by Jules Watson
Ferdia’s insides sank again.
Conall was clasping his flank as he turned to him, his soaking tunic bulked out by bandages beneath. Another strip of linen snaked up his forearm. “Mac Daman.”
His thin face grew wary as the mountain that was Fergus approached. It was Conall who had mistakenly killed Illan, Fergus’s son.
But the red-haired warrior was a jester, and now he broke into a pained smile—the only way to cut to the quick. “You left me behind.” He pushed his dripping hair back with his good hand. Facing Illan’s sire, though, he could not hide his shame. “I would have come with you if I had been well.”
Fergus folded his arms. “Why are you here, then?”
Conall’s face fell. He pulled himself straight, bracing his shoulders even though he winced at the pain. “As soon as I could ride, I came to join you.”
Cormac was looking between them, trying to smile. He clapped Conall on the back. “You were always one of the best of our trackers!”
“It was not hard to guess where you would go.”
Aching, Ferdia half turned away. Cúchulainn would also know, but he had not come.
“I don’t just bring my sword,” Conall added, speaking to Fergus as if they were the only two there. “I bring news—and all of it grave.”
“I said you must come to the queen,” one of the young Connacht warriors protested, brandishing his spear as if he might poke Conall in the rump with it.
Fergus growled and struck the lance away. “We have taken Connacht oaths,” he said to Conall, glaring at the terrified spearman. “There must be trust between us. Speak your news.” The hollowness in his voice said there was nothing Conall could say that would be worse than what Fergus already suffered.
“The maiden Deirdre is dead. She threw herself from Conor’s chariot the day you left, over a sea-cliff.” Conall’s eyes slid toward Ferdia. “The Hound retrieved her from the sea, buried her with Naisi and the sons of Usnech. Then he took himself to his dun and barred the gates to everyone, even me.”
Cormac cursed, and Fergus dropped his grizzled head as if its weight pained him. Ferdia stared at Conall with burning eyes.
“The king went into a frenzy. He banished all women from Emain Macha, and put a new chief druid in power. But there is more.” The lump in Conall’s skinny throat bobbed, his hand on his wound. “With few Red Branch left, he has sent a call across the Ulaid. All fighting men can come to show their skill in the games, and he will choose the best and turn them into a new Red Branch.”
The men around them gasped. Red Branch training took many years, the required prowess difficult to master—but that was what made them exceptional. Fergus spoke slowly, brow lowered. “Without the sword-feats? The shield and spear-feats?”
Conall glanced at the Connacht warriors. “Without the Source,” he muttered, before swallowing the rest.
Ferdia wiped more rain from his face with a shaking hand. Some Red Branch were better able to summon the Source when they fought than others. But all conjured it to some degree or they could not be Red Branch. It is what joined them, bound them, so they fought as one.
Conall raised his chin. “Conor is building a war-band that has no loyalty to clan or chief, only to him. And he sent out messengers to summon more warriors. To pay for more warriors—from Alba and Britain.”
The gasps became cries of disbelief.
Fergus’s face was not cold anymore. Dark red, it was, wisps of pale moustache blowing out with every gust of breath. “Come,” he said to Conall, waving the spearmen away.
Maeve was pacing by the hearth-fire of the hall, throwing orders at scouts who dashed for the doors with every wave of her hand. Servants scurried about, furnishing the riders with food, handing over rings and other tokens to sweeten Maeve’s appeals to her chieftains.
Ailill had roused himself with an aching head and bleary eyes, determined, it seemed, to dog her every step.
Maeve came to a stop when Fergus appeared. Ailill dragged himself from his chair.
Fergus stomped up to the roaring fire, his face like thunder. A tall man was trailing behind him. Maeve squinted. She knew that weathered face, that red hair. Conall Cearnach.
As Fergus swept toward her, Ailill surprised them both by stepping between them, facing Fergus as if protecting Maeve. He braced his shoulders, his scarred hands hooked in his belt. “What do you mean by storming in here like this, mac Roy?”
Fergus’s furious gaze barely touched upon Ailill’s face. Instead, he locked eyes with Maeve, raising his bearded chin.
