Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  Help from me? thought Morla. She thought of her thin, pale people, of their scrawny herds scratching out an existence on fields pocked with blight, and wondered what kind of help Meeve could possibly want from her. “What about the druids, Mother? Surely they’re the ones—”

  “The druids.” Meeve’s mouth twisted down and she waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve had enough of druids—they’re all so busy gazing into the OtherWorld they’ve forgotten that this one changes. For more than twenty years, I’ve ruled this land, not Connla, nor any other druid, much as they like to hold themselves above the rest of us. And now, when we’re facing near certain war, they tell me I’m to abandon my policies simply because it doesn’t suit theirs. Well. They’ve their own affairs to mind, from Deirdre disgracing herself—”

  “What’s happened to Deirdre?”

  “Thank the goddess you’ve not heard.”

  “Dalraida’s remote—we don’t hear much of anything.” But an accounting might be in order, thought Morla. My people starve and Mother nibbles goose. Her dowry, paid in annual installments, was supposed to reflect a percentage of the fluctuating wealth of Mochmorna, in order to allow that some years’ harvests were better, cattle and sheep more fertile. In all the ten years, the amounts never varied. Yet Meeve’s fortunes had surely, indisputably, increased. Morla turned to look at Meeve with new eyes, even as she wondered how to broach the subject while Meeve continued her tirade.

  “But not only has she disgraced the entire sisterhood, but she’s conceived some kind of monster, by all reports. Three months past its time, or nearly, and it’s still not yet born.”

  “How’s that possible?” asked Morla.

  “Who knows?” Meeve shrugged. “Connla doesn’t.”

  Morla took a single step forward, her elbow grazing the roughened, salt-pitted stone. “What is it you want of me, Mother?”

  “I want you to go to Far Nearing—”

  “What for?” Morla blurted. If Meeve had told her to go to the moon, she wouldn’t have been more surprised.

  “Just listen.” Meeve’s voice was somewhere between a growl and a hiss. “I’ll not be able to hide my condition sooner or later—”

  “You’ve not told anyone?”

  “I’ve told my First Knight. But only because he guessed. You probably don’t remember him, though he was here before you were married, I think. His name’s Lochlan. Lochlan of Glenrae.” Meeve cleared her throat, then turned her head and spat a thick wad of greenish phlegm onto the cobblestones.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve taken up cudwort, Mother?” Morla looked down, wrinkling her nose more to cover her shock than in actual disbelief.

  “It helps the pain.” Meeve answered. “Now. Fengus—you remember Fengus, don’t you? Chief of Allovale? Itching to be High King for as long as I’ve been High Queen?” When Morla nodded, she continued, “I’ve decided that much as I despise him, I’m going to offer Fengus the ultimate in peace offerings.”

  “You mean to marry him?”

  “No, not me. I intend to offer him a marriage between his daughter—his only daughter, from what I understand—and your brother, at MidSummer and turn his Lughnasa competition into a betrothal feast.”

  “Bran? He’s but a boy—How can you even—”

  “Not Bran.” Meeve looked out into the night, pulled her black furs close to her throat. “Your other brother.”

  “What other brother?” Morla took a step back, feeling the hard edge of the stone butt into her back. It steadied her, as did the cold lick of the wet wind. “A foster brother?”

  “No,” replied Meeve. “Your brother I bore when I was fourteen. His father…his father couldn’t pay my bride-price, let alone a child-price. And there were other reasons my mother would not see a dowry paid to that part of the world, and so the boy was sent to live with his father and grandfather as soon as he was weaned.”

  “And he’s been there all these years?”

  Meeve shrugged. “I sent messengers to make sure he was alive—they’ll be expecting you. And you’ll like Far Nearing, Morla—lots of fish, you know.”

  Morla felt her cheeks grow warm, but she only said, “You want me to bring him here?”

  “I want you to bring him to Ardagh. We’ll introduce him to Fengus’s daughter there. At Lughnasa, we’ll announce the wedding for MidWinter. I always think of winter as the best time for weddings—all those long dark nights.”

