FOUR

Bodb’s crystal house dazzled in the sunshine, brighter than the glittering surface of the great lake below it. Sive took a deep breath, marvelling at the colors of sky, hills and water reflected from its walls. Now she understood what her mother had meant by “coming down in the world.” She had thought their own king’s palace very beautiful, but this was beyond anything in her experience. Grian had been right, she saw now, to talk the king into providing a full retinue of maidens and guards for the journey. Sive was not sure what she would do with so many servants, but at least she would make an adequate entrance on behalf of their sidhe.

She was led through rich, airy rooms and delicate gardens to Bodb himself. He was a handsome, commanding man with thick golden hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head. He was not, as Sive had imagined, lounging at his ease, fingering his famous harp; rather he strode briskly into the room with the air of a man with a long list of tasks to see to—which of course he was, with guests arriving from all corners of his kingdom. He gave Sive a gracious but brief welcome, thanking her for coming, introducing her to the master of revels, and pointedly not asking after her mother.

Not exactly a greeting for a long-lost child, she noted wryly. Grian, it seemed likely, had been mistaken with that fond theory.

“Daireann is looking forward to seeing you,” Bodb offered. He frowned. “I had thought she would be here to greet you. She insisted you share her rooms, so that you will feel more at home.”

Of course she did, thought Sive as she mustered what she hoped was a grateful smile. It was hard to imagine this lovely palace held a single uncomfortable corner, but Sive had a feeling Daireann would find it.

“I’VE PUT YOU OVER HERE, so you’ll have more privacy.” Daireann motioned to the corner of her sitting room, a spacious, bright chamber joined to a smaller sleeping room by a wide, arched opening, both so draped and swathed with gaudy silks that Sive felt swaddled in a peacock’s breast. “There’s a settle already there, so we won’t need to clutter up the room with an extra pallet.”

Sive eyed the narrow bench warily. Elaborately carved, heaped with overstuffed cushions and raised at the head, it would be delightful for lazing away a dull afternoon— and a nightmare to sleep on.

“Of course there’s no room for your women in here, or with my maids.” Daireann motioned vaguely to the door beyond her bedstead, which presumably led to a third room housing her servants. “With so many people staying, we’ve had to put all but the most important guests’ attendants in the outbuildings. But I expect you’re used to seeing to yourself.”

It was masterful how she did it, wrapping so many slights in a single pronouncement. Sive’s growing anger— there was ample room for one companion to stay with her, and she was willing to bet she was the only female guest in the place sleeping without one—was almost overshadowed by grudging admiration. She forced a bright smile.

“It’s lovely, Daireann,” she said. “You’re very generous to share your chambers with me.”

“It’s the least a sister can do.” Daireann drifted into her sleeping room and admired herself before the tall mirror mounted beside her bed. She arched her neck, tossed back her yellow hair and slipped another bracelet up her white arm. Sive waited, knowing there was more to come. Daireann never left a gracious phrase unbarbed. “In any case, I don’t suppose we shall see much of each other. There are several men courting me, and you’ll be busy with the other workers.”

With a sisterly smile as venomous as a poisoned arrow, Daireann excused herself and bustled off, leaving Sive to discover for herself where her women had been housed and when dinner might be expected.

HE HAD A TUMBLE of dark curls and black eyes that flashed when he smiled, and he was sitting to Sive’s left at the next morning’s meeting called to organize the performers. Somehow her attention kept drifting toward him rather than the master of revels, an earnest fellow with a droning voice. The schedule was not taxing: over the five-day gathering, performers were asked to share their art at every other dinner and at two midday meals. “You all are our esteemed guests,” gushed the revelmaster. “If there is any comfort or hospitality lacking to you, you have only to let me know.”

A proper bed would be a start, thought Sive. After a night spent bobbing in a sea of cushions, she was less than rested. Her women had fared better, sharing one room but each with a freshly stuffed pallet, clean bedclothes and a rack to hang out her gowns.

During the introductions that followed, Sive discovered she was the only female singer—there was a pair of sisters who played flute and harp, and two male singers— and the only artist not from the west. The young man who had caught her eye was Elatha, a poet from a sidhe on the ocean’s edge, in the rocky, wild country that thrust out like fingers from the southwest corner of the Island. As they were leaving, Sive managed to put herself in the arched doorway at the same time as him.

“You’ve come a long way,” he said.

“Aye,” she agreed. “And so have you, to be sure.”

“Yet my sidhe is within Bodb’s realm, while yours is not. Not to malign your talents, which I am sure are marvellous, but I wonder what led our king to invite you.”

She glanced up, looking for a slight, but the dark eyes showed only friendly curiosity.

“Ah, well. There’s a family connection.”

Elatha pointed to the right, where several of the artists were ambling through a small door that led outdoors. Bright sunshine spilled onto the flagstones each time it opened.

“There is a delightful garden out there. Shall we take a look, and you can tell me more about your family ties?”

Elatha held out his arm, and Sive took it.

It was a perfect golden autumn day, and the garden was a sprawling delight. Sunny banks of flowers, herbs and fruit trees gradually gave way to cool shaded pathways. At last they emerged onto a long strand edging the lake. Someone had thoughtfully provided benches to rest on.

