She raised a silver brow.
“He said a High Shaman can only maintain another shape for a limited amount of time.”
Brighid nodded. “It is common knowledge that a High Shaman must return to her natural form in no longer than the span of one night.”
“Is it also common knowledge that once a High Shaman has returned to her natural form that it takes at least the span of another day for her body to reenergize?”
“No.” Brighid looked surprised. “That part is not well-known.” She let out a long, frustrated sigh. “There’s so much I don’t know, Cu. I feel the change within me, and I sense the world around me in a different way. But I know so little about how to wield this new power.”
“Go easy on yourself. Most High Shamans have prepared for years, and are still being mentored by another High Shaman.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t have a mentor.”
“One step at a time, my beautiful Huntress, one step at a time. First you reclaim your birthright. Then you find a mentor. It just so happens that your husband does have connections with at least one High Shaman, and I can promise you that he would be more than willing to mentor his daughter-in-law.” Cuchulainn grinned at her.
She draped her arm around his broad shoulders and nuzzled his ear. “Who knew a man would be such a good thing to have around?”
He chuckled and kissed her. “Don’t tell the other centaur Huntresses—they’ll all want one of their own.”
She bit his neck and he gave a little yelp. They both laughed.
Then Cuchulainn sobered and touched the side of her cheek. “I was serious about what my father said, Brighid. A High Shaman’s body is depleted after shape-shifting, so you take care today. Don’t push yourself and don’t expect too much from your body.”
“I’m just hunting deer. I could do that even as a woman—I think,” she added with a quick smile.
“Hunt your deer carefully. By the time you gut it and bring it back here I should have found that damned gelding.”
“I can help you find that damned gelding of yours,” Brighid said.
“I’m sure you could track him in half the time, my beautiful, talented Huntress, but we need the fresh meat, so I’ll have to muddle through without your expertise.”
“I don’t have to come with you, Cu. I just have to—” She rolled her eyes when his amused expression turned guarded and strained. “Cuchulainn,” she said sternly, “you’re married to a High Shaman. You’re going to have to get used to my evoking aid from the Otherworld.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled a little sheepishly. “I have to get used to it myself.”
He sighed and raised her hand to his lips. “You’re right. And, yes, my beautiful Huntress, I would welcome your help.”
“Just give me a moment and don’t—”
“I know,” he said laughingly, “don’t distract you.”
She gave him an exasperated look before closing her eyes and grounding herself with three deep, even breaths. Then she thought about Cuchulainn’s gelding—the sturdy, well-trained mount her husband depended upon…and quickly, much more quickly than she was used to, that extra innate sense that had always helped her track animals rushed from her body in a wave of sweeping power. Almost instantly she was drawn to a place not far from their cave where a lone dark blue spirit light burned steadily. The gelding. By the Goddess, that was easy! Then another, smaller, spirit light very near the gelding caught her attention, and she focused on it, wondering at its energetic golden aura, and suddenly she understood what she was seeing and wanted to laugh aloud. She almost broke the trance immediately so she could tell Cuchulainn, but the pull of other spirit lights called to her.
With a sense of wonder, she thought of the deer she planned to hunt, and little dashes of fawn-colored illumination flickered all across the tors and out into the Centaur Plains. Well, she thought happily, she certainly wouldn’t have any problem finding that venison.
Then something quivered at the very edge of her spirit vision. It was coming from the north. An emerald glow so bright that its light was blinding, and it made her spirit give a little startled jump, breaking the meditation trance she had so easily fallen into. Her eyes fluttered open and she felt an unaccustomed weariness drag against her body and soul. Cuchulainn was watching her closely, worry shadowing his eyes. Instinctively, her first thought was to reassure him, and she pressed the mystery of the green light from her mind. Later, after I’ve eaten and I’m not so tired I’ll figure out what it is…it’s probably only the green glow of the northern forests…
Mentally she shook herself and gently touched her husband’s face. “Cu, I’ve been using my affinity with animal spirits to track game for years. It’s nothing to worry about. I’m a little tired, but I’m fine.”
