by Dawn Madigan
Teague had finally made contact that morning, alerting her that he’d found Rowan and his Chosen at Oweynagat, The Cave of Cats. After six months, bless the Goddess! His Chosen, Teague had stressed. So, Rowan had truly found her… Little Dara O’Shea, Aidan Neilan’s wife. Dara, who’d been both orphaned and widowed in just a couple of months, almost three and a half years ago.
Niamh squeezed her fists against the wooden window frame. Six months ago she’d been informed of Rowan and Dara’s disappearance, the deserted vehicles by the Portland Safe Grounds’ warehouse, the blood-soaked rug. She had feared the worst then. Feared that she had lost them both—the boy she’d taken as her own and watched grow to a man, and the girl she’d sent away from Ireland and had barely known since. She had feared that she had been mistaken in deciphering the ancient texts, that what she had seen within the time-yellowed scrolls had been no truer than a wishful mind’s fancy. That their kind had lost its last flickering hope. But Rowan Mackey and Dara Neilan had turned out to be very much alive, and were making their way here this very minute.
And Beltaine was to be celebrated in just three nights…
Niamh forced her fists to relax and leaned against the cedar frame. Soon she would talk to Rowan and Dara. The Speakers circle had been called for an urgent Gathering, as well. All had been taken care of, there was nothing else she could do now but wait. Might as well enjoy the pleasantly sunny day as long as Erin’s fickle weather allowed it.
* * * * *
They’d driven west ‘til the day dimmed, through the grassy plains of Roscommon and Longford, and the bogs and lakes of Westmeath. The countryside was rich with multiple shades of green. The Route of the Táin, Rowan had called it.
“The Táin,” he’d added, “is Ireland’s most famous epic.”
He’d then whispered in Dara’s ear the old tale of Medb and the Cattle Raid of Cooley, and she’d listened, ancient names resurfacing in her memory, her mother’s voice uttering them.
Rowan had told her other things as well, his lips hot on her skin. What he’d like to do to her, with her, right then and there. He’d been very imaginative, and quite elaborate, his roaming hands helping to explain some of the more complex details.
At some point she’d squeaked, hot all over, “Rowan, that is not anatomically possible!”
He’d promised to prove her wrong later.
In Meath they’d deviated from the legendary trail, their destination being the Bantiarna’s estate.
“That’s the Boyne, there. We’re close, sweetheart.” Rowan pointed to a shimmering band of water engulfed by the flourishing green landscape.
“Slowly,” Dara begged of Teague as he lowered her from the Bronco’s trunk. “I’m not sure I can stand up right now.” The ground swayed beneath her feet. She clutched her stomach. Maybe it was a good thing she’d had nothing to eat for the last few hours.
“The Castle—” Rowan’s hands had already replaced Teague’s on Dara’s waist, steadying her, “—of the Lady on the river Boyne.”
“Home?” she asked, lifting her eyes to his. The warmth in his voice made her ask.
“’Tis the closest to home I’ve ever had,” Rowan admitted softly. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah, sure,” she replied, not sure at all. The alternative was being carried to the doorstep. Goddess, not as long as she was breathing and conscious!
Rowan nodded, a hint of a smile hovering on his lips, and steered her with a gentle touch towards a gray-white lane of pebbles. Dara took her first true look around and froze, gasping in surprise. Their path wound through a vast carpet of roses in pinks and reds and whites, their brightness dimmed by the looming dusk. Her gaze moved over vigorous and timid shrubs, trellises and arches covered by wild-spreading ramblers, a climber cloaking a wood pergola.
Dara’s astounded gaze finally darted up.
Towering above all that splendor was a massive two-story manor, perched in the garden’s hub like a sleeping Briar Rose.
“I guess she really likes roses, your Lady.” Dara drew a slow, deep breath, taking in the intense fragrance. Something made her squirm with unease. “Funny, I feel like I’ve been here before, Rowan.” She chafed her hands against her arms.
“Maybe you have,” he answered cautiously, guiding her along the trail. He watched Teague strolling past them and up the garden path, whistling a soft tune, deliberately leaving them to themselves.
