“Keep a watchful eye out. With those Fomorii lingering about, they might possibly play a part in Gráinne’s attack,” urged Earnán. “Like Méav, Gráinne is a highly cunning and manipulative woman.”
“Aye,” replied Meara.
“We should also keep the villagers from venturing too close to Tara’s boundaries,” added Shiovra. “Lie if we must, but keep them within the grounds. We do not need more innocent lives lost.”
“It would also be best if we all keep to the main cottage,” suggested Odhrán. “The closer we all are to Ainmire, the better.”
Shiovra nodded without protest. “So mote it be.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“It is done.”
Caillte turned to face Gráinne, a smile crossing his lips. “So Deasún has agreed to our plans?” he asked, eyes skimming over the woman’s disheveled though satisfied appearance.
“Aye, very much so,” purred the woman as she sauntered towards him. “He has agreed wholeheartedly to do our bidding.”
The Fomorii man looked down as she brought two fingers to his chest, walking them up to his collar bone.
“He will make his move at night,” she continued, dropping her hand and moving to sit at the table. “There is a small village very close to Tara to the south. That is where Deasún will lie in wait for Ainmire to come to him.”
“How does he plan to lure Ainmire away?” questioned Caillte, moving to sit across from her.
“He will not do anything of the sort, I will with a memory.”
He raised a brow in question.
“I may not hold as much power as my dear sister and mother,” continued Gráinne, “but I do have tricks of my own.” A smile twisted the corners of her lips.
Caillte grabbed a cup and pitcher from the end of the table and poured some mead. “Enlighten me.”
She leaned across the table. “Once the misshapen ones have played their part, the village will be consumed by fog. Your brother will not be able to disperse it alone,” Gráinne explained. “And it will be very difficult to keep good watch on anything or anyone. And if, by chance, Ainmire should see his late wife, who is to say that he will not follow her?” The woman laughed lightly. “His death is so close I can taste it.”
Sitting the pitched down, Caillte took a long swig from his cup. “And what shall you do once he is dead?” he asked, looking at her over the rim of his cup.
Gráinne straightened and offered him a seductive smile. “I believe I shall return home to Tréigthe for a bit,” she replied. “I do owe my husband and son a visit. Besides, Tara must be weakened more before I can lay claim to it.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Shiovra lay in bed, looking up at the dark thatch roof looming above. The main cottage was quiet save for the crackle from the hearth fire and soft snore of Eiladyr as he slept sounding a few feet away in his bed. Though she was weary, Shiovra feared the blood filled dreams that sleep would bring. With each passing day, the visions had increased and the priestess knew the time for his death drew near.
Rolling onto her side, she looked at the wicker-work screen dividing her bed form another and sighed. There was a slight rustling from behind the cloth by her feet and light suddenly fell across her. Propping up on her elbow, she looked down the length of the bed to see Odhrán standing with the curtain pulled aside wearing naught but his breeches.
“You need your rest,” he told her quietly.
Shiovra sat up carefully, holding her blankets to her breasts as she shook her head. “I cannot,” she whispered, suppressing a chill. “Sleep only brings fire and death.”
The Milidh man was quiet a moment and then said in a low voice, “Just this once, let me help you forget.”
“How?” she questioned.
“I will show you,” he replied. Putting a hand and knee onto the foot of the bed, he began to crawl towards her, letting the curtain fall shut behind him.
Shiovra started, shifting back a bit, hands clutching the blankets tighter as her pulse quickening. His movement pulled against the blankets and they shifted, sliding off her left leg to reveal bare skin.
Odhrán continued to crawl towards her, slipping one leg between hers while the other flanked it. He lifted a hand up and caught a lock of her hair, letting it slip slowly from his fingers.
She knew she should push him away, but her body would not respond. The weight of his body threatened to pull the blanket from her grasp, threatened to reveal her state of undress.
When the last strand escaped his grasp, Odhrán slipped his fingers down her neck and along her shoulder. Leaning slowly towards her, he brought his lips to hers as his hand slid up to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer.
