Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy)

by Melissa Sasina

  Silence greeted him.

  “Shiovra?”

  Daire glanced at Odhrán, then spun on his heels.

  Off in the distance, a bird cried out suddenly, and then dead quiet filled the air.

  “Shiovra?” Daire called out, panic filling him.

  A thick wall of fog stood before them and nothing else. The priestess was nowhere in sight and her dagger lay at the foot of a tree.

  The two men stood alone.

  “Damn,” Daire swore under his breath, running his hands through his hair and clenching it. They had been careless and now she was gone.

  Odhrán crouched down and ran his fingers along the ground, his eyes narrowing on the scuffed earth. Standing stiffly, the Milidh man looked off in the direction of Caher Dearg. “That way.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Shiovra had been swept away into the darkness of the fog filled forest and quickly found that any attempts to be free from the burly man who had seized her were in vain. With her dagger gone and her strength nowhere in comparison to her captor’s, Shiovra was at a loss of how to get free.

  The man flung the priestess to the ground and, with a threatening dagger drawn and pressed to her throat, she was bound hand and foot. The huntsman then hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  Shiovra lost all sense of direction as she was being carried along, but she did not doubt it brought her closer to Caher Dearg. As the woods quickly darkened with the coming of nightfall, she glimpsed a flickering firelight through the fog. As they neared, she saw it was a small camp of huntsmen gathered about a fire. The priestess swore under her breath.

  One of the men stood up. He was tall with shaggy wolf-gray hair and shifting gold-brown eyes. A crude scar crossed jaggedly across his left cheek serving as a warning of battles fought. “I sent you for game, not a prisoner,” he said roughly. “What is this?”

  “A pretty little wench,” replied Shiovra’s captor with a pleased tone. He dropped her roughly onto the hard ground. “For whatever pleasures she may give.”

  “Well then, we shall have to see about that. She does look promising.” He stalked towards Shiovra as she sat in the damp grass. Crouching down, he seized her face roughly and turned it from side to side. With his free hand, he pushed the hair from the right side of her face, revealing the markings. “She is Túath, possibly noble with as clean as she is…” he growled. His gold eyes narrowed on the curling lines of her left arm. “What have we here? A High Priestess it would seem. What do we owe the honor of your presence?”

  The priestess remained silent, her eyes never leaving the man’s face as she began to gather the energy surrounding her.

  “Answer when Cúmhéa asks a question!” hissed the man who had captured her as he hauled her roughly to her feet.

  Shiovra caught her breath as he jerked her violently. Meeting his gaze fiercely, she expected him to strike her at any moment.

  “Answer!” the man repeated, brining his fist up.

  His fist moved swiftly, but the priestess was quicker. The air before her rippled as his hand slammed into an unseen barrier mere inches from her face. Her dagger may have been lost, but she was not completely without her defenses.

  The man stumbled back, releasing his grip on her as he shook his hand with a pained look written across his face.

  Shiovra fell back to the ground with a grunt.

  “Ah, the priestess has claws,” muttered Cúmhéa in amusement. His eyes flickered to the man who had been foolish enough to strike the woman. “You should have known better when this wench is of the same blood as Lady Méav.” A cruel grin twisted his lips. Laughing harshly, he gave Shiovra a mocking bow while his eyes burned into hers. “You shall bring me some immense pleasure as I bring you before Lady Méav. And she will deliver you, broken and tamed, to Lord Caillte, Ailill’s war lord.”

  “Do not be so sure of yourself, Cúmhéa,” Shiovra said in an even tone. She maintained her composure, but what she saw in the warriors’ cold eyes and the thoughts behind them were greatly disturbing.

  “Is that what you believe?” Cúmhéa’s grin broadened. “Perhaps, when Lord Caillte is through with you, he will bestow you upon me.” He grabbed Shiovra and hoisted her onto his steed, climbing astride after her. “Let us go, men. Caher Dearg awaits us.”

  They rode at a swift, jostling pace. Shiovra dared once to move, to make the ride less painful, only to have Cúmhéa’s looming hands stay any further movement. The rough pace mingled with the lack of rest and food had begun to wreak havoc on the priestess, sending waves of throbbing pain through her head.

