by Heidi Hanley
Copyright © 2017 Heidi Hanley
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2018
Sword and Arrow Publishing
P.O. Box 344
Charlestown, NH 03603
www.kingdomofuisneach.com
E-book ISBN: 13: 978-0-9982736-0-0
Paperback ISBN: 13:978-0-9982736-1-7
Editor: Jill Shultz
Cover Design: Damonza
Author Photo: Cecile Lackie
Uisneach Map: Donna Therrien
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue: Once Upon a Time
Chapter One: A Sound in the Woods
Chapter Two: Leaving Kansas
Chapter Three: An Awfully Big Adventure
Chapter Four: Across the Void
Chapter Five: Farmer in the Dell
Chapter Six: Dungeons and Demons
Chapter Seven: You Don’t Want Any of Them Apples
Chapter Eight: Beauty and the Beasts
Chapter Nine: A Wee Endearment
Chapter Ten: Cailleach
Chapter Eleven: The Book of Leaves
Chapter Twelve: Abracadabra
Chapter Thirteen: “Non nobis solum nati sumus…”
Chapter Fourteen: Whither Thou Goest
Chapter Fifteen: Crossroads
Chapter Sixteen: A Storm is Brewing
Chapter Seventeen: The Battle of Ardghal
Chapter Eighteen: Winge Mansion
Chapter Nineteen: Hinterlands
Chapter Twenty: Our Enchanted Sea
Chapter Twenty-one: To Be or Not To Be
Chapter Twenty-two: From the Frying Pan into the Fire
Chapter Twenty-three: Mr. Jonathan Stark
Chapter Twenty-four: Druids
Chapter Twenty-five: Heritage
Chapter Twenty-six: Aurum Castle
Chapter Twenty-seven: Bliss
Chapter Twenty-eight: Unbroken
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Shannon Abbey
Chapter Thirty: A Long Goodbye
Chapter Thirty-one: Ard Darach
Chapter Thirty-two: Getting to Know You
Chapter Thirty-three: Visions and Contracts
Chapter Thirty-four: Matters of the Heart
Chapter Thirty-five: Falling
Chapter Thirty-Six: Comings and Goings
Chapter Thirty-seven: Briana – Queen of Uisneach
Chapter Thirty-eight: Promises and Blessings
Chapter Thirty-nine: E-U Summit
Chapter Forty: Farewells
Epilogue
Glossary
About the Author
Lovingly dedicated to Charles Frost –
extraordinary poet and dear friend.
Acknowledgments
Marsha Downs (a.k.a. Magdrael) – for your patience and dedication as a reader and for becoming something so much more than a colleague. Love you, soul sister.
Jill Shultz – there are not enough words to express my gratitude for your editorial guidance, support and friendship. I thank Maker for leading me to your doorstep.
Katherine Burgess – wherever you are. Thank you for introducing me to the muse and to a deep part of my own soul.
To my family, for your patience in the process. I hope I didn’t make your ears bleed too much!
Word Weavers, for encouraging me, even though my genre was so different. Your perspective was more useful than you know!
To Charles and Bruce Frost. It was not the book I set out to write, but it was the book the Great Author gave me to write, and I would never have done it without your early encouragement to “Write!”
To the musicians who inspired me to great flights of fancy, fanned the flames of passion and kept me company on the journey. Special thanks to Adrian von Ziegler, Keith Harkin, Celtic Thunder, Ray Boudreaux, Brian Crain, James Bay and BrunuhVille
To Sue Church – welcomed to the journey last, but not least. Thank you for the validation.
Cindy Brandner- Your early support, encouragement, and advice to “take it one step at a time,” meant so much.
To the Muse. In a split-second, everything changed and this book became possible. I am eternally grateful.
Prologue
Once Upon a Time
Katrina became increasingly aware of the woman sitting in the corner of the hospital room as the dull yellow light of the bedside lamp changed to a shimmering green. Without fear or surprise, she took in the woman’s long salt-and-pepper hair, thickly braided and decorated with feathers and dried flowers, her storm-gray eyes and berry-colored lips. A face shaped by mist and mystery, like an ancient stone wall with all its shadowy tones and character. While everyone here in the hospital wore either a standard-issue johnny or shapeless green scrubs, this creature was clothed in the living earth, her bodice and skirt a portrait of nature, of lichen and oak and maple leaves in autumn, with ruby, amethyst and emerald woven into the garments. Far from being formless, the woolen dress draped over her bosom and cascaded down to mid-calf in uneven layers and lines. Her waist was belted by pheasant feathers and her feet clad in soft leather boots. Around her neck hung an amulet of crystal, wood and wren feathers. She smelled of balsam and sage with a hint of ginger and cinnamon.
Forest woman, Katrina thought. Beautiful and vibrant. But what is she doing here? On her shoulder perched a great black crow, perfectly still. His gaze jumped sharply from the crone to the new mother in the bed. Katrina looked again at the black bird, stunned by the gold chain around his neck that held a black medallion, rimmed in gold. Carved into the medallion was a golden tree, its roots spreading across the bottom of the disc, its full canopy of leafy branches fanning out across the top.
