Fate's Hand: Book One of The Celtic Prophecy (17 page)

“You bastard! You almost killed my dog.”

The Oracle stepped forward, pulling the acolyte away. “Enough!” She squatted in front of Brenawyn, “Ye see, ye are th’ priestess, regardless o’ yer belief system. Ye ha’ powers, newly emerged. Who kens why they ha’ lay dormant so long? Who kens which abilities will surface? And who kens how strong ye will grow? I ha’ nay seen it through th’ use o’ augury. ”

“Please, please, don’t hurt me. Don’t let him hurt me. Please, I beg of you!”

The Vate patted her hand. “Tis no’ personal tha’ we must sacrifice ye, but yer fate tha’ it must be so.”

“Don’t go spouting lies. Tell her true, tha’ ‘tis nothin’ more than yer own selfish ambition tha’ makes ye act this way. Tha’ she will die for naught other than tha’.” Alex growled.

“Haud yer wheest, boy,” the Vate scolded. “I ha’ studied th’ prophecies.”

“So, ha’ I, enough ta ken tha’ she’s nay mentioned but th’ once.”

The Vate frowned and reached in her cloak. “
Dun do bheal
[6]
." She pulled out a sheathed jeweled knife and tossed it to Cormac. “Ye wanted ta dae him in. Dae it noo, ta stop his yammering.”

“With pleasure.” Cormac unsheathed the wicked looking blade, and Brenawyn yelled out in alarm.

“Alex!”

“Aye, I see it, lass. Dae ye remember what I said?”

“No, I…”

“No matter wha’ happens, I will come for ye.”

“How?”

“Doesnae matter, noo. Dae ye believe me?”

“Yes, but…”

“No matter wha’ happens.”

Cormac approached from an angle, the knife gripped in his fist. Alex flexed his muscles against the unyielding restraints, rocking the chair back and forth. The antique wood frame held, despite its protests. In the last instant, he held his breath to await the blade.

“I ha’ no finesse like th’ Oracle,” Cormac grunted with the effort puncturing Alex’s abdomen, “but ‘tis no’ warranted. Ye are no’ a sacrifice.” He placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder.

Through gritted teeth, Alex hissed, “Leuk awa’ Brenawyn. Ye doonae want ta see this.”

Cormac repositioned himself to give Brenawyn an unobstructed view and laughed. “Dae ye see yer protector noo?” and started sawing the blade through his skin.

Brenawyn screamed as Alex’s guts spilled out. “A traitor would be treated verra similar, usually strapped ta a table in th’ town’s square for e’eryone ta witness. Th’ executioner, if he ken his art, would ha’ th’ man be alive until th’ last when he saw was his own beating heart ripped from his chest.”

Brenawyn screamed again, pulling at the restraints banging the chair against the wall behind her trying to break the chair.

“We ha’ nay time for that, and I ha’ nay stomach ta stick my hand in his chest cavity ta yank oot his heart. He’ll just ha’ ta make dae with this.” Cormac took the blade out and at an upward angle sank it to the hilt under his breastbone. Alex spurted blood and slumped.

“Nooooooooooo, damn you!” The interlace on Brenawyn flared to life and the chair broke.

Chapter 22

Alexander floated in an undulating haze, electricity tingling from every nerve ending. He didn’t want it to end, he focused on the feeling, tried to relax, but it slipped away. Grunting with the loss he tossed, his limbs slow to respond. He opened his eyes and pulsing colors beset him: reds, blues, so cool against his skin, the feeling came back now, multiplied tenfold centralized to his groin. He moaned. Wet suction, an eager mouth—
Brenawyn.

He needed her
not
to stop.

The surge of release swept over him and he fought the primal urge to pump into her. He buried his hands in her hair, and she let out a guttural chuckle, renewing her efforts, swirling her tongue over his sensitized tip—

Something wasn’t right.

The silken texture of her hair changed, growing coarse and wiry in his hands. He was twisting away, trying to wrench himself from her before his addled mind connected that this was not Brenawyn.

He jerked as a voice to the side purred, “I havena had my fill o’ him yet.”

The sea of silk crested and broke beaching the voice’s owner tight against him. A
dearg due
, the sister of the one still latched on to his shriveled manhood. Creatures of the faerie, single-minded in their lust, they were identical to look at, the only color against their steely gray bodies was the deep pink of sexual excitement. Their puckered nipples and engorged nether lips glistened with moisture.

He vaulted up, reaching for the draped canopy, and yanked. Yards of fabric rained down and the sisters panicked, unable to abide the constriction of the light silk. Releasing him in their struggle to be free, he stumbled away on wobbly legs unable to hold his weight. He went crashing to the floor.

