Chapter 25 #2
When Scáthach met his gaze, he already knew the answer before she spoke it.
He saw the sadness within her expressive eyes.
“I asked the same of my mother and I shall give you her answer. The Goddess of the Underworld said, As long as man has free will, some will always choose violence and selfish delusion instead of growth and healing.”
Cuchulainn had no response. He often noticed groups of men fighting in the distance but he didn’t study them—didn’t continue to crane his neck around to watch.
It was the same thing repeated over and over and over: violence, death, reanimation.
He averted his gaze from yet another cluster of warriors endlessly hacking away at one another and noticed not far ahead of them one of the rocky hills was covered with clumps of plants—large plants that were the grayish green of sage, or maybe even . . .
“Thistles! Are there actually thistles here?” Cuchulainn shook his head disbelievingly. “Will they have purple flowers? I’m surprised that there are plants here at all.”
When Scáthach was silent, he turned his focus from the hill to the Queen of Shadow. Her face was expressionless except for the taut line of her lips. She glanced at the plants they were drawing closer and closer to and then looked hastily away.
“What is it?” he asked.
“They’re not really thistles. The only plants here mirror the abominations within the realm.” She met his gaze. “I don’t suppose it’ll do any good for me to tell you to look away as we pass them.”
Chills fingered down his spine. “I don’t understand.”
“They’re more of the dead being absorbed,” was all she said.
He wanted to look away. He really should have looked away. But he was too curious. Once he understood what they were, he was too revolted to tear away his gaze.
The hill wasn’t covered with huge thistles.
It was covered with people who were becoming thistles—from the inside out.
Their legs were fused to form bizarre stems. Needles, thick and dagger sharp, had been forced from the inside of their bodies outward so that long spikes bound their legs together.
Similar spikes of different lengths protruded from all over their bodies, covering their skin as they burst out.
Their arms were splayed wide, palms forward, as if to push away what was happening to them.
Their fingers were curled to resemble spiked, leafed claws.
The whipping wind caused them to sway like horrible branches.
Their faces were so grotesque that Cuchulainn actually felt ill. Their mouths and eyes were open wide. Needles sprouted from their mouths and protruding tongues and ruptured their staring eyes. Blood dripped steadily down their bodies, staining the ice and snow around them rust.
“I shouldn’t have looked,” said Cuchulainn when he could speak again. He glanced at her. “Did your mother actually allow you to see all of this when you were a child?”
“No!” Scáthach said quickly. “She only took me into the Autumnal Realm a few times when I was a young girl. It wasn’t until I’d become a woman that she offered me the choice of entering the Winterlands with her.
” She paused before she added, “I chose to go with her. Once. We were wrapped in shadow, much like you and I are now. Mother warned me that the realm contained horrors without being specific.”
Cuchulainn blew out a long breath and then said, “I understand that now. Describing the awfulness . . . it’s impossible to fully comprehend unless you’ve seen it for yourself.”
Scáthach nodded. “Exactly.”
He took her hand as they continued along the path. “I don’t like that you’ve had to return here, had to witness all of this again, because of me.”
“It was my choice, just as it was my choice to come here with Mother. Yes, it is terrible, but it doesn’t frighten me.
It saddens me. I have never wanted to believe that so many are unredeemable.
” She shook her head. “Even though I know every dead person sent here has committed atrocities over more than one lifetime and feel no remorse for their deeds, it haunts me.”
“It is because you are decent and kind, and you cannot comprehend doing the things these dead have done,” said Cuchulainn.
She moved her shoulders in a restless shrug. “But that’s not completely true. Aife put a price on my head and tried to steal my castle. In return I ordered her entire army killed, even though I am difficult to kill and Dunscáith is impossible to take by force.”
“But did you want to order the army killed?” Cuchulainn asked.
“No, of course not,” she said.
“And that’s the difference between you and the spirits sentenced to eternity here,” he said. “Those sent to the Winterlands would have reveled in those deaths. It is certain they would have killed Aife, even though by doing so they would also have killed an innocent unborn.”
Scáthach nodded. “Rationally I understand that and have understood it since Mother explained the Winterlands to me. And yet still it haunts me—the fact that not one spirit here will ever experience joy or peace or love again.”
