by Dawn Madigan
“They held converse with Eriu in…Usnech of Mide.” She started to read, her voice small and unsure. Her tongue stumbled over the strange names.
“She said to them, ‘Warriors,’ said she, ‘welcome to you. It is long since your coming was prophesied. Yours will be the island forever. There is not a better island in the world. No race will be more perfect than your race.’
“‘Good is that,’ said Amergin.
“‘Not to her do we give thanks for it,’ said Donn, ‘but to our gods and to our power.’
“‘It is naught to thee,’ said Eriu. ‘Thou shall have no gain of this island nor will thy children. A gift to me, O sons of Mil and the children of Bregan, that my name may be upon this island!’
“‘It will be its chief name for ever,’ said Amergin, ‘namely Eriu.’”
Dara lifted her eyes from the page. They felt as if sand grains had been pushed and rubbed into them. “The paragraph stops here,” she said.
“Aye, so it does,” Niamh was back in her seat, watching her. “So, Donn and Amergin meet Eriu. She welcomes the two Milesian brothers, sharing her prophecy with them. The island shall belong to the sons of Miled and their children, she says, and their children’s children. Young Amergin accepts Eriu’s words with thankfulness. The older brother Donn, however, angrily rejects Eriu’s prediction, insulting her.
“‘We will win anyway’, he growls at his younger brother, ‘and it has nothing to do with her words!’
“Eriu retaliates by vowing he’ll never enjoy the isle himself, and neither will his seed. So, Dara, the story seemingly ends with Amergin’s promise to Eriu, to name the land after her. And thus Ireland—Erin—gains its true name.”
“Seemingly?” Dara smoothed her hand gently over the pages. “Are you saying there is another ending to this?”
“Your weariness hasn’t drowned your curiosity.” Niamh gave a small chuckle.
Rowan cocked a brow. This display of emotion was unusual in the Bantiarna he’d known.
“The volume you’re holding in your hands, Dara, is a collection of some of the widespread versions of the ancient texts,” Niamh went on. “The ones every scholar of the Celtic Studies will swear by. The original scrolls, however, the ones holding the true and complete texts, are concealed elsewhere, not within the bounds of this modest library.”
“For years I’ve suspected that,” Rowan remarked, stepping closer. “That there were other texts, secret ones, hidden.”
“Only a few possess the knowledge, Rowan, even among the Speakers themselves,” Niamh replied. “And within these scrolls, among other things, there exists Eriu’s complete Prophecy. These are the story’s missing last lines…”
And Niamh closed her eyes and quoted from her heart.
“‘My thanks to thee, good Amergin,’ said Eriu. ‘Long it will be before your brood reigns o’er the island, a seed from a union above and below. Lia Fáil will again utter a cry, the first and the last in one and a half-thousand years’.”
“Brighid mentioned this Prophecy,” Rowan’s voice was soft, his expression bemused. “That’s what she was speaking of when she claimed that some minor passages were missing from the Book of Conquests.”
“What did Eriu mean, Rowan?” Dara lifted her eyes, finding him standing above her. The intensity of his gaze made her heart skip a beat and then hammer wildly in her chest.
“I think she meant, well…” he started, then shook his head and knelt by her side. He captured her cold, unresisting hand in his large one. “I think that we both are the ‘union above and below’ that Eriu spoke of. A union between dé-Danann and Mortal. I think that when we both rest against Lia Fáil in the eve of Beltaine, two eves from tonight, the stone will roar beneath us.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“No,” Dara jerked her hand out of Rowan’s and leaped from her chair. The book slid heavily from her knees and landed with a dull thud against the soft rug. “No, Rowan, this can’t be the truth!”
He sprang to his feet as well, facing her. “I thought you decided already,” he spoke quietly, “about us. Back in that bed in Medb’s palace, you decided.”
“I’m not even sure that was real,” she snapped. Her face was flushed, but she returned a blatant stare. “Maybe it was just the cannabis working.”
“Don’t you dare go there again.” He clutched her arms tightly. “Don’t pretend it meant nothing to you!”
