Eiladyr looked at her with a small pout forming on his lips. “You think so?” he asked.
She nodded. “Aye, Eiladyr,” Shiovra told him, guiding him towards the entrance of the Banqueting House. Taking his cup from him, she handed it to the nearest villager. “Come now,” she told him gently. “You need some sleep.”
Eiladyr nodded and, slipping his arm from her shoulders, staggered from the Banqueting House back towards the village gates.
“Will Lord Eiladyr be all right?” queried Úna’s voice.
“I believe so, though I would not be too surprised if we find him sleeping soundly on the ground,” replied Shiovra.
Úna looked at her in shock.
Shiovra laughed and waved it off. “Never mind,” she said. “How are you enjoying the festivities?”
The Neimidh woman smiled. “Greatly,” she replied before hesitating. “I wish to thank you for giving us your consent to wed.” Úna paused, blushing. “I am still partially to blame. I should have stopped him the first time, but I love him so.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Shiovra told her. “You followed your heart. Not everyone is so fortunate. I wish nothing more than the best,” she told her, with a gentle smile. From the corner if her eye, she spotted Daire walking through the crowd of villagers, searching. “And I believe that your husband might be looking for you.”
“Oh! I am terribly sorry, Lady Shiovra,” Úna apologized.
“Think nothing of it,” Shiovra assured her. “Enjoy yourself. This is your celebration as well.”
Smiling, the woman nodded and made her way towards Daire.
Stifling a yawn, Shiovra leaned against the doorway and looked out into the night. Outside of the Banqueting House, Tara was quiet and serene. Clouds blocked out the light of the moon and the scent of rain hung heavily in the cool breeze. Suppressing a shiver, Shiovra wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
“A storm is moving in.”
Shiovra glanced over her shoulder to see Odhrán standing behind her. “Aye,” she said softly, looking back out into the night sky. “You can smell it in the air.”
Odhrán moved to stand beside her. “You are tired,” he stated quietly.
She nodded in agreement, but remained still.
“Come, I shall escort you back to the main cottage,” Odhrán said, offering his arm to her.
Shiovra considered his offer for a moment before accepting his arm.
They walked through the darkness in silence for a long while, the shadowy form of Eiladyr stumbling along the path ahead of them.
The priestess found the quiet of the night calming, a pleasant contrast to the din of the celebration that grew muffled as they walked away. She drew closer to Odhrán when the wind found its way into her cloak.
The Milidh man made no protest, only glanced at her and smiled.
Shiovra found that small twist of the lips to be greatly disarming. More than once Odhrán had expressed his desire for her, making her own wants grow dangerously. And now, as they walked along without a word spoken and only the innocent touch of her hand upon his arm, she realized that she needed him more than anything. That realization brought a newfound fear in her mind and heart.
Odhrán was a man she had hated, a man she had feared. He was a man who had been sent to protect her and gain her trust. And he was a man who had done just that and so much more. Knowing his affect on her, know how much he wanted her for his own, Shiovra feared how much danger she was placing the alliance in. She could not follow her heart wantonly as Úna had. Anything and everything that had come to pass between her and Odhrán, all that could possibly come to pass, would have to be forgotten the moment she returned to Dún Fiáin for the sake of the alliance. That mere thought terrified her more than anything.
The priestess was pulled from her musing by a drop of rain falling upon her eyelid. It was quickly followed by another and another.
Before long, rain tumbled down from the sky in a glorious shower while thunder rumbled in the distance, low and deep.
“It would seem that the storm has come,” Odhrán commented, casting a side glance at her with a grin playing across his lips.
Shiovra paused, lifting her face to the sky and closing her eyes. “Rain brings new life and promise while washing away pain and sorrow,” she said softly. With a sigh, she opened her eyes and turned back to Odhrán. “Since our first meeting over three moons ago, you have proven yourself a trustful ally and companion. Throughout my anger and hate, you had remained by my side. You have suffered wounds for me, you have threatened me, and you have scolded me. Yet, throughout all, you have never once disproven your promise to protect me.”
