“Ask,” she said, in the Irish tongue.
Several of the men around her began voicing their own wishes, and Styr translated their demands to know if it was an opportune time to attack the Danes.
Caragh ignored them, her eyes fixated upon the prophetess. “Is Elena alive?” she asked quietly.
The seer’s gaze moved over to Styr, and she nodded.
“Where is she now?”
The woman closed her eyes a moment and spoke. “A green stone rises from the sea.” When Caragh turned a questioning gaze towards Styr, his face was intent upon the prophetess.
“I know the place,” he admitted. “We passed it on our way north.”
But even more important, he seemed to believe the woman. Caragh was uncertain, but there was impatience on Styr’s face, as if he couldn’t wait to find his ship and return.
Her grip upon her feelings was weakening, but if Styr’s wife was still alive, there was no hope. Once he found Elena, she would never see Styr again.
Perhaps that was best.
The men were closing in impatiently, and Caragh realized the necessity of voicing a question on their behalf. Most were dressed for war, wearing chainmail corselets and steel helms with more chainmail that hung down the backs of their necks. Some carried double-edged swords, sheathed within a sealskin scabbard, while others preferred the battleaxe.
“Ask her about the Danes,” an Irishman demanded. “Our ships are prepared for a fight.”
“Are the signs favorable?” Caragh asked, as the warrior stood beside her.
The prophetess shook her head. “They are not.” She pointed to the sky, where a flock of ravens flew above them. “Blood will be shed this day.”
“Aye,” the Irishman agreed. “There will be sacrifices held this day. Blood, in return for the blood of our enemies.”
At the mention of sacrifice, Caragh’s skin turned cold. Though she knew the ritual of animals dying, it was not something she wanted to witness.
Thevolvawas staring at her, her piercing blue eyes intent. “You have one other question, do you not?”
“My brother Brendan,” Caragh ventured. “Where is he now?”
The seer pointed to a large wooden cage that men were bringing forth upon a wagon. Inside, Caragh saw a group of chained slaves, crowded together. They spoke in a blend of languages, of the Irish, the Picts, and those from Alba.
But she did not see her brother.
“What is happening?” she asked Styr, as the wagon stopped before a large pile of branches and peat. Men were pouring oil upon the firewood, while inside the cage, the prisoners continued to cry out.
“They are part of the sacrifice. They will be burned to the gods, to protect us from the Danes.”
Her hands began to tremble, the fear icing through her veins. God above, no.
For among those about to be sacrificed was her younger brother.
Chapter Ten
Don’t move,” Styr commanded, seizing Caragh before she could run towards the cage. Already her brothers had seen Brendan and had gone to plead with the council for his life.
But Caragh refused to yield, struggling against Styr’s tight grasp. “Let me go.”
“Your brothers will bring him back,” he said. “Let them handle this.” He refused to let her anywhere near the sacrifice, and he used his height to block her view.
“He’s so young,” she whispered. “He can’t die. Not like this.” Tears flooded her eyes, as if she couldn’t stop the rush of emotion. “You have to save him.”
He remained silent, weighing the possibilities over. Thevolvahad predicted that Elena was alive, and the green stone she’d described was an island outcropping south of here, near the coast. Though he wasn’t certain whether to believe the prophetess, she’d given him a possibility.
