Chapter 1 #2
At the water’s edge, Scáthach drew the knife from the sheath at her waist. With no hesitation she slashed the meaty part of her palm, cupping her hand so that the warm blood pooled.
She drew in a long, deep breath and on her exhale flung her hand out in an arc before her, spraying the fresh blood into the sea as she summoned her mother.
“Béfionn, known by many names: Geror, Skadi, Bestla, Grid—and countless more—Fairest One, Mother of the Dead, Goddess of the Summerlands, and mighty giantess. Your daughter, Scáthach, calls to you! With my blood and my love, I beseech you hear and answer my invocation.”
It didn’t take long. It never did. The sturgeons appeared first, heralding their goddess’s arrival.
The huge, ancient fish swarmed. Rows of silver scutes, the boney spikes that lined their massive backs and sides, glistened as they cut the surface like sea dragons.
They circled the water before her, coming as close to shore as their bulk allowed.
Scáthach smiled fondly at the enormous fish.
The drop-off into the depths of the sea was only a few feet from the slim shore at the base of Dunscáith, so Scáthach strode into the water until it covered her knees, halting at the edge of where it shifted color from slate gray to indigo.
The sturgeons rushed to her. She bent and let her fingers caress the boney scutes, smiling as she recalled the countless hot summer days of her childhood when she’d cooled herself by swimming in these very waters, nursemaided by these very fish.
The youngest of the sturgeon, called fry, swarmed to her.
Like huge, sleek puppies, they wriggled under her fingers.
She was laughing at their antics when the water changed, frothing and bubbling several yards offshore.
Scáthach sobered and straightened as the goddess emerged.
Though Béfionn was not a water deity, her beloved sister, Cliodna, Goddess of Seas and Waterways, granted her unlimited access to her realm.
It was because of this access that Béfionn had become so widely known and worshipped—and it was how Béfionn had met and loved Ardgeimm, Jarl of Lethra, in the distant lands of the Norsemen, ultimately conceiving Scáthach.
Though Béfionn had raised her daughter by herself from the tender age of five, Scáthach would never lose the awe she felt at the sight of her magnificent mother.
Béfionn’s head broke the surface of the roiling waters first, and as the giantess strode toward her daughter, the rest of her emerged. People lauded Scáthach’s beauty, even said she was fairer than the legendary Helen of Troy had been, but she was a pale mortal shadow of her mother’s glory.
The goddess had passed her thick fall of beautiful hair on to Scáthach, who had, in turn, gifted her own daughter with the distinctive mane.
It was blonde, which would not have been unusual except for the uniqueness of the color.
Béfionn’s hair was the exact tawny color of the lethal predators from Greece called lions.
Scáthach would always remember the pair of lions that had been gifted to her father not long before her mother had taken Scáthach away with her.
The beasts had been magnificent and dangerous.
They had mesmerized young Scáthach. Her father had stroked her hair and called her his lioness.
Béfionn surged from the sea, wild tawny hair flowing down to her waist. Her head was crowned by an abundance of pearls woven together with slender silver wire.
The goddess was naked from her waist up.
Her high, shapely breasts were covered only by another thick waterfall of pearl strands and the tattoos that proclaimed to the world that no matter by what name they knew her, this goddess was of Alba, where her people permanently painted their life stories onto their bodies.
Foreigners called Béfionn and her people Picts for the pictures inked onto their skin.
The goddess, her daughter, and her people preferred Albidosi—named after their land.
Béfionn’s tattoos began on her face, with the phases of the moon across her forehead.
A sturgeon had been inked around her neck, its sharp boney scutes looking like knife blades, its tail swimming up from between her breasts.
Each shoulder was painted with the heads of mighty deerhounds, the dogs most precious to the goddess.
Her arms were almost solidly blue with their tattooed knots and spirals that hid Ogham symbols of power.
More spirals decorated her ribs. A delicate triple row of blue interlocking chains spanned her waist, and on her knees were snarling brown bears, so that as the goddess strode forward they appeared to be stalking whomever she approached.
