Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy)

by Melissa Sasina

  Shiovra, daughter of Tríonna and Coughlin, opened her eyes and turned her head, looking wearily at the doorway. She blinked slowly, the flashes of lightning illuminating her face. Sitting up, she swung her feet to the ground. Shiovra could feel a strong power in the air, one that laced through her body. Glancing down, she traced the dark blue honor marks curling around her left wrist. Her eyes flickered back to the storm as she rose to her feet. Heedless of the malicious storm that raged, she made her way to the doorway, watching as lightning clawed the sky and rain poured down. The wind stirred her unbound hair while her eyes watched with curiosity.

  Shiovra stood at the doorway silently. The storm called out to her, drew her to it. She began to hum softly, matching her tune to the wild rhythms brought forth by the storm. Her song shifted swiftly with every movement that the storm set out. The melody was as haunting as it was beautiful, a mysterious and entrancing song that poured from somewhere deep within her, calling, summoning. The energies in the air increased, filling circling her, filling her.

  Shiovra ended her enchanting song abruptly as a sharp gust of wind blew cold rain onto her, making the slender young woman shiver beneath her thin, soft green shift. She abruptly turned away from the door with a soft curse, closing it behind herself.

  Sighing, she tied her hair loosely back with a strip of leather, threw a russet colored cloak about her shoulders, and turned to leave the small cottage.

  The wickerwork door clattered open once more, sending rain to pour into the cottage.

  Shiovra paused at the doorway. Something was calling to her, something very strong and sad. There was a flash within her mind and she saw a village engulfed in flames. She could feel the searing heat of the flames and hear the painful cries of the villagers. In her mind’s eye, she saw a woman lose her child and receive a mortal wound to her side with the sharp, gleaming blade of a sword. As quickly as it had come upon her, the vision was gone. Yet, Shiovra could still feel the heat of the flames on her skin and still smell the smoke.

  She crumpled to her knees, her breath coming hard and painful. Shiovra’s body trembled uncontrollably with fear. Her heart ached within her chest, pierced by the pain she had felt within the vision. Never before had she seen such pain, such grief. It pulled at her, consuming her mind. Even when she was a child of eight, she had never seen what the attack upon Tara when her mother was killed.

  Shiovra chocked back sobs, each one tearing through her chest. After several minutes, she rose weakly to her feet and hastened from the cottage, heart pounding loudly.

  She wove her way through the dark cottages scattered about. Sliding through muddy puddles, she nearly fell rounding one cottage, but was caught by her aunt, Réalta Dubh, as she was quickly making her way towards the main gates of the ring-fort.

  “Réalta…” Shiovra breathed, leaning against a cottage wall.

  Réalta nodded. “I can feel it as well,” replied the older woman hurriedly, pushing her wet hair from her face. She stopped abruptly and her face became grave, losing its usual emotionless state. It was then that Shiovra noticed the worry in the woman’s unusual eyes.

  Shiovra followed Réalta’s gaze and froze.

  The main gates stood wide open and a broken, disheveled woman staggered through. Lightning flashed behind her, silhouetting her entire body. Her wet hair was tangled with twigs and leaves. Her scorched yellow shift was torn and dirty, completely soaked through. She clutched her side with a bloodstained hand.

  The woman collapsed to her knees in utter and complete exhaustion. She breathed hard and fought back barking coughs, pain obviously racking through her entire body. “Réalta Dubh…” she breathed through staggering breaths.

  Réalta hastened to the woman’s side, skirts swirling. “Deirdre…” she whispered then glanced over her shoulder at Shiovra, who stood completely still in the pouring rain, frozen. “Quickly, Shiovra! Fetch Dubheasa to bring me my herbs…”

  “Nay,” interrupted Deirdre. “It is too late for me…” she breathed weakly. Deirdre grimaced and doubled over; shaking violently as she clutched her wounded side. Sweat and rain streaked her deathly pale face.

  Réalta frowned, rising to her feet. “Do not be foolish, Deirdre,” she retorted. “You made it this far with those wounds, you can live a little longer. Rest and we shall have your wounds tended to.” Turning, she hastened from the gates and into the mess of cottages.

