Oracle's Curse: Book Three of The Celtic Prophecy Read online

  They were Dearg Due, cursed for ill-placed lasciviousness to forever be predators that fed on sexual desire. They were dangerous because they could sense the secret desires of their prey and could glamour into any form. Here they were, three of them in the same form of the woman he forgot.

  Horror filled him as the last of the Wolf left his mind clear. Brenawyn.

  How could I forget?

  The hands of all three went to their abdomen cradling a growing pregnancy.

  I left her pregnant with my child.

  How could I forget?

  I’m not worthy of her affection. I vowed to protect her, took vows even if she never retuned my feelings, knowing the companion curse of the Dearg Due, that of the Gancanagh, would claim me.

  How could I forget her?

  I’m her protector, but I can’t protect her from myself.

  Chapter 12

  Dressed and coiffed, Brenawyn was bustled out the door, escorted down to a private inner garden off the solar, and ordered to take several hours in the sun. Her familiar guard courteously stood barring the only entrance to the garden. Man of few words, he left her alone with her thoughts. Surrounded on four sides with stone walls, it did offer sanctuary from prying eyes and the sun was out, the first day since her arrival. The sun felt good on her face so Brenawyn couldn’t even say she was put off by being ordered about so.

  Her stomach did settle, and she felt better with the perceived freedom that the small excursion offered. She had paced the tower room and knew the diameter and circumference of it using her foot as a measure. Not one to suffer from claustrophobia, but the walls were closing in on her. The sky, the little that could be seen from the narrow windows, had a much greater effect on the muted colors of the stone greying them to match the dismal clouds.

  Now that Brenawyn was out and the sun made its bashful appearance, she’d soak up what she could. She sat on a wooden bench with her back against a stone wall. The meticulous garden was tended by someone with an eye for horticultural landscaping. It wasn’t that there was a lot of color, but the shades and textures of the various bushes, mosses, and ferns made it soothing and peaceful. The mature trees already heard the call of the coming winter with leaves painted colors of the sunset, half of which were scattered on the ground. There were vignettes of pruned shrubs planted in knot designs interspersed with plants that were familiar though she didn’t know most of their names. She did see the dried seed heads of coneflowers, Brenawyn remembered reading somewhere that there was a medicinal purpose, though she didn’t know what it was good for, how to prepare it, or even which part was useful. What good was she now? She lived in a time when all she needed was to go to the pharmacy to buy cold medicine.

  The wind picked up, raising gooseflesh on Brenawyn’s exposed skin and she regretted refusing the scarf, Mistress Fordoun called it a fechu, to cover the top of her chest. Other than that, though, the multi-layered skirt and the bodice protected her. Even though the sun was warm, it would soon be swallowed by the encroaching clouds, and with it the damp and rain would return. She could feel it in the air; it wouldn’t be long before the cold settled in and heavier garments would have to be worn. Since she had been here, talk of the almost ever-present rain was a common topic of conversation; she must have heard dozens of words to refer to the rain: kaavie, bleeter, hagger, though now she couldn’t remember the intensity of rain each described. She wondered if they had such a list for snow.

  Where would she be when the weather turned? Brenawyn couldn’t decide whether she wished for the magistrate to come so she could leave, or if she preferred that he stay away. It was solely the fear of the unknown with the first. It would be best if she left posthaste to get away from the immediate threat: Liam, his family, his friends. Movement would also appear like progress. She had to find Alex, but she didn’t know if in her leaving she would be heading in the right direction. There was Maggie, too. Finding her, or at least information about her whereabouts, would probably be easier, although it depended on the bastard’s motivation in abducting her.

