by Jules Watson
The great fire in the king’s hall was put out and the ash cleared away. A new fire would be lit that night by the druids from the eternal flame that burned at Lugh’s temple.
The only thing missing was Maeve herself.
As the sun rose higher, the tension built. Drums beat to quicken the pulse of the people of Connacht, galloping faster as the crowds thronged.
At last a glimmer of white and red appeared against the lush grass along the river.
People shouted and beckoned to each other, scrambling up the gate-towers and lining the ramparts. They clambered onto carts and crawled up thatch roofs to see better.
A hush spread.
Swaying along the riverside path, as if he had taken shape from the Otherworld mists, came Finnbennach, royal bull of Connacht. The chief druid Tiernan led him on a halter, and boys dashed alongside with switches of willow. Finnbennach, however, had been pacified with sweet grass and lush cows. He rolled along now like a great, white swell of the sea, immense and awe-inspiring.
On his back, sheathed in leather and hung with gold, rode Maeve.
Her ruddy hair draped the bull’s neck, the Otherworldly hues of red and white mingling together—god-blessed, sacred. She lifted her head at the murmur of the crowd, flashing sun from her helm, and raised her lance. The eagle of Connacht unfurled on a pennant, wings spread in the wind.
A roar of acclaim erupted, echoing far across the plains of Cruachan.
The circlet on her brow.
The nectar of the land on her tongue.
The songs of the druids in her ears.
The cheers of the people in her heart.
From the steps of the temple of Lugh, Maeve looked out over a riot of colorful banners and milling crowds, everything gilded by the dusk.
But she saw only light—walked through light—hushed and glowing as silver on the lake.
“Ferdia has left Cúchulainn’s side.” The ragged bard bowed to Maeve, wiping his red nose on his sleeve.
Maeve’s hand paused on Miu’s head, the cat’s golden eyes staring into her own.
Two days after the crowning, the feasts still rolled on, but she had escaped from drunken warriors and red-cheeked chieftains to enjoy a quiet moment by the brazier in her father’s old chamber.
Her chamber now.
“Conor’s lords hoped he would bury his wrath with the old season, but leaf-bud only sees it stoked higher. No one thought his old trunk could fill with such sap!” The harper cackled and sneezed, huddling into his cloak. “Now his madness has forced Ferdia to seek Naisi and Deirdre in Alba. And Cúchulainn is silent, and no man can look in his face.”
Maeve’s heart began to race, and she folded her hands in her lap. Ferdia and the great Cúchulainn were more than sword-brothers. They were one soul.
Ferdia fought by Cúchulainn’s side, drank and ate and, for all she knew, slept at Cúchulainn’s side. They were night and day—Ferdia dark and secretive, the Hound fair and fiery. At Emain Macha, Maeve had managed to glean that the mystical bond that forged the strength of the Red Branch was somehow embodied by those two.
She had therefore tried everything to win over Cúchulainn, but he proved one of the few men entirely immune to her, keeping her at arm’s length with his cheery bluster. Whenever she tried to speak to him, he breezed on past with a broad grin and glazed eyes, looking over her shoulder for something more interesting.
Bastard.
Maeve reined in her thoughts. Ferdia and Cúchulainn cast a kind of spell over the warriors. Their very bond seemed to conjure exhilaration, the surge of bravery that makes men run at enemy swords. They were the war-song that inspired the battle charge of the Ulaid.
And now these two, the heart of the Red Branch, had been parted by Conor’s madness. Maeve sprang from her chair like a hound off its leash.
Miu startled and scampered off, and Maeve waved the harper away, too, telling him to warm himself with barley broth. With a bow and another sneeze, the bard tottered down the stairs.
Maeve lifted the royal circlet from her brow and held it in the glow of the brazier. She was queen at last.
Her hands were no longer tied.
By the time the chiefs rode away from the crowning, they had agreed to leave warriors to be battle-trained together on the meadows around Cruachan. It was time, Fraech and Maeve argued, for the bonds of the fighting men of Connacht to be strengthened, and for old rifts to be put aside.
