Quest of a Warrior (Legends of the Fenian Warriors Book 1)

by Mary Morgan

  Conn reached for her hand. “I’m sorry. I never knew.”

  She shrugged. “How could you? And you never came back, which made it only worse for us. I longed to share my journey and hear about yours.”

  “Are you happy?”

  The smile she gave him radiated over her entire body. “Yes. Mother and father came to see me quite often after I passed the solitary time period. They love to share what’s happening in the cities. There will come a time when I shall venture out of here. Yet, for now, this is where I will remain. I am here to serve Her.”

  “We both have chosen our own paths, though who will claim the throne?”

  She touched his hand. “When the time comes, I’m positive our king and queen will choose wisely.”

  Abela stood and angled her head to the side as if listening to someone. “Father states the Fae council has requested your return.” She turned her gaze toward him. “Are you ready?”

  Standing, Conn grasped both her hands. “You pass no judgment on me?”

  “Never,” she whispered. “I have honored and respected the warrior you have become. Your name and deeds have spread throughout the kingdom. Regardless of what has or will happen the people adore you.”

  He kissed her hands. “I will miss you.”

  “Kneel, Fenian Warrior,” she commanded in the voice of an ancient being.

  As he knelt before his sister, she placed her hands on his head, and he closed his eyes. “Where your path leads, is your choice Conn MacRoich. Choose wisely, guard, and protect those in your charge. This will be your greatest challenge. Learn to listen with your heart—your Fae heart.”

  I love you, Brother. Be well. Look for me in the soft breezes of the rowan and oak trees, or the kiss of rain upon your cheek. I will always be there for you.

  When Conn opened his eyes, he found himself kneeling on the floor of the Hall of Remembrance—all alone. His father and mother were gone. Standing slowly, he placed a fist over his heart. “Be well, too, Lady Abela.”

  Turning around, he walked out of the hall fully prepared to face whatever judgment the council decreed.

  Chapter Four

  Cork Airport, Ireland

  “The light of illumination often is found in the remote darkness within a heart.”

  ~Chronicles of the Fae

  Horrible things always happen during thunderstorms. Lightning can strike anywhere, sparking a wildfire and destroying all in its path. Torrential rain can wreak havoc on body, mind, and soul. Not to mention what it can do to the land. Rivers can swell and spill out onto the terrain—forcing many to flee as their homes are washed away, including those of the animal kingdom.

  The mere thought sent a shiver of unease down Ivy’s spine. What a poor welcome from the land of her ancestors—this Ireland.

  Bringing the fur-lined hood of her coat more firmly over her head, she peered out into the busy airport traffic and tried to stay out of the fierce storm’s path while huddled in a corner outside the building. Yet, the wind was relentless and managed to spray her with water repeatedly.

  A couple emerged from the warmth of the terminal, bumping into her. They looked her over like some kind of specimen. “An apology would have been nice,” she muttered as she watched them dash out into the sopping mess.

  Wiping a hand over her face, she mumbled a curse. Maybe she should return inside and book a flight back to San Diego. There were no rainstorms in her hometown, only sunshine and sea breezes. The simple thought lifted her sagging spirits. Why did you agree to come? What a foolish notion. All because some lost relative—an uncle—decided to leave you everything in his will. The only condition? She must come to Ireland and claim her inheritance.

  “He most likely left me some run-down shack in need of repairs,” she uttered in disgust.

  Ivy glanced over her shoulder at the ticket counter inside. Though the idea of going back home was tempting, she couldn’t. For one, she didn’t have enough funds in her bank account. And the second, Ivy could never resist an intriguing opportunity, especially one handed to her. When the envelope arrived that warm summer morning, Ivy never imagined the endless possibilities of how her life would change. Her hands had trembled while she ripped open the sealed wax and read the lawyer’s letter.

  Fate had stepped in and presented her with a gift.

