<< Go Back

A Secret Hope (Sword and Spirit Series Book 1)

By Renee Yancy

Order Now!

Chapter One
A Grim Secret
Ireland, 432 AD
Ciara didn’t want to be a druidess.
But though she longed to speak of it to someone, she kept her silence. Certain death waited if that secret escaped.
When her maid gasped behind her Ciara flinched, wondering if she’d spoken the dreaded words aloud. But Eabha had only uncovered a field mouse cowering in a dusty corner. She whisked the intruder out with her broom and bustled about the sleeping chamber, humming while she straightened the fur blankets.
Ciara sighed and finished plaiting her hair. Her father had summoned her this morning, on a matter of great import. Perhaps he’d finally realized why she remained silent whenever he spoke of the calling on her life.
She left the sleeping chamber and walked through the ringfort hall. A sprig of rowan flowers hung above the doorway for protection against evil spirits and she touched it before starting down the worn path to the sparring fields.
The past winter had been especially vicious, with many deaths from sickness and cold. And during the long nights, a new seed of doubt had rooted in the darkness of her heart. And now as Beltane approached to celebrate the returning sun, the secret threatened to burst out of her like the shoots sprouting from the awakening earth around her.
What if the gods weren’t as all powerful as she had been taught from her childhood?
If anyone suspected that she doubted the ancestral gods of her people, she would be condemned as an outsider and cast out.
Her tribesmen would blind her, and set her adrift on the sea in a coracle with no sail or rudder. And if she survived the sea to wash half-drowned upon some hostile shore, whoever found her could claim her as their slave.
Ciara shivered. She could never let the secrets escape.
A wren sang in the hazel thicket ahead, its dark body silhouetted against the golden flowers. At her step on the path, it ceased its warbling and flew closer to light on a honeysuckle vine. The bird’s black eyes regarded her solemnly and a warning pang flickered through Ciara.
Then the wren cocked its tail.
A volley of lyrical song burst forth from its tiny throat, a cascade of melodious burbles and trills pulsating in the air around her. She stood rooted to the path by its rising intensity, and each fluid note increased the sickening flutter in her belly until a kitchen slave happened by and shooed the bird away. The slave shot a fearful look at Ciara.
Ciara tried to ignore the gaping expression on the slave’s face and watched the bird disappear into the forest. Alarm vibrated through every muscle of her being. Wrens were drui-en, the druid’s bird. The messages they brought were seldom auspicious.
She found her father, Cullen, in the grass clearing reserved for the daily practice of arms, sparring with Owain. Ciara called his name but he didn’t hear her, intent on the warrior before him. His wolfhounds perked their ears but they wouldn’t move without a word from their master. She scratched their shaggy heads and sat on the worn grass between the old hounds to watch her father.
Sweat-rings darkened his tunic and beads of perspiration flew when he slashed at the warrior across from him. Owain used his shield to deflect Cullen’s blows and then advanced on his chieftain with the same determination to deliver a decisive stroke. They moved warily, calculating each other’s strength and parrying thrusts. Neither would give in easily.
Cullen feinted left. Owain lunged in to take advantage of the opening and exposed his chest. Cullen swung a massive blow but Owain managed to raise his shield in time to avoid a cracked rib. The thick wood splintered under the assault. Cullen shoved it aside with his other hand, and a surprised Owain landed on the ground with a sword at his throat.
“Well done, my Lord!” panted Owain. “But another moment and I would’ve had you.”
Cullen laughed and reached down to grip Owain’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Repair your feeble shield, old friend, and tomorrow you’ll have another chance to prevail against your king.”
Owain staggered off, and Cullen turned and caught sight of her. He stripped off his soaked tunic to reveal a muscular body and strode to where she waited. A great smile lit up his blue eyes, and he looked like a young man, flushed with the success of besting an experienced peer.
Ciara jumped up and Cullen swung her off her feet, whirling her until she laughed and begged him to stop. He set her down and kissed the top of her head. “So, a chroi, what brings you to the sparring fields this fine morning?”
“Oh, Father,” she said, “indeed, your sparring has affected your wits! I’m here because you summoned me and I am ever your obedient daughter.”
Instead of laughing at her words, the light in his face disappeared, as an errant breeze snuffs out a candle.
Her smile faded and she thought of the wren’s song. “What is it, Father?”
