Brighid's Quest

by P. C. Cast

  Brighid nodded. “Yes, and she loved you.”

  “Brenna is dead.”

  “Yes.” Brighid wasn’t sure what she had expected, but the calm resignation that settled over Cuchulainn’s face surprised her.

  He was staring at the stone again. “I remember.”

  “I knew you would.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Are you ready to come home now?”

  He lifted haunted eyes to hers. “Why should I?”

  “He needs you. You need him. And it’s the right thing to do, Cuchulainn.”

  “Why doesn’t he come here? It’s nice here. There’s no pain. No death. No—”

  “Have you seen Brenna here?” she interrupted him.

  His body jerked. “No. Not yet. But maybe if I were whole again, then she’d come.”

  “She wouldn’t come, Cu. This place isn’t real—not even by the Otherworld’s standards. It’s flawed, fake, pretend. Nothing here really exists.”

  “How do you know?” His voice edged on desperation.

  “You’ll just have to trust me, Cuchulainn. I would never deceive you. The man whose body lies beside me at MacCallan Castle knows that. Don’t you, too?”

  His gaze stayed on hers, and she could see him considering. Slowly, he nodded his head. “I do trust you. Enough that I believe you’ll give me an honest answer to one last question. What is there for me to return to other than grief and pain and the pieces of a broken life?”

  The importance of her answer pressed down upon her soul. Oh, help me…Etain…Epona…someone. Frantically her mind struggled for a well-worded, logical answer that would make her friend whole again. Should she mention his sister? The people of Clan MacCallan? How about the children he had obviously grown fond of?

  Stop thinking, child, and Feel. You’ll find the right answer.

  The words in her head were unmistakably Etain’s. Blindly, like a drowning man, she clung to them, plunging through the flotsam in her mind. When she spoke, the answer came from her heart.

  “You will love again. That’s why you have to return. I think you might already be a little in love.” Brighid’s eyes filled with tears as her emotions overwhelmed her. “It’s not going to be easy, and it’s come from an unexpected place…” She thought of the beautiful winged Ciara and realized that “unexpected” was a definite understatement, but she took a breath and kept talking to the stricken warrior. “I don’t claim to know much about love, but I do know that it can make life worth living. Trust me, Cuchulainn. Your life will soon be filled with love and it will be well worth living again.”

  As she spoke a change came over the warrior. The sadness in his turquoise eyes remained, but the despair lifted from them, and when he smiled his whole face warmed.

  By the Goddess, he was handsome!

  Her hand still rested on his shoulder. Not taking his eyes from hers, he covered her hand with his own and raised it to his lips. Shocked beyond words, Brighid could only stare at him. His gaze was intense, and it seemed the blue in his eyes had darkened. When he spoke his voice had deepened.

  “Have you become a High Shaman, Brighid?”

  She shook her head, wondering how she could feel numb and hot at the same time.

  Cuchulainn laughed softly, a sublimely male sound that reverberated low in Brighid’s gut.

  “I would say that a human man loving a centaur who cannot shape-shift is perhaps a little more than unexpected, but I do trust you, my beautiful Huntress. And I am now ready to come home.”

  He believed that she was the woman he was falling in love with! Brighid opened her mouth to deny it—to explain—to correct his misconception and—

  Bring him home, child.

  Etain’s voice in her mind caused her mouth to clamp shut and her cheeks to warm. The priestess was right, of course. Now was not the time to explain to Cu that he was mistaken. Now was the time to get him home. Explanations wouldn’t be needed once he joined his body. Cuchulainn might not be ready to admit that he could love Ciara, but he knew the attraction was there. Just as he knew there was none between the two of them.

  “Are we going, Brighid?”

