by Jules Watson
Her war-band could easily destroy this pitiful troop of youths. Then she dropped her hand. Her pulse kept hammering a different song, over and over.
Conor has Finn.
The eyes of the scouts slid toward her, and she read in them the bitter truth. Finn bore jeweled brooches, a fine cloak and gold torc. Though Conor could not know her, he would be thrilled to snare a noble girl as a bargaining tool. However, Maeve knew if she launched an attack and it descended into battle, Conor would no longer need to bargain. He would kill Finn.
If she was even alive.
Maeve’s palm crept over her breast. Yes, she was alive. “We cannot attack them.” She closed her eyes, trying to conjure the brilliant idea no one else would think of.
Behind her eyelids, though, she saw only Finn’s terrified face. And then her own at sixteen, tears streaming among the stones of the sídhe. I will not lose her again.
The flame propelled Maeve to her feet.
If she diverted fighters from Cúchulainn, the Hound might break away and save Conor, or mount some defense of Emain Macha, or rally more Ulaid men. Enough men had died. Enough. There is only me.
She must somehow get to Finn’s side—but that would put her in danger, too. Maeve’s hand moved to her belly. How could she choose between her children …?
Another throb of warmth came from the one she carried. She heard its song, this babe of the sídhe, that she and it were one, and any and all paths would carry them both to light.
In her life, she had been maiden, seducer, warrior, and queen. There was only one path left to her.
“Go back to our men,” she told the scouts. “Tell them Conor’s war-band is approaching the lake, and if it comes closer they must prepare for battle.” She beckoned to the leader of the Galeóin. “You and your men will help me, though only from afar.” The Galeóin looked surprised, but nodded his dark head.
One of the scouts broke in. “But … my queen … you cannot face them alone!”
Maeve glanced at him, though she did not really see him. “I am her mother.”
Something in her voice silenced the warriors, and they only stared at her with awe.
“If Fraech dies and I do not return, Fintan is in charge. He must get the others back to Tiernan at Cruachan.”
The scouts bowed and crept away, disappearing into the dusk.
Maeve sank down with the Galeóin leader. “I can get in, but I cannot get out as easily.” She pulled some of the thorns and berries in the thicket aside. “Before the light fades, mark Conor’s tent, there. Assuming I can get to Finn, I still have Conor’s warriors to break through on our escape. That is where you come in. Wait until the moon is this far above the horizon,” she held up her hand, “and then start throwing spears at the fringes of camp. By then I will either be dead or with Finn in Conor’s tent.” She bared her teeth. “So avoid the center, for I’d rather you did not kill us.”
The black-haired Galeóin leader eyed her with concern. “But … there are no fires, lady. There will be nothing to aim for in the dark.”
“You have light for a time yet.” She cocked her head. “The tales say your spears are part of your souls. Before it is loosed, you know by the tilt of the shaft and spring in your hand exactly where a lance will fall.” Her eyes were alight with that challenge.
The Galeóin bowed his head, the gull feathers in his braids falling over his lean face. “It is true.”
“Count up to twenty and then stop throwing. They will be too busy screaming to bother with us then—if we are still alive.”
The Galeóin shuffled over to murmur her orders to his men.
Maeve sat cross-legged, hands uncurled to the sky, and watched the Ulaid camp fade into darkness. She kept her eyes on the last gleam of sun as it caught the gold of Conor’s tent, and a tremor went through her.
Will he recognize my stamp on her face? And if he does, what will he do?
What creature can creep silently through darkness?
Maeve tried to summon the anam of such a beast, but it was beyond her for now to melt into wilderness. The ceaseless flame that joined her to Finn burned all else away.
On hands and knees she crept through icy streams and tangled bracken, grazing her palms when they slipped on wet stones. The ground rose, and she took her bearings from the ash tree beside Conor’s tent, black against the stars. Now she was on sheep-bitten turf, and then among the trees.
There were no horses or hounds to betray her. Conor’s war-band was restless, unable to hear anything beyond their own clumsy feet and fearful mutters. There were guards by his tent-flap, however.
