Page 2 of Queen of the Shadow

Uathach scoffed and muttered, “That’s not what your students say.”

“Which is exactly why they arestudentsand not fully trained warriors. Now, should I call one of those students to aid me, or will you lower me?” She jerked her strong chin in the direction of the pulley system beside which her daughter stood.

“Sonowyou’re in a hurry? I thought you were composing poetry.”

“Like I said, I am more than capable of doing both.” Scáthach winked at the tall, tawny-haired daughter who looked so much like her, grasped the rope in her gloved hands, and leaped backward off the parapet. As always with the first drop, her stomach lurched, and she gritted her teeth against the vertigo-like sensation. The rope drew taut and swung her back to the thick stone wall of the castle. The soles of her leather boots connected firmly with the wall and she settled into the familiar rhythm of rappelling. As the rope played out and her leaps moved her down the castle wall, the wind whipped against her, and she was glad she’d pulled her hair back into a thick braid so it could not blind her. She wore her usual uniform of black leather breeches and a form-fitting, short leather tunic that had been dyed bloodred and then painted with images of sturgeons, the huge dragon fish who were familiars of her mother.

Scáthach leaped back and down again, barely breaking a sweat. The long, lean muscles of her shoulders and arms bunched and released, working hard to keep her descent somewhat under control—but only somewhat. Rappelling was as close as she could get to flying, and she reveled in the feeling. Mid-leap, Scáthach tossed back her head and laughed—a loud, full-throated sound that unapologetically took up space and commanded attention. She bent her knees and pushed against the exterior castle wall, laughing again. This time her exhilarated cry was caught and amplified by others. When her feet next met the castle wall, she glanced up to see that several of her students lined the westerly tower parapet, cheering her on. In the middle of the group, two huge paws appeared, followed by a blue-gray shaggy head. Standing on her hind legs, the dog poked its head up over the battlement, equal in height to the young warriors. The deerhound’s dark eyes glittered as they watched her. Scáthach’s grin was untamed in its ferocity as the student warriors raised their fists in the air and let loose roars of encouragement with the dog’s enthusiastic barks joining them.

Scáthach was pleased that her students had gathered to watch her rappel down the seaward wall of her castle. She certainly could have walked out of the front entrance, crossed the Bridge of Leaps and the long, raised walkway that traversed the boggy field that surrounded the castle, and climbed down the rock wall to swim the twenty feet that separated the mainland and the stone island on which Dunscáith had been built.

But that would have taken much longer and would not have provided yet another example to her students of the skills she had perfected and they had yet to attempt. As the cheers and barks were carried away by the wind, Scáthach returned her attention to the rope and the wall she rappelled down. Scáthach knew better than to divide her attention when performing a feat. It was something she told her students over and over—cocky arrogance had a time and a place, but neither was during a feat or a battle. As she continued to make her way down to the base of Dunscáith Castle, Scáthach reordered her thoughts.

As her daughter had said, she did not often summon her mother. So when she did, she did so with the solemnity appropriate for the invocation of a goddess. Her leather-booted feet lit lightly on the damp rocks on the strip of narrow beach. She pulled thrice on the rope, mightily, and in just a few breaths, her daughter’s head appeared far above as she gazed down over the parapet and waved acknowledgment to her mother. Scáthach waved back before stepping out of her harness and laying it carefully over one of the larger stones. She took off her thick leather gloves and placed them atop the harness before she turned seaward.

Scáthach strode to the water, stopping when the slate-blue waves washed against her boots. She smoothed her tunic, feeling the rush of expectant nerves that invoking her mother always caused. She loved her mother, but Béfionn was Goddess of the Underworld, Mother of the Dead, Fairest One beloved of bears, deerhounds, and the sturgeons that surrounded the Isle of Skye and the northern sea of Alba. She was as mighty as the great brown bears that ruled the Highlands, fleet as her cherished deerhounds, and fierce as the sturgeons that grew to the size of dragons.

At the water’s edge, Scáthach drew the knife from the sheath at her waist. With no hesitation she slashed the meaty part of her palm, cupping her hand so that the warm blood pooled. She drew in a long, deep breath and on her exhale flung her hand out in an arc before her, spraying the fresh blood into the sea as she summoned her mother.

“Béfionn, known by many names: Geror, Skadi, Bestla, Grid—and countless more—Fairest One, Mother of the Dead, Goddess of the Summerlands, and mighty giantess. Your daughter, Scáthach, calls to you! With my blood and my love, I beseech you hear and answer my invocation.”

It didn’t take long. It never did. The sturgeons appeared first, heralding their goddess’s arrival. The huge, ancient fish swarmed. Rows of silver scutes, the boney spikes that lined their massive backs and sides, glistened as they cut the surface like sea dragons. They circled the water before her, coming as close to shore as their bulk allowed. Scáthach smiled fondly at the enormous fish. The drop-off into the depths of the sea was only a few feet from the slim shore at the base of Dunscáith, so Scáthach strode into the water until it covered her knees, halting at the edge of where it shifted color from slate gray to indigo. The sturgeons rushed to her. She bent and let her fingers caress the boney scutes, smiling as she recalled the countless hot summer days of her childhood when she’d cooled herself by swimming in these very waters, nursemaided by these very fish. The youngest of the sturgeon, called fry, swarmed to her. Like huge, sleek puppies, they wriggled under her fingers. She was laughing at their antics when the water changed, frothing and bubbling several yards offshore. Scáthach sobered and straightened as the goddess emerged.

