Tír na nÓg Trilogy, Book III: Tír na nÓg

Tara

They reached the hill within an hour or so of riding, when the night was a lush, velvety indigo only slightly touched by the distant light of the celestial bodies. Tara itself was glittery green, even at such an hour, and low mist hovered about like steam over a warm bath on a winter's day. There was an absolute silence, so powerfully serene as to assure both of them that this place was as sacred as they'd been told it was. Setanta dismounted first, offering his hand to Emer, and then he tied his glossy black steed to a lone tree. Neither of them spoke a word as they approached the eerily still low-lying mounds of earth, for the hill rose in more than one place.

Where first they should go, they didn't know. There seemed to be a presentiment of gravity, as if something were to happen that night that would bring far-reaching consequences, something beyond the joy of becoming man and wife, but neither spoke of this feeling with the other.

"There," Setanta said laconically, pointing into the distance, where a stone appeared to protrude from the top of one of the mounds.

Emer, meaning to shed the sense of solemnity that had sewn itself around them, looked to Setanta playfully. "Do you think I can get there before you can?" she asked.

Setanta stopped walking, and Emer followed suit, gazed up at him questioningly. "I'm weighed down by three times as much metal as you are, Lady."

"Then perhaps you should remove some of your attire."

A corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "I thought we'd save that for after the handfasting."

Emer widened her eyes. "Shame!" she cried, smiling, and turned to run toward the hill, disturbing the low-lying mists as she ran.

Anxious in spite of his banter, Setanta hurried to follow her, not liking the way her body hid itself as she drew away from him.

The mound was not so far as it had looked, and shortly, they stood atop it, curious about the squat stone pillar poised right in its center. The short column was carved with ogham markings, sacred writings, and was surrounded by a spiral of smaller flat stones that had been set into the earth to mark its placement.

"Lia Fáil," Setanta breathily told her. "The Stone of Destiny."

"Ah, yes," Emer flattened her grin in an expression of disinterest. "My old serving woman told of it. Purportedly, it's the crowner of kings!"

"It's one of the treasures of the Gods."

Emer huffed a little. "Well, they can keep it. I care not for their treasures. Do you hear me, Gods?" she called, shattering the silence of the night world around them. "What do you want with me? I am not yours to do with as you wish! I will wed this man!" She turned to Setanta, a nervous laugh escaping her. "Is it too much?" she whispered, clapping a hand to her lips.

He stepped forward, gently took her hand away from her mouth, and kissed her fingertips. "It could never be too much."

His breath against her skin was warm, touched her somewhere within, and she shivered, though not from the cold.

"Do you come here to join yourselves, this night?"

Both of them swiveled toward a figure that had apparently arrived out of nowhere, startling them half to death. He was huge, cloaked in a bull hide, a feathered mask covering his face. They couldn't even see his eyes, for the eyeholes in the mask were darkened.

"There is no need to be frightened," the man boomed in his rich voice. "I am Mug Ruith, druid and High Priest of the Ancient Ones. You come to defy the Gods, do you not?"

Setanta was far from comfortable with this stranger. Hand on his sword, he eyed the druid distrustfully. "How do you know this?"

"I know all, my friend, and I wish to help you."