Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) (19 page)

With a brief, apologetic look in my direction, the druid’s son attended his father. My own went along without one backward glance, deep in conversation with Master Íobar. I remained on the bench where Father had left me, forgotten, dismissed, and made invisible by the power of two men talking. And so I learned that it doesn’t require the spells of the Fair Folk to make a girl vanish.

The next morning I woke up to find Odran kneeling at my bedside. My eyes and mouth snapped wide open, but before I could make a sound, his hands clapped over my parted lips.

“Shhh. No one must discover me here,” he whispered, moving his hand away.

“Did you need to tell
me
that?” I whispered back. “What’s going on? Why are you in my room?”

“I wanted to let you know that I’m going to the crannog so that you wouldn’t worry when you didn’t see me today.”

I sat up and held my blanket around me. “What about your father, your lessons? Now that he’s back—”

“He’s busy. The midwife arrived before dawn and was brought to Lady Cloithfinn before she even took off her cloak. Father heard the commotion and dashed out of our room to join her.”

“That was good of him.”

“Good to himself,” Odran said with sarcasm a bard would envy. “He wants to be sure that she doesn’t steal your father’s gratitude from him. He’ll also take credit for anything she accomplishes too, wait and see.”

“Odran, I know things are bad between you and him, but how can you presume such things about your father?”

“He as good as said them himself. Last night, when we were in our room, he couldn’t help reveling in how ready your father was to submit to him. He said, ‘The High King rules Èriu, but only a druid has the power to rule the High King. Pay attention to how this plays out for us, boy, and you’ll learn that a wise man can outsoar an eagle. Lord Eochu respects my skills, he fears my curses, and he loves his queen too dearly. That’s a start.’ ” Odran’s well-trained memory let him recite his father’s speech precisely as he’d heard it, but he could not do it without distaste clinging to every word.

I was livid. “Did he actually— Of course he did. Why would you lie about it? I have to warn Father.”

“Warn him about what? Something that hasn’t happened and that you can’t prove?”

“But if you could say—” I began, then bit it back. How could I ask Odran to betray his father, and for what gain? Master Íobar’s aspirations were still vague, unknown. “Never mind. There’s enough trouble under this roof right now. I can’t burden Father with more, especially when it involves a master of the healing arts. My mother’s recovery comes first.”

“Just as well.” Odran sighed. “No one wins a real challenge against my father.”

“You did, when you got to keep Guennola and Muirín and—”

“I was lucky. He didn’t think that was a battle worth fighting. I’d better go.” He shifted his weight, preparing to rise. “The sun will be up soon and the creatures need me.”

“Wait.” I grabbed his wrist. “I have to stay, for Mother, but before you leave, take this.” I groped along the floor beside my bed and handed him a scrap of leather. It was the hood I’d sewn for Ea.

Odran examined it as well as he could in the dimness of my chamber. “When did you do this?” he asked.

“Last night. I couldn’t sleep at first, so I took a clay lamp and finished it. I didn’t want Ea to spend another day with a bound wing. Use the pin to secure the hood around her neck. Tell her I’ll be coming to see her soon.”

“You’ve embroidered it.” I wished Odran wouldn’t speak of such a simple thing in such tones of awe.

“I told you, I couldn’t sleep so I used the time to make it fancier than need be. My needlework’s miserable, isn’t it?”

He looked at me. “It’s beautiful.” He tried to clasp my hands, but all at once it became vital for me to hold my blanket tight around my body.

I turned my head away. “You should go.” He stood. “I’ll be back this evening to tell you how Ea’s getting on, and the others. I wish I could stay with you, help your mother somehow, but—”

“Every soul under this roof stands ready to look after her. Our animals have only you.”

“They have
us
,” he corrected me. “I would let them fend for themselves for this one day and stay with you, but every moment counts. Autumn will soon be here and that’s the season when the hedgehog has to make his den for the long sleep. I want him to be well and independent enough to do that before I have to leave for Tara.
All
of our creatures must be healed before I go.”

