by Jules Watson
He turned his head. The flare that was Maeve writhed with a turmoil she was struggling to contain. The intensity of it made the hairs lift on his arms.
Maeve cleared her throat. “A timely gift.”
Wary, he nodded. “So it seems.”
She hesitated, breathing hard. Without warning, a gout of flame spilled from her. “And in return for all this, you have to help me with the sídhe.”
Ruán went cold. Every time she came, that vivid fire reached for him, but in his fascination he had forgotten it held danger.
The moment he drew away, Maeve gripped his wrist. “This is not for me.” Her desperation engulfed him. “I took the sword to defeat a man who would have killed me. But the druids are afraid the sídhe are angry now, and I had to promise they would bless me, that the land would bloom. Without that blessing, I cannot protect those who need me, and I am running out of time!”
This torrent pressed Ruán back against the taut slope of the tent.
Her temper snapped. “Gods, I will not harm you! I have honored you with many gifts. What else do you need to trust me?”
Ruán stiffened, his nostrils flaring. “I am not afraid of you! And if you think my eyes make me weak …”
“Oh, stop it, stop it! I do not pity you—you know this land better blind than most with their sight.”
He stared at her. All he could see was twisting flame, red and black.
She flung herself to her knees before him, blocking the exit from the tent. “I understand why you cannot trust me. I can watch and absorb all you do, but you do not know me. You cannot look in my eyes, at my truth, and tell just how much I need this, that I want only what is good for my people.” She clutched at his sleeve. “So you have to see me somehow—to know for yourself that what I say is real!”
At that, Maeve of Connacht grabbed Ruán’s hands and crushed them to her face.
Shock blanked Ruán.
For the first time in many moons he touched human skin. Though he wanted to recoil, his body was held there by the gusts of her warm breath on his palm.
This is foolish. But Ruán’s fingers ignored him.
He had been training them to capture every new touch, to summon light from darkness—and now they held a great wildfire that roared through his flesh. And he could not forget that, without even trying, this brazen woman had drawn a glimmer of the otter anam into her body.
Gods, but how? He needed to know.
With a life of their own, Ruán’s fingers began to move over her face. Maeve had placed them on her eyes, and her lashes brushed his palms. They were slanted, and he was surprised by the image that came to mind of a dusky glance, heavy-lidded.
“Blue.” Maeve cleared her throat. “They are blue.”
Her nose was long, her cheekbones prominent. Her jaw was delicate, considering she fought with a sword, though he could see how that pointed chin would thrust the world away.
“My father called me vixen, and I’m red-haired like a fox.”
It was curiosity at first, like molding clay, until Ruán’s fingers brushed Maeve’s mouth. At his touch, her breath escaped.
Ruán’s pulse was loud in his ears. This close, the charge of her presence became heat. Every cool thought of his slipped away, overtaken by a picture of lush, parted lips pressed to his skin. Surely that could not be her full mouth, with that sharp blade of a voice.
His fingers sprang away, his face on fire.
There was a rustle as Maeve sat back on her heels and put her hand over her mouth. Ruán felt the change in her, the flare wavering, then drawing back and growing darker.
When she spoke, her voice was unsteady. “As for the rest of me, I am lean like a deerhound, not plump or womanly. Men cannot better me that way.”
The hail-shower had blown away now, and an eerie silence fell over the clearing. Ruán stood. “I do not have a blessing to give you.” He spoke slowly, each word distinct. Any more and he would have to lie.
She could not know the truth, for whether her fire consumed the veils or her blade tore them, she wanted power—and the power here was not his to give.
His light, his sight.
Maeve was silent now, her light dimmed. Ruán caught her faint exhalation. “I brought food for you,” she said, getting up.
In a tiny alcove beside her bedchamber, Maeve glanced up to the thatch as another fist of wind slammed into it, tearing at the straw. Outside, the heavy clouds brought an early twilight to Cruachan.
