. “My sisters and I are on a mission to find our father and stay with him for a while. Mother approves, naturally.”
Gwenvael smiled. “Elinas will be overjoyed to see you.”
* * *
Late into the night, the Viking hall resounded with laughter and loud banter. Melusine watched the diners, appalled at their uncouth manners. Palatina ate with great circumspection, picking with dainty fingers at unknown dishes. But Meliora dove into unrestrained revelry, drinking strong mead, and lustily laughing at her favorite Viking’s antics.
After the feast, Melusine and Palatina had to support their sister, who could not walk. They half carried, half dragged Meliora back to the longhouse where Gwenvael lived with his family. That included small children, grown children, their wives, and many grandchildren.
When everyone in the house was asleep, Melusine slipped out of the longhouse and fled like a furtive shadow along the dark buildings, avoiding drunken fights and late revelers. No filthy water tub would do for her magic. Reaching the south wall, she hid behind fishing nets. Only one guard at the gate.
The soldiers atop the rampart surveyed the far horizon. Focusing on the single guard facing her, Melusine mumbled a few words. She cast a glamour on her person that rendered her invisible. Then, careful not to make any sound, she crossed the gate unseen, right under the guard’s nose.
On a stretch of deserted riverbank behind a curtain of trees, Melusine sat on a mossy stone, facing north toward Dalriada. Closing her eyes, she extended her seeking senses and let her awareness roam the land. Leaving her physical body behind, Melusine flew beyond Ayre, beyond the borders of Alba, over the Antonine wall.
A soft breeze caressed her as she floated high over sleepy vales and hillocks. When her ethereal body neared a great lake, Melusine felt a strange calling, a resonance skimming the water, like an echo of herself. Homing on the mystical beacon, she followed it all the way to the source.
Soon, she hovered near the ceiling of a humble hut. On a pallet of dirty straw, a grizzled man snored, his clothes in disarray. The wineskin on the floor had just dropped from lax fingers. He smelled of drink and poverty.
The hoot of an owl brought Melusine back to the Viking riverbank. When she opened her eyes, a passing cloud unveiled the full moon, and the silvery orb reflected itself on black water as still as that of a pond. Prompted by the celestial body, the lass gazed at its watery reflection.
“Mother,” she called softly. “Can you hear me?”
* * *
Awakened in the middle of the night, Pressine recognized the twinge pulling at her maternal fiber. Finally, the triplets had decided to contact her. No, she corrected herself, only Melusine.
“Mother, answer me,” the young voice insisted.
“I hear you, dear child.” Pressine threw off the blanket and stepped down from her sleeping pallet.
Picking a small firebrand from the dying fire, she lit the nine candles sitting on the basin’s stone rim. As Pressine stared intently into the shallow basin, her reflection blurred, replaced by the face of her daughter, lit by a silvery moon.
Pressine’s heart melted. “Are you well, Melusine? You look good. Where are you?”
“The Viking stronghold.” Disgust tinted the girl’s words. “Even after days at sea, it is hardly a civilized place.”
“Be careful, child.” Pressine hated herself for being so protective. “I count on you to watch after your sisters. Palatina lives in a scholarly bubble, and you know how Meliora gets carried away sometimes.”
“I know.” In the water basin, Melusine’s face smiled, as if she remembered such an instance. “Cousin Ivar was received with open arms, and we met Uncle Gwenvael.”
Pressine almost cried at her brother’s name. She had not heard from him in years. “How is he? And Cliona? Are they happy?”
“They seem to be.” Melusine frowned. “But they are old, mother. Nothing like you described.”
“They would be.” Pressine’s chest filled with sadness. Along with his gifts, Gwenvael had also renounced upon baptism the longevity of his birthright. The thought of her brother growing old and dying disturbed her.
“But I know where my
father is.” Melusine’s cloudy eyes grew mysterious. Triumph made her face glow.
Pressine’s heart leapt to her throat. “Really? Where?”
“In Dalriada, on the west bank of Loch Lommond.”
“The Goddess be praised! How is he?”
“Drunk on wine and not very well kept, but healthy enough. When our visit here is over, we shall go to him.”
“I wish I could see him.” How Pressine longed for Elinas. “I am glad he will get to know his wonderful daughters.”
