Chapter 23
That night she erased Aife from his body, his mind, and his spirit.
Aife would never haunt his dreams, would never shadow his mind or his pleasure again.
For the rest of his life and beyond, that night would remain with Sentanta so vividly that he could call up the memory and smell the lavender on her skin, see the firelight on her face, and feel the slick heat of her accepting him . . . healing him . . . loving him.
* * *
The cliff disappeared and the Autumnal Realm returned to a gray expanse of rolling hills and never-ending gloom. Cuchulainn guided the chariot back to the road and they trotted on.
“That was a good thing you did for those spirits,” said Cuchulainn.
“It only happened because you stopped us. I would have kept going,” said Scáthach.
“But they would have kept following us.”
She shrugged. “They wouldn’t have been able to catch us, and when we entered the Winterlands, they could not have followed.
” Scáthach twirled long strands of her tawny hair around her finger as she continued.
“I did not think Drest could be reached, not after being in the Underworld for such a short time. But you did reach him. You did force him to see the truth.”
“We got him to see the truth.” Cuchulainn glanced at her before adding, “I’ve been thinking about the spirits here in this realm and I wonder if the immortals, the goddesses and gods, are truly able to understand those of us whose lives they see as fleeting.
Can they fully comprehend what it is like to desire love and family—to want to make a difference in the mortal world, even though to them we have so little time? ”
Scáthach continued to twirl the lock of hair around her finger as she considered. “You mean because they are not mortal they cannot fully understand some of the choices we make.”
He nodded. “Some of our choices and some of our mistakes.”
“Interesting . . .”
“I think—” He hesitated.
“What?”
“Well, the Underworld deals in truth, correct?” he asked.
Scáthach nodded. “Correct.”
“Then I think it would be a much more truthful, a much more authentically just realm if it had someone here who understood mortals.” A cold wind whipped across the chariot, and he added, “I mean no disrespect. I’m only reasoning aloud.”
“Like Odin’s Valkyries,” said Scáthach.
“Yes. And no. We just saw that the Valkyries follow strict guidelines imposed by their god,” Cuchulainn said. “And those guidelines allowed two hundred warriors to be lost to their eternal home.”
“So what you propose is someone who doesn’t simply guide a select few to Annwn, but who also has the ability to judge in which part of the realm they should be placed,” she said.
“Yes. As a warrior who will die and be judged sooner rather than later, it would be a great comfort to me to know I would be greeted by someone who understood my mortal life and thereby the choices I made.” When she lifted a brow at him, he hurried on.
“Not that I or anyone else should automatically be allowed entrance to the Summerlands. We should all understand we will be judged by our choices and the actions that follow them, be they good or bad. But by whom will we be judged?”
“Interesting . . .” said Scáthach again.
They drove on, each lost in their own contemplation of mortality and what waited beyond. They saw more solitary spirits, but from a distance. None approached them and they trotted forward, unhindered, as the gray day began to fade into the slate of night.
When they came to a shallow stream that crossed the road, Chance’s hooves made a sharp cracking sound as they broke through a film of ice that covered it. Cuchulainn and Scáthach pulled their cloaks tighter.
Scáthach spoke loudly enough for her voice to carry well above the noise of the chariot. “Let’s start looking for a warm, dry place to camp.”
“What is that?” Cuchulainn pointed ahead of them. In the distance the horizon melted into what appeared to be a wall of ash. “Is that the remnants of a huge fire?”
“No, that is the dividing line between the Autumnal Realm and the Winterlands.” Scáthach shivered. “It does look like ash, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“It’s snow. Or sleet. Or a mixture of both.” Then she tapped his shoulder and gestured ahead to the left side of the road. “Head for that grove of pines. We’ll camp there. Entering the Winterlands at night is even more miserable than entering at dawn.”
The realm rearranged itself to provide them with a perfect camping spot.
It was almost identical to the one it had provided for them the night before, only instead of a grove of willows beside a stream, it was a copse of pines.
The trees grew so close together that their branches were intertwined, forming a watertight canopy, which was a relief because just as they unharnessed Chance and he began to graze, the dark sky opened and icy rain fell.
