The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Susan Krinard The Morrígan’s Daughter

Ancient Ireland

According to the Leabhar Gabhála Éireann — The Book of Conquests — Éire has had many rulers. The first were the Fomóiri, cruel brutes and savages who knew nothing of plough and oxen and metal. Then came the Partholónians, descendants of Noah, who fought the Fomóiri and won, only to be wiped out by a terrible plague and buried on the Plain of Elta. The third race who sought to rule Éire were the people of Nemed, kin to the Partholónians. Nemed, like his forerunners, defeated the Fomóiri, but in the end the Nemedians were destroyed in a mighty flood. The fourth race were the Fir Bolg, who held Ireland for thirty-seven years before the coming of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

But when the People of the Goddess Danu came from the north with their arts of magic and won the right to rule Éire in the First Battle of Maige Tuired, they would have no peace. When their king, Nuada, was forced to give up his crown, the half-Fomórian Bres held the people under his tyrannical rule for seven long years. Only when Nuada was restored to his throne was Bres compelled to flee, and urged the evil chief Balor to raise an army against the Tuatha Dé Danann. So came the Second Battle of Maige Tuired, won by the People only when Lugh Lámhfhada put out Balor’s evil eye and turned the tide.

Many are the tales of bravery and loyalty and betrayal during that great battle and what came after. Many are the heroes who fought and died for freedom. But there is one story that has never been told.

Séanat pushed aside the low-hanging branches and entered the clearing. The Fomóir she had been pursuing was nowhere in sight. He, like the other survivors of his evil race, had fled the battle in terror and humiliation, defeated at last and for all time.

At first the Fomóiri had fought bravely, in their way, until they had brought their chief Balor with his evil eye to strike down the King Nuada. Then the Morrígan had lent her powers to that of Lugh, Nuada’s champion, who put out Balor’s eye. The battle had broken.

But the stragglers remained, and it was the duty and pleasure of every warrior of the Tuatha Dé Danann to pursue and destroy them. Every warrior including the Daughters of the Morrígan, whose ferocity matched that of any man among the followers of Lugh of the Long Arm.

Lifting her bloodied sword, Séanat took a cautious step. A great oak spread its arms over the clearing like a Druid giving his blessing to those who would fight and die. There was a peace here, and Séanat felt the killing lust drain from her body.

Surely no Fomóir could have remained in such a place for long. This place belonged to the People of Danu, to the magic that had made the land strong.

The weight of Séanat’s armour began to sit heavily upon her, and she looked again at the oak with its broad tangle of roots and the thick cushion of last year’s fallen leaves that made a bed for anyone who should wish for rest.

You must not, she told herself. It was not her privilege to rest when any Fomóir roamed free upon this island. Let them be driven into the sea from whence they had come long ages past. Let Lir swallow them and never give them up again.

But it was difficult now to feel the rage that had carried her through the battle and made her forget the wounds on her legs and the dirt on her face. The oak stirred in a gentle wind, brown and yellow leaves sighing as they floated gently to the earth.

Only a little while. Just long enough to regain her strength and her resolve. The enemy she pursued might get away, but it would only be for a little while. She would find him, or another like him, and go on until nightfall called an end to the hunt.

Wearily she made her way to the oak, touched its rough bark with a chant of thanks, and laid herself down. The cushion of leaves accepted her like the arms of the lover she had never had. The root that served as her pillow seemed to soften under her head. Even her armour lost its hardness. She laid down her sword with a sigh, and the sound let loose a fresh fall of leaves that settled over her in a blanket of warmth and contentment.

She didn’t know how long she slept. It might have been the faint crack of a twig, or no more than the rustle of a single leaf that woke her. But Séanat opened her eyes, and there was a man in the clearing, no more than a dozen steps away.

Her sword was already in her hand as she leaped up, prepared to slash and stab. The man didn’t move. He stood completely still, his own sword pointed towards the earth, dressed in the armour of the Fomóiri.

But his face was not hideous or twisted with evil, nor was his body misshapen. He was broad of shoulder and comely like the disgraced King Bres, who carried the blood of both the Fomóiri and the Tuatha Dé Danann in his veins. Like Lugh, born of Ethlinn, Balor’s daughter. His hair was like smoke to Séanat’s flame.

Still he was of the enemy. Séanat lunged towards him, her sword reaching his throat before he could raise his own.

«Prepare to die, Fomóir,» she cried.

His eyes, blue as the sea, met hers. «Kill me, then,» he said, his accent so light that she might never have noticed it had he worn the armour of the People.

Her hand twitched, and her sword drew a thin line of blood from his neck. «Do you seek death?»

He smiled with a great sadness that tore at her heart. «I do, for I have no people and no place.» He lifted his chin. «Finish it, warrior.»

If it had not been for the old oak and the magic of its peace, she might have severed his head then and there. But her fingers trembled and the sword went slack in her hand.

«Who are you?» she demanded.

«I am called Aodhan,» he said in his soft, low voice. «I fought with the Fomóiri.»

«You are no Fomóir!»

«Am I not?» He gestured at his armour with its sigils of writhing wyrms and ravening wolves. «Will it help if I fight you now, woman of the Tuatha Dé?»

She backed away. «I will fight you, and win!»

He shook his head, stirring the black forelock that curled over his brow. «You will win,» he said. He dropped his sword and spread his arms. «Come.»

Séanat’s heart danced a wild jig in her chest. «Coward,» she hissed.