Though Béfionn was not a water deity, her beloved sister, Cliodna, Goddess of Seas and Waterways, granted her unlimited access to her realm. It was because of this access that Béfionn had become so widely known and worshipped—andit was how Béfionn had met and loved Ardgeimm, Jarl of Lethra, in the distant lands of the Norsemen, ultimately conceiving Scáthach.

Though Béfionn had raised her daughter by herself from the tender age of five, Scáthach would never lose the awe she felt at the sight of her magnificent mother.

Béfionn’s head broke the surface of the roiling waters first, and as the giantess strode toward her daughter, the rest of her emerged. People lauded Scáthach’s beauty, even said she was fairer than the legendary Helen of Troy had been, but she was a pale mortal shadow of her mother’s glory.

The goddess had passed her thick fall of beautiful hair on to Scáthach, who had, in turn, gifted her own daughter with the distinctive mane. It was blonde, which would not have been unusual except for the uniqueness of the color. Béfionn’s hair was the exact tawny color of the lethal predators from Greece called lions. Scáthach would always remember the pair of lions that had been gifted to her father not long before her mother had taken Scáthach away with her. The beasts had been magnificent and dangerous. They had mesmerized young Scáthach. Her father had stroked her hair and called her his lioness.

Béfionn surged from the sea, wild tawny hair flowing down to her waist. Her head was crowned by an abundance of pearls woven together with slender silver wire. The goddess was naked from her waist up. Her high, shapely breasts were covered only by another thick waterfall of pearl strands and the tattoos that proclaimed to the world that no matter by what name they knew her, this goddess was of Alba, where her people permanently painted their life stories onto their bodies.

Foreigners called Béfionn and her people Picts for the pictures inked onto their skin. The goddess, her daughter, and her people preferred Albidosi—named after their land. Béfionn’s tattoos began on her face, with the phases of the moon across her forehead. A sturgeon had been inked around her neck, its sharp boney scutes looking like knife blades, its tail swimming up from between her breasts. Each shoulder was painted with the heads of mighty deerhounds, the dogs most precious to the goddess. Her arms were almost solidly blue with their tattooed knots and spirals that hid Ogham symbols of power. More spirals decorated her ribs. A delicate triple row of blue interlocking chains spanned her waist, and on her knees were snarling brown bears, so that as the goddess strode forward they appeared to be stalking whomever she approached. Her back told more stories, scenes from the Underworld, blooming heather that symbolized Scáthach’s birth, and an elaborately decorated shield.

Béfionn and her daughter shared a resemblance that was striking, though the goddess’s beauty was otherworldly. Scáthach, too, was tattooed, but not yet as extensively as her mother. Her right arm was inked with swimming sturgeons that flowed over her shoulder to dive into a waterfall, which became an eternal spiral, completely covering her back. Down her left side was a deadly spear, decorated with Ogham power symbols, which met the tail of the huge, running deerhound that covered her left leg.

Both women had the same sculpted strength—a strength that was intensified by the pictures that decorated their skin as well as the delicacy of their features. Béfionn’s nose was fine and straight. Her jawline was sharp until it curved into the softness of her long neck. Her lips were full and bow-like. Béfionn’s eyes were another feature she and her daughter shared. Large and catlike, they were an unusual color that was neither green nor brown, but a mixture of the two that changed with their emotions.

The goddess’s waist curved with the generous flare of her hips, low around which were fastened more pearls and a skirt of silver chains, perfectly matching those that were tattooed there. As she continued to stride toward Scáthach, the snarling jaws of brown bears peeked between the glistening strands of silver and pearl.

Her giantess mother halted only a few feet from her daughter, towering above Scáthach. Scáthach bowed low. She did not have to look to know every warrior on her battlements had also bowed reverently to the goddess.

“Rise, beloved daughter. It is a pleasant surprise to hear and answer your call.” Béfionn’s voice was sweet and melodic, much like Scáthach’s. It often surprised mortals that a goddess and a warrior could be so soft-spoken. Woe to anyone who underestimated either because of it.

Scáthach straightened and looked up at her mother. “Thank you for hearing and answering my call, Mother. I have a gift for you, though that is not why I summoned.”

Béfionn’s eyes glittered with anticipation, turning mossy against a backdrop of fawn. She waved a hand and her body, which was almost on a height with her daughter’s lofty castle, shrank to match Scáthach’s impressive, but much more mortal size. She closed the short distance between them, wading through her swarm of sturgeons to warmly embrace Scáthach. “Did you say gift?” Béfionn asked with a teasing smile.

Scáthach pulled the heavy leather pouch from her belt and emptied its contents into her hand. The silver necklace glistened in the morning light, a triple row of exquisitely fashioned chains held together with a clasp that had been crafted in the shape of a sturgeon.

“It is lovely.” Her mother’s smile widened. “I gladly accept your gift.” The goddess bent so that Scáthach could slip it over her head. When she straightened, it nestled perfectly above the pearls where it looked as if the sturgeon inked into her skin had emerged from it. “Shall we sit?” Béfionn gestured to one of the several boulders that rested against the base of the huge rock on which Dunscáith had been built. Without waiting for her daughter’s reply, the goddess took Scáthach’s hand and led her to the seat. Then, still holding her hand, Béfionn asked, “Now that you have softened me with this beautiful gift, tell me why you have summoned me.”

Scáthach met her mother’s gaze. “Father is dead.”

Béfionn went very still. She turned her gaze seaward. “How?”

“He was killed leading a raid. It was an arrow wound.” Scáthach studied her mother’s face as she spoke. “The messenger told me it was a quick death.” She had to pause to clear the grief from her throat. “I was surprised Inga allowed word to be sent to me.”