Authors: Brit Darby
Emerald Prince
Emerald Prince
by
Brit Darby
Copyright © 2012 Brit Darby
Kindle Edition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Legend
— and from a fragment of the great pillar stone at Tara, Lia Fáil, the Tuatha de Danaan created an emerald to hold the magick powers — Seòd Fios, the Jewel of Knowledge. Its green fire embraced the lessons of many ages; its five facets reflected the virtues of love, forgiveness, truth, honor and unity. The stone was a gift to the future daughters of the faerykind, so its power might be called upon to aid Eire when she is shadowed by darkness and blood —
Prologue
Inishdeven Island,
Lough Ree, 937
D
ESPITE HIS PRAYERS, THE
pagans came.
Huddled at the top of the round stone tower, Brother Donal tried to block out the screams of his brethren below. “
A furore Normannorum libera nos domine
,” he murmured, crossing himself. “Lord, save us from the rage of the Nordic men.”
Angry shouts carried on a hot wind up to him, as if a reply from Hades itself. Fingers of fear crept up his spine and clutched him by the throat. St. Gall’s was caught off guard. They never expected the Vik to travel so far inland.
As the youngest and quickest monk, if raiders came it was Donal’s duty to ring the tower bell in sets of three. Thus, he did as Father Murray ordered and pulled each ladder up after him as he made the perilous climb through the tower’s belly to the belfry. He set the bronze bell clanging.
Unum, duos, trois. Repeto
.
Guilt scorched him now. He knew he had condemned his fellow monks with his earlier actions. Yet had he stayed below, he would have died with them. He took consolation in the thought perhaps a few villagers were saved by the warning peals echoing across the island.
Donal knew he should not fear death. Yet terror lay like a stone in the pit of his stomach, and bile tasted bitter in his dry mouth. He swallowed, trying to ease the knot in his throat.
He would wait until the din below quieted. He intended to keep his promise to God — he would survive this terrible day to provide solace to the living and absolution to the dead. He fell to his knees, clasped his hands, bowed his head and closed his eyes. Until it was safe to leave the tower, he must pray.
Smoke slithered up the tower walls and drifted in through the single window slit, carrying the foul stench of burned flesh. Guttural curses far below assaulted Donal’s strained nerves. Fortunately, he thought, even the Devil himself could not burn stone.
Pray. He must pray harder.
Suddenly, it was silent. Were his prayers answered? Had the pagans gone, or were they waiting him out? He rose and picked up the sputtering candle taper from the crude table. The tiny flame was no shield against the onslaught of night. Still, it comforted him.
As darkness crept over the priory, Donal paced in the tower. It remained silent below. All he heard was his own rapid heartbeat and shallow breathing.
Desperate for distraction, he forced himself to sit at the table and gripped a page of the Inishdeven Gospels. The elegant script fashioned from his hands moved through his heart and flowed across his lips. Staring at the intricate design, he tried to block out the memory of this day.
Despite his efforts, his meditation failed. His prayers remained unfinished. Hours passed. The candle sputtered out. Dawn came and went, but the page never turned in his hands.
A noise jolted Donal upright, like a knife driven into his belly. Had he dozed off?
Certe
, and dreamed of dying from starvation trapped in the tower. His gaze flew to the single hatchway in the small, sparsely furnished room. He listened, afraid to even breathe. But nobody disturbed his primitive sanctuary. Had he imagined the sound?
A whisper broke the ungodly quiet. It brushed past his chaotic thoughts. A strange force beckoned him, and coaxed him like a siren’s song from the safety of his retreat.
Donal stood. He barked his knee against the crude table and the pages he spent years laboriously crafting tumbled to the floor. He stumbled to the window slit and peered across the pale dawn. Praise Jesu, the heathens were gone — only the dead and dying ruled St. Gall’s now.
At an opening in the floor, he pulled a heavy hatchway open and peeked cautiously over the edge to the room below. He lowered the rough rope ladder and descended on trembling legs. A fresh wave of panic threatened to send him scrambling back up to his refuge and he paused to gather his courage. He heard his own gasping breaths echo off the walls, as if mocking him for his cowardice.
