by Jules Watson
Maeve saw a movement through a thicket of bare blackthorns. She froze and dropped. It was him, walking along the shore as if he had just come from the water.
His deerskin trews were soaked, and stuck to his thighs. A great tattoo curled over his chest—a spiral that traced from his heart to belly to breastbone. It moved as he breathed. Maeve dragged her gaze from it. His long hair was a dark auburn, trailing about his face. He did not swagger like a warrior, with flexed shoulders and brawny arms. He was taller and more lithe, his chest proud and lifted high. His graceful steps appeared to flow with the land, as if the air parted to let him by.
It was disconcerting, and she did not like the sensation.
A strip of deerskin hid his eyes. Maeve searched her memory of tales about the sídhe. Was this a mark of sacred sight?
The sídhe was gliding along the sand, smiling at something in the water. As he drew close to Maeve, he squatted and unfurled a hand toward the lake. The muscles along his shoulder blade rippled, the hollows between his ribs glistening.
A snub head appeared, pushing through the water-grass. Maeve glimpsed a humped back and the flick of a tail.
The sídhe was murmuring. To her astonishment, the otter clambered out of the water and put its paws on his knee. The sídhe held still, then lay back on the sand. The otter climbed his thigh before curling up on his belly, grooming its whiskers.
Maeve’s mouth fell open.
The sídhe stroked the otter’s flank, and when the creature chittered, he laughed. That made his belly shake, which prompted the otter to hop off, flashing a look of injury at him before diving again into the water.
The sídhe lay then with face lifted to the weak sun, as if drinking it in. The pleasure in his expression … the absorption … it cast a spell over Maeve. For a moment she forgot why she was there, drawn to sink into the warm sand the way he did …
He scrambled up then, turning toward the blackthorns where she hid.
Maeve’s legs were trembling but she made herself stand. She stepped into the open, whipped out her father’s blade and knelt with it across her palms. “Forgive me for my mistake in the forest. I … was not in my right mind.” She paused to steal a glance.
The sídhe’s graceful shoulders had tensed. “So this time you give me a chance to run before striking me down.” His voice was hoarse, but beneath that, the resonance reminded her of the chief druid, Tiernan.
Maeve blinked. “I … ah … have come to beg the forgiveness of the Shining Ones. I took the sword to protect my people.” She had come to make sure they would not curse her for her daring, for now she must face Innel—or die. “I can give you much in return.”
His expressive mouth quirked. “You think you can bargain with the sídhe?”
“Everything is a bargain.”
An ungodly snort startled her.
The sword slipped to Maeve’s knee, and she frowned. “As Queen of Connacht, I will ensure my people avoid your lakes and hills and leave you in peace.”
His ruddy brows arched above the blindfold; his full mouth drew into a thin line.
Maeve thought it must be scornful, that look. She tensed as the old hurt surfaced from the past. Twice she had prayed to them, and twice was met with silence. “The sídhe owe me.”
He turned on his heel and flowed back along the shore. “I lost my sight.” He sounded distracted now. “Do they owe me?”
Gods, he was not a sídhe. Stupid … stupid … Maeve’s limbs sprang to life and she ran after him. “Who are you?” She reached to halt him, and only then saw that the blindfold had slipped, and between his brows, an older mark—the horned spiral borne by druid-kind.
Maeve clasped his arm, but did not get anything else out.
This time something poured from him into her. First a flood of heat that loosened muscle and bone, then a rippling of her body, as if she was no longer solid. The air around her shimmered, a silver corona sheathing her in a different form.
She was sinuous … curling through sunlit water in a spiral of lithe muscles.
Her hand dropped away.
Glimmering bubbles all about her …
Maeve spun, sheathing the sword. She stumbled into a run, expecting that shining wave of water and light to crash over her, fill her nose and throat until she drowned as a punishment for her daring.
She threw herself onto Meallán’s back. “Fly,” she gasped to him, her knees prodding him into a gallop.
