There were no such things as curses, Saoirse of Mide was quite certain. For no matter how she cursed her father and the boorish Macan, Lord of Delbna, their determination to see this wedding did not falter.

She had argued eloquently, passionately. Though she had surely made her tutors proud with her clever words, her father, High King Aed, would not budge. She had threatened to invoke divine protection, to flee to a convent. A priest would not have found a flaw in her pious commitment, but the king only offered to send her there himself. She had screamed and cried, pulled at her hair. A banshee could not have been a more convincing picture of grief. And yet, her father only asked that she take her wailing outdoors.

"I am not heartless, Saoirse, my child," he had said when she had proclaimed the opposite. "If you find yourself in love, perhaps I'll reconsider."

There were no potential heart matches within the castle walls, as her father well knew. Even if Saoirse found herself hopelessly and completely in love, the High King would not hand his kingdom over to a kitchen boy or a castle guard. She would have to find someone with noble blood to love, and that was quite impossible. The pity of having a cunning king for a father!

Her wild rides through the countryside had been as she said: a last taste of freedom before the inevitable surrender to arranged matrimony. Each afternoon sent her racing faster, trying to outrun a destiny she had no interest in meeting. It had been luck, providence, fate that dear Apple had thrown a shoe and led her to Faolan mac Domnall.

Faolan who was once the son of a chief. Faolan who made her laugh. Faolan who admired her so.

"How could I refuse you, princess?" It was not the romantic enthusiasm she expected in a proposal, but, at that moment, the sincerity he wore so casually was more beautiful than any poetry.

"Just Saoirse, please."

"Just Saoirse, then."

Her name on his lips sent a warm flush to her face. Only her father called her by her name. It seemed so silly to have a name and have no one use it.

Just Saoirse watched dreamily as Faolan led her foul-tempered horse to the stables. That same soft voice that sent her heart aflutter, praised Apple's strength and handsomeness. By the time he locked Apple in a cozy stall, the dark horse nudged at his shoulders, his hips, begging for attention. Almost like magic.

Though he had offered to lend his own horse, she had graciously refused. Her father would send someone to find her once he felt she'd been gone long enough, Saoirse well knew. Though she told Faolan that was her reason for staying, being around the magical horse boy made her feel alive: she could laugh with her head back, complain without censure, and let herself feel without fear of judgment.

For her tenacity, Saoirse had won an entire afternoon with Faolan. Hours of provoking the dimple of his amiable smile, hours of freedom in a world High King Aed tried to keep her from. He listened as she described the tedious world of a daughter to the High King. The warmth of his eyes seemed to burn with affection before he gave her one of his easy, honest answers.

Saoirse could have spent hours sitting in the musty stable, watching Faolan complete his chores with practiced efficiency. He laughed at the right parts of her stories, sympathized when she shared her frustrations.

Faolan did not flirt like men at court. He had no poetry or prose with which to flatter. The open smile, his boyish charm, he seemed to just enjoy her nature—she was not Princess Saoirse, heir of Mide. She was Saoirse and nothing more. The simple earnestness of it all was like warm bread, drizzled with honey.

True to her prediction, the moment the sun threatened to set, her father's men trampled through the countryside with the odious carriage in tow. Though she might have normally complained, with Apple safely resting and new plots twisting in her head, the carriage walls gave her the privacy to think.

In the late afternoon, her father would surely be in the solar, she reasoned, as their party jostled away. The dim East-facing library would be far too dark for his correspondences and daily record keeping. The anticipation of executing a perfect plan coiled within her, sent her fingers twitching. Each bump of the carriage was one bump closer to finally having everything she wanted.

The moment the guards escorted her inside the impressive stone walls, Saoirse flew to the stairs. Servants, well-versed in managing the royal whirlwind, only tutted and moved out of her way. On a normal day, she might tease a maid or pester her father's manservant, but there was no time for childish foolishness. Today, she had found salvation.

