by P. C. Cast
“Knowing about the kind of man Cuchulainn was before he lost Brenna would help you fix him?” Brighid asked, but her instincts, whether she wanted to acknowledge them or not, were already mirroring Ciara’s answer before the winged Shaman spoke.
Ciara sighed. “Perhaps. A shattered soul is difficult enough to heal when the patient openly accepts aid. Without Cuchulainn’s cooperation there is little anyone can do except to try to contact that part of him he has lost and to coax his damaged soul into choosing life and healing instead of despair and death.”
Brighid nodded, thinking back to her early childhood and the times her mother had been able to salve the sadness of another centaur’s life. Her mother had been healing shattered souls, the Huntress realized, ashamed that she had never thought about it before. There had been a time when Brighid had seen her mother as a shining example of all that was good. But that was before Mairearad had become obsessed with the power her position granted her. Brighid had stopped seeing her mother as a spiritual healer long ago, and that thought unexpectedly washed Brighid in sadness. Cuchulainn, she reminded herself. This is about Cu, not about me and not about the Dhianna herd. She was part of the Clan MacCallan now and Cu was more of a brother to her than her own had been for years.
Swallowing past a sudden thickness in her throat, the Huntress spoke. “Cu was a rogue. Elphame often called him incorrigible, and she was right. He was a terrible flirt. You wouldn’t know it now, but a smile looked natural on his face, and he laughed with an openness that I used to think was blatantly boyish and ridiculously endearing—which I will deny ever saying if you repeat that to him.”
Ciara’s own smile widened. “Go on, I wouldn’t think of repeating any of this. What else do you remember? Just speak the first thing that comes to your mind.”
“Women loved him, and he loved them,” Brighid blurted, and then she snorted, remembering how confused the warrior had been when he had first tried to woo Brenna. “Except Brenna. She openly rejected him when he attempted to court her.” Brighid chuckled. “I remember how he blundered about, trying to win the Healer’s affection. He was remarkably inept. Actually I once compared him to a bull in rut, marking his territory around her with all the finesse of a roaring beast.”
Ciara’s burst of laughter caused the warrior’s head to turn briefly in their direction. Both women were innocently silent until he resumed his statuelike pose. Even then, Brighid was careful to keep her voice low when she continued.
“He didn’t understand how to woo a woman who told him no and no and no again. Cuchulainn was a man few women refused.”
Ciara blinked in surprise. “Brenna rejected him?”
“She didn’t trust men. She was only used to being rejected and ostracized.”
“Why?”
“Brenna had been terribly scarred from an accident in her youth. I assumed you knew. Haven’t Curran and Nevin told stories about her?”
“No, not directly. It is too obviously painful for the warrior to hear or to speak of his lost love. I had no idea she was anything but a beautiful, gifted Healer.”
“She was—but she was also much more.”
“Apparently there is much more to Cuchulainn, too, if the rogue he used to be had the ability to look beyond the physical and find the love that hid beneath.”
Ciara’s words sounded like high praise, but her expression had become strained and serious.
“Is that a bad thing, Shaman?”
“It complicates things.”
“Explain,” Brighid said.
Ciara brushed a long strand of dark hair from her face and took her time in answering. “Love comes in many forms. For instance, the love we feel for our family—even within that dynamic, love differs. Do you have siblings?” she asked suddenly.
Caught off guard by the question Brighid’s voice was strained as she ground out a clipped, “I do” between her narrowed lips.
“Then you understand the difference between the love you feel for a brother or a sister, and the love you have for your parents.”
The Huntress nodded quickly, hoping Ciara would not follow that line of questioning. She needn’t have worried, the Shaman’s voice had taken on an almost singsong quality as she settled into explaining the nuances of love.
“As within our family, the love between a man and a woman can take many forms, too. Some love passionately but rashly, and like a fire that burns too hot their love is consumed quickly, often leaving cold ashes in its wake. Others do not feel the intense passion, their love is like embers smoldering year after year, keeping their lives warm and fulfilled. There is love that is almost exclusively of the mind or of the heart or of the body. It is rare, but sometimes all three mix.”
