by P. C. Cast
“One night? Shouldn’t the children rest longer than that?”
Ciara’s magical smile widened. “We are eager to enter Partholon, Master. It is as if the joyous presence of our foremothers urges us on. We have been waiting more than one hundred years to return to our homeland, and we are impatient to wait even a day longer.”
“Then one night of sanctuary it is,” Fagan said.
Ciara’s smile swept over the four Masters, touching each of them like the warmth of a friendly flame. “The Swordmaster and his warriors have already met the children. Would the rest of you like to meet them, too?”
Glenna was the first to stand. “I would, Shaman. I am curious to see these beings who have so easily won the protection of Cuchulainn MacCallan.”
“I would not say that Cuchulainn was easily won, Master Glenna.” Ciara’s laughter drifted among them as the other Masters of Arms stood and descended the dais to follow the Shaman from the room. “Rather, the children are…well…as diligent and single-minded as worker ants when they focus on something or, in Cuchulainn’s case, someone.” More of Ciara’s laughter brightened the room. “Come see for yourselves.”
Brighid and Cuchulainn followed behind the group.
“See why she makes such a good Shaman, and I would not? I would have described them as insatiable irritants, like the biting black flies of the swamplands,” Brighid whispered to Cuchulainn.
“Or fleas,” Cu said under his breath. “Fleas are small and annoying and relentless.”
Brighid smiled at Cuchulainn, noting that though he still had smudges of weariness beneath his eyes, his expression was animated and he walked by her side with the lithe, easy stride of a young warrior.
Ciara’s voice drifted back to them. Brighid could hear her explaining how each adult New Fomorian was responsible for a group of children, and acted as parent to that group, whether there were blood ties involved or not. Deep in conversation with the Masters, Ciara emerged from the Great Hall into the inner courtyard. Brighid touched Cuchulainn’s arm, holding him back from following the group.
“Let’s let them go ahead without us. I think it would do the Masters good to experience the full force of the children’s curiosity—without us fracturing their attention.”
Cu’s lips tilted up. “I had no idea you had such a capacity for cruelty, Huntress.”
Brighid grinned. But her reply was drowned out by the sound of a terrifying shriek.
“No!”
As one, Huntress and warrior rushed into the courtyard. The huge open square was filled with winged children and dark-clothed guards. The two groups had mingled as the circle of tents was erected, but all work ceased at the sound of the unholy shriek.
“Not the children! It cannot be the children!”
The hate-filled words were screamed from above, and all heads tilted up, staring at the terrible winged form silhouetted against the barred window of a tower room.
“Fallon.” Cuchulainn’s voice had become cold and dead again.
“Embracing the enemy! Embracing the enemy! You sleep with the whore Partholon!” The words were filled with madness and loathing.
Several of the children whimpered, which seemed to thaw the frozen warriors.
“Take that creature to an inner room!” Fagan ordered.
A half dozen warriors jumped to obey their Master. As they rushed past Brighid, Cu moved quickly after them. Setting her jaw, the Huntress kept pace with him.
“This might not be a good idea,” Brighid told him.
Cuchulainn gave no response, and Brighid had no time to prod him further. It took all of her concentration to navigate the winding hallways without knocking over the occasional man or woman. The Huntress frowned and fell behind Cuchulainn. The halls of Guardian Castle had definitely not been fashioned with centaurs in mind.
She slid to a halt at the entrance to the tower stairwell, snorting in frustration at the narrow, winding stone stairs where Cuchulainn had disappeared. If she went up there she might very well have to back all the way down—a potentially dangerous, as well as embarrassing, proposition. She’d wait.
Thank the Goddess she didn’t have to pace past the tower entrance for long. Shuffling feet could be heard, as well as the clank and rattle of chains and deep, muffled voices. Then the laughter began. The sound of it walked up Brighid’s spine and set the fine hairs on the nape of her neck stirring. Madness. The laughter was filled with madness. Brighid had heard it before, when Fallon had confronted Elphame at MacCallan Castle. It had shaken Brighid to her core then, and it had no less of an effect on her now.
