a more than adequate measure of comfort. The Huntress wondered silently whether the strength of the fire was because of Ciara’s affinity for the spirit of flame or the right mixture of goat dung.
“A little of both,” Ciara said, joining the Huntress.
“Are you practicing Shaman mind reading on me?”
The winged woman smiled. “No, of course not, but I have always been good at reading expressions. Your face did not hide the question on your mind.” She gestured at the neat pile of fuel. “It burns well, and it lasts long. But the truth is that my presence intensifies its natural attributes. Were I not with the camp, it would still be good fuel.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “But because I am with the camp it is excellent fuel.”
“You’d be good to have along on a cold winter’s hunt,” Brighid said.
Ciara’s laughter made the flames leap and crackle. “Bringing fire is the only way I would be helpful on a hunt. I’m hopelessly inept at tracking, and I cannot bear killing of any kind. I even dislike harvesting grain or pulling wild onions from the earth. You would find me a poor hunting companion.”
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.
