Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy)

by Melissa Sasina

  After much swearing and grumbling on his part, Daire finally sat down for his morning meal.

  They ate their food in silence, before snuffing the fire and gathering their things. Mounting their horses, they once again continued their journey. For some time, the cursed Fomorii remained out of sight. Yet, as late afternoon neared, the creatures appeared once more, trailing the companions through the woods. The companions urged their steeds faster, but the lithe creatures kept pace easily.

  Shiovra kept a close eye on the Fomorii’s progress and it did not sit well with her. For the Fomorii to be on the move, on land nonetheless, did not bode well. What is Ailill planning? she thought with a frown.

  With a frustrated mutter, Eiladyr pulled his horse closer to Daire’s. “We are going to have to face them sooner or later,” he said in a low growl. “I suggest now.”

  Daire shook his head and replied harshly, “Do not be a fool.”

  Shiovra tugged on the reins of her mare, falling behind the men. “No, Eiladyr is right,” she said in turn. “Their path has not swayed. By the looks of it, they intend to follow us straight to Tara. We need to stop them now.” Pulling her horse to a halt, Shiovra leapt lightly to the ground, grabbed her bow and arrows, and began walking towards the Fomorii.

  “Shiovra?” Eiladyr’s voice called out.

  “What are you doing?!” demanded Daire.

  Shiovra did not heed their shouts as she quickened her pace. She could hear the steady pounding of hoof beats following her before they abruptly stopped as she climbed a hillock. Once she reached the top, she came to a pause and drew her bow, aiming for one of the Fomorii in the front.

  “What do you think you are doing?!” demanded Odhrán, grabbing her arm.

  “Protecting my people,” she responded, letting the arrow fly free. It whistled through the air and pierced the shoulder of a spearman.

  Cursing, the Milidh man released her and dropped to a knee beside her, placing his hands on the ground.

  Shiovra felt a slight tremble beneath her feet that rippled out and heaved the ground before the Fomorii, causing them to stumble. She used the opportunity to disable another Fomorii warrior.

  Daire rushed up to stand beside her with his bow. Drawing the string back, he took a deep breath. The wind began to stir and, as he knocked his arrow loose, whipped past them to slam into the Fomorii just as they recovered their balance.

  Shiovra heard the quick snap of fingers before the ragged clothing of one Fomorii warrior burst into flames.

  Yet still the creatures pressed forward.

  “Morrigú, mistress of battle, we need thee,” breathed Shiovra. “Please lend us your aid.”

  The caw of a crow reached Shiovra’s ears just before it came to perch on the end of her bow. Shiovra met the bird’s piercing black gaze.

  The crow cocked its head to the side and cawed.

  “I thank you, Badb of the Morrigú.” Shiovra breathed in thanks.

  With a nod of sorts and ruffle of feathers, the crow lifted off the bow and swooped down towards the Fomorii. As it drifted toward the ground before the misshapen creatures, its form shifted from a crow to that of a woman with flowing ebony hair and cloak of black feathers. Her feet touched the ground lightly and did not slow as she approached the enemy. Swishing her cloak aside, she held a pale hand out, palm open. A sword took shape in her hand and her fingers tightened around it.

  The Fomorii faltered at the sight of Badb, recoiling slightly.

  Slowly bringing her blade up, Badb quickened her pace. Releasing a terrifying, piercing cry of battle, she rushed at the Fomorii. The woman moved swiftly, cutting down their ranks one by one without falter.

  Shiovra was suddenly seized by the arm and roughly pulled aside as a spear narrowly missed her. She did not protest as Odhrán continued to pull her down the hillock.

  “We move, now!” growled Odhrán. Looking at Shiovra, his hand tightened on her arm. “That was foolish. What if that spear had come sooner? It would have pierced through you!”

  “What would you have had me do?” she countered angrily. “Let them continue to follow us all the way to Tara?!”

  Odhrán leaned closer. “You cannot protect Tara if you are dead!” he continued, his voice dangerously calm.

  Shiovra could see the anger burning in his eyes, but the hand on her arm shook slightly and she felt her own anger subsiding. “And you cannot protect me if you are dead,” she replied in an even tone. “I will do what I must to protect the lives of many.”