A dark-clothed warrior appeared. His sword was drawn and he was gripping the end of a chain. Then another warrior stepped into view. He, too, was armed and holding a taut length of heavy chain.
Fallon emerged from the stairwell. Brighid became very still. She took in the changes in Fallon as if categorizing a new species she might soon be required to hunt. The creature was painfully thin, except for her distended abdomen. Her silver-white hair was in wild disarray around a face that belonged in nightmares. Fallon no longer looked more human than Fomorian. Even after she had been bound and battered at MacCallan Castle, she had been beautiful, but now that beauty had been twisted and sharpened and her pale, bloodless face had reverted to the feral, gaunt images drawn in the history texts. Her wings, though bound tightly to her body by circles of ropes, rustled and fought to unfurl. And her scent was all wrong. She was secreting a pungent, musklike smell that was raw with hatred and rage. Automatically, Brighid drew her dagger as the creature’s red eyes lighted on her and she bared deadly fangs.
“Another MacCallan whore!” Fallon spat. “I should have known that where Elphame’s brother was, there the centaur would follow, just as you did that day when you unjustly captured me.” Fallon swiveled her head to look behind her in an insect-like movement. More mad laughter spewed from her mouth as she bared her teeth. “But you were too late, weren’t you, Warrior? Shall I tell you how sweet your Brenna’s blood tasted?”
From the stairwell, Cuchulainn lunged forward, hurling himself at Fallon, but he was restrained by three of the Guardian Warriors as the entire group spilled into the hallway. Brighid quickly moved to Cu, pushing away the dark warriors. In their place she blocked her friend and used the power of her centaur body to keep him from reaching Fallon.
“Cuchulainn! You agreed to let her live until she gave birth to the child!” Keir shouted. He was still standing in the arch of the stairwell, and he, too, had been changed by Fallon’s imprisonment. His eyes were sunken deep in his head and his hair was limp and matted. He still looked human, but he had aged markedly. His wings weren’t bound as Fallon’s were, but he kept them tight against his broad back. He was not chained, either, but a single warrior stood beside him, weapon drawn and ready.
“That’s right. Don’t forget that I am with child!” Fallon hissed, rubbing her abdomen with fingers that had become clawlike.
“We will not forget it!” Brighid snarled back at her, still carefully restraining Cuchulainn. “We will be here to welcome your child’s birth because it will mark the day of your death.”
Fallon’s sly expression shifted and changed. She staggered like she was suddenly too weak to stand by herself. Keir rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her as she collapsed into him.
“Our child! Don’t let them speak of our child, my dearest!” she sobbed.
“Get her away from here,” Brighid said, feeling bile rise in her throat at the creature’s theatrics.
The warriors dragged the two winged creatures down the hall, leaving Cuchulainn and Brighid to watch until they disappeared into a stairwell that led down to the bowels of the castle.
“I had forgotten her evil and her hatred,” Cuchulainn said in a low, tight voice. “How could I have forgotten?”
“Such a creature is unimaginable.” Brighid shook her head in disbelief. “No wonder the Guardian Warriors were willing to shoot anything with wings. I cannot bla
me them after seeing what Fallon has become.”
“She is a Fomorian.”
“She is the last of her kind. After she gives birth, we execute her and the evil of that race dies with her,” Brighid said.
“I wonder…” Cu said, still staring down the hall.
Brighid watched his face. It had hardened again into the impenetrable, emotionless mask she hadn’t seen for days. She rested her hand on his shoulder—a gesture of friendship she forced herself to make. He had turned into a cold and dangerous stranger, but she met his dead eyes when he turned to her.
“Don’t let her take you back there, Cu. If she does that, she wins. Don’t let her hatred win.”
“We should return to the children,” Cuchulainn said. He turned abruptly, pulling free of the warmth of Brighid’s hand, and without another word retraced their path to the courtyard.
