Shiovra did what she could for the villagers, but as the days slipped by, she found that she too, could not bring herself to smile. Sitting down on a log beside a small early morning fire, she rubbed her arms to keep warm.
Morning light had only begun to tinge the sky, slowly breathing color into the dull gray. A heavy fog clung to the ground and the air carried a notable chill as the days had begun to grow colder. Such was expected with the steady approach of Lughnasadh, a harvest festival named after Lugh, kin to both Túath and Fomorii tribes. It marked the beginning of the harvest season and a time of many marriages. The end of the year was steadily approaching.
Shiovra started as a cloak settled down abruptly over her shoulders. Glancing over her shoulder, she found Odhrán stood behind her.
“May I join you?” he asked.
Shiovra nodded quietly and turned back to watching the fire, pulling the cloak tighter about her.
Odhrán sat down beside her, leaving a respectable distance between them. He was quiet for a while, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence in the air.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye before turning her attention back to the fire.
The Milidh man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “My actions may indeed contradict my words at times,” began Odhrán, breaking the silence, “but I have a duty to the chieftains of Dún Fiáin and Tara that I shall not fail upon. I do what I believe to be necessary, even if it means being callous or threatening. Trusting me will not cost you your life, but it just may save it more than you realize.”
Shiovra said nothing, keeping her eyes on the fire.
“Though you may not see it yet, I do consider you a companion,” Odhrán continued. “I will not force you to trust me, I am the enemy after all, but I will do what I can to prove my words.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my ally,” murmured the woman, her hand tightening on the cloak as a sudden breeze rustled past her.
“Perhaps.”
Shiovra looked at the man, but he did not look at her, his eyes scanning the village. There was an air of truthfulness in what he said, but even the deadliest of enemies could whisper honeyed words. Before she could say more, the low call of a morning bird sounded before repeating urgently.
Shiovra watched as Odhrán stood quickly, his hand twitching on the hilt of his sword. Frowning, she rose to her feet and followed his gaze. Several village men rushed to the main gates, climbing the wall. Turning back to Odhrán, she found the Milidh man was already making his way to them. Without any hesitation, she followed. As she neared the gates, she could hear the growing clamor from the other side.
Eiladyr rushed up to Odhrán. “There is something going on in the Milidh camp,” he said in a hushed tone, as he walked with the Milidh man to the wall.
The priestess could only watch in anticipation as the men climbed the wall to join Artis and spoke in hushed tones followed with rough gestures. Looking around her, she found that many of the villagers had also gathered, their faces reflecting great worry and fear.
After a while, Odhrán and Artis made their way down the wall and approached them.
“The Milidh break camp,” Odhrán told them. “They should be gone before noon.”
“Just in time for Lughnasadh,” Artis said with a grin. “We can rest peacefully this night.”
Shiovra heard several relieved sighs around her and found a smile of her own crossing her lips.
Artis turned to the woman. “I am afraid that this village lacks a priestess to reside over the festival,” said the man. “Would you do us the honor?”
Nodding, Shiovra replied, “Aye, of course.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
A small feast was prepared in celebration of the enemy breaking camp. The people of Ráth Faolchú relaxed and enjoyed their mead, laughing and jesting in a manner that had been lacking of late. Having suffered several days’ as prisoners of their own village, they embraced their newfound freedom.
As the night grew late, Shiovra fought against her growing weariness. She had wanted to speak with Artis about possibly sending a few willing warriors to Tara, but found the opportunity continued to evade her. Stifling a yawn, Shiovra rose from the table and slipped away from the celebration.
“Tired?” came Meara’s voice.
The priestess looked up as Meara approached her, heading for the main cottage. Nodding, she offered a sleepy smile and replied, “Aye. The day has been a rather long and I am quite ready to welcome the comforts of my bed.”
“Sleep well then, Lady Shiovra,” Meara told her.
“You as well,” Shiovra said before continuing to the back of the village where the cottage stood she shared with her companions. Ducking inside, she found a small fire already burning in the hearth. Looking around, she took notice that Odhrán had already returned to the cottage and lay sleeping upon his bed.
