“I’m not worried about not liking Midhir! By the Goddess, Cuchulainn, your father is centaur High Shaman of all of Partholon!”

“You don’t need to be nervous, Brighid. Our father will like you,” Elphame assured her, shooting a frustrated look at her brother. “Da’s wonderful. You’ll see.”

Brighid felt like she was moving through a dream as the three of them made their way around the back of the castle to the rear entrance to the family quarters. Before they entered the family wing, the Huntress stopped and stared at the young sun where it had just risen over the eastern castle wall.

“Where is Niam?” she asked quietly.

“After Mother anointed her body I ordered that she be kept in the small room off the infirmary. Her funeral pyre has been built on the extreme southern edge of the castle grounds. I thought that you would want it facing the direction of the Centaur Plains,” Elphame said.

Brighid nodded. “After we speak with Midhir I would like to light the pyre.”

“Of course. I’ll send word to the Clan to make ready.”

“The Clan?” Brighid asked woodenly.

“Your Clan. They would not let you stand beside your sister’s pyre alone.”

Brighid said nothing, only let out a long breath. Her eyes were sad and resigned. Then she straightened her shoulders. “Let’s go speak to your father.” She led the way into the castle, her hooves making a lonely, muffled sound against the smooth marble floor.

The first thing Brighid noticed about the opulent guest chamber was that the bed that usually sat atop the huge circular dais had been replaced by a large centaur pallet. The second thing she noticed was the imposing centaur who stood behind Etain’s chair, talking in a low voice to the Chosen as she was being properly coiffured for the day. He was tall and had the thick, magnificent build of a mature centaur warrior. His coat was a deep bay, shading to black around his hocks. His thick dark hair was worn long, and tied back with a leather thong. As soon as they entered, Etain waved her handmaidens away and stood to greet them. She took Brighid’s hands in her own, and the Huntress felt a surge of warmth and comfort pass through the High Priestess’s gentle touch.

“I knew you would recover and be stronger than you were before,” she said, studying the Huntress carefully. “And now let me introduce you to my beloved.” She stepped to the side and the centaur moved to stand next to her. “Midhir, my love, this is Brighid Dhianna, MacCallan’s Huntress.”

Brighid placed her fisted hand over her heart and dropped gracefully into the low bow of respect centaurs showed for their High Shaman.

“I have been eager to meet you, Brighid Dhianna.” Midhir’s voice was deep and powerful, and it reminded her very much of Cuchulainn, as did the strong, handsome lines of his face and broad shoulders. “The death of your mother was a shock, and the loss of your sister a tragedy.” Then he turned to his son and pulled the warrior into his embrace. “It has been too long since last I saw you, my son.” He smiled sadly at Cuchulainn. “Your loss, too, has been great. I ached for your pain and for the shattering of your soul-and I rejoice now that you are whole once again.”

“You have Brighid to thank for that,” Cuchulainn said, after returning his father’s warm embrace.

“I think before it is all over, we will all be much indebted to this young Huntress,” Midhir said.

Brighid thought the all over sounded disturbingly ominous.

“What news have you of the Dhianna Herd?” Cuchulainn asked.

“It is not good. I hear nothing.”

Elphame sucked in a breath of surprise. “Nothing, Da?”

The centaur High Shaman shook his head, his face as grim as his deep voice. “The Dhiannas have severed trade lines with Partholon, as have the Ulstan and Medbhia Herds. I know that they have gathered far in the southwestern part of the Plain.”

“The Dhianna winter grounds,” Brighid said.

“Yes, and I can get no word of their activities. The herds’ High Shamans apparently have banded together and are expending quite a bit of power to keep their activities private, although it doesn’t take much guesswork to realize that they must be, at the very least, arming themselves against outsiders. From the Otherworld all I can receive are disjointed images of anger, death, paranoia-all oddly wrapped in smoke, and an unclear, flame-colored light.” The great Shaman shook his head and looked visibly disturbed. “Smoke and shadows…I get nothing more clear than that and an occasional glimpse of a lone centaur.” Midhir paused and his eyes widened with sudden understanding. “He is a young, golden warrior, who reminds me very much of you, Brighid.”

“It is my brother, Bregon.” Brighid’s stomach felt ill.

“Yes, I see that now. He is the impetus behind their actions.” His kind eyes met Brighid’s. “What your mother began, he is trying to finish.”

“Can you tell if he’s become a High Shaman?” Brighid asked.

“I don’t sense that power in him. Not yet. But Shaman blood runs thick in your herd’s veins.”

“Da, what do the centaur runners say about the herd activity?” Elphame asked.

“This is what is most disturbing,” Etain said, twining her arm through her husband’s. “We have no word at all. None of them have returned from the Centaur Plains.”

“Several Huntresses have also left their posts, avoiding me and any of my warriors,” Midhir said grimly.

What he left unsaid hung heavy in the air around them. A centaur would not lie to Partholon’s High Shaman. No matter his or her allegiance, their bond of respect for Midhir would not allow it. Obviously the centaurs who were joining Bregon’s revolt were judiciously leaving Partholon so as not to be confronted by the High Shaman of all centaurs. And the fact that none of Midhir’s loyal runners had returned from the Centaur Plains meant that they were either being held there against their will. Or they had been killed.

Centaur against centaur…centaur against human…It was those nightmarish thoughts that swam through Brighid’s tumultuous mind. This was her responsibility. She was a Dhianna centaur. With her mother’s death, leadership of the herd shifted to her shoulders, and the weight of it seemed to press into her soul. It didn’t matter now that she had yearned for, and then chosen, another path in life. Brighid swallowed down the bitter taste of fate that rose thick in her throat.

“Midhir, will you help me journey to the Otherworld and drink of Epona’s Chalice so that I may become a High Shaman?” she said grimly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“He cannot.” Etain’s clear voice was a spark that sizzled in the silence following Brighid’s request.

“What do you mean he cannot?” Cuchulainn said. “A High Shaman always guides another on his or her quest to find Epona’s Chalice.”

“You should have paid more attention to your teachers when they attempted to educate you about the Otherworld, my son,” Midhir said, tempering the harshness of his words with a quick smile.

“Mairearad should have guided Brighid on her Otherworld journey,” Etain said.

“But my mother is dead.”

“She could still guide you,” Etain said softly.

“No! I won’t accept her guidance. It won’t come without a price, and I know it will be too costly-for my soul as well as for the Dhianna Herd.”

“The spirit guide must be one who is closely tied to you, through blood or lifemate bond,” Midhir explained. “Though I am Partholon’s High Shaman, I cannot usurp that position.”

“I will have to find the Chalice on my own,” she said slowly. And as she spoke the words she felt a chill of despair at the prospect of the lonely, dangerous ordeal ahead of her. “My brother is the only blood relative I have left to me, and it is his position I will assume if I become High Shaman. He would not aid me in taking it from him.” This is impossible, Brighid told herself. Becoming a High Shaman is difficult enough. Alone I will have little chance of success. But I have no choice, and I must get used to being alone. If I succeed I will return to a life that breeds loneliness.