  Shiovra couldn’t pull herself away from the cottage, her heart pounding as she looked down at the broken woman before her, the same one she had seen in her vision. She had felt the woman’s pain; it still lingered within her mind. Shiovra could tell that Deirdre fought strongly through the pain, even now when her life hung before her ever so delicately. She knew deep in her heart that there was nothing that could be done to save the woman who had been Ainmire’s wife for ten years.

  “Why does she bother? It be…already too late…for me,” she murmured, her pain-ridden voice bringing Shiovra back to herself. Deirdre paused, laying herself down upon the ground. “I may not…have the sight…but I can see…what fate lies before me. My son…was taken…from me. My life shall be next.” She glanced up at Shiovra, eyes wavering with pain. “Come here.”

  Shiovra stepped forward, her heart heavy with the knowledge that there was nothing she could do to ease the woman’s pain. Trying to gather her calm, she knelt down beside Deirdre.

  Deirdre weakly reached out a hand and touched one of Shiovra’s. “You are…Tríonna’s daughter…are you not?”

  Shiovra nodded. “Aye…”

  “I remember ye…from that day when I…first came to Tara…Your eyes have not changed…” She smiled gently. “Be wary…of Réalta’s words…lest she…catch you upon…her web. She’s done thus…to all of us…”she breathed. Her voice trailed off and her eyes drifted shut.

  Shiovra looked down at Deirdre in silence for a long while, at a loss of what to do. The pain was fading from her body, but not her mind. Death came far too easily. The soft sound of muffled footsteps caught her attention and she turned to see Réalta approach with Dubheasa closely following.

  Dubheasa held herbs tightly in clenched hands. The woman’s deep brown curls were coming loose from her careful braiding and clung to her wet face. Her normally bright brown eyes were filled with deep worry. Upon seeing the lifeless woman lying on the wet, muddy ground, she cried out softly and turned her face away.

  Réalta knelt down beside Deidre. Bending over the woman’s limp body, she rested her hand lightly upon Deirdre’s brow. “You shall be given a proper farewell,” she said, voice distant and emotionless. “Such is the honor due the wife of a chieftain and one who was a servant to the Great Mother. May Dana be with you and may you only know peace, Deirdre of Cúlráid.”

  Slowly, Réalta rose to her feet as thunder crackled with lightning streaking across the sky. She walked back to Shiovra. “It has begun,” she murmured as a gust of wind whipped around them.

  Shiovra stood and moved from Deirdre’s side, biting her lip. She glanced away, tears stinging her eyes. The woman should not have had to die. Not there, not at that time.

  Réalta’s face was blank. “It is time to face who you are,” she stated emotionlessly. “Dubheasa, take Shiovra back to her cottage, and then bring Kieran to me.” Her eyes centered on Shiovra, boring into her. “Do not let all your training have been for naught.”

  Dubheasa bowed silently to Réalta, then turned to Shiovra and beckoned to her. “Come, Lady Shiovra. You should be sleeping. It is late.”

  Reluctantly, Shiovra followed, leaving Réalta behind at the gate entrance. She walked silently behind Dubheasa, her mind reeling at what had happened.

  “Do not dwell on what has transpired this night,” Dubheasa said kindly, stopping at Shiovra’s cottage. She pushed open the door and stepped aside, bowing to her. “Lady Réalta and Lord Ceallach have trained you well. It has not been for naught. Be strong and you shall overcome all.” With that said, she simply smiled warmly, turn
ed, and left.

  Shiovra slipped into her cottage, letting the door close behind her. She leaned against the wall for a while, eyes closed, before sinking to the floor. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Deirdre’s death brought many questions to mind, but one in particular stood out: what was happening in her home of Tara.

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  The Lady Réalta Dubh of Rúnda stood before a large hearth fire within her personal cottage. Though the darkness of the storm stretched across the sky outside, the great cottage was brightly lit. Light from the fire danced upon the walls and illuminated the woman’s proud features. She was slender with long, vibrant mahogany hair that shone a reddish-purple and fell in waves well past her waist. She had fair skin and an emotionless gaze was reflected in her unusual eyes, the left a rich grass green in color and the right a bright sapphire blue. Upon her brow, just beneath her hairline, she bore a blue woad crescent moon, its horns pointing downward. By her left eye was a triple spiral.

