Chapter 3 #2
Scáthach shook her head. “If I loved battle, why would I be here, training warriors instead of leading them to war?” The bard opened his mouth to reply, but Scáthach spoke on, silencing him.
“No reasonable person loves battle. What I love is others knowing that I have the power to wage war and to win it. I love the peace that deterrent provides and, beyond that, I choose to live with integrity and honor—not lord my strength over others. War isn’t glorious. War is dreadful.”
“Oh, come now! You don’t truly believe that!” said the bard.
Scáthach’s eyes narrowed. “Have you ever been to battle?”
“Me?” Sechan chuckled nervously. “I am but a minstrel, a bard, a teller of tales and singer of ballads.”
“And in those ballads, you glorify war.” Scáthach shook her head, sneering in disdain.
“Men like to believe might equals right, so they wage war and take, take, take because they can.” She paused and looked to her Shadow Guard, the majority of whom were women.
“At Dunscáith we believe instead that might should be used for right. Do you comprehend the difference?”
Sechan’s gaze went from her to Cuchulainn to the silent warriors who watched, and finally back to rest on the queen. His mouth opened and then closed, and he shuffled his feet.
“I see,” Scáthach said. “You comprehend, but you disagree. And if your friend here shares your viewpoint, why would I train one more brute to be even better at being brutish?”
“I am not his friend,” Cuchulainn said.
Scáthach met his gaze. “Tell me how you got your name.”
Cuchulainn swallowed and drew a deep breath.
When he spoke, he did so as if by rote—emotionlessly and quickly.
“I was a boy. King Conchobar invited me to a feast at the longhouse of a smithy.
The feast began and I had not yet arrived.
Conchobar did not believe I was coming, so when the smithy, Culann, asked if he should bar the door and unchain his hound that guarded it, Conchobar said yes, unchain the beast. The hound was huge and fierce in protecting his home and knew when the door was closed and barred, no one was allowed entrance.
“I came late. The hound attacked me. I killed him. Culann was so distraught at the death of his hound that I said I would take the dog’s place as castle guardian until he could train up a pup to replace the beast. It was two years before the new guardian was trained, and in that time, they began calling me Culann’s hound, or Cuchulainn. ”
Scáthach watched him closely as he told the story. “What is your birth name?”
“Sentanta,” said Cuchulainn.
Scáthach nodded. “Sit and eat. Tomorrow I will make my decision about whether to accept you.”
Cuchulainn bowed to her again before he made his way back to a rear table where Fergal was seated.
As Cuchulainn returned to his seat, Sechan continued singing the ballad that glorified his naming.
Scáthach watched the young warrior and saw how his shoulders tensed and his chin dipped wearily as the bard sang.
“Sechan,” Scáthach called. “My Leannan does not like songs about the death of dogs. Show him, Leannan,” she commanded.
From under the table the big deerhound’s affable demeanor changed.
Her yellow eyes pierced the bard as she growled low in her chest and lifted her lips to show her fangs.
“You see. She doesn’t like the ballad. Sing something my hound will like better. ”
The bard’s brow wrinkled in confusion, and he sent fearful looks at the growling hound, but he bowed and nodded, and then—wisely—he began a long ballad detailing the beauty and wisdom of Béfionn, which soon had the warriors tapping their feet and singing along with the chorus.
Uathach leaned into her mother. “Surely, you will not let the dog killer stay.”
“I have not yet decided,” was Scáthach’s only response.
* * *
“Queen of Shadow!” One of Scáthach’s sentries burst into the great hall. “A group from Lethra has arrived. Will you allow them entrance over the bridge?”
“I will.” Scáthach stood and went to the wall behind her. She pressed her hand to it and spoke to the stones. “Allow the Lethra group entrance.” Scáthach felt the tingle of her mother’s magick through her palm as she returned to her place at the table.
“That was quick,” Uathach said. “They are only seven days behind the messenger.”
“I did think I’d have longer,” muttered Scáthach.
“They’re eager to crown their queen,” said Tabiti.
“Well, then they should have stayed in Lethra and crowned my sister,” said Scáthach.
The group of a dozen warriors entered the great hall behind a tall man whose long, silver hair was braided into his thick beard.
Wolf fur cloaks hung around their broad shoulders, marking them as members of Ardgeimm’s elite army named the Wolfskins.
They had left their weapons at the Bridge of Leaps but carried their shields decorated with the sigil of the Jarl of Lethra—a Norse longship with the masthead of a snarling lion.
They stopped before Scáthach’s raised platform and bowed.
“Greetings, Queen of Lethra!” boomed the leader’s voice.
