Dark and Stormy Knight

by Nina Mason

  He knew Bran’s story. Everybody did. Once upon a time, he’d set off in search of Avalon after being told of the enchanted island by a faery with a silver branch. Along the way, he met the sea god, Manannan mac Lir, who told him of things to come. When at last Bran reached Avalon, the queen kept him captive for what seemed to be a year, but was actually a century.

  For unknown reasons, she let Bran go, unturned, warning him not to set foot in the Hitherworld again lest he crumble into dust. So, he sailed away to Brocaliande and joined the druids.

  Bran, having been to Avalon and back, would know the dangers lurking in the borderlands and how to summon the aid of Manannan mac Lir. The druid would protect Gwyneth to the best of his considerable abilities.

  He ought to take comfort in that knowledge, not use it to torture himself. Should fair Gwyneth find Bran’s perfections impossible to resist, well, it was a small, albeit painful, price to pay for her safety.

  Tom held out the bottle, now half gone. Leith took a healthy slug. The whisky burned his gullet and warmed his wame. It also took the edge off his angst. He wiped the bottle and passed it back to Tom.

  Rolling down the window, Leith lit a cigarette, smoked with vehemence, and let the wind take the ash and smoke. The landscape was flat, the sky gray and dreary. Not unlike his mood.

  He already missed Gwyneth like mad, damn them all—the druids and their crafty ways, Morgan and her curse, Cumberland the Butcher, and even the so-called Bonnie Prince.

  Each had played a role in stealing his happiness.

  If only there was a way for him to cross the veil. But there wasn’t, unless Morgan allowed it, and that wasn’t going to happen.

  Unless…

  As he sat there smoking with the cool wind in his hair, the idea put down roots. He could not appeal to Queen Morgan directly, as the Cup of Truth would give away his intent, but he could send an envoy to speak for him—someone who believed the appeal he made on Leith’s behalf was genuine.

  And he knew just the trusting soul to prevail upon.

  Sir Axel Lochlann, the knight who guarded the portal into Avalon at Fairy Glen in Rosemarkie.

  A Scot of Viking descent, Sir Axel was a good man. In life, he’d been a noble who’d been deprived of his property and title by King Edward I, the self-proclaimed “Hammer of the Scots.” He’d joined Robert the Bruce’s crusade to free Scotland from Edward’s tyranny and was knighted on the battlefield beside James Douglas. He’d been “recruited” by Queen Morgan after falling at the pivotal Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.

  Many were the times they’d swapped war stories over a bottle, first in the main hall of the knight’s quarters, and later, in the glen.

  Even so, Axel would not be easy to persuade. Being a stubborn Taurus, he was fiercely loyal, devoted to duty, and slow to act. Still, it was worth a try. The worst the big Scotch-Norseman could do was refuse to vouch for him. Should that happen, he’d be no worse off than he was at present.

  Leith licked his lips, tasting bitter tobacco and sea wind. Good. That was settled, then. He’d go to Fairy Glen as soon as possible. Meanwhile, he’d send the signed contracts to Gwyneth’s contact at Pinnacle Pictures and get his other affairs in order. If he did gain entrance to Avalon, there was no telling how long he’d be gone. He needed to ensure Mr. Brody and Mrs. King had the means to look after Glenarvon in his absence.

  Heartened by his plan, he returned his thoughts to Gwyneth with more optimism. What if she succeeded in her quest? If Cathbad sent her after the cup, it must play a role in breaking his curse, which made sense.

  He shook his head, hard. No. Action, not wishful thinking, would win the day. Turning to Tom, he offered the bottle. The prophet waved it away, so Leith replaced the cork and stowed the whisky under the seat. The bottle clinked against something metal. The biker’s pistol. He’d forgotten all about it. The gun would be of little use to him in Avalon, but might help grease the way.

  Sir Axel, as he recalled, had a weakness for modern firearms.

  “Oh, blast,” Tom said. “I almost forgot. Queen Morgan’s been hiring vampire mercenaries. Cathbad thinks she might be raising an army to thwart the prophecy.”