A few minutes later Dara wondered, exhausted, when exactly Rowan had managed to scoop her up into his arms. She gave in and pressed her face into his shoulder, his aroma briefly taking dominance over the roses’ fragrance. He squeezed his arms around her in a wordless response. She swiveled her head, her gaze straying to one of the wide second-story windows—she could swear she saw a figure up there, watching them. Rowan’s Lady of the Boyne?
“Let me down,” Dara bade Rowan in a sleep-blurred voice as they reached the doorstep.
“What, already?” Rowan lowered her carefully to the paved lane, his hands reluctant to let go of her.
Together they climbed the two shallow steps onto the shaded front porch. The ornamented door swung open before Rowan could use the brass knocker. Dara met dark eyes at the same level as hers. A young woman was staring at her, openmouthed, from the threshold. She was probably around the same age as her, and yet the bare uncertainty in her face made her seem younger. Or maybe it was the light floral dress, nimbly clinging to her breasts and falling below her knees, that made her look young.
“Aislinn.” Rowan spoke softly, saying the single word carefully as if it were something fragile.
The girl’s eyes darted from Dara to Rowan. She threw herself past the doorstep as if it were a tangible barrier, her slim arms closing on Rowan’s waist. She buried her face in his chest and her small body heaved with muffled sobs. He stroked her hair gently, sliding his hands over her shoulders.
“Now, now, lass,” he muttered. “No need for that… I’m all in one piece, see?”
Aislinn nodded against his chest, still sobbing. “Oh, Rowan, I thought—I thought you were—”
“Ash…you know I’m not good with crying women!” Rowan gave his adopted sister a tight hug. Then, cupping her shoulders in a gentle hold, he managed to tilt her back from him and study her tear-streaked face. “So, tell me… How is the Bantiarna?” He gave Aislinn a warm smile. The weight of his gaze on his sister’s flushed face convinced Dara that he’d wanted to ask her much more than he had.
“Niamh is fine,” Aislinn returned a tear-saturated smile. “She wants to see you both. As soon as you’re here, she said.” Her eyes strayed to Dara again, then quickly returned to her brother’s face.
“Had nightmares again?” Rowan inquired softly. “Is that why you were crying?”
Aislinn hesitated.
He studied her expression, then smoothed two long fingers down her chin. “Ash, I’d like you to meet Dara,” he finally said, changing the subject.
“It’s great to meet you,” Dara smiled.
“’Tis grand finally meeting you, too!” A sudden smile brightened Aislinn’s face, like a cloud swiftly dissolving to reveal the sun behind it. “I’ve heard about you, Dara. Not much. How your parents took you away from Ireland when you were just four years old. And then again, this morning…” she hesitated, “when Teague informed the Bantiarna that Rowan had found you, and was bringing you over.”
Dara nodded. Her legs felt heavy, and she propped herself against the doorframe. Aislinn noticed and blushed harder, retreating away from the door and back into the hall’s shadows.
“I’m sorry, Dara, please come inside,” she mumbled. “Rowan, how could you let me be such an amadán!”
Rowan laughed in response, ruffling her hair. “I wouldn’t call you an idiot.” He stepped inside, sweeping Dara along with him. “Is Niamh in the study?” he asked.
Aislinn nodded as she scuttled along the hallway’s wide-planked oak floor, her flimsy dress brushing her skin with a faint rustle. The sho
rt corridor opened to an airy, arched foyer with two broad staircases spiraling up from its opposing corners. Dusky light seeped in through the chiffon-draped French doors, which opened to the vast back gardens. Dara could envision the large hall flooded with sunlight during the day. It was softly lit now by candles carefully positioned in wall sconces, and one delicate, two-tiered crystal chandelier.
“The Bantiarna has a soft spot for dramatic lighting.” Rowan flashed Dara an apologetic grin.
He captured Dara’s hand in his and drew her up the right staircase, following his sister’s quick, soft footsteps. Behind them, Teague’s laughter drifted from the dining room adjoining the foyer.
Dara inhaled deeply as Rowan pulled her gently through the soft shadows. The vast house felt somehow alive around them, its wooden floors creaking faintly beneath their feet, and its dark walls exhaling cool, fresh-scented air. They’d passed a few wooden doors delicately engraved with flowering sprigs and embossed with hummingbirds, until Aislinn finally halted before one of them.
