Brighid turned her head so that she could gaze at her friend. “You did the right thing.”
There were two rapid knocks on the door, and then it opened. In a rustle of agitated wings, Nara hurried into the room, followed by Cuchulainn. The Healer was carrying a steaming pot in one hand and a heavy leather pouch in the other.
“Stoke the fire, Warrior,” she ordered, passing the pot to Cuchulainn. “I need this to brew.”
With no-nonsense gestures, she settled to the floor beside Brighid’s pallet. With hands that were infinitely gentle, she quickly touched the pulse points at the centaur’s temples, neck and wrists, and then ran her hands gently down Brighid’s equine body.
“I’m not injured,” Brighid told her.
Nara glanced up while she dug through her leather pouch, pulling out bundles of dried herbs.
“I wasn’t worried about a physical wound, Huntress,” Nara said. “And now I’m less worried about your spirit, though I still want you to drink my brew.” The Healer stood and moved to the table, mixing herbs into a small, tightly woven strainer.
Brighid started to shake her head, remembering Brenna’s potions. She didn’t want to sleep—she was sure that there was something she needed to be doing. But before she could stir, Elphame was back at her side.
“Mama is caring for Niam. There is nothing more for you to do today.”
“I should go to her. I have to…” Brighid ran out of words and could only gaze brokenly at her friend.
“Epona’s Chosen is anointing the body of your sister. She and her handmaids are saying prayers over her and guiding her spirit to the Goddess. Wynne and her cooks are cleansing the Great Hall. Soon I’ll call the children and they will return and fill the castle with life and laughter.”
“But what can I do, El?”
Elphame took Brighid’s hand. “You can sleep and heal so your mind will be clear to make decisions that will honor your sister’s sacrifice.”
“Is that all I can do?” Even to her own ears she sounded defeated.
“That’s enough for now,” Elphame assured her.
“I knew she was dead,” Brighid said, her voice more resigned than sad.
“Niam?” Elphame asked.
The Huntress shook her head. “No. My mother. She came to me this morning when I killed the boar. She said…” Brighid paused, swallowing around the thickness in her throat. “Her spirit shrieked at me to avenge her.
“I thought—” Brighid paused again, drawing in a deep breath. “I thought that it was just another of her tricks, just another attempt to pull me back to a place where she could change me…control me…use me.” Brighid shook her head. “But I think deep inside I knew she was dead. I didn’t want to face it. But I should have. If I had started back to the Centaur Plains at that moment, maybe I would have met Niam and stopped her before she—” Her voice broke, and she couldn’t go on.
“No!” Cuchulainn knelt, touching her face, wiping away her tears. “Don’t do this to yourself, Brighid. You could not have changed your sister’s fate any more than I could have changed Brenna’s. Let her go, my strong, beautiful Huntress. Let Niam go.”
“Drink this.” Nara handed Brighid a steaming mug that smelled of lavender and spice.
Suddenly yearning for oblivion, Brighid emptied the cup, not caring that the fragrant herbs didn’t quite mask the bitterness of the brew.
“You’ll sleep now, and when you awaken your mind will be clear,” Nara said. “I cannot heal your heart, but I can give you a rested body for wise decisions while your spirit mourns.”
“Nara,” Brighid called to the Healer before she could slip quietly from the room. “Don’t let Liam worry about me. Tell him that all will be well.”
For the first time, the Healer smiled. “Do not fret, Huntress. I will put your child’s mind at ease.”
“I must go, too,” Elphame said, kissing Brighid on the cheek. “Don’t worry about anything. Mama and I will take care of the pyre. Rest. I’ll come back and check on you soon.”
Brighid’s eyelids were already beginning to feel heavy when her gaze met Cuchulainn’s.
“I’m not going to leave,” he said.
“Good.” Her eyes fluttered shut. Then, with a gasp, she forced them open.
“What is it?” Cuchulainn said, smoothing her hair from her face.