  Réalta stared intently into the fire, letting the tingling feeling of power fill her as she reached her slender hand gracefully out to the flames. She cast her hand out, as if casting pebbles into a tranquil pond. The flames sparked and surged with new life, growing with intensity. The wood snapped and cracked while a breeze drifted through the open doorway, rustling her hair and garments.

  The fire began to dance wildly, twisting and reaching. A pale, somewhat transparent face began to form within the fire. The face of a man with ice-blue eyes.

  “It has begun, Ceallach,” Réalta said.

  The man in the fire nodded. “And far sooner than we had foreseen,” he said with a frown. His voice echoed and seemed distant, distorted. “I had thought that the threat of an attack by Ailill had passed, but it seems I have been proven wrong…” Ceallach paused. “From what I have seen this day, Ailill has allied himself with the Milidh clan.”

  “What you have seen?” questioned Réalta.

  “As you know, Deirdre had gone to visit kin in her birth village of Cúlráid and I had been asked by Ainmire to watch over her,” the man continued. “In the middle of the night the village was attacked. No one could have foreseen this attack.” Ceallach hesitated, but only slightly. “The village has been lost, consumed by fire, and survivors are very few. In the fray, I lost sight of Deirdre. As for her son…his body has been laid to rest. I can only hope that Deirdre fled the battle and comes to you, since Rúnda lies much closer to Cúlráid then Tara.”

  Pain flashed in Réalta’s eyes and it did not go unnoticed by the man.

  “Has she come to you?” Ceallach questioned. When he received no reply, he repeated himself more firmly. “Réalta, has Deirdre of Cúlráid come to you?”

  Réalta nodded, face grave. “Aye,” she began slowly. “Deirdre of Cúlráid came here, naught but a bit after dawn when the storm was it its worst.” She paused, unable to hide her grief. “Deirdre, wife of Ainmire…is dead. She had been mortally wounded and her life was lost.”

  Ceallach fell silent. “So the chieftain’s wife shall not be returning to her husband and their child has also been lost,” he murmured after a long while. “These are grave tidings which I must bear.”

  “Ceallach, was it Ailill himself who did such a deed?” Réalta demanded.

  The man shook his head. “No,” answered Ceallach. “These men were Milidh, there is no doubt about that. But they were lead by Aichlinn of the Fir Bolg clan, a man who serves Ailill.” He thought a moment, face becoming serious. “What of your sister’s daughter? Is she ready?”

  Réalta nodded, pushing aside her grief. “Aye. She has finished her training and has received her honor marks,” she replied. “Shiovra has been taken into the service of the Great Mother as the High Priestess of Tara. That is, after all, the destiny that I have foreseen for her. The path of a priestess flows in her blood, she cannot deny it.” Réalta began to circle the fire. “Has the arrangement been made? Did the clan accept?”

  “Aye,” replied Ceallach, “though Shiovra will not take kindly to being betrothed to the enemy,” Ceallach queried.

  Réalta frowned. “You were the enemy once.”

  “I was not your intended, but a guard charged with your protection,” he reminded her firmly. “And if my memory serves me correctly, you did not take kindly to our arrangement either. What shall be done if she denies the betrothal? Tara is relying on this alliance.”

  “She would never,” denied Réalta.

  “Yet…?” he began.

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Réalta, you cannot hide what you feel from me,” he said. “What is it that troubles you?”

  She took a deep breath, looking away. “I fear it is ruining us all,” she admitted quietly. “I can feel our ways falling apart. Our hold is crumbling. We will soon be forgotten if this persists. She is the only one who can save us. Yet…will it be enough?”

  Ceallach was silent a moment. “Do you still believe she may fail?”

