Only the illness or sudden death of a centaur High Shaman could cause such a reaction.
No! Deirdre had probably received a message from her home herd. A family problem…something too personal to share.
Still, it didn’t fit. A Huntress should make arrangements for her people, even during times of family emergency. It would have to be something far worse…far more disturbing…
“Huntress? Do you wish to leave the castle?”
From above her the deep voice echoed against the thick gray walls. Brighid stopped and stared blankly around her. Huge iron doors blocked her way. By the Goddess! She hadn’t even realized she’d reached the entrance to the castle. Chains held the massive bolt that kept the doors securely locked. She looked up at the sentry and covered her disconcertment with annoyance.
“And why would I be standing here waiting for you to open the doors if I didn’t wish to leave? Do you want fresh venison in the morning or not?”
“Of course, Huntress!” the guard called, waving apologetically as he motioned for his men to turn the wheel that would pull loose the bolt.
“I won’t be long,” Brighid said gruffly. “Keep watch for me.”
“Yes, Huntress,” he called after her as she trotted through the slim opening. But she hadn’t gotten far beyond the thick walls before she pulled to a halt and took a deep breath.
Partholon…
For a moment the turmoil within her stilled. Even though she was tracking through strange territory, her hooves would once again tread the soil of Partholon. Finally, they’d left the Wastelands behind them. Her sharp centaur eyes drank in the land that dusk was washing in muted light.
As was to be expected, the land adjacent to the castle was cleared so no enemy could surprise the Guardian Warriors. But the ground beneath her hooves was noticeably softer than the desolate, rocky earth on the other side of the mountains. The forest of pine mixed with an occasional stubborn oak began almost a dozen horse lengths from the castle walls. Brighid cantered swiftly down the wide road, eager to enter the green forest. It wasn’t as thick as the forest surrounding MacCallan Castle, but the trees were strong and straight and green. She drew a deep breath. She could swear the air was clearer here, too.
It felt like home, she realized with a small start. Not her childhood home of the Centaur Plains. It felt like the adult home of her choice…her own path. It felt right.
The Huntress scented the cooling breeze, and when she caught the clean liquid fragrance of water, she veered from the road. Moving quietly in the gloaming, she followed her instinct, and the hunt worked its magic on her frayed nerves. Brighid willingly embraced the familiar balm of her chosen life. Like scales, she shed the stress and worry of the past days.
Brighid slowed, scenting the verdant air again. She changed direction slightly, moving more to her left. She would find the stream there. She knew it. She could Feel it. And deer would be there, drinking in their shy way one last time before bedding down for the night. She could already Feel them. There were several, not far ahead of her.
By the Goddess, it felt good to be alone and hunting for a castle again! She needed the peace and solitude the hunt gave her—even if it was only a temporary reprieve.
The truth was that she missed the simplicity of the life she had carved for herself at MacCallan Castle. Years of dealing with the political manipulations within her family had made her long for a different way of living, and submerging herself within the rigorous Huntress training had taught her that she much preferred the silence of the land to the tumult of people—be they humans, centaurs, or New Fomorians.
Brighid moved liquidly between the pines. She could hear the musical sound of water as it tumbled over rock and ran merrily into Partholon. She grinned. She knew how the water felt. She was damned glad to be going home.
In the dimming light, she caught the crystal reflection of moving water, and she slowed, pulling an arrow from her quiver with a practiced, silent motion.
She’d been right. There were several of them. Brighid counted quickly. Three does. Two obviously pregnant, one thinner and larger than the others—she’d probably only recently given birth to her fawn. Standing some way off from the three females was a single buck. His small rack of mossy antlers said that he was too young to have won breeding rights of his own that spring, but the focused attention with which he watched the does said that he was old enough to be single-mindedly hopeful.
