Brighid's Quest

by P. C. Cast

  First, he’d bathe. Then he’d shave and…he shook his head at the mess that was his hair. It needed to be washed and cut. Warriors of Partholon usually wore their hair long, but he’d never liked the mess of it. When he was younger he’d had many an argument with his mother over it. He’d told her over and over that he wasn’t less of a warrior with less hair—and then set about to prove it to her. When his skills had become almost legendary, she’d capitulated, and he’d even managed to coax her into trimming it for him herself from time to time…

  He grinned at his rumpled reflection. His mother was currently lodged down the hall from him. After a bath and a shave perhaps he’d be a considerate son and join her for breakfast.

  Humming to himself, he began to strip.

  The door to the guest suite opened before Cu could knock on it. A striking young blonde dressed in a mostly see-through robe of diaphanous pink material giggled at his raised fist.

  “Your mother has been expecting you, Warrior,” she said.

  “Of course she has,” he said. Then he felt himself returning the maiden’s flirtatious grin. “And it’s nice to see Mother still believes in surrounding herself with beauty.”

  The maiden’s cheeks flushed an alluring shade of pink that perfectly matched her gown, and she dropped into a lithe curtsy, which gave the warrior a clear view of her shapely breasts. Automatically Cu looked, with a long, hot gaze that had his body tightening.

  He was, after all, still alive.

  “Cuchulainn! Come in—come in,” Etain called from within the chamber.

  He winked at the handmaid before she moved aside so he could greet his mother. Etain was sitting on a chair, which was opulently upholstered in gold velvet. Another attractive young woman brushed the priestess’s mass of red curls sprinkled with silver-gray. Cuchulainn smiled at her, noting that she had covered the walls of the guest suite with tapestries depicting herself, bare breasted, riding the Goddess mare as young maidens frolicked about showering their path with rose petals. Etain had also filled the suite to overflowing with luxurious furnishings and a silk-canopied bed on—of course—a dais.

  His mother never failed to travel in a style befitting the Beloved of Epona. The part of his soul that had been absent so long stirred, and Cuchulainn felt a sudden rush of love for the flamboyant, powerful woman who was his mother. Laughing joyously, he strode to her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her soundly. Her musical laughter joined his own as she hugged him.

  Then she pulled back and looked into his eyes. Her smile widened and she laid her hand against his newly shaven cheek.

  “It is so good to see you whole again, my son.”

  “You knew, of course,” he said.

  “Yes.” She paused and made a slight, graceful motion with her hand, dismissing the maidens. “I knew the day it happened,” she continued after they were alone. She kissed his cheek and smoothed back his long hair. “I would have helped you if I could have, but some things are beyond even a mother’s reach.”

  “I wish you had known Brenna.”

  “Epona has spoken to me of her often. Your betrothed was an exceptional young woman. She was—and is—very dear to the Goddess.”

  Cuchulainn closed his eyes on the bittersweet pain. “Thank you, Mother.”

  She patted his cheek. “Let her go, my darling. Think of her—remember her—but let her go. It is time you moved forward with your life.”

  He nodded. “As always, you are right.”

  “Of course I am.” She stood on tiptoe and again kissed him softly on the cheek. Then she ruffled his hair. “I had the handmaids fetch my scissors. Shall we get started?”

  He grinned at her. “It’s a good thing that I’ve never tried to keep anything from you. It would certainly make life damned difficult.”

  She raised her eyebrow at him, reminding Cu of his sister. “You know it’s blasphemy to keep secrets from your mother.”

  “Blasphemy?” He laughed, but let her lead him to the golden chair. With the scissors in one hand, and a slim comb in the other, she began to work on his hair, sighing as she combed through the thick mass of it.

  “I don’t suppose I could talk you into leaving it long. I could just take a little off here and there…”

  His eyes met hers in the vanity mirror and she sighed again and began cutting. Under her familiar touch he relaxed, letting his memory sift back through all the times in his youth that his mother had willingly set aside the business of the Goddess to care for him, as well as for Elphame and their twin siblings, Arianrhod and Finegas. His father, too, High Shaman of Partholon, had never failed to make his children’s needs a priority.

  What kind of man would he have become if he had been raised without parents? Poor Brenna—to have had to go through the most difficult part of her life without the love of her mother and father.

  Brighid’s father was dead, too, he remembered with a sense of surprise. He’d died years ago. Strange that Cu was just now thinking of that. Brighid had berated him for allowing grief to make him give up on life. She’d spoken as if from experience, but when he’d challenged her she’d only spoken of the loss the New Fomorians had survived. Odd that the Huntress so rarely spoke of her family. Yes, her herd was known for their radical beliefs, but her mother was High Shaman. Surely such a powerful dam had had a profound and lasting effect upon her daughter. Yet Brighid had broken tradition and left her family. He wondered why…

  “Have you seen her this morning?” His mother’s soft voice seemed to come directly from his thoughts. He jerked, and she thumped his shoulder. “Be still or you’ll be even more unpre-sentable than you were when you arrived all wild and shaggy.”

  He cleared his throat. “Who?”

