Forsworn Fate (Sisters of Danu)

by Mia Pride

  Forsworn Fate

  Sisters of Danu Series

  A Novella

  By: Mia Pride

  Copyright © 2017 by Mia Pride

  Forsworn Fate

  Published by: Mia Pride

  www.miapride.com

  https://www.facebook.com/miaprideauthor

  Edited by Liz Watson

  Proofread by Bethannee Witczak

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: miapride.author@gmail.com

  This book is a historical work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1543243017

  ISBN-10: 1543243010

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Forsworn Fate (Sisters of Danu)

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements:

  About Mia

  To my husband and children. I love all three of you to the moon and back!

  Forsworn Fate

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements:

  About Mia

  Prologue

  Ériu 38 AD

  “NAY, Patrick. I cannot do it.” King Doran clutched the two wee babes bundled up in his arms closer to his heart and shook his head. He had already lost his precious wife the night before due to complications from birthing their three daughters. How could he possibly now be forced to separate those babes, especially after Alyson gave her life to bring them into the world? Nay, he could not. His heart constricted when he looked down into the wiggling blanket cradled in his left arm. Ceara, his daughter with bright red hair and piercing green eyes, resembled her mother so much, too much. He choked back a sob and tore his gaze away from hers.

  “Tis the prophecy, King Doran. You do not have a choice.” Patrick held up a torch and the short golden fuzz growing from his chin glittered in the light of the fire like sprinkles of stardust on his jaw. He wore a long white robe with a matching white cloak pinned across his shoulder with a golden brooch. A large hood hung from the back of his cloak and a thick gold torc adorned his neck, the round hammer marks on the gold metal glimmering in the torchlight. He was a young man, more lad than man, but he had done his many years of training to become a druid and Doran knew the man spoke the truth...even if his heart could not accept it.

  “How can you be certain, Patrick? What if they are just normal infant lassies? I cannot do it...they are all I have left of Alyson.” Grief crashed into him again as he spoke her name and stared down at two of his new daughters, wishing Alyson was here to see their beauty. How she had wanted a child of her own. Aye, childbirth was always dangerous, but neither of them could have ever predicted such an outcome. He looked up at Patrick with desperation, hoping the druid would change his mind, but Patrick only shook his head with firm resolve.

  “Nay, King Doran. They are the Three Sisters of Danu, the reborn goddesses of the Tuatha de Danann and descendants of Dana the faery. Alyson must have been the last female descendant of Dana, for the prophecy clearly states that, on the eve of Beltane, born to a king and the last female descendant of Dana will be three daughters of equal beauty, each with hair of a different color but the same brilliant green eyes. They will each possess a power over the elements—”

  “Och! I’ve heard the prophecy many times, Patrick! Nay need to tell me further. I just never thought it would be Alyson to birth them...” One of the babes started to cry, sensing his frustration, and he rocked them both, making shushing sounds.

  “It is so. They must be separated. They cannot know of one another’s existence. Not yet.” Patrick’s face showed clear sympathy and regret, but his voice was firm.

  Doran looked down at his two daughters. “I could not decide which one to keep. I love them all very much. They all look like their mother...” His voice faded off as he stared at them and a tear dropped down into the swaddle blanket of the brown-haired babe. Alyson had perished before naming their last daughter and Doran could not bring himself to name the wee lass before giving her away. “I decided to keep Gwynneth with me. She was the first born. It was the only way I could decide.” He looked up at Patrick with pleading hazel eyes. “Please make sure they go to good homes, to women who will raise them and love them as their own, who will respect their identity and allow me to visit.”

  Patrick nodded his head in affirmation. “I will take them to the faeries of the mounds. They will know of the legend and already have homes selected for your daughters. They will go to women with The Sight. Their caregivers must know of the prophecy and be able to foresee any dangers or complications as they come.” Seeing King Doran’s eyes widen with worry, Patrick raised his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “I do not believe your daughters to be in danger. If the legend is true, they will grow healthy, beautiful, kind...and strong-willed.” He gave the king a good-natured smirk trying to lighten the mood slightly.

  King Doran looked down one last time at his infant daughters and they stared back at him with beaming green eyes. He sighed in resignation and gave them both a kiss on the forehead. “It breaks my heart to send them away. But if it is the will of the gods, I have nay choice.” He placed them in a large woven basket on the ground with strong handles and bundled them with blankets all around. Lifting them up, he handed them to the druid reluctantly and looked up at Patrick.

  Patrick nodded, daughters in one hand and torch in the other. “They will be all right, King Doran. Trust in the Fates. Raise Gwynneth well and leave the rest to the gods. I will report back to you with their locations. You are free to visit them as you please.” He started to walk away and suddenly paused, turning around to look at Doran warily, “Remember the prophecy. Gwynneth must marry a king. They all must. Do whatever is required to make it so. Tis crucial.” With that, Patrick walked off into the darkness with two of the Sisters of Danu and left King Doran alone, watching them disappear from his vision, hands cradling his face as he sobbed into the night.

