A. B. England

         The aroma of roasting meat lured Avon out of sleep.  Her stomach gurgled in anticipation as she slowly became aware of her surroundings.  She lay on a roughly hewn litter in a tent made of branches and animal skins.  Her father had been a bard, so she'd lived in tents most of her life, but her parents died years ago.  Didn't they?  Had she only dreamed living in a kindly old widow woman's hut for the past two years?  What happened?  She couldn't remember anything after leaving to gather firewood earlier this morning.

         Avon tried to sit up, but she could only move her head.  She panicked for a moment afraid she'd gone lame.  But a dull ache rose throughout her body, and she realized she could feel something clinging to her skin, completely binding her from shoulders to ankles.  Relief washed over her; if she could feel, she couldn't be lame, right?  However, other terrible possibilities began to occur to her.  Could she have injured herself to the point where she had to be bandaged from shoulders to ankles?  Had she been captured by bandits or wild men?  Her head began to swim with horrible images as her heart beat harder and harder and her breath came in ragged gasps, rattling in her chest.

         A thousand nagging patches itched incessantly.  She wiggled, trying to relieve the itching, but the ache exploded into a burning pain.  Avon gave up and let her head drop back onto the litter; however, her body didn't let her rest for long before her breath rattled again and caught in her lungs, causing her to dissolve into a coughing fit.  It felt like someone kicked her in the ribs over and over again, but she couldn't stop.  When the barrage finally ceased, Avon called out weakly before everything went black.

         When Avon opened her eyes again, she saw a gray-haired man in an undyed robe looking down at her.  She thought she'd seen men like him before; her father called them druids.

         Thick whiskers obscured most of the man's face, but she could see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled.  "So, you're awake," he said, stepping forward to stoop over her.  She tried to shrink away, but all she could do was turn her head.  He laid a thin, cold hand on her forehead and then her cheek.  "I'm glad you woke," the old man said, straightening himself again.  "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't."

         "Why can't I move?" Avon asked, unsure if she should trust him.  She didn't recognize the man, but he was a druid.

         "I thought you would try to run away when you woke up," he answered, "so I bound you a good deal more than you really needed.  I didn't want you to pull your stitches or finish off those cracked ribs." 

         "Where am I?" Avon asked.

         "King Conchobar's camp, just off the road from Tara to Ulster," he answered.  "I'm Cathbad, the king's druid and advisor.  I was collecting herbs while Conchobar met with the High King when I found you lying half-dead in a clearing near Deargcoill.  He pointed to a pile of torn, bloodstained rags.  "I believe those used to be your clothes?"

         "I...I don't know," she answered, her eyes searching the dimly lit pile as if it would reveal some secret she'd forgotten.  "You helped me?"

         Cathbad nodded.  "Conchobar had to leave the next morning.  I had the litter built so you could travel with us.  I cleaned and closed the gashes, but when I saw the awful bruising on your right side, I decided to wrap your ribs since they seemed to be broken."  The old man turned and walked over to a series of bags sitting on the floor.  He pulled one open and rummaged around inside.  He pulled out a simple green robe and a roughly woven cloak before turning his attention back to her.  "Now that you're awake, I suppose it would be safe to unwrap you as long as you promise not to move too quickly."

         Avon nodded slowly, unsure what to believe.  She didn't know if she could trust the old druid, but she wanted to be able to move again.  If something happened, at least she could fight back and run away.  Plus, she'd be able to scratch those little nagging places. 

         "This will go much faster if you stand," he said as he returned to the litter.  "I'll have to help you up, alright?"

         "Alright," Avon answered.  She just wanted to be able to move.

         Cathbad removed her heavy blanket before he placed his hands behind her shoulders and slowly helped her sit up.  Avon gritted her teeth against the pain and stiffness she was slowly growing accustomed to, refusing to let him see any sign of weakness in her.  Then, he took her ankles and turned her toward the litter's edge, and when her feet touched the ground, he helped her stand.  Somehow the mere fact a male was so close—touching her—terrified her even though he seemed nothing more than a harmless old healer.  The feel of the druid's hands untying her bindings caused dreamlike memories to surface. 

         She'd wandered far away from the village looking for firewood dry enough to burn.  Several nice sized branches lay out in a lovely clearing, and she bent to retrieve one.  In the quiet, a twig broke with a thunderous snap, and she started like a frightened rabbit.  Rough hands grasped her as she tried to turn; the sticks of gathered wood fell to the ground as she struggled and screamed.  White-hot pain seared in her face, struck by some unseen force as she fought against the grip around her waist.  She saw two raiders form in front of her as sight returned.  They were huge, hairy men dressed only in tartan and heavy boots.  Their bodies were marked with bright scars and painted with woad.  Fear ripped through her, and she screamed again, pulling her arms in and letting her legs fall out from under her.  Caught by surprise, the third raider was unable to keep his grip, and she fell free of his grasp.  She scrambled to her feet and tried to run back toward the village and the help she'd left so far behind.  The huge men descended on her before she'd even reached the tree line.  She called out for help, but knew no one who cared could hear this far from town.  She tried to fight, and begged for mercy, but the more she did, the more they beat her.  Finally, they left, leaving her alone, naked, battered, and close to death.   The horror of it made her retch, but her stomach was completely empty.

          "Are you alright?" Cathbad asked.

         "Yes," Avon lied.  The old druid cocked an eyebrow but said nothing.  She knew he didn't believe her, but she didn't want to think about the dream.  It had to have been a dream.  The bindings around her arms loosened, and the old druid let the first bandage fall to the ground.  Avon shivered, unbearably cold without the bandages' warmth.

         "You'll need to leave the bandages around your chest and abdomen," he said as he began working to remove the bindings around her legs.  "Those are to protect your ribs, not hold you still."

         "I understand," Avon answered.  "I've seen warriors bandaged like this after a battle."

         She was free moments later.  Avon looked down at herself before Cathbad helped her into the robe.  Half-healed cuts and bruises marred her arms and legs.  Could the memories of what happened in the forest be real?  She could feel herself beginning to shake, more from hunger and exhaustion than the early autumn cool, and blushed, ashamed of her weakness.  Cathbad gently placed the cloak around her shoulders and urged her to sit down on the litter again.

         "That old robe fits you well enough now that I cut the hem off," he mused.  "It'll keep you warm and covered until we reach Ulster, but I'm afraid I have no shoes that will fit your tiny feet."

         "Thank you," she said, barely hearing him.  "Thank you for helping me."

         "I couldn't leave you there, child," he answered.  "You must be hungry; all you've had for three days is herbal tea.  I'll bring you something to eat."

         The mention of food caught Avon's attention.  "Roast?" she asked hopefully, her stomach growling again.

         The old man chuckled.  "I know you'd prefer roast," he said, "but it's too rich for you after so long without eating.  I had some broth made for you.  It's not as tasty or as filling, but you're more likely to keep it down."

         Avon groaned weakly and pouted in disappointment, but she accepted Cathbad's advice.  "Can it be a big bowl?" she asked pitifully.

         "Alright," Cathbad laughed.  "I'll bring a big bowl."

         "Thank you," Avon answered, smiling as the man left.  She pulled her feet off the frigid ground and onto the litter.  Tucking them under her, she huddled down into the warm cloak.  Could she have really slept for three days?  What if she'd been lying there for a day or two before Cathbad found her?  She had to have remembered correctly before.  If her parents were still alive, they would have found her.

         She worried about Shea, the widow who'd helped her after her parents died.  What would happen to Shea without her to gather wood for the fire and harvest the food?  Was she cold and hungry; was she worrying about her?  Maybe Cathbad would take her back home; she couldn't just leave Shea.

         Cathbad returned.  The strong scent of dill and mint steamed from the bowl and cup he carried.  He walked slowly to keep from spilling the steaming liquids.  She accepted the bowl he offered and reluctantly obeyed his order to drink the broth slowly.  The contents burnt her tongue and startled her with its sour taste.  She grimaced involuntarily, drawing another chuckle from Cathbad.

         "I'm sorry about the taste," he said, "but I thought it best to add some medicine to your food."

         "Do I have a fever?" Avon asked.

         "What makes you think you do?" Cathbad asked in return, sounding slightly surprised.

         "First, you tell me you found me lying in the woods with open wounds," Avon answered.  She would have counted on her fingers for emphasis, but the bowl was so large she had to use both hands to hold it.  "Then, you bring in broth with dill and what tastes like wood-sorrel in it and tea that smells like mint.  I can't tell what kind of tea it is, but my guess would be barberry root?"

         "Very good," the man said, looking amused.  "Do you know what those herbs are used for?"

         Avon took another sip of the broth, better prepared for the bitter sourness and relieved the burn had dampened her sense of taste.  She nodded and swallowed before answering.  "They're all used to treat fevers, but dill and barberry are used to treat blood impurities that cause fevers."

