Priestess of the Fire Temple (9 page)

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PART TWO

A Candle in the Wind

9

W
e were sitting inside by the hearth fire, and the young priestess was making me a strong elderberry brew to ward off the chill of the evening air.

“Shall I pour in some of the Waters of Life?” she asked as she swung the cauldron away from the fire. As you know, the Waters of Life are precious and not to be added until an herbal brew has done simmering.

“Yes, that would be lovely. As we sip our portions I will continue my tale exactly as it was related to me by those who were there.”

The priestess settled in for the telling, her eyes round with wonder and anticipation. I could see that she was memorizing every word, which gave me hope to think that my story would be passed down to the future…

Artrach, Bárid, Amlaim, and Imar climbed to the top of the ridge so that they could see over the thick canopy of trees. After several days on the road, they were footsore.

“We still have about seven days of walking, by the looks of it,” Bárid calculated, judging from the shape of the hills on the horizon, bathed in mist and slanting sunlight.

The three Druid from Irardacht were slightly more relaxed than they had been when they first arrived at the Druid Council. They definitely looked better fed. Niamh had made sure that their packs were stuffed with oats, dried apples, bread, cheese, and dried meats.

Artrach had proved his value as a woodsman time and again by gathering edible mushrooms, the unfurled tops of bracken, wild garlic, birch roots, watercress, and the roots of heather each time they stopped. In the evenings he would take a small iron skillet from his pack and braise everything he had collected over the fire, making a rich butter sauce for the fish they caught most evenings. Each night he would put his small wooden keg of butter into a stream, weighted down with rocks to keep it cool and safe from predators.

He tried to raise their spirits with spirited songs each night around the camp fire. It pained him to see the deep lines of worry on their faces and the thinness of their waists.
No Drui should have to live like this
, he thought.

When the three elder Druid were nestled in their blankets around the fire, Artrach faced the moon so that her beams fell full on his face and began to sing:

Never will I be removed from Inisfail

By winds that strip the leaves from a tree

Or bend the willow on the hill

Nor by the winds of change and storm.

Ever will I delight

In the bounding of the deer

In the badgers of the glen

Far more than in the promises

Of the joys of Heaven beyond.

Imar chuckled at the last line. “You have a way with words, young man. You have certainly captured the essence of our dilemma. How do we Druid prosper in the time of the new religion?”

Artrach smiled. “There was a time in this land when there were no Druid. Then the Druid gained the ascendancy, and now we are disappearing once more. This is but a tide of nature. Every wave rises and falls back. But it always rises again.

“At the moment, we are like sparrows that flew from a freezing night into a warm feasting hall and had our fill of food and celebration. Now we are driven back out into the cold night. But like the birds of spring, we will return to the halls of power when the suntides turn. I am sure of this.”

Bárid, Amlaim, and Imar hardly believed what he said, but the words gave them comfort. They were able to relax into their blankets and fall into a light sleep. Artrach sat with his back to a rock and kept vigil, singing an Ogum of protection over them each time he heard a sound in the night.

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10

F
rom the clouds over the dun of Íobar, a funnel of ravens had appeared out of nowhere, circling with purpose over a spot to the south. The king had been standing on the wall all day, trying to discern which side was winning. The ravens would not reveal which side was triumphant, but they never gathered until there was carrion for their feast.

By evening Íobar knew. A long line of warriors snaked towards the dun wearing victory wreaths on their heads, their harpers before them, singing a song of conquest. But he did not recognize them because they were not his warriors. They were carrying a body on a bier and clashing their shields in challenge, daring any soldiers left in the fort to meet them in battle. Worse, he could finally see his own men, their heads shorn in humiliation and with bound hands and chained feet, surrounded by their captors.

The battle chief of the enemy's warriors stood before the gate and bellowed for admittance. He was tall and blond, blood-spattered and grim-faced, and wore a rough victory wreath on his long yellow hair, made of wild leaves from the forest.

“I demand to see the king of Irardacht. I demand my father's honor price. I demand vengeance for my father's death!”

“Let him in,” Íobar said to his guards.

Roin was the prince of a small kingdom just beyond the southern border of Irardacht. He and his father had led their warriors north to test Íobar's strength and to capture a herd of cattle if they were so lucky. They had accomplished both objectives, but at the last skirmish Roin's father, Lovic, had been killed by a spear through the heart.

Íobar could see that Roin had the battle rage still on him and, worse, that he was grieving for his own blood father. The price would be steep.

“I want a ring of gold for every finger of my father's hands!” Roin demanded. “My father, the king, will be buried with honor! I want a golden torque and robes of finest fur to cover him with glory on his last journey home. And I want golden armbands and torques for every one of my men. Give me these or your kingdom is forfeit!”

Inwardly Íobar felt deep relief. The boastful young man was only seeking marks of honor to take back with him when he returned home to his women and his tribes. He was too young and foolish to realize that the high kingship of Irardacht was his for the taking. Íobar was on his knees, with no food for his people, and the arrogant young whelp didn't even realize it. His father, that old fox Lovic, would never have been so stupid.

