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

  Finally, she calmed and ceased the weeping and the shaking. He wasn’t sure, but she may have been asleep. Gently, he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the sanctuary of their cave, leaving his boots and broadsword behind.

  ***

  Ruarc gripped his friend Murchadh tightly in a hug that spoke volumes. The sound of the screaming babe was a relief. The child had been born, and was very much alive. Word of his daughter, would be another matter. Would Kyra survive or was she already—gone? Atilde collapsed on the bench in front of the table and cried woefully. The babe’s cries muffled, silenced altogether, and then began again. The two friends exchanged knowing looks of concern, and held each other by the wrists; awaiting word.

  The sound of the screaming baby grew louder, and its tone took on a high-pitched flare, before the chamber door creaked open. People moved about inside the chamber hurriedly, from the look of the shadows being cast off the glowing fire. Voices were low, and soon, the canter of Lucian’s meditations could be heard above the babe’s whining.

  Parkin stepped out into the hall, bundle in hand, and made his way towards the waiting group. Ruarc wiped a tear from his cheek and gave his friend one last squeeze, before turning to face his estranged son-in-law. Atilde, not having the strength to get up from the bench, simply leaned her arms against her husband’s hip and waited; holding her breath.

  Ruarc stepped forward and held out his arms in petition. Parkin straightaway ignored him and stepped to his left, behind Ruarc, and placed the babe in Murchadh’s unexpecting arms. Murchadh let out an audible wail and pulled the infant to his chest, rocking gently as the tears flowed freely. Atilde stood and gripped Ruarc, and they both watched as Murchadh held their grandchild and wept.

  “Parkin, I was hoping we could put aside our differences for the sake of the b—” started Ruarc, before Parkin interrupted him.

  “Kyra says he is to be named for his fathair,” said Parkin.

  “Parkin it is then,” whispered Ruarc forlornly, seeming defeated.

  “Nay,” replied Parkin, looking intently at Murchadh and nodding his head, before smiling and clutching him about the shoulders.

  Murchadh spoke up, “He is to be called Aiden.”

  FOURTEEN

  Burke Lands—the Cave

  Odetta awoke startled. She was nestled in the far back reaches of the cave, naked, except for the woolen blanket that was draped over her and tucked under her legs. She could smell fish roasting on the fire, and could see her damp clothes hanging against the rocks. She was fine, except for a dull headache she presumed she wouldn’t lose for some time. Tragus was gone.

  Had she scared him off? What must he think of her? Weak was the best word she could come up with. She had been weak. Unable to face the truth about even her own self, she was content to simply slip away—if only that were possible. She knew that she was immortal. Eaton, her Dark Visitor, had told her so. There would be no escape from the torture that was her life.

  She would forever be forced to relive through memory or nightmare, all of the damage she had caused to her friends, her family, her brother, her sister, her son and her niece. If only she had run that fateful day at the loch. And she would have, if the amber eyes glowing back at her from the trees had scared rather than intrigued her. Perhaps then, Eaton wouldn’t have such a hold on her and all those around her.

  Determined not to cry again, she rubbed her head and sat upright, leaning against the dark cave wall. She watched as the burning fire mesmerized and hypnotized her into a lulling comfort. There was a peaceful silence engulfing her and her headache tingled and then finally subsided, bringing a certain relief with it. She listened intently as the waves crashed on shore, at the crackling fire, and at the bats who were settling themselves for the long night ahead.

  And then she heard it, the faintest rhythmic timpani up and down, in and out, and over again. It wasn’t snoring exactly, more like a heavy breathing, and it was more comforting than anything she had ever heard in all her life. Repositioning herself below the low-hanging top of the cave, she crouched on all fours and turned to her left. Tragus.

  Her friend lay mere feet from her, uncomfortably situated between two dangerous looking stalagmites, and breathing peacefully. Was he even aware that a young fruit bat rested on his shoulder? Not wanting to alarm him, she crawled towards him and shooed the tiny flier away. The brush of her hand against his shoulder awakened him. Eyes met eyes, and he grabbed her by the wrist in reaction.

  “Odetta?” he whispered.