  Daire ran down the hillock towards them, swinging his bow over his shoulder. “Now is not the time to argue,” he said sternly, climbing astride his steed. “We need to move now before the Morrigú grows tired of playing with them.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  “Deasún would be better suited for this plan,” Caillte said as he sat at the table, cup of mead in hand. “Such is beneath me.” Bringing the cup to his lips, he took a long drink and looked at the woman over the rim, eyes following her every move.

  “You are afraid to face your brother,” taunted Gráinne, leaning over the table towards him.

  “I do not fear my brother. I simply have no desire to fight him. We may be enemies, but he is still my kin,” Caillte replied, stressing the last word. He had spoken the truth. Though he did not see eye to eye with his brother, he had no intentions of killing him either.

  “Why not Cúmhéa or Árdal?” pressed the woman eagerly. “Would they not be more suited to the task?”

  “Cúmhéa has already failed once against the priestess’ warriors, I will not risk a second time on something so crucial,” scoffed Caillte, sitting his cup down roughly. “As for Árdal, the man is mad and corrupted beyond our control. He is too unpredictable. We need a cunning and cruel mind; we need Deasún.”

  Gráinne frowned and straightened, irritation written clearly across her lovely face. “You want to use that Milidh cur?” she demanded with a scowl.

  Caillte cast a sidelong glance at the fire. “It is not that I want to, merely that it is a necessity,” the Fomorii man replied. He did not know much of the Milidh man himself, only that he did not like him. He was, in a sense, even less controllable that Árdal, but he was just what they needed.

  Gráinne dragged her long nails across the table. “And just how do you intend to sway Deasún to follow your orders?” she asked.

  His eyes slid back smoothly to meet hers in a steady gaze. “You,” Caillte replied simply. Bringing his cup up once more, he let the mead lick coolly at his lips before taking a drink.

  Across from him, the woman lifted an intrigued brow. “Me?”

  Grinning, Caillte leaned forward. “Aye, you,” he told her. “You shall sway him in the way you do best: taking him to your bed.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  The following days of journey passed quietly without further sight of the Fomorii. And, once Tara finally came into view, Shiovra had never been so happy to look upon her home. As they rode closer, familiar faces paused in their work to welcome the companions with warm, welcoming smiles. And, though she knew she should feel relieved, an anxious feeling continued to pull at Shiovra. Until she saw Ainmire was alive and well, she would not be at ease.

  Daire pulled his steed to a pause beside Shiovra and Odhrán. “Home,” he murmured, his eyes set upon the main cottage.

  Shiovra nodded. “Aye,” she replied softly, urging her horse forward up the well worn path. Her hands tightened unconsciously as they neared the gates and, once they passed through, she gave her mare a light kick. With each gallop closer to the main cottage the quicker her heart raced, anxious to reassure her mind that Ainmire was safe.

  Once at the cottage door, she tugged on the reins and pulled her horse to a stop before leaping down and bursting through the cottage door.

  Mahon, who had been sitting at the table with Earnán and Naal, looked up at the sudden noise. His eyes lit up and a smile flashed across his lips as he realized who it was.

  Rising
to his feet, Mahon approached her and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Welcome home, sister,” he said before releasing her.

  Shiovra watched as her brother cocked his head to the side and looked over her shoulder. Following his line of vision, Shiovra turned to see the rest of the companions had finally caught up with her and Eiladyr stood at the center of his quizzical stare. “Ah, this is Eiladyr. Like the Milidh, he is a stranger to Éire. Eiladyr, this is my brother, Mahon,” she said, then gestured to the other two men who had risen from the table. “That is Earnán and his son, Naal. They are kin as well.”

  Earnán rose from the table and, grinning, extended a hand to Eiladyr. “Welcome to Tara,” he said, grabbing Eiladyr’s arm behind the wrist and giving it a firm shake.

  “Your return is met happily, Shiovra Ní Coughlin.”