“All three mixed with Cuchulainn and Brenna.”
“And that is the most difficult from which to recover.”
“Will you still try to help him?” Brighid asked.
“Of course, but—”
“But what?” Brighid prompted.
“But I am not what he needs. Cuchulainn has drawn within himself. He needs the aid of a Shaman who cares for him on a much more personal level.” She sighed softly. “I respect the warrior, and perhaps in time I would be able to become close enough to reach his innermost emotions, but I’m afraid that Cuchulainn’s need is more immediate.”
“His father is High Shaman of all Partholon. Couldn’t he help Cu?”
Ciara pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“Why not? Midhir is a great Shaman.”
“Remember the different types of love?”
Brighid nodded impatiently.
“To heal from the wound of Brenna’s loss, Cuchulainn will need intimacy with a Shaman that is different from that of a parent’s bond to a child. He will need someone who can reach more of the lover and less of the child,” Ciara said.
Brighid frowned. “That makes no damned sense at all. The only Shaman Cu would come close to trusting is his father. There is no one else—except for you.”
“Is there not?” Ciara smiled cryptically. “I can feel our Goddess’s hand upon the warrior. I do not believe Epona will leave him bereft of aid, but the ways of Epona are often mysterious and difficult for us to fully understand. Until another Shaman comes forth, I will attempt to ease the warrior’s suffering.”
Ciara’s words made the hair on the nape of Brighid’s neck prickle, and when she spoke her voice sounded more clipped than she intended. “Waiting for maybes or what-ifs is ridiculous. Do what you can to help Cu. But I wouldn’t say anything to him about it.”
Ciara bowed her head in gentle acknowledgment.
9
THAT FIRST NIGHT’S campsite came to order with amazing efficiency as children worked quickly and skillfully in little groups supervised by the adults and the eldest of the youngsters. The poles from the litters were easily transformed into the skeletons of tents and then covered securely with stretched goatskins. The makeshift shelters grew in a tight circle around a flat, rocky area Ciara had chosen carefully. The front flap of each tent was left open.
“I understand the circle formation,” Brighid had murmured to Cuchulainn as he joined her where she was skinning the half dozen hares she had snared while the tents were being erected. “But why leave the front of them open? Seems like it’s just inviting this Goddess-damned cold to freeze them while they sleep.”
“Watch,” Cu grunted, taking a rabbit and unsheathing his knife.
Before the Huntress could tell Cu just how irritating his uncommunicative company had become, Ciara’s voice rang clearly through the fading day.
“It is time! Bring the fire starters.”
With squeals of joy and more chattering than Brighid thought was good for anyone’s nerves, the winged children fluttered to the litters. Filling their arms with what looked like large clumps of hard gray dirt, they swirled around their Shaman, who pointed to an area in the middle of the flat rock. Gleefully the children heaped their armloads into a growing pi
le. When the mound was almost to Ciara’s waist, she motioned for the children to stop, and they fell blissfully silent as they, and the adult New Fomorians, formed a loose circle around their Shaman.
The Huntress sent Cuchulainn a questioning look, but he only repeated his earlier command of “Watch.”
Brighid frowned at him, but her eyes were drawn back to Ciara, who smiled at her people before turning to the west. Following her lead, the circle rustled and likewise faced the setting sun. Brighid’s hands, which had been efficiently skinning one hare after another, stilled as Ciara spoke.
Gentle Epona, blessed Goddess, You close another day,
changing the warmth of sky to dark of night.
Facing the way of fire, we hearken and pray,
shield us from darkness, cold and fright.
Ciara’s wings unfurled and the air around her shimmered with the tangible presence of Epona. She lifted her arms, and her voice was magnified and filled with happiness and confidence and the power of a Goddess’s touch.
