Page 48 of Queen of the Shadow

“Yes.” The word was clipped as her anger simmered again. “I got to one of them before he died. He said he was from far south, the Catuvellauni tribe.”

“Truly? I’ve heard of them. They’re a large tribe from southeast Briton. Why would they attack us?”

“My sister has put a price on my head. The reward is possession of Dunscáith.”

Cuchulainn barked a surprised laugh, then grimaced at the pain the movement caused. “Only a distant tribe would be foolish enough to believe Dunscáith could be given away to anyone. But now it makes sense that it has been so quiet on Skye. No warriors anywhere near here would be foolish enough to believe they could take your castle.”

“The attack today will be the first of many by foreigners who come to my isle thinking they will take my head and then my castle.” Anger filled her as she continued. “I meant to leave Aife alone—as long as neither she nor her men harassed me again. She is my sister, and even though I have not seen her since I was a child and she a toddler, she is also my father’s daughter. For his sake I do not want to fight her. But now...” She shook her head. “Now I will find her and end this. They cannot take Dunscáith from me, but they can take the lives of the Shadow Guard and my students. I will not allow that.”

“She and her army can’t be that difficult to find,” he said.

“Difficult or not, I will find her and I will end her.”

They ate in silence, tossing hunks of cheese to Leannan and sharing the mead until Cuchulainn had eaten all he could. His face was pale, and he shivered, though he rested close to the hearth and was covered with the woolen blanket.

Scáthach checked his wound. “The bleeding has stopped.” She studied his face. “Is it terribly painful?”

“I’ve been hurt worse,” he prevaricated as he leaned back and grimaced, trying to find a more comfortable position for his leg. “It would help if you told me a story.”

“A story? What kind of story?”

“Something from your childhood.” He paused and smiled. “I know. Tell me the story of how sturgeons became your nursemaids.”

Scáthach grinned. “That is a good story. It started when I was five and Mother took me from Lethra...” She told him how the huge fish had escorted her mother’s ship on that voyage from Lethra to Skye. When the goddess discovered her daughter couldn’t swim, she set out to teach little Scáthach how to survive in the sea. They’d practice every day, and eventually Scáthach became such an expert swimmer that she and Béfionn used to dive from the ship and swim beside it. Surrounded by sturgeons, the child Scáthach learned to hold on to the friendly behemoths when the seas were rough or when she was too tired to match the speed of the goddess and her ship.

Cuchulainn’s eyelids fluttered as she told the story until, finally, they closed. Scáthach leaned over him, tucking the blanket around him. As she bent close, his eyes opened again. He reached up and took thick strands of her hair that had fallen over her shoulder between his fingers.

“Before I came to Dunscáith, I heard stories.” He stared at the lock of hair and rubbed it gently. “They said your hair is the color of a great and powerful beast called a lion. I’ve never seen such a beast.” He looked up, his face so close to hers that she smelled the mead on his breath. “But they must be very beautiful.”

“Sleep. At dawn we return to the castle,” she said softly as she sat back. His eyes closed and he was asleep again almost instantly.

For a long time Scáthach remained awake at his side, watching him, until the rain on the thatched roof lulled her to sleep.

Chapter 11

Sentanta didn’t mind the wound in his thigh. It was painful. It was ill-timed. But it was bearable. Her death would not have been.

And then there was the fact that the wound had granted him an entire night alone with her. For the rest of his life Sentanta had only to look at the puckered scar on his thigh and it would bring back the memory of her laughter... her compassion... the feel of her hair between his fingers. In the years after, he often thought the most interesting ballad sung about him should have told the story of why the sight of that scar always,alwaysmade him smile.

* * *

Leannan’s bark woke Scáthach. The hearthfire was still burning, though almost all of the candles had sputtered and died. She reached for the sword beside her. “Friend or foe?” Scáthach asked the deerhound.

Leannan barked again. Then her tongue lolled and she wagged her tail.

“What is it?” Cuchulainn sounded as if he had sand in his throat.

“Friends.” Scáthach handed him the almost-empty bag of mead before she strode to the door, Leannan at her side.

The storm had washed the bruises from the sky, leaving behind a newborn palette of blush and ochre and lemon.

“Scáthach!” She heard the distant call of her name, and before she could shout in return, Leannan’s excited barks echoed around them.

“There! At the shepherds’ shelter!” came Tabiti’s distinctive voice.

Horses’ hooves pounded the wet ground as Uathach raced up the little path toward them, the leader of the Shadow Guard and several members of the guard galloping close behind. Her daughter’s horse came to a sliding stop and Uathach ran to her mother, throwing her arms around her.

“Mama! I saw true, didn’t I?”