Priestess of the Fire Temple by Ellen Evert Hopman Page A

bodies and give them to you as your just prize for a great victory.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œNow 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.
    â€œI 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.
    [contents]

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