Queen Among the Dead, page 31
Knowing she’d tell him eventually.
He’s a Scythian. You cannot trust him. In the end, he will betray you, just as—
“Stop!” Neve slammed her cup down on the table, spilling her drink onto the lacquered surface. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in the silence that followed.
When she opened her eyes again, her Horse Lord was staring at her.
“Sakir . . I fear my mind is not my own.”
“Tell me.”
She told. About the whispers. About the shifting visions in the mural the Scathach had painted in her own room all the long years ago. About how she feared that in preparing for the coming battle she had already lost. Because that was what the Scathach wanted her to do.
“You think the Scathach is using you,” Sakir said, “to make her whole scheme come to pass.”
“If I sit by and do nothing and, through my inaction, Gofannon opens the portal to the Otherworld …”
“Or,” he said, “if, through your actions, Gofannon opens the portal …”
“I cannot know one way or the other. I’m second-guessing myself at every turn and she knows that.” She cast a rueful grin his way. “I sound mad, I know.”
“You sound like Neve,” he said, returning the grin. “And that is enormously reassuring. Have you told Ronan about all of this?”
She shook her head. “He would do everything he could to keep me from riding out in battle, if I did.”
“I knew there had to be something I liked about him,” Sakir said dryly.
“Sakir …” Neve put her cup down and looked him in the eyes. “You are my most loyal friend.” She pretended not to notice his expression at her use of that last word. “Swear to me, on your life and the lives of the Horse Lords and the continuance of the herd … that if it comes down to it—if I lose control of myself to the Scathach—that you will … end me.”
The blood drained from his face. “I cannot—”
“You must,” she said. “I’ve only just begun to realize how much power I truly hold in my hands. I’m nowhere near to controlling it yet. And it cannot fall to someone like her. Can you imagine the Scathach commanding the magic of the Fé Fíada? Sakir … her whispers, in my head, they are …” A shudder wracked Neve’s spine. She inhaled deeply and finished her drink. “You’re the only one I trust to do such a thing.”
Sakir’s mouth hardened and his eyes grew dark. “It is no great honor, my king, this thing you ask of me.”
“And yet, my lord, you better than anyone know why I ask it.”
The muscles of his jaw worked and for a moment, Neve actually thought he would tell her to leave the tent.
“What do you think she would do to the Horse Lords?” Neve asked. “What vengeance would she wreak? Think about what the Scathach did to the archers who hesitated to fire on the ships bearing the defeated Fomori.” She reached for his hand, knowing it would make it easier and so much harder for him at the same time. “I don’t know if I have control of the reins on this, Sakir. And I can’t risk taking the Tuatha Dé to war unless I know someone does.”
His fingers squeezed hers once. Then he let go. “You have my promise.”
“That’s all I need.” She stood. “Now, if we’re lucky, you won’t have to keep it.”
XXXII
THE SCOUT REPORTS found her wherever she was in the palace that morning—which seemed like everywhere—and all of them came back with nothing out of the ordinary. Each time she breathed a sigh of relief, followed by one of growing apprehension. By the time the sun had reached the zenith of its brief transit across the sky that day, she was anxious to address one duty that couldn’t wait, but that she didn’t know how to accomplish.
Fintan had posted an honor guard at the doors of the Dagda’s chambers, where his body still lay, shrouded in his crimson war cloak. But since every single Druid had fled, there was no one at court to prepare Ruad Rofhessa for his final journey. Neve found herself strangely paralyzed by the dilemma until Ronan finally took her by the shoulders.
“I think I know someone who can help,” he said a bit hesitantly. “That is, if you’ll allow it.”
“Who?” Neve asked, wary of his tone.
“His name is Swift.” Ronan frowned. “He’s … Well, to be honest, I’m not quite sure what exactly he is. Many things, I think. A fisherman, of sorts.”
Neve frowned. “A fisherman?”
Ronan nodded. “He lives in Baile Sláine. The first time I encountered Swift was enough to make me ask around about him. I was told he lives in a good stout roundhouse with stone walls and a thatched roof—a reward from the king for a duty rendered, some years ago—and I think he’ll know what to do.”