  Her job at the local museum was ending, and her search to find anything in her related field of history proved to be daunting. Everywhere she applied they all wanted the same—a PhD attached to her resume. No one cared if she had a Master’s Degree in Ancient History. Nope! Not one. After the death of her parents, she had sold the house and paid off their enormous debts. She moved into a tiny studio, barely making ends meet. Her job had become her friend, lover, and family. Now that it was gone, she prayed a new prospect would present itself here in Ireland. If not, she would sell everything and return to San Diego.

  “If it’s a crumbled shed, I’ll spit on your grave, Uncle Thomas.”

  A black jeep zoomed past her, spraying her with more water. “Damn!” she hissed, wiping the water out of her eyes for the umpteenth time that morning.

  Just as her vision cleared, the same offensive vehicle backed up alongside her. The driver rolled down the window. “Would you be wee Ivy Kathleen O’Callaghan?”

  “Wee?” she protested glaring at the man. “I’m Ivy O’Callaghan. Are you Mr. Casey, the attorney?”

  The man shrugged. “Sorry, but that’s what your Uncle Thomas would call you.” He jumped out of the car. Giving her no time to utter another retort, he grabbed her two large suitcases, opened the back trunk, and shoved them inside as if they weighed nothing. Opening the side door, he waved her forward. “Best to get inside, the storm is heading this way.”

  “And what do you call this?” Quickly entering the vehicle, she pushed back her hood and snapped the seatbelt in place.

  “A light summer shower,” he answered, after getting in beside her. His eyes held mirth when he nodded to her. “I’m Peter Sullivan. I work for the local newspaper at Glennamore. Mr. Casey asked if I could fetch you from the airport. He’ll meet you at the office. There are a few documents that need to be signed before he gives you the keys.” Taking off his cap, he ran his hand through his hair. Placing the cap back on, he gave her a wink. “Ready?”

  She tried not to roll her eyes at the man, but failed miserably. “Yes.”

  “How was your flight?”

  Ivy glanced out the window, trying to get a sense of Ireland, but the rain blurred her vision. “It was long.”

  Peter chuckled. “Aye. Most definitely. However, there’s always a movie or two to keep you entertained.”

  “I read during most of the flight.”

  He slammed his palm on the steering wheel and Ivy jumped. “This is why you’ll be perfect to run the store.” Peter pointed a finger at her. “I figured any relative of Thomas O’Callaghan would surely keep their nose buried in a book, so the bookstore is in capable hands.”

  The man was insufferable. His only redeemable quality was his good looks. He certainly did not make a good first impression when he called her wee. Yet despite the remnants of a headache from the long trip, Ivy grew curious. Turning her head toward him, she asked, “Why would you say that? For all you know, I could be a video gamer and hate reading.”

  Peter arched a brow. “The O’Callaghans of Glennamore have always enjoyed a good book.” He suddenly swerved. “Sweet Jesus! Some people don’t know how to drive.”

  Ivy closed her eyes, though briefly. I’m going to die before I get to see this place. Angels and Fae protect us.

  “As I was saying, your people were known to have a great appreciation for the spoken word. Many were seanachies—storytellers, including your own uncle. May he rest in peace.”

  Puzzled, Ivy asked, “You seem to know more about my relatives than I do. How did my Uncle Thomas know about me?”

  Peter frowned. “Did you not know the man at all?”

  She shook
her head. “My parents never mentioned him—or any relatives. They said they were all dead.”

  Peter’s gaze grew serious. “Your uncle adored you. Spoke all the time about his wee niece in America. In fact, the entire village knows all about you. Each time he received a new school picture, Thomas would show it off to all. He was quite proud of you.”

  Stunned, Ivy could barely register his words. “But why would my parents keep this from me?”

  “Cannot explain. I’m as confused as you are now that I’ve heard your account. But I’m certain your lawyer, Mr. Casey can sort all this out for you.”

  Ivy rubbed her nose. “I suppose…yet, it’s weird to find out that others knew all about me.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re liked here in the village. Remember, you’re an O’Callaghan.”

  “Hmm…”

  For the next hour, Peter filled her in on the daily life in Glennamore village. It was a quiet, seaside town that had survived for centuries, where most of the villagers could trace their lineage back to one of the Irish chieftains. Even Peter boasted of being a descendent. Ivy tried hard to retain all the facts and stories, but there were too many details. Between the tapping of rain on the windows, the movement of the car, and the man’s chatter, she soon drifted off to sleep.