         Cathbad smiled, nodding his approval.  "Correct.  How did you learn so much about herb-lore?"

         "My mother was a healer," Avon answered.  "I helped her."

         "You're mother was," Cathbad repeated, stroking his beard. 

         "Do I have a fever?" Avon asked again.

         "Yes," Cathbad answered quietly, "but it is much better now than it was a few days ago.  You do have a few cuts that have become infected, but I put a wash over the fire when I left before.  It'll get rid of the infection, and help you fight off the fever even more."

         "I see," Avon answered, gingerly taking another sip of the broth and appreciating its warmth.

         "What about your father?" Cathbad asked.

         "He was a bard," she answered simply.  "Are you a bard?  My father wore robes like the one you gave me."

         "All druids are bards," Cathbad answered.  "It's as much a part of our job as healing.  Where are your parents now?"

         "Father was killed by highwaymen several years ago, and Mother died of a fever two winters ago," Avon answered.  "A widow in Teirloch named Shea took me in," she continued.  "I should get back to her.  It's harvest season, and she'll starve or freeze without me to bring in the harvest or gather wood for the fire."

         "Teirloch, you say?" Cathbad asked, and Avon nodded.  "I'm sorry child, but word of Teirloch's destruction reached Tara the day we left," he said softly, kneeling beside the litter and taking her hand in his.  "Raiders left nothing but stone, ash, and bones.  The high king sent three dozen men to hunt them down."

         Tears stung Avon's eyes at the thought of Shea lying dead in the ashes of her village.  The woman was old and increasingly ill.  Avon wasn't sure the widow could survive the winter fevers, so she had prepared herself for Shea's death months ago.  But for her to die so horribly...

         She set the bowl down on the litter, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed softly.  Why did things like this happen?  Shea was a kind, loving woman who wouldn't hurt anyone.  How could anyone just kill her; how could they destroy an entire village?  What would she do now?  She had no parents, no friends, no money.  She had nothing.

         "How many years do you have child?" Cathbad asked.

         "Eleven," Avon answered, wiping tears from her eyes as she looked up at the man.

         Cathbad hummed to himself and rubbed his chin through the beard.  "I am old," he said slowly.  "I have no children to pass my secrets to, and you seem to have some talent with memory if you can remember the herbs after so long at such a young age."

         "I do?" Avon asked.  "I thought anyone could do it."

         "You do," Cathbad assured her.  He held her gaze with his own, reached out to take her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.  "I need an apprentice, and it seems you need somewhere to go.  Would you come to Ulster and study to be a druidess?"

         "A druidess?" Avon asked stunned.

         "Yes," he answered.  "It's quite difficult, and you'll have to work hard.  But, I believe you would make a good druidess.  Do you think you can?"

         "I-I'd be honored," Avon answered.

         "Then my apprentice you shall be," Cathbad said, his blue-green eyes sparkling.  "Now, I have to know what to call you.  What is your name?"

         Avon started to answer, but something her father told her long ago whispered itself to her again.  She took up the bowl and sipped at the broth as she thought.  "Never tell anyone your true name," he had said, "especially a druid, because such knowledge can give them power over you."  Was she even Avon anymore?  Her parents were dead, and so was Shea.  Even the village she'd called home for so long was gone.  She'd lost everything, and she no longer felt like herself, the child born as her parents forded a river in Alba, the country of her birth.  No, she was no longer the river child; that girl had died in the clearing near Deargcoill, and there she would stay.  She didn't want to remember; she wouldn't remember.

         "Shea called me Carabeag," she answered finally.

         "I hardly think "little friend" is an appropriate name," Cathbad said.

         "Then you name me," she said and took another sip of the broth.

         "Fair enough," said Cathbad, fumbling with his beard again.  "I think I will call you...Deirdre," he said slowly.  "What do you think of it?"

         "It will do well," she answered.

         "Well then, Deirdre," he said as he pushed himself up, "finish your food, and the tea, if you can.  I shall go tell Conchobar of your decision and ask his leave to send word ahead to have a place prepared for you."

         "Thank you," she answered, obediently taking another sip of the broth.  Cathbad left the tent and lowered the flap to stave off the cold.  Once he was out of sight, Avon bowed her head to pray for Shea and the people of her old village before she buried her past for good.

         The next years passed quickly for Deirdre in a haze of lessons and unfamiliar places.  At thirteen, she was no longer the painfully thin child with close-cropped hair who first came to Ulster Castle.  Cathbad let her grow her hair until the shining ebony mass reached well past her shoulders.  Her body was beginning take on the curves of a woman, and the soldiers were starting to take notice.  Cathbad was always protective of her, behaving more like her father than her master, and he grew fiercer by the week.  Just weeks before, she'd seen him threaten to curse a particular young man for trying to present her with a token.  He never let her out of his sight unless he was called away on urgent business, and then he left her under the guard of Coirnin, a warrioress among Conchobar's men.

         Deirdre didn't mind Coirnin's company.  The woman was kind and never crowded her while she went about her chores.  Deirdre had grown to trust her over the months.  The older woman listened as she talked of her nightmares, memories of that horrible day in the woods.  Coirnin understood her sense of helpless fear and began teaching Deirdre to defend herself.

         This evening, Coirnin sat mending her clothes in Cathbad's chair as Deirdre prepared the herbs she and Cathbad gathered the day before.  She found it difficult to keep her mind on grinding the dried chicory root.  She felt a sense of foreboding as if disaster crouched nearby, waiting to pounce.  An image of Queen Ailleacht hanging from a gnarled old tree, a soldier lying dead at her feet, flashed before her eyes.  Deirdre shook herself and returned to work, dismissing the image as another nightmare brought about by Cathbad's sudden departure.  King Conchobar called Cathbad to retrieve the queen late yesterday afternoon, after it was discovered she had run away with one of Conchobar's champions.  She knew the man would be executed for his actions, but she couldn't believe Conchobar would harm Ailleacht.  She was the sister of Maive, Queen of Connacht, and the only thing holding Maive's ambition from bringing war to Ulster.

         Cathbad once told her how Queen Ailleacht was born in Ulster Castle when he was a young man.  His new wife Brandwen brought news of her birth to the hall during a feast held by Conchobar's father.  He had known then she would grow to be a beautiful woman, but he sensed a cloud of sadness about her though he didn't know the cause.  When the king mentioned a match between Conchobar and Ailleacht, Cathbad told him of his concerns.  However, the king discounted the young druid's prophesy as a foreboding of her mother's death and made the match.

         Deirdre finished grinding the chicory root, pulled out a recently cleaned vessel reserved for the herb, and carefully poured the powder into it.   Deirdre saw Coirnin stiffen as she dropped another dried root into the mortar. 

         "Cathbad comes," the warrioress said in response to Deirdre's questioning look and began to gather her work.

         Deirdre listened and soon heard the rhythmic thumping of Cathbad's ash staff against the flagstones.  "Aye," she agreed.  "You have good ears."

         "My ears are no better than yours," Coirnin smiled.  "But, I wasn't wrapped up in a dream world."  Deirdre blushed at the slight reproof.  "Nothing to be ashamed of, Deirdre.  It's a trait common in druids.  Makes them good storytellers."

         "Quite observant," Cathbad said as he pushed the door open.

         "Thank you," Coirnin answered and stood to offer a very weary looking Cathbad the chair.  "I'll leave you two to your work.  It's been a nice visit, Deirdre."

         "Yes it has," she agreed and nodded deeply as the older woman left.  Then, she turned her attention to Cathbad, who had already leaned his staff against the wall and slumped into his chair.  He looked ill.  "Can I get you anything, Cathbad?" she asked, leaving the mortar and pestle on the worktable as she tended him.

         "There's no potion for what ails me, Deirdre," he answered.  "Sometimes we're called to do things which play upon our conscience."

         "The queen?" Deirdre asked, sitting at her mentor's feet.

         "Yes," he sighed.  "I've known Ailleacht was unhappy for a very long time, but I could do nothing.  She was promised to Conchobar from birth."  He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes.  "She tried to escape, to be happy, and I had to help bring her back."

         "Couldn't you refuse?" Deirdre asked, not trying to be cruel, but simply confused.  How could King Conchobar order Cathbad to do anything when it seemed the druid was above the monarch?

         "I have the right," he whispered straightening himself again and looking down at Deirdre with sad eyes, "but how could I?  Conchobar has to have the respect of his people.  How can he hold respect when he cannot keep his wife at home?"

         "I'm sorry," Deirdre answered.

         "Don't be," Cathbad said, laying a hand on Deirdre's shoulder.  "I've taught you legends, and music, and herb-lore, but I've taught you nothing of politics.  You will understand in time."

         "At least the king will keep the people's favor," she said in an effort to cheer her mentor.