  His mother looked down her regal nose at him.

  He sighed. “No, I have not seen Brighid this morning. I came straight here.”

  “After bathing and shaving—Goddess be thanked.”

  He grunted.

  “Soul-retrieval is a very intimate act,” she began in a smooth, conversational tone. “For the soul to be successfully returned to the body, the Shaman must build a bridge of caring and understanding between herself and the patient. If I am not mistaken, you and Brighid had a strong friendship before the shattered piece of your soul began visiting her.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It was Brighid who tracked Elphame the night she was injured and almost killed by the wild boar?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Brighid who led you to Brenna’s body?”

  “It was,” he said. “Mother, I don’t—”

  Her raised hand stopped his words. “Wait. Let me speak, and then you can ask me all the questions you wish.”

  He nodded slightly, feeling expectant as well as nervous. What did his mother know about what had happened last night? Was she preparing to chide him about being infatuated with Brighid?

  Was he infatuated?

  “So you and she had already established a friendship. If I’m not mistaken, you have quite a bit of respect for the Huntress?”

  “You are rarely mistaken, Mother.”

  She smiled at his reflection. “That is a truth. Now let me share with you another one. After a healing of the soul takes place, the patient—” She shook her head at his scowl. “No, there is nothing wrong with being a patient. Your spirit was broken and in need of healing. That makes you a patient. There is no shame in that. Now may I continue?”

  He nodded, still hating that it sounded like he had become an invalid.

  “After a soul-retrieval takes place the patient, who would be you, is spiritually changed.”

  Cuchulainn sat up straighter and blinked in surprise.

  His mother’s voice lost its clinical detachment, and her hand rested warm and maternal on his shoulder. “You may notice that you feel sensitized, as well as energized. Your perception of reality might expand.” When she felt him tense beneath her hand she patted him gently. “The effect can be temporary, but ofte
n it is not. And you will be forever linked to the Shaman who guided your soul home.”

  “But Brighid isn’t a Shaman.”

  “It is true that she has not made the Otherworld journey to drink from Epona’s Chalice, but the centaur carries Shamanistic power within her. If she didn’t, she would never have been able to bring the lost part of you home.”

  Cuchulainn met his mother’s gaze in the mirror.

  “Ask,” she said.

  “Could Brighid become a High Shaman?”

  “Only Epona can answer that, Cuchulainn.”

  “I’ll take your best guess, Mother.” He tried to smile at her, but the tension that radiated through his body drew his face into hard, sober lines.

  “Then my best guess is that she could, but that it would not be an easy journey for her, and that it might lead her to a life of extreme loneliness.” She ran the comb through his hair, smoothing and trimming while she talked. “You know that her herd’s views are radical, perhaps even dangerous?”

  “Yes,” he said shortly.

  “If she were to become High Shaman she would have to take her place as the leader of the Dhianna Herd. Brighid has chosen a different path, and I believe she has found a measure of peace and happiness in it. If she were to deviate from that path she would be thrust back into the world she purposefully departed, even though her beliefs differ drastically from theirs. That would be a very lonely life for her.”

  “What if she were not alone?”

  Instead of answering, his mother continued to carefully and methodically trim his hair.

  Undaunted by her silence, Cuchulainn continued. “What if she had someone by her side who was willing to fill in the lonely space—to support her beliefs. Someone who respected her and…”

  “And loved her?”

  He turned so that he could look directly at his mother. “Is what I’m feeling just a result of the soul-retrieval?”

  “What are you feeling, my son?”

  “I am so drawn to her that I can hardly bear being away from her! I would have rushed to find her this morning—” he barked a humorless laugh “—if I hadn’t realized that I looked like a wild mountain hermit.”

  “Centaurs are magical and alluring beings,” she said noncommittally. “They are passionate and beautiful. The soul of a human enhanced by the strength of an equine is something that can be a very powerful draw.”

  “Mother! You must tell me. Is what I’m feeling temporary obsession because she touched my soul, or is it something more?”

  “Only you and Brighid can decide that. For all of my knowledge, I cannot predict love. The bond caused by soul-retrieval is rarely more than deep understanding and respect.” She smiled at him. “It seems that you feel considerably more for the Huntress.”

  “Considerably,” he said under his breath.

  “Enough that you are willing to ask her to change her life and her future so that the two of you can be mated?”

  “I don’t know!”

  The priestess touched her son’s cheek. “I wish your father were here.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me that I have gone mad?”

  “He might.” She laughed.

  He put his hand over hers. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Of course you don’t. You can’t decide that on your own—not really. Talk with Brighid. You’ve already shared your soul with her, how much more difficult could it be to share the secrets of your heart with her?”

  “It feels like it’s happening too fast. Too soon after Brenna.”

  “The world is turning quickly, Cuchulainn. I Feel a great restlessness approaching. Perhaps now is the appropriate time for fast actions.” She brushed her hands through his hair and gave him a considering look, then she smiled again. “You are finished here.”