  The car jolted to a stop, and Ivy rubbed her eyes vigorously. “We’re already here?”

  He chuckled. “Sorry it was only a short nap.”

  As Peter got out of the car, Ivy glanced around at her surroundings. Smiling slowly, she opened the door and gazed at the scenic postcard picture village. Standing, she breathed in the crisp, clean air, grateful the rain had turned to a light mist. The wind whispered against her cheek as if in welcome.

  Shops dotted each side of the street, their doors painted in different colors. People ambled along in slow movements, unlike the hurried folk she was accustomed to back home. The road sloped downward toward the hills, where sheep grazed peacefully, and Ivy was sorely tempted to run down and greet them. A sense of peace engulfed her and for a moment, she blamed it on the lack of sleep and jetlag. Quickly tossing the idea aside, she looked over her shoulder. Peter was leaning against the vehicle and smiling at her.

  She arched a brow. “What?”

  “You’ve already fallen under her spell.” He gestured outward. “The true Ireland. The land speaks to you, O’Callaghan.”

  “The town is…charming.” She shielded her eyes as a shaft of sunlight pierced through the gray clouds. “Where is my uncle’s store?”

  “Down around the bend in the road. You have quite a view of the hills, trees, and river from your home and store.”

  She frowned. “I keep forgetting it’s all mine.”

  Peter nodded behind him. “Let’s go get those papers signed, so you can see everything.”

  Smiling fully, she followed Peter to one of the largest buildings. Upon entering, the foyer was paneled in rich dark wood. On a table in the center was a huge bouquet of flowers. Passing by the arrangement, she inhaled their heady aroma. Making their way up the stairs, she marveled at the painted carvings on the wall. Stunning!

  As if reading her mind, Peter stated, “Scenes from mythology.”

  “I recognize them,” she uttered in a shocked tone. “This one is Bricriu’s Feast.” Walking to the next one, she pointed. “And this one is the birth of Cuchulainn—the son of the Celtic God Lugh. The details are amazing.” Her gaze traveled along the rest of the wall. Dashing closer, she burst out, “Oh, my…Deirdre of the Sorrows. It’s amazing how the artist captured her sadness.”

  “Aye. Not one of my favorites, though,” remarked Peter.

  “These should be in a museum. Are you not fearful of them being knocked down from the wall? Or stolen? Why are they here?”

  Peter leaned near her. “They say this building was built on sacred ground owned by the druids and then later claimed by the monks. These are in honor of those men from long ago. No one would dare tempt fate by taking them.”

  Ivy gave the man a sidelong glance. “Then the artist wished to mock the monks for stealing the land?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Don’t think so. Legend states that the druids became the monks.”

  “Fascinating,” she whispered. “How old is this building?”

  “Many centuries.”

  “Well, bless my soul,” shouted a booming voice at the top of the stairs. “If it isn’t wee Ivy Kathleen!”

  Ivy tried hard not to grimace and turned fully toward the man with a beaming smile. “You must be Mr. Casey.”

  The portly man made his way to her on the landing. “At your service.”

  As she held out her hand to give the man a handshake, he surprised her by enveloping her in a hug. Taken aback by the overt affection, she patted him and took a step back. “Um…good to see you, too.”

  The man beamed. “You have the looks of an O’Callaghan. ’Tis a pity that Thomas never had a chance to see you.”

  Before Ivy had a chance to respond, the man steered her up the remaining flight of stairs and into a large oval office overlooking another portion of the hills. Bringing her to an oversized chair near a blazing fire, he then brought over a nearby table.

  “I’m perfectly comfortable sitting at your desk, Mr. Casey,” stated Ivy as she removed her coat.

  He waved her off. “That’s for legal business.” Taking her coat, he placed it on a peg by the door. “You are family and Thomas had requested specific details of this transaction.”

  “But—”

  “And please call me Sean.” He chuckled warmly, tugging at his suit jacket. “You make me feel like an old man with Mr. Casey.”

