Читать книгу Brighid's Quest - P.C. Cast, P.C. Cast - Страница 19

The day dawned thoroughly miserable. The winter chill might have been absent in the wind that blew constantly from the southwest, but the steady drizzle it carried was cold enough to have the children wrapping themselves in thick, water-resistant cloaks that cowled around their small faces. They quickly repacked the tents, ate a fast breakfast, and were ready to follow Cuchulainn again with an enthusiasm that did not appear to be dampened by the weather.

Brighid was just thankful that the hoods muffled their chattering and singing. She was in no mood for gleeful children. She had a headache. She’d awakened with it, and she knew why. It was that damned dream.

After she and Ciara had finished talking, Brighid had patrolled the outer perimeter of the camp twice before she’d returned to the warm circle of tents and the fire. Not wanting to wake even a single child, she was careful to be quiet as she fed the fire and then settled herself to keep watch over the sleeping camp. As a Huntress, she was used to dividing her attention. She could easily follow a deer’s trail along a winding stream bank while she planned the next day’s hunt. So while she fed the fire and made occasional circles around the campsite, listening carefully for anything out of the ordinary, her mind chased the trail Ciara had set. The Shaman had said that Brighid needed to imagine Cuchulainn as he once was, whole and happy, and Brighid had assured Ciara that she could do that—and she could. Truthfully it was easier than thinking of the warrior as he was now.

The Huntress fed another chunk of fuel into the fire and let her mind wander. The first day she’d met Cuchulainn he’d been working at clearing century-old debris from the heart of MacCallan Castle, and he had instantly bristled when she’d introduced herself as part of the Dhianna Herd. She snorted quietly, remembering the arrogant way he had challenged her motives for joining MacCallan Castle, and how she had met his challenge with her own sarcasm. Elphame had stepped in to mediate on more than one occasion, and still they had snarled at and circled one another like wolves from opposing packs.

She shook her head and laughed softly to herself. It had taken her tracking Elphame the night she had gone missing, and then carrying Cu’s wounded sister and the warrior himself on her back during the stormy return to the castle, before he had begun to trust her. Brighid’s full lips tilted up. She shouldn’t have forgiven him so easily for his distrust, but the warrior was damned hard to dislike when he turned on his charm. He was, as his sister had often called him, an incorrigible flirt.

Women had been drawn to him like bees to fragrant flowers, although comparing the virile man to a flower was laughable. He was tall, with the athletic build of a warrior approaching his prime. The Huntress didn’t usually consider humans attractive—they were typically too small to catch her interest, even though her beauty guaranteed her attention from males in general, be they human or centaur…or New Fomorian, she added silently, recalling the appreciative glances she’d received from Curran and Nevin. But she had noticed Cu. How could she not? Like his sister, he had an aura that was larger than life.

Though, unlike Elphame, his body was completely human, he carried himself with a confidence and pride that said to the world, Bring it on! I can handle anything! And it wasn’t an empty boast. Cuchulainn was an incredibly gifted warrior—stronger, faster, more skilled with a claymore than any warrior she’d ever known, and that included centaurs.

But his confidence was tempered by his sense of humor. Cuchulainn knew how to laugh at himself—an attribute that served to keep his arrogance from becoming boorish and unbearable. His laugh…Brighid’s smile widened. He used to laugh with such boyish exuberance!

It was the memory of boyish laughter that stayed with Brighid as the night waned—as she awakened the groggy Cuchulainn so he could take his turn watching over the camp—and as she settled herself into the tight confines of the tent she shared with the warrior and quickly drifted to sleep amidst thick bedding that was still warm from Cuchulainn’s body and scent.

It began as so many of her dreams did—with her watching the wind roll over the tops of the tall grasses on her beloved Centaur Plains. In her dream it was early spring and the plain was colored with wildflowers in magnificent full bloom. The light green of the prairie was infused with bursts of lavender and aquamarine and saffron. In her sleep she felt the soft breeze caress her face, so different from the obnoxious wind of the frigid Wastelands. On the Centaur Plains the wind soothed, and brought with it the seductive fragrances of verdant grass and wildflowers. She breathed deeply and allowed her dreaming self to soak in the scents and sounds of her homeland.