Her predictions correct, Saoirse found her father bathed in the day's very last sunbeams. He seemed to be aglow in a haze of dust-flecked light, streaks of gold and silver in his hair. Had she teased him just last week for holding the letters so far from his gaze? Though he was long past his days as the auburn-haired warrior-king, High King Aed was still formidable in his strength and even more so in his cunning. And it was the latter of which Saoirse was grateful her father had passed to her.

Though his planning aggravated her to no end, Saoirse could not help but beam with pride at her father. He had won his kingdom by a sword and kept it with a sharp edge of cleverness. Wisdom, he had promised her. That is the way of great kings. That is what strikes true fear into your enemies, even when they cannot name it.

And how it was true! High King Aed could win battles before they started. He prepared for famine years before the crop failed. Saoirse was near certain he knew what the future held. It was this clever man she knew she must defeat in a battle of wills and wits and wiles.

Gathering all her courage and confidence, Saoirse sat before him, tall as she could stretch, and proclaimed, "Faolan mac Domnall has asked to marry me."

The High King looked up to raise a bushy eyebrow at his spirited daughter.

"Mac Domnall? Donnchad mac Domnall is a traitorous usurper. He's fortunate that honor is the only thing I killed." Always the portrait of control, his tone was calm despite the pain she knew the rebellion had caused him. The fighting had left him with a slight limp and even more subtle melancholy. The king turned back to the letter, dipping the quill with a steady hand. "This seventh son should follow in his brothers' steps and leave his family's shame behind him."

The dry, emotionless tone stirred the coals of her irritation. How unfair to brush off her perfect plan before she could even start!

"I love him!" The words rang hollow through the solar. She blushed with shame. "I-I could learn to love him," she amended at her father's knowing stare.

"Oh?"

"Papa!" His doubtful tone was a wicked barb in her heart. It rankled that her love was something so fickle to him. The promise of love from a girl and not the unwavering passion of a woman-grown. "Faolan is strong and kind. He makes me laugh."

"He will make an excellent husband for a shepherd's daughter, then, Saoirse. You are my only child, Princess of Mide. I want more for you than laughter."

"What more is there, papa?"

The High King set down the letter, the quill. Everything her father did held a deliberate ring—there was never a hurry, never a misstep. He leveled his daughter with a somber stare.

Saoirse felt her angry fire die in the chilly rain of his melancholy. For all his stubbornness in this wedding, she knew her mighty father loved her more than life itself. She could see it when his smile wrinkled deep, feel it when they used their secret gestures at boring dinners, hear it when his voice softened at her name.

"Ah, my wildheart! Security and peace: these are the soil in which happiness grows."

"And what of love?"

"Love is many things. I loved your mother for bringing you into my life. I love our people. But only love is not enough. Love without respect is shallow. Love without duty is unjust. The Lord of Delbna will give you peace. Let your life and the lives of your children grow behind safe walls. That is the love I seek to give you."

Saoirse felt tears burn her eyes. She could not fault her father for how he loved her, his dreams of what her life should be. But what does he know of my dreams?

Bitter indigence churned her stomach at the thought. She swallowed that lump of tears so it might turn her tender heart to stone. Though her spirit shuddered at the life he crafted for her, a daughter's obedience to a doting father was something Saoirse held dear. For all her outbursts and melodrama, the king always listened, always reasoned, always cared. But she could not let him smother her dreams without one last chance at freedom.

"Please give him one chance, papa. Just one. So you can see what the future might hold." Quiet desperation touched her words.

The king considered Saoirse carefully, his gaze still touched with that hint of sadness. His mouth twitched with fondness, the tired lines around his eyes crinkled.

"I cannot deny my only heart such a simple plea!" His growl was drenched in affection. She flew into his arms, heedlessly sending his work scattering to the floor, sending him into a fit of hearty laughter. "One chance, Saoirse. I will meet Faolan mac Domnall and we shall see what his future holds."

The letter Princess Saoirse of Mide crafted to her future beloved, Faolan mac Domnall, was one of flowery words and lyrical prose. The rich, black ink against the silky vellum looked especially pretty by candle light. She had copied it with a delicate hand and sealed it with a kiss. As she sent her father's fastest man with her heart's message, she idly wondered if Faolan could read.

