be a simple thing to snap her leg.
The mountains were no better than the land they bordered. Red and intimidating they looked like silent sentinels, which, oddly enough, wasn’t a positive connotation. But maybe mountains were supposed to be intimidating and awe-inspiring. Brighid had little experience with such terrain. The only landmark she could use for comparison was the Blue Tors, the soft, rolling hills that separated the northwestern edge of the Centaur Plains from the rest of Partholon. The Tors didn’t qualify as actual mountains, even though they appeared impressive when compared to the flatness and open freedom of the Centaur Plains. They definitely weren’t anything like the looming red barrier of the Trier range. The Blue Tors were round and so covered with thick, flourishing trees that from a distance they appeared to be a hazy sapphire color. Where the Tors were welcoming and filled with greenery and wildlife, the Trier Mountains were the exact opposite. Brighid eyed the hulking Triers uneasily, once again glad Cu and Ciara had heeded her advice and not tried to take the children through the dangerous hidden pass.
From behind her the shared laughter of two young girls drifted on the endlessly restless wind. The Huntress didn’t need to look back to know what she’d see. Little wings unfurled to almost skim the ground, the girls would have their heads together, giggling with delight over…over…Brighid snorted. Over the Goddess only knew what! How those children could find such joy and blatant happiness when all that surrounded them—all that they’d ever known—was the dismal Wastelands and a struggle for life that would have been daunting for an adult centaur was beyond Brighid. And they were mere children! It amazed her as much as it confused her.
“You’re looking almost as pensive as the warrior,” Ciara said.
Brighid glanced over at the winged woman who had matched her gliding pace with the Huntress’s steady gait.
“That can’t be a compliment.” Brighid jerked her head sardonically at the pole-straight back of Cuchulainn. “I can’t imagine a gloomier traveling partner.”
The warrior had consistently kept ahead of the group so that, even though he led almost one hundred gregarious travelers, he had spent most of the day alone. He spoke as little as possible, and rarely interacted with them. By midday Brighid had given up trying to engage him in conversation and she had decided—reluctantly—that she preferred to travel on the outskirts of the children’s jubilation rather than in the dark cloud that shrouded Cuchulainn.
Ciara’s smile was as warm as her voice. “It was meant as neither compliment nor insult. It was simply an observation, Huntress.”
Brighid acknowledged the winged woman’s words with a slight nod. “Actually I wasn’t thinking about Cu. I was thinking about the children. They’re doing well. Much better than I anticipated,” she admitted.
Ciara’s smile widened. “I told you they were special.”
More happy laughter drifted to them on the wind. Brighid snorted. “They’re aberrations!” Ciara’s bright look instantly faded and Brighid realized her unintentional slur. “Now it’s me who must explain. What I meant was not an insult,” she said quickly. “I admit I have not spent much time around children—a Huntress’s life rarely includes a mate and offspring. But what little I know of them did not lead me to expect such…” She trailed off, searching for the right word before concluding, “Optimism.”
Ciara’s face relaxed back into its familiar, open expression. “It would be difficult for them not to be filled with optimism. Their every dream is coming true—our every dream is coming true.”
As usual, the Huntress spoke her mind. “You cannot believe that returning to Partholon will be an easy thing.”
“Easy is relative, don’t you think?”
Brighid raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Consider, Huntress, how it would feel if your people had been living for over one hundred years in a barren, dangerous land with demons in your very souls—demons that were slowly, methodically destroying you, as well as those you loved. And then, unbelievably, you survived it. What wouldn’t seem easy after such a life?”
“Ciara, Partholon is a beautiful, prosperous land, but you must remember that there are many types of dangers and many ways to destroy a soul.”
Ciara met and held her gaze. “With Epona’s aid we will survive this transition.”
Brighid studied Cuchulainn’s rigid back. Sometimes survival could be crueler than a quick, painless end.
Ciara followed the Huntress’s gaze, and as if reading her mind she said, “The warrior’s soul is shattered.”
Brighid’s eyes jerked back to the winged woman, but she said nothing.
“May I ask you something, Huntress?”
“You may ask. I cannot promise to answer,” Brighid said curtly.
Ciara’s lips tilted up. “It is not my intention to pry—or to offend. But as a Shaman it is difficult for me to watch another’s suffering without attempting to…” She hesitated, moving her shoulders restlessly.
“He won’t accept your help,” Brighid said bluntly.
“I realize that. But there are ways a Shaman can be of aid whether or not the subject is particularly willing.” At Brighid’s narrowed gazed Ciara laughed. “I can assure you that I harbor no ulterior motives, and I would not intrude upon the warrior’s privacy.” Then her expression sobered. “But he is in such pain I cannot stand by without at least attempting to give him some relief.”
Brighid felt the truth of Ciara’s words settle deep within her. “Ask your question, Shaman.”
“What was Cuchulainn like before the death of his lover?”
The Huntress raised her brows, taken aback by the question. She had expected Ciara to ask about Brenna or about her death, or even about how Cuchulainn had reacted to the murder, but Brighid hadn’t expected the winged woman to ask about before.
Reacting to Brighid’s obvious surprise, Ciara lowered her voice to be certain none of her words carried on the wind. “Sometimes, when fate has been too harsh and the trauma of life’s personal tragedies, illnesses, or crises are more than can be borne, a person’s soul literally fragments—disintegrates—and pieces of it are lost in the Realm of Spirits, leaving the individual feeling broken…lost…not all there. At first it is a defense mechanism to help us survive that which would otherwise destroy us. But the person is still…” She struggled to put her understanding into words.
“Still damaged?” Brighid supplied.
“Exactly.” Ciara smiled appreciatively. “You have the instincts of a Shaman, Brighid.”
The centaur’s expression flattened and her violet eyes narrowed. “You are mistaken.”
Ciara did not falter or flinch under the Huntress’s glare. “You will find that I am rarely mistaken. Perhaps it is because of my affinity with fire, which I have always thought of as a purifier not a destroyer, but my instincts do not fail me. Even before I met you, I dreamed of the coming of a silver hawk, one of the most powerful of the spirit guides.”
“I do not have a spirit guide. I am not a Shaman.” Brighid’s voice was steel.
“We shall see, Huntress,” Ciara said softly before shifting the subject back to the warrior. “As you said, a shattered soul causes the person damage. And if the pieces of the soul do not rejoin…Imagine an invisible, gaping wound that refuses to close and then begins to fester and putrefy. That is what happens.”
“And you can fix that?” Brighid asked sharply, forcing herself to push aside the mixed feelings of irritation and panic Ciara’s comments had evoked.
“Not always. Sometimes the soul does not wish to heal.”
“What happens then?”
“Often suicide. Sometimes