Defiance
Book One of the Priestess Trilogy
Melissa Sasina
v
DEFIANCE
Book One of the Priestess Trilogy
Copyright© 2004 Melissa Sasina.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
Cover photo copyright© T.L. Shreffler
www.runawaypen.com
First Edition: September 2010 (Title originally Twilight)
Cover Change First Edition: May 2011
Second Edition: September 2012
Print ISBN: 1479155888
Print ISBN-13: 978-1479155880
v
For my husband Tim, thank you for listening
to my endless questions.
v
v
PROLOGUE
The warm morning fog, which had settled over Tara in a thick milky blanket, began to slowly drift away. Bright colors played across the sky, bathing the land in a golden hue. The soft murmur of cattle and horses stirring could be heard throughout the village. Small wisps of smoke drifted up from the thatch roofs of round clay daub cottages; fires built to ward off the early morning chill while the sound of a hammer clanging in a rhythmic beat was carried by the wind.
Within a cottage near the chieftain’s, Tríonna of the Túath clan carefully watched as her eight-year-old daughter sat at the loom. The child’s small fingers moved deftly, weaving the cloth with unusual skill for a child of her age. The loom clacked as the girl began to add a rich blue thread to the green, then, taking the shuttle in hand once more, continued to work.
Turning from her daughter, Tríonna tended to the hearth, poking at the fire with a stick. She felt tired of late, still grieving the loss of her husband Coughlin. Tríonna knew she should return to her elder sister’s side on Rúnda, so that her daughter might train as a priestess, but she found herself tarrying. Tara was her home and would always be. After her mother turned her back on the village, after her husband died defending it, Tríonna could not bring herself to turn her back on Tara. And so, she found herself hesitating.
The steady clacking of the loom abruptly altered, slowing. Tríonna glanced down at her faltering daughter to see her eyes were no longer focused on the work before her, but beyond it. Following the girl’s gaze, she found her twelve-year-old son stepping into the cottage, with a boy of nine in tow.
Tríonna looked down at the younger boy, her own nephew Daire, and warmly greeted him with an embrace. When she released him, Tríonna watched with amusement as he ran promptly to her daughter’s side; the two were nigh inseparable when the boy came to visit.
Turning to her son, Tríonna asked, “Mahon, has my elder sister come, or is it her Fomorii lover who brought young Daire here?”
“They both have come, mother,” he replied. “Réalta has brought with her a young bride for our chieftain Ainmire: Deirdre of Cúlráid. She is mayhap sixteen years of age at most and has been trained on Rúnda.”
Tríonna gave a small nod. “I see…” she murmured. “A bride for Ainmire…” Her voice trailed off as she fell once more into her thoughts.
“Mother?” asked a small feminine voice.
Tríonna turned to face her daughter, who had risen from the loom.
The girl looked upon her mother, eyes pleading. “May I? May I take my leave so that I may see Ainmire’s new bride?”
She considered the thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Aye,” she answered with a smile. “Go on, get off with ye before I change my mind.”
Daire took hold of the girl’s hand. “Shiovra, come!” he said warmly and together the two ran laughing from the cottage.
Tríonna sat down roughly on a low bench with a heavy sigh. She could feel that her sister did not journey to Tara only to bring a bride upon Ainmire; it was never quite so simple with Réalta. Her elder sister was always strict in her manner as a priestess and mentor, and it had been that strictness that had caused their younger sister, Gráinne, to leave and marry a man far from their home. Tríonna did not want such a fate to befall her own daughter.
“Is something the matter, mother?” asked Mahon, stepping to her side.
“I sense a foreboding feeling…” murmured Tríonna. She shook her head and told him, “There is more to my sister’s arrival than a bride.”
Mahon only looked at her quizzically.
“Always be wary of the intentions Réalta brings,” she told her son.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Daire and Shiovra kept to the shadows of cottages as they made their way towards the villagers who had gathered at the gates of the high fort to see Ainmire’s young bride. The girl, Deirdre, stood meekly beside Daire’s mother, Réalta Dubh. Her eyes were adverted from Ainmire’s, a man who could easily be her grandfather, and instead focused intently upon her hands clasped nervously before her. Her long raven hair was unbound and woven with small white flower blossoms. A simple bronze torc adorned her neck, while a blue spiral curled by her left eye.
“She doesn’t look very happy, Daire,” Shiovra whispered to her cousin, her head cocked to the side.
“That is because she but learned this morning that she was to be Ainmire’s wife,” the boy replied, keeping his voice low.
The girl frowned. “I do not think I would like to be betrothed off,” Shiovra continued. “It does not seem like a pleasant thing.” She paused, looking from Deirdre to Ainmire and back again. “She can’t be but a few years older than Mahon…” she murmured in thought. “And Ainmire is grandfather’s younger brother. He’s so…old…”
Daire smiled at Shiovra. “Perhaps, cousin,” he said to the girl. “Yet, what if you were to fall in love with that person?”
