The Red Branch arrived at Emain Macha throughout the day; Emery heard a lively commotion outside the King's roundhouse each time one appeared, though she didn't leave her own dwelling. She knew that Tess would tell her if Naoise or his brothers came. They'd spoken some that morning, after Emery took a bath and ate a little. Apparently, Tess was under the impression that Cullen had come in too aggressive with his questions after both she and Cathbad had tried to warn him that Emery would need patience and time—that whatever she'd been through, she shouldn't be forced to discuss it until she was ready. And obviously, Cullen hadn't waited. He'd run off the minute they'd heard of Emery's arrival in Emain Macha, and he'd found and approached her impetuously. Tess had no love for his methods, after finding Emery so ill, and had furiously told Cathbad to tell him to stay away from his wife entirely, until his wife wanted to see him.
Emery was secretly thankful for Tess, though not for the reasons her friend mentioned. Under normal circumstances, she would have run to Cullen as desperately as he'd run to her, but as it was, she needed him to stay away, and Tess's edict gave her the time she needed to process everything.
Cathbad came to see her, as well, that afternoon. Emery was so, so glad to see him, and yet the strictures that had held her back with Cullen would hold her back with him and Tess, as well. But at least the druid wasn't going to try to pry answers out of her; Tess had been as clear with him as she'd been with Cullen. Emery had never been so grateful for Tess and her newfound authority.
Charlie hadn't presented as Charlie all day, Emery noticed. In fact, she wasn't sure Tess and Cathbad even realized the old serving woman was Charlie. The way Tess had ordered him to make up Emery's bath and then kicked him out while they chatted indicated she hadn't a clue the wrinkled little crone was her former brother. When Emery thought of it, she doubted that Cullen knew, either. She wondered what he'd told Tess and Cathbad, if anything. He wasn't one to discuss his conversations and encounters.
When Emery told Tess and Cathbad about Deirdre and Naoise, neither was surprised. In fact, they exchanged a glance that meant they already knew about it.
"We wondered why Conchobar called the Red Branch," Cathbad said, sitting with Tess across the firepit from Emery, who was huddled in her fur cloak. "But we weren't surprised."
"You knew?"
"That Naoise had gone after Deirdre?" the druid asked, adding, "Yes. We'd heard it from his brothers."
Emery looked from him to Tess. "And you didn't do anything?"
"What could we do?" Tess said apologetically. "By the time Ainle told us of his brother's plan, it'd already happened."
"I am at fault, somewhat," Cathbad admitted, hunched over and playing nervously with his hands. Both girls looked at him. Emery thought he, too, was different, now--more steady, less frazzled. And he'd foregone the round cap he'd used to wear, as his hair seemed to have fine crystals growing in it along with the moss. "I had some idea that Naoise was looking for a way back," the druid explained. "He'd asked me whether I could reopen the portal for him, and he was upset when I refused. We were so preoccupied with your disappearance that I neglected to keep eyes on him. I can only assume he found another druid to open it. An unethical one, I'd wager."
Emery sighed. "Well, I might have made things worse with all this. Conchobar seemed more interested in seeing Deirdre than I'd like."
"Yes. He tends toward prurience; surely he would try to claim the right of the first night with her."
"But Naoise planned for that," Tess began. "It seems he was inspired by Cullen and you, Em. He planned to elope so the King couldn't claim his right. I spoke with his brothers only a few days ago, and they said he and Deirdre have gone North into hiding. He won't come back for Conchobar."
"But that will cause a trouble all its own!" Cathbad groused. "Ah! When I met your sister long ago, I knew she'd be the cause of much grief. This bodes ill for the Red Branch, and it bodes ill for Lord Cuchulain."
Emery was taken aback. "How?"
Cathbad and Tess exchanged another of their secretive looks, but Emery had no time for it.
"Explain."
"I don't want to overwhelm you, Emery,
Tess admitted. "You aren't really better yet."
"I'll be more overwhelmed if you keep me in the dark."
Tess nodded, took a deep breath. "Cuchulain helped Naoise once he'd brought your sister over. He didn't know anything about the plan until Naoise had brought Deirdre through and asked him for his help. Cuchulain was the one that told them to go North and not come back for anything. Besides Naoise's brothers, he's the only one who knows exactly where they're hiding."
