Page 49 of Queen of the Shadow

Scáthach held her daughter tightly. “You did. Cuchulainn is inside the shelter with a festering spear wound in his thigh.”

“I knew it! I knew my vision was true when you weren’t back by dinner, especially with a storm gathering.” Uathach stepped back and held her mother at arm’s length. “You’re unwounded?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Tabiti joined them. “It is good to see you well, Queen of Shadow.”

“I am, indeed, but Cuchulainn is not. His leg wound is in need of our healer’s care.” Scáthach gestured to the lean-to where the horses and wagon waited. “I had to leave two of the mead barrels in a pine grove not far from here.”

Tabiti’s eyes flicked to Uathach. “Yes. We found the barrels.”

“And we—” Uathach’s voice broke. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but still a small sob escaped before she was able to continue. “We found where you’d fought. We followed the trail of dead warriors to the grove, and found the barrels as well as the bloody ax.”

“Are all of the intruders dead?” Tabiti asked sharply.

“Yes.”

“The trail of death we followed.” Uathach paused and shuddered. “Was it the work of the berserker?”

“It was, but Cuchulainn is himself now.” Scáthach looked into her daughter’s red-rimmed eyes and the bruises beneath them and saw remnants of terror there—the terror of knowing she’d foreseen her mother’s death by bloody ax and had then ridden up on proof that the vision had quite probably come true.

She pulled Uathach into her embrace again. “Little Fry, your vision was accurate. Cuchulainn shielded my neck from the ax, and in return his thigh received a shit-covered spear through it. He needs to get to the castle and our healer quickly.”

“Was it Aife’s men again?” Uathach asked, still wrapped in her mother’s embrace.

“Not her men, but Aife is responsible,” Scáthach said. “I’ll explain it all back at the castle. We’re in no danger at the moment.”

“The guard and I will harness the horses to the wagon,” said Tabiti.

Scáthach nodded her thanks to Tabiti before she released her daughter. She cupped Uathach’s cheek with her palm. “All is well.”

“Thanks to Cuchulainn,” Uathach said.

“Yes. Thanks to Cuchulainn.”

Uathach turned her head and kissed her mother’s palm before she walked into the little shelter.

“Well, go on,” Scáthach told the deerhound who vibrated at her side. “Greet them.” Barking happily, Leannan raced to the Shadow Guard, accepting their pets and praises as her due. Then the Queen of Shadow followed her daughter into the shelter.

Cuchulainn had pulled himself into a sitting position. Except for two spots of color over his high cheekbones, his face was sallow and beaded with sweat. A chill skittered down Scáthach’s spine. She didn’t need to touch him to know his wound had begun to fester.

“Uathach.” Cuchulainn’s smile was warm. “It is good to see you this morning.”

At first Uathach said nothing. She went to Cuchulainn and crouched beside him. She took his hand, bowed her head, and lifted it to her forehead, pressing it there as she said, “Thank you for the life of my mother. I cannot repay such a gift, but know you have my gratitude and my sword, should you ever need it.”

“You owe me no repayment.” Cuchulainn smiled and patted her hand. “I’m honored to serve the Queen of Shadow.”

Cuchulainn refused to be carried to the cart, so the Shadow Guard hovered nervously around him and Scáthach as she helped him stand. Then, with him leaning heavily on her—more so even than the night before—they moved slowly to the waiting wagon. There Scáthach overrode his second refusal and commanded her guard to lift him into the back. Just that simple motion had his face draining completely of color and his teeth gritting against the pain.

They rolled up blankets to prop around his wounded leg, trying to give it some stability for the bumpy ride to come. Then Uathach insisted on driving so Scáthach could stay in the rear with Cuchulainn.

Cuchulainn squeezed his eyelids tightly closed as the wagon bounced over another rut in the road. Scáthach leaned so that she could press her hand against his forehead. She frowned at the heat she felt there. “Tell me true. How bad is it?”

He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and glassy, but his voice was steady. “The pain is bad.”

“I meant the festering of the wound. Can you tell how bad it is?”

“It won’t kill me.” The corners of his full lips lifted. “It will make me sick.Verysick. But I’ll recover in time to resume the learning of feats with the rest of your students.” The wagon lurched over a rut in the road and Cuchulainn gritted his teeth to stop his moan of pain. “Perhaps you should tell me another story,” he said after he’d taken several breaths.