Page 55 of Queen of the Shadow

Cuchulainn was glad of the dilution.

Lugh didn’t seem to notice his son at first. His gaze swept around them, taking in Dunscáith, the island, and the sea, coming to rest on the shattered fragments of the blood-soaked seer stone. The god strode to the balustrade and blew on what was left of the seer stone. As if his divine magick reversed time, the stone knitted itself together again. Lugh picked it up. His smooth forehead furrowed as he studied it before finally turning to his son.

“Cuchulainn, I can feel that you are attached to this... pebble, but I am confused by it.” Only then did he look at his son.

Cuchulainn lowered his raised fist to bow respectfully before replying. He kept his face a mask of indifference—his voice bland and unconcerned. “It was a gift.”

One of Lugh’s golden brows lifted sardonically. “Someone gifted you a pebble? It appears you are easily impressed.” Then his gaze sharpened as he studied his son. “Oh, I see. This gift is from a woman.”

“Thank you for answering my call, Father,” he said.

“Always the tight-lipped one, aren’t you?” Lugh sighed and slapped his palms together. There was a clap of thunder that boomed across the sea, and when the god opened his hands, the seer stone had disappeared. His gaze slid over his son, this time taking in his heavily bandaged thigh. The god frowned. “Let me guess, you got that wound because you didn’t call the berserker.”

Cuchulainn had to force his jaws to unclench before he could reply. “Father, while I appreciate the gift of the berserker, I prefer to enter battles as myself.”

Lugh threw up his hands in exasperation. “Youarethe berserker and heisyou!”

“He is the worst of me! Rage, violence, death, and destruction—thatis all the berserker is, all the berserker knows.” Cuchulainn bit out the words.

“So you called me here with your prize pebble and our shared blood toonce againtake up this tired old argument?”

Cuchulainn drew and released several deep breaths, hearing in his mind Scáthach’s voice telling him to calm, to quiet, to find himself. When he replied to his father, his words no longer cut and his mask of indifference was firmly in place. “Forgive me, Father. I do not wish to argue with you.”

“Huh,” Lugh huffed as he crossed his arms over his muscular chest and leaned against the balustrade. “Then why did you call me,Hero of Ulster?”

Cuchulainn ignored the familiar taunt in his father’s voice. The Ulstermen may consider him a hero; his father never would. He met Lugh’s amber eyes, the same eyes he avoided in every reflective surface he passed, and spoke his request, careful to frame it in words his father would find pleasing. “I called you here to ask you to heal my wound so that I might join the Queen of Shadow and her guard. They march to defeat Aife of Lethra, and I do not wish to miss the glory that battle will bring to our names.”

Lugh’s eyes narrowed, though he said nothing. He leaned forward, closer to Cuchulainn, and sniffed, like a dog scenting game. The god wrinkled his nose. “The wound smells rank.”

“The spear tip was coated in shit, which is why I need your help. I heal quickly, but because of the foulness of the wound, not quickly enough to go into battle with the Shadow Guard.”

Lugh leaned back against the balustrade and skewered his son with his eagle-eyed stare. “And if I heal you, will you give me your oath that you will go into that battle as the berserker, laying waste to all who come against you so that for generations to come bards will sing your name and mine throughout all the great halls of Alba and Éire and beyond?”

“What if I am enough without the berserker?” Cuchulainn tried to keep his voice calm, but frustration and anger joined to sharpen his words. “Would it not bring more glory to your name if your son was victorious without turning into an uncontrollable monster?”

Lugh scoffed. “Once your blood cools, he can be controlled.”

“No, Father.” With an effort, Cuchulainn did not shout. He did not lose his temper. Instead, he took a step closer to his father and attempted to reason with him. “When my blood cools, I’m no longer the berserker because as long as he rules mehe cannot be controlled.Father, do you know what it is like to turn on your own warriors, your friends, your allies, and not be able to stop yourself from slaughtering them?”

Lugh shrugged. “Friends and allies should know better than to get in the berserker’s way.”

“During battle that is impossible!” Cuchulainn paused, tamping down his anger. He drew a deep breath before he spoke again. “You know that a battle is all confusion and blood. It’s easy to mistake friend for foewithoutyour mind being lost to a monster. All I ask is that you allow me to show you that I can bring you glory as your son, Cuchulainn, instead of your son’s monster, the berserker.”

The god stroked his chin. “Let us consider a compromise.”

Cuchulainn hid his surprise and pleasure. Lugh did not respond as well to positive emotions as he did to anger and argument. “I am willing to compromise.”

“Excellent. I will heal your rancid woundandnot insist that in return you call the berserker,ifyou agree to retrieve the Gáe Bulg and use it to bring glory to my”—he paused, smiled, and his smooth voice corrected—“ournames. Though if you used the spear in tandemwiththe berserker you would be as undefeatable as any mortal can be,” said the god, his eyes glittering the gold of sunlight.

“The Gáe Bulg. Isn’t that made entirely of the rib of the vanquished sea monster, Curruid?”

Lugh nodded. “Indeed! The very spear.”

“But it’spart ofa dead sea monster that is now in the Underworld. How am I to retrieve it?”

Lugh’s smile was as smooth as his voice. “Is your esteemed teacher not the daughter of Béfionn, Goddess of the Underworld?”

“Yes,” Cuchulainn spoke through gritted teeth.