The two screeched and snapped at each other, rending fabric, until one caught sight of him. A violent upheaval left the remnants of the bedding shredded, leaving her sister to claw her way out. She never took her eyes from him. Alex tried to rise, but ended up on his back disoriented and vulnerable. She pounced, straddling his hips. Vicious razor talons raked him from chest to groin, her forked tongue following the same route, lapping up his blood, healing the wounds as she passed. Some errant thought had him tensing the moment the sting dissipated.

A scream ripped from his throat as festering blisters appeared along the path, and she rubbed against him in ecstasy. The sister, now free, swooped down and shoved her tongue in his open mouth. He resisted, bit down, but memories flooded in, a parody of their same position, this time not forced, servicing them both, though they took a more pleasant form. Colleen.

Revulsion and shame swamped him.

“I wonder, if th’ priestess saw ye noo, would she be so eager ta save ye?”

Alex sobbed, “Finvarra,” straining against their heated advances, “get them off me.”

Thunder boomed when the god of the dead clapped his hands. Plaster drifted down from the ceiling, window glass shook in its frames, small ornaments toppled off tabletops, and the
dearg due
sisters looked around, puzzled. “Ladies, if ye will be most kind, I ha’ business with this one. I will only take him for a time, ye may play with him more later.”

They looked at each other and then down at Alex, but obeyed the god. In passing, he gave them each a caress and watched them sashay through the glamoured wall. “Doonae think about it. Ye will no’ be able ta escape tha’ way.”

“Even if I did, I ha’ nay way o’ getting oot. It’s haur or th’ Stalking Grounds, each prison brutal.”

“Ye didnae always think so.”

“That’s as much as ye ken.”

“Th’
dearg due
deserve yer pity as much as th’ others.”

“Wha’?”

“They are shades, vessels holding th’ smallest portion of their previous lives, th’ most primal, instinctual. Desire is all they feel, but even in their stunted, static existence, they are e’er cognizant o’ their confinement. They battle it in their own way, but ye ken this. For a time, ye battled it th’ same way.”

“Th’ way they can change their form ta leuk like—ta get what they want, ta drive ye a little more insane.”

Finvarra reached down to touch Alex’s temples, “I’ll clear yer head o’ th’ ambrosia’s effects.”

The room came into focus almost instantly, and he felt the strength returning to his legs as the muscle spasms eased. The sumptuous furnishings of his fishbowl prison came into view. The luxury was lost on him the moment the purpose of the prison had been told to him the first time he was incarcerated here. The view was part of the punishment, to be compelled to watch each target be hunted, captured, and killed quickly or heinously, it didn’t matter. This prison was identical, at least from the outside, to all the others lining the perimeter of the Stalking Grounds. He always was returned here to this particular cell.

They were built partly as instructional aids, as if it mattered. Humans against gods—a losing bet every time, even with the resurrections taking him further away from humanity. He was an animal, an abomination to be exterminated.

His head cleared at last and the dire situation in which he had left the other realm came rushing back. He felt the urgency to return.

Finvarra cleared his throat, and turned to reveal Caer Ibormeith who stood silently behind him. He offered her a hand and steered her out of the shadowy recess of the room to stand in front of Alex. She moved with an unearthly grace, a divine ballerina. Her snowy hair was braided and looped into an intricate design, sweeping her hair away from her face. Her violet eyes were strikingly large and expressive, perhaps because she had no mouth, no means of verbal communication.

Caer pantomimed concern for Alex and he slowly stood to show her that concern was not necessary. Empathetic or not, it was not a good idea to be the focus of any god. The last time he had direct contact with her was the night he became the Shaman. He didn’t need any more of her empathy; he didn’t know if he’d survive it.

She turned her attention to Finvarra, placing a dainty hand on his forearm. He looked at her for a long moment, and Alex was transfixed, watching her changing facial expressions. Finvarra snorted in surprise.

He turned to Alex. “Ye caught her unaware. Ye ha’ ta willingly submit ta her inquiry.”

“Damn it.” He looked out at the moss covered cypress trees growing from the sulfurous bog, mentally preparing himself for the process, “How?”

“She needs ta ken what happened. Let her touch ye.”

Alex inhaled sharply and turned to Caer, holding his hands out to her. She took them and gave them a reassuring squeeze, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her hands were cool in his own clammy ones. She brushed his palms, his inner forearms, and his chest with her fingertips, activating his runes as she went. She cupped his face, fingertips resting just at the temples.

Alex relaxed; there was no pain as he so often encountered with the gods, just a slightly odd sense of closeness.

She threw a glance at Finvarra and he nodded, “Think o’ th’ most recent events, those tha’ ha’ ye haur noo.”