  It wasn’t long before the forest began to give way to a clearing where the undeniable wall of a ringfort rose. They had reached Caher Dearg. Though not large, Caher Dearg was a place that could easily drive fear into the hearts of even the most seasoned warrior. The outer wall, made primarily of thick logs, jutted up towards the sky like battle spears, the tips sharp and deadly. Many rusted swords and shields lay broken and battered against the wall, a warning against those who might try and trespass. Tattered, bloodstained banners were hung from crudely fashioned frames, put on display much like the broken weapons. Within the wall, the cottages were laid out in a large ring following the curve of the wall with a large, main cottage standing in the center, flanked by two crimson banners that shifted and snapped in the wind.

  Once inside the gates, Shiovra was pulled from the horse and partially dragged by Cúmhéa into the main cottage where he proceeded to stand proudly, like a hunter who had caught his first kill.

  Shiovra brought her gaze up defiantly to meet that of Méav’s.

  The woman sat on a bench draped with deep red cloth, her back rigid against a support post behind her. A copper band circled her brow and a haughty smile of malice touched the Túath woman’s crimson stained lips. Her yellow-blonde hair had been cropped at her shoulders. Blue eyes as cold and as hard as gemstones watched the priestess steadily. Her skin was fair, paler still above the deep scarlet robes in which she wore. She gripped the edge of the bench in which she sat, her long nails digging into the cloth.

  Méav rose from her seat, the bracelets adorning her slender wrists clinking together lightly with her movement. Though the mother of Tríonna, Réalta and Gráinne, she bore the appearance of a woman only in her mid thirties. “Well, well, well…what have we here?” she asked sweetly. “If it isn’t my daughter’s little chit, the High Priestess of Tara. I am truly honored.” She smiled gently and gave a small curtsy. “Fáilte. Welcome. This is my humble abode.”

  Shiovra found laughter swelling within her. “Fáilte?” she retorted. “Ha! You seek to jest with me now, is it?” The priestess knew that Méav’s sweet words could easily be a dagger in the back. She was not to be trusted.

  “Jest?” replied the woman with a tone of innocence. “I do not jest.”

  “Naught have you to say that would interest me,” Shiovra stated coldly.

  “Oh? Is that so?” queried Méav, her tone shifting to one of conceit. “Then perhaps we shall bargain for the lives of yonder companions who dangerously near my borders in search of you. You do not know me as well as you may believe, Shiovra Ní Coughlin. What is there that lies before you past these gates? The unwilling marriage to a Milidh man for the mere alliance of one village? It does not have to be as such.” A wicked smile played across her lips. “I can promise many things…”

  “I scorn any promise you might offer me, Méav! They reek of false truths laced with venom!” Shiovra scoffed. “Why should I trust your words? They would betray me as they have betrayed your daughters; as they betrayed Ailill!”

  Méav’s face became livid and with a hiss of rage, she lashed out and struck Shiovra across the cheek. “How dare you speak to me in such a disrespectful manner! Kin you may be, but you are still my daughter’s child!”

  Shiovra stood her ground proudly, though pain throbbed in her cheek.

  “Scorn my promises if you will, but you shall soon see the errors in
your ways and come crawling to me, begging for what I can offer.” Straightening, Méav clapped her hands together.

  Two men stepped forward from the shadows to seize the priestess.

  “I shall break you, High Priestess of Tara!” she said harshly. “Take her to the souterrain in the western cottage. May she learn how quickly innocence can be lost to a stranger that dared to set foot in my domain. I am sure he would love to have a pretty little companion for the night.”

  Shiovra was pulled roughly from the cottage by the man and into another. A dilapidated thatch roof sat atop clay daub walls that were heavily veined with cracks. The whole thing gave the appearance that even the slightest breeze could send it toppling down. Inside, a fire burned in the hearth, a rabbit roasting over the low flames. A man with dirt caked hair and clothes sat by the fire, looking up as they entered. He flashed them a filthy grin, but did not move. A solid, vile stench hung heavy in the air. The souterrain stood open in the floor near that man, like a gaping mouth ready to devour whatever drew near to it.

