Odhrán suddenly pushed her towards Eiladyr. “Get her to the village!” he ordered. “We will hold them off.”
Shiovra made to protest but Eiladyr tugged her along before the words could leave her lips. Glancing over her shoulder as Eiladyr pulled her away, she found Daire and Odhrán had already been lost in the fog. Biting her lip, she looked down at the bow and single arrow she still carried in her hands, hesitating.
“What are you doing?” demanded Eiladyr, grabbing her arm. “We need to go!”
Shiovra meet his pleading gaze, before shouts carried by the wind caught her attention. She felt Eiladyr’s hands come to rest on her shoulders.
“We cannot be too far from the village,” he said in a calmer voice. “Once we reach it, we can send help.”
Nodding in defeat, Shiovra turned away from the voices. “Dana watch over them,” she whispered, then followed Eiladyr deeper into the fog.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Meara continued to urge her men in the search for the priestess and her guardians, but she had not expected to find what she did. Lying on the ground at her feet were the lifeless, bloodied bodies of several huntsmen. Crouching down beside one, she held a cloth to her nose as she looked it over. The wounds were still fresh, so whoever the huntsmen had faced were not far ahead.
“Meara!” called Ainnle’s voice.
Pulled from her thoughts, she glanced up.
Ainnle walked towards her holding an arrow in his fist. “We found this not too far away,” he said, handing it to Meara.
She looked at the arrow, taking note of the fletching colors and make of the tip as well as the carving along the shaft. “This is one of Daire’s,” she murmured softly, rising to her feet. “They may still be alive.”
Ainnle nodded.
Meara’s hand tightened around the shaft. “He’d better still be alive,” she murmured under her breath. “Gather whatever weapons may be of use and leave the bodies to the hounds.”
“Aye.”
Crossing her arms, she looked around that the dead huntsmen. There were no arrow wounds on the men. Though Daire knew the use of a sword, his skills were still weak due to his strong favor of the bow. And from the brutality of the wounds, Meara knew whoever had dealt them was not only highly skilled, but also a very dangerous man. She could only hope that the huntsmen had fallen to one she could call ally.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The morning air was warm and muggy as is drifted past a tall slim man standing in the doorway of a dimly lit cottage. The Fomorii man’s white hair had been cropped fairly short, but remained long enough for a few stray locks to fall into his closed eyes. A long, pale gray cloak lay draped over his shoulders and reached to the ground.
A soft rustle came from his left, quickly followed by a breathless question, “My Lord Caillte?”
“Aye?” asked the cloaked man with a deep voice, not bothering to turn to the approaching messenger.
“Word has been received that Caher Dearg has fallen.”
“Hmm,” mused Caillte. Though he was not allied with Méav, he kept close watch on the woman for his lord, Ailill. Méav posed a threat to Ailill’s power as well as his desire for Tara’s ruin. The fall of Caher Dearg was indeed promising to their plans. “What of Méav?”
“She is nowhere to be found,” replied the man.
Caillte noticed the hesitation in the man’s voice. “And?”
“And it was the High Priestess of Tara who brought Caher Dearg’s downfall,” answered the smooth voice of a woman.
He turned to find Gráinne approaching. The woman looked worse for the wear, her bright auburn hair wild about her face and her clothing torn and splattered with blood.
Gráinne stopped before him, casting the messenger a cold glare. “And if it had not been for mother’s interference, I would have had the girl in my grasp,” she spat.
Caillte waved the messenger away, who bowed gratefully before scurrying off. “So Méav has decided to finally act against Ailill’s plans?” he questioned.
The woman nodded. “Aye,” she replied. “Mother will pose a problem. Even with the loss of Caher Dearg, she still holds the power to wreak havoc on Lord Ailill’s plans.”
Turning away from the woman, Caillte walked back into the cottage, Gráinne following. “And how did it come to pass that you were in Caher Dearg?” he drawled slowly.