The thought did not linger for more than a moment—there was far too much to do. Once the High King met Faolan, saw how much he adored her, their wedding would soon need to be planned. The only child, a beloved daughter of a great king deserved an event beyond compare. Of course, it would have to be before the ancient yew tree. Saoirse had always imagined herself the bride of a summer wedding, dressed in yellow and decorated in sunny flowers. But now the image of herself as a late autumn bride, glittering bronze and gold, flashed before her. Or perhaps a winter wedding, silver and silent, would be best? Faolan's dark hair against a snowy background, glittering ice twinkling from the trees around them.

It was these types of lovely thoughts that swirled through her head the next week. The world seemed to glow despite the autumn chill, alight with new possibilities, new destiny. Saoirse did not taste it when the bread had burned, she did not notice the cold when she left the castle without shoes, nor did she seem to hear the dull droning of the Lord of Delbna.

Macan Ua Scolaidhe did not seem to realize that his potential bride was at risk to marry another: he continued to hold her hostage in tedious conversations about hunting and taxes and the merits of a loyal hound. He frequently enjoyed comparing the stalwart character of his beasts to the traits he sought in a wife. Obedient, teachable, reliable.

What use could such a man find for me? She couldn't help but think. Saoirse who was wild and passionate and stubborn. Saoirse who was quick to a sharp word, but just as quick to forgive. Saoirse who jumped before she looked. Saoirse who laughed loudest.

Oh, she could play the part of a princess for an hour or so. Princess Saoirse could smile charmingly, her clever words little more than a whisper. She knew how to manage a house, even a kingdom, but the tedious meetings drove her mad with boredom. She had practiced that perfect blank face to wear at formal functions and it usually held for the entire night—perhaps that was the wife Macan Ua Scolaidhe sought from her.

Before becoming the Lord of Delbna, Macan had been a great ally to her father. A trusted friend, an honest advisor. It was love for her father that kept her from the impoliteness of critiquing his inability to interest her. If he were not such a poor conversationalist, Saoirse wondered if she might have been able to marry him. As they sat at breakfast and he shoveled runny eggs into his mouth, the yolk dripping into his beard, the princess considered him with a critical eye.

Macan was not quite as tall as Faolan, but had twice the breadth. The face beneath his coarse beard was ruddy compared to the horse boy's sun-loved skin. Where Faolan's eyes seemed to follow every twitch of her mouth, every flutter of her hand, the Lord of Delbna only let out a mournful grunt each time she tried to change the topic.

No. Even without Faolan as a potential love match, Saoirse could not have married Macan Ua Scolaidhe. In her heart of hearts, she longed for true freedom. No safely planned route from her father. No sturdy figure waiting at an altar. There was so much more life to truly live than the motherhood and queenly duty that lay before her.

Another missed mouthful of dribbling egg shook Saoirse from her thoughts. The Lord of Delbna was too busy lamenting the death of his favorite hound to notice the slimy, yellow mess that now decorated his jacket.

Though breakfast seemed to drag for Saoirse, the hours of the morning faded into an uncharacteristically sunny autumn day. Surely, a good omen, she was certain. The banquet hall, in preparation for the evening—the monthly town meeting, the night Faolan would impress her father, the birth of her freedom—glowed with the day's efforts. The stone floor had been swept and scrubbed, the tables had been piled with light refreshments, the fat candles in the braziers were newly lit.

Saoirse had even begged the housekeeper to drape the hall in ivy and any late-blooming flowers sheltered in the garden. Living with the force of will that was the High King Aed had hammered the importance of determination in executing a vision: luck and wishes were for fools who could not make their dreams reality. As she admired the tendrils of fresh, emerald ivy that hung from the chandelier, Saoirse couldn't help but think a little luck would not hurt Faolan's chances.