Blazing force of cleansing fire,
dancing flames of Epona’s light;
hear me, for our need is dire,
aid me in this evening rite.
Gift of flame, O fiery flower,
ever glowing in my sight;
fill me with our Goddess’s blessed power,
touch me with Her blazing might.
Ciara flung her open hands forward, toward the mound. Instantly the pile ignited. Flames blazed cheerfully, casting dancing winged shadows against the tents as the adults called for their children and the circle dispersed. The clatter of pans announced they would soon be ready for the Huntress’s catch, but Brighid could not take her eyes off the Shaman.
Ciara remained where she had been at the end of the invocation, standing so close to the fire that Brighid thought it likely her clothing would catch. Her head was bowed and her eyes were closed, and Brighid could see that her lips moved silently. For a long moment Ciara stood there, statuelike in her concentration. Then, slowly, she raised her head and opened her eyes, meeting the Huntress’s curious gaze with her own clear, guileless one. Brighid was the first to look away.
“You know, you could tell me more than ‘watch’ or ‘you’ll see’ when I ask you questions about…” Brighid gestured vaguely at the fire and the encampment.
“I think you should get the same experience I had,” Cu said.
“Which is?”
“Surprise. No,” Cu raised a hand smeared with rabbit blood, cutting off the Huntress’s snort of annoyance. “I’m not doing it to be irritating. I want your honest reaction to them—to this.” He met her gaze. “I trust your instincts, Huntress, better than I trust my own.”
Brighid opened and then closed her mouth. Cuchulainn was damned hard to talk to. One moment he was distant and evasive, the next he was disarmingly honest and almost like the Cu she used to know. It was as if he had become an incomplete picture of himself. His responses were off, and he knew it. The warrior’s soul is shattered.
“Maybe your instincts are still trustworthy. Maybe you just need to call them back to you, and start believing in yourself again,” Brighid said haltingly. She felt out of her element trying to counsel the warrior. She’d rather take him out on a long hunt and have him work himself into exhaustion chasing elusive prey, than try to advise him on matters of his soul. And from his silent response to her words and the lack of expression on his face as he returned to skinning the hare, he’d probably rather she knocked him over the head and be done with it. But she knew that what was wrong with Cu couldn’t be fixed through the physical realm as surely as she knew that if he didn’t find a way to heal he would continue to fade away. That would hurt Elphame, and Brighid didn’t want her Chieftain and friend to know the pain of losing a family member. Brighid knew the pain of that kind of loss all too well.
She glanced at the warrior. His face was set into what was becoming its typical expression of stony withdrawal. Perhaps it was the talk she’d had with Ciara, but the contrast between Cuchulainn now and Cuchulainn just two moons ago suddenly made Brighid heartsick. She remembered clearly how he used to laugh and joke easily, and how his very presence could enliven a gathering. Even when she’d first met him and thought him insufferably arrogant she had envied the dynamic aura he radiated.
“Stop looking at me like that.” Cuchulainn’s voice was as expressionless as his face.
“Cu, I hate it that you—”
“Ciara says we’re ready for the rabbits now!” Like a winged whirlwind, Kyna swirled up to them, Liam close on her trail.
“Next time could I go with you to hunt? I could help. Really I could. Really.” Liam’s eyes blinked enthusiastically as he hopped from one taloned foot to the other.
Brighid told her face not to frown. This was exactly why Huntress’s rarely had offspring. They interrupted when they shouldn’t and made entirely too much noise.
“To hunt hare, you must be very quiet, Liam,” she said severely.
“Oh, I am! I can be! I will. Just watch and see, I will,” he assured her, still dancing from foot to foot.
“You’re never quiet, Liam,” Kyna said with disgust.
“I am so!”
“You are not!”
“I was quiet during the evening blessing,” Liam said. His wings rustled as he fisted his hands and raised his chin defiantly.
“Everyone was quiet during the evening blessing.” Kyna rolled her eyes.