A smile played across Gráinne’s lips. “It was brought to my attention that the priestess would be journeying to Dún Fiáin to seek aid in defending Tara,” she purred, walking slowly around the Fomorii man. “I knew mother might try and interfere with Lord Ailill’s plans, so I thought to capture Shiovra myself.”
Caillte regarded the woman silently a moment. He did not care for her much, often questioning her motives. Reaching a hand out, he grabbed hold of her hair at the base of her neck, tugging her head back roughly. “And what of the huntsmen Méav held sway over?” he demanded.
Gráinne met his gaze with excitement dancing in her eyes. “Most lie dead,” she breathed, running her tongue enticingly over her lips. “The few remaining have decided to cast their allegiance with Lord Ailill and await your command, Lord Caillte.”
A smirk crossed his lips as he noticed the woman’s breathing had quickened. Though he did not care for the woman, let alone trust her, Caillte did enjoy bedding her. Tugging harder on her hair, he brought his mouth roughly down upon hers. The woman made no protest, only pressed her body hungrily against his. And with that simple act of consent, Caillte thrust the woman onto his bed and began disrobing.
61
6. HIDDEN
Shiovra woke to the soft murmur of voices talking quietly nearby. Opening her eyes, she looked up as sunlight flitted down through rustling leaves. For a moment, she lay upon the ground wondering when she had fallen asleep. The warmth of the sun was shadowed as Eiladyr leaned over her, placing a hand on her forehead.
“You are finally awake,” he said.
“How long have I been asleep?” Shiovra asked quietly, looking up at him.
The man grinned. “Not long, do not worry,” replied Eiladyr, leaning back. “It is a little past midday.”
Shiovra sat up suddenly. “The huntsmen…” she began.
“We do not have to worry about them anymore.”
She turned at the sudden at the sound of Daire’s voice. He sat a little off to her left, offering her a lopsided smile. A wave of relief washed over Shiovra. “The huntsmen…are they…”
“All dead,” replied Daire. “Odhrán handled them.”
“We should get moving soon,” came Odhrán’s voice.
Shiovra started at the Milidh man’s sudden appearance. He stepped out of the shadows as if he had been part of the trees themselves. Her eyes trailed to the makeshift bandages and noted that fresh blood stained them. Judging by the pained look on his face, the blood had come from his reopened wound and not from the huntsmen.
There was a soft rustling behind them and Odhrán shifted into a protective stance, moving swiftly between Shiovra and the sound.
“Well, if it isn’t Odhrán,” called out a voice.
The companions looked up to see a figure walking out of the shadows.
“Never thought I would see your face again. Been a long time, old friend.” Light fell upon a Neimidh man with dark hair that fell in light curls to his shoulders. His eyes were a deep shade of green and his skin tanned. There were curling blue woad marks by his eyes and a fading scar across his left cheek. He stood with his arms crossed and a wide grin across his lips.
“Good to see you again, Artis,” Odhrán said.
The man turned to Eiladyr. “Where have you been?”
“It is a long story,” replied Eiladyr. “But right now I would rather not talk about it.”
Artis grinned. “Of course, there will be time for that later. All right then, follow me.” Turning, he began to walk away.
Standing, Shiovra glanced at Odhrán, who nodded in turn. Eiladyr and Dai
re had already begun to follow the man deeper into the forest. With a sigh, she hurried to keep up, Odhrán following.
They did not walk far before they approached what appeared to be a very large and impenetrable overgrowth of trees, twisting vines, and prickly bramble that stretch far.
Shiovra had never seen anything quite like it, the sheer size reminding her of a small village. She could hear a stream nearby, but could not see it. She expected it possibly even ran directly through the whole mess.
Artis paused before it and whistled a soft tune.
A soft whistle drifted over the wind in reply.
Shiovra started as a small mass of trees and brush directly before Artis began to shift as the door concealed behind them opened. Artis beckoned for them to enter and the priestess took a few cautious steps before pausing. She watched as Eiladyr eagerly entered with Daire following, but could not bring herself to move.