         "I suppose he will," Cathbad sighed, letting his head loll back against the wall.  "It was a horrible battle when we found them.  Naoise knew the fight was to the death, and he was determined to protect Ailleacht.  I finally cast a spell to help Conchobar's men, or the battle would rage still.  When it took effect, Ailleacht started screaming and flailing her arms.  Naoise dropped his sword and lifted her to his shoulders.  They were captured while they floundered about like they were being swept away by a flooded river."

         "You saved the lives of Ulster's soldiers," Deirdre interjected, but Cathbad continued without seeming to notice.

         "Naoise was executed immediately, of course.  Stealing the king's wife is treason."  Cathbad raised one hand and wiped the gathering tears from his eyes.  "I can still hear Ailleacht's cries and the lament she sang over his body."  Cathbad's head snapped up.  "I should really write it down before I forget it," he mumbled half to himself.  Surprised by the sudden change, Deirdre could only blink and gape as the old druid rambled on.  "It was beautiful, as good as any bard's," he said, reaching out and taking her hand in his earnestness.  "Bring me a scrap of wood."

         Deirdre nodded and rose to her feet, still not sure of her master's mood but eager to help him take his mind off his guilt.  She remembered Cathbad leaving some scraps of fallen bark in a little box he kept on the worktable.  He'd never told her why he wanted them, and she'd never seen him open the box except to add pieces he'd picked up here and there.  Perhaps he would perform some memory charm with them.  Deirdre opened the lid and took out a particularly large piece, hoping he would teach her whatever magic he was about to wield, and returned to his side.

         "Thank you, child," he said as he took the bark from her and pulled a small knife from its place in the drawer of his bedside table.  By the light of the candle Coirnin left behind, the man drew the blade across the bark's smooth side and began marking it with slashes above and below the first long line.

         "What is this?" Deirdre asked.

         "Have you never seen anyone write before?" he asked looking up.  Deirdre shook her head.  "It is a way to record words until they are committed to memory.  I will teach you later, but I need to concentrate now."  Cathbad reached out and adjusted the candle so its light fell more brightly on the bark.  "Did you finish preparing the herbs?"

         "No, Cathbad," she answered, looking down at her feet as she felt her face grow warm.

         "Please do so now," he ordered gently.  "Samhain is fast approaching, and you know what fevers the winter brings."

         "Yes, Cathbad," Deirdre answered and returned to the worktable.  She took up the pestle and pressed it into the waiting chicory root, grinding it against the mortar's bowl.  She'd learned so much in the past two years, but the day's events reminded her of how much she had yet to learn.  The image of Queen Ailleacht and Naoise flashed before her again, bringing tears to Deirdre's eyes.  She barely knew the woman, but she seemed like a kind person and Cathbad liked her.  Were men alone allowed to be happy?

         The next hours passed quietly, the only sounds those of Cathbad's blade scratching the bark's surface and the clicking grind of the mortar and pestle.  The repetitive motion lulled Deirdre into the half trance that comes before dreams.  She barely noticed her hands work on as ghostly images floated before her eyes, indistinct at first, but increasing in clarity until it seemed she was on the moors.  The air was crisp and cool with the promise of warmth as the first light of day broke over the northern hills.  A solitary rider pounded toward Ulster.  His shock of sandy hair flowed behind him, and his cloak billowed and snapped in the breeze.  The cloth was dampened by the wisps of fog his mount kicked up, but the MacNessa tartan shown brightly against the green of the moorland.  The morning's golden sun turned blood red as the ground began to crack.  The war-horse spooked and reared.  The rider drew his sword, looking about fiercely as if he expected attack.  He urged the mount forward and the massive hooves thundered on, throwing clumps of peat behind in a race against fate.  The earth crumbled under them.  The man's enraged voice roared out amidst the steed's terrible shriek, railing against death as they tumbled into the abyss.  The mortar fell from Deirdre's hand and clattered onto the table.

         "Deirdre?" Cathbad asked, worry lacing his voice as he laid the bark and knife aside.

         "I'm just tired," she answered and rubbed her eyes, trying to free herself of the image.  "I didn't sleep well after what happened last night."

         "You should go on to bed," he said.  "We can finish in the morning."

         "No, no," Deirdre answered, shaking her head as she returned to the work.  "I'm almost done."

         Cathbad started to say something else, but a knock at the door interrupted him.  Deirdre opened the door without hesitation to find King Conchobar standing on the other side.  She bowed without a word and stepped aside to let him enter.  How strange it was the king came to Cathbad's quarters.  He usually sent a messenger when he wished to speak with his advisor.  Whatever else the king's visit might mean, she knew he wanted to speak with Cathbad alone, so she gathered the last of the herbs, the mortar and pestle, and a candle.  Then, she went into the adjacent storage room and closed the door.  Deirdre knew she shouldn't listen, but she still had the same sense of foreboding.  She had to know if something else happened.

         "Ailleacht... is dead," Conchobar growled.  "She hung herself the moment she was left alone."

         "I'm sorry," Cathbad answered.

         "You should be!" Conchobar hissed.  "You were the one who told my father how beautiful she would become.  Did you forget to mention she'd be barren; that she'd leave me without an heir?"

         "I warned your father something was wrong, that the match would come to no good end," Cathbad answered firmly.  "But I didn't have specific details.  Visions are vague.  I cannot say what I do not know."

         "Well," Conchobar said, "perhaps you can set things right."  The negotiating tone in his voice sent chills up Deirdre's spine.

         "How?" Cathbad asked politely with an edge to his voice Deirdre had never heard before.

         "I want a queen.  One who can bear a son."

         "How can I find a woman for you?"

         "You have one in your possession," Conchobar answered quickly.  "The girl is lovely.  She has her courses."

         "The daughter of a druid is not for the king!"

         "She's not your daughter, Cathbad."

         "No," Cathbad answered quietly, "but she's the daughter of a druid nonetheless.  It's one of the reasons I chose her for my apprentice."

         "Would you leave Ulster without an heir?" Conchobar asked.  "Will you keep her away from all men?  Childless?"

         "I will not have her die trying to bear a child too young," Cathbad answered.  "She's only half grown, and you are a very large man.  You remember the way I found her, the injuries she received.  Besides, having her courses doesn't guarantee a woman's fruitfulness."

         "So, she is weaker than other women?" Conchobar sounded skeptical.

         "No," Cathbad conceded, "but childbirth is dangerous for all women.  It is even more so when the mother is barely more than a child herself and the father a large man.  If the child is too large for her, she may go into labor early.  Both mother and child can die very easily."

         Deirdre had been unable to work as she'd intended, and now she waited breathlessly.  The death of Ailleacht didn't surprise her after the flashes she'd gotten all day, but it was disturbing to hear Conchobar actually asking for her moments after finding his wife dead at her own hands.  She found it difficult to trust anyone, least of all men.  Conchobar was a good king, but a poor husband.  She'd heard the stories of how he treated Ailleacht, and the thought of such a life terrified her. 

         "Oh Rhiannon," she whispered, "let him listen to Cathbad.  "Please, please, protect me."

         "Alright," Conchobar said roughly after what seemed an eternity.  "I will wait, but you can expect me to return.  I will have Deirdre."

         Deirdre nearly fainted with relief, waiting for Cathbad's reply, but it didn't come.  She could almost see him glaring at Conchobar as the younger man left.  The riotous noise of the far door slamming made Deirdre jump.  Her knees collapsed, and she crumpled into a sobbing heap on the storage room floor, whispering her thanks to Rhiannon over and over again.

         "You can come out now," Cathbad called.

         Deirdre dashed the tears from her eyes and pushed herself up from the floor.  She brushed the dust from her knees and gathered the things she'd brought in before.  Cathbad was easing himself back into his chair when she returned to the main room.  She couldn't remember the last time she saw his face so red, his expression hard; Conchobar had really angered him.  Not wanting to make things worse, Deirdre went back to her work without a word.

         "You should stay with Brandwen this winter," Cathbad said finally.  "She could use your help."

         "What about you?" Deirdre asked, never looking up.  She was weary of being ordered about, and her near brush with virtual slavery left her feeling rebellious.  One of the first things she'd learned as Cathbad's apprentice was druids, both men and women, were respected and controlled their own lives.  It took only seconds for rebellion to harden into a fierce determination to control her own life.  "One of the city healers died just last season, and her daughter is only half trained.  Brandwen has her own apprentice to help her, and their village is much smaller than Ulster."

         "I said you will stay with Brandwen," he said again.

         "Will going to Cnofomhar change Conchobar's mind?" she asked.

         "You heard," Cathbad sighed.

         "How couldn't I?" she asked.  "You were both shouting."

         "I just want you to be safe," he said, letting his shoulders droop slightly.  "When Maive hears about Ailleacht's death..."

         "There will be war in Ulster," Deirdre finished.  "You've told me as much many times before, but there is always war.  There is always danger."

