“I understand,” she conceded.
Ceallach turned back to the fire. “Réalta.”
“Aye?”
“Keep your eyes on the sea,” he ordered.
Réalta nodded. The fiery form of the woman sank down suddenly, sending a burst of glowing embers up from the dwindling fire.
Ceallach watched as the fire dies down to meager flames before turning back to the dagger. Walking over to it, he picked it up, clutching the hilt tightly in his hand. A deep throb emanated from the blackened blade, trailing down the hilt and into his fingers. Ceallach’s eyes narrowed on the dagger. “Tch.” With a quick snap of his wrist, he tossed the dagger into the fire and the flames briefly flared green before dying out completely.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The journey from Ráth Faolchú to Dún Fiáin had gone unhindered. It was well past midday when Odhrán led Shiovra and Kieran through the wheat fields along the outer edges of the village. They were greeted with a few curious glances, but for the most part, the villagers kept to their work. After crossing a stream and passing a small garden of vegetables, the open gates of Ráth Faolchú stood before them.
As large as Tara’s high fort itself, the village had a strong stone outer wall for defense against attacks. Two warriors armed with spears stood guard at the gates while four more stood on a platform above. As Odhrán approached, the two spearmen nodded and stepped aside. Cottages lay closely clustered together and short fences made of woven hazel penned in sheep. A well worn path led through the village, leading up a hill where the main cottage stood surrounded by a stone wall of its own.
Odhrán paused at the cottage door, glancing at Shiovra.
The priestess stood at his side, nervously fingering with the bandaging covering the woad markings on her left arm.
He watched her for a moment, then turned to Kieran.
The Neimidh man shook his head and moved to stand guard by the door.
Nodding, Odhrán placed a hand gently on Shiovra’s back and led her into the cottage were the chieftain and his wife already sat in council with a messenger. When the messenger excused himself, Odhrán removed his hand and followed the priestess to the hearth fire.
The chieftain of Dún Fiáin was a stout man with dark hair and beard that were streaked with gray. A thick torc circled his neck and a rich forest green tartan woven with bands of blue and gold adorned his left shoulder. Sitting beside him was his wife, a slender woman who sat calmly with her hands folded in her lap. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulder in a long braid.
Shiovra offered them a small, respectful bow. “I am Shiovra Ní Coughlin, High Priestess of Tara,” she began in a steady voice.
“Merry meet,” replied the chieftain. “I am Culann, chieftain of Dún Fiáin. This is my wife, Álainn.” Culann leaned back on the bench. “The chosen day time for your union with our son is far off. What brings you here this day?”
Odhrán noticed the slight hesitation in the priestess’ reply.
“Around a fortnight ago, Tara was attacked by hunters serving Ailill of the Fir Bolg clan,” replied Shiovra after a moment. “We found we sorely lacked ample defense against the threat and Milidh huntsmen managed to breech the village walls. We were able to defend against the attack, but there were injuries.”
Odhrán watched the priestess from the corner of his eye as Culann rose from the bench. He noted that the woman stood stiffly and, though terrified, held her ground as the chieftain began to approach her.
“Though Ailill seeks vengeance upon my clan due to the actions of the High Chieftains as well as Méav’s betrayal,” continued Shiovra, “this recent attack was because of me.” She paused and took a deep breath before quickly releasing it. “Ailill we keep hunting me. Without a High Priestess, he has no power, and without power, he cannot have his vengeance. Regardless, Tara is his aim.”
“We were aware of that possibility when the agreement of alliance was decided upon,” stated Culann as he walked around the woman. “Ailill is not the only one with his eye on Tara. The sons of Míl seek it as well, though I am sure that is no secret to your clan.”
Odhrán noticed that the priestess tensed.
Culann rounded the hearth fire and stopped before them. “There will be war between the Milidh and the Túath clans. There is no avoiding it,” he said. “Knowing this, will you still continue with the union to my son?”
Hands tightening on the folds of her shift, Shiovra questioned in turn, “Will this alliance between our clans remain intact if and when war breaks?”
