* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
The village of Tara awoke midwinter morning to find a thick blanket of snow the ground, the most snow the village had seen in years. It continued to fall lightly throughout the day in large, fluffy flakes which danced in the wind. Despite the gentleness of the wind and flitting views of blue sky, it was terribly cold. Yet, the weather did not deter the mischievous nature of Eiladyr.
Following Daire from main cottage and into the snow filled village, Eiladyr ducked behind cottages with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Making nary a sound, he was careful not to be seen. When Daire stopped at a low fence, a grin crept across Eiladyr’s face.
Bending down, he scooped up some snow in his hands, shaping it into a ball. Gathering up some more, he proceeded to make himself a small arsenal of snowballs. Laughing softly to himself, he ducked behind a cottage and peeked around, waiting for the most opportune moment.
Daire stood with his back to Eiladyr, speaking to a villager who was chopping wood into kindling.
Eiladyr maintained his post, patiently waiting.
Turning from the man, Daire began to walk away.
Moving quickly, Eiladyr took aim and threw the snowball, quickly ducking back behind the cottage just after he struck his target hard on the face. Unable to contain his amusement, Eiladyr slumped against the cottage wall in a fit of laughter. After a moment, his laughter trailed off and he peeked around the cottage to find that his target was no longer in sight.
“Huh?” he muttered in mild confusion only to be caught off guard as a snowball suddenly slammed into the back of his head. Stumbling slightly, Eiladyr spun about, catching up another snowball and hurled it at Daire.
Moving swiftly, Daire scarcely dodged the snowball, yet missed avoiding the second one that Eiladyr threw as it struck him in the side. Scowling, he gathered up more snow and ran after Eiladyr.
Eiladyr laughed at him outright, then jumped as a snowball grazed his shoulder. A challenging grin spread across his mouth, reaching from ear to ear. “Oh, you want a war, do you?” he asked with a hearty chuckle. “You shall have one then!”
“There shall be only one victor of this battle,” replied Daire, voice warning, “and it shall not be you!” He came up behind Eiladyr and struck him rapidly in the back with three snowballs, but received another in the face in return. Another struck him in the stomach, causing him to double over under the force of Eiladyr’s blow, a groan passing his lips.
“Do you give up?” asked Eiladyr.
“Never!” shouted Daire, gathering more snow as he ducked behind a cottage.
“Have it your way then!” Eiladyr made another snowball. Springing from behind his hiding place, he launched his attack at the same time in which Daire unleashed his own. Eiladyr’s triumphant grin faded rather quickly as he found his target had inadvertently changed.
Shiovra stood in the middle of their battle, her hands clenched into fists and her face bright with her vexation. Traces of snow left from the attack clung to her cloak at her shoulder and side. Taking a deep breath, the priestess closed her eyes, her hands and relaxed her hands.
Her voice was quiet, but Shiovra’s words worked their way around Eiladyr.
“Heed me, spirits of the wind: gusts and howls come to me,” she said. Opening her eyes, she slowly raised her hands up, pausing only a moment, before she quickly dropped them.
A sudden gale ripped across the village and cut through the cottages.
Eiladyr heard a rumbling above his head. He looked up in time to see the blanket of snow on the thatch roof slide down directly upon him. His face stung as the snow caked his skin. Sputtering, Eiladyr brushed it off quickly and looked back at the priestess who smirked to herself and walked away.
Glancing at Daire, he found the man had faced a similar attack. Eiladyr decided that Shiovra had won that battle, but the war between he and Daire would continue. “You alive over there?” he shouted, looking at the man’s back.
Turning, Daire’s reply was a snowball to Eiladyr’s face.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
As celebrations for midwinter began to die down, Shiovra made her way back to the main cottage, weary and spent. Snow continued to fall, dancing in the light given off by the torches lining the well-worn path. She had nearly reached the cottage door when she heard footsteps approach from behind. Turning, Shiovra found Daire and Eiladyr walking up to her.
“Here,” Daire said, handing her a bundle of folded cloth.
