by Jules Watson
I am always running from him. Her face burning, she slowed Meallán. Only then did she remember that the man could not see her. She stopped her horse and looked back.
This Ruán had not moved, his arms by his sides. Yet Maeve recognized his relief that she was leaving, even from afar. A calmness flowed all about him now, as if he was gathering in the vast stillness of the lake and sky and holding it within his own body.
She was seized by a craving to plunge back through the long grass and sink into that nameless well of peace that pooled around him. She would never have to summon forceful words again, never have to struggle, to fear. She would let the constant heaviness she bore fall to earth and simply breathe in the great silence.
Her hand unconsciously reached for it, the movement startling her from that baffling trance. Her breast thumping, she dragged Meallán around instead.
This time the horse absorbed the leap of tension in Maeve’s body. Once he lurched up the slope onto the track, he broke into a run of his own.
CHAPTER 9
As the long dark tightened its icy jaws about the land, Tiernan at last caught a glimpse of what he sought. In the bare oak grove, he lay so still for so long that his breath coated his hair in frost. A glittering film covered the cowhide enveloping his body. His heart slowed and he wheeled with its beat, far from the shell of flesh he knew.
His own murmur accompanied him, a strain of music beyond the stars. Show me the king.
Cold and hunger helped the spirit fly free, for suffering made the body an uncomfortable home. The pinprick of silver that was his own essence now rushed up and out into the void, bound to his flesh by only a thin cord. Clouds of sparkling dust swirled about him, slowly condensing into things he recognized: sights, sounds, and feelings.
And now, after so many weeks of searching, it burst upon him like the sun breaking through cloud.
The Lady Maeve …
… in a watery place of marsh and lake. Silver surrounded her like the moon’s crown on a frosted night. He glimpsed something else—a flare that was centered in the middle of her body. Was it … a sword she brandished before her? Did this mean she was the warrior-lord they needed?
Tiernan’s awareness circled, seeking more. Power radiated from her like the ring of a struck blade, resonating through tree, rock, grass, and stream in the land around her. And they all began to vibrate, as if they were made of a substance as fine as air, and she was the source of that resonance, that song …
The sickness of the seeing herbs sucked Tiernan back to himself.
He retched on the ground, belly cramping and hands burning as he cursed his human frailty. At last he wiped his numb mouth, groping for meaning. His thoughts were too fragmented to grasp, though, and when he began to shudder he knew he could not stay here. Wrapping the cowhide about himself, he leaned on his staff to hobble down the frosted path away from the starlit oaks.
With a flick of his hand, he summoned an image of Maeve so vivid she hovered before him. She was lean-muscled, clothed like a warrior, her hair stiffened into a wild mane that drew all the men’s eyes. He had to acknowledge that her proud bearing, bluntness, and vibrant laugh disturbed the man in him. Was it some primitive awareness telling him to fear her?
He had always thought it strange that she was so willful, yet went obediently to every new husband at Eochaid’s order. She knew she needed to be bound to her father, or die, his instincts whispered. Eochaid would have had no hesitation in tossing her out of Erin if she had not obeyed him. Or worse.
Now there was no father, or king—only a woman who sought to rule alone, bear the wounds and fears on her own. Die alone.
Tiernan left the grove more troubled than he’d entered it. The moonless night steeped the barrows of the ancients in gloom. There was no light to guide him here.
Cruachan waited, caught in the endless time of the long dark.
“I have never known a druid sift mud for his supper,” Maeve said, squatting on the sandy shore of the lake.
Ruán was digging mussels from the silt with his fingers, his nose just above the water. “As you see, there is no one else to feed me,” he gasped, straining to reach the lake-bed. With a curse, he suddenly took a breath and sank completely beneath the brown water.
Maeve saw his hair waving like dark weed, and shivered.
It was an iron-gray day, the tracery of branches in the woods behind bending in a bitter wind. Clouds crowded the sky. Maeve huddled in her thick oilskin, her hood up, her hands tucked beneath her arms.