As Neve heard Ronan echo back her own words—spoken over mugs of brown beer in a musty little Blackwater bruidean—she understood the rightness of it.
They rode out together, north to the village of Baile Sláine, where, with a few discreet inquiries, it didn’t take long to find where the old man sat beside his fire in a tidy little riverside house. When they ducked inside the leather-curtained doorway, they found three cups of honey mead poured and set out on a little table.
“I’ve long awaited—hoped for—this day,” Swift said, when they’d settled themselves on stools at his behest. “Oh, not the death of that old ruffian, to be sure. Didn’t want that …”
“The last thing he told me,” Neve said, “was not to lay him to rest in the Great Barrow. He realized too late that it was not what he thought it would be.”
“Late wisdom is still wisdom.” Swift sighed. “And his intentions, it must be said, were pure. At least in the beginning. Pure things are so often easily corruptible, my dear. Of course I will help you. Deliver the king of Temair to me, and we who deal with such things among the Fir Bolg will prepare him properly, so that you may send him skyward. That is, if you prevail, and if the Tuatha Dé ride out the coming storm.”
“You mean the battle brewing over Brú na Bóinne, don’t you?” Ronan asked. “Do you know what will happen?”
Swift’s eyes glittered darkly. “That I cannot say.” He shrugged and refilled their cups—and his own. “This is not the working of the gods of this isle, and so what lies beyond that portal is barred from my sight. What I do know is this: you are the thread that binds the two halves of this tapestry, Neve Anann Eriu. The bridge that spans the chasm between two peoples.”
“My mother said something like that to me,” Neve said quietly.
“Your mother is wise beyond reckoning. Stole many a young man’s heart, I remember.” He frowned. “Give her my respects when next you see her. And … take the south road back to Temair, through the forest. Not the river path.” Swift was staring intently at the flames of his fire, his eyes tracking things only he could see.
Neve and Ronan exchanged a glance. The river track was the easier ride, but they both knew enough not to ignore the old fisherman’s suggestion.
THE SUN WAS already near to setting by the time they left Baile Sláine. It would be full dark by the time they reached Temair. A sense of foreboding settled on Neve’s shoulders as they rode, their shadows lengthening across the frost-crisp meadows. The sun would rise again on the shortest day of the year. Followed by the longest night … and then, the moment of sunrise when the Dagda would have consecrated his monument, had he still lived. That moment, Neve knew, was the hinge point—what Gofannon had been working toward—and what she had to keep from happening.
Beneath the black lace canopy of the tree branches, the crimson sky turned mauve then violet then indigo. Neve’s eyes seemed to adjust to the darkness better than she was used to, but she turned to Ronan, about to ask if she should try to conjure a Fé flame to help light their way. She bit down on her words when he suddenly reached for her horse’s bridle with one hand and put a finger to his lips with the other. He cocked his head and listened and, after a moment, Neve heard it, too.
Voices. Low, murmuring, nearby …
There was a rocky outcropping off to the side of the path near a small waterfall and a rushing stream. As quietly as possible, they dismounted and left their horses tethered to a tree on the path, moving soundlessly on foot near an abandoned mud hut—probably an old fishing camp—on the banks of the stream. The roof of the little hovel was half caved in, clearly deserted. Ronan beckoned her forward, into the shell, and out the other side to where there was an escarpment. He crouched low and crawled to the edge of a precipice. Neve followed close behind. Peering over the edge, she could just make out the mouth of a cave on the far side of the stream, fronted by a clearing marked with a standing stone.
A meeting place. Shadows moving beneath the trees.
This, somehow, was what Swift had wanted them to stumble upon.
“The Lia Fail spoke for her,” said a male voice, deep and strong, carrying over the chatter of the icy stream running down the hillside. “Again. Not for me. Not for him. For her. It is the will of the gods—”
“And so it is part of our design,” a second male voice answered, the tone mocking. “What don’t you understand about that? Do you want your queen or don’t you?”