“I’m afraid to sleep. What if part of her spirit comes to my dreams, like yours did?”
Cuchulainn knew it was her mother’s twisted soul to which she referred. “That won’t happen,” he said, settling back on the down-filled pallet so he could pull her torso into his arms. “I won’t let it.”
She rested her head on his chest and tried to fight the drug. “How? How can you stop her?”
“I’ve been in your dreams before. I’ll go there again, and I’ll make certain nothing harms you.” He kissed the top of her head. “Sleep, my beautiful Huntress, and I’ll watch over you.”
Unable to fight it any longer, sleep pulled her into darkness.
35
WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes again it was dark except for the low-burning hearth fire. For a moment she didn’t move—she just remembered.
Her mother was dead. Her sister was dead. Her brother was bent on beginning a bloody war of vengeance.
Tentatively she tested the knowledge within her. Her mother’s death made her feel relief, which was instantly followed by a rush of guilt. Brighid mentally drew herself up. She had no reason to feel guilty. Mairearad Dhianna had been her mother, but she had also been a mean-spirited, manipulative centaur. Power had corrupted her until she had eventually misused gifts granted to her by Epona, and used and discarded even her own children. The world would be a lighter place without the shadowy presence of Mairearad Dhianna, and Brighid would not mourn for something that was truly more of a gain than a loss.
But the knowledge of Niam’s death was profoundly different. It made her feel bruised and sad. All these years she had been blind to her sister’s true character. There had been a time during their youth when Brighid had been close to her brother, but not even then, before the years of dissension began, had she paid much attention to her little sister. She had believed Niam was a beautiful shell—witless about anything that did not focus on beauty and entertainment and luxuries. Niam had been right. She had fooled them all—even their powerful mother. In the end she had shown more heart than any of them. Brighid would be sure her sister’s memory was venerated, and that her strength was told and retold in the ballads sung around MacCallan campfires for years and years to come. Brighid only hoped she would be there to hear them. Her brother’s choices could make that impossible.
A shadow disentangled itself from beside the hearth, causing Brighid’s heart to hammer wildly. Was it an apparition? Had her mother’s spirit followed her here to deliver another hate-filled message? The Huntress was gathering herself to repulse the Otherworldly attack when the shadow became a man.
“You’ll want to drink this. Nara said you’d be thirsty when you finally awoke.” Cuchulainn handed her a goblet filled with cool water.
Relieved, her hands trembled only a little as she took the goblet and drank thirstily. Cu prodded the fire alive and then moved around the room, lighting several of her candelabrums, effectively chasing the lingering shadows from her chamber. Then he grabbed the basket of food and wine from the table, and brought it to Brighid, sitting down on the pallet beside her.
The Huntress unwrapped a cold sandwich of thick sliced cheese and bread from the basket and dug heartily into it.
“I feel like I haven’t eaten for days,” she said between bites.
He smiled at her and brushed a crumb from her chin. “You haven’t.”
She narrowed her eyes as she realized that his face was shadowed with what must be at least a day of stubble.
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“It’s not long after dawn of the second day since your sister’s death,” he said gently. “I worried t
hat your sleep was unnatural, but Nara assured me that you would wake when your spirit was ready.”
Slowly she lifted her hand to touch the roughness of his unshaven face. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
“I told you I wouldn’t leave you.” Without taking his gaze from hers, he cupped his hand over hers, turned his head slightly, and kissed her palm.
“Cuchulainn…” she began, pulling her hand from his face. “This thing between us—it doesn’t have to be any more than friendship,” she said awkwardly.
“Doesn’t it?” His smile was slow, and it made his turquoise eyes sparkle.
