King Dom Comes

Shannon's
hand trembled uncontrollably as she re-read the letter. It contained one word,
written in a bold script.

Tomorrow

She
had known this day would come. There had been no escaping her fate from the
moment the king had placed her in the hands of the Sisterhood of Truth, a tiny
and isolated convent located in a remote village in Northern Ireland. He had
left her with the hope she would gain the education, and learn the discipline,
that would be necessary to take her place by his son's side as a wife and
Queen. Her future was set, and Shannon's love and respect for the departed
ruler did not leave room to question this destiny. She struggled with only two
questions; when would the new king, Domitri d'Gavril, come for her, and how
would he receive her unique 'gifts'?

Pulling
her knee-length, fiery red hair over her left shoulder, Shannon lowered herself
to the hard wooden chair perched next to the tiny window of her chambers. With
a shiver, she tried to milk the heat from the last rays of sunlight peeking
through the hazy glass and splashing against the stony dampness of the room.

Would
Moldavia hold warmth for her in either temperature or its people? Shannon knew
little about geography; only that it would take months to reach the small
eastern European kingdom of Moldavia. Her journey would take her far away from
the lush green hills of her home, where legends told of flying fairies that
played among dancing leprechauns and wood nymphs, far away from the bogs and
fens that swarmed with life, and even farther away from the political
indignities and religious unrest that plagued the rest of the world. No longer
would she have to live in fear of the Roman church and the heinous crimes
committed against those who did not practice their faith in that same manner.
She again wondered if her betrothed would embrace her talents as his father had
done—if he was even aware of them. Surely King Malkai would have told his
son that the woman he was marrying was not normal, in the conventional sense of
the word.

Not
that it mattered. Religion bored her. Politics bored her. The convent, the
place she was forced to call home, bored her. Excitement coursed through her
veins at the prospect of seeing a new world, where she could run free in the
sunlight and dance in the moonlight. Shannon sighed, suddenly wishing that she
could take flight like the giant messenger. How glorious it would be to soar
through the skies to her new home rather than being confined to an
uncomfortable carriage, likely filled with people in sore need of lye soap, herb
scrubs, and water.

Shannon
tugged an ivory comb through her thick tresses, an odd habit she had formed to
help her remember to think first, act later. She sighed; the technique had not
saved her from the frequent switchings she received from the Grand Dame, and
she doubted it would save her from whatever else her future held with her new
husband.

Stories
about the prince, now king, had traveled far and wide, even reaching the tiny
convent. Unfortunately, none of them appeared to be good ones. With the recent
death of his father, Domitri d'Gavril's behavior stirred up rumors that left
many outside of his kingdom in fear of their lives. His vicious reputation for
intolerance concerned her. The reports were that he never left the castle
except to engage in warfare, and that he ruled his kingdom and his people with
an unmerciful iron hand and harsh justice.

Shannon
had no physical fear of the prince, or for her life. Her gift protected her
from any who would attempt to cause her harm; of that she had no doubt. Despite
that, worry began to plague her again. To what extent would Domitri go to
control her? Would he keep her locked in the darkness of cold, stone walls and
force her to fit into a world in which she did not belong? Would her life be
confined to a cramped courtyard and the interaction of a select few, so that he
would not be judged for the keeping of, well, someone like her?

Shannon
placed the comb upon the edge of the chair and wearily looked up at the
portrait of her deceased mother. "Mama?" she said to the painting.
"What am I to do? How am I to act? I don't wish to be hidden away any
longer. I need to feel the sunlight on my face and the grass under my feet. I
miss the swamps and the sound of the wind through the bogs. Mama, I need you.
Speak to me. Please."

Celine
Airlie smiled down at her daughter. The artist had captured the mischief and
warmth in the beautiful woman's blue eyes, and Shannon felt the anxiety melt
from her heart. Memories of her arrival at the convent, and the events that had
led her to her upcoming nuptials, flooded back to her mind. She closed her
eyes, remembering the story told to her by both her mother and King
Malkai—of how he'd found them and why she had been brought to the
convent.

