Rónán’s path, though, was intercepted by Eiladyr as he suddenly appeared at the priestess’ side. The man quickly retreated and disappeared in the throng of dancing villagers.
Shiovra turned to Eiladyr to find he held out his hand to her in an offer of dance. Without a second thought, she smiled and placed her hand into his.
Eiladyr flashed a wolf like grin and led her in a slower paced dance. “I’ve spoken with Artis,” he said in a low voice, his accent much heavier after several generous cups of mead. “He wants to help Tara.”
The priestess faltered and the man chuckled in turn.
“He cannot offer much, but he wants to send what men he can to Tara,” continued Eiladyr. “Once all preparations are made, he will send them.”
Shiovra looked around at the face circling her. She found Artis standing near the main cottage with cup in hand. When their eyes met, the man gave her a smile and nod. She returned the nod and mouthed her thanks before turning her attention back to Eiladyr.
The man hesitated a moment and then asked, “If they had demanded it, would you have wed the son of Dún Fiáin’s chieftain that day?”
“Aye,” replied Shiovra. “Tara needs the alliance and I will do what is necessary to protect my people, even if it means wedding the enemy.”
“My father wanted to arrange a betrothal for me, as he had done for all my brothers, but I escaped it,” Eiladyr told her softly. “Odhrán is Milidh, right?”
She nodded. “Aye.”
“He is proof that not all Milidh are heartless,” said Eiladyr. “He could have easily left me to wander lost, but instead he brought me here where I was given shelter, food, and time to learn the language. I may not know him well, but from what he has done, what I have seen, he has my trust.” He paused a moment, voice dropping low. “I am a stranger to Éire just as Odhrán, yet you welcomed me as both companion and guardian. Could you not do the same for a man who protects you with his life?”
“Eiladyr!” interrupted Daire, approaching them with a cup in hand. He slung his arm over the man’s shoulders. “This winter mead of Artis’…it is marvelous!” Bringing his cup to his lips, he took a long swig. “Come! Let us talk!”
Shiovra watched as the men walked away. Sitting down away from the fire, she looked up at the night sky. Clouds had begun to drift across the sky, blotting out the stars and the scent of rain hung heavily in the air.
“It is a beautiful night.”
She glanced over as Meara came to stand beside her and lean against a tree with her arms crossed. “That it is,” Shiovra agreed with a smile. “The nights have begun to grow colder. Fall will be upon us soon.”
The wind picked up and thunder rumbled in the distance.
“And so shall rain,” added Meara with a laugh.
Shiovra couldn’t help but laugh as well.
“What are those fools up to now?” muttered Meara.
Shiovra turned her attention to the two men standing near the bonfire.
Eiladyr was laughing while Daire scowled in obvious irritation and gave the man a shove. Stumbling back, a wicked grin crossed Eiladyr’s lips and her pushed Daire back.
“We better stop them,” Meara said as the shoving match between the men became more violent.
Shiovra rose to her feet and began walking towards them, Meara following.
Daire shoved Eiladyr hard and the man stumbled back, catching himself before falling into the fire while his mead spilled all over. A bout of swearing fell from Eiladyr lips, but was quickly replaced by surprise.
Shiovra saw it then, fire that quickly climbed the length of Eiladyr’s cloak.
Meara rushed past Shiovra and grabbed a pitcher of water, quickly dousing the flames. Once she was sure the fire had been quenched, she turned to Daire. “What were you thinking?!” she demanded, grabbing Daire by the tunic. Her gaze shifted to Eiladyr. “Both of you! Fools!”
Shiovra hastened to Eiladyr’s side and checked him over for burns. She found one on his arm as the man hissed in pain from her gentle touch. “Come, let me tend to those.” Grabbing him by the arm, she led him towards the main cottage with only a short, hard glance at her cousin. “To think that a guardian of fire would get burned,” she said as they stepped into the empty cottage.
Eiladyr gave a small laugh.
