Hidden Jewel
Book 1 of the Heartfire Series
by
Jennifer Strong
For David and our Children
I Love You
Copyright© 2012 by Jennifer Strong
Cover Art by Mackenzie Strong
All Rights Reserved. The reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Author's Note
For as long as there have been humans dotting the earth, throughout time and ages long past, there have been the outspoken few, the less arrogant of an inherently arrogant race, who have believed, wholeheartedly, that we are not alone in this world. That spirits and mythical beings walked among the masses, and that people unwittingly added to these beings on a daily basis with their own natural naivete, by following their own hearts, or their loins, as the case may be, although a great many were supposedly tricked into such action, or were stolen for the purpose. Treated as freaks by the unbeliever and the believer, alike, routed out of proper society as if they were every bane to mankind’s very existence, many of those soothsayers died, helped along by fanatical creatures who believed more in sacrificing the odd man out than in hearing the proof that there might actually besomeone out there within the ever growing population; a friendly neighbor, perhaps, or Aunt Aggie on your mother’s side, or even the man or woman claiming to know things which others knew not, none were safe from death; everyone was suspect. It was easier for a man to kill the person who had proven themselves to be against the norm than to sacrifice his own child in the name of some God or another. A great many of these diviners were sacrificed for the good of man, dying as innocents simply because they were different. Such things have been proven over and over throughout history, and yet, the very reasons for why they were burned or drowned, or worse, the stories which they had believed in enough to repeat them, which they died for believing in, lived on long after the memory of the dead was forgotten.
The histories of elves and fairies, of giants and dwarves, of creatures who lived for the darkness or for the light, of anything that could be imagined as real, were closely guarded at one point, the holders of that ancient knowledge, the Druidic Line, keeping the secrets by memory rather than in scripts; a precious wealth of knowledge which they believed that none but the Chosen should learn.
After a time, others took it upon themselves to record the seeming proof of other life out there in the form of poems and ballads; in stories, painstakingly written out in strange languages, of other beings, so closely related to mankind that they were able to blend in, when they chose; to go out amongst the people. Popular among all, the stories were filled with otherworldly creatures, many of whom had awesome powers, unnatural gifts, almost abnormal beauty. Unusual in that they were not normal, they were not human, and yet they were human-like, the stories were believed at first, the people sitting around warm hearths on chilly nights to listen to the myths so full of superstitious fears that they would, and still do, go to great lengths to appease the characters of which they, once again, came to believe in wholeheartedly. The unknown makes for a good story, and what iftends to add it's own special charm.
Superstition is rooted in truth. Divining the difference between a story and the truth is difficult at the best of times; diving the truth in all of it’s aspects is near to impossible. Especially when faced with the well known fact that most people are not truly what they seem; most people do not live their lives out in the guise of happily ever after, and even the ones who try to make others believe that they have gotten that much out of their own meager existence upon this earth are usually deluded, and are simply too vain to face the plain truth that life can, and often does, suck on any level. Life is what you make it, after all, and any common, everyday fairytale may be just that, a fairytale, predictably full of goodness and light, always a happy ending to look forward to.
This is not your everyday fairytale.
If your mind is not wide open, don’t read my book. I can assure you that you won’t like it. In the words of my favorite person in the world, my husband, “Who knows what shit the mind will come up with?” This book is dedicated to my David, who will always be my very own, no matter how many people would like to claim him for themselves.
Hidden Jewel
Gaelic and/or Highlands Translations/Meanings
(with quite a few of my own bits thrown in for good measure)
Hope this helps!
Ailill- Pronounced Elyell for those who don't know that..... Ailill Bascna-Morna, named after ancient Irish Kings, the Fae Red Branch on her mother's side, and the more humanistic Black Branch on her father's side, respectively. She is also called Abby by most people- it makes her a little less Royalty, a little more 'common lassie'.