         "Please understand, daughter," Cathbad half pleaded as he reached out to Deirdre.  She walked to his side.  He took her hand and pulled her down in front of him.  "I only want what is best for you."

         "I'm not Breacadh," Deirdre answered softly.  "Dagda knows I love you as if you were my father, but you have to know I'm not her.  Breacadh died years ago."

         "I did it again, didn't I?" he asked, and Deirdre nodded.  "I'm sorry.  You're so much like her."

         "I know," Deirdre whispered, patting the old man's hand.  "I know.  I cannot leave you here alone.  You understand?"

         "The king will come again."

         "Perhaps," she answered, a wry grin spreading across her face as an idea occurred to her, "but he may not.  Perhaps he will wed Maive and join the kingdoms of Ulster and Connacht.  That is what she wants, after all."

         "Maive has a husband," Cathbad said, his voice tinged with amusement.

         "Yes," Deirdre agreed, "but you've told me he is little more than Maive's lap dog, and many a lady has doted on her dog and then killed it for gloves the moment her fingers grew cold."

         "True enough, child," Cathbad laughed.  "But she is too much the same as Conchobar.  They would kill one another."

         "Then his nephew, Cuchulainn, will take the throne with his wife at his side," Deirdre answered with a shrug.  "Either way, I'm not afraid."

         "I should've known better than to leave you in Coirnin's care," Cathbad sighed.  "She's ruined you."

         "Then you'll let me stay?" Deirdre asked.

         "Do I have a choice?" he returned with a chuckle.

         "No."

         As predicted, Maive wasted no time declaring war against Ulster.  The first raids began under the cover of the new moon; yet, despite the distraction, Conchobar remained true to his word.  He returned on the eve of Samhain the next two years, but Cathbad answered saying she was not yet grown.  However, it soon became apparent she wouldn't grow any longer, and Conchobar returned shortly before Beltane.  It was the only time Deirdre had seen the druid surprised in the seven years she'd spent at Ulster.  But, he recovered quickly, recalling the horrible illness one local healer was suffering, and said he wouldn't be able to release Deirdre of her duties until the man recovered.  Conchobar was furious, but he agreed to the terms for fear of the druid's wrath.  All Cathbad's healing arts were insufficient to save the healer, but his son was fully trained and able to fill the void left by his father.  They left to visit Brandwen the following day and began to travel more and more as time progressed.

         They spent more time away from Ulster Castle in the past two years than in the previous five years put together.  Deirdre relished the time she had with Cathbad and reveled in the knowledge she gained as they traveled together, but her conscience weighed heavily on her.  She knew she was the cause of his self-inflicted exile, which she blamed for his slowly deteriorating health.  Cathbad took to his bed with a fever almost immediately after they returned to Ulster.

         Deirdre lifted the cloth from the old man's head and rinsed it in a bowl of cool water.  She wrung out the scrap of material and smoothed it over his forehead again.  Her teas helped, but he was still far too warm.  If he were a younger man she would order him lowered into a tub of ice water, but she knew his heart wouldn't withstand the shock.  Deirdre sank down into a chair setting at his bedside, and taking his frail hand in both of hers, lowered her head until her chin rested on her knuckles.

         "You've got to fight," she whispered.  "You're needed here.  You've got to fight."

         Looking down at the old man's sleeping face roused her anger so violently it frightened her.  Conchobar's illogical obsession with her had brought Cathbad to this end, and she hated him for it.  Wondering why the king desired her had plagued her since the night Queen Ailleacht died.  Many nobles offered Conchobar rich dowries for their daughters, but he refused one after the other, claiming he did not wish to remarry.  What did she have to offer the king other than an heir?  She had no fortunes or lands.  Long ago, Deirdre asked Cathbad about it after Conchobar declined a proposed union with the king of Leinster's third daughter.

         "You are a dowry in and of yourself," was his answer.

         Flattering as it was, the reply only confused her more.  Deirdre blushed in embarrassment at both the compliment and her inability to understand Cathbad's meaning.  After a moment, she swallowed her pride and asked him to explain.

         Cathbad chuckled good-humoredly.  "High born ladies are rarely taught anything other than carding and spinning, weaving and cooking, nagging and raising children," he answered with a wink.  "You are a druidess in addition to being a lovely young woman.  Even though your training isn't complete, you've skill in all our arts, especially prophesy.  Conchobar believes your charms can guide his army and protect his sons."

         "I would guide his army and protect his sons if asked, even if I weren't his wife and the boys were not my sons," she protested.

         "Perhaps, but not as fiercely," he answered.

         "I am low born."

         "Conchobar doesn't believe you are," Cathbad answered, "and there are none who can dispute him."

         "I can," Deirdre squeaked.

         "Can you deny that your parents were druids?" Cathbad answered, his brows knitting together worriedly.  "Can you dispute the fact druids rule Alba, or that you and your parents were Alban born?  Besides, a king's daughter is very often spoiled and difficult to control.  After the incident with Ailleacht, Conchobar doesn't want another king's daughter.  You've never as much as uttered a word in front of the king without first being bidden to speak."  The man sighed, "He thinks you as meek and submissive a woman as any born, and why shouldn't he think so?"

         "Should I rebel and act like a fool then?" Deirdre asked, sounding slightly offended.

         "No," Cathbad answered and shook his head. "That would only make matters worse.  Considering how he is regarding such subjects, he is likely to overreact.  Don't worry.  I'll do everything in my power to protect you from Conchobar."

         Cathbad was true to his promise.  Over the years, he protected her as best he could, treating her as he would his own daughter.  She loved him for it.  In truth, she would give her life to save his, but what good was such a determination now when her knowledge failed her in Cathbad's time of need?  She was completely defenseless now, residing within the walls of Ulster Castle with her only protector lying ill—possibly dying—but she didn't care for herself.  All she wanted was for the old man to recover.

         A knock at the door interrupted her private reverie.  Deirdre straightened herself and lowered Cathbad's hand to his side to wipe away the tears from her eyes before answering.  A young boy pushed the door open and stepped inside mumbling his apologies with a shallow bow to Deirdre.

         "What is it?" she asked, annoyed by being disturbed.

         "King Conchobar requests your presence," the boy answered.

         "Cathbad is ill," Deirdre said.  "I cannot leave him."

         "Please, ma'am," the boy said, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.  "The king's out of sorts tonight.  He'll box my ears if I tell him you're not coming."

         "And what will he do if Cathbad dies?" she asked relentlessly.

         "It is the king's message, ma'am," he answered, "not mine."

         "Very well," Deirdre sighed.  She looked down at Cathbad.  He was sweating with the effort to breathe.  "Ask Coirnin to come here.  I have a favor to ask her."

         "Yes, ma'am," the boy answered and left at a run without closing the door.

         Deirdre stood and removed the damp cloth from Cathbad's forehead.  It had grown quite warm in the short time she sat by his side.  She cooled the cloth in the water and wrung it out again.  Then, she gently raised his head and laid the cloth behind his neck, making sure to brush his unshorn hair out of the way.  She retrieved another cloth, moistened it in the water, and smoothed it over his forehead before throwing his covers back, leaving him covered only by his light robe.  He shivered at the sudden change.  Seeing him like this tore at Deirdre's heart, but she fought against her instinct to pull the covers back up to his chin.  He had to cool down, and it was far too soon to give him another dose of the teas.  She knew it was uncomfortable for him, but it was the only thing she knew to do.

         Why had Conchobar called for her now?  The boy would have told her if the king was sick, so it seemed unlikely she'd need her herbs.  An odd feeling nagged at her.  Did he plan to take advantage of Cathbad's illness?  The thought sickened her, but it was more than possible.  Before he became king, Conchobar was a warrior, trained to avail himself of every opportunity to attain victory, and she was defenseless now.

         Deirdre carefully pulled the ring from Cathbad's right hand.  She held it close as she crossed the room and quietly pushed his storeroom door open.  Even being a druidess, she would never have Cathbad's influence or power.  She couldn't refuse Conchobar without inviting insult, and she knew the fate of those who did.  With her mentor ill, the only defense left to her was knowledge.  Cathbad kept a store of his most needed potions safely locked away.  She knew where the vials were and how to open the box.

         A large, ornately carved, birch cabinet stood in the storeroom corner, surrounded by shelf upon shelf of fresh, dried, ground, and steeped herbs of every sort.  Deirdre ran her hand over the smooth wood of the handle-less doors, feeling the power of the potions it held.  The latch lay hidden among the carvings near the top of the left door.  Deirdre raised Cathbad's ring and pressed it into the latch, wiggling it until the seal locked into the pattern.  She took hold of the thick band and twisted it to the right.  The bolt loosed with a hollow thunk, allowing the right door to swing open.  Searching through the vials, Deirdre found the one she wanted and pulled it from the cabinet.  Sleeping draughts were rarely needed but difficult to make, so Cathbad always kept several doses ready and waiting.  She stood, looking at the vial as her heart pounded in her ears.  Too much could kill; would she have the courage to use the draught if the time came?  Finally deciding worrying about such things now was pointless, Deirdre took a deep breath and slipped the vial into her pocket.  She closed the door and turned the key ring to lock it again before returning to Cathbad's bedside.  Footsteps echoed in the hallway as she slid the ring back onto the druid's finger.

