Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) (11 page)

“You’re improving, Maeve. Will you be finished with that hem soon?”

“I’d like to be done today,” I said. “But I’m afraid it will take longer. I’m making so many bad stitches!”

She patted my forearm. “They aren’t perfect, but they’re not bad. Your father won’t notice. He’ll treasure this garment, knowing part of it comes from your hands.” She went back to her own embroidery. The warm, pleasant silence of summer hovered over us like a dragonfly.

I was the one who swatted it out of the air.

“Oh no!” I held out my needle. I’d managed to snap it in two.

Mother clicked her tongue. “Let me give you a new one.” She searched her basket diligently. “Hmph. None here.”

“Do you want me to ask the other women?”

She shook her head. “We’ve done enough. Let’s take your broken needle as a sign to lay aside our work and enjoy the day. I’m going to ask Lady Íde to join me for a stroll through the apple orchard. What about you?”

“I’ll find something to do, don’t worry.” I gave her a kiss and dashed off.

Happily on my own, I set my footsteps on the path toward the stream, seeking my favorite retreat under the willow tree. It was a special place for me. Those tender, drooping branches were like the protective hand of a green goddess, preserving memories of the day when Kelan listened to my dream of seeking a prince’s skills.

What would Mother say if I told her that Kelan was almost as good a friend to me as Derbriu?
My mouth twisted in a wry smile.
She’d probably ask me if I “liked” him. The way she sees the world, boys and girls can’t befriends unless they’re sweethearts
.

I touched the pouch at my belt that held the splinter of Kelan’s sword. Though I had once rejected the idea of leaving it on Bláithín’s grave, now I considered burying it at the foot of the willow and covering the spot with a miniature cairn, a pile of stones to mark a special place, a secret monument to a lost friendship.

But if I do that, I won’t have it anymore
. I couldn’t deny how many times the mere act of touching that tiny sliver of metal had brought me comforting memories.

I pushed aside the notion of parting with my talisman.

The last time I sat by this stream, I saw some fat brown trout by the bankside rocks. I should try to catch one. I liked the idea, even if it was all what and no how, as many summer notions are. I pictured myself coming home with my catch—a dozen fish, no less—and presenting them to Father in triumph. He’d pile praises on my head while the warriors of Connacht cheered my talent as an angler and Devnet sang of how every
trout I caught contained a belly full of jewels. By the time I reached the willow and parted the cascade of slender branches, I was so caught up in my own daydreams that I didn’t notice someone else had found my sanctuary.

“Hello, Lady Maeve,” Odran said in his mild, amiable voice. He was sitting in the dappled shade with the fox cuddled against his hip and the stoat perched on his shoulder.

“What are
you
doing here?” I demanded. He didn’t deserve such a hostile reaction, but his unexpected presence had spoiled my plans to enjoy solitude. I wasn’t thinking about fairness, only:
This is my place, my special hideaway
, mine
! He has no right to come here uninvited, with or without those nasty beasts
.

“I’m sorry. I was wandering with Guennola and Muirín when we saw this tree and I was tired, so—”

I interrupted him. “You
named
these animals?”

The question took him by surprise, as if I’d asked whether water was wet. “Why shouldn’t I? The king of Munster has names for all of his hunting hounds, his chariot horses, and the best bulls in his herds.”

“The king’s horses, hounds, and bulls are valuable and useful,” I said peevishly.

“Guennola and Muirín are valuable to
me,
” he replied, his voice taut with restrained anger.

I didn’t care. “I can see how
you’re
valuable to
them,
” I jibed. “You give them food and attention, and you’ve obviously carried them all the way here from Munster. I don’t know how many days the journey takes, but I’ll wager it’s a long one. Is that why your skin’s so white? You wore that fox too tightly around your neck and it choked the blood out of your cheeks.”

His high brow furrowed behind its swath of raven hair. “You sound like my father. He’s ignorant too.”

“No druid is ignorant. If he were, he wouldn’t
be
a druid!”

“Ignorance isn’t the same as lack of learning.” Odran stood and snapped his fingers. The fox sprang to its feet and gave him an eager, inquiring look. The stoat clung to his shoulder, then reared up on its haunches, swaying slightly. “And telling a guest he’s welcome isn’t the same thing as making him welcome. Farewell, Lady Maeve.”