  She blinked and reordered her thoughts. Cuchulainn was standing very close to her, and he was still holding her hand in his. He smiled, looking suddenly shy. Oh, Goddess! He actually believed they were falling in love. She felt her heart compress and her stomach tighten, and for just a moment she let herself wonder what it would be like to have this warrior as her own, to forget that he was an unattainable man. She found that it wasn’t very difficult for her to do. Maybe it was because of his centaur father, maybe it was the fact that his mother was Epona’s Chosen, for whatever reason this man called alive feelings within her that no other male, be he human or centaur, had ever stirred.

  It was just a dream—fleeting and impossible—but it tempted her…intrigued her…And she let it. For a moment, she let it.

  Breathe him in, and bring him home, child.

  Etain’s voice jolted her, and she felt her face heat again. She was supposed to be retrieving his soul, and instead she was indulging in ridiculous childlike fantasies. All while his mother was watching.

  Cuchulainn laughed softly and laced his fingers with hers. “What is it? You look terrified.”

  “I—I have to bring you home,” she blurted.

  He nodded. “I’m ready. What’s next?” he asked, sounding eerily like the Cuchulainn who had burst into her bedchamber.

  “I’m supposed to breathe you in.” Her voice was almost inaudible.

  He cleared his throat and his hand tightened on hers. She thought that he looked suddenly, obviously, nervous. “I think there’s only one way to do that.”

  “How?” she asked, but she already knew.

  “Kiss me, Brighid. Breathe in my soul. Take me back to the land of the living.”

  Her stomach clenched and she felt like her heart would explode from her chest.

  Cuchulainn smiled. “Now you look like you’d like to run away.”

  “No, I’m just…It’s just…” she sputtered.

  His brows went up. “We haven’t kissed? Ever?”

  She shook her head.

  He sighed. “Of course we haven’t. Part of me is here—part’s there. And I’m still in mourning for Brenna…” He passed the hand that wasn’t holding hers through his hair. “I don’t imagine this thing between us has been easy for you.” Then he moved even closer to her and touched her cheek. “I apologize for being so broken. For making things even more complicated than they already are. Kiss me, Brighid, so that I can heal for both of us.”

  He was a tall man, with a warrior’s honed muscles and breadth of shoulder. She only had to bend a little to meet his lips. Brighid stopped thinking. Cuchulainn’s golden light was back, and even when she closed her eyes she could see the brilliance of it, bright and burning. The kiss started as tentative. His lips were warm, and the taste of him reminded her of the grasslands that surrounded them—welcoming and sensuous. She opened her mouth and let her arms go around him as the kiss deepened. His body was hard and he seemed to fill not just the space around her and within her arms, but his aura enfolded her, just as his hands cradled her face. His tongue met hers and she felt an indescribable shiver of need ripple across her skin and lodge deep within her. His hands left her face to splay into her hair. When he moaned against her lips she felt the breathless, masculine sound like it was a caress.

  I want him. I want all of him.

  The instant the thought passed through her mind, she felt the change. The golden light against her closed lids disappeared. The warm, fragrant breeze was gone. The only thing that remained was Cuchulainn. His lips against hers—his hands in her hair—his body straining to meet hers.

  Brighid opened her eyes. She was back in her chamber at MacCallan Castle. They were on her bed, facing each other. Cuchulainn was kissing her. Her body tensed, and the warrior’s eyes shot open. Abruptly, he broke the kiss. His hands fell from her hair at the same instant she di
sentangled her arms from around him. Mortified that she was breathing so heavily, she wanted to hurl herself off the bed and rush from the room, especially when the warrior made no move to pull farther away from her. With a shaky hand, she smoothed her hair back from her face. Her lips felt wet and bruised. Hesitantly, she met his eyes. They were as blue as the turquoise stone she still clutched in her hand, and just as impossible to read.

  “Are you back?” she asked, surprised she sounded so normal.

  “Yes.” His voice was rough. He sat up and looked down at his hands and arms, as if they were new to him, and then he ran his fingers through his hair. He stopped, feeling the length and tangle of it, and touched his face, which was rough and unshaven. “It’s such an odd sensation. I know that I’ve let my hair grow and that I need to shave. Or at least a part of me knows it. Another part of me is surprised.”

