by Jules Watson
“But … Mumu as well?” Emer whispered.
Cúchulainn’s eyes were on the wavering lamp-flame by the bed. “They must know we are weakened.” He could not speak what lanced his heart. Where were the Red Branch exiles? Ferdia? He cleared his aching throat. “Maeve must have gathered them together. To wipe us out.” He leaned and blew out the lamp, plunging them into darkness.
The next day Emer was so busy feeding the new arrivals she did not look for Cúchulainn until the sun was high above the far hills.
The Hound saw her from the stable, skirts flying as she ran across the yard, her hair falling from its braids. She stopped at Cúchulainn’s chariot.
He and his servants had greased the wheels, rubbed the wicker with sheep-fat and polished the mountings. The horse-boys had brushed his stallions, the Gray of Macha and the Black of Sainglu, until their coats gleamed.
Bracing himself, Cúchulainn hoisted down the last shield from the loft and came out to face his wife.
Emer put a hand across her eyes as the sun flashed off Cúchulainn’s body. He stood resplendent in ceremonial armor, draped with every weapon he possessed. His helmet was crested with a boar, its bristles standing up—it was his battle-helm.
Her mouth twisted behind her hand. Only then did her gaze fall upon his chariot. He had brought out the gae bolga for the first time in years.
It was a vicious spear that Skatha had given him when he and Ferdia left her battle school in Alba. A druid smith had forged it from sky-metal, and Skatha said since the sun-god Lugh was rumored to be Cúchulainn’s true sire, it must be his.
The smith had set hinged spurs in a spiral pattern down its shaft. The spurs were threaded with sinew. In flight they lay flat, but the end of the sinew remained tied about the spearman’s wrist. When he thrust the gae bolga into his enemy and yanked his hand back, the spurs sprang out like fish-fins and tore his opponent’s innards to shreds.
Emer eyed the fearsome weapon. “Now I know you are mad.” Her voice shook.
Cúchulainn’s body had filled with a calm glow now, as of a welling tide at dusk. It had drowned all doubt. “I want you to gather our people and lead them to safety on the other side of the eastern mountains. They need your strength, Emer. I will track Maeve’s war-band and find a narrow place where I can hold them.”
“Hold them alone?” Emer’s features contorted. “Your sense of duty takes your wits.” Such bitterness had never darkened their door before.
“The Red Branch is struck down. Emain Macha is in disarray. There is no one else.”
“You have your men here.” She huddled into crossed arms. “You trained them.”
He smiled. “Aye, wife. And they have to guard you, and the women and children, and keep them safe in the mountains.” He paused. “This is my fate, I feel it: a great destiny that for some reason I must face alone.” He held out his sword in its sheath of wood and horn. He wanted her to belt it upon him and give him her blessing.
Tears were rolling down Emer’s face, but her nostrils flared and she shook her head.
Cúchulainn lowered the sword. His blood was beginning to drum. The Source was drawing in from the silver light of the world-behind-the-world; he saw it glimmering around the edges of sight. It beckoned him to let go, to be flame, storm, and thunder. To be Cúchulainn the man no more.
“Emer,” he whispered. “You knew I was the Hound of Cullen when you let me court you.” He gestured to the iron and bronze that armored him. “If this is wrong, then our nights together—when you say I make you blaze like the sun—those moments are also nothing. For the man who burns with you then is the man you see now. The glory between us comes from the surrender into Source, and now it asks me to defend my land.” He clasped her hand to his breast so she could feel that beat. “This is the only way. The gods will it.”
Emer wept, shuddering. All at once she dragged her hand from his. “I know this, husband, and you dishonor me by saying so.” She wiped her face. “Don’t you dare think I am less than Emer, heart-wife of Cúchulainn, and that your faith in me is a lie. Don’t you dare let your eyes darken when you look at me!”