“Have no fear,” Melusine said reassuringly. “We will take care of him.”
* * *
Sitting on his high chair in the meeting hall, Bodvar stared in turn at each chieftain and guest, daring anyone to object his decision.
“I will stop further raids under one condition.” He made his tone commanding. “I want Ivar to remain by my side, to take his rightful place among my favorite bastards and chieftains. One day, I want him to rule my new lands.”
Young Melusine stared back at him in silence. So did her sisters. Bodvar noticed with a start their uncanny resemblance, but the cool, quiet one had Morgane’s eyes. It brought back unsettling memories.
“Ivar is a sorcerer, not a chieftain,” Melusine objected. “And he was supposed to accompany us on our journey. Do you not have other sons to take your place?”
Bodvar rolled his eye then glanced at his chieftains with disdain. “All animals,” he spat. “Berserkers with no brains. I need a true leader, an educated man, level-headed, who understands this land and its people.”
None of the chieftains, mostly bastard sons, dared meet Bodvar’s stare. They knew better than to contest his authority. Death came swiftly to disobedient sons.
Young Melusine turned to Ivar, red on her cheeks. “Are you not going to say something? It is your life. What do you want?”
Along with everyone else, Bodvar stared at his newly arrived son, waiting for an answer.
Ivar gazed around the meeting hall, took a deep breath, then addressed Melusine in an easy voice, “It makes perfect sense, young cousin. How better to guarantee the peace, than for me to oversee it from the seat of power?”
Bodvar smiled at his victory. Ivar would make a great chieftain in peace time, after the conquest.
“You mean you do not mind living here?” Young Melusine looked stunned.
“I mean I would enjoy it immensely.” Ivar smiled, and Bodvar suspected the young man secretly relished surprising his spirited cousin. “I have a lot to learn from my father’s people.”
“What could a sorcerer possibly learn from them?” Melusine bit her lower lip.
“Enough!” Bodvar would not be challenged in front of his warriors. “Ivar decided to stay. So it will be.”
Chieftains and warriors cheered in agreement. Bodvar looked for any sign of discontent among them but saw none. They knew better than to challenge his decision.
Gwenvael, who had remained silent so far, gave his niece a measuring gaze. “Remember what I told you last night, Melusine. I also chose to live among them.”
Bodvar watched young Melusine swallow her intended remark.
After a short silence, the girl said in a lighter tone,“If Ivar wants to stay, my sisters and I can continue our journey on our own.”
“Then it is settled.” Bodvar slammed his hand on the armrest of his chair. “As long as Ivar stays, I shall honor the truce.”
“And I shall make sure you do,” Ivar said lightly, but his face remained serious.
“Oh? We shall see...” Bodvar laughed, pleased at his son’s audacity.
Ivar turned to the three lasses. “You are strong and wise enough to take care of yourselves without my help.”
“We will do just fine.” Melusine offered with a sudden smile, as if stricken by something funny.
Bodvar waved away his guests, eager to confer with his foreign son. “Now get these women on their way, so we can concentrate on more serious matters.”
* * *
Melusine breathed easier at the idea of leaving the stifling fortress. After Gwenvael’s slaves had loaded their personal effects and supplies on a cart, she and her sisters bade farewell to their cousin and uncle outside the northern gate of of the Viking fortress. Melusine graciously accepted the strong horses offered by Bodvar. She refused, however, the armed escort. She did not trust the Vikings, and three Ladies of the Isle did not need armed protection from mortals.
Hiking up her shift, Melusine stepped on the back of the bent slave to climb astride the huge beast. She had ridden donkeys and mules before, but nothing like this monster of a horse. Hiding her apprehension, she forced herself to relax, knowing that as soon as they entered the forest, the presence of the Great Goddess would calm her and give her confidence.
Meliora had tears in her eyes when she mounted in the same fashion.
“You have a crush on that big red head, don’t you?” Melusine looked for the red giant her sister had befriended last night but did not see him.
Palatina already sat, side-saddle unlike her sisters, in proper lady style. “Such a coarse man has no use for a virgin of the Lost Isle.” She rearranged her skirt and patted the horse’s neck. “I do not see what you find attractive in that big oaf.”