A tiny flicker of doubt bloomed in her chest, it twisted against her confidence with a barbed edge. The ethereal vibrance of the hall could not chase away that cloud of worry. As the people of Mide filed into the hall, it grew and grew. The anxious energy seemed to vibrate through her bones, sending her fingertips tapping against the chair next to her father. While he was so still, constant and unyielding as stone, Saoirse fidgeted with a savage restlessness.

"So eager to see your sweetheart, Saoirse, my love?"

Though he did not turn to speak to her, his words a secret rumble from the side of his mouth, the princess could hear the concern in his tone. Her worry melted. Surely the father, who loved her so, would grant her this one wish.

"I am but bursting with excitement," she whispered back, taking more care to sit calmly in her seat.

All of the anxiousness disappeared the moment Saoirse caught Faolan's eye in the crowd. The sheer pleasure of seeing him quieted the buzzing lightening within her. Her smile grew at the full appraisal of his appearance.

His trousers, though not the muddy and patched pair he had worn, were a hand too short. He seemed to swim in his tunic, the fabric and cut of which were perhaps stylish some decade ago. Oh and his hair! He had attacked his shaggy locks with a wet comb. The effort shined through to her more beautifully than any tailored garment. That he cared so? It touched Saoirse deep within her chest.

She flashed him her loveliest smile.

"Is that the last mac Domnall boy?" the Lord of Delbna grunted from her father's other side. "Takes after his mother, doesn't he?"

Saoirse had met the bear of a man who sired Faolan and was quite pleased he did not resemble that unpleasant, hairy giant. She bristled to say so.

"Let's hope that he does," the High King answered before Saoirse could speak.

Again, that whisper of melancholy. The betrayal of a trusted chief. The loss of good friends in meaningless battle. That was the world, and men, he sought to protect her from. So instead of chirping her sharp remark, Saoirse patted her father's left hand. He rewarded her with the softest of smiles before standing.

The hall quieted in the span of heartbeats. The princess marveled at the way her king father commanded attention. There was no bellow, no cry. It was as if everyone was always aware of him, orbiting him like leaves caught in the breeze. She glanced to see if Faolan's attention was also held captive by her mighty father, but the horse boy only had eyes for her. Saoirse flushed with pleasure.

"Another moon has passed. Another season draws to a close. Let us discuss the needs of the community."

Macan, from his position of respect at the king's right hand, read from the list of requests and grievances. The hall heard from farmers and their concerns regarding an early frost. The miller two towns over requested men to hunt a rabid wolf. A shepherd lamented the loss of two ewes to a neighbor's dog that had been allowed to roam freely.

High King Aed listened to each petition and complaint in its entirety. He considered all viewpoints and commentary. He delivered fair judgement. Saoirse glowed with pride. For all the town meetings she had been allowed to attend since girlhood, the contented silence that followed her father's succinct judgments filled her with intense admiration.

The night continued with grievances until, finally, Faolan's name was called.

"Faolan mac Domnall, petition."

Saoirse smiled with encouragement as he stood. She expected a nervous smile, maybe a jittery grimace. She did not expect the sheepish grin that Faolan wore. It's just the candlelight, the princess told herself.

"Forgive the breach in order, High King." His voice was clear and strong. "But I'd like to give my position in line to the widow, Aine. If time permits, my request can wait."

Her mouth filled with sand. Her heart sank to her stomach. Angry tears pricked at her eyes. Saoirse blinked them away, though the room seemed to blur before her. Did he change his mind? This is my only chance!

"The mac Domnall boy is kind enough to let me speak, as I am late this evening. A birth of a babe is no easy thing to rush."

A few women in the crowd smiled and nodded. The widow was their local wise woman, a herbalist and an unofficial midwife. But there were whispers that she was more witch than wise woman. And the widow looked it. Aine was crooked and stooped, with a head of wild silver hair, and more wrinkles than there were stars in the sky.

"Tonight I speak on behalf of this new mother. One of your women who has been wronged thrice over. First, by the man who took her without consent. Second, by the father who turned her out. And third, by the people of this town who have turned away. By the neighbors who refuse to sell her a crust of bread. I bring this grievance to you, High King, with hope we can right these wrongs." Though ancient in look, her voice was powerful. It did not falter.

