Hidden Jewel (Heartfire Series) (2 page)

Brid or Brigit
- The ancient goddess of the Pagan world, not the Catholicized version.

Britheamh
- a headsman, a judge, an executioner of innocents

oxter
- armpit (hey, I didn't know that at first either)

Aislinn
- a dream, a vision

Tha i bòidheach
- she is beautiful

achd
- a decree

Ard Banrigh
- High Queen

Ard Righ
- High King

Mo gealbhan
- my little fire

Mo nighean Sidhe
- my faerie daughter

Seanmhair
- Grandmother

ar saighdear ruadh
- our red soldier

Inbhir Nàrann
- Nairn

Caithris
- funeral lament (?)

Ceol Mor
- great music (of the pipes, of course)

amhran
- music (story set to music)

deiseil
- toward the sun

Teine Sith
- faerie fire

Uisge Beatha
- water of life, whiskey

The Four Airts
- points of the compass

dhiobhuil
- devil

radjy
- randy, horny

grotty
- horrible

minging
- disgusting

wheesht
- hush

Mo Cridhe
- my heart

A cromulent wee cuddy
- a nice little horse (yes, it's actually in there! lol)

Geise (pl) or Geis
- the unexplainable rules by which Ailill and most of the Gentry must live. Sort of like personal laws, decreed upon a Faerie's birth, they can be uncommonly difficult to keep track of, and if too many are broken, it means a trial before the Council of Elders, and possible being temporarily demoted.

leoday
- flirt

toll-toine
- arse-hole

gammy or ceann-là
- head (of the sexual nature, of course)

druisealachd
- whore, prostitute

buidseach
- witch

Ciamar a tha thu?
- how are you?  

                                                                 
The Beginning   

Northwestern Scottish Highlands

Caisteal Muirnadhagh, 1014

Screams rent the deeping stillness of twilight, the keening wail of a loss foretold in the histories, forsworn in the spilled lifeblood of mankind, the pained outrage of many bringing tears, unbidden, to the eyes of a great many more. Stoic unto the last breath, the Guardians stood tall in the face of multiple generations of wailing
Ban-Sidhe
, their death song unnaturally subdued. Militaristic in stance, eyes trained forward, shimmering iridescence, alien in the eerie half-light; nary a sign of regret for what awaited them would be glimpsed by any of the gathered mass,  not a single tear shed, their own grief spent during the previous hours of darkness, of absolute despair. Bare chests steadily rose and fell, strong, ever powerful in the dim, glistening diamond drops of sweat despite a chill wind sweeping down from the ominous Highland peaks, howling through the glens, across the moors in answer, as if the very earth keened the loss as deeply. Naked, the four young men awaited the end of a proclamation, delivered in the soft, rich burr of their own uncle, the High King of Alba, a man who's fathomless black eyes showed his own losses in deep velvet shadows, depths of sorrow too great for any to understand except, perhaps, the young guardians, themselves.

Their fiery wee Queen was dead. Mere months after her own coronation, after her wedding to the
triple aspect
, the identical sons of the Alban King, her small, beauteous body had been savaged beyond repair by a ruthless fiend.
Ailill, Queen of the Hidden Isles
. She had not made it past fourteen. Out of respect for Herself, for the hope that her crowning had brought to every last branch of
Fae
and Highlander, alike, the small womanly body had been painted for battle, her flesh tinged blue, the shapely frame swathed in emerald green silk, a symbol of her own rank within the royal branch; unseen, the tiny forms of her unborn sons lay beneath the thin covering, three nearly perfect beings, brutally taken before their time, forever still, cradled in the arms of their mother.

Laid upon pyres of the seven sacred woods, three male forms flanked their lover, head to head, unified in life as well as in death; heavy torques of twisted gold and silver,copper and bronze, bound their thick necks, their bonds only in death, symbolic to their people, their rank within a well hidden society; the bonds had another use, the unhappy but necessary stitching beneath unseen by the Folk, those who had come from far and wide to pay their last respects to the fairest of the Gentry. The four Guardians awaited a similar fate, a decision made on a breath, to follow their sovereign even unto death, as per a lifelong pledge of fealty; a choice, where the others had had no such decency bestowed at the last, no choice at all under the ruthless sword of a soulless murderer.

"Do ye have aught to say, lads?"