“Here is the weapon I promised you.” He gestured Conall forward, slicing the air with his hand. “Tell her.”
That night, Maeve called all her kin and commanders together, and this time there were no arguments. Conor was gathering a war-host.
At dawn Maeve lurked in the mist outside the little shrine of the goddess Bríd until she heard that Erna had finished chanting. Then she slipped inside the hut, buried in her shaggy fleece cloak—a futile shield against what lay within her.
Sheep-fat lamps burned around the curved walls, illuminating a lump of sandstone carved with the suggestion of head and breasts, cleft and legs. Its belly was a swelling curve. Indents of eyes suggested a tranquil expression, compassionate. Bríd was the protector of women in childbirth. The ewes and lambs were sacred to her.
The Mother.
Maeve suppressed a shiver as Erna got up off her knees. “I am sorry to disturb you here,” Maeve said, “but I had to be sure you were alone.”
Erna looked as if she’d been gazing upon something wonderful, her dark eyes glowing. As before, Maeve felt a strange pang at seeing her face like that.
Erna lifted her chin, assembling her usual grave expression. “How may I serve you, lady?” Her breath turned to vapor in the cold shrine.
The days had long since turned from the warmth of sun-season.
Maeve’s gaze slid to the altar. Bríd was looking at her now, the shadows casting her face into … admonition? Sorrow. Maeve’s eyes stung, and for a moment she could not speak. “You said you could uproot a seedling already sprouted.” She could not look away from the statue of the Mother.
Images flitted past, burned behind her eyes. The cold tombs by the sea. The little goddess carvings with empty faces. She made herself breathe. Finn was here now, sleeping nearby.
But … the other, the boy. Dark cave walls seeping water, furred with moss. Maeve caught herself with a tiny gasp.
“I can make a potion for you, lady.” Erna was frowning, rubbing her chilled hands. “But it is not as simple a matter as the tea. I … assume … you stopped taking that?”
Maeve’s hand went over her belly as if to a wound, and she turned her chin to look out the doorway at the muted sky and the houses blurred by fog. “When I was taken ill after the raid. I confess your herbs were not on my mind at the time.”
“The cleansing of the womb is more complicated,” Erna murmured, glancing over her shoulder to the goddess statue. “The potion is strong, taken over many days, and the sickness very severe.”
Maeve dragged her attention back.
“There is retching and fever, weakness … the bowels are loosed.” Erna was biting her lip. “I would suggest a woman who takes this treatment lie abed for at least two seven-nights if not longer, and will be weak for a long time after.”
The cramp that came was faint: Maeve thought it was her belly and realized it was her heart.
A brief sickness, then … better than becoming powerless, which is what would happen if she let the child grow. Her body would slow, her mind soften. The warriors, cattle-lords, and kings would no longer hearken to her, but smile upon her as a milk-cow and nothing more. A difficult birth, and she might even die.
Not now, with Conor gathering a battle-host.
Maeve swallowed, her sight glazing over. I have made vows. She had looked in the eyes of people already alive who needed her now more than ever: the crafters, the children, Aengus and his fla
x-haired son. The sacred oath to protect them came above all others. She said to Finn she could not turn away from them.
I could not live with myself.
And now the gods had put the greatest weapon of all into her hands—Red Branch—and she would have her army, and they must fight the Ulaid before they themselves were attacked.
“Prepare it for me.” Maeve managed a cracked whisper. “I will … I will consider when is best.”
A few nights later she left yet another feast—the Red Branch warriors must be showered with favor—and crawled into her bed alone. The belly sickness was constant now, and her mirror revealed sunken cheeks and a waxy pallor. Curled on her side, Maeve picked up Erna’s little jar, fingering the stopper. Open it, drink it. Have it done.
She spread a hand beneath her ribs as she gazed down. Flashes came of blood between her thighs, and a tiny, pale body, his fists grasping for life. Another torn from her when she tried so hard to keep him close.
She squeezed those memories away, tears caught between her lashes. I am sorry, she said to the nub of life now within her. So many need me.
