Brighid snorted. “That’s how I feel about attempting to be a Shaman. Inept is an excellent way to describe me. When I spoke to Cuchulainn I felt like a fish attempting to nest in a tree.”
Ciara’s expression saddened and she sighed heavily. “If he would not listen to you then he is more lost than I believed.”
Brighid glanced sharply at the tent Cu had so recently disappeared into. “Walk with me,” she said, moving away from the warrior’s tent. Still, she lowered her voice. “He listened.”
Ciara’s eyes widened with her returning smile. Brighid held up a hand.
“Don’t go all happy on me. Yes, he agreed to let me help him. But he only agreed to it so that he could be whole again and decide with a clear mind to kill himself.”
“When his soul is no longer shattered the warrior will not choose death.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I feel it here.” Ciara placed one slender hand over her heart. “When Cuchulainn is whole, he will love again.”
Brighid didn’t want to destroy the Shaman’s optimistic delusion, so she stayed silent. She knew Cu better than Ciara knew him. She could imagine him healed and returning to his life as one of Partholon’s most respected warriors, but loving again? She thought about how he had looked at Brenna and the joy that had blazed from him. Cu’s soul might heal. His heart was a different matter.
“But one step should be taken at a time. You must not rush the process and get ahead of yourself,” Ciara said.
“And just exactly what is our next step?”
“You mean your next step.”
“No, I mean our. I’m totally out of my element here. It’s like hunting for you, remember? I’ll do it because I have to, but you have to guide me through the steps.”
Children called to the centaur and the Shaman as the two traced their way slowly around the circular camp. Soon they found it impossible to converse without constant cheerful interruptions.
“Shouldn’t you check on the outer perimeter?” Ciara asked, smiling wryly as yet another child’s sleepy voice drifted through the night.
“This time you did read my mind,” Brighid said, thinking that the wind and the darkness would be less annoying than the exuberance of seventy children.
The wind slapped cold and hard against Brighid’s face the moment they left the tight shelter of the tents. The moon’s light was still weak and far away, only illuminating the Wastelands’ bleak emptiness.
“By the Goddess, this is a wretched place!” The Huntress shivered and rubbed her arms.
“It is true that it is harsh, but there is some warmth and beauty here.” Ciara searched the ground around them until she found a thin, oddly light-colored twig that was barely the length of a centaur’s hock. Ciara crouched and gently screwed it into the hard, rocky soil so that it stood on its own, like an anemic sprout. Then she whispered something Brighid couldn’t hear and blew on the twig. It responded by bursting into a white-hot flame that flickered crazily in the wind but showed no sign of sputtering or dimming. Ciara sat, spreading her wings so that she blocked the worst of the wind and trapped some of the flame’s heat. She motioned for Brighid to sit beside her, and the Huntress folded gracefully to her knees, shaking her head in awe at the purity of the flame that was so white it was almost silver.
“What is that? I’ve never seen anything burn that color before.”
“It’s from an oak tree. No,” she said before Brighid could finish forming the question in her mind, “it didn’t grow in the Wastelands. The wind brings them here from the south, and something about our rather intemperate climate changes them from green to white.” She smiled at the burning twig. “I like to pretend that the small dried limbs are a gift from Partholon to us. It was through one of them that the spirit of the flame first spoke to me.”
“An oak—the most venerated of trees—known for divination, healing and protection,” Brighid said, echoing knowledge she had learned from her mother when she had still been young enough to believe in following family and tradition.
“Exactly.” The Shaman’s voice sounded dreamy and very young as she stared into the white light. “A real, living oak is one of the things I most look forward to seeing when we finally enter Partholon.”
Ciara’s idealism made Brighid’s gut clench. What would happen to that joy when she was confronted by the truth of Partholon? Did she not understand that her wings alone would be reason enough for her to be hated and feared?
“But we’re not here to talk about trees or about Partholon.” Ciara pulled her gaze from the flame. “We’re here to talk about Cuchulainn and how you can help him. First, before I give you any details about soul-retrieval, I’d like to know your thoughts. Tell me—if you didn’t have me to guide you—what would you do?”
“Not a damned thing!” Brighid snorted. “I wouldn’t have even known his soul was shattered had you not told me.”
Ciara’s brows lifted. “Really? Nothing within you whispered that there was something wrong with the warrior beyond the normal grief of losing his mate?”
Brighid frowned. “I don’t know…maybe…I did sense something,” she admitted reluctantly.
“And had I not been here, you would’ve ignored the intuition that told you your friend needed your help?”
“No. Probably not.” Brighid moved her hands restlessly. “But I wouldn’t have known what to do! Just like I don’t know what to do now.”
“You take the first step. Stop, center yourself, and listen for that voice within. That voice of instinct and spirit that was breathed to life by Epona when you were born, and still carries the magic of a Goddess’s touch.” Ciara smiled encouragement. “What does your instinct tell you, Brighid?”
“My Huntress instinct tells me Cu needs to be knocked over the head,” Brighid grumbled.
“Then you must not think with your Huntress instinct. Listen more carefully. Find the voice of the Shaman that is carried within your blood.”
Brighid looked sharply at Ciara. “Why are you so insistent that I have these instincts?”
“I already told you, Huntress. I sense it, and I am rarely wrong. Actually my guess is that you do use the Shaman within you, and you use her quite often.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your gift is an affinity for the spirits of the animals, is it not?” Without waiting for her answer, Ciara continued. “The instincts that help you to be such a successful Huntress are the same that will help you heal Cuchulainn’s soul. If it disturbs you to think of the act as one of a Shaman, can you not simply consider the quest as just another hunt?”
The centaur blinked in surprise. “You mean all I need to do is track the pieces of Cu’s soul?”
“Perhaps…” She flashed a small, secret smile at Brighid. “Listen carefully within and tell me.”
Stifling the urge to shake the winged woman, Brighid took a deep breath and concentrated. Cuchulainn’s soul was shattered. How could that be fixed? Instead of throwing up her hands and shouting that she had no damned idea, she took another breath. Think, she ordered herself. Make it a hunt. The prey would be different—instead of a deer or a wild boar, I would be tracking a spirit, which meant I must go where spirits dwell—into the Otherworld, the Realm of Spirits. The Huntress shivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold or the wind.
“I have to track Cu’s broken soul into the Realm of Spirits,” Brighid