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to the piers again and wash off yer boots.”
    ***
    Galen Fleming sighed audibly at the sight of the priest’s empty cottage. Even the chapel was abandoned. Although Kyra, Ruarc’s daughter, and Murchadh, one of Ruarc’s best fighting men, searched the cottage for clues, there was no indication of what had become of the priest. They also searched most of O’Malley territory proper—and gone further into Burke lands than they should, to no avail.
    Galen was Father MacArtrey’s cleric, going on for close to fourteen winters and he was fond of the man, vices and all. When word reached Rome that the monastery on Burke lands had been usurped by the Burke’s, and that the priest was the only survivor; Galen was sent from his home in the highlands of Scotland to serve out his commission with the O’Malley clan.
    Galen was a familiar breath of fresh air for many of the Catholic soldiers; who were a mix of Viking, Roman and Scottish warriors, as well as some men from neighboring clans. He was the first to call the senior O’Malley “Laird” and the term stuck, a term of endearment and respect that the Scotsmen understood. Darina’s mother, Anya, was a Scottish noble. Her grandsire was a Lord of Parliament in Scotland and the O’Malley’s happily integrated Scottish and Irish cultures.
    “Still nay sign of the priest?” asked Lucian entering the cottage behind Galen.
    “Nay. Nay sign at all. I fear something is amiss,” replied Galen stroking his long gray beard and shaking his head. “How are ye me old friend,” he asked Lucian and clasped forearms with the elder scribe.
    “I fear ye are right,” sighed Lucian. “Except for the scrolls and manuscripts we found hidden in his bed frame, we’ve nay an idea what has become of him or why.”
    “I sent a message to Rome yestereve about his disappearance. I await instruction on how to maintain the chapel and the services. The coin they found, the church coffers, we have given to Minea for safekeeping.”
    “Good idea,” replied Lucian. “Walk with me Galen, let’s discuss the ceremony. Patrick nay doubt wishes my involvement, and Darina, wishes yers. I’m sure we can appease them both. What say ye?”
    “Sounds like a fine idea, Lucian. A fine plan, indeed.”

FOUR
     
    Burke Territory
    Father MacArtrey rubbed the goose egg that rose upon his forehead and prayed for mercy. To whom he prayed—he was no longer sure. He was Odetta Burke’s spy in O’Malley lands and had been her puppet for far too long. And, his age was getting the better of him. He felt a small measure of redemption when he was able to save the young boy from certain death. By cutting his own wrist, along with the child’s, during the sacrifice to Teutates; he had spared his life, or so he thought. He only prayed the boy still lived. When the soldier came to dispose of the boy’s body, he wasn’t so sure his plan had worked.
    Another tortuous night spent below the monastery in the dungeons left him forlorn and distraught. Sharing what the servants called “food” with the rats soured his stomach, and he knew he would retch again if it weren’t for the fact that his stomach was already empty.
    “Father,” said the voice. “Father, are you there?”
    I must be losing me mind—I’m hearing things.
    “Father, wake up. Are you there?” it rang again.
    “Father!” it exclaimed much louder this time. So loud it made the rats screech.
    “Aye, I’m here,” replied the priest into the heavy darkness. “Who’s that?”
    “Cordal, Cordal McTierney. What are ye doing back down here in the dungeons?” he whispered as loudly as he could.
    “I spared the child during the sacrifice. I couldn’t let em kill him,” responded the priest.
    “What child?” gasped Cordal, rattling the chains that bound him to the wall.
    “The sacrifice,” replied the priest. “They took a small boy and used him in some sort of ceremony. They were attempting to drain his blood and made me do the deed.