  “Aye, Tragus, tis only me,” she replied, wrapping the blanket tighter around her. “There was a bat on ye, and I waved it on,” she finished.

  “Odetta,” he said, sitting up and releasing his hold on her wrist, “tell me about the curses.”

  She winced as if he’d struck her. There will be no getting out of this, she thought to herself. I’ve already admitted I’m a witch, and by the looks of it, he’s read the scrolls. I can either tell him or not, but he won’t be as eager to help me if I hide the truth. If I tell him, will he believe me?

  “Odetta,” he said again, “I have no reason to distrust ye, milady. Ye can tell me about’em. I willna’ repeat what ye tell me and I promise, after what I have seen in the last few days, I will have no trouble believin’ ye.”

  Turning herself to sit next to him against the back wall of the cavern, she grabbed his left hand with her right, and placed it in her lap. “Tragus, is there any more wine?” she chuckled.

  “Aye, milady, there is plenty of wine,” he replied amusedly, pulling the wine skin from beneath his kilt and handing it to her.

  “Where should I start?” she asked.

  “Ye can start with tellin’ me what the blewdy hell is the matter with Easal.”

  “Tragus, suffice it to say that Easal is no’ hisself.”

  “Ye can say that again,” he said. “Easal is no’ even alive,” he gasped.

  “Well, Tragus, he is and he isna’, but I will get to that in a moment. Tragus, when I was young, probably twelve summers is all, I was playin’ nigh the loch, and I had outrun me nanny—”

  “As was common for ye,” he chuckled.

  “As was common for me,” she agreed. “I came across an…uh…a…uh…a creature, for lack of a betta’ explanation, Tragus,” she said, fiddling with her hands in her lap. “It lived in the forest, at least that’s what I assumed,” she continued.

  “Anaway, I became friends with this uh…creature, and I began a secret adventure with Eaton. That is his name, Eaton, but anaway, I would sneak away when I could outrun me nanny, or when me guards were busy doin’ other thangs or attendin’ to me fathair’s business.”

  Tragus nodded.

  “Tragus, life in the castle was verra, verra lonely for me. Me brathair was much older than I, and involved with the clan efforts, and me seesta was younger and she simply got on me nerves. My mathair as ye ken, she passed when I was ten. Meetin’ Eaton opened a whole new world to me. I mistakenly believed that Eaton cared for me and he made me feel, well, important.

  There were thangs he needed, and I would get ’emfor him. No’ food, he doesna’ seem to eat or drink for that matter, but tools, and weapons and the like. And I did so, and in return, he taught me a great number of thangs. Fathair wouldna’ permit me to tutor like Cynbel, and I was sore angry about it, and Eaton saw to it that I was educated. I read and write four languages, and I ken me sums and elements and he said I was verra, verra clever. And, I liked that, Tragus. I ken that I was smarter than me brathair, and methinks that even Cynbel knew that and it threatened him.”

  Tragus nodded and squeezed her hand.

  “Anaway, Tragus, Eaton is not from here. And, when I say here, I mean Eaton is not from our world. He’s not exactly a spirit like a sprite or a fae that ye might hear about from the ole’ widow woman, but he’s somethin’ like that. ’Tis more like, ’tis not about where he is from, but when he is from—if ye can ken that at all?

  Anaway, in t
he beginnin’ we were friends, and we would spend our days explorin’ the forest and the shoreline and stuff, and he would teach me, and I would bring him what he needed. The older I became, however, the more demands he made of me time and me whereabouts. Specially when da decided I was ole’ enough to become betrothed, to seal an alliance with a neighborin’ clan.

  Eaton became dangerously angry at me, and jealous of me time. The first time he killed a guard that was followin’ me, I knew that somethin’ was terrible amiss. My fathair locked me in me room, a’cause I told him I didna’ see what ’happint, but methinks he ken better. The next time I was able to get away, back to Eaton to explain what ’happint, he told me what was really goin’ on.”

  “What?” asked Tragus, who was now gently stroking her palm.

  “He was left here, by his people, on accident, he claims. There is only one way for him to return. There is a relic that was left behind with a portion of the other vessel that was abandoned. He can only return to his people if he can retrieve the relic. It has somethin’ to do with how he can get back.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, taking another large gulp from the wine skin. “But it resides somewhere between here and the Isle of Women.”

