by Jayne Castel
Muin was not like him. He had long ago given his heart away to Ailene, and yet the thought of telling her how he felt filled him with cold dread. He would rather face a horde of howling Cruthini than this one woman.
“What if she laughs in my face?” He was not sure he would ever recover from that.
Talor shot him a frustrated look. “Ailene would never do that … she’s too soft-hearted.”
“What if she rejects me?”
“Then you work to win her heart.”
“And if she says she could never love me?”
Talor huffed. “Then you’d know at least and you could get on with your life.” He regarded Muin then with a long, hard stare. “You can’t continue this way, Muin … pining for the lass. It’ll do you no good. Talk to her … before it eats you up inside.”
Muin dragged in a deep breath, looking away. The Hag curse him, Talor was right.
Yards away, Fingal and Ailene were dancing. She swung around him, her dark hair flying behind her like a cloak.
Muin’s breathing hitched. She had never looked so lovely. The glowing fire behind her highlighted her tall, shapely figure, the swell of her full breasts in the sleeveless leather vest she wore, and the curve of her hips accentuated by the flare of her long plaid skirt.
Fingal noticed it too. Muin saw the hunger gleam in the Wolf warrior’s gaze, and the sight made Muin’s hackles rise.
Aye, Talor had a point. He had to act before it was too late.
“Is that cup of mead for me?”
Ailene was out of breath as she hurried toward him, her cheeks flushed from exertion.
Muin plastered a tolerant smile to his face and nodded, holding out the fresh cup he had not yet touched. Unlike Talor, Ailene had the grace to ask. “Aye … drink up.”
Ailene took the mead with a smile. “Why aren’t you dancing, Muin?” she asked before winking. “There are plenty of comely lasses out there dying for you to ask them.”
Muin clenched his jaw. It was an effort not to frown, yet he quelled the urge. “I don’t want to dance.” The words sounded surly, and he immediately regretted them. However, Ailene merely grinned, digging him in the ribs with an elbow. “Well you’re missing out … look how much fun Talor is having.”
Muin did not need another reminder of Talor’s success with women. His cousin was now dancing with two lasses around the fire, twirling each in turn as they laughed and squealed in delight. Talor was wearing a self-satisfied smile as he reveled in the attention.
“He’s welcome to it.”
Ailene made an exasperated sound in her throat before taking a gulp of mead. “Sometimes you’re such an old woman, Muin,” she chided, her eyes gleaming with affection. “How will you ever find a lass to wed, if you stand glowering on the sidelines?”
An old woman.
That was one of Ailene’s favorite insults for him when Muin became socially awkward.
Muin’s belly clenched, although he covered up his reaction with an affable shrug. He did not like that Ailene thought him unadventurous, or that she encouraged him to find a woman to marry. “I’m a terrible dancer anyway,” he muttered. “I think I’ll save the lasses from having their feet crushed.”
In response, Ailene merely laughed.
The sound wrapped around Muin like a lover’s embrace, and he watched her, wishing she saw him in a different light.
The Gateway bonfire burned long into the night. This was the eve that marked the end of the warm months and the beginning of the bitter season.
The nights had drawn in, and the air had a bite to it this evening.
Muin left the smoldering bonfire and walked back toward the north gate of Balintur. Torches burned around the perimeter, throwing long shadows against the high wooden walls.
It was good to have something to celebrate; Gateway was a reminder that despite everything his people had been through of late, life still continued.
In the past three months Balintur had become home. The Eagle stronghold, Dun Ringill, was occupied by the enemy—the invading Cruthini, who had swept across The Winged Isle like a plague over the summer.
Muin’s brow furrowed as he imagined the stacked-stone broch, the high perimeter walls commanding a view of Loch Slapin. He hated the thought of The Serpent—for that was the tribe’s name—defiling his home. The image of their leader, Cathal mac Calum, seated upon The Eagle chieftain’s carven chair in the feasting hall, made his belly clench.