The chieftain titled his head in mild surprise. “Aye,” he replied.
“Then I shall consent to the union for the sake of my people.” Shiovra’s hands trembled slightly. “Tara needs aid. Our warriors are too few. If I am to wed your son, I ask for aid. Even if you can only spare one, Tara needs more warriors for her defense. If need be, I will wed your son now rather than the decided upon time.”
Culann was silent a moment, then replied, “Such shall not be necessary. Ten of our warriors will be sent to Tara to prove our dedication to the alliance.” A smile crept across his lips. “I commend you for your courage. It must have been difficult to journey into enemy lands and seek help.”
“I did not come alone, though the journey did not go without hindrance,” stated Shiovra. “As we made our way here, I was captured by huntsmen and taken to Caher Dearg.”
The chieftain sat back down on the bench beside his wife. “I received word just now that Caher Dearg has fallen,” remarked Culann.
Odhrán watched as Shiovra took a step forward.
“Aye,” she answered. “As a diversionary tactic to help in my escape, Meara, companion to my cousin Daire, attacked the village. During the attack Caher Dearg was brought to ruin. Many of Méav’s huntsmen fell with it, though a few did survive.”
“And what of Méav?” pressed Culann.
“No trace could be found,” replied the priestess in a steady voice. “We believe she still lives, though I do not imagine she will pose a threat to Dún Fiáin.”
Culann thought a moment, then said, “Regardless, she might seek to recapture you. It would be best if you remained within the safety of the village walls for a few days.”
Shiovra shook her head. “Méav would not make another move so soon,” she said. “I worry, however, about my kin and would like to return home quickly.”
Though she had not said so directly, Odhrán knew it was Gráinne to which she spoke, and not her brother or cousin.
“You have faced a difficult journey,” suggested Álainn, “at least rest here in the village for the night.”
Odhrán noticed Shiovra’s uncertainty, understanding the plight she faced. To decline the offer of hospitality could show strong distrust of the Milidh village, but to accept could easily be welcoming an attack.
After a moment of hesitation, Shiovra told them, “Odhrán and I have not come here alone. We traveled with a Neimidh man by the name of Kieran. He long served at my guardian during my years of training on Rúnda.”
Álainn smiled gently. “He is welcome to rest here as well.”
“I shall accept your generous offer, then,” Shiovra told them, giving a respectful bow as she had when she first stepped before them.
There was a soft knock upon the door and a rather plump older woman stepped into the cottage. “Forgive me for intruding my lord and lady,” murmured the woman, “but the meal is ready.”
“Thank you,” Álainn said with a smile. “Branna, would you please take the priestess here and her Neimidh guardian to the feast house? I am sure they are hungry from their long journey.”
The portly woman nodded and turned to Shiovra. “Follow me, lady priestess.”
Odhrán gave a reassuring nod to Shiovra when she glanced at him. Walking with her to the door, he watched as Shiovra hesitantly followed Branna away from the cottage, Kieran close behind. After a while, he closed the cottage door and turned back to the chieftain.
Cul
ann leaned forward on the bench. “Does the High Priestess trust you?”
“Not entirely, but she is beginning to,” Odhrán replied in an even tone.
“That is good,” Culann continued. “She must not suspect anything. It is crucial that we have her trust. Use whatever means you have to strengthen that trust, but be careful that she does not discover what your purpose is.”
Odhrán nodded.
71
7. LURKING DARKNESS
It was early morning when Shiovra was woken by a gentle hand shaking her shoulder. Clutching her cloak tighter about her body, the priestess was loath to face the slight chill of the morning air. Even though she had felt anxious during her short stay in Dún Fiáin, she had not looked forward to sleeping on the ground again during their journey back to Ráth Faolchú.
“We need to get moving, Lady Shiovra,” urged Kieran’s voice as her shoulder was once again gentle shaken.