«Yes,» he said.

Moving clumsily as a newborn calf, she stumbled backwards until she came up against the oak’s massive trunk. Light filtered through the branches to lie across Aodhan’s head and shoulders like a crown of fire.

«I am a traitor,» he said, «a traitor to both my peoples.»

«Both?» Oh, she had known it, known from the beginning.

«You asked who I am,» he said. «But that I do not know. I was raised by Fomóiri to be Fomóir. But my heart has told me»— He shook his head again. «It matters not. I fought beside those who gave me food and shelter and cared for me in times of illness. I would die with them.»

Oh, how simple it would be to give him his wish rather than pay heed to the pity that weakened her. Bes had been half-Tuatha Dé, though in the end he had chosen his Fomóir father’s people. Lugh had chosen the opposite. This warrior, like them, was half light and half darkness.

But he had made his choice.

Séanat raised her sword again. Aodhan closed his eyes.

She dropped the sword with a wretched cry. She could not do it. He was unarmed, a pig for the slaughter. She was a warrior, not an executioner.

And he was comely. So very comely. The light was there, shining in his eyes, almost eclipsed by the shadow of his pain and sorrow.

When he moved, she had no time to think how easily she had been tricked. In an instant he had her sword in his hand. The blade glittered in the waning light.

She laughed inwardly. She’d been a fool. And soon she would be a dead fool.

Séanat stood very straight, raised her head, and lifted her arms. Morrígan, Great Queen, be with me. Let me die with honour.

The blow never came. She heard a grunt of pain, and the sound of a body falling to the ground. Aodhan lay curled like a newborn babe around the hilt of the sword he had plunged deep into his chest.

Séanat dropped to her knees beside him. His blood was already soaking into the soil, painting the brown leaves with crimson. She didn’t dare pull the sword free, for that would surely end his life. He must die slowly, his life leaking away, with only an enemy to witness his passing.

There were songs for the dying — taught, it was said, to the People by the Goddess Danu herself before the coming to Inis Fáil. Never had such a song been sung by one of the Tuatha Dé for a Fomóir. But Séanat laid her hands upon Aodhan’s shoulders and began the lament, her voice rising and curling among the heavy branches above her head. One tear came, and then another — no shame, for the emotions of the Tuatha Dé ran high, in battle and in sorrow.

«Why do you weep, child?»

Séanat opened her eyes. The scent of flowers filled her nostrils, and the oak’s leaves murmured as the great tree bowed to the one who had come.

«My lady,» Séanat whispered. Bluebells and primroses had sprung up where the lady trod, covering her bare feet and clinging to her robes like the finest embroidery. No shadow fell over Séanat as Brighid came to stand beside her.

«He is dying, lady,» Séanat said. «Though I know not why I should mourn.»

Brighid sighed, and a dozen tiny birds settled on her shoulders. «I have mourned,» she said. «Mourned because there is no peace, and my son is dead.»

Sickened by her stupid mistake, Séanat bowed, her braided locks brushing Brighid’s feet. She knew the great loss the lady had suffered in this battle, the sacrifices she had made in the name of peace. She had married Bres when he had become King of the Tuatha Dé, hoping that the union would bring the two warring peoples together at last.

But Bres had enslaved his subjects, making a mockery of Brighid’s hopes. He was deposed and sent into exile. Their son, Ruadán, had become a spy for the Fomóiri and had met his death in the camp of the Tuatha Dé. Brighid’s keening had been heard the length and breadth of Inis Fáil.

«Forgive me, lady,» Séanat said.

Brighid’s tears fell on a scattering of acorns, and new trees sprang from their hearts. «My son was misled,» she said. «He was destroyed by his father’s lust for power. But he was not evil.» She knelt, laying her hand on Aodhan’s arm. «This one, too, was misled.»

Séanat’s breast swelled with hope. «Is he Tuatha Dé, lady?»

The lady gave no answer. She bent her head over Aodhan as the last breaths shuddered out of his mouth. «Do you wish him healed, a nighean ruadh?»

Yes. Oh, yes. «He is the enemy.»

«Is he?» Brighid stroked Aodhan’s damp hair. «I see only a boy driven to his death.» She touched Séanat’s hand. «It is your choice, warrior. But know that if you choose yes, you are bound to him forever.»

Forever. The Tuatha Dé lived long. Séanat had always known she might die in battle, but such battles must be fewer now. She might live many years yet to come.

«I accept,» she breathed. «Let him be healed, lady.»

One touch was all it took. One touch of the lady’s fingertips upon the torn flesh under the armour and cloth beneath. One moment, and the sword slipped from Aodhan’s chest. A spurt of blood followed, stanched with another touch of Brighid’s white finger. Aodhan groaned, and his muscles went slack.

But he was not dead. He was sleeping, the rest of one who has fought every battle and staggers back to the ráth to lick his wounds. In his face was an innocence Séanat had almost forgotten.

«You must stay with him,» Brighid said, rising. «He will have no defence until he wakes.» She brushed Séanat’s forehead with the back of her slender hand. «Remember, he is yours now. All that he is will be within your keeping.»

She turned and walked away, her white form dissolving into the gloom of dusk. Séanat stared after her until there was no more light to see. She removed her cloak and gently spread it over Aodhan. The night would be cold; Samhain was done, and the season was turning. Wolves crept in these woods, silent and yellow-eyed, creatures of Badb and her grim sisters.

