Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 11

  “But why? I dinna’ understandken,” said Gemma.

  Payton stood and responded, “Ruarc will become the champion of his Lord’s personal guards. ’Tis a position of great honor and importance. He will be his right hand mon. Flynn will manage the day-to-day operations of the militia, which will free me up to work with the groups responsible for spyin’ in Burke territory. We start in the morn by accompanying the refugees who wish to return to Burke lands, rather than swear fealty to the O’Malley name. ’Twill be a good opportunity to start askin’ around about those fire balls,” he added.

  ***

  “Odetta,” said Tragus, gently tugging at her shoulder. “Odetta, wake up.”

  She murmured something incoherently, and turned onto her back from the awkward sideways position she had taken against the stony rock wall of the cave.

  “Odetta, ye’ve fallen asleep again, luv. Willna’ ye get up and eat somethin’?” Handing her a trencher of roast grouse, Tragus sat down beside her and leaned against the wall, settling in with a deep sigh. “Ye’ve one more curse to tell me about,” he reminded.

  She cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes. “Doesna’ matter anahow,” she retorted, pulling off a piece of bread from the loaf.

  “What do ye mean, doesna’ matter? I beg to differ with ye, lass. I believe it all matters. There musta been a verra good reason for ye to go to all the trouble of placin’ these curses. It musta mattered then.”

  “Well, yer right, Tragus, it did matter then. ‘Tis jest that it dinna’ matter now. When Easal or Eaton or whatever ye want to call It, found me scrolls, he threw ’em into the fire in the armory and cursed me. He said that he was breakin’ ev’ry spell I had recorded, and that they were of no use or no power to me any longer. He stole me magic, Tragus. I have no powers any longer. None. They’re all gone. I am powerless.”

  “Ye’ll neva’ be powerless, milady,” he replied. “Ye are the most intelligent and uh…industrious lass I’ve ever ken,” he chuckled. “Ye may not have use of yer…uh…dark gifts, but I willna’ say that makes ye powerless.”

  She tilted her head and looked at him, searching, seeking for something she couldn’t put her finger on. Who was this? He so reminded her of someone or something from her past, but she couldn’t figure what or who. From the outside, it was the same Tragus she had known all her life and grown up with. The first boy to ever kiss her, the first she ever danced with. When they were little, they swam in the creek together, and hunted toads and salamanders. But there was something altogether strangely familiar about him now. She just wasn’t sure what.

  “Well,” she began, “the only one methinks I havna’ told ye about is the curse of the storms.”

  “Aye, that’s the one,” he said, slapping his knee. “Why dinna’ ye tell me what that one is about?”

  NINETEEN

  O’Malley Lands—the Gardens

  “She’s in the gardens, milord,” the servant stated politely before curtsying. “Ye’ll find her nigh the orchard, most prob’ly reading on the bench or the what not, nigh the fountains. She always fancies the fountains.”

  “Th-thank ye,” Patrick replied, before grabbing an apple from a nearby basket, and heading out one of the exterior doors that led down the cobblestone path to the castle gardens. There wasn’t any side of the O’Malley High Castle that wasn’t beautiful in its own rights, but the castle gardens were particularly lovely. There was row after row of colorful vegetation lavishly and meticulously groomed, and shaped into the most appealing contours. The orchards were even lovelier. There were apple trees, pear trees, lemon and lime, with an assortment of exotic vegetation brought in from Asian ports by their trade partners. The smell itself was divine. Walking through the orchards delighted the senses.

  Darina’s mother, Anya, ensured that the orchards were well maintained while she lived, and Daenal took it upon herself after her mother’s death, to continue the legacy. Incorporating intricate woodwork and the assistance of several stonemasons, she had created a winding walking path, several sitting and dining areas, and two small gazebos on either end of the pathway. It was so beautiful, several weddings were performed in the gardens, and guests felt particularly honored to be invited to his Lord’s private orchards.

  “D-Daenal,” said Patrick.

  “Patrick!” she replied, getting up from her simple pallet under a magnolia tree. “Please come, sit—talk with me,” petitioned.

  Talk with ye?, he asked with his mind, forgetting to speak. This will take forever, he sighed.

  “Do ye no’ wish to speak with me?” she asked, obviously offended.