  “In O’Malley territory,” he uttered.

  “Aye.”

  “But what has this to do with Easal?” he asked.

  “Easal is no longer Easal. Easal is dead,” she said.

  “I know I told ye that. I saw him in the armory, lyin’ dead right in front of me, the day a’fore he told me he was leavin’ for the northern country.”

  “That’s no’ what I mean, Tragus. Easal died several months ago.”

  “What?” he gasped.

  “Tragus, Eaton became verra weak. He had been here, in our world, for so long, that his own natural body was givin’ out. He was unable to walk for verra long, and he would pass out into unconsciousness, unable to control hisself. I should have killed him then. He told me that he needed a host. He needed a human body that his spirit would o’ertake so that he could stay alive long enough to retrieve the nexus—the relic he is lookin’ for—and return home.”

  “By the gods,” he whispered.

  “Ye dinna' believe me?” she asked.

  “I believe ye, Odetta, please go on.”

  “Well, he told me he intended to take me brathair, Cynbel, on Samhain. And, I couldna’ let him do that. Cynbel deserved better, and I jest coudna’ stand for that.”

  “Is that why ye killed yer brathair?”

  “Aye. I wouldna’ let him do that to Cynbel. I couldna’ watch while he stole his life him, and then pretended to be him to our people. I jest couldna’ do it,” she cried.

  Tragus wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly to his chest. “There now, milady, evathang will be alright,” he said. “Tell me more, Odetta.”

  “Well, I took Cynbel from him, and he was furious with me. So he punished me.”

  “How?”

  “He made me immortal.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked, puzzled.

  “I am not exactly sure. According to Eaton, I can neva’ die. I am destined to live out me days on this earth, cursed. I am destined to see all me loved ones perish. Destined to feel and experience pain, and then to heal, and have it happen all o’er agin. I will always carry the scars,” she added, holding up her burned hand in the light, “but I will neva’ die,” she breathed.

  “No,” he sighed.

  “Well, after Cynbel was gone, he cursed me to be immortal and then he took Easal instead.”

  “Easal, he is no’ Easal anamore, Easal is Eaton?” asked Tragus, disbelievingly.

  “Aye, Tragus, Easal is no more.”

  “But why did he need Easal, why not take—jest—anyone?”

  “A’cause if he could wield the power of the Lord, he would have the militia at his disposal, to make war if he needed, and they would do his biddin’, and that would somehow help him obtain the relic.”

  “I see,” he nodded his head. “But, I saw him lyin’ dead. Easal, or Eaton or whoever that was, was verra clearly dead, Odetta.”

  Odetta shook her head in argument. “Nay, Tragus,” she started, “he was only roamin’.”

  FIFTEEN

  O’Malley Territory—the Sick House

  “Parkin,” Darina screamed from down the corridor. “Parkin, we need ye—at once!”

  Parkin hugged Murchadh and left him to tend to the babe. Atilde begged him with her eyes. If this was it, if her Kyra was dying, she needed to be with her, beside her, to tell her she loved her and to hold her hands as she slipped away. Ruarc gripped him about the shoulder, pleading as well, and Parkin yielded.

  “Come on,” he said, and tore off down the hallway, the others following. Reaching the chamber door, he heard her. Kyra was moaning and flailing about.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked Darina, watching Moya fumbling with linens and compresses. Kyra sat up and strained forward, grunting through an unexpected push.

  “She is awake?” he asked dumbfounded.

  “Aye,” replied Elise. “She is bleedin’ heavily and insists on pushin’, although she has already delivered the aftabirth.

  “We started to stitch her back up while she was unconscious, but she woke and started pushin’ again,” added Moya.

  “Kyra, what’s wrong?” he asked, placing a gentle hand on her knees.

  “The pains, Parkin, the pains have started again,” she said.

  Darina whispered something to Moya, and Moya grabbed Daenal by the arm to tell her something. “I need Patrick, please,” said Daenal. “Please—won’t someone get me Patrick!” she shouted.

  Kyra collapsed against Daenal’s lap and closed her eyes tightly, gritting her teeth.