Her back told more stories, scenes from the Underworld, blooming heather that symbolized Scáthach’s birth, and an elaborately decorated shield.
Béfionn and her daughter shared a resemblance that was striking, though the goddess’s beauty was otherworldly.
Scáthach, too, was tattooed, but not yet as extensively as her mother.
Her right arm was inked with swimming sturgeons that flowed over her shoulder to dive into a waterfall, which became an eternal spiral, completely covering her back.
Down her left side was a deadly spear, decorated with Ogham power symbols, which met the tail of the huge, running deerhound that covered her left leg.
Both women had the same sculpted strength—a strength that was intensified by the pictures that decorated their skin as well as the delicacy of their features.
Béfionn’s nose was fine and straight. Her jawline was sharp until it curved into the softness of her long neck.
Her lips were full and bow-like. Béfionn’s eyes were another feature she and her daughter shared.
Large and catlike, they were an unusual color that was neither green nor brown, but a mixture of the two that changed with their emotions.
The goddess’s waist curved with the generous flare of her hips, low around which were fastened more pearls and a skirt of silver chains, perfectly matching those that were tattooed there.
As she continued to stride toward Scáthach, the snarling jaws of brown bears peeked between the glistening strands of silver and pearl.
Her giantess mother halted only a few feet from her daughter, towering above Scáthach. Scáthach bowed low. She did not have to look to know every warrior on her battlements had also bowed reverently to the goddess.
“Rise, beloved daughter. It is a pleasant surprise to hear and answer your call.” Béfionn’s voice was sweet and melodic, much like Scáthach’s. It often surprised mortals that a goddess and a warrior could be so soft-spoken. Woe to anyone who underestimated either because of it.
Scáthach straightened and looked up at her mother. “Thank you for hearing and answering my call, Mother. I have a gift for you, though that is not why I summoned.”
Béfionn’s eyes glittered with anticipation, turning mossy against a backdrop of fawn.
She waved a hand and her body, which was almost on a height with her daughter’s lofty castle, shrank to match Scáthach’s impressive, but much more mortal size.
She closed the short distance between them, wading through her swarm of sturgeons to warmly embrace Scáthach.
“Did you say gift?” Béfionn asked with a teasing smile.
Scáthach pulled the heavy leather pouch from her belt and emptied its contents into her hand. The silver necklace glistened in the morning light, a triple row of exquisitely fashioned chains held together with a clasp that had been crafted in the shape of a sturgeon.
“It is lovely.” Her mother’s smile widened.
“I gladly accept your gift.” The goddess bent so that Scáthach could slip it over her head.
When she straightened, it nestled perfectly above the pearls where it looked as if the sturgeon inked into her skin had emerged from it.
“Shall we sit?” Béfionn gestured to one of the several boulders that rested against the base of the huge rock on which Dunscáith had been built.
Without waiting for her daughter’s reply, the goddess took Scáthach’s hand and led her to the seat.
Then, still holding her hand, Béfionn asked, “Now that you have softened me with this beautiful gift, tell me why you have summoned me.”
Scáthach met her mother’s gaze. “Father is dead.”
Béfionn went very still. She turned her gaze seaward. “How?”
“He was killed leading a raid. It was an arrow wound.” Scáthach studied her mother’s face as she spoke. “The messenger told me it was a quick death.” She had to pause to clear the grief from her throat. “I was surprised Inga allowed word to be sent to me.”
“Your father’s wife had no choice. His warriors would insist his heir be informed of his death, and then crowned his queen and successor,” said her mother.
“I have no desire to be queen of Lethra,” Scáthach said quickly.
“And yet you are your father’s successor. Whether you desire it or not, you are already queen of Lethra.”
Scáthach shook her head. “No, I am Queen of Shadow.” She gestured at the castle. “This is the only kingdom I desire. And Mother, Inga will never stand for me to be crowned. As you and I know all too well, she has a daughter—my half sister—also of Father’s blood. Her Aife should rule.”