They must be forged into one force, like the Ulaid Red Branch.
Maeve waved away the last cattle-lord and then said farewell to Ailill, who was taking her dowry of hides, mead, and honey to his father—and no doubt reporting back to Ros Ruadh about her crowning.
He rode off swathed in furs and gold. As soon as Maeve lost sight of his spiked mane at the head of the baggage carts, she stripped off her finery, slipped into her buckhides, and sought out Garvan and Fraech.
The two young warriors had climbed the gates of the royal mound to observe their new fighters, for Fraech had set the recruits challenges to unearth who was the strongest and most skilled.
Maeve bounded up the steps to the gate-tower, looking over the earthen rampart to the chaos below.
Men sloshed about in a mire of rain puddles and churned earth, hacking at each other with ash staves. Rows of spearmen were being drilled by the Galeóin fighters. Lances traced glittering arcs, thudding into the grass. Farther out, screeching riders urged their horses around tight loops between stakes in the ground.
When Maeve reached Fraech and Garvan on the platform of the wooden tower, she was surprised to see Finn there, legs dangling through a gap in the rail as she ate a bannock.
Finn straightened. “Fraech has been teaching me to fight,” she mumbled through barley crumbs.
Maeve did not take her eyes off the glint of spear-tips. “I said one of the men could train you. The war-leader is too busy.”
Fraech shrugged, folding his arms. His back was as straight as one of the staves, his natural bearing now come into its own. “It is no inconvenience to me.”
“Lugh’s breath and balls … bloody useless!” Garvan jabbed a finger at a clutch of youths who were whacking their comrades and falling over, hooting with laughter. “If those were real swords, their heads would be rolling by now.”
In one of the first acts after her crowning, Maeve had named Garvan her champion, the greatest honor for any warrior. He was already enjoying his elevation, strutting about with a new sword and the Champion’s torc of gold.
Shouting, two of the youths below now threw their wooden swords away and leaped onto each other, wrestling in the mud.
A rumble sounded in the back of Fraech’s throat—the closest he ever came to raising his voice. “They won’t think this a joke in battle, with their guts spilled over the ground.” He went to swing his long legs over the rail to climb down the outside of the tower.
Maeve stopped him. “I have news of the Ulaid.”
All three heads swung toward her: brown, red, and black. Swiftly, Maeve told them of Ferdia and Cúchulainn.
“My father said Conor was the most cunning king Erin had spawned.” Fraech leaned on the palisade, his green eyes narrowed in the sun. “He will never lose his grip on the Red Branch.”
“He is losing it.” Maeve realized she had always gnawed on such thoughts alone; she had never had anyone to tell before. “We know he is desperate enough to send raiders after our bull. His lords splinter, and now Cúchulainn and Ferdia are torn apart. What will come next?” She rocked from side to side, unable to be still. “It is time to see with our own eyes if they are weakening, and strike that wedge deeper. Let us return the favor, and mount a raid of our own.”
Fraech snorted, shaking the brown tail of hair down his back like a disgruntled stallion. “Cousin, the last thing we see will be Cúchulainn bearing down upon us in his battle-frenzy, with the Red Branch not far behind!”
“Perhaps, but if they are truly crumbling, we have a chance our father
s never had—to break Conor’s hold forever.”
A spark kindled in Fraech’s eyes, his calm features drawing tense.
Maeve appealed to him. “Conor is mad enough to want all of Connacht. We have to see if he has the power for more than a raid. We have to.”
Coming to a decision, Fraech nodded. “That is shrewd.”
“And …” Maeve heard herself say. “I am going.”
Garvan and Finn squawked at the same time.
“Damn blast it, spitfire!”
“Mother!”
Maeve blinked. “I am the queen—”
“Aye, you are.” Garvan wiped sweat from his cheek on his shoulder. “Which means you can no longer think only of yourself.”