***

Celine
was descended from a long line of Irish healers whose knowledge of nature went
beyond the understanding of most. The conversion to Christianity had been a
slow one in Ireland, too slow for the impatient Church of Rome, but it had come
nonetheless. Hiding from the strong Catholic influence surrounding everyday
life, those who followed the teachings of the druids were forced to practice
their faith in the darkness of the night, deep in the swamps and hidden from
curious, judgmental, and fear-filled eyes. Celine was one such follower, pacifying
the self-righteous priests of the district during the day, and worshipping in
freedom under the moon while the townspeople slept. She still dressed in the
gown of the pagan sect, openly declaring her true beliefs to a world that
assumed she dressed in white to proclaim her virtue.

The
local townspeople embraced her secret, and protected her from the prying eyes
and condemning hearts of the local priesthood and religious zealots. Her
generosity in offering her healing gifts defined her as both blessed and gifted
in the eyes of the community.

However,
for as many loved Celine and respected her ancient skills, there were also
those who feared the folk tales and proclaimed her a Banshee: a fairy
woman/swamp witch associated with death. Celine's worst enemy was her husband,
and Shannon's father, Dougal McCleary. However, it was not the mysterious druid
rituals or the supernatural gifts that he feared the most, nor was his hatred
based upon his own religious beliefs. No, his hatred was anchored in the fear
that she would discover his own sin, and for that, he wanted her gone.

 
Fear made him careless. As it grew, so
did his frequent absences from his home, wife and baby daughter. Celine's
suspicions grew, and she followed him out one evening with their daughter in
tow. Shocked by the discovery of him fornicating with a local seamstress,
Celine threw curses upon both of them. Witnesses to her outburst gave it no
second thought, for they were understanding of her hurt and betrayal, nor did
anyone blame her for the death of the woman upon the next full moon. The town
magistrate declared that the unfortunate adulteress had tripped over the thick
knots of marsh grass while walking through the bog, and had struck her head
upon a rock. She drowned in two inches of mud and water.

Overcome
with grief at the loss of his mistress, and the need to place blame upon anyone
but himself, the man launched a campaign against Celine. One week after the
seamstress's death, Dougal ran into the market center, waving a large handful of
'Devil's Porridge' with the accusation that the hemlock hidden in the herb
closet was meant for him. He furthered his crusade by quoting theological
passages against witchcraft, along with fanciful stories of Celine's nightly
escapades to have sex with the devil. His stories grew more far-fetched each
time they were told, and the townspeople grew weary of his attack against
Celine. It was not until he brought in an English bishop, that the townsfolk
felt their way of life was threatened, and all chose to abandon their support
of the healer.

After
a lifetime of being in a close-knit community, Celine found herself isolated
and alone, with only her one-year-old daughter to keep her company. As the
years slowly passed, the sweet songs that had filled the empty stirring of the
night were replaced by keening wails, weeping, and moans that penetrated the
stillness.

The
legend of the beautiful woman's banshee-like cries traveled rapidly across the
lands. Repeated by minstrels and housewives, soldiers and children, the folk
tale spread, and was used to keep young and old alike from being lost to the
shadows and other forms of evil after dark had fallen. The fable fell upon the
ears of Malkai d'Gavril, a Romanian born nobleman who had lost his beloved wife
in childbed as she gave birth to their son. Something in the minstrel's telling
brought both pain and need to the elderly man's heart, and Malkai vowed to
explore the myth as soon as he could eradicate the evil Ottoman ruler from
Moldavian soil. He became obsessed—so much so, that after he had seized
the castle and cast out the Ottoman occupation, he left his country, and his
motherless son, to hunt for the mythical creature.

Months
passed as Malkai followed the clues to be found in rumors, gossip and song. He
had searched every village and occupied field on the green island, and heard
neither keening nor reports of the banshee's whereabouts. Many people laughed
at his inquiries, calling him foolish to believe in tales spun to frighten
children. His dream destroyed, Malkai ordered his reluctant entourage to return
to the ship and wait five days for his return while he mourned his loss. He
boarded his horse at the stables in a small village surrounded by heavy
marshland, and set out to roam the wetlands on foot, praying to hear the
banshee keen just one time. On the third day, the movements of a strikingly
beautiful, redheaded woman caught his attention. He hid behind an outcrop of
rocks and watched in breathless silence as the white-gowned creature gathered
herbs by a small stream and delicately placed them in her basket. Then the
sound of soft singing made him turn his head, and his eyes found the tiny girl
hidden in the greenery of the stream bank. The mesmerizing child was alit with
colorful butterflies, and wild rabbits, weasels, and squirrels gently took
morsels of food directly from her small hands.