The Red Winter

  Above, the heavens had turned a strange and violent crimson that seemed to aspirate with a dull pulse. The heavy clouds reminded her of dead cattle, their bodies swollen and bloated to the point of bursting. The sky looked poised to drown them in ash and fire, but it was only snow that floated down—crisp little flakes that eddied whimsically about before settling upon the ship and its occupants. Snow on Midsummer? Something had knocked the world off its moorings. Pursing her lips, she reached for another blanket and prayed the ship knew where it was going.

  She gazed at Max. His face was no longer anguished, but blank and peaceful. In the firelight, he looked so young—as though years of toil had fallen away and he was once again the boy who came to Rodrubân. She would never forget that morning. It had changed her life forever …

  When the youth appeared and demanded the right to cross Rodrubân’s bridge, it was Scathach’s job to judge if he was worthy. When the bridge nearly flung him into the abyss, she assumed he would turn back as so many had before him. When the boy had the audacity to try again, she cracked the span like a whip to cast the upstart down. But the youth had bounded clear and landed before the castle gates. When those gates were opened, when she beheld that face and Cúchulain’s broken spear, she knew their fates were linked. And she had not been happy.

  She’d barely glanced at Max as she led him from the courtyard through the ruddy glow of Hearth Hall, past the fountains of Summervyne until they came to Lugh’s throne room. When she opened its golden doors to find the god actually present, she’d managed to hide her shock.

  The audience had been brief. The High King appraised the boy, acknowledged him as his son, and dismissed him. His instructions to Scathach were simple.

  “Break him.”

  Once they’d left the throne room, Scathach almost screamed. Long ago, when Lugh had granted her eternal life in the Sidh, he had taken Scathach’s shadow as a symbol of the mortal world she had left behind. Now he’d given her a new one in the form of a beardless boy to dog her steps and try her patience. She’d dreaded her task. For one, it had been ages since she’d had a pupil. For another, Scathach had not cared for the temperamental Cúchulain. This boy might have been his twin. And to crown all, the season was Yule, a time for hunting and feasting and merriment—not for babysitting a lad from overland and underland and all the lands between.

  But she had no choice in the matter. Resigned to her fate, Scathach decided to test the boy’s humility. A pupil who would not work, who bristled at orders, or demanded constant praise was a pupil who could not learn. The boy’s possessions were taken from him. He was given rags for clothing, a stable for sleeping, and ordered to rise before dawn and complete whatever chores the shield maidens saw fit to assign.

  On any given day, the boy might fetch water, muck filth, or hitch carts until the crickets sent him trudging back to his pallet. He never spoke, and it soon became something of a game among the shield maidens to see who could pry a word from their silent charge. Taking the form of a stable hand or townswoman, they might stop to inquire why a highborn should suffer such treatment. Was the youth not a noble prince? Where was his pride? Who could stomach such insults and call himself a warrior, much less a hero? The boy was a joke, a wayward fool, the laughingstock of all the Sidh.…

  No matter the taunt or gibe, the boy would not look up or answer. And thus the weeks passed until late one evening when Scathach returned from a hunt to find all six of the shield maidens waiting in her quarters.

  “I thought it was Ula’s turn to report,” she remarked, addressing a red-haired girl. But it was Ethlinn, the eldest, who rose and cleared her throat.

  “The boy broke the standing stone.”

  Scathach stared. The standing stone was an ancient pinnacle of rock that jutted like a spire from a knoll beyond the eastern gardens. It was said Lugh himself had placed the stone to mark his lands when the Tuatha Dé Danaan had settled in the Sidh. It was a sacred landmark, the center of Lugh’s kingdom.

  “How did this come to be?” Scathach asked quietly.

  “I meant no harm, my lady,” blurted Ula. “I set him to building bonfires for Beltaine once he’d finished his other chores. Later, I returned to tease him as we’ve all done a hundred times before. He’s never answered or even offered a glance, but when I called him ‘the Bastard of Rodrubân’…”

  “Yes?”

  Glancing nervously at her comrades, the girl exhaled and shut her eyes.