         "Deirdre?" Coirnin called as she entered the already open door.  "What is it?  Cathbad's alright isn't he?"

         "His fever's bad," Deirdre answered, "but that's not why I called.  King Conchobar's called for me.  Would you stay with Cathbad?"

         "Yes, of course," Coirnin said.  "Is there anything else I can do?"

         "Just keep the cloths damp and cold," Deirdre answered, leaving the bedside to gather her healer's pouch, the contents of which were strewn over the worktable.  "Don't cover him up.  We have to cool the heat in his blood."  She turned her attention to the boy for a moment.  "Did Conchobar say why he wanted me to come?"

         The adolescent shook his head.  "Only that he wanted you to bring your harp."

         "He's pulling me from Cathbad's sickbed for a song?" Deirdre asked in disgust, knowing the boy couldn't answer.  She pulled the pouch closed and tied it about her waist before retrieving her lap harp.  "I won't be long," she said for Coirnin's benefit.  "Could you stay for a bit when I return?  I think it may be best to crop Cathbad's hair and shave his beard.  I'll need you to hold him up while I cut his hair."

         "He's not going to like that," Coirnin answered.

         "I've no choice, Coirnin," Deirdre sighed.  "The hair holds too much heat, and the teas aren't working."

         "Why not give him an ice bath?" Coirnin asked.

         "If he were a younger man..."

         "I see."

         "I won't be long," Deirdre said again, making her way toward the door.  "Thank you."

         Deirdre clutched her harp to her chest as she followed the boy through the corridors.  An owl's call echoed through the passage.  Deirdre knew Conchobar kept owls he trained to hunt, and his favorite rarely left his side.  Somehow, tonight, that knowledge was more unsettling than the death omen of its call. 

         The boy left once he'd led her to the door.  Deirdre pushed the heavy door open to find Conchobar sprawled in a large chair with a chalice and half-drunk bottle of wine on the table beside him.  She felt the sight returning as Conchobar's image wavered before her eyes.  The king morphed into a raider dressed in tartan and painted with woad.  Deirdre's breath caught in her throat, and she felt faint.  However, the moment passed and the image faded.

         "You requested my presence?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice from wavering.

         "Yes, Deirdre," he slurred.  "Sleep evades me tonight.  Play.  Soothe me to sleep."

         She nodded and took the other chair before setting her harp in her lap.  Laying trembling fingers to the strings, she began to play.  Cathbad taught her innumerable tunes, but she didn't know how long the king would listen.  So, she laid aside the songs she'd memorized and let herself fall inward until her fingers played over the strings of their own accord.  She had thought to play a sweet tune to lull Conchobar into sleep, but her heart chose differently, pouring its unease into the melody. 

         Deirdre could feel the king watching her.  She glanced up without moving her head.  His expression was a mixture of disquiet and drunken desire.  The raider's image wavered over Conchobar's face again.  Any other time, Deirdre would question the images.  She saw them so often it was difficult to tell which were visions and which mere dreams, but she was utterly defenseless now, vulnerable, and the king knew it.  Given her experiences, the images left no room for interpretation.

         After a time, Conchobar fell victim to a coughing fit.  It was a low rumbling cough common in the winter, but dangerous if left unchecked.  Deirdre stopped playing and set the harp aside, seeing her opportunity to escape and perhaps help the king fight off an oncoming illness.

         "I don't like the sound of that," she said rising from her chair.

         "It's nothing," Conchobar answered with a wave of his hand.  "Play for me."

         "Come now," Deirdre said growing bolder in her increasing fear.  "It's my duty to keep you healthy, and I intend to."  Without waiting for him to reply, Deirdre went to the table and filled Conchobar's chalice again.  She slipped her hand into her pocket; making it appear as if she'd reached into the pouch at her waist, and pulled out the vial she'd pulled from Cathbad's cabinet earlier.  Deirdre measured out a dose of the powder into the wine with baited breath.

         "You're duty?" Conchobar asked, his tongue sluggish after much wine.  "What about your duty to the kingdom?"

         Deirdre stiffened at the question and recorked the vial, hoping she'd measured the potion correctly.  She lifted the chalice and swirled the wine inside to dissolve the powder before turning her attention to the king.

         "This is my duty to the kingdom," she answered and held out the chalice.  "Safeguarding the king's health."

         "What of the king's heir?" Conchobar said in return as he reached out to accept the wine.  For a moment, his hand closed over hers.  The fingers were rough and calloused from years of fighting, but the touch was gentle and not without compassion.  Yet, Deirdre drew her hand back in repulsion, trying to show no outward signs which would insult the king, doubtful as she was he would remember tonight.

         "When you remarry, I shall see to the health of the queen and any children she bears," she answered.

         "Has Cathbad not mentioned anything of marriage to you?" Conchobar asked as he lifted the chalice to his lips.  He watched her unwaveringly as he drank liberally from the drugged wine.  "I have asked for you many times," he continued when she failed to respond.

         "I've heard," she answered, looking down at the floor.

         "Well, what do you say, girl?"  He took another long draught from the wine.

         "I am flattered," she answered concerned by the way the king's face was slowly becoming a dark red.  "But, I'm loath to leave Cathbad's side until there is another to take his place."

         "That will take years," Conchobar slurred sloshing wine out of the chalice as he gestured wildly.  "You will be past your best breeding years."  Deirdre felt herself blanch and then blush as she searched for words.  The king waited for her answer, finally throwing his head back, he drained the cup and set it back onto the table with a clatter.  "I'll make you a deal," he continued.  "We'll marry in the morning, and Cathbad will train our second son in his ways."

         "You are feverish, Sire," Deirdre floundered, trying to stall.  "You really should rest."

         "Perhaps you're right," Conchobar said, his eyes rolling as he rose on unsteady legs and reached out toward Deirdre.  She pulled away, barely escaping his grasp, but he leered after her.  "Come now, you won't leave your king alone in a cold bed?" he asked as he reached for her again.  His large hands closed around her thin arms like twin vices.  The king pulled her close and kissed her fiercely as he pushed her toward the bed.

         "Cathbad is ill," Deirdre cried when she managed to push free enough to speak.  "I must return to treat him."

         "Let the healer heal himself," Conchobar snarled, seeming to enjoy her struggling as he kissed her again.  "The man is old," he mumbled, hefting her onto the mattress, "if it is his time, there is nothing you can do to prevent it."

         "I must try," Deirdre squeaked pitifully, fighting against her nightmare as he eased himself onto the bed.  She'd almost given up hope when Conchobar's muscles went lax, and he fell against her.  Deirdre pushed the man away and scrambled off the wretched mattress.  She pressed her fingers against his neck near the jaw line and felt his pulse beating slowly but strong.

         "Thank you, Rhiannon," she whispered, raising her eyes to the heavens for a moment before returning her attention to Conchobar.  "Dagda forgive me, but may you be burned in the fires of Beltane at the hands of your own people," she spat and hurried out of the room.

         Deirdre fought to control her expression as she nearly ran back to the safety of the rooms she shared with Cathbad.  Thankfully, she'd remembered to retrieve her harp before leaving the king's chambers.  Considering the amount of wine he'd consumed and the sleeping draught's effects, Conchobar was unlikely to recall tonight's events in the morning unless he had a physical reminder.  She certainly didn't want him to remember the "understanding" between them and come to claim her.

         Deirdre slipped through Cathbad's door and closed it as quickly as she could without waking the man.  Overcome by a rash of conflicting emotions, Deirdre didn't remember asking Coirnin to come or notice the other woman's presence as her knees gave way and she crumpled against the wall.  Her back slowly slid down the cold surface as she dissolved into silent sobs, warm tears falling onto the sacred harp still clutched against her heart.

         A moment later, Deirdre felt someone approach though she couldn't hear footsteps.  Frightened, she looked up half expecting to see Conchobar, but she found Coirnin instead.  The older woman looked concerned as she kneeled beside Deirdre.

         "What happened?" she asked.

         "Nothing," Deirdre lied weakly, dashing the tears from her cheeks with one hand.  "Conchobar had too much wine, that's all."

         "I see," Coirnin answered knowingly.  Deirdre knew the warrioress had guessed the truth of the matter but doubted she would press her for a further explanation.  "I've already relieved Cathbad of his beard," Coirnin said, deftly changing the subject.  "I don't know if it helped, but it's done.  Come, I will hold him up while you cut his hair."

