Page 87 of Queen of the Shadow

She nodded. “Yes, that’s it exactly. And you wouldn’t use your father’s power because you would not want to pay the price he would exact from you if you did.”

He met her gaze. “Yes, that’s it exactly.” His expression lightened as he gestured toward the crystal stream and the waiting arch beyond. “Shall we enter the Summerlands?”

Scáthach lifted a brow. “You will not find the sea monster Curruid there.” At his frown she continued, pointing to their right and a grassy path that ran along the bank on their side of the stream, disappearing into a wall of fog. “Curruid will only be found in the Winterlands.” She nodded at the packs he’d already loaded into the cart. “And we should get out our heavy cloaks now.”

Cuchulainn’s brow furrowed. “But it’s warm.”

“Only because of our proximity to the Summerlands. The rest of the Underworld realms are...” She cocked her head to the side, choosing her words carefully. “Let’s just say they’re colder.”

Wrapped in their fur-lined travel cloaks, they climbed into the cart of the chariot. Cuchulainn took the reins and asked, “What’s the stallion’s name?”

Scáthach’s brows shot up. “I’m a little ashamed to admit I don’t know.” The big horse’s neck curled as he looked back at her.

“I think you should name him,” said Cuchulainn.

Scáthach met the dark-eyed gaze of the horse. There she saw intelligence and expectation. She smiled. “Then I shall name him Chance—as this is his chance to alter his future.”

The horse pricked his ears toward her and snorted.

“Good choice,” said Cuchulainn. “So, we head along that path? The one that leads to the fog and not to the beauty and sunlight of the Summerlands?”

“Indeed, but don’t think that the other Underworld realms are devoid of beauty.”

“Hup, Chance!” Cuchulainn clucked to the stallion, who trotted steadily as Cuchulainn guided him to the path. “It’s not all fog and gloom and death in the Underworld?”

“Well, it’s definitely all death in the Underworld, but it is thus in the Summerlands as well. As for fog and gloom, that depends on which part of the Underworld we travel through.” As Scáthach explained, they reached the wall of fog. Chance didn’t hesitate but trotted unflinchingly into it. As they entered the fog, Scáthach heard Cuchulainn draw a deep, quick breath, which he released as they emerged on the other side into a world where autumn reigned.

The path they trotted over changed immediately from grass to bare, hard-packed dirt. The sky still glistened like the inside of an oyster shell but it was muted. The clouds were darker, lower, like it might rain or snow. The temperature also changed immediately from summer to a crisp autumn day. Trees were no longer green-leafed. Those that still had leaves wore the muted colors of fall—rust, ochre, and terracotta.

The land rolled over and wound between hills covered in the deep sage green of autumn heather.

“It doesn’t seem so bad here,” said Cuchulainn. “A little cool, but that’s not terrible.”

“It isn’t bad in the Autumnal Realm,” Scáthach explained as Chance trotted along the road, his hooves making muffled sounds against the hard dirt. “But it is perpetually autumn.”

He glanced at her, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Autumn is a lovely season. Are you sure we’re still in the Underworld part of Annwn?”

Scáthach smiled. “Oh, I’m quite sure. Consider this. Autumnisa lovely time, but it is also meant to be a time of transition. We move past harvest to winter when the land rests, preparing to welcome spring again. Think about how you’d feel if autumn never ended. The only green surrounding you is from evergreens or the muted colors of fall heather. Here nothing blooms. There is never anything newborn or young. There is no warmth. There are very few birds, as eggs will not hatch here. Very few animals, as their young will not be born here. Everything remains as you see it now—no change, day after day, century after century.”

“That would be maddening,” he said.

“It’s meant to be the perfect place for true introspection. Remember I said only the truth can be spoken without repercussion here?”

Cuchulainn nodded.

“It is also difficult to lie to oneself here,” she said. “Self-delusion is definitely a hallmark of the type of spirit who comes to this part of the Underworld, which means it often takes quite a while to break through lifelong delusions, but if it can be done—if a spirit can reflect upon her or his mistakes, unlearn lessons and cruelties—it will be done here.”

“And what if that introspection leads to understanding about themselves and remorse for their mistakes?”

“When a spirit breaks through self-delusion, seesand acceptsthe truth, and is truly remorseful, my mother welcomes them to the Summerlands.”

“When?Do you mean they will all move on to the Summerlands from here?” he asked.

“From the Autumnal Realm, yes. All eventually will be welcomed into the Summerlands.” She paused before she continued. “But from deeper within the Underworld—from the Winterlands?” Scáthach’s lips pressed into a tight line. She shook her head. “No. They do not move on. As it gets colder, darker, more winter-like, the spirits change as well.”

“I think I understand, but could you give me an example?”

“I’ll use Chance as our example,” Scáthach said. “Let’s say he died that day. He didn’t stop in time and ran himself, the chariot, and my daughter into the rock wall and they both died. We know Chance didn’t set out to hurt Uathach, correct?”