by P. C. Cast
Surely the Guardian Warriors already knew most of that. Cuchulainn’s mother had blazed the news of the deposed children of Partholon across the country. If not openly welcomed by the people, the New Fomorians should at least be expected. Etain was Epona’s Chosen, and Elphame was revered as touched by the Goddess. Their acceptance would at the very least ensure that the Partholonian people would not raise arms against the hybrids. To do so would be an act of defiance against Epona herself.
Yet Liam had been attacked.
“Nara, I’ve made a pallet for him near the fire,” Ciara called.
Brighid turned from her silent contemplation of the empty passageway to see Cu striding to the campfire with a pale Liam in his arms. The boy moaned when Cu laid him on the thick pile of pelts. Nara called for boiling water and began mixing herbs as she murmured reassuringly to the boy.
Cuchulainn moved to Brighid’s side.
“We must intercept the warriors and diffuse this situation before it gets any worse,” Cuchulainn said.
“Agreed. I want to speak with the warrior who mistook a child for a demon.”
“Scolding a warrior of Guardian Pass is not the way to defuse this situation.”
“Scolding is the least of what I would like to do to him,” she said grimly.
Cuchulainn began to grumble a reprimand when a flicker of movement over the centaur’s shoulder made his body stiffen. Brighid spun around and sucked in a breath. The end of the pass was no longer empty. Silently dozens of black-garbed warriors moved toward them.
“Stay beside me. Don’t draw your bow,” he said.
“Cuchulainn?” Ciara’s whisper was a tremulous question.
The warrior spared a quick glance at the Shaman. “All will be well.” Then his steady gaze went from child to child, and he repeated slowly, “All will be well.”
Big eyes stared steadily back at him, bright with trust and belief.
Feeling the responsibility of their young idealism settling heavily on him, Cuchulainn nodded to Brighid, and centaur and human moved forward together to meet the line of dark warriors.
“Do you know any of them?” Brighid asked quietly.
“I can’t tell yet. I should. I trained here, but that was several years—” His words broke off as the approaching line stopped moving. A single tall warrior stepped away from the others.
Brighid slanted a glance at Cu, and was relieved to see that the stern set of his face had relaxed. He intercepted the dark warrior and held out his arm for the traditional greeting of comrades.
“Master Fagan, well met,” Cu said with genuine warmth.
The warrior hesitated only a moment before grasping Cu’s forearm and returning the greeting.
“Well met, Cuchulainn MacCallan. We were apprised of your mission to the Wastelands. When the signal fire was lit I hoped that I would discover you and not an invading horde.” Fagan’s voice was as gnarly as his heavily lined face, but it was filled with the same familiarity Cu had shown in his greeting.
Cu chuckled. “An invading horde? Not hardly. I am simply leading children back to the land of their foremothers.”
The old warrior studied the group of silent winged beings.
“So we had heard. But we expected you to guide them through a smaller pass that was discovered in the west. I wonder at your change in travel plans.”
“The western pass was our original intent—before the blizzard two moons ago. The snow made the pass too treacherous for children, thus we decided to bring them through Guardian Pass.”
“It is unfortunate that we weren’t informed of your change in plans. I understand one of the Fomorians was wounded by my man.”
“He didn’t wound a Fomorian. He shot a child, not a demon. There is a distinct difference between the two.” Brighid’s voice was hard, and she thought—with satisfaction—that she sounded as imperious as her mother.
Fagan cocked his head back and studied the centaur down the length of his long nose. “You must be the Dhianna centaur who left her herd and joined the MacCallans.”
Brighid’s eyes narrowed dangerously but before she could speak Cuchulainn made hasty introductions. “Swordmaster Fagan, this is Clan MacCallan’s Huntress, Brighid Dhianna.”
“I assume the hawk belongs to you, Huntress?” Fagan asked.
Brighid ignored the surprised widening of Cuchulainn’s eyes.
“The hawk doesn’t belong to me, but I was grateful that Epona called her to my aid. She saved the boy’s life.”