Not for much longer.
They had rallied, had rebuilt their strength over the past three moons. More warriors had joined them from distant corners of the isle. They were almost ready to take on The Serpent again.
Two girls dressed as brownies ran past Muin as he neared the gates. His frown faded at the sight of them. One of the lasses was his wee cousin Eara.
“Goodnight, Muin,” she sang out, before she and her friend burst into fits of giggles. They ran off, their silly red hats and tattered tunics flapping.
Muin’s mouth quirked. Many folk liked to dress up at Gateway as brownies, selkies, and wulvers—magical creatures that inhabited the isle’s loneliest places. The veil between this world and the next was at its thinnest tonight. The souls of the dead were said to walk abroad.
Leaving the last of the revelry behind, Muin entered the village. Part of him wanted to make straight for the hut he shared with Talor, for he was tired. Yet his cousin’s words needled him.
You can’t continue this way.
Instead of veering right, as he usually did, Muin cut left.
It had to be tonight. If he did not tell Ailene what lay within his heart now, he would lose his nerve. He reached then to the bracelet he wore around his right wrist. It was made from braided leather, with small turquoise stones interwoven through it. Ailene had given it to him at Mid-Winter Fire three years earlier.
He had never taken it off since.
He would go to her hut and wait outside till she returned home. It was getting late—she would retire soon.
Muin’s pulse accelerated at the thought of facing her. He had no idea what he would say, how he would put his feelings into words.
Don’t think about it. He bowed his head and plowed on, making his way up a narrow dirt street between rows of large huts. Moonlight bathed the thatch and sod roofs of Balintur, making the village look as if a frost had settled.
Ailene’s hut lay against the east wall—a tiny dwelling. The bandruí lived alone as she had at Dun Ringill. The role of seer was a vital one to their people, revered. Ailene was the only person Muin knew who did not share her dwelling with kin.
He had almost reached his destination, the glow of the torches atop the eastern edge of the perimeter growing nearer, when the sound of voices up ahead made Muin slow his step.
The gentle lilt of a female voice and the low rumble of a man’s.
Muin’s breathing stilled, and he drew to a halt.
Ailene. She must have left earlier. But whom was she speaking to?
Muin moved forward again, cautious now, and stepped into the shadow of the nearest hut. Then he edged closer.
Two figures stood before the entrance to Ailene’s hut. The glow of the torches above outlined the seer’s statuesque form—and the lanky frame of the man that loomed over her.
Muin’s gut clenched. Fingal mac Diarmid.
The pair of them stood close, so much so that they were almost touching. Fingal’s voice was an intimate murmur—a lover’s tone. He spoke so softly that Muin could not make out the words.
Ailene gazed up at him, listening.
Pain gripped Muin’s chest, and he realized he had stopped breathing. Slowly, he exhaled, disappointment crushing his ribs. His stomach roiled, and bile stung the back of his throat.
He was too late. Talor was right, he had hesitated too long, and now another man had claimed Ailene.
The bandruí laughed then, a soft, sensual sound that was a punch to Muin’s guts.
Enough. He did not need to see a
ny more, could not bear to.
Tearing his gaze from the couple, he turned and strode away down the shadowed street.
Chapter Two
All is not Lost
“I’VE NOT FORGOTTEN that night we had together.” Fingal stepped close and gazed down into Ailene’s eyes. Even in the moonlight she could see hunger there. “Isn’t it time we repeated it?”
Ailene drew in a slow, steadying breath. She wished the warrior would step back; he was crowding her. She also wished he would forget that they had lain together—for it was not a night she cared to ever relive.
It had been a low point for her. She’d been upset and had thought Fingal would give her solace—yet he had not.
“Fingal.” She stepped back then, wishing that she was not alone with him. “I don’t wish to repeat it … I can’t offer you more than friendship. I’m sorry.”
