“Eòdan ambushed us at Cluain Tarbh. We changed course and traveled all night by the eastern road.” Her eyes raked me from head to toe, assessing. It was the same way Eala had looked at me. “You look tired. And I see you’ve gained some weight.”
The criticism was mild yet powerful—leaden as a rusted shackle around my neck. Part of me wanted to gladly bow beneath its familiar weight. To grovel and cower—to beg for a compliment or a way to atone for my imperfections. But the chain was heavier than I remembered. I found I was no longer willing to be trussed up in Mother’s machinations, fettered by her manipulations.
I lifted my chin and met her hard, pale eyes. Behind her, advisors and generals clustered and hovered. Mother would have neither the time nor the patience for the kind of dialogue I’d shared with Cathair. I had to choose my words carefully.
“I will not keep you from your campaigning for long.” I lowered my voice. “But a tangle has arisen in the matter you sent me to resolve.”
“What kind of tangle?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Could you not have written?”
“And risk sensitive information being intercepted?” I shook my head. “The story is long and winding. It comes down to this—Eala’s geas is rooted deep and can only be broken in one way. The destruction of the Treasure you sent me to retrieve. Otherwise she dies at Samhain.”
This was a lie. But I wasn’t above my own manipulations—I wanted to force Mother to admit her priorities. To show me which she cared about more—her daughter or magic.
Love or vengeance.
Mother’s eyes flickered. Her mouth set. “That is an impossible choice.”
“And therefore, one I knew you would not want me to makeon your behalf.” I bowed my head in a show of deference. “What would you have me do? Save Eala? Or bring you the magical object you have long desired?”
For a long time, Mother was silent. When she finally spoke, her voice was expressionless.
“Since Rían was slaughtered, I never thought to bear another child. But I am still in my prime. Perhaps I will fall pregnant again. And even if I cannot, I have many fosterlings. I may still mold one of them into an heir worthy of the Ó Mainnín lineage.” She stepped closer, gripped my chin in an almost painful grasp. The leather of her gauntlets was cold and rough against my skin. “If a choice must be made, I will make it. Our people tremble beneath the weight of war, famine, and plague. Bring me the magic Fódla requires, no matter the cost. But know this, a stór—I consider it a failure on your part. And I will not be quick to forgive.”
It was the answer I’d expected. And yet her choice dug sharp into my chest and squeezed my heart—as if I were the daughter Mother consigned to die, instead of Eala. I wrenched my chin out of her grasp, even as her conflicting words jangled in my ears. She called me by the pet name she’d used since I was a child, yet simultaneously told me she could not easily forgive me for failing her. In the same breath, she told me how much she loved me… and how difficult a thing I was to love.
That, too, was the same as it had always been.
And I was finally beginning to realize—it wasn’t love at all.
If she registered the defiance beginning to shudder through me, she did not show it. She turned to her waiting cadre of generals and advisors.
“One last thing.” I threaded my voice with command and thrilled a little when she stiffened. “Did you never hesitate to make a child into a weapon?”
She looked back at me, very slowly.
“When you told Cathair to make me strong—to forge me with violence, fill me with venom, hone me with hostility—did younever think what that would do to me?” I spoke softly, swiftly. “Or did you think only of vengeance?”
“We did make you strong.” She stepped close to me again. This time, she did not touch me. “That is nothing to complain about.”
“You told me you loved me, yet filled me with hatred.”
“The things we love are weapons to be used against us. Hatred is armor. Hatred makes us invincible.”
“You’re wrong.” I exhaled, releasing memories of rats in buckets and budding flowers tossed on the fire and painful bracelets of nettles and brambles. “The things we love can hurt us, yes. But our capacityto loveis a far greater weapon.”
“If you believe that, then I have failed you.” Her jaw hardened and irony touched her voice. “Perhaps you are not such a sharply honed weapon after all.”
“Maybe.” I flipped Finan’s reins over his head. Mounted in one smooth motion. “Or perhaps I am not a weapon at all.”
I turned my back on Rath na Mara, Cathair, Mother, and the past thirteen years of my life. I rode toward home.
Dusk was falling when I reached the fort, a chill wind scudding dark clouds across new stars. The air smelled like woodsmoke and fallen leaves.
“Corra!” I shoved into the dún and spun on my heel, scanning the walls for movement. “Are you there?”
“Here, there, everywhere.” A squat toad leapt to life on the wall, sliding a long tongue around its mouth.
“Where’s Rogan?”