Meliora shrugged and gazed toward the top of the earthen wall. Melusine saw the red giant there, waving at them from his lofty post. Meliora blew him a kiss and smiled through her tears. When the driver yelled a command and cracked a whip over the horse’s head, the supply cart lurched forward. Melusine kicked her horse, and her two sisters followed.
Soon, the small party plugged at a steady pace along the northern trail, in the direction of Dalriada. It would be a long trek by land, but with her cousin Ivar out of the way, Melusine would have free reins to carry out her plans for Elinas. In her mind, she had already worked out all the details of her revenge.
Chapter Sixteen
Steadying the oars of his rowboat, Elinas stared through the thinning mists. His bony hands and shoulders ached from the damp piercing his tattered clothes. Most men died in their forties, but he was well over fifty. His relentless quest kept him alive.
No supernatural vibration rippled the calm waters. Bird trilled and fish jumped. No strange sounds indicated the presence of magic. With a sigh, he let his shoulders drop.
Legends of a mysterious isle appearing sporadically in the mists of Loch Lommond had attracted him to the area. The local fishermen told stories of a sea monster sleeping in the depths, devouring those who ventured too close to the secret islet. Since Pressine had mentioned a sea monster protecting the Lost Isle, Elinas dared to hope. Could he have found the sacred place? For three moons now, he had lived on the western bank, exploring the loch at dawn, in vain. He would try again on the full moon.
Elinas cursed the headache pounding his temples. How he hated his weakness for Dalriada wine. But it brought him the only sleep he could find, a tormented, restless sleep, full of nightmares. Only on a few occasions, toward dawn, had he dreamt of Pressine. She stood under the statue of the Goddess, on a mountain jutting over the mists. In that angelic voice he adored, she sang to him. If only for a moment, the melody chased away the pain in his body and heart.
Elinas pulled harder on the oars. In fifteen years of searching, not once had he considered giving up the quest. His determination never wavered. He would find Pressine and his daughters, or die trying. His life meant nothing without them.
As the morning mist lifted, Elinas rowed back to shore, when a familiar melody made his heart falter. He was not asleep, yet he heard it. Gazing toward the shore, he saw horses, and a servant unloading a cart in front of his shack. A young woman in a white shift stood at the water’s edge, small and dark-skinned, with long dark hair.
Her enchanting song called him. Pressine? She had come back! Intense joy pulsed through his veins. Light and buoyant, in that instant Elinas believed he could fly.
Wrenching himself from the vision to bend over the oars, he homed in
on the spell-binding song. When he glanced up again to ascertain that Pessine still stood there, he saw a second young woman running to the shore, then a third. They joined to call him. All resembled Pressine and Morgane, yet Elinas started to doubt his good fortune.
As he attempted to identify Pressine in the group, he realized that, despite the resemblance and the otherwordly voices, she was not one of them. Elinas knew his queen would not age in his lifetime, but as he rowed closer, he realized that these girls still wore white, not the blue of the priestesses. The lasses could not be older than fifteen. Could they be his daughters? Or did all Fae girls look alike?
New hope welled in his chest. Whoever they were, they could help him find his loved ones. Elinas grinned as he landed the boat on the gravelly shore. When the girls stopped singing, the silence that followed still sounded like music. Elinas had forgotten the feeling of basking in the presence of such wonderful beings.
One lass waved at him joyously, laughing and running, bare feet splashing in the shallow waters that lapped on gray sand. “King Elinas,” she called, flushed and out of breath. “Guess who we are?”
“Fae?” Elinas suggested carefully, troubled by the fact that they all looked alike.
As he stepped off the boat, the girl laid a hand on his arm, like Pressine used to do.
“Of course we are Fae,” another lass remarked, walking more sedately toward him. “Anybody who knows anything about the Otherworld can see that.”
The third girl, who had not moved, watched Elinas coolly as he dragged the boat onto the gravely shore.
“My name is Melusine,” she enunciated in a clear voice. “These are my sisters, Meliora and Palatina.”
Elinas stopped in his tracks. The familiar names brought a wave of tender memories. He now understood the resemblance.
“By the fires of Bel!” Tears of joy blurred his vision. “I remember you as tiny bairns cradled in your mother’s arms. Your crying faces have haunted my nightmares for years.”
Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition Page 38