“I know…. It’s just.” He shook himself and smiled at her. “You’re right. I’m being foolish. Did you find my errant horse?”
“Yes, and he’s not far from here. Head northwest and you’ll find a deer track. Follow it to a clearing and a pond. That’s where he is. At most he’s an hour’s easy walk from here.” Then she grinned at him and added, “And your gelding is not all you’ll find of yours in the clearing.”
He raised his brows at her. “You aren’t going to tell me what else is there?”
“How about I give you a clue. She’s furry and very, very annoying.”
“Fand?” he said immediately.
“None other.”
Cuchulainn burst into laughter.
Brighid gave an exaggerated sigh.
Still grinning, Cuchulainn lifted the bridle over his shoulder. “I’ll go capture my beasts and meet you back here.”
“I’ll bring the dinner.”
“I’ll bring the wine and the company.”
Brighid’s laughter followed him as he strode toward the northwest, climbing the gentle slope of the rolling tor. When he stood at the top of the little hill he turned back and watched his wife gather her bow and strap her quiver of arrows over her shoulder.
“I love you, Brighid,” he called and then shook his head at his own romantic silliness. She was too near the waterfall to hear him, and he could see even from that distance that the concentrated look of a Huntress was back on her face. Right now the only thing she would pay any attention to would be the scent or track of a deer.
“That’s my beautiful Huntress,” he murmured to himself. She was powerful and sensuous and intelligent. With her beside him he believed there was nothing the two of them couldn’t accomplish. Tonight they’d eat and restore the energy the past days had sapped from them. Tomorrow they’d enter the Centaur Plains. He’d make sure she got to the Dhianna Herd and took her rightful position as their High Shaman. Then they could sort through the misunderstandings and hatred her mother’s leadership had bred. Man and centaur could live happily together. His parents were proof of that—he and Brighid were proof of that. And the New Fomorians weren’t a threat to anyone in Partholon. There was no need for the centaur herds to war against them. They were not the demons that had decimated the warriors of Partholon—both centaur and human—so long ago. Together he and Brighid would just have to make her herd see reason.
Cuchulainn let his gaze scan the Centaur Plains. Even browned with drought the land was still beautiful. It was open and free. The few times he’d traveled to the plains with his father he had been intrigued by the vastness of it. Perhaps it was a result of his father’s centaur blood, but the thought of spending the rest of his life on the grasslands gave him a feeling of satisfaction. He had no doubt that he could find contentment and a home there with Brighid beside him.
Whistling happily, and thinking how good it would be to see his wolf cub, he hitched the bridle over his shoulder and headed into the northwest.
Brighid stood at the edge of the Centaur Plains and drew in a deep, joyous breath. It had been worth it. Yes, there were deer much closer to their cave than the plains, but Cuchulainn would be gone at least a couple of h
ours. She’d have plenty of time to track, kill and gut a deer, and get back to their cave before Cu had even returned, or at least that’s how she’d rationalized her decision to ignore the weariness in her body and slide down the last of the gentle tors to hunt the venison of the plains.
Weary or not, it felt good to have her hooves in the rich soil of her homeland! She’d chosen a different life and she’d left her home believing she would never return—and she had made that work within her mind. But now she could admit that her spirit had never been easy with her choice. Inside of her there had been a yearning to return, and a restless stirring that she now realized had been the dormant High Shaman.
No more, she promised herself. From here on I will use the gifts granted me by Epona and I will take the position I was born to.
She decided quickly not to take herself back into a meditation trance to locate a herd of deer. This was her homeland. If she couldn’t hunt venison here she didn’t deserve to be called Huntress. Her sharp eyes scanned the land in front of her. At the edge of her vision she could see the familiar green dotting and a dip in the horizon that signified an area of crosstimbers. There were always small creeks or streams that meandered through the plains, and they were surrounded by a sandy grove and hardy trees. Even in times of drought, water from underground springs fed the crosstimbers area. Where there was water deer usually congregated. And there’s where she would hunt.