On the wind she heard laughter. It came from behind her and she instinctively turned toward the sound. She smiled, noting that she was dreaming of one of her favorite places, an area of crosstimbers that was not far from her family’s summer settlement. She followed the laughter along the lazy Sand Creek that ran musically through the middle of the shady grove of oak and ash and hackberry trees. Brighid trotted around a gentle curve in the creek and came to an abrupt halt. Sitting on the bank with his bare feet in the clear water, was Cuchulainn. He was laughing.

Brighid must have made some unintentional sound of surprise, because he swiveled at the waist and looked over his shoulder at her.

“Brighid! I wondered if I might see you here.” He waved for her to come closer. “Join me. The water’s cold, but so clear and sweet that it’s worth the chill.”

“Cuchulainn, what are you doing here?” The words tumbled from her mouth as she approached him.

He looked up at her and laughed heartily. “I have no idea!” Then he leaped to his feet and flourished a chivalrous bow in her direction, grinning his rakish smile of old. “Will ye come sit beside me, bonny Huntress?” he asked, putting on the thick brogue of western Partholon.

She tried to hide her own smile in a snort. “I will if you quit acting like you’ve forgotten that I’m half equine.”

“Can’t a man show simple appreciation for female beauty, even if she is part horse?”

Brighid made herself glare at him in mock severity. “Centaurs are not horses.”

“I stand corrected, my beautiful Huntress!”

“Oh, just sit back down. By the Goddess, I’d forgotten how annoying you could be!”

Cu chuckled as he flopped down, reclining back on his elbows and sticking a long piece of sweetgrass in his mouth. Warily Brighid settled herself beside him.

“Relax, I’m not going to bite you.” He grinned boyishly at her. “Probably won’t kiss you, either, although I’m considering it.”

“Cuchulainn!”

“You sound exactly like Elphame when you say that,” he said.

“Which is not necessarily a compliment. You know how uptight my sister can be.”

She shook her head at him. “Act right. It is my dream.”

“We’re in your dream, huh? Well, that explains what I’m doing here. You must have been thinking about me before you slept, and, like a Shaman, you’ve conjured me here. What is it you want with me, Brighid? Are your intentions honorable?” He waggled his eyebrows at her. Her shocked expression had him pulling the grass from his mouth, throwing his head back and laughing heartily again.

And there it was—that endearing, infectious, totally happy laugh that used to boom through MacCallan Castle regularly, causing women’s heads to turn as they stopped and listened and smiled with secret thoughts, and causing men to eagerly join Cu in whatever renovation Elphame had set him to, no matter how filthy and difficult. By the Goddess, he looked young and relaxed and so very happy. Then, with a little sparklike shock, his words registered.

She had conjured him. Just like a damned Shaman. But what had she conjured? Ciara had said that it was during sleep that they were closest to the Otherworld. Could this dream apparition be more than an image created by her own mind?

“What?” Cuchulainn asked, still chuckling softly. “Since when have you become so serious you can’t joke with a comrade?”

“No, it’s…it’s not that.” Brighid fumbled, not knowing what to say. Then she blurted the first thing that came to her mind. “It’s just so damned good to see you!”

“Ah, there, you see? My charms are not totally wasted on you,” he said, chewing the stalk of sweetgrass again.

Brighid snorted. “You needn’t be so cocky. I’m surprised that I have missed you—charm and all.”

“Harrumph,” he snorted back at her. “Huntress, you are a confusing creature—decidedly beautiful, but confusing.”

Brighid raised one eyebrow at him.

“Well, it’s you who said you’ve missed me, but how could that be? We’ve been working side by side for days clearing out that wreck my sister calls a castle.” He winked at her. “Or is this your subtle way of telling me you’d like to spend even more time with me?” He made a great show of sighing. “Go easy with me, Huntress, I am only one man.”