Finn hopped up, her words tumbling out. “You keep telling me that to rule means putting the people first, Mother, especially so soon after our … our troubles.” Finn glanced at Fraech, her face coloring. “You cannot risk your life when they need you here, showing them how strong we are.” Finn widened her eyes, her pupils limpid. “That is what you keep saying to me, anyway.”
Fraech was regarding Finn with amusement, and Maeve could swear she saw an answering tremor in Finn’s mouth. Wretched child.
Fraech sobered. “I will command the raiders, cousin. I am war-leader.”
“I am Queen’s Champion.” Garvan pushed out his chest, gripping his new sword-hilt.
Maeve shook her head. “You are both too young to have fought against the Red Branch.”
It was Garvan’s turn to snort. “You never fought them either!”
She squared off to Fraech and Garvan. “Have you ever been face-to-face with Cúchulainn? I have. Do you know what you are looking for? I do. Fraech, you must stay here. You were trained in tactics—battle tactics. A raid is a minor risk when set against the future safety of Connacht. That is your responsibility.”
As she glared at the three of them, Maeve’s indignation died. Fraech was pursing his lips, looking at his feet. Finn’s eyes were bleak. Garvan was chewing the inside of his cheek as he looked over the meadow, his scowl creasing up his battered face.
Maeve had to clear her throat. “I know what signs of trouble I am looking for. And there is rarely any fighting on a raid. But …” She sighed. “I will stay far to the rear, and if any Red Branch come anywhere near, I promise I will run away.”
Garvan also sighed, folding his arms. He scratched at his tangled black hair. “And I am coming to hold you to that.”
“Of course.” Maeve clapped his arm, then addressed Fraech. “Pick the best riders from these new men. We need speed and horse-skill, though, not brawn.”
Fraech had a frank way of appraising someone. Looking in his eyes now, Maeve had the distinct impression she had not disappointed him.
Hesitating only a moment, she slung an arm around Finn, who was still glowering. “Come, daughter, you know I will return.” She reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Finn’s ear. “Another secret,” she whispered, squeezing her shoulder. “I am very hard to kill.”
At last she was rewarded with a grudging smile. She left Finn there with instructions to come to her with news of the men Fraech picked for the war-band.
Halfway back down the stairs, Maeve paused, her face turned to the east. The breeze caught the clash of metal and shouts of men and snatched them away. For a heartbeat there was silence in her head.
For once, she shied at any thought of riding to the lake. Ruán had told her to choose a different path. He did not realize she had no choice. She had made herself the bulwark of her people against the Ulaid. They looked to her to keep them safe now—the goddess Macha Mong Ruad.
Who I am here is not who I am there. At the lake, they wandered barefoot and ragged as children. Her heart was light there, and Ruán glowed when she made him laugh. No dark thoughts invaded that place now, and it was a peace she would guard with her life.
But she imagined telling him this, and in her mind saw his face fall. He would not understand what she had to be here, because it was not the Maeve he touched, the one he teased.
She couldn’t show him this other Maeve.
It didn’t matter, though … for one day soon they would all be safe, and she would shed that old self forever and run to him, and there would be no one calling her back.
Maeve shook these strange, tumbling thoughts from her head.
She leaped the last step to flat ground and set her chin north instead. Conor of the Ulaid. That summoned a belly-knot she knew much better.
She tugged her breastplate down, twisting her hair back with cold hands.
Ruán’s certainty grew that someone was watching him.
As he set snares or gutted fish, he kept catching a shimmer from the corner of his eye, a disturbance in the silver around him. One of the nearby farmers, or the old druid again?
He began tucking one of Maeve’s daggers in his trews, but aside from that did not reveal his suspicions. Whoever it was might also think him sídhe and leave him alone.
One day, Ruán was intent on the tricky task of cooking mussels over the fire without spilling them in the sand. For a few moments he was so absorbed, focusing all his senses into his fingertips, that he became deaf to everything else.
Someone cleared his throat behind him.
Ruán bounded up, the dagger already out.