“I’ll go in then, Aislinn.” Rowan dropped a loving pat on his sister’s back. “I need to talk to Niamh alone.”
“I know that, Rowan.” Aislinn nodded slowly. “Dara, ‘twas grand meeting you.” She gave a timid smile and silently turned to make her way back down the corridor.
“Is there something wrong with Aislinn?” Dara whispered. “She was crying earlier—”
“Aye, there’s something wrong,” Rowan stiffly replied. “When she was very young, she witnessed her family being slain. She’s been this way since I first met her—frightened, always on edge.” He gave the gleaming door handle a gentle tug and shove.
Rowan cracked the door open before Dara managed to grasp the full meaning of his words. Her mind numb, she followed him, finding herself standing in the midst of a spacious, softly shadowed room, its walls hidden behind heavily burdened bookshelves of solid wood. A soft summer breeze breathed in through the open window.
A woman turned away from the view to face them. Her short hair was very bright against the darkness, and her eyes were very blue.
“Hello, Dara,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if Dara had been ambling through the mansion’s corridors each and every day of her life.
Chapter Twenty
“We’ve met before,” Dara said.
“Yes, we have. You were almost four years old then.” Niamh was motionless by the window, her calm voice easily filling the large study. There was no tension in her, but no ease, either. Her eyes were alight and observant, disclosing no emotion.
“It was you who sent my family away from Ireland,” Dara said, surprise budding in her voice.
“I assumed at the time I was protecting you. Maybe I was wrong.”
Niamh moved deeper into the room, her tread smooth and silent. She halted, facing them. Dara was standing oddly erect, her eyes too wide and too dark, her face pale, lined with tiredness. Rowan stood close beside her, wanting to hold her but not daring to, his mouth shaped into a straight, tight line.
“You both should get some food and sleep,” Niamh said softly.
“Oh, no.” Dara shook her head sharply, her curls bouncing. “Not before you tell me why you sent my family away.”
“Because you were special, Dara,” Niamh replied. “Your birth was special. With long-lived beings such as us, a newly born child is always a rare, treasured gift.”
“Was that the only reason?” Dara demanded.
“You’ll learn much more at tonight’s Gathering of the Speakers,” Niamh said. “Now go get at least a couple hours of sleep, child. I’ll have dinner sent up to you. You, however—” she turned to Rowan, “—I’ll need a word with first. Will you show Dara to the Summer Room and come back here as soon as you can?”
Rowan opened his mouth to answer when Dara raised her head.
“No,” she snapped. “I won’t be treated as a mindless child anymore, Niamh. If you don’t wish to share information with me now, after all we’ve been through, I have no business staying here. I will take the first flight out to Portland’s International Airport.”
The room grew very quiet for one stretching second. The two women studied each other across a gap of almost a thousand years, icy blue eyes meeting heated dark ones. Rowan’s fists tightened by his sides, but he kept silent.
Then, unbelievably, Niamh nodded.
“I’ll arrange for some light refreshments to be brought up here while we speak,” she said. “Please, Dara, sit down.” She gestured to a pair of generously proportioned rosewood chairs, upholstered in deep burgundy leather.
Dara slipped into one with a thankful sigh, her hands absently stroking the lion’s heads masterfully carved on the end of each arm. She briefly shut her eyes, shifting and stretching within the chair’s snug embrace. A soft sound made her jerk, eyes flying open. Niamh was watching her, nestled in the other chair.
“These are English,” Niamh said. “They are almost one hundred and fifty years old.”
Dara stared at her uncertainly. She sneaked a quick glance around, spotting Rowan browsing through a leather-bound book by one of the shelves. Or, more likely, pretending to browse.
“I was referring to these chairs,” Niamh repeated with a hint of a smile, patting her chair’s carved arm. “But how about me, Dara? What, or who, am I? How old am I?”
