The Raven Queen

by Jules Watson

  This raised murmurs of approval from the chieftains. It was better to choose the right person to lead them rather than rush to elect someone who would falter and bring ruin to Connacht.

  Tiernan went to protest, his eyes narrowing.

  Maeve cut him off, throwing herself on her good knee before him. Pain shot along her damaged thigh, and more blood welled. “And if I do not have the blessing of the sídhe, I swear now that I will offer myself as a royal sacrifice—for the sacred triple death.” She would be dealt a blow to the skull, then strangled, then staked in a bog, one of the watery doorways to the Otherworld. Maeve struggled to fill her lungs as she said it. “I will go to the gods and beg them to favor our people with the same courage I have shown this day.”

  This invocation of sacrifice and magic at last made the storm break. People cheered and stamped, gabbling with the release of tension.

  The chief druid stared down at Maeve, inscrutable. “The offer is accepted.” He lifted a hand to the milling crowd. “And we hereby lay a sacred peace upon the men of the derbfine until leaf-bud. We must stay strong and united under druid rule, to defend our land if need be.”

  As the clamor went on, Tiernan’s eyes glinted at Maeve with something that could have been admiration. “I will tell the sídhe they can have you themselves come leaf-bud.”

  “I meant it.” A humming was growing in Maeve’s ears, her vision narrowing. “You can kill me with your own hand.”

  And then she fainted.

  CHAPTER 8

  “It is foolish,” the druid Mahon growled, grinding herbs in a mortar by his fire. “That woman is a banshee.”

  Tiernan was collapsed in one of Mahon’s willow-branch chairs, exhausted. He had been placating his fellow druids for days, soothing their fears and outrage.

  The wisps of Mahon’s white hair trembled as he worked the pestle in agitation. “Why did you agree to put off the king-making?”

  Tiernan stared into the flames, which danced in a draft that crept under the doorskin. The fumes from Mahon’s various bubbling pots on their little tripods caught at his throat. “She has won many lords to her cause. And with the sword, and her victory in the duel, the warriors see her as the goddess Macha returned to us. If we crush her, we risk the very war breaking out we wish to avoid.”

  Mahon scraped the pestle against the mortar and sniffed the crushed herbs. “You don’t sound angry.”

  “I’m not. I’m … intrigued.” Eochaid had enjoyed a long reign, and it had been many years since Tiernan was required to deal with such an upheaval. “Fraech and Innel won the support of some lords, but many are their sworn rivals. You know how warriors collect slights along with the enemy skulls on their doors. The Lady Maeve does stand outside these feuds, as she says. It is possible she can bring us peace.”

  Tiernan watched Mahon’s hands as he rose and felt among the bunches of herbs hanging from antler tines on the low roof. Mahon used another sense in his healing, an instinct. Then Tiernan went still. He was using his mind as chief druid, and not his own gifts. He clambered up, throwing his wool cloak about his bony shoulders. “We need to pierce the mists that are obscuring this matter, for all our sakes. I must seek more visions until I see true.”

  Without speaking, Mahon reached to his shelves, nudging aside bundles of roots, jars with wax lids, and sheaves of speckled feathers, until he withdrew a hidden leather flask and slipped it into the chief druid’s hands. The dreaming potion. The older druid bowed toward the little shrine of the healer god Dianket in the corner, and its wooden idol with eyes of pale quartz. Tiernan joined him.

  It was the Dark One he truly invoked, however. The god who hovered in the murk, the mists, veiling truths. Tiernan needed sight, as he had rarely needed it before.

  It was just past dawn, a week later. The hills to the north and east of Cruachan were the dark rust of dead bracken and the last brown leaves. The scatter of pools and marshland in the valleys below were shrouded in a pale mist, the sky streaked with rosy cloud.

  “Spitfire?” Garvan nudged his horse behind Meallán.

  Maeve did not turn. “I’ve changed my mind about journeying to Lord Ardal today. I have somewhere I need to go first, alone.” She did need to shore up support among the chiefs, but every night since the fight, her dreams twisted into visions of her death—a noose around her neck, her blood drifting through water like smoke.