"And the King cannot find out, or he'll surely call for my Lord's head."
"Conchobar would take off someone's head for that? Cullen didn't do anything wrong!"
"No," the druid frowned. "But he will. Conchobar won't ask for his head at first; he'll ask my Lord to reveal their location, but Cuchulain surely won't, and that's when he'll call for his head."
Emery was distraught. "I—I'm afraid so much of this is my fault. I shouldn't have listened to Ch—to my serving woman. She advised me to come here, but I should've tried to find all of you, first."
Tess sat a little straighter, peered past Emery toward the door. "Where'd you pick her up, anyway? She's super nosy. I swear she's been hovering outside the door this entire time, trying to listen."
The hovering was actually a relief to Emery, who didn't want Charlie to run off on her like he had the night before. It was infuriating to know he had the power to torment her just by moving a little too far away; she was essentially on a leash, and he had control of it.
If there had been a good time to tell Cathbad and Tess about him, though, that moment was it—when Tess asked about the serving woman. But for some reason, Emery couldn't do it, and it wasn't for any of the reasons that would've made sense, like not wanting Charlie to hurt her or them. Emery couldn't quite put her finger on her reason, but she suspected that it had something to do with a weird selfishness she was starting to feel toward him. The extent of what was going on between her and Charlie wasn't something she wanted to share. She was absolutely ashamed of what she'd allowed him to do to her, what she continued to allow him to do to her, but she also knew she had a sort of power over him, as well. Charlie was hers and no one else's to deal with. And wasn't he, after all, the only one who'd helped her remember? She wasn't sure she wanted to stop remembering just yet.
So she didn't say anything at all about him. Instead, for the first time she could remember, she flat-out lied to Tess: "I found the old woman when I was on my way here. She just does basic tasks for me, that's all."
Emery couldn't help but notice the suspicious expression on her friend's face, but Tess let it go. "We'll let you get to bed. You should try to sleep tonight. I promise if we hear anything about Deirdre we'll wake you. So rest."
"Yes, mother," Emery rolled her eyes but smiled her appreciation.
When they'd left, Charlie slouched in, returning to himself. Emery couldn't help but watch when he transformed. It was such a fluid act, one continuous morph rather than an instantaneous action. It was as if whatever current self he wore poured into the new self, replacing it entirely. The process never ceased to impress her.
But once Charlie was himself, she looked back into the flames, feeling many things, foremost frustration. "You shouldn't make it so obvious you're trying to listen to our conversations," she said, not making any other indication that she noticed him sit down a little too close to her.
"Why? Are they suspicious?"
"I don't know." Emery wrapped her arms around her legs. They sat in silence for several moments, before she eventually spoke again. "I had a dream, last night. About a temple in the woods. And . . . one of those monsters was there."
"Which one?"
"The one who hurt me."
"Bres?" Charlie snarled the name more than said it,
Emery nodded, intrigued by Charlie's reaction.
"What'd he want?"
The girl remembered the discomfiting words he'd said to her. "He wanted to look at my wrist." She eyed the bandage that was still there and wondered whether the wound had healed or whether it would look like it had in the dream; she was too nervous about it to find out and tucked it back into her cloak.
"Wanted to look at his handiwork, I'm sure. Bres is . . . different. His mother was a Goddess; his father—well, Elatha, you saw him. Hundreds of years ago, Bres went over to the Tuatha Dé, but he hated his mother's kin and returned to his Fomorian father. He was lucky they allowed him to. Why they chose him to turn you is beyond me but, as I said, I'm not privy to their plans." He was silent for a moment, then added with a hint of curiosity, "It might be why you were sick. You're acclimating to him. It's probably why he came to you in a dream, as well."
"Was it real? Like when you came into my dreams?"
"It's probable. I've always traveled through dreams, but they--they've been suppressed for so long, that communication with the outside world has surely become difficult. They've had to find ways."
Emery thought of her meadow dreams, of how real they'd felt, of how lovely they used to be. Had those dreams been real, as well? "Do the Gods speak through dreams, too?"