  “He struck the standing stone and broke it. With his hand.”

  “He chipped it, you mean.”

  “No, my lady. Broke it. When he struck the stone, it screamed like a banshee and cracked in two. The top tumbled down the hill and is lying in the gardens.”

  Scathach kept her composure. “Well,” she concluded, “if he can break it, he can mend it. He’ll begin tomorrow.”

  Early the following morning, she rose to personally supervise his labors. The dawn was wet and gray when the boy emerged from the stable sporting a grotesquely swollen hand. He offered no explanation or apologies, but merely followed her to the gardens where the broken slab was lying amid the flattened lilies. When told to restore it to its proper place, the boy left and returned with a team of horses.

  Scathach tutted. “You would make others right your wrong?”

  Holding the reins, the boy glowered for a moment before leading the horses back to their stable. Marching back, he crouched low and seized the stone from beneath. With a grunt, he began rocking the slab back and forth, straining to raise it upright. It rose slowly, wobbling and shaking until it towered over him. Squinting at the hilltop, he gave it a push so that it toppled forward. The ground shuddered beneath it. Once it settled, he crouched and repeated the onerous task of raising it.

  As the sun rose and the day grew hot, the boy became a bruised and bloody mess. Dirt and sweat smeared his brow and flies swarmed in biting clouds, but he was still no closer to his goal. No matter how he attempted it, he could not flip or roll the stone more than halfway up the hill before it went crashing back down.

  Scathach studied his reactions carefully. The boy never cursed or shouted, but merely watched, gasping and panting, whenever the stone tumbled back into the garden. And when the dust settled, he’d swat away the flies and stumble back down to seize the stone and try again. He was nothing if not tenacious.

  On the third day, the shield maidens joined Scathach and together they watched the boy struggle and fail at his task. By the fifth day, crowds began to gather: some to cheer, others to jeer, and most to wager when the boy would collapse and the stone would have its vengeance.

  By the ninth day, the battered boy was almost unrecognizable. At dawn, the crowds had already gathered, their chatter ceasing as the youth crouched to grapple with the bloodstained stone. With gritted teeth, he heaved it upright and the contest began anew. As the sun rose, the boy sputtered and stumbled, digging his heels time and again into the churned and trampled soil.

  Some spectators had had their fill. As the day progressed, faces darkened and the muttering began. When the crowd finally cried out in protest, Scathach smiled.

  “Do you want to kill him?”

  “Plain murder is what it is!”

  “For shame! A brave heart deserves better!”

  Among her shield maidens, it was Ethlinn who finally confronted her captain. “I will not be party to this any longer. Cease this folly or let me help him!”

  Scathach met her lieutenant’s angry gaze. “When have I said you could not?”

  Thrusting her spear in the ground, Ethlinn had hurried to the boy’s side. Nes had followed, along with Ariana, Berrach, Eavan, and even Ula. Many townsfolk joined them, digging their fingers beneath the heavy stone.

  Slowly but surely, they rolled the standing stone back to the hill’s summit. Once it was restored, the crowd cheered and turned to congratulate the boy, who had slumped at its base. But it seemed his strength or his wits had deserted him, for he stared straight ahead a
s though his mind was elsewhere. Dismissing the crowd and her shield maidens, Scathach knelt by him.

  “Look at me.”

  The boy glared up, his eyes brimming with defiance.

  “You’ve earned better clothes and quarters,” said Scathach.

  “They carried the stone, not me. I failed.”

  Scathach shook her head. “No. You inspired others to help you complete a task you could not manage alone. And you’ve learned it’s easier to break a thing than to mend it. You’ve the makings of a leader. Tomorrow, we’ll see if you have the makings of a warrior.”

  The boy was already in the training yard, looking anxious and wary when Scathach and the shield maidens arrived the next morning. When told he was to spar with Ula, he had flatly refused.

  “I don’t fight girls.”

