Warrior's Daughter by Holly Bennett Page B

as my father neither died nor woke, so his wounds did not fester, but neither did they heal.
    And I—I hung suspended also. I had no nurse, no chores, no lessons. For the first time I missed old Tullia, for all her fussy protectiveness. She would have scolded my idleness and found some task to keep me occupied. As it was, I had Fintan for company. Of course there were other children there, and I did sometimes join in their games, but I believe there was something—perhaps awe of my father’s state, or the druid’s raven on my shoulder—that made them wary of me, for I made no true friends.
    We had lit the Beltane fires a couple of weeks before the army’s return. It hadn’t been much of a Beltane, not with so many of the men gone and more than a few women too, but we had put a brave show on it and honored the sun’s return as best we could.
    By high summer my father was no better, and for once at Lughnasadh the games and contests were all won by other men. My mother left the Speckled House for the whole day to take me there, and she tried her best to hide her worries for my sake. “It is Lugh of the Long Hand your father loves above all gods,” she said. “It would not do for you to come all the way to Emain and miss his great festival. I promise you, you will never see the like in Muirthemne.”
    We passed the day in a glorious confusion of color, noise and smell. The sun shone hot in a clear sky and lit up the brightclothing we all wore to celebrate first harvest. Even the farmers and craftsmen sported ribbons and sashes to add color to their plain tunics, while their women wove flowers into their hair and wrapped swatches of dyed cloth around their waists. We had to yell to hear each other, for all around us people called to their friends, onlookers cheered the games, bards told their tales in voices that carried halfway across a field, traders haggled over their wares, musicians piped and drummed. People danced and laughed and fought and drank and ate a seemingly endless supply of food. The wafted smells of roasting meat, fresh-baked bread and barley beer mingled with the sharper odors of sweat and manure until I was light-headed with breathing them.
    I was in a silly mood, jigging and gamboling about my mother like a pup on its first hunt. She only laughed at me, though, and even caught my hands and swung me into the air. I suppose we both exaggerated our high spirits that day. It had been too long since there was anything to laugh about.
    But when I whirled about to see Cathbad’s feathered cloak in front of me, I was embarrassed at my foolishness. I felt my cheeks grow hot as his eyes rested on me. He exchanged greetings with my mother, and then he studied me again.
    “How old are you, Luaine?”
    A spring baby, I added to my count of years each Beltane. “This is my eighth summer,” I confessed. Too old for such nonsense, I imagined his voice saying.
    Of course he said no such thing. All around me, grown men and women were acting just as giddy. In the right place, laughter honors the gods as well as solemnity. Cathbad turned to my mother.
    “A child that age should be starting her education and training, Emer, surely.”
    My mother looked startled, then flustered. “Yes, Cathbad, of course. At home she has begun her training already.”
    It was quite true. I may have been raised in the quiet countryside of Muirthemne, but my mother, the druid’s daughter, saw to it that my education was not neglected.
    Of women’s arts, I had already started to learn the needlework: spinning and weaving, sewing and embroidery. These my mother taught me herself, for her own needle was renowned. I never grew to love the work as she did—though I did enjoy the embroidery, the colors taking shape and meaning under my fingers—but thanks to her efforts, I eventually became a fast and precise seam-stress. I had also begun learning household management. Though we had servants, I would still have to learn what each task