Chapter 9
Sentanta would never forget that day. For so much of his life he’d felt separate, a mortal whose blood held just enough divinity to make him an outsider to other mortals. He was named the Hero of Ulster, cheered on by warriors, but not beloved by them—only envied, studied, used.
Until he came to Dunscáith.
Here Sentanta found comradery. The other students accepted him, and not as an untouchable demigod. They called him Cu! They joked with him. And when he conquered a feat faster than they did, they clapped him on the back and celebrated with him!
He wasn’t fated to live long. He’d known that since he was a boy.
But for the rest of his short life, he would cherish the memory of his time at Dunscáith and, even after his death, he would eternally remember that afternoon on the beach with her, the race to the rocky point, the sparkle of her joy and the sound of her laughter.
It infused him with happiness he thought he’d never know.
He wished he could capture that happiness, hold it and keep it with him. Hold her and keep her with him . . .
* * *
The student test had begun at dawn with the boats launching to sea with the student warriors and their reeds as the sun lifted above the horizon, so it was not yet midmorning when Scáthach, Cuchulainn, and Leannan left Dunscáith in a wagon with three cows tied to it and headed south.
Scáthach had been looking forward to the solitary trip, so much so that when Cuchulainn named his boon, she’d been annoyed that her peace would be broken.
But Cuchulainn immediately proved helpful instead of irritating.
He’d quickly harnessed the team that pulled their wagon as she haltered and secured the cows, and then sprinted to the kitchen to get food for the trip—something Scáthach wouldn’t have bothered with had she been alone but knew she’d appreciate when her stomach growled midday.
Before they left the castle, Cuchulainn asked to drive, explaining that it would give her a chance to relax.
She didn’t say much to him. The Queen of Shadow was rarely alone—rarely had an opportunity to enjoy quiet and solitude—and she’d wanted the short trip to be filled with both.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for the quiet between them to feel easy.
Scáthach wasn’t compelled to fill silence with chatter; apparently she had that in common with Cuchulainn.
He held the reins loosely as he followed the dirt road, keeping the sea to the right and copses of pine, yew, and rowan trees to their left.
They crossed several streams, wading the wagon and the cows through those that were shallow, clambering over the old wooden bridges that had been built to cross the deeper ones.
When neither option was available, Cuchulainn followed the path and meandered inland around the stream.
Between Dunscáith and the Aird of Sleat, the southernmost village on the island, the terrain was a familiar mixture of craggy hills and valleys, clusters of trees—often surrounded by thickets of brambles—and waves of heather that were just beginning to show their purplish blooms.
It was beautiful and restful, and it wasn’t long before Scáthach was glad of the warrior’s company. He’d been correct. Because she didn’t have to drive the wagon, all she needed to do was to lean back, relax, and take in the loveliness of her island.
Leannan trotted along beside the wagon, taking many detours to the shore to chase seabirds, which made Cuchulainn laugh as she barked with frustration at not catching one.
“Where did you get Leannan?”
Scáthach smiled as the hound stalked yet another seabird, leaped, and missed catching it. The bird lifted into the sky only to circle around and dive at Leannan, who snapped futilely at the air. “My mother always has deerhounds. Leannan was a gift to me from her.”
Cuchulainn laughed again as Leannan, paying too much attention to the diving seabird, tripped over a rock and fell on her face, tumbling snout over tail before she stood, shook herself, and snorted sand out of her nose indignantly. “You’ve had her since she was a pup?”
Scáthach nodded. “She was just weaned. Uathach tried to coax her away from me, but Leannan would have none of it. She decided as a pup that I belong to her, and that was that.” She glanced from the deerhound to him. “Though she does love my Little Fry.”
Cuchulainn grinned. “I like the nickname. How did she come by it?”
Scáthach smiled warmly. “Baby sturgeons are called fry. When she was a little girl, she swam with them quite a lot, looking like one of their young. Well, without the boney scutes and fins and such.”
Cuchulainn laughed softly. “A nickname as unique as your daughter. So, Leannan loves Little Fry. How about Tabiti?”
“She loves testing Tabiti’s patience. I’m not sure that’s the same as loving Tabiti herself.”
Cuchulainn’s grin gentled as he continued to watch the big dog. “She’s a good girl.”
“She is,” agreed Scáthach. “Has your father given you any gifts?”