Reluctantly, the priestess opened her eyes and sat up. The ground had been far from comfortable, leaving her body sore. With a soft moan, she rubbed her shoulder and neck, hoping to ease some of the lingering pain. Sleep had not come well that night, leaving her drifting between the edge of sleep and restless wakefulness.
“Here, eat this,” Kieran said, offering her a bowl filled with berries and nuts.
Thanking him, Shiovra took the food and ate it quietly, watching as Odhrán snuffed the small campfire with dirt while Kieran stood looking intently across the open field near them. An ominous feeling hung heavily in the air, thick and stifling. Glancing at the men in turn, the priestess could see they felt it as well; Kieran’s hand twitched beside his sword and Odhrán took quiet steps, listening.
Shiovra found the quietness surrounding them unsettling. Finishing her meal quickly, she shoved the bowl into a pack and fastened her cloak around her shoulders. She froze as the low drone of a battle horn filled the air.
“We need to move,” Odhrán said. “Now.”
They abandoned their meager camp and made their way through fields of tall grass and brush. Keeping a steady pace, they reached the woods bordering Ráth Faolchú as the sun rose to midday peak. Birds flitted from tree to tree, drifting through patches of sunlight as they called out sweetly while the wind rustled gently through the leaves, quietly whispering.
Shiovra walked beside the men, looking around at the trees surrounding them. Despite the stillness of the woods, the ill-omened feeling continued to weigh heavily on the priestess’ mind.
Kieran paused suddenly, holding his hand up in a signal for them to stop. Crouching down, his eyes narrowed on the disturbed turf, running his fingers along the ground.
Shiovra watched as the Neimidh man meticulously searched the ground before him. Glancing at Odhrán, she noticed the man’s hand rested on his belt, his fingers brushing his twin daggers as his eyes scanned the trees surrounding him.
The sound of a battle horn called out in the near distance.
Kieran straightened and looked to his left.
“Huntsmen?” Shiovra whispered.
Odhrán raised a finger to his lips.
Once more the low note of a horn drifted across the wind.
“I will scout the area and see if I am able to find them,” Kieran said in a low voice, drawing his sword. “Make sure Lady Shiovra reaches Ráth Faolchú safely.”
Without question, Shiovra was seized by the arm as Odhrán began to led her deeper into the woods. The Milidh did not move with haste, instead quietly weaving his way through the trees. Shiovra started, though, when she was pulled to a sudden stop just as Ráth Faolchú came within sight.
Ducking behind a tree, Odhrán peered around it slowly before swiftly turning back to her. Pulling the hood of his cloak up, he pushed her back suddenly against the tree. Odhrán’s warm body was flush against her own, trapping her tightly between the tree and him.
A moment of panic washed over the priestess when she felt his leg press lightly between her own. “What…” Shiovra began, only to be silenced as his mouth came down roughly upon her own. She tensed for a moment, frozen with surprise, before anger swelled within her and she began to struggle against him. Odhrán’s hands on her arms tightened painfully and his kiss became more forceful.
Then she heard it: the snap of a branch breaking very close to them and the murmur of voices.
Shiovra fell still, no longer fighting against the Milidh man’s hold.
His kiss shifted into a gentler one, his warm breath caressing her skin as his mouth moved across hers. Odhrán’s hands relaxed slightly, but continued to hold her pinned between him and the tree. Slowly, Odhrán pulled away and brought his mouth to her ear. “Shhh…” he breathed in a voice so low she nearly didn’t hear him. “We cannot have the enemy finding us, now can we?”
Shiovra could only lean against the tree, the feeling on his lips lingering. She was highly aware of where their bodies touched, the intimacy being far too great for a man she did not know if she could even trust. Biting her bottom lip, she struggled to calm her breathing and the thunderous pounding of her heart.
The voices only drew closer.
Her breath hitched in her throat as Odhrán pressed impossibly closer to her. She felt his hands slide down her arms. Though she could not see it, she knew one had moved to rest on the hilt of his sword.
Odhrán did not look at her, instead listening intently at the voices which drew perilously near.