The woman spoke, breaking her reverie. “You have a daughter.”
“Yes,” Katrina replied, not sure if that was a statement or a question.
“She’s a bonny lass. Hair like a wee dormouse.” The crone’s gentle laugh was warm and inviting, as were those deep, old eyes that seemed to wrap Katrina in their gaze. “What will you name her?”
Katrina didn’t answer. Something made her uneasy. Though she intuited this was not an evil woman, that she had no intent to harm her or her baby, Katrina was sure nothing good would come of this visitation.
“No matter,” the woman responded, not the least perturbed by Katrina’s silence, “she’ll be called Mouse, in any case.”
“Mouse?” Katrina finally said, surprised. “Why would I call her that?”
“She’ll seem as timid, but she isn’t. She has the heart of a stag, this one. Time will prove it.” The crone had not moved, yet now Katrina could barely breathe for feeling so closed-in by her presence.
“Katrina…”
Katrina shivered. Oh, no, she knows my name. Who is this woman?
“I’ve come to prepare you, to tell you that you’ll raise the lassie, but you’ll not keep her.” The words were delivered as gently and compassionately as possible, but Katrina’s hands automatically clasped her belly as though to hang on to the child who had only separated from her body an hour ago.
“No,” Katrina whispered, hearing the uncertainty in her voice. Even as she resisted what this woman was telling her, she remembered a dream from early in her pregnancy, of a girl-child wandering in a forest. The girl, strong and beautiful – a warrior – led others on a journey whose destination was not revealed. She’d
tried to force the dream’s foreboding essence from her mind upon waking, but now it came flooding back and she understood its connection to this woman’s calling. “Who are you?”
“I am called Cailleach.” She pronounced it Kyle-yock, the word rolling with Gaelic grace off her lips. “I know this may be hard for you to hear, but in time, you’ll support your daughter as she meets her destiny. When she’s ready, you’ll let her go, and I will watch over her as she begins a new life in a different place. She is meant for a grand adventure and holy purpose, this girl, one that will save a world from destruction.”
Katrina almost refused, but realized it would be pointless. This whole visit was surreal and out of her control.The woman smiled softly. “It will be all right,” she promised. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes. For now, I would suggest you begin to use your own special gifts. That will help her more than anything else.”
“What gifts?” Katrina asked.
“You’ve the Sight and the healing. Learn the craft, Katrina. This is your time as well as your daughter’s.”
A nurse walked into the room with her baby girl, who was swaddled tightly in a pink receiving blanket. Katrina’s attention turned momentarily to the infant. When she looked back, Cailleach and the crow were gone, as was the peculiar light; the lamp once again quietly glowing against the night.
The nurse handed Katrina her baby. With a bittersweet smile, Katrina pulled the infant close to her. Drawing back the edge of the blanket, she was struck by two things. First, the baby was already squirming and wiggling as if she had someplace to go. Second, she had a full head of lush hair, ash-blonde mixed with browns. Like a mouse. How had the woman known that? I will not call her Mouse. I will name her something bold and heroic. Briana, she decided with conviction, “noble one.” Whatever the future held, and she prayed it had nothing to do with anything the crone said, she could at least give her daughter the gift of a strong name. With a sigh that did not so much accept destiny as soften a little toward it, she rewrapped her daughter, settled her against her breast for her first meal, and murmured, “Hello, Briana. Welcome to your life and whatever adventures it may bring.”
Chapter One
A Sound in the Woods
Gray mist rolled across a bloody field. Air redolent of fear, vomit and putrid flesh choked her. Men lay dead or dying in unthinkable positions in front of her. Crouched and partially hidden behind a tree, she watched through hanging branches as an auburn-haired man came toward her, holding a bloody sword in one hand and a crown in the other. Her heart raced and her stomach rolled violently. Good guy or bad? Desperately, she felt around for something to protect herself. Her fingers made contact with cold steel. She rose up slowly, lifting the weapon in front of her. The man spoke soothingly, holding out the crown to her. She couldn’t make out his words, but let her sword drop slightly. A flash of blonde hair caught her eye. She turned to see the back of another man as he slung a quiver behind him and walked away. Faceless but familiar. Who are you? She was about to follow him when a fierce battle cry forced her attention back to the auburn-haired man as he rushed toward her, now looking angry and afraid. Too late, she realized, as cold metal cut across the skin of her thigh, followed by burning and a river of red that flowed down her leg. She turned to face the source of the attack and saw a different, gray-uniformed man preparing to stab her again. Pain and rage overwhelmed her. She screamed.
Briana sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. Reaching across the tangle of sheet and quilt, she found a pillow and clutched it to her chest. The dream again. Third night in a row she’d confronted the grisly scene, felt the giant’s icy blade slice into her body and felt compelled to follow the faceless blonde-haired man. Closing her eyes, she willed him to appear, but he would not. She sighed, cast the pillow aside and sat up, pulling her hair off her sweat-dampened neck.
