the pile ignited. Flames blazed cheerfully, casting dancing winged shadows against the tents as the adults called for their children and the circle dispersed. The clatter of pans announced they would soon be ready for the Huntress’s catch, but Brighid could not take her eyes off the Shaman.
Ciara remained where she had been at the end of the invocation, standing so close to the fire that Brighid thought it likely her clothing would catch. Her head was bowed and her eyes were closed, and Brighid could see that her lips moved silently. For a long moment Ciara stood there, statuelike in her concentration. Then, slowly, she raised her head and opened her eyes, meeting the Huntress’s curious gaze with her own clear, guileless one. Brighid was the first to look away.
“You know, you could tell me more than ‘watch’ or ‘you’ll see’ when I ask you questions about…” Brighid gestured vaguely at the fire and the encampment.
“I think you should get the same experience I had,” Cu said.
“Which is?”
“Surprise. No,” Cu raised a hand smeared with rabbit blood, cutting off the Huntress’s snort of annoyance. “I’m not doing it to be irritating. I want your honest reaction to them—to this.” He met her gaze. “I trust your instincts, Huntress, better than I trust my own.”
Brighid opened and then closed her mouth. Cuchulainn was damned hard to talk to. One moment he was distant and evasive, the next he was disarmingly honest and almost like the Cu she used to know. It was as if he had become an incomplete picture of himself. His responses were off, and he knew it. The warrior’s soul is shattered.
“Maybe your instincts are still trustworthy. Maybe you just need to call them back to you, and start believing in yourself again,” Brighid said haltingly. She felt out of her element trying to counsel the warrior. She’d rather take him out on a long hunt and have him work himself into exhaustion chasing elusive prey, than try to advise him on matters of his soul. And from his silent response to her words and the lack of expression on his face as he returned to skinning the hare, he’d probably rather she knocked him over the head and be done with it. But she knew that what was wrong with Cu couldn’t be fixed through the physical realm as surely as she knew that if he didn’t find a way to heal he would continue to fade away. That would hurt Elphame, and Brighid didn’t want her Chieftain and friend to know the pain of losing a family member. Brighid knew the pain of that kind of loss all too well.
She glanced at the warrior. His face was set into what was becoming its typical expression of stony withdrawal. Perhaps it was the talk she’d had with Ciara, but the contrast between Cuchulainn now and Cuchulainn just two moons ago suddenly made Brighid heartsick. She remembered clearly how he used to laugh and joke easily, and how his very presence could enliven a gathering. Even when she’d first met him and thought him insufferably arrogant she had envied the dynamic aura he radiated.
“Stop looking at me like that.” Cuchulainn’s voice was as expressionless as his face.
“Cu, I hate it that you—”
“Ciara says we’re ready for the rabbits now!” Like a winged whirlwind, Kyna swirled up to them, Liam close on her trail.
“Next time could I go with you to hunt? I could help. Really I could. Really.” Liam’s eyes blinked enthusiastically as he hopped from one taloned foot to the other.
Brighid told her face not to frown. This was exactly why Huntress’s rarely had offspring. They interrupted when they shouldn’t and made entirely too much noise.
“To hunt hare, you must be very quiet, Liam,” she said severely.
“Oh, I am! I can be! I will. Just watch and see, I will,” he assured her, still dancing from foot to foot.
“You’re never quiet, Liam,” Kyna said with disgust.
“I am so!”
“You are not!”
“I was quiet during the evening blessing,” Liam said. His wings rustled as he fisted his hands and raised his chin defiantly.
“Everyone was quiet during the evening blessing.” Kyna rolled her eyes.
As the two children bickered, Brighid looked helplessly at Cuchulainn. The warrior met her gaze briefly and Brighid thought for a moment a shadow of good humor flickered through his eyes.
“Kyna, I left the gelding tethered with the goats,” he said nonchalantly.
Looking a little like a baby bird, the girl instantly swiveled her attention to him. “But he doesn’t really like the goats. They’re too small and they bother him.”
Brighid thought she knew exactly how Cu’s gelding felt.
“I should check on him,” Kyna said determinedly.
Cuchulainn lifted one shoulder. “As you wish.”
“Liam, you take the rabbits to Ciara,” Kyna ordered, tossing the basket she had been carrying to the boy before she hurried away. Then she threw over her shoulder, “That’s probably as close as you’ll get to catching a rabbit!”
Liam scowled after her. “I can be quiet.”
“To trap rabbits, you must be fast, too,” Cu said. “Isn’t that true, Huntress?”
“Definitely,” Brighid said.
“Then watch me! Just watch me. I can be fast!”
And as he scooped up the skinned rabbits and glided quickly away from them, basket clutched to his narrow chest, Brighid had to admit that the boy really did move with amazing speed. He’d never be quiet, but he certainly was fast.
“By the hot breath of the Goddess those children are annoying! How have they not driven you crazy?” Brighid asked, staring after the boy.
“You learn to tune them out. After a while, it’s like they’re not even here.”
Brighid’s gaze snapped back to Cu. He had crouched down and was wiping his blade clean on a small clump of frostdampened moss. His voice was again dead and detached. He stood up and sheathed the blade. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the camp.
As Brighid settled herself comfortably near the brightly burning campfire and accepted a bowl of thick stew from an eager young server, she thought that even though Partholon was prosperous and thriving, there were many things Partholonians could learn from the New Fomorians—especially about traveling in comfort. The winged people had little, and their land was stark and harsh, but she had rarely experienced such a cozy, harmonious campsite.
The cold, ever-blowing wind had been neatly blocked by the sturdy design of the goatskin tents, which fitted snugly in a warm circle around Ciara’s blazing fire. Every so often someone would feed the fire with another chunk of what one of the winged women had said was a mixture of dried lichen and goat dung. The fodder explained the vague scent that drifted with the smoke, but it was much less offensive than she would have thought—and it accomplished its job. The fire burned hot and steady.
Dinner had been put together as quickly and efficiently as had the tents, and in an amazingly short time everyone was sitting near the fire or within the warmth of the open-fronted tents, sharing a robust
