The Raven Queen

by Jules Watson

  Maeve swallowed, raising her chin.

  “Where have you been?” Eochaid stormed, his battered warrior’s face as red as his hair. “What dishonor do you do our kinsman, stealing away from him in the night?”

  Would he whip a woman in her state? Maeve did not know. She must chance it, because she would not answer his first question.

  Diarmait’s gaze went to her slack belly, his eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. “Where is my child?” He was a burly man whose great muscles were beginning to run to fat, which had stretched his skin smooth. A thatch of yellow hair topped a florid face.

  Maeve’s lip curled. “It is dead. The ride killed it.”

  Eochaid growled. Diarmait’s expression did not change, which was worse. He merely stared at her with burning eyes.

  “Willful, faithless cub!” Her father’s massive hand caught her a stinging blow. “You killed it by fleeing your lawful husband. What madwoman rides a horse for days with such a belly?” Looming over her, he shook her by the arms.

  Maeve squinted through the pain, her ears ringing. She would get beaten anyway, so she may as well speak truth. “If it had lived,” she hissed under her breath, “it would have been his. And you would barter me to someone else, and I would lose it anyway!”

  As I did her. I lost her.

  Eochaid’s eyes flared, flickering toward the Mumu prince to see if he’d heard. Another cramp came, and a trickle of blood between Maeve’s thighs. She ground her knees together, and when her father cursed and hit her again, she welcomed it, for it snapped her out of that creeping faint.

  Eochaid stalked back to his chair and gripped it, his knuckles white. Maeve licked the cut on her lip, grateful to have a different pain to focus on.

  “What did you do with it?” Diarmait demanded.

  Maeve turned her sore cheek toward him. “I burned it. There was not much to it.” Though he rutted like a beast, he was repulsed by her swelling body, and had not seen her naked for some time. He would not realize how far along she was.

  “She is young.” Eochaid’s brows lowered, spiky and red over his blue eyes. “There will be more sons.”

  Diarmait glowered, heaving himself to his feet. He went to lumber out of the hall, but stopped by Maeve and grasped her bruised chin. His eyes narrowed. “You gave me a filly that had not been broken, Eochaid,” he grunted. “I can’t have her running every time she balks, or our oath will be untied. See that she is broken now, before you give her back.”

  Eochaid watched him go, frowning. The Connacht king’s hand was still flexing, as if he longed to take his fury out on Maeve properly. But he only growled to her, “The women will put you to bed to be healed by the druids. You must be nursed back to strength.”

  Strong enough to bear more sons to Diarmait of Mumu, he meant. Maeve bent her head as her father passed, as if she was giving in. When he’d gone, she lifted it again, holding her cloak over her aching belly. They won’t get more from me, she vowed, her eyes on the fire. My son and I will go somewhere no one can find us.

  For days the wrath of her father and Diarmait confined Maeve to bed. She was held there by chanting druids and frightened maids, and also the guards who lounged outside the women’s lodge. When she hobbled to the waste pit, they followed. When she went to the temple of Bríd to burn an offering, they followed. She didn’t know where her horse was.

  Her breasts ached and leaked, and she shoved a fist in her mouth at night so the maids sleeping around her bed would not hear her weep. Fear for the child and for Brenna made her retch, until she was dosed with more bitter brews.

  One thing she knew about warriors was that eventually they would feast, and then they would drink. Maeve played contrite, crying on Diarmait’s shoulder and begging him to forgive her moment of madness. She even knelt to kiss her father’s hand, keeping her desperation hidden behind bright, hard eyes.

  Soon they stopped watching her, and on the night before riding home to Mumu, Eochaid held a feast. Maeve bribed the maids with Diarmait’s jewels, and dressed in her old riding gear, slipped from the king’s hall and fled along dark paths from Cruachan on foot.

  The cave called her.

  Clouds darkened the night sky … she could barely see anything. A hush fell over the Connacht hills as she drew near. The hawthorns were silent, no wind in their leaves.

  No.