  Stunned, Morla heard herself say, “But the only daughter I remember Fengus having is a druid—she’s of the same sisterhouse as Deirdre, isn’t she? What if she doesn’t want to give up that life? And—” she paused “—am I to understand you mean to make this brother of mine king of Mochmorna?”

  Meeve’s bare arm snaked out from beneath her furs and she cupped Morla’s chin in one cold hand. “Morla, nothing’s settled—”

  Morla blinked. She felt as if the air had been punched out of her lungs. Druid blood ran strong in Meeve’s line. She had always believed that her mother’s title would one day be hers. She was, after all, the oldest daughter.

  “Nothing’s settled, at all. But you know the decisions I make affect far more people than just you and I. My decisions affect the Land.”

  The Land. Morla gazed out into the darkening twilight, tears pricking at her eyelids, the fur suddenly hot and somehow dirty. The damp salt air felt cleaner. This is what it meant to Meeve to be High Queen. Everything she did, from the men she bedded, to the famous feasts she hosted, to the gold she dispensed, was calculated in terms of its benefit to the land. Meeve would give Morla’s birthright to an utter stranger if she believed that by doing so, the land and the people would be strengthened. Deep inside Morla recoiled. Maybe you don’t want to be Queen after all, ran silently through her mind. She’d spent all this time believing that her time in Dalraida was a test of her abilities, not a life sentence. “Why send me?” Morla managed.

  For a fleeting moment, Meeve’s eyes softened. “Because I trust you, daughter.” Then she said, “And you’re not a druid.”

  That was the real reason. A wave of grief and longing swept over her as a sudden gust of wind brought the clean tang of salt and the ocean’s endless dull roar, reminding her of the smell of her foster mother’s spare, half-timbered hall, snug against even the strongest of icy blasts. Everything about Eaven Morna she thought she loved were all the things that reminded her of Hulsa’s snug hall. No wonder the place had never really felt like home. Now it felt, however, as if she’d stepped through a portal, into some upside-down, inside-out OtherWorld, even stranger than TirNa’lugh. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to be away. “All right, I’ll go,” she said, “On one condition—two actually.”

  “And what’s that,” Meeve bridled.

  “You have to send a druid into Dalraida—more than one—as many as you can. The blight’s spreading there. The people are starving. They need a druid to heal the land, and they need corn to eat, until the land is healed.”

  Meeve’s eyes narrowed. Surely she can’t say no, thought Morla, bracing herself for one of Meeve’s clever answers that was neither a yes nor a no.

  But Meeve surprised her. “Curse Connla to the belly of the Hag.” She spat another wad of cudwort over the battlement and turned back to Morla. “I’ll do what I can. Corn I have—Druids—” she broke off and shook her head as she stared out into the night. “I packed them all off to Ardagh. I’ll see if one can be found.” She gathered her furs to her throat. “One more thing, Morla.” Meeve paused by the steps, her hand on the railing, the other twined in her furs. “I want you to take Bran with you.”

  “Why?” Surprised, Morla cocked her head. Under the circumstances, she’d have thought Meeve would want her youngest child close.

  “I want you to get him away. It seems the old athair in Pentland filled his head with druid nonsense.” Meeve’s lips quirked down. “He’s making himself the laughingstock of the keep—claiming to see trixies, disappearing for days as if he’d gone to the OtherWorl
d—”

  “What if he did?”

  “He’d better stop it,” Meeve spat back. “I’ve had enough of druids. They don’t do any good—” She broke off. “Bran won’t give you any trouble. He was always your favorite brother, no?”

  Bran’s my only brother, Morla thought, biting her lip.

  “In ten years, I’ve asked nothing of you, have I? Sent what you needed? Gave you seed and corn and cattle?”

  You sent me what was mine, Morla nearly said, but she bit back the words in time. The best way to understand what Meeve was planning was to do exactly what her mother asked. There was no reason for her to return immediately, so long as she sent back supplies. Her absence, in fact, meant one less mouth to feed. And on the road, with Bran, maybe she could forget what she’d seen just now. Lochlan? she thought, as her jaw dropped and the image of his naked torso rose before her unbidden. “I said I’d go,” she said, stumbling over the words. “As long as you send corn tomorrow to Dalraida.”

