“He proved his loyalty, and he still does-both to me and to Clan MacCallan, but that might not be enough to overcome more than a century of hatred.” Elphame met Brighid’s eyes. “You know that prejudice isn’t logical, which is why it is so hard to overcome.” She sighed. “And more left than just that first small group.”

“How many more?”

“The next morning a dozen more men and three women left.”

“Fifteen more people? Just like that?” Brighid snapped her fingers, incredulous.

“They said that now the time was at hand, they, too, could not stomach the acceptance of the New Fomorians,” Elphame’s voice had gone flat.

“But you’d given them their opportunity to leave. They’d chosen to stay. They were sworn to you.”

“They are now forsworn,” Elphame said the word as if it had a bitter taste.

Brighid stared at her Chieftain, thoroughly shocked, as her friend’s expression changed. Elphame’s face hardened. Her eyes became shadowed, and Brighid Felt the echo of a presence that was dark and sticky with evil intent.

“El!” she cried, taking her friend’s arm. Goddess! Her skin was cold.

Elphame clenched her jaw, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. Her lips moved in a nearly silent prayer, and Brighid could see the shimmering of Epona’s power shiver in the air around them. Her friend’s hair lifted, swirling in an almost invisible wind of energy that, with an audible crackle, settled into Elphame’s skin. Brighid’s hand tingled from where it had been Goddess-touched.

“El?” Brighid said, this time more tentatively.

The Chieftain gasped and opened her eyes. When she looked at her friend the shadows within her had, once again, retreated.

“It stirs,” she explained before Brighid could decide whether or not to ask. “Especially when something has made me angry, or when I feel despair. The madness is always within me, lurking silently…waiting. It is only love and truth, along with Epona’s mighty touch, that keep it at bay.”

“Faith and fidelity,” Brighid whispered the motto of Clan MacCallan.

“Faith and fidelity,” Elphame echoed her.

Brighid wanted to ask her more, and she was trying to formulate the right words when they both were distracted as a rider pounded onto the plateau. Though the area was seething with sound and activity, there was something about the man that drew their attention. He slid to a halt in front of Cuchulainn. Brighid could hear his shouts, but couldn’t make out his words.

“Stay with me,” Elphame said, not waiting for her brother’s raised arm to signal that she was needed. Her powerful equine legs were so quick, that in a sprint Brighid was hard-pressed to match her Chieftain’s speed. As the two of them raced up to Cuchulainn, he had already mounted the rider’s horse, and had his head pointed back in the direction of the castle.

“A centaur has just arrived from the Plains. She has an urgent message for Brighid.”

As one, Elphame, Brighid, Lochlan and Cuchulainn rushed to the castle.

“She waits in the Main Courtyard,” the sentry called as they reached the castle’s open gate.

Stomach tightening with tension, Brighid slowed. The centaur stood with her back to them, as if she was consumed with looking at the fountain of the MacCallan ancestor. Brighid was surprised that she could hear the centaur’s labored breathing, and her surprise expanded into astonishment when she realized the centaur’s coat was lathered with flecks of white foam and her body was trembling. It was unheard of for a centaur to show such obvious signs of fatigue. She must have raced nonstop for days to put her in such a state. Then she turned and Brighid gasped.

“Niam!” She hurried to her sister, who stumbled forward and almost fell into her arms. “What has happened?”

“Thank Epona that you’re here,” she said between heaving breaths. “It’s Mother. She’s dead.”

The shock of her sister’s words imploded in Brighid’s mind and she felt her head shaking back and forth, back and forth, as if she had no ability to control it.

“Help me get her to the Great Hall.” Elphame’s voice cut through the white noise of disbelief that ran in Brighid’s head.

Suddenly Niam was no longer in her arms, but being half led and half carried by several of the men of Clan MacCallan, along with their Chieftain and her mate, into the Great Hall. Brighid could only stand there, staring after them, completely unable to move.

A strong, warm hand slid under her elbow and Cuchulainn’s presence registered. “Remember to breathe,” he told her.

She sucked in air like a drowning woman, blinked, and was finally able to focus on the turquoise of his eyes.

“Stay with me,” she said.

“I’m not going anywhere except in there with you,” he told her.

Still holding her arm, he moved forward with her. She stumbled, but he helped her catch her balance and through his touch she could Feel the warmth of his golden light flowing into and around her, surrounding her with a warrior’s strength.

They entered the Great Hall together and moved quickly to the long, low centaur bench Niam had collapsed upon. Wynne ran out of the kitchen, carrying a heavy skin, which she passed to Elphame. The Chieftain uncorked it and held it to Niam’s lips when the centaur’s quaking hands couldn’t support it.

“Drink slowly. Water first, then we’ll get you some wine and something to eat.” Elphame spoke in quiet, soothing tones to Niam. While the centaur drank Elphame turned to one of the wide-eyed clansmen. “Get my mother,” she ordered. And then to another, “Get towels and blankets. Lots of them.”

Brighid felt a stab of panic as she knelt beside her sister. Steam was rising from the equine part of Niam’s foam-flecked body, which quivered and twitched spasmodically. Niam’s human torso was slick and flushed an unnatural scarlet. Her blond hair was darkened with sweat and plastered against her delicate head. She had run herself dangerously past the point of exhaustion.

Suddenly Niam pushed the water skin away from her mouth, choked and coughed. Brighid brushed the wet hair from her sister’s face, murmuring to her.

“Shhh, you’re here now. Focus on being calm…on cooling the heat within your body.”

“No! Brighid, you have to listen!”

Niam clutched her hand and Brighid almost cried aloud at the heat that radiated from her sister.

“Later, Niam. When you’ve rested.”

“No, now!” The centaur spoke frantically, and then more violent coughs consumed her.

“Let her speak.”

Brighid looked up at the sound of Etain’s voice. The people who had gathered in the Great Hall parted so the Chosen of the Goddess could approach. The priestess’s face was serene, but when Brighid met her eyes she saw within them a terrible sadness that made her heart turn cold.

My sister is going to die.

Brighid turned back to her sister and held her flushed hand between both of her own, trying to will strength into her.

“I’m listening, Niam,” Brighid said.

“Mother died this morning, but the accident happened four days ago. She fell into a bison pit. The stakes pierced her.” Niam closed her eyes and shuddered with the horror of the memory. “I knew she was dying. We all knew it. I had to come for you.”

“No! No-that can’t be. We don’t hunt bison in pits. We don’t use stakes.” Brighid shook her head, feeling awash in confusion.

“It wasn’t a centaur pit. It was a pit of human design.”

A terrible, foreboding chill skittered through Brighid’s blood. “But humans do not hunt the Centaur Plains, not without the permission of the herd’s High Shaman.” Which the Dhianna Herd never gave.

“They trespassed and poached, causing the death of our mother.”

Niam had to stop again to cough. This time when she gasped for air afterward her lips were wet with blood-tinged spittle.

“Her dying has driven Bregon mad. Before I left the Plains he had already sworn to take up the Chalice of High Shaman and to lead the Dhianna Herd against any human who dared step foot on the Centaur Plains.”