Page 15 of Queen of the Shadow

The Wolfskins behind Geirr moved restlessly, obviously upset by her refusal. Geirr took a step forward and spoke earnestly. “Princess Aife cannot be crowned. Your father has spoken. The Wolfskins have spoken. They name you queen. As long as you live, they will not accept Aife.”

“Geirr, I am sorry my father, your Jarl, is dead. I am sorry he named me his heir, even after I made it clear to him I will not leave Dunscáith. My answer is final. I remain Queen of Shadow. Convince the Wolfskins to crown my sister or choose another to rule.” When Geirr began to speak again, Scáthach stood, silencing him. In a voice as piercing as sunbeams through cloud, she said, “I have spoken!”

“Queen of Shadow.” Geirr’s voice changed. Gone was the familiarity and humor. He stood straight and bowed formally to her. “Then the Wolfskins and I ask that you remain here, in your Kingdom of Shadow, but also accept the crown of Lethra. Assign a regent and rule from here.”

Except for the crackle and sizzle of the sacrificial bones in the brazier, the great hall was completely silent.

“And are you the regent you wish me to name?” Scáthach asked.

“If that is your desire. But know that the Wolfskins will accept any of your seasoned warriors as our regent.” His gaze slid to Uathach and then away.

Scáthach felt the jolt of that gaze as if it had burned her. She didn’t glance at her daughter, but knew she went very still beside her.

“I will consider it and send a messenger to you with my decision.”

Geirr bowed and said nothing.

Scáthach sat, suppressing a sigh. “Please, sit, eat, and drink. Tonight you are my guests. Tomorrow return to Lethra to await my decision.”

Again, Geirr bowed, and then he and his men found seats as servants hurried to bring more platters of food and drink.

“Are you really considering a regent?” Uathach asked her mother.

“No,” said Scáthach. “I do not want the crown, even with a regent. I know these Norsemen. They will not be satisfied by an absent queen.”

“He knew you would refuse before he spoke,” said Tabiti.

Scáthach nodded. “As did Father, which is why I find this whole thing concerning. Perhaps if I allow more time to pass, the Wolfskins will get weary of waiting for a reluctant queen and instead crown my sister.”

Tabiti scoffed. “Ha! Geirr has been trying to seduce me for years. It seems the Wolfskins are a stubborn lot.”

“That they are, but it will not change my answer,” said Scáthach as she stared into the brazier, wishing her father had listened to her and prepared the Wolfskins to accept her sister as heir.

* * *

The moon was full that night, and as the castle slept, Scáthach walked the battlements, unable to still her mind enough to rest. Looking out over the sea at night always soothed her. The Queen of Shadow loved it, no matter the weather, but it was most beautiful to her when a full moon turned the gray-blue water silver, and the stars dusted the rest of the sky with brilliance. She was relieved winter was finally relenting and the dark dreariness of early sunsets and unending rain had lifted. The days grew longer and the nights clearer. Scáthach remembered swimming this sea with her mother. Guarded by sturgeons, they’d stroked the water, building up her endurance against the cold, her ability to hold her breath, and the long, lean muscles in her arms and chest. Scáthach still swam often; it was her favorite form of conditioning.

As Scáthach gazed out at the moon-silvered water, she refused to think about Geirr and the Wolfskins. Her decision would not change, which meant the Norsemen must change instead. She’d give them time and distance. They would grow weary of waiting for a queen who did not want their crown. Dismissing the problem of her father’s countrymen, Scáthach turned her thoughts to the problem of Cuchulainn and weighed the good and the bad.

On the bad side, Tabiti had been correct; Cuchulainn was a distraction. Uathach had also been correct; he was a dog killer, which did not endear him to Scáthach, nor would it to her mother and benefactress goddess.

Also, it was an undeniable fact that Cuchulainn was a berserker. Scáthach knew from experience how difficult those particular warriors were to train and to fight beside. While a berserker rage increased strength, stamina, and any natural talent the warrior had, it also muddled judgment. Berserkers destroyed anything or anyone in their path and often turned on their own allies. She’d had to put down one young berserker and did not have any desire to repeat that horror.

On the good side, Cuchulainn was the King of Ulster’s favorite hero, and successfully training the darling of a king gained Scáthach a favor from Ulster, should she ever need it. Scáthach was wise enough to know there could easily come a day when she might need to call in that favor.

Training Cuchulainn would glorify her name. Scáthach was under no delusional belief that bards would sing of her for generations, nor did she care about being immortalized in ballads. She cared that warriors of quality continued to come to her school and leave stronger, faster, fitter, and aware of the moral responsibility that should go along with being a true hero. Successfully training the Hero of Ulster would draw warriors from all over the world.

Scáthach blew out a long breath and muttered, “His character should be the deciding factor, and I cannot tell whether there is more to him than brawn. As I said to the bard, why should I train a brute to be more brutish?” Automatically, she reached down to ruffle the ears of the big deerhound who always shadowed her, and was surprised to realize Leannan was not at her side.

Scáthach put her fingers to her lips and whistled once, sharply. She waited for Leannan to gallop to her, but the deerhound did not appear. Scáthach continued walking along the battlement, her attention shifted from the moonlit sea to the interior of the castle. As she came to the sentry platform, a black-clad warrior bowed to her. Scáthach smiled as she recognized Tabiti’s countrywoman and lover, Amage, who was a longtime member of the Shadow Guard.

“Good evening, Queen Scáthach.”

“Well met, Amage. Have you seen Leannan? I seem to have misplaced my hound,” Scáthach said with a smile.

“I did see her trotting toward the tunnel to the stables,” said the tall warrior.

“Ah, well, it makes sense that she didn’t hear my whistle.” Scáthach was already heading down the stone stairs as Amage bowed and wished her well. She crossed the training field and opened double-arched doors that revealed one of Dunscáith’s marvels.