The kiss was deep and passionate, far more intense than any other he had given her. Shiovra found she was overwhelmed with several feelings; the heat of his breath and touch, the worry of Eiladyr waking, the fear of treading into the unknown. Managing to break the kiss, Shiovra turned her head away. “Odhrán…” she began quietly, her plea falling short.
“You want to forget?” came his reply as his lips roamed her jaw and neck, sending heat rushing to her cheeks.
“We cannot,” she refuted. “The alliance…”
“Does not matter right now,” he interrupted, tugging on the blankets and pulling them from her grasp. His eyes drifted briefly over her nude body, lingering. “At this moment there is only you and me. No promises of unions, no titles, nothing but a man and woman.”
Fear tumbled through her entire body and still she could not push him away. “You know we cannot do this,” she breathed.
“I told you I do not care.”
She could hear huskiness to his voice, heard the quickness to his breath. Closing her eyes, Shiovra remained still as the blanket was pulled fully away and his mouth trailed over her skin. The beat of her heart was deafening in her ears, quickened by the fiery path his lips took. And, when his mouth found her breast, her breath hitched in her throat.
“Odhrán…” His name passed her lips in a whimper. The heat flooding Shiovra’s body was nearly as tremendous as the genuine fear that she felt.
Odhrán’s hand left her hair, running along her side to slip between her legs to caress the soft skin of her thigh.
Shiovra trembled, her hands tightly clenched as another protest died on her lips. And, when his hand left her thigh, it took her a moment to realize that he unlaced his breeches. Her breath quickened as he brought his other leg between hers and paused, kneeling above her.
“Wait…” she breathed in a moment of panic, her hands flying up to rest on his chest but not pushing him away.
Brining his mouth to her ear, Odhrán whispered, “Just this once, allow me to help you forget. Let me show you what you do to me.”
His words, spoken with great want and affection, lessened her resolve. Wetting her lips, she nodded slowly.
“I will not lie,” he told her, breath hot against her skin as he tenderly pushed her back onto the bed. “This will hurt for a bit, but I will be as gentle as I can.”
Shiovra only had a moment to ponder the meaning of Odhrán’s words before his hand pressed against her mouth, stifling the soft cry of pain that escaped her lips as he pushed into her. She fought back tears, her nails digging slightly into his skin.
Odhrán retaliated by biting her neck lightly and pushing in deeper.
Hesitantly, she moved her hands from his chest to wrap her arms around him, her grip tightening with each slow, careful thrust of his hips.
His hand remained clamped over her mouth till she no longer cried out in pain, moving to bury deeply in her hair.
She had never imagined coupling with a man would feel quite that way; the heat that filled her body, the pleasure she had begun to feel once the pain waned away. She knew well what they did could seriously endanger the union with Dún Fiáin should it be found out. Yet for that moment, as he filled her body with wondrous new sensations, sending ripples of gratification to her very core, pro
mises that were made did not matter. All that mattered was he wanted her and she needed him.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The air around Tara had become chilly and heavy gray clouds filled the sky. An unearthly quiet had settled over the village as a thick milky fog drifted in and lingered. Shiovra made her way through Tara, a dark woolen cloak securely fastened about her shoulders. The fog swirled and parted before her as she made her way through the village towards Dana’s shrine. She paused before the entrance, almost hesitant. A moment of pause was brought to her step before she slipped through the door.
Torches dimly lit the shrine while offering had been laid out on the altar. Kneeling before the statue, Shiovra closed her eyes. “Dana of the light, Danu of darkness, I seek your guidance,” she said quietly. “Ainmire’s life hangs before me and I fear I will not be able to save it. I know not when the enemy will strike, nor by what means they will use. I fear there is naught I can do.” She paused, bowing her hear. “Please, if you can help me…if they is any knowledge you can lend. Then perhaps he can be saved.”
Wind gust into the shrine, cold and bitter, followed by the gentle hum of a woman’s voice.
Opening her eyes, Shiovra rose slowly to her feel and turned.
