Chapter 21
He’d fallen asleep. Him. Sentanta. Or rather Cuchulainn because it was Cuchulainn who almost never slept.
He’d craved her touch and her passion—and when he’d had those things in his grasp, what had he done?
The irony was not lost on him.
* * *
The cold wind blew leaves around the chariot, lifting Chance’s mane.
Cuchulainn shivered and tucked the travel cloak more carefully around him.
“I didn’t expect day and night here,” he said, and then clucked to Chance, who responded by quickening his pace.
“Is there somewhere we can stop for the night? A sheltered area?”
“The seasons don’t change in the Autumnal Realm, but day does give way to night, and eventually night to day.
” She, too, wrapped herself more tightly in her fur-lined cloak.
She raised her voice, almost shouting as she continued.
“It would be nice to find a sheltered spot to make camp tonight. I would be very appreciative of the protection of a hillock, some trees, and a brightly burning campfire, as well as a stream close by.” Scáthach’s voice returned to normal.
“But the temperature isn’t changing because of nightfall. ”
Cuchulainn flicked a glance at her. “It’s changing because we’re in the Winterlands?”
“We’re not there yet. You’ll know when we reach the border. It is . . .” She paused. “Distinctive. But we are definitely getting closer.” Scáthach pointed to a little hillock just coming into view. “There! Isn’t that a stream flowing close to that hill?”
Cuchulainn nodded. “Looks like it. And are those actually willows between it and the hill? Willows with leaves that aren’t all brown and shriveled?”
Scáthach smiled. “It certainly is, and that is where we shall stop for the night.”
“Hup, Chance! Let’s go, big boy!” The stallion lengthened his stride, carrying them quickly down the road and then slowing only a little as Cuchulainn guided him off it and to the willow grove.
Together Scáthach and Cuchulainn unharnessed Chance. Then she and Cuchulainn led the horse to the stream where Chance drank and then settled to graze. Scáthach knelt at the stream’s edge to drink and then wash her face and hands in the pristine water. Cuchulainn was joining her when he noticed it.
“I thought you said nothing ever blooms here,” he said.
Still on her knees at the bank, she looked up at him. “I spoke truth.” She shrugged. “You know I have no choice but to speak truth. Nothing blooms in the Autumnal Realm or in the Winterlands.”
“Oh, I believe you speak truth, but how do you explain that?” He pointed at the water downstream from where Scáthach crouched.
A cluster of lotuses had appeared, their leaves slick and emerald with health.
As they watched, from the center of each plant a single white blossom opened, filling the night air with perfume.
“I—I’ve never seen anything like that in this realm.” Scáthach looked past him and her brows shot up. “Or like that.”
He turned to see a trail of wildflowers had burst from the earth. “They’re blooming everywhere you stepped.” His gaze returned to her. “The realm responds even to your footprints.”
She stood and dried her face with her cloak, gazing with amazement at the path of delicate flowers in all the colors of a rainbow. “Or they’re gifts from the ancestors of Cynwrig and Enniaum.”
Cuchulainn looked around them at the willow grove and smiled. “Perhaps both. The realm and the ancestors are responding to you. I’ll get our packs and collect wood for a fire.”
Cuchulainn took their packs from the cart just as fog drifted in, surrounding them with a thick wall of silence.
He joined Scáthach beneath the willow boughs; their long, fully leafed branches formed a curtained circle around them.
Beyond the branches were fog and darkness and the bite of encroaching winter.
Within it was noticeably warmer and more gray than black.
Scáthach was on her knees within the willow curtain.
She’d made a circle with white marble stones about the size of loaves of bread.
As he joined her and dropped an armful of dry branches within the stones, she already had her knife out.
Scáthach looked up at him. In the gloom the white of her teeth flashed when she smiled.
“The dead are not allowed fire in the Underworld. I hope this works. Tabiti packed smoked pork that will be much better hot than cold.”
Before Cuchulainn could respond, Scáthach pricked her finger and, using the blood like scarlet paint, she drew a flame on one of the rocks before pressing her palm to it and bowing her head to murmur, “Through the blood I share with our goddess, Béfionn, I ask for flame. I will not abuse it. I will not taunt the dead with warmth they have not earned. I will only use it within this circle. Might you allow the Queen of Shadow the gift of fire?”