  “N-no, th-that’s not it, at all.” ’Twould be much easier if ye could simply read my mind.

  “I can do that if ye prefer,” she said, looking at him quizzically.

  “D-do wh-what?” he asked confused.

  I can read yer mind if ye like. If it makes it easier for ye, she replied to his surprise.

  Patrick sat down beside her on the prepared pallet and took another bite of his apple. Well, this is an interesting development, Daenal. Tell me, what do ye wish to discuss? Are ye overly concerned about the games? Shaking his head, he took the offered mug of cider, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic.

  She peered at him with a look of amusement.

  “Wh-what do ye wish to dis-discuss?” he repeated.

  “I dinna’ wish to discuss anathang,” she replied. “Rather, there is somethin’ I would like to do—for ye,” she replied. “If ye will let me,” she added, cocking her head to one side, and touching him gently on the shoulder, hesitantly.

  This got Patrick’s attention. Daenal was a most unusual lass. She had little use for frivolity, didna’ often mingle with the clansfolk, hadna’ been courted, to his knowledge anyway, and preferred solitude to company. She was by all accounts intelligent, trustworthy, respected and kind, but she was not, in any way he could remotely imagine, prone to random interactions. Not even with her own brother-in-law. Growing visibly uncomfortable, Patrick rose to his feet and leaned himself against the trunk of the tree, placing a respectable amount of space between them.

  He gestured lightly to the nearby sentry who had accompanied him, putting him on alert.

  Patrick, ye wound me, she pressed with her mind.

  “Da-Daenal, y-ye’ve called me out here for a pr-private m-meeting,” he remarked.

  “Ah, I s’pose I have,” she said, rising to her own feet. “I ken verra little about the ways of the world, I am young, Patrick. Ye have me apologies if I have been untoward or too familiar. ’Twas not me intention.”

  “Wh-what w-was…” he started to ask.

  “Patrick, ye may speak to me with yer mind. It doesna’ bother me, not in the least,” she replied solemnly, staring at her feet.

  Verra well, Daenal. Why did ye call me out here? he asked.

  “As I said, I would like to help ye with somethin’, if ye will only let me.”

  I can’t think of anathang I’ll be needing yer help with, Daenal, he replied, eyeing the nearby guard once again.

  She grunted and rolled her eyes. “Patrick, I can heal ye,” she said.

  “H-heal me?” he asked. “Wh-what do ye mean?” He clutched his crippled right hand between his left and rubbed it unconsciously. “Y-ye mean me hand?”

  “Aye, Patrick, I can help ye heal yer hand.”

  Help me heal my hand? What does that mean?

  “It means, Patrick, that I can help ye heal yerself. No one really heals anyone else, Patrick. Healin’ is not about what the healer does, but about what the…uh…sick…uh…or infirm person does. ‘Tis about how the person needin’ the healin’ finds the strength to let theirselves be healed.”

  Nonsense, he retorted. If I were capable of healing myself, I would have done it years ago.

  “Patrick, if only that were so,” she breathed. “If only that were so,” she repeated. Reaching over to touch his shoulder, she looked him squarely in the eye and asked him, “Pat
rick, are ye ready to let it go?”

  “L-let wh-what g-go? he asked audibly.

  “Patrick, ye are holdin’ a fierce amount of anger, bitterness, and resentment in ye. I can see it. I’m not altogether sure what ‘tis about, but I can feel it, and ‘tis holdin’ ye back.”

  He breathed a heavy sigh and cradled his head in his hands, looking down. The sentry on guard took several steps towards them, and Patrick waved him off. Tears filled his eyes and he clasped Daenal by the arms, and motioned for them to sit down again. For long moments they sat this way, staring at one another and breathing in the exotic smell of the orchard.

  “T-tell m-me, D-Daenal, h-how l-long h-have ye known?” he asked.

  “Since the first day I met ye. I could see there was somethin’…uh…crippled about ye, Patrick. But, ’twas no’ yer hand, nor yer tongue. ‘Tis yer spirit, milord. Ye’ve been damaged in some way, and it has got a stronghold o’er ye that needs to be released.”

  Patrick moaned and covered his face again, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, before placing them back in his lap. “Wh-what c-can be d-done?” he asked her reluctantly.