She poured a drink for the shabby bard on the bench facing her. She last saw him at Samhain, and again his trews were muddy, his tunic stained and threadbare. His gray hair straggled to his shoulders; no one would give him a second look. Good. She rested down the ale-jug, nudging the plate of sausages toward him. “You’ve been gone for weeks.”
Miu sat on the arm of Maeve’s chair, her unblinking gaze fixed on the intruder. The bard eyed her, licking his lips. “Lady, if I rush back here people will know who rules me, heart and soul.”
“Spare me. It is my bronze you want, and no more.”
That snuffed out his oily smile. He scratched his beard. “It takes time. I do not enjoy sleeping on cold floors. And the Ulaid are so afraid of each other now they let nothing slip!”
Maeve’s gaze joined Miu’s, both pinning him down. The harper stopped whining and blurted out everything.
Deirdre’s flight with the three sons of Usnech had torn rents in the Red Branch. At Samhain, a fight broke out between Illan, son of Fergus, and Fiacra, son of King Conor. Cúchulainn took Illan’s side, other heroes defended Fiacra. The king arrived and shamed Illan, and Fergus jumped in to defend his son. “And then, before all the people,” the bard whispered, “Fergus and Conor spoke of traitors and treason.”
The hearth-flames wavered.
Gods. The Ulaid were cracking, and Maeve could not muster warriors to strike Conor and weaken him further because she had tied her own hands. The Connacht druids ruled until leaf-bud—her only way to delay Fraech being acclaimed as king.
She dismissed the bard, and when he had gone, she leaned her head on her chair and exhaled. Now it was not the Ulaid that crowded her.
The strange druid said he was a no one, and wielded no power, but she didn’t believe him. She would never forget the otter’s anam turning Innel’s sword away, so she lived. This druid commanded something, of that she was certain.
And she needed it.
She had toyed with taking warriors to the lake and forcing Ruán to beg the sídhe for help. This was a druid, though. Blind, living in seclusion … a mystery that required a delicate touch. He could easily disappear, or worse—turn the sídhe against her, so that everything of her was cursed, not just her womb.
So why did she lose all her sense and touch him? Damn, damn, damn.
Despite this, Maeve’s hand drifted up now to trace her brows. She could still smell the blackberries on his breath. Over her nose and cheekbones, across her lips.
He did not possess the massive muscles that joined neck to shoulder as swordsmen did, the slabs of flesh and tendon that gave fighters a hulking stance. Muscled, he was, but finely molded, with flaring shoulders sweeping to a lithe waist. And he was straight-backed and light on his feet, his head drawn high … as graceful as a stag poised to leap away through the woods.
She must follow him down that path, for it led somewhere. A lake of light …? Maeve came back to herself, her fingers tingling at her throat.
These last weeks she had found it far too easy to slip into that trance of quiet water and glowing sky. There, peace kept seeping into her, as the mud crept over her bare toes and the damp soaked her wool trews. Her questions would disappear on gusts of wind, her muscles softening, her mind emptying.
A druid spell, it was—to make her forget.
Maeve’s hand sprang away from her throat. She tucked her fingers beneath her thigh. And now, this day, her desperation had got all tangled up with lust. She had gone too long without the release of rutting, that
was all; the only time she could push all frustrations, furies, and hurts out of her body.
She had always had that release … only now, she did not, for the competition among the men for her favor was too important. She could not set one in the lead in case the others abandoned the race.
Neither could she continue to waste her time with a priest who refused to satisfy her over the matter of the sídhe. She had chiefs to win, so she could strike at Conor before his Red Branch grew strong again. For she knew that before long he would seek to strike at her.
Maeve withdrew her dagger in the firelight. The thud of her heart made it waver, and set off glints along the blade. The gleam of Conor’s eyes, they were fixed upon her belly every time she ate in his hall.
She had thwarted his plans for Connacht. She had humiliated him. In his twisted thoughts, she and Deirdre bore the blame for his troubles. Whatever he did to Deirdre when he found her, he would want to do to her as well.
