FION'S DAUGHTER

by Brenna Lyons

  The boy is not Magden. That realization rocked Ro back. He did not speak as if he were of the Magden race. Ro darkened as the rest of the message filtered in. His grandfather’s decision was shameful. His father’s bid to rectify the situation came too late.

  “Are you Lengar?” he demanded quietly. If these people ran from Jurel’s cruelty, Ro would show them mercy and shelter them from their own, but that would be difficult. The Magden soldiers outside would not support this move. It is a sacred trust, he reminded himself. These people are innocents, even if they fled the enemy, especially if they fled the enemy. He sent up a prayer that they were Magden who had disassociated themselves from their race in anger at Sol Ti’s decision not to aid Fion’s Children. That would make protecting them easier.

  The boy growled in displeasure. “Animals. You dare compare me to those animals? I would cut my heart from my body had I been born to those butchers. Tell me Magden, when did you fight? When the Lengar turned their weapons on you? At least the Lengar are not cowards, whatever else they will be damned for,” he taunted.

  Ro grasped the wrist that held the blade, roaring out his fury as he turned on the boy-man. His helm skittered across the floor, unheeded as Ro stared down at his foe.

  His opponent was armored, a strange sort of armor unlike any that Ro had seen before — or had he? No. Not exactly, but he had seen something similar in his life — perhaps when he was a child. He examined it quickly.

  It was a metal mesh covered in thick hottel-hide leather scales, the tan leather painted in blocks of choc and green for forest battle. It was light but strong, allowing the wearer speed and agility in battle but was not designed for heavy battle, as if the wearer expected to either attack in force or die in battle. The helm was ornately etched and painted like the armor, with a full-face visor of at least two layers of the mesh in a metal grid work. It was a stunning design.

  Though young and not heavily muscled, the boy reached to Ro’s cheek in height. He was fast but not skilled as a fighter, as if he had little practice at what he did. His intended blow, sent in the split second that Ro paused to make his assessment, never landed.

  Ro ducked the fist aimed to ring his head and knocked the boy solidly into the stone wall. The youngster sank to the floor with a grunt of pain and the rustle of metal mesh. His hand slid from the dagger, and Ro grasped it as he fell away.

  Donic shot through the doorway with a battle cry, his sword drawn. He took in the sight of Ro standing over the downed boy in a mixture of concern and anger.

  Ro squatted to his opponent and dragged the helm from his head. He dropped to his knees in shock, the helm clattering across the stones.

  Golden hair — hastily piled into the helm as we approached, no doubt — tumbled in long waves around pink, sun-touched cheeks. Leaf green eyes, wide in fear, narrowed as the truth crashed over Ro. Lush, full lips of deep red thinned to a line above a narrow chin marred by a deep scar.

  The woman shot at him, taking advantage of Ro’s shock to grasp at her dagger, still clutched in his boneless fingers.

  Donic struck her straight-arm, forcing her back to the wall. His blade settled at her throat. “Be still, witch,” he growled.

  “Do not harm her, Donic,” Ro whispered.

  She was one of Fion’s Children, one of the priestess’ class — if he recalled her armor correctly. He had last seen that armor at the fall of Gidlore. Ro reeled at how long ago that was. The inhabitants of this house were the last of an extinct race, and this was their young protector. It was her sacred duty to see to their safety above all else.

  The woman raised her chin in challenge. “An intelligent move for a Magden,” she commented coldly.

  Donic pressed his blade to her chin, forcing her eyes up to his. “Show respect, woman.”

  She didn’t flinch. “If you injure me, geela, my mother will show you no mercy.”

  Ro motioned Donic to silence, his heart pounding. She didn’t know the fate of her people. That much was clear. “Who is your mother, Lady?” he asked formally.

  “She is Mother Leiana, fool. Surely, you recognize my armor and seal as her own.”

  Ro glanced at the dagger in his hand, touching the seal of Fion with shaking fingers. Leiana had been the last High Priestess of Fion’s Children. For all that her people were a pure church state, this woman had been akin to a princess. Now she was a queen — a queen without a people to lead and without knowledge that she was a queen.

