Read Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) Online
Authors: Esther Friesner
Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth)
A
LSO BY
E
STHER
F
RIESNER
Nobody’s Princess
Nobody’s Prize
Sphinx’s Princess
Sphinx’s Queen
Spirit’s Princess
Spirit’s Chosen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2014 by Esther Friesner
Jacket art copyright © 2014 by Larry Rostant
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web!
randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Friesner, Esther M.
Deception’s princess / Esther Friesner. — First edition.
p. cm.
Summary: In Iron Age Ireland, Maeve, the fierce, willful youngest daughter of King Eochu of Connacht, is caught in a web of lies after rebelling to avoid an arranged marriage.
ISBN 978-0-449-81863-3 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-449-81864-0 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-449-81865-7 (ebook)
1. Medb (Legendary character)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Medb (Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Princesses—Fiction. 3. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. 4. Family life—Ireland—Fiction. 5. Conduct of life—Fiction. 6. Ireland—History—To 1172—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F91662Dec 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013002948
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For Lee Martindale
Bard, Warrior, and Friend Extraordinaire
C
ONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
1 The King of Connacht’s Daughter
15 Seeds of Truth, Seeds of Change
Afterword
Places and Faces, or “How Am I Supposed to Pronounce
That
?”
About the Author
I
AM TOO
young to be a part of so many lies. I’d blame the bards for it, if I could. It would be easy to say that they never let the truth get in the way of a marvelous story, but my life’s tale is more complicated than that. Whose is not?
Though the bards I’ve known tell no lies, sometimes they will craft their songs without knowing all the facts. I am two summers shy of eighteen, yet they are already singing about me as if I were a grown woman and queen in my own right. (Well, I
would
like that, but I can’t say the same for all of their songs about me.) It almost makes me wish I were a bard myself instead of the royal princess of Connacht. Maybe then the
whole
truth would have a fair chance of being heard.
Above all, I hate the way they waste so much time praising how
beautiful
they think I am. Whether or not that’s so, it annoys me. The flash of sunlight on a sword blade is also beautiful, but it distracts you from seeing the worth of the steel. As if I were nothing but the sum of eyes and lips, height and grace,
slenderness and strength, fair skin and fiery hair! I am much more than that: I am Maeve.
If I had my sister Derbriu’s gift for music, I’d make sure my true story reached every ear in the length and breadth of Èriu, from the High King’s seat at Tara to the humblest farmer’s hut. I know exactly how I’d begin it too. I’d start with what happened on that spring morning some dozen years ago, when I danced with the black bull.
I didn’t think it was a matter of any importance when I did it, but what did I know? I was five years old. I’ve been called Maeve the Spoiled, Maeve the Proud, Maeve the Sneak, and, worst of all, Maeve Two-Tongues, Maeve the Liar. Nobody ever called me Maeve the Wise, then or now. One small adventure, done on a whim, and it changed my world forever.
The black bull was my father’s pride, a prize taken in one of the countless cattle raids he led against our neighbors. A king must show his strength as a warrior by capturing the cattle of lesser men. To me, that meant my father was obliged to steal every herd in the land. As far as I was concerned, all men were inferior to Eochu, royal lord of the realm of Connacht, which he ruled from within the ringfort of Cruachan.
In those days, I didn’t think of Cruachan as a fortress. It was simply my home. One could enter its walls of beaten earth only through a single narrow gateway. The king’s great house and many other buildings stood safe within. I knew nothing of the importance of making a stronghold hard to attack, easy to defend. As far as I was concerned, Cruachan’s battlements were placed atop a high mound strictly for my pleasure, so that I could enjoy a fine view of the surrounding countryside. And
the armed men on watch? Obviously their sole purpose was to make sure I didn’t slip off the wall.
On the morning I crossed paths with the black bull, Father had set out on yet another raid, or so I thought. All the house rose early, a few of our warriors groaning pitiably from the effects of the previous night’s leave-taking feast. Too soon for me, Father finished breakfast and strode off, bawling for his chariot driver, Fechin, to attend him. The warriors of Connacht grabbed a few last mouthfuls of meat and bread before following their leader. They were as eager to race into battle as their high-spirited horses. I overheard some of them boasting about how they would shine in battle and come home to claim the hero’s portion, the best cut of roasted meat served at the victory banquet.
My mother, Cloithfinn, matched Father pace for pace all the way to his waiting chariot, her hip-length waves of golden hair swinging like a heavy silken cloak. My five sisters were already there, lingering beside the king’s horses. There were kisses for us all. I wanted to cry, but the air was already loud with the wailing of many young women, clinging to their sweethearts. Mother wouldn’t embarrass Father like that. She carried herself tall and proud, with a cheerful face, and held us to her example. We knew this might be the last time we would see our father alive, but we were a king’s daughters and we had to be brave.
As Father’s chariot passed through the gateway and down the steep side of Cruachan’s mound, Mother led us to the top of the wall. We stood with the other women, shouting encouragement to our departing heroes. The weather cut short our
farewells; a barrier of fog settled over the land, so that Father and his followers vanished from sight quickly, as if the Fair Folk had risen from the Otherworld and swathed them in capes of silk, cold and gray.
My favorite sister, Derbriu, squeezed my hand as we all began our descent from the battlements. “Are you all right, Maeve, dearest?” She often spoke to me in that motherly way. If there’s one truth I know in the world, it’s this: five sisters are four too many if they tease you all the time for being the baby of the family. Derbriu never did. Until my birth, three years after hers, she’d been the youngest, so she knew how much those taunts of “Baby!” stung.
I smiled, just for her. “I’m fine.”
She knew I was lying. “You mustn’t fret while Father’s gone. Think of how happy we’ll be when we see him home safe again.”
“I’ll be happy for that,” I said solemnly. “And because of the cows.”
Derbriu laughed so hard it drew our eldest sister’s attention. “What’s so funny?” Clothru asked.
“Maeve’s eager to get the cows Father promised us.”
“Well, so am I,” said Eithne and Èile in chorus. Our twin sisters often spoke with one voice. It always made me giggle.
“And I!” our middle sister, Mugain, exclaimed. “Five cows apiece for doing next to nothing? It’s a windfall.” She grinned with delight.