by Jayne Castel
Splashing through a particularly large puddle, Ailene winced. Her new fur-lined boots were soaked through, as was the hem of her skirt.
She ducked into the meeting house, pushing a curtain of sodden hair out of her eyes, and ran straight into a man’s broad chest.
Ailene’s breath gushed out of her, and she stumbled back. She would have fallen if strong hands had not grasped her upper arms and pulled her upright.
Her gaze shot up, and she stared into a familiar pair of iron-grey eyes. “Muin,” she gasped. “I’m late.”
“I know,” he replied, a crease forming between his dark eyebrows, “I was coming to find you.”
It was then that Ailene realized she was the last person to enter the meeting house. Everyone else was seated upon stools around the central hearth—they were all watching her.
Ailene swallowed. “Apologies,” she greeted them. “I overslept.” She glanced back at Muin to see that his frown had deepened. He looked almost disapproving. “Well, last night was Gateway,” she muttered.
She was surprised the four chiefs and those seated with them were so fresh-faced. Fina, seated at Varar’s side, looked radiant—her golden skin burnished by the glow of the fire before her.
They were all here: Galan—his wife, Tea—and two sons Muin and Aaron sat to her right; followed by Wid mac Manus—his wife, Alana—and their only surviving son, Calum. They lost their youngest in the Battle at Bodach’s Throat.
Tadhg mac Fortrenn sat directly opposite, flanked by his wife, Erea, on one side, and his two daughters on the other. Ailene noted that Tadhg was not wearing his stag’s head mantle this morning, a decoration that made the man even more intimidating than usual.
The last of the four chieftains seated before the fire was Varar mac Urcal. Tall, dark, and brooding, a small silver hoop earring glittering from his left earlobe, The Boar chieftain was a man Ailene was wary of. Varar exuded raw sensuality and had an arrogance that often rubbed the other chieftains up the wrong way. However, Ailene’s friend Fina had fallen deeply in love with him, and they were now wed.
Seeing them seated together shoulder to shoulder, Ailene found it hard to believe they had ever been enemies. She envied their love, their happiness. After her recent experiences, she couldn’t imagine finding such joy for herself.
Varar’s sister, Morag, usually attended these councils, but she had just given birth to a baby boy two days earlier—it had been a difficult birth, and Morag was still confined to her furs.
“Come forward, Ailene,” Galan greeted her with a smile. “We’ve just started.”
Ailene peeled off her wet shawl and hung it up by the door. Then she approached the fireside.
Meanwhile, Muin took his seat in between his father and brother, Aaron.
“So, as I was saying,” Galan said, shifting position on his stool. “Before we make any plans, we need to be clear on what we want the next year to bring.”
“That’s easy,” Varar mac Urcal replied, his voice edged with aggression. “Every Serpent warrior on this isle must die.”
Galan cast the younger chieftain a quelling look. “Really? Could we not just drive them out, send them back across the water?”
“And give them a chance to strike back?” Wid asked, his face stone-hewn. “I agree with Varar. They invaded, brought war and death to this isle. They need to pay.” The loss of a son had aged Wid. His dark mane had streaks of white through it, and his face bore lines of care that had not been there before the intruders arrived.
Silence fell in the meeting house, while the four chieftains exchanged wary glances. They were no longer at war with each other these days, although the good relations were still new and these councils were often tense.
“Well then,” Tadhg said, shattering the tension. “If the goal is to wipe these invaders off our isle … the next question is when do we attack Dun Ringill?”
“It should be before Mid-Winter Fire,” Galan replied.
“Are we ready?” Muin spoke up. Surprise filtered through Ailene as she watched Muin meet his father’s eye. He rarely spoke up in meetings, preferring to let Galan take the lead.
The Eagle chieftain frowned, his dark brows knitting together. “Almost.”
“But the Long Night’s just over a moon’s cycle away now,” Muin pointed out.
