“See why she makes such a good Shaman, and I would not? I would have described them as insatiable irritants, like the biting black flies of the swamplands,” Brighid whispered to Cuchulainn.
“Or fleas,” Cu said under his breath. “Fleas are small and annoying and relentless.”
Brighid smiled at Cuchulainn, noting that though he still had smudges of weariness beneath his eyes, his expression was animated and he walked by her side with the lithe, easy stride of a young warrior.
Ciara’s voice drifted back to them. Brighid could hear her explaining how each adult New Fomorian was responsible for a group of children, and acted as parent to that group, whether there were blood ties involved or not. Deep in conversation with the Masters, Ciara emerged from the Great Hall into the inner courtyard. Brighid touched Cuchulainn’s arm, holding him back from following the group.
“Let’s let them go ahead without us. I think it would do the Masters good to experience the full force of the children’s curiosity-without us fracturing their attention.”
Cu’s lips tilted up. “I had no idea you had such a capacity for cruelty, Huntress.”
Brighid grinned. But her reply was drowned out by the sound of a terrifying shriek.
“No!”
As one, Huntress and warrior rushed into the courtyard. The huge open square was filled with winged children and dark-clothed guards. The two groups had mingled as the circle of tents was erected, but all work ceased at the sound of the unholy shriek.
“Not the children! It cannot be the children!”
The hate-filled words were screamed from above, and all heads tilted up, staring at the terrible winged form silhouetted against the barred window of a tower room.
“Fallon.” Cuchulainn’s voice had become cold and dead again.
“Embracing the enemy! Embracing the enemy! You sleep with the whore Partholon!” The words were filled with madness and loathing.
Several of the children whimpered, which seemed to thaw the frozen warriors.
“Take that creature to an inner room!” Fagan ordered.
A half dozen warriors jumped to obey their Master. As they rushed past Brighid, Cu moved quickly after them. Setting her jaw, the Huntress kept pace with him.
“This might not be a good idea,” Brighid told him.
Cuchulainn gave no response, and Brighid had no time to prod him further. It took all of her concentration to navigate the winding hallways without knocking over the occasional man or woman. The Huntress frowned and fell behind Cuchulainn. The halls of Guardian Castle had definitely not been fashioned with centaurs in mind.
She slid to a halt at the entrance to the tower stairwell, snorting in frustration at the narrow, winding stone stairs where Cuchulainn had disappeared. If she went up there she might very well have to back all the way down-a potentially dangerous, as well as embarrassing, proposition. She’d wait.
Thank the Goddess she didn’t have to pace past the tower entrance for long. Shuffling feet could be heard, as well as the clank and rattle of chains and deep, muffled voices. Then the laughter began. The sound of it walked up Brighid’s spine and set the fine hairs on the nape of her neck stirring. Madness. The laughter was filled with madness. Brighid had heard it before, when Fallon had confronted Elphame at MacCallan Castle. It had shaken Brighid to her core then, and it had no less of an effect on her now.
A dark-clothed warrior appeared. His sword was drawn and he was gripping the end of a chain. Then another warrior stepped into view. He, too, was armed and holding a taut length of heavy chain.
Fallon emerged from the stairwell. Brighid became very still. She took in the changes in Fallon as if categorizing a new species she might soon be required to hunt. The creature was painfully thin, except for her distended abdomen. Her silver-white hair was in wild disarray around a face that belonged in nightmares. Fallon no longer looked more human than Fomorian. Even after she had been bound and battered at MacCallan Castle, she had been beautiful, but now that beauty had been twisted and sharpened and her pale, bloodless face had reverted to the feral, gaunt images drawn in the history texts. Her wings, though bound tightly to her body by circles of ropes, rustled and fought to unfurl. And her scent was all wrong. She was secreting a pungent, musklike smell that was raw with hatred and rage. Automatically, Brighid drew her dagger as the creature’s red eyes lighted on her and she bared deadly fangs.
“Another MacCallan whore!” Fallon spat. “I should have known that where Elphame’s brother was, there the centaur would follow, just as you did that day when you unjustly captured me.” Fallon swiveled her head to look behind her in an insect-like movement. More mad laughter spewed from her mouth as she bared her teeth. “But you were too late, weren’t you, warrior? Shall I tell you how sweet your Brenna’s blood tasted?”
From the stairwell, Cuchulainn lunged forward, hurling himself at Fallon, but he was restrained by three of the Guardian Warriors as the entire group spilled into the hallway. Brighid quickly moved to Cu, pushing away the dark warriors. In their place she blocked her friend and used the power of her centaur body to keep him from reaching Fallon.
“Cuchulainn! You agreed to let her live until she gave birth to the child!” Keir shouted. He was still standing in the arch of the stairwell, and he, too, had been changed by Fallon’s imprisonment. His eyes were sunken deep in his head and his hair was limp and matted. He still looked human, but he had aged markedly. His wings weren’t bound as Fallon’s were, but he kept them tight against his broad back. He was not chained, either, but a single warrior stood beside him, weapon drawn and ready.
“That’s right. Don’t forget that I am with child!” Fallon hissed, rubbing her abdomen with fingers that had become clawlike.
“We will not forget it!” Brighid snarled back at her, still carefully restraining Cuchulainn. “We will be here to welcome your child’s birth because it will mark the day of your death.”
Fallon’s sly expression shifted and changed. She staggered like she was suddenly too weak to stand by herself. Keir rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her as she collapsed into him.
“Our child! Don’t let them speak of our child, my dearest!” she sobbed.
“Get her away from here,” Brighid said, feeling bile rise in her throat at the creature’s theatrics.
The warriors dragged the two winged creatures down the hall, leaving Cuchulainn and Brighid to watch until they disappeared into a stairwell that led down to the bowels of the castle.
“I had forgotten her evil and her hatred,” Cuchulainn said in a low, tight voice. “How could I have forgotten?”
“Such a creature is unimaginable.” Brighid shook her head in disbelief. “No wonder the Guardian Warriors were willing to shoot anything with wings. I cannot blame them after seeing what Fallon has become.”
“She is a Fomorian.”
“She is the last of her kind. After she gives birth, we execute her and the evil of that race dies with her,” Brighid said.
“I wonder…” Cu said, still staring down the hall.
Brighid watched his face. It had hardened again into the impenetrable, emotionless mask she hadn’t seen for days. She rested her hand on his shoulder-a gesture of friendship she forced herself to make. He had turned into a cold and dangerous stranger, but she met his dead eyes when he turned to her.
“Don’t let her take you back there, Cu. If she does that, she wins. Don’t let her hatred win.”
“We should return to the children,” Cuchulainn said. He turned abruptly, pulling free of the warmth of Brighid’s hand, and without another word retraced their path to the courtyard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In a way Fallon’s disturbance had been a good thing for the New Fomorians. Not that Brighid liked having the children so visibly upset, but she had yet to meet a warrior who could remain detached and unmoved by the sight of helpless young ones who needed reassurance. And the children obviously needed reassurance.