  Cúmhéa shoved Shiovra down into the souterrain. She landed roughly, pain lacing through her ankle, and fell to her hands and knees. Though her ankle throbbed, she did not think it was broken but perhaps sprained. Raising her head, she found a door of sorts created by thick, sturdy pieces of wood that had been interlocked together. Behind them leaning against the far wall was a man.

  Before she had a chance to move, Cúmhéa climbed down into the souterrain and jerked her up by her arm, tugging her to the door.

  “Méav had graciously bestowed upon you a fine little wench for the night,” he told the imprisoned man. “Enjoy yourself.” Opening the door, he shoved her in and quickly shut it behind her. “Remember, if you try to leave, we will be waiting for you at the top.” His laughter continued even after he climbed back up the latter.

  Shiovra found herself once more on her hands and knees. Painfully moving to lean against the closest wall, she looked around and her prison.

  The souterrain was small, made of packed earth, and shadowed heavily. What little light there was came from the low fire above in the cottage above.

  The Priestess’ eyes drifted to the man she had been imprisoned with.

  He sat against the wall, arm resting lazily upon his drawn up knee and appeared to be perhaps a few years older than her. His somewhat long, deep auburn hair was disheveled, falling around his eyes, and he bore a short beard to match. The man watched her with scrutinizing brown eyes.

  He did not give off the same dreadful feeling as Méav’s huntsmen, but the priestess was not willing to take the chance. She needed to break free from her bonds and find means of escape. Shiovra watched him in turn as she struggled to loosen the bonds enough to slip out of them.

  The man took notice of her actions and began to make his way towards her.

  Shiovra started and tried to scoot further back against the wall, a wave of fear rushing through her. Her eyes did not leave him and she prepared for the worst.

  The man stopped a hairs breath away from her. Reaching a hand up, his fingers traced the curling design beside Shiovra’s right eye. His fingers then slid down her face, her neck, and across her collar bone before moving to her left arm, once more following the tracks of the blue woad marking her skin. The whole while his eyes remained focused on his ministrations.

  The priestess remained frozen, each breath she took ragged. Not once did she take her eyes from the man’s face. His fingers were hot on her skin, like licks of fire, and she began to wonder if he was fevered.

  The man dropped his hand and began to lift the hem of her shift.

  Shiovra’s heart lurched. She tried to move away, but there was nowhere to go.

  He paused, his hands still on her shift as he glanced up to meet her frightened gaze. “I will not hurt you,” he said. Though he spoke the language of the Éire, his voice was heavily accented, the words he spoke mellifluous. The man waited patiently for her to calm and, when she nodded, he untied the leather thongs around her ankles and wrists. Once done, he returned back to his spot against the wall and continued to watch her.

  The priestess sat still for a moment, surprised by his actions. “My thanks to you,” she murmured softly.

  The man nodded. “This is no way for a woman to be treated, especially a High Priestess,” he told her.

  Shiovra bit her lip, unconsciously rubbing her left arm. She found his accent unusual. Though Odhrán was a stranger to Éire as well, he had adapted to the language well, carrying hardly a noticeable accent, while this man held a heavy one.

  “You know you are marked forever,” he said after a moment’s thought, is tone blunt and serious. “You lead a dangerous life, for a woman.” He paused, extending his hand to her. “I am Eiladyr, son of Taran.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Shiovra Ní Coughlin,” she replied, but did not take his hand, unwilling to move her injured ankle. “You have an…unusual name…Eiladyr son of Taran…” Shiovra murmured, letting the foreign name slide off her tongue.

  Eiladyr looked away. “I am a stranger to Éire’s shores, though I am sure you have already noticed,” he murmured quietly. “I am also not Milidh. I come from across the sea to the east of this land called Éire.”

  “How is it that you came to Éire?” she asked tentatively. She knew she should be wary around the man, but something about him seemed more mischievous than dangerous.

  He looked away. “I was escaping my cage.” A bitter laugh escaped Eiladyr’s lips. “Amusing how I find myself in another.”

  Shiovra thought a moment. “Did you enter the boundaries of Caher Dearg willingly?”