The response was a murmur, too low to hear.
“The Stone of Destiny will burn before it drowns, my old friend,” the first voice said. “As it once did, so very long ago. Then we can both have our queens back again. And fulfill our destinies. You have yearned for yours for a long time, I know, denied your heart’s desires by the Lia Fail itself. But I assure you, I have yearned a great deal longer.”
A muted jingle of horse tack and the voices moved off into the distance.
Ronan turned to Neve and could tell by her expression—and the fact that she was reaching for her axe—she’d recognized at least one of the speakers, if not both. He opened his mouth to ask, just as a shadow rose up behind her.
And then another.
The two men, scouts or guards on watch for the meeting that had just taken place, were as surprised to find Neve and Ronan as they were to be found. Ronan didn’t bother shouting a warning—Neve was already ducking out of the way—and instead dove for the nearest man, punching wildly until he could manage to focus enough to draw on the darklight of his Fé magic. When he did, the power behind a single blow drove the man’s head into the soft mud of the stream bank and he slumped over, unconscious. Or maybe dead. Ronan didn’t care which.
“Neve!” He scrambled to climb back up the stream bank where the Dagda of Eire grappled frantically with a warrior determined to make her reign a very short one.
NEVE STRUGGLED AND kicked, pinned beneath her attacker and barely able to grab for the man’s wrist as his blade descended. Her assailant grinned and bore down with his short sword, the point less than a handsbreadth from her throat. With a cry, Neve twisted to the side and sank her teeth into his forearm. He dropped his blade with a scream, but Neve just bit harder. Blood welled up in her mouth and she spat it in the warrior’s eyes, blinding him.
The bitter iron taste stirred fire in Neve.
She felt a sudden, fierce flood of strength course through her limbs. A flame kindled behind her eyes, flared to a blaze, and a voice, deep and sonorous, that was not the Scathach’s spoke hungrily to her heart.
“Daughter,” it said. “Beloved …”
Over the sound of her own ragged breathing, Neve heard a splash and a low, muted growl from the ferns at the edge of the stream. The enemy scout’s hands splayed out like talons, grasping for her throat. The ferocity of the attack gave her no time to concentrate, to summon the newfound power of her Fé, and she was no match for his brute strength, but the growling sounded again—louder, closer this time—and Neve brought her knee up into the man’s midsection and was rewarded with the crack of a rib and a sharp grunt of agony. He staggered back and she kicked him hard in the stomach. His steps faltered, feet sinking in the soft mud at the edge of the stream.
A dark, ragged-edged shadow rose up behind him …
And then he was gone.
His truncated scream barely split the air, drowned out by the gnashing of teeth. Blood, hot and acrid, splashed across Neve’s cheek as a huge black wolf thrashed in the shallows, its mighty jaws clenched in a death grip on the limp, lifeless scout’s corpse.
Neve watched in horrid fascination as the great beast’s eyes glowed with golden fire in the darkness, before the monstrous creature dragged the body out into the churning water and disappeared from sight. On the far bank, Neve thought for an instant that she saw a tall, cloaked figure staring back at her, with the same golden eyes as the wolf.
Then all was emptiness and shadows beneath the trees.
She looked back at Ronan, who stood staring at her in stunned silence.
“Kings do not die in mud huts,” she said and stalked back toward the road where they had left their mounts. “And they do not abide treachery. Come. There is a lord back in Temair I require answers from.”
“DAMN HIS EYES!”
Ronan flinched as Neve slammed her fist down on the edge of the wax map table in the Great Hall hard enough to crack the wood. There was still dried blood at the corner of her mouth and on her cheek. She hadn’t wasted any time going to her quarters once they had returned to the palace.
Instead, she’d ridden immediately to the Scythian encampment. And discovered it half empty.
Furious, Neve had summoned Sakir to the Great Hall, where she paced, mud-spattered and bloodied, waiting for him to arrive with some sort of explanation. He had none.
