Daughter of Ireland

1 Aislinn ni Sorar sat silent at the required place of honor near the fire. She drew her white ceremonial cloak with its spiraling gold embroidery tightly about her, lifted the hood over her head until her youthful features were obscured in shadow. "You are cold?" The chieftain Brennus Mac Bran shouted at her, though he was seated directly to her right. He was fat and drunken. Grease from the haunch of boar he had devoured was trapped in his red moustache and slathered on his chin. Brennus the Brutal, they called him. Even the people of his own tribe. Aislinn regarded him silently, said nothing. Beneath the wide sleeves of her robe, she pressed the palms of her hands tight against her forearms. She could feel their sweaty dampness. She breathed slowly and deeply, tried not to let the chieftain hear the ragged sound of her expelled breath. Surely the child must be here! She had tracked the story of a captive child from village to village for many months. At last, a fortnight ago, she had come to the child's birth village, been given the story that had led her here, to this fireside. Surely, she would find the child here. Now. This was the quest on which her foster-father Aodhfin had sent her, so many turning moons ago. In the way of all important druid teaching, he had given her this quest in a sacred riddle of three. "Listen to me, daughter!" Aislinn still remembered the urgency in his voice, on his old face, usually so placid and kind. "Much will be woven into this journey you undertake. What is past and what is to come; forces gather around your journey." And then he had begun, his voice a low chant. * * * "From the place of darkness will come a child to light your journey. To the place of fire will come a man bearing fire for the body and the mind. Between darkness and light, you are the still point." * * * Still Aislinn had lingered, waited for more than a fortnight, fearing to leave the security of the druid school at Tara, fearing to leave Aodhfin, the only father she had known. Until the night of the Dark One and his vast black wings. The same night on which she first dreamed of a child with copper hair and sea-green eyes, her face upturned, crying, "Mathair! Mother!" The night she had begun this journey, almost two years ago. Now, by the fire, Aislinn closed her eyes. She could see the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of the little nose, the fear in the pale green eyes. She would know the child anywhere. Aislinn shivered, opened her eyes. "Here, you, Corra!" the chieftain bellowed, waving his arm in the air. A thin, sickly looking child of about ten disengaged herself from the women who hovered near the feasting table. She came to Brennus's side, her hands clasped together too tightly. She stood with her head bent, her face obscured in a tangled mat of dirty hair. "The priestess is cold. Pour another goblet of warm wine to her health and honor!" The child bent to gather the silver pitcher from beside the chieftain. Her short brown tunic rode up for a moment and Aislinn stared at the back of her legs. They were flayed, bloody, laid open from below the knees to where the welts disappeared beneath the hem of the tunic. The child moved to the druidess, bent, poured wine into the goblet, her head bowed in polite deference. Aislinn willed the little girl to raise her eyes. Slowly, the child's head lifted. Aislinn gasped in recognition, pressed her palms tight against her arms to quell the wild hammering of her heart. The intense green eyes regarding those of the priestess were those of her dream! For a moment, the wild green eyes locked with Aislinn's in a silent plea. The druidess gave the barest nod. The child moved away. "McKnight, Juilene Osborne is the author of 'Daughter of Ireland' with ISBN 9780765346421 and ISBN 0765346427.