Queen Among the Dead, page 4
The wolf locked eyes with him and its lips curled back from long white teeth, quivering as it snarled, a low rumbling growl building in the creature’s chest. Neve could feel the echoing vibrations deep inside her own ribcage.
She heard Ronan suck in a breath. “Neve …”
“It’s all right.” She put up a hand, gesturing for him to stay where he was. “I’m all right …”
Neve could see the fur on the wolf’s neck rising as its head lowered and ears flattened back against its skull. Tail twitching, it looked as though it was about to leap back into the river. The water-wight might have survived the encounter, Neve thought—she couldn’t be certain one way or the other—but it was doubtful Ronan would.
“Ronan’s … a friend,” Neve said in a low voice. “My friend.”
The wolf’s eyes shifted to Neve’s face and Neve swore if the creature could have spoken in that moment, it would have asked, “Are you sure of that?”
Neve swallowed her own flutter of uncertainty and nodded slowly, keeping her eyes locked on those of the wolf. All around her it seemed as if the world grew quiet and held its breath. The breeze off the river died and the birdsong in the trees fell silent. Even the river seemed to mute the murmur of its music. Without looking at him, she knew that Ronan had gone stone-still in the water. The wolf’s nostrils flared as if trying to scent danger. The growl rumbled louder in its chest … and then subsided.
The wolf looked out at Ronan and opened its mouth in a wide yawn that served to emphasize the sharpness and strength of teeth and jaws. Then it uttered a low howl that sounded distinctly like a warning and turned to vanish into the trees. The tension flowed from Neve’s limbs and left her wobbly with relief.
“It’s all right,” Neve called out to Ronan. “We’re safe now. Khenti-Amentiu—”
“It was no wolf god that saved us,” Ronan snapped. “It was luck. Luck and a plain old wolf defending its territory. The hills around Blackwater are littered with their dens. We’re just fortunate that beast decided it wasn’t hungry enough to feast on a pair of soggy humans.”
Neve ignored him, her eyes fixed on the place where the wolf had disappeared beneath the trees. She could hardly expect a Fir Bolg peasant to understand a visitation from the divine. She barely understood it herself. After a long moment had passed and the wolf didn’t reappear, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that Ronan was still out in the middle of the stream.
“It’s gone,” she said, waving him toward shore.
“I know …” He stayed where he was, unmoving.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” She started to wade back into the river. “Do you need help?”
“No!”
“Ronan—”
“My kilt.” He let out an exasperated sigh.
“What about it?”
“I’ve lost my kilt. And my belt. With my money.” He sank farther down, until he was chest deep in the water. “And my dagger. And here I thought this day was going so well. Of course, that was before you turned up.”
The otherworldliness of the encounter vanished like mist on a breeze and Neve burst out laughing. The more dour Ronan’s expression, the harder she laughed, until she was gasping for breath and her sides hurt.
“I’m glad I’m able to entertain you, Princess. I really am.” Ronan glared at her. “But, under the circumstances, I’m feeling a bit vulnerable this close to the Blackwater, so perhaps you could, uh … help. Somehow …”
Neve fought back her laughter as she glanced around for a nice big lily pad or the like with which to preserve Ronan’s modesty. She spotted a length of sodden cloth twisting in an eddy at the water’s edge—the wayward kilt—and ran, splashing through the shallows, to retrieve it. Still giggling, she hooked the thing with a fallen branch and waded back, holding it out to Ronan, who snatched it from twiggy fingers.
“I can’t do anything about the money,” Neve said, directing her gaze skyward while he salvaged what was left of his dignity. “But you can have my belt and dagger.”
“No. Thank you. I don’t need any more of your help,” he muttered.
“Take it.” She waded toward him, unfastening her belt with the sheathed dagger hanging from it. “It’s an old hand-me-down anyway. I can always get another, but it’s hard to cut a purse without a blade.”