I have betrayed my queen, Séanat thought, shivering as she drew her knees tight to her chest. The Morrígan would never forgive her for such mercy shown an enemy. Had not the Morrígan summoned all the Druids and magicians to defeat the Fomóiri? Had she not foreseen victory? Had she not predicted the very end of the world?

The other Daughters would not understand. But Séanat had made her choice. She must return to the royal camp and tell Lugh what she had done. If he sent her into exile.

It was a warrior’s place to accept her fate.

Her skin puckered as the warmth left the earth. Brighid’s flowers withered, and the birds scattered for shelter. Séanat lay down beside Aodhan and pulled the cloak over her shoulder so that it covered them both. His breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck.

«All that he is will be within your keeping.»

The Dagda grant he was worth it.

Aodhan woke with a start. The air was crisp on his face, but his body was as hot as the fire that shaped the sword.

She lay beside him, the warrior with her mane of red hair and dimpled chin and wide, wild eyes. She had curled into him, her hands tucked under her breasts, her legs drawn up as if she meant to keep one last barrier between them. A barrier besides the sword that rested in the narrow space between his body and hers.

Releasing his breath, Aodhan touched her hair. He had seen such hair many times before among the Tuatha Dé. But hers was brighter, shot with gold, spitting sparks when he touched it.

He didn’t even know her name.

Not even when he felt his chest to find unscarred flesh did she wake. Only when he began to rise did she come to wakefulness and spring to her feet.

Aodhan raised his hands to show them empty. «Lady,» he said softly, «how is it that I am still alive?»

The tension left her body. She bent to pick up her sword and flung it into the brambles. «No thanks to yourself.» She brushed the leaves from her breeches and ran her fingers through her hair to untangle the strands that had come loose from their braids. «You won’t be trying that again.»

Struck by sudden weakness, Aodhan sat on the hump of the mighty oak’s root. «I remember nothing,» he said, «after the blade touched my heart.»

«’Tis no surprise,» she said. Her brow furrowed. «Are you well?»

He didn’t laugh, though the temptation was great. «You have taken my honour from me.»

Hands on hips, the warrior looked him over with disgust. «Your honour? You said yourself you had none to lose.»

And he did not. Unless he could win it back again. Perhaps now that was possible. «How did you heal me?» he asked.

«’Twas not myself who did it.» She walked towards the oak, keeping her distance from him, and sat on another root. «’Twas the Lady Brighid herself.»

Aodhan started. It was not that Brighid, royal daughter of the Dagda, wise woman and healer, could not work such magic. It was that she chose to do so. She was of the Tuatha Dé.

Yet she had lost a son at the hand of one of her own people, a half-Fomóir son whose loyalty had lain with his father. In his despair, Aodhan had confessed to the girl that he had questioned his own blood and heritage. And so he had, more than ever during the battle, even to questioning his own loyalty.

That had shamed him beyond bearing. He had wished for the warrior to end his shame. But she had spared him, and Brighid had brought him back to life.

«Did you ask for the lady’s help?» he asked the girl.

She jerked up her chin. «Why should I?»

Aodhan got up, testing his strength, and crossed the space between them in three steps.

This time she did not rise to face him but remained where she was, her back against the rough trunk, and looked up at him with all the pride and defiance of a captive warrior.

To whom was she captive? Not to him, who owed her and her lady his life.

To something else, then. Something that lay within her heart. Something he might use if he chose.

Aodhan knelt before her. «I cannot thank you,» he said, «but it is a debt I must repay. What would you have of me?»

Her eyes, as green as the forest in spring, met his. Fear was what he saw in them. not the fear of battle or death, but of something far more deadly.

«You must do as I say,» she said. «You must make no further attempt to take your own life.» She swallowed. «And you must give yourself into my keeping.»

Even though he had begun to guess at what lay behind her fear, her words struck him like the magical spear that had slain Ruadán in the camp of the Tuatha Dé. He knew now that the girl had paid a price for his healing, and she loathed that price even as she accepted it.

«Why?» he asked.

She looked away. She knew the answer but would never speak it. He was still her enemy. She could not trust him, though she was bound to hold his welfare even above her own. Bound to keep and protect him, even from himself.

«What is the name of the one I must obey?» he asked.

Her voice was so low that he could barely hear. «I am Séanat,» she said.

«‘Eagle’,» he said. «And so you are, lady.»

Séanat laughed and shook her head. «Eaglet, more like,» she said, «fallen to earth before it learns to fly.»

Slowly Aodhan reached out to touch her hair. She flinched. He gentled her as he would gentle a fine steed, stroking the heavy tresses as a butterfly strokes the blossom.

«You are brave,» he said, «and fair. Too good for the likes of myself. But I will follow you, lady, and do your will.»

Séanat trembled. Her breath came fast. Aodhan felt the first flush of desire, for she was no warrior now, but a woman, yearning for that she did not want to accept.

Had it not been for the whisper of the trees and the lingering scent of flowers, they might have stood apart again. But the memory of death was too near, and life would have its due. Aodhan cupped her face in his hands, wiping away a crust of dirt from her cheek with his thumb. He drew her towards him, and when his lips touched hers they opened and drew him in.

Séanat was as fierce in love as she was in battle. She would not give way even when he pulled her to her knees and embraced her with all his body, chest and hip and thigh. It was she who bore him down to the earth, she who straddled him and unlaced the hardened leather of his cuirass, casting it aside. Only when she sought to remove his tunic was she forced to let him join in, and then it was an easy thing to strip her of her armour and shirt and breeches until he and Séanat lay naked together.