The baker rose immediately, blustering, his face flushed purple in indignation. "I am a good man, wise woman, but I will not stain my soul by consorting with whores."

A mad babble of agreement clashed with vehement dissent. The chaos lasted only a moment, the slightest flutter of the High King's hand dulled it to a tense silence.

"Thank you, Widow Aine, for bringing this to the light. For when we let contention and wickedness grow in darkness, we risk it festering in our hearts and becoming complacency. Is the babe's father or the mother's father here tonight to present?"

A few hushed whispers vibrated through the crowd. No one stood, no one dared speak.

High King Aed continued, "For three wrongs, I present three solutions. I cannot undo the harm of such acts or force any man to act honorably, but I can try to ease the consequences of such cruelty. First, the father of the new babe will help raise this child through financial obligation. He will cover any costs for clothing and feeding this child. Second, the child will keep its grandfather's name and status. Third, in a gesture of neighborly goodness and an example I wish my subjects to follow, I donate a milking goat and three sheep to the new mother. She is welcome at my table, as are those who embrace their neighbor in times of sorrow."

A few discontented looks might have grown to discontented whisperings, but King Aed turned to their local priest, standing silently in the back of the hall.

"Brother Thomas, what does our Christian God say to this solution?"

"Even Mary of Magdalene was loved by Lord, your Majesty," he replied softly. The quiet confidence of the statement settled the room. Macan made motion to read the next name.

But the wise woman did not sit. Her voice was as hard as ice as it rang through the hall.

"Will you not punish these crimes?"

"Until all sides are heard and all involved present, I fear I cannot."

"You would make this unwilling mother stand before this group and recount the humiliation she has suffered?" The disbelief and venom in her tone cut through the room. No one spoke to the king with such disregard. Saoirse expected the crowd to grumble, to interrupt. Time seemed to crawl, everyone was so stagnant and silent. The widow continued, "You are the High King, it is your duty to protect your people. Those wronged without justice will rise in discontent–"

"Enough!"

Saoirse was surprised to hear her own voice. For a moment, she did not realize she had spoken. She did not realize she had stood. The wise woman's tone, the implication that her father did not love his people, rankled Saoirse's spirit. The auburn in her hair shone like fire in the candlelight, its escaped tendrils curling into a wild halo around her head. Her heart hammered in her chest like the wings of the tiniest bird, but she glared at the woman.

The widow's sharp gaze pierced into hers. Clear blue meeting stormy gray. It was as if the crone could see into her very soul, to her deepest self.

"It is not enough. But I have received a solution in threes and I will give the same," the widow answered. Saoirse did not know if the woman whispered or screamed, but the words rattled into her very bones.

The princess tried to speak, tried to make the tiniest sound, but her voice caught somewhere deep in her chest. The heavy silence rolled with impending dread. Though he was but steps away, Faolan looked like he was moving through thick mud as his fingers stretched toward the widow.

"Brides can be won at war or politicking games. But I give this hard princess a gift beyond measure. For the fate of Mide and the fate of your happiness, Saoirse Uí Neill, this land will not know peace until you possess sunlight, moonbeams, and stardust in your hands. Fortunate and beloved is the man who brings them to you."

The silence broke with a sudden, sharp intake of breath from the crowd. As if everyone had not realized they had been so still as to not even breathe. Whispers bubbled and grew, hushed speculation as loud and chaotic as the river after snowmelt.

Saoirse took a single step toward this witch and the audience fell into a hush once more. It was not the eerie, underwater quiet the crone had commanded. The people, the candles, the air itself–it all seemed to wait for Saoirse to speak.

"You've cursed me," she whispered.

Faolan, Macan, her king father: none could speak against this statement. Their silence, the refusal to meet her gaze struck Saoirse with a fear that touched her very bones. The color drained from her cheeks at the horror of realization. It was as if she were a ghost, a spirit, a wraith.

"As far as curses go, this one is not so final. All one would need to find–" The widow's smile was toothless and secretive. "–is a Dreamweaver."

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