Fagan gave her another long, contemplative look. “It would be a tragedy to kill an innocent youth. If the youth is, indeed, innocent.”
“This particular youth is my apprentice,” Brighid said firmly. “So when you question his honor, you question my own.”
“Understood, Huntress,” the Swordmaster said, holding Brighid’s gaze unblinkingly.
Brighid did not like the tone of his voice, but before she could tell him so Cuchulainn was making a magnanimous, sweeping gesture with his arm.
“Come, Master! Let me introduce you to the New Fomorians and their children.”
Reluctantly, the Swordmaster looked away from the Huntress. With obvious disbelief he said, “New Fomorians?”
Brighid was pleased to see Cuchulainn’s face harden and his tone lose its warmth. “These are not the demons our ancestors fought and vanquished. They are innocent of those deeds. I would expect a man as wise as my old Master to know better than to prejudge them.”
“And I would expect the warrior who so recently lost his betrothed to the madness of these creatures to be more careful in whom he placed his trust.”
“Do not forget, Fagan, that I am no longer a young novice studying at your knee. The killing of my betrothed took place before my sister’s sacrifice, which washed all vestiges of demon from the hybrids’ blood.”
This time it was Brighid’s words that broke the simmering tension. “Master Fagan, you know Cuchulainn. You also know what he has lost. If he has forgiven them and accepted them, does that not speak well on their behalf?” she said. “Can you do any less than to show them the respect Cuchulainn’s love has won for them?”
Cuchulainn’s eyes met hers. He looked as surprised as she felt at her own words. Love was not an emotion she spoke of openly—it simply wasn’t her way. But she Felt the rightness of what she had said, with the instinctual knowledge she was beginning to trust more and more easily. Cuchulainn did love the New Fomorians. They had quite probably saved his life.
And what of her feelings? She had just proclaimed to a Master Swordsman of the Guardian Warriors that little Liam, a winged hybrid Fomorian male child, was her apprentice. Could she have fallen in love with at least one of the children herself?
She’d never considered herself maternal—just the opposite actually. But she did know enough of the world to understand that blood did not automatically make a parent or a family. Love did. And trust. And bravery. And honesty. Liam had all of those things in excess. He also, she decided irrevocably, had her.
“Lead on, Huntress,” Fagan said, with a sudden smile that transformed his gruff face. “Let me meet these so-called New Fomorians who seem to have bewitched not only my favorite pupil, but a famous centaur Huntress, as well.”
Brighid tilted her head in a small bow of acknowledgment, but her eyes flashed to the dark warriors who filled the pass and remained obviously armed and on guard.
“I have never before met a Guardian Warrior, but from the stories I have heard, it is a surprise they would stand armed against a group of children,” the Huntress said with thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Guardian Warriors do not fight children,” Fagan said.
Brighid lifted one mocking brow.
In response to Fagan’s slight arm motion, the army rippled to a more relaxed stance. “My guard, to me!” Fagan barked and six warriors stepped from the front of the line to join them.
Brighid’s smile was feral. “I, too, was nervous when I first met the children. Of c
ourse I am only a mere Huntress and not a Master Swordsman of the Guardian Warriors.”
“What is the first lesson you learned as my pupil, Cuchulainn?” Fagan fired the question at Cu without breaking eye contact with Brighid.
“To remain ever vigilant,” Cu replied automatically.
“My guard remains with me,” Fagan said.
Brighid snorted.
“As you wish, Master Fagan,” Cuchulainn said. “But direct them to keep their weapons sheathed. There’s no need for your vigilance to frighten the children.”
Fagan called a quick order to the somber men. Without another word, the three of them, followed closely by the Swordmaster’s elite guard, walked toward the crowd of silent children.
Brighid and Cuchulainn’s eyes met quickly with a look of mutual amusement.
“Perhaps you might want to prepare yourself, Master,” Cu said.
Fagan’s brows disappeared into the line of his thick graying hair. “A Guardian Warrior is always prepared.”