  She released a longheld breath and smiled faintly at him. “I can help ye release the hold upon ye, Patrick. And once ye’ve done that, ye can be healed. Ye must only believe it to be so, and it will be. Do ye wish to be healed, Patrick?” she asked.

  He thought for a moment. To be healed. What would that be like? He hadn’t had the full use of his right hand, or spoken without a stutter, for many, many years. He had grown accustomed to the constant aggravation of trying to communicate with others. Thank the gods, he was able to speak with his wife with his mind, and she understood him. And Lucian, the archdruid, he was able to read his mind as well, and he his, and their communication had been made easier because of it.

  But to be able to speak normally, with anyone, that would be a blessing he had never anticipated. Not since the day his mother was struck down in front of him, not since she was beheaded before his very eyes by the vagabond Norseman, had he uttered an unhalted word. He had stammered since he was a mere child. What would it mean to be healed?

  What must I do to be healed? he asked her with his mind. Can this be true, is it really possible?

  Daenal stood, and holding out her hand to Patrick, motioned for him to rise as well. “Aye, Patrick,” she began, “’tis more than possible. I believe ye have been brought here, not only for our clan, but so that I can help ye obtain yer healin’. Patrick, ye have much to accomplish in this life, much to do for this clan, for our family in this time. But ye are holdin’ back, and ye canna’ accomplish all that ye must, unless ye first seek yer healin’.”

  Daenal, he said, I am so unworthy of yer faith in me. But I am nevertheless, so grateful for it. What must I do?

  Taking his hands in hers once again, she motioned for him to sit again on the pallet. For long moments, they sat that way, hands intertwined, mostly in silence, but sometimes in prayer. The noonday sun grew brighter, and the time for their meal came and went, and yet they continued on. Several hours passed, and at no point did either of them, or the sentry on guard, catch sight of the man hovering above them in the high branches of the tree.

  He sat motionless and waited, listening silently. He marveled at the unusual events unfolding below him, and prayed, along with the two believers below, that peace would come at last to Patrick, and that he would find the strength to forgive and pave the way for his own healing. But mostly, Jamie Burke just listened.

  ***

  Braeden O’Malley ran behind Fanai as fast as he could. The hound had caught wind of a hare and would not be dissuaded, despite Braeden’s attempts to reconnect his lead.

  “Ye better get that mutt back to his stall a’fore Darina finds out ye’ve taken him out again,” sang Orla Burke from the top of her lungs, chasing behind the two.

  “Ye jest let me deal with me seesta, won’t ye?” he retorted, catching up and then losing his grip on the dog as he made a quick right turn under some brush. “Ye’ve got a bit of a nose problem, dinna’ ye lass?” he asked, before squatting down with his hands on his knees, to catch his breath.

  Caressing the tip of her nose with her right hand, Orla felt her way around it, rubbed the tip, squeezed the sides and retorted, “What’s wrong with me nose? Is it bleeding?”

  “Orla Burke, I swear sometimes ye can be so dense,” Braeden breathed through clenched teeth.

  “What is wrong with me nose?!” she shouted.

  “There is nothin’ wrong with yer actual nose, silly. Ye have a way of placing it in other people’s business, that’s all.”

  “Braeden Cordal McTierney O’Malley!” she shouted back, “I will have yer head if ye speak to me like that again. I am the heir to the Burke clan and ye will treat me—”

  “Simmer down, sweetness,” he chortled, “I am the heir to the O’Malley clan,” he spoke deeply and animatedly in response, “and I demand a certain air of —”

  “Braeden O’Malley,” the demanding voice sounded from around the thicket.

  “Oh shite! She will have me arse,” Braeden muttered, staring at Orla in horror. “Help me,” he begged her. “Tell Darina Fanai got loose and I went to find him.” Braeden knelt down under an elderberry bush and panted. He was sweaty, out of breath, and his breeches were torn. There were twigs and leaves still in his hair, and it had become unfastened from the leather thong tying it back against the nape of his neck.

  “Orla, please?” he asked, mustering a whimsically pitiful look.

  “And jest why in the world would someone such as me, someone as ye say, who has a ‘nose problem’, come to yer defense?” she asked. Ceremoniously crossing her arms in front of her and stomping her right boot, she stared at him. “I dinna’ think so.”

