Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  “Morla and Lochlan? What a surprise. Perhaps my First Knight and my daughter would be pleased to tell me how it is we meet them here all alone?”

  “And what exactly did you see happen to Bran?” Meeve paused in the act of filling her goblet. The thick rug muffled the sounds outside the tent, and the tent itself was even more sumptuous than Meeve’s own chambers. It was a gift from the Lacquilean ambassador and Meeve, who loved rich fabrics and bright colors as much as she loved men and gold, took it everywhere and used it at every opportunity. Focused on Meeve’s face, Lochlan could almost believe the two of them were alone at Eaven Morna, not camped in the midst of the Forest of Gar.

  “I know it sounds unbelievable. But I saw him lifted up by an enormous black bird and I believe he was taken into TirNa’lugh by a sidhe, disguised. Connla suspected something like that could happen to Bran—that’s why she put the ward on him. But she’s gone now, and they must be free.”

  “So what makes you think he wasn’t just grabbed by the goblins when you and Morla rode away?” Meeve’s face was white, her eyes bore into his like twin blades.

  “I saw the raven grab him.” Lochlan leaned forward and ran his hand through his hair, feeling the sweat run down his sides. “As soon as we get to Ardagh, as soon as we get anywhere there’s a druid, Majesty, I swear, I’ll go and look for him myself. But—”

  “Until then, I suppose there’s not much we can do.” Meeve passed him the flagon and nodded. “Aren’t you going to ask me about the ambassador?”

  Lochlan stifled a sigh of relief. “He was called back to his own country?”

  “You could call it that. Or to whatever part of the Summerlands such double-dealers are sent. It was Fengus who found out. Briecru was in league with them—aye, our very own Briecru. They were poisoning me, Lochlan. I’m not sick at all.” She raised the goblet, drained it and filled it again.

  “How did Fengus find out?”

  “Because Briecru thought he’d stir up trouble, and he decided to steal Fengus’s bull—aye, the one he calls the Black Bull of Allovale, that one. Well, you can imagine how happy Fengus was about that. What Briecru wasn’t counting on was that Fengus himself would go after the animal. And to make a long story short, it was Fengus who found Briecru waiting for the beast, with a lot of incriminating evidence, I suppose you’d call it. He sent Briecriu’s head back in a sack with the unguent they’d been giving me all over his face. Well, I took one look, and I called the whole lot of them together—every Lacquilean under my roof, that is—and after they feasted, I had their skins peeled off their bodies and their heads cut off. I stuffed the skins with straw, and I sent them back.” Meeve gulped back the rest of her wine and set the goblet down with a thump, even as she motioned for Lochlan to pour her more. “Then we left.”

  The flagon was empty. Lochlan reached for the wineskin. He could feel the anger emanating off Meeve like a living thing.

  “I sent a messenger to Fengus. With three milch cows, my own best bull-calf and my thanks.” She raised the goblet and tipped it to her lips with a smile. “I might have to marry him myself.”

  Lochlan raised a brow. Meeve spurned Fengus as regularly as the sun turned in the sky. Now she owed him her life, for exposing the traitor Briecru and his plot to poison Meeve with the perfumed salve. It was clear to Lochlan, however, that the poison was still in her. She was going to need Connla’s help.

  As if she’d read his mind, Meeve said, “Assuming Connla can save me.”

  “Surely at Ardagh, there’s the skill—”

  Meeve rose to her feet, shaking her head and Lochlan broke off in alarm. She paced back and forth, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “My limbs have started to shake for no reason.” She flexed her mouth in a grimace that he knew she meant to be a reassuring smile, but in the flickering light of the single lantern, he could see she was quivering from head to toe.

  He jumped up. “What can I do—should I call for the still-wife?” He fumbled for a wrap and shook out its copious folds. “Come, let me hold you—”

  “Sit back down.” She waved her hand impatiently. “There’s nothing you can do—I’ve found it’s best to move, not to fight it.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “It—it just has to work itself out.”

  “So this does beholden you to Fengus.”

  That was a safer topic than her health. She sank down beside him, her eyes fastened on the fire. “I really might have to marry him, you know.”