Ronan stood and reluctantly reached out to take the belt and blade. Suddenly realizing his tunic had been reduced to rags, he stripped it off and threw it into the middle of the river with disgust. As he slung her leather belt around his waist and adjusted the hang of the dagger on his hip, Neve couldn’t help but notice that, for all his shirt had been torn to shreds, there wasn’t a scratch on Ronan’s torso …
“What?”
Her attention snapped back up to his face at the question. “Hm?”
“You were staring. Is there a leech on me?”
“Oh. Oh! No …” She turned away, realizing that she had indeed been staring. “I just … I should go. Someone might start looking for me.”
That was unlikely, she knew. Still, she didn’t want to push her luck.
Neve was fairly certain Fintan hadn’t had the chance to recognize her, because the óglach commander never would have dared to set cursefired harrow hounds on the daughter of the Dagda—even the wayward one. But she feared she’d been a fool to tell the thief her real name. What if she couldn’t trust him? What if he turned loose-lipped over drink, or with friends? A single breath of gossip, she knew, could grow wide wings, and her father had threatened on more than one occasion to lock her up in the women’s wing of the palace if she didn’t start behaving like a good little second-born princess—which meant biddable, demure, marriageable, destined to be shipped off one day to seal an alliance with some petty Cymric warlord or other.
Either fate would be infinitely worse than a whole sea full of water-wights, as far as she was concerned. The boredom alone would kill her in a handful of days. Today … had not been boring. She didn’t know exactly what it had been.
“Well, then.” Ronan nodded. “Princess. I’d say we should do this again sometime, but I really don’t think we should. And as long as we keep each other’s secrets, let’s hope we never have to.”
As he turned away, Neve felt a brief, startling sensation—as if a thread stretched tight between them had suddenly snapped—leaving her stung, unbalanced. She hesitated as Ronan settled himself on the bank and pushed his hair from his face, squeezing the water out so it ran in rivulets down his back. The places on his arm and hand where the glimmering lines had appeared beneath his skin were normal now. Unmarked. Unscathed …
Druid tricks, she thought, frowning.
That’s all it had been.
She glanced back to the riverbank, a sliver of doubt now lodging in her mind about the wolf. Had that been an illusion, too? For all she knew, Ronan had simply been trying to lull her into his confidence once he’d figured out who she was, maybe capture her and hold her for ransom, but the spell-harrows had sniffed out his cheap conjuration and spoiled the attempt, and now he’d soured on the idea. Deemed her more trouble than she was worth …
Neve knew that her imagination was running wild. Ronan was a thief, yes. But a harmless one. Nothing else. One that was now pointedly ignoring her.
She shrugged and—wishing she hadn’t been quite so hasty with her generosity in handing over her belt—gathered the hem of her tunic up with one hand and clambered awkwardly up the bank. She stood there for a moment more, wanting to say … something. Thank him, maybe, for saving her life again. Except that was ridiculous. Neve was a princess and she’d just saved his life, too. So, really, they were even. Again. And maybe he was right. Maybe the scales between them, such as they were, had finally balanced after almost seven years. Perhaps they should just count themselves fortunate if they managed to never darken each other’s pathways again.
“So be it,” Neve whispered.
She turned her back on Ronan, too, then, even as she felt an unaccustomed sting of regret and pushed her way through the scrub growth in the place the wolf had disappeared. Her sandals squished as she walked and her damp breeches chafed uncomfortably, but soon enough Neve was able to pick up a game path threading through the woods that led, eventually, back home to the palace.
IV
IN NEED OF a crossing?”
Ronan’s head snapped up at the sound of a voice calling out to him from the middle of the river. He turned to see a little wooden fishing skiff with painted bright-yellow eyes on the bow bobbing on the surface of the lapping waves. Its lone occupant peered at him from beneath the wide brim of a woven wicker hat.
“Sorry?” Ronan asked, wondering how long the man had been there, floating on the river. And how much he’d seen …
“To the other side.”