“Under normal circumstances, one would certainly think so,” Cu said.
“But these,” Brighid said, sharing a secret look with Cu, “are not normal circumstances.”
They approached the campfire. Nara knelt over Liam. They didn’t need to see her face to read the taut concentration in her body. Her hands moved quickly, and Brighid caught a glimpse of a curved bone needle as it flashed up from the torn wing and then back down again. The Huntress’s gut quivered as she realized Nara was sewing together the ragged edges of Liam’s wing. The Healer hid most of the boy’s body with her own, but Brighid could still see that Liam was lying too still, and she had a sudden moment of raw fear. Had he lost consciousness? Was he more severely wounded than she had believed?
“He is asleep, Huntress,” Nara said without taking her concentration from the boy. “I have given him a dram to ease his pain and make him sleep. He will not wake until morning.”
“Thank you,” Brighid said, surprised that her voice sounded so normal because she felt like someone had hollowed out her gut. Then the Huntress turned to Fagan. In a low, angry voice she said, “This is the child your warrior shot. Take a good look at what you think might be a demon.” Before Cuchulainn could stop her, the centaur grabbed Fagan’s arm and pulled him roughly around Nara’s body so he had a clear view of Liam. The six warriors of Fagan’s guard moved menacingly forward and the Huntress whirled on them.
“Draw your weapons around this child and you will answer to my wrath!”
Cuchulainn stepped to her side, “And to the wrath of Clan MacCallan.”
Fagan made a restraining motion and the six men warily stood down. But as they began to step back, Brighid’s hard voice stayed them.
“No, come closer with your Master. You, too, should see what it is you wish to destroy.”
Hesitantly the men crowded around Nara and peered down at Liam. The child looked fragile and pale and broken. His round young face was streaked with tears and dirt, and his blond hair had fallen over one of his closed eyes. One dusky wing was folded neatly against his small body. The other one lay open across Nara’s lap. The tear in it was jagged, as if the arrow had taken a ragged bite instead of piercing neatly. Blood oozed freely from the gash, even though Nara was tying the wound tightly together.
“If the bleeding does not slow, I will have to cauterize it,” Nara said, still keeping her attention focused on her patient, “but I would rather not. It would permanently injure the growing membranes of his wing. He is too young to bear the burden of being crippled.”
“Will he heal?” Cuchulainn asked the question when it was obvious that Brighid could not find her voice.
“Only the Goddess knows. But he is young and strong,” Nara said, then she did look up from her patient, into Fagan’s eyes. Her voice was friendly. “Do you have children, warrior?”
“No. I have not been so fortunate,” Fagan answered.
The Healer’s gaze traveled to the other six men all dressed similarly in black. “Are any of you fathers?”
Four of the six nodded slowly.
“Sons or daughters?” The Healer asked in a warm, conversational tone.
The four men glanced at their Master, who nodded. His men answered quickly.
“I have two sons.”
“I have a daughter.”
“Three daughters and a son.”
“I have three sons.”
Nara smiled at each man as he answered.
“You have been richly blessed. Tell me, have any of you ever made a mistake?”
The men did not speak, but each of them nodded.
“Would it not pain you terribly if your children were blamed for your mistakes?”
“It would,” the father of three sons said. The other men nodded again slowly.
“I pray to Epona that you will never know that pain,” she said earnestly. Then the Healer turned her distinctive green eyes back to Fagan.
“Warrior, do you believe a child should pay the price for the sins of his father?” There was no malice in her tone, just gentle questioning.
“No,” Fagan said. “I do not.”
“Then let us hope this boy heals, because if he does not then that is exactly what will have happened—he will pay the price for the sins of a grandfather he never knew.”
“We will beseech Epona that Liam heals and is whole again soon.” Ciara’s musical voice drew the gaze of each of the warriors. The Shaman walked gracefully to the group of men, and then with a fluid movement she curtsied deeply before Fagan. “Well met, Guardian Warriors. I am Ciara, granddaughter of the Incarnate Goddess Terpsichore. I am also Shaman of the New Fomorians, and I greet you on behalf of my people.”