All the way home that potent tide surged and ebbed through Maeve. She could not feel the shape of her own body—and she had never been more afraid.
Ruán slipped on his belly in the shallows. The reeds murmured above his head. The ache of the icy water was shut out by the turmoil of his mind. He kept his mouth under the surface, nostrils flaring, so he didn’t scare away the birds.
Queen of Connacht! They didn’t tell me that. They didn’t tell me anything.
Then he realized the sídhe could hear his mental wrath, so trying to drown it somewhat defeated the purpose. Ruán drew his legs under him and crouched on the lake-bed, swiping drips from his face. Dancing out of reach, capricious, fleeting … aye, the sídhe were just like the glints he remembered of sunlight on water.
He had accidentally dislodged the blindfold, and after a struggle with his temper, pulled it back down and bound the ties. He had now discovered the best reason for wearing it—the pressure on the sockets stopped him straining his empty eyes.
To truly see, you must seek the light that flows through all things, the girl had urged him. The creatures and plants, but also water, soil, and air all glow with their own hue. Human eyes cannot perceive it, only your spirit sense, so you must practice. She had grinned at him. You have the time.
Ruán breathed out, letting his discomfort flow into the cold water. He had just begun to catch flickers of light behind his own eyes now, which was all that mattered: to perhaps one day actually see again in Thisworld. No one was scaring him away from that—he would stand his ground before any so-called Queen of Connacht.
And anyway, the woman had crept in secret to a place that held a funeral bier, hiding herself from her own people. These were not the actions of the ruler of a kingdom. She must be lying.
Ruán sank up to his nose, drawing the memory of the otter to inhabit him once more. A few drops of rain spattered his brow, and a frigid wind stirred his wet hair. Gliding along, he made himself forget everything but the water clothing his skin and the scent of weed and brine. He emptied himself, imagining that he dissolved into the lake like a handful of earth.
There. A glimmer, a pulse of light. He followed it. There was a flap of wings and a squawk as the duck flew away.
Ruán reached into the reeds, tenderly tracing the little nest. Seven globes, warm and smooth. A great bounty, so late in the season. He took two, wrapping them in a bag of nettle rope at his waist. I give thanks for your strength that will fill my body. For I, too, am a child of the Mother.
He did not forget the humbling of the stones, and how ready he’d been to give his substance up to Her and feed the other life of the land. But not yet.
Not yet, they said.
CHAPTER 7
A voice cut the darkness. “Chief druid.”
Tiernan halted, snapping out of his reverie. Few people dared the oak groves at night, and not in this deepening cold, the sky now empty of cloud. His brethren carried on down the path to Cruachan, their robes glowing under the waning moon.
Whoever interrupted him was covered in a cloak from head to foot. Under the trees he saw only a pale blur and a cloud of breath that billowed out into moonlight.
“It is Maeve. I must speak with you.”
Tiernan had not seen the king’s daughter since the Samhain feast. She had always caused a slight disturbance in the ether around her, and he only now realized it had been absent for many days.
Immediately, he turned back for the sacred grove. The thatched temples were comforting to ordinary people, with their lamps and wood
en idols, but druids preferred to worship among the oaks in the night. Maeve would speak to him on his ground.
Within a clearing ringed by gnarled trees, Maeve put her hood back, her flaming hair now turned dark gray. “I have challenged my brother to a duel. I want you to make sure he fights me.”
Tiernan merely stared, for these words made no sense. In the icy moonlight her features were as sharp and hungry as ever. Her gaze was fixed beyond him, though, and for a moment he thought he glimpsed a bright flicker around her. He reminded himself that the oaks tricked the eyes at night. “Why would I do that, lady?”
“Because he has already tried to silence me, and now I must kill him before he kills me. But even if you don’t care for that, care for this.” Maeve thrust herself closer, making Tiernan draw back. Her words tumbled out, her eyes flaring, the pupils wide and black. “The men, including Innel, are going to fight for the kingship. You will soon have a war on your hands between kin, and Connacht will be weakened and vulnerable to attack. I, though, stand outside those factions. I know how to bring a new king to power, in peace.”