“Aye … but if we attack any later, we’ll be doing so in the snow,” Wid spoke up. “Not ideal fighting conditions.” The Wolf chieftain nodded to Galan. “I agree … let’s hit Dun Ringill before the weather worsens.”
Tadhg cleared his throat then. “Before any plans can be made, any decisions taken, a seer should read the bones. Let’s see what the bandruí has to say.”
It went quiet inside the meeting house; everyone had shifted their attention to Ailene, their gazes expectant.
Drawing in a deep breath, Ailene withdrew the telling bones from the pouch at her waist. A space had been cleared for her before the hearth, and she knelt there.
Ailene poured the bones into her palm. They rattled like chattering teeth, a sound that usually reassured her.
This morning, however, it just made her nervous.
Muin had looked at her before as if she had slept in out of laziness and lack of care. But the truth was she had barely slept all night. Her confrontation with Fingal had put her on edge, and then worries about this council had caused her mind to race. Eventually, she had fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber near dawn, and had awoken to find herself late.
Ailene closed her eyes and cast the ‘telling bones’, scattering them across the dirt floor before her.
The silence around her deepened, as it always did when she cast the bones.
Ailene exhaled slowly and opened her eyes, her gaze traveling to the floor.
For long moments she studied the bones, a chill sliding down her spine as she did so.
Gods … not again.
“Ailene,” Galan spoke up, his voice edged with concern. “You’ve gone pale, lass. What is it?”
Ailene sat back on her heels and placed her palms flat on her thighs. This was exactly what she had been dreading.
Swallowing, she met Galan’s gaze. “I have both good news and ill news.” she said. “Which would you like to hear first?”
“The good news,” Wid spoke up. “If you’ve got something unpalatable to share, it might make it easier.”
Ailene nodded. “Very well.” She gestured to two bones that had fallen close to her, overlapping each other. “The mark of The Boar and that of the rising sun.” Her gaze shifted to Varar mac Urcal. “This is an auspicious sign for your people.”
Varar’s dark-blue gaze held hers, and he inclined his head before nodding.
“And what of this ill news?” Tadhg mac Fortrenn spoke up. Like many others here his gaze was wary as it settled upon her. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
I make them uncomfortable, Ailene realized. They both respect and fear me.
She glanced right at Muin. He was watching her steadily. Ailene dropped her gaze then, shifting it to the center of the scattering of bones. “The mark of the Eagle,” she said finally, “has fallen next to the sickle and The Hag.”
A breathless hush followed her words. And then Aaron, The Eagle chieftain’s youngest, muttered a curse.
Galan cast Aaron a censorious look before leaning forward. His features tensed, making him look even more hawkish than usual. “So, it’s as before,” he mumbled. “More dark times ahead for The Eagle.”
Ailene held his gaze. “Aye.”
Galan sat back and raked a hand through his long hair. Then he loosed a long breath. “I’m beginning to dread these sessions, lass.”
Ailene drew in a sharp breath, her chin lifting. “I might be wrong.”
“You haven’t been so far,” Varar spoke up. “From what Fina tells me, you have been uncannily accurate.”
“She has,” Galan confirmed. He exchanged a look with his wife, Tea. “I suppose we should rethink our plans to take back Du
n Ringill before Mid-Winter Fire then?”
Tea’s proud face tensed, her full mouth thinning. “Aye … with such a foretelling we should be wary.”
“Should we concentrate on An Teanga instead?” Wid asked, scratching his bearded jaw. “The signs are good for The Boar. It seems the right time to take back their stronghold?”
A long pause followed. Those around the hearth exchanged looks, some wary, others hopeful.
“It makes sense,” Tadhg spoke next. “The bulk of The Serpent’s strength now lies at Dun Ringill, but if we take back An Teanga, they will be isolated, surrounded.
All gazes swiveled to Varar. Ailene noted that The Boar chief had wisely said little till now, waiting while the others talked the idea through.
“If Galan agrees, then so do I,” he said after a pause. His gaze met Galan’s across the hearth. The Eagle chieftain stared back. Unlike moons earlier, when the two men had been enemies, there was no animosity now.
