Lips pressed together in a thin line, Clíodhna nevertheless felt grateful for Ita’s direct approach. “You are a true friend, Ita. Thank you for that.”
“Well? What really happened?”
How much should she tell? Nothing about Adhna. But Odhrán’s reputation remained at stake, and she mustn’t make things worse for him. Still, Ita had come to her for the truth, rather than believe or propagate gossip. Clíodhna owed her friend an explanation.
“Odhrán has been kind to me and my children. We’ve developed a close friendship over the last few moons.”
Ita rolled her hand for Clíodhna to continue.
She cleared her throat. “On Bealtaine eve, he told me the Abbot had reassigned him, and is moving far to the north, to Ard Mhacha.” The memory of that conversation began to replay in her mind, both the intense sorrow of losing her close confidante and the highly charged sexual aftermath. Clíodhna swallowed to regain control over her emotions. “We may have gotten out of hand saying goodbye to each other.”
Her friend tried to stifle a giggle. “Gotten out of hand? You have a talent for understatement! From the gossip, the Abbot found you on the floor, still joined at the hips!”
Clíodhna gritted her teeth. Who spread such words? Odhrán wouldn’t have said anything. Pátraic must have shared the news of the encounter and colored it with details of his own. They’d both already been rising from the ground when the Abbot opened the door. “But that’s not how he found us.”
Ita narrowed her eyes, nodding once. “Well enough. Odhrán’s no longer in the village to offer his view, as he left yesterday, from all accounts. With your permission, I shall correct the worst of the rumors with the truth.”
Clíodhna’s stomach dropped. “He’s already gone?”
“He went off with three guards and two other monks yesterday at noon. I saw him myself.”
She let out a deep sigh and clenched her hands, her nails digging into her skin. “I will miss him.”
“That may not be wise.”
After looking up to Ita’s concerned expression, Clíodhna lifted her eyebrows in query.
“The Abbot is not happy with either the circumstances, or the rumors flying about them. He’s sent Odhrán away, but the gossip remains—as do you. He may make things difficult for you if he can.”
Clíodhna’s grief morphed into righteous anger. “If he can. What does he think he can do to me?”
Ita stared at her. “Don’t try him, Clíodhna. The Abbot is powerful, and his church is becoming more powerful every season. He’s converted one king already. The man can be incredibly persuasive when he speaks. He exudes charisma like no one I’ve ever seen. Most of the village are quite impressed.”
“I don’t find him persuasive in the slightest.”
“You are biased. You already dislike him. And I’m worried that might make things difficult. You’re a woman without a husband, and you have three children to protect. That makes you vulnerable to any man, especially one with power in the community.”
Ita’s words sobered Clíodhna’s determination. “Fair enough. I’ll be careful.”
* * *
Over the next two moons, Clíodhna split her time between learning magic from Adhna, caring for her farm and her children, and avoiding Abbot Pátraic. The latter proved to be the most difficult task of the three. He’d evidently embarked upon a campaign against the old beliefs, a systematic discounting of the old gods, goddesses, Fae, and magic.
While she couldn’t care less what his personal beliefs might be, he preached his bias every day to the community. Despite their own strong ties to the old gods, such bias made its mark. Each rest day, during the speech after the liturgy, either Pátraic or another monk would urge the villagers to destroy any mushroom circles they found. They’d pull down the Faerie stones dotted across the landscape and plug up any caves or springs said to be sacred to the old deities. They preserved some locations by re-dedicating them to the new religion’s saints, the half-divine humans that became elevated through works toward the new god. Clíodhna didn’t understand quite how these saints worked, but she equated them with the Fae lords. They had power, but not the power the gods had.
Etromma tried to teach her the difference between the saints, but she didn’t really comprehend.
One morning, Donn explained to her how this new God consisted of three Gods at once, but still just one.
“Like the Morrigú? She has three aspects, depending on the need.”
“Well, not quite. But use her as an example if you wish. For God, it’s the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Clíodhna had never heard that last phrase. “What, precisely, is a Holy Spirit?”
He screwed up his face. “Let me ask Brother Cronan. He can explain it better than I can.”
It didn’t matter how many times they tried to explain, Clíodhna neither tried to understand nor wanted to. She didn’t need to have faith the new god existed. The old ones remained real to her. She’d supped with Fae and worked their magic, which ran through her own blood. The blood of her children, as well, though they’d refuse to acknowledge that part of their heritage.
Her children’s dedication to the new religion just made her more determined to master Adhna’s lessons.
When Adhna returned the next day, he stared at her, his gaze traveling from head to toe. “Clíodhna! When were you going to tell me?”
At a loss, she replied, “Tell you what?”
“That you’re