“What would you do were you the Queen of the Underworld as well as of Shadow?”
She chewed her bottom lip for some time before she answered. “I would come here frequently, cloaked by shadow as we are now, and observe.”
He was intrigued by her answer and asked, “To what end?”
“To perhaps someday find a spirit who is repentant and worthy of forgiveness.” She glanced at him and smiled almost shyly. “Discovering even one would be a cause for celebration and a reason to continue to return.”
“You are a wonder, Queen of Shadow,” Cuchulainn told her, loving how her cheeks pinkened.
A group of six men jogged in a single line across the path in front of them, completely oblivious to their shadow-wrapped presence.
Cuchulainn and Scáthach paused to let them pass.
They each had strange necklaces draped around their necks.
Whatever dangled from the necklaces thumped against their chests in time with their foot beats.
Cuchulainn was trying to figure out what the necklaces were made of when one of the men lifted his to his mouth and began chewing on it.
Scáthach made a soft gagging sound and looked hastily away from the line of men.
“What is he eating?” Cuchulainn asked.
Scáthach grimaced, cleared her throat, and then said, “The necklaces are made of fingers and ears they’ve cut from anyone they come across. They never stop moving. They continually hunt other men, cut off their fingers and ears, and then eat them as they search for more.”
He stared at the line of men as they disappeared into the gloom. “That’s repulsive.”
“Definitely.”
As the gloom swallowed the last of the men, Cuchulainn glanced around them. “Is it getting darker?”
“Yes. We’ll have to stop and make camp soon.” She sighed heavily. “The days are short here and the nights long, which is why we haven’t reached Curruid today. Though from what I can feel from the shadows, we will arrive at the Winter Sea tomorrow, which is where the monster will be found.”
“You sound weary. Must we wait for full dark before we stop?”
She smiled at him and some of the weariness faded from her face. “We absolutely do not need to wait for full dark. Shadows, please lead us to a spot where we may pass the long night in comfort.”
They only took a few steps more before their blanketing shadows nudged them from the path, guiding them to a large, rocky hill that was, thankfully, free of spirits turning to stone or thistles.
The shadows prodded them so that they followed the curve of the hill around to its rear, where there was an arched opening.
Scáthach didn’t hesitate but strode toward the opening.
Cuchulainn reached out and snagged her wrist, halting her.
She turned to him. “Sentanta?”
“We’ve seen this realm absorb people several different ways. Is it really wise to willingly enter something that looks far too mouth-like?” He cut his eyes to the opening.
“We’re not dead so the realm cannot absorb us.
And you must keep in mind that the Winterlands are sentient, even more so than the Autumnal Realm.
It has to be to contain the spirits of the raging dead.
Also, the shadows wouldn’t lead me wrong.
” She laced her fingers through his. “Inside we will be safe. On that I give you my word.”
Like a dog gently herding a lost lamb, the shadows nudged at his back. Cuchulainn took a step forward, and just within the opening of the cave, light blossomed as a campfire burst into flame, radiating heat. He needed no more encouragement but strode through the arch with Scáthach.
“It really is a cave,” said Cuchulainn as his gaze swept the small space, carefully looking for threats.
Behind them the shadows served as a door, sealing the entrance, though they somehow allowed the smoke from the campfire to escape.
The firelight was muted gold and orange, and the flames crackled with a homey sound that had Cuchulainn’s shoulders finally relaxing.
“I feel like we’ve been walking for weeks,” said Scáthach as they dropped their packs and weapons.
“It’s good to be warm and to see some light again,” Cuchulainn said.
But he wasn’t looking at the fire. He was staring at Scáthach.
She’d taken her cloak off and shook back her hair.
In the soft light of the cave, it shined like silk, framing her face before it cascaded in waves to her waist. Her warrior’s body was tall and supple, with a woman’s softness covering cords of muscle.
She carried herself with the grace of a demigod and the confidence of someone utterly secure in her own power.
She lifted her gaze to him. Cuchulainn knew what she saw. He had never desired anyone with the intensity he did her. Walking through death that day and seeing the horrors of the Winterlands had made him starkly aware that what they had together was fleeting; all mortal lives were fleeting.