“You’re Irish,” Dara replied, her voice hesitant. “As for your age, well…”
“My age is the simpler question. I am nine hundred and thirty-eight years old. But am I Irish, truly?” Niamh gently interrupted, arching a sandy brow. “Answering this question, Dara, demands that I choose between tradition and blood. If I choose tradition, then maybe indeed, living hundreds of years among the Irish folk has made me Irish, a Celt. However, if I choose blood, then no, I am Kanjali. Or, seeking my earliest roots, I am dé-Danann.”
“Is there a point to this?” Dara frowned slightly. “I mean, besides telling me that defining a person’s origins is far more complicated than defining a chair’s?”
Niamh’s smile broadened somewhat. “And so we come to you, Dara,” she went on. “Knowing how tired you must be right now, let’s leave tradition aside. Let’s make a leap and go straight to blood. Whose blood is running in your veins, child?”
“I don’t understand,” Dara said. Somewhere behind her, the sound of rustling paper stopped.
“I don’t wish to distress you with any more guessing games, Dara. So pay close attention.” Niamh’s cobalt-blue eyes were sharp and pointed. “You are of mixed birth, Dara. There is Kanjali in you and there is Mortal. Your Mortal essence was passed on to you by your father, and it was passed on to him along the generations starting with the bard Amergin, King Miled’s younger son.”
Dara lifted her numb gaze to Niamh’s calm face.
“I will remind you of a story you should know,” Niamh said softly. “I told this story to your mother when she was but a child herself.” Her voice grew distant as she spoke, enchanting the outside world to utter silence. “Over four thousand years ago, the Tuatha dé Danann still ruled the beautiful land of Erin. Their charmed reign over the isle lasted for one hundred and ninety-seven years. However, since even a magical race can’t stay invincible forever, and maybe because it was time to give the earth back to Mankind, the Tuatha dé Danann themselves were defeated in a great, desperate battle. ‘Twas mere humans who beat them, invaders who had sailed from Spain to claim for themselves the green isle that lay in the track of the setting sun. The invaders were—”
“The sons of King Miled, the Milesians,” Rowan broke in, casting his book aside. He took a step towards the two women. “They were the first Celts to settle in Erin, the true human ancestors of the Irish race that we know today. That’s how you told it to me, Bantiarna, word for word.”
“Aye, Rowan.” The Bantiarna’s smile warmed. “King Miled of Spain had eight sons, Amergin and Eber Donn among them. They led the Gaelic invasion to Ireland. Many of them found their deaths befo
re Erin was conquered.”
Niamh rose lithely from her chair and approached one of the surrounding bookshelves, selecting an enormous leather-bound volume. She carried her find back to her seat, allowing the book to rest dormant and heavy against her knees.
“At that time,” she went on, “the island was ruled by three dé-Danann kings, all scions to the great Dagda. Their names are not important. Their queens, however, were called Banba, Fodla and Eriu.”
“Eriu.” Dara nodded. “Her name I’ve heard before.”
“The entire story of how Erin was taken from the Tuatha dé Danann is a long and twisted one, and we are short of time.” Niamh opened the book against her thighs, fingering the yellowed pages with a gentle touch. “Dara, I’d like you to read to us now a very small part of it.”
She rose and laid the heavy book over Dara’s thighs, split open at the page she had chosen.
“This volume, translated from Irish Gaelic, holds the Lebor Gabála Érenn, the Book of Conquests. Now, Dara, try to see it in your mind… The sons of Miled have just lost another brother to the sea, they’ve circled the island of Erin three times, but fail to see the land due to the Tuatha dé Danann’s magic trickery. They are not in the best of moods, to say the least.” Niamh shot Dara a brief smile. “Finally, Miled’s sons manage to climb ashore, led by the oldest of brothers, Donn, and the younger Amergin, himself a bard and a druid.”
“Amergin,” Dara echoed.
“To make a very long story short, the sons of Miled met on their way across the isle the dé-Danann queens Banba and Fodla, and each in her turn asked the brothers to name the island after her. To each of them Amergin promised to grant her wish. And then Donn and Amergin hit upon the third and the last queen, Eriu. Now, Dara, please read aloud.”
Dara sighed, straining over the time-gilded page. Her eyes were hurting, and the large study didn’t have enough light. The slender black lines danced beneath her struggling gaze and the crowding letters stumbled one over the other.
