Deception's Pawn (Princesses of Myth) (4 page)

“Give me your bowl,” I offered, hoping to help her. “It’ll be easier if you’ve got your hands free.”

Dairine cut in before Gormlaith could reply: “Don’t do that, Maeve! The last person who tried taking
her
food lost three fingers.” She snapped her teeth together for emphasis and tittered.

“Ignore her, Gormlaith,” Ula drawled. “She’s just envious.”

“Why—” Gormlaith panted, trudging onward. “Why would she—ever—envy—me?” The last word brought her to the top of the wall, where she sank to the ground.

“Because some of the lads like you,” Ula replied in her cool, distant way.

“For warmth in winter and shade in summer.” Dairine smirked. But I saw the poisonous look she shot at Ula.

“You don’t have to tell me I’m fat,” Gormlaith said glumly. “I know.”

“So what?” I spoke up. “You heard Ula: You’ve got admirers who like what they see when they look at you.”

“You wouldn’t need me telling you that if you ever lifted
your eyes and looked
back
,” Ula added. “But whenever we’re near any man of Dún Beithe, from Lord Kian down to the stableboys, you stare at your feet or your hands or—You’re doing it again!” She pointed an accusing finger at Gormlaith, who had her gaze steadfastly fixed on the rapidly vanishing food in her bowl.

“She probably caught sight of one of the sentries,” Dairine said. She lifted her head and darted searching looks all around, like a hound avid for the hunt.

“That one?” I waved to the far side of the ringfort, where a lone man stood scanning the countryside. Even at that distance we could all see that his hair was heavily streaked with gray.

Ula made a scornful sound. “I recognize that one. He’s got grandchildren. If he catches any of us staring at him, he’ll come over and start boring us to death with battle stories.” She popped one last piece of bread into her mouth and announced: “I’m done. Let’s go.”

I was still eating, but when the other girls hurried to follow Ula from the top of the wall, I felt compelled to join them. All the way down it was take a step, take a bite, take a step, chew, take a step, gulp, take a step, and nearly choke on a half-chewed scrap of meat until I reached the bottom.

We gave our empty bowls to the servants and hurried to find Lady Lassaire, who was waiting to guide us through an embroidery lesson. She took one look at me and her delicate lips stretched into a quizzical expression. “Why Maeve, my dear, what’s happened to your lovely dress?”

Everyone stared at me. I looked down and saw that my bodice was covered in crumbs and smeared here and there with
grease. That was what came of my attempt to eat while making a rushed, awkward descent from the ringfort wall. For the second time that day, I felt mortified.

One of the women attending Lady Lassaire chuckled and leaned toward her neighbor. “All decked out in a coat of breadcrumbs, ha! Didn’t I tell you that they do things differently in Connacht?”

“Moriath, shame on you!” Lady Lassaire turned on the outspoken lady so fiercely that we all jumped as though we shared guilt for her rudeness.

“My—my lady, what did I …?” she faltered. Could she truly believe that there was no harm in uttering such an insult?

Suddenly I understood what had happened: Lady Moriath looked to be the eldest of Lady Lassaire’s attendants, with white hair, a wrinkled face whose lines showed a history of much laughter, and gray eyes that had lost their sparkle to the fog that sometimes came with age. If her eyes were failing, perhaps her ears were too.
She meant to whisper a jest to her friend
, I thought.
She didn’t intend to offend me or my people. No matter how embarrassed I am, I can’t let her suffer for that.

“Well said, Lady Moriath!” I exclaimed gaily. “Well and kindly said, trying to make excuses for me, and for
this.
” I casually brushed away the crumbs as if it meant nothing to me to be caught in such a messy state. “It is true that we do some things differently in Connacht, but I’m afraid this isn’t one of them; it’s just my carelessness. I’ll try to do better in the future. Thank you for being so gracious to me. I hope I can repay you for it.”