  Lost in thought, Brenawyn didn’t hear him approach until he sat on the bench with her. She was startled as much by the quietude of his demeanor as by his sudden appearance. He didn’t even look her way, just sat with his hands invisibly folded in the voluminous sleeves that his belted plaid created. He stared out into the garden without acknowledging her, and it was Brenawyn who scanned the area and saw several other unoccupied benches. It wasn’t as if she felt that she had a right to the area, but the longer he sat there, the more she felt that he was intentionally encroaching upon her solitude. He could have sat at any other bench if he did not want to interact, but yet he sat next to her. He had a small thin frame, not more than 5’2 standing, but yet he was spreading out as men generally tended to do when relaxed, legs spread wide encroaching on her portion of the bench. When his knee touched her skirts, she turned to him.

  “Good morning. My name is Brenawyn—

  “Aye, mistress, the whole countryside is a chatter with news o’ ye.”

  “Then you have me at a disadvantage.”

  He contemplated her, pressing his lips together in an exaggerated, comical way until Brenawyn realized he didn’t have any front teeth.

  He stood with some effort and faced her. He swept into a deep bow, elegant really, “I am Amergin Ambrosius, at yer service, my lady.”

  “Oh, you’re the magistrate. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Ah, if that were only true,” he laughed deeply. “T’is been some time since a lass as bonny as ye has waited for me.”

  Brenawyn felt color creep into her cheeks.

  “Here for less than a fortnight, and makin’ trouble for Himself from the outset. Are ye daft, hmm?” He grabbed her chin and forced her face up, pushing his own to stare into her eyes. “If no’ for Sinclair, ye might ha’ been ash by now. T’is sore dangerous ta declare yerself now. No tolerance, no exception. A witch ye’d be, and they’d suffer not a witch ta live.” He let go and patted her head as if she were a child. “There ha’ been so many poor souls that were condemned without one ounce o’ proof and gone the way o’ the flame, and then ye come. What possessed ye woman, ta show yer magic?”

  Brenawyn stammered. “I um…I didn’t know. Um…I…can you help me?”

  He clapped his hands and rubbed them together vigorously. He was a few feet away but Brenawyn could feel the heat generated by the action. One moment his hands were empty, then the next they were cupped, light shining from between his fingers. He opened his hands and a ball of blue flame sat in his palms. “Aye, my lady, as o’ right this moment, I am the only one who can help ye.”

  “How much danger am I in?”