Cuchulainn gathered wood quickly as Scáthach created a stone circle for the fire, and soon the bank of fog blanketed their little campsite.
Not only did the fog hide their fire from wandering spirits, it also kept in warmth.
Scáthach took out the replenished food and drink from their packs and then stood, wrapping her cloak around herself.
“I’m going to wash in the stream,” she told him.
“I’ll have the pork warm and the cheese melted by the time you return.” He smiled at her.
Scáthach didn’t disappear into the fog barrier. Instead she caught and held his gaze. Then slowly she smiled. “I’ll look forward to dinner—almost as much as dessert.”
Still smiling, Scáthach strode to the stream.
Before the cold could change her mind, she took off her cloak and quickly peeled off her tunic.
She kicked out of her knee-high leather boots, unlaced her snug leather breeches, and then walked to the stream.
Along the bank she found a cluster of lavender plants she was sure hadn’t been there before.
“Thank you,” she told the realm, pulling off handfuls of the fragrant plant.
Then she broke through the skin of ice covering the water.
A squeak escaped her chattering teeth when she sat, submerging herself to her shoulders.
“Are you well?” Cuchulainn called through the fog.
“Yes! Just washing!” She dunked her head and scrubbed at her hair and her body with the lavender, loving their earthy scent that clung to her.
Scáthach rinsed and then hurried back to her cloak, which she used to hastily dry her goosefleshed body before dressing and jogging back through the fog barrier and straight to the campfire.
Cuchulainn looked up at her and his eyes widened as he took in her wet hair and pink cheeks. “I understand your scream now.”
“I didn’t scream,” she said as she stood as close to the fire as she could get and combed her fingers through her long, thick hair. “It was a squeak. Of surprise.”
Cuchulainn stood and grinned. “Well, if it was just a squeak, then the water couldn’t be that cold.
” He picked up his cloak and the mead skin, which he handed to her.
“This will help warm you. I’ll be back before the pork has finished cooking.
” As he passed her, Cuchulainn drew in a deep breath.
His amber eyes sparkled. “You smell more delicious than the pork.” Then he disappeared into the fog blanket.
Scáthach sat cross-legged before the fire. She used a stick to turn the meat on the heating stones, arranged the cheese and bread to also warm, and then continued to comb through her hair between long drinks of mead.
Her stomach felt odd—fluttery and unsteady.
Cuchulainn’s sharp shriek made her smile, which added to the strangeness in her stomach.
Was she nervous?
Scáthach snorted a laugh. She was definitely planning on having sex with Cuchulainn. That night. Finally. But why this nervousness? She’d taken many lovers over more years than Cuchulainn had lived. She’d never been even the slightest bit nervous with any of them. Why now?
She was pondering the question when Cuchulainn jogged through the fog barrier to the campfire. His hair was drenched, his teeth chattered, and his hands shook as he held them out to the flames, but when he met her gaze, his smile was filled with warmth.
“You were right,” he said. “You gave no more than a little squeak. Almost nothing at all. Just like me.”
She laughed with him and the answer to her pondering came to her. It was simple. Scáthach was nervous because she desired him as much as she loved him, and that was something she’d never known with any man before him.
She tossed him the skin of mead. “This does help.” She followed the mead with steaming pork and melted cheese between thick slices of bread. They had to blow on the meat, but eating it hot warmed their insides as much as the mead.
When they were done with the meal, Scáthach leaned back against her pack and continued to work her fingers through her drying hair. Cuchulainn came to her. He crouched beside her and smiled shyly. “May I do it? May I comb through your hair?”
She met his gaze. “Yes.”
He said nothing, only smiled in response and spread out his cloak beside them.
He went to his travel pack and took out a wooden comb before returning to offer her his hand.
She allowed him to help her stand and then to reposition her in the middle of the fur-lined cloak.
He sat behind her, fixing his legs so that she could lean back against him.
Then he began to slowly work the comb through her damp hair.
She melted back against him with a sigh. “That feels so good,” she murmured.
She could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m glad.
I remember the first glimpse I had of you.
You were on the sentry platform, standing between Tabiti and Uathach.
The sun was sinking behind you, and it lit your hair like tinder, turning it to tawny flame.
I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I still think so.”