“I would love to live by the water,” Sive said. “I am drawn to it like a salmon.”

“This is not water, but only a mucky pond,” Elatha teased. “You should live where I do. There is water everywhere.”

“I have hardly ever seen the ocean,” Sive confessed.

“How can that be?” He feigned astonishment. “Have you no ocean in the east?”

“Only on the coast, where I, sadly, do not live.”

“Yes, and speaking of where you live”—Elatha gave Sive a little nudge with his elbow—“what are these connections of yours?”

“Do you know Daireann?”

“Oh yes.” Did she imagine it, or were his eyes suddenly guarded? “Everybody knows Daireann.”

“I am her half-sister. We have the same mother.”

There was no mistaking it. Subtly, but definitely, Elatha straightened up so that the space between them became politely formal. “You are Daireann’s sister?”

“Half-sister,” she corrected. And then, throwing both caution and etiquette to the winds, she said, “Don’t worry, I am nothing like her!”

Elatha burst into surprised laughter. He was really very lovely when he laughed, white teeth gleaming and curls blowing in the wind.

“Is that a promise?” he asked.

“Yes, but…do you have something against her?”

“Oh…” He sighed. “One of my brothers had a bit of a romance with her once. Perhaps it’s enough to say it went badly and ended worse.”

“It is,” Sive agreed. “And for my part, perhaps it’s enough to say she’s making me sleep on a heap of cushions when there are beds aplenty.”

Another chuckle. Black eyes dancing with mischief. “Ah, now. I thought you looked something on the tired side at our little meeting, and the revels not yet begun!”

SIVE GAVE HER FIRST performance that night, and when she was done there were many wanting to meet her. Still it was Elatha she looked for, the color rising to her cheeks when she saw him in the crowd, her heart tripping into a glad canter when he made his way over to her. He was full of gentle teasing and merry laughter, and when the night’s official pleasures came to an end, she was happy to join him once more on the moonlit paths of Bodb’s garden.

She returned to her room late, braced for Daireann’s scolding, but her half-sister was not there. Probably doing the same as myself, Sive thought. She did her best to pat her pillows into something resembling a mattress. With so many men to court, perhaps Daireann would be this late every night, and Sive’s own romance would escape her notice.

THE NEXT MORNING, Daireann was not there, her bed unslept in. One of her women made a surprising offer.

“You might just as well sleep in her bed from now on, and leave that awful contraption,” she said. “We’ll not see my lady for a while yet.”

“Why not?”

“Hasn’t she set her sights on some son of the Gael? It’s all we’ve heard for days. On and on about this Finn mac Cumhail and his mighty feats. She’s off to the mortal world to woo him.”

The woman bent over to gather up Daireann’s gown, left in a heap on the floor. “I almost feel sorry for him, whoever he is,” she offered. “They say mortal men can’t resist our women.”

“DO YOU KNOW much of the mortal world?” Sive asked Elatha that afternoon. He had just recited the Battle of Tailltin for Bodb’s guests, telling of the final battle between the Gaels and the children of Danu. Sive had never really thought about the world they had lost or the people who had taken their place. The invaders must have been mighty warriors indeed, she supposed, hampered as they were with their frail lives and feeble magic skills, to have conquered her ancestors.

“A little,” he said. “Is it a history lesson you’re looking for? I’d have thought we’d done enough of that for now.” And he picked up one of her shining plaits in both hands and ran his cheek down its coppery length. “This, now. This is a treasure to inspire poetry.”

Sive dimpled at his words but kept hold of the thread of her thought.

“I was wondering if you had heard of a man named Finn mac Cumhail.”

Elatha looked up from his explorations, his face bright with enthusiasm. “Finn? Of course. That is a man deserving of fame in any world.”

The dark eyebrows drew together and he dropped her braid.

“What is your interest, exactly? If you’re asking me to sing the praises of my rival, I won’t do it!”

“My sister is after courting him.” Sive had a momentary qualm—did Daireann intend to keep that a secret?—and shrugged it off. Family loyalty between her and Daireann was a weak bond at best.

Suspicion crinkled into amusement. “Ah. My best to him. Well then, what did you want to know?”

“Anything. I’ve never heard of him before now.”

“Have you not? And he your neighbor! His dun is practically next door to you, on the Hill of Almhuin.”

Sive shrugged, embarrassed to discover her own ignorance. She knew, of course, that the mortal world existed like a shadow of their own, and that there were places where the enchanted veil between them could be drawn back and passed through. But she had never done it, nor even wondered much about it. It gave her a funny feeling to think that the hills so familiar to her existed in another world, where an entirely different people built entirely different settlements.

“He leads the Fianna, a warrior troop that answers only to the High King of Eire,” Elatha continued. “Mighty fighters to a man, they are. But Finn—he is different. The blood of our people runs in his veins, for one thing, for his mother, Muirne, is half-sister to Lugh of the Long Hand. And he is farseeing for a mortal; they say he has tasted the Nuts of Wisdom.” Elatha laughed. “Perhaps the Nuts of Wisdom will gird him against your sister.”