Odhrán seemed to understand her unspoken question and he moved for the door, pausing. “I will await you outside,” he said gently then left, closing the door behind him.
Shiovra gratefully stripped off what remained of her ruined garments, tossing them into the hearth fire to burn. Glancing down at her skin, which had been marred by dirt and blood, she cringed. After a quick survey of the cottage, she found a basin of water sitting on a narrow bench along the wall, a cloth already resting on the side. Even though it was not much, Shiovra was grateful to at least cleanse away some lingering memories of Caher Dearg.
She hastily washed everything from her body, relishing the cool water on her skin. Drying off, she donned the cream shift and dull green tunic Artis had given her. After quickly running her fingers through her hair to be rid of some tangles, she pushed open the door and stepped outside to find Odhrán leaning against the cottage as expected.
The Milidh man said nothing, only began to lead the way to the main cottage at the center of the village.
As they neared, a low call of a bird whistle drifted over the wind.
Shiovra looked at Odhrán curiously when the man came to a pause, listening. Frowning, she noticed that the entire village had fallen completely silent. All around, men and women halted in their daily tasks, listening as well.
Artis stepped from the main cottage, Eiladyr following. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he sent a whistle of his own, the rise and fall of pitch mimicking the call of a bird.
Another whistle replied with a slightly urgent undertone.
Shiovra watched as the men ran to the concealed wall surrounding the village and began to climb up the overgrown wall. She took a step forward, but was stayed by Odhrán’s restraining hand upon her shoulder.
“Stay,” he ordered sternly, but softly.
“What is happening?” she whispered in question, taking another step forward.
“Someone approaches the village,” Odhrán explained. “It will be determined if they are ally or foe.”
An anxious feeling wove its way through the priestess, worry that perhaps more huntsmen lurked about. From what she had seen in the man, Shiovra did not doubt that Cúmhéa had survived the fall of Caher Dearg. Yet, despite her initial worry, something in the back of her mind told her that there were no enemies on the other side of the wall. She took another step forward, only to have his hand tighten.
“It could be the enemy,” he warned in a dangerously low voice.
Shiovra turned sharply to face him. “And it could be Meara,” she countered. “She could have as easily followed us here as any huntsmen. Eiladyr does not know her. We need to be sure.”
Odhrán was silent a moment, considering her words, before nodding. “I will look to see if it the Neimidh woman,” he said. “Stay here.” He released her shoulder and slowly made his way to the wall.
Her eyes narrowed on him as he walked away, slowly following despite his order to stay put. Shiovra watched as Odhrán climbed the wall with ease, finding seemingly impossible hand and foot holds in the wall until he reached Artis and Eiladyr.
“They appear to be tracking something,” came Artis’ low voice as the priestess neared the base of the wall.
“But what?” whispered Eiladyr in turn. “How many of them are there?”
“Not many, but enough,” replied Artis. “Wait…is that one a woman?”
“It is Meara,” confirmed Odhrán. “She is an ally to the High Priestess. We were separated during the fall of Caher Dearg. She may have injured men in her ranks.”
“Then we shall welcome her and see to their wounds,” stated Artis. He climbed down the wall, followed by Odhrán. “Fetch Daire to greet the Neimidh woman,” he told Eiladyr when the man was once again on the ground. “There will be a feast tonight!”
A wide grin crossed Eiladyr lips. “Aye!”
Artis stepped quickly towards the front of the village and called out, “Open the gates! New companions await greeting!”
Shiovra began to follow, but Odhrán stepped in front of her. She took a step back in surprise and he took another forward. Taking another back, she quickly found she was against the wall.
He regarded her quietly a moment, then said, “I understand that your thoughts of me are not always the best. You often distrust me, even hate me, and for the most part…you appear to fear me.”
Shiovra looked away under his questioning gaze.
Odhrán stepped closer, reaching a hand out and catching a lock of her hair in his hand.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
“My duty is to protect you and keep you safe,” he said letting the strands slip through his fingers as he leaned towards her. “Allow me to show you that not all Milidh are the same.”