  “Braeden, get ye outa’ that bush, I see what ye are doin’,” demanded Darina.

  Now there were two of them staring at him with their arms crossed in front of their chests. This is no’ goin’ ta be good, he thought to himself. Straightening his dirty tunic he ventured to stand in front of Darina, his eldest sister, and the Lord’s wife, quite certain she would rip his right ear off.

  “Braeden,” she began slowly on purpose, and tempering her voice to a low hum in an effort to squelch her increasing ire, “What ’happint to yer guards?”

  “Uh, umm, well…I…ye see—”

  “Braeden, I havna’ the patience to deal with yer stories t’day. Ye were expected for the noon meal and ye did no’ come, yer guards met Odhran in the kitchen lookin’ for ye, the entire castle is on high alert a’cause of yer…uh…antics and I am in no mood to —”

  “Me apologies, milady,” a calm baritone voice interjected.

  Braeden looked up, towards the man standing behind the two ill-tempered lasses. What now? he thought.

  “I beg yer pardon, milady. The boy was only assistin’ me in traversin’ the grounds. I lost me footin’, and me walkin’ stick plunged down that small hill yonder. He was there, in the brush, retrievin’ it for me. See, I believe ‘tis only a few feet behind him yet.”

  Braeden’s mouth dropped open and Orla gasped. Crawling on his hands and knees, Braeden retrieved a polished piece of driftwood carved into the shape of a walking stick, and crawled back out of the brush to face his sister. Handing it to the man, he said, “Here ye go, Jamie.” Jamie smiled, patted Braeden on the head, and secured the walking stick in a loop fastened to his leather belt.

  Orla had yet to take her eyes off the man. Jamie Burke was a specimen. He was tall, with long wavy black hair that fell nearly to his tailbone. He was the size of a barbarian, she thought. Rippled muscles peeked out from under the top of his tunic, and his calves were the size of her waist. Standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, and his arms crossed over his enormous chest, he was as imposing as any soldier she had ever seen.

  He was dark from the sun, and wore a day’s old beard. But, it was his eyes that mesmerized her. His eyes. There was something so haunt
ing about those eyes. Nearly translucent and amber-colored, they looked right through her it seemed. But, he’s blind isn’t he? she thought.

  “Ye’ll have to pardon the intrusion, milady. Braeden has been assistin’ me with navigatin’ the castle grounds. I can get around well enough on me own most of the time, but with this land bein’ somewhat new to me, it helps to have some assistance,” he said.

  “Of course,” Darina replied. “Ye’ll forgive me for askin’, but how well do ye…uh…see?” she breathed.

  “Ah, no offense to forgive,” he retorted. “Everyone knows I’ve been blind since birth. But, I am not actually completely blind,” he added, staring right at Orla, who was waving her hand up and down just a foot from his face. Quickly, he caught hold of her and bent down to place a tender kiss in her palm. A breath caught in her throat, and she turned as red as her crimson tunic.

  “Orla, I presume?” he asked, releasing her hand.

  “Aye,” she replied, curtsying.

  “Then I would be yer Uncle Jamie.”

  “Aye, aye sir, so I’ve heard.” she replied, her mouth agape. “How did ye—?” she began.

  Turning to Darina, Jamie inquired, “And, how are ye feelin’, milady?” he asked.

  “I am…uh…I am feelin’ verra well, thank ye, Jamie. But, how did ye ken—”

  “Aye, I can see shapes and what ye call—colors. I can see by yer…uh…form that ye are expectin’. I was told that the Lord’s wife was expectin’ and ye have a brilliant golden-colored aura about ye. Most pregnant lasses do.”

  Orla clasped her hands to her mouth in disbelief and gasped. “Ye, Orla” he said pointing at her, “are standin’ jest to me right, two steps to the side. Braeden is directly in front of me, he is most definitely the color of mischievousness,” he laughed, “and Darina, ye are jest to me left, a few feet away. Darina’s guards are up the hill to my right, about twenty paces. There are two of’em, and one of ’em is verra angry and aggravated, I presume a’cause he’s been caused to miss his lunch. And Fanai, the dog, he is lyin’ under the brush now, watchin’ his mistress.”