“Very well. You will have all you ask for. I will command that my warriors strip their torques, rings, and armbands from their own bodies and give them to you as your just prize for a great victory.”

“And I am taking your best warriors back with me as hostages,” Roin added, jutting his chin towards the miserable bunch of men who were bound together by chains and shorn like sheep.

“That is only just,” Íobar said evenly before the assembled nobles and tribesmen.

In his mind he was thinking the loss of cattle was the greater tragedy, because now even more of his people would go without milk and meat. The warriors could fend for themselves.

“Now swear to me on cold iron that you will not invade my kingdom and seek revenge,” Roin said, pulling his bright sword from its sheath. To their horror the court could see the dried blood still on it and the scabbard overflowing with clots of gore.

“I pledge not to call for revenge, or may the Daoine Sidhe take me,” Íobar said, reverently touching iron as he uttered the oath.

He would keep his promise, but he knew—and somewhere in his mind Roin knew it too—that there was no way to stop the warriors of Irardacht from creeping over the border to steal back their cows. The bloody conflict would continue. But for now it was enough just to save face and distribute the gold.

There was a feast that night to seal the bargain, and Íobar was forced to slaughter even more of his own cattle, pigs, and sheep to preserve the rules of hospitality. The captured warriors were bound, wrists and ankles tied together, and flung into a corner of the mead hall like so many hogsheads of béoir. Their women and children stood outside the walls of the dun, weeping.

Conláed dutifully played his harp for Prince Roin and sang heroic songs of battle. Roin's men joined in drunken refrains, thoroughly enjoying themselves, as Íobar's people sat grim-faced. The mood in the hall was such that no one noticed my absence.

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11

A
t the time I had no idea what had transpired, but I knew that it must have been something terrible. I knew it because there was a commotion going on in the mead hall, and there were knots of weeping women and children standing before the gate. There were lit torches everywhere as if it were a High Holy Day, and the scent of burning pine permeated the grassy sward of the dun, mixed in with the smells of roasting flesh. Strangers were milling around the central courtyard, brazenly looking into windows and doors.

Someone was being honored with a feast. Whether that person was alive or dead, I knew not. Whatever had occurred simply did not matter. I decided to take advantage of whatever was happening and use the unexpected chaos as my chance to escape.

Conláed was not in his roundhouse, so I left a note for him, scratched with a goose quill onto an old patch of vellum:
Thank you for everything. May the gods bless you always.

He would know my handwriting. Besides me and Conláed, only the Cristaidi could write, and such a sentiment could never have come from them.

My charcoal-grey oiled-wool cloak served me well, and I managed to glide from shadow to shadow unseen. When I finally got to the gate there were no guards, and the women there were far too distraught to notice me, so I took to the stony path that led out into the starry blackness of the forests and fields.

I walked all night, afraid to stop except for a brief drink when I crossed a stream. I could hardly believe my luck; I felt the gods were at my back, urging me on. I knelt before a tiny rill and scooped the clear liquid into my fingers as the first rays of sunlight sparkled in the new dawn. I touched my mouth, my heart, and my forehead to bless myself with the sunlight captured in the water, “for where water and fire come together, there is always the greatest potential for magic,” as Niamh and Dálach-gaes had often said.

I looked up and saw a clear sky and felt the wind from the south, a good omen, and continued walking until the shadows were lengthening once more. By now I had not eaten well nor slept for nearly two days, and I was thoroughly exhausted. I had to make a camp, no matter the danger.

I began by carefully setting up Ogums of protection. I painted the Ogums onto stones with my fingers using uisge beatha as I chanted the name of each Ogum out loud, until I had five enchanted stones in a ring around my campsite. Then I placed crossed twigs of rowan at each of the directions and invoked the spirit of that tree to surround me with her magical shield.

I carefully cut a circle of turf, set the grass aside, and then gathered dry, dead fallen pine needles and birch bark and started a fire on the bare earth with tinder and flint. As it burned down to hot embers, I picked some fresh nettles and made myself a clear green broth by dropping red-hot stones into a little cauldron that I had hung from a small iron tripod placed over the fire. By now I was giddy with fatigue, and my fingers were trembling as I used the edge of my cape to pull the hot cauldron from the flames. I dipped a wooden cup into the broth and drank the hot liquid gratefully, swallowing portions of bread and cheese until I finally felt warm and satisfied.

“Conláed would think me crazy if he could see what I am doing, all alone in the wilderness like this,” I said out loud to the fire.

The fire answered back in its own language, singing and dancing like a living creature sent to keep me company through the might. I was certain that my magic would keep me safe and that the little fire would scare away the beasts of the forest, so at last I curled into my cape and fell into a sound sleep.

I continued this routine of existence, gathering herbs and cresses by day as I walked and making a new fire each night. Every morning I carefully covered the embers with cut turf to hide my passage. One evening there was a damp drizzle and I found a rocky overhang under which I could sleep. It was a peaceful few days.

