Loch

Epilogue

Isla looked out the car window at the vast emptiness of the Cornish countryside. Rolling hills as far as the eye could see. Bodmin Moor was a lonely place — a fitting match for the way she felt. She would have welcomed any distraction from the internal struggle that tore at her heart. Had she done the right thing? Could her mother be trusted? And what was this Sisterhood of which Brigid spoke?

She had so many questions, and so far, her mother had answered precious few, always saying that the explanation was complex and would take more time than they had at the moment. Furthermore, Brigid claimed there were things she had to show Isla, people Isla needed to meet, before they began to untangle the knot. They were on their way to meet one such person.

Once again, her thoughts drifted to Dane Maddock. She could still see his eyes, blue like the sea on a stormy day, feel his embrace. She remembered their one kiss, all too brief. He had turned her away, but she had seen his reluctance, felt his desire. It was not over between them. If he was still alive.

Tears welled in her eyes. He had to have survived. He was strong and resourceful. Surely he had escaped the beast that guarded the treasure. She still couldn’t quite believe the legends were true. All of it — the beast, the treasure, and its mysterious power.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Genuine concern filled Brigid’s voice. In so many ways, her mother was just as Isla remembered her. But the deception of the past several years, coupled with the woman’s remarkable rise in station, had built a wall between them that Isla was not yet ready to break down.

“Just thinking about Dad,” she lied.

“I have people working on that right now. When I learn the name of the MI5 agent who was responsible, we will have our vengeance.”

“But it won’t bring Dad back,” Isla said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“Sometimes revenge is all we have to give. That and seeing his dream come to fruition. We will honor his memory by completing the task.”

Isla remembered all the times her father had regaled her with visions of a proud nation united by the bonds of their Celtic heritage and the worship of the Tuatha de Dannan. A society healed of the sharp divisions brought about by the Roman church and the influx of adherents to other false faiths. A nation which respected the earth, as their ancestors once did. She almost smiled at the memory of his passion and devotion to his cause.

Brigid thumbed through her phone and breathed air through her teeth. “Another attack today. Five dead.” She shook her head. “The children and grandchildren of Abraham. Strange that the Jews, Christians, and Muslims are cousins in faith, yet they treat one another like the bitterest of enemies.”

“Strife within families surprises you?” She made no effort to soften her acerbic tone. “Have you already forgotten the Well of the Seven Heads?”

“Of course I haven’t. It’s simply another reminder of the death toll that can be placed at the feet of these so-called religions of love and peace. You’d see no such internal strife in a pagan nation.”

Isla wasn’t so sure, but she couldn’t deny the carnage wrought by religious division, especially in the new century. Which side was to blame, she couldn’t say. Nor could she say definitively that the pagan faith was superior. But given the track records of Christian and Muslim nations, could a nation devoted to the Tuatha de Dannan possibly be any worse?

The rolling hills gave way to a dense forest. A few minutes later, the driver slowed and turned off the main road, stopping at a security gate. They only sat there for a couple of seconds before the gate swung back and they headed up a long drive. Obviously, they were expected.

Up ahead, a medieval castle stood atop a lonely tor. The tall turrets stood stark against the gray sky. Atop the keep, a banner flapped in the wind. She didn’t recognize it, but thought she could make out the shape of a dragon.

A pair of suited security men escorted them inside. After the events of recent days, Isla was keenly aware of the presence of armed men who might do her harm. Then she reminded herself that she was now on the side of those who had been chasing her. How strange life could be.

The men escorted them to a well-appointed office lined with lush carpet and decorated with antique furniture.

“She’ll be with you in a moment,” one of the guards said. “Please make yourselves at home.”

Brigid took a seat on a chair in front of a large desk. Isla wandered the room, examining the artwork. At first glance, one painting looked like a family portrait, but the three women in the picture looked nothing alike. One was a blue-eyed blonde, the second raven-haired, while the third had green eyes and coppery tresses.