  Dread surfaced from the depths that enveloped the adult Maeve as, deep in Ulaid territory, she was pulled down into the river of spirit, of memory, by Ruán’s anam. She couldn’t see his silver flame anymore. The blackness, the emptiness, was seeping into her. I won’t go there.

  A throb of warmth came that somehow held Ruán’s essence. Let it drown you, or you will die.

  That did not make any sense.

  The blackness of that long-ago night in the cave was filling her nose, her mouth … pouring in to stop her heart. And then the agony hit her, and her present-day body arched on the pebbles by an Ulaid stream.

  The cave near Cruachan was a gash in the earth, the trees and hill faintly picked out by the moon, which had risen behind the clouds. There was no glimpse of a lamp flame within.

  Maeve trapped her breath in her throat and slithered down the tunnel to where the cave flattened out. A cold reached up that came from the very bowels of the earth.

  “Mistress …?”Brenna whimpered.

  “I am here.” Maeve groped along the wall toward this poor woman who had sat in the darkness and cold alone, for her. Brenna was too weak to shiver as Maeve hugged her, the pulse in her wrist faint.

  Maeve was already reaching for the child when Brenna’s whisper halted her. “Forgive me. The milk … gone. So … so cold …”

  The blackness had only been held at bay by Maeve’s frantic heartbeat, the force of her desperation that everything would be well because she willed it so. Now it rushed upon her, overwhelmed her.

  The babe’s skin was icy, the dome of his head fitting her palms. Though her hand braced his back, as she drew him close his limbs fell from the swaddling. His neck sagged over her wrist.

  All strength bled from her and she sank down in the dark.

  By the Ulaid stream, Maeve’s heart was dying now.

  I did it. I killed him. The poison of the past was drowning her.

  Ruán’s voice wove through her awareness. Feel it all, a stór, or you cannot find what you are beyond.

  I killed him. It bore her down, and Maeve lost the last sense of Ruán’s brightness. The agony sucked her under, took all life … breath … light.

  She shuddered back into her body. She was sprawled on the bank of the stream on hands and knees, slipping on fallen leaves. Water streamed from her hair, the tendrils swirling in the mud. Her mouth opened and a cry she had never voiced came from the depths of her, and was at last emptied into the earth, the Mother.

  The ancient black waters gushed from Maeve—from her eyes, mouth, and nose. Everything she had buried in that cave she retched from her throat and belly. She wept into the earth beneath her then, caught in a paroxysm she could not escape.

  Levarcham scrabbled over to Maeve, her hands hovering, unsure.

  Blindly, Maeve groped for her, and Levarcham caught her fist and drew Maeve to her breast. The druid cradled her as the agony drew Maeve into a ball, her face buried in Levarcham’s cloak.

  Maeve bore that pain like a terrible birthing, and it took with it the last hours of the night.

  Cúchulainn woke in the dark. With no one to tend it, the fire was nearly out and the cold wind numbed his scabbed cheeks and swollen hands.

  He rolled on his back, pain shooting through every muscle. The wound on his hip gnawed inward. The cuts all over him stung, like nips of sharp teeth. Beneath that, he was so exhausted he was not sure he could move again.

  Worst of all were the stabs in his heart, jabbing like Ferdia’s dagger. There was no way to raise a shield to that. He sighed, putting a hand over his breastbone and looking up at the stars. Were they the soul-fires of th
e gods, as people said? One of them was very bright, the morning star that seemed to follow him as he wandered Erin.

  Cúchulainn dared to gaze at it. He thought of the rumor, so precious he had never dared admit it to his own heart. His mother Dectire, Conor’s sister, was not wed when she became pregnant with him. Her mind had gone, and she never told anyone who his real father was. The druids knew, though.

  They said it was Lugh, the many-skilled—the bright god of light and sun, wisdom and valor.

  Utterly alone, at that moment a glimmer of the boy emerged in Cúchulainn. He realized his face was wet. Father. The plea that came could never be formed into words, it was only a swelling of feeling. Help me. There was no one to bathe his wounds or sing healing songs over him. No one to feed him something warm, to bring strength back into spent limbs.

  His hand remained over his heart, as if he could pretend it was Emer’s. He had sent her away, though, told her to lead their people to safety. There was no one.