The Tierce or Triple Aspect- any set of triplets born into either the Red or the Black Branch. In most cases I am referring to the MacDuff lads (i.e. Tiernan, Micah, Jacob) although the Mackenzie's (Declan, Galen and Donnelly) are also a tierce, of a bit lower rung on the royal ladder. The triple aspect is derived, as always, from my colorful mind, but the idea of it was a common theme in many tales of Celtic Mythology (i.e. Maid, Mother, Crone), and were usually women.
Hidden Highlands- A figment of my own vast imaginings...this is the realm, beneath the Isles, where the Fae went to live after they were beaten by the sons of Mil, and from where they developed a penchant for showing themselves to modern mortals quite frequently throughout the centuries, often becoming kin to the lesser beings by the sharing of their everlasting bloodlines. Faeries believe very strongly in free-love, after all.
Heartfire- the castle and lands in which Fergus MacDuff, and those faithful to him as King, dwell in the Hidden Highlands. To Ailill, it is simply “home”.
Cachaileath na Sith- Pronounced Kaheelee na She- Faerie Doorway, the mystical portals through which any with the “right” blood may enter and be near instantaneously transported to other lands or the Hidden Realm.
Caisteal- castle Muirnadhagh- home by the sea (my own translation;) In the far Northwestern Highlands, nestled deep in the hills of the mount of jewels, Caisteal Muirnadhagh was the ancestral home of Ailill.
Drumossie Moor- also known as Culloden, where the final battle between the Highlanders and the English was fought on April 16, 1746. (my characters highly prize the integrity and valor of those mighty Highland warriors, and fashion themselves after those men and women quite extensively, going so far as adopting even their good Scottish names and not a few practices).
Imbas Forasni- the Second Sight, one of Ailill's 'gifts'
Ban-Sithiche- Banshee(s?)
Alba(n)- Scotland, Scottish
Tir na N'Og- the Land of Eternal Youth or, if it's easier, Pagan Heaven where all great warriors go to await Rebirth and the final battle 'tween good and evil (i.e. the Faerie Realm and the Black Druid's mortal minions).
còir- justice
Sidhe- Faerie
Sidhe Banrigh- Faerie Queen
Brid or Brigit- The ancient goddess of the Pagan world, not the Catholicized version.
Britheamh- a headsman, a judge, an executioner of innocents
oxter- armpit (hey, I didn't know that at first either)
Aislinn- a d
ream, a vision
Tha i bòidheach- she is beautiful
achd- a decree
Ard Banrigh- High Queen
Ard Righ- High King
Mo gealbhan- my little fire
Mo nighean Sidhe- my faerie daughter
Seanmhair- Grandmother
ar saighdear ruadh- our red soldier
Inbhir Nàrann- Nairn
Caithris- funeral lament (?)
Ceol Mor- great music (of the pipes, of course)
amhran- music (story set to music)
deiseil- toward the sun
Teine Sith- faerie fire
Uisge Beatha- water of life, whiskey
The Four Airts- points of the compass
dhiobhuil- devil
radjy- randy, horny
grotty- horrible
minging- disgusting
wheesht- hush
Mo Cridhe- my heart
A cromulent wee cuddy- a nice little horse (yes, it's actually in there! lol)
Geise (pl) or Geis- the unexplainable rules by which Ailill and most of the Gentry must live. Sort of like personal laws, decreed upon a Faerie's birth, they can be uncommonly difficult to keep track of, and if too many are broken, it means a trial before the Council of Elders, and possible being temporarily demoted.
leoday- flirt
toll-toine- arse-hole
gammy or ceann-là- head (of the sexual nature, of course)
druisealachd- whore, prostitute
buidseach- witch
Ciamar a tha thu?- how are you?