Ridiculous, she thought, and did not mean Ruán being in the water on such a day. That was merely mad. She was the one who kept coming back to this cold place, bearing gifts of tools, blankets, bowls, and pots. It was she who trailed after him like a supplicant as he fished and gathered berries, trying to tease scraps of information from him that might help her, so far to no avail.
With her father and husbands, she had adorned many shrines with royal gold, and placated many druids. She knew exactly what was required.
She thought.
Ruán surfaced in a rush of foam, blowing water from his nose. His skin had gone red, his fingers white-tipped as he placed the muddy handful of mussels into his net bag and flung it to shore.
“So,” Maeve said, dogged as ever. “If there is no one with you, then you must be in some kind of priestly seclusion.”
“Which does not appear to be working,” Ruán remarked, wading out bare-chested.
At first Maeve had gaped when he said such things; now she had to bite her rebellious lip when it threatened to twitch. She must keep her mind sharp. She suspected he wielded some magical tricks, the way her thoughts so often lost focus. Be careful.
She summoned a frown. “And lakes and springs are where the sídhe live … so … you have taken a sacred vow to serve them, have you not?” If she shot questions at him, one day she might catch him off guard.
That lift of his lips was always maddening, as if she privately amused him. He slicked his dripping hair back with both hands. His chest and arms were puckered with gooseflesh, and the spiral tattoo seemed to pulse as he panted from the cold, strands of dark red clinging to it.
Her own heart quickened in sympathy. Annoyed, Maeve grabbed the wool mantle she had brought and flung it at him.
Ruán caught it, then hesitated, as he did when accepting any of her gifts. But a deeper shudder seized him, and reluctantly he wrapped it around his wet shoulders. “I was terrible at being a druid,” he said, his jaw outlined against the gray clouds. He shrugged. “I could never reach the sídhe, though I nearly killed myself trying. I did not come here to seek them.”
With narrowed eyes, Maeve strained to detect the lie. But there was only truth in those words. Sighing, she crooked her chin in her hand. Get up, and go.
She had many important things to be doing. Winning more lords to her side. Salting meat and pickling berries with the noblewomen—a chance to dig up news of the derbfine over cups of hot mead. Sparring with the young warriors in the weapons hall.
Her days pressed upon her, full to the brim. And yet here she was.
Though Ruán all but ignored her, she would not let him beat her, even though it was excruciating to sit so still while he set out his careful snares, or walk so slowly behind him while he found his way with hearing and touch. She would not give up. He must know something.
A squall blew in over the lake, pecking at the water with raindrops. They began to patter upon Maeve’s leather hood and drip down her cheeks, and she huddled even tighter. Ruán, though, put his head back and drank up the droplets, washing the brine from his face.
Maeve’s skin prickled as she watched him. Somehow the rain joined him to this place, as did the cold and wind. The waters seeped through him, binding him to the land. The wind buffeted his body, roaring like a wordless song.
It was Maeve’s turn to shiver. Gods. This was an exposed, barren place with no cozy hut and no roaring fire—she had not even discovered where he slept. No that
ch sheltering her, no thick walls.
All of this waited for her back at Cruachan.
Yet as if spellbound, she tilted her chin, and the rain began to blow straight in her face, running down her neck, freezing and clean. Here at the edge of the wild there were no voices arguing in her head, no fears whispering. The squalls and wind drove them all away.
Maeve did not get up to seek a fire. She did not move.
Cúchulainn wiped flecks of snow from his numb mouth and cheeks. It was not a good day for hunting, with threatening clouds and sleet showers blowing in from the east of the Ulaid.
King Conor, though, had ordered a few Red Branch out for a boar hunt, perhaps to lift his head from the vat of ale in which he was trying to drown. Cúchulainn, Conall, and the king’s eldest son Cormac had tracked the boar through bare forests close by Emain Macha, plunging through snow-slush and thorns in the thickets.