He laughed, pulling her close and smoothing her wild dark hair as her fists smacked his ribs. “Emer.” He murmured in her ear as he did in the bed-furs. “The crow goddess has shown me the place of my death in dreams. She waits for me beside a gray stone beneath a dark cloud: that will be my end. On the night I ran to defend Naisi at Emain Macha, she crooned, ‘It is not time yet,’ and so I lived.” He rubbed Emer’s cheeks with his thumbs, the sun catching her tears. “She is silent now, hovering far away over Maeve of Connacht. I will come back to you.” He kissed her, gathering her resisting body against him.
Emer swallowed, husky. “Will you take no one with you?”
“I will not risk another’s blood.” Cúchulainn cocked his head at her and smiled. “You rail at my sense of honor, and yet it is this that will save my life. My heart is sure of it.”
Emer wiped her face on her sleeve, taking deep breaths. Smoothing back her hair, she held her hands out for his sword-belt.
If Ruán had asked, Lord Donn would have given him a horse. Baffled, Áedán tried to urge one upon him, while Orla wept and wrung her hands and would not take any comfort he could offer.
It would have been easier to be mounted, but Ruán knew he needed to feel the ground with his own feet. He must be anchored to the land in order to draw upon the Source and make Erin burst into light around him.
He was as strong as he had ever been, young and straight-limbed. The urgency in his breast to reach Maeve only grew greater day by day, and that gave his feet wings.
At first Ruán followed the great track built across Connacht by Cruachan’s kings. Buoyed by the last touch of the sídhe, it unspooled as a glowing thread before him. It was so bright he was able to break into a lope, losing himself in the sense of Source. He let go, trusting he would feel the hollows, the ruts and stones, before he reached them.
The smile of the sídhe girl still glimmered in his mind, and he did not stumble.
The song of the land enveloped Ruán, and he lost track of time. The earth softened beneath, becoming a gentle wave that lifted and swept him onward. The trees were beacons marking out the rises and gullies in the ground, their light shimmering as if they resonated with his pulse and the gust of his breath.
Luminous streams traced the undulations of the lowlands and marshes, weaving patterns he could follow. He was drawn by the glowing heart of the great river, Sinand, and after a time turned along to follow it north.
That brought him close to his old home.
The strange flashes of farsight returned, catching him unawares and snapping his immersion in the song of the land.
He glimpsed warriors in dark leather and fur, so blinded by fear and fury they could see nothing but those others who ran at them with swords, seeking their deaths. Men struggled on the slopes of a rampart topped by stakes. Fighters dueled by a stream, screaming as blood poured from pierced flesh. And always, the morass of scarlet, black, and dull brown was shot through by the glint of iron blades.
Their hopelessness stabbed him, and their pain began to gnaw at his heart.
Sometimes, as he ran, the glowing veils were now marred by dark rents. At night, around his fire, he searched for glimpses of Maeve. Men were dying around her, but though he tried to see her flame—that familiar fire—his sight was obscured by her armor and an iron helmet that cut her face into lines he did not recognize.
Where, days before, the light-song of Erin had swelled in his heart, now a darkness was growing. What was the point of seeking them when death was all he saw? How could one man change this? He could not throw himself before every sword.
Ruán was following the banks of the River Sinand, but as these doubts grew and took root, his steps slowed and the webs of light behind his eyes began to falter. Every now and then the flames wavered as if in a wind, before flickering back into life and allowing him to press on.
As the whispers grew in his mind—nothing will halt this madness … I cannot stop them dying—so the river of molten silver and the torches of the trees began to gutter out. At those times he walked in blindness once more, feeling his way through the undergrowth, straining to hear the rushing of the water to guide his way.
You can do this. Remember who you are.
His limbs ached, weariness assailing his body as the land no longer flowed beneath him. He passed close to his marshland home, and it was then that memories began to invade Ruán, as if still imprinted on the veils of Source about the lake.
He saw himself stumbling to the water and throwing his body in, wanting to die. He heard his terrible cries among the stones, lived again the shame that had been burned from him.
Stop, he told himself. Memories were left behind as an echo in the Source, but he did not need to claim them again. He was different now. He summoned all his strength to call back the light, trying to melt into it once more.
Still, the doubt crept over him like a dark ocean drowning a bright land.
The whispers began again. How could he let himself believe he had some great fate to fulfill? That was his mistake before. Pride had brought about his fall—pride had taken his eyes.