The Beginning
Northwestern Scottish Highlands
Caisteal Muirnadhagh, 1014
Screams rent the deeping stillness of twilight, the keening wail of a loss foretold in the histories, forsworn in the spilled lifeblood of mankind, the pained outrage of many bringing tears, unbidden, to the eyes of a great many more. Stoic unto the last breath, the Guardians stood tall in the face of multiple generations of wailing Ban-Sidhe, their death song unnaturally subdued. Militaristic in stance, eyes trained forward, shimmering iridescence, alien in the eerie half-light; nary a sign of regret for what awaited them would be glimpsed by any of the gathered mass, not a single tear shed, their own grief spent during the previous hours of darkness, of absolute despair. Bare chests steadily rose and fell, strong, ever powerful in the dim, glistening diamond drops of sweat despite a chill wind sweeping down from the ominous Highland peaks, howling through the glens, across the moors in answer, as if the very earth keened the loss as deeply. Naked, the four young men awaited the end of a proclamation, delivered in the soft, rich burr of their own uncle, the High King of Alba, a man who's fathomless black eyes showed his own losses in deep velvet shadows, depths of sorrow too great for any to understand except, perhaps, the young guardians, themselves.
Their fiery wee Queen was dead. Mere months after her own coronation, after her wedding to the triple aspect, the identical sons of the Alban King, her small, beauteous body had been savaged beyond repair by a ruthless fiend. Ailill, Queen of the Hidden Isles. She had not made it past fourteen. Out of respect for Herself, for the hope that her crowning had brought to every last branch of Fae and Highlander, alike, the small womanly body had been painted for battle, her flesh tinged blue, the shapely frame swathed in emerald green silk, a symbol of her own rank within the royal branch; unseen, the tiny forms of her unborn sons lay beneath the thin covering, three nearly perfect beings, brutally taken before their time, forever still, cradled in the arms of their mother.
Laid upon pyres of the seven sacred woods, three male forms flanked their lover, head to head, unified in life as well as in death; heavy torques of twisted gold and silver,copper and bronze, bound their thick necks, their bonds only in death, symbolic to their people, their rank within a well hidden society; the bonds had another use, the unhappy but necessary stitching beneath unseen by the Folk, those who had come from far and wide to pay their last respects to the fairest of the Gentry. The four Guardians awaited a similar fate, a decision made on a breath, to follow their sovereign even unto death, as per a lifelong pledge of fealty; a choice, where the others had had no such decency bestowed at the last, no choice at all under the ruthless sword of a soulless murderer.
"Do ye have aught to say, lads?"
It took but a moment for the dark heads of the Guardians to turn as one at the whispered query, iridescent eyes coming to rest, not on the King but, after a swift glance over the three raven haired bodies, upon the fiery mane of the Banrigh, the only part of Herself left intact; the flaming locks blew wildly in the breeze, an eerie illusion of the fate of them all. The youngest of the Queen's protectors took one shuddering breath, turned pale, ice-blue eyes upon his liege and answered with a barely perceptible nod.
"We shall reunite with our kindred Queen in Tir na N'Og, there to sleep for as many of the Goddess Brigit's great years as it may take until justice for our own," four deep, melodic voices declared as one, loud enough to be heard above the keening wind, the Banshee's wail. "We have failed our vow of protection to an Sidhe Banrigh. The Guardians will not fail again. By Brid's eternal flame, this we solemnly swear. In grief do we find strength; in death, the certainty of life, Everlasting."
The eyes of the four Guardians rose once more, beatific, glowing with an unspoken vow of vengeance; the beings gathered were now mercifully silent, uplifted faces alight with expectation as a veritable giant of a man with a long snowy white mane stepped forward, his weathered face grim as death itself; a flowing cloak of blackest velvet slipped from the man's massive shoulders to reveal a naked body etched with countless tattoos, esoteric symbols; protection necessary for britheamh; a judge; a headsman; an executioner of innocents.
Muscles bulged, rippled with awesome strength; a sword as ancient as the Gods of Celtica lifted, the blade gleaming blue fire with the moon's everlasting light, flickering like the diamond starshine above as it moved, wielded by the arm of an ancient, swiftly removing the dark heads of the Queen's personal Guardians in one fell blow.
