Page 98 of Queen of the Shadow

“Impressive,” Cuchulainn said as he put the last raven feather atop the pile. “Will it be enough?”

“I can only hope,” said Scáthach. She faced the army. She didn’t shout, but the two hundred spirits were completely silent as her melodic voice wrapped around them. “While I part the veil from Annwn to Valhalla, I need each of you to think of your ancestors who await you there and of Odin All Father. No, don’t just think of them—long for them. Let that longing fill your spirits, your heads, your hearts.” Then she went to the mound of branches and offerings. She bowed her head and spoke softly to the realm. “These two hundred spirits are lost. They do not belong within you. Help me set them on the right path. Blaze to Valhalla for me!”

Whoosh!Orange and yellow flames burst from the center of the mound. As it began to engulf the offerings, black smoke lifted and swirled up, up, up, until it disappeared from sight into the low-hanging clouds.

“Thank you,” Scáthach murmured before she walked to the edge of the small pool that had formed at the base of the cliff. The water ran into it and then disappeared under the cliff. The toes of her boots just touched that pool. She tilted back her head, gazed up at the glistening fall of water and spoke from her heart.

“Ardgeimm, Jarl of Lethra, beloved Father, your daughter Scáthach needs you! My words fly with the smoke of burnt offerings to Valhalla and Odin All Father. Hear my call. Pierce the veil with me, Father.” She waited, staring up and hoping she would get the prickling across her skin she’d felt when she’d sensed the veil that separates the Autumnal Realm and the Summerlands.

She felt nothing. No tingle tickled her skin. No glistening veil appeared. Nothing.

Scáthach tried again. “Father, it’s Scáthach. I call to you with great need—the spirits of two hundred of your warriors are lost. Help me to help them! Father, I know if it is possible, you will hear me. You will come. I call you with hope and my never-ending love for you. I miss you, Father. I wish I could have said goodbye...” Scáthach’s words faded as tears spilled from her eyes and down her cheeks to drop into the pool at her feet.

Behind her the army gasped. She looked over her shoulder at them. They were all staring up. Above her the black smoke lifting from the offering fire had changed direction and shape. It formed ravens—two hundred of them—that flew into the waterfall and disappeared.

She felt it then—the tingle across her skin that signaled the thinning of the veil between Annwn and the other realm. Her hand trembled as she reached up to where the air had begun to glitter. Scáthach pinched the veil and drew it aside.

Instead of a waterfall and a cliff, a glistening circle had formed. A man stood before the circle. He was in a majestic lodge with a roaring hearthfire at his back and he peered at Scáthach as if he looked out a window. She recognized the Jarl of Lethra immediately. He was magnificent. No longer an old man with stooped shoulders and a well-lined face, Ardgeimm was the young, virile man who had successfully wooed and won the love of a goddess. His auburn hair was thick, his shoulders broad, and his brilliant blue eyes shined with joy.

“Scáthach! My lioness! Seeing you again fills my heart!” He spread his arms wide as if to embrace her.

“Father!” She smiled through tears that washed her cheeks. “You heard me! You answered!”

“Truthfully, it was your mother who brought my attention to your call,” he said, and then winked at her. “You know she has been visiting me.”

“I do know. Is she there? May I see her?”

“She is still in Valhalla, but when she heard your summons, Béfionn told me to face this”—he gestured before him at the glittering circle—“opening?”

“Opening is accurate,” Scáthach said as she wiped at her tears.

“Good. Good. So, she placed me here. Told me to talk with our daughter, and then she went to find Odin.” Her father’s gaze moved from her to find Drest and the double column of warriors who stood behind him. As one, the army went to their knees. “Drest? What is the meaning of this?” Ardgeimm peered through the veil and his eyes widened. “Are you and my warriors in Annwn?”

Drest stepped forward and bowed deeply. “We are, my king. It is my fault—my responsibility, my great and terrible error. I followed Aife in her bid to usurp the crown of Lethra and betrayed your wishes. I do not deserve forgiveness, but the warriors who trusted me and followed me do. Please. Could they come home to Valhalla?”

Her father’s gaze swept over the army. “Do I see some of my Wolfskins among you?”

Reluctantly, the dead Wolfskins stood.

“Forgive us. We should not have left Lethra. We should not have followed Drest and Aife,” said the same warrior who had given his cloak to the fire.

“You shame me,” said the Jarl of Lethra.

The men bowed their heads.

Her father’s gaze found Scáthach again. “What say you, daughter? Should these traitors be allowed redemption?”

She didn’t hesitate. “They should. They made a mistake. A terrible one, but I believe they understand that now.” She paused to look at Drest. Pale and silent, he continued to gaze at the king he’d served and then betrayed. “Even Drest. Though his betrayal cuts the deepest. But what he did wasn’t because of greed or to feed his ego. Drest betrayed you because of love.”

“Aife,” said her father.

“Yes. Aife.”

Her father sighed heavily and then his gaze snapped to her. “You weren’t harmed, were you?”

“No, Father.”

“And our Little Fry? She’s well?”