Chapter 18 #2
He opened the door and glanced quickly around the room.
It was really two big rooms with two fireplaces and so many candles burning that everything within was touched with a golden light.
The outer room held a low table with chairs around it.
Two overstuffed chairs were placed in front of the fireplace.
The walls were decorated with tapestries as colorful as Scáthach’s tattoos.
He could just peek into the second room through a partially open door to see a big bed pallet mounded with furs and blankets.
Scáthach sat in one of the chairs, staring into the fire.
She didn’t look at him when he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Cuchulainn cleared his throat and Scáthach turned her gaze from the fire to him. She raised one tawny brow. “I expected Tabiti.” She smiled. “But you are more than welcome. Come in. Sit.” She motioned to the chair across from her before the fireplace.
He sat and drew a deep breath. “I must leave tomorrow.”
Both her brows lifted. “When will you return?”
“I will not return.” He leaned back in the chair and wiped a hand across his face. “Remember that I told you my father healed my wound so I could join you at Dùn Dòbhrain?”
“I do.”
“I didn’t tell you everything.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to tell you everything. But the battle at the fort is over and I must now complete my part of the bargain.”
“Your father bargained with you to heal your wound?”
“My relationship with Lugh is not like yours with Béfionn. Your mother values you for who you are. My father only values me when I bring him glory. He has always been disappointed that I am reluctant to call the berserker.”
Scáthach scoffed. “Of course you’re reluctant to call the berserker! He cannot tell the difference between friend and foe! That’s fine if you’re alone and attacked by an enemy. In almost any other situation the berserker is more liability than asset.”
“That isn’t how my father sees it. Again, he insisted that I call the berserker more often.
Again I declined. So we compromised.” Cuchulainn couldn’t meet her gaze so he stared into the fire.
“He agreed to heal me if in turn I leave Dunscáith and travel to the Underworld to claim the rib of Curruid and thereafter use it to bring glory to our names.”
Scáthach stood and went to the hearth. “He wants you to claim the magick spear Gáe Bulg that is the rib of the dead sea monster.”
“That or I call on the berserker much more frequently.”
She looked from the flames to him. “You should have never invoked him.”
“That seems obvious now.”
“Will you return to finish your training after you have the spear?” she asked.
“No. That was another of his conditions. As Father reminded me, I am not fated to live long, so I must make the most of the years left to me.”
Scáthach shook her head. “You can choose a different fate. Remain here. Finish your training. Then decide if you want to go after the spear, or if you want to follow a different path.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “If I stay, Lugh will return. He will make sure it is too uncomfortable here for me to remain.”
“I will not be intimidated by your father.”
“You won’t be, but what about your students? Tabiti? Your daughter?”
Scáthach fisted her hands. “Neither Tabiti, Uathach, nor my students are easily intimidated!”
“Of course not. I’m not saying they’re weak. What I’m saying is if I remain here, I put them at risk. They’re mortal. Why risk the wrath of a god?”
“Because you are worth the risk,” Scáthach said.
Her gaze caught his. She was always beautiful, but that night with her hair wild and free around her and the firelight caressing the long legs her short tunic exposed, Scáthach was especially exquisite. He would do anything to protect her.
“But it is a needless risk. Scáthach, do you know what it would do to me if any of your people were harmed because I choose to say no to my father?” Before she could respond, he continued.
“It would destroy what is left of my spirit.” He pressed his fist against his chest. “Aife wounded me—body and spirit—but I will heal from it. And I do understand I’m not to blame for what she did.
But if my father hurt Tabiti, Uathach, Fergal, Muirenn, Lonán, Leannan .
. . or any of the others, I don’t think I could forgive myself for it. I don’t think I could heal from it.
“This is the only place I have ever felt accepted for who I am instead of for who people want me to be. I will hold the memory of my time here close and sacred for the rest of my life. Please understand. In this I have no viable choice.”
“I do understand.” Her voice was soft, sad. “Sentanta, I still say you can change your fate. Go after the Gáe Bulg if you believe you must, but consider what you want the rest of your life to be once you’ve retrieved it.”
“I will.” He stared into the fire for several breaths and then said, “I need to ask a favor of you.”
She raised a brow and said nothing.
“The dead sea monster, Curruid, is in the Underworld. Could you tell me how to enter that world?” The corners of his lips lifted in a smile. “Without dying first.”
“There is only one way for the living to enter the Underworld—through the mouth of a great serpent who can only be found on the spirit island of Hy-Brasil,” said Scáthach.
“I’ve heard of the isle,” said Cuchulainn. “It is in the west, veiled by clouds and mist. It appears and disappears randomly.” He nodded. “Then that is where I shall go. Will you allow me a boat and supplies?”
“Of course.”
He sighed and stood. “I leave at dawn.” She nodded slowly and then turned to face him. “I’m not sure how to say goodbye to you,” he said.
“Then don’t. Let us say farewell instead and hope we meet again,” she said.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “There is so much I need to thank you for.”
Scáthach smiled. “You saved my daughter’s life and then you saved my life. I believe it is I who owe you gratitude.”
“No. You gave me a place of belonging. For Sentanta and Cuchulainn. That is something I’ve never before known.
I will not forget it.” His gaze held hers as he closed the space between them.
“I will never forget you.” Cuchulainn took her into his arms. He pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was not a question, but a proclamation—of desire, of loss, of dreams deferred and paths not taken.
Her arms slid up his chest to encircle his shoulders and she pressed her body to his as he lost himself in the kiss.
The taste, scent, and feel of Scáthach burned through his blood, scalding away Aife’s touch.
He wanted to stay there with her in his arms and pretend as if they were in a world of their own where nothing, not even Lugh of the Long Arm, could touch them.
But that was a fantasy. Lugh could and would touch them and ruin everything. Reluctantly, Cuchulainn released her.
“Goodbye, my queen.” Cuchulainn bowed low to her and then turned and left the room.
* * *
Cuchulainn did not sleep that night, but he rarely did.
He packed his gear quietly. He’d said nothing about leaving to Tabiti or Fergal or any of the other warriors he now considered friends.
He’d never had real friends before—only allies or fellow warriors who followed in his wake, looking to ride the waves of his fame.
He didn’t know how to say goodbye to friends, especially when the last thing he wanted was to leave them.