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.
She shook her head and laughed softly to herself. It had taken her tracking Elphame the night she had gone missing, and then carrying Cu’s wounded sister and the warrior himself on her back during the stormy return to the castle, before he had begun to trust her. Brighid’s full lips tilted up. She shouldn’t have forgiven him so easily for his distrust, but the warrior was damned hard to dislike when he turned on his charm. He was, as his sister had often called him, an incorrigible flirt.
Women had been drawn to him like bees to fragrant flowers, although comparing the virile man to a flower was laughable. He was tall, with the athletic build of a warrior approaching his prime. The Huntress didn’t usually consider humans attractive—they were typically too small to catch her interest, even though her beauty guaranteed her attention from males in general, be they human or centaur…or New Fomorian, she added silently, recalling the appreciative glances she’d received from Curran and Nevin. But she had noticed Cu. How could she not? Like his sister, he had an aura that was larger than life.
Though, unlike Elphame, his body was completely human, he carried himself with a confidence and pride that said to the world, Bring it on! I can handle anything! And it wasn’t an empty boast. Cuchulainn was an incredibly gifted warrior—stronger, faster, more skilled with a claymore than any warrior she’d ever known, and that included centaurs.
But his confidence was tempered by his sense of humor. Cuchulainn knew how to laugh at himself—an attribute that served to keep his arrogance from becoming boorish and unbearable. His laugh…Brighid’s smile widened. He used to laugh with such boyish exuberance!
It was the memory of boyish laughter that stayed with Brighid as the night waned—as she awakened the groggy Cuchulainn so he could take his turn watching over the camp—and as she settled herself into the tight confines of the tent she shared with the warrior and quickly drifted to sleep amidst thick bedding that was still warm from Cuchulainn’s body and scent.
It began as so many of her dreams did—with her watching the wind roll over the tops of the tall grasses on her beloved Centaur Plains. In her dream it was early spring and the plain was colored with wildflowers in magnificent full bloom. The light green of the prairie was infused with bursts of lavender and aquamarine and saffron. In her sleep she felt the soft breeze caress her face, so different from the obnoxious wind of the frigid Wastelands. On the Centaur Plains the wind soothed, and brought with it the seductive fragrances of verdant grass and wildflowers. She breathed deeply and allowed her dreaming self to soak in the scents and sounds of her homeland.
On the wind she heard laughter. It came from behind her and she instinctively turned toward the sound. She smiled, noting that she was dreaming of one of her favorite places, an area of crosstimbers that was not far from her family’s summer settlement. She followed the laughter along the lazy Sand Creek that ran musically through the middle of the shady grove of oak and ash and hackberry trees. Brighid trotted around a gentle curve in the creek and came to an abrupt halt. Sitting on the bank with his bare feet in the clear water, was Cuchulainn. He was laughing.
Brighid must have made some unintentional sound of surprise, because he swiveled at the waist and looked over his shoulder at her.
“Brighid! I wondered if I might see you here.” He waved for her to come closer. “Join me. The water’s cold, but so clear and sweet that it’s worth