I grabbed his arm as he turned his face away from me. My outburst of temper had exhausted itself. I realized I’d had no reasonable cause for lashing out at this gentle boy and I was ashamed. “Wait, Odran, please. I shouldn’t have been so rude. It’s inexcusable to break the bond of hospitality.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell Lord Eochu that his daughter forgot her manners. The ‘bond of hospitality’—what a hollow eggshell
that
is!”

“You don’t mean that. It’s sacred!” I cried, repeating what I’d been taught since I was old enough to understand.

My protest struck the back of Odran’s head. He would not look at me, and when I tried to step in front of him, he pivoted so that I was staring at his back once more. “If it were truly a sacred thing, it would
mean
something,” he replied. “It would come from the heart, not from habit. My father and I have stayed with many kings on our travels. All of them honored the ‘sacred’ bond, but for most of them
welcome
was only a word. For some, it was an inconvenience. For many, it was a burden.” He glanced at me over one shoulder. “Father loves himself too much to believe he’s not a cherished guest everywhere he goes,
but I’ve been unwanted often enough to recognize when ‘Must you go so soon?’ means ‘Why didn’t you leave sooner?’ ”

“Oh.” I laid one hand on his shoulder in spite of the chance that the stoat might see it there. “That isn’t my way. I do believe in the guest-bond, but that’s not the only reason I’m asking your forgiveness. I spoke hot words in a bad temper. If I’ve hurt you, that’s worse to me than breaking the pact of travelers’ welcome. I’m very sorry.”

The hardness in his eyes and in the deep creases framing his mouth began to soften. “I’m sorry too. I should never have insulted you like that.”

“By calling me ignorant?”

“By saying you sound like my father.” He lowered thick-lashed eyelids. “He’d never apologize for hurting me. He says, ‘Hard speech is a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil. It shatters useless metal, pounds out weakness and imperfection, and shapes the finest sword, the spearhead that flies truest to the target.’ ” Odran looked up at me again. “Those are his exact words. Kind, aren’t they?”

“His
exact
words?” I was skeptical. I could accept that Master Íobar would speak so loftily, for druids and bards were often touched by Lugh, the god of poets. I could not believe Odran would remember them perfectly.

“Believe it,” Odran said. “Father’s spent years training me to remember things precisely as I hear them. When I was little, I thought it was a game and I enjoyed it. It was the only time he’d share my company outside of meals, good morning, and good night. The better I became at memory tricks, the longer we stayed together.” A rueful memory stole the light from his eyes. “Then I found out there was no affection behind it. It was
all part of his plan for me. Why ask me what I might want to do with my life? It was decided for me on the day I was born: I’d grow up to be a druid like my father.”

“You sound as if you don’t want that,” I said.

He scratched the stoat’s white belly. “There are parts of his calling that I do like. I could see myself as a healer. I just hate being told what I
must
do, be, and become. It was bad enough at home, hearing him lecture me every day. If I did poorly at my lessons, he’d either skin me alive with sarcasm or threaten to take Muirín and Guennola away from me. I’d hoped to have a break from that when we started on this journey, but he’s made me recite lore and rites and history every step of the way.”

“Is that why you came here?” I asked, indicating the willow’s sheltering leaves. “To get away from him?”

“From him and from the lads your father’s fostering.” Odran clicked his tongue and the stoat slithered inside his tunic. It peeped out at me from the embroidered neckline. “They despise my friends as much as you do.”

I was suddenly ashamed. “Odran, I don’t despise them. It’s—” I paused to seek the right way of putting things, but all I could muster was a lame, “It’s complicated.”

How could I tell him that his creatures filled me with misgivings? They weren’t like the tame beasts I knew, dogs and horses, nor like the animals of the world beyond our ringfort’s walls. An icy shiver of memory conjured up the wolf that would have had me if not for Kelan’s spear. And if a trained dog like Lord Áed’s wolfhound could turn vicious, how could anyone trust these sharp-toothed wild things? There was something fetching about them, but that made me uneasy too. If a mouse looks up to marvel at a kestrel’s flight, she forgets about its talons.

