Flame

Prologue Ironcross Castle, the Northern Highlands May 1527 As the full moon began to rise from behind the distant brae, the shadows stretched up like gnarled, grasping fingers on the pale walls of the castle. The shadow makers, on a nearer hill, began to descend from the summit, forming a line and moving toward the fortress. The sound of low chanting that had come in whispers on the ragged breeze died as the last of the dark figures disappeared amid the tumbled piles of slab-like rock in the gorge beneath the castle walls. At the bottom of the gorge, the waters of the loch shimmered in the moonlight. Moments later, far beneath the castle’s massive walls, a heavy iron lock clicked, and a squat, thick, oaken door swung open. In through the entryway the cloaked figures filed, silent as death. One after another they took unlit candles from a stone recess just inside the door. No light illuminated the darkness, but the line of figures continued relentlessly along the stone arched passageway. A hundred paces further, the leader turned and proceeded down a half-dozen steps into a vast, almost circular room. The open space of the vault was broken with pillars that rose into branch-like arches, supporting a low ceiling blackened with smoke and ash. On the far side of the room, beyond an unlit pyre of reeds and sticks, a stone table stood, an ornate cup and an oil lamp upon it. One by one, the cloaked figures approached the table and lit their candles at the lamp. Then, moving to the crypts that lay along the perimeter of the vault, they all touched their foreheads to the stone before returning and forming a wide circle. Hidden in the deep shadows of a niche not a half-dozen steps from the stone table, a ghostly figure peered out at the ritual. The leader of the cult picked up the cup and then moved to her place beside the pyre. The onlooker pressed back further into the blackness as the leader’s eyes swept around the circle. “Sisters!” the woman called, waiting until she had the group’s rapt attention. “For the souls of these dead who lie here entombed, we invoke the Power.” “Mater,” the women’s voices proclaimed in response. “We invoke the Power.” “Sisters! For ourselves, in memory of their pain, we invoke the Power.” “Mater, we invoke the Power.” “Sisters! On the evildoers, with justice for a crime unrepented. We invoke the Power.” “Mater, we invoke the Power.” As the woman continued, the gathering chanted their responses to her incantation, and the spectator looked on in horror. Minutes passed. Higher and higher their voices climbed, their bodies beginning to sway and jerk like branches bending to an unseen wind. Finally with a wild shriek, one knelt by the pyre and lit the brush. With a crackling roar, the reeds ignited and the blaze lit up the crypt in an orgy of shadows and light. The circle broke down into a dancing, spinning frenzy of moans and howls. “Sisters,” Mater cried out above their voices as their wild pace began to slow. “Generations pass, my sisters, but once again, at the turning of the moon, we have fulfilled our vow to remember.” “We remember,” the throng answered. “We remember,” Mater repeated, raising the cup high over her head before pouring the crimson liquid into the flames. Around her, the women fell to the stone floor, as if senseless, and the only sound was the crackling hiss of the fire. Moments later, the women rose as one, and Mater addressed them once more. “Tonight, my sisters, I have tidings to convey to you, for I have learned that a new laird is coming.” A murmur swept through the gathering, and the figure hidden in the niche edged forward as far as possible without being discovered. “As we have seen in the past, evil stamps the souls of men.” Mater’s voice sank into a harsh whisper. “We all remember the reason for our vow, the reason for our gathering. We all remember, my sisters.” The throng shifted excitedly. “Once again, as we have since that night, we must carry on our tradition.” Mater raised her candle, and the onlooker saw its flame reflected in the eyes of the followers. A chill swept through the ghostly watcher. “Let the curse fall where it may. We shall remember!”