The Raven Queen

by Jules Watson

  Fergus’s brows knitted as he stared at Levarcham. He appeared conflicted, still.

  Maeve strode before the men. “Macha has cursed the Ulaid because of Conor’s greed. She longs for someone to rid the land of him and protect the people again. This news has changed everything.” She stopped before Fergus. Show what you are, mac Roy.

  Fergus had taken from his tunic a little deer amulet, a carving of antler that young warriors wore hunting. Now he smoothed it, tucked it back in his clothes, and heaved himself to his feet. “There are more defenders here than we foresaw, and because of the marshes, there are few good tracks for a war-band as large as ours to cross the Ulaid. We risk getting mired in these ditches, but if we retreat, they will pour after us, and our strength will be spent defeating them in these bogs rather than at Emain Macha.”

  Maeve broke in. “The Ulaid have the advantage of the ramparts and the high ground: we cannot break through without great loss of life. But our men could hold the Ulaid war-band here, keeping them busy while a smaller force finds a drier road around the marshlands. After all, we only want Conor.”

  Fergus cocked his head at Ailill. “You are right about the coast trail. If the Red Branch are struck down, they cannot defend Emain Macha. We take a smaller war-band east, then come upon Emain Macha from the south.”

  A curse flew from Cormac. “An eastern road will pass through the Hound’s lands! And Cúchulainn—”

  “Is also sick,” Maeve finished.

  “The Ulaid prisoners at my fire say they heard Cúchulainn is at Emain Macha burning with fever like the others.” Fergus smacked a fist into his palm, hunger kindling in his face again. “This way we can surround Nessa’s bastard and catch him in his den.”

  Fraech spoke up. “My heart says the gods themselves have shown us this path. It will deliver Emain Macha to us without a ruinous battle and many deaths.”

  “We cannot become mired in these bogs,” Ailill agreed with Fergus, though his glance at the former Ulaid king was sullen. He got up and stretched his back, rolling his broad shoulders. “If we do, Niall of Mumu and my father will call their warriors home.”

  Garvan strode to Maeve, hand on his hilt. “Then as Connacht Champion, I would be honored to command the war-band that holds the West, if you will it.”

  “I do.” Maeve gripped his shoulder. He had the least pride of any man here. Ailill, Fraech, Cormac, and Fergus could never miss the taking of Emain Macha. “We leave at dawn,” she said to the others. “Pick your best warriors to accompany us east.” Levarcham and the men left, Finn hopping up and trotting out with Fraech.

  Maeve held Fergus back. “Let me tell Ferdia.”

  “Be my guest. That pup will snap off my hand when he hears this.”

  Exhausted, she smoothed her smoky hair back. “Perhaps not.”

  “Maeve.” Fergus swilled the ale in his cup, glancing at the tent flap before cocking a beady eye at her. “You have played your part too well. Ailill believes what he sees of us. Beware that bite of his.”

  “Ach, it is only ever a bark.” Maeve grabbed her cloak. “I chose him as husband precisely because he’s never jealous. He has a hundred women to satisfy his desires.”

  “You are not like other women.” Fergus belched, picking clods of mud from his gray hair.

  She arched a brow. “Now you woo me?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his shaggy head. “Woman, I couldn’t hump a maid to save my life. I need a wash … and bed.”

  “Then enjoy both. Our greatest challenge is still before us.”

  Outside, Maeve drew up her hood and plunged back into the camp. After a moment she stopped. The hushed grief of twilight had given way to wildness.

  Women had flooded in from the baggage carts, gathering with the warriors around great bonfires and draining skins of mead and ale. Wild tunes were picked out on bone pipes, drummers beating a frenzied pulse. Skirts pulled up, the women danced with bloodied men around the flames, as the warriors put back their heads and howled in savage relief for surviving another day.

  In the shadows, Maeve stood rooted. The air throbbed all around her, and gradually she was taken over by the beat of their drums, the rush of blood.

  She understood.

  Her shield-arm ached from the thud of the lance. The glint of its tip still burned behind her eyes. When it missed her, for a moment the wind had smelled sweeter again, as it used to, the sun blazing through her once more.