  Fuck!

  Turning an angstful gaze on Tom, Leith said, “Does she know about Finn?”

  “Cathbad suspects as much, but can’t be sure.”

  Leith swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. If Morgan knew about Finn, she also knew he’d deceived her about Belphoebe, which did not bode well for his plan.

  * * * *

  “The Cup of Truth of the Lord of the Sea?” Gwyn’s fertile imagination was already spinning the fresh bale of straw into gold. “Do tell.”

  The forest grew denser and the hour later, but the sun still shone brightly above the canopy of leafy green branches. In the Thitherworld, Bran had explained, the sun never set, flowers never faded, and the seasons never changed. Aside from occasional rains to quench the thirst of flora and fauna, the weather was the same day and night: a temperate seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit with cloudless skies and mild breezes.

  “As the magician of the Tuatha de Danann, Manannan had many enchanted treasures,” the druid answered, keeping his horse abreast, “among them a bag full of undefeatable weapons, a cloak of invisibility, and the Cup of Truth.”

  Gwyn knew about the cloak from her father’s stories. In one of them, Manannan used it to separate his wife and her lover, the hero Cuchulainn. Shaking the cloak between the pair made them forget one another.

  “How does the Cup of Truth work, exactly?”

  Bran shifted in his saddle. “If a lie is told over the cup, it will break into three pieces. To bring the pieces together again, the truth must be spoken in similar fashion.”

  “And how did the cup come to be in Queen Morgan’s possession?”

  “A long time ago, Manannan gave the Cup of Truth to Cormac mac Airt, one of the High Kings of Ireland, who used it to determine falsehood from truth during his reign. The cup disappeared after he died. We believe it was stolen by his faery lover, who, for unknown reasons, gave the object to her queen.”

  As Gwyn mulled over how she might use this knowledge to her advantage, they came out of the woods into a circular clearing carpeted with a variety of grasses and wildflowers. She squinted against the sudden unfettered sunlight. There was a forest beyond, denser and more sinister looking than the one they’d just come through. Bran steered his mount toward a gap in the trees. “This is the start of the borderlands.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  Gwyn’s stomach tightened as she followed him across the small meadow. As they picked up the trail again, it began to climb. Leaning sideways to peer around Bran, she could see the path running through the creepy wood. It was open to the sky in some places and overshadowed in others by gnarled, vine-entwined limbs.

  As they rode, she sensed the ill will of the wood pressing in on her. No birdsong could be heard, only the bells on their bridles and the fall of hooves thumping on bare ground or crunching dry leaves. Every now and then, a twig snapped, giving her heart a jolt. The uncanny feeling they were being watched made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Remembering that goblins didn’t like loud singing, she belted out the first song that came into her head.

  “Black is the color of my true love’s hair

  His face so soft and wondrous fair

  The purest eyes and the strongest hands

  I love the ground on where he stands

  Black is the color of my true love’s hair

  Of my true love’s hair.”

  Bran turned around and gave her a funny look. She hoped he didn’t think she meant him. Yes, the druid was dreamy and had black hair, but her tarnished knight was and always would be her one true love.

  No one else can ever possess my heart—never—never.

  Yes, that was exactly how she felt about Leith. As she carried on singing, her mind jumped back to that r
omantic afternoon they’d spent picnicking on the banks of Loch Ness.

  Heaviness in her chest soon crushed the joy engendered by the memory. She missed him so much right then, she could scarcely draw breath.

  Oh, God, why must I be parted from one I so love?

  This time, rather than resent the line, she related to it. Tears tightened her throat, strangling her song.

  In the ensuing silence, the forest seemed even more oppressive and spooky. Just behind her, something crashed. Heart in her throat, she turned to see what had made the noise. A tree branch had fallen across the path. Her gust of relief evaporated when she noticed something seemingly impossible.

  Behind them, the trees had drawn together over the path.

  Pulse quickening, her gaze shot toward Bran. “The trees. Behind us. Have moved.”

  In one swift, fluid motion, he drew his bow. As he shot the arrow, he said, “The trees are the least of our troubles.”

