Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy)

by Melissa Sasina

  “Aye. This is a bad time for a child to be born,” she replied gently. “But we will not allow Úna to share Deirdre’s fate. She loves you, Daire, remember that well and have some trust in her.”

  He felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder.

  “There are others, Daire, who love you and will willingly fight to keep her and your child alive.”

  Daire exhaled loudly. “I know, Shiovra, I know. Yet I cannot help but worry for her…for everyone…and especially for you as the High Priestess.”

  Shiovra nodded and told him, “Daire, the best way that you can keep your heart at ease and worry at bay is to stay close to me and protect me as a warrior alongside the others.”

  He was quiet a moment. “I know,” he breathed.

  “Daire,” she murmured, then rubbed her face in irritation. “Stop worrying yourself sick. You are beginning to sound like a village women.”

  Daire gave a short laugh. “Forgive me,” he apologized. “I was not thinking.”

  Shiovra shook her head. “Do not apologize,” she told him, smiling gently. “You usually do not think much anyway.”

  He frowned.

  “Now, go find your wife and meet with Eithne,” she instructed him. “She will help explain what your wife will be going through and what to expect.”

  Daire exhaled and nodded like an obedient child.

  “Do not fret so much,” Shiovra told him sternly. “When you fret, Úna will fret, and that will not be good for the child.”

  “Aye.” Leaning towards her, he gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. “I shall try, dear cousin.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Mahon sat alone in the main cottage of the High fort, sharpening the edge of a sword beside the hearth. His mind was restless and had been unable to sleep after having felt a deep resonation rip through the ground beneath his feet. Mahon had been preparing for bed when the ground had begun to tremble.

  After hearing the call of the Stone of Destiny, he had made his way towards it. Yet, when he arrived, the stone stood alone and silent. He could not discover who it was that touched the stone and received such a reaction. Since then, he had been unable to sleep.

  Mahon paused and rubbed his face wearily. He had to discover who the stone had chosen. He had no desire to continue serving as chieftain of Tara. Mahon knew he wasn’t meant to be chieftain and doubted his own ability to serve the village well.

  “You heard it, did you not?”

  He looked up to see Ceallach Neáll enter the cottage. Mahon could see anger hiding behind to man’s even calm eyes. It had taken him many years to see what was carefully hidden.

  “You heard the stone speak, did you not?” Ceallach continued, walking towards the fire. His eyes remained fixed on the flames as he circled round the hearth.

  Mahon nodded. “I heard it,” he murmured, turning back to his sword. “I felt it.”

  “Do you who it was?”

  Hand pausing in his task, Mahon raised a brow and studied the Fomorii man suspiciously.

  “Odhrán,” Ceallach told Mahon calmly. “The stone spoke for Odhrán.”

  The moment of surprise Mahon felt was brief. “And?”

  Ceallach exhaled and crossed his arms. “He has…refused…to become Tara’s chieftain,” he replied in a firm tone. “He simply refused and walked away.”

  Mahon nodded. “I understand,” he murmured, setting the whet stone and swords aside.

  A frown crossed the Fomorii man’s face. “Understand?”

  “Aye,” he continued. “With all that has happened and what is more likely to come, how can he not deny such a position? I may not want to be serving as chieftain, but I will not force it upon him. We can find another…”

  “There is no other!” growled Ceallach, his anger becoming evident. “The Stone of Destiny will choose no other till the one it has chosen dies! By refusing to be chieftain, Odhrán has set Tara’s fall into place!”

  Mahon simply chuckled, much to the man’s surprise. “You and Réalta cannot stand when matters do not go as you foresee,” he murmured, laughing. “It displeases you to see that your manipulations and tampering fail.” Mahon rose to his feet. “When will you accept that our time is coming to an end? Mother understood that, but Réalta refused to accept it. Because of her stubbornness, my sister was taken from me right after our mother was ripped from our lives. Face the simple truth, Ceallach Neáll: the time of the Túatha Dé Danann is coming to an end. All that is left for us is to survive!”