The boar was wounded now, trailing Cúchulainn’s spear, and the dogs had brought it to bay among the roots of a dead oak tree. The king’s huntsman deftly roped its tusks and tied them to smaller saplings to either side. Only then did the king ride up, dismount, and heft a spear.
Cúchulainn kept his attention on the boar’s murderous eyes. Even at rest, the Source was a subtle flame joining him to the fiery webs of other living creatures. The boar’s light was guttering now. The other men were silent, resting on their spears after the long trek through the cold.
King Conor was still bracing his lance, hesitating.
The Hound glanced at him. The spear-tip was wavering, and at that moment Conor swayed off balance and stumbled.
The boar grunted and lunged—and one of the ropes snapped.
Before Conor could react, Cúchulainn barreled into him, knocking him out of the way. Three more spears thunked into the boar’s chest and neck, from Conall, Cormac, and the huntsman. The boar squealed, tottered a few steps and collapsed, its snout blood-flecked.
Conor’s face was as pale as the snow, his eyes dazed. Cúchulainn knew better than to help him up, though, for the king was sensitive to such humiliations. Even his son Cormac did not start forward.
Scooping up the king’s spear, Cúchulainn turned, glancing at red-haired Conall. The Red Branch warrior swiftly dispatched the boar with a sword-cut to the throat. The huntsman released the hounds to yap and mill about, and the men broke into banter that was forced and brittle.
While the others began butchering the carcass, King Conor wove away through the trees, clods of snow clinging to his red wool cloak edged in fox fur. Cúchulainn found him by a little stream, scooping water into his mouth with a trembling hand. “Watch that pup of Fergus’s for me,” the king slurred.
Cúchulainn peered at him. Conor was far drunker than before they set out, which means he had been slugging ale in the saddle. “Buinne?” The Hound named the former king Fergus’s eldest son, hoping to turn Conor’s mind.
“Ach, he is as dim as his father! No, the little pup.”
Illan.
“He has a loose tongue—and looser loyalties.” His beard dripping, Conor groped his way around an oak tree and Cúchulainn heard his piss trickling on the snow. “He was practically raised at my hearth with Fiacra, and now he whispers insults behind my back.”
“Illan was in his cups at Samhain.” The Hound quelled his wrath, twisting the spear-butt into the snow. In his war-frenzy, he lost himself to the Source, so away from battle he never even raised his voice lest it take him over.
“I want you to watch him.” Conor slumped against the trunk and waggled a finger. “I don’t trust him. He wants his father as king again.”
“He does not. He is loyal to you and the Ulaid.”
“Watch them all. They hate me, and they want to unseat me.” Conor thumped the trunk of the oak tree. “Any man that defends Naisi wants to unseat me!”
Fergus on one side, Conor the other—and Cúchulainn caught in the middle. He had sworn to protect the kingship and the people.
Despite the nearby laughter of the men, Cúchulainn was swamped by bleakness. It was as if he stood in the shield-wall in battle, and his sword-brothers on either side were falling, disappearing into the bloody mire beneath his feet. Naisi. Illan. Fergus. The Red Branch … splintering. Who would be next?
Conor was staring at his fist on the mottled bark, his mouth slack. “That bitch thought she could shame me, but she will find out how I deal with traitors. She will see that Conor mac Nessa’s wrath never fades!” He struck the tree with greater force.
Cúchulainn frowned. Deirdre—or Maeve of Connacht? It must be Maeve, for the king only ever spoke of her with hate.
“I will show every warrior in Erin I am a stronger king than Fergus ever was.” Conor hissed it under his breath.
Heartsick, Cúchulainn spun and stalked away from him. Behind the king’s back, he coiled up his whole body and drove the iron-tipped spear through a thornbush, and left it there.
The sídhe appeared rarely now, and always unbidden.
Ruán had only their words to cling to.
He must open the eye inside him to see the light-song that flowed through all things. Each day he sought to surrender, letting the lushness of the lake world soak into him, letting himself melt into it. Then the ecstasy filled his whole body in a way it had not since he was a boy.