Shiovra shook her head. “She doesn’t seem to love him, let alone even know him…”
“She’s spent most of her life on Rúnda training under mother. Her kin were promised she would be married to a good man. Who better than Ainmire?” Daire shrugged. “It is not in our hands to decide who we wed. The privilege of our position to be betrothed off in the best interest of our elders. They choose mates for us which will ensure the well-being of the clan. Lovers fill the role that arranged unions cannot.” His face lit up abruptly and he began to dig around inside his tunic, pulling forth a necklace of shells strung upon a thin leather strip. Somewhat sheepishly, he held it out to Shiovra. “This is for you. I made it myself from shells I found on Rúnda’s shores.”
A shy smile spread across Shiovra’s face. Placing the necklace about her neck, she threw her arms around her cousin and gave him a tight hug. “Thank you, Daire!” She paused to finger the shells. “I have always wanted to see the sea and with these I will always have a part of it with me!”
Daire beamed at her words.
“I wonder if Ainmire will give Deirdre a gift…?”
“Come, Shiovra,” Daire said suddenly, grabbing hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet. “Let us follow.”
Shiovra followed his gaze to see that Réalta had broken away from the gathering and was making her way towards the main cottage. Curious, she nodded eagerly.
They quietly followed, ducking behind the Stone of Destiny to stay out of sight. As Réalta slipped into the main cottage, Daire and Shiovra
crouched outside the wickerwork door-lintel. They pushed it open slightly, only enough so that they might be able to peer inside.
Tríonna looked up as her elder sister approached, smiling warmly. “Merry meet, sister,” she said.
Réalta nodded, sitting down at the low table beside the hearth.
“What brings you here, sister?” queried Tríonna, her tone carrying a note of frustration. “I know that you did not journey here merely to bring Ainmire a bride. I am no fool.”
Réalta’s eyes shifted to the loom. “Such beautiful and well trained work for a child of her age,” she said. “She’s eight and yet you do not foster her.”
“She is fine here,” replied Tríonna, a touch of coldness apparent in her voice and eyes. “She is doing well under my teaching. It is unnecessary for her to learn on Rúnda.”
“She was born during the new moon,” pursued Réalta. “There is great potential hiding within her. She should further her training in the ways of a priestess.” She paused, looking at her younger sister with gentle, but stern, eyes. “Her talent and skill only prove this. She can feel the pull and push of the land. She can feel the power and use it. You have trained her to your own limits. Allow me to foster her and complete her training. Grant her the opportunity to become a great priestess, a High Priestess nonetheless.”
Tríonna glanced away, refusing to meet her sister in the eye. “Could you not let her tarry a bit longer?” she pleaded, sitting down across from Réalta. “Shiovra is but a child yet...”
“She has tarried long enough, Tríonna,” stated Réalta bluntly. “As is, she will be past the age of marriage when she is finished with her training. I will be forced to arrange her betrothal.” She paused.
Outside the door, Shiovra’s gasp was muffled by Daire’s hand over her mouth.
“If she must be betrothed, then why not Earnán’s son Naal?” inquired Tríonna. “The match would be well made. You did, after all, just hand off Earnán’s sister, Deirdre, to Ainmire. Or even your own handmaid’s son, Kieran. She simply adores him and they get along well.”
“Now is not the time for such decisions. What is important now is that she must come to Rúnda and train,” stated Réalta. “I have seen a darkness brewing…a threat that looms dangerously close. Since that man came to our shores, the man who called himself Ith, I have had a foreboding feeling which I cannot shake. Our chieftains saw his great praise of Éire to be threatening. They feared he would seek to control it and for that, our chieftains took his life and sent his body back with his companions to where they came from. It was meant as a warning, but I fear it only marked our doom.”
Tríonna sat quietly, face unreadable.
“Your daughter’s future lies in danger.” Réalta’s eyes centered beyond her sister sitting before her. “Long has our clan struggled against the Fomorii. It has been nine generations since we defeated them, and now that man Ith came to our shores. We already lost our first chieftain Núada, we cannot lose anymore chieftains.”
“So it is your desire to use my daughter for your own gain?” snapped Tríonna.
“Use her?” scoffed Réalta. “No, far from it. I only wish to ensure the protection of this clan and she will have the power to do just that when the times comes if she gets the proper training.”
“What do you know of it?” Tríonna muttered. “How is my daughter supposed to protect Tara if our warriors cannot? How will she prevail when they fall? Perhaps the time of the Túatha Dé Danann has come to pass and we are simply to vanish into legend as the Parthalon have done. Just part of the Great Invasions.”
“How can you say that?!” demanded the older woman, outraged. “We fought hard to secure our place here! Núadu lost an arm to the Fir Bolg chieftain before they were finally defeated. He was unable to rule for long after that. We suffered grave losses in the fight against the Fomorii before Lugh finally slew Balor. I will not stand idle and see our people fall!”
“Then you do it! Do not make my daughter risk her own life.”
“I do not have the power!” She rubbed her face wearily. “My power is weakening while hers strengthens. I need to train her before I am no longer able to do so. She has a gift, Tríonna, allow her to tap into it.”