Donal pushed back the fear and continued his descent. After what seemed an eternity, he arrived at the thick door leading outside. He removed the wooden brace across the door and opened it; the hinges creaked loudly in protest. He rolled the last rope ladder out, dropping it to the ground. He scrambled down, and when his foot felt earth, he whirled and ran. He ran like a man possessed. Where, he did not know.
The cool darkness of the stone tower house gave way to the warmth of midsummer morn. He dreaded seeing the bloody carnage he knew lay about him. Something finally penetrated his numb mind — a smell. The unforgettable stench of death blasted his nostrils.
He gasped. The foul haze robbed the air from his labored lungs, forced him to slow. He staggered over the grounds of the burned abbey, wheezing and weaving through a maze of fallen men. He kept going, shielded only by his faith.
A hoarse cry startled Donal. A mixture of pain, rage, and agony. He froze and his gaze rose to clash with a man’s facing him.
Before him stood a giant man — nay, no man — a
demon
. Wild, glazed blue eyes raked over Donal. Dirt and soot smudged angular features leathered by the sun, salt-creased by the sea. Blood from the Vik’s victims still splattered his face. More red stained the long, blond hair whipping about his broad shoulders.
The Vik raised his massive arm, sword in hand. His deeply-muscled biceps flexed from the strain. Another guttural, savage scream rent the air, proclaiming Donal’s impending death to the world.
Unable to look away from the pagan’s ice-blue stare, Donal fumbled for his crucifix. He clutched it to his heart and waited for death’s blow.
The warrior’s gaze went to the simple wooden cross Donal held. His sword arm wavered, and his weapon lowered. Suddenly, a crossbow quarrel raced across the ash-blackened sky. It whistled past Donal and found its mark.
The quarrel struck deep and true into the Norseman. It plowed through to the fletches. The Vik sank to his knees, dropping his sword with a thud.
In the distance, Donal heard the shouts of his saviors. His prayers were answered. The villagers had arrived, brandishing everything from crossbows to shovels. Terror still gripped him, but a stronger, compassionate hand guided him. He stepped towards the dying warrior. The man’s eyes no longer held any threat. They seemed — sad.
The Vik struggled to reach his sword. Without pausing to think, Donal helped. He picked up the weapon and returned it to its owner. The pagan clutched the hilt to his chest, using it for support. Something like gratitude softened his hard expression.
Then the warrior spoke, with a burst of foamy blood from his mouth. “Many years ago, my ancestor was taken in a raid from these shores.”
He spoke Latin. Shocked, Donal stared at him in a mixture of fear and fascination. Why would a stranger, a pagan devil, tell him anything? Donal had heard his share of deathbed confessions, but this moment was surreal. Still, he sensed it was important, so he nodded and waited.
The Vik coughed, a wet gurgle of death as he wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. “The runes foretold I would not return to my homeland. I will enter Valhalla from these shores. Before I join my ancestors, I must return the stone,
Seòd Fios
.”
The warrior fumbled beneath the neck of his tunic. He yanked off a sinew cord with something dangling from it and offered it to Donal. “The jewel’s journey must continue.”
Donal took the necklace. “Jewel?” Looking closer, he saw a large emerald.
“
Seòd Fios
,” the Vik whispered hoarsely. “It beckons — you must answer.”
Donal glanced from the green jewel to the bloodied man who had given it to him. “I don’t know what to do with this. Please, you must tell me.”
A cough shook the Vik again. Blood spewed from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. “The stone has traveled down through centuries in my family. It must always pass to the eldest daughter of the line.”
With a shaking hand, the Norseman pointed at the crucifix Donal wore. “Your god will tell you what to do — but the Jewel of Knowledge must find its way to a female descendant of Fand, and no other.”
The warrior gasped and summoned the last of his strength. He raised his sword to the darkened sky and cried, “To O-O-Odin!”
The Vik slumped to the ground. The shadow of death stole the light from his eyes. Donal knelt and closed the man’s eyelids. A Christian prayer was unfitting for a pagan, yet respect seemed appropriate. So he prayed the Vik was in this Valhalla he spoke of so fervently.
“
Seòd Fios
.” Donal repeated the Vik’s words, heart racing as he stared at the jewel in his hands. An old Irish myth came to mind — the legend of the Faery Queen Fand. His fingers closed around the emerald and he raised his gaze to the blackened sky.