Cate Tiernan - Eclipse

It was Ciaran, trying to claw his way through the binding spell.

Sitting there, remembering the last time I had seen this rite, I realized we needed to make some arrangement about Ciaran, for afterward. I left Bethany, went over to Hunter, and waited until he paused and met my eyes.

“I think I should call Killian to come get him,” I said very quietly. “None of us is going to want to take care of him afterward.”

For long moments Hunter looked at me, then he nodded. “That’s good thinking, Morgan. Can you send the message?”

I nodded and went back to sit next to Bethany on my bench, where I concentrated and sent a witch message to my half brother Killian MacEwan, the only one of my half siblings I had met. Despite being extremely different, we had forged a somewhat caring relationship. After tonight, I assumed, that would be over.

When Killian answered me, he was in Poughkeepsie, an hour and a half away. I asked him to come to Widow’s Vale at once and told him it was important, but didn’t tell him why. He said he would, and I hoped he meant it.

At last Hunter stood. “All right, I think we can begin.”

Bethany squeezed my shoulder, stroked my hair briefly, then joined Hunter, Alyce, and Silver as they lifted Ciaran and carried him into the middle of the pentacle. Mr. Niall stayed away—I wondered if he didn’t trust himself to get close to Ciaran without attacking him.

The four witches bent Ciaran’s unresisting body so he was kneeling on the ground with his arms by his sides. Then Hunter ran his hands over Ciaran, taking off anything metal, taking off his shoes, loosening his collar, his cuffs. He was quick and efficient, but not rough.

I saw a tiny muscle jerking in Ciaran’s cheek. With no warning a sudden, searing pain ripped into my mind. I cried out and pressed my hand to the side of my head. I heard Hunter shout and felt a flash fire of panic in the air around me. In an instant I realized it was Ciaran, trying to break free. Without looking I flung out my hand, singing out Ciaran’s true name. The pain in my head dulled, and when I raised my eyes, I saw Ciaran sprawled motionless on his side on the cold ground. He had almost made it. He had almost broken free.

Hunter looked over at me questioningly.

I nodded. “I have him,” I said shakily, rubbing the dull ache in my skull.

“Right. One more time,” Hunter said, and again he and the women propped Ciaran into a kneeling position. I knew that if I hadn’t managed to stop Ciaran so quickly, we’d all be dead now.

Then Hunter stood at the top of the pentacle, and the other four arranged themselves around the points. With closed eyes and bowed heads, each witch concentrated on relaxing, on letting go of emotion, on releasing any anger they might have. After several minutes Hunter raised his head, and I saw that he was a Seeker and no longer just someone I loved.

“East, south, west, and north,” he began, “we call on your guardians to help us in this sad rite. Goddess and God, we invoke your names, your spirits, your powers here tonight so that we may act fairly, with justice and compassion. Here, under the full moon of this, the first and last month of the year, we have gathered to take from Ciaran MacEwan his magick and his powers, as punishment for crimes committed against human and witch, woman and man and child. Alyce of Starlocket, are you in agreement?”

“Yes,” Alyce said faintly.

“Bethany of Starlocket, are you in agreement?”

“Yes.” Her voice was more strong.

“Silver of Starlocket, are you in agreement?”

“Yes.”

“Daniel of Turloch-eigh, are you in agreement?”

“Aye.” His voice was like a rasp.

“No more shall he wake a witch,” Hunter said.

Silver, Alyce, Bethany, and Mr. Niall all repeated, “No more shall he wake a witch.”

“No more shall he know the beauty and terror of your power,” Hunter said, and they repeated it. I heard it echoing in my mind as I rocked myself back and forth on the cold cement.

“No more shall he do harm to any living thing.”

“No more shall he be one of us.”

“Ciaran MacEwan, we have met, and in the name of witches everywhere, we have passed judgment on you. You have called on the dark wave, you are responsible for untold deaths, you have participated in other rites of darkness that are abhorrent to those who follow the Goddess. Tonight you will have your powers stripped from you. Do you understand?”