         Cathbad barely stirred when he was moved, only whimpering softly when Deirdre raised the shears.  The two women worked on in silence under the heavy cloud of mournful anger left by the evening's events.  After what seemed like hours, Coirnin lowered the old druid back onto the mattress once the last white lock was cut.  She offered to stay and watch over Cathbad so Deirdre could sleep.  Deirdre thankfully agreed and prepared another pot of mint and chamomile tea. 

         Cathbad had grown thin and gaunt in past years, so Deirdre was able to lift him up enough to drink the tea with little trouble.  She tilted his head back and slowly poured the warm liquid into his mouth.  Although he never roused, Cathbad was alert enough to swallow on his own, which gave Deirdre hope.  She remembered her mother in those last days as she became progressively weaker until it was too much even to breathe.  At last the cup was drained, and Deirdre lowered him back onto the bed.  She set the cup aside, and sinking into nearby chair, she took his hand in her own again.  Having done all within her power, Deirdre did the only thing left to do; she prayed.

         Deirdre felt Coirnin grasp her shoulders and squeeze them reassuringly.  "He's strong," the warrioress whispered.  "He'll pull through this."

         "I know," Deirdre answered as she looked down at her sleeping mentor.  He seemed so small, so frail, lying there.  Blinking away the mist gathering in her eyes, she reached out and gently smoothed back his still damp hair. "So was my mother," she whispered.

         "You need to rest," Coirnin insisted quietly.  "I'll watch over him and wake you if anything changes."

         "You're right," Deirdre sighed, rubbing her tired eyes.  She stood and stretched the length of her body, stiff after the evening's stressful events.  "Thank you, Coirnin," she whispered, turning tearstained eyes up to the larger woman.

         "You're more than welcome," Coirnin replied and pulled Deirdre into a warm embrace.  "It is no more than you would do for me." Deirdre returned the hug for a moment before finally pulling away, leaving Cathbad in Coirnin's care. 

         She changed into a sleeping gown and brushed her hair smooth before crawling thankfully under the covers of her own bed.  Her eyes burned to close as she dropped into slumber by degrees.  For a while, all was blissful, pitch-black nothingness, but images began to surface slowly.  They weren't as coherent as in the past, but disjointed and seemingly random.  Brandwen lying in ashes, surrounded by bodies in a burning village, became a skeletal rowan tree with the bodies of five druids hanging from its limbs.  Deirdre stood beside Cathbad in the fairy ring to the south of Ulster Castle where the sacred oak grows.  He passed his staff and signet rings on to her as a sphinx with a tawny hide and two human males looked on.  A rider wearing MacNessa tartan tumbled screaming into the abyss before Deirdre finally jerked awake.

         "I've enough of shadows," she whispered fiercely, slowly pushing herself up as the muscles in her back ached in protest of the movement.  "Shall I never be left in peace?"  She knew something was coming, a crucial step in Ulster's path was being heralded by the increasingly frequent visions, but she couldn't stand them any longer.

         A pale light at the foot of her bed caught her attention, and she gasped when she realized it was Conchobar standing in the room.  Deirdre's eyes grew wide as she watched the flames flicker in the fireplace through the man's chest.  Remembering something Cathbad had told her before, Deirdre looked over the apparition's head where it seemed the burning stump of a candle floated.  Then, she understood.  It wasn't the king at all but only his fetch, and she knew.   The image faded, leaving her alone with the half joyful pity of understanding.  Conchobar's fetch could only mean one thing, all her visions, all the omens, heralded Conchobar's death.  She did not know when or how the king would die, but she knew it would not be long and the after effects would not be pleasant.

         Deirdre shook herself and looked over to the bed where Cathbad lay.  He was frighteningly still, but she could hear his breath coming in soft snores.  Where had Coirnin gone?  The chair beside his bed was empty and the candle wasn't on the table.  Deirdre reached out to pull her dressing gown from the rough-hewn chair near her bed and shrugged it on.  She climbed out of the bed, tying the gown's belt as she crossed the room and laid the back of her hand against Cathbad's cheek.  His fever had broken during the night.  He was still too warm to the touch, but the fever was waning at last.  Tears of relief trailed down Deirdre's cheeks as she removed the cloths from his forehead and under his neck.  She laid them on the table and pulled a light cover over him to make him more comfortable.

         The door opened to emit Coirnin, balancing a small tray with two steaming bowls on it.  She smiled when she saw Deirdre awake and about.  "You're idea worked," she said quietly as she closed the door.  "He was sleeping peacefully, so I decided to go get us something to eat."

         "Good idea," Deirdre agreed, smiling genuinely for the first time in days and taking the offered bowl.  "I'm suddenly starving."

         "I'm glad I went then," Coirnin said jovially, setting the tray on the worktable and lifting her own bowl.  "Also, I heard there were three cows and five sheep slaughtered this morning for the king's feast," she continued between bites.  "So, I ordered some broth be made for Cathbad."

         "Ah, thank you," Deirdre answered, unable to hide her unease.  "Why is Conchobar holding a feast?"

         Coirnin gulped down the porridge in her mouth before answering.  "I asked about that.  No one seems to know.  He ordered preparations made yesterday but gave no explanation.  He hasn't come out of his chambers this morning."

         "He's probably still sleeping off the wine," Deirdre said flatly and concentrated on her porridge.  Given his actions a few hours before, she suspected the king meant this evening to be their wedding feast.  She had no desire to marry anyone, least of all Conchobar, but she couldn't refuse him.  Remembering the fetch, she took comfort in the knowledge the king's life would soon end.  She could endure anything with the hope of deliverance.

         "I've been working on a cap for Cathbad," Coirnin broke the silence.  She gestured toward a strip of knitting on the table.  "I thought he could use something to keep his head warm."

         "He'll be grateful for...," Deirdre began, but an urgent knock at the door interrupted her.  She set her bowl aside and hurried to answer.  Conchobar's messenger boy stood wide eyed on the other side, and Deirdre's heart froze.

         "The king is ill," the boy squeaked.

         "I'm on my way," Deirdre answered.  She retrieved her pouch from the worktable and hurried after the boy with an apologetic shrug to Coirnin.  They could hear a hacking cough echoing down the hall and opened the door to find Conchobar lounging in the oversized bed, propped up by thick pillows and holding his head.  The boy left once Deirdre entered and closed the door behind.

         "Where's Cathbad?" Conchobar demanded in a whiningly irritated hush.

         "He's taken with a fever, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me," she answered.  Now that she saw him pouting like a spoiled child, the mystique fell away, leaving the man.  Slowly losing her fear, Deirdre dropped into the half-scolding tone the druid sometimes used with Conchobar.  She made her way to the king's bedside and laid her pouch on a nearby table to free her hands.  "The boy said you were ill."

         "I am," he grumbled.  "Everything hurts, especially my head.  It pounds.  I'm cold.  I'm nauseous.  My heart's beating too fast, and it's hard to breathe."

         "Was that you coughing before?" she asked, moving closer to lay her hand across his forehead.  The wine could explain his headache and nauseousness, but it wouldn't have caused any of his other symptoms.  His face burned under her fingers.

         "Yes," he answered with a sniffle.

         "Any fatigue?" she asked as she pressed her fingers under his ear at the jaw line.  His pulse came faster than the night before, but it wasn't fast enough to worry her of itself.  However, his collection of symptoms caused her own pulse to quicken as she waited for his answer.

         "Yes," he said, punctuating his statement with a yawn.  "All I want to do is sleep."

         "Rest will be the best medicine for you," Deirdre agreed.  She straightened herself and looked down at Conchobar.  Momentarily forgetting her patient was the king, she treated him as she would any other patient.  "I will make some potions to lower your fever and help you breathe, then I want you to rest," she said firmly.  "You're not to leave this room until I say so."

         "Watch how you speak to me, woman," Conchobar growled, shocking Deirdre out of her habitual healing mindset.  She was astonished by her forwardness and searched for a defense while Conchobar fought through another coughing fit.  "I am your king," he croaked once he could draw breath again.

         "And with Cathbad ill, I am your healer," Deirdre answered, clutching her hands in front of her to hide their shaking.  "Would you pass your fever to all of Ulster?"

         "No," he grunted.

         "Then in this matter, do as I say."  She waited for him to answer, but he simply stared at the wall.  His jaw clenched and unclenched as a slight red glow rose in his weatherworn cheeks, embarrassed and angered by his inability to argue with her reason.

         "I will not be ordered about by a woman," he said finally.

         "Will you be advised by a druidess?" she asked.

         "As long as she doesn't forget her place," Conchobar warned glaring up at her with angry eyes.

