“Shiovra?” questioned Daire’s voice.
“Hmm?” Turning to her cousin, she already found him rising to his feet.
Daire grabbed Shiovra’s hand. “Come,” he said when her gaze shifted up to meet his. “Everyone is dancing. Dance with me.”
Before she could utter a protest, Daire pulled the priestess to her feet and into the center of the hall, drawing her into a brisk dance.
“This is a time of celebration. Let your mind be free of trouble for this night and smile,” Daire said, spinning Shiovra about.
“Forgive me,” replied Shiovra, trying not to trip over her own feet. She had not danced in a very long time and found it quite difficult to keep up. “My mind has been elsewhere.”
“Do you still fret about Mahon?” inquired Daire, dropping his voice down.
Shiovra shook her head. “Nay,” she replied.
Daire raised a brow in response, but did not press her further.
As they danced, faces of the villagers whirled around them. And though she could not see them all, Shiovra knew that one face was lacking: Odhrán. Mahon had admitted that the Milidh man was to serve as her guard, yet his presence at the festival had yet to be seen. The priestess wasn’t sure what unnerved her more, when he silently watched her, or when he was nowhere to be seen.
Daire abruptly pulled Shiovra closer. “I know what troubles you,” he said.
Shiovra turned her attention to him, pulled from her thoughts by the tone of his voice. “Hmm?”
“Odhrán,” he said bitterly.
“Aye,” she admitted.
“Mahon and I saw Odhrán go into the shrine after you did, that is why we waited,” Daire continued, voice low in her ear. “Did he do anything? Say anything?”
Shiovra shook her head. “Nay,” she told him. “He just stood there. No words were spoken, he just watched silently. I know not how long he was there, but when I noticed him, he left before I could find words to speak.”
“I don’t trust him,” he growled softly under his breath.
Shiovra sighed irritably. “We have already established that.”
“Daire!” Mahon’s voice rose above the din of the festivities.
Pausing, Daire glanced over his shoulder to where Mahon waved at him, urging him to return to the head table. Exhaling, Daire apologized, “If you will excuse me.” Releasing Shiovra, he offered her a lopsided grin before turning and rejoining Mahon.
Shiovra watched him walk away, the merriment of the festival dancing all around her, almost stifling. She glanced to the open unguarded doorway, wanting to be free for a bit. With one last peek at her kin, Shiovra slipped from the Banqueting House.
The midday air was cool, welcoming, and the breeze carried a wonderful hint of freshness which lingered from the early morning rain.
Before she realized it, Shiovra had reached a thinly wooded area on the outskirts of the village. She took a moment to pause, glancing between the woods and Tara. Birds called out sweetly, flitting from tree to tree and urging her into the trees.
There was an ancient feeling to the woods, strong and beguiling.
Shiovra took a step forward, broken branches and old leaves crunching beneath her feet. Trying to keep her steps as quiet as possible, she made her way to a small, clear pond. As she approached, though, a slight gleam in the grass caught her eye. Frowning, the priestess made her way towards it to find a well worn dagger embedded in the ground.
Bending, she tugged the dagger free and inspected it. The blade itself was tarnished and black, reminiscent of the blade Árdal had carried.
“Fomorii…” she breathed bitterly.
Shiovra knew of a ritual she could use to scry upon the owner of the blade, to see if any of the Misshapen Ones lingered close to Tara. The ritual could be dangerous. If she was not careful, not only could she gravely injure herself, but those she watched would know exactly where she was, though the danger of possible enemies lurking close to the village overruled the sense of possible danger.
Wading into the water till it reached her waist, she closed her eyes and gathered the energies surrounding her. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and slowly brought the sharp blade of the dagger towards the palm of her hand.
Yet, before her flesh could be broken, she was suddenly seized roughly from behind by her shoulders. The dagger was knocked sharply from her hand, falling into the water away from her.
“No!” she gasped as the same hands fiercely pulled her back to the grassy shore of the pond. Shiovra fought against the relentless hold, feeling the hands release her shoulders as arms wrap quickly around her waist to hold her tight.
