Anne Kelleher - Silver's Lure

He was very well fed, indeed.

She backed away, splashed water from a ewer into a basin and washed her hands. She looked up to see Colm watching her from the door. “This man doesn’t look like he’s starving.”

One of the old women cackled beside the bed. “This one doesn’t look like he missed a meal a day in his life. Would you look at the length of his legs?”

“That’s not his legs you’re pointing at, Moira. Have some respect for the dead, will you?”

The women snickered. Sickened, Morla pushed past Colm into the corridor that led to the main hall, where the rest of the household huddled. She paused on the threshold and gazed over the lumpy shapes stretched out around the smoldering hearths. Most were already asleep. The rain had started up again, and the fires hissed and steamed. Somewhere a child called out and a woman hastened to hush him. A surge of pity swept through her for this dwindling flock of souls who depended on her. She heard Colm’s sandals tapping an uneven tattoo across the stones as he hurried to her side. “My lady, the sergeant—”

“There’s only one thing to do, Colm,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken.

“What’s that, my lady?”

“The knight’s horse—it was unharmed?” In the orange rushlight, Colm’s face was very thin, the cheekbones prominent, skin stretched tight across his forehead. She felt as old and as tired as he looked.

“The sergeant of the guard wishes to speak to you, my lady. I think you should hear what he has to say. This thing you’re thinking to do—it’s dangerous out there, my lady. You saw those brigands—”

“Those weren’t brigands, Colm. They were starving people. They won’t bother me. I’ll take an escort—I’ll ride under a white flag and Mother’s colors—”

“Ride where?”

“Where else? To Mother, wherever she is. I suspect that’s either Ardagh or Eaven Morna. I suppose I’ll find out.”

“And how do you expect to find her? Get on the knight’s horse and tell him?”

In spite of the situation, Morla had to grin. “That’s exactly what I intend to do. The horses of the Fiachna are trained to find their way home. Wherever he came from, they’ll give me a fresh ride, and tell me if Mother’s at Eaven Morna or somewhere else.”

“But, my lady—”

“It’s the only way, Colm. Clearly that knight was from my mother. What else is there to do?”

“The roads aren’t safe, my lady. You saw that yourself.”

“Then I’ll take guards with me.” She shook her head and shrugged. “If I set out at dawn, and ride straight through, I should be at Eaven Morna in four, maybe five days.” Morla wrapped her arms around herself, ignoring the maelstrom of emotion that name raised deep within. “It’s been ten years since I’ve been back.”

“Do you think that’s why Meeve’s forgot us, lady?”

Despite the lateness of the hour, the leaden weight of hunger in her belly and of fatigue in her head, Morla choked back a laugh. “Oh no, Colm, you’ve never met my mother, have you? Believe me, I don’t think she’s noticed I’ve been gone.”

Eaven Morna, Mochmorna

“Please tell me what I’ve just heard isn’t true.” Connla, ArchDruid of all Brynhyvar raised her chin and squared her shoulders as she stared up at Meeve across the food-laden board. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a flash of lightning flickered through the hall. She clenched her oak staff of office in her left fist and held her right arm against her side, trying to quell the palsy that shook it whenever she was in the grip of strong emotion. She wasn’t quite sure she could believe that she finally had proof of her suspicions: Meeve was stealing sacred silver. It should never have been able to happen, thought Connla. The earth elementals, the khouri-keen, should never have allowed such a thing, but she knew in her bones that somehow, it had.

The hall was crowded with Meeve’s warriors and neighboring chiefs. No one was ever turned away from Meeve’s table, no matter how high or low, rich or poor. Her bounty was part of her power. The humid air reeked of sweaty men and greasy meat, but Connla ignored everything, even as she was jostled nearly off her feet by a servant scurrying by with a basket piled high with rounds of cheese. The bard’s voice rose in a mournful wail, and Connla silenced him with one ferocious stare. “Well? Do you mean to answer me, sister? Or must I wait by the gatehouse, like a beggar after crusts of news?”

Meeve lowered her jeweled goblet, tossed back her fabled, though slightly faded, red mane beneath her thin circlet of braided gold and copper, and licked her fingers. “Depends on what you’ve heard. I’m having a hard time believing what I’ve just heard, I know that much.”

Pain shot up and down Connla’s arm, from her shoulder to her wrist, but Meeve’s blatant insolence only fueled her resolve not to show weakness. “Is it true your knights have taken the silver from Hawthorn Grove at Garn?”

“They haven’t stolen it, you old crow. That druid-house was abandoned to blight so long ago the roof was caving it. Would you have preferred they’d left it there?” Meeve held out her goblet to her cup-bearer and nodded at the end of the table. “We’ve all had news today, it seems. I had a few messages myself, thanks to Ronalbain and Fahrwyr.” She raised her brimming goblet again in the direction of two mud-splattered men who crouched over the long board, hunks of stringy meat clutched in both hands. There was a look on Meeve’s face Connla couldn’t quite read as she stared harder at her sister, deliberately opening her druid Sight. A gray veil of mist appeared between them, and Connla realized Meeve was hiding something.

Connla glanced around the table at the reddened, grease-stained faces, and spoke beneath the raucous laughter that followed some half-witted remark. “May I speak to you alone?”

Meeve only belched and waved an airy hand. “Why don’t you come eat? Come, sit…you, Turnoch, and you, Dougal, move aside, make room for Callie Connla.” Even before the sentence was completely out of her mouth, the men began to shift, benches began to scrape across the wooden planks of the raised dais. Meeve nodded. “There you are—go sit. Let’s eat and drink like civilized people, and then we’ll talk.”

“You’ll be too drunk to talk soon.” The silver chalice and blade of her office clanked against Connla’s thigh as she hoisted her robes above her knees and hauled herself onto the dais, waving away hands that would’ve helped her. She leaned as far over the board as the piled platters would permit and stared directly into her younger sister’s eyes. Another peal of thunder rolled through the room, echoing in the high rafters. The storm was moving closer. “I need to talk to you now. Alone.”

“Now?”

Connla glanced at the warriors leaning on either side of Meeve, at the guards lined up along the wall. Sweat began to gather under her armpits as a sense of spiraling disaster, of something very dangerous coming closer, almost riding on the edge of the storm, began to grow. She shoved the feeling away and concentrated on Meeve. “Yes, now. Unless you’d like to discuss this in front of everyone?”

Meeve belched again. “You’re not the only one with something to say, sister. If I were you, I’d take the time to fortify myself first.”

“Am I to understand that as a threat?” Connla narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know what you’re doing, sister. You don’t know what balances you’re upsetting—no one would dare to touch that silver but those Lacquilean robbers you’ve let loose upon the land.”

“Well, now, sister. That’s hardly diplomatic of you, considering I’m expecting a delegation from this person or persons who call themselves the Voice of the city, whatever that means. I thought to do you a favor—”