Brighid's Quest

“Between here and MacCallan Castle think of Cuchulainn each night before you sleep, for it is during our sleeping hours that we are closest to the Otherworld. Send positive thoughts of him into your dreams. Begin to imagine him as he once was—whole and happy.”

Brighid nodded. “I can do that.”

“You will also need a soul-catching stone. This stone is always a gift from the spirit realm. Sometimes it comes directly from Epona. Sometimes it is brought to the Shaman from her animal ally.”

“But I’m not a Shaman, and I certainly don’t have an animal ally!”

Ciara shrugged. “Perhaps you won’t need the gift of a soul-catcher. All I’m suggesting is that you stay open to the possibility.”

“Fine. If a stone drops from the sky onto my head I’ll be sure to pick it up and keep it.”

Ciara laughed. “Be careful. Too often the spirit realm takes our jests seriously.”

More good news, the Huntress thought.

“And while you’re watching out for stones, you might also want to keep your eyes open for your animal ally.”

“My animal ally?”

“It’s just a thought. Even though you are not a Shaman, your affinity for the spirits of animals is strong, so it wouldn’t be beyond belief for you to be gifted with an animal guide from the spirit realm.”

Thinking of the raven that was so closely allied with her mother, Brighid frowned.

“I hunt animals and then I kill them. That’s not exactly being allied to them,” Brighid said shortly.

“You do not slaughter animals for the pleasure of it, or as some vainglorious, self-gratifying act of ego. You do what you must to feed your people. Do you not respect each animal you kill, as well as give thanks to Epona for Her bounty after each hunt?”

“Of course,” the Huntress said.

“The spirit realm knows this—perhaps even better than you do, Huntress.”

Brighid shook her head and rubbed her arms again as another chill worked its way through her body. “Doesn’t it ever make you feel…I don’t know how to put it…violated?”

“It?”

“It! It!” Brighid gestured at the silent darkness that surrounded them. “The Otherworld—the Realm of Spirits. Isn’t it like having someone, or a group of someones, constantly watching your every move?”

The Shaman tilted her head to the side, considering. “It’s not a violation because the Realm of Spirits rarely encroaches where it is not welcome.”

“It might not encroach, but I know from experience that when warnings from that realm are ignored or denied, there is usually a high price to pay,” Brighid said solemnly.

“Isn’t that how life is? If you’re given a gift, be it an affinity for a part of the spirit realm, or be it a talent to make music or to tool leather, and you ignore it, isn’t there always a price to be paid?” Ciara paused and pressed her lips into a tight line before continuing in a sad, heavy voice. “I had a sister. She was the most gifted artist among our people, but as she grew to adulthood, she refused to use her skill. She said there was too much ugliness around and within her—she refused to find beauty anywhere, not even in the stories from the past. From the day she quit painting, I think her soul began to die. Eventually her body followed it.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ciara,” Brighid said quietly.

“Thank you, Huntress. But I did not share my sister’s story with you to evoke your pity. I’d simply ask that you learn from it.”

“Understood.”

They sat together silently, each lost in her own thoughts. The silver light between them fluttered with the wind, casting moving shadows against Ciara’s wings. In the light from the flame of her own creation Ciara looked like she belonged more to the Otherworld than to this one. She should be the one doing this soul-retrieval stuff, not Brighid. Ciara looked up from the flame, and Brighid was surprised to see lines of worry furrowing her brow.

“Would you allow me to ask you something that has nothing to do with the warrior or his soul?” Ciara asked abruptly.

Brighid nodded, hoping that the perceptive winged woman wouldn’t ask any questions about her family.

Ciara’s gaze drifted outside their small circle of light toward the silent mountains.

“You passed through the mountains. What was your impression of them? What did they make you Feel?”

Brighid started to say they didn’t make her Feel anything except a bone-deep cold and an eagerness to end her journey. But then she remembered the visit from the raven, and the sense she had of being watched.

“I don’t know that they made me Feel anything in particular, but I will admit that I was distracted as I traveled the hidden pass. The only thing I can tell you with any certainty is that I like them no more or no less than I like this desolate land of yours.” But instead of the soft smile of response she expected, the centaur watched Ciara’s look of worry deepen. “What is it, Shaman?”

“I cannot tell. Perhaps it is nothing except that the mountains have always represented a barrier to all that my people have been taught is good, and that I despise them for that. But recently I’ve begun to wonder if it isn’t more…They make me…” She spoke hesitantly, searching for the right words as she stared into the darkness. “Wary. The more I’m around them—the closer I get to them—the more wary and on edge I Feel.”

“What does the spirit realm tell you of this Feeling?”

Ciara shook her head, causing her wings to move restlessly. “Nothing more than I already logically know. That the Trier Mountains are a cold, harsh place filled with death and lost dreams.”

“Death and lost dreams?”

Ciara’s eyes caught the Huntress’s gaze again. “Many of my people chose to use the mountains as the place to end their lives.”

Brighid grimaced as she remembered navigating steep red ridges and jagged chasms that seemed to open down to another world. The Trier Mountains definitely provided ample opportunities for suicide.

“Restless souls…” Brighid didn’t realize she’d spoken the thought aloud until Ciara nodded.

“Perhaps that is all I sense—the restless, unsleeping souls of my people.”

“Still, I’ll keep a watchful eye turned south. As you have said, your instincts rarely fail you,” Brighid said, not liking the prickling sense of warning Ciara’s words had evoked within her.

Finally the Shaman’s face cleared as she smiled. “It’s a good thing you have the sharp eyes of a Huntress—you certainly have a lot to be watchful of…a soul stone, an animal ally, and now a faceless Feeling of unease not even a Shaman can put a name to.”

“Well, I do like to keep busy.”

“It’s a good thing you do.” Ciara laughed out loud.

“One might think so,” the Huntress muttered, wondering what she had managed to get herself into this time.

Chapter 12

The day dawned thoroughly miserable. The winter chill might have been absent in the wind that blew constantly from the southwest, but the steady drizzle it carried was cold enough to have the children wrapping themselves in thick, water-resistant cloaks that cowled around their small faces. They quickly repacked the tents, ate a fast breakfast, and were ready to follow Cuchulainn again with an enthusiasm that did not appear to be dampened by the weather.

Brighid was just thankful that the hoods muffled their chattering and singing. She was in no mood for gleeful children. She had a headache. She’d awakened with it, and she knew why. It was that damned dream.

After she and Ciara had finished talking, Brighid had patrolled the outer perimeter of the camp twice before she’d returned to the warm circle of tents and the fire. Not wanting to wake even a single child, she was careful to be quiet as she fed the fire and then settled herself to keep watch over the sleeping camp. As a Huntress, she was used to dividing her attention. She could easily follow a deer’s trail along a winding stream bank while she planned the next day’s hunt. So while she fed the fire and made occasional circles around the campsite, listening carefully for anything out of the ordinary, her mind chased the trail Ciara had set. The Shaman had said that Brighid needed to imagine Cuchulainn as he once was, whole and happy, and Brighid had assured Ciara that she could do that—and she could. Truthfully it was easier than thinking of the warrior as he was now.

The Huntress fed another chunk of fuel into the fire and let her mind wander. The first day she’d met Cuchulainn he’d been working at clearing century-old debris from the heart of MacCallan Castle, and he had instantly bristled when she’d introduced herself as part of the Dhianna Herd. She snorted quietly, remembering the arrogant way he had challenged her motives for joining MacCallan Castle, and how she had met his challenge with her own sarcasm. Elphame had stepped in to mediate on more than one occasion, and still they had snarled at and circled one another like wolves from opposing packs.