  This is what warriors craved, this fire. Death and life, close together.

  Her face burning, Maeve prowled through the camp. All around, couples rutted beneath scraps of deerskin or shelters of branches. Their cries of abandon quickened her breathing, a sweat prickling her breasts. If a man grasped her now, she would kiss him back. For the next spear might take her life. Her hands still reeked of smoke and death. She could still see the twisted faces of the dead men behind her eyes. And suddenly Maeve knew she could not after all leave Thisworld so cold, so empty.

  She reached the edge of camp and sought out Ferdia.

  Ignoring the din, he huddled under a dome of branches, wrapped in deerskins. In the glow of the fires he looked like a moth in a cocoon. With no warning, she dropped to her knees and crawled inside—knowing, with Ferdia’s training, what would happen.

  The moth unfurled and pressed a blade across her throat. Its touch made Maeve’s pulse hammer, shooting heat into her groin. She was alive.

  “I see you are low on ale,” she squeezed out. She lifted a goatskin under her arm.

  In the firelight Ferdia’s pupils were empty, his soul flown far away. Maeve’s eyes watered at the fumes on his breath. He lowered the knife. Despite the discomfort, Ferdia slept every night now in his armor. The plates rasped together as he went to pull away.

  Maeve caught his tunic. “I have news of Cúchulainn.” As she told him, Ferdia’s body drew tight. “Do not think to leave us,” she warned. “The Hound is sick and will raise no weapon against us. And if you can make peace with him, I will spare him.”

  Death already sat heavy upon her, its ash in her throat. She could think of no more tonight.

  Nor, she realized, could she remain so numb if she was to hold her ground among all these hot-blooded warriors. She must find the flame again, the fire of spirit and body that had poured forth with … Her breath caught. She could not help it.

  Ferdia’s head swung around.

  By firelight Maeve looked at that broken man before her. She saw a wound, deeply cut. The agony of unbearable loss in every line and hollow of his face.

  Herself.

  All sense snapped and she gripped his chin. “For the sake of all the gods, Ferdia, if you find him, go to him, and feel this no more.” She struck him in the breast, to shatter this pain for them both. “Go to him and end this—for you, at least!”

  The muscles beneath Maeve’s fingers tensed.

  Ferdia uncoiled, grabbing her hair and crushing her into his shoulder, bearing her into the deerskins with his weight. A faint sound escaped Maeve as his hands fumbled with her trews.

  Ferdia’s face brushed hers, and he tasted the salt tears from her eyes. He paused. “So you do feel, raven queen,” he hissed.

  She turned her head, her hand over her mouth. Not that. Feel only the fire. His body pressed upon her, belly to loins. Feel the flame, she cried to herself. She must catch alight again.

  But suddenly Ferdia’s bulk was squeezing the breath from her, the life from her. No. Maeve gasped it aloud, striking him in the chest, trying to throw him off. “No.”

  At the first blow, Ferdia recoiled. At the second, he let out a growl of inarticulate disgust and rolled away, sitting up with hands over his face. Maeve huddled into her arms. With his back turned, Ferdia groped for her aleskin and drained it, then tossed it aside. “Leave me.” He burrowed back into his furs.

  The wildness of the night still beat in Maeve’s wrist and neck, but as she looked up at the stars, a chill crept over her. Ruán had smiled when she tri
ed to rut like that, slowing her with a touch. Her hand crept to her neck. He had breathed secrets into her skin … here. Sacred things.

  Maeve sat up, yanking down her tunic and curling her arms beneath her legs, shivering. Forgive me. Forgive me. The first time she had spoken to him in weeks.

  She was his, whether he wanted her or not. It was not going to end. For the first time, that understanding sank through all the layers of her soul. Being sundered from someone did not mean the heart was unbound.

  There was nothing tangible to slash, no bindings or ropes. No flesh to cut or bone to break, no vein to sever. It could not be undone. It could only be borne.

  This truth ran from Maeve in tears that welled with no sound, and dripped from her chin until her tunic was wet.