“Taking back An Teanga seems the wisest course of action,” Galan admitted. “I’ll not plan an assault on Dun Ringill until the spring.” He cut Ailene a glance. “Depending on what the bones tell us.”
“The Boar will be at your side, whenever you decide to take back your fort,” Varar answered. He shared a look with Fina before continuing. “Our people are united now. Our fates are entwined.”
Galan nodded, a smile softening his hawkish features. “In the meantime, we will strengthen Balintur’s defenses. If The Serpent launch an attack on us here, we must be ready.”
“How will you take An Teanga back?” Wid asked Varar, his brow furrowing. “We don’t know how many defend the fort, or how.”
“I think it’s wise to send out a scouting party first,” Varar replied. “I’ll take a small group south by boat. When we return, we’ll plan a campaign.”
“I’m coming with you,” Fina spoke up before raising a hand to silence her husband’s protest. “Don’t bother to argue.”
“As will I,” Muin added. “And Talor will expect to be included as well.”
Ailene suppressed a wry smile. As he was not a chieftain’s son, Galan’s nephew was not here to raise his hand. However, she knew he would be furious not to be included in the scouting mission.
Varar met Muin’s eye across the room, before his mouth lifted at the corners. “It’ll be good to have you and Talor with us,” he replied.
Across from The Boar chieftain, Galan spoke up once more. “When will you depart?”
“Tomorrow at dawn,” Varar answered. “The sooner we find out how heavily defended An Teanga is … the sooner the fight to retake this isle can begin.”
Chapter Four
An Honest Conversation
“AILENE … WAIT!”
HALTING her step, Ailene cast a glance over her shoulder. That meeting had drained her; she just wanted to be alone in the aftermath. Not only that, but the rain was coming down harder than ever.
She was now utterly drenched.
A tall, broad figure approached. Clad in a leather vest, plaid breeches, and fur cross-gartered boots, Muin was soaked. The rain ran down his face and shoulders and had plastered his long dark hair against his scalp.
“Muin,” Ailene greeted him with a sigh. “What is it?”
He wore a serious expression; his slate-grey gaze shuttered. “I need to speak to you.”
Ailene suppressed a sigh. As fond as she was of her friend, the last thing she needed was a discussion about what she had foretold. She could not tell him any more than she had told the others. “Now?”
“Aye.”
Ailene blinked away the rain that was now running into her eyes and pulled her sodden shawl around her—not that it did much good against such a torrential downpour. “Come on then,” she muttered. “My hut is the nearest.”
Muin ducked his head and followed Ailene into her hut. The smell of dried herbs enveloped him, and he inhaled deeply. The scents of vervain, mint, and primrose—all sacred herbs she used in her role as seer—would always be ones he associated with Ailene.
Pulling the door closed behind him, he straightened up. He then realized he was dripping water all over the floor.
“Here.” Ailene favored him with a rueful look as she passed him a drying cloth. “You could do with this.”
“Aye.” Muin cast her a grateful smile. Their knuckles brushed as he took the cloth. Muin’s breathing caught, but Ailene was already turning away, retrieving a cloth for herself.
Muin dried his face and arms. But as he toweled off his long hair, his gaze kept returning to Ailene.
She had peeled off that wet shawl and hung it up to dry. Now she stripped off her leather vest, and Muin went still.
Underneath, she wore a sleeveless linen tunic.
It was wet and had plastered to her breasts.
She may as well have been standing before him naked from the waist up. As she turned, reaching for a dry woolen shawl hanging from the wall, Muin saw the swell of her high, full breasts, her pink nipples visible through the transparent fabric. Muin’s reaction to the sight was instant and unbidden. His breathing caught—and his shaft turned rock hard.
Ailene turned away from him, walked over to the corner of the hut, next to the pile of furs where she slept, and stripped off the tunic.
Heart hammering, Muin glanced down at the rigid bulge in his breeches. The material was sodden and left little to the imagination as it was.
