Chapter 11
Sentanta didn’t mind the wound in his thigh. It was painful. It was ill-timed. But it was bearable. Her death would not have been.
And then there was the fact that the wound had granted him an entire night alone with her.
For the rest of his life Sentanta had only to look at the puckered scar on his thigh and it would bring back the memory of her laughter .
. . her compassion . . . the feel of her hair between his fingers.
In the years after, he often thought the most interesting ballad sung about him should have told the story of why the sight of that scar always, always made him smile.
* * *
Leannan’s bark woke Scáthach. The hearthfire was still burning, though almost all of the candles had sputtered and died. She reached for the sword beside her. “Friend or foe?” Scáthach asked the deerhound.
Leannan barked again. Then her tongue lolled and she wagged her tail.
“What is it?” Cuchulainn sounded as if he had sand in his throat.
“Friends.” Scáthach handed him the almost-empty bag of mead before she strode to the door, Leannan at her side.
The storm had washed the bruises from the sky, leaving behind a newborn palette of blush and ochre and lemon.
“Scáthach!” She heard the distant call of her name, and before she could shout in return, Leannan’s excited barks echoed around them.
“There! At the shepherds’ shelter!” came Tabiti’s distinctive voice.
Horses’ hooves pounded the wet ground as Uathach raced up the little path toward them, the leader of the Shadow Guard and several members of the guard galloping close behind. Her daughter’s horse came to a sliding stop and Uathach ran to her mother, throwing her arms around her.
“Mama! I saw true, didn’t I?”
Scáthach held her daughter tightly. “You did. Cuchulainn is inside the shelter with a festering spear wound in his thigh.”
“I knew it! I knew my vision was true when you weren’t back by dinner, especially with a storm gathering.” Uathach stepped back and held her mother at arm’s length. “You’re unwounded?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Tabiti joined them. “It is good to see you well, Queen of Shadow.”
“I am, indeed, but Cuchulainn is not. His leg wound is in need of our healer’s care.” Scáthach gestured to the lean-to where the horses and wagon waited. “I had to leave two of the mead barrels in a pine grove not far from here.”
Tabiti’s eyes flicked to Uathach. “Yes. We found the barrels.”
“And we—” Uathach’s voice broke. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but still a small sob escaped before she was able to continue. “We found where you’d fought. We followed the trail of dead warriors to the grove, and found the barrels as well as the bloody ax.”
“Are all of the intruders dead?” Tabiti asked sharply.
“Yes.”
“The trail of death we followed.” Uathach paused and shuddered. “Was it the work of the berserker?”
“It was, but Cuchulainn is himself now.” Scáthach looked into her daughter’s red-rimmed eyes and the bruises beneath them and saw remnants of terror there—the terror of knowing she’d foreseen her mother’s death by bloody ax and had then ridden up on proof that the vision had quite probably come true.
She pulled Uathach into her embrace again. “Little Fry, your vision was accurate. Cuchulainn shielded my neck from the ax, and in return his thigh received a shit-covered spear through it. He needs to get to the castle and our healer quickly.”
“Was it Aife’s men again?” Uathach asked, still wrapped in her mother’s embrace.
“Not her men, but Aife is responsible,” Scáthach said. “I’ll explain it all back at the castle. We’re in no danger at the moment.”
“The guard and I will harness the horses to the wagon,” said Tabiti.
Scáthach nodded her thanks to Tabiti before she released her daughter. She cupped Uathach’s cheek with her palm. “All is well.”
“Thanks to Cuchulainn,” Uathach said.
“Yes. Thanks to Cuchulainn.”
Uathach turned her head and kissed her mother’s palm before she walked into the little shelter.
“Well, go on,” Scáthach told the deerhound who vibrated at her side. “Greet them.” Barking happily, Leannan raced to the Shadow Guard, accepting their pets and praises as her due. Then the Queen of Shadow followed her daughter into the shelter.
Cuchulainn had pulled himself into a sitting position. Except for two spots of color over his high cheekbones, his face was sallow and beaded with sweat. A chill skittered down Scáthach’s spine. She didn’t need to touch him to know his wound had begun to fester.
“Uathach.” Cuchulainn’s smile was warm. “It is good to see you this morning.”
At first Uathach said nothing. She went to Cuchulainn and crouched beside him.
She took his hand, bowed her head, and lifted it to her forehead, pressing it there as she said, “Thank you for the life of my mother. I cannot repay such a gift, but know you have my gratitude and my sword, should you ever need it.”
“You owe me no repayment.” Cuchulainn smiled and patted her hand. “I’m honored to serve the Queen of Shadow.”
