Читать книгу Brighid's Quest - P.C. Cast, P.C. Cast - Страница 15

“I didn’t think they could do it,” Brighid said under her breath as she and Cuchulainn approached the heart of the settlement where every member of the New Fomorians had gathered. From the smallest winged child to the beautiful Ciara, they were all waiting expectantly for the centaur and the warrior who would lead them into the land they only knew from paintings and stories and the dreams of women who were long dead.

“It is first light, and we are ready,” Ciara said. “We were just waiting for the two of you.”

Brighid noted the very obvious glint of pride in the winged woman’s eyes, but she found it hard to blame her. The children were lined up like little warriors, each with a pack strapped to his or her back. The adults were more heavily burdened, and the Huntress counted five of them who carried leather slings across the front of their bodies in which rested the smallest of the children. The majority of the provisions for the trip were neatly piled onto litters which, Brighid snorted with surprise, were strapped to shaggyhaired goats. They were definitely ready to travel.

Cuchulainn found his voice first. “Well done.” He nodded at the grinning children but didn’t return their smiles. “Our way lies first to the east before we turn south and enter Partholon.” He swung astride his gelding and, clucking, trotted off toward the rising sun.

Brighid moved to his side and jumped only a little when the group behind them started out with a deafening cheer. Then one small voice began an ancient song sung for generations by the children of Partholon as greeting to Epona’s sun.

Greetings to you, sun of Epona

as you travel the skies on high,

with your strong steps on the

wing of the heights

you are the happy mother of the stars.

Soon another child joined the song and then another and another, until the morning echoed with the happy sound of children’s voices raised in praise to their Goddess.

You sink down in the perilous ocean

without harm and without hurt.

You rise up on the quiet wave

like a young chieftain in flower…

“It’s going to be a damned long journey,” Brighid said with a sigh.

“That it is,” Cuchulainn said. “But it could be worse.”

“How?”

“They could be riding you.”

Brighid couldn’t tell for sure over the blaring noise of seventy singing children, but she thought the warrior might have been chuckling softly.

As midday moved toward afternoon and then evening, Brighid decided that without a doubt the Wastelands was the gloomiest place she’d ever had the misfortune to visit. It had only taken them a few hours to reach the mountains. Once within the shadow of the stark red giants, Cuchulainn had turned their group east, and for the remainder of the morning they’d been paralleling the mountain range.

Brighid’s gaze slid over the land. Ugly, she thought as she took in the jutting shale and the low, spindly plants that masqueraded as foliage. Besides being damned ugly, the place set her nerves on edge. It appeared flat and easy to navigate, but in truth the land held sudden gorges like wounds slashed into the ground. Shale littered the cold, hard landscape. It would be too easy for a hoof to misstep. One mistake, even at this sedate pace, and it would be a simple thing to snap her leg.

The mountains were no better than the land they bordered. Red and intimidating they looked like silent sentinels, which, oddly enough, wasn’t a positive connotation. But maybe mountains were supposed to be intimidating and awe-inspiring. Brighid had little experience with such terrain. The only landmark she could use for comparison was the Blue Tors, the soft, rolling hills that separated the northwestern edge of the Centaur Plains from the rest of Partholon. The Tors didn’t qualify as actual mountains, even though they appeared impressive when compared to the flatness and open freedom of the Centaur Plains. They definitely weren’t anything like the looming red barrier of the Trier range. The Blue Tors were round and so covered with thick, flourishing trees that from a distance they appeared to be a hazy sapphire color. Where the Tors were welcoming and filled with greenery and wildlife, the Trier Mountains were the exact opposite. Brighid eyed the hulking Triers uneasily, once again glad Cu and Ciara had heeded her advice and not tried to take the children through the dangerous hidden pass.

From behind her the shared laughter of two young girls drifted on the endlessly restless wind. The Huntress didn’t need to look back to know what she’d see. Little wings unfurled to almost skim the ground, the girls would have their heads together, giggling with delight over…over…Brighid snorted. Over the Goddess only knew what! How those children could find such joy and blatant happiness when all that surrounded them—all that they’d ever known—was the dismal Wastelands and a struggle for life that would have been daunting for an adult centaur was beyond Brighid. And they were mere children! It amazed her as much as it confused her.

“You’re looking almost as pensive as the warrior,” Ciara said.

Brighid glanced over at the winged woman who had matched her gliding pace with the Huntress’s steady gait.

“That can’t be a compliment.” Brighid jerked her head sardonically at the pole-straight back of Cuchulainn. “I can’t imagine a gloomier traveling partner.”

The warrior had consistently kept ahead of the group so that, even though he led almost one hundred gregarious travelers, he had spent most of the day alone. He spoke as little as possible, and rarely interacted with them. By midday Brighid had given up trying to engage him in conversation and she had decided—reluctantly—that she preferred to travel on the outskirts of the children’s jubilation rather than in the dark cloud that shrouded Cuchulainn.

Ciara’s smile was as warm as her voice. “It was meant as neither compliment nor insult. It was simply an observation, Huntress.”

