Celtic Skies, Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series Read online

  “Odetta,” it said. She struggled to breathe. There was something heavy sitting on her chest, and she wasn’t certain she wanted to see what it was. “Odetta,” it repeated. “Odetta, wake up!” it commanded.

  Rubbing her fists against her eyes, she blinked purposefully as she tried to focus. Her head swam. Dizzy and confused, she sank back down against the stony wall and wiped her filthy hand across her cheek.

  “Odetta, we must leave—at once,” the voice said softly. “We have to get ye outta here, milady.”

  Tragus. In an instant she recognized the voice. Easal’s right arm, and captain of his guards. Still in a haze of confusion and half-sleep, Odetta fought against him.

  “Let me be, Tragus,” she demanded. “Let me sleep, please.”

  “Odetta, ye must wake now!” he shouted. “I have to get ye outta here!”

  “Tragus, what are ye talkin’ about? Where is Easal?” she demanded.

  “Easal has gone to the northern territory. He willna’ be back for three days. I am takin’ ye outta here, Odetta. Do ye hear me? We must leave at once.”

  EIGHT

  O’Malley Lands—the Sick House

  “I must see Daenal, please make sure she comes, won’t ye?” begged Kyra between strong contractions, which had intensified over the last hour. Elise managed to gather all of Darina’s sisters into the sick house, except for Daenal who could not be found. As overseer of the O’Malley castle kitchens, she was usually busy readying the evening meal, or consulting with the chandlers, the brewers or the stewards regarding the stores. Occasionally, she would be found down at the markets near the shore, a task she preferred to undertake herself, although often and reluctantly, she would trust to Odhran.

  “Kyra, we canna’ wait much longer if we have any hopeof savin’ the babe,” implored Moya, as she readied the tools and implements necessary to perform the unthinkable on the cousin of the Lord’s wife. The concoction containing primrose oil and cohosh had done the expected, and the contractions were stronger now, but more importantly, productive. Having dilated to near maximum capacity, Kyra was struggling to avoid pushing and now lay head down, and feet in the air, propped up against a tower of plump pillows and piles of worn coverlets.

  “Daenal is here, Kyra,” whispered Elise from the chamber door. “She was at the fishery, but she is here now,” she repeated.

  “Please, bring her in,” said Kyra. “And—leave us please, won’t ye?” she grunted, between harsh pangs which tightened around her midsection.

  “Kyra, ye mean for us all to leave?” questioned Darina.

  “Aye,” breathed Kyra between gritted teeth. “Jest for a moment. Please—leave us for a moment.”

  Darina, Moya, Elise, Dervila, and Darina’s younger sisters, Darcy and Dareca, formed a single file line through the narrow chamber door, and marched in unison down the thatched reed corridor towards the main room of the sick house where the men waited. Daenal twisted her hands nervously in her skirts and approached Kyra’s bedside.

  “Kyra, how are ye doin’, lass?” she asked hesitantly. “I am so verra sorry about this,” she began, tears welling up in her eyes at the sight of her cousin’s peril. “I was at the fishery, I only jest now was told about yer…uh…predicament.”

  “Aye,” replied Kyra. “Thangs have not gone as hoped, dear one,” replied Kyra, touching Daenal softly on the hand. Daenal twisted her long black hair nervously with her right hand, and pushed a wayward tendril back beneath the kerchief atop her head. Green eyes swam in pools of tears as she wiped her right hand down and across her tanned cheek. Wishing she had braided her hair, rather than worn it down, which always proved a distraction, she relinquished control of the loose hair and grabbed Kyra’s hand on her own.

  “Kyra, what can I do for ye, cousin?” she asked.

  “Daenal, I’m goin’ to ask ye for a favor,” began Kyra.

  “Anathang,” replied Daenal.

  “Daenal, I ken ye have a gift,” she continued.

  Daenal quickly clutched her hand to herself, removing it from Kyra’s grasp, and a look of sudden shock replaced the one of fear.

  “Hold on, Daenal,” Kyra begged. “I have no intention of tellin’ anyone about it. Yer secret is safe with me, Daenal,” she continued between heavy contractions.

  “H-how?” asked Daenal, her face tensing.