Cuchulainn refused to be carried to the cart, so the Shadow Guard hovered nervously around him and Scáthach as she helped him stand.
Then, with him leaning heavily on her—more so even than the night before—they moved slowly to the waiting wagon.
There Scáthach overrode his second refusal and commanded her guard to lift him into the back.
Just that simple motion had his face draining completely of color and his teeth gritting against the pain.
They rolled up blankets to prop around his wounded leg, trying to give it some stability for the bumpy ride to come. Then Uathach insisted on driving so Scáthach could stay in the rear with Cuchulainn.
Cuchulainn squeezed his eyelids tightly closed as the wagon bounced over another rut in the road. Scáthach leaned so that she could press her hand against his forehead. She frowned at the heat she felt there. “Tell me true. How bad is it?”
He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and glassy, but his voice was steady. “The pain is bad.”
“I meant the festering of the wound. Can you tell how bad it is?”
“It won’t kill me.” The corners of his full lips lifted.
“It will make me sick. Very sick. But I’ll recover in time to resume the learning of feats with the rest of your students.
” The wagon lurched over a rut in the road and Cuchulainn gritted his teeth to stop his moan of pain.
“Perhaps you should tell me another story,” he said after he’d taken several breaths.
Scáthach leaned against a barrel so that she faced Cuchulainn. “Your turn,” she said. “Tell me why you came to Dunscáith Castle to be trained.”
“You haven’t heard the story?”
She smiled wryly. “Only what the bard sings.”
Cuchulainn snorted. “So, no, you haven’t heard the real story.
” He wove his fingers together and rested his hands on his lap.
Except for the paleness of his face and the sheen of sweat that slicked his skin, he looked completely at ease—until they hit a bump.
But he nodded and began. “Not long ago I realized that I should marry.”
Scáthach’s brows lifted. “And what made you realize that?”
He shrugged. “The men of Ulster asked it of me.” He lifted his brows then and waggled them as he grinned. “They wanted me married because of my great beauty, of course.”
Scáthach laughed. “Of course!”
Cuchulainn continued. “During my travels I met a young maid named Emer. She is the foster daughter of Forgall, the Dark King. Do you know of him?”
She nodded. “Only by name. I have heard he is sly—not one to trust.”
“You heard the truth. Sadly, I needed to get Forgall’s permission to be betrothed to Emer. He did not want to grant permission, and I can hardly blame him. When he looked at me, I know what he saw.”
“The Hero of Ulster?” Scáthach asked with a smile.
Cuchulainn snorted. “No. He saw a wild young warrior unworthy of Emer who would most likely die violently and too young. But Emer told him she would have no other but me, so Forgall said I must prove my worth by being accepted into the warrior training school of the great Queen of Shadow. And that is why I came to Dunscáith.” He finished by bowing his head to her.
“You must love her very much.” Scáthach’s face was an unreadable mask. “And she must love you as much in turn to have stood up to the Dark King for you.”
Cuchulainn shrugged. “Emer and I are of like minds. I need to marry. The Ulstermen wish it. The King of Ulster gifted me with property and a roundhouse. Though I am rarely there, it requires a wife to keep it in order.
“Emer is smart and compassionate and beautiful. She also wants very badly to be out from under the smothering fosterage of Forgall. What she desires most is to rule herself and her home, without the interference of an overbearing husband. So we made a deal. I cannot say we are in love, but I can say we respect one another and are pleased by this arrangement.” He grinned at her.
“Not exactly what the bard sings, is it?”
“No, but then not much is exactly what the bard sings,” she said. “I can only imagine the ballad he’ll compose about all of this.” Scáthach gestured to take in Cuchulainn, the wagon, and the barrels of mead.
“I’d wager the number of enemy warriors will increase from twenty-five to . . .” He tapped his chin contemplatively. “One hundred and twenty-five.”
“Oh, at least,” Scáthach said. Their laughter mingled, causing the Shadow Guards that rode with them to smile in response.
* * *
Cuchulainn was dozing restlessly when they reached Dunscáith. He woke with a jolt when Scáthach touched his shoulder, clearly disorientated by pain and fever. The wagon stopped before the Bridge of Leaps and Scáthach stood, calling for a litter so Cuchulainn could be carried to the healer.
“If you help me, I can walk,” Cuchulainn insisted.
“You won’t make it up those stairs. Not unless by helping, you mean you’ll let me carry you,” Scáthach said.
Cuchulainn scowled.
“Bring a litter!” Scáthach repeated.