She ground her teeth together, his steely grip imprisoning her, yet not bruising. “Just because we had great sex, you can’t expect me to throw everything else away,” she bit out.
“Throw everything else away?” he repeated, confused.
“I left a life back in Oregon. A home. My job. Friends,” she whispered. “Rowan, I’m sorry. I refuse to let it all go up in smoke because of a thousand-plus-year-old prophecy. I won’t have it. And then there’s Aidan—”
“Dead, for over three years now,” he lashed back at her, regretting it the instant the words left his mouth.
Dara stared up at him in silence, her lips parted as if she was about to say something. Her eyes were suddenly too shiny.
“Dara, I’m sorry…” he started, but she twisted against his hold with a desperate moan, and he dropped his hands. He watched her as she bolted towards the heavy door, tearing it open and escaping the room.
“Let her go.” Niamh’s voice was soft, but Rowan swiveled wildly about to face her, having forgotten she’d been witness to the bitter exchange.
“I’ll lose her,” he said, his hand skimming through his untamed hair. “I need to—”
“Sit down,” Niamh commanded, gesturing to the newly vacant chair. “You won’t lose her, she just needs more time.”
Rowan sat down stiffly, as if he would jump out of the seat at any moment. He absently reached down for Dara’s fallen book and pulled it into his lap, smoothing the ruffled pages back to order.
“She has learnt too much, too fast.” Niamh watched him, motionless in her chair. “She will come to understand. Now, who is this Brighid you mentioned?”
“She’s a banshee,” he replied, his tone flat. “She was the one who transferred us from the Portland Safe Grounds to the Lower Realm.” Seeing Niamh’s arched brows, he added, “The Lower Realm is the name preferred by the denizens themselves, instead of what we call the Otherworld. Tír Na nÓg.”
“A banshee…” Niamh appeared thoughtful. “The Mortal family she cares for must be Amergin’s descendants. Most likely, your Brighid was accompanying you both so she could watch over Dara.”
“’Tis hard to believe that Dara is descended from the bard Amergin. Looking at the formal texts, Amergin was slain by his brother Heremon, dying childless.” Rowan shook his head. “The O’Lalor clan—of the Mortal families—claims to have descended from Amergin through the legendary hero Connal Cernach, yet it was never proven…”
“Truthfully, Rowan, Amergin did leave a son behind after his wife’s death,” Niamh softly intervened. “There was enough detail in the ancient scrolls for the Speakers to track Amergin’s descendants as far as Dara’s father, Cuinn O’Shea.” Niamh paused. “’Tis not clear when, exactly, Amergin’s blood mixed with the dé-Danann’s. Some assume his son himself was the first of mixed origin.”
Rowan nodded, his mind elsewhere.
“The Speakers will gather tonight. I need you to tell me all that you went through since leaving here six months ago,” Niamh bade him. “Are you fit to do that, Rowan?”
He lifted his troubled gaze to meet hers, but gave her another swift nod. “I’ll try my best to answer,” he said.
With some effort he formulated images, sounds and emotions into short, bare sentences, and Niamh wrestled out the rest with carefully aimed questions. Finally, having entrusted to Niamh’s quick mind all the knowledge he’d held, Rowan rose from his chair. “I should go find her,” he said.
“Go,” she agreed. “But I want you both at tonight’s Gathering, Rowan. You remember where.”
“Aye.” He paused briefly by the door, his hand wrapped around the handle, before slipping outside.
Niamh collected the abandoned book, returning it to its spot on the proper shelf.
“So, what do you think,” she asked it, lightly stroking its thick, gilded spine. “Have I been wrong all along?”
* * * * *
Finding Dara had been easier than Rowan had feared. Fiona, the housekeeper, had sent him through one of the French doors that opened to the back gardens. He followed the soft sound of hushed conversation to a stone bench aglow in the light of a plump, flawed moon. The pale orb lacked only a slim slice to be whole—the night of Beltaine would be graced with a full moon this year.
Rowan halted on a narrow lane rimmed with a splash of white petunias and night-stunned daylilies—the moonlight had frozen all colors to a silvery gray. Two dark figures huddled close upon the bench.
“How long have you been having the nightmares?” came Dara’s hushed voice.