Shiovra met his gaze, trying to calm the beating of her heart. The man was closer than she would have desired, but she could not manage to move away.
“Odhrán.”
Shiovra reflexively flinched at the cold undertone of Daire’s voice. She looked over Odhrán’s shoulder to find her cousin approaching with Meara and Eiladyr following.
“May I speak with you a moment?” asked Daire.
Odhrán glanced over his shoulder and nodded. Turning back to the priestess, he leaned close, his voice low as he spoke in her ear, “Please keep my words in mind.”
“Aye,” breathed Shiovra.
Pulling away, Odhrán turned and followed Daire towards Eiladyr’s cottage.
The priestess watched the men walk away, her hands tightening on the folds of her shift. Though the man had given her no reason to fear him, she could not deny that she had not been afraid.
“Did something happen?” Meara asked with a frown.
Shiovra felt heat rush to her face. “Nay,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even.
Eiladyr frowned. “Are you sure?”
She nodded quickly.
Meara raised a skeptical brow, but did not press her further.
“I think we should follow,” suggested Eiladyr with a mischievous grin. “Just to be sure they do not kill each other?”
Shiovra glanced at Meara, who nodded in agreement. With a resigned sigh, she walked to the cottage, Eiladyr and Meara falling into step behind. Pushing the door open, they were greeted by a heavy silence so thick it could almost be cut with a dagger. Shiovra stepped into the cottage and looked at both men, studying each in turn.
Odhrán leaned against a support post calmly, his eyes closed and his arms crossed. He did not look at the priestess when she entered, only remained still in his spot.
Daire, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Sitting on a bed, he glared daggers at the Milidh man.
With a frustrated sigh, Shiovra moved to stand between the men. “Daire, I understand completely that you do not trust Odhrán…but fighting amongst ourselves will get us nowhere,” she began softly.
Daire turned his heated gaze to her. “And you trust him?” he demanded.
“I…” Shiovra glanced at Odhrán, and then shook her head. “Nay, I do not,” she admitted, “but…I want to try. He has yet to prove his intentions are not true to his words and Tara needs the alliance Dún Fiáin promises. If part of securing that alliance means that he will be my shadow, that I have to trust him, then so be it.” She turned her attention back to Daire. “Odhrán may be Milidh, but he is not the one we should be fighting. Right now, our enemy is Ailill.”
“Lady Shiovra is right,” Meara said. “Ailill has struck a bargain with the Milidh clan, though I doubt either will hold true to their words. There is no denying that the sons of Míl still seethe over what was done to their kinsman Ith. They also realize that Túath priestesses hold sway over a power they will never comprehend. As for Ailill, he knows that without a High Priestess, he has no true power. By casting his lot with the Milidh, he gains promise of that power and they have one less priestess to pose a threat. The problem lies in that they both aim for the capture of Tara.”
“Why?” mutte
red Eiladyr.
“To control Tara is to control Éire,” Shiovra told him, then thought a moment. “How much do you understand about the clans of Túath and Milidh?”
“Very little,” admitted Eiladyr, scratching his head. “Though feuds between clans are not uncommon where I come from.”
Shiovra sat down at the table. Glancing at Odhrán, she hesitated as she found him watching her. Her voice was low when she spoke, “Ten winters ago a man called Ith came to Éire when I was but a child of eight. He claimed to have seen Éire from his homeland and, enthralled with her beauty, came here. He met our High Chieftains: Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht, and Mac Gréine, grandsons of the great father, the Dagda. They greeted him kindly yet, when Ith praised Éire so highly, they became afraid his praise would turn into desire…” She stopped short, unable to continue under the intensity of Odhrán’s gaze.
Daire leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Ith was slain by the High Chieftains and his companions were forced to return whence they came with his body,” he continued for the priestess, voice hard. “Two moons after, Míl, kinsman of Ith, came with warriors and families, his intentions no secret. On Beltaine eve, Tara fell under attack by Milidh warriors. It was meant to be a warning, with only a few deaths and mostly injuries.”