Reaching up, she released the clasp on her cloak and shrugged it off, letting it cascade down around her feet. After a quick glance at Odhrán, she pulled off her tunic and shift, quickly donning a sleeveless night shirt. Pushing aside the curtain hanging for privacy, she crawled into her bed.
She lay there for a while with nothing but the soft sounds of the crackling fire and her steady breathing. She was dimly aware of Odhrán shifting occasionally on the other side of the wicker-work screen separating her narrow bed from his own.
Shifting onto her side she pulled the blankets up higher and tried to relax, letting the crackling of the fire and soft whisper of the wind through the wicker-work door sooth her. Unfortunately, she found sleep eluded her.
With a frustrated sigh, she rolled onto her back and opened her eyes to the dark thatch roof looming above her. Shiovra had thought that, with the looming threat gone, that sleep would come more easily. It would seem, though, that was not to be. Worries continued to linger along the back of her mind, pulling at her. Caher Dearg had fallen, but the battle was not won. Ailill still had his eye set on her capture and Tara’s destruction. And worse yet, Gráinne had sided with him. Méav was also not to be forgotten.
Shiovra’s thoughts were interrupted as Odhrán shifted and climbed from his bed. Slowly sitting up, she looked at the curtain, watching as his silhouetted form shifted across it before crouching down.
“Trouble sleeping?” he asked quietly.
Crawling to the foot of the bed, she pushed the curtain aside to find his back to her as he stirred the fire. “Aye,” she murmured, watching as small embers rose up from the flames.
Odhrán said nothing further for a long while, merely tended to the fire. Then, abruptly, he rose to his feet and came to stand before her.
Shiovra watched him, waiting for him to say something in the silence that had found them once more. The intensity of his gaze was a bit unnerving to the woman, but she did not turn away. To her surprise, Odhrán leaned toward her, reaching his hand out and trailing his fingers down lightly along the curling marks on her left arm.
“They are truly beautiful,” he told her. “It is a pity that because of them you are hunted.” Odhrán shifted to crouch down and meet her gaze more evenly.
Her gaze shifted to where his touch lingered on her arm, her pulse quickening. Fighting the urge to pull away, Shiovra allowed her gaze to wander to the serpentine woad marking on his wrist. “You have a marking of your own, one that the Milidh druids bear.”
Odhrán’s fingers slipped from her arm.
“Druids: keepers of knowledge, passers of judgment,” continued Shiovra coldly, “council to the sons of Míl.”
He straightened and turned away. “Some, aye, but not all.”
She watched his back for a long while as he added wood to the fire and stirred it.
“It is late, you should sleep,” Odhrán told her without turning.
Shiovra flinched at the harshness in his voice. It had not been her intention to accuse him so. “Forgive me,” she said softly. Shifting back, she let the curtain fall closed and climbed once more int
o her bed. She lay there in the quiet for some time, running her fingers along the same path his had taken on her arm. The warmth of his fingers across her skin, the memory of his lips on her own, filled her with a feeling she could not place. As sleep began to weave heavily through her body, she felt a slight weight on her bed and warm touch on her cheek before she slipped into welcomed dreams.
81
8. LUGHNASADH FESTIVAL
Kieran stood at the gates of Ráth Faolchú, pack in hand. He was never one to linger too long and, with recent events, he knew his time had come to depart the hidden village.
“Leaving?” questioned a familiar voice.
He nodded. “I must report to the High Chieftains. They should know that a Milidh war host is on the move, even if it is only thirty-seven men,” Kieran replied, turning to face Odhrán.
The Milidh man stood with his arms crossed. “Have you bid farewell to the priestess?”
Kieran shook his head. “Nay. She would not be too pleased for my departure,” he replied with a chuckle.
“You should stay for the festivities at least,” said Odhrán.
“I have delayed long enough,” Kieran told the man. “Lady Shiovra no longer needs me as her shadow. She has you now.”