“Elchmar was a traitor to his queen,” she snarled, pacing like a caged animal. “And Cormac clearly sees fit to follow in that same time-honored tradition. I would drive him and his seditious cavalry over a cliff, too, given the chance—”
“Neve.” Sakir’s voice was quiet and low, holding a warning. Ronan didn’t think the charioteer had ever seen that particular side of his princess. He didn’t think anyone had.
“Is there not a Horse Lord living who will not betray the Tuatha Dé?” Neve raged.
“Neve, listen to yourself,” Sakir said, leaning toward her. Ronan remembered in that moment that Sakir, too, was of royal blood. An actual descendant—many generations removed—of Elchmar, in the same way Neve was. Barring the voice of the Lia Fail, Sakir had nearly the same claim to the throne as she did.
“Look at yourself,” Sakir continued. “This isn’t you.”
That brought her up short. Neve’s eyes flared. After a moment of effort, Neve heaved a sigh and her fists clenched and unclenched before she spoke again.
“Is that what you think, too?” she asked Ronan sharply. “That I’m not acting like myself?”
Ronan hesitated. But he knew flattery and falsehoods had been the death of Ruad Rofhessa, and Ronan would be damned if he’d be party to the same thing happening to her.
“In my—albeit brief—acquaintance with your Lord of Horse, I’ve learned that he is unflinchingly honest. Blunt, if you will. Irritating. And usually right,” he said. “He’s not wrong now, Neve.”
She threw her hands in the air and stalked across the room to the throne dais. She had yet to sit upon the Dagda’s great chair, where her father’s war club rested. After a moment, she turned back around to face them, visibly calmer.
“Your uncle took my cavalry,” Neve said. “After meeting secretly in the forest with the Scathach’s sorcerer. Our enemy.”
“Cormac didn’t take them,” Sakir countered. “They went with him. There is a difference. And I would remind my king that at no time in our history has any Dagda offered Scythians true equal status on the same footing as any one of the tuaths. My folk are still seen as mercenaries, kept hidden away from civilized Tuatha Dé folk in our Vale. Hired swords and horseflesh at the beck and call of whoever rules over the Tuatha Dé. Ruad Rofhessa was no different. Can you blame them?”
“Yet your uncle was the one who could have stopped my father from taking the Throne of Destiny in the first place,” Neve snapped, the embers in her gaze flaring again. “Ronan and I have told you what we heard in the forest. Now that the Dagda is gone, Cormac seems to think if he helps Gofannon release the Scathach back into the world, he’ll somehow have a chance at winning Anann back to his side when this is all over and done! Explain that particular madness to me, if you can.”
The fight went out of Sakir. He just looked at Neve and said, “He loves her.”
Ronan looked away from the raw emotion in the young Horse Lord’s eyes, which he knew had nothing to do with Cormac and Anann. A weighty silence settled on the hall.
“That’s not love, my dear friend,” Neve said softly. “That’s selfishness.”
“The curse of the Scythians, it seems, where Tuatha Dé women are involved.”
All the fight went out of Neve then, too. She folded down onto the steps below the throne and ran a hand through her tangled hair.
“I need you, Sakir,” she said. “And that, too, is a kind of selfishness. But I will lose this coming battle without you.” She looked over at Ronan. “Both of you. And I cannot lose.”
“No,” Sakir said. “You cannot. The Scathach, at least, could flee from her first kingdom in the east. There’s nothing west of Eire but the edge of the world. You will have to do better.”
“Half the horse folk left with Cormac,” Neve said, chastened by her Horse Lord’s rebuke. “Will the ones who remain follow me?”
He was silent for a long moment, contemplating her words, which had come in the form of a question, not a command. Then he shrugged and said, “You set your chariot and horses aflame at your kingmaking.”
Neve’s mouth twitched in the shadow of a grin. “Too much?”
“If you hadn’t done that, you might have lost more of us,” Sakir said wryly. “But all the young warriors saw a promise of glory in those flames. Most of them have yet to even see a cattle raid, but they all want the chance to ride their own comets into the songs.”