Her body was a glorious thing, lean and muscular yet blessed with the delight of sweetly curved breasts and thighs made to rock a man to blissful release. Her skin was scarred and yet as soft as lambskin where no blade had touched it, fair and freckled and exquisitely responsive to his caresses.

When he would have rolled her on to her back, she resisted with the growl of a she-wolf and mounted him. She hesitated, looked again into his eyes, and impaled herself on him, gasping in astonishment and pleasure.

Aodhan understood the gift she had given him. She had never taken a man into herself before, yet she kept nothing back, holding him and then releasing him again with a fervour that matched his own. He raised himself up to take her brown, peaked nipple into his mouth, and she flung back her head, her loosened hair cascading over her shoulders and sweeping the earth.

Glorious it was when she cried out, bucking as the pleasure took her and carried her into realms of light and joy. Aodhan followed before his heart could beat again, and for the first time since his earliest youth he knew how it felt to be whole.

He tried to keep Séanat with him after it was finished, but she was having none of it. She lifted herself and swung away without a lover’s endearment. She walked across the clearing, snatching up her forgotten cloak as she passed by.

Aodhan meant to stay where he was, as stubborn as she, unwilling to admit to more than a fleeting pleasure. He should be shamed by his need, as she was.

But he rose, shook the leaves from his body, and went after her. She stood facing the forest where it grew dark with secrets, where any man might hide forever.

«A chuisle,» he said.

She stiffened. «Don’t be calling me such things.»

«Would you have me curse you, a chroi?» He moved so near that he could feel the warmth of her skin. «What would you have me call you?»

«Nothing but my name.»

She shifted, and the cloak slid from her shoulders. He caught it and laid it over her, drawing it close around her neck. «Look at me, Séanat.»

«Leave me in peace!»

«How can I do such a thing when you have said I must give myself into your keeping?»

She turned about, despair in her eyes. «Dress yourself,» she said, «but leave your armour behind. We go to the High King.»

It was exactly what Aodhan had hoped. He nodded and returned to his discarded clothing, careful not to let Séanat see that he was pleased. not only to be alive, not only to have enjoyed her, but to know he would soon have his honour back again.

All the camp was rejoicing. Warriors sang of their exploits and drank sweet mead and ale until they staggered and fell into fits of laughter; women grinned as they filled bowls with great ladlefuls of stew; horses stomped and whinnied, pigs squealed and banners snapped in the sharp, bitter air.

Séanat would have given everything she had to join her sisters where they sat around a fire with the other warriors, singing songs of victory in high, sweet voices. The spears she carried over her shoulders, Goibhniu’s finest; the sword she had won with her own skill when she was barely more than a child; her armour and her finely wrought golden helm — all these, and more, she would have surrendered to change what had happened the night before.

But there was no going back. No undoing what had been done, no leaving Aodhan to his death.

The terrible thing was that she knew she could never have done aught but save him, not even had the Morrígan herself appeared to forbid it.

Forgive me.

«Where are we going?» Aodhan asked softly at her shoulder.

«Hold your tongue,» she whispered. «It is not for you to speak, but to be humble and silent.»

She thought she heard him laugh, but the sound was quickly gone. Here he was surrounded by those who would cheerfully have killed him had they met him on the battlefield or found him alone afterwards. There were doubtless many who would still be glad to spit him on the end of a sword. Ruadán’s betrayal had not been forgotten.

But they would not do so as long as she vouched for him and staked her honour upon his behaviour.

«Séanat!»

Niamh, her black hair flying loose behind her, ran up to Séanat with a cry of relief and joy. She embraced Séanat with her strong arms, kissed her cheeks and stood back, laughing.

«We thought you dead!» she said.

«You thought her dead, Niamh,» Ríona drawled, coming up behind her. «I always knew she would return.»

Niamh made a face and embraced Séanat again. «How many did you slay?» she asked breathlessly. «I killed ten, and I would have slain four more if only»—

«Don’t believe her,» Ríona said, crossing her arms across her chest. «She always»— She broke off, looking over Séanat’s shoulder. «What’s this?»

Both women stared at Aodhan. He bowed and stood quietly under their inspection.

«I am looking for the Ard Rí,» Séanat said quickly.

But Ríona was not to be distracted. «I do not know you, stranger,» she said to Aodhan. «From which fine do you come?»

«Do you forget the laws of hospitality?» Séanat snapped. «He is my guest.»

There was nothing Ríona could say to that. She frowned and pulled Niamh aside.

«Lugh is in his tent,» Ríona said.

«Very well,» Séanat said.

As she began to walk away, Aodhan at her heels, she heard Niamh’s whisper. «She is not herself. What can be wrong? Who is he?»

They can feel it, Séanat thought. They know he is not of the Tuatha Dé.

And indeed it seemed as if every man and woman they passed — cooks and smiths over their fires, warriors and pages, healers and poets — turned to look as she made her way to the great tent in the centre of the camp. Still, no one stopped her, nor spoke except to welcome her back. Perhaps it was only her imagination that their eyes followed her when she stopped before the warriors who guarded the new High King.

«Cathal,» she said, nodding to the larger man. «Fearghus. Will you ask the Ard Rí if Séanat of the Daughters of the Morrígan may speak with him?»

«Our king rests,» Cathal said. He looked at Aodhan. «Is this an urgent matter?»

