Page 32 of Queen of the Shadow

Chapter 7

He’d discovered the empty north tower the second night at Dunscáith. Sentanta rarely slept, though he found peace in the dark tower that looked out over the sea. He craved peace almost as much as he craved sleep.

He knew he wouldn’t sleep at all that night, so he waited until only the sentries stirred, then climbed the curving rock stairs of the tower.

Her naked skin, illuminated by silver moonlight, pulled his gaze from the sea. Scáthach stepped from the shadow of the castle with the stallion at her side. He could see the reluctance in the long fingers of the shadows as she walked out of their concealment. They were loath to release her.

Sentanta understood the shadows.

Scáthach was a sea goddess, gilded in silver and clothed only with tattoos and her magnificent mane of hair. It seemed the stallion accompanying her was a mystical kelpie.

When she proclaimed his penance, her voice was amplified by the divinity within her, and he heard every word.

It was a just penance, though he expected no less from the Queen of Shadow.

When the blood painted her, it was in the shape of the giantess’s hand that held her briefly, caressingly, and then released her to wash into the sea.

Sentanta did not mean to spy, but he could not look away. She enthralled him, and he had to keep watch until she reappeared and he knew she was safe—that she would return, that she hadn’t left them, hadn’t left him. He turned away then, not wanting to intrude any longer.

But that day changed him.

He wanted to make her proud. He wanted to make her smile. He wanted her to see him as more than a student. He wanted... her.

* * *

When Uathach, pale-faced and moving slowly, joined Scáthach in the great hall for the dinner meal that night, she almost commanded that her daughter return to her rooms and rest, but Uathach’s eyes silently begged her not to, and Scáthach understood. The daughter of the Queen of Shadow was continually being watched and judged against her famous, demigod mother. Scáthach would not hide in her rooms after being wounded, insisting on showing her students and the Shadow Guard that she survived and thrived. She could expect no less from her daughter.

Uathach took her seat at her mother’s right. Scáthach squeezed her hand under the table and spoke softly. “Does it hurt terribly, Little Fry?”

“I would nod, but I’m afraid my head will burst open at the movement,” said Uathach.

Tabiti said, “So, yes, your head hurts terribly.”

“Worse than that,” Uathach said with a weak smile. Then she met her mother’s gaze. “You gave me something—something that strengthened me and brought me back.”

“Back?” Tabiti asked.

“From Annwn. She was on her way to the Summerlands,” said Scáthach, feeling a wave of nausea wash through her at the memory of how close she’d come to losing her precious child.

“Yes. What Mother said.” Again, she trapped Scáthach’s gaze with hers. “What did you give me?”

“The gift of Sight,” Scáthach said.

“By the gods!” Tabiti blurted, causing several students to pause their eating and look up at her. Tabiti lowered her voice and continued. “How? And now what happens?”

Scáthach smiled. “How? My mother gave me the gift. I was not entirely sure I could give it to Uathach but knew that she—” Her words broke off as her eyes filled with tears and she blinked quickly to keep them from falling. Scáthach cleared her throat before she spoke again. “I knew if I could give the Sight to Uathach, it would fill her with Mother’s magick and, much like throwing a rope to a drowning swimmer, Uathach would grasp that magick and return to me.

“And now what?” Scáthach shrugged. “I assume Uathach will see visions as the veil parts for her as it did for me.”

“Huh,” Tabiti said. “Surprising and fascinating. I’ll look forward to how Uathach’s visions manifest.”

“As will I,” said Scáthach.

“That makes two of us who look forward to it,” Uathach muttered.

Scáthach meant to speak more to her daughter about the gift of Sight, but Sechan plucked the opening chords of a new ballad with a flourish. Scáthach frowned, thoroughly tired of the harp and the bard, but the opening of the ballad had her breath catching in surprise.

Ardgeimm was a young Jarl, braw and tall