The end foreshadows the beginning...
Li'l Bits
Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina
The feuding ‘tween the Gentry and the Black's hired varlets has calmed once again, wi’ no reported casualties; a good bit o’ time has passed since the warriors' return. The Auld Queen held off the Black Druid easily, wi’ no but her own powers, and the stubbornness which has gotten her through these many years of strife. Once the fool retreated back into the lowlands his rogue followers gave up the fight, just as we expected they would. The Elders have come to a decision at last; a compromise if ye will, which is why I have taken it upon myself to fetch yon wee Princess back to the Highlands, to begin her various training, the education which ye agreed she would need. I dinna wish to be takin’ the lass away from all that is familiar, ‘tis the verra last thing that I want to do, truly, but she has got aye, much to learn and we dinna have decades in which to see to it, this time. The Elders demand... nay, mmphm... require? Wish? Och, never mind that bit.” The huge man halted in mid stride, the light of a setting sun adding a golden halo to his silken black mane that made the boy beside him smile, a twinkle of mirth alight in the six year old’s velvet-black eyes.
“How about a simple- ‘tis time for Ailill to rejoin the Tribe. They willna be best pleased wi’ any of it, let alone demands, nor yet wishes from the Elders. Och, either way, how did that sound, Tiernan, lad?”
His question was met with a soft, musical giggle, followed by a breathy voice from high above, in the ancient oak trees which cloaked the mountainside in a mantle of soft green. “It sounded like you are close on beggin’, Mister, and havin’ a hard time wi’ it, too.” The branches overhead rustled momentarily, the leaves parted just enough to reveal wide eyes in a cherubic face. Cherry-red lips grinned, cat-like, between dimpled cheeks lovely as ripe apples; all was topped off with a mass of long, fiery curls that sparked copper and amber wherever the sun’s last rays touched. The boy drew in
a quick breath at the sight, earning a sharp look from the giant of a man beside him, his own father surprised to see the very girl he had been speaking of playing alone, completely unguarded, in the oak wood of Jewel Mountain. “And would you be searchin’ for my Mam, or my Da, to try all that on?”
“Both, lassie.” The man smiled kindly up into the four-year-old’s face and stepped forward. “I am called Fergus MacDuff, and this is my son, Tiernan. I am come to be your foster.”
Deeply hued iridescent eyes slid back and forth between the man and his son, settling for a long moment on the younger one’s dark gaze, openly curious even as she pondered what the giant man had said. Without warning, the girl somersaulted from the tree; a ball of the green cotton which had concealed her so completely among the leaf-sprung branches straightened up into a deceptively lilliputian form, landing nimbly upon two tiny moccasined feet directly before the boy. She stared solemnly for a long moment, eyes wide, sparkling with wizened humor before lifting to the man.
“I am called Abby, by my Da,” she stated calmly, giving The MacDuff a firm, very adult, handshake. Letting go, she added, “my mother calls me Abby-honey when she is pleased wi’ me, otherwise I am just plain Ailill. I would tell you all o' my names but I am hungry and it would take all night. There should be a law for how many names a new baby is given.” She scowled fiercely for a brief instant before breaking into a sunny smile. Eyes gleaming mischievously, she added, “besides that, I am not supposed to talk wi’ strangers and that is what you are, even though you look a lot like my Da, but nevermind that. I knew you were comin’, for I saw you as I trekked through the Land o' Nod last night, so I came to meet you. Would you care to come for supper at Hidden Jewel so that we aren't strangers too much longer?”
When the tiny girl’s stomach gave a loud rumble, Fergus MacDuff huffed jovially, delighted by her frankness, enchanted with the sight of her; not the least bit surprised by anything she had said. Straightforwardness of character was one of her birthrights, after all.
Hidden Jewel (Heartfire Series) Page 1