With a movement that was as deadly as it was graceful, Brighid sighted and then loosed a single arrow. The hum of the bow caused the young buck’s head to rear up and his body to tense—just in time for the arrow to imbed itself neatly through the base of his neck, emerging through the wall of his chest. The hart staggered back two steps, then, as the does disappeared into the darkening forest, he crumpled to his knees, pitched onto his side and lay still.
Brighid let loose the breath she had been holding and made her way slowly to the fallen buck. She automatically whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to Epona for the kill. Her prayer was filled with respect and appreciation as she focused on the last moments of the young buck’s life.
I call upon You, O great Huntress of the summer sky
Epona, my patron Goddess and inspiration.
I thank You for the gift of this blessed hart.
Speed his journey to You.
Accept him—care for him—reward him.
He is my brother and friend.
Look favorably upon the hunt
and upon Your people and their Huntress,
as you have for ages uncounted.
Let the ancient animal spirits of this land rest
in the knowledge that their Huntress
reveres them,
honors them,
and thanks them…
Brighid stood over the body of the slain buck and bowed her head.
…as I revere, honor, and thank You,
my beloved Goddess.
She stood silently for another moment, and took three deep, ritual cleansing breaths, before she bent to pull her arrow from the buck. As it slid free, the deer’s chest exploded outward, showering her in gore. Brighid staggered back, reaching for the short sword she always carried at her waist.
Until she realized what had exploded from the young buck’s chest. Circling around her, in a spray of black feathers and blood, was a single, all-too-familiar raven.
23
“MOTHER!” SHE WIPED blood from her face with the back of her hand and narrowed her eyes at the circling bird. “I don’t know what game you are playing, but stop it! Even you know better than to interfere with a Huntress. You don’t have to approve of my chosen career, but, by the Goddess, you will respect it!”
The black bird circled lower until, in a flurry of wings, it landed on the gore-encrusted body of the dead deer.
“Leave me alone,” Brighid told it.
“Come home, daughter.” Her mother’s voice filled her mind.
“I am coming home. To MacCallan Castle. My home, Mother. My home!”
“That is not your home, foolish colt!”
“No,” Brighid’s voice was steel-edged. “I am not a child. Not anymore. I make my own decisions.”
“Your herd needs you.”
“My herd or your pride?”
“Insolence!”
“Truth!” Brighid countered. She paced two steps forward and glared down at the dark bird. “I will not be manipulated by you ever again. I am sworn Huntress to the Clan MacCallan. That is my chosen path.”
“Your chosen path, but not your destiny…”
Her mother’s voice faded as, cawing, the bird unfurled its ebony wings and, beating the wind, rose sharply into the night air, disappearing into the waiting darkness.
Grimly Brighid glanced down at the body of the deer. Except for her arrow wound it was clean. No exploded chest. No gore spattering the forest or—she touched her face and felt that it was clean—herself.
“Shaman’s tricks and man
ipulations,” she muttered between clenched teeth. Forget it. Focus on the job at hand. Brighid bent to gut the deer, readying it for the short trip back to Guardian Castle. She tried to lose herself in the familiarity of the task, but it was no use. The serenity of the forest had been shattered, as had the peaceful reprieve she had found. All around her she felt watchful, prying eyes.
It was full dark by the time the guards opened the thick doors to Guardian Castle. Eager hands met Brighid and relieved her of the deer while the people praised and thanked her. Brighid accepted their effusive show of gratitude uncomfortably. It made her even more aware of the sad state in which a sister Huntress had left her castle. Her mother should be paying attention to the habits of errant centaurs instead of focusing her time and energy on a wayward daughter.
Brighid frowned. Not that she was actually wayward. By the Goddess, why was her leaving the herd such an all-encompassing issue? Yes, it was Dhianna tradition that the eldest daughter of the High Shaman follow her mother in herd leadership, but that didn’t always happen. There had been times when no daughter had been born to the High Shaman, or when she had died without producing an heir. Why could her mother not see that her succession was to be one of those times?