  Oh, how they had laughed! And when little Ula promptly disarmed him and spanked him with his own sword, they had positively howled! Purged of his misgivings, the furious boy snatched back his weapon and the yard soon rang with their efforts. Ula humbled him time and again, but it was evident to all that the youth possessed speed. Unfortunately, he did not possess any subtlety, footwork, or technique. He was painfully raw—almost every move a predictable, furious attack that left him vulnerable to innumerable counters. There was no patience or flow. No elegance.

  But even Scathach had to admit there was vast potential. For one, their pupil was frightfully quick and strong. And there was no quit in him. If he could accept instruction, there was vast potential indeed.

  As the weeks passed, it became clear that the boy possessed more than mere potential. By the new moon, Ula could no longer best him. Within two months, even Ethlinn had difficulty penetrating his defense or staving off the sudden, unpredictable counterattacks. The boy absorbed lessons like a sponge, mastering new feats and techniques with freakish intuition. More importantly, he exhibited a trait required of any champion—an almost manic refusal to lose. When pushed to his limits, he always responded, tapping deeper reservoirs of energy and will. And when he grew angry? Dear Lord! Not even Cúchulain possessed such a finishing strike. The boy was his father’s son.

  And he could no longer be called a boy. As spring became summer, he grew like barley in the fields. His bearing became that of a young man, a true champion of the Sidh. The shield maidens had certainly noticed and it came as no surprise when several requested Scathach’s permission to bring him to one of the many feasts—not as a servant, but as her personal guest. Scathach sent each away disappointed.

  “He is our pupil, nothing more.”

  But even she found herself looking for him during the Samhain celebration. He had not joined the feasting in Hearth Hall or sat listening to songs of the faerie folk in Summervyne. Curious, Scathach had at last climbed the many steps to his new lodgings.

  The door was open. Peering within, she found him sitting at a small table and drumming his fingers while he studied several drawings. The drumming stopped.

  “Have you come to test me?”

  “No,” she said. “I came to see why you were absent from the feast. Ula and Berrach were concerned,” she’d added, reddening at the lie. “What is that you’re doing?”

  “Nothing,” he’d said, wiping charcoal from his hands. “Drawing.”

  “May I see?”

  He’d shrugged and moved aside as she entered and came over to the table. The images flickered in the guttering candlelight: a bristly otter-like creature, a tall clock tower, a toothless ogre, and a man and woman sitting together before an evergreen strung with ornaments.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist, Max.”

  “I didn’t know I had a name other than ‘boy.’ ”

  Scathach ignored the barb. “You’ve earned back your name,” she replied. She gestured at the drawings. “Who are they?”

  He did not respond at once, but seemed to be weighing whether it was wise—or even safe—to share anything about himself. It was odd how wounding his hesitation had been. Scathach found herself wanting him to trust her, even to like her. Such feelings were new and deeply unsettling.

  At last, he relented. Sweeping his hand over the images, he explained that the creature was his lymrill, the clock a school landmark, and the ogre a school chef.

  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll eat the students?” asked Scathach.

  “No. But we do worry about the hags.”

  Max had smiled as he said this, the very first since his arrival at Rodrubân. It appeared slowly, like the sun peeping out from behind a cloud. And, like the sun, its effect was transformative. It fairly compelled a smile in return. Grinning in spite of herself, Scathach cleared her throat and turned her attention back to the drawings.

  “And who are these two?” she asked, pointing at the man and woman.

  Max’s smile faded. “My parents. Or at least I thought they were. I guess she’s still my mother.”

  Scathach heard the edge in his voice. “Why are you angry with her?”

  Max stared at the drawing. “She let me live a lie,” he murmured. “She should have told me the truth—told me who my real father was. She never should have left. If she’d stayed, maybe none of this would have ever happened.”

  “You are the child of Lugh Lamfhada,” Scathach reminded him. “It was never your lot to live a quiet life. You must become what you will be—a prince of the Sidh and a champion for the mortals of your birth world. From what I hear, champions are needed.”

  Taking the drawing, Scathach studied it closer by the candlelight. “Your parents have good faces, Max. Kind faces. Tell me about them, and your world. It’s a place I left long ago …”

  From that evening a friendship developed. Scathach found Max’s account of modern life intriguing and enjoyed his newfound willingness to smile, laugh, and even share his sorrows or misgivings. She had never met anyone quite like him. He was so different from Cúchulain and other heroes she had trained. He was proud, of course, but not masterful or domineering. He learned quickly, worked hard, and was even polite to the servants—a fact that amazed Ula, who delighted in terrorizing them.