There was no response from Ciaran, but the muffled clawing sensation in my head increased. I raised my voice from where I was. “He’s trying to break the binding spell,” I said.

“Strengthen it,” Hunter said gently, and I closed my eyes and did as he said.

When Hunter had stripped David Redstone of his powers, Sky had used a drumbeat to guide our energy. Tonight the five witches began chanting, first one and then another, and kept time with rhythmic stamping of their feet on the ground. Hunter’s voice was deeper and rougher than the women’s; Mr. Niall’s sounded thinner and weaker. Everyone looked sad. Their voices blended and wove together, but instead of the beautiful, exhilarating power chants I was used to, this one seemed harsh, mournful, more cacophonous. I felt the increasing energy in the air around me; goose bumps broke out on on my arms, and my hair felt full of static. I could feel that every animal and bird had left the area. I didn’t blame them.

When I looked down, I saw that the star, the pentagram, had begun to glow with a whiter light—their energy. I knew what was coming next, and my stomach clenched. I drew my knees up again and held them tightly against myself and felt that I would bear the scars of this night forever. As would Ciaran.

The chanting ended abruptly, and Hunter bent to touch his athame to the white lines of energy. The knife glowed briefly, and when Hunter raised it, it seemed to draw up a pale, whitish blue film, like smoke or cotton candy. Slowly Hunter walked around the pentacle, drawing this light around Ciaran, as if he were at the bottom of a slow, beautiful tornado. When the light reached the top of Ciaran’s head, Hunter gave me a sharp look.

“Take off the binding spell.”

Praying he knew what he was doing, I released my father. In a split second he sprang up, roaring like a tortured animal, and just as quickly he seemed to hit the barrier of light and drop like a dead thing to the ground, where he lay on his side. He could move now, and his hands clutched at his clothes, at his hair. His bare feet moved convulsively, and he drew in on himself like a snail, trying to avoid any contact with the light. His eyes were closed, his mouth working soundlessly.

A sob erupted from deep within me, then another and another. No longer having to concentrate on holding the spell, my emotions poured out, and I was so shaken and upset that I wasn’t even embarrassed. Through my tears I saw glistening traces on Alyce’s face, on Bethany’s. Silver looked deeply saddened. Mr. Niall looked calm, focused. Hunter looked grim, purposeful, not angry or hateful. Still chanting quietly by himself, he spiraled the energy around Ciaran, slowly and completely. When at last he lifted the athame away, it swirled around Ciaran unaided.

Then the images began, the images that defined who Ciaran had been, who he had become. Watching through my tears, still shaking with sobs, I saw a boy, handsome and happy, running across a green Scottish field with a kite. It was diving groundward, and with a flick of his hand, young Ciaran sent it back up to the clouds. I saw fourteen-year-old Ciaran being initiated, wearing a dark, almost black robe sprinkled with silver threads. He looked very solemn, and I felt that in his eyes there was already a glimmer of the witch he would become. Ciaran aged in the visions, and we saw teenage Ciaran courting girls, working on spells, having arguments with a man I thought must have been his father—my grandfather. Then to my shock, I saw a teenage Ciaran with a young Selene Belltower, just for an instant. I blinked, and there was Ciaran, being wed to Grania, her belly already round with their first child, Kyle. My breath stopped, sobs caught in my throat, as I saw Ciaran with the woman I recognized as Maeve Riordan, my birth mother. Maeve and Ciaran were wrapped tightly together, clinging to each other as if to be separated would equal death. Then Maeve was crying, turning away from him, and Ciaran was staring after her, his hands clenched. I saw Ciaran darkly silhouetted against the bright background of a burning barn. On and on it went, these images being born from the energy and floating upward to disappear into nothingness. On the ground, Ciaran lay jerking as if he were having a seizure, and I could make out a thin keening coming from him.