  “Is she hemorrhagin’?” asked Elise.

  “I’m no’sure,” replied Moya, shaking her head.

  Patrick stood in the doorway and was beckoned to Daenal’s side. She whispered to him softly in Gaelic and he stood to her side, placing one hand on Kyra’s belly, and the other on Daenal’s shoulder. He hummed a soothing tune. He locked eyes with Lucian, who was still chanting in the corner, and after a few minutes, Patrick patted Daenal and beckoned Lucian and Ruarc to leave the chamber with him. Ruarc sputtered and spurred, but soon relented. He kissed Kyra on the forehead and closed the chamber door behind him.

  “What’s goin' on?” Parkin demanded, a little more than aggravated.

  “There is another child,” replied Daenal. “And she is ready to meet her mam,” she smiled.

  Atilde clasped her hands to her mouth in disbelief, and sat down on the nearby stool. Elise and Moya busied themselves preparing for the new arrival, and Parkin stood at the ready to welcome yet another miracle into the world.

  “Twins?” groaned Kyra.

  “Indeed,” replied Daenal. “And, Patrick says ’tis to be a girl,” she giggled for joy.

  “What will ye name it?” asked Darina, gripping Kyra’s hand solidly.

  “She is to be called Aderyn,” Parkin interjected, “for Kyra’s grandmathair.” Kyra nodded her approval and leaned forward with the push.

  “I see the head,” said Parkin, “lots o’ beautiful dark curly hair,” he added.

  “Aderyn and Aiden,” whispered Darina, patting her belly, “what a wonderful family ye’ll have.”

  ***

  It was late, and Patrick was exhausted. He could only imagine how tired Darina was. She had never left Kyra’s side, deciding instead to remain at the sick house, hopeful and supportive through the birth of the twins. Parkin was dutiful and doting, and loved Kyra more than the day they married. It was a wonderful sight to behold. Parkin, who had once been known as the breaker of women’s hearts; finally settled, and in love with the one woman on the face of the earth that could control him by refusing to try.

  Airard and Flynn were safely tucked away in their chambers at the inn, and would break their fast with
him in the morn at the high castle. Positions of honor were reserved for both of them at the head table on the main platform. The only exception being that Flynn’s right hand seat would remain empty. Flynn’s betrothed had not met him at the ship, and more likely than not, the surprise wedding reserved for after the ceremonies the next eve, would be canceled altogether.

  Airard would take up the chamber next to Lucian in the manor, and Flynn’s cottage would be ready any day now, less one unknown occupant it seemed. Things were moving along well with the clan. The Burke Leath-Ri governance was settled, and they had elected Jamie Burke as their Tighearna overseer. He would meet with Jamie for the first time in the morn, and go over the details of the swearing-in ceremony; whereby the Burke refugees would become O’Malley clanspeople, and pledge their allegiance to their new Lord and Mistress.

  His younger brother, Payton, had done well indeed. The Burkes respected him, the O’Malley militia revered him, and even Lucian was proud of all he had accomplished in such a short period of time. It was time Payton started looking towards his own future, however, and marriage, and perhaps making a match with a neighboring clan. But Patrick knew that Payton had eyes for only one woman, and he wasn’t sure she cared or even noticed. No—that was a matter for another day.

  Patrick was wary. He was worried about his precious bride, and her seemingly unending supply of energy. He had been unable to convince her to stop her duties at the piers, even in her fifth month of pregnancy. She was a stubborn lass, and she listened to no one’s advice; let alone his. Surely his concern over her condition, and her having witnessed Kyra’s difficult delivery, would slow her down a bit. At least, one could hope.

  Topping the final stair to the fifth floor master’s chamber, Patrick turned on his heels and gently pressed the chamber door open. Hoping not to wake Darina, he was surprised to see a large fire burning in the hearth, and all the candles still lit in the corner stands. Darina was pleasantly humming as she bathed, her shadow cast against the linen screen in front of the large copper tub. Rising to reach her robe, he admired her beautiful form in the firelight. Tangles of wet dripping hair clung to her shoulders, and the outline of her swollen breasts and protruding stomach danced against the canopy.