Embers in a Dark Frost

Embers in a Dark Frost Page 25

I didn’t feel as though we stood out from them, but we did.

As we proceeded, people noticed. Their eyes grew wide. They gathered around, bowing and reaching out to touch our hands, our clothes… I looked back at Balen in his black chain mail and tunic, the light glinting off his black hair. Aye, I suppose to them, seeing him was like seeing a divine being. He was taller, stronger, and more beautiful than anyone I’d seen even in my own land. He moved with a dark, predator’s grace, and a noble, powerful presence.

I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. Self-consciously, I smoothed my tunic. My chin dropped a notch. I felt the heat in my cheeks.

“Chin up, Dia,” Balen said, mildly, leaning close. “You are a goddess, after all.”

I kept my eyes trained on the back of Liath’s cloak. The irony did not escape me. If there was anyone in my world less equipped to be mistaken for a goddess, it was me.

Word of our arrival spread quickly, drawing a crowd. I studied the women lining the path. I was taller than most of them, but not by much. Many had red hair, braided or left loose to hang over their shoulders. It occurred to me that these were my people, too. Some of them could have been related. The idea was dizzying.

Liath led us to the doors of the largest wooden structure. It reminded me of the temples in Falias, though not nearly as tall or ornate. In everything around me, I saw the influence of our society—the symbols, the art, the carvings on the great wooden doors.

“This way,” he held open one side of the door.

Our feet scraped softly against the stone floor. The thick wooden columns that held up the timber roof had been carved into long idols. Ahead, at the main altar, a wooden idol stood in grand attendance over everything else. Its head touched the ceiling, its face lost in the shadows above. At its feet, a tiny spring bubbled up from the ground, the water contained by large blocks of stone.

A woman knelt there, her back to us as we approached. Her soft whispers drifted in the space, her voice melodious. Liath stopped behind her and then stood aside, waiting. I glanced behind me and saw that the others had stayed behind. It was only Balen, Liath, and me.

Thick, wavy hair, a combination of brown and red, hung past her waist. Her gown was white, a color reserved only for the most important occasions. As she rose, I saw it hung loose on her frame and pooled at her feet. She stared at us, and I stifled a gasp for her eyes were opaque, glazed white over blue. I held my breath, wondering if she did indeed see us.

She gathered her gown at the hips then stepped forward, toward me. I held my ground. Her skin was pale and unblemished, her lips full and pink, and her nose straight and strong. She drew up close to me, so close I smelled the herbal scent of her skin.

“The bridge between us,” she mumbled, peering so closely her nose almost touched mine. “Aye, and you.” She turned her head sharply to Balen and smiled. A beautiful smile, but unnerving. She appeared youthful, womanly, yet as old as time. “You carry inside you the magic of your ancestors.”

She bowed her head. Her eyes cleared to a dull blue and her smile was serene. “We are honored at your presence. I am Deirdre.”

“You know much, priestess,” Balen remarked.

“I only know what my goddess reveals.”

“And who is your goddess?”

“I am Anu’s chosen.”

Her words didn’t surprise me. The Ageless Ones existed beyond the lands of Innis Fail. They spoke only through prophets and those they chose. It was the same here in Éire.

“And you are Deira,” she said. “Descendant of Anu and child of Conlainn Mac Roich.”

My heart leapt. “You know of my father?”

“Everyone in Éire knows of your father. His story is myth, told to children and in the halls of kings. He claimed he was crowned king of Emain Macha on the eve of Lairgnennasadh, and then, by the next sunrise, he vanished. Generations passed, and suddenly he returns to lay claim to his land. But no one believed him. So much time had passed. They thought him mad. Conlainn the Mad, they called him.”

I stepped back as though a great force had struck me hard in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. Balen’s hand slid into mine and squeezed, but it didn’t comfort me. Nothing could.

Father had never told me who he was, only that he came from Éire for the love of my mother. And look what it had brought him; loneliness and grief. He’d lost his crown, lost my mother... Lost me.

“He went mad?” I barely choked out. “Did anyone believe him, that he was who he claimed? Was it true?”

She shrugged. “There were many who believed, for he returned with a treasure unlike any other, but ‘tis a dangerous thing to lay claim to a kingdom that already has a king, eh?”

He was gone. My father was gone.

Despair, the same grief and overwhelming desolation, I’d felt when my mother had passed, squeezed my chest tighter and tighter, constricting my heart. I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling lost and dumbfounded by what I’d learned. I heard Balen and Deirdre speaking softly.