Shiovra remained completely still, her fear of the enemy possibly finding them overriding her fear of the Milidh man who had her pressed hard against the tree. And, for a long while, neither of them moved.
The voices grew more distant, moving away from them.
Suddenly, Odhrán shifted away from her.
Shiovra felt unexpectedly cold with his body no longer pressed against her own. Glancing at Odhrán, her mind raced.
He pressed against the tree, peering around it slowly, then gestured over his shoulder at her.
Frowning, Shiovra looked around the tree to find the center of his caution. She could see at least thirty of them: armed men with lime washed hair making camp dangerously close to the hidden gates of Ráth Faolchú. Due to their position, slipping past the Milidh host would be impossible.
Slipping back behind the tree, Shiovra asked in a murmur, “What do we do…?”
Odhrán turned quickly back to her and, taking firm hold of her chin, brought his mouth to hers once more. The kiss was brief, but enough to silence her. When he pulled away, he glared at her and brought a finger to his lips. Dropping his fingers, he cupped his hands around his mouth and mimiced the call of a morning bird.
In the distance, his whistle was replied to with another, slightly different one.
With another quick look around the tree, Odhrán turned back to her and grabbed her hand before suddenly tugging her from their hiding place.
Shiovra nearly stumbled, but quickly caught her footing. She could not fathom what the Milidh man might have planned, but she took note that he was leading them away from the village gates. Shiovra did not have long to ponder what Odhrán’s tactic to get inside was before he abruptly stopped along the edge of the concealed wall.
The priestess watched curiously as he dropped her hand and began to reach through the massive overgrowth. At first she thought he might try and climb it, but the vines and bramble began to shift around his hands. They parted to reveal a small door hidden within.
Roughly shoving the narrow door open, Odhrán stepped through it and pulled Shiovra after him.
“Were we spotted?” Odhrán questioned urgently, pulling the door shut and securing it with a wooden bar.
“No,” replied Eiladyr as he climbed down the wall. “Where is Kieran?”
“Scouting the woods,” remarked Odhrán.
Nodding, Eiladyr began to walk away, waving over her shoulder. “Come, Artis waits in the main cottage.”
Shiovra followed the men through the village and into the main cottage where Artis wait
ed for them with some of Meara’s men at hand. The cottage itself was dim, the hearth fire kept to a low burn that gave off little smoke. The priestess could feel unease hanging profoundly in the air.
Exhaling deeply, Artis got straight to the point. “They made camp just before nightfall,” he told them. “We had hoped they would not linger and leave once day broke, but that no longer appears to be the case.” He rubbed his face as he paced beside the hearth. “With their close proximity to the gates, we cannot assume they will not discover us. Fire for warmth and cooking will be limited and we must remain as silent as possible.”
“How many of them are there?” asked Odhrán as he leaned against a cottage post with his arms crossed.
“We have counted thirty-seven men,” replied one of Meara’s men. “They are not huntsmen from Caher Dearg, but Milidh warriors. We initially believed they headed north when they made camp.”
“A war host perhaps?” asked Eiladyr, rubbing his chin.
“Most likely,” replied Artis. “All we can do is wait them out.” He stopped pacing and looked at the meager fire. “Keep all battle worthy weapons close at hand and be prepared for anything.”
Odhrán pulled a dagger from his belt and, crouching down, began carving the village layout in the packed earth floor. “The side entrances should be utilized,” he said, marking spots on the drawing. “We need to shadow their scouts, use any means necessary to keep them from venturing any closer to the village wall. Any villagers whose cottages are closest to the main gates should move to the rear of the village.” Odhrán gestured with his dagger. “That would limit the chances of being heard.”
Artis nodded, rubbing his temple. “Inform the villagers of the plan. We have a long night ahead of us,” he told Eiladyr before turning to Meara’s men and gesturing, “Come with me.”
Shiovra turned to Odhrán as he straightened. “I want to speak with you,” she said in a low voice.
Odhrán did not reply, but remained in the cottage instead of following Eiladyr and Artis out.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 16