Alex did as he was instructed, and her grip on his face hardened. Her eyes grew big, creasing her brow, her body stiffened. She exchanged a heated look with Finvarra, to which he announced, “I must leave ye in a moment ta summon Aerten and Taranis. Together, ye will transverse th’ veil for Caer ta exact revenge. As th’ many times afore, ye will no’ be able ta die in th’ same manner, but ye will also gain th’ gift o’ communication as necessary ta understand Caer. Ye will be her retribution. Dae ye ken what I’ve just told ye?”

“Aye, I dae.”

“Prepare yerself, man.” Finvarra crossed to the console and picked up a worn piece of leather. He then gave it to Alex who put it in his mouth. His teeth found the all too familiar indents from times past. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Finvarra placed his right hand next to the glowing sigils on Alex’s chest, and his left on his forehead. Caer placed her hand over Finvarra’s on Alex’s head.
“é a thuiscint
[7]
.
”

The smell of burning flesh seared Alex’s nasal passages as it traced the bounds of the comprehension spell extending from his base of blue interlace.

Repositioning his hand on Alex’ unmarked bicep, Finvarra uttered, “
cosain sinn in am an chatha
[8]
.” The burning surfaced under Finvarra’s hold, creating the scarlet defensive spell. Later, both wounds would revert to the tattooed form of the others, once he was rejoined with his corporeal body, but now it was a mass of blistering abscesses.

Alex let out his breath he hadn’t realized he was holding with a grunt. “Finvarra, if we are successful, what little remains free I offer it ta ye, in exchange for hiding her.”

“Ye would offer th’ last o’ yerself?”

“Aye. I am bound haur, but when granted leave ta fulfill my office, th’ little that ‘tis, I offer it ta ye.”

“A tempting bargain, but alas I cannae take it.”

“I ken what it is ta be indentured, I was born for it, prepared for it. When I took part in th’ Phoenix, I kent th’ burden o’ my responsibilities. Ne’er ta be able ta call a place or a time home, ne’er being able ta take a wife, ha’ children for th’ eventuality o’ watching them get old and die. I ken. Brenawyn doesna.

“Thaur was no choice given. She was manipulated by th’ selfishness of others and cosmic forces outside her control, even before she was born. Brenawyn is unprepared. She was born ta a different time. She kens nothing o’ being a slave other than historical records. She knows no’ th’ pain o’ having her will broken.”

“Is it that bad for ye ta serve us?”

“To break us o’ our pride is costly. Most, th’
dearg due
and the
sluagh
, can’t survive intact, become shades or worse. I barely survived it and I was raised as a candidate, initiated when I came o’ age, served as apprentice ta th’ Merlin. It will tear her mind asunder.”

“The price has been costly for ye, but dae no’ be afeart, it willna be tha’ way for her.”

“Can ye guarantee this?” Alex demanded, but the god remained quiet. “I thought no’.”

“Ye are biased.”

“If ye ken what I lost when Colleen shattered th’ reliquary, ye wouldnae be so blasé about it. I am forevermore an empty vessel. If th’ day comes when I am allowed ta die, I cease ta exist. The eternal reward is denied me because I ha’ nay soul.” He sighed and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. “For th’ rest o’ my days, I will serve ye in th’ limited capacity o’ which I am still able. Reconsider. Thaur is nothing else I ha’.”

“What ye wish is no’ in my ability ta give.” With that Finvarra turned and disappeared through the wall.

He couldn’t tell the passage of time from the light outside the window. Above the trees it was the same light as in Tir-Na-Nog, indirect and bright, but below it barely traversed the thick canopy. What little that did make it through was further swallowed by the thick sheets of moss hanging from the branches. Small ripples from questing fish broke the stagnant stillness of the water, but even that was suddenly quiet as a more menacing shadow undulated just under the surface. If only there were more light, Alex would be able to see what it was that lurked there. Another predator, one he hadn’t come in contact with yet. Perhaps it would be its turn the next time he went into the Stalking Grounds.

He paced the length of windows, falling into routine as so many times before. Was it his imagination that saw a wear mark along this path? He’s certainly paced it enough over the centuries.

Alex knew he was no longer alone and turned toward his company. Aerten gravitated toward Caer Ibormeith and exchanged greetings, each touching on the heart, lips, eyes, and forehead, and then bowing to the other. They were a match, one without a mouth to say nothing beyond what was prophesied, the other without eyes to see anything beyond the prescribed fate. He felt pity for them because he recognized the chains of servitude. They were nothing if not slaves themselves in their limited omnipotence.

“Is all in readiness?”

A nod from each of the sisters.

“Let us begin.”