My husband had always hated it when they called me by a common title, rather than acknowledging my royal blood. On the other hand, my sister’s husband, Faelan hated it when the mortals combined my titles, calling me Queen Seanchaí. Even deposed and exiled, I still had my loyal Duine followers. Enough to raise another army, if I wished it.
After my children climbed out of the lake, they ran about, exploring the many caves in the surrounding hills. We still had time before the evening meal, so I called my favored manservant to my side.
“Greagoir, spar with me, lest I grow weak in my exile,” I said, loud enough for all in the camp to hear.
It was a warning to Faelan to never strike my sister again. He needed to remember that there was bite to my commands.
A cheering crowd gathered around me, as I battled against Greagoir, sword to singing sword, blade striking blade, each clash ringing out like a bell. The sounds echoed throughout the valley and it sounded like a true battle. Wagers were put down, though few of them were against me.
No blade had ever cut my skin.
I was the only invincible warrior in my Clan.
Five
I shouldn’t have sparred with my servant. I regretted it when the bets were being paid and the entire camp chanted my name like a drunken ballad. Many campfires burned across the valley as we settled down for our evening meal. I could hear the laughter and enthusiasm as my recent joust was added to the nighttime lore, whispers, and songs, all with my name in them.
“And then Eire, Queen of the Tuatha de Danann defeated one of her own men during their exile—”
“Her sword matched his, blow for blow until her final strike made him kneel before her, where he swore her everlasting fealty—”
“She’s known as Seanchaí and queen, and to her dear Duine, merely Eire, for she requires no titles from those who love her—”
Faelan chewed on a piece of raw meat as the stories drifted around us. His gaze, golden and menacing, caught mine across our small campsite. But his expression shifted as soon I looked upon him. He raised a glass of wine and stood, a grin on his fearsome, black-furred face.
“To our beloved Eire,” he said, to which everyone near and far cheered. They all joined his toast, speaking blessings upon me—long life, many children, a safe journey, a prosperous rule.
The entire camp began to sparkle and glow, for the faery blessings were that great. Even my sister dared to join in, raising her glass and speaking of her love for me. But my favorite of all was when my twin boys clamored to their feet, their hair wild from a day of adventure, their skin kissed by the sun. They each raised their copper cups, filled to the brim with goat milk, for they were much too young to drink wine.
“To our Ma, who is more beautiful than the sun itself,” Benen declared.
“To the one who bore me, may I ever serve her,” Ambros proclaimed.
My cheeks were fresh with tears when Greagoir approached me with a new cup of wine, a shining copper goblet crafted with vines and roses—my signet. “A gift from the Duine, who lived in the last valley we passed through,” he told me. “I promised them I would save this wine and this cup for a special day.” Then he pulled out two smaller cups, not quite as elaborate as mine, but still beautiful. “And these are for the twins. May they ever reign at your side, when you return to reclaim your kingdom.”
He poured wine into each vessel, but he knew my children had not yet been allowed that drink, so he waited for my approval.
I nodded.
“Thank you, Greagoir. Come. You may drink with me, my leanaí,” I told my boys, “and we will remember this day when we return, armies at our side.”
Ambros and Benen stared at me for a heartbeat, their eyes widened in both surprise and joy. Then they raced one another to claim their cups. Laughter swept through our camp, then we all drank one last toast together.
It was the first time my children drank the fruit of this vine.
It would also be their last.
By my own hand, I brought our destruction.
No one else drank from my cup. For this, I will be eternally grateful. The vintage was only poured into my goblet and that of my sons’, something I didn’t notice until much later. We all toasted together, everyone in the camp; we drank our fill and more. One by one, my people began to fall asleep, most of them right where they sat. They merely pulled a blanket or a cloak over themselves, and soon the entire valley filled with the sounds of men and women snoring.
I fell asleep too, my boys in my arms, one on each side of me. It was a strange and mysterious slumber. At first I thought it was only because I was weary from our long journey and the wine had been a different vintage, from a different vale. My dreams turned heavy and dark, unlike any I’d ever had before. I imagined I was lost in a midnight forest and every trail led to a dead end. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t escape.
I wanted to wake up, but couldn’t.
Then voices sounded nearby—hushed and urgent. A low panic threaded through my dreams as I tried to tell the difference between my nightmare and reality.
“Be careful, don’t make a sound,” a man said.
“Are you certain she’s asleep?”
Low laughter made my unusual slumber even more terrifying.
“Eire will not waken. Now, hurry.”
Hands lifted me and I felt cold air surround me. The heat of the campfire bled away until it became a distant memory. I worried for my twins, but couldn’t ask where they were.
I tried to scream, to wake up my servants and soldiers; I tried to cry out for help, but my mouth refused to open. Not a sound came from me, no matter how hard I fought. It felt like I wore thick bronze shackles on my arms and legs, for no part of me could move.
“Quiet, now,” someone said beside me. The voice was none other than Greagoir, my trusted servant, the same man who had presented me with the new goblet and wine.
“That way,” another familiar voice said—'twas Faelan.
Release me! Let me go!
But my words rang only out inside my head. My lips never moved.
“Hurry!” ‘Twas another voice from yet another man, but I did not recognize him. His accent was strange, almost hard to understand. When I finally placed its foreign origin, I was being set on the rocky ground.
Milesian. This last man was one of the invaders.
“Your long boats are safe,” this stranger said.
“This is all I needed to hear,” Faelan replied.
A struggle ensued, a cry, a spray of something warm across my arm—blood probably—then came the sound of a blade being cleaned.
“Leave him here. And put the boys beside her. ‘Tis fitting they should sleep together forever,” Faelan said. I could hear the grin in his words.
Warmth returned to me then, for my leanaí were now nestled beside me, one in each arm.
Then there came another cry. This time I recognized the voice. It was the sound of my betrayer being killed. Greagoir fell to the ground with a thump. For a few moments, there were two dead bodies here with me, but Faelan quickly dragged them away.
He left me alone then, with only my children and the long, dark sleep. He returned before the rest of the camp awoke and his actions surprised me—this was his one and only act of mercy.