  Réalta shook her head. “No,” she replied. “She will not fail. Tara will be protected under her. But I fear what cost she may have to suffer to protect those she loves. What lies ahead remains black to me and it…is frightening…”

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

  Shiovra sat before a loom for the seventh day in a row, deftly weaving the cloth and creating patterns and designs. Her mind wandered, no longer focusing upon the pattern forming before her. Mindlessly she would take a piece of dried flowers from her lap and work them into the pattern. The patterns themselves began to form vague shapes, of humans, animals, and a woman. They almost seemed to move and shift throughout the weaving, telling an ancient tale. However Shiovra did not see the tapestry before her; she looked beyond it, in a trance.

  Dubheasa walked past Shiovra, speaking softly to Réalta. She glanced briefly at the tapestry, then came to an abrupt halt. She stared at the weaving, and then glanced at Réalta, a questioning look in her eyes.

  Réalta shook her head. “I am not sure myself, Dubheasa,” she replied. “Let her be. She has been working on this since she became the High Priestess of Tara.”

  “Lady Réalta?” came a tentative voice.

  The two women looked up to see Niamh slip into the cottage. “Ceallach Neáll has arrived, Lady Réalta,” she said quietly, bowing.

  “Aye.” Réalta nodded. “I shall be there immediately,” she replied.

  Niamh gave a slight nod, bowed once more, and left.

  Réalta paused, an unusual emotion crossing her face.

  “What is it, Lady Réalta?” queried Dubheasa.

  “It is my son,” replied the woman. “He is here as well…” She paused, glancing at Shiovra. “For her.”

  “For Lady Shiovra? Why?”

  “What other reason could he be here for? He has come for her as well.” Réalta turned and made her way from the chamber, Dubheasa following.

  Shiovra remained at the loom, still deep in thought and oblivious to the conversation which had just been held near her. Her eyes were blank and her face emotionless, yet her fingers continued their movements, deftly weaving the pattern. Deirdre’s words wouldn’t leave her: Be wary of Réalta’s words lest she catch you upon her web.

  “I don’t understand…” she murmured to herself.

  “Understand what?” came a soft male voice.

  Shiovra jumped at the unfamiliar voice, startled. Save for Ceallach Neáll, Kieran, and three masked guards, she had not seen another man since her arrival to Rúnda. She rose hastily to her feet, knocking the low stool over, and spun to face whom the voice belonged to.

  A young man around a year older than her leaned in the cottage’s doorway. He was tall and slim with light blue eyes. His pale golden hair fell to his shoulders and shinned with a hint of red in the sunlight. His handsome face was clean-shaven for the most part, save for some pale blond hair on his chin. His leather boots and green-gray cloak were travel stained and a dagger had been tucked beneath
his belt. His eyes studied Shiovra for a long moment, a curious and familiar look, before he finally spoke again.

  “It had been many years,” he murmured softly, voice warm.

  Shiovra looked at him quizzically as he let himself into the cottage, walking around and inspecting the dried herbs hanging above a table. He seemed familiar, yet she could not quite place his face and it bothered her. “You…” she began. “Who are you? What is your name?”

  Bitterness lit his face and annoyance flashed in his eyes. “Aye…” he muttered under his breath. “Of course you would not recognize me. It has been ten years since you last saw me, dear cousin.” A boyish smile flashed across his lips. “Mother has isolated you here for too long. I wanted to visit many times, but she would not allow it until now. I have come to bring you home to Tara.”

  Shiovra smiled as the familiarity rushed over her. “Daire!” she cried out, letting him embrace her warmly. Pulling away, she looked him over. “Look at you,” Shiovra said. “You look so different, cousin. Time has been kind to you.”

  “As you,” replied Daire, grinning broadly. “You are a child no more.”

  “It has been many years,” she told him.

  He nodded. “Aye, far too long. But my years spent in Tara training have not be for naught. The bow given to me by mother was the best gift even given. Perhaps I could show you my skill someday soon?”

  Shiovra smiled. “That would be nice.” She paused, finding herself hesitating. “How goes life at Tara?”

  A grin crossed his lips. “Mainly, how does Mahon do, am I right?”

  “Aye,” she replied with a small laugh.