“You should know that after a soul-retrieval—”
“The Shaman and the patient are bonded,” he finished for her. “Yes, I know that. But usually that bond isn’t more than respect and understanding. Usually.” He took her hand back and lifted it to his lips again. Then he held it, palm down, against his heart as he continued speaking. “The Shaman and the patient aren’t drawn together by desire, or if they are it quickly fades.” He could feel the beat of his heart against the warmth of her palm. “Remember when we awoke, and you were kissing me…breathing my soul back into my body?”
She nodded, transfixed by his deep voice and the impossible blue of his eyes.
“I told you that my mind understood that I shouldn’t desire you, but that my passion was overruling the logic of that understanding. You told me that my passion would recede. It hasn’t receded, my beautiful Huntress. Now where does that leave us?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“In the Great Hall, after the horror of your sister’s death you asked me to forgive you because you couldn’t pretend that you didn’t need me by your side.”
“I remember,” she said.
“You were in shock then, numb with grief and confusion. Now that your thoughts are clear, once more I have to ask you if you still need me by your side.”
It’s impossible, her mind told her. Then echoing from her memory drifted Brenna’s sweet voice: The most important thing I came to tell you is that I want your oath that you will keep an open mind…about everything that may seem impossible.
“I do. I know it’s impossible but I do,” Brighid said in a rush, before common sense and logic could stop the words.
“That’s what I needed to hear. Now all we have to do is discover how to overcome the impossible.”
“Oh, that’s all?” Brighid said with a hint of her normal caustic humor.
He smiled charmingly. “My mother seems to think it’s possible. And you know she knows everything important.”
“Your mother?” Brighid shook her head and reached for the wineskin. “You told your mother about us?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Do you think I had to?”
“By the Goddess! Have you ever been able to keep anything from her?” She felt flushed with embarrassment as she remembered that Etain had been with her during the journey to retrieve Cuchulainn’s soul. And then the flush changed to pleasure. Etain, the Chosen of Epona and High Priestess of Partholon approved of them!
“No one keeps anything from my mother.” Cuchulainn laughed at her stunned expression. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Maybe…I don’t know…” She looked away from him as her thoughts caught up with her. “It must be a great blessing to have a mother who loves you unconditionally.”
The warrior’s face instantly sobered. “It is.” He took her hand again. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
She nodded and her eyes turned slowly back to meet his. “I’ve known what I must do since the moment I saw Niam.” The centaur sighed. “Before that, actually. I think I’ve known it my whole life. I’ve just been trying to run from it.”
His hand tightened on hers. “You don’t run from things, Brighid.”
“What else would you call it?”
“Survival—bravery—independence. I would call it any of those things. Cowards and fools run.” His tone was acrimonious. “I should know. I ran from the grief of Brenna’s death.”
Brighid tried to smile. “You’re no coward.”
His bark of laughter made her soul feel considerably lighter. “And hopefully I’ve reached my limit of foolish actions.”
Brighid looked down at their joined hands and quirked a brow. They both laughed.
Which is exactly when Elphame rapped softly on the door and peeked into the room. Her eyes widened at the two of them, sitting on the centaur pallet with food spread around them, holding hands and laughing.
“Well, it’s good to see my brother is making some use of himself.” Her words were teasing, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“El! Just in time. Come join us,” Cuchulainn said.
“Actually I was coming to fetch you—both of you. Da’s here.”
“Good,” Cuchulainn said, standing up and brushing crumbs from his kilt. “If anyone can make sense out of what’s going on with the centaurs, it’ll be our father.” He held out a hand to Brighid, and she took it, rising reluctantly to stand beside him. He smiled. “Don’t worry. You’ll like him.”
“I’m not worried about not liking Midhir! By the Goddess, Cuchulainn, your father is centaur High Shaman of all of Partholon!”
“You don’t need to be nervous, Brighid. Our father will like you,” Elphame assured her, shooting a frustrated look at her brother. “Da’s wonderful. You’ll see.”
Brighid felt like she was moving through a dream as the three of them made their way around the back of the castle to the rear entrance to the family quarters. Before they entered the family wing, the Huntress stopped and stared at the young sun where it had just risen over the eastern castle wall.