Maeve swallowed, lowered the dagger to her lap. She needed more than druid words—she must put her trust in swords now.
But whose? She searched the flames before her, hoping that there she would find the answer she sought.
CHAPTER 10
Maeve knelt before the eternal flame of the god Lugh, burning in its great iron brazier.
At last the temple was silent and empty, the druids having taken their songs to the oak groves. Lugh was the bright one, the many-skilled, the great light. On the longest night of the year the druids chanted all through the darkness, beseeching Lugh to swing the sun north once more and warm the land.
A hint of herb smoke still lingered from their prayer bowls. Their dancing had churned the earth floor of the little hut, leaving the fresh scent of wet soil.
Maeve never used to come here, for Lugh was sacred to the sword-wielders and the crafters who laid their work at his flame. Women left offerings at the shrines of the mother goddesses, Bríd and Danu, Eriu and Fodla.
Maeve never ventured to those, either. She had no claim on them; her woman’s heart had failed that test. And the tender places in it were long gone.
Something had changed, though. She was now a blooded warrior. She needed great daring for the plan that was forming, and forcing down her fear of what the gods thought of her, she had come to beg Lugh’s strength at last.
The mud walls pressed in, the oiled roof-beams reflecting the flame, and she gulped down the lump in her throat. Never let me be so desperate again, was her hasty prayer. Then, unbidden, her heart spoke, a feeling without words. And let me find peace.
A strange thing, in a warriors’ shrine.
She unclasped an arm-ring of her father’s and placed it on the worn stone below the brazier. Above the fire a great shield hung, dipped in gold so the flame was caught in the glossy surface, bringing the sun to life in darkness.
Maeve was unsheathing her sword to bless it when there was a commotion outside, a thump and ring of steel. She’d left Garvan and her guards out there, warding the door.
She swung to her feet as two burly men swept in, sword-belts jingling. Fraech’s father Idath and his uncle Felim. “No one will be hurt,” Idath growled to Garvan’s men, “unless you keep struggling.”
Fraech appeared behind them, hovering near the door.
Maeve threw her fur cloak back to rest her hand on her sword. At least she had belted it over the blue dress she’d donned for the longest night feast. The sheath of thin wool was only lightly fastened on each shoulder by spindly brooches, the shift beneath flimsy linen. She felt vulnerable in that finery, her legs bare, her breasts outlined by the soft drapes. “Why are you here if not to hurt me?”
“We would not taint a holy place.” The stocky Idath’s hair and beard were entirely gray. He sneered at her sword. “Despite your grip on that blade, lady, you take refuge in the women’s hall when you want to. It is hard to run you to ground.”
“To get me alone and undefended, you mean.”
Idath smiled.
Maeve glanced at Fraech. Though his face was guarded, she detected discomfort in his steady green eyes. He folded his arms, as if keeping himself separate.
“We come to warn you.” Felim was thinner, with a stoat’s narrow face. His cold glance sought to slice her in two, up and down. “You will abandon this foolish attempt to rule Connacht. Some may indulge your whims, but the other kingdoms will think our wits have deserted us!”
Maeve wanted her voice to be strong, but it cracked. “You heard me acclaimed before all the people—and the chief druid. Lords are on my side, and many warriors are loyal to me.” She curled her lip. “You are afraid because I killed my brother.”
Felim limped forward, his red nose thrusting through pallid curtains of salt-white hair. “You’ve proven only that you are versed in treachery.”
Maeve had vowed to Garvan she would only down a man through his own weakness. She would never be known as a betrayer, never. “I won through my own strength and skill, like any warrior of worth.” She forced it through gritted teeth.
“Gods’ balls, you are dreaming!” Grizzled Idath brandished his fist at her. “Only this is real! Your greed cannot triumph over this, no matter how many dribbling old fools you trick. Everyone knows the enchantments you weave with your tongue.”
Maeve went to speak, but was silenced by that memory of ecstasy, of leaping around Innel so weightless and lithe. Utterly free. It had to be right, for her and her people. Now Idath tried to take that from her. She stared at him, her eyes burning. Her people would suffer these men if she faltered now.