  A LOUD BANG ON THE wooden door sent Abigael bolting upright in her creaky bed frame. The hay from her mattress had been itching her in her sleep, causing Abigael to dream of insects swarming her skin and biting her tender flesh. She scratched a particularly raw patch of skin on her shoulder and shuddered, thankful for every second her dream faded away, reminding her of the present. T’was not a swarm of bugs, nay, but this old hay-filled mattress.

  As a newly widowed woman in her tuath, she was still adjusting to taking over the many chores of running the household all alone. The other members of the village had been most kind and helpful, but her days flew by in an exhausting blur, never leaving her a spare moment for the more menial tasks of life...such as re-stuffing a mattress. After such a horrifying dream, she really must move the mattress-stuffing chore up the ranks of importance soon.

  The knocking increased, pulling Abigael from her disturbing thoughts. Was someone sick? She often served as the healer of the village and late night visitors usually meant someone was grave
ly ill or birthing a child. At the thought of a child, Abigael swallowed hard and forced down her ever-present despair. The gods had never blessed her with the wee babe she had always longed for. And now that her husband had gone and gotten himself killed in a cattle raid with a rival tuath, the cursed Erdini clan, it seemed she may never have her chance. She was only a woman of five and twenty summers, but if she had not carried a child to full term in her eight years of marriage, it seemed unlikely she would ever do so.

  Swiftly hopping out of bed, she pulled a cloak over her shoulders and gripped it tight in the front with one fist, pulling her long dark brown plait out from under the cloak with the other. The earthen floor was cold beneath her bare feet and she realized the hearth fire had gone out. It must be early morning, not late night.

  The knocking became an insistent pounding just as she reached the wooden bar across the door and pulled it away. Creaking it open carefully, never certain whether the person on the other side was a familiar neighbor or an invading enemy, she was met with a sight that caused her brow to furrow in confusion. Patrick, the druid who frequented her small tuath of Coraindt on festival days, now stood at her door looking disheveled, his usual white robes dusted in a layer of dirt. In his hands, he held a squirming linen blanket and Abigael stared as a small fist flew out and a tuft of bright red hair peeked over the top of the bundle. “Patrick?” Abigael looked from the druid’s distressed face back to the wriggling infant in his arms. “Beltane was last night. You are late if you meant to arrive for the festivities.”

  “Abigael,” Patrick puffed as he held the babe out to her, almost shoving the wee lass into Abigael's arms as he bent over to gain his breath. “I have traveled for two days to reach you.” Her brow quirked up at him. “Well, I traveled a day to the faery mounds first. They told me to bring her here. To you.”

  “Her?” Abigael shook her head. Had Patrick lost his mind? Perhaps he had eaten those cursed wild berries again. She would never forget the Samhain festival when he arrived as delusional as a mad man from feasting on one too many forbidden berries. Abigael looked over his shoulder into the dawning morning light, seeking out this “her” he had been instructed to bring here. She saw nobody and then looked down at the babe. He could not possibly mean—

  Seeing the look of confusion on her face slowly morph into understanding, Patrick nodded emphatically and took a deep breath. “Aye. Her. The babe. The prophecy has come to fruition.”

  Gooseflesh spread over Abigael’s entire body. “I know this prophecy of which you speak. I had sensed it myself two nights past. Some power from the gods has been thrumming in the air. And yet, I cannot imagine why it is to me you have been instructed to deliver one of the Sisters of Danu.”

  Patrick paused in his deep breathing exercises and stood up to his full willowy height. “You know?” he asked as he looked down at the wee lass, who was now sucking on her fist as drool ran down her tiny forearm.

  “I know the Sisters of Danu have been reborn to fulfill the prophecy of the gods. They will save all Ériu, one day. I felt it. Their mother’s pain. Her loss. The pain in the King’s heart. Only, I cannot understand why you have now brought one to me. They are to be separated...” she paused as her own words sunk in and looked down at the babe with beaming emerald eyes beginning to fuss in her arms. Realizing the babe must be cold in the early morning chill, Abigael spun on her heels and walked further into her home, as Patrick followed in her wake.

  They were to be separated. The three sisters were to be taken to different tuatha and raised with no knowledge of their true identity, or the powers they would one day wield. And Patrick had brought one of the sisters to her. But, why? “I do not understand, Patrick.”

  She turned to look over her shoulder and was thankful to see him working on starting the fire. The warmth was going to be needed, not only for the babe, but to thaw the sudden chill running through Abigael’s veins. “I think you know why, Abi. Her name is Ceara.”

  “Ceara,” Abigael said with awe as she looked down at the wee lass that would be her daughter. The gods had sought a woman with The Sight to raise this Sister of Danu, and they had chosen her for the task. She gripped her barren womb as a tear slid down her cheek, whispering a silent prayer of thanks to the merciful gods above. This was her child to raise now and she would love her as her own.

