Brighid's Quest

by P. C. Cast

  Brighid clambered up yet another of the gently rounded hills and then had to struggle to maintain her footing as she slid down the surprisingly steep far side of it. When she hit the bottom of the decline, she stood still, breathing heavily, thankful that exhaustion hadn’t caused her to misstep. In her condition it would be a simple thing for her to snap one of her equine legs—a simple thing with disastrous consequences.

  “Are you all right?” Cuchulainn’s gelding stumbled to a halt beside her, and the warrior was off the horse and running his hands down her legs in an instant.

  “I’m not hurt,” she assured him, and then passed a shaky hand over her face and tried to laugh. “I’d say today was becoming dreamlike, but lately my dreams have been much better than this.”

  The hawk shrieked at her again and she frowned at the sky—then was surprised to see that the bird had perched on the top branch of a tree not far from them.

  Soon, Huntress…we shall meet again.

  With another cry it lifted, beating the warm evening air with its massive wings. Then it seemed to evaporate into the sky.

  “Did that bird just disappear?” Cuchulainn said.

  But Brighid wasn’t looking at the bird, her gaze had shifted to where it had led them. They were standing at the edge of a small clearing that appeared to be encircled, horseshoelike, on all sides except one, by a ring of hills. She walked forward on legs that trembled to the far edge of the clearing, the side that wasn’t closed in by the green of foliage-covered hills, and even in the vague, shadowy light of evening she could see that the world dropped away from her and the land spilled out and down until it emptied into…

  “The Centaur Plains,” Cuchulainn said, walking up to stand beside her.

  “I hadn’t realized we were this close,” she said, straining her eyes to see through the encroaching darkness to the waving grassland that had been her home. “So the hawk was leading us there.”

  “Actually I think it was probably leading us here.”

  He pointed over her left shoulder. She followed his finger to see that what she had originally discounted as just another tor, was actually the large open mouth of a cave. A stream ran from the interior and waterfalled over the edge of the clearing. Her stomach tightened.

  “It’s an entry to the Underworld,” she said. “Just like your father said.”

  “Not tonight it isn’t.” Cuchulainn walked back to the gelding and began pulling the saddle and packs from the horse’s sweaty back while he spoke. “Tonight it’s just shelter and a ready campsite. Neither of us is in any shape to travel anywhere else—be it in the physical world or the Realm of Spirits.” He glanced over his shoulder at her when she didn’t respond, noting the stubborn set of her shoulders. “Do you want to chance facing your mother’s spirit tonight?”

  She blanched. “No.”

  “Neither do I. So tonight we sleep. Tomorrow we worry about the Otherworld.”

  She nodded, relieved beyond words that he was there to assert logic and sanity into a journey that was neither logical nor sane. She knew her time was short—that Bregon might have already managed to drink of Epona’s Chalice—but the fog of exhaustion that was smothering her body and mind told her that questing for the Chalice that night would be futile, perhaps even dangerous.

  “I’ll get the firewood,” she said.

  Before she could stagger to the tree line Cuchulainn stepped in front of her. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “You’re reminding me of Niam tonight,” he said, studying her with concern.

  “Niam?” She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t—”

  “Your eyes are hollow. Your skin is flushed and you’re walking like you could fall over at any moment.”

  “Niam pushed herself for at least two more days. She probably didn’t stop to sleep or eat at all. And she wasn’t a Huntress. She wasn’t accustomed to exerting herself physically. I’m—”

  “You’re exhausted,” he cut her off again. “Take the gelding over to the stream. Let him drink. Let yourself drink. I’ll get the firewood.”

  She began to protest, but his next words stopped her.

  “Please let me do this for you.”

  The night before he’d given himself to her, freely and with such complete intimacy that it had amazed her that the man who had trembled under her touch was the same warrior who had bloodied a sword beside her. Could she not learn to allow him the same access to her? He wasn’t asking to make love to her, but he was loving her all the same. Wasn’t her allowing him the intimacy of caring for her just another kind of surrender?