One day the old pain of his blinding began to burn his sockets, and it made him stagger. The wash of light flickered out once more. Ruán halted, panting.
He smelled mud and water and rotting plants. The air was growing cold as night fell. A gust of wind brought a snatch of cattle lowing. So ordinary. His blood raced, making his heart beat faster.
This was the world he was bound to. The other must have been a dream born of desperation, because he longed too much for something greater than himself. This yearning must have conjured up a grand fate that belonged to someone else.
Nor could he sense the sídhe. The veils opened on their Otherworld, but it was surely folly to think he possessed the power to part them himself. When he ran with the song of the land across Connacht, it must have been the trace of the sídhe-maiden’s spirit that lit his way.
And now it had faded.
It was even more dangerous to believe he could carry the light to others. Such a desire had once led him down terrible paths, and if he ventured along them once more, what if he failed again?
You can save many people, the sídhe said.
Or he could kill not one person, but many.
That pain eclipsed his heart with despair, and drowning in its blackness, Ruán lost all sense of the ground beneath him.
A moment was all it took.
He stumbled, and one foot landed heavily along the edge of the raised riverbank. The bank collapsed. The earth gave way in a landslide of pebbles and river-mud.
Ruán tumbled down the slope and landed with a splash in a scoop of reeds and water.
He heard the crack of his leg before the pain hit.
CHAPTER 32
Maeve dreamed, floating in the peace of the lake. It was twilight, the sharp outlines of day blurred into silver. Dusk made the water gleam and laced the reeds with jeweled droplets. The sky and lake melted into each other.
He padded up behind her and laid his lips on the curve of her neck. Silence … nothing need be said. She reached a tender hand back to cradle his head, his ruddy hair streaming through her fingers—
“Mother.” Finn was shaking Maeve awake. “You have to come now. Mother!”
Maeve opened her eyes and squinted. All the silver bled away, replaced by battle-hues of black and red.
A lamp swung in Finn’s hands, its feeble light swelling and shrinking on the slope of leather above Maeve’s camp bed. Finn’s mouth was crumpled. “Fergus and Ailill … drunk,” she stammered. “They are fighting. You have to come!”
The fear in her voice dragged Maeve to her feet. She rubbed her face, groping for the cloak she had thrown on her bed-furs. “They are always drunk.” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“With blades!” The lamp-flame leaped as Finn’s hand shook.
Maeve blinked as she laced on boots and belted her sword on. She struggled to focus as she and Finn hastened through the camp, the night mist clinging to their skin.
“Ailill asked Fergus to drink with him and his men in his tent,” Finn explained. “They have been guzzling since sunset.”
Maeve glanced up to see that the weary moon was already sinking through streamers of cloud.
“And then Ailill taunted Fergus and they started fighting and …” Finn trailed off.
Maeve thought of her lost dream with a pang. A moment with him … she still felt his kiss. “But why are you awake, daughter? Why did the men not send for me?”
Finn opened her mouth to answer. At that moment a terrible bellow echoed over the camp, screams and shouts erupting behind it. Maeve and Finn broke into a run, dodging the dark humps of brushwood shelters.
They reached Ailill’s tent, an unwieldy collection of cowhides that took twenty men to move each day. Maeve flipped her dagger from her belt and with it swept the flap aside, flinging herself in.
Warriors were milling about: Ailill’s swordmates from Laigin, Ulaid fighters, and Fraech with his Connacht-men.
Maeve saw Cormac first. The face of Conor’s son was a mask of horror, his eyes flaring as he screeched incoherently and tried to claw his way through the throng, a naked sword in his hand. Connacht warriors were holding him back.
“Out of the way!” Maeve’s shrill voice cut the din, and the men parted.
Like a felled tree, Fergus was sprawled between an overturned table, scattered fidchell pieces, and spilled cups of wine. The mound of his belly was scarlet, blood spreading in a gory tide from a great wound. Fergus was gurgling, scrabbling at the rent in his tunic and flesh beneath.
Ailill stood beside him, gaping at the dripping sword in his hand and then at Fergus.