She felt Charlie turn and peer at her in the gloom but pretended not to notice. "Possibly," was all he said, and the tightness of that one word told Emery that she should not ask about Gods again.
The fire crackled in the lull of their conversation. The noise of merrymaking came from beyond their dwelling, in Cróeb Ruad, the King's main roundhouse. The Red Branch Knights that had arrived were probably all in there, feasting and talking about battles and about the heads they'd added to the collection next door and about weapons and horses and whatever it was warriors talked about. Emery imagined Keltar of the Battles boasting about the new women he'd built rooms into his roundhouse for, and she imagined Bricriu of the Venom Tongue offering some bawdy poem fitting for a room full of men. She imagined Lóegaire saying something everyone misconstrued until he explained his meaning, and she imagined Cethern mac Fintan and Fergus mac Roy, the veritable giants, guzzling ale and wine and inhaling food. The brothers--the youngest and handsomest of the Knights--wouldn't be there, of course, and everyone would notice their absence. Word must have gone round already as to why they'd been called, and surely a sort of anxiety would hover just beneath the revelry.
And Cullen? Where would her husband be in all of the feasting? Brooding, no doubt, if he were even there. Conchobar would insist he attend, would perhaps even recognize that his nephew knew something he wasn't willing to say. He'd get a little too drunk--the King--and he'd push Cullen to the point where it'd become clear he was hiding things, and from there, Conchobar would know, and it would all become very serious. As much of a coward as King Conchobar was, he cared about his perceived power far too much to allow anyone to challenge it, and Emery had discovered long ago, when the King had come to Dun-Dealgan to try to claim his right of the first night with her, that Cullen was not afraid of killing his uncle, if it came to it. But what sort of chaos that would cause was difficult to imagine.
Emery sighed, wishing she could go to Cullen, to tell him that they could solve this problem together, find a way without violence, as she'd done with Conchobar in her first encounter with him. But she couldn't speak with Cullen so freely, not with Charlie hovering, and not with the chance she might let something slip.
Oh, where would this end up? She should never have come here. She'd complicated matters by coming to Conchobar, though he would have eventually found out about Naoise and Deirdre--Emery tried to comfort herself with that knowledge. Her goal had been to try to save her sister, to prevent her from getting stuck here, her being so young and naïve, and yet from the way everyone spoke, Deirdre was probably already wed to Naoise. So her original intentions no longer made sense. Now, she just wanted to keep Deirdre alive and happy.
"Charlie, get up," Emery suddenly ordered, and he turned to her questioningly. "I just--I want to step outside for a moment. Maybe I can hear what's happening inside . . . I don't want to sit here anymore."
She was sure he'd protest, but for some reason Charlie instead obliged her and shifted into his old woman disguise.
Unwilling to take time to dress herself properly, Emery just pulled her fur cloak tight over her tunic and, not even putting on shoes, slipped out into the night, her serving woman at her heels. The streets were not empty, as she'd assumed they'd be; people wandered about in groups, drinking and laughing or, in some cases, working. Torches lit the pathways, which was a nice touch. Emain Macha was so big and so busy that it needed such amenities. But when Emery made it to Cróeb Ruad and stood at the wall as near to the guarded door as she dared, she realized how silly she'd been to think she'd be able to hear anything other than general carousing. While the laughter and shouts of the men inside were audible at quite a distance, even close up no specific words could be discerned.
Turning to Charlie, Emery frowned in annoyance, but he only stared back at her with his beady old woman eyes, his mouth blending into his chin wrinkles.
She huffed and was about to head back when something pulled hard at the scruff of her cloak and she was forcibly turned about to find herself staring up at a large man who himself had several other large men behind him. He had a thick, close-trimmed beard and a shaved head covered in blue markings, but what stood out most were the scars across his face and the dark patch covering one eye. "Out of the way, foul wench," he growled, throwing Emery aside so hard she stumbled over Charlie and both fell to the ground.
To her surprise, Emery felt not humiliation or fear but a deep rage.
"Go on--do it." Charlie urged in his old woman's voice, crawling out from under her.
"Do what?"
"Whatever it is you want to do to him . . ."
But even as she seethed in anger, Emery could only watch the man stride into the feasting hall, sure that whoever he was, he was no harbinger of anything good.