“Release me!” she demanded, struggling to free her from the strong grip. Shiovra found herself faltering when she noticed the serpentine woad marking on her attacker’s wrist, her mind instantly thinking of the Milidh man. “Odhrán?” The name passed her lips hardly above a whisper.
He used that moment of lowered guard to tighten his hold upon her. “Such daggers are best left untouched, Lady of the Túath,” the low voice spoke in her ear, light as the wind, but firm in its warning.
Shiovra couldn’t see his face, but she heard the angry voice entering her ears once more.
“You are being hunted by servants of Ailill,” he scolded, “rather frantically, too. Do you want to risk leading them directly to you?!” Though his hold was firm, it also took great caution of the healing wound she carried. “This is too risky, High Priestess.”
Shiovra sighed and ceased her struggling.
After a moment of calm, the arms circling her loosened and released her.
Turning, Shiovra faced the man.
He stood in the sunlight, watching her with a narrowed gaze. His brown hair reached past his shoulders and had been tied back. Face clean-shaven, he bore a fresh, shallow wound across his left cheek. A small spiral curled by his left eye, marking him as an ally of the Túath clan. His clothing was dark and a blade hung at his side. The sword was simple with little adornment on the hilt and pommel, but it was the twin daggers tucked into his belt that added to his dangerous air. Though the blades of the daggers carried many visible battle scars, the edges were deadly sharp.
“Odhrán…?” Shiovra questioned once more, trying to confirm her suspicions.
He stood in silence, continuing to watch her with green-brown eyes.
All around them the woods had become quiet, save for the gentle whisper of the breeze through the leaves.
“Aye, that is my name,” he replied simply.
Shiovra took a step back away from the Milidh man which he countered by stepping forward. “You have been watching me, have you not?”
Odhrán nodded curtly. “Aye,” he said, “and I will not sit idle while you risk bringing the hunters not only upon yourself, but upon Tara.”
She studied him for a moment, not willing to look away lest he turn on her. “Why have you been following me?” Shiovra queried, wanting to hear the words from his own mouth.
“I have been charged with the duty of protecting you until you fulfill the vows of betrothal,” he told her. “You have been named the High Priestess of this village. There are hunters seeking you, charged with your capture. My purpose is to make sure they do not succeed.”
Shiovra crossed her arms, watching his with guarded eyes. “And I am to simply trust you, one of the very Milidh clan who killed my mother?” she questioned, not bothering to hide the bitterness in her voice. Because of Odhrán’s clan, she’d lost her mother and that memory fueled her anger at him. “How am I to know what your true intentions are?”
“It is your choice to trust me or not,” Odhrán said. “Though I may be Milidh, I am sworn to protect you.” He exhaled. “That blade you found,” he continued, making a swift gesture towards the water, “was upon a man I found lurking about. What you were about to do would bring a risk far too great to attempt, even if it was meant to locate the enemy. Forgive me, but I had to stop you.”
Shiovra made no re
sponse.
“You were named High Priestess for a reason. You have a duty to protect your people, like I have my duty to protect you. Ailill’s hold is growing, his ranks strengthening,” Odhrán stated coldly. “What shall you do to defend against him?” He paused, watching her intently.
She hesitated.
When she did not respond, Odhrán closed the distance between them. Grabbing her left arm, he studied her honor marks, then her face. Releasing her arm, he gently took hold of Shiovra’s chin and tilted her face so that their eyes met once more. “What shall you do to defend your village against Ailill, or the Milidh, Shiovra Ní Coughlin?”
Her heart took a sudden jump at his actions, her body frozen with an odd mingling of fear and anger. Fear of what his intentions may be, and anger that she could not seem to gain control of her body. When Odhrán leaned closer, Shiovra’s breath caught in her throat. She held his gaze, refusing to look away.
