by P. C. Cast
“You’ve proven yourself trustworthy many times, Huntress. If I have made you believe otherwise, it is due to my failing, not your own.”
“Then will you trust me to try to fix your soul?”
The warrior hesitated. His face was no longer devoid of expression, and Brighid could clearly see the emotions that warred within him. Finally he met her gaze. “Yes.”
Brighid didn’t think that hearing any one word had ever made her feel quite so much like she wanted to run in the opposite direction. Instead she jerked her head in a quick, acknowledging nod.
“Now what do I do?” Cu asked leerily.
“You give me your oath that you won’t do anything to harm yourself until your spirit is whole again.”
“What if you can’t fix it?”
Brighid drew a tight breath. “If I can’t fix it, then your oath would not be binding. You’d be free to do as you will.”
“Then you have my oath.”
Cuchulainn held out his arm and Brighid grasped his forearm in the warrior’s way of binding an oath. His grip was strong and he felt so alive. She hoped desperately that her instincts hadn’t just blundered her into a suicide pact with the brother of her best friend.
“Where do we go from here?” Cuchulainn asked.
“Back to camp. I’ll take the first watch over the fire. You get some sleep. I’ll wake you when the moon is at half point.”
“What does that have to do with fixing my shattered soul?”
“Not a damn thing,” she muttered. “But it’ll give me time to think about the mess I’ve gotten us into.”
As they walked side by side back to the camp, Brighid heard Cu chuckling. She might very well be helping his suicide, but at least she was amusing him.
Her family had been right about one thing. Humans certainly were odd creatures.
11
BRIGHID FED THE fire another compacted log of moss and goat dung and grunted in wordless approval at the heat that radiated from the flame. The night was cold and the wind was brutal, but within the tight circle of tents there was warmth and light and a more than adequate measure of comfort. The Huntress wondered silently whether the strength of the fire was because of Ciara’s affinity for the spirit of flame or the right mixture of goat dung.
“A little of both,” Ciara said, joining the Huntress.
“Are you practicing Shaman mind reading on me?”
The winged woman smiled. “No, of course not, but I have always been good at reading expressions. Your face did not hide the question on your mind.” She gestured at the neat pile of fuel. “It burns well, and it lasts long. But the truth is that my presence intensifies its natural attributes. Were I not with the camp, it would still be good fuel.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “But because I am with the camp it is excellent fuel.”
“You’d be good to have along on a cold winter’s hunt,” Brighid said.
Ciara’s laughter made the flames leap and crackle. “Bringing fire is the only way I would be helpful on a hunt. I’m hopelessly inept at tracking, and I cannot bear killing of any kind. I even dislike harvesting grain or pulling wild onions from the earth. You would find me a poor hunting companion.”
Brighid snorted. “That’s how I feel about attempting to be a Shaman. Inept is an excellent way to describe me. When I spoke to Cuchulainn I felt like a fish attempting to nest in a tree.”
Ciara’s expression saddened and she sighed heavily. “If he would not listen to you then he is more lost than I believed.”
Brighid glanced sharply at the tent Cu had so recently disappeared into. “Walk with me,” she said, moving away from the warrior’s tent. Still, she lowered her voice. “He listened.”
Ciara’s eyes widened with her returning smile. Brighid held up a hand.
“Don’t go all happy on me. Yes, he agreed to let me help him. But he only agreed to it so that he could be whole again and decide with a clear mind to kill himself.”
“When his soul is no longer shattered the warrior will not choose death.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I feel it here.” Ciara placed one slender hand over her heart. “When Cuchulainn is whole, he will love again.”
Brighid didn’t want to destroy the Shaman’s optimistic delusion, so she stayed silent. She knew Cu better than Ciara knew him. She could imagine him healed and returning to his life as one of Partholon’s most respected warriors, but loving again? She thought about how he had looked at Brenna and the joy that had blazed from him. Cu’s soul might heal. His heart was a different matter.