  Peter snorted. “Well, you’re not exactly young, now are you?”

  Sean gave her a wink. “Ignore the young lad. He’s always spouting nonsense.”

  Peter tipped his hat to her. “I shall fetch you within the hour to take you to the store and your home. Be wary of this old man. I hear he’s an outrageous flirt.”

  “Thanks, Peter,” she replied, trying hard not to laugh.

  As the door closed softly, Ivy settled back within the chair and watched Sean gather several sheets of parchment paper and a pen.

  “Before we get to the details of your inheritance, Thomas had one request.”

  “Besides traveling an ocean and residing in the village?”

  Sean set the papers down. “Yes.” Sitting down next to her, his gaze grew somber. “Thomas adored you, Ivy Kathleen. From the moment he knew of your birth, he made preparations for you. His land has always remained with the O’Callaghans, and since he never married, you were his sole heir.”

  Ivy held up her hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ca…Sean, you have to understand that I never knew about my uncle. My parents told me all my relatives were dead. So all this news comes as a total shock.” She rubbed a hand over her temple. “And I’ve only learned—through Peter—that the village has been keeping up with my life through pictures and reports sent to my uncle. What I would like to know is who sent them?”

  The man folded his hands over his stomach. “Your mother,” he stated quietly.

  Her mouth gaped open in shock. Swallowing, she asked, “Why the secrets?”

  “Because, my dear, your father wanted nothing to do with this place or Ireland. There was bad blood between the brothers—Thomas and Patrick.”

  Ivy leaned forward. “So Uncle Thomas is my father’s brother?”

  “Correct. Patrick was born here.”

  A weight of sadness leveled like a stone against Ivy’s chest. All these years and not one peep about a long lost relative in Ireland. Her father had mentioned on more than one occasion how he hated the island, even saying once that he hoped it would sink into the Atlantic. “What happened,” she uttered softly.

  A look of sorrow passed over the man’s face. “I’m sorry to say that whatever it was, Thomas kept it locked within his own mind and heart. Never mentioned his brother’s name again. Though, he spoke fondly of Sara.”
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  Tears welled up within Ivy’s eyes, and she did her best to keep them from spilling forth. Wiping her nose, she reached for her purse and pulled out some tissues. “Sorry,” she mumbled, wiping at her nose.

  The man patted her knee. “Och, my dear. My heart breaks to know how this news comes as a shock, but you have to understand that they—Thomas, Sara, and Patrick loved you fiercely. I wish I could fathom why your parents fled Ireland several years after your birth, or why your father and uncle never spoke to each other again.”

  Ivy wiped away her tears. “Yes, I know I was born here, but my parents never said why they left. They took their secrets to the grave with them and a part of me is now angry.”

  “What is done is in the past. You cannot change what happened. Move forward, Ivy Kathleen.”

  Tempering her irritation, Ivy nodded. “What was my uncle’s request?”

  Sean pulled out a pair of glasses from his front pocket. Placing them on, he handed Ivy the parchment sheets. “Before you sign, Thomas wanted to make it perfectly clear that if you should decide not to remain in Ireland for one year’s time, the entire property—bookstore and his home will be donated to the village. All claims from you would become null and void. Furthermore, you are not permitted to sell the property to anyone.”

  Ivy glanced at the man over the documents. “Seriously?”

  Sean let out a sigh. “Your uncle was adamant about this request.”

  She glanced down at the papers, the lettering in a flowing script. “So I’m only the caretaker? Not the owner?”

  “From the moment you sign your name, you will become the rightful owner. Furthermore, if you change your mind, the property will automatically revert to the people of Glennamore.”

  You have no choice, Ivy. You’re almost penniless and have no home to speak of. You didn’t renew your lease on the studio and moved what little you had into a storage facility. What do you have to lose by staying for one year?

  “I didn’t come all this way not to take up residence and make this work. As everyone keeps telling me…I’m an O’Callaghan.”

  Sean smacked his hand on his thigh. “You have true grit and the spunk of one, too!” Lifting the pen from the table, he handed it to her.