by Trisha Telep
But they would not do so as long as she vouched for him and staked her honour upon his behaviour.
“Séanat!”
Niamh, her black hair flying loose behind her, ran up to Séanat with a cry of relief and joy. She embraced Séanat with her strong arms, kissed her cheeks and stood back, laughing.
“We thought you dead!” she said.
“You thought her dead, Niamh,” Ríona drawled, coming up behind her. “I always knew she would return.”
Niamh made a face and embraced Séanat again. “How many did you slay?” she asked breathlessly. “I killed ten, and I would have slain four more if only—”
“Don’t believe her,” Ríona said, crossing her arms across her chest. “She always—” She broke off, looking over Séanat’s shoulder. “What’s this?”
Both women stared at Aodhan. He bowed and stood quietly under their inspection.
“I am looking for the Ard Rí,” Séanat said quickly.
But Ríona was not to be distracted. “I do not know you, stranger,” she said to Aodhan. “From which fine do you come?”
“Do you forget the laws of hospitality?” Séanat snapped. “He is my guest.”
There was nothing Ríona could say to that. She frowned and pulled Niamh aside.
“Lugh is in his tent,” Ríona said.
“Very well,” Séanat said.
As she began to walk away, Aodhan at her heels, she heard Niamh’s whisper. “She is not herself. What can be wrong? Who is he?”
They can feel it, Séanat thought. They know he is not of the Tuatha Dé.
And indeed it seemed as if every man and woman they passed – cooks and smiths over their fires, warriors and pages, healers and poets – turned to look as she made her way to the great tent in the centre of the camp. Still, no one stopped her, nor spoke except to welcome her back. Perhaps it was only her imagination that their eyes followed her when she stopped before the warriors who guarded the new High King.
“Cathal,” she said, nodding to the larger man. “Fearghus. Will you ask the Ard Rí if Séanat of the Daughters of the Morrígan may speak with him?”
“Our king rests,” Cathal said. He looked at Aodhan. “Is this an urgent matter?”
Urgent? She might go to one of Lugh’s lieutenants and report what she had done. She might hope that Brighid would soon return from her mourning to speak for her. But it was Lugh to whom she must appeal, Lugh who had slain his own Fomóiri grandfather to save the Tuatha Dé.
“I ask to see him,” she said.
The warrior turned, drew back the tent’s flap and went inside. Séanat heard low voices, and then Cathal came out again.
“The Ard Rí will see you,” he said gruffly, with another long look at Aodhan.
Séanat unslung the spears from over her shoulder and removed her sword and dagger, leaving them with Fearghus as custom dictated. Cathal nodded, and Séanat lifted the flap.
Lugh sat on a stool padded thickly with sheepskin, deep in conversation with his uncle Goibhniu, the powerful smith of the Tuatha Dé. Both men looked up as Séanat and Aodhan entered.
“Séanat,” Lugh said. His golden ha ir was as bright as ever, his eyes as blue, but his forehead was streaked with blood and the cuirass he still wore was slashed and dented. “What do you ask of me?”
His weariness shamed her. “My lord,” she said, hesitating. “I ask a hearing.”
“For what purpose?” Goibhniu said. He looked, narrow-eyed, at Aodhan. “Who is this boy?”
“My lords,” Séanat said, “he is Aodhan. I have brought him under my protection.”
“Your protection?” Goibhniu said. “Why should he need—”
Lugh raised his hand, and the smith fell silent. There was a coldness in the High King’s face that chilled Séanat’s blood. “I see why,” he said. “Come forwards, Aodhan.”
Aodhan obeyed and bowed deeply. “My Lord King.”
“Your king is dead.”
Straightening, Aodhan met Lugh’s eyes without fear. “Many I knew are dead, or driven into the sea.”
“Fomóiri,” Goibhniu growled. He began to rise, but once again Lugh stopped him.
“Why is he here?” Lugh asked. “Why have you brought an enemy among us?”
Séanat would not tell him of Brighid’s challenge. She would not lay any responsibility upon the lady when it had been her choice and no one else’s.