Urgent? She might go to one of Lugh’s lieutenants and report what she had done. She might hope that Brighid would soon return from her mourning to speak for her. But it was Lugh to whom she must appeal, Lugh who had slain his own Fomóiri grandfather to save the Tuatha Dé.

«I ask to see him,» she said.

The warrior turned, drew back the tent’s flap and went inside. Séanat heard low voices, and then Cathal came out again.

«The Ard Rí will see you,» he said gruffly, with another long look at Aodhan.

Séanat unslung the spears from over her shoulder and removed her sword and dagger, leaving them with Fearghus as custom dictated. Cathal nodded, and Séanat lifted the flap.

Lugh sat on a stool padded thickly with sheepskin, deep in conversation with his uncle Goibhniu, the powerful smith of the Tuatha Dé. Both men looked up as Séanat and Aodhan entered.

«Séanat,» Lugh said. His golden ha ir was as bright as ever, his eyes as blue, but his forehead was streaked with blood and the cuirass he still wore was slashed and dented. «What do you ask of me?»

His weariness shamed her. «My lord,» she said, hesitating. «I ask a hearing.»

«For what purpose?» Goibhniu said. He looked, narrow-eyed, at Aodhan. «Who is this boy?»

«My lords,» Séanat said, «he is Aodhan. I have brought him under my protection.»

«Your protection?» Goibhniu said. «Why should he need»—

Lugh raised his hand, and the smith fell silent. There was a coldness in the High King’s face that chilled Séanat’s blood. «I see why,» he said. «Come forwards, Aodhan.»

Aodhan obeyed and bowed deeply. «My Lord King.»

«Your king is dead.»

Straightening, Aodhan met Lugh’s eyes without fear. «Many I knew are dead, or driven into the sea.»

«Fomóiri,» Goibhniu growled. He began to rise, but once again Lugh stopped him.

«Why is he here?» Lugh asked. «Why have you brought an enemy among us?»

Séanat would not tell him of Brighid’s challenge. She would not lay any responsibility upon the lady when it had been her choice and no one else’s.

«I came upon him in the forest,» she said. «He fought fairly and with honour. I spared him.»

«And brought him here?» Goibhniu demanded. «Have you so soon forgotten Ruadán?»

«I have not forgotten, my lord. But the Fomóiri are no longer a threat to us. They will not return. And Aodhan.» She took a deep breath. «It may be he is like the Ard Rí, as much of the Tuatha Dé as the Fomóiri.»

Lugh rose. «Is this your claim, Aodhan?» he asked.

«I do not know, my lord,» Aodhan said. «I was fostered to Fomóiri. I was raised as one, and fought for them. For this I make no apology.»

Goibhniu growled again. «You must not permit this serpent in our midst, nephew,» he said.

Séanat held her breath. Lugh was staring at her again, weighing, judging. She had offered her hospitality to Aodhan, which could not be withdrawn. He had three choices: to kill Aodhan, compelling her to defend him unto death, even against the whole of the Tuatha Dé; to exile them both; or to accept her word of honour that Aodhan would do no harm. She would not have blamed him if he had chosen the easiest way: exile.

But he sighed and shook his head. «I do not understand you, Séanat,» he said. «It is not like the Daughters to show mercy in battle. If you have lost your taste for fighting.»

«Never, my lord!»

He searched her face again. «If our enemies still had the means and will to fight, I would not be lenient. But my judgment is this: he is yours, and whatever he does is on your head. You will face his punishment should he flout our hospitality.»

It was the very best Séanat could have expected. She bowed low, avoiding Goibhniu’s piercing stare, and took Aodhan’s arm. He paused, gave a bow of his own, and followed her out of the tent.

«My thanks, Séanat,» he said.

She continued towards the Daughters’ tents without stopping. «You may not share our quarters,» she said. «My sisters will not accept you easily. You may sleep by the fire outside, with the hounds.»

«Am I your hound, Séanat? Am I permitted to go freely about the camp if I wear your collar?»

His quiet mockery stung worse than any wound. «I have no use for collars. Your honour binds you, as mine does myself. I will see that you have blankets and food and ale.»

«But not your company?»

She gritted her teeth and didn’t answer. She pointed out the fire to him, where a pair of Daughters, Brónach and Úna, were warming their hands and talking quietly.

«This is Aodhan,» she said without preamble. «He is my guest. I offer him the hospitality of our fire and a share of our food.»

The Daughters exchanged glances, but neither challenged her words. Séanat nodded to Aodhan, went on to the tent and gathered up her blankets. By the time she brought them back to the fireside, Aodhan was seated and the Daughters were walking away, casting sharp glances over their shoulders.

«It seems they care no more for my company than you,» he said.

Séanat grunted. «They spend little time with men.»

«Are you forbidden to take lovers then?»

Her skin grew hot. «Not forbidden. It is easier when.» Show no weakness. «You are not my lover, but my guest.»

«Will you tell them what you told the Ard Rí?»

Never had Séanat had cause to lie to her sisters. But she had lied to Lugh when she’d said Aodhan had fought with honour. He had not fought at all.

But to tell them that he was Fomóir, in every way that mattered.

«Let them think what they will,» she said harshly. «Stay here. I will bring meat.»

He stayed, and afterwards she spent a little time sitting and eating with him to show that he was, indeed, her guest and not to be troubled. She knew how easily rumours flew around any war camp, and she wanted his position secure before the questions came.

