Page 12 of Queen of the Shadow

For the remainder of the evening Scáthach surreptitiously observed Cuchulainn. He did as she’d advised—fetched his horse, followed Fergal, the student she had assigned to him, to the stables. There he cared for his horse before plunging into the cold waters of the sea and quickly washing himself. Then he dressed and asked Fergal to show him to the blacksmith’s shop, where he chose tools and wood with care and no small expertise.

“Is he a warrior or a carpenter?” Tabiti asked as she joined Scáthach on the top level of the castle.

“It certainly seems as if he’s had experience building things, or at least repairing them,” said Scáthach as she leaned against the battlement. “Which is not surprising. He is a berserker. My door could not be the first thing he has broken in his red rage.”

Tabiti frowned. “I do not trust a berserker. They are unpredictable, uncontrollable, dangerous. Have you ever trained one before?”

“I have.” Scáthach clipped the words.

“And?” Tabiti prodded.

“He died.”

Tabiti raised a brow. “In battle?”

“In training. He went into a berserker rage and could not regain control of himself. I killed him before he slaughtered a group of students.” Scáthach’s face held no expression, but her voice was sharp with tension.

“Then surely you will not accept him as a student.”

“I have not yet decided.” Scáthach began to walk along the battlement. “Come, I can smell the roasted kine from here.” She whistled sharply and Leannan trotted to her, huffing happily as she fell into step beside Scáthach with the queen affectionately ruffling her ears.

“And don’t forget, we now have a bard to entertain us,” said Tabiti as she walked with the Queen of Shadow.

Scáthach sighed and muttered, “Oh, I haven’t forgotten.”

The great hall was redolent with the fragrance of roasted beef, fresh bread, and beer, mixed with the sounds of comradery all put to music as the bard stroked his harp.

It was a large room, the largest in the castle, and held a raised stage-like area on which Scáthach placed her throne when hearing grievances and petitions, and greeting royalty and traveling druids. But visitors to Dunscáith who were not prospective students were rare, and the raised area usually looked as it did that night, furnished with a long table where the Queen of Shadow ate meals and observed her students.

The main area of the room held rows of trestle tables. With four huge fireplaces and tapestries depicting Scáthach’s greatest feats covering the walls, the busy room felt smaller than it was, especially when it was filled with students and the one hundred members of Scáthach’s Shadow Guard. That night was no exception. The students were ravenous after a long day of training. Scáthach entered the hall and Uathach instantly stood from her place at her mother’s right hand on the raised platform. The warriors in the hall scrambled to their feet, bowing respectfully as Scáthach, her deerhound, and Tabiti strode down the center aisle. Tabiti took her place at the head table as Uathach met her mother at the large brazier that had been placed before the raised platform. Uathach motioned to a servant who waited at the edge of the room, and a wooden bucket was brought to the brazier. Uathach took the bucket, passing it to the Queen of Shadow. While the standing warriors watched, Scáthach drew out the long thighbones of the bull that had been sacrificed and spitted earlier that day.

“I burn this offering to Odin All Father”—she placed the first bone in the burning brazier—“and to the Valkyries who escorted my father, Ardgeimm, Jarl of Lethra, to Valhalla.” Scáthach fed the fire another bone before she nodded to Uathach.

“I, too, burn offering to Odin and to Freya’s Valkyries in the name of my grandfather, Ardgeimm, Jarl of Lethra.” The brazier sizzled and the flames burned high as Uathach fed it the last of the sacrificial bones.

“May Ardgeimm feast joyously in Valhalla!” Scáthach shouted as the brazier fire roared and the warriors cheered.

Uathach joined Tabiti at the head table, but before Scáthach ascended to her place between them, she addressed the warriors. “Students, you did well today. The vault feat is difficult, and each of you worked hard to attain success in mastering the first steps to conquering the discipline. Well done!” She smiled at her daughter. “Uathach and I are proud of you.” Her smiling eyes took in the warriors. “Now eat, drink, and rest. Tomorrow you will conquer more advanced steps of the vault feat.” Scáthach went to her place and sat, but before the warriors took their seats, as one they shouted, “Queen of Shadow!” and stomped their feet.

Servants scurried to place platters of steaming beef, trays of fresh bread, thick rounds of cheese, bowls of salt, and pitchers of beer on the head table first, and then on the rest of the tables in the room. Dinnertime was Scáthach’s favorite. It was a time of comradery and ease after a hard day of training. The food was always succulent and plentiful, and the beer rich and dark and cool from being stored in the bowels of the castle.

Scáthach had a knack for listening to conversations, and she enjoyed hearing her students talk about the day’s training and whether they missed their homes and sweethearts and families. That night their conversations centered around one subject—Cuchulainn. Even her guard, one hundred experienced warriors strong, discussed him, his leaps, and most of all his berserker rage. Scáthach’s gaze moved across the hall, observing as carefully as she listened. She noted that the bard, Sechan, sat on a stool beside the hearth closest to her table. He strummed his harp, playing a soft melody that served as background to the discussions of Cuchulainn. Scáthach was glad he hadn’t begun to sing, as it would drown out the warriors’ conversations.

Scáthach ate and listened and tossed scraps to Leannan, who took her place under the table, where she chomped on bones and observed the room and her mistress.

Uathach leaned close to her mother and spoke in a low voice. “They can’t shut up about him.”

“I hear that,” said Scáthach.

“He is a distraction,” muttered Tabiti around a bite of meat.

“Have you decided whether you will train him?” asked Uathach.

“Not yet,” Scáthach said.

As if the focused attention had conjured him, Cuchulainn entered the great hall, led by Fergal. Immediately, the bard switched from the soft, melodic harp to a drum. He beat out a quick tune, and as he began to sing, Scáthach recognized the melody as one she’d heard students singing while they drilled.

The beast ’twas a monster ten feet tall