  “I have seen ye,” replied Kyra, “in the gardens. I have watched ye with the plants and the crops, I ken that ye have a special bond with nature. I’ve watched dead plants come to life under yer hand, Daenal, and I ken ye have the gift. Methinks ’twas ye that healed Old Mon Stewart’s hound dog, but I’ve no proof, other than after ye visited him, he was better the next day. I ken ye can help me, and I am askin’ ye to do so now.”

  Daenal broke into fitful tears and buried her hands in her face. “I wanted to help me mam when she lost the child and took the fever,” she cried. “But they wouldna’ let me see her. They said she may be catchin’, and I neva’ even got to say goodbye.”

  “Ye were only barely five summers, Daenal,” said Kyra, “by the gods lass, did ye know ye had the gift then?”

  “Aye,” replied Daenal. “I’ve always known, Kyra, since I could barely walk. I ’member pickin’ up a wounded bird when I was jest barely crawlin’, up on the hill near the glen, and I sang to it and petted it, and a’fore I knew what ’happint, I felt as if me body would break apart from the shakin’ and the vibrations and moments later—it flew away.”

  “Good, well then, Daenal, I need ye to see what can be done for me and me bairn,” sighed Kyra. “I trust ye, ye willna’ hurt me and ye may no’ be able to heal me, but I at least want ye to lay yer hands on me and give me whatever healthy vibrations as ye can. Do ye ken?”

  “Aye, I ken Kyra. But, Kyra—I am no’ a holy mon.”

  “I ken that Daenal, but I believe if I’ve got any kind of shot of comin’ outta this alive, ’twill be a’cause ye are here now. I promise, I willna’ tell anyone unless ye want me to,” Kyra reassured her.

  “Would ye mind ever so much, Kyra, if I were to call for Patrick and Lucian to…uh…assist me?” she asked.

  “That would be up to ye, Daenal, ye do what ye feel is right.”

  “Verra well, then,” Daenal replied, “I will fetch’em.”

  ***

  Macklin could not keep up with Parkin. He may have been younger than his stepfather, but he was no match for the man when it came to running. Even woefully underfed and barefooted, Parkin was a good two cottage lengths ahead of Macklin. Not able to wait for the boat to properly dock, Parkin jumped headfirst into the cresting waves near the shoreline, and swam the last few boat lengths to shore; traversed the rocky shoreline, and barreled through thick briar and debris, before ascending the stony headlands, foregoing the crowded pier and stairway. Bloody and mangled, he appeared in the sick house doorway out of breath and haggard, a mix of horror and sorrow on his unkempt face.

  “Parkin!” exclaimed Murchadh. “Dear God! Get him a drink,” growled Murchadh to no one in particular. “Dear lad, where on earth have ye been? We’ve been lookin’ for ye for weeks now!” he exclaimed.

  Parkin, doubled over from the running, leaned a weak arm against the trestle table before the hearth and drank in heavy, shallow breaths. “Doesna’ matter now, I must see Kyra! Tell me I am no’ too late,” he breathed.

  “Patrick and Lucian have only now gone in the room with Daenal,” breathed Ruarc from the sick house door.

  “Ruarc, I’m glad ye are here,” replied Parkin. “How is she?”

  “I dinna’ rightly ken,” he replied. “I’ve only jest recently been summoned. She asked me to leave earlier. And she has ev’ry right, Parkin. I am so verra sorry for the way I’ve treated ye since ye married Kyra. I should have supported yer union rather than bein’ stubborn. I jest didna’—”

  Parkin interrupted, “Ruarc, we havna’ the time now. Let’s put this past us for now and be here for Kyra,” he said. “And the bairn,�
� he added.

  NINE

  Burke Lands—the Shore

  Tragus stoked the small fire inside the cave, as Odetta wrapped another piece of her tunic around the seeping blisters on her wrist. Having lost count of how much time she spent in the dungeons beneath the monastery, she cringed at the dank abode where she now found herself, but she remained hopeful. With Easal gone to the northern territory, it would be only a matter of days before he returned—or hours perhaps—before a watchman realized Tragus was no longer at his post.