They came soon enough. Séanat had just sought her blankets in the tent she shared with Ríona, Niamh and Brónach when the three warriors burst in.

«It’s true, then?» Ríona demanded. «He’s Fomóir?»

Casting off the blankets, Séanat sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. «He is,» she said wearily.

«Here!» Brónach exclaimed. «In the very camp of the High King!»

Séanat got to her feet. She could tell them he was almost certainly half Tuatha Dé, but she was too angry.

«You speak of the Ard Rí,» she said. «I have seen him. He has granted me the life of this warrior, whatever he may be.»

Ríona glared, her arms tight across her chest. «You’ve gone mad, sister! Send him away! He will bring only sorrow!»

Brónach muttered agreement. Niamh moved her hands as if to soothe the anger that bubbled like a cauldron near overflowing.

«Séanat is no fool,» she said softly. «There must be good reason.»

«Is there?» Ríona asked. Her eyes narrowed. «You have a smell about you, sister. The smell of a lover.»

Niamh gasped. Brónach sneered.

«His lover, are you?» she said. «Can you stoop so low, Séanat? A Fomóir. .»

«Thus did Brighid take Bres the Beautiful, and Cian take Ethlinn,» Niamh said, «to bring peace»—

«Which never came!» Ríona said. «And there is no need for conciliation when the Fomóiri have been driven from Inis Fáil!»

«There is even more need,» Niamh said, «and our king has given his blessing.» She approached Séanat with a gentleness that Séanat could hardly bear. «You have your reasons, Séanat, even if only your heart knows them. I will stand beside you.»

A look of pain crossed Ríona’s face. Brónach continued to sneer. Séanat pushed past them, walked out of the tent and went straight to the fire.

Aodhan was sitting almost where she had left him, knees drawn up and hands dangling between them. He was so intent on the fire that he didn’t hear Séanat until she was almost on top of him.

«Get up,» she commanded.

He rose slowly, watching her face warily. Séanat heard the others come up behind her. She seized Aodhan by the shoulders and kissed him as hard as she could, feeling the shock of his surprise and then the eager response. She pushed him away and spun to face the others.

«Does that satisfy you, Ríona?» she asked. She stared at Brónach. «Now you truly have reason to despise me.»

Pale with anger, Brónach stalked away. Ríona lingered, glanced at Niamh, and followed with a heavy tread.

Aodhan stood unmoving, his body tense with anger. Niamh would not meet Séanat’s eyes.

«I will stand with you,» she said. «But it would be wise not to provoke»—

«I’ll provoke whom I choose,» Séanat snapped.

With a gentle shake of her head, Niamh went into the tent.

«Did you find that amusing?» Aodhan said behind her.

«I found it necessary.»

«To prove myself your property?»

«You are not my»— She broke off as Aodhan’s hands settled on her shoulders, stroked down, came to rest on her hips. She could feel the heat of him through her thin sleeping shift.

«Prove it,» he murmured. «Where can we go to be alone?»

Her belly ached with desire, but she knew better than to give in. «Go to sleep,» she said.

Aodhan didn’t sleep. He was angry and lustful and bewildered all at once, thinking of Séanat in the tent, of her breasts and thighs and firm lips and green eyes. He thought more than once about creeping into the tent, finding her sleeping place and lying down beside her. He could begin his lovemaking before she woke, and then there would be no protests. He would make her beg for his caresses.

But she wasn’t alone in the tent, and he had more important things to think on. He had come to Lugh’s camp for a reason, and his purpose had yet to be fulfilled.

You will betray her, he thought. He would destroy Séanat as surely as if he’d slashed her throat with the sharpest bronze, for she would lose her people and possibly her life. Exile was the best she could hope for.

That would be nothing to the loss of her honour.

Aodhan hardened his mind. He had set his course when he had survived the blade in his heart. No mercy, no pity. Just as they had shown no mercy to his people.

He waited until the most of the fires around the camp had burned down to coals and the Tuatha Dé had fallen into drunken, exhausted slumber. If there were sentries, he could see none. These fine folk were arrogant in victory, even with a Fomóir in their midst.

Still, he moved with great care, working his way little by little across the camp. Lugh’s tent rose up in the flare of guttering torches, but the warrior guards were slumped over their spears, snoring as loudly as the rest.

Silently, he entered the tent. Lugh of the Long Arm lay on his pallet, a cloak of woven gold and wolf’s fur draped over his body. Goibhniu rested on a similar pallet near the tent’s entrance. He mumbled and rolled over as Aodhan passed, oblivious to the danger.

Because Lugh had taken Séanat at her word.

Aodhan hesitated. Séanat’s kiss burned on his lips. He shook off the memory and crossed to the spears that rested on the wall.

Goibhniu’s spears: magical weapons forged by Inis Fáil’s greatest smith, one of which Lugh had used to slay Balor. One of which had slain Ruadán, son of Bres and Brighid, when he had come to the camp and tried to kill Goibhniu to save his father’s people from destruction.

Tears came to Aodhan’s eyes. Ruadán had had no choice. Nor did he. Aodhan grasped one of the spears, weighed its perfect balance in his hand. One blow would be enough. If he killed Goibhniu, his foster-brother would be avenged. But to slay Lugh, the greatest of the Tuatha Dé, the golden king.

He raised the spear over Lugh, took aim. And stopped. Sweat slicked his palm.

«I will follow you, lady, and do your will.» Those had been his words to Séanat before they had lain together, binding body to body and soul to soul.