  Shiovra turned at the familiar voice, her eyes falling upon Ainmire as he ducked into the cottage, followed by Ceallach Neáll. Overwhelming relief washed through the priestess. To set her eyes on Ainmire and see that he was indeed alive and well eased some of the fear she had felt. And though Ainmire stood before her unharmed, his death continued to remain a frightful possibility. “Lord Ainmire,” Shiovra said, giving him a small bow in greeting. “I am glad to have returned.”

  “We shall hold a feast in celebration of your return.” Ainmire turned his attention to Eiladyr. “You must be the man I have heard about that is neither Milidh nor from Éire.”

  Eiladyr nodded. “Aye.”

  “And do you have a name?” pressed Ainmire, crossing his arms.

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “Eiladyr.”

  The chieftain quirked a brow and said, “An unusual name to go with an unusual accent. Though Daire has already informed me, I would like to hear it from your own mouth. How is it that you came to be a prisoner of Méav?”

  Eiladyr grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I was hunting huntsmen,” he replied honestly. “They were stretching their reach too far, lingering too close to the village. I was not about to sit by and do nothing. I held my own well enough…till they outnumbered me.” He chuckled lightly. “Though, had it not been for them, I would never have met the priestess, let alone been able to promise aid from Ráth Faolchú.”

  “Artis has long been an ally to the High Chieftains,” said Ainmire. “If you have his trust, then you have mine as well. I am Ainmire, chieftain of Tara. Merry meet and welcome to our village.” Grinning, he offered his hand to the man, giving it a quick shake.

  “Merry met,” agreed Eiladyr.

  Clearing his throat, Ainmire looked at Shiovra. “I trust all went well in Dún Fiáin?” he questioned, walking around the priestess to sit down on a bench across from the hearth fire with a heavy exhale.

  She nodded. Looking at Ainmire more closely, she could see a great weariness in the chieftain’s eyes. “Aye, though there is something of more importance that I would like to discuss first.” Glancing at Ceallach, she met the Fomorii man’s gaze and held it for a bit. “About the misshapen Fomorii.”

  Ceallach nodded and closed the cottage door.

  “How long have the Fomorii been on the move in Éire?” questioned Shiovra as she approached the hearth fire. Holding Ainmire’s gaze firmly, she waited for an answer.

  Exhaling, Ainmire leaned forward on the bench. “We have been tracking their travels for little over a moon now, but reason stands they have been treading upon our boarders much longer,” he replied. “Though their movements are erratic, unpredictable, passing some villages while attacking others, their general path seems to be taking them northward.”

  Shiovra thought a moment, and then questioned, “Brú na Bóinne?”

  “We do not know for sure, but as of now that is what we fear.” Ainmire shifted, leaning back. “A messenger has already been sent to the High Chieftains. All that remains is to wait and focus on keeping Tara safe.”

  “Dún Fiáin has promised ten warriors and Artis shall send whatever men he can spare,” Shiovra told Ainmire. Bringing her hand up, she chewed on her thumbnail for a moment in thought, her eyes flickering to Ceallach. The foretelling nightmare of Ainmire’s death continued to plague her, but she could not bring herself to tell the chieftain directly. And, though she was loath to do so, Shiovra knew it would be best to speak to Ceallach about it. Looking back at Ainmire, she said in a hard tone, “There is no doubt in my mind that Ailill seeks to strike and soon.”

  Ainmire rubbed his temple wearily. “Then let us hope that the promised aid arrives quickly.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Daire found Shiovra sitting in tall grass as she watched bleating sheep meander about. He stood silently beside her for a long while, enjoying the breeze that rustled around them. Ainmire’s admission that the union with Dún Fiáin was nothing more than a tactical maneuver to gain hold in the Milidh village, a mere ploy of peace, continued to leave Daire feeling ill at ease. He had wanted to speak to Shiovra about it upon his return to Ráth Faolchú, but could not bring himself to do so. And, as each day passed, he began to regret more and more having not spoken of it.

  Glancing down at his cousin, his eyes lingered on the woman’s pensive expression. He knew her thoughts lay with her troubling dream and that what he had to say would only end up riling her up, but he needed to speak of it. “I think you should dissolve the union between Tara and Dún Fiáin,” he said after a prolonged silence.