         "I am sure you'll remind me if I do," Deirdre answered sweetly and returned to her pouch.  She untied the strings and pulled it open, rummaging around inside to find the herbs she needed.  Her mint and chamomile stores were becoming strained, but she had plenty of salad burnet and mugwart.  She would prefer to add some horseradish to his breakfast to calm his breathing, but there was none in her pouch.  The thyme she had would have to do.  Pulling the leaves from their containers, she looked about for a cooking pot, and felt incredibly foolish when she found none.  "I'll have to retrieve something from my chambers," she sighed.

         "A druidess ill prepared?" Conchobar mocked.

         "A druidess pulled from her bed by a frantic child," she answered tartly and gestured toward the door.  "With your leave..."

         "By all means," he said, eyeing her closely.

         His attention sickened Deirdre, but she held her face expressionless and turned to leave.  A knock sounded just as her fingertips touched the latch.  She pulled the heavy door open but stepped into the way so the visitor couldn't enter.  If her suspicions were correct, the fever Conchobar had could be deadly and spread like wildfire.  She would not take the risk of it spreading beyond the king.  He was still relatively young and stronger than most.  His chances of surviving were good, especially in comparison to what such a fever did to children and the elderly.

         A serving woman stood in the hall, waiting for Deirdre to step aside and let her enter.  She held a tray with a bowl of porridge, a cup of warmed wine, and a small cooking pot on it.  The woman smiled and offered the tray to Deirdre.

         "I brought the king's breakfast," she said.  "I thought you might be able to use a cooking pot as well."

         "Thank you," Deirdre answered and accepted the tray.  "That was very thoughtful of you."  She lowered her voice to a near whisper before she continued.  "I need to ask you to let people know no one is to enter the king's chambers, and he is not to be disturbed."

         "What about the feast?" she asked.

         "Postponed at best," Deirdre answered.  "The king has the influenza, and I can't allow it to spread."

         "Influenza," the woman gasped.

         "Yes," Deirdre replied.  "Now, please, leave me to treat the king and warn the others not to come."

         "Yes, ma'am," the woman gulped and left, nearly running back towards the kitchens.

         Confident the woman would do as she asked, Deirdre closed the door and silently returned to the bedside.  Avoiding Conchobar's eyes, she leaned across to lay the tray so it balanced on his legs.  Her hair fell like a curtain between them as she did so, blotting out the king's image, but she could hear him breathe in deeply with a quiet sigh.  She clenched her jaw against the things she was tempted to say and lifted the small earthen pot from the tray.

         "How tenderly you tend your patient," Conchobar said, watching her place the leaves into the vessel.  "You will make a wonderful mother."

         "I doubt I shall ever bear children," Deirdre answered, pretending she didn't know what he was working his way toward as she reached for the water pitcher.  "I have no desire to marry any man."

         "None at all?" he asked sounding surprised and skeptical at the same time.  "Not even a king?"

         Deirdre laughed as she poured the water, "A king needs a woman who can bear sons.  You know how Cathbad found me."  She placed the pitcher back on the table and turned to face the king.  "It's likely my ability to bear children died in the clearing where I was attacked."

         "I don't believe that," Conchobar answered, taking a sip of the wine.

         "That is one illness I cannot cure," Deirdre sighed.  She turned her back to him and made her way to the fireplace.  Using a nearby rod, she hung the pot over the flames to steep. 

         "You've spirit," Conchobar said when she turned from the hearth.  A crooked smile played about his features.  "I like it."

         "The meek make poor druids," she answered, opening her pouch again to look for a little sage.  Finding the bundle, she stripped off three leaves and put the bundle back.  "None can accuse Cathbad of being weak of heart."

         "Such an action would be foolish indeed," he agreed, finally lifting the porridge to his lips.  He watched as Deirdre lowered herself into the same chair she'd used the night before and chewed the sage leaves.  "You must be hungry," he said, "I'll have them bring something for you."

         "Thank you for the offer, but I managed to eat before the boy came," she answered.  Then, realizing why he'd spoken, she added, "The leaves are to keep me from contracting the fever as well."

         "Clever," Conchobar mumbled.  "It's too bad I didn't have any yesterday.  We'd be celebrating our wedding as planned."

         "Wedding?" she asked innocently.  "As planned?"

         "Didn't Cathbad tell you?" he returned, the old swagger returning.  "I've asked for you."

         "And did he promise?"

         "He didn't refuse," Conchobar rumbled into more coughing.  "What do you say?" he continued when the fit passed.

         "How can I refuse," she answered weakly, thankful the pot had started to boil.  She rose from the chair and hurried to remove the vessel from the fireplace using the metal rod again. 

         "So much enthusiasm.  "I'm honored."

         "Do you expect enthusiasm from a woman who just told you she had no interest in marriage?"

         "I should think any woman would happily marry a king."

         "I care nothing about power or riches," Deirdre answered softly, moving slowly as she carried the swinging vessel across the room.  She finally lowered the pot to the flagstones to cool.  "All I ever wanted was to live simply, using my talents to help those around me.  Like Brandwen."

         "A married woman who abandoned her husband," Conchobar replied scornfully.  "She's hardly someone to be looked up to."

         "Cathbad and Brandwen agreed to live separately after their daughter's death," Deirdre answered, biting her tongue against all the things she wanted to say and returned the rod to its place at the fireside.  "You know the arguments they had better than I, but they're still quite friendly."

         "Well, want it or not, you will be my queen."

         "Yes, Sire," she half-sighed, returning from the fireplace.  "When you are well."

         "Aye, when I'm well again," he leered.  Having finished his breakfast, he motioned for Deirdre to take the tray away.  "I'm sure you'll make sure that's soon."

         "These fevers rarely take long for a man of your years to fight off," she said, ignoring the way he watched her as she took the tray.  "It is the children and the elderly who have difficulty."

         "Is this the fever Cathbad has?"

         "No," she answered matter-of-factly as she bent to test the tea's temperature.  Finding the vessel cool enough to touch, she poured the tea into Conchobar's cup.  "He has water in the lungs."

         Deirdre offered the cup of herbal tea to the king, and he accepted it obediently.  Without hesitation, he raised the steaming liquid to his lips and sipped at it.  He grimaced at the taste, but drank nonetheless.  It was then she realized how easy it would be for her to poison the man, but much as she loathed him, Deirdre would endure his company and do what she could for him.  She knew he was condemned to die, but she was determined his death would not come by her hand.  Let him fall at Maive's sword or by some accident as the gods willed.

         "Will he survive?" Conchobar asked between sips.  It was the first time Deirdre heard the man sound concerned for anyone.

         "It is difficult to tell," she answered.  "His fever is beginning to wane, but he still hasn't woke."

         The king fell silent as he sipped at the potion.  Deirdre watched him as she wondered what he was thinking.  She doubted she actually wanted to know, but not knowing made her uneasy.  Was he really concerned about Cathbad or did he rejoice that the one man in Ulster uninitiated by him was in danger of dying?

         "The old man has no heir," Conchobar said finally and handed the cup back to Deirdre, pointedly keeping the vessel close to his side so she had to lean to take it.  "He shall have our second son to train."

         "He trained me as his replacement."

         "You?" he laughed.  "A woman, the king's advisor?"

         "Maive seems to think a mere woman capable," Deirdre returned, her voice polite but otherwise expressionless.  "So does Cathbad."

         Conchobar regarded her with a sour look at the mention of Maive.  She laughed inwardly, fighting the urge to grin.  How easy it was to strike the king's nerves!  One mention of his greatest enemy and a reminder that same enemy was a woman reduced him to a pouting child.  He recovered quickly, though, and she had to admire him for being able to do so.

         "If the worst does happen," he began finally, "I have no objection to your acting in his place as long as you refrain from leaving the castle without me.  You can train the boy."  Conchobar's expression changed from one of kingly authority to one of terror without warning.  He clutched at his throat as his breath started to come in wheezing gasps.

         Deirdre cursed under her breath, nearly ripping her pouch open again.  Why did Conchobar have to become ill now, when the store of herbs was low after a long winter and Cathbad was unable to advise her against the king's sensitivities?  She found the pouch of black mustard seeds, which were the standard antidote for such a reaction, and poured several into the palm of her hand.  Holding her hand to the panicked man's mouth, she instructed him to eat the seeds.  He was too frightened and out of breath to argue, so he obeyed.  She watched his reaction, knowing from experience it was the seed's strong taste that burned his nose and made his eyes water, but the gasping slowly died away.

         "You tried to poison me," he accused after the storm of coughing brought on by the attack subsided.

         "If I had tried to poison you, I would not have given you the antidote," she answered defensively.  "You must have had a reaction to the mugwart."

         "Why would you give me such a thing if you knew it was dangerous?

         "Mugwart is a powerful fever reducer and reactions are rare," she explained as she closed the black mustard pouch and stowed it safely in the healing bag again.  "Cathbad's never told me your sensibilities, so I had no warning you would react to it.  Now that I know, I will adjust your treatments."