  It wasn’t until Meeve had disappeared down the black hole of the staircase that Morla remembered they’d been expecting someone. Another woman. Her mother had been in bed with two men—one of whom was Lochlan—and they awaited another woman. She wondered what sort of diplomacy her mother thought to practice.

  In the gloom of Meeve’s bedchamber, Lochlan finished lacing his tunic and pulled on his boots. Of all the women in the world, Morla was the last he’d expected to walk through the door at that precise moment. He was certain she recognized him.

  The door swung open and Meeve stalked in, face angular as a cat’s, her bone-white arms stippled with gooseflesh. “You all right?”

  He nodded. “And you?”

  She walked over to the hearth with an unreadable expression on her face, threw back half a goblet of mead, swallowed hard then said, “I want you to escort Morla.”

  At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. He was the only one, to his knowledge, at the entire Court who knew the truth. He’d expected to stay by her side, especially with the Lacquilean ambassador here. “Are you sure?”

  Her brows rose, almost comically, and he nearly laughed aloud. “The last thing I want is you coddling me like a broody hen. Do you understand?”

  “But I’ve brought you hard proof the rumors are true. I don’t want to leave now—who knows what they’re capable of doing, the double-dealing sons of pigs?”

  Meeve eyed him up and down and a grin flickered across her face. “There’s no need to insult pigs. We all love ham and bacon.” Then her expression hardened. “Lochlan, I don’t think you understand. I don’t want you here. I want you in the country, being my eyes and ears.”

  “What did the ambassador say when you showed him the sword?”

  “I haven’t shown it to him. He’s only going to deny it, Lochlan. He’ll acknowledge it’s of his people’s make, and then shrug and have nothing further to say. My goal isn’t to eradicate these people from this land, Lochlan. I don’t have time left to do that. All I can do is leave a land strong and unified. The fight is up to those I leave behind. And the land is in danger—there is trouble and turmoil all over. So who else can I trust with my children?”

  “Do you remember Morla’s last Beltane here?”

  “I remember it.” Meeve’s eyes were fixed on the fire. She slumped down into her chair and swung her feet up onto the stool.

  “Then, Meeve—” he hesitated. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never asked the question “—was it goddess who made you choose me? Or was there another reason?”

  Meeve filled her goblet, took a long drink and smacked her lips. Then she looked at him squarely. “It was goddess and god who made me queen, who married me to the land and sanctified my rule. Fionn in Dalraida came looking for a wife for his son. I needed Morla married to young Fionn, not here, carrying a child got on her by a god. I saw the way she looked at you. I saw the way you looked back.”

  “So you intervened.”

  “I made a decision to make my daughter a queen. Ten years later, I’ve no intention of apologizing for it. So you’ll take Morla to Far Nearing, fetch Cwynn and go on to Ardagh. Oh, and take Bran with you—he’s causing nothing but trouble and I can’t afford to be distracted right now. I’ll see you all at MidSummer.”

  “Connla told me she put a ward on Bran to keep him safe,” he said. “What if it doesn’t protect him on the road? How am I to keep him safe from the sidhe?”

  “And when did Connla tell you this?”

  “She was waiting for me in the stable-yard when I rode in. She told me you’d quarreled.”

  “Ah.” Meeve paused, then said, “Well, if you’ve fear of any ability Bran might manifest beyond an uncommon recalcitrance, stay at druid-houses.” She looked directly at Lochlan, and their eyes met. “The sooner you leave for Far Nearing, the sooner you can be at Ardagh.”

  There was something about the way she sprawled across the bench, long fingers laced, huge eyes glittering, that reminded him unpleasantly of a spider. “Does Morla know I’m to escort her?”

  “No,” Meeve said evenly. “Do you think she remembers you?”

  He hesitated. I’d like to think she does. But he wasn’t ready to be as brutally honest as Meeve. “I suppose it’s not likely.” He picked up his sword-belt and buckled it on. “Things are bad in Dalraida?”

  Meeve looked up at him. “How’d you know?”