Brighid’s mild annoyance changed to something that felt almost like fear.

“Brighid?” He reached forward and touched her arm gently. “Have I offended you? I thought you knew I only jested.”

“No…I…” She floundered. What was she supposed to say? She stared at the man sitting next to her. He was carefree and kind and charismatic—everything that the Cuchulainn who was at that moment watching over the New Fomorian camp was not. And she knew with a feeling as sure as her knowledge of the habits of the animals he wasn’t a figment of her dreaming imagination. He was the part of Cuchulainn that had been shattered at Brenna’s death, and this part of Cu seemed to be caught in a time before the tragic event. Brighid searched desperately within herself. What should she say to him?

“Brighid? What is it?”

“Cu, you know we’re in my dream?”

The warrior nodded.

“In the waking world we are no longer at MacCallan Castle,” she said slowly.

Cuchulainn sat up straight and took the sweetgrass from between his teeth. “But that’s not possible. Just this evening we worked together to clean out the Chieftain’s quarters as a surprise for El.” His smile faltered only a little. “We can’t be traveling. We’re busy working.”

“Who?” she asked quietly. “Who is busy working on El’s chamber, Cuchulainn?”

“Have you been overimbibing my sister’s stash of red wine, Brighid?” he asked with humor that was obviously forced. “It’s mostly been the three of us—you, Brenna and me.”

Brighid drew a deep breath. “Cu, what you’re remembering…it happened in the past…more than two full cycles of the moon since—”

“No!” With a sharp, jerky movement the warrior stood. “No…” He backed away from her.

“Cu, wait!” Brighid reached toward him, but all she touched was the darkness of her tent as her eyes opened to the fading night.

That was when her headache began. The cold drizzle of the morning had done nothing to dispel it. Brighid had tried to catch Ciara’s eye and pull her aside. She needed to talk to the Shaman about her dream. But the Shaman had been kept busy herding the waterlogged goats.

“You’re setting a fast pace for such a miserable day.”

Cuchulainn’s gruff voice jolted through her thoughts. She looked around and felt a little like she was waking from another dream.

“Sorry,” she said shortly. “I hadn’t realized I’d pulled away from the rest of them.”

A grunt was his only reply. She expected him to turn and ride away, but as Brighid slowed her pace Cu’s gelding stayed beside her. His hair was damp and too damned long. He looked like one of the semiwild goats Ciara had spent the morning wrestling.

“You need a haircut,” she said.

His eyes widened in surprise before they narrowed into the flat, cynical expression that had overtaken his face in the past months. “I do not care about my hair.”

Huh, Brighid’s mind whirred. He was visibly shaken by a normal, personal comment. And something suddenly made sense to her. Everyone had been tiptoeing around Cuchulainn since Brenna’s death, treating him like he was a delicate egg that needed to be sheltered. Even the hybrids were careful with him—not expecting him to stay for dinner and most of the storytelling—allowing him to escape to his tent so he could brood alone. No wonder the joyous part of him had retreated. If she had a choice, she wouldn’t want to spend time with the black cloud that had become Cuchulainn, either.

“Obviously. Your hair looks awful,” she snapped. “You also need a shave and a change of—” she gestured at the stained kilt that was barely visible beneath the goat’s pelt he’d thrown over his shoulders “—whatever it is you claim to be wearing.”

“The more delicate aspects of a gentleman’s toilette have not been foremost on my mind these past cycles of the moon.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

“Perhaps you’d like to reconsider that Goddess-be-damned attitude, boy.” The Huntress purposefully drew out the word. Granted, she was probably only a year or two older, but she drew her seniority around her like a rich cloak and sent the warrior a haughty look. “By this time tomorrow we’ll be entering Guardian Pass. The children, as admittedly annoying as they are, deserve our help greeting Partholon. Our