It wasn’t like Brighid didn’t have any other siblings. Yes, her sister had shown little promise for leadership. Niam was golden and beautiful and perpetually happy because her mind was as empty as a broodmare. But Brighid’s brother…Bregon’s fondest desire would be fulfilled if he followed their mother. It wasn’t forbidden for males to become High Shaman. The position of centaur High Shaman of Partholon was always held by a male. He was the centaur who mated with Epona’s Chosen and led Partholon by The Chosen’s side. Bregon would welcome the power that being Dhianna High Shaman would command, and perhaps then he would even believe he had attained that which he had struggled after his entire life—their mother’s love.
Her brows drew together. Thinking of her younger brother always gave her a headache. They’d never been close. Or at least they hadn’t been since…
“Brighid! Good, you’re back in time for dinner.”
The Huntress set her shoulders and let Ciara draw her toward the courtyard. Another damned Shaman…another damned spying, meddling…
“I’ve been watching for you. There is a place saved for you at fireside.” The Shaman gave her a concerned look. “Is something wrong? You look—”
“No! Nothing’s wrong.” Brighid made her face relax and smiled at the winged woman. She would not let her mother poison her growing friendship with Ciara. This Shaman was not her mother. She was not spying; she was concerned. “I am hungry, though. I appreciate that you kept watch for me.”
They entered the large, square courtyard, and Brighid’s wooden smile became an authentic one. The tents were set up in a cheery circle, though not so tightly packed as they’d been in the Wastelands. Here they were already sheltered from the biting night wind by the walls of Guardian Castle. Children sat all around, talking to the Guardian Warriors in animated bursts between bites of steaming stew and hunks of fragrant bread.
“So the warriors didn’t disappear with the night,” Brighid said.
“Oh, no.” Ciara laughed softly. “It seems the great warriors of Guardian Castle have been taken hostage.”
“Hostage?”
“Yes. By curiosity.”
Brighid snorted. “Or they’re being slowly talked to death and have already lost the ability to escape.”
Ciara laughed again. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. You have no idea how dangerous those little voices can be to the uninitiated.”
“You mean one of them could even cause a centaur Huntress to take on a new apprentice?” The Shaman smiled knowingly at Brighid.
“That is exactly what I mean,” she said.
Ciara touched the centaur’s arm lightly. “Liam is resting comfortably inside the castle infirmary. Nara will stay with him through the night. She assures me he can travel in the morning, but it will have to be on a litter.”
“Thank you. I…” Brighid paused and swallowed around the knot that had suddenly risen in her throat. “I find that I have developed an affection for the boy.” The Huntress stopped short. Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I announced formally that Liam was my apprentice before going to his parents.”
She sighed, thoroughly annoyed with herself. It was bad enough that she had broken with tradition by taking on a male apprentice—one with wings who was decidedly not a centaur. She had also completely disregarded proper protocol. For a child as young as Liam, his parents should be consulted and their approval obtained. Of course, she had been young when she had begun her Huntress training, and her mother had definitely not given her approval—not that that had stopped Brighid, but…
“Rest your mind. Liam’s parents are dead. If Lochlan was here you could go to him for his permission, which I feel certain he would give.” She shrugged her smooth shoulders, causing her wings to rustle. “I am acting as our leader in his absence, and I gladly give consent that he be apprenticed to you.”
“I still should have thought of it. I don’t know why—”
“Be a little easier on yourself. You accepted the boy under unusual circumstances—you were facing the warriors who had tried to kill him. I think even Huntress protocol can be loosened in a case such as this. Come,” Ciara said. “Eat and rest. Tonight you can sleep soundly knowing that an army of warriors guards our back.”
Brighid snorted and muttered, “You mean the same warriors who shot my apprentice?”
“That was then,” Ciara said, making a sweeping gesture toward the campsite where Guardian Warriors and winged children intermingled, “before they knew us. You can relax tonight, Huntress. The only malice I sense within these walls comes from one of our own, and she is securely locked within the bowels of this great castle.”