  How could anyone fail to notice, he thought, Morla’s frayed plaid, her bony face? “I noticed she looked thin.”

  Sounds of revelry were beginning to filter up from the lower levels of the keep. “Go on,” said Meeve. “I have to dress.”

  With a bow, Lochlan opened the door and collided directly into Morla.

  “Sweet goddess.” She recoiled when he would’ve taken her arm.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, stung for some reason he didn’t understand.

  The air crackled between them. Morla moved to one side as he stepped to the same side and for a moment they were locked in an awkward back-and-forth two-step, during which time he saw just how gaunt she was. “I’m to escort you,” he said. “To Far Nearing.”

  Her eyes grew wide as a startled doe’s and she hissed, a sound that didn’t convey any kind of pleasure. She looked as if she might say something, but all she did was dart, deer-like, down the steps.

  Morla reeled down the corridor, heart pounding audibly. Was the Hag laughing at her? How was it possible that the first time she’d seen Lochlan in ten years he was naked, in her mother’s bed, and the second time, he informed her he was escorting her halfway across Brynhyvar and back? She tried to keep sight of the serving woman who was leading her to her room, but the shock made her dizzy and disoriented, and Morla found herself in a narrow passage somewhere off the main corridor.

  She turned around, but the woman was nowhere to be seen and the corridor was completely deserted, even though she could hear distant laughter, and the smell of baking bread wafted strongly from one direction. She must’ve taken a wrong turn, for this was clearly a passage that led to the kitchens. There was nothing to do but to retrace her steps and hope that her guide realized she was lost and turned back to find her.

  But tired and unnerved as she was, Morla found the labyrinthine maze that wound through Meeve’s keep beyond her ability to navigate. She found herself in totally unfamiliar territory, stumbling into a stable-yard stacked high with barrels and chests of every size, and apparently reserved for the use of the foreign guests. Four or five sat clustered around benches, engaged in some sort of dice-throwing game. Almost as one, though, they turned and smiled at her. The two closest leaped to their feet, gesturing and motioning her to join them. She shook her head, stepping backward, squarely into the chest of a huge soldier, his black braids arranged in neat rows all over his head. He caught her by the shoulder and spoke to her in halting Brynnish, while the others guffawed to each other. “You? Encipio send?”

  “No one sent me,” she replied, shaking off hi
s hand.

  But he only wrapped his palm behind her head and tried to pull her toward him, white teeth flashing. “Encipio, no? Then, Bree-crew? Bree-crew?”

  “Leave me be,” she cried. Morla squirmed away, and the man let her go. She heard hoots and catcalls following as she dashed back through what she hoped was a corridor leading to the main hall. As she rounded the first corner, however, she collided with a fur-lined robe and velvet-covered chest. Two hands steadied her when she would’ve fallen, and she stared up into the florid and mustached face of Briecru. Bree-crew, she thought, his duties as Chief Cowherd apparently included those of Chief Procurer. “Lord Briecru—I’m lost. Can you help me find my way back?”

  “Of course I can, princess, but whatever are you doing here?” He glanced over her shoulder, back down the way she’d come, almost as if he expected to see someone. “How’d you come to be here?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she said. “I was following the woman sent to show me my rooms—the next thing I know I was wandering around back here. Aren’t we near the kitchens? Where’s everyone gone?”

  “The revel’s already begun,” he said. “That’s why these halls are empty. Come.” The smile on his face was bland as a sullen sea. “Let’s get you away from those ruffians down there.”

  “What kind of people are these, Briecru? They looked at me as if I were a piece of meat.”

  Briecru sighed as he motioned for her to follow him through a side arch. “Here, princess, this is a shortcut.” He waited until they turned a corner, then said, “You’re right, princess. The ways of Lacquilea are not like ours at all—the men all seem to have difficulty understanding how a woman might rule men. It makes them doubly difficult for your mother to deal with.”

  “She seemed to be getting along with the ambassador just fine.”

  Briecru shot her a glance and she was gratified to see he looked embarrassed. “Princess, I beg your forgiveness for the misunderstanding. Surely, you realize we were not expecting you—”