The wool cloth was surprisingly soft in her hands, as well as light-weight and thin. It was a summer cloak of the Tara clan tartan: a light blue cross-stripped with a darker green-blue.
“A new cloak,” he continued. “I thought that, since you were so adamant about following through with the promise of alliance with Dún Fiáin, that you would want something a bit more fitting to wear for your return.”
Shiovra smiled light and nodded, thanking him.
Eiladyr stepped forward. “I have something as well.” He handed her a broach which was intricately crafted. “I thought it would suit the cloak.”
“Thank you,” the priestess told him.
He shook his head. “There is no need to thank me. It is a gift.” Grinning, Eiladyr stretched. “And now it is time to get back to the mead!” He grabbed hold of Daire’s arm. “Come on, I do not want miss all the good mead!” Smiling, he drug Daire away back up the path to the Banqueting Hall.
Shiovra shook her head and sighed, looking down at Daire and Eiladyr’s midwinter gifts.
“Shiovra.”
She turned to greet Odhrán as he approached her from the doorway. “Aye?” she questioned, studying him in the flickering torchlight. She noticed that he held a folded blanket in his arms. Curious, she asked, “Is something the matter?”
Shaking his head, Odhrán unfolded the blanket and draped it over her shoulders. Moving to stand beside her, he remained silent for some time, watching the snowflakes dance in the breeze. After a long, silence he told her, “Nothing is the matter. I merely wanted to give you something, without the prying eyes of others.”
“Oh?
Reaching into his tunic, Odhrán pulled forth a small, folded piece of cloth. Taking her hand within his own, he placed the small bundle into it.
Shiovra looked down at her hand. She could still feel the gentle warmth of his touch. Unwrapping the cloth she found a simple, yet beautiful, necklace. Strung upon a cord of leather was a polished stone in a rich green hue.
“It it my gift to you,” he said, taking if from her hand and moving to step behind her.
She remained still as his warm fingers brushed against the skin of her neck, pushing her hair aside.
Odhrán tied the necklace in place, before wrapping his arms around her and trailing kisses along her exposed skin.
Leaning back against him, Shiovra brought a hand to the stone, running her fingertips across the cool, smooth surface. “Thank you for such a lovely gift.” She could feel his smile against her skin.
“Come with me inside,” he breathed.
Her heart jumped in anticipation.
“Come,” Odhrán pressed. “We are alone and there is so much more I desire to give you.”
Shiovra could feel her heart beat quicken in response. Nodding, she let the Milidh man guide her into the cottage.
Closing the door behind her, Odhrán took her by the hand and led her to his bed. Pulling the curtain aside, he took the cloak and broach from her and gestured to the bed.
Sitting down, Shiovra pulled her shoes from her feet and climbed across the bed. She did not wait long before Odhrán joined her.
Placing himself between her legs, he kissed her fully.
The priestess leaned back slowly until she lay on the bed. The heat filling her body was building up uncontrollably quick. And, when his hand pushed up the length of her shift, gliding along the smooth skin of her leg, she moaned softly. Shiovra was falling headlong into unbridled desire and she no longer cared.
Odhrán p
ressed his body against hers, his hands roaming every inch of her within his grasp. “Shiovra,” he breathed heatedly.
She only clung to him in turn.
His hands moved quickly, unlacing his breeches before he pushed into her and set a fast, passion filled pace.
Shiovra met each demanding thrust with her own, her nails raking against his back. And, when he met his release, her body trembled and pulsed with her own. She held onto him long after, breath slowly calming as their body remained joined.
Odhrán caught up her hand, running kisses along her palm and wrist before reluctantly lifting his body from hers. Pulling his breeches back into place with one hand, he trailed the fingers of his other down her cheek. “This is only the beginning, love.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Ceallach Neáll stood beside the hearth, watching Réalta Dubh as she paced back and forth. Dubheasa sat quietly at a low table along with Anlon and her son, Kieran. Ceallach’s ice-blue eyes shifted across the fire to meet Réalta’s. “With winter fully upon us, Tara will remain safe from both Gráinne and Ailill,” he said, deep voice even. “Come warmer times will bring worry.” Ceallach’s eyes flickered to Anlon. “One of our enemies may be dead, but another has become even more dangerous,” he continued. “Gráinne continues to step further and further into madness. I believe that Méav herself would no longer be able to control of her own daughter.”