Cullen sighed, and sat down on one of the logs bordering the clearing. He took her hand and drew her onto his knee. “Ciara, you know I’ve kept you with me all these years because I couldn’t bear to have you out of my sight after your mother died.”
Ciara smiled and squeezed his hand. “And I’ve been glad of it, Father.” She stroked his knuckles, roughened from years of practice at arms. “For I couldn’t bear to be parted from you.”
Cullen gazed out over the sparring field. “Kings must send their children away to be fostered in the homes of other nobles. But I refused to do what my ancestors have always done.”
He shook his head. “I was foolhardy all these years, to keep you with me. I’ve delayed your druidess training and jeopardized your chances to make a royal marriage because of my own selfishness.”
She opened her mouth to protest but Cullen held up his hand, and she subsided at the pained look on his face. She knew his councilors were insisting that he consider her future now rather than his own comfort. They had raised the issue of fosterage and the completion of her training again. An advanced period of instruction had to be finalized with an elder druid before she could officially function as a druidess.
“Ciara.” His voice broke, and she put her fingertips over his mouth.
“I know, Father,” she said. “I must go away. But don’t be melancholy.” She tried to speak lightly. “It will only be for a short while, and then I’ll return.”
Cullen stared at her. “How do you know of this, a lheannan?”
“Oh, Father.” She searched his face. “You know how rumors fly through the household. I’ve often heard your councilors or my women discussing me when they didn’t know I was listening.”
She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead, wanting to wipe away the lines of worry creased there. “I’ve always known this parting must come.”
Cullen touched her cheek. “You will go to my cousin Devin, in Tir Failge. The elder druid there is known for his ability to discern the gifts of his students. He trained Lochru, one of the High King’s druids.”
A faint disquiet trickled through her at the mention of Tir Failge. “His name, Father?”
“Ronan.” Cullen smiled at her. “It is a rare privilege.”
Ciara stared at her father as the twinge in her belly rose again. Among the elder druids, Ronan held pre-eminence, famous for his poetry and his skill as a judge in the Brehon law of their country.
But it was his reputation as a shrewd diviner of men’s thoughts that pierced her like a hunter’s arrow.
How would she hide from him?
Her heart surged into her throat and left her breathless. Ronan had pronounced a geis on a young prince, the taboo druids give to royalty that must be obeyed. When the boy transgressed it, Ronan had ordered him cast out of his tribe.
Ciara leapt to her feet. “Why must I go to him, Father?” She tried to gather her stunned thoughts. “I will never serve at the Hill of Tara, nor have I any desire to.”
She faced her father and clasped her hands together to conceal their trembling. “Ronan’s skills should be reserved for a more important druidic student.”
Cullen frowned. “Ciara, the arrangements have been completed. You will leave in three days.” He regarded her with a puzzled expression. “You’re not pleased?”
“I...” She drew a choked breath and winced at the look of pride and eager expectation on his handsome face.
“What is it, Ciara?”
She clenched her fists. “It’s nothing, Father.” Her knees shook, and she collapsed into his lap and laid her head against his chest. “It’s only that…I don’t want to go so far away from you.”
Cullen tightened his arms around her. Far off in the forest she heard the wren’s song again, mingled with one word beating ceaselessly inside her head.
No, no, no…
***
In the hall that evening, Cullen took her hand and dropped a ring into her palm. Elegant spirals engraved its silver band, finished with a filigree of interlaced knots over a shimmering moonstone.
“This was your mother’s betrothal ring.” He watched her mesmerized face examine the jewel. “The knots you see represent the love we shared…” his voice caught, “eternal and connected still.”
He thought of the day he had placed the moonstone on Riognach’s finger and they had been handfasted to one another.
The old familiar pain pierced his heart at the thought of his dead wife, and with difficulty he pushed the memory away and fixed his attention on the daughter who looked back at him now with Riognach’s beautiful eyes.
He slid the ring onto her finger and stared at the glowing stone. On a dreary morning years ago, he had taken it from Riognach’s hand while she lay serene and beautiful upon her funeral bier.
He’d entwined his fingers in the shining hair spread on her pillow, stricken at the feeling of its warm softness, unchanged in death, though his beloved lay cold and still.
His gaze moved to Ciara, who stood quietly before him, possessing much of the grave sweetness of Riognach. Luminous gray eyes like stars on a winter night, and dark hair that tumbled to her waist like silk.