  She bent and kissed him, letting her lips linger on his.

  “I’ll take the gelding to the stream,” she said.

  He smiled and touched her face. Then he walked off into the darkening forest. Brighid led the exhausted horse to the stream and let him drink his fill before she rubbed him down and then hobbled him and watched him settle down to some tired grazing. Then she stood beneath the crystal waterfall and let it wash the sweat and dirt from her body as she gazed into the black distance that concealed the land of her youth. It was appropriate that her first sight of the Plains was shrouded in darkness.

  “What misery are you leading them into, Bregon?” she whispered. “Why can’t you just let her die?”

  Cuchulainn came back to find Brighid standing near the edge of the clearing, staring into the darkness. He felt a little prickle of unease. It wasn’t the first foreboding he’d experienced that day. Ever since they’d entered the Blue Tors he’d been uneasy. At first he believed it was a symptom of exhaustion. His Huntress had not been exaggerating when she’d bragged about her stamina. She’d set a pace that would have been impossible for a single horse and rider to match. Not for the first time he breathed a prayer of thanks for his father’s suggestion that he trade off mounts.

  But now he decided the unease had little to do with their grueling journey. Before Brenna had been killed Cuchulainn would have pushed aside any hint of intuition or Feeling that could not be explained by something as mundane as exhaustion. Brenna’s tragic death had taught him that it was unwise as well as dangerous to ignore Feelings of any type. He had learned a painful lesson—and he had learned it well. Unlike the day Brenna had been killed he would be vigilant and wise in protecting Brighid. He would not have another love snatched from him. He couldn’t survive it. If something happened to Brighid his soul would fragment into so many pieces it would be impossible to put back together again.

  Which was why he kept his sword nearby and his senses alert as he built a fire at the mouth of the cave, unloaded their packs, and simmered the food he hoped would revive Brighid. When she didn’t move from her place near the clearing’s edge his unease increased. When he spoke his voice was unintentionally gruff.

  “I thought you didn’t like heights.”

  She didn’t respond at first but then her equine coat quivered. The stone centaur she had seemed to be drew a deep breath, became living flesh again. She turned to him. Her eyes were dark and shadowed with weariness and worry, but she smiled and managed a teasing tone.

  “Why is it everyone knows that I don’t like heights?”

  He shrugged and waggled his brows at her. “I thought it was a well-known centaur thing.” He held a wineskin up and jiggled it so she could hear its heavy sloshing. “I have wine.”

  With a sigh she walked slowly into the cave and took the skin from him. Drinking, she looked around. Its opening was spacious. The top didn’t end till well above her head, but the inside didn’t live up to the entrance’s promise of space. The smooth, sand-colored walls looked like they had been formed by a giant’s spoon hollowing out a taste of the gentle tor, but they narrowed to a tunnel in the rear corner that was barely big enough for the clear stream of water. Cuchulainn’s fire licked the walls with flame, changing the brown to gold and orange. As she stared the colors ran together and blurred, so that it seemed for a moment that the walls around them had been tur
ned to flame. She heard a whoosh, followed by a crackling roar that could not have come from the tame campfire. She felt heat blazing against her skin and she closed her eyes on its fury.

  “Brighid!” Cuchulainn was at her side, touching her face and smoothing back her still damp hair. “What is it?”

  The centaur shook her head, blinking her eyes clear. “I’m—I’m just tired. I need to sleep.”

  He led her back to the fire where he had arranged their blankets in a makeshift pallet. When she reclined, letting her legs collapse and fold under her, he handed her a hot slab of meat surrounded by thick slices of bread and cheese.

  “Eat first. Then you can sleep.”

  She nodded and automatically chewed the food, even though she felt strangely detached from the heat it spread throughout her body. She and Cuchulainn didn’t speak, but their eyes met often—his filled with worry—hers dark with exhaustion.

  “Tomorrow,” she said when she’d finished eating. He glanced up from adding more wood to the fire, his look a question. “Tomorrow we must begin the quest for Epona’s Chalice.”