“Do you believe I will be safe here?” Anlon queried.
Réalta nodded. “Aye,” she assured him. “My sister will focus more upon her desire for Tara than your betrayal. Besides, as of yet, she remains unaware that you served as the eyes of the High Chieftains.”
He nodded, face remaining unsure.
Réalta turned to Ceallach. “What of the union?” she questioned.
Anlon glanced over at them, curious.
“Come Beltaine Shiovra will journey to Dún Fiáin and wed the chieftain’s son…” Ceallach paused, his eyes narrowing on the fire. “There are other problems: Odhrán. He is becoming very dangerous to us.”
She frowned. “How so?”
Ceallach met her gaze. “The Stone of Destiny has spoken for him.”
Mild astonishment crossed her face. “It has chosen Odhrán?”
The Fomorii man nodded.
“How is that a danger?” questioned Réalta. “Though Milidh, I believe that he would lead Tara well. His tactics in battle alone would benefit the clan.”
“He defied the calling of the stone,” Ceallach told her bluntly.
Surprise crossed the woman’s face, quickly to be replaced with anger. “Defied it?” she bit out harshly. “He would leave Tara without a chieftain?”
“Aye.” Ceallach fell silent as he watched the woman resume her pacing.
“What will become of us if he continues to refuse the stones calling?” Réalta murmured.
“The tides have changed once more,” Dubheasa said, rising to her feet. “Time flows like a river, endlessly changing, shifting. Once more, the flow has changed…”
Ceallach turned to the Neimidh woman. Her words were spoken oddly, as if they were not her own, but those of another.
Réalta narrowed her eyes upon Dubheasa. “What do you speak of?” she asked.
The woman’s empty gaze shifted to Réalta. “I speak of an end to an era,” Dubheasa said. “Eras have come and gone many times from Éire and so time shifts once more…”
Frowning, Réalta took a step towards the other woman, reaching a hand out. “Dubheasa?”
The Neimidh woman smiled distantly. “You must accept what cannot be changed,” she continued. “You must understands what is to come and accept that another era is coming to an end.”
“I do not understand…” murmured Réalta.
Dubheasa began to waver, swaying slightly.
Kieran leapt to his feet and caught his mother before she could fell to the ground. “Mother?” he cried out in concern, shaking her lightly. “Mother?”
Réalta knelt beside Dubheasa, bringing her hand before the woman’s mouth and releasing a sigh of relief. “She breathes,” she murmured, eyes carefully searching over the woman as a small frown creased her brow. “What came over her?” she whispered in thought. Her eyes settled on the Neimidh woman’s face. “Dubheasa…”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Mahon stood before the Stone of Destiny, face calm yet uncertain. Reaching up, he touched the cold stone, letting his fingers linger. He did not protest in the lack of response from the stone. As he did not protest that, when it called out to Odhrán, the Milidh man had refused. Mahon found himself exhaling as he was once again reminded of her own responsibilities to Tara. Groaning, Mahon dropped his hand.
“Winter will pass quickly,” Earnán said, stepping up. “Come Beltaine, all of Éire will flock to the stone and a chieftain will be found.”
Mahon remained silent. He knew a chieftain would not be found, for one had already been deemed by the stone. He had thought Earnán knew as much, but if Ceallach had chosen not to tell him, then there must be a reason as to why.
“You should search for a wife, Mahon,” the older man continued. “The clan of Tara grows smaller, and you are not getting younger.” He smiled and gave Mahon a pat on the shoulder. “Come now, there is a warm meal waiting for us.”