A thick, stifling fog rolled through the doorway.
Frowning, Shiovra took a step back and looked down as wisps of fog reached out to lick at her skin and clothing. Something was not right, she could feel it.
The humming grew louder, a song a mother would sing to sooth a child’s fears.
Catching movement in the corner of her eye, Shiovra looked up quickly, her heart racing.
A shadow shifted through the fog.
She took another step back, her eyes narrowed on the figure.
The shadow moved closer, slowly taking shape as the gentle hum quickly turned in the mad laughter of a man. Suddenly the fog parted and a man stepped through. His hair had been washed with lime and his green eyes danced with madness. She had never seen the man before, but his name whispered in her mind: Deasún.
Throwing his head back in laughter, he suddenly lunged for her.
Shiovra cried out, brining her arms up quickly to ward off an attack that never came. Shaking with fear, she remained frozen for a long while.
“Shiovra?”
Struggling to calm her breathing, she cautiously lowered her arms.
The man was nowhere to be seen and the fog gone. Only Odhrán stood in the doorway, looking at her in concern.
“What happened?” he pressed, walking to her and placing his hands on her arms.
“I know who takes Ainmire’s life…” she breathed, meeting his gaze fully. “I must speak with Ceallach!”
Odhrán nodded. Keeping one hand on her arm, he walked with her from the cottage.
Shiovra walked as quickly as she could without breaking into a full run. She needed to get to Ceallach as swiftly as possible, but she did not want to bring alarm to the villagers. Odhrán’s hold on her arm helped keep her pace steady. Without casting a glance at the warriors standing guard, she rushed into the main cottage.
The Fomorii man stood in the cottage, but he was not alone. Three warriors from Dún Fiáin stood with him, deep in discussion.
“Ceallach,” Shiovra said breathlessly.
Pale eyes turned to meet hers.
“I must speak with you,” she urged. Her eyes drifted over the faces of the warriors. “Alone.”
Ceallach nodded. “We shall continue later,” he told the warriors, gesturing for them to leave.
Shiovra watched as the men nodded and left without question.
Odhrán closed the door and stood guard before it.
Ceallach stepped close to Shiovra, reaching his hand out and tilting her chin up as he searched her eyes. “What have you seen?”
“Ainmire’s murderer,” she replied.
His eyes narrowed on hers. “You are trembling,” he said in a low voice. “Such fear I see in your eyes.”
Shiovra remained still under the Fomorii man’s gaze. His hand was cold on her chin, but it was nothing compared to the chill she had felt only moments before. “Deasún.” The name fell bitterly from her lips. She felt Ceallach’s hand tense on her chin.
“Perhaps the cruelest and most twisted Milidh huntsmen in Ailill services,” he murmured. “He is dangerous, a mad man who lunacy knows no bounds.” Ceallach dropped his hand and turned away. “He will strike at night, that is how Deasún moves. Already Fomorii fog fills the village and I do not have the strength to turn it away. He will attack and very soon.”
“What do we do?” she asked.
“We wait,” he replied simply.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Samhain had come upon Tara and the fog which had settled in the village become thicker. Offerings to the Morrigú had been placed on makeshift altars marking the end of the harvest season: fruits, grapes, and even smooth stones. Large fires had been lit, giving the fog an eerie glow to it. The unusual quiet and whispering which had settled over Tara had been lifted, replaced with the merry celebration of remembrance for the dead.
Dressed in a long sleeved shift under a dark woolen tunic, Shiovra tossed a cloak about her shoulders and secured it with a simple clasp. Taking up a torch in hand, she made her way to the Mound of Hostages, the burial mound of the chieftains of Tara. Coming to a stop outside the entrance, a soft breeze drifted out to circle her, the torch flames dancing in response.
The entrance to the Mound of Hostages was dark and unwelcoming. The wind moaned as it drifted past the opening while the grass covering the mound rustled and whispered.
Shiovra stood alone, looking down the dark tunnel.
