Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) (20 page)

I gave up. She won. But for once the loser in a challenge carried away the prize: the liberty to return daily to the crannog again was mine.

I did so with a clear conscience. Mother was getting better, and aside from our daily visits, what was there to keep me in the ringfort? The grown women of Cruachan were preoccupied, following Lady Íde’s directives. As a result, teaching us girls about the loom and the needle, the spindle, the carding combs, and every aspect of feeding and managing a household fell by the wayside. The fosterlings soon learned that they could spend their days in gossip and flirtation as long as they disguised their lack of real employment with a hank of unspun wool or a piece of eternally unfinished embroidery.

I went where I could put my hands to better use. I scavenged for discarded scraps of leather and made them into a sleeve that would protect my arm from Ea’s talons. My fingers grew astonishingly nimble at whisking off her hood, revealing those fiery eyes. I carried her out into the open, letting her see the shining blue realm awaiting her return.

“It’s going to break my heart when you’re set free,” I told her. “I wish I could keep you forever, but”—I took a deep breath—“how can I do that and still claim I love you?”

Ea gazed at me steadily, and all at once I thought I saw something more than the familiar flash of flame in the depths of her eyes. Tentatively I raised my free hand and touched a fingertip to the feathers on her back. She made no move to warn me off. I stroked her head and she allowed it. The enchantment of that moment lingered over us until she declared
Enough!
by gaping her beak and stamping her feet on my leather sleeve.

I wanted to tell Odran all about the priceless gift I’d been given. He’d touched the little kestrel many times, but with the experienced, dispassionate hands of a trained healer. What had passed between Ea and me was more than that. He would understand.

I understood, too, that I couldn’t speak to him about it until he was again free to visit the crannog. How could I flaunt my liberty in his face when he had so little? Master Íobar’s delayed homecoming filled the druid with an obsessive drive to make up for lost time with his son’s lessons. His zeal prevented Odran from visiting the crannog for four days in a row and now my friend was trying to catch up on the changes that had taken place in his absence.

“Maeve, you’re a marvel,” he said as he surveyed my work. “Are you sure there aren’t three of you? You’ve done so much. The hedgehog’s gone?” he asked, seeing the empty enclosure.

“I set him outside two days ago. Look!” I showed him my palms. “I picked him up without a single prickle.”

“You’re sure he was healthy enough to go?”

“No doubt about it. He let me carry him to the woods and took off the moment I set him down. Oh, that plump little body waddling away was the most adorable thing I ever saw!”

“You did very well.” Odran sounded pleased. “Are any of the other animals ready to be released?”

“I’m not sure.” My pride over having successfully returned the hedgehog to his natural place in the world gave way to apprehension.
He’s talking about Ea
.

I was right. He was already heading for the kestrel’s perch. Ea turned toward us at the sound of our approach. Even with her hood on, her sense of hearing was excellent. Odran ran his hands over the small, sleekly feathered body. “I can’t feel any difference between her injured wing and the other one. We should take her out today and see—” He paused, surprised. “What’s this?” His fingers touched a tightly braided strand of hair tied to the kestrel’s right leg. “Is this yours?”

“Whose else would it be? It isn’t doing her any harm and she doesn’t mind that it’s there,” I said hotly. “She sat absolutely still when I put it on her. She didn’t even try to peck at me.”

“But why—”

I could have told him,
I don’t know
. I could have said it was an impulse, but that wasn’t true. The second day he’d been kept away from the crannog by his lessons, I’d examined Ea’s wings myself. She had spread them wide and beat the air energetically as if to tell me,
See what I can do! See how strong I am!
And then, more cruelly,
See the proof that I’m ready to leave you forever
.

Yes, you will
, I thought, burning her image into my memory so that none could take it away from me.
You’ll be ready, even if I’ll never be prepared for losing you. I have to let you go, except … except …

That was when I used my knife to cut a long tress of my bright red hair, wove it into the thinnest of braids, and secured it tenderly to Ea.