“But one step should be taken at a time. You must not rush the process and get ahead of yourself,” Ciara said.
“And just exactly what is our next step?”
“You mean your next step.”
“No, I mean our. I’m totally out of my element here. It’s like hunting for you, remember? I’ll do it because I have to, but you have to guide me through the steps.”
Children called to the centaur and the Shaman as the two traced their way slowly around the circular camp. Soon they found it impossible to converse without constant cheerful interruptions.
“Shouldn’t you check on the outer perimeter?” Ciara asked, smiling wryly as yet another child’s sleepy voice drifted through the night.
“This time you did read my mind,” Brighid said, thinking that the wind and the darkness would be less annoying than the exuberance of seventy children.
The wind slapped cold and hard against Brighid’s face the moment they left the tight shelter of the tents. The moon’s light was still weak and far away, only illuminating the Wastelands’ bleak emptiness.
“By the Goddess, this is a wretched place!” The Huntress shivered and rubbed her arms.
“It is true that it is harsh, but there is some warmth and beauty here.” Ciara searched the ground around them until she found a thin, oddly light-colored twig that was barely the length of a centaur’s hock. Ciara crouched and gently screwed it into the hard, rocky soil so that it stood on its own, like an anemic sprout. Then she whispered something Brighid couldn’t hear and blew on the twig. It responded by bursting into a white-hot flame that flickered crazily in the wind but showed no sign of sputtering or dimming. Ciara sat, spreading her wings so that she blocked the worst of the wind and trapped some of the flame’s heat. She motioned for Brighid to sit beside her, and the Huntress folded gracefully to her knees, shaking her head in awe at the purity of the flame that was so white it was almost silver.
“What is that? I’ve never seen anything burn that color before.”
“It’s from an oak tree. No,” she said before Brighid could finish forming the question in her mind, “it didn’t grow in the Wastelands. The wind brings them here from the south, and something about our rather intemperate climate changes them from green to white.” She smiled at the burning twig. “I like to pretend that the small dried limbs are a gift from Partholon to us. It was through one of them that the spirit of the flame first spoke to me.”
“An oak—the most venerated of trees—known for divination, healing and protection,” Brighid said, echoing knowledge she had learned from her mother when she had still been young enough to believe in following family and tradition.
“Exactly.” The Shaman’s voice sounded dreamy and very young as she stared into the white light. “A real, living oak is one of the things I most look forward to seeing when we finally enter Partholon.”
Ciara’s idealism made Brighid’s gut clench. What would happen to that joy when she was confronted by the truth of Partholon? Did she not understand that her wings alone would be reason enough for her to be hated and feared?
“But we’re not here to talk about trees or about Partholon.” Ciara pulled her gaze from the flame. “We’re here to talk about Cuchulainn and how you can help him. First, before I give you any details about soul-retrieval, I’d like to know your thoughts. Tell me—if you didn’t have me to guide you—what would you do?”
&nb
sp; “Not a damned thing!” Brighid snorted. “I wouldn’t have even known his soul was shattered had you not told me.”
Ciara’s brows lifted. “Really? Nothing within you whispered that there was something wrong with the warrior beyond the normal grief of losing his mate?”
Brighid frowned. “I don’t know…maybe…I did sense something,” she admitted reluctantly.
“And had I not been here, you would’ve ignored the intuition that told you your friend needed your help?”
“No. Probably not.” Brighid moved her hands restlessly. “But I wouldn’t have known what to do! Just like I don’t know what to do now.”
“You take the first step. Stop, center yourself, and listen for that voice within. That voice of instinct and spirit that was breathed to life by Epona when you were born, and still carries the magic of a Goddess’s touch.” Ciara smiled encouragement. “What does your instinct tell you, Brighid?”
“My Huntress instinct tells me Cu needs to be knocked over the head,” Brighid grumbled.
“Then you must not think with your Huntress instinct. Listen more carefully. Find the voice of the Shaman that is carried within your blood.”