  “We cannae be too careful. We will ha’ ta bide for a few more days here. Mistress Fordoun can see yer outfitted proper for our journey and I need ta access my library, consulting my scrolls, then we can depart. Three days, I am thinking.”

  ~~~

  Brenawyn was in the eye of the storm that was Mistress Fordoun. The minute the travel plans were announced, she went into a flurry of preparations, and God help the man, woman, or child who got in her way, she’d wrangle them into helping.

  In the matter of two days, Mistress Fordoun oversaw the creation of a whole fashion line, the amassing of cooking and medicinal supplies, a small crop of various fruits and vegetables, and had say in the stoutness of the pack horses that would be supplied. In this time, Amergin was nowhere to be found, though to go anywhere in the Keep was to hear stories of his exploits and those of his ancestors of the same appellation.

  This night’s dinner was no different with a jaunty melody filling Hall. The raucous laughter and merriment died as everyone became riveted on the troubadour singing of Amergin’s ancestor of the same name, fooling the Formorians and Tuatha Dé alike.

  Brenawyn ate her fill, and then some more, before she pushed back from the table trying in vain to find more breathing room. Her stomach hurt from being so full. She thought
back to when she had overeaten when she was home, and the waistline of her pants seemed like a dream compared to the stricture of the corset. How did women bear it?

  “Are ye enjoying the entertainment, my lady?”

  Brenawyn turned to William . “Yes, I am.”

  “Good, good. Afterward, I’d like ta invite ye ta my solar. I ha’ a few items that I would like ye ta relay ta my brother if ye see him. I’m thinking that ye will ha’ a better chance than I would at that.”

  “Certainly.”

  He stood and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  Brenawyn wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin and stood. Absent was her constant guard, she noticed, but she was otherwise unconcerned.

  When he opened the door, Dunmor nosed and whined his way to Brenawyn. She knelt down and buried her face in his ruff, scratching him on both sides of his barrel chest. “And I’ll miss you most of all.”

  Sinclair navigated around them and reached his desk. By the time he’d retrieved the bound package, she was in the room sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, barely discernable due to the mass of writhing fur that concurrently panted and wiggled to get closer to her. “Och, down, boy!” Swatting at empty air to show the dog he meant business. “He is besotted with ye.”

  “He’s a good boy. Reminds me a lot of my dog, Spencer. I miss him so.”

  Sinclair nodded and handed her the packet. “It’s mostly, a set of letters informing Alex of the Keep’s goings on, how people are, ye ken. There’s an inquiry that he particularly needs ta see if ye get a chance, tell him that it requires his immediate attention.”

  “All right, I will remember to tell him if I see him, but…

  “Aye?”

  “Um…I don’t know where he is, or where I’m going at that. You might be better off sending someone else to find him.”

  “I ken where he is, but no’ how ta get there. Ta send someone ta seek it out means that he would ne’er find it. Or if by chance, he did, t’would be on the sheer chance that a faerie’s interest was piqued. Ta send someone ta the nearest faerie hill, would be scouting madness. Into the realm of the gods no mortal should go.”

  “So you have some idea where he is?”

  “Tir-Na-Nog at best, but the Hunting Grounds most probably.”

  “Then you see my dilemma. I have made an impossible promise…”

  “I ken o’ impossible promises, indirectly at least. I ken the turmoil and heartbreak they cause. Mourning a life lost ta ye, but not in the usual way. Ta always be separated by a great divide that cannae be surmounted and then having those around ye be suffering the same. He’s dead officially, dae ye ken that? I ha’ hope that one day I will get ta see him again, but with each passing year,” he sighed, “the grey is in my hair, and my joints ache. How much longer will I live?”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. And more importantly, for any involvement I may have had or will have in your continued separation.”

  Sinclair looked at her considering, “E’en though I am not gifted the way Alex is, I dae ken the gods, and involvement with their machinations is ne’er simple, so I simply thank you for yer thoughtfulness. What impossible promise did they manage out o’ ye?”

  “Two, in fact. I blindly agreed to take up the mantle of high priestess, the one that had been prophesied.”

  He gasped.

  “What?” Sinclair shook his head, waving away concern, “Are ye daft then?”

  “Hey, it was under duress. I found out afterward that your brother was in no danger of dying anyway! But it was too late then to rescind a promise.” Brenawyn crossed her arms.

  “Aye, I am that sorry, I am, but did ye no’ ken the type o’ trickery when dealing with the faerie?”

  “No, I did not, but ignorance is no defense.”

  Sinclair sat back in his chair, “I suppose no’. Go on, then.”

  “Alex is with Cernunnos being housed in Tir-Na-Nog until I find my way there before Halloween—Samhain. I got the god to promise not to make him run the course until then, but it’s just a stay of execution, I’m thinking. Right?”

  “Aye. Ye are quite the pair.” Sinclair got up to retrieve two goblets, and poured claret into each.

  “No, thank you,” she said, but he pressed it into her hand.