“It’s not to claim her,” I said to Odran. “That would be wrong, impossible. She’s not my property, but somehow, some different way, she’s mine. I hoped …” Would my words sound foolish? “I hoped that if she wore it, she’d remember me.” I looked into his eyes and silently pleaded for him to understand.

He nodded. “Then there’s no question. It should stay.”

That day I carried Ea to the lakeshore, removed her hood, and let her taste the air. Her wings ruffled in the wind. There was a short, firm pressure as her talons closed on my arm, then a sudden release as she threw herself into the sky. I watched her climb the clouds and hover against the blue. I was so entranced that I didn’t feel the need to weep and I never felt the instant when Odran put his arm around my shoulders and held me close.

How long did the two of us stand there together, watching the kestrel’s flight? How long did the beauty of those unbound wings divert me from the heart-piercing thought that I was never going to see her again? Time can hover too, suspend itself, hold its breath in the presence of magic. Devnet sang songs about how the mortals who did find entrance to the Otherworld believed they’d spent a single Samhain eve among the Fair Folk, but when they came out of the mound they discovered that a hundred Samhains had come and gone.

I spent the following day at home while Odran went to the crannog. I could have gone with him, but the previous evening Father had given me a mournful look and said, “It will soon be time to thin the herds for winter, Maeve. I wonder … would
you care to come with me and tell me which ones you think should be culled?”

His invitation took me by surprise. The great responsibility of choosing which cows should be fed through the winter and which slaughtered for food wasn’t something you shared with your “little girl,” the daughter you saw as nothing more than some nobleman’s marriage prize. Did he truly trust my judgment or was this another of his jests? Would he accept my choices or would he laugh and say, “Now let me show you how to do it the
right
way”?

Hear yourself!
I thought.
You’re seeing deception where there might be none. You’ll know soon enough if he’s playing with you. Give him a chance
.

“Thank you, Father,” I said sincerely. “I’ll try my best.”

“Don’t be modest. You’ve got your mother’s eye for judging cattle. Didn’t you choose my best bull for yourself when you were no more than an infant?”

“I think I was a
bit
older than that,” I replied with a smile. “And even though I chose him, you didn’t give him to me.”

His weak smile answered mine. “You can’t get milk from a bull, so it was no fit gift for an infant.”

“Did you ever try?” I asked, and banished the last of his melancholy with laughter.

So I went with him to the fields early the next morning. We made the rounds in two chariots because I’d grown too big for his to carry us both and Fechin. Father considered it a shame for a warrior to guide his own team of horses unless an enemy’s spear, sword, or slingstone had killed his driver.

At first it looked like he was going to go back on his offer. I stood in his shadow while he spoke with the cowherds, told
them which animals to separate from the others, congratulated those whose careful husbandry showed in the health of their cattle, and berated those whose laziness had done harm. The sun was directly overhead when he looked at me and said, “Now it’s your turn, Maeve.” The rest of the day’s decisions became mine. I’m sure that he wouldn’t have hesitated to overrule me if I were about to make a gross error in judgment, but he never stepped in. My choices pleased him, and the trust he’d shown in my judgment pleased me.

As our chariots approached Cruachan on the homeward road, Father’s came to an unexpected halt. He dismounted and strode back to mine.

“Let’s walk together the rest of the way,” he said.

He lifted me out of the chariot even though I could have done that for myself. We watched Fechin and my driver ride ahead and pass the ringfort gateway in the distance.

“What will people say when they see those two return without us?” I asked lightly.

“Hmm.” Father pretended to ponder the matter seriously, then spoke in a womanish voice: “ ‘Fechin, you scatterbrained lout, only you could misplace the High King of Èriu!’ ”

“
And
his beautiful daughter,” I prompted.

“Does he think you’re beautiful?”

“Who?”

“The druid’s son. Your sweetheart.”