  Ceallach stood still, the impassive mask slipping over his face once more. “Will you simply bow down to your fate then? Turn your back on your own sister who is determined to fight?”

  “No,” replied Mahon. “I will fight for my kin and clan. But if they battle is lost, I will accept it.” Shifting on the bench, he leaned towards the Fomorii man. “I would suggest you do the same.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Gráinne sat beside her husband Miach at the head table, watching as he ate heartily. The man was nearly twice her age. His cup was filled to the brim and women swooned around him without shame, all the while ignoring the heated glare of his wife. Draining his cup, Miach slammed it down and gestured for more mead to be brought to him.

  “Let us celebrate the death of Ainmire!” he called out. “We are one step closer to gaining Tara as our own!”

  A cheer erupted in the cottage.

  Laughing, Miach grabbed at the woman who served him his mead.

  Giggling, she batted his hand playfully and sauntered away.

  Gráinne raised her own cup to her lips, a vicious smile hidden behind the rim. She would let him enjoy himself because his pleasure would soon be cut short.

  Miach leaned towards her and said, “Caillte has done well.”

  She snorted, receiving the disapproving glance of her husband. “Caillte has done nothing,” Gráinne told him firmly, her voice rising above the din of the celebration. “It was Deasún and I who brought Ainmire to his death. Not Caillte.”

  “What was that, woman?” Miach demanded.

  Gráinne took pleasure in his anger, a smile twisting her lips. “Have you become hard of hearing in your old age? I said it was Deasún and I who brought Ainmire to his death,” she repeated. “Caillte never left Dún Scáth. It was all my doing, with some help from a new companion.” She ran a finger along the edge of her cup. “Caillte knows when a woman is more suited for a task than a man. I toyed with him quite easily and had him wrapped around my finger.”

  “Silence!” he ordered, slamming his cup down upon the table, mead spilling over the edge. “You will not speak such of Caillte, woman! He is a powerful man and Ailill’s best warrior! You will speak of him with respect! Do not forget that!”

  “I am your wife, not a servant for you to command!” returned Gráinne in a commanding tone.

  “You are my wife, my property, and you will do as I say! You will obey me and you will serve me in any way that I desire!”

  Gráinne’s eyes burned with fury as she lurched to her feet and turned to Miach. “I am of the clan of Tara, the daughter of Méav,” she said in a low, dangerous tone, “and I answer to no man!”

  Outrage crossed Miach’s face. Reaching out, he caught her wrist tightly in his hand, pulling her roughly towards him. “How dare you!” he bellowed. “You will obey me till your death!”

  A smirk crossed her face, despite the pain of his grip. “How about your death?” Before he could register the meaning behind her words, Gráinne pulled a dagger from the man’s belt and plunged it into his heart, twisting it.

  A cruel smile touched her lips. “As I told you,” Gráinne said him in a hushed tone, “I answer to no man.” Harshly, she ripped the blade from Miach and cast it aside.

  His hand on her wrist grew lax and fell away lifelessly.

  Turning, Gráinne faced both shock and fear. “Feel free to flee if you fear me,” she said smoothly, shifting to sit on the edge of the table, “but take heed: those who seek to
defy me, will suffer the same fate as my dear late husband.” She gestured to the slumped form of Miach. “What will it be?”

  Silence filled the hall.

  Gráinne smiled sweetly, catching up her cup and taking a long drink. “Then it is understood.”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Shiovra sat on the bench, savoring the feeling of the warm, meadowsweet scented water as she ran it along her skin. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and released it in a sigh. It had felt like years since she had last been able to relax in such a way. Leaning back against the support post, she traced her finger over the surface of the water in the basin as she listened to the cracking hearth fire. Winter was approaching swiftly and the days were becoming colder very quickly.

  Dipping the cloth into the water, she ran it along her skin once more. The priestess hoped that winter would remain quite, without threats to the village. They needed a time of peace, where the people of Tara could find moments of rest free of worry.

  A cold gust of wind invaded the bathing hut, snapping Shiovra from her thoughts.

  “Lady Shiovra?”

  Opening her eyes, she found Úna stood in the doorway, thick cloak wrapped about her for warmth. “Aye?”