Balen squeezed my hand again and this time a surge of his heat climbed up my arm and spread into my chest, warming my entire body, an easing some of the ache. He smiled down at me, a trace of pity in his amber eyes. “Don’t lose yourself in the past, Deira. It has come and gone, and can do no good to you now.”

How easy it was to say such things. I wanted to snap at him and tell him so, but I bit my tongue. Balen wasn’t trying to make light of things; he was trying to help. Aye, my father’s death happened ages ago, but to me it was brutally new and raw, not something that had simply ‘come and gone’.

Deirdre ushered us toward the inner chamber of the temple. I released Balen’s hand and followed numbly behind her swaying hips, wondering how she could appear so chaste and demure one moment and provocative the next. It was a mix that grated on my already stricken nerves. Perhaps she should wear a cloak or an overcoat over her thin, white sheath of a gown. She’d been tactless and blunt telling me of my father, almost as though wanting to see how I’d react, wanting to see my shock.

By the time we entered the inner temple, my anger and grief had mixed into a bitter concoction. I wanted to lash out, anything to release the hurt, to give it voice. My father hadn’t deserved to die like that, alone and mad. He hadn’t deserved that at all.

We were led into a courtyard, a garden similar to the one I’d played in as a child, with stone-tiled floors, flowers, vines, and fountains, then into a room like the main temple but smaller. The open spaces between the large wooden columns framed a landscape of green valleys, hills and forests.

The next chamber was large, with walls of dark, polished wood covered with carvings and heavy curtains to retain heat. There were low couches and pillows, fur rugs on the floor, and a wide stone hearth.

I saw it all through a hollow daze.

Deirdre left us with a few softly spoken words to Balen, none of which I paid attention to, though I imagined her words were laced with undertones of seduction. I envied them both. They fit so easily into the world.

Deirdre exhibited the confidence of a Danaan. She fit better in that role than I did, and she was human through and through. She had the confidence of one blessed by the goddess; she had that intimate connection I never did.

Balen led me to a low couch. I dropped onto the cushion, numb in my body and agitated in my mind. He knelt in front of me, capturing my attention, drawing me in so I couldn’t look away, so I’d listen. But I was already closed off. As he went to speak, I cut him off. “Did you know? Did you already know about my father?” His face didn’t change but I saw a flicker of guilt and regret in his eyes. “You knew.”

I jumped up, unable to sit still, and stomped to one of the great columns that supported the roof, my hand braced against the warm, smooth wood. I stared at the garden, seeing my childhood flash before my eyes, seeing everything in the flowers, and the grass, and the leaves…

My heart raced and the blood rushed through me so quickly that it hummed in my ears. I swung around. Why hadn’t he told me? Prepared me to soften the blow? “What else do you know? What else does everyone know that I don’t?”

My fingernails dug into my palms. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to fight.

He straightened then dragged his fingers through his hair as he considered my questions, looking as though he was caught in a predicament of sharing what he knew or continuing to keep me in the dark. The expression added fuel to the growing storm.

No one had told me anything. Not Balen. Not my mother. My father. Eburacon. They all must’ve known where he’d come from, his station in life, what had happened to him. Why did they keep it from me? Why hadn’t Balen prepared me for this . . . grief?

The heat of my anger stung my cheeks and spread throughout my body. “They all knew. You,” I pointed at him, “knew.” I couldn’t take in enough air. My nostrils flared. Hot tears slid from my eyes. I thought of Father leaving me, of my life serving my Danaan family. “Why?”

Balen grabbed my shoulders, his expression fierce, his black brows reminding me of Drem’s dark wings. “You are a royal heir of our enemy, Deira. Those who stole everything from us.”

“And that was a long time ago, Balen.”

“Do you think it matters? Our land, our people are dying. Had your mother or Eburacon shared that your father had been king, you would have been used as leverage. You would’ve been used as an example to show Mankind how cruel we can be. They kept the truth to protect you. Eburacon only shared it with me the night of the attack.”

I jerked from his hold and marched to the open arches to stare once again at the garden. Everything made sense now. Why my grandmother had hated me so much. Why my grandfather seemed torn between loving me and shunning me. Why Mother had been so adamant that I grow up in the Woodlands, away from everyone else, away from those who might discover the truth. And why Mother kept my father a prisoner. But it still didn’t answer the question that haunted me. Why he left me. Why he left me there in the very arms of the enemy.