22
IN A WAY Fallon’s disturbance had been a good thing for the New Fomorians. Not that Brighid liked having the children so visibly upset, but she had yet to meet a warrior who could remain detached and unmoved by the sight of helpless young ones who needed reassurance. And the children obviously needed reassurance.
When Brighid and Cuchulainn had returned to the courtyard it was to find little knots of children with big, frightened eyes clustered around the adult New Fomorians and, Brighid noted with surprise, around the dark-clothed warriors who had escorted them through the pass. The winged children weren’t crying or showing any sign of childish hysterics, but there was a terrible, frightened silence about them as they kept close to the nearest adult.
The reaction of the Guardian Warriors—bows at the ready, their bodies in front of the children—relieved Brighid’s mind immensely. No matter the doubts the Masters of Guardian Castle, the warriors seemed to accept the children’s innocence, so much so that they were already protective.
“It’s over. She’s been taken to the dungeons,” Cuchulainn said as he joined Fagan and the other Masters near the center of the courtyard. He turned on the Swordmaster. “Why was she not being kept there already?”
“She usually is,” Fagan explained. “But the interior cells are cold and damp—terribly unhealthy—and she is with child. We allow her fresh air and exercise because of that.”
“She deserves neither,” Cuchulainn snapped.
“Of course she doesn’t. But she is being kept alive for the sake of her child. If we cause her death or the miscarriage of the babe, isn’t that negating the reason she was brought to us?”
“She is evil.” Cuchulainn’s voice was low and dangerous. “And she needs to be destroyed, with or without taking that demon spawn she carries within her.”
Brighid moved quickly to Cuchulainn. This time the hand she placed on his shoulder was not the gentle touch of a friend.
“Enough, Cuchulainn!” she said, pulling him around to face her.
He jerked away, eyes narrowed, but before he could snarl a response she made a sharp, cutting gesture.
“Stop and think before you speak. You’re scaring them. And they’ve already been frightened enough.”
Cu’s gaze blazed as he looked at the children. Those within hearing were staring at him with expressions that ranged from confusion to fear—and some of them, the older ones, were watching him with wide-eyed hurt.
Brighid stepped closer to him and spoke quietly. “What they do not need heaped atop everything else is to be burdened with the uncertainty of wondering if their warrior hero might actually hate them. They could very easily be considered the spawn of demons. Perhaps you would like them destroyed, too?”
Cuchulainn’s gaze roamed over the children as Brighid spoke. She could tell the instant her words penetrated his wall of anger. His wide shoulders slumped and he wiped an unsteady hand across his brow.
“We have much work to do,” Ciara said into the uncomfortable silence. “The children are hungry and tired.”
“Yes, of course,” Cuchulainn said in an unnatural, clipped voice. “We shouldn’t waste time. Gareth! Cullon!” He called two of the oldest boys’ names. He hesitated then added, “Kyna! Help me settle the animals while the tents are being erected.” The fluttering of wings answered his summons as the three children and the half-grown wolf cub hurried to follow the stern warrior.
Then, as if Cuchulainn’s departure was a signal for action, the hybrids, with the help of their Guardian escorts, resumed the job of setting up camp. Brighid smiled reassurance at the children who continued to glance her way, wondering silently when she had become an advocate for the young as well as unwilling healer to the spiritually infirm.
Ciara materialized silently beside the Huntress. “It is only a temporary setback.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The warrior has begun to feel the spark of life again. His body, his heart, even his spirit remember what it is like to be whole and to know the joy of really living. It will not be something from which he can easily turn away.”
Brighid met the winged woman’s eyes. She wanted to ask Ciara if she meant that Cuchulainn was falling in love with her, and she with him, but the words wouldn’t come. They sounded ridiculously girlish and foolish in her mind. How much worse would they sound spoken aloud? And why was it any of her business? It wasn’t. Not really. Let Elphame figure out her brother’s love life. Brighid had taken on the job of helping him fix his spirit. That was it.
Ciara’s smile warmed, and Brighid had the disturbing sensation the winged woman was reading her mind. Again.