“My mother was killed by Milidh hands that night,” Shiovra added quietly, rubbing her wounded hand. “The High Chieftains met with the sons of Míl and eventually a truce was agreed upon.”
“Though the Milidh seem to have a very lose grasp of what peace means,” muttered Daire.
Odhrán turned his attention to the man. “Not all Milidh are the same,” he said firmly.
“Then why do so many ally themselves with enemies of the Túath?” countered Daire, raising his voice.
“Perhaps the Túath would not have so many enemies if they did not kill out of fear,” Odhrán said in an even tone.
“It was of just cause!” shouted Daire, lurching to his feet. “Kill one man to protect many.”
A short laugh passed Odhrán’s lips. “The death of one man brought an entire war host. How is that protecting many?” he asked smoothly.
“Enough!” demanded Shiovra, standing. “While it is true that the High Chieftains should have considered what repercussions might come by taking Ith’s life, the Milidh would have come regardless.” She rubbed her face wearily. “All that matters now is protecting Tara. I need to reach Dún Fiáin and speak with the chieftain so I can request aid.”
“And what if he wants you to wed his son before they help?” asked Daire angrily.
“Then I will,” replied Shiovra angrily. Though the thought of having to wed into an enemy clan terrified her, she would do what was necessary to protect her people. She glanced at Odhrán and found the Milidh man was watching her once more. Shiovra held his gaze for a moment and then looked away. “Caher Dearg has fallen, though I doubt that will appease Ailill’s anger,” she continued in a calmer tone. “We need to be prepared.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
A small feast was held outside the main cottage to welcome the priestess and her companions to Ráth Faolchú, as well to celebrate the fall of Caher Dearg. Nearly the entire village had gathered and Artis offered Shiovra a place at the main table where she was joined by Odhrán and a freshly shaven Eiladyr. The villagers jested with each other, enjoying the food and mead while a bard sang along to the steady beat of a bodhrán. And as the day slowly grew into evening, the tables and benches were moved aside so that the villagers could take to dancing in the flickering torchlight.
Shiovra watched with a smile on her face, enjoying the festivities after everything they had recently been through with the huntsmen and Caher Dearg. When the dance slowed, she rose from her seat and joined in. Focusing on the steady beat of the bodhrán, she moved along with it. Her feet were light upon the ground with each step and spin she took. When the beat upon the bodhrán quickened pace, so did she.
The priestess smiled at the faces swirling around her, but faltered when she found Odhrán watching her intensely. Pausing, Shiovra held the man’s gaze for a moment before continuing her dance. She tried not to think of the man’s eyes upon her, but she could feel them lingering. With the end of the song, she hesitated before returning to the head table, Odhrán’s eyes following her every step. Though he had asked for a chance to prove that not all the Milidh were the same, Shiovra found she felt anxious under her gaze.
“I believe that is the first I have seen you truly smile,” Odhrán said, bringing his cup to his lips and taking a drink. “You should do it more.”
Shiovra flushed unconsciously. And when the man said no more, she focused instead on the dwindling celebrations.
It was growing late in the evening and many of the villagers had begun to disperse, returning to their cottages for the night. Even the bard had retired, his songs no longer filling the air. They were left with the soft crackling of torch fire and the sweet song of crickets.
“Lady Shiovra,” called out a warm male voice.
Looking up, she saw a face she had not seen since her departure from Rúnda. “Kieran…”
The Neimidh man smiled warmly as he approached the table. His gold-brown eyes looked weary in the flickering light and his curly dark brown hair was slightly disheveled. Kieran appeared, for the most part, a little worse for the wear.
Shiovra began to stand, but he motioned for her to stay seated. “Merry Meet.”
The man smiled. “Merry Meet Lady Shiovra,” he replied warmly, then nodded to the two men flanking her, “Odhrán, Eiladyr.”
“It has been a long time, Kieran of the Neimidh,” Odhrán said in turn.