“I came upon him in the forest,” she said. “He fought fairly and with honour. I spared him.”
“And brought him here?” Goibhniu demanded. “Have you so soon forgotten Ruadán?”
“I have not forgotten, my lord. But the Fomóiri are no longer a threat to us. They will not return. And Aodhan . . .” She took a deep breath. “It may be he is like the Ard Rí, as much of the Tuatha Dé as the Fomóiri.”
Lugh rose. “Is this your claim, Aodhan?” he asked.
“I do not know, my lord,” Aodhan said. “I was fostered to Fomóiri. I was raised as one, and fought for them. For this I make no apology.”
Goibhniu growled again. “You must not permit this serpent in our midst, nephew,” he said.
Séanat held her breath. Lugh was staring at her again, weighing, judging. She had offered her hospitality to Aodhan, which could not be withdrawn. He had three choices: to kill Aodhan, compelling her to defend him unto death, even against the whole of the Tuatha Dé; to exile them both; or to accept her word of honour that Aodhan would do no harm. She would not have blamed him if he had chosen the easiest way: exile.
But he sighed and shook his head. “I do not understand you, Séanat,” he said. “It is not like the Daughters to show mercy in battle. If you have lost your taste for fighting . . .”
“Never, my lord!”
He searched her face again. “If our enemies still had the means and will to fight, I would not be lenient. But my judgment is this: he is yours, and whatever he does is on your head. You will face his punishment should he flout our hospitality.”
It was the very best Séanat could have expected. She bowed low, avoiding Goibhniu’s piercing stare, and took Aodhan’s arm. He paused, gave a bow of his own, and followed her out of the tent.
“My thanks, Séanat,” he said.
She continued towards the Daughters’ tents without stopping. “You may not share our quarters,” she said. “My sisters will not accept you easily. You may sleep by the fire outside, with the hounds.”
“Am I your hound, Séanat? Am I permitted to go freely about the camp if I wear your collar?”
His quiet mockery stung worse than any wound. “I have no use for collars. Your honour binds you, as mine does myself. I will see that you have blankets and food and ale.”
“But not your company?”
She gritted her teeth and didn’t answer. She pointed out the fire to him, where a pair of Daughters, Brónach and Úna, were warming their hands and talking quietly.
“This is Aodhan,” she said without preamble. “He is my guest. I offer him the hospitality of our fire and a share of our food.”
The Daughters exchanged glances, but neither challenged her words. Séanat nodded to Aodhan, went on to the tent and gathered up her blankets. By the time she brought them back to the fireside, Aodhan was seated and the Daughters were walking away, casting sharp glances over their shoulders.
“It seems they care no more for my company than you,” he said.
Séanat grunted. “They spend little time with men.”
“Are you forbidden to take lovers then?”
Her skin grew hot. “Not forbidden. It is easier when . . .” Show no weakness. “You are not my lover, but my guest.”
“Will you tell them what you told the Ard Rí?”
Never had Séanat had cause to lie to her sisters. But she had lied to Lugh when she’d said Aodhan had fought with honour. He had not fought at all.
But to tell them that he was Fomóir, in every way that mattered . . .
“Let them think what they w
ill,” she said harshly. “Stay here. I will bring meat.”
He stayed, and afterwards she spent a little time sitting and eating with him to show that he was, indeed, her guest and not to be troubled. She knew how easily rumours flew around any war camp, and she wanted his position secure before the questions came.
They came soon enough. Séanat had just sought her blankets in the tent she shared with Ríona, Niamh and Brónach when the three warriors burst in.
“It’s true, then?” Ríona demanded. “He’s Fomóir?”
Casting off the blankets, Séanat sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “He is,” she said wearily.
“Here!” Brónach exclaimed. “In the very camp of the High King!”
Séanat got to her feet. She could tell them he was almost certainly half Tuatha Dé, but she was too angry.
“You speak of the Ard Rí,” she said. “I have seen him. He has granted me the life of this warrior, whatever he may be.”
Ríona glared, her arms tight across her chest. “You’ve gone mad, sister! Send him away! He will bring only sorrow!”