So much like her mother, it twisted his heart. It would have been difficult enough to send her away as an infant. But as he gazed into her innocent face, he realized it was going to be infinitely more wrenching now.
With an effort, he lightened his voice. “It came from a strange land far from here, where the sun shines all the year and there are vast lakes of sand as far as the eye can see. The chieftain of Numidia gave the stone to my father. He also brought a curious creature with him, covered in brown fur, with a dark face and paws like our hands, which the rascal used to jump from tree to tree.”
Cullen laughed. “My father said it would chatter and scold as if it were speaking! No one had ever seen such a peculiar animal before. Like the stone in your ring, named for the pale moon. It is truly rare. There’s no other jewel like it in all of Eirean. It reminds me of your mother’s eyes, which were so like yours. And now it belongs to you.”
“Thank you, Father.” She stretched on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I won’t forget.”
***
It was time. Cullen watched from the shade of a massive oak in the grassy enclosure of the ringfort. He clenched his jaw. In a few moments she would be gone.
Ciara knelt before a small fire and the druid Aodhfin drew a circle around her with his staff. The sun shone off his bald pate, shaved ear-to-ear in the customary druid tonsure that left the rest of his gray hair hanging loose.
How dare the sun appear so brightly this terrible morning, when darkness wrapped itself around him? Cullen shook his head and watched Aodhfin throw a silvery bundle of dried wormwood into the fire.
Its bitter odor filled the air while the druid held his hands toward the sky over the burning leaves.
“Great mother, we seek your protection for this daughter of our tribe.” Aodhfin directed the pungent smoke over Ciara and invoked the gods to shield her from evil spirits on the journey south to the tuath of Cullen’s cousin, Devin.
Were five warriors enough to protect her? Their region had been peaceful these last few years, but kidnapping a royal princess for ransom was always possible, even though his tribe was not especially wealthy or powerful.
He sighed. The fosterage contract was completed and all the myriad preparations finished. Her nurse, Eabha, would accompany her, along with the slaves, Maire and Una, her attendants since she was small.
One by one the household wished her farewell while Cullen stood apart, waiting to say good-bye. Aodhfin and the rest of the household withdrew. Cullen cupped his daughter’s face and kissed her forehead and cheeks. Ciara threw her arms around him and pressed her face into his tunic.
A hard lump rose in his throat. “You’re my life, Ciara,” he whispered. “Without you I have nothing. Come back to me soon, little one. I will wait for your return.”
He stroked her cheek one last time and tucked a linen bag of sage into her belt for further protection against evil spirits. Owain brought her horse and Cullen helped her mount.
She took the reins with shaking hands, and then leaned down and flung her arms about his neck. “Father,” she whispered,” I can’t leave you.”
He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of honeysuckle in her hair.
Danu, make me strong.
“I’ll see you soon, a lheannan,” he said, holding his voice steady, “somehow we’ll be together, if the gods allow. You must be strong for me. As I will be for you.”
She nodded and straightened, and at a signal from Owain, the travelers moved forward. She turned once, and he waved until her dark head disappeared around a bend in the path.
Then he went directly to the sparring fields, to the detriment of the young warriors forced to parry their king wielding sword and spear with no mercy.
A fractured wrist sent one soldier to the physician, and the rest of the men incurred much damage before he stopped, shaking with fatigue, drained and spent as an empty wineskin.
***
Tears streamed down Ciara’s face.
Why hadn’t she told him?
She could have thrown herself at his feet and begged him not to send her away. Surely his great love for her would have overcome his shock when she confessed her lack of faith in the gods.
Or would it?
Ciara gripped the reins harder. Even a father’s love might not be enough to cover the enormity of her heinous doubt.
Now she faced a new tribe and a perceptive druid, far from home, where she must continue to hide her increasing faithlessness behind the mask of a dutiful tribe daughter.
Ciara sat her mount with her spine rigid, her thighs pressed against the horse’s flanks. If she let go of the reins, she would shatter into pieces.
Owain’s voice penetrated the whirlwind tempest of her thoughts. He rode next to her, pointing out various oddities along the path. Ciara dashed the tears away and tried to pay attention.
She didn’t want to think about what awaited her in Tir Failge.

Order Now!

<< Go Back