“Repay me?” The older woman was momentarily flustered,
but her confusion swiftly gave way to a look of relief. “Don’t speak as though you owe
me
anything, my dear.” She rose from her place and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

Lady Lassaire didn’t know quite what to make of the way things had turned out between Lady Moriath and me. She was left with an interrupted scolding on her lips and for a moment looked almost as though she’d been cheated out of a treat. Then she shrugged it off and the embroidery lesson began.

I was never very clever with my needle. My frustration must have showed on my face because Ula noticed it and whispered, “Why are you scowling? Did the thread insult your family too?”

“Very funny,” I hissed back, fighting a fresh knot that had magically tied itself. “Look at your work! You’ve filled that cloth with a whole legion of fantastic animals. And there”—I nodded toward the dress Gormlaith was adorning with mazes of intertwining vines—“I can’t even manage a simple triquetra pattern.” I spread my needlework across my knees to show Ula the full measure of my failure. I’d been given a clean new piece of fabric because this was my first day of lessons, but I’d already turned it into a rumpled rag. Lady Lassaire glanced my way and frowned. Gormlaith flicked her eyes at the drunken parade of too-big, too-small, too-loose, too-tight threads disgracing my cloth and offered me a pitying look.

“May I see that, Lady Maeve?” Lady Moriath’s wrinkled hands took the fabric from my grasp and held it close to her eyes. “Ah, there’s the problem.” She began undoing the mess I’d made as if she dealt with such catastrophes every day. “You want a stronger thread to begin with, and a sharper needle.”

“Maeve has been given everything she needs for her lesson,” Lady Lassaire responded crisply. “The
best
of everything.”

“Of course, of course.” Lady Moriath hastened to ease away her mistress’s ruffled feelings. “I’d have seen that if not for my poor old eyesight. Well, if it isn’t Lady Maeve’s tools, the fault lies in her confidence. She should practice making designs on something more easily corrected than cloth, don’t you agree?”

Lady Lassaire’s pride was soothed. “Just what I was going to suggest myself.”

“Then permit me to carry out your wonderful suggestion. Let Lady Maeve take her needlework lessons privately with me until her work improves.”

A fresh frown creased Lady Lassaire’s high white forehead. “How will you see her work when you failed to see the quality of the supplies I gave her? I can’t give charge of something as important as needlework to someone too blind to see stitches.”

I gasped to hear such casual meanness. Why remind the poor woman of her failing body? But Lady Moriath remained as serene as if she’d been paid a compliment.

“I can still see my own handwork if I hold the cloth close to my eyes, but I won’t need to do that for Lady Maeve,” she said calmly. “My plan is to have her gain self-assurance by making embroidery designs with a bit of charcoal or even with a stick in the dirt. She can make them as large as necessary for me to see them. Once she knows her hand is capable of creating intricate, beautiful patterns, it won’t be hard for her to reduce their size when she re-creates them on cloth.”

“I want Maeve to feel like she’s a part of this household, and the sooner, the better. How will singling her out and separating her from the other girls help accomplish that?”

“It wouldn’t be for long, my lady. I used to be the best needlewoman in Dún Beithe from the time Lord Artegal’s father ruled these lands. I can teach as quickly as she’s willing to learn. She’ll be back with the others in less than fourteen days, if she applies herself. But if she continues to produce work like this”—she gestured at my dreadful attempt at embroidery—“she’ll be singled out from the other girls forever, and badly.”

Lady Lassaire pressed her lips together. “I’ll think about it.”

The older woman lowered her eyelids. “I know you’ll make the wisest decision.”

It didn’t take Lady Lassaire long to reach her decision. That night at dinner she told me to meet Lady Moriath on the east side of the great house after breakfast the next day. “There’s a bench there that catches the morning sun. She says it’s very kind to her old bones.”

I rose early and dressed quickly, rushing out of the sleeping chamber before any of the others were awake. Helping myself to a piece of thickly buttered bread and a hefty wedge of cheese, I raced out of the house. I wanted to show Lady Moriath how grateful I was for her willingness to teach me, and that meant being ready to greet her when she arrived at our meeting place.