“Other side of …”
“Back to Blackwater Town, if that’s where you’re going. I can see you’ve already tried swimming.” The man grinned and his face folded into weatherworn creases. “Looks like it worked out a bit better for you’n most folk. By which I mean, you’re still in one whole piece. This close to the Blackwater, that’s a rare thing. You find your way into the water ’round here, you don’t usually find your way back out again.”
Frowning, Ronan looked back at the murky river mouth.
“Ride’s free,” the old man continued, “if you work the oars. You’ve strong wrists from the look of you.”
Ronan glanced down, relieved to see that the spell marks had fully faded from beneath his skin. The feeling of them was gone too, even though he could still feel the tingling heat of Neve’s fingertips where she’d traced the lines … He glanced back over his shoulder, half hoping—and half dreading—that he’d see the princess standing there still. After so many years of looking to find her again, had he really just let her walk away?
No, a voice in his head answered. You pushed her away. For good or ill.
The boat drew closer and Ronan rose to his feet, wading carefully out into the shallows to climb aboard. He took up the oars and pushed off, guiding the little craft back into deeper water.
“Heard the óglach dogs earlier,” the old man said. “That you they were hunting?”
Ronan kept his gaze fixed over his shoulder, in the direction he was rowing. “Why would you think that?” he asked.
“Well, like I said”—the old man chuckled—“only thing that goes into the river that comes back out again still breathing is something the river respects. Or recognizes as one of its own, at least.”
Ronan’s head snapped around. What was that supposed to mean?
But the fisherman wasn’t looking at him. He was staring over the side of the boat, at the water that reflected his wrinkled visage back up to him. “Did you know that the Blackwater used to have a name?” he said. “A proper one, I mean. In the days before the Tuatha Dé came to the shores of this fair isle.”
Ronan shook his head and turned back to his rowing. “What was it called?”
“I don’t know. No one does. It’s a lost thing.” Again the chuckle. “Lot of lost things, these days. Like poor lost lads on lonely riverbanks.”
The water turned dark and soupy beneath the bow of the skiff and they entered the Blackwater tributary. Ronan decided to shift the topic away from himself. “Do you have a name?”
A pause. “Call me Swift.”
“Is that your name?”
“As good enough as.” Swift shrugged. “Swift of Baile Sláine, if you need specifics. Fisherman, healer and dealer in fortunes, yours to command. River used to run clear as a maiden’s tears, too. Now it’s as full of darkness as Donn the death god’s charnel house. Good fish, though. Brown trout. Tasty. That’s if you can catch ’em before the wee beasties do.”
The old man spat over the side of the skiff. Where the gob of spittle punched into the murky water, it began to foam and bubble. He picked up a short, stout club from the bottom of the little boat and smacked the surface a few times, barking a string of cheerful obscenities.
“We have an understanding,” Swift explained. “I don’t get out of the boat, and they don’t eat me.”
“That’s not really …” The water abruptly stopped churning and Ronan shrugged. “I mean, fair enough. Seems to have worked out for you so far.”
“So far. How’s your bargain working out for you?”
Ronan blinked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Swift tilted his hat up and peered at Ronan, as if he was trying to see clearly something in Ronan’s face that he’d only half glimpsed. “Who’s your mother, boy?”
“Dead and buried,” Ronan said, his voice flat and cold.
“Didn’t ask where.” The fisherman snorted. “Asked who. Never mind. Your da?”
The current began nudging them back downstream again, but Ronan’s hands went still, clenched tight on the oars. He felt the blood rushing in his ears as a wave of memory rose up from somewhere deep inside of him.
“I don’t have one.”
“Ah.” Swift’s eyes narrowed at Ronan. “Orphan then. Raised by the Druids, maybe?” It wasn’t a great leap in reasoning to think so. A fair few orphans his age—left in the wake of a wave of particularly devastating coastal village raids—had been taken in by the Order as babies, to apprentice or serve.
“For a while.” Ronan shrugged, taking up the oars again. The sooner he could reach the docks and leave the old man to his boat, the better. “Until I didn’t need them anymore.”