“I think, since what happened to my family,” Aislinn whispered back. “I know that I was there when it happened—I was found hiding in a kitchen closet—but I can’t remember a thing, see? I’ve just been having the dreams since then.”
“Rowan is the only one who knows about them?”
“Aye, Dara, he’s the only one.”
“And your Lady Niamh?”
“No!” Aislinn sounded frightened at the thought. “I’ve never dared talk to her about this.”
“So why are you telling me?” Dara placed a tentative hand on Aislinn’s shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, Aislinn, I’m happy you trust me this way, but we’ve only just met.”
Aislinn turned to Dara. “In a way, you’re very much like Rowan,” she spoke softly. “I feel it’s all right to tell you. And besides, this last dream I had—this dream was different, nothing like my usual nightmares. If I don’t tell someone about it, I’ll…” She broke off, caught by a sudden shudder.
“So, tell me your dream,” Dara coaxed. “I’m listening.”
Rowan stood utterly still as he shamelessly eavesdropped, veiled in darkness. He’d suspected that Aislinn had been troubled by her old nightmares again. Rowan’s adopted sister was purely human, a Mortal, not of Kanjali blood. She’d been the sole survivor of a slaughter that had wiped out her entire family. The murderer, or murderers, had never been caught. After a while, Aislinn had begun to suffer from recurrent nightmares—Rowan had been the only one who’d known. Maybe she’d chosen him to confide in since he’d lost his parents in a chillingly similar fashion.
“I’ve had the same dream a few times the last couple of weeks.” Aislinn’s muffled voice sounded again. “I see a bonfire burning upon a hill and a white, round moon filling the sky. Atop the hill a gray-white stone is standing erect, illumined by the fire, and as I watch, dark blood is splattered across it in a long, slanting line.”
“Is there more?” Dara whispered.
“Aye. As I watch, I grow numb with dread,” Aislinn mumbled. “Like something terrible has just happened, which cannot be turned back.”
“And you thought to hide this from me, Aislinn?” Rowan stepped from the shadows into the moonlight. His whispered words had startled the two women. Dara and Aislinn both spun as one to face him. Aislinn had her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes shadowed and unfathomable.
“Since you’ve obviously heard everything we’ve said,” Dara spoke after a brief pause, “maybe you have some bright idea as to what her dream might mean.”
“The only idea I have right now is that you should have told me right away, Aislinn.” Rowan’s voice was laden with concern. “How else can I make you feel better?”
Aislinn gathered her thin dress tighter about her and rose shakily to her feet. “You two should go now,” she pleaded. “The Gathering is about to convene.”
“You’re not coming?” Dara asked, surprised.
“She’s not allowed,” Rowan answered for his sister. “No one should witness a Gathering but the Speakers themselves. Tonight we’ve been privileged—we’ve been asked to join. Come, sweetheart.” He held out his hand to Dara. She took it, and he released a long-held breath, relieved. Aislinn picked that particular moment to slip back into the house, as insubstantial as a passing breeze.
“Where to?” Dara demanded of Rowan. “I haven’t heard any commotion rising from the house, so I guess the party isn’t here, right?”
“The Gathering is taking place elsewhere,” he agreed. “The Speakers will gather tonight upon the Hill of Tara.” He gently propelled Dara back towards the soft light spilling from the mansion’s French doors. “Teague will drive us the few miles to Tara, and then we’ll continue on foot.”
“I hope no Speaker has a coronary seeing my outfit,” Dara said a few minutes later, as she squeezed herself between Teague and Rowan on the bench seat. After their earlier experience with Teague’s driving, both Rowan and Dara refused to ride in the back of the Bronco again.
Teague kept the car headlights low, and as they neared Tara he cut them completely.
“How can you tell where you’re driving?” Dara whispered, frowning.
“Easy, lass, I know this path as I know the lines of my own palm,” Teague responded with a chuckle.