The spear sank in his hand as if it were forged of the heaviest stone. He backed away from Lugh, from Goibhniu, and out of the tent.

The point of a sword pricked his back.

«Traitor,» Séanat snarled under her breath. «Faithless cur!»

Aodhan raised his hands. Once he had been prepared to let her take his life because he had failed to die with his people. He had failed them again.

He had failed her.

He dropped the spear. Séanat kicked it away. The blade rose to lie against his neck. In a moment his head would fly from his body, and at last the agony would end.

«Did you.» Séanat choked and caught her breath. «Did you kill them?»

All he need say was «aye». The lie would not come to his lips. «No,» he said.

«Why?» she asked. The blade nicked his skin, and he felt the blood flow «Why?»

He turned, careless of the pain. «Because of you, a chroi.»

She stepped back, her face turned away, and moaned. The sleeping guards sprang up, dazed and wild. Instantly they were on Aodhan.

«Stop!» Séanat cried. «He did nothing!»

Lugh emerged from the tent. «What goes on?» he demanded.

Goibhniu came out behind him. His eyes found Aodhan’s. «You!» He brought up the spear he clenched in one fist. «Filth of a Fomóir!»

Like a stoat upon a mouse, Séanat leaped at Aodhan and dragged him away, her arm around his chest.

«You will not touch him!» she growled. «I saw him come out of the tent with a spear in his hand. Had he wanted you dead, you would not be breathing now!» She turned to Lugh. «My lord, has he done you harm?»

The High King’s expression was grim. «None. But you were honour-bound to keep him, and you have failed.»

«She hasn’t failed,» Aodhan said. «It was because of her that I took no vengeance for the death of my kin and my foster-brother.»

Others had come to hear Aodhan’s words, and they murmured in consternation and anger. «What brother?» Ríona said, her sisters around her.

Aodhan met Goibhniu’s furious stare. «Ruadán,» he said, «son of Bres.»

The gathering crowd grew quiet. Séanat was as rigid as one of the great standing stones that rose on the banks of the River Bóinne.

«And this is what you brought to us!» Brónach said. «Another who spits on the hospitality of the Tuatha Dé! I say they both must die!»

A swell of argument rose up, shouts of agreement and mutterings of dismay.

Lugh raised his hand. «Aodhan has come armed and unasked into a place of peace. But I have suffered no injury, nor has my uncle.» At the sounds of protest he raised his hand again, and the light from his face silenced every voice with its glory. «In this,» he said, «I cannot judge, for all Tuatha Dé must be affected. Let every warrior and chieftain meet in council to decide the fate of this man and this woman.»

Séanat released Aodhan and bowed her head. «I surrender to the will of the People. I ask only one boon»—

A great, black host of crows appeared in the sky, deafening the camp with their guttural cries. Around and around they flew, descending like a whirlwind, spinning closer and closer to each other until they formed a single black shape that came to earth as lightly as foam on the shore.

«There will be no boon,» a harsh voice said. Long-nailed hands pushed the dark hood back from hair equally dark, and a woman’s face appeared, beautiful and cold and deadly.

«There will be no mercy for one who has betrayed her oath,» the Morrígan said. The crowd broke before her long stride, and the Daughters dropped to their knees. It was to Séanat she went, her cloak billowing and hissing around her.

Aodhan moved to stand between her and Séanat. «I know you, Raven of Battle,» he said. «If it is blood you want, take mine.»

The Morrígan laughed. «I will have yours, Fomóir. Never doubt it. But this woman has betrayed her oaths to me. No mercy on the field of battle. Death before surrender.» She swept up to Lugh. «Ard Rí, you have no authority over those sworn to me. You would not have won the battle without me, and now I demand payment. Give her up and let her face the price of her betrayal.»

Lugh’s gaze moved slowly to Séanat. «She has the right of it,» he said heavily. «When you gave your oath, you put your fate into the hands of your lady. I can do nothing.»

Aodhan started towards Lugh. Crossed spears snapped up in his path. He turned back to face the Morrígan and fell to his knees. «Her weakness is my doing,» he said. «Let her be exiled, Slayer of Kings, but spare her.»

«Let him be spared,» Séanat said, pushing Aodhan aside. «The fault is in me. The weakness was always mine.»

The Morrígan’s laughter flew skyward, and shrieking crows emerged whole from her black garments. «Is it true?» she asked. «Do you care for this creature, Séanat? Are you bitch to his cur?»

«I am nothing,» Séanat said. «Rend me with the beaks of your birds and the teeth of your wolves, but let him live.»

Still laughing, the Morrígan raised her arms. An invisible blow struck Séanat to her knees. Aodhan lunged towards her, but Lugh’s warriors held him back.

His gaze met Séanat’s, and all the fierce rage Aodhan felt, all the hatred for his enemies, dissolved into acceptance.

And something more. He broke free, knelt beside Séanat and took her in his arms.

«Know that I love you, Séanat,» he whispered. «When our blood mingles in death, there will be true peace at last.»

She looked into his eyes and smiled. «I am not afraid.»

«Not even of dishonour?»

Her fingers brushed his cheek. «No longer, a chuisle. You are my honour.» She pressed her lips to his. «I love»—

Strong arms jerked her to her feet and seized Aodhan. The Daughters dragged them after the Morrígan, Ríona’s face without expression, Niamh weeping.