  A soldier rushed in the door, bowing clumsily. “The enemy approaches,” he panted.

  Ro nodded. “Where are the others, Princess?”

  *

  Deliya met the eyes of the great red oaf. “I am not one of your useless, pampered princesses. I am a priestess of Fion’s Children and daughter of the high priestess, Mother Leiana.”

  His face darkened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Where are the others?” he repeated more slowly, as if Deliya were a dimwitted child and not a warrior.

  She hesitated. Perhaps, it was better not to tell him. If the Magden believed she had others waiting to help her, he might not mistreat her. Still, Mother Fion frowned on untruths. “Where you will never touch them,” she whispered. I did not lie, Mother. He cannot harm those in your arms.

  “We have no time for games, Priestess. The Lengar approach. They will slaughter you and all you protect.”

  “Am I to trust a Magden? Your kind has never come to the aid of Fion’s Children in the past.”

  “That was a mistake in my grandfather’s day,” he growled. “Kor Ti tried to set it right.”

  “Not very well,” she spat. If the Magden were truly aiding her mother’s troops, surely Leiana would have sent for her by now.

  “Majesty,” the soldier pleaded.

  “In a moment,” he thundered, seemingly furious at either the young soldier or herself.

  Deliya swallowed painfully against the blade at her throat. This beast was king of the Magden? He was too young to be Kor. The king must have had a very short reign for his son to be king so soon. Perhaps, that was why the Magden chose to fight. Perhaps, Jurin and Jurel killed the old king and spurred the Magden to action.

  The red one sighed, closing his eyes and reining in his emotions. He motioned the man at her throat away. Donic, she reminded herself. His name is Donic. Deliya breathed a sigh of relief. The Magden would leave her, as Magden had always left Fion’s Children.

  He passed Deliya’s helm into her hands and pulled her to her feet, face to face with him. “Burn it,” he ordered, locked on her eyes. “Burn the crops and buildings. Burn anything that will burn.”

  She gripped his arm. “No,” she gasped. “You cannot do this.”

  “Where are the others?” he asked calmly.

  “There are none. My guards— The others are all dead — more than a year,” Deliya admitted, grimacing that she had given the Magden that victory.

  “Then why should I not burn this place?”

  It is my home, her mind argued fiercely. But, it wasn’t even that. It was a bit of Magden land that she had stolen and made her own, and the Lengar would destroy it when they came, if he spoke the truth. “My seed and herbs. Please. Your people do not cultivate the healing plants. I cannot leave them.”

  His eyes softened, deep choc eyes filled with emotion. “We will take as much as we can. You have my vow. Where are these things?”

  Deliya pushed from his hands and rushed to the storeroom, pointing to the twenty sacks of seed, while she loaded all her dried herbs and oils in two large packs. She did it quickly, without the usual care she usually showed for the task. There would be time to order them properly later. Deliya turned back in surprise, realizing that they had taken all.

  The red one lifted the packs from her shoulders. “Is there anything else?”

  She shook her head, acutely aware of his proximity. It had been a long time since someone had stood so close to her, at least four years. “No. Nothing of value,” she managed.

  He
pulled her toward the door, his step purposeful.

  The Lengar troops must be close. Deliya turned her face to the wind then broke from him and took the torch from one of his soldiers, lighting fire to the field behind her home. She nodded her thanks and handed the torch back.

  “The wind will take it east,” their king bellowed. “Light the last field as we ride.”

  “No,” Deliya ordered. “Leave it.”

  The soldier with the torch looked to her in surprise then to the king.

  “Why?” the king demanded. “The Lengar troops—”

  Deliya laughed heartily. “It is called gola berry. It tastes sweet, but it is a vicious poison, a poison the Lengar will not be able to treat.”

  A young soldier cursed solidly, dropping a handful of the dark pink berries.

  She shook her head in exasperation. “How many did you eat?” Foolish child.

  “S— six, I believe,” he stammered.

