Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“You’re a long way from the Sidh,” said Max.

She nodded, absently handing him the towel and sitting on the edge of the bed as though wrestling with a host of conflicting emotions. At length, she simply shook her head and stared at the worn red rug.

“I came here for you,” she said, smiling sadly. “Lugh first sent me after your father was murdered. When you sailed to Blys, I followed. It took me a year to catch up. When I finally found you in Prusias’s Arena, you were cloaked in a metal skin and a demon’s mask, but it made no difference. Bragha Rùn fought just like my Max; he had the same style and genius. I’d have known it was you just by listening.”

“I remember,” Max breathed, recalling his bloody contest with Myrmidon. “I was nearly finished when I saw you in the stands. You inspired me to get up. And I remember the woman in a black veil at my father’s funeral. She slipped away before I ever saw her face. Why didn’t you just come to me directly?”

“I was forbidden to speak to you,” she replied. “But I could not help myself at the funeral. You were so broken, Max. I had to touch you, embrace you, and remind you who you are. Lugh was angry. He was angrier still that I let you see me in the Arena.”

“Why?”

“You are the son of Lugh the Long-Handed,” she answered, gazing at him. “You are a prince of the Sidh. But I am not a princess. I was born a mortal, and it is only by the High King’s grace that my spirit was ferried to his lands and I was blessed with the life eternal. My lord believes I disobeyed him because my interest in you is personal. He would never approve of such a match. As punishment, he banished me from Rodrubân for one year. But even as I went into exile, I heard disturbing rumors, whispers that the Atropos had risen anew and that your name had been written in the Grey Book. I returned to Rodrubân and petitioned the High King to let me protect and watch over you as best I could. He agreed, but insisted on one condition.”

“What is it?” asked Max.

Scathach stood from the bed and walked toward her shadow, gazing at it as though it were a stranger trapped within the painted planks.

“The condition was simple,” she said, her fingertips touching the shadow’s. “If you ever discovered my identity and addressed me by name, I would forsake eternal life. This has happened and I am mortal once again.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” said Max, standing up. “You didn’t mean to reveal your identity. You didn’t do anything wrong!”

She gave a rueful smile. “It does not matter. The rules are the rules, and this shadow says I have broken them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My name means ‘shadow’ in my native tongue,” Scathach explained. “When I was reborn, the High King declared that I had left the mortal world behind and must therefore relinquish a part of my mortal identity. My name puzzled him; he thought it was strange—even unlucky—for one person to possess two shadows. Thus he offered me this choice: I could keep my name or my shadow, but not both. I chose to keep my name, and from that moment I cast no shadow … until now.”

She turned and examined Max’s stunned and downcast face.

“Do not grieve for me,” she said sternly. “I knew the risks and accepted them.”

“But it’s just a brooch,” said Max, aghast. He pulled it from his pocket, tempted to break the thing in two.

Scathach smiled. “Do you really believe I’d delay pursuing that assassin just to recover some bauble? The High King himself made that brooch for you, and it is very special.” Coming over to him, Scathach took the ivory ornament and held it on her palm as though it were an exquisite, even living thing. With a finger, she traced its Celtic sun.

“It is not an easy task to travel between this world and the Sidh,” she remarked. “There are few paths and their gateways are rarely open. Many years may pass before one appears, and even then its presence is fleeting, a precious hour or two before it fades.”

“My mother used one,” said Max, remembering. “She left us without even saying goodbye. When I found her again, she said she’d had no time for explanations; the gateway was her only chance to help me in the future.”

“She was right,” said Scathach. “For most, the gateways are the only way to cross from one realm to the other. But other means do exist. The Kestrel was one. This brooch is another. It is very precious, Max, for it can open a gateway to Rodrubân. Should you receive your death wound, this will spirit you to the Sidh and the halls of your father.”

Max’s face darkened. “The Sidh is not my home,” he muttered. “And Lugh is not my father. He barely even acknowledged me when I came to Rodrubân. I’m just his offspring, Scathach, not his son. And my mother was nothing more to him than a broodmare. You’re the only one from the Sidh who has ever tried to help me, and how does the ‘High King’ reward you? He takes your immortality away!”

“I understand your anger,” said Scathach gently, setting the brooch down and taking Max’s hands. “But the Sidh is your home. The old gods keep their own counsel, Max. Their minds can be hard to fathom and they do not always show affection as mortals do. But the High King does love you in his way. He has done more for you than you guess.”

“Not as much as you,” said Max bitterly. “You’ve sacrificed everything.”

Scathach’s eyes flashed. “I’ve sacrificed nothing!” she said proudly, releasing his hands and pacing about. “I regret only the foolish way I broke my bargain, not the bargain itself. Am I to mourn my mortality? What is death to me? A warrior craves honor and excellence, not a measure of mild years. Those who cringe at death are half dead themselves; they forever keep to the shallows of life!”

Following this outburst, Scathach fell silent. She was breathing hard and looking more fierce and beautiful than Max had ever seen her. He was deeply moved and went to kiss her, but she backed away like a skittish foal.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“But why not?” asked Max, blinking. “I—I thought you had feelings for me.”

“I do,” said Scathach, closing her eyes as though the confession pained her. “But I saw you. I saw that girl come to your tent tonight and the two of you holding hands. She kissed you. You embraced her. And I will never surrender my dignity, not even for you.”

“But you don’t know what it is you saw,” Max pleaded. “Julie and I, we’re not together. She loved me once and I tried to love her back, but my heart was someplace else. Julie’s getting married, Scathach—she’s leaving Rowan. She only came to say goodbye.”

Anger and indignation faded slowly from the warrior maiden’s face. She looked away. “You say your heart was elsewhere,” she murmured. “Where was it?”

“It was with you!”

A tear ran down Scathach’s cheek. Exhaling, she took Max’s hands once again and contemplated him with a look of such open, sincere affection that no words were needed.

“It’s not easy for me to love or trust,” she said at length. “You must be patient with me. I have trained many great warriors, and to a man, they were fierce and strong. They were also haughty, brutal, and selfish. It was never enough that I taught them the feats that made them legendary. They wanted more, expected more as though I were some awestruck girl from their homelands. Many knocked at my door and I turned each away, but I learned a bitter lesson in the bargain.”

“What was that?”

“The proudest men are the least secure,” she replied. “And many are apt to turn private failures into public boasts. Some of the warriors returned to their comrades and kingdoms and claimed many things. When I first heard the stories, I was furious. I named them liars, but no one cared. Eventually, I stopped caring, too. The stories were told and the damage was done. I thought my heart had closed forever.