“That it has,” he replied. “I followed Lady Shiovra when she departed Rúnda, but unfortunately I was delayed. What brings you to Ráth Faolchú, Lady Shiovra?”
Shiovra explained the events that had taken place at Tara that brought upon their journey, as well as the fall of Caher Dearg. When she had finished, she asked Kieran, “Did your journey bring you near Caher Dearg?”
Kieran nodded once more. “The lack of huntsmen brought me concern,” he told her. “I had not expected to find Caher Dearg lying in ruin. I looked for traces of survivors and found none within the village or the immediate outskirts.”
“And Méav?” questioned Shiovra quietly.
The Neimidh man shook his head. “There was no sign of the woman,” answered Kieran, “though I found tracks from huntsmen. Not many of them, but some tracks do circle Ráth Faolchú.”
Eiladyr swore under his breath.
“Regardless, Ainmire needs informed about Caher Dearg’s fall as well Gráinne allying herself with Ailill,” Daire stated, coming to lean against the table. “If I leave at dawn, and keep a steady pace, I could be back in a weeks’ time or so.”
“You will not go that far alone,” Meara told him. “Ainnle and I shall join you; the rest of my men can take care of any huntsmen who tread too closely to Ráth Faolchú.”
Shiovra was silent a moment before standing and announcing, “I will continue my journey to Dún Fiáin and request aid be sent to Tara.”
“No,” came Daire’s blunt refusal.
Frowning, the priestess turned to her cousin. “The purpose of this journey was to request aid from Dún Fiáin,” she told him firmly.
Daire turned to face her. “Then have Odhrán go,” he argued, gesturing to the Milidh man.
Shiovra narrowed her eyes on Daire. “I have told you this before, it must be me. I am the one promised to the chieftain’s son. I am the one who needs to ask for aid.”
“Then I am coming too…” he began.
Odhrán rose to his feet. “No, you shall go to Tara and inform Ainmire what has happened. There can be no further delay,” he said, meeting Daire’s furious gaze with his cold one. “Kieran and I shall escort the priestess to Dún Fiáin.”
Daire opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Kieran.
“Odhrán is right,” the Neimidh man af
firmed. “It will take us two and a half days to get there. The more you hesitate, the less time Tara has to prepare for possible attack. We cannot be certain that the village will remain safe simply because Caher Dearg has fallen. If Gráinne has truly lost her senses, she just might attack on her own. She has the desire and war host to do it.”
“You trust Odhrán and that Milidh village so well?” countered Daire.
“I trust Odhrán,” replied Kieran calmly.
“Odhrán is an ally of this Ráth Faolchú,” Artis stated, approaching the table with a cup of mead in hand. “He has earned our trust tenfold. I do not doubt his ability to escort the Lady Shiovra to and from Dún Fiáin safely.”
Muttering under his breath, Daire made no further protest.
“It is decided then,” Odhrán said. “Come morning, we depart.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Ceallach Neáll stood alone in the cottage, facing the hearth fire and watching as the flames climbed taller. The wood snapped and cracked as the fire grew in intensity, twisting in a wild dance till it formed the somewhat transparent shape of a woman.
“The sea grows restless, Ceallach,” said the woman, her voice distant and distorted. “I fear the Fomorii may be planning something.”
Ceallach looked away, focusing on a tarnished dagger sitting upon a nearby table. “There is no doubt that Ailill has allied himself with them,” he stated. “His Milidh allies already carry Fomorii weapons. It is quite possible that the Fomorii may be gathering a war host to add to his ranks, if they have not already.”
“Does Tara remain safe?” she asked, her long hair shifting with the movement of the fire.
“There have been no further attacks since Shiovra’s departure,” replied Ceallach in a hard voice. “It is… disquieting.”
The woman was silent a moment, then said, “You are concerned this calm conceals an attack.”
“Silence from the enemy has never boded well,” he growled. “I will remain in Tara until Shiovra’s return. If the Fomorii do indeed gather to Ailill’s side, I am the best defense this village has against any of their tricks.”
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 15