Tiernan blinked to clear his head of chants and incense. Was she plotting to snare herself another husband? He stroked his beard, fingering the gold beads woven through the gray. “You think killing a man will bring peace?”
Her brows arched, bringing her cold face to life. “Do not play with me, chief druid. Men often die to win peace. But if you’d rather, think of it as me removing a problem we both share.”
Age had stooped Tiernan, and he leaned on his staff to pull his spine to match her height. “These are druid matters.”
“The nobles choose the king,” she cut in. “The druids only bless that choice. And you could not, in all conscience, bless Innel. His bloodlust and greed will make him a terrible king! He raided Mumu to win support for his kingship, and the Mumu took revenge on innocent herders—”
“The warriors raid cattle. Your father did.”
“But that is all Innel has to hold his warriors—brawls and raids. He does not command true loyalty of the heart. With him as king, we will be endlessly at war. Kings must be wiser than that, know who to provoke and placate. Raiding should not be used to preen, but for protection and strategy.” She caught herself, turning to face the fading oaks. “We need a ruler who strengthens the people, who is the people.” Her voice trembled. “Someone who will be wedded to the land, and not to their own greed.”
Tiernan realized then that what he always felt radiating from her was heat. Like any flame, it drew a man in—even him. He pounced on that human weakness, crushing it. “Your cousin Fraech enjoys the support of many men.”
“My brother and cousins splinter the men’s loyalties, each with too small a following alone and too many enemies. None of them can unite our people as one.”
Tiernan cocked his head, drawing the silence out and changing tack to assert his authority. “You were named well—‘she who intoxicates.’ Even when young, you had a way of making men do your will.”
She snorted. “And even then, I never got what I wanted.”
“And that was?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, chief druid?”
Now he saw that her array of wry smiles and blunt manner formed her own kind of armor.
She spread a hand. “Pray, do go on. I never tire of hearing my own faults flung back at me.”
His lip curled. “You are unmarried once more, and have ways of making men cleave to you. That makes you dangerous.” She seeks power through a man.
Her chuckle was harsh. “That is all men see when they look at me.”
“Not all men.”
She caught her breath, and moonlight moved within her eyes. “Then use one danger to rid yourself of a far greater danger. My brother.”
Tiernan’s spirit senses probed her. She was unpredictable, his mind hissed, her loyalties uncertain. On the other hand, she would probably die on Innel’s blade, and then Eochaid’s cubs would stir no more trouble at Cruachan. “You have considered this well.”
“As a dove among foxes, I must always stay a flap ahead of their jaws.”
“A dove,” he mused, his gaze traveling over her strong shoulders and hard thighs beneath her leather trews.
He then discovered Maeve of Connacht also knew how to unbalance her opponent. She flashed a feral grin that lit her face. “All you have to do is let me fight him.”
Garvan met Maeve in a little-used stable far from the king’s lodge. With the help of the crafters, she had managed to slip back into Cruachan, bundled in their farm-carts among the women and children, her stained cloak hiding her hair.
“Innel has returned,” he reported.
Squatting in one of the stalls, Maeve coughed on chaff and old horse-dung. “What did he say?”
“Fury brought him charging back, but then he calmed down, saying he would not demean himself by fighting a woman. And then—you won’t believe this—Tiernan stood before all the warriors and said every person who could fight had the right to issue a challenge, and that he had to meet you or be named coward!”
So you play your own games, chief druid. “Innel cannot afford this accusation.”
“No, by the gods, he cannot. He flew into another rage, ordering his servants to grease his weapons, and polish armor, and cut the green so the turf is flat.” Garvan chewed his lip, eyeing her. “And here you are, spitfire. The druids agreed on first blood.”
That law ensured that few men died in duels. Once a wound was taken, the fighting stopped. It also meant there was little time to win.
