Chapter 3 #4
Béfionn had carved a circular tunnel that led from the inner ward down to sea level, creating wide stairs cut directly into the rock.
At night there were always a few wall torches left lit to illuminate sections of the dark tunnel that Scáthach padded silently down, though she didn’t need the light.
Scáthach had been going up and down the tunnel stairs since she was a child.
She knew every stone, step, crevice, and corner of Dunscáith.
The castle was her mother’s creation and Scáthach’s true home.
Sometimes she felt as if the keep held her heart, the curtain wall was her skin, and everything else within was her veins and arteries.
But beyond her intimate knowledge of the castle, Scáthach was comfortable with shadow.
In her childhood, before her mother had taken her from her father’s kingdom, Scáthach had learned the value of shadow.
Even before Béfionn gifted her with the title of Queen of Shadow and the magick that came with it, she embraced the darkness and stealth it commanded and learned to use the camouflage and protection it provided.
After her mother had named her Queen of Shadow, Scáthach spent years learning the magick of darkness.
She was never afraid. From childhood she loved the velvet touch of shadow and appreciated the secret sight it granted her.
Shadow became another sense as natural for her as scent or sight, hearing or touch.
Scáthach learned to cloak herself with shadow—to see with shadow—to wrap herself within its embrace for comfort and for protection.
She heard the sea before she reached the end of the tunnel.
She slowed then, not wanting to wake the horses stabled within the huge cavern her mother had carved for them.
Before she stepped from the stairs to the stone floor, she realized the rhythmic ebb and flow of the sea was accompanied by the intermittent sound of someone sobbing.
Scáthach was as confused as she was concerned.
Could a child belonging to one of the permanent residents of the castle be in the stables crying?
Why? Silently, Scáthach stepped from the tunnel.
She didn’t take a torch from the wall. Instead she called darkness.
Shadow wrapped around her so that she flowed with the night.
Silent and invisible, Scáthach remained close to the curved sides of the cavern within shadow’s cloaking embrace.
She moved toward the wooden stalls built into the side of the cavern where the horses were tucked in for the night.
The broken sobs were definitely coming from that direction.
Scáthach followed the sad sound until she came to the area of the stables that held grain and bales of hay.
It was dark, though not completely devoid of light.
The drawbridge was raised for the night, so moonlight didn’t illuminate the stable, but there was a large brazier that was always lit, burning near the front of the stalls.
Soft golden light flickered, allowing her to see the man sitting with his back against a big round bale of hay.
His legs were stretched out before him. His head was bent.
One hand was pressed to his face. Every few minutes he sobbed.
It was a terrible, wrenching sound, as if the tears had to be torn from him. A large shape lay beside him.
Scáthach stopped abruptly as she recognized the hulking shape beside the man as Leannan. She was situated so that her head and muzzle rested across his thighs. From within the shadows, Scáthach watched the man stroke the deerhound as he sobbed.
Then Scáthach recognized the man. It was Cuchulainn, the Hero of Ulster.
Scáthach took one step back, blending more fully with the shadows.
Though she’d made no sound, Leannan lifted her head from Cuchulainn’s thigh and looked directly at her.
Scáthach knew her hound would come to her, so she signaled for Leannan to stay.
She meant to back away silently. To leave before Cuchulainn knew she was there. To never mention what she’d observed to anyone. But Cuchulainn sniffed loudly, wiped his face with his sleeve, and spoke.
“I hate that damn song,” he said.
Scáthach froze and searched for something to say—for a reasonable response that would allow the young warrior to retain some sense of dignity.
“I want you to know I did not mean to kill Culann’s dog,” Cuchulainn continued. “I was a young fool. So arrogant that I believed the world was centered around me.” He laughed, but the sound only held sadness. “It was not. It is not.”
Cuchulainn paused to wipe his face again and ruffle the deerhound’s ears. Her tail thumped against the ground and Scáthach realized he wasn’t speaking to her. Thankfully, he didn’t even appear to know she was there.
“Do you want to know why I was late to that feast?” he asked Leannan, who thumped her tail again in response.
“I was playing a game and didn’t feel like stopping.
” His handsome face twisted in self-loathing.
“Playing. Culann’s hound was protecting his home, as was his job.
” Cuchulainn sighed and shook his head. “He was a magnificent hound. So fierce. So loyal. I tried not to kill him, but his attack did not ease. I was just a boy. I could not escape him, and he would have killed me. And now I will forever be known by this damnable, dog killer name.” Cuchulainn stroked Leannan’s wide forehead and the dog huffed contentedly.
“You believe me, don’t you? You know I’m not a dog killer.
” Leannan licked his face. His smile was authentic as he leaned his head back against the bale.
His eyelids closed. He kept stroking the deerhound as he murmured, “It’s good to be believed. ”
Scáthach moved within the shadows slowly, silently from the cavern. Remaining unseen, she retraced her steps up the tunnel. Scáthach had made her decision.