Page 11 of Queen of the Shadow

“Incorrect information,” Scáthach finished for him.

He blinked several times and shook himself like a dog coming out of the rain before he spoke again. “Do you know who I am?”

“Cuchulainn, favorite of Conchobar mac Nessa, King of Ulster,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”

Cuchulainn nodded. “You are Scáthach, Queen of Shadow, daughter of the giantess Béfionn.”

Scáthach nodded. “And now we know each other.”

“And I must ask to be trained by you?”

“Only if you do, indeed, wish to be my student. If you do not, I give you my word that the Bridge of Leaps is much easier to cross on your way out.”

He stared silently at Scáthach so long that she thought he would recross the bridge and leave. Instead he executed a formal bow and said, “Queen of Shadow, Iaskthat you accept me as your student.”

“I will consider it, but only after you repair my door.” She pointed at the wide wooden door. A strip of the wood had splintered, and the entire frame had been knocked askew.

Cuchulainn glanced from her to the wooden door they’d battled in front of and then back to Scáthach. “Do you jest?”

“No.”

He walked to the door, running his hand over the splintered wood. “It can be repaired, but I lack tools and wood.”

“Both are within Dunscáith.”

Cuchulainn nodded thoughtfully and said, “I will repair what I damaged. It is the right thing to do.”

“Good. And while you do so I will consider your request,” said Scáthach. “Come.” She strode past Cuchulainn, who frowned but followed her down the stone stairs to the bridge. She paused there, bent, and pressed her hand against the living stone. “Allow Cuchulainn and his horse to cross unhindered.” The bridge quivered like a pup being caressed before it stilled. Scáthach turned to Cuchulainn. “Bring your horse within. I’ll assign a student to show you to the stables, as well as to the smithy, where you’ll find what you need to repair my door. When you are done, have the sentry bring you to me.” Scáthach looked up and down his bloody, sweat-streaked body. “You should wash in the sea, though do so quickly. All that blood will call the sturgeons and near my castle they are large and perpetually hungry.” Scáthach turned away from him, retracing her path back to the castle.

“Queen of Shadow! Wait!” Another man’s voice called to her.

Scáthach stopped and sighed deeply before she turned back to the bridge. Standing on the far side was the bard. He was a handsome man of middle age, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard that was tipped with gray.

“Queen Scáthach, mighty warrior, trainer of heroes, I am Sechan, Bard of Ulster. I beg entrance to Dunscáith!” He made the sweeping, exaggerated bow of a true courtier.

“Why?” Scáthach asked.

“Many reasons, great queen! I can play to amuse you.” He strummed a quick tune on his harp. “I will sing you a ballad, gay and true, written only for you, only for you.” He sang in a lovely tenor voice as he smiled charmingly.

“And will you also compose epic poetry about my students?” she asked.

Sechan’s gaze snapped to Cuchulainn. “If it pleases you, great queen!”

Scáthach heard her mother’s voice echo from that morning.Daughter, say yes to the bard.She walked quickly back to the bridge and pressed her hand against the skin of the rock. “Let the bard and his horse cross, too.” As she returned to her castle, frowning and muttering to herself, the bard sang his effusive thanks.

Chapter 3

That damned song. Sentanta hated it. So, of course the bard sang it—in front of where Scáthach sat with her faithful hound beside her.

It was all they knew of him. Who they believed him to be. Who he was fated to be. There was not one damn thing he could do about it.

As soon as he could, he retreated to the barracks, and when the castle finally slept, he crept from the modest room he would share with the other warriors should he be allowed to stay and followed the tunnel to the solitude of the stables.

He held it together until her hound found him, sitting there alone in his misery. The berserker always left him empty and ashamed. Sentanta had so many things for which he was ashamed.

The dog knew. They always did. And the deerhound’s kindness was his undoing. He sobbed as he stroked the big dog and wished he could change the past, or at least not be haunted by it.

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