I stopped walking. All the joy of sharing Father’s work was gone. He was no longer treating me like a person whose opinions he respected. His teasing words turned me back into a girl like every other: all that I
must
want was marriage, all that I
must
care about until then was boys.

“Odran is
not
my sweetheart.” I uttered the same denial that always came to my lips whenever my parents tried pushing me down the only path they saw for my future. The more they prodded, the deeper I dug in my heels.

This time, an errant thought came unbidden:
He’s not? But wouldn’t you like him to be?
I thrust it away, declaring, “He and I are friends, nothing more.”

“What, girl! Would you prefer to be married to your enemy?” Father chuckled.

I decided to deflect his joke by pretending he’d spoken in earnest. “If I married Odran, I wouldn’t need to look far for an enemy. His father would curse me from the top of my skull to the soles of my feet for keeping his son away from his studies.”

“Master Íobar?” Father’s mouth quirked. “Hardly that. What a prize it would be for him to become a High King’s kinsman through his boy! The man isn’t flesh and blood—he’s ambition and pride.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. I knew I hadn’t shared any of what Odran had told me.

“You might not understand this, not being a man, but when two warriors face one another, it’s not just sword skill that decides the winner. The best fighters learn how to observe their enemies, know their moves before they make them.” He made a wry face. “I wish they were all as easy to read as Master Íobar.”

“I thought he wanted Odran to become a druid.” I was confused but secretly delighted. Father was aware of Master Íobar’s nature and no longer sounded like the chastened man who’d yielded to him so readily.

“He does, but he’s the sort who eats from every dish. If he
could have a high-ranking druid for a son
and
royal blood ties
and
the generous dowry I’ll give you, he’d still gnaw on his own sickle in an ugly temper because no one gave him wings!” He hugged me. “Never mind, my spark. I won’t see you married to anyone but a king.”

And all my elation was gone.

That evening, the chief cook gave us roast boar and Lady Íde served us good news. “Lady Cloithfinn wanted a second portion of meat, and after she devoured that, she did the same with a third!” She beamed. “The children she carries have fighting spirits that grow as fast as their bodies. Mark me, Lord Eochu, you’ll have twin heroes on your hands!”

Father tried to reward Lady Íde with gold for her words but she refused, arguing that Mother’s health was her reward. While the two of them were wrangling, Odran slid onto my bench.

“Maeve, will you come to the crannog tomorrow?” he asked in an undertone.

“I don’t know if I will,” I replied. “Father might want me to be with him.”

“I understand, but”—his voice dropped even lower—“you
need
to come with me.”

I asked him to give me a reason for it. He behaved as though I hadn’t spoken, and I couldn’t press him for an explanation without attracting unwanted attention from those near us at dinner. He remained stubbornly reticent when the two of us left Cruachan before dawn the next day. All the way through woodland and bog, he either chatted about trivial things or dropped into silence when I tried to make him give up his
secret. Walled out by his silence, I imagined all sorts of dreadful, ghastly, tragic possibilities. By the time the crannog came into sight, rising from the mists of the lake, I couldn’t stand to wait anymore.

I covered the last bit of distance at a run, with Odran at my heels, imploring me to stop. Curiosity sealed my ears. I struck thunder from the wooden walkway over the water and burst into the house.

Muirín yipped a greeting at the end of her tether. Guennola hissed and uttered sharp barks from inside her ring of thorns. The other animals made vague stirring noises or none at all. I looked all around but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Odran caught up and took my hand. “You’re worse than Muirín for running off,” he said, breathless.

“And you should be ashamed of yourself, insisting that I come here but refusing to say why, making me worry, making me think you were holding on to some horrible mystery that—”

Kee-kee-kee!
A kestrel’s cry pierced the air. I gasped and let go of Odran’s hand, pulled toward that sound as surely as if there were a rope around my waist.

She was there, on her old perch in the rear of the house. Her fiery eyes were hidden by the hood I’d made for her, but I knew her. Even if I hadn’t seen the red braid tied to her leg, I would have known her, my Ea, my sweet bird, my precious one.