  “Aye. Ceara is to be your daughter. You must raise her with nay knowledge of her identity. And she must marry a king to fulfill her destiny. You remember this from the legend, aye?” Abigael swallowed at the impact of it all and nodded. Patrick accepted her nod as understanding and continued. “Her father, King Doran of Iverni, wishes to visit and I have agreed to allow it. The man has lost his wife and two of his daughters. I hope you will treat him with kindness when he arrives to visit the lass.” Patrick stood up and backed away quickly when the fire blazed to life unexpectedly, almost licking the top of the thatched roof above them.

  Looking from the fire to Ceara, Abigael saw its flames reflected in the large green eyes of the babe who stared unblinkingly at the hearth. Ceara cooed as she watched the fire burn, then yawned and looked away, closing her eyes. The fire slowed to a low burn in the hearth as Ceara’s breath turned rhythmic in her sleep. Abigael looked up at Patrick to see if he had witnessed what she had.

  He nodded and smirked as he rubbed his hands in front of the heat of the fire. “Well, I think we know which element is hers to control.”

  Chapter 1

  Ériu 55 AD

  “OH, the nerve of him!” Ceara stormed into the house, slamming the door and causing the fire to flicker with the wild gush of wind trailing in behind her. She heard her mother sigh in the corner of the house as she worked on another new dress at the loom. Her mother always sighed when Ceara and Garreth argued. For the life of her, she could not understand why her mother had arranged her marriage to the infuriating lad before either of them could have a say. It was not at all common in their village for such arrangements, and yet no amount of shouting about the lad would change Abigael’s mind.

  “You sigh again, Mother and yet you would have nay need to if you would just break this marriage agreement and allow me to be free of him.” She crossed her arms and spun on her heels to face her mother. “Do you know what he said to me just now?”

  Abigael looked up from the loom and actually gave Ceara her full attention. Ceara’s hopes rose for an instant, wondering if she had finally convinced her mother to listen to her many grievances against her intended husband, but then a slow smirk spread across her mother’s face and Ceara growled. “Och! It does not matter what he said, does it? The man could tell me he thinks me as hideous as a toad, and you would still encourage me to marry him, would you not?”

  Abigael waved a hand dismissively in her direction and scoffed. “Ceara. Nay man in their right mind would call you a toad. And certainly not Garreth. He is quite taken with you.”

  A snort escaped Ceara, so loud it shook her brain. “Taken with me? Is that what you call it when a lad has a new lass on his lap every day? I just ran into him at the gathering hall. He had that lass Mary Gallagher on his lap this time. When I asked him why he even bothered with other lassies when he knew he was to marry me, he replied that he needed to sample as many lassies as he could before he became my prisoner! Prisoner! Mama, the lad does not want to marry me. He has made himself quite clear.”

  That seemed to get her mother’s attention. Abigael stood up slowly and walked over with a sad smile on her face. “You care for the lad, do you not?” Abigael ran a finger down Ceara’s face and stared her in the eyes. Ceara wanted to balk at her mother, but she was never good at hiding her emotions from anyone, least of all her mama. When Ceara was happy, which was most days, she could not contain her jovial spirit and the urge to smile at every passing villager. But when she was angry, most of the time while in Garreth’s infuriating presence, she could feel the fire burning in her veins, like a force greater than herself controlling her every thought.


  What she felt now was much too close to despair and she hung her head low at the tenderness of her mother’s words. “How I feel about Garreth does not matter. He does not want me. And I cannot marry the lad. He will only resent me even more than he does now and take a concubine. I cannot live that way. I wish you had never arranged our marriage. I still do not understand.”

  “There are many things you will not understand, Ceara. But I promise you will one day. Until then, you must trust me.” Her mother tucked a red tendril of Ceara’s hair behind her ear and smiled. “His father, the king, and I came to the agreement together. I am afraid he wants this match for you both as much as I do, and that is that.”

  “So I am to just be the unwanted wife? I tell you, Mama, the man despises me!”

  Abigael laughed and gripped Ceara’s hand. “Nay. He despises that he has nay control over his own future, the same way you do. But it is not you who he despises. He is acting out. Perhaps because it is the only thing he can control, or perhaps tis to make you jealous. You are seven and ten summers now. Tis time the two of you married.”

  “You would not believe he is taken with me if you had seen him today with Mary. I barely tolerated the sight of her on his lap. When he kissed the lass, I pretended not to noticed. But when he began to drag her into a dark corner by the hand, I felt humiliated! The whole tuath knows he is what he says: a prisoner to this arrangement.”

  Ceara swallowed hard but could not help the tear that trickled down her cheek and under her chin. Humiliation was only the beginning of what she felt when she thought of Garreth Mac Cecht. The man had been promised to her by the time she could walk. She was just as much a prisoner to this horrible arrangement as he was. Only, where she had always honored the match and looked forward to marrying the king’s son with his blonde tousled hair and bright hazel eyes, he saw her as a burden. She was no more than another responsibility for him in a world where he was born and bred to train as a warrior, and perhaps be a king one day. And who was she? Nothing. She was no more than the healer’s daughter, a woman bound to a man who did not want her.