Fingal’s lean face hardened, his gaze narrowing. “We aren’t friends, Ailene. If you won’t lie with me again, we’re … nothing.”
The harshness in his voice was like a slap across the face. In an instant he had gone from charming to aggressive.
“Well, I won’t,” she replied firmly, her anger rising. You goose, she chided herself. You should have expected this. “It looks like we’re nothing.”
Fingal stepped back from her, his face thunderous. Ailene was not easily cowed, yet fear did feather down her spine then. She wished Muin or Talor were with her, or Fina. She had been a fool to let Fingal get her alone.
“Fickle bitch.” Fingal spat on the ground. An instant later he turned on his heel and stalked away.
Ailene watched him go, her heart thundering. To think she had worried about sparing his feelings. Fingal did not deserve such worries. The moment he realized she would no longer spread her legs for him, he had turned nasty, revealing his true character.
This is why it’s best to keep to myself. Ailene folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself tight as her vision blurred. Foolish tears. She was not upset over losing Fingal, only that she had lain with him in the first place.
It had been her first time, and it had not been a pleasant experience. He had been over-eager, rough, and there had been no closeness afterward. He had merely rolled off her and promptly fallen asleep. But Ailene had not slept. Instead she’d stared up into the darkness, wondering why men and women spoke of coupling as if it brought great pleasure and joy.
That had not been her experience.
Ailene turned and ducked into her hut. A cluttered yet homely space greeted her. Over the last three moons this hut had become her home, although she missed her hovel at Dun Ringill. Her home there was ramshackle, but she loved her rambling garden and the clutch of fowl she looked after. Here, inside the walls of Balintur, she often felt restricted.
A lump of peat still glowed in the hearth, illuminating the interior of the hut.
With a sigh, Ailene sat down next to the fire pit. Gateway always made her melancholy. She had lost her mother at this time sixteen years earlier. There was something about the turning of the seasons that lowered her mood too—especially when the summer ended and the days grew colder and shorter.
Old Ruith had always loved this time of year and had told her that the spirits spoke clearer between Gateway and Bealtunn.
Ailene’s vision blurred once more as she thought of Ruith. The bandruí, who had taken her in after her mother died, had been irrepressible. Wise, feisty, and proud, the seer had been good to her—and when Ailene had told her she wanted to become a bandruí, she had trained her.
Ruith … how I miss you.
The past couple of years since Ruith’s death had not been easy for Ailene. Living alone, she sometimes succumbed to loneliness.
Ailene rose to her feet and crossed to a shelf that held her most prized possessions. There was a bone-handled knife that had once belonged to her father, Maphan, a bronze bracelet that had been her mother’s, and a small leather pouch containing her telling bones.
Picking up the pouch, Ailene tested its weight. Then she undid the drawstring and poured out the bones onto her palm. The bones bore the symbols of her people. Some were animal symbols, others sickles, arrows and moons. Ailene’s fingers closed over them. They had been Ruith’s gift to her, her dying wish. However, these days she dreaded casting them, dreaded what they told.
A few months earlier, before they had been forced to flee Dun Ringill, she had cast the bones—but she had not done so since. Tomorrow though, Galan—chieftain of her people, The Eagle—would expect her to make a prediction before him and the three other chieftains: Fortrenn of The Stag, Wid of The Wolf, and Varar of The Boar.
Ailene swallowed, her fingers tightening around the bones. She was not looking forward to it.
The last time she’d cast them, she had given three predictions, and all three had come to pass.
The first was that The Eagle would unite with the other tribes of The Winged Isle against the invaders—and they had.
The second was that The Eagle and The Boar would be united through marriage—and they had, for Varar and Fina were now wed.
Her third prediction was that dark times were coming for The Eagle. This one had also come true, for they had been forced to abandon Dun Ringill.
A chill of foreboding slid down Ailene’s spine. Why did she have the sense that the dark times were not yet over?