  “Since ye are the priestess now regardless if t’is only in name, ye’ll ha’ ta preside o’er the fire feasts, Samhain being the next. During the feasts the veil is thinnest ‘tween realms. Ye willnae ha’ ta go in search o’ it. Where’er ye are, the gods will come ta ye, and thus show ye by their arrival the gateway. If Alex is with Cernunnos he’ll show too.”

  “I’m glad, but that sounds too easy.”

  Sinclair laughed heartily, which put Brenawyn at ease. “Amergin is planning on taking ye ta Anglesey—Bryn Celli Ddu, ta be exact. Be wary, my lady, Amergin is the only other I would trust ye ta for yer safe keeping, beyond my brother, but make no mistake, his presence will rouse the ire o’ the Tuatha Dé and the Formorians both.”

  “Because of his ancestor’s pretense in the Accords? Seems awfully petty for so long ago.”

  “The faerie are petty, true, but as ta his ancestor?” He shook his head, “It was Amergin himself who tricked the gods.”

  “What? How is that possible? How many years ago was that?”

  He held up his glass to her, “A topic for yer journey.”

  What did she remember from Finvarra’s story in the caverns? Nuada, Balor, Bres and the Battles of Magh Tuireadh—war and political intrigue and then a no-name comes on the scene and fools them all. She’d be walking into a powder keg set to blow.

  Chapter 13

  Maggie didn’t remember the ride to their new destination nor the vehicle itself, though that was probably for the best. She had once traveled via ambulance a few years ago strapped to a stretcher, and she remembered being worn out from the ride. Her muscles, particularly her abdominals, ached from the constant tensing in response to the fear of rolling off the stretcher, even though that wasn’t possible. Fighting to keep her balance while drugged was probably not good for her anxiety. She needed her wits about her so she needed to avoid disorientation and that meant drug induced stupors.

  She was in the dark, quite literally, but it was dry, and there was a concrete floor. There was a dripping faucet somewhere in the vicinity but that told her nothing. She had to wait until someone showed up.

  She must have drifted off to sleep again because the next time she woke it was too bright lights. Covering her eyes from the fluorescent overheads, she realized she was in a large storage room. Metal shelves lined the longest walls, packed with cleaning supplies and boxes. Three people entered: Andy, Linda, and some other man Maggie hadn’t seen before. They rushed her. Hands rucked up her skirt past her waist, and Maggie panicked. Linda slapped at her hands pulling them up over her head.

  “Shh. It’s okay.” Andy soothed, pulling the hem down to cover her nakedness, a little too slowly in Maggie’s estimation. “We have to get your cast off. There’s someone here that can see to your healing, but the cast needs to come off first.”

  At his word a cast cutter made its appearance, operated by the new guy who avoided her eyes. A formidable looking tool, but she knew that the blade wouldn’t cut her skin. She tensed anyway, and was immediately punished by pain from the break. Did they keep her drugged for longer than the transit? What happened to hasten the timeline? Or was this the plan all long and the cast just temporary insurance that she didn’t injure herself further?

  The cutter made quick work of the cast and it was off without too much pain. The real shock was the temperature change; it raised goosebumps.

  “Do you have an immobilizer? Or is the healer on premises already?”

  A brace materialized and was handed to him. It was new, and he ripped open the plastic bag, laying the brace on the floor next to Maggie. “Where are the pins for the hinges?”

  A quick search revealed that they were on the brace itself attached to one o
f the hinges. He fumbled with the small plastic pieces; one fell through his fingers and rolled under the next shelf. “No, don’t,” he said as Andy knelt to retrieve it. “They have extra.” He picked up the brace and snapped them into place one after another. “She won’t be able to bend her leg and you’ll have to be cautious; take extra care when moving her. It won’t hold her leg as well as the cast.”

  He positioned the brace, and Andy was there holding her ankle and lifting, putting a supporting had under her thigh. “Take a deep breath, it will be over soon.”

  The man slid the brace under and Andy gently put her leg back down.

  The man sat back on his heels looking down at Maggie’s leg. “I can’t secure the main strap because it would be directly over her stitches. The leg shouldn’t even have been cast in the first place because of them.” He took hold of her leg and pressed around the stitches making Maggie hiss through her teeth.

  “Hush, girl.” It was the first time he addressed her, but his eyes still didn’t meet hers.

  “There’s no sign of infection. Are you still feeding her antibiotics?”

  Andy responded, “Yes, she still has a couple of days left on the second round of them. We’ve been giving her injections twice a day.

  Second round…if the same length of time still held true, one round of antibiotics for something like this was ten days, then the second minus a few days; she’s been gone for almost three weeks! Factoring in the change of locations once in an indeterminate direction and distance, her chances of being found were almost nonexistent.

  The man nodded and stood, wiping at his knees. “My suggestion is that you keep her drugged until the healer comes. It would lessen the chances of her moving and make your job of supervision easier.”