Odhrán nodded, remaining silent
“I thank you,” she continued with a tight smile. Shiovra started to speak again, but faltered and instead began walking the path once more, Odhrán falling in step beside her.
Thunder clapped and lightning flashed blindingly as the rainfall became heavier.
Shiovra quickened her pace for the main cottage, but Odhrán’s hand upon her own brought her to an abrupt stop as they began climbing the hill.
Tugging her toward him, he said sternly, “Something troubles you.” When she hesitated, Odhrán frowned and spoke her name gently, “Shiovra.”
She felt heat rise to her cheeks as his gaze drifted over her body, taking in the wet clothing that clung to her skin.
Exhaling, Odhrán placed a warm hand on Shiovra’s back and led her into the cottage. “You are soaking wet,” he said. “Put on some dry clothes before you fall ill.” Odhrán told her, removing his soaking cloak and turning his back to her respectively.
She watched him a moment as he stood in the doorway and wrung the water from his cloak. She looked around the cottage quickly and only found Eiladyr as he snored loudly from one of the beds, curtain open and face pressed against the wicker-work screen separating his bed from another.
Keeping close watch on Odhrán and Eiladyr, she quickly stripped off her wet cloak and shift. Setting them aside on a bench to dry, she grabbed the closest piece of dry clothing she could find: a long tunic that barely reached past her knees. Though not appropriate for a lady of her status to wear, it was dry and warm. “I am done.”
Turning from the door, Odhrán raised a brow when he looked her over. Without a word spoken, he sat his cloak down on the bench before pulling his wet tunic over his head.
Her eyes drifted over the water that continued to cling to his toned chest, lingering on the scar adorning his side; a scar he had gotten protecting her in Caher Dearg.
Turning away from her, Odhrán added more wood to the fire.
In the dim, flickering light, Shiovra noticed blue woad markings covering his entire back. Similar to the druid marking on his wrist, the design consisted of twin winged serpents intricately intertwined and consuming the tail of the other. It was as beautiful as it was fearsome, and yet, Shiovra had never seen anything like it. She did not know what the marking meant, did not know what the creatures were. All she knew was that she wanted to touch it. Approaching him quietly, she reached a tentative hand out and traced the line with her fingers.
Odhrán tensed under her touch.
She pulled her hand away as he turned to face her. “Forgive me, I should not have…” Her words were cut short as Odhrán brought his mouth down on hers. Shiovra stood still, her hand trapped between them. His kiss was tender, lacking the demand and desire he had expressed previously. Closing her eyes, she let her hand fall to her side.
Breaking the kiss, Odhrán closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace. “Do not fear to touch me, just as you should not fear my touch,” he breathed in her ear.
Shiovra nodded against his shoulder.
Silence settled over them as Odhrán continued to hold her in his arms. The cottage was quiet, save for Eiladyr’s snores which nearly drowned out the din of rumbling thunder and rain pounding on the thatch roof.
Lean
ing against Odhrán, Shiovra relished the warmth of his body.
“Will you tell me now what troubles you?”
Her reply was short and quiet, “You.”
Odhrán chuckled. “Me?”
Shiovra nodded, pushing away from his embrace. “Aye, you,” she told him. “You who constantly invades my thoughts. You who brings me to question my promise of union to the clan of Dún Fiáin. You who…” Her voice trailed off as she met his heated gaze. Taking a deep breath, she licked her lips and continued, “You who places very dangerous thoughts in my mind.”
A smiled tugged at the Milidh man’s lips and he took a step toward her. “Do you think you have no affect on me?” he questioned lightheartedly, reaching a hand out and running the back of his fingers across her cheek.
She faltered and he chuckled in turn.
