The Dreamweaver's Daughter

ONC Version: Sunlight (Saoirse)

One of these advisors—a coarse-bearded Ua Scholaidhe man who bragged he'd take care of the problem by the edge of his sword—smothered a laugh into a cough when he realized the king asked earnestly for her opinion. Saoirse shot the brute a practiced courtly glower before responding.

"Fir Tethba?" She knew the clan had taken to warring within itself after the unexpected death of its heirless lord. The two sides of the family threatened to take up arms against the other, both claiming kinship laws of succession. Her father risked throwing Mide into war if he supported either side, but risked the deaths of two mighty families if he supported neither.

Saoirse had been chewing on the puzzle. Tucking an escaped curl behind her ear, she continued, "Both families have the same claim, and both will fight until there is no one left to stand. Is there a way we might unite the Ui Ronáin and mac Fearghail families through marriage?"

That same bearded braggart could not hide his laughter at her suggestion. He tried to catch eyes with the other clan council members and jeered, "Trust a woman to find a woman's solution!"

Macan Ua Scolaidhe looked up from note-taking, attention focused on the High King for the expected tongue lashing his mouthy cousin was sure to receive. Saoirse looked to her father, expecting his sharp response. He looked thin and shadowed in the weak light of morning, but Saoirse knew he'd stand against this odious barbarian. Instead of rallying to her defense, he nodded once. In wonder, she realized, he's letting me defend myself.

With a swallow, Saoirse pushed down the growing bubble of anxiousness fluttering in her throat. Just pretend you're Siofra, she ordered herself. Siofra snapping at foolish, fluttering pixies.

"Take care to remember that a woman's solution can include slaughtering legionnaires. But I am not Boudicca, and these are not Roman enemies. I thought our council looked to avoid the bloodshed of our brothers, woman's solution or not."

Their eyes belonged to her. Just as the High King commanded attention, Saoirse of Mide held the room. Her heart rattled in her chest. Her hands were frog's skin, cool and clammy. She wondered if her father felt this nervous each time he spoke.

"Drust Ui Ronáin might marry off a daughter," Macan said thoughtfully. "But not without good reason."

The words fell out of her mouth as she thought them. "Then we give him a reason. Appoint him as regent to his daughter's heir."

A contemplative murmur hissed like the wind through summer wheat. That wild thundering in her breast quieted to a softer melody. They're listening to me, she thought with incredulous laughter, burgeoning pride.

With her excitement hidden behind a mask of patience, Saoirse glanced at her father from the corner of her eye. His beard twitched, his icy eyes burned with affection. In a heartbeat, Saoirse knew that if she held a spindle, she could have pulled a perfect thread of sunlight.

A knock drew her from the dip into delighted daydreaming.

"A message for the princess," came the voice of her father's grim steward, Cynbel. "From Faolan mac Domnall."

Faolan.

The thought did not set her pulse racing as it usually did. Perhaps it's just the exhilaration of this meeting, Saoirse rationalized. I am too excited about my victory, is all. She smothered the intrusive thought that Drust Ui Ronáin's daughter might have a horse boy of her own.

"May I?" she asked.

Pride and thoughtfulness still crinkling his eyes, the high king nodded and waved her out. In the weak morning light, he looked tired. And old. Saoirse reminded herself to pull him away for a ride in the afternoon; it was unhealthy to spend too many hours subject to male bickering.