  If you live long enough. He sensed that the poison had been perilously close to doing unredeemable damage, if it hadn’t already. But he stretched out his legs and replied in the same tone, “And a lucky man Fengus would be.”

  “I owe him quite a lot.” Meeve glanced at him over her shoulder.

  Again, Lochlan hesitated. Meeve and Fengus were old rivals, never able to agree about anything for very long, but equal enough in power that neither had succeeded yet in toppling the other. With one masterful stroke, however, Fengus, to Meeve’s way of thinking, had gained the upper hand. But to point out that seemed foolhardy with Meeve in this mood. She was testing him. “His daughter’s a druid.”

  “I’m not the only one who believes a druid’s not a good thing to be, Lochlan. The druid-houses are emptying in droves, and it’s not just blight. I know you cling to the old ways—”

  “I’m alive because of the druids, Meeve. Don’t you remember that time my arm went bad, and the poison started to grow—” He broke off, for she had turned to him and was staring at him with a face black as night. “You know it’s true—you were there.”

  She wrapped her arms around her legs. He saw gooseflesh speckling her arms. The air inside the tent was humid—he was warm to the point of perspiration.

  “Are you cold, Meeve?”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. He saw a slight tremor roll through her, but she only tossed her head. The red-gold hair didn’t bounce—it hung, dry as straw, and she gathered it up and thrust it over one shoulder. He saw her wipe a handful of strands on her thigh.

  He glanced again at the mattress, with its sumptuous furs, its silken pillows. She might’ve dispatched the Lacquileans but she’d clearly seen no reason to get rid of their possessions. Despite her protests, he reached for a fur and slipped it over her shoulders. She said nothing, but she didn’t shrug it off.

  Meeve was muttering, as if to herself, “I hope I’ve done the right thing…there’s nothing of me in Morla, after all.”

  “Are you joking?” Lochlan sat back. “Maybe she’s not like you in looks, but she’s the image of you on the inside. You don’t see it, perhaps, but no one takes her land and her people more seriously than she. Didn’t you notice how thin she was, Meeve? Do you realize her people are starving? She’s denied herself that others might eat.”

  Meeve turned to look at him, the fur clutched close. “How do you know this?”

  “She raved. When she was sick. And so I asked her.” She had more than raved, thought Lochlan, remembering the broken mutterings that had gone on and on, like a torrent long held in check. And she blamed Meeve.

  “I sent her grain, cattle, whatever she asked for—except a useless druid.”

  “I don’t think it reached her, Meeve. Who was in charge of the stores? Who oversaw the coming and going of everything in Eaven Morna?”

  In the orange light, Meeve’s color changed from deathly pale to sickly orange. “Briecru had charge, of course. Briecru—that pox-ridden pig. I hope Fengus burned his filthy corpse—he wasn’t fit for goblin fodder.” She spoke low and quickly, her voice breathy, her eyes wild. “He robbed my own child.” With a cry, Meeve stumbled to her feet, knocking over her wine goblet.

  Lochlan jumped up beside her, steadying her. Beneath the heavy fur, the queen’s body felt perilously frail, the palsy ripping through her in great quaking waves. She struggled weakly. He ignored her feeble protests, swept her up in his arms, and carried her to the low bed. Gently, he placed her on it, then drew back. As the queen writhed
, her whole body engulfed in spasms, he said, “I’ll be right back—I’m going for help.”

  He dashed across the camp, to the tent where the queen’s women slept. He wasn’t surprised to see Morla still sitting beside the fire.

  She looked up. “What is it?”

  “Your mother,” he said. “She’s sick—she needs the still-wives—”

  “Sir Lochlan?” A woman with a face like a dumpling peeked through the flap, blinking in the torchlight.

  “The queen’s sick and needs you, lady,” he said. “Please, come now.”

  The woman disappeared, but within the tent, he heard urgent stirrings. Across the camp, he saw the watch turn to look in their direction.

  Morla got to her feet slowly, leaning on a thick branch. “Is she dying?”