Maeve felt the thrust of that blade through her own vitals. Her mouth spasmed, her hand over her lips. Fergus. The horror froze her. Oh, Fergus.
The warriors were howling like wolves.
Fraech was gripping Cormac’s hilt, bending his arm until at last his blade dropped. With a blow of his fist, Fraech knocked Conor’s son to the ground, and some of the Connacht-men sat on him as he thrashed. Other Ulaid fighters were cursing and trying to reach Ailill, his Laigin swordmates shoving them back.
Maeve dropped to her knees by the wounded man. “Fergus …”
His eyes rolled back and he tried to speak again. Maeve bent down, groping for his hand. Nothing came out of his throat but a burble, and then a great spasm overcame him. His back arched and blood welled through his fingers. Maeve glimpsed the purple gleam of innards and her own belly turned over.
When Fergus collapsed, his limbs spread out, his head flopping to the side, mouth open. His eyes saw no more.
The cry that went up then hammered Maeve’s ears.
The Ulaid warriors were calling on the gods for revenge, Laigin and Connacht-men struggling to stop them from attacking Ailill. With trembling fingers Maeve closed Fergus’s eyes and mouth. A king of Erin should not die like this. Her hair over her face, she looked up at Ailill.
His skin was yellow, his features set into a rictus of disbelief. Only when his gaze met hers did he flinch, and squeeze out a gasp.
Maeve got up. “Traitor,” she hissed, the first thing that came. Fergus was a great man. He had bound himself to them with oaths. And Ailill had put them all in terrible danger, too, for what if the Ulaid warriors turned on them now?
Ailill swayed, his cheeks now reddened above his beard. “Me a traitor? I know why you wanted him. You threw your enchantments over him as you did me, so you could rule Erin between you! You found a better bull, didn’t you, Maeve? A king in his own right … Red Branch!” He spat that out. “You think I’d let you toss me aside like dog bones because of him?” His chin wobbled and he stabbed the air with his sword. “I am Ailill mac Ros Ruadh, and I will be usurped by no man!”
Drawing up
, Maeve stepped in and struck Ailill across the face. He bellowed in senseless rage and would have brought his blade down on her if Finn had not yelled Fraech’s name.
Fraech whirled, shoving his shoulder into Ailill’s side and pushing the Laigin prince to his knees. The blade fell to the rug and lay there, bloody as a hewn limb.
Ailill threw back his head and howled. His Laigin warriors swarmed about him, and dragging him up, helped him stagger through the throng to the tent flap. The Connacht fighters were still holding back the Ulaid men, who cried and reached for him.
Maeve scrabbled for sense. She looked up at Fraech. “Get your men after him and protect him from any further stupidity. If he dies, too, we will have a war with Laigin on our hands.”
Fraech gestured at some Connacht guards. “Surround the prince and keep him safe—hurry!”
Bleakly, Maeve looked at Finn huddled by the door, her fingers over her mouth. As Fraech tried to calm the Ulaid warriors, Maeve sank to her knees beside Fergus again and buried her face in her hands.
She had ignored Ailill’s growing anger, treating him like a bull content to chew his cud. She was used to being underestimated by men, and now she had made the same mistake.
Death. Somehow, though her heart had reached for life, and freedom, longed for safety and peace … she had beckoned death to her. She meant to wield it for justice, but had unleashed it instead.
Now it followed her, a dark wolf at her heels.
Dawn brought creeping fog and haunted silence.
Men whispered as they stirred up the coals of their fires. In the encampment of Ulaid warriors, the sounds of revelry had been replaced by keening. The women who accompanied the exiles smeared their faces with ash and wailed. Fergus’s men beat their swords on their shields, the horrid thuds like a ghostly battle in the mist.
Maeve donned her jewelry and best seal-fur cloak. Ignoring the glares of Fergus’s kin, she made her way to where they had laid his body out on a grassy knoll, beside an old cairn of the ancestors. The chill vapor clung to her, and she shivered as she draped an embroidered blanket over Fergus’s stained cloak and added a dagger to the pile on his breast.