Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) (5 page)

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. T
he 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 normal
ly 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.

R
éalta 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 streak
ing 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,
bit
ing 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. “Lad
y 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, turned, and left.

Shiovra
slipped into her cottage, letting the door close behind
her
. She leaned against the wal
l for a while, eyes closed, before si
nk
ing to the floor. She drew
her knees up to her chest a
nd 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 g
reat cottage was brightly lit. L
ight 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 poi
nting 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, d
istorted. “I had thought that the threat of an attack by Ailill had passed
, but i
t 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 a
sked by Ainmire to watch over her
,” the m
an continued. “
In the middle of the night the village was attacked
.
No one could have foreseen this attack.
” Ceallach hesitated, but only slightly. “
T
he 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 repeat
ed himself more firmly.
“Ré
alta, has Deirdre of Cúlráid
come to you?”

Réalta nodded, face grave. “Aye,” she began slowly. “De
irdre 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 t
hey 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. Th
at is, after all, the destiny t
hat I have foreseen
for her. The path of a p
riestess
flows i
n 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 r
eplied. “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 woma
n. “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. Dei
rdre’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.