Page 8 of Queen of the Shadow

She felt only the dark, cold water. As she gazed into it, the barrel disappeared, along with the reflection of her reddened, sweat-streaked face. The surface rippled and she saw a vision of herself, standing in the center of the practice field, facing a semicircle of student warriors who nervously shifted from foot to foot as they waited their turn to try to wrestle the Queen of Shadow off her feet. But before the first of the students reached Scáthach, Uathach strode up to her andstepped into her body, and the Queen of Shadow became Uathach. Slowly, her daughter’s head bowed. Her hands covered her face and she looked utterly defeated.

The water rippled and the vision shifted to that of a young lion. The lion opened his fanged jaws and roared. The vision changed again. The beast was chained to a huge boulder. It looked old and broken until his gaze found her. His eyes, the gold of faceted yellow topaz, blazed as he stared at her. She felt that gaze as if it had been a touch and she shivered but could not tell if the chills that skittered up and down her body were from fear or desire.

Uathach touched her shoulder. “Mother?”

Uathach’s touch returned Scáthach to herself. She drew a deep breath and splashed water over her face and arms, then straightened and faced her daughter, whose smooth brow was furrowed with worry.

“A vision?” Uathach asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you well?”

“Yes, I—”

“Scáthach! He attempts the bridge!”

Uathach and her mother turned to see Tabiti beckoning them from the sentry platform that looked out over the Bridge of Leaps. Shaking the water from her body, Scáthach jogged to the stairs, with Uathach beside her and Leannan trotting after them.

They reached the sentry platform in time for Cuchulainn’s first attempt at the bridge. He had backed up so that he began by the two stone monoliths that stood sentinel before the bridge’s entrance. Scáthach still couldn’t get a clear look at him. He was tall—that was obvious—but the huge stones cast too much shadow for her to see his features. He bent a little at the waist and then sprinted toward the bridge, moving with impressive speed. The young warrior ran onto the stone bridge, which arched in the center. His speed quickly carried him to the center of the arch.

Then the bridge awakened and, like an untamed stallion, it bucked, tossing him off his feet. The bridge lifted, rolling Cuchulainn back to the shadows beneath the monoliths.

He immediately sprang to his feet. As the watching warriors shouted encouragement, he approached the bridge again, slowly.

Tabiti laughed. “Does he think he’ll conquer the bridge by sauntering over it?”

“If he tries walking over it, he’s going to end up getting wet.” Uathach gestured to the churning water beneath the bridge.

“And dead,” added Tabiti. She glanced at Scáthach. “Are the sturgeons still here, or did they all leave with your mother?”

“Oh, there are always a few nearby,” Scáthach said absently as she studied the warrior.

“Hope they’re not hungry,” said Tabiti. “Though he looks too muscly to be tasty. Not enough fat.”

Uathach snorted. “Well, that depends on who is doing the tasting. He is beautiful.”

“They say the Ulster women love him—and the Ulster men wish he’d take a wife,” said Tabiti.

Scáthach studied him as he stood at the entrance of the Bridge of Leaps. He was tall, perhaps even as tall as her, which was unusual. His shoulders were broad and his chest wide, tapering to a slim waist. He was definitely beautiful, with high cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, full lips, and a jawline that could have been sculpted. His hair was golden blond but had unusual streaks of brown and red glinting in it, almost as if it was living fire. The waning sun’s rays touched him as he looked up from the bridge and met her gaze.

He had the faceted topaz eyes of the lion in her vision. When they locked on hers, Scáthach felt his gaze like a touch.

“What do you think of him, Scáthach?” Tabiti’s voice broke the spell and Scáthach looked away from him.

“I think he’s very young, and if he attempts to walk over my bridge, he’s also very naïve,” she said.

Cuchulainn turned from the bridge and jogged back, this time several paces beyond the stone monoliths. He crouched, began swinging his arms for momentum, and then raced toward the bridge. In two mighty leaps he made it to the center arch of the bridge, where he crouched to gather himself for the second half of the crossing. Like the earth had begun to quake, the bridge shivered violently, causing Cuchulainn to stagger forward instead of leaping. Again, he lost his balance. The bridge lifted and shook him off as if he were an annoying fly on a horse’s flank.

The warriors who had failed groaned. Scáthach’s students, who had each managed to cross the bridge, jeered from the battlements.

Cuchulainn approached the bridge again, studying it closely. He even dropped to his knees and peered at the underside of it and at the white-capped water beneath.

“What is he doing?” Tabiti asked.

“He’s trying to figure out the trick of it,” said Scáthach.

“There is no trick,” said her daughter.