I couldn’t tell Odran my feelings. He wouldn’t understand. He’d think I was a coward. He’d see me as just another of those girls who squealed when they saw a spider.

“Complicated … I see.” Odran didn’t press me for a more satisfactory explanation. I was grateful for that. “It’s the other way around for your fosterling boys. Whenever they see Guennola and Muirín, they try to knock their brains out with sling-stones. You can’t get less complicated than that.”

“They
dared
?” I was furious. “Come back to the ringfort and show me the ones who tried to kill your animals. Father will skin those brats alive!”

“No, Lady Maeve,” Odran said patiently. “The High King will tell me to fight my own battles. This has happened before in other courts. I’ve learned that the best I can do for my friends is keep them out of harm’s way.”

“But I could—” I began. He shook his head. He’d made his choice and I had to honor it or truly become like his father, forcing my wishes over his. “All right. But if you change your mind, tell me. And if you want a good refuge, come here whenever you please. I’ll let you have this place to yourself for as long as you stay at Cruachan.”

“I wouldn’t like that,” Odran responded. “Muirín and Guennola are good creatures, but they’re bad at conversation.”

I settled myself onto one of the willow’s roots. “Which is which?”

He sat down near enough to create an air of companionship but far enough to respect my uncertain feelings about his animals. “This is Muirín”—he patted the fox—“and this is Guennola.” He tickled the stoat’s chin. It bit him. I giggled until I snorted. “
Not
funny,” Odran mumbled, sucking his finger.

“Wait until the
other
Guennola finds out the name of your little horror,” I gloated. “A bite will be the least of your worries.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time my girl’s name matched another lady’s.” He studied his finger. The tip was red but there was no blood. That bite had been no more than a friendly warning. “Your Guennola would have to be very stupid to believe I named the creature after her as an insult.”

“Ah, but what if you named it after her as a compliment?” I asked impishly. “What if you did it as a tribute to her extraordinary beauty? What if you’re out of your mind in love with her? What if—”

“What if I drop
my
Guennola down the back of your dress?”

“What if I push you into the stream?”

“Wouldn’t that break the guest-bond, my lady?”

“I’m more worried that it’d scare off the trout.”

“Trout?” He perked up with interest. “I like trout.”

We were soon deep in a fish-catching conspiracy. I offered a plan: “If we broke off a willow sprig and one of us dangled it in the water, maybe that would hold a fish’s interest long enough for the other to grab it.”

“Worth a try.”

My scheme went better than I’d hoped, probably because Odran was the one seizing the distracted trout. His long, thin hands were strong and fast, stabbing into the stream like a heron’s bill. After we caught three fish, Odran’s belt pouch produced a knife and a fire striker. He kindled a flame and soon the fish were roasting to a golden brown on sharpened sticks. Muirín and Guennola tussled over the entrails.

When the light began to wane, we agreed to go back to Cruachan separately. “My mother thinks I like you,” I told
him. “I don’t want to give her any more thread to keep on weaving
that
cloth.”

“I thought you did like me.” Odran looked hurt.

“I do,” I reassured him. “The trouble is, Mother’s idea of ‘liking’ isn’t the same as mine. I’m afraid it ends in marriage.”

Odran shuddered. I didn’t know why seeing that gesture of repugnance irked me so much. “You’re right, Lady Maeve. We do
not
want our parents getting the wrong idea about us. My father would call a thousand curses down on the High King’s household if he imagined we were more than friends.”

“The High King’s daughter isn’t good enough to be the wife of a druid’s son?”

“It’s not that. It’s the timing. Right now there’s room for only one thing in my life, according to my father, and that’s getting me to Avallach so that I can finish my training and become exactly what he wants me to become. There can’t be any distractions or diversions.”

“Not even bringing them with you?” I pointed at Guennola and Muirín.

“Trust me, it took all my wits to persuade him to allow me their company. I’ve never asked Father for much and I’ve always tried to bend to his will, whether or not I like it. The only thing I’ve ever fought for in my life has been getting permission for this.”

“I’d think that if Master Íobar’s used to your constant obedience he’d be
less
likely to make an exception. My father’s chariot driver, Fechin, always says that if you loosen the reins a little, the horse will yank them completely out of your hands.”