  “We agreed you need guards now, Maeve. We must come everywhere with you.”

  “Not this place.” Maeve blew into her frigid hands, trying to pierce the banks of mist with her sight. The rising sun was now burning off some of the vapor, and every now and then a glimpse came of shining water etched with slow currents.

  The lake.

  Hidden at his side, one of the warriors spread his fingers to ward against enchantment. They thought she had the power to summon the armies of the sídhe. They thought her blessed by the Shining Ones, but she wasn’t. She couldn’t be.

  They must have let her have the sword for their own reasons. They were tricksters, after all.

  Maeve kneaded the knitting wound on her thigh. The druids had sewn and poulticed it, and it was healing well, but it only reminded her that the threat of Fraech and his kin still hovered.

  And beneath that, her vow to Tiernan was ice in her veins, not the glorious rush such dedications were meant to be.

  She had promised a divine blessing. Fertility. Fruitfulness. Bounty. She was declaring herself a mother of the land. Maeve worried her lip between her teeth. She had always thought herself cursed as a mother. Long ago she took that pain and hid it in a fold of her heart, and it made that a numb place, and that had brought relief.

  But for Connacht to be strong now—to save her very life—she must seek what she had once spurned. “I do not know how long I will be.”

  “Forever?” one of the men muttered. Mortals could be captured by the Shining Ones and not returned for many years.

  Maeve bent a stern look upon him. “Do you think I cannot part the veils?”

  Garvan was still cocking a doubtful brow when Maeve spun her horse, slashing her hand between them to cut the ties to the world of men. “Wait for me,” she snapped. “No one is to venture to this lake of the sídhe. It is for the queen alone.”

  And she kicked her stallion down the slope.

  Maeve slid from Meallán’s back at the lakeshore, hopping on her undamaged leg.

  Since the fight, her mind kept swimming back and forth between light and dark. She should feel invincible after such a victory, but she felt insubstantial instead, her pulse erratic.

  There could only be one cure.

  Leading her stallion, she ducked beneath barren ash trees, their brown seeds hanging in clusters. She limped across the cold, purple marsh to a hearth of rocks and spread her hand over it. Warm. He was close. She tied Meallán’s reins and left him, crouching instead behind a fallen trunk.

  The weak sun had broken fully over the lake now, lighting up the mist and painting the tips of the reeds.

  This time the man was thigh-deep in the wetlands, his back to her, his buckhide tunic and trews water-stained. He stood with hands spread as if beckoning the surface to rise toward him.

  Maeve craned her neck until her wound cramped and she fell on her buttocks. She could have sworn something rippled from the stranger’s palms into the water. He dipped his arms in and then lifted up a gleaming fish that appeared to already be dead, bent over his palms.

  How did he catch it with that blindfold?

  The man glided out of the lake and past Maeve’s hiding place with that curious, flowing stride. His full mouth was soft with wonder. He was transported, unaware of her.

  Maeve was arrested by that glimpse of private ecstasy, as if he looked upon something beyond this place. His face was tender and aglow with it, and for some reason her heart contracted. Did she look like that when she was caught in that silver tide?

  He trod on light feet to the fire and curled up, seeking for hi
s stone blade by touch alone. His fingers traced the curves of the hearth as if savoring them, shaping the rocks and trailing across the spangled grass until they found what they were looking for, and then cradled the blade.

  Mesmerized, Maeve found her cheeks growing hot. She started as Meallán’s ears twitched at the stranger’s presence and the stallion stamped. The man paused in scaling the fish but did not look up. Only then did she notice all of the scratches that webbed his hands.

  Blast. Maeve shook off her daze and limped toward him. “You’re a priest.”

  The stone hovered over the sheen of scales.

  “I saw the mark on your brow. You are a druid, not sídhe. And if you are one of their priests, then I have come to ask you to pray to them for me.”

  The man began scaling the fish. Close up, the dance of his fingers was even more unnerving. His dark russet hair fell in a tail down a perfectly straight back. Like his scarred hands, though, this grace was marred by a ragged forelock that looked as if he often stuck his hand through it, and copper stubble over his jaw that was roughly shaved by stone, not steel. Baffling.

