Free Whenever-kobo by Emily Evans Page B

in robes chanted in Latin. Phrases I knew were foreign and dated but somehow I understood them. The priest said, “King Mael the Uniter. We crown you on this thirteenth day, in the year of our lord 1313.”
    The priest held a gold, jeweled crown over a kneeling man dressed in dark clothes and a fur-collared cape. A group of similarly dressed men formed a semi-circle behind him. They wore swords at their sides and had jeweled swaths of material over their chests, like medieval Mr. Americas.
    The pulpit was empty except for Callum and me. The pressure in my side eased, allowing me to straighten. My mind registered the physical changes in the church like flashes: unbroken pews, uncovered windows, and a multitude of tapestries. Even the air was different: colder, heavier, thick with incense and the fragrance of dried flowers.
    Dizziness floated away, leaving behind a sick feeling and, despite all reason and rational thoughts to the contrary, I knew where I was. That freak Sean had shot Lisette and sent Callum and me back in time to 1313. We were seven centuries back, and we were about to see an ancient story of betrayal come to life—we were about to witness the decapitation of Callum’s ancestor, King Mael.
    I had no time to freak out over the reality. My track record for speeches was terrible, but it was time for me to give the speech of all speeches, because a life depended upon my words. Adrenalin rushed through my body. I smoothed the silk of my dress into place and stepped forward, hoping the translation trick worked both ways so they could understand me as I understood them. I held out my arms. “I’m privileged to be here today to witness the uniting of Ireland under the one true high king.”
    King Mael jerked but he stayed on his knees. He uttered something about age and time. The priest praised the light of God and bowed his head. The men of the semicircle stepped back with wide eyes.
    The one on the end with shaggy black hair and beard stared hard at me and said in a loud voice, “Witch.” He looked at Callum. “Wizard.” As the names carried, the other lords retreated another step.
    The priest made the sign of the cross in the air and then he grabbed a taper and lit the off-white altar candles in a slow ceremonial fashion. A low Latin chant accompanied his actions and as the wick heated and the wax melted down the side, a faint flowery, burning smell filtered through the church.
    I tried to remember the rules of effective speaking and Austin’s advice came back to me. Promise them something good. “On this notable day, you start the path to great riches. A united Ireland will roar with wealth. Ireland will be known as the Celtic Tiger.”
    Their murmurs sounded confused now. The nobleman on the end stared at my bare arms and calves with rude intensity, making me want to cover up. He said, “Tiger?”
    Oh. They all looked bewildered. Did ancient Ireland have tigers? Did modern Ireland?
    “Who are you?” The shaggy guy moved his stare to my ankles. “Where are you from? Who gives you leave to speak?”
    I didn’t answer and Callum stayed silent too. I hoped he was okay, that he hadn’t passed out due to our impossible reality.
    King Mael lifted his head. Dark eyes moved over me, narrowing in his commanding face. They held intelligence and a spark of approval. “What may I provide you? Are you of the Cétchathach? My line? The an ceann is gá ? C eann a bhfuil ag taisteal trí na haoiseanna ?”
    Somehow I understood the Irish question. “I’m not your family. But they sent me. They sent me to tell these lords about their future. Ireland will have strength and prosperity with you as their ruler.” Not exactly true, but fitting enough.
    The thirteen noblemen shifted and glanced at each other as if for answers. They ranged in age. A few had grey hair, two seemed as young as me, and the others fell somewhere in the middle. No one spoke, but they had questions and none of them seemed to realize how rude