  * * * *

  Assuming Leith’s plan to get into Avalon worked, how the devil would he find his wee mouse and get out again? Standing at the rail of the Caledonian MacBrayne ferryboat with the icy ocean wind whipping his hair around his face, Leith thought long and hard on the question.

  To his great vexation, no answer came.

  Turning the problem over to his subconscious to solve, he lit a cigarette, set his foot on the rail, and looked out across the Minch. The view of the opposite shore’s low green hills and quaint white dwellings was striking. Under him, the sea was a bit rougher than on the journey over, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

  His father had been a privateer before turning to shipbuilding. He’d been named after a port city. Despite having sailed little himself, the sea was in his blood.

  Leaning over the rail, he looked down. Beneath the shimmering gray surface, dolphins swam alongside the boat. Above, seabirds screeched to be fed by the passengers who’d availed themselves of the on-board cafe.

  There was a well-stocked bar on the ferry, too, which he planned to patronize as soon as he finished his cigarette. He and Tom, who’d gone inside to get out of the wind, had long since polished off the bottle he’d purchased at Callanish.

  He felt a bit buzzed, but not enough to quell the despair he felt over Gwyneth. Samhain was only a fortnight hence. Getting to her in time would take nothing short of a miracle.

  He closed his eyes and began to pray to any deity willing to listen.

  Please, let me get to her in time and, should that prove impossible, please keep her safe.

  No, wait.

  If he was going to make an appeal to the gods, let it be for a miracle: that his darling mouse might somehow succeed in her quest to secure the Cup of Truth and break his bedeviling curse. That way, they could be married and have that Hollywood ending her heart was so set upon.

  And now, God help him, so was his.

  * * * *

  Gwyn watched in horror as Bran let the arrow fly. It struck its target—a grotesque, deformed-looking creature with pocked gray skin, bulging yellow eyes, jagged-teeth, and bat-like ears. The goblin stumbled backward and let out a shriek as offensive to the ears as its appearance was to the eyes.

  “Come on,” Bran bellowed, kicking his horse. “Goblins never stray far from their horde.”

  She dug in her heels. As the horse lurched forward, she clamped her thighs over its ribs and twisted her fingers in its mane. Falling off was not an option.

  No sooner had the horses taken off at breakneck speed, then a swarm of the hideous creatures poured from between every tree.

  They rode hard for what seemed like miles and miles before the goblins finally gave up the pursuit. Gwyn, sore and shaken, shook all over from fear and exertion.

  “What would they have done if they caught us?”

  Bran’s expression gravened. “Because I’m a druid, they would sacrifice me to their gods and use me as a vessel for divination.”

  She frowned at him, half-confused, half-appalled. “How exactly would they do that?”

  “Through what’s called anthropomancy, the practice of using the entrails of the dead or dying to divine the will of the gods.”

  Reviled, she screwed up her face. “How in the hell can you tell what the gods want by looking at some poor dying person’s intestines?”

  “There’s a wee bit more to it than just examining the viscera,” he said so matter of factly it made her shudder. “There’s also the way the person died: the death spasms, the dying screams, the way he or she fell, bled out, or burned. All of these things can be interpreted as omens.”

  “Good God.” She swallowed her rising horror. “You speak as if you’ve practiced this barbarity yourself.”

  “It is only barbarity if you believe death is the end,” he replied without expression, “which we do not.”

  She started to say something, but Bran cut her off. “We should make camp soon, so you can rest up for what lies ahead. There is a cave not far off and we shall take shelter there.”

  As they rode on, she wrestled within herself. She knew that the ancient druids practiced human sacrifice, so she should not have been shocked by Bran’s revelation. True, she hadn’t realized they divined using human entrails, but then, it wasn’t exactly a monumental leap from one practice to the other. And, as Bran very astutely pointed out, she had no right to pass judgment on beliefs she didn’t understand.

  The path dipped abruptly, wrenching her from her contemplations, and then began to climb, taking them up and up until they reached the foot of a solitary hill—a smooth dome protruding above the tree line like the crown of a monk’s head. Her horse followed Bran’s as the trail wound round and round until they reached the crest. There, he commanded his mount to halt and waited for her to come alongside.

