not directly. It is too obviously painful for the warrior to hear or to speak of his lost love. I had no idea she was anything but a beautiful, gifted Healer.”
“She was—but she was also much more.”
“Apparently there is much more to Cuchulainn, too, if the rogue he used to be had the ability to look beyond the physical and find the love that hid beneath.”
Ciara’s words sounded like high praise, but her expression had become strained and serious.
“Is that a bad thing, Shaman?”
“It complicates things.”
“Explain,” Brighid said.
Ciara brushed a long strand of dark hair from her face and took her time in answering. “Love comes in many forms. For instance, the love we feel for our family—even within that dynamic, love differs. Do you have siblings?” she asked suddenly.
Caught off guard by the question Brighid’s voice was strained as she ground out a clipped, “I do” between her narrowed lips.
“Then you understand the difference between the love you feel for a brother or a sister, and the love you have for your parents.”
The Huntress nodded quickly, hoping Ciara would not follow that line of questioning. She needn’t have worried, the Shaman’s voice had taken on an almost singsong quality as she settled into explaining the nuances of love.
“As within our family, the love between a man and a woman can take many forms, too. Some love passionately but rashly, and like a fire that burns too hot their love is consumed quickly, often leaving cold ashes in its wake. Others do not feel the intense passion, their love is like embers smoldering year after year, keeping their lives warm and fulfilled. There is love that is almost exclusively of the mind or of the heart or of the body. It is rare, but sometimes all three mix.”
“All three mixed with Cuchulainn and Brenna.”
“And that is the most difficult from which to recover.”
“Will you still try to help him?” Brighid asked.
“Of course, but—”
“But what?” Brighid prompted.
“But I am not what he needs. Cuchulainn has drawn within himself. He needs the aid of a Shaman who cares for him on a much more personal level.” She sighed softly. “I respect the warrior, and perhaps in time I would be able to become close enough to reach his innermost emotions, but I’m afraid that Cuchulainn’s need is more immediate.”
“His father is High Shaman of all Partholon. Couldn’t he help Cu?”
Ciara pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“Why not? Midhir is a great Shaman.”
“Remember the different types of love?”
Brighid nodded impatiently.
“To heal from the wound of Brenna’s loss, Cuchulainn will need intimacy with a Shaman that is different from that of a parent’s bond to a child. He will need someone who can reach more of the lover and less of the child,” Ciara said.
Brighid frowned. “That makes no damned sense at all. The only Shaman Cu would come close to trusting is his father. There is no one else—except for you.”
“Is there not?” Ciara smiled cryptically. “I can feel our Goddess’s hand upon the warrior. I do not believe Epona will leave him bereft of aid, but the ways of Epona are often mysterious and difficult for us to fully understand. Until another Shaman comes forth, I will attempt to ease the warrior’s suffering.”
Ciara’s words made the hair on the nape of Brighid’s neck prickle, and when she spoke her voice sounded more clipped than she intended. “Waiting for maybes or what-ifs is ridiculous. Do what you can to help Cu. But I wouldn’t say anything to him about it.”
Ciara bowed her head in gentle acknowledgment.
Chapter 9
That first night’s campsite came to order with amazing efficiency as children worked quickly and skillfully in little groups supervised by the adults and the eldest of the youngsters. The poles from the litters were easily transformed into the skeletons of tents and then covered securely with stretched goatskins. The makeshift shelters grew in a tight circle around a flat, rocky area Ciara had chosen carefully. The front flap of each tent was left open.
“I understand the circle formation,” Brighid had murmured to Cuchulainn as he joined her where she was skinning the half dozen hares she had snared while the tents were being erected. “But why leave the front of them open? Seems like it’s just inviting this Goddess-damned cold to freeze them while they sleep.”
“Watch,” Cu grunted, taking a rabbit and unsheathing his knife.
Before the Huntress could tell Cu just how irritating his uncommunicative company had become, Ciara’s voice rang clearly through the fading day.
“It is time! Bring the fire starters.”
With squeals of joy and more chattering than Brighid thought was good for anyone’s nerves, the winged children fluttered to the litters. Filling their arms with what looked like large clumps of hard gray dirt, they swirled around their Shaman, who pointed to an area in the middle of the flat rock. Gleefully the children heaped their armloads into a growing pile. When the mound was almost to Ciara’s waist, she motioned for the children to stop, and they fell blissfully silent as they, and the adult New Fomorians, formed a loose circle around their Shaman.
The Huntress sent Cuchulainn a questioning look, but he only repeated his earlier command of “Watch.”
Brighid frowned at him, but her eyes were drawn back to Ciara, who smiled at her people before turning to the west. Following her lead, the circle rustled and likewise faced the setting sun. Brighid’s hands, which had been efficiently skinning one hare after another, stilled as Ciara spoke.
Gentle Epona, blessed Goddess, You close another day,
changing the warmth of sky to dark of night.
Facing the way of fire, we hearken and pray,
shield us from darkness, cold and fright.
Ciara’s wings unfurled and the air around her shimmered with the tangible presence of Epona. She lifted her arms, and her voice was magnified and filled with happiness and confidence and the power of a Goddess’s touch.
Blazing force of cleansing fire,
dancing flames of Epona’s light;
hear me, for our need is dire,
aid me in this evening rite.
Gift of flame, O fiery flower,
ever glowing in my sight;
fill me with our Goddess’s blessed power,
touch