As the two children bickered, Brighid looked helplessly at Cuchulainn. The warrior met her gaze briefly and Brighid thought for a moment a shadow of good humor flickered through his eyes.
“Kyna, I left the gelding tethered with the goats,” he said nonchalantly.
Looking a little like a baby bird, the girl instantly swiveled her attention to him. “But he doesn’t really like the goats. They’re too small and they bother him.”
Brighid thought she knew exactly how Cu’s gelding felt.
“I should check on him,” Kyna said determinedly.
Cuchulainn lifted one shoulder. “As you wish.”
“Liam, you take the rabbits to Ciara,” Kyna ordered, tossing the basket she had been carrying to the boy before she hurried away. Then she threw over her shoulder, “That’s probably as close as you’ll get to catching a rabbit!”
Liam scowled after her. “I can be quiet.”
“To trap rabbits, you must be fast, too,” Cu said. “Isn’t that true, Huntress?”
“Definitely,” Brighid said.
“Then watch me! Just watch me. I can be fast!”
And as he scooped up the skinned rabbits and glided quickly away from them, basket clutched to his narrow chest, Brighid had to admit that the boy really did move with amazing speed. He’d never be quiet, but he certainly was fast.
“By the hot breath of the Goddess those children are annoying! How have they not driven you crazy?” Brighid asked, staring after the boy.
“You learn to tune them out. After a while, it’s like they’re not even here.”
Brighid’s gaze snapped back to Cu. He had crouched down and was wiping his blade clean on a small clump of frost-dampened moss. His voice was again dead and detached. He stood up and sheathed the blade. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the camp.
As Brighid settled herself comfortably near the brightly burning campfire and accepted a bowl of thick stew from an eager young server, she thought that even though Partholon was prosperous and thriving, there were many things Partholonians could learn from the New Fomorians—especially about traveling in comfort. The winged people had little, and their land was stark and harsh, but she had rarely experienced such a cozy, harmonious campsite.
The cold, ever-blowing wind had been neatly blocked by the sturdy design of the goatskin tents, which fitted snugly in a warm circle around Ciara’s blazing fire. Every so often someone would feed the fire with another chunk of what one of the winged women had said was a mixture of
dried lichen and goat dung. The fodder explained the vague scent that drifted with the smoke, but it was much less offensive than she would have thought—and it accomplished its job. The fire burned hot and steady.
Dinner had been put together as quickly and efficiently as had the tents, and in an amazingly short time everyone was sitting near the fire or within the warmth of the open-fronted tents, sharing a robust stew. Brighid chewed thoughtfully on a piece of rabbit and looked around the unusually quiet camp. The children looked tired, the Huntress realized with a jolt. Not long ago they had flitted about, tending the goats and chattering nonstop while they spread soft goatskin rugs within the tents. Now it was as if someone had turned off their youthful exuberance.
Without being obvious about it, Brighid cut her eyes to her left, where Liam had insisted he had to sit because he was, after all, her apprentice. When had he quit babbling? she wondered. When had they all stopped babbling? Maybe Cuchulainn wasn’t as far gone as she had thought—it seemed she, too, had the ability to tune out their ceaseless talking.
“Here—” Cu tossed a wineskin to her as he joined the circle, sitting cross-legged to her right. “You brought it. You should drink some of it.” He nodded his thanks at the boy who handed him a steaming bowl.
“It’s weird when they’re not constantly talking,” Brighid said, lowering her voice so that it didn’t carry over the crackle and pop of the campfire.
“They came a long way today, twice as far as I expected. Any other children would have stopped hours ago.” Cu’s gaze traveled around the silent circle and he almost smiled. “I suspect it has finally caught up with them.”
“Thank the Goddess,” Brighid mumbled and took a long pull of the excellent red wine.
“I suspect they’ll be ready to go again at first light.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Brighid said. The warrior seemed more relaxed than he had been earlier, or perhaps he was just tired, too. Did keeping everyone at a distance take its toll on Cu, especially since he had spent the vast majority of his life drawing people to him?
