Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) (28 page)

“Mother made it look easy,” she said with a sigh.

I was a happy witness to Clothru’s return to our mother’s arms. It was only their mutual concern for the unborn twins that kept them from hugging each other hard enough to make
their bones squeal in protest. Mother was so overwhelmed with happiness at having her oldest daughter with her once more that Lady Íde feared the excitement might be dangerous. She suggested limiting Clothru to a pair of brief visits daily.

Mother soon settled
that
. “Íde, I love you like a sister, but if you say one word to keep my Clothru away from me, I will get out of this bed and make you regret the day we met.”

Lady Íde pursed her lips. “Too late.” Clothru and I giggled.

My sister confided in me that she was apprehensive about the Samhain rites, but she carried out her part with dignity and grace. Everyone there remarked on how well she’d done and how proud the High King would have been of his eldest child. I fought down my envy and was glad for her sake.

Too soon Samhain was over and Clothru had to return to her home. Her departure was supposed to take place before dawn but we clung to one another so long that the sun was above the horizon before either of us could say a last goodbye.

“I’m sorry I was so terrible to you when we were children, Maeve,” she whispered. “I wish I had more time to make up for it.”

“Then come back soon.” I hugged her fiercely. “The babies will be here before winter ends. Come back in the spring so that we can be with our dear oldest sister.”

She toyed affectionately with a strand of my hair. “I’ll be too big to travel by then.”

“You—” I stared first at her face, then at her belly, as though I expected to see it already swollen with child. “Oh, Clothru!” Even with the tears of parting still wet on my face, I thought I would never be able to stop smiling.

With Samhain over and Clothru gone, I had too much
time left to spend with my thoughts. All of the major preparations for winter were done. There was only so much needlework and weaving I could do before my fingers cramped or the gabbling gossip of the other girls drove me away. Things would turn livelier when the men returned from Tara, but Devnet wouldn’t be among them and I was so eager to lose myself in his songs!

And so it happened, but not in the way I’d hoped or ever could have imagined.

I’
D FINISHED MY
work early and was loitering by our nearly empty horse pens on the day Father returned from Tara. He’d sent no messengers ahead to warn us of his arrival, so as far as anyone knew, this was just another day.

I was feeling especially glum. By some miracle all the real work in our household was either done or delegated—except the
vital
chore of gossiping—so I had nothing to distract me from sorrowful memories or the lingering resentment I felt over being shoved aside at Samhain.
Did Father truly think I was mature enough to be entrusted with sharing a king’s work, or was that only his ploy to bind me close? He’s been terribly lonely since Mother fell ill. Had he
ever
wanted my counsel, or only my company?

One of Father’s men took notice of me, standing there. His name was Bran and his chief duty was to look after our hunting hounds. Far older than anyone else at Cruachan, white-haired and wizened with age, he was still vigorous and able to keep
the largest, rowdiest dogs in line. If he’d been within earshot the day Áed’s accursed dog attacked Bláithín, how different my life might have been!

“Lady Maeve, is there anything you want here?” he asked.

“What? Oh. No, nothing,” I replied without bothering to look at him, and sank back into thought.

“Well, if you haven’t got anything better to do, would you come with me? It’s time the dogs were fed and it might cheer you to watch them.”

Bitter thoughts made dull company, and Bran always had some entertaining tale to tell about past hunts. Soon enough the two of us were standing outside the hounds’ enclosure, tossing scraps to the pack and enjoying their antics.

“See there, Princess?” Bran said, pointing at a trio of the smallest, skinniest hounds, who were wrestling and growling over a wad of entrails. “Those are our youngest, all paws, bark, and energy. They’ll make fine dogs if they don’t get their throats torn out first.”

I shuddered, remembering the murderous wolfhound. Bran saw and clicked his tongue. “Now, now, don’t be upset. I’m exaggerating. When any of those three makes himself a nuisance to the older hounds, he gets a few nips to teach him better manners, nothing worse.” As he spoke, one of the more seasoned dogs darted in under the young ones’ noses and snatched the tidbit they’d been quarreling over. Bran and I laughed.

A gawky lad approached us, carrying a basket filled with meaty bones. He was so tall that I had to look closely at his beardless, pimply face before I realized he was probably younger than I. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, ducking his head before Bran.

“You’re not late, Colla,” the older man said benevolently. “I brought Lady Maeve here to entertain her with feeding the hounds, but there’s plenty left for you to do. Get along with it.”

Colla nodded and set down his basket outside the enclosure but within reach of his long, skinny arms and climbed in among the dogs. Old Bran leaned toward me and in a voice that was pure mischief whispered, “Now you’ll
really
laugh.”

He was right. The dogs greeted Colla so enthusiastically, it was ridiculous. They leaped up, planted their huge paws on his shoulders, and licked his face until you couldn’t see anything of the tall boy but dog tongues and drool. A less experienced person would have been knocked off his feet, but Colla held steady.

“Off, all of you!” The command would have sounded more masterful if Colla’s voice hadn’t cracked midway. When the dogs dropped back, he reached through the fence and grabbed a fistful of bones from the basket.

I blinked. Was there something else in his hand along with the meat-heavy ribs?

“Get it!” Colla showed the pack a bone, then made an overhand throw to the far side of the enclosure. The dogs bounded off to claim it. I heard a snap and the leader’s yelp of confusion when his mouth closed on a dry stick instead of a beef rib. Colla laughed, called the hounds back, showed them the same bone, and tricked them with another stick all over again.

“Why are you letting him do this, Bran?” I was furious. I knew what it felt like to have something I dearly wanted dangled before me, then be snatched away. “It’s a nasty game.”