Clearly shaken by her introduction, Fagan’s eyes widened as the beautiful winged woman rose and smiled radiantly at him.
“I—we did not expect—” He shook his head as if to clear it. “All of the Guardian Warriors are well versed in the history of the Fomorian War. It was reported that Terpsichore’s Incarnate died after spreading the pox plague to the demon army.”
“My grandmother did, indeed, infect the demons with the pox, but she survived it. She also survived the birth of my mother,” she said in a sweet, clear voice. “Many of the Incarnate Goddesses and their acolytes survived with her.”
“This is unexpected news,” Fagan said.
“Perhaps you would like to meet some of the descendants of the Nine Muses?”
“I—” He glanced at Cuchulainn.
“Things are not always what you expect, Master Fagan,” Cuchulainn said softly. “I think you should meet the children.”
“Ah! You are a Master!” Ciara said. “What is your weapon?”
“It is the sword.”
“The children will be delighted,” she said with a joyous laugh. Then she turned to the silent group sitting patiently, their bright eyes trained on the strangers.
Brighid could hardly believe the children were being so good. She did notice a lot of wing rustling and she could almost see their nervous energy. But not one of them was chattering or leaping about. The Huntress felt a swell of pride.
Ciara’s voice lifted and with it Brighid realized their temporary respite from the children’s exuberance would soon be over. She glanced at the unsuspecting warriors. Well, at least four of them were already parents, and might be somewhat prepared for…
The Shaman made a grand, dancer’s flourish and announced, “Let the descendants of the Nine Muses rise and be first to meet Swordmaster Fagan of the Guardian Warriors!”
Oh, Goddess, Brighid thought, now she’s done it. The Huntress braced herself as children, all shouting at once, leaped to their feet like caged baby birds that had suddenly been set free.
With supreme satisfaction, Brighid watched Fagan take an automatic step back. She sought Cuchulainn’s gaze and found the warrior watching Fagan with a knowing smile. He glanced at her and she had to struggle not to laugh out loud. Thankfully, Ciara clapped her hands and the c
hildren quieted.
“They do get excited when they meet new people,” Ciara said apologetically.
“Are there no other adults except for you and the Healer?” Fagan asked.
“Oh, yes. But not many.” Ciara looked into the crowd of children. “Adults, please make yourselves known,” she called.
Sprinkled throughout the crowd the adult New Fomorians stood.
Fagan shook his head as he counted. “But this can’t be right. There are so few of them.”
“There are twenty-two adult New Fomorians,” Cuchulainn said. “That is all.”
“And how many children are there?”
“Seventy.”
Fagan turned to him incredulously. “How can there be so few adults and so many children?”
“Master, if you offer us sanctuary tonight at Guardian Castle, we will be happy to explain everything to you,” Cuchulainn said.
Fagan looked from his ex-student down to the pale boy with the torn wing and then out at the throng of eagerly waiting children.
“Guardian Castle will offer you and the New Fomorians—” he tripped only slightly over the people’s name “—sanctuary.”
20
“I WOULD RATHER carry him myself,” Brighid told the Healer for the fifth or sixth time. She was walking beside Liam’s makeshift litter that was lashed between two of the domesticated goats. Every time Liam’s sleeping body was jolted the Huntress grimaced.
“It is better for his wing if he lies flat and immobile.”
Brighid frowned in worry.
“Huntress.” Nara touched the centaur’s arm gently. “The bleeding has stopped. The boy will recover.”
Brighid saw the truth in the Healer’s eyes and allowed herself a small measure of relief.
“Brighid!” Cuchulainn’s deep voice boomed back at her from his place at the head of the slowly moving column of people.
“You may rest assured that Liam will be well cared for. He will sleep through the night and wake in the morning supremely disappointed that he missed the first meeting with the Guardian Warriors,” the Healer said.