  He turned to the mirror, smoothing his newly shorn hair back from his forehead. Then he took his mother’s hand and kissed it.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She squeezed his hand and gave him a little push toward the door. “Go find your future, my son. And know that whatever you choose, my blessing, as well as Epona’s, goes with you.”

  31

  AT DAWN WHEN Brighid cleared her mind to concentrate on searching for the light of wild boar the first light that blazed before her subconscious was golden and not situated in the surrounding forest. It was coming from the quarters Elphame had prepared for her brother during his absence.

  No! Brighid closed her mind’s eye, turning away from the beckoning golden light. Find the bloodred light of a boar. The searching power within her spun away from Cuchulainn and MacCallan Castle—out into the forest. It sifted through the glimmering soul lights of animals, small and large, until it focused on a single red shaft. Automatically Brighid’s infallible sense of direction locked on the boar. Northeast of the castle. Not far from where Elphame had been attacked by one of the beasts those many moons ago. Brighid knew where she needed to go.

  She took a skin of water and a healthy portion of the bread and meat that was left over from the night before, filled her quiver with arrows, strapped her long sword across her back, fitted her short sword in its sheath around her waist, and slid her throwing daggers within the hidden pockets of her vest. Then she silently made her way to the front gate. As they had done so many times before, the sentry saluted her, opening the iron doors and calling luck to her for the morning hunt. She was so intent on getting free of the castle that she hardly took time to return the sentry’s salute before she kicked into a swift gallop. Even after she was well within the concealing northern woods she barely slowed her pace.

  It felt good to push herself, to keep her mind so busy with dodging trees and underbrush, ravines and rocks, that she couldn’t think…couldn’t remember. She ran a long time before her sanity returned.

  When she finally slowed, and then stopped, she realized that she had passed the boar’s territory. Brighid wiped the sweat from her face and reoriented herself. She wasn’t far off. She scented the slight breeze and caught the unmistakably clean smell of moving water. When she found the stream, she would follow it to the boar’s wallow. Then she would take the animal down with one clean shot, dress it out, and return the meat to the castle. Simple. Clear. Uncomplicated. Exactly the way she liked her life.

  And exactly the opposite of what her life had usually been. When she started toward her prey again, she did so slowly. It was time to think. Here, surrounded by the forest she knew so well, she would sift through the intricacies of last night. She’d work it out in her head—figure out how she could go on living at MacCallan Castle with Cuchulainn and the knowledge of what had passed between them. She would do it because she had to find a way to make this work—to turn back time and have things be simple between the two of them again. She didn’t want to leave MacCallan Castle. The thought of it made her immeasurably sad.

  Of course she didn’t want to leave—to displace herself again so soon after she had begun to take root—but perhaps she should, temporarily. Guardian Castle was missing a Huntress. She could honestly say they needed her presence until their own Huntress returned. It was likely she wouldn’t be gone long. Surely Guardian Castle’s Huntress would not desert her post for more than one moon cycle. But even a few days should be enough for Cuchulainn to…

  To what?

  “To stop thinking with his passion,” she said aloud to the ancient pine trees.

  That’s how he’d explained it last night. His mind had known that he shouldn’t touch her with such desire, but his passion and his joy in life had been too newly restored to him. Its voice had drowned out the sound of reason. It made sense. She knew the part of Cuchulainn that had shattered. He had been all heart and passion and impetuosity. He really couldn’t help it. She had been there, breathing his soul back into him…kissing him…He had been raw and newly whole, and a part of him had believed the two of them were falling in love. There had been credible reasons for his behavior, but what about hers?

 
Brighid rubbed a hand across her face and picked her way over a fallen log. When she looked at the soul-retrieval logically, there had been nothing wrong with her behavior. She hadn’t meant to mislead Cuchulainn about their relationship. That had been an honest miscommunication, which had, when she looked at it frankly, without emotional strings, worked out well. Cuchulainn’s shattered soul had returned to his body. She had performed the complicated task of a Shaman, and had been successful at it.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t all there was to it.

  Emotional strings…If they had been visible Brighid had no doubt that she would be covered with them, like a ball of wool waiting to be woven into a garment. But her emotions weren’t visible, and Cuchulainn wasn’t the only one who could hide his feelings. But she wouldn’t lie to herself. Not here, in the middle of the forest she considered sacred. She hadn’t meant for Cuchulainn to misunderstand their relationship, but when he had, she had been glad. And when he kissed her, she had been filled with more than his soul. She desired him. The memory of his touch, his scent, his taste, still made her gut clench with a tension that was definitely sexual.

  By the Goddess, what was she going to do!

  Even if his desire for her was more than a temporary reaction to an extraordinary event, the facts still remained the same. He was human. She was centaur.

  Yes, she knew human men found her attractive, even alluring. And though she had never before thought of them in a particularly sexual manner, she was no foolish young virgin. She knew how human anatomy worked. She could give Cuchulainn satisfaction with her hands and mouth. Brighid stumbled to a halt. What was she considering? Any centaur from the Dhianna Herd, and many from the other herds that shared the Centaur Plains, would consider the mere thought of a Huntress pleasuring a human man repellent, abhorrent behavior. It would make her even more of an outcast than she already was.