Page 17 of I Will Always Find You
The imperious tone lingered in the night air like a dense fog, yet the source remained elusive. It reverberated around the Romani witch, unsettling yet bewitching. Still, no form materialized—nothing he could perceive with his eyes or sense with his magic. The fine hairs on his arms bristled.
And no other witch upon the Curragh acted as if they heard anything. The Romani witch snickered willfully.So, this is to be a private affair, then. On with it!
“I see you have no taste for games this auspicious night. You clearly did not appreciate my gift—the vision. You did not find it erotic, dangerous or exciting? So be it. Turn your gaze to the right, outsider, interloper in my domain. Look to the forest.”
Though the Romani witch did as instructed, he did so not out of any sense of obedience but of defiance. He did not like being mocked or played with. If this were a witch of the Celtae, he would show the little fool the power of the Roma, a power he had cultivated over centuries.
And if it was someone orsomethingelse, he was still prepared to work his magic offensively.
Two piercing, crimson eyes glowed ominously from the dark depths of the forest, fixated on the Romani witch who stood resolute not too far from the bonfire and a dancing, oblivious Aodhán.
“Come to me, witch of the Roma. Come before the Horned God, for Cernunnos would have words with you.”
Though a sneer of vexation besmirched his handsome face, the Romani witch was only mildly startled by the fact that yet another deity, another immortal, sought to interfere with him through tricks, games, and bedevilment. Aside from Hecate, Gian, and the ineffable Mother Earth, the Romani witch no longer trusted the motives of any god, let alone their sense of benevolence.
And he knew very little about the Horned God, whose motives were enigmatic at best and deadly at worst, like any immortal.
“What do you want from me, Cernunnos? Know this—you are not the first immortal I have contended with, so expect no fear from me. And why should I not seek Aodhán’s aid at this moment? He would be at my side in a heartbeat.”
The red eyes remained fixed in place, hovering in mid-air, bodiless. “You believe you know a great deal, yet you are oblivious to so much. Yes, I suppose there is no time for games now, little witch. I asked you to come to me once. Now I demand it.”
Without warning, an invisible power wrested the Romani witch from his spot and pulled him aggressively toward the tree line, toward the glowing eyes. There was nothing he could do; it was all happening too fast. He practically flew across the plain as the mystic, imperceptible power forcefully brought him into the forest.
The Romani witch recognized that this power was greater than his, even beyond the demon that had killed him in Britannia. Although it closely resembled Hecate’s divinity, he intuitively knew it was a living force inferior to her might. Still, it was a power most impressive and intimidating, and it was wise to respect it.
So he did, biting his insolent tongue.
Upon reaching the edge of the forest, Cernunnos released his captive sole audience. As the Romani witch stood in silence before him, the Horned God manifested in his full glory upon the mortal plane, settling onto the forest floor and positioning himself in a cross-legged stance.
Cernunnos wore a sleeveless tunic that revealed his muscular arms and thick veins, which visibly pulsed with the magic flowing inside him, as much a part of his body as his godly blood. Although he went barefoot, he wore trousers stained with the blood of animals and earthy detritus, symbolizing his dominion over hunting and gathering, both practices revered in their own right. Around his neck hung a beaded necklace, a treasured gift from the Goddess.
Silent as shadows, a stag and a boar suddenly emerged from the forest. Each took a standing position on a different side of the Horned God.
Before the Romani witch’s eyes, Cernunnos suddenly held a warrior’s torc in one hand and a serpent in the other, each symbolizing his power over man and beast. What impressed the mortal mystic most was not the magic that created these wonders from thin air but the impressive pair of antlers protruding from the god’s head.
There was no opportunity for the Romani witch to ask the Horned God why he alone had been summoned on this fateful night. It was a time of ancient significance for the deity’s devoted worshippers, far more so than for an outsider from the distant Southlands. With an air of sovereignty, Cernunnos spoke first.
“You have brought misfortune to my most favourite disciple, child of Hecate. Because of your weakness, you have doomed my Aodhán.”
The Romani witch inhaled sharply, his eyes flashing with indignation at the double affront of both the implication of harmand the sheer hubris of claiming ownership over his beloved, a soul for whom he would gladly lay down his life. And had.
“YourAodhán?! He has been my Aeneas for nearly a thousand years and will remain the other half of my heart and soul until the end of time. God or no god, I will not listen to lies.
“And though I mean no disrespect, you are no god of mine, Cernunnos. As you stated, I am a child of Hecate and blessed with her favour. I have encountered immortals before, and though I know I cannot match your power, I will never cede my life to anyone, mortal or god, without a fight. I will not go into death easily.”
“You misunderstand my intentions,” the Horned God stated without a shred of emotion in his tone or showing upon his countenance. “I have no interest in you. I hold no concern for your fate, whether you thrive or perish, but my heart swells with deep affection for my disciple, the beautiful and gifted Aodhán. He who has captured my favour and holds a cherished place in the heart of the Goddess.
“Your moment of weakness, Roma witch, when you opened your mind and showed Aodhán glimpses of his past lives and origin as Aeneas, has doomed him. You know the price of forcing a remembrance. You may awaken his soul, your connection, but not his memories, not without a terrible price paid.”
“How do you know what I can and cannot do with my Aeneas?” the Romani witch shot back. “Who are you to interfere in our destiny?! Aodhán may be your disciple, but Aeneas was of an Egyptian religion, a follower of their ancient, mysterious gods, and—”
“That matters not!” the Horned God boldly interrupted. “I am speaking of Aodhán, the flesh-and-blood man who dwells in my heart and is the pride of my followers. I care not for you or the long-dead Aeneas, whose soul may reside within my disciple but is not bound to any specific set of gods.
“Instead, that spirit is connected only to the Wheel of Destiny, that arcane, timeless power transcending all faiths and godly pantheons. It shapes the fates and destinies of countless divine and mortal individuals. And it has a firm grip on Aeneas. What happens to his soul affects the mind and body housing it. You abused Hecate’s gift, and so I was forced to step in to avert disaster.”
“You speak in riddles, Horned God,” the Romani witch exclaimed, his voice laced with defiance as he glowered at him. “I have done nothing to endanger myself or Aodhán. Like so many I have encountered over the centuries, you are a trickster god, playing with the hearts of good people to quench your immortal boredom.”
The Horned God’s mouth curled into a sneer of irritation, his piercing red eyes narrowing slightly as he restrained his anger, his surge of frustration. The air around him crackled, and the earth rumbled, for the environment mirrored his barely contained outrage. Still, he maintained a composed exterior, keeping his temper in check despite the provocation.