Brighid acknowledged the winged woman’s words with a slight nod. “Actually I wasn’t thinking about Cu. I was thinking about the children. They’re doing well. Much better than I anticipated,” she admitted.

Ciara’s smile widened. “I told you they were special.”

More happy laughter drifted to them on the wind. Brighid snorted. “They’re aberrations!” Ciara’s bright look instantly faded and Brighid realized her unintentional slur. “Now it’s me who must explain. What I meant was not an insult,” she said quickly. “I admit I have not spent much time around children—a Huntress’s life rarely includes a mate and offspring. But what little I know of them did not lead me to expect such…” She trailed off, searching for the right word before concluding, “Optimism.”

Ciara’s face relaxed back into its familiar, open expression. “It would be difficult for them not to be filled with optimism. Their every dream is coming true—our every dream is coming true.”

As usual, the Huntress spoke her mind. “You cannot believe that returning to Partholon will be an easy thing.”

“Easy is relative, don’t you think?”

Brighid raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Consider, Huntress, how it would feel if your people had been living for over one hundred years in a barren, dangerous land with demons in your very souls—demons that were slowly, methodically destroying you, as well as those you loved. And then, unbelievably, you survived it. What wouldn’t seem easy after such a life?”

“Ciara, Partholon is a beautiful, prosperous land, but you must remember that there are many types of dangers and many ways to destroy a soul.”

Ciara met and held her gaze. “With Epona’s aid we will survive this transition.”

Brighid studied Cuchulainn’s rigid back. Sometimes survival could be crueler than a quick, painless end.

Ciara followed the Huntress’s gaze, and as if reading her mind she said, “The warrior’s soul is shattered.”

Brighid’s eyes jerked back to the winged woman, but she said nothing.

“May I ask you something, Huntress?”

“You may ask. I cannot promise to answer,” Brighid said curtly.

Ciara’s lips tilted up. “It is not my intention to pry—or to offend. But as a Shaman it is difficult for me to watch another’s suffering without attempting to…” She hesitated, moving her shoulders restlessly.

“He won’t accept your help,” Brighid said bluntly.

“I realize that. But there are ways a Shaman can be of aid whether or not the subject is particularly willing.” At Brighid’s narrowed gazed Ciara laughed. “I can assure you that I harbor no ulterior motives, and I would not intrude upon the warrior’s privacy.” Then her expression sobered. “But he is in such pain I cannot stand by without at least attempting to give him some relief.”

Brighid felt the truth of Ciara’s words settle deep within her. “Ask your question, Shaman.”

“What was Cuchulainn like before the death of his lover?”

The Huntress raised her brows, taken aback by the question. She had expected Ciara to ask about Brenna or about her death, or even about how Cuchulainn had reacted to the murder, but Brighid hadn’t expected the winged woman to ask about before.

Reacting to Brighid’s obvious surprise, Ciara lowered her voice to be certain none of her words carried on the wind. “Sometimes, when fate has been too harsh and the trauma of life’s personal tragedies, illnesses, or crises are more than can be borne, a person’s soul literally fragments—disintegrates—and pieces of it are lost in the Realm of Spirits, leaving the individual feeling broken…lost…not all there. At first it is a defense mechanism to help us survive that which would otherwise destroy us. But the person is still…” She struggled to put her understanding into words.

“Still damaged?” Brighid supplied.

“Exactly.” Ciara smiled appreciatively. “You have the instincts of a Shaman, Brighid.”

The centaur’s expression flattened and her violet eyes narrowed. “You are mistaken.”

Ciara did not falter or flinch under the Huntress’s glare. “You will find that I am rarely mistaken. Perhaps it is because of my affinity with fire, which I have always thought of as a purifier not a destroyer, but my instincts do not fail me. Even before I met you, I dreamed of the coming of a silver hawk, one of the most powerful of the spirit guides.”

“I do not have a spirit guide. I am not a Shaman.” Brighid’s voice was steel.

“We shall see, Huntress,” Ciara said softly before shifting the subject back to the warrior. “As you said, a shattered soul causes the person damage. And if the pieces of the soul do not rejoin…Imagine an invisible, gaping wound that refuses to close and then begins to fester and putrefy. That is what happens.”

“And you can fix that?” Brighid asked sharply, forcing herself to push aside the mixed feelings of irritation and panic Ciara’s comments had evoked.

“Not always. Sometimes the soul does not wish to heal.”

“What happens then?”

“Often suicide. Sometimes the person continues to cling to life, but is only a shell of what once was,” Ciara said sadly.

“Knowing about the kind of man Cuchulainn was before he lost Brenna would help you fix him?” Brighid asked, but her instincts, whether she wanted to acknowledge them or not, were already mirroring Ciara’s answer before the winged Shaman spoke.

Ciara sighed. “Perhaps. A shattered soul is difficult enough to heal when the patient openly accepts aid. Without Cuchulainn’s cooperation there is little anyone can do except to try to contact that part of him he has lost and to coax his damaged soul into choosing life and healing instead of despair and death.”