“The night is late,” he told her, dropping his hand and turning back to the fire. “Rest. I fear this quiet will not linger much longer.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Daire made his way to the Sloping Trenches, the only place he knew he might be able to speak with Odhrán without prying ears to hear. He was loath to trust the Milidh man, but it had to be done. No one was closer to his cousin than Odhrán. Daire’s wait was not a long one for as he rounded a tree covered hill, he found Odhrán already waiting for him.
“You wanted to speak with me?” asked the Milidh man.
Daire nodded. “Aye,” he replied firmly.
Odhrán merely raised a brow in return.
“I know trust between us has not been the best,” continued Daire. “We often do not meet eye to eye, but I want to trust you.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he started pacing. “With the Fomorii gathering and Shiovra’s visions of Ainmire’s death, we need every ally we can get.”
“And how do you know that in the end I will not turn against you?” questioned Odhrán, leaning against a tree and crossing his arms. “I, after all, Milidh.”
“I just have to believe that you won’t,” replied Daire.
“Quite possibly a foolish choice,” countered Odhrán with a grin twisting his lips.
Daire shrugged, smiling. “I have made many foolish choices, what is one more?”
Odhrán chuckled.
“Father has been watching the movements of the Fomorii,” continued Daire, smile fading. “Though they do not travel to Brú na Bóinne, they do indeed travel northward. If they join Ailill’s ranks, then we just may be fighting a losing battle. Even if we can prevent Ainmire’s death, Tara will face the threat of attack.”
“Regardless if Ainmire dies, what matters is that the people of this village live, right?” Moving from the tree, he approached Daire and gave him a rough pat on the shoulder, grinning. “Every battle fought is a game of strategy, one move against another. The best maneuver is to turn the enemy’s own ploys against them,” Odhrán said smoothly, “to stay one step ahead of them.”
11. DARK WHISPERING
Little over a fortnight had passed since the fall equinox celebrations and Samhain was steadily approaching, marking the end of the harvest season. Warriors from both Dún Fiáin and Ráth Faolchú had arrived, giving the villagers a small sense of security in a time when misshapen Fomorii had come to linger along the borders of Tara.
Ainmire grew distant after receiving word that peace between the High Chieftains and sons of Míl was growing increasingly unstable, keeping mostly to himself in the main cottage or standing to look at the Stone of Destiny. Meara, unable to wash away a sense of unease with Fomorii lurking about, increased the rounds of her men along Tara’s borders.
As dreams of Ainmire’s death returned, becoming more and more vivid, Shiovra found she was no longer able to shake the foreboding feeling that filled her. She feared that no matter what was done Ainmire’s death would still come to pass.
With the fading light of day, Shiovra came to stand before the Stone of Destiny. Reaching a hand up, Shiovra placed her fingers against the cool granite stone and closed her eyes. She could feel a light pulse within the stone.
Opening her eyes, she studied the contrast of the rough gray stone against the smooth, pale skin of her hand. “Even you whisper of ill tidings,” Shiovra murmured to the stone. “I fear that it will not be long before the cries of the bean sidhe fill the air.”
“Such grave tidings.”
Shiovra turned to face who had spoken.
A young woman with long raven hair that fell in a long braid over her shoulder and shinned with hints of red stood smiling at her. A spiral curled by her right eye, matching the priestess’. She wore a simple, dull yellow shift over a longer cream colored one. Giving Shiovra a small bow, she said, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, High Priestess Shiovra.”
Shiovra looked at her question. She did not remember seeing her in the village since her arrival from Rúnda, but with so many faces it was possible they had not met yet.
“I am Eithne,” the woman said, introducing herself.
Shiovra nodded, realizing. “Ahh,” she murmured. “Sister to Naal and daughter of Earnán and Neasa. Eithne the wandering priestess.”
Eithne smiled, nodding. She turned her attention to the Stone of Destiny. “I have felt it as well, the unease within the stone,” Eithne continued. “Fomorii tread ground upon Éire’s shores. Ailill gathers Milidh huntsmen into his ranks. Dark clouds are forming. A storm is brewing.”