It took but a moment for the dark heads of the Guardians to turn as one at the whispered query, iridescent eyes coming to rest, not on the King but, after a swift glance over the three raven haired bodies, upon the fiery mane of the
Banrigh
, the only part of Herself left intact; the flaming locks blew wildly in the breeze, an eerie illusion of the fate of them all. The youngest of the Queen's protectors took one shuddering breath, turned pale, ice-blue eyes upon his liege and answered with a barely perceptible nod.

"We
shall
reunite with our kindred Queen in
Tir na N'Og
, there to sleep for as many of the Goddess Brigit's great years as it may take until justice for our own," four deep, melodic voices declared as one, loud enough to be heard above the keening wind, the Banshee's wail. "We have failed our vow of protection to
an
Sidhe
Banrigh
. The Guardians will not fail again. By Brid's eternal flame, this we solemnly swear. In grief do we find strength; in death, the certainty of life,
Everlasting
."

The eyes of the four Guardians rose once more, beatific, glowing with an unspoken vow of vengeance; the beings gathered were now mercifully silent, uplifted faces alight with expectation as a veritable giant of a man with a long snowy white mane stepped forward, his weathered face grim as death itself; a flowing cloak of blackest velvet slipped from the man's massive shoulders to reveal a naked body etched with countless tattoos, esoteric symbols; protection necessary for
britheamh
; a judge; a headsman; an executioner of innocents.

Muscles bulged, rippled with awesome strength; a sword as ancient as the Gods of Celtica lifted, the blade gleaming blue fire with the moon's everlasting light, flickering like the diamond starshine above as it moved, wielded by the arm of an ancient, swiftly removing the dark heads of the Queen's personal Guardians in one fell blow.

The end foreshadows the beginning...

Li'l Bits

Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina

The feuding ‘tween the Gentry and the Black's hired varlets has calmed once again, wi’ no reported casualties; a good bit o’ time has passed since the warriors' return. The Auld Queen held off the Black Druid easily, wi’ no but her own powers, and the stubbornness which has gotten her through these many years of strife. Once the fool retreated back into the lowlands his rogue followers gave up the fight, just as we expected they would. The Elders have come to a decision at last; a
compromise
if ye will, which is why I have taken it upon myself to fetch yon wee Princess back to the Highlands, to begin her various training, the education which ye agreed she would need. I dinna wish to be takin’ the lass away from all that is familiar, ‘tis the verra last thing that I want to do, truly, but she has got aye,
much
to learn and we dinna have decades in which to see to it, this time. The Elders demand... nay, mmphm... require? Wish? Och, never mind that bit.”  The huge man halted in mid stride, the light of a setting sun adding a golden halo to his silken black mane that made the boy beside him smile, a twinkle of mirth alight in the six year old’s velvet-black eyes.

“
How about a simple-
‘tis time for Ailill to rejoin the Tribe
. They willna be best pleased wi’ any of it, let alone demands, nor yet wishes from the Elders. Och, either way, how did that sound, Tiernan, lad?”

His question was met with a soft, musical giggle, followed by a breathy voice from high above, in the ancient oak trees which cloaked the mountainside in a mantle of soft green. “It sounded like you are close on beggin’, Mister, and havin’ a hard time wi’ it, too.” The branches overhead rustled momentarily, the leaves parted just enough to reveal wide eyes in a cherubic face. Cherry-red lips grinned, cat-like, between dimpled cheeks lovely as ripe apples; all was topped off with a mass of long, fiery curls that sparked copper and amber wherever the sun’s last rays touched. The boy drew in a quick breath at the sight, earning a sharp look from the giant of a man beside him, his own father surprised to see the very girl he had been speaking of playing alone, completely unguarded, in the oak wood of Jewel Mountain. “And would you be searchin’ for my Mam, or my Da, to try all that on?”

“
Both, lassie.” The man smiled kindly up into the four-year-old’s face and stepped forward. “I am called Fergus MacDuff, and this is my son, Tiernan. I am come to be your foster.”

Deeply hued iridescent eyes slid back and forth between the man and his son, settling for a long moment on the younger one’s dark gaze, openly curious even as she pondered what the giant man had said. Without warning, the girl somersaulted from the tree; a ball of the green cotton which had concealed her so completely among the leaf-sprung branches straightened up into a deceptively lilliputian form, landing nimbly upon two tiny moccasined feet directly before the boy. She stared solemnly for a long moment, eyes wide, sparkling with wizened humor before lifting to the man.