Even you, my Ea
, I thought.
But that’s as it should be. There’s no other way
.

“I wish you could stay at Cruachan, Odran,” I said, trying and failing to keep the longing out of my voice. “I can look
after the little ones on my own, and yet—” I silenced myself before I made things too awkward between us.

“They would be in good hands if they were in your sole care,” he said quickly. “But I’d never want you to take on so much.”

I was stung. “Don’t you trust me?”

“With anything. It’s not that. Maeve, it’s a long road from here to the crannog. How can you travel it safely when the winter darkness comes? If you miss your path on the bog causeway—”

“If you stayed, we could travel there together,” I muttered. “We can’t hurry the healing of the otter, the squirrel, the hare. If we put them back into the wild before they’re well, it’s the same as letting them die. You
must
stay. I’ll make it so. I’ll speak with Father before he leaves for Tara and get his consent. But how can we persuade Master Íobar to delay your arrival at Avallach?”

“Maeve, I can’t follow what you’re saying,” Odran protested.

“I’m thinking out loud, that’s all, chasing ideas.” I shrugged. “They might as well be butterflies, but I won’t give up until I catch one.”

Odran left, stealing from my room, the house, and the ringfort undetected. If our sentry spied his departure, there was no need to raise an alarm. Threats took the shape of men rushing
toward
Cruachan. A lone figure running
away
might rouse the watchman’s curiosity at most, but the incident would be promptly forgotten.

I lay abed for some time after Odran’s departure, thinking about what he’d told me. I couldn’t warn Father about Master Íobar’s ambition, but I could keep my own eyes open wide.
Resolved, I rose, dressed, and went straight to the doorway of my parents’ sleeping chamber. The thick bull hide that curtained it didn’t let any intelligible sounds escape, so I waited for Lady Íde to appear, or anyone else who could give me news. Some of Mother’s ladies saw me lingering, and instead of lecturing me on the evils of eavesdropping, offered to bring me breakfast. They understood. I thanked them for their kindness, but said no.

My vigil broke when Father emerged from a different doorway. His anxiety for Mother and the baby had hardened into rage at the world. He looked ready to behead the first person who spoke to him. Our eyes met, but the only greeting he gave me was a terse, “Anything?” I shook my head. He muttered a curse, turned his back on me, and walked away.

I refused to be set aside and dogged him as he strode to the hearth. “Shall I go to her, Father? Is there something I can do? Is Lady Íde with her? Who else?”

He sat heavily on his bench and accepted the bread and butter and early apples our chief cook gave him. “If you don’t stop battering my poor head, daughter, I’ll cut the throat of one of your cows for every question you spit at me.” He spoke with an awful calmness that convinced me this was no joke, but a true warning.

I sat next to him and folded my hands in my lap. “I want to know how she is this morning,” I said evenly. “I want her to be well. I want to go to her, to see her, to help her. If there is anything I can do that will restore her
—anything
—I want to do it. Now you see, I haven’t asked you one question, but if you insist on killing a thousand of my cows for each word I’ve just said, I’ll hand you the knife myself.”

A melancholy chuckle sounded deep in Father’s chest. “Bold words for a girl who doesn’t have a thousand cows. Anyway, you tell the truth. You asked no questions and so your herd is safe. How did I come by such a clever daughter? You get that trait from your mother. What did you get from me?”

“Impatience,” I replied, trying to make him smile. “Father, you’re the
king
. Why are you waiting for news to be brought to you? You should be in there,
taking
it.”

“You and I are biding time out here for the same reason, my spark. We want to give the healers room to do their work, and we don’t want to disturb your mother.” He turned his gaze toward the hide-covered doorway of their sleeping chamber. “And maybe we’re content to wait for word because we’re both a bit afraid of what we might find on the other side of that curtain.”