A hint of pre-dawn light cast shadows around the nest Briana called her bedroom. Beyond the colorful heap of throws and pillows on the floor were clutters of tiny treasures she’d collected from the outdoors, stones, shells, lichen and bark, stashed everywhere, on shelves, in cupboards and on windowsills, collecting dust. She scanned the bookcase of fairy tales, fantasies and mythic adventures underneath the picture of an old Irish abbey. On the bookcase’s top shelf, medieval figures defended a king and queen who stood atop a castle she’d built herself from tiny stone fragments. Briana kept looking until she found him – the archer, dressed in red, with bow nocked. His helmet of long blonde hair reminded her of the faceless man. Longing rushed through her, not new, but more intense during this past week of the dream. Who are you? He wouldn’t answer. He never did.
Sighing, she glanced at the clock beside her bed. Red digital numbers flashed 6:00. Sweet mother of God, Debbie and Samira will be here in an hour, she thought, as she touched the lamp beside her bed.
“Once a month at least, we’ll do something together, without Rob or any other guys,” Debbie had promised the night before her wedding.
True to her word, they were off for a day of shopping, eating and a bottle or two of wine. Briana threw a change of clothes in a small bag, knowing they would spend the night at a hotel.
Showered and ready to go, she dashed into the kitchen for a glass of juice and slice of cold pizza. She was chewing the first bite when her mother came in from the deck, cup of coffee in hand.
“I’d say good morning, but it doesn’t look like you slept well,” she said, lightly touching a dark smudge under her daughter’s eye. “Again,” she added, arching one eyebrow.
Briana put the juice bottle back into the refrigerator, saying nothing about the dream. “I’m fine.” She didn’t want her to worry and definitely didn’t want her analyzing it, which she would surely do. “Debbie and Samira will be here in a few. I’ve got to get my stuff.” She took another bite of the spicy pepperoni pie and chewed as she went to her room for her bag.
When she returned her mother was leaning against the counter, looking speculatively at her. “Mouse, we need to talk. Really soon.” At Briana’s glare, she corrected herself. “Briana. Sorry. After calling you Mouse for twenty-five years, it’s a hard habit to break.”
Briana shook her head. “Seems I am doomed to be called a mouse my whole life. Why on earth did you give me such a nickname?”
“You looked like a wee little dormouse when you were born,” her mother said, retelling the family legend as she reached out to caress a length of her hair. “It just sort of stuck.”
“Well, I wish it would un-stick. I’m…”
“Halloo,” Samira interrupted.
“Hello, Samira,” Katrina said. “Where’s the other musketeer?” The three friends had dubbed themselves the three musketeers in high school, the moniker still a part of their collective identity.
“She’s out talking with Rob on the phone. Like they only separated thirty minutes ago. How she is going to get through the next twenty-four hours is beyond me. OMG, they are like oozing ‘I miss you’s’ all over the place. This is going to be a long day.”
Briana laughed. “Never fear, we’ll repatriate her.” She turned to her mother, who wasn’t laughing. “Mom, are you okay?”
Oblivious, Samira grabbed Briana’s bag and headed back out to the waiting car.
“I’m fine, but I do want to talk to you tomorrow, please. It’s important.”
“Sure. Will you be okay alone tonight?” It was the first time her mother would be alone in the house since her father’s recent death. Maybe it was too soon to leave her overnight.
“I’m really fine. You go and have fun.”
“Call my cell if you need anything.” At Katrina’s smile and hand flutter, shooing her out, she nodded. “Well then, I better get out there because OMG, I’ve got a rebooting to do on Debbie’s love-soaked brain.”
They both laughed. Briana kissed her mother before grabbing her purse and heading out the door.
*
After a full day of shoppin
g, the three musketeers were settled at a tall table in a wood and brick tavern in Portland, Maine’s historic port district, half-empty glasses of wine and a nearly empty tray of nachos evidence of some serious girl time. Above the bar, framed pictures of local fishing boats surrounded a well-sculpted mermaid lounging in a chair, providing a relaxed atmosphere, the key component needed for their conversation and laughter. Then Samira brought up one of her favorite topics – men, and more specifically, the lack of one in Briana’s life.
“You’re twenty-five and as far as I know, still a virgin.”
“So? Is that a crime?” Briana asked, lifting the glass of chardonnay to her lips.
“No, but it’s ridiculous in this day and age, given that you could have any guy you wanted. You can’t wait for your King Arthur forever.”
Briana swallowed and set the glass down. In this day and age – the words reverberated in her head like an ancient omen. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t really belong in this day and age. She shook her head at the odd thought.
“Maybe you should be a little less picky, Mouse,” Samira continued, with an intentional emphasis on the nickname that put Briana over the edge.
“Maybe, Samira, you should be a little pickier.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Samira asked, flicking back a long strand of ebony hair.
“All right, ladies,” Debbie intervened. “This is supposed to be fun, so let’s stop with the sniping. Besides, Samira, when Briana finds her Arthur or Lancelot, or whomever, we’re going to be so jealous we’ll wish we’d waited.”
The door of the tavern blew open and a group of men sailed in, laughing, their heavy knitted sweaters, Carhartt pants and ball caps giving them away as local fisherman. Samira’s head swiveled and a smile spread across her face. She waited long enough for the men to settle onto barstools before cruising to the bar herself.
Briana rolled her eyes. “I rest my case.”