Brónach muttered agreement. Niamh moved her hands as if to soothe the anger that bubbled like a cauldron near overflowing.
“Séanat is no fool,” she said softly. “There must be good reason.”
“Is there?” Ríona asked. Her eyes narrowed. “You have a smell about you, sister. The smell of a lover.”
Niamh gasped. Brónach sneered.
“His lover, are you?” she said. “Can you stoop so low, Séanat? A Fomóir . . .”
“Thus did Brighid take Bres the Beautiful, and Cian take Ethlinn,” Niamh said, “to bring peace—”
“Which never came!” Ríona said. “And there is no need for conciliation when the Fomóiri have been driven from Inis Fáil!”
“There is even more need,” Niamh said, “and our king has given his blessing.” She approached Séanat with a gentleness that Séanat could hardly bear. “You have your reasons, Séanat, even if only your heart knows them. I will stand beside you.”
A look of pain crossed Ríona’s face. Brónach continued to sneer. Séanat pushed past them, walked out of the tent and went straight to the fire.
Aodhan was sitting almost where she had left him, knees drawn up and hands dangling between them. He was so intent on the fire that he didn’t hear Séanat until she was almost on top of him.
“Get up,” she commanded.
He rose slowly, watching her face warily. Séanat heard the others come up behind her. She seized Aodhan by the shoulders and kissed him as hard as she could, feeling the shock of his surprise and then the eager response. She pushed him away and spun to face the others.
“Does that satisfy you, Ríona?” she asked. She stared at Brónach. “Now you truly have reason to despise me.”
Pale with anger, Brónach stalked away. Ríona lingered, glanced at Niamh, and followed with a heavy tread.
Aodhan stood unmoving, his body tense with anger. Niamh would not meet Séanat’s eyes.
“I will stand with you,” she said. “But it would be wise not to provoke—”
“I’ll provoke whom I choose,” Séanat snapped.
With a gentle shake of her head, Niamh went into the tent.
“Did you find that amusing?” Aodhan said behind her.
“I found it necessary.”
“To prove myself your property?”
“You are not my—” She broke off as Aodhan’s hands settled on her shoulders, stroked down, came to rest on her hips. She could feel the heat of him through her thin sleeping shift.
“Prove it,” he murmured. “Where can we go to be alone?”
Her belly ached with desire, but she knew better than to give in. “Go to sleep,” she said.
* * *
Aodhan didn’t sleep. He was angry and lustful and bewildered all at once, thinking of Séanat in the tent, of her breasts and thighs and firm lips and green eyes. He thought more than once about creeping into the tent, finding her sleeping place and lying down beside her. He could begin his lovemaking before she woke, and then there would be no protests. He would make her beg for his caresses.
But she wasn’t alone in the tent, and he had more important things to think on. He had come to Lugh’s camp for a reason, and his purpose had yet to be fulfilled.
You will betray her, he thought. He would destroy Séanat as surely as if he’d slashed her throat with the sharpest bronze, for she would lose her people and possibly her life. Exile was the best she could hope for.
That would be nothing to the loss of her honour.
Aodhan hardened his mind. He had set his course when he had survived the blade in his heart. No mercy, no pity. Just as they had shown no mercy to his people.
He waited until the most of the fires around the camp had burned down to coals and the Tuatha Dé had fallen into drunken, exhausted slumber. If there were sentries, he could see none. These fine folk were arrogant in victory, even with a Fomóir in their midst.
Still, he moved with great care, working his way little by little across the camp. Lugh’s tent rose up in the flare of guttering torches, but the warrior guards were slumped over their spears, snoring as loudly as the rest.
Silently, he entered the tent. Lugh of the Long Arm lay on his pallet, a cloak of woven gold and wolf’s fur draped over his body. Goibhniu rested on a similar pallet near the tent’s entrance. He mumbled and rolled over as Aodhan passed, oblivious to the danger.
Because Lugh had taken Séanat at her word.
Aodhan hesitated. Séanat’s kiss burned on his lips. He shook off the memory and crossed to the spears that rested on the wall.