  When Ferdia let out a snore, she got up on shaky legs and stumbled back through the camp.

  Most of the revelers had collapsed where they stood or crawled into their sleeping hides. The drumbeats from the fires were chaotic now, the screeches no longer human. Near her own tent, Maeve caught her foot on a rope and began to fall. Someone grabbed her, dragging her into the shadows. Twisting, she brought her knee up into the man’s groin.

  He chuckled, blocking it with his thigh. “Y’don’t think I’d fall for that,” he slurred. “I’ve had lots’f practice with you.”

  “Ailill!” She struck him in the chest. “You scared me.”

  “If you can creep about at night, so can I.” He hiccupped. “Where’ve y’been?”

  She was still gathering her wits when Ailill dragged her close, snuffling her neck like a rooting pig. “Who’ve you wrapped those thighs around now?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice sounded hollow, her nose swollen from tears. “My body is my own. That was the bargain.”

  “The ‘bargain’ was I bed you ’ny time I want.”

  “It was to enjoy privileges, power—”

  “Power?” Ailill hissed, staggering back. The starlight caught his bared teeth. “You keep that for those you hump, your black-haired bastard and stuck-up cousin—”

  “Stop it.” Wrapping her arms about herself, Maeve turned away.

  Ailill’s meaty hand grasped her throat, squeezing. “And who rode you t’night? Fergus? Everyone knows that. D’you think I’m blind? Slaver over’m instead of giving me what you promised!”

  His eyes were senseless. Struggling to breathe, Maeve refrained from provoking him further. “Fergus? We play fidchell and I make him talk about the Ulaid. He’s old enough to be my father!”

  “No …” Ailill’s grip slackened as he swayed. “It’s always power y’want. All you’ve ever wanted.”

  She wanted to laugh, but the bleakness took her remaining breath. No one knew her at all.

  Maeve knocked his arm and sprang away. “You are unbelievably stupid,” she muttered, backing over the shields behind her. “I won’t listen to the rantings of a coward—and a pickled one at that.”

  Ailill lunged at her, but the rope sent him sprawling. Maeve hurried away before he could get up.

  The wind sheared across the bare hillside on the Stone Islands.

  It dragged at Ruán’s cloak and tore his hair from its braids. He welcomed its chill, pausing to drink in that taste of sea, rock, and thyme. Now he let no savoring of his bodily senses pass him by.

  Focusing once more, he resumed his path between the humps of turned earth. Under his guidance, the fisherman had hauled seaweed and sand to build up soil on the rocky hillside so they could plant barley. Now he called the Source into that barren ground, just as he called life into the fishing nets each day.

  Ruán’s senses flowered inside him. Instead of brown earth and blue sky, the world appeared to him in flares of silver and gray shadow. He saw it clearly at last, and strode along the plowed rows like a sighted man, arms out as he beckoned the Source to flow through the soil.

  Slowly the ecstasy filled him. Glowing like a beacon, he wreathed it around the grains of earth beneath his feet.

  The ground fell into hollows, but he did not falter, weaving around piles of rocks the farmers had dug from the fields. He turned, ready to sweep down the slope once more …

  … and saw another crop littering bare earth … fallen bodies with twisted limbs, blood sinking into the soil instead of Source …

  Ruán stumbled, eclipsed by blackness. He lost his sense of the ground and fell on his hands and knees. Sitting up, he brushed the soil from his palms before getting to his feet. He shook his head to clear it. Go away.

  He breathed in again and endeavored to melt back into the light through the veils. Glimmers of radiance returned, and he began to walk.

  Across his path was a river … broken bodies among the rocks. A woman was on her knees, blood flowing from her loins into the ground …

  Ruán’s heart threw itself in a great bound, quicker than his mind could rein it back. Maeve. His body also reached for her, forgetting itself; his hand out, a cry on his lips.

  Immediately, he staggered into a pile of stones and barked his shin, the world lurching as the blackness closed in again. Sprawled on the rocks, he strained but could kindle no flame behind his eyes.

  Gods. He could not bless the fields like this.