         "How do you know I won't react to the adjusted treatments as well?" he asked, stubbornly suspicious.  "Am I to be your test subject?"

         "Apparently you are to be my husband," Deirdre answered.  "If you put enough faith in my abilities as a druidess to entrust your unborn heirs to my care, I should think you would trust me with your care as well.  There are other herbs, weaker in their ability to reduce a fever, but I have never seen them cause a reaction in anyone during my years with Cathbad."

         "Aye, I do trust your skills as a druidess," Conchobar answered, "possibly a little too well.  Druids are just as talented with poisons, and you are a reluctant bride.  Perhaps you will take this opportunity to kill an unwanted suitor who is dangerous to refuse and blame it on the fever?"

         "My duty is ever to the king," Deirdre answered.  "I still do not wish to marry any man, but I will not deprive the people of their king.  I am sworn to serve my people.  My happiness is nothing."

         "Cathbad has taught you well," Conchobar said finally.  "You carry yourself like a queen already."  The king smiled slightly and reached out to grasp her hands with surprising gentleness.  "That is why I need you more than the spoiled daughters of other kings.  I need you to temper me with your wisdom and kindness."  He released her hand and relaxed back into the mattress and pillows.  "Go, make your potions."

         "I shall go retrieve an alternative from storage," she reassured him.  "You need to rest now, so your body can purge the fever." 

         "Yes," Conchobar agreed and eased back down into the bed.  "Sleep would be welcome."

         She left him to rest, journeying back down the hall to Cathbad's rooms with her healer's pouch clutched in her hands.  There were times she loved being a druid's apprentice, but other times she regretted her decision.  She didn't know what would have happened to her if she'd refused Cathbad's offer, but she knew he would have been better off.  He wouldn't have spent so much time away from Ulster, and he wouldn't be lying in his bed now with his life hanging by a thread.

         Deirdre found Coirnin sitting beside him, knitting on the cap again, when she entered the room.  The older woman looked up when the door opened, but Cathbad never stirred.  She smiled in greeting and closed the door, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation Deirdre knew was coming.

         "What ails the king?" Coirnin asked quietly.

         "Influenza," Deirdre answered.  Coirnin's eyes grew wide at the mention of the one thing that frightened her.  "Don't worry," Deirdre assured her.  "I have no reason to suspect any others have contracted it, and I have taken every precaution to prevent its spread."

         "What about you?" Coirnin asked.

         "I've taken a preventative, but I still should not come in close contact with our elder citizens or children until it is certain I have not been affected."  Deirdre gestured toward Cathbad.  "I need the large ring on Cathbad's right hand."  Coirnin gently pulled the keystone signet from the sick man's hand and gave it to Deirdre and asked why she needed it.  "The king reacted to the teas I gave him to reduce his fever.  I came to get the alternatives from the storage cabinet Cathbad keeps locked.  This ring is the key."

         "Should you be telling me this?"

         "It would take someone days to discover the cabinet's secret if they did not know where to look," Deirdre answered.  "Besides, I know you know better than to steal Cathbad's potions.  What good are potions that could kill you just as easily as make you stronger?  The knowledge to use them is what makes them valuable."  Coirnin nodded agreement as Deirdre turned toward the storage room.  She closed the door before she opened the cabinet and retrieved the leaves she needed as well as several other potions to fully restock her pouch.  She locked the cabinet again and returned to the main room.

         "What do you think will come of the feast Conchobar planned for this evening?" Coirnin asked.  "He cannot attend, but he is too proud to cancel it."

         "Perhaps the people will feast, but not for the reasons Conchobar intended," Deirdre answered.

         "He told you why he planned the feast?"

         "He believed we would marry this afternoon," Deirdre sighed.  "He took advantage of Cathbad's illness to ask me directly."

         "And you cannot refuse him," Coirnin finished for her.  "Deirdre, I'm sorry."

         "I'll be fine," Deirdre answered.  "I may not be happy, but I'll survive."  She cleared her throat, all to eager to change the subject.  "I've informed a member of the kitchen staff of the king's condition and left orders that none are to enter his chambers for any reason.  Doubtless, word has spread through most of the castle by now, so I think I will have little trouble keeping the fever contained.  However, I will have to stay in quarantine with Conchobar until he recovers.  Please, have the kitchen staff leave a tray with food for the two of us outside the door, knock, and leave."

         "I will," Coirnin promised.  "If you have any need of me..."

         "I have only to call," Deirdre finished.  "I know.  Thank you."

         "Rhiannon be with you," the warrioress said as Deirdre left to return to Conchobar's side.

         The king was asleep by the time she returned.  He seemed to be resting comfortably, so she decided to lie out her herbs and potions where they would be within easy reach and prepare chamomile and mint tea in advance.  She checked on Conchobar after she left the tea to cool.  His fever had waned, but he was still far too warm.  Worse yet, his pulse, which had been too quick in the morning, was even faster now.  Deirdre knew fevers always raised the heartbeat, but she also knew the heart could beat itself into exhaustion and stop.  She had to slow his pulse, or Conchobar would die before sunset.

         Deirdre looked through the potions she'd taken from Cathbad's cabinet until she found a bottle labeled borage.  Cathbad once told her the oil pressed from borage seeds could help slow a man's heart safely, so she opened the bottle and poured the proper dose into Conchobar's tea.  Unfortunately, Deirdre didn't know the potion's other ingredients.  Cathbad, in his attempt to shield Deirdre from the harsher aspects of a druid's life as long as possible, waited to blend poisons until she was asleep.  Although the older man preferred gentler ways to end a patient's suffering, he was at times called upon to punish prisoners with death, so he also kept a store of borage mixed with nightshade.  Over the years, the inscription became worn.  However, Cathbad could still recognize the bottle, so he never thought to replace it.

         Deirdre swirled the cup to mix the tea before rousing Conchobar.  The king grumbled about being woken, but he drank the tea and went back to sleep.  He slept peacefully for a time.  His fever waned, and his pulse slowed.  Then, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, Conchobar sat bolt upright in the bed, his eyes wide in horror.  His mouth opened in a silent scream as his body heaved and pulled in upon itself.  Deirdre sprang from her chair and ran to the table where her potions lay.  She searched frantically for anything to stop the convulsions, the one thing for which she hadn't prepared.  Realizing her oversight, she ran out of the room and down the hall for Cathbad's chambers.  Deirdre returned with the remedy only moments later, but Conchobar had already collapsed back onto the mattress.

         Deirdre suddenly felt cold.  She made her way to the king's side, only to confirm what she already knew.  King Conchobar was dead.

         Deirdre sent for Cuchulainn, Conchobar's nephew and only heir, the next morning.  It would take several days for him to return from the battle lines, so Deirdre began planning the king's funeral.  Cathbad insisted on helping her once he woke, despite Deirdre's pleas for him to rest.  The funeral barge was set adrift, flaming into the sunset, two days after Conchobar's death.

         Deirdre stood beside Cathbad dutifully watching the glow disappear over the horizon, but she did not mourn.  Her presence at Conchobar's funeral was a sham none but Cathbad, Coirnin, and herself knew about.  Deirdre rejoiced, even though she felt guilt for doing so.  It seemed strange to her how one man's death could give her such a sense of freedom, but then it occurred to her.  Conchobar's death didn't free her, but the strength she discovered to continue when all her defenses were stripped away.  In that moment, Deirdre realized she had never left the clearing where she was attacked so many years before, and it gave her what she needed to finally rise from Avon's ashes to become the woman she was meant to be, Deirdre, the druidess of Ulster.

 

Copyright 2006, A. B. England

A. B. England was born and raised in rural north Alabama and lives there with her husband today.  The eldest child in her family, England’s earliest years were spent making up stories to amuse herself.  The wonderfully interesting people and varied culture of the region provide much of the inspiration for her characters, and the local landscapes developed themselves into her settings.

England comes from a long line of natural storytellers.  Holidays were spent listening to parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles tell about things that had happened in their childhoods or just the other day.  She followed in the tradition by beginning to tell her own stories, real and imagined, to her cousins and friends.  Their enjoyment of the tales caused her to fall in love with the art and encouraged her to study it further.

 

Cover: "Discover"

Copyright 2006, Teresa Tunaley

Originating from the UK but now residing in the Canary Islands, freelance artist Teresa Tunaley finds more time to devote to her love of art and painting. For years she has been doodling traditionally with pencils and dabbling with watercolors. More recently she uses a more modern technique and creates with her electronic tablet and pen in software such as PhotoShop, Corel Draw, and Paint Shop Pro.

Along with published stories and poetry, she can be credited with award winning cover art and illustrations for author stories. Her work can be seen online and in print across the UK, US, Canada, Denmark and Europe.

"I like to think that I am very versatile in my choice of subject matter – my new surroundings provide the inspiration for me to paint on a daily basis and the fact that others may enjoy my work gives me the confidence to continue."