A second painting caught her eye. It was a version of “Le Morte D’Arthur” by James Archer, but with some differences. The artist had added to the top and bottom so that it filled a door-sized frame. Odd, but interesting.

Finally, she wandered over to the picture window behind the desk and looked out onto the grounds below. A small formal garden lay just beneath them. At its edge lay the forest that surrounded them. As she gazed out, she caught sight of something colorful soar through the treetops and disappear from sight. She frowned. It had only been the briefest of glimpses, not even a second, but what she had seen was no bird.

Behind her, she heard a click like a latch being opened. She turned to see the “Le Morte D’Arthur” painting slide to the side. A tall, blonde woman, striking in her beauty, stepped through.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she said.

“We only just arrived,” Brigid replied smoothly.

“Please have a seat,” the woman said to Isla, motioning to the chair next to Brigid.

Isla sat down, and the blonde woman took a seat on the other side of the desk. There was something about this woman, this place… She felt like she ought to know both.

“Welcome to Modron,” the woman said. “Your mother has told me a great deal about you, and I’ve read some of your pieces. You are not only a talented writer, but you clearly have a sharp mind, keen analytical skills, and a strong sense of determination. I respect that.”

“Thank you,” Isla said, still struggling to grasp at the threads she was certain she could weave together. It was like the feeling of having a song title on the tip of her tongue, but just out of reach.

“Are you well?” the woman asked.

“Forgive me, but I’m certain I ought to know you.” And then it all came together. Cornwall, Bodmin Moor, Modron, and a woman named Morgan.

“I thought you were dead,” she blurted.

The woman held up a hand and smiled patiently. “You are thinking of my sister. She was called Morgan, and she is indeed dead.”

“What are you called?”

The woman smiled. “You may call me Nineve. It is not my birth name, but I have claimed it as my own.”

Isla frowned. According to legend, Nineve was a pagan enchantress and one of the Ladies of the Lake.

“I thought your family lost control of this estate when your, I mean, her plot to assassinate the royal family was foiled.”

“We did, temporarily. But our roots are deep, and we have branched out more widely than any ever suspected. With the aid of some new allies, I have reclaimed our family estate, taken my sister’s title for my own, and exacted revenge against her so-called sisters.” Her eyes flitted to the portrait on the wall. “And now it is time to form a new sisterhood.”

“Forgive me, but I was under the impression that your sister sought to bring all of Britain beneath her heel. That includes Scotland.”

“I told you she was a sharp one,” Brigid said.

“That was her plan… our family’s plan,” Nineve said, “but I would be content with England and Wales. Overall, our aims are not so different.”

“And those are?” Isla asked.

“Unity through acceptance of the old ways, and peace through strength.”

Isla nodded. “And how do you expect to achieve those aims?”

“The same as you — with power. Political, social, and most of all, ancient powers that defy modern understanding, and will capture the imaginations of the masses.”

“And do you possess anything that fits that description, or are you hoping to share in our power?”

Nineve quirked an eyebrow. “My sister found several such treasures, but they were lost due to the actions of other members of the Sisterhood. I have managed to recover the most important of those items. As to your power, the last I heard, you did not possess any of the treasures of the Tuatha.”

“That will be addressed in short order,” Brigid said, tersely. “My people have already retrieved the Stone of Destiny and the Cauldron of Dagda, as well as the Urquhart Treasure.”

“And what of the spear and sword?” Nineve asked.

“They will soon be in our possession. Dane Maddock was foolish enough to turn it over to the national museum, as if we don’t own enough staff members there to take whatever we want.”

Nineve sat up straight. “Did you say ‘Dane Maddock’?”

“He helped me find the treasures.” Isla’s heart beat out a rhythmic tattoo. How could this woman possibly know of Maddock? Had he been involved in the hunt for the treasures of which she spoke?

Nineve rose from her chair, turned to the window, and laced her fingers behind her back. She stared out at the forest for ten anxious seconds before turning around to face them.

“Well, then,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “It appears we have a great deal to discuss.”