Goibhniu’s spears: magical weapons forged by Inis Fáil’s greatest smith, one of which Lugh had used to slay Balor. One of which had slain Ruadán, son of Bres and Brighid, when he had come to the camp and tried to kill Goibhniu to save his father’s people from destruction.
Tears came to Aodhan’s eyes. Ruadán had had no choice. Nor did he. Aodhan grasped one of the spears, weighed its perfect balance in his hand. One blow would be enough. If he killed Goibhniu, his foster-brother would be avenged. But to slay Lugh, the greatest of the Tuatha Dé, the golden king . . .
He raised the spear over Lugh, took aim. And stopped. Sweat slicked his palm.
“I will follow you, lady, and do your will.” Those had been his words to Séanat before they had lain together, binding body to body and soul to soul.
The spear sank in his hand as if it were forged of the heaviest stone. He backed away from Lugh, from Goibhniu, and out of the tent.
The point of a sword pricked his back.
“Traitor,” Séanat snarled under her breath. “Faithless cur!”
Aodhan raised his hands. Once he had been prepared to let her take his life because he had failed to die with his people. He had failed them again.
He had failed her.
He dropped the spear. Séanat kicked it away. The blade rose to lie against his neck. In a moment his head would fly from his body, and at last the agony would end.
“Did you . . .” Séanat choked and caught her breath. “Did you kill them?”
All he need say was “aye”. The lie would not come to his lips. “No,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. The blade nicked his skin, and he felt the blood flow “Why?”
He turned, careless of the pain. “Because of you, a chroi.”
She stepped back, her face turned away, and moaned. The sleeping guards sprang up, dazed and wild. Instantly they were on Aodhan.
“Stop!” Séanat cried. “He did nothing!”
Lugh emerged from the tent. “What goes on?” he demanded.
Goibhniu came out behind him. His eyes found Aodhan’s. “You!” He brought up the spear he clenched in one fist. “Filth of a Fomóir!”
Like a stoat upon a mouse, Séanat leaped at Aodhan and dragged him away, her arm around his chest.
“You will not touch him!” she growled. “I saw h
im come out of the tent with a spear in his hand. Had he wanted you dead, you would not be breathing now!” She turned to Lugh. “My lord, has he done you harm?”
The High King’s expression was grim. “None. But you were honour-bound to keep him, and you have failed.”
“She hasn’t failed,” Aodhan said. “It was because of her that I took no vengeance for the death of my kin and my foster-brother.”
Others had come to hear Aodhan’s words, and they murmured in consternation and anger. “What brother?” Ríona said, her sisters around her.
Aodhan met Goibhniu’s furious stare. “Ruadán,” he said, “son of Bres.”
The gathering crowd grew quiet. Séanat was as rigid as one of the great standing stones that rose on the banks of the River Bóinne.
“And this is what you brought to us!” Brónach said. “Another who spits on the hospitality of the Tuatha Dé! I say they both must die!”
A swell of argument rose up, shouts of agreement and mutterings of dismay.
Lugh raised his hand. “Aodhan has come armed and unasked into a place of peace. But I have suffered no injury, nor has my uncle.” At the sounds of protest he raised his hand again, and the light from his face silenced every voice with its glory. “In this,” he said, “I cannot judge, for all Tuatha Dé must be affected. Let every warrior and chieftain meet in council to decide the fate of this man and this woman.”
Séanat released Aodhan and bowed her head. “I surrender to the will of the People. I ask only one boon—”
A great, black host of crows appeared in the sky, deafening the camp with their guttural cries. Around and around they flew, descending like a whirlwind, spinning closer and closer to each other until they formed a single black shape that came to earth as lightly as foam on the shore.
“There will be no boon,” a harsh voice said. Long-nailed hands pushed the dark hood back from hair equally dark, and a woman’s face appeared, beautiful and cold and deadly.
“There will be no mercy for one who has betrayed her oath,” the Morrígan said. The crowd broke before her long stride, and the Daughters dropped to their knees. It was to Séanat she went, her cloak billowing and hissing around her.