“Come,” urged Odhrán. “This is Ráth Faolchú.”
When she did not move, the Milidh man grabbed her hand gently and led her through the doorway.
Once she was inside, the hidden door swung shut. Within the seemingly impenetrable barrier of nature was instead a small village where cottages stood nestled amongst the trees. The stream Shiovra had heard flowed through the middle of the tiny village, weaving around the cottages and trees.
“You shall be safe here,” Odhrán assured her. “Even Méav’s huntsmen do not know of this place.”
Artis looked Shiovra over, and then turned his attention of Odhrán. “You seem to have brought us a High Priestess this time, Odhrán,” he stated.
“The priestess journeys to Dún Fiáin,” said Odhrán.
Shiovra took a step forward. “My name is Shiovra and this,” she gestured to Daire, “is my cousin, Daire.”
Artis nodded. “Welcome to Ráth Faolchú,” he said warmly, giving them a slight bow. “You all look a little worse for the wear. Come with me so that we can get your wounds cleaned and dressed.” Waving for them to follow, Artis led them to a small hut along the left side of the village.
Shiovra was the first to enter, ducking through the low doorway. Stepping aside, she looked around the hut. Herbs hung from support posts to dry. Several clay jars sat upon a wooden table beside neatly folded bandages, an empty basin, mortar and pestle, and pitcher. Dying embers glowed lightly in the hearth while a meek bed sat along the far wall.
“Unfortunately, our healer is away at the moment,” Artis told them. “I hope all that is needed is here…”
“Aye,” the priestess replied. “Are you sure your healer will not mind if I use their herbs?”
“No. I doubt he would object.”
Shiovra nodded. “I thank you.” Looking over the various dried herbs, she selected a few and then went to the table. Placing them into the mortar, she began grinding them with the pestle until they were ground to her desire. Turning to the pitcher of water, Shiovra added a tiny bit of water, mixing it in to form a slightly thick paste. Grabbing an empty basin, she poured water into it and grabbed a piece of cloth.
Turning to Odhrán, she gestured to the low bench sitting beside the table. “Let me tend to your wounds first.”
Nodding, the Milidh man sat down on the bench.
Sitting beside him, she lifted the bottom of his tunic and carefully peeled away the makeshift bandage. Biting her lip at the angry appearance of the wound, she dipped the cloth into the basin of water and began cleaning it. Glancing up briefly, she saw him flinch, but only once.
Once the wound was thoroughly cleaned, she dipped her fingers into the paste and worked it gently into the wound. The skin beneath her fingers was hot to touch, which worried Shiovra and she found her fingers lingering.
“Shiovra?”
The priestess started at Odhrán’s low voice. With a tight smile, she wrapped the wound with clean bandages. “It is not healing well. I want to keep an eye on it,” she told him, rising to her feet.
Nodding, Odhrán pulled his tunic back in place.
Dumping the soiled water from the basin out the cottage door, she added fresh water and, taking up another cloth, began to gently remove the dried blood from Daire’s forehead. His wound was not as terrible as it had appeared once the blood was cleaned away. Once cleaned, she applied the paste and decided not to wrap it.
Tilting her head, Shiovra carefully scrutinized him, searching for any hidden wounds she may have missed. Finding none, she turned to her own hand.
“Who gave you that?” asked Eiladyr, gesturing to her wound.
“Gráinne,” she replied as she washed the blood away, treating the wound and binding it.
The man did not press her further.
With a sigh, Shiovra studied the small hut further. The placement of the herbs and such had a highly familiar feeling to it. Her suspicions were confirmed upon seeing a small cloth pouch sitting on the bed. She ran her fingers over the lightly embellished pattern sewn upon it, a small smile playing across her lips. “Your healer is Kieran, son of Dubheasa,” Shiovra murmured, looking up to meet Artis’ gaze.
“Aye, that he is. You have a good eye, priestess,” Artis said with a smile. “This is the village young Kieran trained at before becoming your shadow on Rúnda. Though his duties lie more with Rúnda now, he does return now and again.” Running a hand through his hair, he said, “You are all welcome to stay here for as long as you like. You could all use the rest.”