  “What must I do for this blessing?” Maeve’s mouth had gone dry. “I need the power of the Shining Ones to make the land fruitful. I will offer the gifts, and you can perform the rites.”

  The blade came to rest on the druid’s knee. He lifted his face and the sun caught it, and for the first time she looked at him and not his tattoos or blindfold.

  His full mouth bore defined peaks, the corners curving up a little, as if he once had been inclined to laugh. His jaw flared out like a square shield, though his nose was prominent enough to anchor it, a little dip at its tip echoing the obvious cleft in his chin. It was a warrior’s face, not that of a pale, thin druid who spent all his time at studies.

  His voice was still low and rich, but with a hint of exasperation. “You cannot speak to them through someone else any more than you can bargain with them.” As if that was enough, he returned his attention to his blade.

  Maeve, though, saw he had caught his lip in his teeth. Not so calm, then. “I hold the safety of many people in my hands.” She tried to rein in her desperation. “You will help me, or—”

  “You’ll risk the ire of druid-kind as well as the sídhe?”

  Maeve tensed, making her wound protest. She kneaded it again. “I will risk anything for my people. I have already risked my life.”

  “If you have that much courage, put yourself in their hands and surrender your heart. That is what they ask.” Frowning, he dipped his chin, rubbing his stubbled jaw on his shoulder. “Or so I was taught.”

  Surrender …? If she had done that, she would be a cowering thing in Conor’s bed, a broken bird. Or dead by her brother’s hand.

  “Where are they? I will prove to them that I deserve this.” Maeve charged away from him through the blackthorn thicket, ignoring the scratches on her arms and face. “I beg you to show yourselves,” she pleaded. “You have seen I am brave, and worthy.” She swept the grasses aside and broke out into the marsh. Scores of ducks took wing in a flurry. Dizzied, Maeve flung her arms to the sky. “I will honor you, if you will help me!”

  The feathered reeds closed about her. The splashes of the ducks settled. The pale sky was empty. Come to me. Maeve squeezed it out of her heart. Please come, as you never did before. There is more than me at stake now

  Nothing.

  With heavy steps she limped from the marsh. Panting, she sank on the grass by the stone hearth and stretched her sore leg. Lugh’s balls. She stared at the glinting water, surprised when her eyes blurred, shattering the reflection. If she failed, what would happen to Connacht? The derbfine would tear the land to pieces, and Conor would gobble them up.

  The druid blew on the little fire he’d conjured. “Your steps sound lame.”

  Her head snapped toward him, a cramp in her breast. “A queen cannot be lame! I took a wound, that is all.”

  He couldn’t see her glare, and so continued gutting the fish. He did not so much tear the flesh as stroke it clean. Maeve dragged her gaze from his maddening hands. “I know the druids for leagues around Cruachan, so I would like to know why you are here alone …” She hesitated. “Without your sight.”

  The rhythm of his hands faltered. “I took a wound, that is all.”

  A stab of amusement severed Maeve’s frustration. It took effort to push and bear up all the time, and she was exhausted.

  “I am a wanderer,” the man went on. “I hold no allegiance to anyone anymore, least of all the druid brotherhood. In fact …” His brows showed over the blindfold. “You’d best ignore me altogether.” He spitted the fish on hazel sticks and propped it near the flames, wiping his hands on the grass.

  “So I have not ‘risked the ire of druid-kind’ at all.”

  He snorted, the curves at the corners of his mouth deepening. “Not because of me.”

  This exchange was interrupted by a growl from Maeve’s belly. She rubbed it, frowning. “But when I touched you, something crossed between us.” She sat upright. “You did place an enchantment on me. It made me fight like I never have before, diving, twirling … I felt weightless.” Her breath caught. “You lie when you claim you know nothing of the Shining Ones!”

  The man went perfectly still. “You felt that?”

  “After I saw you with the otter. It seemed to be …” She shook her head. “… all around me, like nothing I have ever known. But what did I feel?”