Before he finds some other way to kill me.
Maeve leaned her head against the timber stall and the world shimmered again. Ever since she had touched the man at the lake, she was aware of a current running through her. The air glimmered like a reflection of water, the ground rippling like waves. She had considered delaying the combat until she shook off this strange trance, but every time she thought it, her body throbbed. The rush of the tide … the light …
Garvan gripped her wrist. “We have sparred together, Maeve, and I know you can fight. But you cannot beat him.”
She smiled. His face was washed with streams of bubbles. “I have to.” Though deep inside she trembled, there was no other way but this. She would not be hunted. She would not be violated. And with nothing else to grasp for, the only way to triumph against Innel and his cubs was to be a warrior like them.
“You are a damn fool!” Garvan leaped up. His cheerful face was haggard with something Maeve dimly recognized as grief. “Start listening to me, spitfire—or I won’t be part of any of your idiot plans, ever again!”
“If I die, you won’t anyway.”
He grunted in disgust and vaulted over the stall, kicking up muddy straw as he strode out.
There was no need to hide anymore.
Ignoring the whispers of the servants, Maeve went to her bed-nest in the women’s lodge to dress herself. She could not bear any men arming her, with their cold iron, callused hands, and heavy tread. She did not want any touch upon her, dragging her back to shore.
Here she floated, as if it was not really happening; and yet at the same time she was drawn along like a leaf on a tide. An end had to be made now, of some kind.
The morning mists melted, pouring a faded, leaf-fall warmth over Cruachan. The day climbed to high-sun, clear and still.
The gossips had done their jobs well. People were gathering at the fighting green, the throng speckled with the sheen of furs and glint of bronze that picked out the noble folk. Women flocked the rutted paths between the huts, bundled babies strapped to backs and children dragged along by the hand.
Maeve was barely aware of them on her way through the king’s ramparts and scattered thatch lodges of the crafters. She reached the fighting green before the mound of the warriors—a square of turf marked out by spears laid on the ground.
A stillness descended. Everyone was staring because Maeve wore only a breast-band and breechclout beneath h
er hide armor, her legs and arms left naked. She was also barefoot and bareheaded, her hair tight-bound.
No shield. No iron but the sword she carried on her back, wrapped in linen.
A desire had seized her to capture every current of air on her skin—the scent of the wind, the give of the turf—unimpeded by a shell of metal. Her breastplate and kilt had been molded to her body when the hides were wet—they were a second skin. She padded along on bare soles, sleek and graceful as Miu.
A gust of wind blew through the gold and brown trees along the stream, showering leaves across the flock of people. Children put their chubby fingers to them, laughing in their mother’s arms. Maeve unfurled her palm without breaking stride, daring the gods. Would she live? A withered leaf caught in her hand and she folded her fingers around it. Was it death, or a sign of life to come?
The faces and bodies of the enormous horde soon merged into a sea of luminescence through which Maeve swam. Innel was a dark weight at its heart, his body clanking with mail-shirt, helmet, sword-belt, and shield. His hatred was in his sneer as he swung toward her, but she felt nothing.
She floated, rocked on invisible currents.
Dreamily, she drew her sword-bundle into her arms.
Just then Garvan thrust the knots of spectators aside and bounded over the spears to her side. “Aye, I’m back.” He held her elbow, his breath spiked with ale. His black hair stuck up as if he’d been plucking at it. “Spitfire, the men know you’re good. You don’t have to be so stubborn. Let it go, and come away.”
The sea of light bound by the spears beckoned Maeve, radiant waves lapping through her body. She met his eyes. “Each time Father married me off, did you think I was content to be hearth-bound? Do you think I gave away the freedom of my thighs for nothing? Endured, for nothing?” She tilted her head, dazzled by the glow about him. “I sought out the best warriors in Mumu, and some among the Ulaid. And in the glades, they gave up their fighting secrets to me.”