As soon as Ailene turned round, she would see it.
The Reaper take me.
Muin had come here to speak plainly to Ailene, to show her what was in his heart—not what lay in his breeches.
He had to do something about this, or he would never be able to look her in the eye again.
When Ailene turned around, she found Muin seated on a stool by the fire, leaning forward and drying his hair vigorously.
Ailene had draped a woolen shawl around her shoulders and pulled it closed over her naked breasts. However, their lush curve was still visible. The shawl just had to slip an inch or two and one of those rosy nipples would peek out.
Muin swallowed hard. This was torture.
“You have beautiful hair,” she said with a smile, taking a seat opposite him. “Long and silky … just like your father’s.”
Muin answered with a strained smile. She talked to him as if he were her brother. The fondness on her face made a splinter of despair lodge itself in his heart. He wanted to see her pupils dilate at the sight of him. He wanted her to reach out and touch his hair with a sigh of need. He wanted her to tangle her fingers in it as he took her on the floor of this hut.
The ache in Muin’s groin brought him up short. He needed to stop these thoughts, or he would not be able to move from this stool.
“Shall I warm us some mead?” Ailene asked.
He nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Aye, thanks.”
His gaze tracked her as she retrieved two cups, poured some mead into an iron pot, and hung it over the glowing lump of peat in the hearth. She had to constantly adjust her shawl so it kept her covered. However, she didn’t seem anxious about the fact that she might accidentally reveal her breasts to Muin.
Muin’s throat constricted. Ailene was so comfortable around him, he wondered if she could ever see him as more than a friend.
“What did you want to speak to me about?” Ailene sat down once more and placed the empty cups by the hearth, waiting to be filled once the mead had warmed. “Is it about my predictions?”
He shook his head. Since entering the hut his throat had closed up. He had barely spoken two words. However, his gesture made relief suffuse Ailene’s face. “Thank the Gods … I’m worn out. I don’t think I could stand to talk about it again today.”
He forced a smile, although inside his guts were tying themselves in knots. “Then we’ll talk about other things.”
She watched him expectantly, her blue eyes guileless and trusting.
Muin knew he was about to ruin their friendshi
p, but he could not keep it inside him any longer. “Ally,” Her name came out like a croak so he tried again. “Ally… I’m in love with you.”
Silence fell in the hut, and for a long moment she merely stared at him.
Muin suddenly became acutely aware of the rasp of his breathing, the thunder of his heart, and the lashing of the rain against the walls of the hut.
But Ailene remained silent.
Muin swallowed once more, forcing himself to keep his gaze steady. He would not be afraid of his feelings or shy from them. She would know the truth. “I’ve loved you for years,” he plowed on, “but always from afar. Once I thought that was all I needed, but these days I must face the truth. I need you like air. Being around you and not telling you is killing me.”
Her lips parted in wordless shock, and her gaze widened. Yet, still, she did not speak. Instead, her gaze roamed over him as if she was seeing him for the first time.
But the silence was damning, and Muin knew in his bones what it meant.
Ailene’s gaze guttered, a shadow moving over her sea-blue eyes.
“Oh,” she said softly. That one word was like a knife to the guts. He could not bear to hear any more, yet he could not move. He could only sit there and watch her crush his dreams. “I never suspected … not even for a moment,” she whispered. “How could I be so blind?”
His mouth twisted. “I hid my feelings well … Talor tells me so.”
She sucked in a breath at the mention of their cousin. Ailene and Talor’s mothers had been sisters, whereas Talor and Muin’s fathers were brothers. “Talor knows about this?”
Muin nodded.
Ailene rocked back on her chair and ran a hand over her face. “That’s a heavy burden to carry. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I thought I could master it,” he replied. “And I tried … but I can’t.”
She favored him with a pained look—a look that held no yearning for him, only a veiled pity.
Muin’s hands gripped the drying cloth he was still holding.
He did not want Ailene’s pity.