Free Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) by Esther Friesner Page A

it rust away on top of Bláithín’s grave, I decided to keep it in memory of Kelan and stored it safely in a small leather pouch. At Samhain, when the dead bring their grievances to the living, no angry spirit came to haunt me. That was how I knew I’d done the right thing.
    Samhain and Beltane and all the other festivals turned the seasons around me until I was almost fifteen years old. All of my sisters were married women, queens in their own right, and I was the last tasty apple left hanging on the royal tree.
    The older I got, the more frequently our household opened its gates to highborn visitors, always men. It had been four years since my last lesson on how to wield a sword, but I still found myself blocking and parrying all sorts of advances. I was always careful to discourage them without insulting them. Ididn’t want to give these men an excuse to pick a fight with Father. If I couldn’t fight beside him with a son’s weapons, at least I could fight for him with a daughter’s wits.
    It was wearying work, keeping each suitor close enough to retain his support for the High King but distant enough so that he wouldn’t conclude he was assured of getting this hero’s portion. I knew I’d have to wed one of them at last, some unlucky day, but these ongoing games of yes-no-maybe made me think of marriage as surrender and defeat. The idea turned my stomach sour.
    Sometimes, when I’d managed to sidestep a particularly relentless princeling, I wondered if the poor thing believed that winning my affection meant winning the High King’s consent. I wanted to take each one of my suitors, shake them awake, and tell them, “Save your pretty words, your pleading looks, your silly gifts. My father loves me, but that doesn’t mean he listens to me. If you want to give me something I can use, make it a way to gain enough of his respect so that my life becomes my choice alone.”
    The days between Beltane and Lughnasadh were my favorite time of year. They brought a respite from visitors. Few of the highborn could afford to leave their lands during that busy, fruitful season. On one such sweet summer day, I sat with Mother and her closest friend, Lady Íde, all of us spinning wool into thread for the loom.
    “You’re getting better at that, Maeve,” Lady Íde said, casting a critical eye over my work. “The thread’s much smoother and more even.” She was tall and rawboned, with a handsome face, blue eyes, and golden hair that swung from the crown of her head in dozens upon dozens of tiny braids.
    “Let me see.” Mother leaned closer and rolled the strandlightly between her fingertips. “So it is! This will make a lovely blanket for the baby.”
    “What wonderful news. I’m so happy for you, Lady Íde,” I said.
    Mother and her friend laughed. They both sat up tall and pulled their tunics tight across their bellies. Lady Íde’s was flat.
    I dropped my spindle. My eyes grew big as the moon.
    Lady Íde nudged Mother with her elbow. “This was fun, but I still want to be there when you tell Eochu.”
    Mother was going to have a child. The news flew across the land of Èriu. We were all swept away in a river of congratulations and Father was half buried by a landslide of earthy jokes from his men. There was no counting the number of offerings my parents made to the goddess Brigid in her role as blesser and helper of childbirth.
    Once I got over the surprise, I was overjoyed to learn that I’d be a big sister when winter came. I could hardly wait. So far, nothing else in my life had seemed to have the magic needed to change me from being the “baby.” It didn’t even matter that I’d become able to have babies of my own two full years earlier than this.
    I longed to share my elation with Derbriu and the others, but they all had lives of their own too distant from Connacht to undertake a visit until after the baby was born. They wouldn’t come any earlier than the birth festivities without good cause. The