Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) (3 page)

“What did he do to you, Father?” I asked.

“You don’t need to burden yourself with such things, my spark. It’s men’s business. All that touches you is this: I’m High King of Èriu now, and you’re my bold, bull-hunting daughter.” With that, he jounced me in his arms and carried me into the house.

If I had any further questions for him, they were swept out of my mind by the storm of preparations for his victory feast. It began that night, went on for thirty more, and the din of it rocked Cruachan to its roots.

We were not the only ones sharing the celebration. The road to our ringfort soon teemed with noblemen arriving from all parts of Èriu. Every one of them bowed and brought gifts. My ruined silk tunic was soon replaced by a more splendid one. My sisters received equally magnificent garb.

Gold ringed every neck under our roof. No sooner was a heavy torque finished, polished, and placed in Father’s hands than he awarded it. It was very funny to see some of his younger,
thinner fighters struggling to stand tall under the weight of such a precious yoke. I couldn’t begin to count how many animals were slaughtered to feed the shifting crowd. We breathed the scent of roasting pork and stewing beef for so long that I forgot what fresh air smelled like.

My sisters and I soon grew tired of so much revelry. Even though we were always welcome at the nightly carousing, we often stayed in our room after eating.

“It’s so
boring
,” I complained to Derbriu. “Every night Devnet the bard sings nothing but songs about how Father cut off the High King’s head.”

“That’s the truth.” Derbriu cleared her throat and burst into a hilarious imitation of our house bard performing the tale of how Eochu Feidlech, son of Finn, rode out to avenge an act of treachery by Lord Fachtna Fáthach, and won. All of my sisters giggled, but very softly. It was dangerous to make fun of a bard. If he learned about it, you could find yourself the target of a satire cruel enough to kill, or so Mother said.

Silence followed the laughter. Clothru said, “It’s all going to be different for us now.” She didn’t sound happy.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because now we’re the
High King’s
daughters. We’re more important than before.”

“Too important,” Èile said glumly. “It means there’ll be no more putting off sending us into fosterage.”

Fosterage …

I was well aware of the custom that called for highborn children to be raised in other households. Some went as young as a year old. Boys were sent to learn the skills of a warrior, girls to prepare themselves for marriage. Fosterage forged lasting
bonds between families. Mother said it was also good for the children, making them more self-reliant, helping them to grow up strong, far away from softhearted parents who might be too ready to offer sympathy for every hurt or to make excuses for every failure.

No one asked the children if they wanted to go.

“It won’t touch you, Maeve,” Clothru said. “Father will flatter his strongest allies by awarding the rest of us to them, but he’ll want to hold on to you as his pet bargaining token.”

“It’s not fair,” Èile sulked. “Just because she’s the youngest—”

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could speak, Mother entered our room. “Your father wants you all to join the feast.”

“Do we
have
to?” Mugain whined. “I’m tired.”

“All right, girl,” Mother said crisply. “If you’re so weary, I’ll tell your father he can take the cattle he was going to present to you and give them to your sisters instead.”

Cattle! We’d all forgotten about Father’s promise to reward our good behavior with five cows apiece. We scrambled after Mother like a tumble of puppies.

A fire blazed high in the stone-ringed central hearth of the king’s great house. Men sat crowded on the benches that lined the walls or stood packed hip to hip, feasting and drinking. I expected we’d have to struggle through their midst to reach Father’s seat, but they moved aside for us like grass bending in the wind.

“Ah, there they are!” Father exclaimed when he saw us. “My prized, beautiful daughters. Come here, girls.”

We arranged ourselves in a row before him while he told the assembled men of Èriu of his promise to us. “You can’t
make peace with women using sword or spear, so you must buy it,” he declared, red-faced and grinning. “Five cows each was a fair price, but I’ve changed my mind. My daughters have come up in the world. They’ll each have
ten
cattle”—we six danced for joy while the warriors loudly approved their new High King’s generosity—“except for Maeve.”

I was stricken. “Father, why—”

“Patience, my spark.” He beckoned our bard to step forward. “Sing for us, Devnet, a new song. Give us something different, the tale of how the Fair Folk put a prince’s heart in a girl-child’s body.” He pointed at me.

“Yes, my lord.” With a mischievous look, Devnet began to sing about my adventure with Dubh. I was so enchanted to hear a bard transform me into a heroine that I forgot my distress over losing those promised cows. He took some liberties with the tale, toying with it so merrily, so blatantly, that his listeners had to know it was all a joke. When he reached the point where I grabbed Dubh’s tail, he claimed I used it to swing myself onto the bull’s back and ride him to Tara and home again. His song served up the truth as well. Though he praised my courage, Devnet reminded everyone that I owed my life to luck, and he didn’t forget to include a comical account of how I stepped in a pile of the bull’s manure. I would have blushed if I hadn’t been giggling. There was no real malice in his words. He had everyone else in the hall laughing and cheering for me until the end, when he described my “noble warrior’s stink, her fair skin adorned with the brown smear of triumph.”

Father rewarded our bard with a gleaming armband, then had me sit in his lap. “You see, my friends? All of my daughters shine, but my youngest shows a champion’s heart. Mark me,
someday she’ll be a prize worthy of none but the greatest lord in Èriu.” He smiled at me. “It’s a shame I can’t reward your exploits with the hero’s portion, my spark. I’ll have to give you twenty cows instead.”

“Nineteen,” I corrected him solemnly. “Nineteen and Dubh.”

He laughed, praised my courage, and said, “How could any man deny you whatever you desire, Maeve?” But days later, when I first went out to see my newly given herd, there were twenty cows and no sign of the bull.