Maeve realized she should circle the knoll and come upon it from the north, for on that side his tent was unguarded. Foolishly, Conor’s men faced only east and south, terrified of the enemy over the hills.
It took an age. She kept having to pause to feel the ground for sticks that would crack and stones that would shift. She pressed to her belly whenever someone stirred nearby, holding her breath until she could avoid the huddles of whispering men.
Conor had allowed them no fires, blessing her with darkness.
At last Maeve approached the only sliver of light, which leaked from beneath Conor’s tent. Hidden among the ferns, she studied the faint lamplit outlines that showed through the bleached hide. One paced back and forth, man-shaped. There was a solid pile that did not move—packs or baskets. She could see nothing else.
She dug a stone from the mud, unsheathing her dagger with her other hand. Taking a breath, she flung the stone so it bounced off a tree on the fringes of the camp.
The clatter set off exclamations at the front of Conor’s tent. Under cover of that noise, Maeve slit the leather near what she thought was the baggage and crawled inside. Her heart was racing so fast she could hear nothing else, and only had her eyes to guide her.
She glimpsed Conor by a lamp, his ear cocked to the noise outside—a huddle of red hair at his feet. Though Maeve immediately sank behind a bundle of furs, Conor’s head snapped toward her, as if his senses had been honed for her alone.
There was no time.
Like a cat, Maeve tensed legs and arms and sprang over the pile of baggage, her dagger outstretched. Finn’s cry came, cut off to a gasp. Checking herself, Maeve twisted in midair and landed with arms out. Her hackles went up.
Conor had Finn by her hair, his own blade at her throat.
The girl’s eyes rolled, and she clawed at Conor’s veined hands. She’d been stripped to her knee-length shift. Pale linen, unbound hair, white skin … she was dressed as a sacrifice.
Maeve tried to quell her fury, to focus on the Ulaid king.
Conor was a withered man now, his long, pale hair an uncombed straggle, his skin waxy. The gleam of the lamp revealed opaque eyes devoid of human sense.
His chuckle was the rustle of dry leaves. “I thought I’d caught the chick—the very image of the raven herself.”
Maeve eyed his hand. He’d pushed the dagger in a little under Finn’s ear, and a trickle of blood marred the girl’s fair skin. Finn’s eyes creased, tears running down her cheeks.
The Ulaid king did not miss the hatred that leaped into Maeve’s face, and his lip curled, exposing yellowed teeth. “Did you think I would cower, waiting for you to destroy me? Did you think you had at last bettered me?” He laughed. “I will cleanse this world of you, she-wolf, and the bards will sing that by my hand the foul witch of Connacht met her end.” His mouth was flecked with spittle. “And no one will say I lacked the courage, or the strength, or the blessings of the gods.”
Maeve let his crazed words wash over her, sizing up his pressure on the dagger. Unconsciously, she clenched a fist, tensed a leg. Conor saw and pressed harder.
Finn gurgled in pain.
Maeve thrust that sound away lest she also go mad. “It is me you want. Let her go, and you can have me.” Just get his hands off her and onto me. She never thought she would ever pray for that.
The tangled hanks of Conor’s hair
stirred as he shook his head. “I know your wiles. Now you will throw your daggers and sword in the corner by the door—don’t think I am not already tasting the slide of this blade into her flesh.”
Maeve’s sight narrowed, the rush of blood driving all logic away. She fumbled at her belt, dropping scabbards and then reaching to release the sword she’d strapped down her spine. They clanked as she threw them down.
Conor cocked his head. “Take off everything,” he hissed.
Maeve quelled the sickness in her throat, dragging off armor, kilt, tunic, and trews. If he wanted that, she didn’t care. She would do anything. Holding his eyes, she unbound the blade from her thigh and the one from her ankle, slashed the breast-band into shreds, and her breechclout, and kicked off her boots. She was entirely naked.
She tilted her chin. Conor had wanted something of her once, enjoyed some spark of pleasure, even if he had been thinking of Deirdre all along.
His gaze as it slid over her was not full of desire, however. Conor’s nostrils flared as he glanced at her breasts, and when that gaze dropped to the cleft between her legs, his stringy throat bobbed with revulsion.