I leaned against him for comfort, but I think I gave more than I took. As I rested my head against his arm, I heard him murmur, “Oh my Cloithfinn, my beautiful girl, stay with us. I’ll save you if I can. I’ll go to Tara when Samhain comes and raise a barricade between the worlds with my body and my sword so that you and our child won’t cross into the darkness.”

I hugged him. “It will be all right, Father,” I said softly.

He locked both arms around me. “It will.”

There was no real news for us all day, aside from those few times when one of Mother’s ladies tiptoed out of the sleeping chamber to reassure us that there’d been no changes for the worse. We had to be satisfied with that.

The midwife finally came forward with her report at dinnertime. Master Íobar escorted her from Mother’s room to
the hearth, where the household had gathered to take a somber meal. She was a fairly young woman, competent but not yet confident. From the way she kept darting timid glances at the druid, you could see that she was helplessly in awe of him. When she spoke, it sounded as if she were only voicing his words with his permission.

“All’s well with the queen and the baby, Lord Eochu, but there’s a chance this could happen again. I have good reason to believe she’s carrying more than one child.”

“Twins, my lord,” Master Íobar said, neatly stealing the midwife’s credit for bringing good news. “They’re already acting like warriors, fighting for position. It’s a great strain on Lady Cloithfinn, but with proper precautions—”

“She must rest completely, stay in bed until the birth,” the midwife said, accidentally interrupting Master Íobar. He gave her a withering look.

“
As I was saying
, to safeguard the queen and the lives she carries, no one must disturb her, give her any cause for alarm, or trouble her in any way. Can you guarantee this, Lord Eochu?”

“With my life,” Father said forcefully. “I’ll see to it.”

“So will I,” I said, but no one heard me. The men were cheering for their king, and the women were heatedly reminding them to lower their voices and let the queen have her rest.

The young midwife left Cruachan the next morning, heaped with a fortune in gifts. She rode away in Father’s best chariot. It was a great honor, but the poor woman looked as though she feared someone was going to ambush her and decree that she deserved none of it.

Once Mother’s care became only a matter of keeping her
calm, clean, and well fed, Master Íobar and our druids left the maintenance work to the women. Lady Íde took charge of the rest. She had a pallet laid for her in Mother’s room and ran the household from there, sharing some of her authority with the queen’s most seasoned and trusted attendants. She never thought to call on me to help, and when I volunteered, she sent me off, saying, “There’s nothing you need to do, Maeve. You have enough on your mind to occupy you.”

Enough on my mind? Perhaps, but far from enough in my hands. Yes, I could have gone to the crannog, but in those first days of Mother’s recovery, I couldn’t bear to go so far from her bedside. Father and I visited her daily, though she was so weak and slept so much that we couldn’t really keep her company.

One day, I found myself alone with her. Lady Íde had to give orders to our chief cook and none of her deputies was near enough to take over tending Mother. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. She’s sleeping, but if she wakes up, ask her if she wants to eat or drink. Here’s water, and here’s a platter of bread and meat. If you need me, stick your head out through the curtain and call.
Don’t
leave the room.”

“She speaks to me as if I’m three years old,” I murmured, looking down at Mother’s tranquil face. “But at least she’s giving me something to do for you. I want to do more, but no one will let me.” I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. “I’m so useless.”

“Not to me.” The words were little more than a whisper. My eyes snapped open and saw my mother’s waking smile. Her too-white hand found mine. “You’ll never be useless to me.”

I took comfort from knowing Mother needed me, but if only Lady Íde shared her feelings! Mother’s dearest friend had seen the birth of my sisters and me. Her love and devotion were absolute. She was an inextricable part of our lives.

All of which made her utterly certain that she knew what was best for us, and she was going to see to it that we agreed. For me, that meant being affectionately rebuffed every time I offered to do a woman’s share of our household work while Mother recovered. How many times did I need to hear, “You’re a good girl, Maeve, but no”?