  “I don’t think the feeling of being disconnected will last long,” she said, rising quickly from the bed and walking over to the table on which the wineskin slouched in the basket of food. She forced her hand open, and let the turquoise stone roll out of her palm, noting that it had left an almost perfectly round indentation on her skin. Moving methodically, Brighid reached for the wine, eager to give her hands something to do, and took a long drink. Then she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was still sitting on the bed, but he had quit studying himself. Unfortunately, now all his attention was focused on her. “You need to eat and drink to ground yourself. So do I.” She turned back to the food, breaking a hunk off the fragrant bread and chewing it between swallows of wine.

  She could feel his eyes on her. She took another long drink and then, without looking at him said, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding back there.”

  “Misunderstanding?”

  She heard him leave the bed and approach her. She busied herself with slicing off a thick piece of cheese.

  “The misunderstanding about us. You—he—assumed that I was talking about us falling in love. You, the whole you, knows that’s ridiculous. I wasn’t talking about myself, I was referring to Ciara.” She glanced at him and looked quickly away.

  “I’m not falling in love with Ciara.” His voice was carefully neutral.

  “Love is probably too strong a word. I suppose lust or attraction or—” she faltered, shrugging her shoulders “—something else would probably have been more accurate, but love seemed like the right word at the time.”

  Cuchulainn took the wineskin from her and drank from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “I’m not lusting after Ciara. Of course I’ve noticed that she’s beautiful, but that’s where my notice has ended.”

  “Oh.” Brighid had no idea what to say.

  “Look at me, Brighid,” he said.

  Reluctantly she met his gaze. Physically he didn’t look changed. Or at least not much. Maybe he stood a little straighter, as if whatever had been pressing on his broad shoulders had been lifted. There were no fewer lines creasing the edges of his eyes, and his hair, which was too sandy to match the auburn shade of his sister’s fiery mane, was still sprinkled with premature gray. The noticeable difference was in his eyes. They were no longer haunted and empty. And it felt to her like they looked into her soul.

  “My feelings for Ciara did not bring me home. My feelings for you did.”

  “We’re friends, Clan members. We’ve hunted together and—”

  The touch of his hand on her arm cut off her rush of words.

  “Don’t deny what happened between us.”

  “We kissed. That’s all.”

  Slowly his hand moved from her arm to touch her cheek. “Why are you trembling?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I think you do.”

  “There can be nothing between us except friendship, Cuchulainn,” she said, wishing her voice wasn’t shaking.

  He caressed her cheek. Then he let his fingers trail lightly down the side of her neck. “That is exactly what my mind is telling me, too.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be touching me like this,” Brighid whispered.

  “The problem is, my beautiful Huntress, that right now I’m finding it difficult to think with my mind.” He moved closer to her and she could feel the heat of his body. “You see, what you restored to me was filled with passion and joy for life, and at this moment that part of me feels young and strong and very, very willful.”

  Brighid forced her voice to be steady. “But that part of you will recede, and return to its proper place. And then where will that leave us, Cuchulainn?”

  He blinked, and his hand dropped away from her body. He stepped back. She could see the struggle within him as his jaw clenched and he brought his breathing under control.

  “I should leave,” he said abruptly. Before he turned away he looked down at the table—at the turquoise stone that rested there. With a jerky movement, he scooped it up and stumbled away from her. He stopped at the door and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Brighid,” he said without looking at her. Then he opened the door and was gone.

  Brighid closed her eyes and tried to still the trembling within her soul.

  30

  CUCHULAINN HADN’T EXPECTED to sleep, but he’d returned to his quarters to find privacy. To think, to reacquaint himself with…himself. And to understand what had happened between Brighid and him.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and stared into the dying firelight. By the Goddess, it was a bizarre feeling! He knew the events that had taken place during the past several cycles of the moon. He remembered loving Brenna and the tragedy of her death. He remembered traveling to the Wastelands and being snowbound with the New Fomorians. He could recall everything that had happened to them on their journey into Partholon and their return to MacCallan Castle. And yet a part of him marveled at the memories like they were foreign tales told by a visiting bard.