“Where is Niam?” she asked quietly.
“After Mother anointed her body I ordered that she be kept in the small room off the infirmary. Her funeral pyre has been built on the extreme southern edge of the castle grounds. I thought that you would want it facing the direction of the Centaur Plains,” Elphame said.
Brighid nodded. “After we speak with Midhir I would like to light the pyre.”
“Of course. I’ll send word to the Clan to make ready.”
“The Clan?” Brighid asked woodenly.
“Your Clan. They would not let you stand beside your sister’s pyre alone.”
Brighid said nothing, only let out a long breath. Her eyes were sad and resigned. Then she straightened her shoulders. “Let’s go speak to your father.” She led the way into the castle, her hooves making a lonely, muffled sound against the smooth marble floor.
The first thing Brighid noticed about the opulent guest chamber was that the bed that usually sat atop the huge circular dais had been replaced by a large centaur pallet. The second thing she noticed was the imposing centaur who stood behind Etain’s chair, talking in a low voice to the Chosen as she was being properly coiffured for the day. He was tall and had the thick, magnificent build of a mature centaur warrior. His coat was a deep bay, shading to black around his hocks. His thick dark hair was worn long, and tied back with a leather thong. As soon as they entered, Etain waved her handmaidens away and stood to greet them. She took Brighid’s hands in her own, and the Huntress felt a surge of warmth and comfort pass through the High Priestess’s gentle touch.
“I knew you would recover and be stronger than you were before,” she said, studying the Huntress carefully. “And now let me introduce you to my beloved.” She stepped to the side and the centaur moved to stand next to her. “Midhir, my love, this is Brighid Dhianna, MacCallan’s Huntress.”
Brighid placed her fisted hand over her heart and dropped gracefully into the low bow of respect centaurs showed for their High Shaman.
“I have been eager to meet you, Brighid Dhianna.” Midhir’s voice was deep and powerful, and it reminded her very much of Cuchulainn, as did the strong, handsome lines of his face and broad shoulders. “The death of your mother was a shock, and the loss of your sister a tragedy.” Then he turned to
his son and pulled the warrior into his embrace. “It has been too long since last I saw you, my son.” He smiled sadly at Cuchulainn. “Your loss, too, has been great. I ached for your pain and for the shattering of your soul—and I rejoice now that you are whole once again.”
“You have Brighid to thank for that,” Cuchulainn said, after returning his father’s warm embrace.
“I think before it is all over, we will all be much indebted to this young Huntress,” Midhir said.
Brighid thought the all over sounded disturbingly ominous.
“What news have you of the Dhianna Herd?” Cuchulainn asked.
“It is not good. I hear nothing.”
Elphame sucked in a breath of surprise. “Nothing, Da?”
The centaur High Shaman shook his head, his face as grim as his deep voice. “The Dhiannas have severed trade lines with Partholon, as have the Ulstan and Medbhia Herds. I know that they have gathered far in the southwestern part of the Plain.”
“The Dhianna winter grounds,” Brighid said.
“Yes, and I can get no word of their activities. The herds’ High Shamans apparently have banded together and are expending quite a bit of power to keep their activities private, although it doesn’t take much guesswork to realize that they must be, at the very least, arming themselves against outsiders. From the Otherworld all I can receive are disjointed images of anger, death, paranoia—all oddly wrapped in smoke, and an unclear, flame-colored light.” The great Shaman shook his head and looked visibly disturbed. “Smoke and shadows…I get nothing more clear than that and an occasional glimpse of a lone centaur.” Midhir paused and his eyes widened with sudden understanding. “He is a young, golden warrior, who reminds me very much of you, Brighid.”
“It is my brother, Bregon.” Brighid’s stomach felt ill.
“Yes, I see that now. He is the impetus behind their actions.” His kind eyes met Brighid’s. “What your mother began, he is trying to finish.”