“My daughter…”
She spun at the voice, one she had not heard in a long time. One that brought both fond and painful memories.
The transparent form of a woman with long golden-brown hair and bright blue eyes stood before her. Her blue woad honor marks stood stark against her pale skin and a sad smile touched her lips. “Merry meet, daughter,” she said, voice echoing.
Shiovra’s breath caught in her throat. Before her stood the spirit of her mother, Tríonna. “Mother?” she stammered in disbelief.
Tríonna smiled gently, nodding. “Aye, it is me,” she said. “On Samhain the barriers between the worlds are weak. I could feel the trouble in your heart, the pain and fear, so I came to you.”
“I have missed you so…” Shiovra said, tears stinging her eyes. Several emotions flooded her: happiness, love, surprise…sadness.
“And I you, my daughter,” Tríonna reassured her. “But not once do I regret what I did that night. You have grown into a fine woman without me and Mahon a fine man. I only regret that I will not see you wed or hold your children.” She paused, her smile turning sad. “Tell me, what is it that troubles you so?”
“Ainmire…” breathed Shiovra, hesitating. “Ainmire will die and I will not be able to stop it. Tara will fall. We will fall.” Shiovra shook her head. “What must I do?” She looked up at her mother.
“Fate cannot be changed, only delayed,” Tríonna replied. “I learned thus myself. If the Morrigú have foreseen the death of Ainmire, it cannot be prevented, only delayed. And you have done thus to the best of your ability. Not everyone can be saved. Not every battle can be won. As for Tara falling, it has before, many times. This sacred place has been home to many before us. Thus is the way of things, Shiovra.” She cocked her head to the side, smiling sadly. “The time of the Túatha Dé Danann is coming to an end, that we must accept.”
“Must it be this way?” asked the priestess. “Must there be battles and death? Could we not just live in peace?”
Tríonna shook her head gravely. “I am afraid not,” she replied. “My time here grows short. Heed my words: you will know Ainmire has passed when the wail of the bean sidhe is heard across Éire,” she said softly. “His spirit will find its way to the Cave of Cruachan and he shall know peace in Tir Na n’Og with his wife and child.” Trí
onna smiled once more, a gentle and warm smile. “Be strong, my heart.” Her form began to fade.
“Mother!” Shiovra cried out.
Tríonna smiled sadly. “I must go,” she said, voice distant. “As must you, daughter…” Tríonna reached out a hand to caress Shiovra’s cheek before vanished completely.
Sagging roughly to her knees, she remained still while tears rolled freely down her cheeks. She felt as if her mother had been torn from her all over again.
The shadow is upon us.
Her heart skipped a beat and she leapt to her feet. Shiovra spun around only to find remained alone in the heavy fog, though she could feel a presence surrounding her.
The shadow is upon us.
“Dana…” the priestess breathed.
The Stone of Destiny weeps at the loss of Tara’s chieftains…
Shiovra frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand…” Her voice trailed off as the cry of a crow sounded across the breeze. “The Morrigú…?” Realization dawned upon her and she paled. “Ainmire!”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Battle horns sounded through Tara, echoing off the hills and cottages. The merriment of celebration came to an abrupt halt, only to be replaced with fearful murmurs. Torches flared as all of Tara gathered outside the main cottage to wait tidings of what was happening. Meara’s men stood guard alongside village warriors while the priestess’s warriors had gathered with Ainmire’s kin for council.
Shiovra paced the cottage with a trembling hand clutched to her chest. The feeling of dread clung to her heart.
They had searched the entire village, but no sign of Ainmire could be found. Furthermore, the guards posted at the village gates had not seen him pass through. When questioned further, one of the warriors mentioned having heard a woman’s voice softly singing a lullaby. When the man sang the melody, Earnán paled and said it was the one his late sister Deirdre used to sing to her child to help him sleep.
“I do not know how he got away,” Meara had been saying. “One moment I was talking with him, the next he was gone from my sight.” She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “I do not understand. How did he leave the grounds without a single warriors or villager seeing him?”
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 25