  The man leaped up as if she had bitten him. He turned toward the lake, his fists curling. “A glimpse of the otter’s anam, it seems. It is … something sacred to me.”

  Anam? Maeve rarely gave thought to souls, either her own or others. “How is that possible? Unless you do have the blessing of the sídhe …”

  He scraped back his russet hair. Maeve stared at the rigid line of his back, his muscles pushing out against his wet tunic as his breath grew swifter.

  At last he lowered his shoulders and felt his way to the fire. “Every journey to them is made by one alone.” He prodded the spitted fish. “They are not mine to command, and I have no blessing to give you.” But he sounded as if it was an effort to speak so coolly.

  A waft of smoke stung Maeve’s eyes, and when she blinked it away, the man was holding out some cooked fish on a flattened shard of wood. He was not smiling now, the dips beneath his cheekbones more hollow. “I did use to be a druid. Fire and food must be shared with guests—that is the oldest law of all.”

  Maeve took the food. If he was not threatened by her, she could not assert any authority over him. “Then you will also know you trespass on sacred lands at your peril.”

  “Is that why you keep coming back with the fear of the gods upon you?”

  Maeve trapped a disbelieving laugh. “You are dangerously bold for a landless wanderer.”

  He shrugged and folded roast fish in his mouth. “I have nothing to lose.”

  So he did not need anything, either. Troubling. Maeve peered at his blindfold. Why would he cover his eyes if he lived here alone? Pride. He must be a man, after all. “Well! You built this hearth, and I cannot eat without the name of my host.”

  He hesitated. “Call me Ruán.”

  “I am Maeve, daughter of King Eochaid. And … wait, I have some food as well.” She limped to Meallán’s saddle-pack, digging out barley and honey cakes and a flask of mead.

  They ate in silence. When Ruán washed his hands, he remained crouched by the lake as if seeking for something in its glittering expanse, his elbows on his knees, his fingers dripping. Maeve glanced between him and the sheet of sunlit water, wondering what he saw. A brackish scent rose from the reeds, striking her with a curious pang.

  Freedom. Silence. The timeless water that every day captured the sun soaring and then sinking into night.

  Ruán began to hum. Lulled by the haunting tune, Maeve leaned back, her thighs relaxing as the warmth of food and mead sank through her. Her mind sent out a feeble warning. Danger. But her ins
tincts did not agree, for against all her efforts her eyelids began to droop, though her hand remained on her sword.

  The singing wound through her descent into blackness, and Maeve could do nothing but let go into a child’s sleep she had resisted for too long. She drifted in and out of wakefulness, like a fish swimming from sunlight through shadow.

  The singing became a murmur. If your heart strains, lay it down and your weariness will be cleansed. The strength in your back is great, but be soft now, for all creatures find rest here …

  Maeve fought against the tender voice. She could not be soft. She jolted awake, her hilt in her palm. Moistening her sticky tongue, she turned her head.

  Ruán was holding Meallán’s bridle, his graceful head bent upon the stallion’s muzzle so that their breath mingled. He was singing to him … no, saying those things to Meallán in some strange druid-speech. And her fiery stallion, who bore no touch but her own, nudged Ruán’s chest with his brow.

  Maeve grasped for the sword, forcing herself up. She never let her guard down, and neither did Meallán. Now was not the time to falter, not with so much at stake. Furious at herself, she barely noticed the pain as she hobbled to the horse.

  At the last moment she stumbled, and unerringly, Ruán’s hand reached to catch her.

  She plucked herself free. “I must go. My guards will think I have come to harm.” She tried to clamber into the saddle, but her wound cramped and she sank back, head swimming.

  “Here.” Ruán cupped his hands.

  She had no choice, placing a foot in his palm. Once up, she scrubbed the creases of sleep from her cheeks. “Thank you for the food.”

  A little, crooked smile. “I am merely placating you, so this does not come flying at me again.” He gestured toward her scabbard on her belt.

  Maeve stared down at him. “I do not make mistakes twice,” she said faintly. “Farewell.” She kneed her stallion and set him into a canter across the turf.