  “I will brew a tea for you when we are safe. It will not taste as sweet as the berries did, but it will save your life.”

  He knelt to one knee and kissed her hand. “Thank you, Priestess.”

  The king lifted Deliya to his war-buck, setting her astride the forward hump with a fierce look at his men. He mounted behind her and took up the reins, urging the buck to a loping run.

  “My animals,” she reminded him, annoyed that he treated her like a child before his men.

  “They are tethered to mounts in the rear of the column. You will have your buck when we stop.”

  “Why are you doing this?” she demanded quietly.

  “My men will not dare approach you after this. I assume that would be your choice.”

  “It would,” she admitted.

  He paused at the top of the hill, allowing Deliya one last look at the only home she’d had for the last ten years. She blinked back tears, her eyes falling on the field of gola berry. Her mother would know Deliya lived by that sign. Leiana would never stop looking for her.

  Donic pulled up beside them. “The fires have blocked the Lengar, Ro,” he stated in obvious amusement.

  Deliya squinted through the smoke to the troops milling across the valley. The fires had reached the Felgren. She calculated the number of Lengar that would become ill from the acidic fumes, nodding her approval.

  The king wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “Ro,” she breathed. His name was Ro Ti.

  “Yes,” he assured her. “What name may I call you, Priestess?”

  “Deliya.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I never thought anyone would grow a poison,” the young soldier complained miserably.

  Deliya sighed, panning her eyes over the three men in her healing circle. They bent to her traditions. All of the men had stripped off their shirts and armor, their boots and weapons. She turned back to the tea she was preparing, reminding herself that men would forever be men.

  Ro shook his head, his red locks pulled back in a leather tie behind his head. “Will he live?” he asked in a tense voice.

  Deliya nodded. “He will live to be a wiser man — I hope.” You could never tell with men. They did the most unexpected things.

  She scowled at the young soldier. “Never assume any plant appealing in taste or appearance is safe. Even watching the animals may not save you. Kittle nibble gola berries as part of their defensive mechanism. They do not actually swallow the fruit but spread it in their fur to poison predators. You might survive one or two gola berries, though you would be at the gates of the soul’s reward for weeks for your trouble. Never even sample an unknown plant,” she lectured him.

  The soldier nodded, groaning as he turned his sweat-soaked face to vomit. As she expected, the vomiting had started about two hours after he ate the fruit, when the toxin hit his system fully.

  Deliya stirred the tea again. “Not long now,” she soothed him. “Hold on.” Deliya stirred a spoon of olum into the mixture and watched it dissolve. In truth, the tea was ready, but it was the way of her people to allow a patient who had made such a disastrous error a few moments to regret the mistake so as not to repeat it.

  She spooned the tea into a mug and turned to the young man. Deliya nodded to the soldier behind him. “Lift him.”

  He complied without question as his king had ordered.

  She spooned in the first mouthful, and he swallowed. Deliya nodded and started to fill his mouth again. The soldier brought the tea back up. She furrowed her brow. That was unexpected. The olum should have stifled that response in the dosage she gave him. She tried again with the same results.

  Deliya leaned across his stained chest and pulled his eyelid back. She checked his pulse in disbelief. Deliya stood, throwing the mug into the fire in fury.

  She paced the length of the healing circle, cursing fluently and waving her arms in supplication to the Mother. “Mother Fion, save me from Magden fools,” she pleaded hopelessly. Men were more undisciplined than children and Magden men the worst she had ever met.

  “What is it?” Ro asked.

  “He cannot drink the tea.”

  “Can you do nothing?”

  Deliya motioned to the wilderness around them. “With no equipment? No. I can do nothing. The fool couldn’t do this where I had supplies, of course.”

  “What equipment do you require?” Perhaps, I can provide it,” he suggested hopefully.

  “A hypocil and a metal cup or ladle.”

  He nodded. “Donic,” he roared.

  Deliya turned toward the man rushing at them, motioning frantically for him to stop. Donic skidded to a halt, sending a fine spray of soil into the circle but ending his charge a hand length outside her consecrated ground.