She forced her body into a smooth canter and smiled as the wind and grass swept past her.
By the time she’d reached the crosstimbers line she was almost ready to admit that her decision to hunt the plains had been a hasty one—if not an outright mistake. Sweat soaked her body, and she was having trouble concentrating. She’d crossed several different centaur tracks, though she hadn’t met anyone. She could see the dark spots of bison not far to the east, but she hadn’t found any deer tracks at all, which was decidedly strange. Unless a centaur village was near, there should be plenty of deer all around a crosstimbers area—and she knew of no centaur village so close to the borders of Partholon. The luster of hunting on her homeland was definitely wearing thin. If she didn’t find sign or spoor of deer soon, she would have to use her spirit powers to locate one. Just the thought of it made her groan in exhaustion.
The grasslands began to give way to the blackjack and post oaks that predominated the crosstimbers, and she let herself slow to a listless walk.
She just wanted to find the deer and get it back to their camp. With gratitude she thought about Cuchulainn waiting there. He could do the cooking.
Later, she couldn’t decide if it had been her weariness or their stealth, but she heard and saw nothing before the rope snaked around her neck. Her hands were instantly up trying to pull the noose free, then she felt another rope catch her hind leg. She was jerked roughly off her feet, hitting the ground so hard that the air rushed from her. Her head cracked against a rock and blackness engulfed her.
49
CONSCIOUSNESS CAME BACK in a painful rush. Hard hands were holding her on her feet. She felt battered and bruised and her head ached with a hot, piercing pain that beat in time with her pounding heart.
“Stand up by yourself!” a rough voice said. “Dragging you here was hard enough. I’ll be damned if we’re going to hold you upright, too.”
Dragged? I’ve been dragged?
Hands tied behind her back she struggled suddenly and violently. Half blind with pain she tried to strike out with her powerful equine hind legs—and her throat closed. The harder she struggled the tighter the rope that cut off her breath.
“Be still or choke yourself to death!” the voice boomed.
Trembling, Brighid forced herself still and the rope around her neck loosened enough for her to suck in a breath and cough spasmodically.
“Don’t fight it and you’ll be fine. Fight and you won’t breathe.”
Trembling, Brighid blinked her vision clear and time seemed to slow. She felt as if she was moving under deep water as she tried to comprehend the contradictions in what she saw. She was standing in the middle of a centaur tent—that much was easy for her to understand. It was one of the large, five-sided tents made of beautifully dyed and elaborately decorated bison skins that her mother used to insist be erected and readied for her with every luxury in place well before she arrived at wherever she was visiting. The opening was directly across from Brighid and through the half-pulled-back flap she could see that it was dark. How long had she been unconscious? Her mind struggled to clear. Everything was wrong and she was unable to understand what had happened to her.
The tent was familiar, but the interior wasn’t richly appointed with the thick pallets and low-standing tables centaurs preferred.
The only decoration was several freestanding iron candelabrums that cast shadowy light around the tent. The rest of the tent was empty—except for the four male centaurs who surrounded her. She tried to pull her hands free again, but they were securely tied behind her back. She could feel ropes on her neck and body. In a haze of disbelief, she saw that she was standing, with her torso cross-tied, between the two center poles of the tent. Her front legs were hobbled. Two ropes were tied around her neck. Each of them was attached to a noose around each of her rear legs—she could feel them chafing painfully just above her hooves. The hobble and the cross-tie made certain she could not move. The neck-leg restraint rendered her hind legs impotent. She was very effectively trapped. Brighid raised her eyes to the centaur who stood closest to her and his sneer of superiority had time and noise and sensation flooding back to a normal tempo.