“Greetings to you, Geirr,” said Scáthach.
She was well acquainted with Geirr, who had been leader of her father’s warriors for decades.
She liked and respected Geirr, though she had no interest in being his queen.
Scáthach looked around, as if searching for someone, and added, “Though I see no crowned queen of Lethra here.”
Geirr smiled. “Yah, but I brought the crown with me, so that can be easily remedied, daughter of Ardgeimm.”
Tabiti covered a laugh with a cough. Geirr’s sharp gaze went to her and his smile widened. “Tabiti! Perhaps you will come to Lethra with Scáthach. I would enjoy showing you my kingdom.” Geirr put special emphasis on the word.
“Ha!” Tabiti laughed. “My answer has not changed. I have no desire to see any man’s kingdom.” She spoke the word suggestively, as had Geirr.
“And I will not be traveling to Lethra,” added Scáthach, coating her words with iron.
Geirr’s levity was instantly gone. “You are your father’s chosen heir.”
“I am already queen of my own realm,” said Scáthach. “As well my father knew.”
“But shadows are found everywhere. Lethra cannot flow so easily from place to place,” said Geirr.
“I will not leave my school,” Scáthach countered.
“Bring your school with you.” Geirr’s smile returned.
“Your father did know you well. Two years ago, he ordered the construction of a special keep adjacent to his royal longhouse. It was finished not long ago. It holds barracks for your students and a practice field, so you may bring your school to Lethra.”
“No.”
Geirr frowned. “Scáthach, your father was always clear about the succession. You are his eldest child and his choice. I was with him when he fell in battle and with his last breath, he repeated that Scáthach, his daughter and Queen of Shadow, should wear his crown. The Wolfskins agree. Lethra agrees. You are our next queen.”
“I will tell you what I told my father many times. I have no desire to be Queen of Lethra.”
Geirr nodded. “Yah, yah, your father often said those who come reluctantly to leadership are usually the best choice to crown.”
“No,” Scáthach repeated. “I play no game here. I do not need my ego stroked. No means no. I will not be Lethra’s queen. Crown my sister. She is also my father’s daughter.”
The Wolfskins behind Geirr moved restlessly, obviously upset by her refusal. Geirr took a step forward and spoke earnestly. “Princess Aife cannot be crowned. Your father has spoken. The Wolfskins have spoken. They name you queen. As long as you live, they will not accept Aife.”
“Geirr, I am sorry my father, your Jarl, is dead. I am sorry he named me his heir, even after I made it clear to him I will not leave Dunscáith. My answer is final. I remain Queen of Shadow. Convince the Wolfskins to crown my sister or choose another to rule.” When Geirr began to speak again, Scáthach stood, silencing him.
In a voice as piercing as sunbeams through cloud, she said, “I have spoken!”
“Queen of Shadow.” Geirr’s voice changed. Gone was the familiarity and humor. He stood straight and bowed formally to her. “Then the Wolfskins and I ask that you remain here, in your Kingdom of Shadow, but also accept the crown of Lethra. Assign a regent and rule from here.”
Except for the crackle and sizzle of the sacrificial bones in the brazier, the great hall was completely silent.
“And are you the regent you wish me to name?” Scáthach asked.
“If that is your desire. But know that the Wolfskins will accept any of your seasoned warriors as our regent.” His gaze slid to Uathach and then away.
Scáthach felt the jolt of that gaze as if it had burned her. She didn’t glance at her daughter, but knew she went very still beside her.
“I will consider it and send a messenger to you with my decision.”
Geirr bowed and said nothing.
Scáthach sat, suppressing a sigh. “Please, sit, eat, and drink. Tonight you are my guests. Tomorrow return to Lethra to await my decision.”
Again, Geirr bowed, and then he and his men found seats as servants hurried to bring more platters of food and drink.
“Are you really considering a regent?” Uathach asked her mother.
“No,” said Scáthach. “I do not want the crown, even with a regent. I know these Norsemen. They will not be satisfied by an absent queen.”
“He knew you would refuse before he spoke,” said Tabiti.
Scáthach nodded. “As did Father, which is why I find this whole thing concerning. Perhaps if I allow more time to pass, the Wolfskins will get weary of waiting for a reluctant queen and instead crown my sister.”
Tabiti scoffed. “Ha! Geirr has been trying to seduce me for years. It seems the Wolfskins are a stubborn lot.”
“That they are, but it will not change my answer,” said Scáthach as she stared into the brazier, wishing her father had listened to her and prepared the Wolfskins to accept her sister as heir.
* * *