  Úna stepped into the hut, quickly closing the door behind her. “You have been in here for quite a while,” she said softly. “It is getting quite late and we were beginning to worry.”

  “Forgive me. I was lost in thought.” Standing, Shiovra dried off quickly and dressed. “How are you feeling, Úna?” she asked, running a comb through her damp hair.

  “Slightly better with Eithne’s remedies,” she replied with a small smile. “I still become ill easily, mostly from the smell of food cooking, but Lady Eithne told me it shall pass.”

  Shiovra nodded, donning her cloak. “How long have I been in here?”

  “It is nearing time for the evening meal, Lady Shiovra,” Úna told her.

  She paused, looking at the Neimidh woman incredulously. “Truly?” Shiovra asked in surprise. She had not realized she had been lost on her thoughts for quite so long.

  “The day has gotten cold and a strong wind blows,” Úna said, reaching for the door. “Brace yourself.” Pulling the door open, a rush of cold air drifted into the cottage.

  Pulling the hood of her cloak up and clutching it closed, Shiovra followed Úna from the hut and into the fading light of the evening.

  Gray clouds filled a darkening sky, the tinge of color fading. Wisps of smoke from hearth fires drifted up from thatch roofs, carried by gusts of wind bearing a notable chill.

  The lone long drone of a battle horn drifted over the air.

  Shiovra paused and frowned, her eyes drifting toward the village gates. She could see men gathering before two escorted a third man into the village and up the path to the main cottage.

  “What was that?” Úna asked anxiously from her side. “Are we being attacked?”

  Shiovra watched as the gates were pulled closed and secured tightly. Such precautions were taken when the village was either under attack, or preparing defense for one that lay in wait. Whatever tidings the man who had arrived brought, they were not pleasant. “We must return to the main cottage,” she said.

  The Neimidh woman nodded.

  Keeping a fast pace, Shiovra made her way to the main cottage where Daire and Odhrán waited at the cottage door.

  “Quickly, inside,” urged Daire, ushering them into the cottage.

  “What has happened?” Úna asked.

  “Anlon.”

  Shiovra started, surprised. It was a name she had not heard in a very long time. “Anlon? Gráinne’s son?” she asked. Reaching a hand out, she touched Daire’s arm in question. “Our cousin?”

  Daire nodded. “He is here, seeking refuge,” he told her quickly. “He brings grave tidings. Now, quickly, inside.” Without another word, he ushered the women inside, Odhrán following.

  Ceallach, Earnán, and Mahon sat at the low table beside the hearth speaking with a man close to Shiovra’s age. He was slim with bright chestnut brown hair and beard. His face was pale and weary, dark circles notable under green eyes. Naal, Eiladyr, Meara, and Eithne stood off to the side, intently listening to the conversation.

  Upon Shiovra’s approach, Mahon and Ceallach looked up, followed by Anlon.

  Mahon rose to his feet. “Anlon has been serving as the High Chieftains eyes in Tréigthe for many years, Miach having long lost their trust as an ally,” he explained. “The tidings he brings are both blessing and curse.”

  Shiovra eyes drifted over Anlon, a frown crossing her face. She had never met Anlon due to her isolation on Rúnda. She knew of him, nothing more. Taking a step towards Anlon, she watched as his eyes looked over her for the first time. “What has happened, cousin?” she questioned, unsure if the man could be trusted or not.

  Anlon hesitated, his hands on the table clenched tightly. “Miach is dead,” he replied. “Slain nearly a fortnight ago.”

  “How so?” questioned Shiovra.

  “By mother’s own hand over a disagreement of sorts.” He rubbed his face before meeting Shiovra’s gaze once more. “It has gotten far too dangerous to remain there. I regret that I will not be able to keep my promise to the High Chieftains, but I worry my life may be next.” He paused. “I ask if I may seek refuge, either here or at Rúnda, away from her prying eyes.”

  “We understand,” Earnán told him. “Though, Tara would not be the best choice for refuge. Your presence may sway Gráinne to move sooner.”