She had no choice. It flickered in her then that she was as trapped as she had ever been by her father.
No. In lurid detail she summoned the faces of children, thousands of them, looking up at her as they were riven by Ulaid blades. How could she beg their forgiveness if she failed them now? When Conor was defeated, it would all change. Perhaps there might be other babes, when she was safe.
Maeve raised her face to the blackness beneath the eaves. I am sorry. She wiped her cheeks, but the cramp in her heart would not ease.
Wait. Her pulse jumped.
She wasn’t thinking straight. Conor had shown his hand, and she had Red Branch. The Mumu and Laigin kings had to support an immediate attack on Conor now. And if so, she could not be stuck in bed bleeding, vomiting, and burning with fever.
Perhaps there was no time for Erna’s draft, either.
Maeve dropped the jar on the table, her cheeks hot. Of course there wasn’t. The answer was that the attack must happen very soon, while she could still ride and fight. It must happen before she swelled into something all the men would pity. She would conquer Conor while the warriors still saw her as great Macha the Raven.
And after …
She would think about after when it came.
Now that Conor’s plans had been revealed, Maeve told Ailill that he must lose no time in turning around and riding straight back to his father. As his Laigin men were preparing his weapons and horses, Ailill sought her out in the forge. She was consulting with the smith about the supplies of swords and spears.
“Word just came there has been a raid on the Laigin border,” Ailill said, tightening the strap of his sword across his broad back. “One of my father’s chieftains has lost a herd of cattle—ten warriors died, and the herders were also killed.”
Their eyes met. Maeve’s lips parted, mind racing.
“Aye.” Ailill’s blunt face was furious in the lurid glow of the furnace. He clapped his helmet on his head, stocky in his layers of leather and mail. “Conor has sent his new wolves out on their first hunt.”
Conor has attacked. Maeve’s blood quickened, and she could not tell the difference between fear and relief.
Fraech, meanwhile, was ordered to fly south to the Mumu king Niall—her former husband Diarmait’s brother. Diarmait had died in a raid a few years ago, but at least his brother held no rancor for her. He had refused Garvan’s first entreaty, but for political, not personal, reasons.
Now, with the cream of the Red Branch on their side, Fraech was going to demand that Niall join forces with them, at last.
Maeve hurried into the stables as Fraech was preparing to leave. His head was bent close to Finn’s as they tied the saddle on Fraech’s horse and strapped on his packs. They drew apart at Maeve’s appearance, Finn swiftly retreating to the stallion’s muzzle and patting it.
Maeve cradled the back of Finn’s head in passing.
“So …” Maeve looked Fraech up and down. The cheek- and brow-guards on his helmet sliced his face into hard lines, making him look older. Despite the weight of a mail-shirt, two swords, and jerkin of toughened leather, his lithe body moved more easily than before. “This time, cousin Fraech, I see you will not advise us to be prudent.”
Fraech’s teeth gleamed as he drew to his full height. “Everything has changed. Conor has shown his hand at last.”
Maeve was arrested by the fierceness that ran beneath his skin. She searched his eyes, vivid with a fire he could not hide. “You want this,” she said. “As a matter of honor.”
Fraech glanced at Finn, who kept her gaze on the horse, murmuring to it. He gripped his sword-hilt, nodding to Maeve. “I have not slept through a night since my father … died. I will not have it said I cower from a fight.”
“You did not cower from the first one.”
“And yet I have not had a chance to restore my family name—until now.”
Maeve nodded, shoulders lowering. So she could never be a warrior or a lord, after all. It was not a name she wanted to win, or honor. It was simply family—the lives of the crafters who had sheltered her at their hearths.
She thumped Fraech’s shoulder. “Get to it, then. Tell Niall of Mumu that though he might feel safe behind his mountains, if Conor’s host takes Connacht and Laigin, it will be battering down his ramparts soon after. Tell him Conor has given in to madness and will try to take all of Erin’s kingdoms for himself, as ard-rí.”
Fraech nodded, face aglow.