  Cúchulainn at last fell into a desolate sleep.

  The night passed strangely, as he swung between dreams and moments where he nearly surfaced. He was sometimes conscious of the hollow of cold grass beneath him, or the stars above, but he never woke properly. Nevertheless, he slowly became aware of a warmth in his limbs. The darkness was pushed back, the starlight kindling into gold.

  Sun-gold.

  He was aware of someone standing watch nearby, like a lone tree guarding the bank. Afraid, he tried to drag himself awake, but only sank further into sleep until he knew nothing more.

  When Cúchulainn woke at dawn he was no longer aching. He gazed down at his hands, pulled up the hems of his torn trews. The spear-cuts were almost closed, as if they had enjoyed days of healing. His hand went to the wound Ferdia had inflicted in his side. It had crusted over and no longer gnawed. When he got to his feet, he felt as if he’d drunk a draft of clear water.

  It was light, and it filled him as the sun grew in strength and spilled over the hills.

  “I felt Her,” Levarcham at last whispered into Maeve’s brow, near dawn.

  The awe in her voice penetrated Maeve’s fog of exhaustion, her mind barely conscious.

  The druid was still slumped beneath Maeve, cradling her. “I felt the Goddess with you, Maeve, the light behind the world. She held you … and one other was there also, a bright flame. And me. It is not yours to bear alone anymore.” Levarcham gripped the back of her head. “Can you not see the light, even now?”

  Light … silver … Ruán. He came to her. He called her a stór. Beloved.

  With a catch in her breath, Maeve opened her swollen eyes. Her face was a mask of dried salt that cracked as she touched it. She blinked, turning her cheek in Levarcham’s lap.

  Dawn was coming. The world was hushed, a soft gray, and there was a lightening in the east. The trees dripped dew. Only then did she realize the pain in her womb was gone. She placed a hand over that gentle swell. Heat radiated from within, and Maeve gazed down in wonder. To her, it glowed, though she could see nothing with her eyes. This babe was safe, still rooted within.

  She sat up, curving her hands over her belly. Instantly, a fierce heat swept her—and this time it was her own fire, pouring through with a greater force than she had ever experienced. It was brilliant now, not red and wrathful.

  A silver flame.

  Maeve let it surge through her, tilting back her chin. The Source of the Mother joined that light, drawn from the land, the airs and waters. She knew it. It was as if it had filled her many times in ages past, but she had forgotten its ecstasy.

  This was what she truly was—a cradle, not a shield.

  Unknowing, she had been yearning for it only because she sensed its faint echo from before-lives. She did not hate the sídhe … she was not numb to the gods. She hungered for that radiance and grace. And now she would find a way to hold not just her people with this force, but her child. She would keep this one safe, pour everything into him until he grew tall, and ran, and laughed.

  Her gaze lifted to Levarcham. The druid’s eyes were once more luminous.

  Maeve looked higher, to the sliver of red showing over the dark hills. Levarcham helped her up, and Maeve held on to a birch sapling as she straightened. The silver flame spread out from her core, filling her limbs.

  This ecstasy was what Ruán had touched—she had seen it in his face. A longing seized her to part the veils with him, and be enveloped by it always. But there was more to do first. “I have to find a way to end this. Enough death has been done. Erin needs … life.”

  Her heart racing, Maeve approached the stream. Was he still there in the ripples? She uncurled a hand to beckon him back, but she couldn’t feel him anymore. Ruán …

  Levarcham’s cry shattered the dawn. Maeve spun about to see the druid with her hand over her mouth, pointing across the stream.

  The mist was turning gold, but on the western bank, not the eastern. Levarcham stumbled forward as that light grew so bright that Maeve had to shade her eyes. That fiery brilliance … was it Ruán?

  No.

  Maeve saw a glimmer on the water. For a heartbeat it shimmered in and out of mist, as insubstantial as the vapor. An arched neck, fluted wings … a swan.

  Then it was gone, and in the flood of light that spilled through the woods a maiden appeared. Maeve could not see her clearly. Her slender limbs were wound with the pale branches, her golden hair the streamers of mist. Her heart-shaped face was the most beautiful Maeve had seen, but her green eyes bore a wild glint, as of an untamed creature.