“Maybe, but it’s not over. See that dog there?” He pointed to a tall, strong-limbed animal, with a square, sturdy muzzle,
a pure white pelt, and short, floppy red ears. She wasn’t racing after Colla’s decoy throws but remained aloof, dignified, and alert. “That’s Treasa,” the hound-keeper explained. “Watch her and wait.”

I didn’t have to wait long. Colla knew dogs well enough not to stretch their patience too far. He threw some of the real bones to quiet the pack leaders, then took fresh food and more sticks from the basket. As he stooped to do so, Treasa saw her chance. She ran into him like a young bull, knocked him sprawling in the dirt—and worse—of the hounds’ pen, and grabbed the bones from his hand. A yelp of pain told me that the white hound had given Colla a lesson when she took her prize.

“That boy fooled her once when she was a pup, but never again,” Bran said, gazing at Treasa with admiration. “The first time she taught him not to tease her, he tried paying her back with a beating, but he came out the loser, especially after I caught him at it. Now he daren’t lift a hand against her.”

“But he still taunts the others,” I protested. “Why don’t you put a stop to it?”

“Why don’t
they
?” Bran countered, gesturing at the hounds still chasing meat and catching dry sticks. “Let them be Colla’s fools until they turn clever enough to learn from Treasa, until the lad tires of this game, or until he grows up enough to know better, whichever comes first.” He gave me a crooked smile. “My wager’s on the dogs.”

Father came home accompanied by the men who’d attended the High King’s presence at Tara. Some were all too familiar, like Lord Áed. I was thankful to see that this time he hadn’t brought more wolfhounds, though the unhappy little boy who
walked beside his chariot clad in slave’s yellow reminded me of a beaten dog.

Some new faces came in Father’s train as well, or more accurately they were new to
me
. As the High King’s guests entered Cruachan, Lady Íde ran out of the great house to embrace one of them enthusiastically. There were plenty of curious whispers from onlookers and raised brows at the placid way Lady Íde’s husband watched his wife cover another man’s face with kisses.

Then she cried, “Artegal! Oh, my dear, dear cousin, it’s so good to see you again!” and that took the fun out of everything for some people.

Lady Íde’s cousin was actually
Lord
Artegal, who ruled his realm from the ringfort of Dún Beithe, a ten days’ march to the north. He was unique among our visitors because he’d come here from Tara to see his kinswoman, not to try winning me for himself or for any sons he might have. The others claimed they were breaking their homeward journeys at Cruachan to let Father know how devoted they were to their High King, but even the most naïve of our serving girls saw through that.

“Just look at them,” I overheard one tell another with a harrumph. “All here sniffing after Lady Maeve.”

“It’s always easy for the pretty ones,” the second girl said enviously.

Her friend snorted. “Pretty comes last with kings. What counts with those men is that she’s been Lord Eochu’s favorite since she was five. You know the tale of how she made the bull dance like a moon-mad hare before she broke off his horn with her bare hands and gave it to the king. That’s why he promised she’d have Connacht for her dowry.
Now
do you understand what those hounds are hunting?”

If the serving girl didn’t, I did. Once again I became the hub around which our visitors spun, vying for my attention. I’d grown adept at this game, though now I no longer cared if Father praised me for how well I played it. I loved him, but I no longer put my faith in him. The same breath that called me his “spark” blew icy cold with fear of Master Íobar. The same arms that I’d thought were stronger than any steel fell to his sides like willow branches when I begged him for justice. I couldn’t look at him without recalling how he’d tossed me a bone that became a dry stick and crumbled into dust.

I was through depending on him for my happiness. Treasa had been fooled once and never again. She played no one’s games. She didn’t wait for someone else to tell her
Now you can have what you need, what you want, now, when
I
say so
. She used her wits to claim it for herself. So would I. To think that a dog had taught me more than any druid!

Father never knew how lucky he was that his wishes and my best interests overlapped. It was easy for me to keep all of my suitors equally near, equally far, since I was equally indifferent to them all. The hard part was remembering to resist the temptation to give some of them a richly deserved slap with my hand instead of my words.

The one who tried my patience most was Lord Áed. He’d brought a second slave with him besides the pinch-faced, scrawny little boy. She was a very pretty young woman, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and much better fed than her fellow captive. Though she wore the yellow garment custom demanded, she also wore a thin bronze torque around her neck, a valuable ornament for a slave, who’d usually have none. It was clear that Lord Áed treated her well, and more cruelly clear why. I never
saw her smile except when he looked at her, and then I saw more fear than fondness in her expression.

I sympathized with her. I had to smile at Lord Áed, too, but at least my captivity ended after dinner.

They can’t stay here forever
, I consoled myself.
They’ll have to go back to their own lands eventually. We are
not
going to feed these people through the winter. Oh gods, give me a spell to turn the guest-bond upside down and make them keen to
go away!

I didn’t think the gods would answer, but they did. Strange things began to happen at Cruachan. Baskets of wool were found soaked with water, delaying the task of carding the raw fleece into something fit to go on a spindle. Every spindle in the house vanished one day, only to turn up in the bottom of a cooking pot half filled with mud. An unseen hand filched tunics, cloaks, and trousers from our highborn visitors, returning the garments once they’d been “improved” with tiny rips and tears.

And one day we all awoke to … the stench. It seemed to be everywhere in the great house, vile and sickening. Father ordered our servants to search for the source, promising a reward for success. Our highborn guests gave their attendants the same task, though most of them promised punishment for failure.

Rumors began. I heard them from the servants first, talk of how Cruachan must be haunted or the target of one of the Fair Folk we’d displeased somehow. A few claimed it was evidence of a curse that had descended on us all, while others said it was merely a warning and we’d better find out the cause while there was time to ward off the malediction.