As Maeve hastened out, she called to Finn. “Daughter, ensure our war leader and his men have decent food in their saddle-packs. And I leave you to pick gifts for the Mumu king, to sweeten the vinegar I send him.”
Maeve strode up the track to the king’s hall. The morning’s rain had stopped, and Cruachan was hung about with glints and gleams of light, the sun catching on dripping thatch and timber, and spangling the grass. She dodged the puddles, squinting at their bright assault on her eyes.
Spying her, Erna came hurrying down the steps of the gate-tower, the hem of her dark robe stained with mud. “Lady, someone has come from afar, requesting an audience with you.”
Somebody else demanding her attention? Maeve’s head was pounding, too much squeezed into it. She was going to refuse when she was halted by Erna rocking from foot to foot. Color stained the girl’s cheeks, her deep, brown eyes snapping with excitement.
“Who?” Maeve demanded.
“She was the druid of Conor mac Nessa—and tutor to his lost betrothed.”
CHAPTER 27
Unlike the grand welcome for the warriors, Maeve received her visitor by the fire in the women’s lodge. The voices of the servants sewing around the glow of lamps were hushed and singsong. Fragrant steam wafted from a cauldron of barley pottage on the coals.
The druid Levarcham was a shard of ice amid that warmth.
Like a crone playing Badb at the festivals, she had ground ashes into her skin and frosted hair. Her eyes were a twilight hue that was potent when they were full of life, Maeve remembered from Emain Macha. Now, they were frozen.
“What I do not understand is why you would come to me,” Maeve continued. Miu, dabbing her nose at the druid’s robes, leaped into Maeve’s lap and settled there.
Levarcham’s jaw creaked open. “I need a fire, a bed.”
“You are a druid. You could find that in any cottage in Erin.” Maeve sounded harsh, but she could not help it. Horror was creeping from this dead thing beside her into her own warm flesh. She rubbed Miu’s head so hard the cat chirruped, batting her fingers.
Maeve forced herself to sit back, lowering her shoulders. “I am surprised you would let Conor out of your sight after what he did to your charge.”
“My child.” It was a ghost of a whisper, those empty eyes on the wavering lamp beside Maeve. “Though I did not bear her.”
“Then I would have expected you to kill him yourself.”<
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A cold gust of a sigh. “He was asleep in front of me, but he clasped a knife. He would have roused his guards, and I would have lost my chance forever.”
“You had him helpless before you, and did not act?”
“I tried to … but then it was not me standing before him. It was Her.”
When druids spoke like that, they meant a goddess. So the reek of Badb death-bringer did cling to this woman.
“And I could not move …” Levarcham confessed, her eyes dropping. “I could not use my own knife on him.”
Maeve pulled at the embroidered neck of her tunic, a prickling breaking out over her chest. Miu shot her a dark look and hopped down, shrugging off Maeve’s tension as she scampered away.
Deirdre was dead.
A girl Maeve had never met, but with whom she shared a unique kinship. Pity tried to stir in her, but tenderness of any kind was under strong guard in Maeve. A sigh escaped instead.
By taking Conor’s attention, Deirdre had rescued her. By running away—and now dying—Deirdre had put her and her people in even greater danger. Maeve wet her lips. “If you suffer so, then why not take your life and join this child of yours?” She kept her eyes blank, as if she had never toyed with holding that same knife at her own veins.
Levarcham’s smile was bitter. “I thought to. But Deirdre was so hungry for life. She drank it in—next to her I was an empty husk. And when I pressed the blade to my wrist … I saw her face in the rain on the leaves at my feet. A glimmer … silver. And I could not do it.”
Silver. Maeve turned her chin from the fire, her fingers across her throat. His face still came to her that way.
“I could not take from myself what Deirdre had lost.”
“Except that she did.”
Levarcham’s brows rose like two brandished swords.
“She leaped from the chariot, and killed herself.”
The druid’s gray eyes flashed. “She chose a different life in the Otherworld.” Her nostrils flared, her lashes lowered. “But I know I must still serve. Atone for … my failings.” She brushed flakes of ash from her colorless lips.