Odhrán chuckled shortly, “A shadow she fears and loathes.”
“Given time, she will learn to trust you. Painful memories run deep in her heart. All you have to do is heal them.” Digging in his pack, Kieran pulled out a small leather pouch. “Please give this to Lady Shiovra,” he told her. “There are some special ointments and herbs in there. Should anything unfortunate happen, I would like her to be able to heal everyone. It is my parting gift to her, until we meet again.”
Odhrán took the pouch and nodded.
Kieran turned and nodded to the men waiting at the gates. He walked towards them as they opened, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder at Odhrán. “Slán.”
The Milidh man nodded. “Farewell.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Shiovra ran the cloth of warm water seeped in meadowsweet across her skin. Relaxing, she closed her eyes and let the frustrations of the day seep from her body. The ritual was not only to cleanse the body, but the mind as well. Three times she took a deep breath and three times she exhaled, pushing away harmful energies and troubling thoughts. Shiovra ran the cloth along her arms and over her breasts before washing her hair. She took what remained of the water and rinsed her body off thoroughly. A priestess must be clean in both body and mind before any rituals could be performed.
Rising from the bench, Meara handed her a cloth to pat herself dry with. Once done, Shiovra donned a simple pale grey shift that hung loosely over her body. Meara circled her and placed a crown of wild flowers upon Shiovra’s head. The priestess then slipped gold bracelets on her arms.
“Are you ready, Lady Shiovra?” Meara asked softly.
She nodded.
The two women stepped from the bathing cottage and made their way towards the center of the village.
A table had been placed in the center of Ráth Faolchú to serve as the altar for the Lughnasdh festival, draped with a bright yellow cloth and decorated with bunches of herbs, sheaves of grain, and small baskets of fruit and vegetables. The villagers wore colors of grays, greens, and yellows and stood near a fire that had been kindled with herbs and wood to commemorate the sun’s passing.
All eyes turned to Shiovra as she stepped up to the altar, dagger in hand. Facing the east, she pointed the dagger tip towards the ground, pausing before walking slowly towards the south while chanting softly under her breath. Heat pulsed through her body as a pure white fire streamed from the tip of the dagger. “I call thee now, circle of power,” she chanted. “Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the east, by the power of air, I call upon thee. Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the south, by the power of fire, I call upon thee. Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the west, by the power water, I call upon thee. Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the north, by the power of earth, I call upon thee.” Three times she circled the altar and spoke the chant.
Shiovra paused before the altar, placing the tip of the blade into a clay bowl of dirt. “Blessings upon thee, oh creature of the earth. May all spitefulness and hindrances pass forth and let all goodness enter in.” Removing the blade, she placed it in a bowl of water. “As we are ever mindful that as water purifies the body, so does earth purify the soul.” Stirring the water with the blade, she removed it and whipped it dry. “I do bless thee, in the names of Dana and the Dagda, so that thou may aid me.” Taking up the bowl of water, she walked the circled and sprinkled it at each directional quarter. Returning to the altar, she lit a torch. “I charge thee, oh creature of fire, that thou would allow no evil to defile this circle.” Passing a hand over the fire, she extinguished it. “I call upon thee, oh creature of the air, that thou may protect our circle with your love.”
Opening her arms wide, Shiovra closed her eyes. “Oh, Mother of us all, fair Dana of the Light, Danu of Darkness, whose womb is the earth, who brings us happiness and mirth with every loving touch. Please come to us now and touch this circle with Your love and join us in this sacred rite. Oh, Mother, bring Your love and light!” Shiovra called out.
A breeze stirred through the village, rustling the leaves of the trees.
“Oh, Dagda, Father of places wild and free,” Shiovra continued, “who brings us pleasure, joy, and mirth. Who is the Sun that shines above, who warms us with His light and love. Who brings us health, prosperity, and changes all is it should be. Please come to us now and touch this circle with Your love and join us in this sacred rite. Oh Father, please lend us Your love and light!”
The bonfire shifted and flickered.