“Oh!” I stopped short as I rounded the curve of the wall. “You’re here already?”

The old woman looked up from the basket of food in her lap and smiled. “At my age, sleep doesn’t come easily and seldom stays long. Luckily, my appetite is still as good as ever. Come share.” She indicated the basket, which provided a much larger meal than what I’d grabbed. “I want to talk with you before we begin our lessons. Tell me this, my lady: if one of the
Fair Folk came to you with a magical needle and thread, gifts with the power to give life to whatever you embroidered, what would you make?”

I took a big bite of bread and chewed it slowly while I considered my answer. “Birds,” I said.

“Why birds?”

I thought about my dreams, and the way my heart leaped whenever I watched my Ea claim the sky. “When they fly, it’s as if they can stay up there forever. Nothing ties them down.”

“Mmm. So you’re not talking about chickens.”

“Chick—?” I caught the twinkle in her eye and we both laughed. “No, not chickens,” I said. “Hunting birds are my favorites, especially—especially kestrels.”

“Birds of prey?” The old woman gave me a searching look. “Even small ones like kestrels are a rather bloodthirsty choice for a young girl. I was expecting you to say swans. They’re lovely birds, but what ugly tempers!”

“Why are you asking this, Lady Moriath?” I was done eating, and very happy to see that there wasn’t a crumb or a smear marking my dress.

“I need to know what you
want
to create. You’ll be more willing to concentrate on our lessons. If I order you to make a line of triquetras, your mind will wander and your stitches will show it. That is, unless you
like
triquetras?” My expression of distaste answered her. “I’m not surprised. Follow me.” She stood up and walked away.

“What about my lesson?” I called after her.

“It’s begun, if you want it.” She didn’t bother looking back.

I caught up to her easily and walked beside her as we passed through the morning bustle of Dún Beithe. “Where are we
going? I thought you wanted me to draw patterns in the dirt with a stick.”

“Do you think we’ll have trouble finding sticks and dirt?” she teased, spreading her hands to include the ringfort’s many buildings, sheds, and storage places. “Tsk. Young people have so much time and so little patience, even the lucky ones like you.”

“Lucky?” Would a lucky girl have been surprised half-dressed by Kian on her first morning here? “Why do you say that?”

She stopped in front of a large shed, rested one hand on the door, and turned to face me. “Because I’m too old to go chasing swans for my student.”

She pushed the door open, but stood aside to let me go in first. Mystified, I crossed the threshold.

Kee-kee-kee!

I knew that cry. Oh, how well I knew it! It came from the shadows of the shed and I rushed forward to meet the well-beloved sound. She sat on a perch made from the unfinished branch of an oak tree. A few dead leaves still clung to it. She was hooded, so I couldn’t see her face, but I knew her. I knew her with all my heart.

I looked at her strong, taloned feet. There it was: the thin red braid I’d woven for her from my own hair with my own hands.

“Oh, Ea,” I whispered, and began to cry with joy.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Rekindling the Flame

L
ADY
M
ORIATH HAD
to call my name at least three times before I could tear myself away from Ea. I must have been a sight, all tears and smiles at the same time. Judging by the look on her face, she didn’t know what to make of my reaction.

“You—you really do like birds,” she muttered.

I burst into laughter. “You have no idea, Lady Moriath. This one—this one is special to me. I know her. See this?” I lifted the braided loop around Ea’s foot with my fingertip. “I made it.”

The old woman squinted hard, then shook her head. “See what? I’m lucky I can still see the bird. I don’t know what you’re trying to show me, dear, so you’ll have to tell me about it instead.”

The story poured from my lips and my heart, but not the whole truth. I talked about healing Ea’s broken wing, bonding with her, having her fly away and yet return to me with the loyalty of a well-trained hunting hound. I explained why I’d
made a braid of my own hair to mark the kestrel as a token of how special she was to me. I told her how my precious bird had been struck down by a slingstone, leaving me heartbroken, believing she was dead.