“By the light of Manannán himself.” It was a rich voice, trained to resonate. A druid. “It has been hard to be sure, brother. Your hair is a mess, and you look like a deer.”
For a moment Ruán thought he was falling, as when he was first blinded. He missed a step and with burning cheeks planted his feet wide, righting himself. “I gather, Áedán, that since you have been secretly stalking me, you must have come at Lord Mulach’s behest. So you have supplanted me at his side, as you always wanted.”
“You are bitter, and I do not blame you.” Áedán spoke more gently. “I heard about what Mulach and his men did to you, but by the time I returned from the small island you were already lost to us. I didn’t …” He drew a breath. “I did not realize you were like … this.”
Alone with the wild creatures, Ruán was woven into Source. To men, he would always be maimed. He had to prize his cold lips apart. “Has the great lord decided to finish me off after all, then? Is that why you come skulking around, spying on me?”
“I did not want to frighten you—”
“Am I as pitiful as that?” Áedán had looked into his eyes once, known him in his power. His old power. Ruán straightened, planting his soles on the earth. Remember who you are. The world was not black; it cradled him in light. He savored the give of the soil now, smelled the mud. A blackbird trilled in the trees.
“Ru, you are changed.”
Ruán snorted, touching the blindfold. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.” Áedán’s tread came closer. “I had to be careful, assure myself it was you.”
Ruán squatted, folding a burdock leaf over the mussels. “So do I put my wrists out for the chains, or can I eat my supper first?”
Áedán hesitated. “Can we not sit together, as we used to?”
Ruán pressed his tongue against his teeth, picturing Áedán’s grave face shadowed by dark hair. Áedán was awkward as a boy, spindly and owl-eyed. Ruán was ever the bold one, impatient and far-seeking. “Why are you here?”
There was a rustle of wool as Áedán sank on a log at the hearth. “Forgive me, but I have come a long way. Your path was winding, and the memory of you fleeting.”
Ruán swapped the knife to his other hand and wiped his palm. “Answer me. I won’t be trapped and bound again.”
Áedán sighed. “Mere moons after he banished you, Mulach and his warriors came down with pains in the belly and a sweating sickness. They died, Ru, the men who wounded you. Mulach’s brother Donn is lord now, but last sun-season brought more trouble upon us. A blight shriveled the root crop, and storms scattered the fish. Leaf-bud has been better, but it is too l
ate for some. Hunger stalks us, taking the babes and old ones. People have begun muttering that we are cursed because Mulach harmed a druid.” He paused. “A rumor, I tell you honestly, that I have nurtured.”
For Ruán, each word was like a nick of the blade.
“Lord Donn wants to make amends and beg your forgiveness. I’ve been sent to bring you home.”
Silence. A spasm of Ruán’s shoulders brought the knife up, and he laughed. “The lords take my sight, and now that they are in danger they command my return? I am not to be paraded before the warriors so Donn can look powerful again! No one will pity me, as if I am less than them.”
“That is not how it is—”
“It is how it will be!” Ruán slammed the dagger into the sand, causing the nearby wading birds to scatter with splashes. A gust of wind agitated the reeds. “Now go, and forget you ever found me.”
Rising to his feet, Áedán turned. “This is not the end,” he said. “You mean more to me than that.”
Ruán listened to his steps retreating, and when he was sure Áedán had gone, he hastened to the water’s edge and sank on his haunches. He could not see the glimmer around him anymore. He touched the lake with trembling fingers and put them to his mouth, placed his palm on the surface so the water clung to him.
Another rustle came from among the trees, this one lighter, more hesitant.
Ruán’s head went up. Only then did he realize that all the while he spoke to Áedán, he had sensed someone else was there.
CHAPTER 19
“That is far enough,” Garvan said to Maeve. “You will stay behind us now.”
Maeve pursed her lips and eyed him, Meallán shifting beneath her. They had crossed the border to the Ulaid and were hiding themselves among the trees on a ridge that led deeper into Conor’s territory.
“You promised,” Garvan added.