  Tragus had almost surely carried her the last few miles between the monastery and the now abandoned Burke piers. In and out of consciousness, it was becoming more difficult to ascertain imaginings from reality, and she wasn’t altogether certain she cared any longer. Choking down the last bit of the potion, she submitted to Tragus’ demand that she sleep, after filling her belly with the cold mutton stew and dried bread he had hidden in his sporran. Covered by his cloak, kilt and tartan, she turned her head towards the rocky wall of the cave, and left him with what semblance of modesty remained. At least his shirt was intact, and as long as he kept his legs folded, there would be no imprudent sightings of bare male flesh. Of that, she was certain, she was thankful.

  Her dreams terrorized her again, but they weren’t the same recollections of the night that Eaton took over Easal’s body; nor were they reminiscent of the loss of her son or her love. Instead—they were prophetic forebodings of war and destruction; precipitated by abject failure. Her failure. If only she could find the nexus and send Eaton back to whichever black pit of hell from which he arose—then she would finally be safe, as would her clan, her kinsmen, and her son. The earth shook, and the night sky alighted with the stark contrast of unhinged stars against an obsidian backdrop, crashing thunderously to earth and erupting into giant fire balls—devouring everything in their path, until nothing remained. She knew this was a dream, because in it—she witnessed her own fiery death. Such dreams wreak havoc on the subconscious; the dreamer unable to control the merciless image and incapable of ending the horror. Until at once, the dreamer is awakened, or the dream comes to life in all its vivid gore.

  The earth shook—again. She rolled and tossed, and her head struck a rigid surface and felt as if it might explode. Strong hands gripped her by the shoulders and shook her violently. Determined to fight whatever demon had come to at last claim what was left of her darkened soul; she resisted. Struggling for air, she grasped ahold of the hands that weighed her down, and tore at them with her nails. The pressure weighting her body lifted momentarily, and was replaced by the liquid torment of ice cold seawater.

  Springing up in a frenzied haste, she spat and spewed the salty fluid, and struggled to gain consciousness and clear sight. Rubbing her eyes with the back of her tuniced arm; she peered at last into the smoke-filled cave and met the hesitant gaze of a panicked and nearly-naked Tragus.

  “Milady!” he spurted, “Ye was in the throes of a massive night terror. Are ye alright, Odetta?” he asked sheepishly, bending at the knees and covering his manhood with both hands, teetering closely on the brink of losing his footing and his integrity, all at once.

  The situation wasn’t altogether funny. But, that didn’t keep Odetta from bursting into hysterical fits of laughter. Unable to contain himself either, Tragus joined in with deep chuckles of his own. Grabbing his cloak to cover himself with, he heaved his self onto the rocky ground of the cave and lay soundless on his back, his barrel chest heaving with silent spasms of glee. “Ye should see what ye look like, Odetta,” he laughed, and pointed through desperate gasps for air. “Ye resemble somethin’ quite like a soaked hound, I ken.”

  “Oh—jest ye shut it!” she exclaimed, pulling precariously at the cloak separating Tragus from certain shame. He tightened his grip on the cloak and hugged it closer to himself. Sitting upright, he draped the tartan back over her wet form, and patted her on the head like a wayward child. An awkward silence permeated the air between them. He handed her a skin of wine, and gestured for her to drink.

  “Oh, ye think to ply me with the spirits now that ye’ve gotten me half soaked and ye there—sitting nigh on naked yerself?” she giggled. She was beautiful when she laughed. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen even a smile on her face, let alone hear the sound of her amusement. She was a woman tormented, that was for certain. And now, he was caught up in it with her, and it would surely mean the death of him.

  “I’ve no intent to ply ye with the spirits, Odetta. Ye seem to me to be a woman not needin’ any help with mischief. I hear ye find it well enough on yer own,” he replied.

  “Ye have that right,” she retorted between chuckles. “Are ye frightened of me, Tragus?” she asked seriously this time, a look of concern on her face. Reaching out to touch his sun-touched face, she stroked his days’ old beard and searched for a clue.

  Never turning from her, he deepened his gaze and grasped her hand against his cheek. “Nay,” he whispered, “I’ve nay reason to fear ye.”

  “Even with me magic?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief and removing her hand, curling it instead within her other and clutching it tightly in her lap.

  “I do no’ fear ye, milady,” he repeated. “Now, Easal is another story altogether. He’ll have me head or have me gutted, of this I’m sure. Or worse,” he started, “seein’ as how I’m holed up in this hidden cave, with his wife no less, and half-naked at that!” he chuckled. “But, oh won’t the story be a good’un’?”