Brighid looked sharply at Ciara. “Why are you so insistent that I have these instincts?”
“I already told you, Huntress. I sense it, and I am rarely wrong. Actually my guess is that you do use the Shaman within you, and you use her quite often.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your gift is an affinity for the spirits of the animals, is it not?” Without waiting for her answer, Ciara continued. “The instincts that help you to be such a successful Huntress are the same that will help you heal Cuchulainn’s soul. If it disturbs you to think of the act as one of a Shaman, can you not simply consider the quest as just another hunt?”
The centaur blinked in surprise. “You mean all I need to do is track the pieces of Cu’s soul?”
“Perhaps…” She flashed a small, secret smile at Brighid. “Listen carefully within and tell me.”
Stifling the urge to shake the winged woman, Brighid took a deep breath and concentrated. Cuchulainn’s soul was shattered. How could that be fixed? Instead of throwing up her hands and shouting that she had no damned idea, she took another breath. Think, she ordered herself. Make it a hunt. The prey would be different—instead of a deer or a wild boar, I would be tracking a spirit, which meant I must go where spirits dwell—into the Otherworld, the Realm of Spirits. The Huntress shivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold or the wind.
“I have to track Cu’s broken soul into the Realm of Spirits,” Brighid said with much more confidence than she felt. “And bring it back with me. Somehow.”
“Yes,” Ciara agreed, “but you need to understand that your goal differs from that of a hunt. You cannot attack or entrap. A Shaman should never coerce, threaten, or force any soul to return. In doing so, you would be interfering with the free will of the individual.”
Brighid sighed and squinted into the silver flame. “So it’s not just a matter of finding the broken pieces of Cu’s spirit?”
“No. Think of yourself as a guide, or more accurately as a mediator between the warrior and his retreated soul. That is why it is important that Cuchulainn agree to the retrieval. Without his approval his soul will never become whole.”
“Does it matter that the only reason Cu agreed to this is so that he can have a clear conscience when he kills himself?” Brighid asked sardonically.
Ciara’s kind smile didn’t waver. “Once his spirit is whole again, the warrior will not kill himself—and part of Cuchulainn already knows that.”
“I hope you’re right about that, Shaman.”
“Trust me,” Ciara said.
Brighid met the Shaman’s steady gaze. Just days ago she would never have imagined trusting any of the hybrids, but wings or no wings, Ciara exuded honesty and goodness. She was trustworthy. Slowly the Huntress bowed her head respectfully to the winged woman, just as Brighid had seen so many centaurs acknowledge their trust in her mother.
“I choose to trust you, Shaman,” Brighid said.
“Thank you,” Ciara breathed, visibly moved by the centaur’s show of respect.
“So, what is my first step on this spirit hunt?” Brighid asked.
“You’ve begun the first step. Before soul-retrieval can be attempted there must be a bridge of caring and understanding between the warrior and you. You are his friend. Simply strengthen the bond that is already in place between you.”
Brighid snorted. “That’s damn difficult to do when Cu’s as withdrawn and surly as a bobcat.”
“Then you must explain to him why he must be open to you. It is your job to do the journeying and to expose yourself to the spiritual rigors of the Otherworld. His part in the process is to allow you access to his spirit—in this world, as well as the other.”
“Cu’s not going to like that.”
“The warrior is an intelligent man. Like it or not, he’ll understand the necessity of it.”
Brighid wanted to say that she didn’t like it either. The idea of trammeling around within another’s spirit felt like an invasion of the worst type. And, unexpectedly, she thought how much easier this would be if she could speak with her mother, but it was a desire she tamped down almost as quickly as she thought it.
“So I talk to him. I’m friendly with him. Then what?”