  Levarcham fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.

  That wildness in the maiden softened when she looked at Levarcham. “There is no parting, no loss, Mother, I told you. The spirit comes to rest for only a brief time in the body, but it is always free to fly, and always alive.”

  She did not look solid, but her voice resonated through Maeve’s chest. Garvan, she thought in wonder. One day she would see him again.

  Levarcham raised her face, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Fledgling.”

  “Let go the bitterness, for that bars your way, and then you will see me in everything.”

  Levarcham drew a sharp breath. “So I can die and come to you—”

  “Not yet.” The maiden smiled, and there was a glimpse of a human girl in that flash of joy. “The light of the Great Goddess belongs to all. You must birth it for others in Thisworld before you come to Her in mine. And too many have died in my name. I want it to end. I want you to live.”

  Levarcham wrapped her arms about her waist, her head bowed.

  Deirdre of the Ulaid turned that luminous face toward Maeve. “To you, raven queen, I bear a message.”

  Maeve swallowed, nodding. For a moment sorrow flitted across the girl’s glowing eyes, dimming their sheen.

  “You are the Mother now, so see to all your children.” Deirdre raised a slender arm, unfurling it like a wing toward the north. “Conor comes, and he is seeking you.”

  CHAPTER 37

  To Cúchulainn, Ferdia looked worse this day.

  In the dawn light it was apparent his wounds had been cleaned, his forearms bandaged, and the scratches on his face salved. No matter how many druids had worked on him, though, Ferdia’s skin was gray, his face and once-proud shoulders sagging.

  Ferdia and Cúchulainn stared at each other. They had exhausted the chariot, horse, spear, and sling feats. If they repeated them this day, or if one surrendered, all the warriors of Erin would accuse them of cowardice, and betrayal of their lords and oaths.

  Can I do that for him? Cúchulainn again asked himself. He rubbed the sore lump in his throat, scraping the stubble with raw fingers. In battle, he would not hesitate to throw himself before a blade to save Ferdia’s life—but give up for that?

  Cúchulainn was defending the Ulaid, and if he surrendered for one man, he would have his people’s blood on his hands. But there was more to it than that. The flow of Source that height
ened his strength and senses was a gift from the gods. If he betrayed it, they might deny him his place on the Blessed Isles. And he knew what the bards would sing, and what the people of Erin would remember ever after of Cúchulainn.

  Coward. Traitor. Defeated.

  If, the gods willing, he ever had sons, that was all they would hear. Emer would know he was not the man she held in her arms. His golden name, sung to the gods, breathed into Erin’s air, would turn to lead. He would no longer be him—and what would be left for Emer or Ferdia to love?

  Cúchulainn’s blood beat out that dirge as he studied Ferdia’s haunted face. He tried a last, desperate throw. “I cannot surrender because I have women to guard, Ferdia—children. If not, I would humble myself to you. But you have no one to guard. You can save us both.”

  Ferdia gritted his teeth. “I would lose the only scraps I have left—my name, my pride.” It came as a whisper, his sureness ebbing, and then his eyes flared with a last defiance. “I cannot leave this world with nothing, reviled and scorned.” He shook his head, his brow crumpling. “I would no longer be Ferdia mac Daman. I would no longer be me, and what would be left for you to love?”

  The jaws of the trap snapped shut.

  Cúchulainn forced his lips to move. “Why don’t we wake these men up?” he croaked. He cocked a brow. “The Salmon Leap?” It had come down to swords, at last.

  Ferdia’s mouth turned up and he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “One of us has to cross the river for that.” He glanced behind him at the throng of spectators who had tumbled early from their beds, their restless mutters a rising wind. “It is safer for you if I come to that side.”

  “It is better for you if I cross to yours,” Cúchulainn returned. He could at least give Ferdia that.

  Fercha’s smile trembled. “Salmon Leap, then. I remember when Naisi and I did it, that day at Emain Macha before he met Deirdre.”

  “I remember. I will prepare.”