Ailene poured the bones back into their pouch and deposited it on the shelf. She did not want to give her chief more bad news. But the Gods and the spirit world cared not for her own desires. She was merely a vessel through which they spoke. And tomorrow they would.
“You didn’t speak to her, did you?” Talor’s voice held an incredulous edge.
Muin glanced over at the door, where his cousin had just entered, ducking his head to avoid cracking his skull on the lintel.
Muin scowled before shifting his attention back to the smoldering lump of peat in the hearth before him. “Leave it, Talor,” he muttered. “I’m not in the mood.”
Talor let out a derisive snort and crossed to the hearth, pulling up a stool so he sat opposite. “What happened?”
His cousin’s gaze bored into him, and when Muin glanced up, he saw a stubborn expression he knew well. Talor was like a dog with a bone at times; he was not going to let this be.
Muin sighed a curse and raked a hand through his hair. “I went to see her,” he replied, looking away from Talor. He did not want him to see the look in his eyes when he told him the next bit. “But Fingal was there with her.”
He heard Talor suck in a breath. “Where? In her hut?”
“No … outside it. They were talking and laughing. I knew what would happen next so I left them to it.”
Silence fell in the small dwelling he shared with his cousin, broken only by the gentle crackle of the hearth. Outside, the Gateway celebrations had died off. Most folk would be in their furs by now.
And so is Ailene … with Fingal.
The thought made a sharp pain knife through Muin’s chest.
After a long silence, Talor spoke. “I told you not to wait so long.”
Muin cut him a dark look. “She probably would have rejected me anyway,” he replied, his tone sharpening.
“Well, you’ll never know now, will you?”
“She sees me only as a friend.”
“And now she always will.”
“Enough!” Muin snarled, turning on his cousin. “You’ve made your point.”
“I don’t understand you,” Talor replied, exasperated. “In battle, you’re a force to be reckoned with—and yet when it comes to Ailene, you let fear rule you.”
Muin’s expression turned baleful, yet his cousin didn’t seem to notice. Instead, Talor leaned forward, resting on his thighs, gaze bright. “You can’t give up at the first hurdle.”
“This isn’t a hurdle, you dolt. Fingal mac Diarmid is Ailene’s lover.”
“Is he?” Talor challenged. “I’ve hardly seen them together since we arr
ived at Balintur. Ailene doesn’t have the look of a woman in love.”
“And you’d know such a look would you?”
Talor answered with a smirk. “I do, actually.” He paused before continuing. “All is not lost. Don’t give up until Ailene tells you to your face she doesn’t want you.”
Muin breathed a curse and glanced away. His gut tightened as he realized Talor was right. He could not give up yet. “Sometimes I think you want to see me with my nose ground into the dirt,” he grumbled. “You’ll not rest until I’m a broken man.”
Talor huffed, although when he answered his voice was somber. “No … I’ll not rest until I see you tell Ailene what’s in your heart.”
Chapter Three
Ailene Casts the Bones
AILENE HURRIED ACROSS Balintur, head bowed against the driving rain. Her feet splashed through puddles, and stinging needles peppered the exposed skin of her face and hands.
She pulled her plaid shawl close and wished she had donned something heavier before venturing outdoors. The bad weather had rolled in just before dawn, bringing with it a blast of cold air; a helmet of grey now covered the hills around the village.
Despite the foul weather, men and women still moved about Balintur. There was always something to be done here, and a swelling population of folk to house and feed. Under the shelter of a lean-to, a group of women milking goats caught Ailene’s eye. The animals stood placidly while the women filled large iron pails with frothy milk, much of which would go into making fresh curd and cheeses. The hiss of the rain drowned out the rise and fall of the women’s voices and the odd goat bleat.
The meeting house lay against Balintur’s southern perimeter. A large round structure of stacked-stone with a conical sod roof, it was a recent construction. The four chieftains who currently resided here needed a place to meet in the village, a place where all four were on equal footing. Balintur stood on Eagle land, but Galan mac Muin shared rule here.