  Ceallach nodded. “Earnán is right,” he added. “Rúnda would be the best choice. It is well shielded and Réalta will welcome you. You may stay there. Rest here for the night. Come morning I shall accompany you to Rúnda.”

  Shiovra watched her cousin for a moment. “You have risked much by coming here,” she told him. “I hope that you find ease of mind on Rúnda.”

  Anlon nodded. “My thanks, cousin,” he said, face solemn. “Though I fear you may be in far more danger than I. Mother has her eye set on this village. She will make her move when it is least expected. I pray that when the time comes, she fails.”

  The priestess remained silent.

  “Lord Mahon?” came a voice.

  All eyes turned to a young boy standing timidly in the cottage entrance.

  “Lord Mahon, the meal has been prepared and is ready to be served,” continued the boy, bowing low.

  Mahon nodded. “Let us all eat and continue speaking later,” he instructed.

  The priestess watched as everyone left the cottage. Sighing wearily, she stepped outside to find Daire waiting for her.

  He gave her a warm smile. “We can trust him.”

  “I know,” she asked softly. Shiovra paused, clutching her cloak tighter about her as a biting breeze rushed into her. The sun had set and a deep chill had settled over the village. She glanced at Daire in the dim moonlight that filtered through the clouds. Suddenly, she brought her hand up in wonder. A snowflake drifted down to land softly into her hand, followed by another. Shiovra tilted her head back and looked up, letting the cool flakes fall gently upon her face.

  “It is snowing,” Daire said quietly beside her.

  Large amounts of snowfall were not common in Éire, seldom touching the lower regions and coasts, though the northern reaches and mountainous areas saw a fair share.

  A small smile touched Shiovra’s lips. She hoped that the snow would bring fresh promises with the coming year. “Aye, that it is.”

  13. WINTER’S PASSING

  Crisp, frost covered grass glittered under the winter moonlight, like tiny swords thrusting up from the ground. Stars flooded the velvety sapphire folds of the night sky, while the wind whispered sweet melodies which drifted down from the Banqueting House.

  Shiovra walked alone in the night, clutching her cloak tightly around her. Pausing to look at the moon, she shifted into a somber, quiet song, “Gather, gather, men of Éire raise your arms. Gather, gather, women of Éire defend y
our homes. Hear ye now, the words of the Morrigú: the night is dark and storms brew…”

  Her voice trailed off as she clutched her cloak tighter under the sheer force of a biting gale. Shiovra paused at the soft sound of footsteps upon frost covered grass. The priestess did not turn, only watched as the cold night air carried away her warm breaths.

  “You have a beautiful voice,” came the voice of Odhrán. “I guess I should expect nothing less coming from one of the Túath. Is there more to it?”

  She glanced briefly at the Milidh man as he came to stand beside her. “It is too soon for the song to be sung.”

  Odhrán remained silent, looking up at the moon.

  They fell into a long comfortable silence before she spoke again, “It is a beautiful night.”

  “Aye. It is.”

  It was her first winter home in ten years and she had missed the sight of Tara bathed in moonlit frost very much. Though not particularly fond of the cold days, Shiovra had always enjoyed the peace that came with it.

  She shivered as a gust of wind shifted around her, stirring her cloak and drifting beneath it.

  Odhrán moved to stand behind her, wrapping his arms and cloak around her. “It is late and cold,” he told her. “You should go inside before you fall ill.”

  “Could we not stay like this a bit longer?” she asked, turning in his embrace. Though they had not coupled again since Ainmire’s death, the feelings lingered in her thoughts and dreams. Shiovra wanted to keep the Milidh man at her side no matter her promise to Dún Fiáin and she knew he had every intention to do the same.

  His arms tightened around her and his lips brushed across her cheek.

  Resting against his shoulder, Shiovra closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of rain and earth that she had known him for.

  Odhrán rubbed the small of her back with one hand. “Winter will pass quickly and the time for your return to Dún Fiáin shall arrive,” he told her in a low voice.

  Shiovra tensed a bit.

  “I want you to know that I will never leave your side,” continued Odhrán in a husky voice. “You are mine and I am yours.”