«You shall end at the hands of your sisters,» the Morrígan said, «hacked to pieces and left for my crows. But first you shall watch your lover die.»

She nodded, and the Daughters hurled Aodhan to the ground. They stretched his arms and legs across the earth and crouched to bind him with their hands. The Morrígan’s cloak exploded into a flurry of wings and red eyes. The crows descended upon Aodhan, claws rending, beaks stabbing. Séanat cried out, fighting Ríona and Niamh like a madwoman.

Aodhan raised his bloody face and met her eyes. It was enough to dull the pain. It was almost as if the beaks and claws could no longer touch him.

«Enough.»

The new voice was as soft as the Morrígan’s was harsh. All Aodhan could see of the lady’s form was her feet, shod in cloth embroidered with leaping deer and forest flowers. All at once the crows scattered, circled, and dived again to be enfolded within the Morrígan’s cloak.

«Brighid,» the Morrígan said, anger and surprise mingled in the word. «This is none of your affair.»

«Is it not?» The lady knelt beside Aodhan and touched his blood-smeared hair. Warmth reached into him, soothing his hurts like a balm.

«What did you do to bring the people’s wrath upon your head?» she asked him.

«It was I who brought it,» Séanat said, wresting free of Niamh and Ríona. «I failed to keep him as I promised.»

The lady met Séanat’s gaze. «Do you regret your vow to me?»

«She had no right to make any vows!» the Morrígan hissed. «She was sworn to me!»

«You are wrong,» Brighid said. She swept her hand over Aodhan’s back, and all his wounds were healed. «There is a bond greater than that between warriors.»

Lugh came to stand over her. «Your interference is not welcome, Brighid,» he said.

«But it is necessary, Lugh mac Ethlinn. unless you would be a kin-slayer.»

No one spoke for a terrible moment. Séanat held her breath. The Morrígan’s cloak rustled and spat. Lugh’s frown was like an eclipse of the sun.

«Speak your meaning, lady,» he said.

Brighid rose and spread her arms to embrace the assembly. «All know the tale of Lugh Lámhfhada’s father, Cian, son of Dian Cécht, who sought Ethlinn, daughter of Balor, in the crystal tower on Oileán Thúr Rí. There he got three sons upon her. Two were said to be drowned by Balor in a whirlpool. Only Lugh survived.»

There were mutters of agreement. All knew the story of Lugh’s birth, his fosterage with Tailtiu, daughter of the chief of the Fir Bolg, and how he came to join the Tuatha Dé when he reached manhood and won his place among his father’s people.

«But there is one thing you have not heard,» Brighid said. «One other child of Ethlinn survived, to be fostered by Ochtriallach, son of Indech, king of the Fomóiri. His name was Aodhan.»

«Still more our enemy!» someone shouted.

Brighid’s beautiful face turned towards the voice. «His foster-brother and companion in battle was Ruadán, my son. His father was Cian.» She looked at Lugh. «He is your brother, Ard Rí.»

Séanat’s legs nearly gave out beneath her, and only Niamh and Ríona kept her on her feet. Goibhniu thrust the tip of his spear into the ground with such force that the earth shook with the blow. The Morrígan’s eyes burned with rage. Aodhan, coming to his knees, stared at Brighid in wonder.

Lugh’s face filled with sorrow. «Is it so?» he asked. He offered his hand to Aodhan. «If you are my brother, it is no fault of yours that you never knew your kin.»

«I knew them,» Aodhan said, rising without touching Lugh’s hand. «As you never knew your true mother, King of the Tuatha Dé. With the Fomóir, with my foster-brother, I would gladly have died.» He looked at Séanat and smiled, driving the last despair from her heart. «Because of her, I found cause to live.» He knelt again at Brighid’s feet. «I once promised to do Séanat’s will. I broke my oath. I will gladly pay my debt in any way you choose, but Séanat is blameless.»

Even from a distance Séanat could feel the power of Brighid’s healing love. «We are none of us without blame,» she said, «but there must come an end to feud and vengeance. In your blood, in Lugh’s, lies the hope of reconciliation.» She turned to Aodhan. «Your people are not gone so long as you live.» She held out her hand to Séanat. «Come, child.»

The Morrígan stepped between them. «You will regret your intrusion, Brighid. A time will come when such weakness will bring about the downfall of the Tuatha Dé. ‘Summer without blossoms, cattle without milk, every man a betrayer, every son a reaver.’»

Eyes met, bright and dark. «Nothing is forever,» Brighid said. «All things come to an end. all but one. As long as that one thing exists, there is hope.»

She stepped around the Morrígan, took Séanat’s hand, and offered the other to Aodhan. He rose, and Brighid placed his hand in Séanat’s. «As long as you live, may you be as one.»

With a screech of fury, the Morrígan spread her arms wide. Her body flew apart in an eruption of black feathers and rasping croaks as the crows burst forth and spun into the sky.

«Will the world end as she prophesied?» Aodhan asked.

«Not yet.» Brighid bowed to Lugh, smiled on the assembly, and walked away.

Séanat leaned her head against Aodhan’s. «Is it over?» she whispered.

«Embrace me, brother,» Lugh said, coming to join them. «Let the bloodshed end here. Let there be peace.»

And so there was. In time, Séanat gave birth to a girl-child, whom she and Aodhan named Brighid in honour of the lady who had saved them. The Tuatha Dé Dunaan ruled Éire for many years more, until the coming of the Milesians with their iron weapons and new kind of magic.

But that is another story.