Page 40 of Queen of the Shadow

“Because people believe having a god as a parent is so wondrous.”

His gaze flicked to her. “Indeed. When I was a child, I could best any boy my age, and most several years older as well. They all envied me. They all wished their fathers were gods.”

When he said no more, she asked, “And what did the child Sentanta wish?”

“The same thing the man does—that he actually had a father rather than a patron god.”

Scáthach saw that his cheeks had reddened and she looked away as she spoke, not wanting to embarrass him further. “Does Lugh not visit you?”

“When it suits him, which is not often. I’m grateful for that.”

“Why? No. Forgive me. I pry. You need not answer,” she said quickly.

He combed his fingers through his hair and sighed, then finally looked at her. His amber eyes appeared much older than the face that held them. “I don’t mind talking about it. I think you actually understand.”

“Well, I understand being the child of a god,” she said.

“I’m grateful that Lugh does not seek me out often because he is only interested in one thing about me—the prophecy foretold by the druids when I was a child.”

“That your deeds will give you everlasting fame and your name will live forever, but your life will be short,” Scáthach said when he’d been silent so long it didn’t seem he would speak the prophecy.

His brows lifted. “You know the prophecy.”

Her smile was wry. “Only because the bard sang about it.”

“I’m surprised he got that much right. He exaggerates,” said Cuchulainn. He sighed again. “Lugh delights in the prophecy. He knows if my name lives forever,hisname will also live forever.”

They drove on in silence for some time while Scáthach thought about what to say to him, or even if she should say anything. Lugh was God of the Sun, affectionately called Lugh of the Long Arm by warriors because of the strength and accuracy with which he threw a spear. He was a powerful deity whose moods were well known as mercurial. Did she really want to involve herself with how he treated his son?

She glanced at Cuchulainn and saw the misery in his expressive face. Sometimes his strength and warrior’s prowess made her forget how young he was—barely older than Uathach, though her daughter seemed decades older than her nineteen years.

“You may choose your own fate,” she said softly.

His gaze snapped to hers. “It is a prophecy.”

She shrugged. “Prophecy, fate, divination, prediction, destiny—they are all the same. And they can all be changed if you are willing.”

“Willing?”

“To walk away from the life planned for you,” she said.

“That would upset Ulster almost as much as my father,” Cuchulainn said grimly.

“Yes, but what about Sentanta? Would it upset him?”

He turned to face her, allowing the horses to continue plodding along the road without his guidance. “The truth?”

“Yes. The truth.”

“The truth is it wouldn’t upset him at all. Sentanta would like to be a fisherman or a farmer whose home is filled with children and dogs, and the only time he fights anyone is if he has to protect his family.” He blinked several times, as if waking from a dream, and then grinned at her. “I’ve never said that aloud either.”

“And now that you have, perhaps you will consider doing more than think about it,” she said.

“But would you not be angry because that would be a waste of your training?”

“No.” She met his gaze steadily, wanting him to understand the truth she was telling him. “Every feat you master makes you a man who is more and more skilled at protecting his home, whether that home is Ulster or a fisherman’s roundhouse.

“Sentanta, you do not have to live the prophecy, but to change it you must be willing to change your life. So, what you must decide is whether your happiness is more important than your father’s and perhaps even Ulster’s.”