“Fully awake now, my beauty?” he sneered. “Good. No sense in damaging your pretty neck—that is any more than it has already been damaged.” He chuckled and the other three centaur males laughed, too.
Thunder rolled in the distance and lightning flashed in the opening of the tent, helping her to identify the other centaurs. They were Bregon’s pack. She’d thought of them as that since the day they’d killed the young girl. They went everywhere with her brother, following him in everything he did. Like the pathetic sheep they are, she thought.
“Gorman.” Brighid pitched her voice to perfectly mimic her mother’s most angry tone. “Release me at once, you coward!”
Lightning flashed again, and from the edge of her vision she saw one of the other centaurs, Hagan, flinch at the familiar sound of her voice. The other two males were brothers, Bowyn and Mannis, and their eyes went large and round as she spoke. But she kept her attention focused on Gorman, Bregon’s best friend, and partner in all he did.
“You sound like her. You even look like her. But you are not her.” Gorman spat into the grass in front of her. “You were never as strong as Mairearad. You never will be.”
“Define strength, Gorman,” she shot back, forcing the exhaustion from her voice and mind. “Is it the ability to manipulate and use others? Or would your definition of strength be dependent upon ropes? No, wait. I seem to remember that you enjoy terrifying small girls. Pity you had to sneak up on me and tie me up. Was there no wagon available to conveniently roll over me?”
“Strength,” he said darkly, stepping forward so that he sprayed spittle in her face as he spoke, “is defined by the victor!”
“Where is my brother?” she said, refusing to react to his blustering.
“Your brother is making certain that Partholon knows that once again Fomorians have been loosed upon their world.”
“Have you gone mad?” she said. “There are no more Fomorians.”
“Really? Then what do you call those winged creatures you and Midhir’s son guided into Partholon?”
“I call them the same thing Midhir and Epona’s Chosen call them—New Fomorians. You know Elphame lifted the curse from them. They are no longer a demonic race.” As she spoke she tested the bindings around her wrists, vying for a way to get her hands free. “This is ludicrous. I demand to see my brother.”
“Patience, my beauty. Bregon has been very busy and
wasn’t able to greet you properly upon your arrival.” Gorman laughed and the three watching centaurs chuckled nervously along with him. “He asked us to keep you…occupied…until he could join us.”
Brighid felt her face go cold. “Bregon could not know what you have done to me.”
Gorman shrugged. “He commanded that you be kept from reaching the herd until it is too late. He left the means up to us. This—” he gestured to the cross-tie poles and the ropes that would strangle her if she attempted to fight “—was my idea.”
“It’s already too late. I have tasted of Epona’s Chalice. I am the Dhianna High Shaman.”
“Yes, we’re aware of that. Bregon told us. Fortunately none of us thought to tell our mates. Such a shame that the females of the herd won’t find out until it’s too late.”
“You are mad,” she told Gorman, and then carefully turned her head so that the next time the tent glowed with lightning she met the eyes of the dark bay centaur who had remained farthest in the shadows. “Get my brother, Hagan. No matter what has happened between us he will not look kindly on this treatment of his sister.” Then she narrowed her eyes and filled her voice with all the power she could siphon from her exhausted spirit. “And even if Bregon would be willing to allow it, he knows, as do I, the anger that would fill Epona at such treatment of her High Shaman!”
Hagan flinched and opened his mouth to speak, but Gorman cut him off.
“And what did your precious Epona do when your own mother was spitted through the gut and lay dying in agony?” Gorman’s face was florid with the passion of his emotions. “Nothing! Your Goddess let Mairearad suffer and die. Apparently Epona no longer cares about what happens to her centaur High Shamans.”
Brighid turned her gaze slowly and deliberately back to his. “You blaspheme and have turned from the Great Goddess. I give you my oath that you will pay for it.”
Thunder growled through the night and lightning spiked as if Epona had heard and acknowledged her Shaman’s oath. Heedless, Gorman sneered.