Page 93 of Queen of the Shadow

“Does she visit the Winterlands often?” he asked.

“No. She sees little need. As she put it, the dead there have no desire to know themselves. What they long for isn’t the Summerlands and being reunited with their loved ones and ancestors. They want power. Violence. The return of whatever they thought they controlled in life.” Scáthach’s voice was devoid of emotion. She repeated her mother’s words as if by rote. “They only want to be accepted into the Summerlands so that they will be reborn—just as dark, just as flawed and evil as they were in their previous lives—so they can begin the whole terrible cycle again. My mother will not allow that.”

“You’d think refusing to let those types of spirits reincarnate would eventually remove evil and violence from our world,” said Cuchulainn.

“If people didn’t have free will to make their own life choices, that would be true, but as long as mortals have choice, some will always choose poorly.”

They were silent for quite a while, both lost in thoughts of winter and darkness. The road curved around a hillock, and when it straightened, they came upon one of the dead walking toward them. He held a bloodied sword and carried a shield strapped to his back. The warrior was looking down but lifted his face as they approached.

Scáthach felt Cuchulainn stiffen beside her. She understood why. Part of the warrior’s skull was missing. It was a terrible wound. The blood and tissues from his head dribbled down his face and shoulder, washing the left side of his body in gore. His gaze found Scáthach and his eyes widened, and then he was sprinting to them.

“Do I stop?” Cuchulainn asked.

“Yes.”

“Goddess? Is that you?” the dead man asked as he went to her side of the cart, staring up at her hopefully through the carnage that had been his face.

“I am not Béfionn. I am her daughter.” Scáthach’s voice was soothing and warm, as if she spoke to Leannan and not a dead, gore-covered warrior.

“I have been looking for the goddess!” He stared up at Scáthach, his voice frantic. “I have to tell her I’m ready to enter the Summerlands. I’m sorry. I was selfish. Envious. This happened”—he gestured at his fatal wound—“because I t-tried to s-steal my neighbor’s—” His voice hitched. He grimaced and had to clear his throat and swallow before he could continue. “Cattle. My neighbor’s cattle,” he repeated. “But I’m sorry! So, so sorry!”

Scáthach studied him. “Cattle? I believe you did attempt to thieve cattle, but is that truly all you attempted to steal?”

The dead man continued to stare at her, his throat working as he swallowed over and over as if trying to keep the words from escaping. Finally he blurted, “I tried to steal his daughter, too!”

Scáthach nodded slowly. “Yes, you did.”

“I bargained with her father for her first! And I bargained fairly! I was willing to pay a large dowry. I was a wealthy man. He refused me and, and...” He paused and his face twisted in pain before he blurted, “And he said no because she was too young.”

“How young was she?” Cuchulainn asked.

The dead man didn’t so much as glance at Cuchulainn. He stared at Scáthach as his throat worked. He opened his mouth and pain flashed across his face. He pressed his lips together and looked down at his feet, saying one word. “Nine.” When Scáthach said nothing, he looked up at her again. Pain had him cringing as he shouted, “But I loved her!”

“What is your name?” Scáthach asked.

“Ian of Tribe Parisi.”

“Ian, do you know why it is so painful for you to find the words to speak to me?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“It is because you lie.” He opened his mouth to protest, but her raised hand silenced him. “Here in the Underworld only truth is spoken easily. Lies are not tolerated. Instead they either cannot be spoken, or when the person is so self-deluded that they almost believe their own lies, cause pain when spoken.”

“But Iamsorry,” he insisted as his eyes filled with tears.

“I can see that and I believe you, but consider this—are you sorry about targeting a child and then attempting to steal her away, or are you sorry you were caught and killed for it?” Again, Scáthach’s raised hand silenced him. “Think on it, Ian, and know that when you are truly honest with yourself and ready to enter the Summerlands, you will not have to seek out Béfionn. The goddess will come to you.” The Queen of Shadow bent and touched his cheek. Ian gasped and covered her hand with his as the pain that twisted his face lifted. “I hope that you find the truth soon.” She straightened and nodded to Cuchulainn, who snapped the reins and urged Chance away from the dead man, whose sobs echoed behind them.

“I have questions,” Cuchulainn said after they were out of sight of Ian.

“I’m not surprised. Ask them. I’ll happily answer,” she said.

“Why did we see his wound and not see a wound on Cynwrig or Enniaum?”

“In the Autumnal Realm the dead control whether their wounds are visible or not,” she said. “There is always a reason when they are visible. Often it indicates unresolved issues. In Ian’s case it reflected his self-delusion.”

“So, liescanbe spoken here?”

“Rarely and only if the speaker is deluded enough to believe them,” she said. “And then they cause searing pain. Did you note that Ian attempted to lie in omission about his attempted theft?”