The warrior chuckled and stretched. “There are definitely some good points about being off by ourselves. One is that our ears aren’t constantly bombarded with the voices of the young-be they winged or furred.”

She sighed and took another pull from the wineskin. “On that point you and I are in complete agreement.”

The wine and Cuchulainn’s good humor had worked its magic. She wasn’t feeling so self-conscious and nervous; actually, she was relaxed and a little sleepy. So she started talking.

“You were right. I was alone a lot when I was young, but it wasn’t because I was a loner. It was because it seemed that everyone around me wanted something from me. It was just easier for me to be alone.”

“Everyone?” Cuchulainn prompted when she fell silent. “Even your brother and sister?”

“Like Elphame, I’m the firstborn. Niam was several years younger, and she and I were never close. She cared about luxuries and gazing at herself in any and all reflective surfaces. I cared about avoiding our mother.” Brighid’s brow wrinkled. “I didn’t understand then that what she was doing was finding her own way to avoid Mother.”

“It was always like that with your mother?” he asked.

She sighed. “Almost as far back as I can remember, though when I was very young, and my father was still alive, she was less controlling and more-” she struggled to find the right word “-more normal. After he died it was like the coldness that had always shadowed her took over completely.”

“What about your brother?”

“Bregon and I were nearer in age, like you and El. As children we were close, even though it used to confuse him that I didn’t want to spend time with Mother. He idolized her. In turn, she ignored him. I always expected him to sour toward her, to see what a user she was, but he never did. Instead he began resenting me. Especially after…” She stopped talking, like her words had run out. Brighid stared into the fire, remembering. In the crackle of the flames she could almost hear the small, frightened voice from her past, and see the terrible red sunset of that long ago day.

Cuchulainn’s touch on her arm made her jump, and her eyes swung back to his, wide and dark in her suddenly pale face.

“What happened?”

She opened her mouth and words that had remained unsaid for years rushed out. “It was near the end of my training as a Huntress. I was about half a day away from the herd’s campsite. No one knew I was there. When I saw the wagon tracks I thought I’d use them as a training exercise. I’d follow and see what they led me to, all the while reading the story they told. I was already unusually good at tracking animals.” She moved her shoulders apologetically. “I was drawing on my affinity with animal spirits, though I wasn’t consciously aware of it. So I was particularly interested in tracking the wagon. It was pulled by animals, but technically it wasn’t an animal. I thought it would be more difficult to read. Plus, it had left the road and was cutting through a cross-timbers area of the Plains, which was rugged and harder to track. Then it started to rain. Just lightly, but I remember that I liked the added element of difficulty. When the hoofprints mixed with those of the wagon’s it was easy to tell that they were the tracks of centaurs. Five of them.”

Brighid met Cuchulainn’s eyes and she gave a dry, humorless laugh.

“I’d wanted a story to read in tracks-something difficult-and that was exactly what I was granted. Only it wasn’t the reading of it that was difficult. That was clear, at least to me. I suppose Ciara would say that I should thank the ability that runs innately through my blood for that clarity. That day I didn’t feel much like giving thanks.” She stopped speaking, and tilted the wineskin against her lips.

“What story did the tracks tell you?” Cuchulainn asked softly.

She glanced at him, and then looked away, back into the fire. “They told me that the five centaurs had chased the wagon. That the horses that were pulling it had panicked, and that the centaurs purposefully herded the stampeding team toward the timberline and the cliff that the creek and time had eroded. Then I didn’t need to read the tracks anymore because I heard her. I followed the sound of her cries as I slid down the side of the cliff to where the wagon had overturned, spilling out its driver, as well as the bolts of brightly colored cloth that she had been bringing to the centaur herd for trade. I remember that most of the cloth was dyed rich jewel tones-reds, blues, emerald greens-so when I found her at first I thought that the bottom of her body was swathed in yards of ruby-colored linen.”

Brighid shook her head, her eyes far away, seeing that day in the past.

“The wagon had rolled over her, crushing her body just below her rib cage. She lay there on the ground, the rain mixing with her blood, and she was still alive. She was crying. When she saw me she tried to drag herself away, begged me not to hurt her anymore. I told her I didn’t want to hurt her. I don’t think she believed me, but when she moved the bleeding got worse. A lot worse. Like something within her had snapped and broken loose. She knew she was dying and she didn’t want to be alone, even if it meant breathing her last breath in the arms of a centaur.” Brighid lifted her eyes from the fire to the warrior beside her who was so silent and attentive. “Oh, Cu, she was just a girl. She said she’d snuck away from her merchant train and come alone to trade with the Ulstan Herd to prove to her parents she could do the work of an adult, but she’d gotten lost. Then the centaurs-young males, she said, had surrounded her and scared the horses and laughed and whooped while they ran her over the cliff. Then they’d left her alone in the rain to die.”

Brighid took another long pull from the wineskin, forcing the trembling from her voice. It was important that she tell the story clearly-that he understand everything.

“She clung to me. There was nothing I could do for her except hold her and be with her at the end. She kept saying, over and over again, ‘Tell Mama not to be mad at me. Tell her I’m sorry that I’m late.’ Afterward I cared for her body quickly. The rain was heavier, and I didn’t want to lose their tracks.”

“You followed them?” Cuchulainn asked.

She nodded. “Yes, I followed my brother and his friends back to our home. In my heart I’d known it had been his tracks from the moment I’d found them. But I didn’t want to believe…I didn’t want to think that…” Her body shuddered and she spoke between gritted teeth. “I tracked him home and I watched them laugh and make merry, as if nothing had happened. When I dragged him before my mother and confronted him with what he had done he said that the silly human girl should have controlled her animals better. That’s what he said, Cu. In front of my mother, the High Shaman of our herd-the centaur who should have been exemplifying honor and integrity.”

“She did nothing?” Cuchulainn’s voice was rough with emotion.

“She said nothing. She did much more than that. From that day on her attitude and actions toward my brother changed. She no longer ignored him-she went to the other end of the extreme. My mother petted and spoiled him outrageously. His friends were awarded her favors, too.” Brighid’s lip curled in disgust, making it clear what kind of favors her mother granted her brother’s young friends.

“I went back the next day to get the girl’s body. I was going to try to find her parents…take her back to the mother she’d died crying out for…but all I found was a burned shell. My mother wouldn’t speak of it, but I knew she’d had it done. It wasn’t long afterward that I left the Dhianna Herd. Since then I have wandered the Plains, staying as far away from my herd as possible. When I heard Elphame wanted volunteers to rebuild MacCallan Castle I turned to the north and let the call carry me to her.”