  The strangest thing was that he felt inexplicably light with joy. The thought made his hands tremble as he sipped slowly from the goblet of rich red wine he’d poured himself. It wasn’t the kind of joy he’d known in Brenna’s touch—or the youthful exuberance he’d felt at breathing in life and knowing that the world was waiting for him. It was more the possibility of joy than the unbridled emotion itself. It was something he’d thought he’d never experience again, and the part of him that had been bereft of it felt more alive than he’d been since the terrible day Brenna had been murdered.

  He still grieved for Brenna. She was his lost love. Part of him would always miss her and even yearn for her, but he knew he could go on. He knew he could live—and even love—again.

  Brighid…

  The Huntress had shaken him to his core. Was it because she had literally touched a part of his soul? Had she been right to say that as soon as he became accustomed to being whole once more his feelings for her would go back to their proper place? What exactly was their proper place?

  In his twenty-four years he had seduced many women, but had been in love with only one. His love for Brenna had been new and young and easy. Their life together would have been full—their children many. He would have happily grown old by her side. She would have been the only one for him. The first and last woman he would have loved.

  And he would never have known the flame that had been ignited when he touched Brighid. When she’d kissed him his soul had rejoiced. He’d been consumed by her, and in return he wanted to possess her. His desire had been insistent and engulfing. Just the remembrance of the taste of her, the feel of her body against his own, was mesmerizing. It had been like nothing he had ever before experienced, and so overwhelming that while they touched she had become his world, as if he had been created to love her.

  Surely that was just a side effect of the soul-retrieval.

  Regardless, they couldn’t be lovers. Brighid Dhianna was a centaur. A centaur.

  He stood and paced back and forth in an attempt to relieve the energy that pulsed through his body. It was, of course, not impossible for a c
entaur and a human to fall in love and mate. He was a product of such a union. But that was a unique situation. His parents were lifemates because Epona always fashioned a centaur High Shaman as mate for her Chosen Incarnate. And a centaur High Shaman had the ability to shape-shift into human form so that their love could be fully consummated.

  Brighid was not even a Shaman—and a High Shaman? Definitely not. To be gifted with such power was a rare and fantastic thing.

  She is the eldest daughter of a High Shaman. Had she not left the herd she would have been expected to one day take her mother’s place…. The thought teased him.

  “But she’s chosen the life of a Huntress!” He argued aloud with himself. “Centaur Huntresses do not love human men. They rarely even form permanent bonds with centaur males. And they cannot shape-shift.”

  Then why had she responded to his touch with a passion so fierce it had seemed to consume him?

  What was he thinking? It had consumed him. She had breathed in his soul and then returned it to his body. That’s all there was to it. That had to be all there was to it.

  There was only one word for anything else between them—impossible.

  He drained the last of the wine, and then set the goblet on his bedside table. Feeling suddenly, thoroughly exhausted, he stretched out on top of the thick, down-filled linens that covered his bed. As sleep pulled him under, he could still taste her on his lips.

  Cuchulainn liked waking early. It was a habit that had taken root during his warrior training. He often was up honing his skills before any of his peers had begun to stir. So rising early the next morning had nothing to do with knowing that Brighid often left the castle at dawn. He wasn’t trying to chance a meeting with the Huntress. He was just falling back into a comfortable habit.

  He was hurriedly washing his face in his small private bathing chamber when he caught his reflection in the wall mirror. He looked like a gnarled old man. His hair was long and matted and wild. He frowned at his reflection. How long had there been gray in his hair? His beard was rough. He rubbed at his chin. And it itched. Cuchulainn glanced down at his kilt. It was stained and threadbare. He expelled a long breath. Little wonder Brighid had had such a startled look in her eyes last night, and had so rapidly rejected him. Not only was he a human—he was a pathetic-looking human. He sniffed. He even smelled bad.