One morning Ruán waded through the reeds, caught in his trance. A smile touched his mouth. For a heartbeat a glimmer of light sheathed his body, coating him like the lake-water. Everything was vivid. A flap of wings came from the distance and he lifted his face. There … a bright streak as a swan flew away. Another shimmer; he turned toward it. For a moment there were silver sparks among the trees, and then they were gone.
The life of the lake was coursing through Ruán when he stepped ashore, the rich scent of mud in his nostrils, the wind stirring his hair. Wild as he was becoming, there was no need to think.
So his instincts immediately knew that Maeve of Cruachan had come.
Every time she appeared, he had no choice but to seat her at his fire, though when she spoke he barely answered, going about his business as if she was not there. He could not reject her outright, or give her insult. She did command warriors, after all, and could expel him from the lakeside.
He would not be beaten, though. This was his place, his doorway to the light of the sídhe.
Only he had since discovered that Maeve of Cruachan burned through his new senses like a falling star.
Ruán had endeavored to be repulsed by it, but every time she came, that vivid flame enlivened the ether around her, charging it like lightning and pushing back the black. He was a man who walked in darkness, and so for some reason his legs did not turn now and take him far away from her, as they should have done.
Maeve bounded down the trail from the woods toward him. “I have been waiting for you all morning! I should have left long ago.”
Ruán pulled up. “Since you say these are your lands, I assume you come and go at your will.”
She was silent a moment, a pulse in that flame he was beginning to recognize.
“Meallán and I brought you a proper shelter.” Her voice held a smile. “It has sides and roof sewn of layered cowhides, and lashings, and poles.”
Ruán had kept his sleeping place secret so far. The little dome of reeds existed in Thisworld, but it let in the heavy rains of the long dark, and it was cold.
“I found the perfect spot—there. Those yews will shelter you from the winds and leave you open to the sun.”
Ruán had no idea what to say. He opened his mouth, his mind working. A spatter of rain hit his face.
“Thank me later.” Maeve was brisk. “Those clouds up there … by their color they are bringing us heavy hail, and I don’t want to be stuck in it. We can throw this up over the trees and protect Meallán as well.” A growl of thunder interrupted her. “Hurry!”
Maeve began unrolling and flinging things at Ruán’s feet as the wind shook the bare branches around them.
Ruán let out his breath, spreading his hands by his sides and flexing them. This was merely a challenge to learn from—to let go into his senses while distracted by her.
They lashed poles and spread the heavy folds of oiled hides over an oak branch. Maeve fell into a rhythm that seemed familiar to her, and to Ruán’s surprise it was soothing. They flowed around each other. She spoke only to direct him, and he was able to focus and feel his way as he always did, with a delicate touch that drew the world about him into vivid relief.
“How does a queen learn such a skill?” Ruán knelt, binding the hides to the ground.
“Hunting. I was out all sun-season with the warriors, sometimes for days.”
The relish in her voice confused him. A royal lady who enjoyed sleeping on the ground, and plowing through damp woods …
Ruán tightened the last thongs as a bellow of thunder broke over their heads. Maeve cursed, trying to coax Meallán under the awning of hides. “I trained him to do this. The noise has unsettled him.”
Ruán took over, gentling the horse’s head until he backed in, Maeve and Ruán ducking after.
With another crack of thunder came a shower of icy projectiles that struck the hard sides of the tent, as lethal as sling-stones. Ruán tilted his head. “You were right.” He had never heard hail like it.
“I smelled it.” She sounded proud. “And recognized the color of the cloud. I’ve seen men bloodied by hail as large as that.”
They were both crushed near the front, giving Meallán room. “Ow!” Maeve cried.
A hailstone bounced onto Ruán’s feet. The air smelled of ice.
“When I packed the tent,” Maeve muttered, rubbing her arm, “I did not think the gods would take it as a dare.”
They squatted next to each other, shivering as the temperature of the air plunged. The hailstones hammered down, flung wildly at the shelter by the wrathful wind. In the midst of that tempest, Ruán was conscious of the strained stillness between him and this king’s daughter.