One morning at daybreak, in the midst of a deep dream, I suddenly felt that I was suffocating. At first I thought I was having a nightmare, and I struggled hard to bring myself awake. But then I realized I was awake and that there was some kind of thick leather hood over my head.

I could hardly breathe; someone was tying my hands and feet together with rope. Suddenly I felt myself being lifted and turned upside down. Then a pole was thrust between my arms and legs, and I was swinging like a ham trussed for market.

“She looks strong; I wonder who she is?” a voice said from before me.

“Another catch to add to our store from Irardacht!” another added from behind, slapping me hard on the rear end and laughing. To him I was just a lowly peasant, no more valuable than a side of meat.

Now my hind parts were swinging madly from side to side, and it was all I could do to keep my neck from breaking as I fought to keep my head up, suspended as I was from a pole between two men. I was terrified. What were they planning? What would they do to me? How could I have been so foolish to leave the dun without a retinue and no way to defend myself?

They carried me for what felt like half a day until I was finally dropped with no warning onto a grassy patch of ground. Then they pulled my hood back far enough that my mouth was exposed and thrust a clay cup against my mouth.

“Drink!” someone ordered. I drank. It was water.

“I have to relieve myself,” I said.

Surely they would let me take care of my needs behind a bush. I felt the ropes around my hands and feet being loosened.

“Stand up, woman,” one of them said.

I tried to imagine how many of them there were by their voices, but it was very confusing. It seemed like every time someone spoke, there was a different voice; I had counted more than twenty individuals already. Then I felt a rough hand on my back, pushing me forward. I still had the leather hood over my face, but I could see the ground below by looking directly down.

“Go behind that rock,” a voice commanded.

I crept towards the rock, trying not to fall. Looking down, I could see rows of feet. Some of them were shod and some of them were bare and bleeding from the sharp rocks of the road.

I must not be the only captive here
, I thought.

There was some comfort in that because I was apparently one of many, not just a woman alone and sport for the men.

When I was done, the leather bag was tightened around my neck once more and my hands and feet were tied together again. This time I was swung up onto a cart. I could feel other breathing bodies all about me, none of whom were speaking. But they were all warm and alive.

Against my will I found myself drifting off to sleep, exhausted from the trauma of capture and lulled by the rhythm of the road and the warm bodies around me.

When the hood finally came off, it was dusk, and I was staring right into the eyes of another prisoner who was but inches away from my face. Both of us were bound and helpless, lying on our sides and unable to move one way or the other because of the crush of bodies.

“Hello,” he said softly, with a smile and a wink.

“Very pleased to meet you,” I responded formally.

There was something hilarious about the whole situation, and so we both giggled.

A tall, very serious-looking blond man with blood on his tunic came over. “Oy, you two. Stop it!” and he hit us both with the flat of his sword.

After that the only thing we could do was smile and crinkle our eyes at each other as if we were naughty children who had been caught in some prank at school.

Suddenly the young man's face went pale; he was straining to follow an altercation in the distance. I tried to hear what had captured his attention. Someone was claiming to be a Drui! The man, whoever he was, was loudly protesting his ill treatment.

Then there was the obscenely unmistakable splat of a thick piece of flesh and bone being thrown against a flat rock. There was a brief gurgling noise and then a sickening silence. Someone had clearly lost his head.

The man next to me went ashen, and then his face turned red with fury. I saw one tear of anguish slide down his cheek, and after that he wouldn't look at me, enveloped as he was in his own private agony.

No one spoke; a kind of shocked silence reigned over all. Maybe the slain man really had been a Drui? If so, the crime was beyond shameful. Even in these depraved times, to actually kill a Drui was unthinkable. Every Drui carried vast stores of wisdom and lore, genealogy, medicine, law, and poetry in their head. To kill a Drui was like burning down a library—a terrible loss for any kingdom.

And then the man turned his face to me again, wide eyed, crying silent tears. At that moment I realized they really had done the unthinkable evil deed. They had actually killed a Drui.

I reached out to the man with my eyes and tried to comfort him, feeling my own sense of shock and loss. He knew from my eyes that I understood what had happened and the full horror of it. Our foreheads gradually came together and we mourned, silently forging a bond of grief that went beyond mere words.

The next morning when I woke at the first bird song, I found that somehow I had curled in the night so that my body fitted closely against the man's chest and knees, and that his tall form was wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I could feel and hear his steady breathing just above my ear.

It was strange to be in such intimacy with someone I had only met the day before, yet somehow it felt completely natural. We had already shared tears, laughter, and long, uninterrupted looks into each other's eyes.

I tried to remember what color his eyes were. It seemed to me that they were the color of hazel leaves. His hair was certainly red like mine; locks of it spilled over my shoulders and mingled with my own tresses, making a cascade of fiery brightness around our two heads.

I had a strong premonition that the gods were behind this meeting somehow—that I had been led by all my sufferings to this man as surely as I had escaped Deaglán Mac Íobar and his father's dun.

“Thank you,” I whispered to whichever unknown deity, spirit, or mischievous sprite was guiding my fate, feeling oddly at peace and comforted, if only for a moment.

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