Picking up a basin of water and piece of cloth, Shiovra gestured for Eiladyr to sit on a bench. Searching through some dried herbs laying upon the table, she found some suitable once for a healing ointment. Glancing around, she found no mortar or pestle, so she made due with a bowl and small clay cup, crushing the herbs together the best she could. Shiovra added small amounts of water at a time until a fairly thick paste formed before returning to Eiladyr and sitting beside him.
Unclasping his ruined cloak, she let it fall to the ground before skimming her eyes over his tunic. The lower edge was singed and, wanting to be sure the skin below remained unharmed, she lifted the hem and searched for wounds. Finding none, she turned to his left arm. Minor burns reddened the skin from his elbow down the back of his arm, stopping just above the wrist. Dipping the piece of cloth into the water, she began to carefully clean the burn, pausing several times to allow the coolness of the water to sooth the skin. She felt Eiladyr flinch each time the slightest pressure was applied on the burn. After she was satisfied that the burn was clean, she dipped her fingers into the ointment and generously coated it with a thick layer.
“Is this helping?” she asked without looking up.
“Aye,” replied Eiladyr.
“Is there anywhere else that you were burned?” Shiovra pressed further. She did not want a single wound left untended.
Eiladyr shook his head.
Standing, she looked around and found a small bundle of bandages. “I am not going to bind these tightly, but the help the burn heal, I would need to bind it so that ointment does not rub off,” she informed him, grabbing his arm and winding the bandages around it. “I want to check these in the morning to see how they are healing. If the pain gets worse, I want you to let me know.”
“Aye…” he murmured.
Looking down at the man, she noted that he stared down at his hands. She could not see his face clearly enough to know if he was in pain, angry, or simply contemplative. Regardless, she felt partially at fault for the actions of her kin. “Please forgive my cousin,” Shiovra began. “He can be a fool at times…especially when mead is involved.”
Eiladyr looked up and met her gaze. “I was a fool, also,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “I was trying to rile him up…it just worked a little too well.”
Frowning, she crossed her arms. “Odhrán already does that enough, you do not need to help,” she scolded.
The man was thoughtful a moment, then his grin spread mischievously, “But it is especially entertaining.”
Shiovra glared at him a moment longer, sighed in defeat, and began cleaning up everything she had used. Something told her the man could rationalize anything she might say and it was one argument she was to weary to begin. When she finished, she found Eiladyr standing by the door stretching.
“I wonder if Artis will share more of his winter mead?” he asked, partially in thought.
“I do not care if you drink more mead, just keep clear all fires for the rest of the night,” Shiovra ordered as she followed Eiladyr out the door.
“I had a talking to with Daire,” Meara said from her right.
Shiovra nodded. “Thank you,” she replied, falling silent. As she stood there, watching the dying festivities, she felt a cool wet drop of rain touch her cheek. It was followed by another and another.
Softly, rain began to fall, pattering down through the trees. Thunder rumbled lightly and the wind carried a heavy earthy scent.
Closing her eyes, Shiovra took a deep breath, savoring the freshness in the air and the feeling of raindrops licking at her skin. Opening her eyes, she watched as some of the villagers retreated beneath the trees and into cottage doorways while
others remained in the rain.
“The scent of rain has always been my favorite,” Meara said suddenly.
Shiovra glanced over at the Neimidh woman, the feeling of gathering power hanging heavily in the air.
Meara held a hand up, watching rain glide down her hand. Leaning her head to the side, the movement of the water began to slowly gather in her palm. Before long it formed a small sphere that shifted and rolled, but did not fall or break. Turning her hand over, the sphere remained in place for a moment then slowly began to stretch down, forming a large raindrop that splashed to the ground.
“Hail to the chosen guardian warrior of the west, by the power of air, I greet thee,” Shiovra said softly.
The Neimidh woman turned to her and smiled. “Aye.” She was silent a moment, leaving only the soft murmur of the villagers and patter of steady rainfall. When the priestess stifled a yawn, Meara suggested, “It has been a long day, you should rest. I will keep watch over the childish fools.”