Shiovra’s hand slipped from the stone. “And we shall face that storm head on,” replied Shiovra. “When I was a child, Réalta came to my mother, seeking to train me. She feared the death of Ith would bring grave consequences to Éire and her fears were justified. That night a message was sent to the High Chieftains: one laden with bloodshed.” Pausing, Shiovra glanced at the Stone of Destiny. “Though peace was achieved between the High Chieftains and the Milidh, it weakens day by day. Be it Ailill or the Milidh, Tara will face attack. It is but a matter of time.”
“What will you have me do?” questioned Eithne.
“Help anyone who needs it. Heal them, protect them, warn them,” she told her. “And always be prepared.”
The woman nodded. “Aye.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Gráinne straddled hips of a man with lime washed hair and swarthy skin. “I need you to do me a favor,” she breathed heavily, a wicked smile twisting her lips as she rocked back and forth. “A worthy challenge for a man such as yourself.” It had not been her desire to sway Deasún to do their bidding, but Gráinne could not deny her enjoyment in taking the man to her bed.
“And what would that be?” asked Deasún as he let his hand roam across Gráinne’s body.
Leaning down, she brought her mouth to his ear. “Ainmire’s death,” she whispered seductively before catching his earlobe between her teeth and nipping it lightly.
Deasún’s hands glided across her bare skin, moving from her hips to her breasts. “And what do I get in return?” he questioned with a malicious grin.
A cry of desire tore from her throat at his touch against her sensitive skin. “Rank,” she purred, quickening her pace. “Wealth.” Wrapping her hands around his wrists, Gráinne pinned them down by his head. “Power.”
Deasún thrust his hips beneath her, meeting her pace with equal ferocity. “All that for one man?” he growled with a grin.
Gráinne cried out once more, her nails digging into the man’s wrists. “Not any man,” she panted, letting her pleasure consume her. The man was indeed one she would invite back into her bed. “Kin to the High Chieftains themselves. With his death, the strength of Tara will be weakened.” She felt his body tense beneath hers and she pressed harder against him.
“What of the High Priestess of Tara?” Deasún asked with a grunt as he gave his hips one final violent thrust.
“She is Ailill’s,” replied Gráinne throwing her head back as the pulsing sensations of release washed over her, filling her to the brim until she found her own release. “And Tara is mine.”
* ~ * ~
* ~ * ~ *
“I fear Gráinne has made her first move,” Shiovra said, breaking the silence that had settled heavily over them. Looking up, her eyes drifted over the faces of her companions as they stood gathered in her tiny cottage, away from the ears of Ainmire. “When she plans to strike, I am unsure, but I am certain that it was not Tara in flames. Gráinne is no fool. She will not attack Tara directly, not right away. She will have Ainmire lured from the village.”
“Then we must scout the villages closest to Tara,” suggested Meara. “If we know where Gráinne hides now, we can narrow down which village the attack may take place.”
“She has most likely gone to Caillte’s side in Dún Scáth to the south,” Ceallach informed bluntly.
Eiladyr looked at the Fomorii man in question. “Caillte?”
Daire learned over to Eiladyr and told him in a low voice, “Caillte is father’s elder brother and Ailill’s warlord. He commands some of Ailill’s most dangerous huntsmen.”
“Our main objective currently is to make sure Ainmire does not leave Tara,” Earnán added. “Outside the safety of the village walls we would not be able to protect him as well. Gráinne most likely seeks to cripple our strength with Ainmire’s death and then lie in wait until our defenses slip further and further. That is when she will strike, when we are at our weakest.”
“We should increase the warriors around Ainmire…” began Naal.
Ceallach shook his head. “No, that will only draw unwanted attention,” he said firmly. “We need to keep to the shadows, to deter Ainmire from leaving the village without alerting him of the threat. If he discovers Gráinne’s plot, there would be no stopping him from going straight for her. It would be best to remain discreet.”
Meara nodded. “I shall have my men on constant watch,” she offered. “Our patrols will be increased tenfold in the southern borders.”
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 24