  “Yer a brave mon, Tragus,” she replied. “Tell me why though, why are ye helpin’ me, Tragus?”

  “Well, I didna’ want to get involved, after all, but seein’ that Easal put me o’er yer…uh…care…I didna’ have a choice,” he said. Straightening the cloak about his waist, he patted the wool material and tucked and shaped it to cover his bare bottom against the cold stony ground.

  Handing his kilt back to him, Odetta began, “I know that, Tragus. Why did ye let me go, and bring me here though? Ye’ve put yerself in grave danger on me account, and I dinna’ ken why?” she asked.

  “Well, I dinna’ ken if ye will believe me or no’, but I’ll tell ye anaway, milady. On account of I dinna’ ken what to make of it meself, and mayhap sayin’ it out loud will help me figure it out somehow.”

  “There is no’ much I dinna’ believe any longer, Tragus. Trust me, ye willna’ surprise me by anathing ye can tell me,” she chortled.

  “Verra well,” he started. “I had gone down to the burned-out armory, as I was helpin’ Dougal replace the shelvin’ and restock the swords and daggers. Well, ’twas terrible dark down there, and one of the steps leadin’ down was still loose, and I nigh on plunged head first, down the stairs. I caught meself on the railin’, and managed to straighten me gait a’fore breakin’ me fool neck. Anaway, when I finally straightened up, and the lanthorn stopped swingin’ and I could see in front of me, I made me way to the verra back corner where I had left me tools.” A long silence enveloped them and Tragus stood, fiddled with his kilt, and walked back and forth in front of the fire.

  “Go on,” she implored.

  “Yer goin’ to think me a fool, Odetta,” he whispered.

  “I’ll think nothin’ of the such,” she replied, standing beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Here, drink some more,” she said as she handed him the skin.

  “Well, then…uh…well…I really dinna’ ken how to say this,” he stammered. “I tripped o’er somethin’ towards the back of the armory and landed flat on me face, me feet tangled up in a mess behind me. The lanthorn went flyin’ and landed about two or three feet to me left side, toppled o’er, and threatened to catch the fresh straw ablaze. I crawled to set it upright, and when I did, I saw what ’twas that I tripped o’er.”

  “What was it?” she demanded. “Tragus! What was it?” she cried, shaking him by the shoulders.

  “’Twas Easal, milady.”

  “Easal? What was he doin’ on the floor in the armory?�
� she asked, clearly confused, and absently rubbing the rising bump on the side of her head.

  “Well, milady, he was…uh…he was…uh…Odetta, milady, he was verra clearly, dead.”

  TEN

  The Seas

  Flynn felt the eyes on the back of his head and heard the footsteps as they approached. Leaning over the deck railing, he could see the outer islands in the distance, and knew they weren’t far from the mainland. Mere hours, perhaps. Gritting his teeth, he sunk his nails into the railing subconsciously, and cringed in anticipation of another mindless tongue-lashing from the portly Missus Reid. The woman was a miracle. Certainly, the constant yapping of her jaws was enough entertainment for the galley crew; must she infect the upper deck as well? He sighed.

  A sudden jostle, and the vessel lurched port-side and veered upwards momentarily; sending the missus sprawling, spread-eagled and water soaked, head-over-bum into the aft deck. There was no immediate rally of assistance. Even the Mister Reid, a balding, portly man himself, made as good an attempt as any at ignoring the swine-like hollers from the missus. Apparently unable to right herself, she consented to simply wallowing to and fro, a vision of crumpled, wet clothing closely resembling something akin to an overstuffed sausage in the last stages of frying.

  Curiosity having gotten the better of him; Flynn relented, released his grip from the rail, straightened his kilt, flattened his overshirt, and turned towards the source of the commotion. One swift glance in her direction, and he changed his mind. Quickly redirecting his feet elsewhere, he moved with purpose and ran straightaway into the elderly scribe who had taken the quarters next to him.

  “Airard,” he began, “I’m verra sorry, I did no’ see ye there.”

  “Aye, I ken ye didna’,” chuckled the man. “No rush to save a damsel in distress?”