The marble absorbed Scáthach’s blood. The instant it disappeared, flames erupted from the center of the stone circle, crackling with warmth and sending shadows dancing around them.
“Thank you!” Scáthach said as she patted the hunk of marble like it was a puppy, snatching her hand away quickly as she yelped. “It’s already hot!”
“Then the rocks will make a perfect surface to heat your smoked pork.” Cuchulainn crossed his legs and sat beside her.
Together they spread strips of meat across the rocks to sizzle.
Soon they were passing the skin of mead back and forth as they divided and then used one of the loaves of bread to hold the steaming meat, which melted slices of goat cheese.
Scáthach halved some ripe red apples Tabiti had also packed and shared them with Cuchulainn.
He finished his food, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then lifted the skin of mead to his lips. He took a long pull. His forehead furrowed. He offered it to Scáthach.
“Am I imagining it or does this skin of mead feel as full right now as it did when we started out this morning?” he asked her.
Scáthach took the skin, hefted it, and then grinned.
“You aren’t imagining it. In the Summerlands this happened every time Mother and I visited.
Our supplies were perpetually refilled.” She laughed and the joyous sound danced within the willow boughs.
“I was so young the first time it happened that I thought it was normal and I was confused when Mother and I returned to the mortal realm and it didn’t continue.
I’d assumed as long as I was with the goddess our supplies would last forever. ”
Cuchulainn stretched out his long legs and sighed as he leaned back against his travel pack.
He’d spread his cloak over the ground beneath them.
The thick fur softened the hard ground and the nearby fire warmed them.
They faced each other, close enough that their legs touched.
“I believe you were a precocious child.”
She laughed again and the willow fronds swayed in delicate response. “I imagine the sturgeons would second that belief.” She drank from the skin before handing it back to him. “And how about you?”
He snorted. “Well, as you already know, I don’t remember ever being a child, but I was a terrible boy—almost drove my mother mad before I was even ten.” He shook his head. “The power of a god, even diluted by mortal blood, is not something mortal mothers are equipped to handle.”
Scáthach nodded. “My father would probably agree with you and say it’s the same for a mortal man trying to raise the daughter of a goddess. I’m grateful for my mother and glad she relieved him of my”—she paused and her hazel eyes sparkled in the firelight—“precociousness.”
Cuchulainn chuckled and took another drink of mead. When he returned the skin to her, Scáthach was studying him. He lifted one brow questioningly.
“I was just thinking that I wished you’d had that,” she said.
“That?”
“The love of your divine parent.”
“Oh. Yes.” He sighed and nodded. “It’s something that was impossible for me to imagine before knowing you.
Since coming to Dunscáith I’ve seen the reflection of Béfionn’s love in you—in the way you love your daughter, in the understanding you show for your students, in the compassion you just demonstrated for Cynwrig and Enniaum.
” His smile did not fully reach his amber eyes.
“Here in this place of truth I will admit that I would be a different man had Lugh been capable of loving me.” His brows shot up and when his smile widened, it was reflected in his eyes.
“Ha! I spoke the truth! It is a lacking in my father and not in me!”
“Did you not understand that before now?”
“No, not truly. Especially not when I was a boy. I longed for Lugh’s approval and believed if I was strong enough, fast enough, a talented enough warrior, I could make him love me.” His gaze went to the crackling fire. “It wasn’t me. It was Lugh.”
“Yes, it was Lugh. It still is, Sentanta. You have always been enough even though your father doesn’t seem capable of acknowledging that.
” With an effort, Scáthach refrained from saying more.
It was not her place to convince Cuchulainn that he could change his fate.
He knew he could, but knowing a thing and actually doing a thing were vastly different.
Instead she yawned and stretched. “It’s so warm and quiet here in our little camp. ”
“Sleep,” said Cuchulainn as he stood and retrieved her cloak from a nearby rock. He spread it over her. “I’ll keep watch.”