  “Then it will be tomorrow. Tonight I want you to clear all thoughts of the Otherworld from your mind. Sleep, Brighid.” He knelt beside her and kissed her gently.

  “I may not awaken till well past dawn,” she said, breathing in his scent and touch.

  “It doesn’t matter when you wake. I will be here,” he murmured.

  Brighid closed her eyes and surrendered her mind and body to the intoxication of sleep.

  43

  IF SOMEONE HAD asked Brighid if she’d wanted to dream that night, she would have answered with a resounding “no!” She just wanted to sleep—to give her body time to reenergize so that when she asked more of it later the deep wells of her power would be refilled and available to her once more.

  No, she had no interest in dreams that night.

  So when she felt herself being pulled from her body, she was more annoyed than alarmed or afraid. Irritated, she opened her eyes to find herself gazing down at her sleeping form. Cuchulainn was still awake and sat vigilantly beside her, staring somberly into the campfire. He looked tired. The lines in his face, that had softened after she’d retrieved his soul, were back. Automatically she reached out to him, but instead of touching him, she was lifted up and up, through the roof of the cave and into the night sky.

  The Huntress gasped and swallowed down a terrible rush of dizziness. Oh, Goddess! What was happening to her?

  Be at peace, my child. Do not fear.

  Epona’s voice! Brighid’s heart hammered painfully in a chest that was clearly more spirit than body. She looked wildly around, but saw nothing more than the fully risen moon that was perfectly round and butter-colored in the clear night sky. As she hung there, trying to control her mixed feelings of awe and panic, she felt her spirit body begin to move. Slowly, at first, she floated north. Below her the Blue Tors were dark and silent. Then her speed increased and it seemed only an instant had passed. She was across the wide Calman River. McNamara Castle sped by her and the vineyards blurred beneath her. She wanted to slow, to control the terrible speed of her journey, but her spirit was in the Goddess’s hands—and Epona was quite obviously in a hurry.

  The moon glistened off the black liquid expanse of the B’an Sea. Brighid focused her eyes on its vastness that stayed the same, no matter how quickly her spirit sped over it. It helped to quell the dizziness she couldn’t quite shake off, and it was only when her spirit slowed noticeably that she allowed her gaze to move from the water to the land. The Huntress sucked in a breath in surprise.

  Below her MacCallan Castle was alight with life. Torches blazed from the battlements and the inside walls. Though it was late, the sentries were attentively pacing the newly reconstructed walkway. The sight of her adopted home was bittersweet. She loved seeing it again, but it also saddened her. It reminded her too well of how much she and Cuchulainn would rather be there than sleeping in a lonely cave at the edge of the Centaur Plains.

  Fate has decreed otherwise, child.

  The Goddess’s voice soothed her mind like a gentle caress and she felt her melancholy ease. Then the Huntress shook her head, ashamed of herself. Who was she to question fate and the Goddess’s will? Brenna had met her fate willingly. Niam had embraced hers honorably. Could Brighid do any less?

  You may question, child, just as you may choose. I believe that you will choose wisely when the time comes.

  Brighid bowed her head, humbled by the trust in the Goddess’s words.

  Now observe so that you will have the knowledge you need when the time comes…

  Her body dropped down at a speed that had her eyes blurring until she was jerked to a sudden halt. Blinking to clear her vision, she realized she was hovering near the ceiling of the Great Hall. Below her, sitting at their usual places at the Chieftain’s table were Elphame and Lochlan. The only other person in the room was the head cook, Wynne. She was standing in front of the table. Between them, on the tabletop, was a mound of freshly picked herbs. Elphame was absently feeling the broad green leaf of one of the plants that Brighid thought she recognized as basil.

  When Ciara hurried into the Great Hall, everyone’s attention shifted from the herbs to her.

  Her smile was open and curious as she approached the table and curtsied gracefully. “You sent for me?”

  “Yes,” Elphame said. “I know it’s late, but Wynne only just told me about this. And I wanted to speak to you at once.”