Maeve heard the faint rush in the air before he did. Someone screamed outside, and Conor’s head jerked toward it. Whizzing spears, the clatter of shafts, the thunk of points. More shrieks and shouts. The Galeóin.
Conor’s eyes widened, his hand at Finn’s throat trembling.
Hands on her hips, Maeve thrust her breasts at him. “Come, husband. Try once more to satisfy me, as you never could before.” She smiled. “Me or Deirdre.”
Something in him snapped, and with a bellow, Conor thrust Finn so hard she thudded head first into the tent-post, sprawling limp on the ground. Maeve’s attention went to her daughter.
Her distraction was a costly mistake.
Conor threw himself upon her before Maeve could raise her arms, bearing her on her back to the ground. The impact winded her, and as the weight of a man crushed her once more, his gray hair in her mouth, an old part of Maeve froze.
Ros Ruadh, grinding her into nothing.
Diarmait of Mumu holding her down.
Her father striking all breath from her.
Maeve was paralyzed just long enough for Conor to get his hands about her throat. The Ulaid king was withered, but he was tall and had been well-formed in youth. The strength of madness was in his grip, shocking Maeve back to herself.
She would die, she thought clearly, as his claws crushed her windpipe. But she would still take him with her, and give Finn a chance. She growled in her chest, writhing and twisting so she could knee him, and scratching any skin she could reach. She smelled blood, and hooked her nails on the vein in his neck, digging into flesh.
Conor’s glassy eyes did not flicker as he struggled to strangle her.
And then Maeve was floating, a tunnel of darkness closing in. I should be stronger, faster. Duck … dive … leap and spin … She choked, her kicks growing weaker.
Maeve, Innel yelled. Get off Father’s horse or I’ll break your arm myself! You’re not strong enough … Father will have your head. Maeve, he’s taking off—Maeve!
Maeve drifted. I’m not strong enough. I’m not enough. A feeble flame still joined her to Finn—she could see the girl’s face—but Maeve could no longer feel that fire in her limbs. Ruán … hold me … I won’t ask again … please …
Faintly, she heard a scream.
Conor shuddered.
Maeve was caught in the vibration of what felt like blows, each one shivering through his body on top of her and down into her own muscles. Something hot spattered her face. The limpet grip on Maeve’s throat slackened.
Sucking up the air, Maeve shoved Conor with all of her remaining strength. He rolled off, heavy and limp. Panting, Maeve stared down at the puddle of blood on the grass that spread from beneath Conor’s body. He was gurgling, his horrified gaze fixed on the roof of the tent.
The lamplight was still spinning about her, but Maeve rubbed her throat and skewed around on her haunches.
Finn was on her knees behind Conor, her hair covering her face. Rivulets of bright red tangled with the copper strands, flowing down her shift to her knees. Scarlet blood splashing pale linen. Maeve could not look away from the dripping dagger in Finn’s hands.
Finn stared only at Conor, her breast fluttering like that of a bird.
The King of the Ulaid was clawing at his own throat now, his chest, gasping as he drowned in blood. His eyes were wide and white, then red as the veins burst. At last he slowed and stopped struggling and was still, his limbs twisted.
Nostrils flaring, Finn lifted glazed eyes to her mother. There was a purple bruise on her brow. “I listen to everything you say … everything, Mamaí.” Vacantly, she plucked at her leg with bloody fingers. “They took the blade on my belt, but you said bind a little one at the top of my thigh.”
Maeve crawled over and took her icy hands. “I remember.” She had said that only in passing, almost in jest. “What a brave girl you are, my Finn. Brave and clever.”
Finn went white, shaking so hard Maeve thought she might faint. “I listen … to everything.”
Wiping Conor’s blood from her own face, Maeve got up, grabbing a fur cloak from Conor’s cot-bed and laying it around Finn’s shoulders. Then she chafed Finn’s cheeks to bring the color back. “Come, focus on my face. Fraech is alive.”
Finn’s blue eyes flickered, and the pupils contracted and awareness came back. “Alive?”
Maeve kissed her brow. “Yes, so we must get back to him. Hurry.”
