Celtic Fire. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ you start on this trail it’s going to be impossible to stop. You know that, don’t you? Don’t let it steal your life like it stole his.”

      “It won’t.”

      “I’m serious. He can’t think about anything else. He’s obsessed. It’s like madness that’s worried away at him over the years, removing all trace of his personality. Now all that’s left is this compulsive need to prove he’s right. Take a good look at this thing, see it for what it really is.”

      “And what’s that?” she asked guardedly.

      “A lump of stone.”

      “Of course it isn’t just a lump of stone. We’ve both read Dad’s notes. Look at it. Think about what he worked out.... This has to be the whetstone. It was found in the same area where Tudwal Tudglyd’s whetstone was last known to have been, and there’s no denying it was found with other relics from the same era. It can’t be a coincidence.”

      “Can’t it? Or is that just what you want to believe? Dad spent his entire life looking for this. Do you really think he’d have missed it if it was simply sitting in a display case in a local museum? He isn’t an idiot, Awena.”

      She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He doubted her. “Certainly it’s the real thing,” she snapped.

      “Is it? Can you prove it? Is it supposed to have some kind of property that no other stone has?”

      “If it’s used to sharpen a blade and a brave man uses the weapon, then it is guaranteed to draw blood. But if the blade belongs to a coward it won’t even sharpen.”

      “But how do you prove that? Or do you have a convenient coward in mind? And who uses swords nowadays. It’s not exactly the weapon of choice, is it?”

      “Blade. Not sword. There’s no shortage of knife crime in the city, is there?” She shook her head, refusing to be drawn into it. “It’s not about proving it and you know it. I believe that it’s the genuine article and for the moment that’s all that matters.” She prepared herself for a patronizing response, but surprisingly none came. It had been a while since their father had returned to the cottage, so by rights he ought to be home soon. He’d know just by looking at it and that was all the proof she would need. It was all the proof she had ever needed.

      “The question remains—what are you going to do with it?” He still hadn’t conceded that it could be the real thing, never mind that it was. Awena hadn’t really thought much beyond liberating the whetstone.

      “I’ll keep it safe until Dad comes home.”

      “If he comes home, you mean.”

      “He’ll be back,” she said. “He always comes back.” Which was true, but there was no way of knowing when. She was planning on accelerating the process by sending a photo of the whetstone to his cell phone. With luck it would be enough to bring him running.

      Geraint covered the stone with the blanket. It was as though he didn’t want to have to look at it.

      Awena decided that it might be for the best if she adhered to the old adage of out of sight, out of mind. If he didn’t keep being reminded of it, maybe they wouldn’t have to talk about it until they knew for sure she was right.

      She tried hard to hide her disappointment by asking, “How was your trip?”

      “Not bad,” he replied, nothing more.

      When he’d come bursting into the house he’d been so full of life, desperate to tell her all about his trip; now it was just “not bad,” as though what had happened was suddenly unimportant. The theft had sucked all the joy out of his life. She hadn’t for a minute considered the prospect that he’d see it not as the beginning of some grand adventure they could go on together, but rather her catching their father’s particular madness.

      The sooner the stone was out of sight, the better—that much was clear.

      The best place for it was in their father’s study.

      Geraint never went in there.

      He wasn’t interested in reading the volumes and volumes of notes that made up Dad’s journals, the vast quantities of used and battered books he used as his points of reference for the great hunt, or the huge chart hanging proudly on the wall, tracing back their family tree to the last of the true princes of Wales.

      The room contained a lifetime’s work, a lifetime’s obsession.

      Geraint was right, though; she was in danger of following in his footsteps. She really was her father’s daughter. She was more than capable of becoming obsessed with the search, even though she knew most of them would never be found. There were worse things that might consume her life, especially now that she’d found one of the lost treasures. And didn’t finding one prove the existence of all of the others? In all the years her father had been hunting, he’d never laid his hands on a single one of them. And yet that only fueled his obsession. How would he react now, to actually hold one of them in his hands? To know he’d been right all this time. How would he take that vindication?

      What he’d never said on those rare occasions when they’d talked about the quest was what he would do if he ever found one of them. What they did talk about was the history of oppression that was the foundation of Wales, how the English had beaten them down into submission and how these lost relics really were the inheritance of her people. They may have been called the Treasures of Britain, but they belonged to the Celts, not the invaders who came later. These treasures had nothing to do with the Romans, the Danes or the French who invaded their shores. Some of the treasures had their histories in Scotland, but the only documents which recorded their existence were in the Welsh Triads.

      They were the Treasures of Wales.

      Something to be treasured by all pure-blooded Celts like her family.

       Chapter 9

      He had tried several times to get a better look at the peculiar pieces of stone during the daylight, but every time he did his presence drew curious looks from visitors and cathedral staff. He tried standing on it again to see if he could replicate that weird voice, but the stone remained silent.

      He hadn’t noticed the priest he had seen that morning walking across the grounds toward him.

      “Can I help you at all?” the cleric asked, a gentle smile on his weathered old face. The heavy crags only served to make him appear closer to God in a literal sense.

      The man wrestled down the sudden surge of panic he felt at the curate’s approach and plastered a smile on his own face. It was highly unlikely—if not impossible—that the man recognized him from their previous encounter, but if he did, what of it? He wasn’t duty bound to accept an offer of tea just to salve the curate’s conscience, and walking away was hardly a crime.

      “I’m good, thanks,” he said, hoping to keep the man at a distance. “Just taking a few minutes to myself. Soaking in the ambience of the cathedral. It really is an incredible building. Inspiring.”

      “That it is,” the cleric agreed, accepting his lie at face value. The curate left him to his contemplation, and as soon as the man СКАЧАТЬ