She nodded, relieved beyond words that he was there to assert logic and sanity into a journey that was neither logical nor sane. She knew her time was short-that Bregon might have already managed to drink of Epona’s Chalice-but the fog of exhaustion that was smothering her body and mind told her that questing for the Chalice that night would be futile, perhaps even dangerous.
“I’ll get the firewood,” she said.
Before she could stagger to the tree line Cuchulainn stepped in front of her. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“You’re reminding me of Niam tonight,” he said, studying her with concern.
“Niam?” She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t-”
“Your eyes are hollow. Your skin is flushed and you’re walking like you could fall over at any moment.”
“Niam pushed herself for at least two more days. She probably didn’t stop to sleep or eat at all. And she wasn’t a Huntress. She wasn’t accustomed to exerting herself physically. I’m-”
“You’re exhausted,” he cut her off again. “Take the gelding over to the stream. Let him drink. Let yourself drink. I’ll get the firewood.”
She began to protest, but his next words stopped her.
“Please let me do this for you.”
The night before he’d given himself to her, freely and with such complete intimacy that it had amazed her that the man who had trembled under her touch was the same warrior who had bloodied a sword beside her. Could she not learn to allow him the same access to her? He wasn’t asking to make love to her, but he was loving her all the same. Wasn’t her allowing him the intimacy of caring for her just another kind of surrender?
She bent and kissed him, letting her lips linger on his.
“I’ll take the gelding to the stream,” she said.
He smiled and touched her face. Then he walked off into the darkening forest. Brighid led the exhausted horse to the stream and let him drink his fill before she rubbed him down and then hobbled him and watched him settle down to some tired grazing. Then she stood beneath the crystal waterfall and let it wash the sweat and dirt from her body as she gazed into the black distance that concealed the land of her youth. It was appropriate that her first sight of the Plains was shrouded in darkness.
“What misery are you leading them into, Bregon?” she whispered. “Why can’t you just let her die?”
Cuchulainn came back to find Brighid standing near the edge of the clearing, staring into the darkness. He felt a little prickle of unease. It wasn’t the first foreboding he’d experienced that day. Ever since they’d entered the Blue Tors he’d been uneasy. At first he believed it was a symptom of exhaustion. His Huntress had not been exaggerating when she’d bragged about her stamina. She’d set a pace that would have been impossible for a single horse and rider to match. Not for the first time he breathed a prayer of thanks for his father’s suggestion that he trade off mounts.
But now he decided the unease had little to do with their grueling journey. Before Brenna had been killed Cuchulainn would have pushed aside any hint of intuition or Feeling that could not be explained by something as mundane as exhaustion. Brenna’s tragic death had taught him that it was unwise as well as dangerous to ignore Feelings of any type. He had learned a painful lesson-and he had learned it well. Unlike the day Brenna had been killed he would be vigilant and wise in protecting Brighid. He would not have another love snatched from him. He couldn’t survive it. If something happened to Brighid his soul would fragment into so many pieces it would be impossible to put back together again.
Which was why he kept his sword nearby and his senses alert as he built a fire at the mouth of the cave, unloaded their packs, and simmered the food he hoped would revive Brighid. When she didn’t move from her place near the clearing’s edge his unease increased. When he spoke his voice was unintentionally gruff.
“I thought you didn’t like heights.”
She didn’t respond at first but then her equine coat quivered. The stone centaur she had seemed to be drew a deep breath, became living flesh again. She turned to him. Her eyes were dark and shadowed with weariness and worry, but she smiled and managed a teasing tone.
“Why is it everyone knows that I don’t like heights?”
He shrugged and waggled his brows at her. “I thought it was a well-known centaur thing.” He held a wineskin up and jiggled it so she could hear its heavy sloshing. “I have wine.”
With a sigh she walked slowly into the cave and took the skin from him. Drinking, she looked around. Its opening was spacious. The top didn’t end till well above her head, but the inside didn’t live up to the entrance’s promise of space. The smooth, sand-colored walls looked like they had been formed by a giant’s spoon hollowing out a taste of the gentle tor, but they narrowed to a tunnel in the rear corner that was barely big enough for the clear stream of water. Cuchulainn’s fire licked the walls with flame, changing the brown to gold and orange. As she stared the colors ran together and blurred, so that it seemed for a moment that the walls around them had been turned to flame. She heard a whoosh, followed by a crackling roar that could not have come from the tame campfire. She felt heat blazing against her skin and she closed her eyes on its fury.
“Brighid!” Cuchulainn was at her side, touching her face and smoothing back her still damp hair. “What is it?”
The centaur shook her head, blinking her eyes clear. “I’m-I’m just tired. I need to sleep.”
He led her back to the fire where he had arranged their blankets in a makeshift pallet. When she reclined, letting her legs collapse and fold under her, he handed her a hot slab of meat surrounded by thick slices of bread and cheese.
“Eat first. Then you can sleep.”
She nodded and automatically chewed the food, even though she felt strangely detached from the heat it spread throughout her body. She and Cuchulainn didn’t speak, but their eyes met often-his filled with worry-hers dark with exhaustion.
“Tomorrow,” she said when she’d finished eating. He glanced up from adding more wood to the fire, his look a question. “Tomorrow we must begin the quest for Epona’s Chalice.”
“Then it will be tomorrow. Tonight I want you to clear all thoughts of the Otherworld from your mind. Sleep, Brighid.” He knelt beside her and kissed her gently.
“I may not awaken till well past dawn,” she said, breathing in his scent and touch.
“It doesn’t matter when you wake. I will be here,” he murmured.
Brighid closed her eyes and surrendered her mind and body to the intoxication of sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
If someone had asked Brighid if she’d wanted to dream that night, she would have answered with a resounding “no!” She just wanted to sleep-to give her body time to reenergize so that when she asked more of it later the deep wells of her power would be refilled and available to her once more.
No, she had no interest in dreams that night.
So when she felt herself being pulled from her body, she was more annoyed than alarmed or afraid. Irritated, she opened her eyes to find herself gazing down at her sleeping form. Cuchulainn was still awake and sat vigilantly beside her, staring somberly into the campfire. He looked tired. The lines in his face, that had softened after she’d retrieved his soul, were back. Automatically she reached out to him, but instead of touching him, she was lifted up and up, through the roof of the cave and into the night sky.
The Huntress gasped and swallowed down a terrible rush of dizziness. Oh, Goddess! What was happening to her?
Be at peace, my child. Do not fear.
Epona’s voice! Brighid’s heart hammered painfully in a chest that was clearly more spirit than body. She looked wildly around, but saw nothing more than the fully risen moon that was perfectly round and butter-colored in the clear night sky. As she hung there, trying to control her mixed feelings of awe and panic, she felt her spirit body begin to move. Slowly, at first, she floated north. Below her the Blue Tors were dark and silent. Then her speed increased and it seemed only an instant had passed. She was across the wide Calman River. McNamara Castle sped by her and the vineyards blurred beneath her. She wanted to slow, to control the terrible speed of her journey, but her spirit was in the Goddess’s hands-and Epona was quite obviously in a hurry.