His expression went flat and his gaze shifted to stare ahead of them. “The berserker.”
“It is not an easy thing to be the child of a god,” said Scáthach.
“Béfionn loves you.”
Scáthach nodded. “She does.”
Cuchulainn blew out a long breath before he said, “I do not believe Lugh is capable of love.”
Scáthach studied his sad, handsome face. “I am sorry.”
“I’ve never told anyone that. I’ve never even said it aloud,” he said without looking at her. “I don’t think anyone except you would understand.”
“Because people believe having a god as a parent is so wondrous.”
His gaze flicked to her. “Indeed. When I was a child, I could best any boy my age, and most several years older as well. They all envied me. They all wished their fathers were gods.”
When he said no more, she asked, “And what did the child Sentanta wish?”
“The same thing the man does—that he actually had a father rather than a patron god.”
Scáthach saw that his cheeks had reddened and she looked away as she spoke, not wanting to embarrass him further. “Does Lugh not visit you?”
“When it suits him, which is not often. I’m grateful for that.”
“Why? No. Forgive me. I pry. You need not answer,” she said quickly.
He combed his fingers through his hair and sighed, then finally looked at her. His amber eyes appeared much older than the face that held them. “I don’t mind talking about it. I think you actually understand.”
“Well, I understand being the child of a god,” she said.
“I’m grateful that Lugh does not seek me out often because he is only interested in one thing about me—the prophecy foretold by the druids when I was a child.”
“That your deeds will give you everlasting fame and your name will live forever, but your life will be short,” Scáthach said when he’d been silent so long it didn’t seem he would speak the prophecy.
His brows lifted. “You know the prophecy.”
Her smile was wry. “Only because the bard sang about it.”
“I’m surprised he got that much right. He exaggerates,” said Cuchulainn. He sighed again. “Lugh delights in the prophecy. He knows if my name lives forever, his name will also live forever.”
They drove on in silence for some time while Scáthach thought about what to say to him, or even if she should say anything.
Lugh was God of the Sun, affectionately called Lugh of the Long Arm by warriors because of the strength and accuracy with which he threw a spear.
He was a powerful deity whose moods were well known as mercurial.
Did she really want to involve herself with how he treated his son?
She glanced at Cuchulainn and saw the misery in his expressive face. Sometimes his strength and warrior’s prowess made her forget how young he was—barely older than Uathach, though her daughter seemed decades older than her nineteen years.
“You may choose your own fate,” she said softly.
His gaze snapped to hers. “It is a prophecy.”
She shrugged. “Prophecy, fate, divination, prediction, destiny—they are all the same. And they can all be changed if you are willing.”
“Willing?”
“To walk away from the life planned for you,” she said.
“That would upset Ulster almost as much as my father,” Cuchulainn said grimly.
“Yes, but what about Sentanta? Would it upset him?”
He turned to face her, allowing the horses to continue plodding along the road without his guidance. “The truth?”
“Yes. The truth.”
“The truth is it wouldn’t upset him at all.
Sentanta would like to be a fisherman or a farmer whose home is filled with children and dogs, and the only time he fights anyone is if he has to protect his family.
” He blinked several times, as if waking from a dream, and then grinned at her. “I’ve never said that aloud either.”
“And now that you have, perhaps you will consider doing more than think about it,” she said.
“But would you not be angry because that would be a waste of your training?”
“No.” She met his gaze steadily, wanting him to understand the truth she was telling him. “Every feat you master makes you a man who is more and more skilled at protecting his home, whether that home is Ulster or a fisherman’s roundhouse.
“Sentanta, you do not have to live the prophecy, but to change it you must be willing to change your life. So, what you must decide is whether your happiness is more important than your father’s and perhaps even Ulster’s.”
He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. “It is an interesting thought.”
Scáthach smiled but said nothing.
He was silent awhile and then his gaze flicked to her once more. “And what of your father? Was he more like Lugh or Béfionn?”
“Neither. Ardgeimm, Jarl of Lethra, was a man unlike others.” She gazed out at the sea to their right as she remembered. “He was kind and strong, compassionate and wise—as well as being a powerful warrior and leader.”
“All of those traits are rarely found together,” said Cuchulainn.
“Exactly why I choose to teach my warriors that they should be found together.”