  “Aye,” replied the man, nodding. A wry smile twisted his lips. “I was hunting.”

  “Game?” asked Shiovra.

  Eiladyr met her gaze. “Huntsmen.”

  “Huntsmen?” she questioned in disbelief. “Are you mad?”

  His grin broadened. “Perhaps,” he replied, fire flashing in his eyes. “But I had the lives of others in mind. Méav’s huntsmen were stretching their reach too far, getting closer and closer to my village. I wasn’t about to sit by and do nothing. I was holding my own well enough…till they outnumbered me.” Eiladyr paused. “How about you, High Priestess? What brings you down here with the likes of me?”

  Shiovra pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “I was separated from my guard as we traveled to Dún Fiáin,” she explained. “Cúmhéa captured me and brought me to Méav. I declined her offers and she retaliated by putting me here.” Sighing, the priestess rested her head on her knees. “Even if I had the strength to summon a tunnel, the risk would be too great. Méav once held the title of High Priestess, before she turned her back on her kin.” Her eyes narrowed on the floor of their tiny prison. “Because she turned her back on us, because she betrayed Ailill and incited his wrath, I am forced to seek aid of my betrothed in Dún Fiáin.”

  “Méav is kin?” asked Eiladyr.

  “Aye,” she replied quietly.

  “You are High Priestess of Tara, then.”

  Shiovra met his gaze firmly and nodded. “Aye.”

  “And you are betrothed to one of the Milidh?” pressed Eiladyr. “One your people call enemy?”

  She nodded once more. “For alliance.”

  Eiladyr rubbed his chin in thought. “Is there threat of an attack on Tara, is that why you seek aid from Dún Fiáin?”

  “Aye.” Shiovra paused. “I have no choice but to do this.”

  He thought a moment and then leaned forward, grinning. “Allow me to help, then you won’t have to go to Dún Fiáin,” Eiladyr said. “The place I call home is a village of warriors and hunters, many of which Neimidh, who are already allies with the Túath. We can send aid to Tara, all we would need to do is get free of Caher Dearg.”

  The priestess regarded him silently a moment. Though he offered aid, she was not so easy to trust him. “You are very generous even when neither of us knows the others true intentions. May
I ask why?”

  Eiladyr moved closer to her, not breaking eye contact once. “Is it not the guardian’s duty to protect his priestess?” he asked, catching her hand within his own and bringing it to his lips.

  His lips, much like his fingers, were like licks of fire against her skin. Shiovra understood the meaning behind his words. “By the fire,” she breathed. “Hail to the chosen warrior of the south, by the power of air, I greet thee.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Three days had passed since her capture and imprisonment at Caher Dearg. On the fourth day, Cúmhéa came for Shiovra, pulled from the souterrain. Eiladyr made a futile attempt to overpower the huntsman and escape with the priestess, only to be stopped by Cúmhéa’s fist his temple. Eiladyr’s shouts, and what Shiovra believed to be cursing in his native language, reached her ears as she was coerced roughly away.

  Cúmhéa forced the priestess into a dark cottage, the door slammed shut behind her. There was no sound of the door being blocked in any way, but Shiovra did not doubt that Cúmhéa himself sat guard on the other side.

  “I trust there were not any difficulties bringing you here,” came a voice.

  Shiovra turned quickly at the voice.

  A woman in her mid thirties stepped from the shadows. Her long, bright red-auburn hair fell in a braid well past her waist. Her cold green eyes narrowed on Shiovra while a smile touched her pale lips. Her skin was incredibly pale above the embellished deep green shift adorning her slender body. She bore a blue spiral by her left eye.

  Shiovra had only met the woman once in her childhood, but the feeling she had gotten from her was enough to tell her she was not to be trusted. And now, several years later, the priestess was once more overcome with the same fearful feeling. Shiovra took a step back away from the youngest of Méav’s daughters. “Gráinne,” she breathed.

  The woman smiled. “My dear sister’s little chit, Shiovra,” she purred, stalking towards Shiovra. She circled Shiovra, looking her up and down. “It has been many years…my how you have grown. Tis a pity you look nothing like Tríonna…”