The Bronco seemed to be taking them up a gentle slope. Dara closed her eyes and slumped against the seat, determined to relax. It only made her more acutely aware of the two men framing her, the hard muscles of their arms and thighs pressed against her flesh. Their aroma wafted about her, male and beast intermingled, as she remembered from her night at the Portland warehouse, and from many nights with Aidan. The waxing moon accentuated the tangy scent, and a fine tremble traversed her flesh. They were so alike in a way, these men—and again she found herself wondering whether they’d all been close once—Rowan and Teague…and Aidan.
She felt the mild deceleration as the Bronco slowed and stopped. Teague made a small movement beside her as he stilled the engine. Dara opened her eyes just as he half-turned to her. She caught the gleam of his eyes, and the edge of his warm breath touching her face. His fingers brushed over her cheek, rough and gentle like Rowan’s.
“Teague,” Rowan warned from the opposite side, his voice a soft growl.
“’Tis nothing but a wee touch,” Teague protested, swiftly withdrawing his fingers.
“Aye, I’ve seen your wee touches,” Rowan retorted. He pushed the Bronco’s door open and slid out, pausing for Dara.
She followed him, feeling Teague’s gaze hot on her back. Somehow she knew he would never attempt anything deeper than a fleeting touch, his friendship with Rowan too solid and deep-rooted to betray his friend’s trust.
Rowan palmed Dara’s hand in his, leading her along a path invisible to her eyes, leaving Teague standing beside his Bronco.
“Careful.” He paused to shove open a small iron gate. “We’re cutting through St. Patrick’s churchyard to the Hill.”
An odd couple of Standing Stones crowded together, and Celtic crosses loomed atop silent graves. Dara shuddered. Rowan seemed immune to the sight. As they left the church behind them Dara drew in a deep breath, casting a look at the sky’s black dome. The air felt chilly, suiting an Irish spring night. A hint of the almost-full moon shone feebly beneath a dark gray layer of clouds, and the silver dots of a few stars gave scanty, useless light. The night thickened around the both of them, sheets of darkness heavily layered, like oil paint on canvas. The trail was slow and tortuous, and Dara twisted her sweaty hand within Rowan’s, finally whispering his name with unease.
“Dara?” He briefly stopped and whispered, “Walk as close to me as you can, sweetheart. Tara is full of earthworks.”
To her surprise, he turned amber eyes on her, and she froze, pulling back against his grasp.
“What’s wrong?” Rowan whispered, the soft gold of his eyes oddly spellbinding.
“Your eyes,” Dara mumbled. “H-how? It’s not a full moon yet. How did you manage to…?”
>
“I told you, sweetheart, shapechanging is a knack of mine.” Rowan’s words breathed heat over her lips. “I am more sensitive to Power than most shifters, able to change also during the nights fringing a full moon.”
His words didn’t calm Dara. A fine tremble rushed up her spine. Rowan cradled her face in his hands, touching her lips with his. She briefly shut her eyes, succumbing to his familiar touch, and the fear subsided.
“Have you ever heard of Guardians, sweetheart?” Rowan spoke softly. “I am one. If there were no Guardians among the Kanjali, who could battle against the Hounds?”
Dara nodded, her fingers and toes as numb as her mind. She let Rowan draw her forward until she could see a shallow, rounded hillock framed by a soft orangey glow.
“The Mound of Hostages,” Rowan said softly, sparing Dara the Gaelic term. “’Tis a many thousands-year-old tomb. Are you ready to face the Speakers, sweetheart?”
Dara suppressed another shiver. “Yes,” she finally told Rowan, forcing herself to smile into the enigmatic gold of his eyes. “I simply can’t wait to tell your Speakers my opinion of their dick-shaped stone.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rowan tugged Dara towards the blaze-delineated hillock, as soft whispers fanned towards them on a gentle breeze. As they circled the shallow mound they finally saw the fire blazing at its foot, close to the large, square hole gaping at its side.
This mound is really a tomb, Dara recalled.
Together the two of them breached the circle of firelight, and suddenly dark shadows were shifting all about them, touching the light’s edge. There were no more than six, maybe seven of them at a first glance, although the jittery glow made it difficult for Dara to tell their exact number. Their shadowy hosts clung mostly to the darkness, and their faces were distorted beyond recognition by the illusory play of light and dark.