  Using only touch and hearing, Ruán managed to make his way over the hill above the fields. He took his frustration out on the land, dragging himself up the rocks, sweat beading his brow. He needed to seek a wild place, where the Source was not disturbed by houses, fields, or tracks.

  The sea-cliffs in the West.

  By the time Ruán reached the edge of the cliffs, he could sense dusk falling. As the air cooled, the scent of damp grass grew stronger. The cold of the wind on his cheek was now unleavened by sunshine. Below him, waves thundered on the rocks, sending spray to drift over his face and wet his hair.

  He felt her take shape behind him, the presence of sídhe lifting the hairs on his neck.

  You would have been better born a gull.

  Ruán’s palms were turned up on his knees, his legs dangling over the drop. “I did once yearn to fly from these cliffs,” he said aloud. Not now. Now he was resolved to be happy with what he had. A simple life. Alone.

  She indulged in a very human snort, and before he could answer, her radiance brought to him an inner dawn. Close to her resonance, his sight opened upon Thisworld once more. He gazed hungrily at the swells of the waves, gilded by the red, sinking sun. The grass was dark bronze between his fingers.

  Next to him, her black hair streamed in the wind, her dark eyes glinting.

  So you can see farther now than before—as far as the Ulaid.

  His cheeks grew hot.

  But this is no failure. She curled up, oblivious to the terrifying drop below. You are able to use this sight now for your people, to summon Source and heal them and their island.

  “Then why do these visions take me from them?” He struck out, sweeping stones off the edge into the roiling spume below.

  The silence throbbed.

  Breathing out, Ruán lowered his shoulders. “I helped Maeve to become queen, and now her war-band marches on the Ulaid. This fate of ours is fulfilled.”

  She looked sidelong at him. Is it?

  When he did not answer, she dug a handful of sand and flung it in the air. It glittered as it fell, as if with a life of its own.

  When you dance with the sparks of Source, you can bend time and place. So why, though you anchor your mind here, do you see her far away? Her eyes betrayed a glimmer of sympathy. Few humans part the veils as you do. Could your fate be greater than you imagined?

  “All you do is taunt me with questions.”

  Then I give you this answer. Your heart has greater power over Source than your mind. That is why it seeks far even when your thoughts are rooted here. Also know that you do not find peace in a place. She rested her hand on his chest. You carry it here. Go to her.

  Her words and touch were an arc of lightning through Ruán’s body, setting it alight in a way
he barely remembered. As the heat swept him, he made himself laugh. “I am blind, and you think I can travel the breadth of Erin to find her?”

  You see more than you would with eyes. Go alone, though. With others, you will lose your thread to the Source.

  “I prefer your questions.” When he wiped spray from his mouth, however, Ruán found his hand was shaking.

  She smiled. You came here to be forgiven, and find the power you always longed for. But it is not to be wielded for your people alone, or to save the raven queen. It is to save the lives of many.

  Ruán’s heart was already soaring out of his control. “Why did you not tell me this at the lake?”

  That brought a swift laugh, her black hair gleaming. Would we bestow all the riches of knowing upon an ignorant child? How can you understand a path without seeking it yourself? We did not take your blindness away. You had to open your own eyes.

  His choice; so they always said. “You say the paths we pick are of no consequence to you.” For the first time in moons, he curled a finger about her arm. The Source rushed in from her flesh, which felt like molten silver. “Except that I do not believe you.”

  Her eyes glinted and it was Ruán’s turn to laugh, strangely light-headed. “You saved my life and took me into your dance. You share some purpose with us, or you would have left me to die in the lake!” When she did not answer, he sat back. “So if I come to harm, you do not care?”

  I will see you in spirit either way, brother.

  That brutal truth left him speechless.

  The sídhe smiled. You and she both have more courage to find before this fate is won. If you do not find it, do not conquer, that future can no longer be yours anyway, and will become someone else’s, perhaps.

  “Conquer what?”

  She hopped up, weaving her feet along the cliff edge like a child on a branch. Only you can discover how powerful you are, and what you can be. Precariously balanced on one foot, her teeth flashed as white as the gulls that plunged into the sea. Go to her.