  There was no time to answer, for the still-wives and the serving women flooded out of the tent like a gaggle of white-gowned geese. They flocked around Lochlan and bore him away, voices raised in urgent questions that they fired at him like blows. He felt, as much as saw, Morla watching from the fire. He could hear Meeve vomiting as he shoved back the tent flap. The women surged past him, and he had a glimpse of a shuddering Meeve hanging weakly over the side of the bed. Then the tent flap was yanked out of his hand and slapped across his face. He’d been dismissed.

  Lochlan stood a moment, collecting his thoughts. He had a sense that the world was dangerously close to spinning out of control, when Morla touched his arm.

  “Is she dying?”

  Their eyes met, and he felt the air between them crackle, even as he saw the dark look in her eyes and heard her bitter tone. You have to tell her that Meeve never meant to slight her, he thought. “Come.” He led her down the path a little ways, cupped her elbow beneath his arm. She swayed close to him, face turned up, and he ached to lean down and kiss her again.

  As if she’d read his thoughts, she stiffened, opened her eyes, then pulled away. “Well?”

  He glanced around the clearing. The forest was quiet, the night air heavy as a cloak, thick with pine and something else, something sweet and musky that he realized was her. “I think we have to get to Ardagh, as fast as possible. Your mother needs a druid.”

  “You want to leave now.”

  It was a statement, not a question and once again, he felt that uncanny sense of connection. It was like stepping into yesterday, he thought, and he wanted to grab her and hold her close and do all the things he’d missed his chance to do all those years before. But he didn’t dare delay. “If you can ride.”

  “Are you sure you want to leave her?”

  Lochlan glanced over her shoulder, and she turned to see what drew his attention. Was that movement in the trees, or just a breeze? Not even the ghost of a breeze teased his cheek. It was as if the whole world held its breath, waiting. Waiting for what, he wondered. The sun must set on the old day before the new day dawns…. “I don’t think we’ve a choice, Morla. I know she needs a druid. I know I can get to Ardagh by noon tomorrow if I ride through the night. I don’t want to leave you here. Do you think you can ride?”

  “Won’t you get there faster without me?”

  “I’m not leaving you here.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes blazing. Behind them, he could hear the still-wives calling for water from the spring. “Did you mean what you said, before?”

  Lochlan caught her hands in his, pressed both of them to his mouth. “I never meant anything more. Meeve’s too sick to even comprehend what’s going on, I’m afraid. It sounds to me like the whole underbelly of the country, from the Marraghmourns and into the uplands of Allovale and Gar, is riddled with foreign troops, waiting for some signal. Meeve—goddess bless her—might very well have provided just what they were waiting for. So the sooner we leave, the sooner a druid comes back, the sooner a druid finds Bran, and the sooner you and I strike an alliance with Fengus.”

  “Fengus? What’re you talking about?”

  Lochlan shook his head. “Meeve never expected Cwynn to marry Fengus’s daughter—she saw it as an opening. This was all an elaborate scheme on her part.”

  “I knew that—”

  “But did you know she expected you to marry Fengus?”

  Marry Fengus. Marry Fengus. Did you know she expected you to marry Fengus? The question echoed through Morla’s mind to the rhythm of the hooves as they pounded down the moonlit road. The night was well advanced before Lochlan pulled his horse to a walk and suggested that they stop. “You have to be tired, Morla. You need to rest.”

  “But what makes you so sure?” she blurted, as if he’d not spoken. “What makes you so sure she expected me to marry Fengus?”

  Lochlan heaved a great sigh, reached across and covered her hand with his. “I can’t tell you exactly what it is that makes me so certain, other than it fits the way her spider’s mind works. Let’s find a place to rest. Or maybe it’s the way she’s clearly been contemplating marrying him herself, at last.” He spread out a saddle blanket on the ground and beckoned her to join him beneath a tree. Hesitantly, awkwardly, she settled herself, her leg held stiff and straight beside her. A deep ache had begun inside and she hoped that the ride hadn’t affected the healing. “And then there’s the fact that Fengus’s daughter is a druid…. Did you know that?”

  “But druids are known to leave their druid-houses. I’ve heard of more than one who’s left the life and married—”

  Lochlan shook her head. “I know Meeve. She never does anything that transparent. Look, Morla, you’re a better risk. You’ve proven you can rule, even through difficult times, you bring not only substantial holdings in Mochmorna from Meeve, but what you have from your husband, as well as the respect of all Dalraida. Between that and Allovale…why do you think Meeve’s considering marrying him?”