“Ciara!” Master Fagan found his way to them through the throng of busy children and warriors. He had a well-rounded, middle-aged woman with him, who he quickly introduced as Kathryn, the castle’s head cook, before he disappeared back into the throng of activity. The stout woman stared at the children with fascination and shock.
“We carried provisions with us,” Ciara assured her, but the cook waved away the Shaman’s implied offer.
“Guests granted sanctuary at Guardian Castle do not feed themselves,” Kathryn said gruffly. “We will simply add a few more pots to the hearth.” She scratched her double chins. “Exactly how many children are there?”
“Seventy,” Brighid said, enjoying the cook’s look of horror. “And twenty-two adults, plus Cuchulainn and myself.”
“That is quite a solid number. By the Great Goddess! So many small mouths!” She rocked back on her heels, planting her hands on her thick waist.
Just then the Guardian Warriors began lighting the torches that rested snugly within wall sconces fitted around the inner courtyard. The area filled with the homey glow of dancing fire.
Brighid raised a brow at the cook. “It’s dusk, and I do not know the territory, but that matters little. I should be able to track and kill something. Although probably not quickly enough to feed them dinner.”
“Guardian Castle is amply provisioned!” Kathryn huffed.
“Would you consider Brighid’s offer as our gift to you?” Ciara asked.
The cook’s curious eyes swiveled from staring at the children to the lovely winged Shaman.
“A gift?”
“Yes, from our Huntress to yours.”
Kathryn looked from Ciara to Brighid, obviously trying to decide if she could accept their offer without dishonoring her castle. Brighid caught the cook’s eye and nodded encouragement.
“I suppose a gift of venison to cook up for the morning meal wouldn’t be inappropriate. But it wouldn’t be our Huntress you would be gifting—it would have to be the castle in general. Our Huntress left us early several days ago.”
Surprised, Brighid’s mind cast back quickly for a name. “Isn’t your Huntress Deirdre of the Ulstan Herd?”
“Yes, and sorely we miss her,” Kathryn said. “Though that doesn’t mean we are lacking.” The cook straightened her spine with obvious pride. “Our warriors are not up to Huntress standards, but they will not let the castle—or its guests—go hungry.”
They had been left with no Huntre
ss? How could that be? No, she hadn’t glimpsed any centaurs today, but a Huntress was not always at the castle. It certainly wouldn’t be unusual for her to be out tracking game, even until well after dusk. Brighid shook her head as if to clear it. “I don’t understand. Your Huntress left you? Without calling in another to stand in her stead?”
“Her departure was unexpected. One day she received a centaur runner carrying a message from the Centaur Plains. The next she was gone.”
“When is she returning?”
“Soon, we hope. Though she didn’t say.” Kathryn shrugged off the question. “As I said, she is missed but we are adapting well. My pots have not been empty. Nor will they be.”
“It would be my pleasure to gift Guardian Castle with a Huntress’s catch,” Brighid said formally, forcing down the warring emotions Kathryn’s announcement had caused.
The cook hesitated only a moment longer before curtsying to her. “I accept your generous gift, Huntress of the MacCallan Clan.”
“I’ll get busy,” Brighid said.
She nodded to Ciara and the cook, and made a hasty exit. Silently she thanked the Goddess for a reason to escape the controlled chaos of setting up camp. She needed time to think about what the sudden absence of the castle’s Huntress could mean.
A Huntress did not shed her responsibilities and leave her castle or village or herd without first making provisions for her absence. True, she’d left MacCallan Castle hastily, but the game in the under-hunted forests had been pathetically easy to take down. Even a sod-headed warrior could shoot an arrow through a deer that stood staring at him like a tame calf. She wouldn’t have left the castle if that hadn’t been so—not without first calling in the services of another Huntress.
But a message had come for Deirdre, and the Huntress had abandoned her castle instantly. Why?
Foreboding quivered down Brighid’s spine. It smacked of centaur politics and intrigue. What was happening on the Centaur Plains that would require a Huntress to ignore her responsibilities?
The foreboding turned to fingers of ice.