  As soon as she was abreast, he pointed off into the distance. “Do you see those cliffs over yon?”

  Her gaze followed his finger to an island protected by a wall of deeply etched bluffs. A halo of mist hovered overhead. The island had to be at least ten miles offshore.

  “Yes.”

  “That is Avalon.”

  Waves crashed below them, drawing her attention to a wide expanse of beach at the foot of the butte. Vivid aquamarine surf lapped at its sugary shore. She’d never seen anything so inviting—or so daunting. They’d nearly reached the end of their journey together. Soon, she’d be on her own.

  “How will we get there?” she asked, searching the shore for a boat. From this vantage point, she could see for miles in either direction. There was nothing resembling a boat anywhere in sight.

  “The horses will take us part of the way,” he said. “And the Lord of the Sea will take you the rest of the distance in his Wave Sweeper.”

  Her mind hopped between questions like a startled cricket. She licked her lips, unsure which of them to ask first. Deciding to start with the biggest one, she found Bran’s piercing blue gaze. “Are you telling me Manannan mac Lir, the sea god of the ancient Celts, is still alive?”

  “Of course he is.” The druid gave her a disarming smile. “The gods don’t die just because people stop believing in them.”

  She swallowed, struggling to fathom the ramifications of what he’d just revealed. “So, Zeus and Apollo and all the rest are still hanging around the Thitherworld somewhere?”

  “Of course they are,” he confirmed. “They are eternal, but in exile, you might say. Like the Children of Danu.”

  She regarded him with skepticism. “Um. Okay. If you say so. And tomorrow my horse is going to just swim on out in the hopes the Lord of the Sea will swing by to pick me up in his water taxi?”

  Bran laughed, a sound as musical as birdsong. “The Ocean Sweeper isn’t a water taxi, lass. It’s a magical chariot pulled by a team of horses as white as the foam on the waves. And your horse will not swim. Rather, she will gallop over the surface of the sea as if the water were solid ground. And when she grows tired, if the Son of the Sea see
s fit to support your quest, he will carry you the rest of the way in his chariot.”

  As a lump formed in her throat, Gwyn swallowed hard. “And if he doesn’t see fit to support my quest?”

  “Worry is a senseless destroyer of inner peace.” Bran waved one hand dismissively as he used the other to rein his horse around. “The gods will do what the gods will do. So, what’s the use of fretting about things over which you have no control?”

  Way to sidestep her question, she thought with a frown as she followed him back down the hill. In other words, she would drown if the god did not approve her quest. And she could not see why he would be inclined to do so, given her mission.

  “What if he wants the cup back?” She dug in her heels to urge her horse to close the gap between them. “I mean, isn’t it rightfully his?” The furrow in her brow deepened. “And what the hell does Cathbad want with the cup anyway? If you ask me, he could have sent you or somebody else to Avalon a long time ago if he wanted the damn thing so badly.”

  Bran said nothing for a fertile moment. Then, in a strained voice, he said, “He did send another envoy. Many moons ago. Not just to claim the cup, but also to negotiate an alliance between Brocaliande and Avalon.”

  When he did not go on, she grew impatient. “And what happened?”

  “Queen Morgan locked the envoy in the dungeon in chains and had her eyes put out with a hot poker.”

  Fear gripped Gwyn’s heart, but she refused to give it power over her. “And what makes you think she won’t do the same to me?”

  He pulled his horse to a stop and, as she came next to him, drew something small from his sporran. Holding the object out to her, he said, “This is what allows me to hope you will prevail.”

  The object was a card. Taking it from him, she studied the image of a dark-haired woman in an emerald cloak holding a golden chalice as she stepped into the sea. In the sky, a glowing full moon hung directly over the brim of the cup. Golden hills very like those surrounding Loch Broom stood behind the woman, as did a stone chair or throne carved with Celtic symbols. The chair brought to mind the one Cathbad had been sitting upon when they arrived in Brocaliande.