Odhrán frowned as a gust of wind surrounded them, his hand falling from her chin. He looked around them with a hard gaze. “There is a storm coming,” he murmured. “The hunters search for you, priestess, and with the crimson haze of dawn, the battle will be upon us.” He met her eyes once more. “Return to Tara immediately, I will remain here and scout the woods. Should anything happen, I will come.” Turning, he left her to stand alone, disappearing through the trees.
Shiovra stood in stunned silence, her heart pounding hard within her chest. Closing her eyes, she forced her heart to calm and her breathing to even. The wind whispered to her, urging her to heed the Milidh man’s words. The energies surrounding her felt cold and forewarning. And so, when a bird cried out in the distance, her eyes snapped open and her feet took flight, carrying her back to the safety of the village.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Daire walked through the dimly lit village, looking for Shiovra. It was not long before he found her. The priestess sat near a large fire which had been built at the coming of nightfall. He watched his cousin as she looked at the heavy clouds gathering, her arms wrapped around her drawn up knees. Daire studied the clouds himself. A storm was approaching.
“Shiovra?” Daire asked as he quietly approached.
Shiovra glanced over her shoulder at him. “Aye?” she queried, turning away from the oncoming storm and to the fire.
Daire sat down beside her, watching her in silence for a while. The light of the fire made her red-gold hair gleam beautifully and added a warm glow to her blue eyes. “Where did you disappear to?” he questioned, relaxing his elbows on her knees. “Mahon has been fretting about you. You vanished from the festival and he worried that something may have happened…”
Shiovra glanced at him with a brow raised. “It seems to me, cousin, that you were the one doing the fretting,” she bantered.
He gave a small, guilty laugh. “Perhaps.”
She turned back to the fire. “I was in the woods,” she admitted. “It was there that I found a dagger that was similar to the one Árdal had.”
Daire started. “More Fomorii weapons?”
Shiovra nodded. “Aye,” she continued. “The blade was stronger, but there was no doubt in my mind it was Fomorii. I wanted to scry on the blade to see if whoever dropped it lingered close to Tara…”
His eyes narrowed on the woman. Daire was not unfamiliar with scrying. And he knew the dangers that came with it. “Shiovra…” he began.
Shiovra sighed under his stern gaze. “No need to lecture me, Daire, I know very well what could have happened. I made my decision with this village in mind.” She hesitated, anger flickering across her lovely face. “That is when Odhrán came upon me, knocking that dagger from my hand.”
Daire stiffened at the mention of the Milidh man, his anger growing. He didn’t trust the man in the least and to hear that he had been alone with Shiovra did not sit well with him. Daire could care less that Odhrán had been sent to protect Shiovra. Alliance or no, he would not trust the Milidh man.
A soft touch on his arm pulled him from his thoughts. Turning to Shiovra, he found her looking at him with calm eyes. Daire muttered curses and grabbed her by the shoulders, bringing his face closer to hers. His eyes bore into hers. “Odhrán was there?” he demanded. “Did he hurt you?! Did he touch you? Did he do anything to you?!”
Shiovra shook her head, pulling out of his grasp quickly. “Nay,” she reassured him in an even tone. “He knew the dangers of the ritual and warned me not to risk it.” She looked away from him. “He reminded me that it is his duty to watch over me till the betrothal is fulfilled.”
“For the sake of alliance…” Daire muttered resentfully. “How are we to know that the blade was not his? That he did not prevent you from scrying upon it so you would not discover it was his?”
The priestess sighed. “I may not trust him, but I do not believe the dagger was his,” she admitted. “Though the warning he gave before leaving concerns me.”
Daire frowned. “What warning?” he questioned a bit more anxiously than he wanted.
“The hunters search for you and with the crimson haze of dawn, the battle will be upon us,” Shiovra reiterated. “Those were his words.”
His frown deepened. Her words did not sit well with him. “Does he know the movements of our enemy which we do not?” Daire muttered under his breath, glaring at the fire as it danced wildly on the wood. “I should speak of this with Ainmire.”
Shiovra sighed and when Daire glanced over, he found her eyes closed, a slight smile touching her lips.