“Have you considered that perhaps it is not in our hands to say anymore, sister?” Tríonna’s voice was calm when she spoke. She rose to her feet and turned to the fire once more. “Do you really know what lies before our people? Even if we are defeated, we shall never fall. As long as we are remembered, we shall remain for years.”
“Lives will be lost…”
“Lives are always lost in battle, sister. It is an endless, eternal cycle. You cannot escape it,” retorted Tríonna, voice heavy. Her eyes flashed with vexation. “I have already learned that cruel lesson first hand when I lost Coughlin in the attack on the village naught but four moons ago. I have no desire to lose my daughter as well. Taking role of High Priestess of Tara will do nothing but put her in danger.”
Réalta frowned. “Do as you wish, Tríonna,” she said softly. “You always have. What can I do to stop you? But think of your daughter. Allow her to learn. The knowledge she can gain may put her in danger, but it will also ensure that she lives.”
“And who would protect her?”
“A priestess will always have guardians,” replied Réalta. “Those who would stand at her side as sword and shield.”
Tríonna fell silent, thinking. “Let her decide,” she said after a while. “I shall bring it before her at nightfall. If she chooses to go with you, you may take her when you see fit. If she chooses to remain here, then that is her choice and her choice alone. Shiovra shall decide her own fate. Not you or me.”
Réalta nodded. “So mote it be then.”
Outside the cottage, Shiovra sat unmoving in stunned silence, not even noticing her cousin’s hand clasped tightly over her mouth. She only looked at him blankly when he pulled his hand away and turned her to look at him. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her away from the cottage.
“Shiovra? Shiovra? Are you alright?” Daire asked, worry in his eyes.
Coming back to herself, she nodded and bit her bottom lip. The life she had known could change in a heartbeat, all depending on the choice she would make. As a child of only eight years she was to decide whether to leave her mother and continue her training to become Tara’s High Priestess, or remain and fail to gain the wisdom she needed.
“I do want to continue my studies, but to leave Tara, to leave mother and Mahon…” she stammered.
“Shiovra…” Daire began, his voice trailing off.
Shiovra blinked, fighting back tears she could feel stinging her eyes. She wanted to be strong, like her mother, but she felt as if she would crumble at any moment.
Daire took Shiovra’s face in his own hands. “Cousin,” he said softly after a prolonged silence. “It is not truly that terrible, is it? You could always come back here and visit your mother and brother…” He hesitated. “I will be here as well. It has been decided that I am to leave Rúnda and remain here under Ainmire. He is to foster me. Mother decided thus.”
Shiovra met his gaze, eyes wavering a bit. “But mother…Mahon…and now even you…I don’t want to leave…I don’t want to be alone.” A few tears escaped to roll down her cheek.
“Shiovra?” came Mahon’s voice. “Shiovra, what is the matter? What troubles you?”
Daire and Shiovra looked up to see Mahon walking towards them from Goibniu’s cottage. Concern crossed his face as he saw his sister distraught
Hurriedly, the young girl told her elder brother of what she and Daire had overheard their mother’s speaking about. When she had finished, she looked up at her brother for support. “What should I do, Mahon?” she queried.
Mahon’s face fell. “I do not know, Shiovra,” he replied. “I don’t want you to leave, but I also believe going to Rúnda would be a good decision.” He hesitated. “Think about it. Give consideration to everything before you make your choi
ce.”
The girl bit her lip and glanced between her brother and cousin. It was already nearing midday and she knew not what to do.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Ainmire sat near the hearth fire in the main cottage, his eyes upon the Fomorii man known as Ceallach Neáll. He watched as the man paced back and forth, a deep frown wrinkling his brow. Ainmire had to admit that in all the years he’d known Ceallach, not once had the man’s face betrayed his emotions. And now, seeing rage written clearly across his cold features, Ainmire found he did not like it in the least. His voice was low and grave when he spoke, “I heard about Saibh. I am terribly sorry. Your sister was a gentle woman.”
The man stopped pacing abruptly, his back to Ainmire. “It was Caillte’s duty to protect her and he failed her,” Ceallach said, voice deeply laden with bitterness. “He let her die and then he joined Ailill.”
Upon hearing the name Ailill, Ainmire’s own bitterness grew. “So, it is true then,” he muttered. “Ailill does still live.”
The Fomorii man turned to him. “Ailill’s only desire is to seek vengeance upon us,” Ceallach informed him, calm slipping into his voice. “Just as we were, he too was betrayed by Méav. What more, his brother was condemned to death by the High Chieftains and his lover took her own life in grief. Now he allies himself with the Misshapen Ones, those who he had once called enemies. He has his eye set on Tara and may attack the village in an act of vengeance.”
Ainmire was silent a moment, taking in the grave tidings he had been presented with. “It is ill timing that this is brought upon us,” he said quietly. “It has naught been but a few moons since that man named Ith set foot on our shores. His men left with his body, but I do not feel that is the end of it…” He rubbed his face wearily. “I do not believe in the least that Ith’s death should be taken lightly.” Ainmire exhaled heavily. “We shall not worry the High Chieftains with these tidings. We shall deal with Ailill ourselves.”
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 1