  “No.”

  He had known speaking to her about the union would be met with defiance, but he had not expected her first response to be quite so…blunt. Sitting down beside her, Daire exhaled heavily. “I thought that I could keep you from being used as a pawn, keep you from getting hurt, but it would seem I was wrong…” he began. “This union with Dún Fiáin is nothing but a ruse of peace.”

  “I know,” Shiovra replied.

  Daire looked at her, frowning.

  Shiovra sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. “Unions like this one, they are nothing more than an intricate stratagem,” she continued softly. “Each side seeks to learn the others weaknesses and gather all knowledge possible.”

  “Then why do you seek to continue with the betrothal?” he asked.

  “It is my role to play,” Shiovra said quietly. “Without my promised union to the chieftain’s son, there would be no alliance, no promised peace. Even if it is nothing more than a ruse, it does not have to stay that way.” She paused a moment. “It is true that at first the mere thought of wedding one of the Milidh angered me to no bounds, but now I see this union as an opportunity to forge an actual alliance with the Milidh, even if it is limited to only one village. It will be difficult at first, I do not doubt that. Until late, we were considered enemies and in a sense, still are. I plan to use this union to my advantage.”

  Daire remained quiet, unsure of how to respond to her words.

  Laughing softly, she turned to him. “You think I am a fool, do you not?” asked Shiovra.

  He shook his head. “Nay,” he replied with a slight grin. “I think you are brilliant. You use father and Ainmire’s own plans against them. It would seem that they have become your pawns.” Daire laughed heartedly, falling back in the grass.

  Shiovra lay down in the grass beside him, smiling.

  Silence settled peacefully over them.

  Daire lay looking up at the clouds drifting overhead. He had known she was adamant about upholding the betrothal promise for the sake of Tara’s people, but he had never imagined the depth to which she would go to ensure that peace. To defy both Ceallach and her chieftain, he could have never been prouder of his cousin.

  Reaching a hand over, he grabbed Shiovra’s and gave it a small squeeze, grinning at her. “Let the games begin then.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Nightfall was approaching, as was the beginning of the festivities for the High Priestess’ return to Tara. Shiovra sat within her cottage, running her fingers lightly over the long braid of her hair. She had been anxious to retur
n home to Tara, but now that she was there, the feeling of unease continued to linger with the priestess. Shiovra could not be certain when the attack on Ainmire would take place, only that she needed to prevent it from happening. The loss of Ainmire would be a great wound to the village’s strength.

  The wind rustled through the open door, whispering softly around the cottage as it carried the heavy scent of coming rain and the soft sound of footsteps.

  Shiovra stood as Ceallach Neáll stepped into the cottage, closing the door behind him.

  His pale eyes meet hers firmly. “Lady Shiovra,” he said with a slight bow.

  She nodded to him. “Ceallach Neáll.”

  The Fomorii made approached the hearth fire. “Upon your arrival earlier this day, I saw urgency in your eyes. What have you seen that you do not speak of?” he queried, looking into the fire as he leisurely walked around it.

  “Ainmire’s death,” she told him.

  Her words had brought the expected pause to the Fomorii man’s steps. Ceallach turned to her, searching her face. “Tell me exactly what you have seen,” he pressed.

  “A village consumed by flame and Ainmire dead upon the ground, pierced through the heart.” Shiovra closed the space between them, holding his gaze steadily. “We may not see eye to eye, Ceallach Neáll, but I am certain on this matter we will agree: Ainmire must live.”

  Ceallach nodded in agreement. “Is there anything more to this dire foretelling that you have seen?” he pressed. “Was the village familiar? Were there any faces? Was it day or night?”

  Shiovra shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Only flames and death, all around.”

  A frown crossed the man’s face. “Ainmire will need to be watched at all times,” Ceallach said. “To appoint more warriors at his side would only draw attention. The villagers are uneasy enough with Ailill’s threats.”

  Nodding, Shiovra crossed her arms. “I want you to inform me of everything from now on,” she told him firmly. “No more leaving me in the dark. I want to know what scouts spot on patrols, what foods Ainmire eats, even what you are thinking.”