Shiovra smiled. “I thank you. That is very generous,” she said.
Eiladyr rubbed the back of his neck. “Artis…when the time comes for the priestess to leave, I will be going with her.”
Artis regarded him a moment, then nodded. “The choice is yours, though you will always be welcome here.” He clapped his hands together. “Now then, I will have a meal for all of you prepared. Eiladyr, take them to your cottage so that they might rest while they wait. I shall see if some of the villagers can spare some clothing.”
Eiladyr followed Artis from the hut. “Thank you.”
“Do not fret about it,” Artis told him as he began to walk away, then paused. “Oh, and later I want you to tell me where you have been.”
Eiladyr grinned. “Only if you share some of your winter mead!”
The man chuckled and waved in response.
Turning back to the hut, Eiladyr said enthusiastically, “Follow me.” He led the companions from the hut to the far end of the shrouded village where a small cottage stood covered with thick vines. Inside, the small cottage was surprisingly spacious despite its outward appearance. Several wicker-work screens between support posts separated the beds along the far said of the cottage. A table with a low bench stood near the hearth while wood was piled by the door.
Eiladyr sat down on the bench, leaning back against the table. “After you found me and brought me here, Artis gave me this cottage so I could adjust to the village,” he said. “It took me a little over a year to learn the language enough where I could talk to anyone.” Chuckling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I still have problems at times, but I am learning.”
“You seem to be doing well,” Odhrán said, leaning against a support post.
Shiovra sat down on the edge of a bed with a sigh, content to just rest and listen to the men talk.
“This village is the first place I ever felt truly at home. I never really was much of a chieftain’s son where I came from,” Eiladyr continued quietly, almost as if he spoke to himself. “I had nothing there. No titles, no land, nothing. This is my home now. Artis is like a brother to me. More so than most of my blood brothers.” He shook his head. “Three years ago, my mother died. She was all I had. My father was cruel and my brothers greedy. I left home and found myself on a ship, but a storm hit and when I woke up, I was here on the shores of Éire. I wandered around lost for some time, till Odhrán found me and brought me here. Artis welcomed me without question, even when I could not understand the language.”
“You have come to Éire during dark times
,” Daire said from the doorway. “Be wary of the Milidh, they seek war.”
“Not all the Milidh,” corrected Odhrán harshly. “You know very well that Dún Fiáin seeks alliance.”
Daire snorted. “Aye, you have said that,” he replied coldly, “but that does not mean I trust the intentions that lie behind the promise of peace. You may have helped me rescue Shiovra from Caher Dearg, but you said yourself you were sent to gain our trust.”
“I still do not understand what the difference it between the Milidh, Túath, or Neimidh,” muttered Eiladyr, shaking his head.
“Different clans…” began Shiovra, though a soft tapping on the door-lintel interrupted her.
Daire moved from the doorway and Artis slipped in with a bundle of clothing in his arms. “The food is ready, but first…” He tossed a fresh tunic to Odhrán, then handed Shiovra the rest of the bundle. “Should you need more, let me know.”
“I thank you,” she replied, accepting the garments.
“Well, come to the main cottage when you are ready to eat. There is plenty of food.” Turning, Artis walked from the cottage.
Daire turned to Eiladyr. “Is Artis the chieftain here?”
“Not quite,” he replied. “Ráth Faolchú does not really have a chieftain, it is more of a free village, or at least that is what Artis told me. The people do serve the High Chieftains, and Artis does keep the village together, but he claims no right to the title chieftain.” Standing, Eiladyr stretched. “I do not know about you, but I am going to eat.”
Daire nodded. “Me as well,” he said, following Eiladyr from the cottage.
Shiovra looked down at the clothing Artis had given her, then back at Odhrán. The Milidh man had already discarded his soiled tunic and slipped on the fresh one. She found herself hesitating.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 14