Bidding Meara a good night, Shiovra excused herself and began making her way through the village. The rain began to fall heavier as she made her way towards the back of the village. Ducking into the cottage, she found Odhrán sitting near the hearth. In the flickering firelight, she could see that his eyes were closed as he sat leaning against a support post with one arm propped up on his knee.
Shiovra paused a moment, looking down at the Milidh man before dropping down to her knees beside the fire to warm her damp clothing. After several side glances at Odhrán, she crawled towards him as he rested. The priestess decided that she was not nearly as frightened of him while he slumbered. Hesitating, she reached a hand up to touch his face and trace his jaw line. She nearly jerked back when her fingers rolled quietly, as if by their own mind, over his soft, firm lips. She remembered clearly how he had stolen a taste of her lips merely to silence her. It was a feeling that continued to linger in her thoughts.
She knew she should trust him if he was to continue remaining at her side, but she continued to find that she was torn between the man he was proving himself to be and the past she had suffered due to the clan he came from. Shiovra’s fingers continued to linger on Odhrán’s lips for a moment longer. Just as she was about the draw her hand away, another closed around it, not painfully, only firm. She started, snapping her gaze up to meet brown tinged eyes. Trying to pull her hand free, she found she was unable to due to the hold he had on her wrist.
Odhrán said nothing, only brought her hand back to his lips and kissed the skin.
Shiovra gasped softly and his mouth trailed up the said of her hand, across her fingers and onto the palm. Her gaze followed each path he took, her body unable to respond save for the steady increase of her heartbeat. She knew she should pull away, but part of her did not want to.
Abruptly he tugged her hand, knocking her off balance and pulling her towards him.
Before she had a chance to react, she was in his arms and his mouth was upon hers. Shiovra did not fight his kiss, did not try and push him away as his breath mingled with her own. Warmth flooded her body, prickling at her skin, as she knelt straddling his legs. She felt his other hand slide into her hair, pulling her closer. Her heart pounded loudly, the beat deafening in her ears. For a moment, she was frozen, her mind a jumble of thoughts and questions. Regaining control of her body, Shiovra brought her hands up to his chest and pushed away quickly.
Breathing heavily, she looked down, her damp hair tumbling around her face. Her hands trembled on his chest but her voice was steady when she spoke, “No. You are my guardian and I your priestess. To do this could endanger the betrothal agreement with Dún Fiáin and I will not have that.”
Odhrán remained silent.
Shiovra leaned forward slightly, her hands sliding down off his chest. “Please…” she continued. “Please do not make this more difficult for me.”
“You are right,” he said gently. “You are a woman I cannot have, a woman who has been promised to the son of my chieftain.”
She felt Odhrán’s hand touch her hair, pushing it away from her face, but she did not meet his gaze.
“But that does not change that you are a woman that I want.”
His voice was heavy with an emotion she had not heard before from him and his words sounded truthful. Clenching her hands on her knees, Shiovra struggled to calm her heart.
His hand continued to move her hair aside, brushing against her skin.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Please.”
Odhrán pulled his hand away, but shifted to move closer to her. “Tell me, were you made aware of the betrothal before it was agreed upon?” he questioned.
Lifting her head, Shiovra met his gaze. “Nay, but that does not mean that I will not honor the promise that was made,” she told him.
“Allow me to stay by your side,” he whispered in her ear, his lips brushing against the skin.
Shiovra remained still, unconsciously closing her eyes at his touch. His closeness frightened, even angered her, but at the same time she appreciated his warmth.
“Will you allow me to remain at your side?” repeated Odhrán in her ear.
Taking a shuddering breath, she nodded and murmured softly, “Aye.” Shiovra could feel his smile against her skin before he pulled away and rose to his feet, pulling her along with him.
