Page 1 of Queen of the Shadow

Part ISpring 200 BCEDunscáith Castle, Isle of Skye, Scotland

Chapter 1

Take the bard with you.”

He stared at Lugh, hoping he had misheard.

“Cuchulainn! Take the bard!” the god thundered.

He wanted to shout,My name is Sentanta!But he could not challenge the God of the Sun, even though the God of the Sun was his father. He nodded and remained silent, wishing he could speak to his father rationally about his destiny. Lugh had never been interested in his son’s questions or desires or fears. Lugh was only interested in what glory Cuchulainn was destined to bring him.

Clueless about his son’s inner turmoil, Lugh smiled and stared off into the distance. “Yes, it will make an excellent story someday...”

* * *

The morning was clear, though clouds gathered high in the brilliant blue sky, reminding Scáthach of shaggy Highland sheep clustered together before a shearing. She double-checked the harness she’d stepped into—heavy braided hemp covered in supple leather—and the iron ring through which was threaded the fifty-foot length of rope that glided within the structure of the harness. The thick rope snaked a short distance across the stone floor, where it fed into a pulley system, much like the one that lifted and lowered heavy drawbridges. The rope pooled near the pulleys, waiting to be played out as Scáthach needed it. Satisfied that all was as it should be, Scáthach put on her thick leather gloves and pulled herself up to stand atop the parapet that circled the rooftop of Dunscáith Castle. As she gazed westward across the slate-blue water, a flock of seabirds lifted from the whitecapped sea. Scáthach watched them circle low in the saltwater mist and then turn skyward.

Unbidden, a short poem composed itself—as poems often did—and Scáthach released it into the listening breeze. “Birds’ wings slice the clouds / wounding them / portending change.”

“Are you going to compose poetry or go over the side?” came a voice from behind her.

Scáthach turned, giving her daughter, Uathach, a wry smile. “As you know quite well, Little Fry, I am more than capable of doing both.”

Her daughter’s lips tilted up at the familiar nickname. “But did you remember an offering?”

Scáthach raised one sandy blonde brow. “Do you truly think I would summon my immortal giantess motherwithoutan offering?”

Uathach shrugged. “Normally, no. But...” Her voice faded and she shrugged again.

“His death has saddened me, not addled my mind.” She patted the heavy leather pouch she’d attached to her belt beside the sheath that held her knife.

Uathach nodded, opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again, pressing her lips together into a line.

Scáthach knew her daughter far too well not to prompt her. “Well? What is it?”

“You rarely invoke Béfionn. Usually it isshewho summonsyou.”

When Uathach said no more, Scáthach prompted her again. “Yes, and?”

“Will it not annoy her?Will your mother even care that he’s dead?”

“Béfionn has never admonished me for summoning her. You need not worry about that. As to whether she cares that he is dead—I cannot speak for her, butIremember his sad smile, his kind eyes...” Scáthach stared out at the sea, her mind in the past. “I remember his love, and I think she will, too.” She pulled her thoughts up through the years to her daughter. “You know him from his visits. Why does it seem as if you consider him a stranger?”

“I don’t!” Uathach was quick to say. “I cared for him. I know you did, too. But Grandmother never visited while he was here, even though that would have been the perfect time for the two of them to be together again.”

“Perhaps Mother stayed away out of care, instead of carelessnessfor his feelings,” Scáthach said. “Regardless, Béfionn should be told, and who better to tell her than me?” She didn’t add that she’d spent the seven days since the messenger had come with the news considering how to tell her mother. She’d finally decided there was no good way to tell bad news—it just had to be told.

“But why doesn’t Grandmother already know he died?” Uathach blurted, and before her mother could answer, she continued. “Béfionn is Goddess of the Underworld. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t be aware of the death of the mortal man she loved well enough to father her only child.”

“Béfionn is Goddess ofourUnderworld—the Summerlands and the realms of Annwn. Father was a Norseman who honored Odin All Father and Freya as his patrons. There is no way for Mother to know when he entered Valhalla.”

“It doesn’t seem right.”

Scáthach lifted one brow. “No one goddess, no matter how powerful, could possibly overseeeveryUnderworld.” She shook her head. “I would not wish that on Mother or any deity.”

“Well, speaking as the daughter of a powerful, fearless mother, I wish you luck in dealing with yours.”

Scáthach’s wide, full lips tilted up in amusement at her daughter. “Oh, Little Fry, I am not fearless. Only an idiot fears nothing.”