“We thank thee Lugh of the sun and light for warming us from dawn until night. As you go, we hold thee dear, until the winter brings thou near.” She paused. “We thank ye, Mother, for these gifts of meal, so as we eat, Your blessings flow. Within, without, from head to toe.”
Shiovra turned to face the people of Ráth Faolchú. “The sun and earth are wed at last. While summer’s kiss turns fields and grass to harvest gold, and gardens gifts find sacrifice on earthen lips,” she continued. “Gather all, hand in hand, power raised along the band. Fires, dancing, circle round. Fruits and vegetables from the ground. Offer up a feast of praise, while shadows lengthen in maze. Gather all, hand in hand, power raised along the band. Autumn sun turns all to bronze, golden children singing songs. Merging desires, law, and might, removing evil from our sight. Gather all, hand in hand, power raised along the band!”
With the ritual complete, Shiovra proceeded to dismiss the elements as well as Dana and the Dagda. “Oh, Mother of us all, fair Dana of the Light, Danu of Darkness,” she said softly. “Whose womb is the earth and who brings us happiness and mirth with every loving touch She gives unto our lives. We thank You for Your presence here and hold you in our hearts so dear. And with our love now, You may go or stay, if You should deem it so.” She paused. “Oh, Dagda, Father of places wild and free, who brings us pleasure, joy, and mirth. Who is the sun that shines above, who warms us with His light and love. Who brings us good health, prosperity, and changes all as it should be. We thank You for Your presence here and hold You in our hearts so dear. And with our love now, You may go, or stay, if You should deem it so.”
Shiovra stepped to the east with her dagger once more. “Oh, twirling breezes and winds of the east, who protected this circle and witnesses all feats,” she chanted. “We thank you for coming and gathering about, but now comes the time for this circle to end. Farewell ‘til we see thee again.” She brought the blade to her lips and placed a kiss upon it. Having done thus, she repeated the pattern, releasing each of the directional quarters. Lastly, she released the circle.
Meara stepped up to Shiovra with a bowl of fruit in one hand and a cup of mead in the other.
Turning to the woman, Shiovra took the bowl and spread the fruit o
n the ground near the altar, both offerings to Dana and the Dagda. Taking the cup in hand, she poured the mead on top while speaking softly, “By the moon and sun and sky above, I offer these in perfect love. By fire, earth, rain and gust, I offer these in perfect trust. Please take these gifts I offer You, in perfect thanks for all You do. For all the gifts You have given us, Oh Lord and Lady, blessed be.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
A feast celebrating Lughnasadh was held in the main cottage. Though bread was most prominently featured, fruits and vegetables had also been laid out in earthen bowls. Honey meads and ale was readily at hand for everyone and, after honoring the Dagda and Dana, all sat down to eat.
Shiovra took seat at the head table with Odhrán on her left and to her right, Daire. While everyone ate and drank heartily, Shiovra sat staring at her food. With the Milidh threat gone from Ráth Faolchú and Dún Fiáin’s promise of aid, she knew she should linger no further. Her return to Tara and her people was needed; she had duties of her own to tend to.
“You should eat,” urged Daire, handing her a piece of bread.
Shiovra took the offered food and glanced at her cousin as he poured another cup of mead. “And you should drink less,” she told him firmly.
He only chuckled in turn and took a long swig.
Shaking her head, she ate the bread and sipped on some honeyed mead of her own, though it was not her favorite.
After everyone had eaten their fill, the villagers quit the main cottage and returned to the bonfires for further merriment and dancing. The steady beat of bodhráns filled the air and the villagers clapped their hands in rhythm. The steady sound of air being blown through a hollowed tube of wood gradually entered. Men began so sing-chant along to the music. Women danced and twirled in rhythm, their feet treading lightly on the ground beneath them as their skirts swirled with their movements.
Shiovra was pulled abruptly from her musings when she noticed one of the villagers, a man named Rónán, walking towards her. From his gait and the grin plastered across his face, she could tell that the man had partaken in a great deal of mead.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 18