Bringing her hand up, he gave it a gentle kiss and told her, “Sleep well.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Gráinne lounged on Caillte’s bed, watching as the Fomorii man dressed. Her eyes trailed over the movement of his muscles on the firelight. She found the man far more suited her than her husband, whom she would have to regretfully return to soon. Caillte was a man of strength and power, much like her own husband, but he was no fool. No matter what ploy she tried upon the man, he would never submit to her and maintained full control.
Pushing the fur pelts aside, Gráinne rose from the bed and walked towards him. She ran her fingers along the pale skin of his back. She so loved the feel of his body pressed against hers, the pleasure he gave her. Gráinne had taken several men to her bed, but none had been able to satisfy her quite like Caillte did. He was rough, caring only for himself, but that is what pleased her the most: the danger of sharing a bed with him.
Caillte turned to the woman, looking down at her with eyes that drifted over her nude body and disheveled hair. “Is it your intention to walk around like that?” he asked, tone stoic.
A smile crossed her lips. “If that is what you desire,” replied Gráinne as she trailed her fingers seductively down his chest.
The Fomorii man brushed her hand away and walked over to the bed, grabbing her clothing and tossing it to her. “Dress,” he ordered.
Gráinne pouted but followed his instruction nonetheless. “Tara is at her weakest right now, am I correct?” she questioned, pulling her shift over her head.
“Aye,” replied Caillte.
“And we know that the High Priestess seeks aid from Dún Fiáin?” continued Gráinne, looking at the man as he pored himself a cup of mead. “Would this not be the most opportune time to strike? Lord Ailill seeks vengeance upon the High Chieftains, but cannot strike directly. If we kill Ainmire, their kinsman, then they will suffer a terrible blow.”
“To attack Ainmire in the village would be folly even in its weakened state and luring him out would be very difficult,” the Fomorii man told her.
“Difficult but not impossible.” Smiling maliciously, Gráinne began to circle the hearth fire. “If we move swiftly, quietly, we can have Ainmire’s death.”
Caillte spared her a slight glance and he took a drink of his mead. “And what of the High Priestess?”
“She can be yours to deliver to Ailill and Tara will be mine.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Fire surrounded her: scalding, blinding, overwhelming. The sky was black, filled with thick, heavy smoke. Hot embers lifted up to be carried by the stifling breeze. Screams ripped through
the air, shrill and pain ridden while lifeless bodies lay strewn upon a ground stained crimson with blood.
She stood alone in the middle of a village, surrounded by cottages completely consumed by flame. Her chest heaved with each painful breath she took and an anxious feeling clenched at her heart. Clenching her hands tightly, her nails dug into her palms. She was consumed with the need to find someone.
The sorrowful lamentation of the bean sidhe filled the air.
She turned quickly at the sound, the feeling of dread filled her mind. She took a step, then another and another until she ran, weaving around the crumbling cottages. Her eyes searched frantically through the flames and smoke.
She paused before a cottage that stood untouched by the fire. Flinging the door open, she ducked into the cottage and froze. Shaking her head in disbelief, she felt her body shake as tears streamed down her face.
In the darkness of the cottage, illuminated by the fires of a burning village, lay the lifeless form of Ainmire on the ground…
Screaming, Shiovra lurched up in her bed, heart pounding loudly within her chest as fear gripped her tightly. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped trembling arms around them. She found it hard to breath, the blistering heat of the fire lingering on her skin. As light flooded the small space, her head shot up.
Odhrán stood holding the curtain open, looking at her in concern. Daire and Meara stood behind him. “Shiovra…” said the Milidh man as he began to crawl towards her, reaching a hand out. “It was only a dream.”
“Ainmire!” she cried out, trying to slip past him only to be restrained by Odhrán’s strong hold upon her arms. Shiovra’s gaze snapped to meet his. “His life is in danger! We must make haste. We cannot tarry!”
Keeping a hand on her arm, he lifted the other to brush against her check. “What have you seen to bring such sorrow and terror?” he asked gently.
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 19