“In order to retrieve his soul, you will need to journey deep within the Realm of Spirits, and that is something you cannot safely do while we travel. It would not do to have your body and your spirit both displaced. I am an experienced Shaman, and even I would be reluctant to journey to the Otherworld before we’re settled in Partholon. Instead what you must do now is lay the foundation for your quest.” She paused and flashed Brighid a quick smile. “Or, as you would call it, your hunt. When you return to MacCallan Castle, and your body is safe at your home, then you will take the Shaman’s Path to the Otherworld.”
Relieved she wouldn’t be doing any spirit traveling in the near future, Brighid felt the nervous tension in her body relax.
“Between here and MacCallan Castle think of Cuchulainn each night before you sleep, for it is during our sleeping hours that we are closest to the Otherworld. Send positive thoughts of him into your dreams. Begin to imagine him as he once was—whole and happy.”
Brighid nodded. “I can do that.”
“You will also need a soul-catching stone. This stone is always a gift from the spirit realm. Sometimes it comes directly from Epona. Sometimes it is brought to the Shaman from her animal ally.”
“But I’m not a Shaman, and I certainly don’t have an animal ally!”
Ciara shrugged. “Perhaps you won’t need the gift of a soul-catcher. All I’m suggesting is that you stay open to the possibility.”
“Fine. If a stone drops from the sky onto my head I’ll be sure to pick it up and keep it.”
Ciara laughed. “Be careful. Too often the spirit realm takes our jests seriously.”
More good news, the Huntress thought.
“And while you’re watching out for stones, you might also want to keep your eyes open for your animal ally.”
“My animal ally?”
“It’s just a thought. Even though you are not a Shaman, your affinity for the spirits of animals is strong, so it wouldn’t be beyond belief for you to be gifted with an animal guide from the spirit realm.”
Thinking of the raven that was so closely allied with her mother, Brighid frowned.
“I hunt animals and then I kill them. That’s not exactly being allied to them,” Brighid said shortly.
“You do not slaughter animals for the pleasure of it, or as some vainglorious, self-gratifying act of ego. You do what you must to feed your people. Do you not respect each animal you kill, as well as give thanks to Epona for Her bounty after each hunt?”
“Of course,” the Huntress said.
“The spirit realm knows this�
�perhaps even better than you do, Huntress.”
Brighid shook her head and rubbed her arms again as another chill worked its way through her body. “Doesn’t it ever make you feel…I don’t know how to put it…violated?”
“It?”
“It! It!” Brighid gestured at the silent darkness that surrounded them. “The Otherworld—the Realm of Spirits. Isn’t it like having someone, or a group of someones, constantly watching your every move?”
The Shaman tilted her head to the side, considering. “It’s not a violation because the Realm of Spirits rarely encroaches where it is not welcome.”
“It might not encroach, but I know from experience that when warnings from that realm are ignored or denied, there is usually a high price to pay,” Brighid said solemnly.
“Isn’t that how life is? If you’re given a gift, be it an affinity for a part of the spirit realm, or be it a talent to make music or to tool leather, and you ignore it, isn’t there always a price to be paid?” Ciara paused and pressed her lips into a tight line before continuing in a sad, heavy voice. “I had a sister. She was the most gifted artist among our people, but as she grew to adulthood, she refused to use her skill. She said there was too much ugliness around and within her—she refused to find beauty anywhere, not even in the stories from the past. From the day she quit painting, I think her soul began to die. Eventually her body followed it.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Ciara,” Brighid said quietly.
“Thank you, Huntress. But I did not share my sister’s story with you to evoke your pity. I’d simply ask that you learn from it.”
“Understood.”
They sat together silently, each lost in her own thoughts. The silver light between them fluttered with the wind, casting moving shadows against Ciara’s wings. In the light from the flame of her own creation Ciara looked like she belonged more to the Otherworld than to this one. She should be the one doing this soul-retrieval stuff, not Brighid. Ciara looked up from the flame, and Brighid was surprised to see lines of worry furrowing her brow.
“Would you allow me to ask you something that has nothing to do with the warrior or his soul?” Ciara asked abruptly.