Mahon muttered to himself and walked with the man towards the main cottage. He was endlessly reminded that he needed to take a wife, but he was not a man to approach a woman and ask for her hand. “Not you as well, Earnán,” he grumbled under his breath. “You are beginning to sound like Ceallach Neáll. I do not need a wife…”
Earnán laughed. “Aye, you need a wife,” he said. “Someone who can help teach you how to be a proper lord of Tara.” He chuckled, clearly amused.
Mahon, however, found little amusement in what Earnán had said. He knew he should find a wife, knew he should forge a union to strengthen Tara as his sister would be doing. Mahon glanced at Earnán and considered the thought. His own sister was braving a marriage to a Milidh man, unsure of who her intended was to be. He realized that he, himself, should do the same. He would do his part, do what he could in strengthening Tara.
14. DECISIONS
Shiovra lay awake within the main cottage, a fire burning dimly within the hearth as she lay warm beneath the thick layer of blankets. Rolling onto her back, she looked up at the thatch roof. Midwinter had come and gone and spring would soon be upon them. Though she was not anxious to fulfill her betrothal vows, she could not wait for the cold and snow to leave.
Winter, though beautiful it was, was far from being her favorite time. Bringing her hand up, she touched the necklace Odhrán had given her. The man had gone from a hated enemy to a man she could not live without. He had traveled to Tara to protect her, a woman he had never met. He had risked his life for her, gaining wounds in the processes. He had threatened her and challenged her. He had offered her his trust and companionship. What more, Odhrán had offered her his body and his heart.
To her left, she felt Daire shift as he rolled onto his side.
Shiovra looked at him through the wicker-work screen as he slept peacefully facing her. His face was calm and serene, like a child’s as he slumbered, which was quite the opposite of his waking state. Over his shoulder, she could see the sleeping form of Úna. Even the quiet Neimidh woman had become a close companion. Shiovra thought of how she had first met the timid and shy girl. Over the time she had known her, Úna had become a stronger woman.
Shiovra’s thoughts drifted to Meara and Eiladyr. Meara was something rarely seen among Neimidh woman: a warrior. She was brave, strong woman who fought alongside battle hardened men; a woman not afraid to speak her mind and physically defend herself. Eiladyr, on the other hand, was a complete mystery to Shiovra. He was a strange man from across the seas; a man who bore a heavy accent and came from a place unknown to her. Eiladyr remained a confusing man with a temper as fiery as the element he held sway over.
Unable to fall back
asleep, Shiovra pushed aside the blankets and crawled from the bed. Rising to her feet, she threw a cloak around her shoulders and gave a quick glance around the cottage. The fire had long dies in the hearth, leaving the cottage quiet save for the muffled snores of Eiladyr. With a soft smile, she slipped from the cottage.
The men standing guard at the cottage door greeted her quietly and she returned their greeting with a nod.
Walking down the path, Shiovra paused at the base of the hill, watching the color filled dawn sky. Snow had not fallen for the past week and what had remained was melting away.
Fluffy clouds dotted the sky and a gentle, cold breeze wafted through the village, tugging strands of her red-gold hair about her face.
Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Shiovra took a deep breath of the crisp air and slowly released it.
A bird lofted high into the air, calling out sweetly. Dipping down, it flew past Shiovra and toward the main cottage.
She turned to watch as it glided across the breeze.
A figure clad in a dark cloak stood just up the path at the crest of the hill, bathed in the soft glows of the rising sun. His brow hair lifted in the wind, gleaming in soft golden hues while his cloak fluttered ever so slightly as he himself watched the bird flit past him.
Shiovra watched him and waited for him to turn his attention to her.
Pale silver-blue eyes met green-brown ones.
A smile crossed Shiovra’s face as she watched Odhrán. She was not alone. No matter what battles she faced, no matter what pain she had to suffer, she would not be alone. Continuing to smile, she began to make her way up the path towards the main cottage.
She was not alone.
X X X
A Preview Of:
Falls the Shadow
Book One of the Chronicles of Midgard
by
Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) Page 29