Silently Brighid followed Ciara into the circle of friendly firelight. The Shaman led her to a centaur-size empty space. With a sigh that came close to being a moan, Brighid folded her knees and reclined on the thick pelt someone had been thoughtful enough to prepare for her. She accepted a hot bowl of stew and a hunk of fresh bread gratefully from the human woman who offered it. It was simple fare, but tasty and satisfying. Excellent food for warriors, she thought. Warriors and hungry growing children. As she ate she watched the firelight play across the children’s faces. She had never known a group of people—especially people who had overcome so many hardships—who were so filled with joy.
And the Guardian Warriors! Those staid, well-trained soldiers, men and women who lived to protect Partholon, were smiling and answering the barrage of childish questions.
At least for this evening, hope glimmered along with the campfire. Perhaps enough time had passed for the wounds of war to heal. Perhaps Partholon would accept these disinherited children of mothers long dead.
Kyna’s familiar laughter drew her gaze. Fand lolled beside her, licking the little girl’s fingers, as well as her face, causing the child to dissolve into giggles. Brighid couldn’t help smiling in response. What an odd mixture they were—a wolf cub that should never have survived the death of her mother, winged children whose births should have killed their mothers, a centaur who had escaped from her mother…
No—Brighid clamped down on her negative thoughts. She hadn’t run away. She’d left and found a new people. She belonged with Clan MacCallan. So much so that the Clan Chieftain had sent Brighid on this quest to bring her beloved brother safely home. Brighid would complete her Chieftain’s charge—and she would figure out some way to get Cuchulainn’s stubborn soul to rejoin him in this world. She had been making definite progress. She had to remember Cuchulainn had been devastated by his loss and…
And where was the damned man?
The Huntress’s keen eyes searched through those gathered around the campfire. Worry tightened her gut. What if he’d decided he couldn’t wait for the birth of
Fallon’s child before carrying out her death sentence?
The warrior would be stripped of his rank and cast from Clan MacCallan.
Brighid sought Ciara’s winged figure, and found her not far from her tent, involved in an animated discussion with two female warriors. Grimly the Huntress made her way to Ciara. She did not wait for a lull in the conversation. Apologizing hastily, she pulled the winged Shaman to the side. “Cuchulainn?”
“I wondered when you would notice his absence,” Ciara said.
“Where is he?” Brighid struggled to keep her voice low and told herself it wouldn’t do to cause a scene by picking up the winged woman and shaking her.
“I heard him asking Fagan about the castle’s graves. I assume he’s there.”
“You assume! You mean you don’t know?”
“See for yourself.” Ciara nodded toward a wide, grassy passageway that intersected with the square courtyard. “Fagan sent him in that direction not long before you returned from your hunt.”
Before Brighid could start after him, the Shaman’s hand stayed her. “He is not going to kill Fallon. His thoughts are elsewhere.”
“Oh, now you can read his thoughts, too?”
“No. I can read neither his thoughts nor yours. But I do know that Cuchulainn’s honor prevents him from killing Fallon. You should know it, too.”
Scowling, Brighid pulled away and hurried down the torch-lit passage. The damned Shaman was right. Now that she really thought about it, she knew Cuchulainn would never dishonor himself or his Clan by breaking his Chieftain’s sentence. Still, Cuchulainn shouldn’t be left alone with his dark emotions. Not after the incident with Fallon. He would just withdraw back into that hard shell of his. Ciara knew that!
The passageway spilled into an area that looked like an herb garden. A woman crouched down clipping sprigs of early mint gave the centaur a curious glance.
“I’m looking for the castle’s grave sites,” Brighid said.
“Follow the wall, Huntress. When the path splits, take the branch to the east. The graves are easily found near the wall, in the raised area that looks down upon the rest of the castle.”