“It is not her tongue,” Felim hissed, “unless she used it on a prick or two. The only way she’s ever won a man is by opening her thighs. Anyone can sheath it in there as long as he pledges his sword after!”
A low rumble came from Fraech’s throat. “Father—”
Idath ignored his son, his gaze lingering on the Aegyptian paint Maeve had used to play up her face for the feast. The black kohl and green powders elongated her eyes, and she had reddened her lips, too. A diadem of fine gold wire sat on her copper curls, and delicate balls swung at her ears. She must show her wares to suitors—it was shrewd to do so, the mark of a ruler.
Idath’s smile, though, held contempt, as if she was no more than a gilded plaything. It made an old part of Maeve shrink into a child once more.
No. She was herself, a woman. She wobbled as she drew straight.
“Come leaf-bud, the warriors will ache to draw their swords among men once more, making my son the greatest king Connacht has known.” Idath snorted, flicking a hand to dismiss her. “When their seed dries on you, they will all see you for what you are.”
Maeve had to move or explode, and she would not let them turn their backs on her. She swept past the old men but paused beside Fraech, trembling with fury. “If you were truly noble, cousin, you would have nothing to fear from me. The people will choose their ruler.”
Fraech towered over her, yet there was regret in his eyes. “Let it go, lady, and I will ensure no harm comes to you. You are not strong enough on your own. The men will not cleave to you when it counts.” When she moved, he caught her wrist, and she balked at the youthful strength in that grip, the iron of a sword-hand. “Wake from this fool dream before it kills you!”
Maeve reclaimed her arm and folded it to herself with a show of dignity. But beneath the surface, all the pressure of these weeks of waiting, and fearing, were boiling up inside her.
Outside, the warriors holding Garvan and his men let them go, and Garvan raced after her. “Forgive me. They rushed us—”
He crowded her—another male voice, the reek of male sweat. The heel of Maeve’s palm struck his chest. “Enough,” she gasped, and stumbled away.
Rend something. Tear herself apart to release this.
Maeve staggered to the stables, where she fumbled to saddle her horse. Beneath that turmoil, a different yearning reared up. Her bones traced by soft hands, fingers cradling her brow and cheeks. Gentleness.
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No, she could not break now. She must cling to rage, and nothing more.
At dawn she woke from a ride she barely remembered. She let Meallán have his head in the night and he came here. Or did she drive him? The bitter wind chewed the lake into gray and white waves, slapping the sand. The sun was low and red.
Maeve shuddered. She was dressed only in her feast clothes—that long flimsy dress—and the air had turned her bare legs to ice. Her face itched, and when her hand went to it she discovered the Aegyptian paint had cracked, melting in tracks. She did not remember that, either.
The reeds were snapping, drawing her eye to something that stirred in the ruddy haze of lake and sky.
Ruán emerged from the purple shadows farther down the shore, cocking his head, a net of some kind over his shoulder. He placed the bag down and let out a high whistle.
Meallán lurched to life.
As her horse broke into a gallop, Maeve lost his reins and could only grip his mane. He thundered right along the water’s edge, his hooves drenching her in spray. She could have hauled him back but she didn’t, the undulation and wind at last tearing a growl free of her breast. Father!
He had left her to men like Idath, and Felim.
The moment Meallán drew level with Ruán’s outstretched hand, he dug in his hooves, plunging to a halt with head down.
Maeve sailed over his neck, hitting the shallows of the lake in an explosion of water. The cold snatched her breath, filled her nose and throat. She got her legs under her and staggered up, coughing and yanking down her dress.
“I did not know you were on him.” Ruán was smiling as he rubbed Meallán’s ears. “You are not hurt, I hope.”
Maeve stared at him, a band tightening about her chest. He thought her a fool—all men did. But this one would not give her what she needed of the sídhe to save her life. A desperation seized her to wrench him open … to expel this terrible pressure inside herself.