Page 13 of Queen of the Shadow

He guarded the keep from one and all

His teeth and claws felled a thousand men

But not the mighty Cuchulainn

Not the mighty Cuchulainn...

Fergal was showing him to a seat at one of the rear tables when Scáthach lifted her hand, silencing the room and the bard, and motioned for Cuchulainn to approach her. All eyes were on the young warrior as he walked down the center aisle to stop before the raised table and bow to her.

She didn’t speak immediately, but instead studied Cuchulainn. He’d washed again, this time more thoroughly. His tricolored hair was still damp. He wore a travel cape over his tunic and leather breeches. Scáthach was intrigued to note that the lacerated welts that she could see—those on his arms—were almost healed. She met his unwavering amber-colored gaze.

Scáthach finally spoke into the expectant silence. “Did you finish fixing my door?”

“I did, Queen Scáthach. Have you decided to accept me as a student?” he asked.

“I have not inspected my repaired door yet. So no, Cuchulainn, I have not made a decision.”

“But you must accept him!” Sechan was on his feet.

Slowly, Scáthach turned her gaze to the bard. “Must I?”

“Yes, great queen!” the bard insisted, smiling charmingly at her.

Cuchulainn began to speak, but Scáthach’s raised hand silenced him.

“Tell me why, bard,” said Scáthach.

“Easily answered, Queen of Shadow,” said the bard, his brilliant blue eyes shining with enthusiasm. “Train Cuchulainn, Ulster’s greatest hero, and your name will be remembered forever!”

Scáthach laughed. “No, Sechan,hisname will be remembered forever, not mine.”

“Great queen, that is far from true! I will sing your name as I tell of the battles Cuchulainn fights and wins because he was trained by the mighty Queen of Shadow,” the bard insisted. “Your love of battle, which is known far and wide, should be incentive enough to train Ulster’s hero.”

Scáthach shook her head. “If I loved battle, why would I be here, training warriors instead of leading them to war?” The bard opened his mouth to reply, but Scáthach spoke on, silencing him. “No reasonable person loves battle. What I love is others knowing that I have the power to wage war and to win it. I love the peace that deterrent provides and, beyond that, I choose to live with integrity and honor—not lord my strength over others. War isn’t glorious. War is dreadful.”

“Oh, come now! You don’t truly believe that!” said the bard.

Scáthach’s eyes narrowed. “Have you ever been to battle?”

“Me?” Sechan chuckled nervously. “I am but a minstrel, a bard, a teller of tales and singer of ballads.”

“And in those ballads, you glorify war.” Scáthach shook her head, sneering in disdain. “Men like to believe mightequalsright, so they wage war and take, take, take because they can.” She paused and looked to her Shadow Guard, the majority of whom were women. “At Dunscáith we believe instead that might should be usedforright. Do you comprehend the difference?”

Sechan’s gaze went from her to Cuchulainn to the silent warriors who watched, and finally back to rest on the queen. His mouth opened and then closed, and he shuffled his feet.

“I see,” Scáthach said. “You comprehend, but you disagree. And if your friend here shares your viewpoint, why would I train one more brute to be even better at being brutish?”

“I am not his friend,” Cuchulainn said.

Scáthach met his gaze. “Tell me how you got your name.”

Cuchulainn swallowed and drew a deep breath. When he spoke, he did so as if by rote—emotionlessly and quickly. “I was a boy. King Conchobar invited me to a feast at the longhouse of a smithy. The feast began and I had not yet arrived. Conchobar did not believe I was coming, so when the smithy, Culann, asked if he should bar the door and unchain his hound that guarded it, Conchobar said yes, unchain the beast. The hound was huge and fierce in protecting his home and knew when the door was closed and barred, no one was allowed entrance.

“I came late. The hound attacked me. I killed him. Culann was so distraught at the death of his hound that I said I would take the dog’s place as castle guardian until he could train up a pup to replace the beast. It was two years before the new guardian was trained, and in that time, they began calling me Culann’s hound, or Cuchulainn.”

Scáthach watched him closely as he told the story. “What is your birth name?”

“Sentanta,” said Cuchulainn.