  She let out a shuddering breath and pressed a hand to her stomach. “Do not,” she whispered. “Do not ever cross the boundaries of a healing circle. I would have to re-consecrate before I continued.”

  Donic scowled at her. “Your herbs will cease to function if I do,” he scoffed.

  Deliya straightened her spine. “No,” she admitted. “They will not, but it would be an affront to the Goddess whose knowledge cures this man and who blesses him. Can you show no appreciation or respect for Fion’s mercy and kindness?” she challenged.

  Donic opened his mouth, no doubt to make another ignorant remark.

  “He will,” Ro warned his general. “They all will.”

  Donic glared at Deliya then bowed his head to Ro. “As you wish, Majesty.”

  Ro nodded. “Collect a hypocil from Bron and a ladle from the cook. Novin cannot drink the tea.”

  “She waited too long,” Donic accused. “If Novin dies this way, his father will—”

  Deliya stepped to the edge of the circle, coming eye to eye with the general. “It would not have been too long, if the man had told me the truth,” she snapped. “He hasn’t eaten six berries. It was double that, by the signs I see. What sort of fool lies to the healer who would save him?

  “Now, every moment you waste lets the poison gain power. If you truly wish me to save this man, go while there is time. Or — stand here and argue while he dies. It is your choice.”

  “Go,” Ro ordered.

  Donic stalked away, his hands fisted until his knuckles stood out white against his sun-darkened skin in the dim light. Deliya watched him go then returned to the fire to stir the tea. She rubbed the tension from her neck and stood to stretch her back.

  Deliya startled as hands closed on her shoulders. She turned to Ro as he pulled his hands away, his bare chest too close for her peace of mind. She backed off a step then planted her feet, reminding herself that a priestess backs down from no challenge.

  He looked stricken. “I apologize,” Ro grumbled. “I only meant to ease your discomfort.”

  She shifted, trying to put her reaction into words. Ro’s touch caused her unease. Not because she feared him, Deliya was quick to assure herself. Ro gave her no reason to fear him. He would regret it, if he did.

  No. It was someth
ing else. The man, himself, unnerved her — the proprietary way he had with her, the way he cradled Deliya to his body on his war-buck, the way his touch made her want to lean into him for support.

  Deliya had been without aid of any kind for more than a year and without aid in her circle for almost four. No man had touched her save her father since Loric died, and that was a season before Vela had, leaving her in Celdin’s company.

  She shivered at the memory of the night Loric died. Loric had rubbed at her shoulders much as Ro had. That was her upset and nothing more.

  The sheer size and skill of the man had nothing to do with it. Deliya was out of practice. She’d not had a decent bout since Vela fell ill, and before that— What could one expect of a priestess whose training was completed by an old woman and two dishonored men?

  “I am unaccustomed to being touched,” she admitted slowly.

  Ro nodded. “Have I offended your Goddess?” he asked urgently. “Tell me how to appease her, and I will.”

  Deliya looked at him in stunned fascination. “You would do that?”

  “If your Fion shows mercy on the son of my cousin and spares his foolish hide, I will learn to honor her. You have my vow.”

  She searched his face for signs of deception, but Ro seemed sincere. “Then learn this. There was no offense to ask forgiveness for. It is not against the Mother’s word for a priestess to be shown comfort while she performs a healing. It is common.”

  “You never wished to be shown comfort?” he asked in confusion.

  “I have been alone for a long time,” she reminded him patiently.

  “A year,” he noted sadly.

  “Longer,” she whispered. “My father refused to enter my healing circles.” In the years after Loric’s death, Celdin refused to touch her at all, unless it was necessary.

  Ro’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “He believed himself unclean, beyond redemption. Celdin thought the Mother would not bless my work if he stood on my consecrated ground.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, peering down at her as if examining a strange phenomenon. “Why would he believe that?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue find an excuse not to tell him, but that would be its own sort of lie. Her patient vomited on the ground, reminding Deliya that sullying her healing circle would be unwise.