M
Y SISTERS HAD
said things would change for us now that Father was High King. They were right, but they never guessed how soon those changes would come. Clothru was sent out to fosterage by midsummer. Eithne and Èile, as next oldest, soon followed. Mugain went just before the first hard frost. In spite of how often they’d teased me for being the baby, I cried like an infant when each of them left home.

Derbriu was the last to go. On that sad morning, six years after our other sisters had been put to fosterage, I became the lone princess in the High King’s house. Father drove away with Derbriu by his side. Mother’s women chattered ceaselessly about what a fine place the king had found for his sweet-voiced daughter. She was going to be raised by a noble family of the Ulaidh whose realm included Emain Macha, a site of sacred power.

All I knew was that my favorite sister was being taken far from me and that I might never see her again. I stood watching
her fly away into the dawn and wondered why I couldn’t weep. Instead of drowning in my own tears, I felt hollow, dry, and as brittle as an overbaked clay jar.

That aching emptiness wasn’t my only burden. Now that I spent more time in my own company, I began to notice something odd: No matter where I went, if any of Father’s warriors were nearby, I was watched. Every way I turned my head, every time I glanced up from a task, I saw men’s eyes on me. Nearly all of them did it, from our older fosterling boys to men three times my age. If our gazes met, they’d smile and wish me well, but it was no casual greeting. There was something disturbing behind it, though I was unable to give it a name. It was worse when they tried to draw me into conversation. The boys’ attempts were painfully awkward, but when the men did it, I felt my skin creep. Why were they suddenly so fascinated by anything an eleven-year-old girl could say?

I wished Father would hurry home from taking Derbriu to the lands of the Ulaidh. He would set things right when he came back; I was convinced of that. Meanwhile, I did what I could for myself. I became skilled at avoiding the men’s eyes, dodging their greetings, escaping from any chance of conversation, but it was still hard while I remained within Cruachan’s walls.

That was why I took to ranging the countryside. The early morning sun never found me at home. I became a rover, a wanderer, a cloud’s shadow blown across the grass and gone. Bog land and forest, streams and ponds, deer paths and grazing fields for cattle, all of these became my realm. I was a frequent visitor to the homes of farmers and the huts of cowherds. Most of them didn’t know who I was, and the sudden appearance of
a solitary girl was startling. There were moments when I was mistaken for one of the Fair Folk, and sometimes I couldn’t resist the urge to play along. If instead of simple curiosity I saw an awestruck look in the eyes of a plowman or his family, I would burst into a weird, wavering song and dance away, beckoning them to follow. No one ever did.

An uncanny transformation overtook me. I’d begun my wanderings to avoid facing unpleasantness at home, but the longer I followed this new path, the more I came to love it for its own sake. Away from the eyes that haunted me, the encounters that put me on edge, and the lessons that aimed to stitch me into a life I’d never chosen, I started to savor something new: freedom. Freedom, honey-sweet and heady. I gulped it down the way Father and his warriors drank mead.

Mother had no idea of my feelings. She disapproved of what she called my waywardness and chided me for it every night at dinner. “Do you hate learning your future duties so much?” she demanded. “Or do you simply have no respect for me?”

I wanted to tell her what was wrong. I wanted to say, “Men are looking at me all the time. Men are talking to me, and I don’t like it.” But I couldn’t. When I put my feelings into words while alone, they sounded stupid. I was sure Mother would think I’d lost my wits.

I hunched over my meal and mumbled, “Sorry.” It was all I’d do until Father came home again. Then I’d tell
him
and everything would be set right.

He was gone a long time. Besides accompanying Derbriu to her new home, he had much to do as High King of Èriu. Samhain came while he was away. Samhain, the time of shadows, the turning of the year from light to dark. The border
between our world and the realm of the spirits grew as thin as frost on a blade of grass. Few dared to venture outside on that night for fear of meeting the Fair Folk or the dead.

Mother worked with our most trusted stewards to oversee the last stage of harvesting and food storage. She also approved which cattle would be slaughtered so that there’d be enough food to see the rest of the herd through the coming winter. When the purification bonfires were lit across our land, she astonished everyone by leaping over the blaze as gracefully as a doe, with not so much as a spark touching her tunic. I followed, with less success, and it took a man with a pot of water to douse my burning hem.

“Where did you get the idea you were old enough to try
that
madness?” Mother yelled, shaking me. I laughed and pretended I was going to attempt it again. I expected her to hold me back, but to my surprise, she didn’t. Arms folded, she watched me prepare to make a second jump across the fire, her lips pressed into a small, hard line. I took a few steps back, dashed forward, and stopped short, suddenly afraid. My cheeks were hot, but not from the nearness of the bonfire.

“I was only joking,” I mumbled as I made my retreat.

“Good.” Mother’s voice was filled with satisfaction. “So you’re no fool, in spite of how irresponsibly you’ve been acting.” She tapped the side of my head with her forefinger. “Maybe there’s a mind inside this nutshell, not just a tangle of impulses.”

I wished I were as impulsive as she thought. Maybe then I would have blurted out everything troubling me, heart and spirit. Instead I fell back into a silence that resolved nothing at all.

An unspoken truth is often cousin to a lie.

Some dozen days before Father’s homecoming, I woke up shivering. I pulled on my tunic and shoes, swung my blanket over my shoulders, and flitted to the house doorway. The great hall and hearth were deserted. It was very early, and the intense chill seemed to be encouraging the rest of the household to stay snug under their covers.

I looked outside. Whiteness was everywhere. I couldn’t recall the last time snow had fallen on Cruachan, or even if I’d been alive to see it. Winter usually brought rain and fog, not this bright, shining view. When I gasped with delight, my breath hung on the air in a tiny cloud. I ducked back into the hall just long enough to grab a chunk of bread from a basket near the hearth, and soon I was no more than a streak of red hair fading into the distance and a scattering of footprints in the snow.