He watched his cousin, allowing his thoughts to drift away from the threat of the enemy to the woman sitting beside him. The years had been kind to her, even if she had spent her youth secluded on an island training. The mirthful girl he once knew had grown, in his eyes, into a beautiful woman. Though, it was unfortunate that her stubbornness stayed with her.
Shiovra opened her eyes and glanced at Daire. “I wish Tara could always remain this quiet and peaceful,” she said with a sad smile.
Daire watched as her smile faded away.
“Yet that can never be, can it?” she queried. The priestess sighed heavily and rose to her feet. She looked into the fire for a long while, and then told him firmly, “I may have accepted that, but I refuse to give it up without a fight. I am the High Priestess and I will protect this village till I am not longer able to. I will not turn my back on these people.”
Daire found himself smiling as he moved to stand beside her. “You shall not stand alone, Shiovra,” he said comfortingly. “Remember, you shall have my bow at your side.” Yawning, Daire stretched. “Come, it has been a long day. Why not retire for the evening? There has been a cottage prepared for you near the High fort. Ainmire thought you would like some space to yourself.”
Shiovra nodded. “Aye.”
“Good.” He grinned widely and walked with her towards the main cottage. Daire stopped a cottage which stood near the chieftain’s, though not too terribly close. One of the smallest cottages in the village, the walls were thick, good for keeping warm in the winter and cool in the summer. The thatch roof appeared to be in good condition.
Daire pushed aside the door and beckoned to her, gesturing for her to enter. Stepping inside, Shiovra looked around. Sitting in the center of the circular cottage, a warm fire burned in the stone-lined hearth while a low table sat off to the side. A small bench adorned the wall near the table, covered in clay jars, bowls, and cups. Herbs hung around the bench. There were two wooden platforms with thick mattresses that bore heavy throws and coverlets upon them and a large wooden chest stood between the beds.
What had caught the woman’s attention more, though, was the loom which rested against a support post near the door.
Shiovra stepped up to it. “Mother’s loom…” she breathed.
Daire nodded, watching her lovingly caress the wood with a smile on her face. “Ainmire thought you would like to have it here with you,” he told her, grinning. “You may stay here till you are ready to return to the main cott
age.”
Shiovra nodded. “Thank you,” she said, leaving the loom and walking to the door. Pulling open the wicker-work door, she let the cool night breeze drift into the cottage.
“It is my hope, though, that you will join us in the main cottage soon.” A boyish smile touched his lips. “That chest has some clothing and warm bedding. If you should need more, ask for Tailtu. She is skilled when it comes to making garments.”
Shiovra sat down upon the bed. “I shall keep that in mind. Thank you for going through the trouble.”
“Come morning Ainmire would like to speak with you,” Daire told her.
The priestess nodded.
“I should let you rest,” he said, stretching once more. With a slight bow, he turned to leave. “Sleep well, cousin.”
“As you,” replied Shiovra.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
There are hunters seeking you, charged with your capture. My purpose is to make sure they do not succeed.
Shiovra woke with a start and rolled onto her side. The Milidh man’s words lingered in her mind, even in her dreams. He had told her it was her choice whether she trusted him or not, though Shiovra doubted she ever would. Because of the Milidh, her mother was dead and many villagers suffered. Because of the Milidh, the rule of the Túatha Dé Danann was being threatened.
When she had stood before Odhrán in the woods, she had felt anger and fear. And now, lying alone in her cottage, she found she was apprehensive.
There is a storm coming. The hunters search for you, priestess, and with the crimson haze of dawn, the battle will be upon us.
Odhrán’s words had been very cryptic. And though a storm raged outside of her cottage, she knew it was not the same storm he had been referring to. Yet which brewing storm he referred to, Shiovra did not know for sure. It could easily mean his own clan and the sons of Míl, but it could also mean Ailill and his increasing war host.
With the crimson haze of dawn, the battle will be upon us.
Shiovra wondered if she was ready for the battle Odhrán spoke of. Although the thought did not escape her that the Milidh man’s words could have merely been a ploy meant to distract her from his true intentions. The Fomorii were not the only ones know for their tricks.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 9