  “This?” Ciara asked.

  “The herbs the children have been tending,” Elphame said, pointing at the fragrant pile.

  Ciara’s forehead wrinkled as her brows drew together. “Have the children done something wrong? They’re usually so good with plants I didn’t think they would cause any problem in the kitchen’s gardens. But if they’ve harmed something I will see that—”

  “They dinna harm the wee plants, Shaman,” Wynne blurted, interrupting Ciara’s apology. “They made them grow.”

  Obviously confused, Ciara looked from the pile of herbs to the cook, and then back at the herbs. “I don’t understand.”

  Only Brighid noticed that Etain had entered the room and was listening to the exchange with interest.

  “Well, I donna understand either, but I do know what I see with me own eyes and touch with me own hands. In the space of the three days the bairns have been tending them, they have grown more than they would have in three weeks. The bairns made the herbs grow,” she said firmly.

  “But weren’t they already growing? All the children did was water and weed them.”

  “I think the children did much more than that.” Etain’s voice came from the doorway.

  “Mama.” Elphame sent the High Priestess a relieved look and motioned for her to join them. “I was just going to send for you.”

  Etain smiled at her daughter, but kept most of her attention trained on Ciara.

  “Touch the plants, Shaman. See if they can tell you what it is Wynne already knows.”

  Hesitantly Ciara placed her slender hand atop the pile of herbs. She closed her eyes and took several deep cleansing breaths. Then her mouth formed a surprised little “O” and she gasped. When she opened her eyes, Brighid could see they were filled with unshed tears.

  “Tell my daughters what it is you have discovered, Ciara,” Etain said.

  “The children did make the plants grow! Oh, Goddess!” Overcome with emotion the winged woman bowed her head and pressed her hand against her mouth.

  “Mama, what is it? What has happened?” Elphame asked.

  “Epona has given the New Fomorians a great gift,” Etain said.

  “They were born from death and destruction, and they have lived with madness and loss,” Ciara said through tears of joy. “And now our great Goddess has granted us the ability to nurture life.”

  “It’s not just now,” Etain told the Shaman. “They’ve always had the gift—you’ve always had the gift. How do you think you were
able to bring forth life and hold to love and hope and not give in to utter despair in the desolation of the Wastelands?”

  “It is, indeed, a great gift,” Elphame said, taking her husband’s hand and looking into his beloved face. “And we have been richly blessed to have you here with us.”

  “You are our home, my heart. There is nowhere else we would choose to be,” Lochlan said, gently touching her cheek.

  “Think of what this will mean, Elphame!” Ciara gushed. “We can be useful and bring forth food, not just for MacCallan Castle, but for trade and…”

  Brighid lost the rest of Ciara’s words as her spirit drifted up through the ceiling of the Great Hall and into the night sky. This time when the earth blurred as her spirit sped back to the south, Brighid’s thoughts were too preoccupied by what she had just witnessed for her head to spin and become dizzy.

  Epona had given the New Fomorians the ability to nurture life from the earth. Little wonder Liam had shown such an aptitude for understanding the spirits of animals—he had been gifted with an affinity for the earth and for growing things. The leap to understanding the spirits of animals wasn’t a long one.

  Brighid was glad for them. They were a people who had overcome great evil and exhibited great good. It was just that they had been given the ability to nurture, renew and grow.

  Remember when you awake, child.

  The Huntress’s spirit settled back into her body and she heard Etain’s words echo from her memory. Tell my daughters what it is you have discovered… The priestess had said daughters, not daughter.

  She must have known that Brighid was there. Not surprising, the Huntress thought sleepily. Etain seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere.

  The Huntress slept, dreamlessly, for the rest of the night.

  The enticing scent of roasting venison penetrated through the blanket of sleep, and Brighid finally opened her eyes, blinking against the bright light of midday. Cuchulainn tended a bubbling haunch of meat that he had spitted over the fire. His eyes lifted when she stirred. He watched her stretch and she saw relief soften his face.