Maeve swiftly dressed and armed herself, and found Finn’s tunic and trews. While the girl struggled to draw them on, Maeve poured the oil from the lamp around Conor’s body then tossed the flaming wick on top.
The fire burst alight, and they hurried to the tent flap. Maeve paused to listen. The spears had stopped falling—there were only the cries and shouts of men now, and the drumming of feet. Maeve withdrew her sword, and putting Finn behind her, they crept out.
The guards around the tent had disappeared into the black night. Chaos reigned. Young men ran back and forth through the ghostly trees, yelling at each other and hauling at weeping, bloodied comrades. Others gathered into huddles, bracing their swords at the darkness and spooking at every noise.
They barely gave Maeve and Finn a glance. Maeve ripped Conor’s shield from its post and hefted it. As she and Finn stumbled down the slope, behind them Conor’s tent caught alight, the flames crackling. Seeing that, a knot of warriors cried out and swung around to block their way.
Wheezing, Maeve brandished her sword, her throat still aching. “Even now my army approaches … but our only enemy was your king, and he is dead!”
The whites of their eyes turned red in the firelight, the flames contorting their faces with writhing shadows.
“You are free of his madness. Go back to Emain Macha and we will spare you. Harm us, and my men will storm this hill.”
Confused, the youths drew back, and Maeve swung her sword and strode through them, drawing Finn along and trying to protect her with the shield. Her skin crawled, her back tensing in anticipation of a spear-thrust. Whatever had happened at Emain Macha, though, Conor’s makeshift war-band now crumbled, many throwing down weapons and racing off into the dark.
Maeve kept going until the night swallowed her and Finn, finding her way back to the Galeóin. Together they trekked over the hills in the moonlight, until Finn’s strength deserted her and at last Maeve let her sink down among the bracken.
The Galeóin squatted on the slope above, their spears fencing the skyline.
Her arm aching, Maeve tossed aside the shield and gathered Finn in her lap, rocking her as the girl wept. The wind lifted Maeve’s hair as she stared into the dark with empty eyes.
All at once she crushed her cheek to Finn’s brow. “I lied to you, and will bear it no longer.”
Finn’s sobs faded.
“It was not because you were betrothed that
I never returned. It was because I lost another babe, and could not face that pain again. I could be a mother no more.” Maeve’s bruised throat closed up.
Finn was silent for a moment, then wiped her face and took Maeve’s hand with wet fingers. “But you did come for me, Mamaí. Last night, you came for me.”
When Maeve, Finn, and the Laigin spearmen climbed the bracken shoulder of the great hill, Levarcham was waiting for them, crouched on an ancient cairn of tumbled stones. In the shadows, the druid was as gray as the rocks on which she sat, dew on her cloak of seal-fur, her face pale.
A cold wind bent the bronze grasses as Maeve and Finn approached, Finn plodding beneath Maeve’s arm. Just then the sun crept over the brow of the mount and Levarcham rose and it caught her hair.
The Galeóin trotted on ahead, and Maeve unbound Conor’s shield from her back and threw it at the druid’s feet. Levarcham’s glance flew between the shield and the blood staining Finn’s untucked shift.
“Conor is dead,” Maeve croaked.
Levarcham’s silver eyes flared.
Maeve’s smile was bleak. “No, not me.” She turned and touched Finn’s cheek.
Levarcham limped up to the dazed girl and took hold of her fists, uncurling them to expose the smears of dried blood on her palms. “He must die by the hand of Woman,” the druid murmured to herself. She searched Finn’s face, making the girl’s mouth tremble. “You are a woman now,” Levarcham said. “A brave warrior. The Goddess chose you to set us free, and for that I thank you.” And the druid awkwardly lowered herself to kneel before Finn, and bowed her head over the girl’s hands in blessing.
They were caught there as the sun poured down the grassy hillside, sweeping away the last shadows.
When Finn helped Levarcham rise, the girl’s cheeks were once more stained with color. Finn rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, blinking. “Fraech …?”
“Cúchulainn let him be taken from the field, and I have put forth all my efforts to salve him. He will live.”
After an intake of breath, life flooded Finn’s limbs. Without a backward glance, she bounded up the slope and streaked toward the camp like a young deer.