  “Fengus is old enough to be my father…” Her voice trailed off as she shifted on the rocky ground. “I don’t even know Fengus—how does my mother expect—”

  “You didn’t know Fionn, either. She expects you to see things the way she does, I suppose. It all makes perfect sense to me, Morla.”

  “How?”

  He unhooked his plaid, folded it and offered it to her. “Here. Use this as a pillow for that leg. I was afraid we came too far.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s like this, Morla. Meeve likes to get people to think her ideas are their ideas. She gets you and Fengus and Cwynn and whatever the girl’s name is…all together in a room and you all make peace and drink toasts and Meeve smiles benignly. The girl refuses to leave off being a druid. Cwynn’s clearly a bumpkin fresh off a fishing boat. So now what’s the next logical thing that will cross Fengus’s mind as he gazes around the room? Where do you think his eye’s going to fall?” His voice was soft and lulling, and when he touched her cheek gently with the back of one hand, she jumped.

  “But…” Morla startled back. “I don’t want to marry Fengus. I’m of age, she can’t force me—”

  “No, of course she can’t. But, Morla, she’s going to put the good of Brynhyvar before you. What will you say to that?” He slipped his hand behind her head, caressing the tight muscles at the back of her neck and she relaxed almost involuntarily under his touch. “She’s always been right before, you know, about what the land needs.”

  A slow heat was spreading through her limbs. It made her head feel too heavy for her neck, made it seem only natural she should nestle in the hollow of his shoulder, only right that he should tip her face up and back. Her eyes fluttered as his breath caught in his throat. “She wasn’t right about what I needed.” She gazed up at the star-speckled sky and listened to the rapid beating of his heart beneath his leather breastplate. “I don’t want to marry Fengus,” she heard herself say, almost to herself. She looked up at Lochlan and desire so acute it left her breathless stabbed through her, forcing her to blurt, “I want to marry you.”

  In one swift motion, they reached for each other, sliding into each other’s arms with all the ease of old lovers, falling into each other. Her arm
s twined around his neck, he lifted her gently onto his lap, and her head fell back onto his shoulder as his mouth came down on hers. They stayed like that for the space of many heartbeats, Morla scarcely daring to breathe. There were enough words, she had not enough awareness to process the rush of all the emotions that crashed upon her and so she clung to him, drinking in his strength, until at last, Lochlan raised his head. His breathing was ragged, his heart beat like a drum against her now-naked breasts. “Let me—” He got to his feet. “Let me build us a bower, a little farther back. We’re too close to the track here.”

  Unsteadily, she got to her feet, tugged her clothing into some rough semblance of order, and followed, carrying the plaid in one arm and holding fast to his hand with the other. He steered her to a space beneath the spreading branches of some kind of tree and gently pushed her down. “Just wait.”

  She could hear him moving in the dark, saw the vaguest outline of his shape in the gray moonlight filtering through the branches. She knew exactly what he was doing—weaving together the little lean-to, covered with branches and boughs, heaped with pine needles, that every boy was taught to build before his thirteenth year; the little lean-to every man made every year at Beltane, to be his Beltane bower. She heard a sharp knock and a muffled swear, followed by a gasp of pain. “Are you all right?” She peered into the dark.

  To her relief, he was there at once, extending a hand. “Stubbed my toe. Watch out for that root. And that branch.”

  She slid her palm into his hand, marveling to herself how easily her fingers twined with his. For a split second she hesitated and suddenly she knew in her bones that this was not at all part of Meeve’s plan for either one of them. The faintest echoes of the druid blood that ran so strongly in her twin stirred. To do this would have repercussions and ramifications.

  “Morla?”

  She heard ten years of longing compressed in the two syllables of her name, and understood. At Beltane, it was always the woman who led the man. Swiftly, she reached for his hand and pressed a hot kiss on the back, as she spoke the words the ritual required. “Lord Lochlan of Glenrae, First Knight of Mochmorna, the Fiachna of all Brynhyvar, will you take me to the green woods?”