Brighid nodded, thinking back to her early childhood and the times her mother had been able to salve the sadness of another centaur’s life. Her mother had been healing shattered souls, the Huntress realized, ashamed that she had never thought about it before. There had been a time when Brighid had seen her mother as a shining example of all that was good. But that was before Mairearad had become obsessed with the power her position granted her. Brighid had stopped seeing her mother as a spiritual healer long ago, and that thought unexpectedly washed Brighid in sadness. Cuchulainn, she reminded herself. This is about Cu, not about me and not about the Dhianna herd. She was part of the Clan MacCallan now and Cu was more of a brother to her than her own had been for years.

Swallowing past a sudden thickness in her throat, the Huntress spoke. “Cu was a rogue. Elphame often called him incorrigible, and she was right. He was a terrible flirt. You wouldn’t know it now, but a smile looked natural on his face, and he laughed with an openness that I used to think was blatantly boyish and ridiculously endearing—which I will deny ever saying if you repeat that to him.”

Ciara’s own smile widened. “Go on, I wouldn’t think of repeating any of this. What else do you remember? Just speak the first thing that comes to your mind.”

“Women loved him, and he loved them,” Brighid blurted, and then she snorted, remembering how confused the warrior had been when he had first tried to woo Brenna. “Except Brenna. She openly rejected him when he attempted to court her.” Brighid chuckled. “I remember how he blundered about, trying to win the Healer’s affection. He was remarkably inept. Actually I once compared him to a bull in rut, marking his territory around her with all the finesse of a roaring beast.”

Ciara’s burst of laughter caused the warrior’s head to turn briefly in their direction. Both women were innocently silent until he resumed his statuelike pose. Even then, Brighid was careful to keep her voice low when she continued.

“He didn’t understand how to woo a woman who told him no and no and no again. Cuchulainn was a man few women refused.”

Ciara blinked in surprise. “Brenna rejected him?”

“She didn’t trust men. She was only used to being rejected and ostracized.”

“Why?”

“Brenna had been terribly scarred from an accident in her youth. I assumed you knew. Haven’t Curran and Nevin told stories about her?”

“No, not directly. It is too obviously painful for the warrior to hear or to speak of his lost love. I had no idea she was anything but a beautiful, gifted Healer.”

“She was—but she was also much more.”

“Apparently there is much more to Cuchulainn, too, if the rogue he used to be had the ability to look beyond the physical and find the love that hid beneath.”

Ciara’s words sounded like high praise, but her expression had become strained and serious.

“Is that a bad thing, Shaman?”

“It complicates things.”

“Explain,” Brighid said.

Ciara brushed a long strand of dark hair from her face and took her time in answering. “Love comes in many forms. For instance, the love we feel for our family—even within that dynamic, love differs. Do you have siblings?” she asked suddenly.

Caught off guard by the question Brighid’s voice was strained as she ground out a clipped, “I do” between her narrowed lips.

“Then you understand the difference between the love you feel for a brother or a sister, and the love you have for your parents.”

The Huntress nodded quickly, hoping Ciara would not follow that line of questioning. She needn’t have worried, the Shaman’s voice had taken on an almost singsong quality as she settled into explaining the nuances of love.

“As within our family, the love between a man and a woman can take many forms, too. Some love passionately but rashly, and like a fire that burns too hot their love is consumed quickly, often leaving cold ashes in its wake. Others do not feel the intense passion, their love is like embers smoldering year after year, keeping their lives warm and fulfilled. There is love that is almost exclusively of the mind or of the heart or of the body. It is rare, but sometimes all three mix.”

“All three mixed with Cuchulainn and Brenna.”

“And that is the most difficult from which to recover.”

“Will you still try to help him?” Brighid asked.

“Of course, but—”

“But what?” Brighid prompted.

“But I am not what he needs. Cuchulainn has drawn within himself. He needs the aid of a Shaman who cares for him on a much more personal level.” She sighed softly. “I respect the warrior, and perhaps in time I would be able to become close enough to reach his innermost emotions, but I’m afraid that Cuchulainn’s need is more immediate.”

“His father is High Shaman of all Partholon. Couldn’t he help Cu?”

Ciara pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“Why not? Midhir is a great Shaman.”

“Remember the different types of love?”

Brighid nodded impatiently.

“To heal from the wound of Brenna’s loss, Cuchulainn will need intimacy with a Shaman that is different from that of a parent’s bond to a child. He will need someone who can reach more of the lover and less of the child,” Ciara said.

Brighid frowned. “That makes no damned sense at all. The only Shaman Cu would come close to trusting is his father. There is no one else—except for you.”

“Is there not?” Ciara smiled cryptically. “I can feel our Goddess’s hand upon the warrior. I do not believe Epona will leave him bereft of aid, but the ways of Epona are often mysterious and difficult for us to fully understand. Until another Shaman comes forth, I will attempt to ease the warrior’s suffering.”

Ciara’s words made the hair on the nape of Brighid’s neck prickle, and when she spoke her voice sounded more clipped than she intended. “Waiting for maybes or what-ifs is ridiculous. Do what you can to help Cu. But I wouldn’t say anything to him about it.”

Ciara bowed her head in gentle acknowledgment.