  “Our pupil is having an effect on us,” Ethlinn had remarked one day when she and Scathach returned from riding. She pointed to where Ula was loudly pardoning a stable boy for bringing the incorrect saddle.

  “I suppose he is,” said Scathach.

  Ethlinn gave a sideways glance. “On some more than others.”

  Scathach tugged briskly on the reins. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The shield maiden bowed. “Forgive me, but my lady has never bothered to dine with a pupil or sit with one so long and late in Summervyne. There is talk.”

  “Your talk, doubtless.”

  “Aye,” Ethlinn conceded. “And others. We all have eyes, Scathach. Our pupil is handsome and strong and the finest fighter we have trained. And he is a prince …”

  “You forget yourself, Ethlinn.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  Scathach had not replied, but dismounted and marched inside the castle gates and up to the battlements where Max was practicing with Ariana. The two were working on bruud gine—a technique for breaking an opponent’s weapon. It was a tricky feat requiring exquisite anticipation, timing, and control. Success meant a disarmed foe; failure left one vulnerable and possibly injured from the attempt. Judging from the glinting shards that littered the battlement, Max was having success.

  “Oh, how the smiths will curse him,” laughed Ariana, fetching another sword from a stand. “Ten blades he has shattered in as many tries.”

  “Perhaps you’re making it too easy,” said Scathach.

  She ordered a more challenging test by way of a private signal. Nodding, Ariana raised her sword and saluted to Max, who did likewise. Almost immediately, Ariana gave the champion’s shout—the sian caurad—whose force buckled the boy’s knees and cracked the stone merlons behind him. Leaping at her stunned adversary, Ariana swept her sword at Max’s exposed neck in a vicious str
oke called the táithbéim.

  But he was too quick. Almost instantly, Max recovered from the sian caurad, spun beneath the táithbéim, and whirled about to bring his weapon down upon Ariana’s outstretched sword. There was a discordant clang and her blade promptly broke into eight pieces. Dropping the useless hilt, the shield maiden turned to her captain as though to say, What did I tell you?

  Max was looking far too pleased. Gazing past him, Scathach’s attention fell upon two hawks circling one another above the distant hills. When one dove, the other followed, their screeches faint upon the wind. As Scathach watched them, Ethlinn’s accusations echoed in her ears. Tearing her attention away from the hawks, Scathach strode to the weapons stand and chose a slender sword. Scuffing her boot to test the battlement’s footing, she motioned Ariana aside.

  Max’s smile faded. Throughout his stay at Rodrubân, they had never faced one another. Scathach oversaw his training and demonstrated new techniques, but she left sparring and practice to the shield maidens. Until he could outduel them, there was little point in matching his skill with hers. But apparently, the time had come. Meeting his eyes, she raised her blade in a warrior’s salute.

  “When your blade shatters, be sure to yield.”

  Max had not replied. He simply touched his blade to his forehead and advanced.

  The lesson lasted less than three seconds.

  Scathach used the first exchange to gauge his speed—far swifter than even Ethlinn’s. The second pass was to let him think he’d spotted a potential weakness. The third was a feint to gain position, the fourth a telegraphed repetition of the previous opening. Like a hungry trout, Max seized the bait and brought his sword whistling at the very spot where Scathach’s blade should have been.

  But it was not.

  At the last possible instant, Scathach spun away, leaving Max’s sword to spark harmlessly against the merlon. Before he could recover, her weapon flicked like a serpent’s tongue to strike his blade two inches above its crossguard.

  A true master of bruud gine relied on harmony rather than brute force. To an untrained observer, Scathach’s attack might have resembled a playful tap rather than an exquisite combination of angle, speed, and placement. With almost casual grace, her blow shattered the sword as though it were made of glass. With a painful yelp, Max dropped the hilt and shook the sting from his hand.