“Kicked you out, did they?”
Ronan grunted in annoyance. “Why does everyone think that?”
Swift grinned. “What did you do?”
“I wanted to learn things.” Ronan heaved a frustrated sigh, remembering the soul-deep longing that had kept him in the Order far longer than it should have. “Magic. Real magic. Not just Fir Bolg peasant spells and cattle curses. The Druids wouldn’t teach—”
“Bah.” Swift slapped a gnarled hand on the boat bench, his mouth twisting in disgust. “Druids. Frauds and swindlers, more like. Think they’re all so clever … You don’t learn magic so much as find it, boy.” He waved at the trees and hills and river. “Or it finds you. This land is a land made of magic—wild magic, the kind you don’t need spells and tokens for—and it is the birthplace of gods and monsters. Before the Tuatha Dé, before even the Fir Bolg settled here—”
“I don’t believe in gods,” Ronan snapped. “Ours or theirs.”
“Ah.” The fisherman nodded. “How then of monsters? D’you believe in those?”
Monsters? Yes. Ronan believed in those. The Dagda and his Tuatha Dé were as monstrous as they came, as far as he was concerned. But he also knew that wasn’t what the old man was referring to. Swift was talking about the Fomori.
That, at least, the Druids had taught him. He’d learned that when the Tuatha Dé first came to the land of Eire, it was rife with the wild dangerous magic Swift spoke of, bound by darkling mist and shadows and overrun by the Fomori, a race of shapeshifters. Back then, Eire was only inhabited by a few scattered tribes—collectively called the Fir Bolg—who lived in both reverence and fear of the Fomori.
The Tuatha Dé had made an end of that. On the point of many swords. They’d been led in those long-ago days not by a Dagda—a “good god,” as it were—but by a mad and mighty queen. Her folk had called her the Scathach, because she rode a horse and drove a chariot like one of her Scythian Horse Lords. The Fir Bolg peasants called her Scota and spat on the ground. Her real name was Neith, and in the years since she’d led her invasion force to those shores, the Tuatha Dé had transformed the land. Built a civilization of enlightenment, raised palaces and reaped plentiful harvests from fields that had never before been sown. But they’d had to conquer first, and that meant the death or banishment of every last one of the Fomori—along with those of the Fir Bolg who refused to bend beneath the Tuatha Dé yoke. The specter of those first bloody years had haunted the kingdom of Eire ever since.
That part of history Ronan hadn’t had to learn from the Druids. He’d learned it when he was only a few days old. From marauders who called themselves the Fir Domnann—a splinter tribe, descendants of Fir Bolg who’d been driven to flee across the narrow Eirish Sea, and who had been trying to cross back over to reclaim Eire ever since. Instead of calling themselves Fir Bolg—folk of the land—they called themselves Fir Domnann—folk of the sea—to show their disdain for their fellows who’d stayed in Eire and made the best of it. To the Fir Domnann raiders, any Fir Bolg in Eire who managed to live peacefully under the yoke of the hated Tuatha Dé deserved to burn.
They had turned Ronan’s tiny village into a pile of smoldering ash.
And the Dagda and his war chiefs had let them torch too many settlements before finally rousing themselves out of their gorgeous palaces to fight back. Seething with the dull familiar ache of his life-long hatred, Ronan wondered if the Tuatha Dé would ever be called on to pay the full price for their ancient transgressions. Only a day earlier, he would have cheered such a thing on.
Now? Now … he had other concerns. Complications.
One complication, really.
He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured Neve’s face. Pictured the way her eyes—those remarkable golden eyes—had glittered with defiance in the moment before she’d leaped to her feet and shoved the óglach out of the way. So that he could escape. Almost as if she cared about what happened to him.
And that wasn’t something Ronan was accustomed to.
Especially not from someone like Neve. Princess Neve.
“Well, believe in monsters or no,” Swift’s voice jolted Ronan back to the present, “it’s shallow enough here that the beasts won’t drag you out and drown you. Probably …”
