by Jayne Castel
Hearing the thunder of hoof beats behind her, she glanced right and saw warriors on horseback approach, Galan and Tea out front. The group cantered up the hill, the long manes and tails of their ponies flying out like banners behind them as they rode toward the front of the column.
Among them Eithni spied Donnel.
The warrior stared straight ahead, his handsome face impassive, and rode past without acknowledging her. Eithni did not expect him to, and yet when she had caught him staring the night before she was sure she had seen naked longing in his eyes.
It had reminded her of Forcus although his eyes had been filled with a kind of crazed lust.
Eithni shuddered at the memory. Longing, lust—they were both just facets of the same thing. She wanted nothing to do with it.
And yet the look on Donnel’s face had entranced her. The power of his stare had held her captive for an instant. For a heartbeat their surroundings had faded and there had only been the two of them watching each other across the dying embers of the fire.
Enough.
Eithni shook her head, banishing the memory. It was foolish to relive the moment. Donnel was a devastatingly attractive man; only a woman made of stone would not respond to him. Still, the warrior had made his dislike for her clear, had been rude to her on many occasions now. And yet she had caught him watching her as if she were the loveliest thing he had ever seen.
She did not understand it.
It took them two more days to reach The Gathering Place.
It was a journey over wild land, through wide valleys under the shadow of great mountains. Huge sweeping peaks, tawny brown and gold, reared overhead, dwarfing the travelers. The peaks’ sheer majesty made Eithni feel very small in comparison—the band of travelers trekking through the vale was as tiny as a column of marching ants compared to these sleeping giants.
On the last afternoon before arriving at their destination, they drew near to a deep blue loch that stretched east. The terrain was barren and open here, the grass seared brown and studded with heather. To the north the land rose steeply, and at its crown a table of dark rock and the jagged outline of rocky pinnacles reared overhead. One in particular stood out, looming against the pale sky like an upraised thumb.
Eithni, who had never traveled to this part of the isle before, craned her neck up at the escarpment above her, before she glanced over at Ruith. “Is that where we’re going?
“Aye, that’s Bodach an Stòrr,” Ruith replied with a smile. “The Old Man of Storr.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be a giant’s thumb buried in the earth?” Eithni asked, her gaze returning to the distinctly shaped column of rock perched high above them.
Ruith’s smile widened to a grin. “There are plenty of stories about this place. But most believe the name comes from the tale of two giants—a man and his wife—who, while fleeing from enemies, made the mistake of looking over their shoulders as they ran. They were turned to stone.”
The two women joined the others as they climbed the hill. It was hard going as the way grew steadily steeper. Eventually the warriors who led the column were forced to dismount from their ponies and lead them the rest of the way.
Out of breath, Eithni crested the top of the hill, her face glowing with exertion, and turned back to admire the view. A vista of velvety green hills, an arm of headland, and glittering water greeted her. The day was drawing to a close and streaks of gold and purple decorated the sky.
A smile curved her lips. What a magnificent spot for The Gathering.
She had only ever been to one Gathering of the Tribes before, and that had been many summers earlier. She had been around six, Tea eight. They had traveled to the south coast, to the territory of The Boar. She remembered stuffing herself with rich cakes and playing knucklebones with the other children.
Turning, Eithni followed the others to the top of the hill, and there at last she saw The Gathering Place. Just below those soaring pinnacles of dark rock stretched a vast encampment of tents. Smoke rose into the sky from the cook fires, and she inhaled the aroma of roasting venison. A moment later the tinkle of laughter reached her.
There were many tents pitched here already, even though Mid-Summer Fire was not until the following night. Eithni’s skin prickled with excitement as her gaze swept over the sea of weathered hide. It had been a long while since she had seen so many people gathered in one place; she wondered which of the tribes had arrived before them.
Had the people of The Wolf arrived? Eithni quickened her pace, her smile widening. She had missed her tribe more than she had realized.
She spied a heavyset warrior with flowing, dark hair then, striding down the hill to greet them.
It was her cousin Wid—chieftain of The Wolf.
Tea, who was traveling up ahead, rushed forward to embrace him. They were laughing together, Wid admiring wee Muin, when Eithni rushed up.
“Wid!” She was gasping for breath now. That last sprint had finished her off.
“Bonny Eithni.” Wid clasped her in a bear hug and swung her round. “Have you not yet found yourself a husband?”
Eithni laughed off the comment. “Have you not yet found yourself a wife to sing for you in the evenings?”
Wid’s expression turned glum, and he shook his head. “There are few women my age in the fort, and raids and feuding have stripped our villages bare of all but bairns and crones.”
Eithni grinned. “Just as well you’ve come to The Gathering then. There will be plenty of young women here eager to meet you.” She stepped back, assessing him. “Your shoulders have grown as broad as an ox. What have you been eating?”
Other members of The Wolf tribe gathered around them then, and Eithni found her vision blurring with tears as she hugged them all. She loved her life at Dun Ringill. It had been a fresh start, and the fort had been in desperate need of a healer; but back among her own folk, who bore the mark of The Wolf proudly upon their right biceps, she felt a sense of belonging.
Still, she saw the curiosity on many of their faces as they greeted her. They all knew what had happened to her in the months after Tea’s handfasting to Galan. They would all be wondering how she was bearing up.
That was one thing she had not missed. At Dun Ringill, most folk let her be—let the past remain in the past.
Wid slung a heavy arm over Eithni’s shoulder, and they walked up the slope together. “The broch’s felt empty ever since you left,” he said. “No one else plays the harp as well as you.”
Chapter Seven
Are We Friends?
EITHNI MASHED THE herbs to a thick green paste with her pestle and mortar. The potion was for Lucrezia: nettle and milk-thistle were known to help a woman’s womb quicken.
Alone in her tiny tent, seated upon a fur where she would sleep later, Eithni continued to work the herbs together while listening to the sounds of the other Eagles finishing setting up camp. She was fortunate as most unwed women merely shared a tent with kin. Yet she, as Tea’s sister, had a privileged position in the tribe and so received her own tent.
Around her Eithni could hear the chatter of women's voices punctuated by the excited cries of children, and the rumble of men's voices. The aromas of cooking were stronger now, wafting in through the crack in the leather flap covering the opening to her tent. The strains of music and laughter also reached her.
The sounds of celebration.
Eithni smiled as she worked. Seeing her kin again had buoyed her mood. She had missed Wid more than she had realized.
It was getting late in the day. Outside the tent the sun was setting and the camp was preparing for the first of five long days of feasting, drinking, and games. Eithni would join them shortly; she just had to finish this potion for Lucrezia.
She stopped mashing the herbs and poured some water into the mortar. She then mixed the contents well before pouring them into a clay bottle, which she stoppered. Humming to herself Eithni put away her pestle and mortar. She placed it next to the basket that she took everywhere with her—
it was her healer’s basket and contained a collection of herbs, powders, and ointments.
Her work complete, Eithni rose to her feet, slipped out of the tent, and walked toward the center of The Gathering Place. The trampled grass was prickly underfoot, and the ground was still warm from a sunny day.
The stone pinnacles, bathed in gold from the last rays of sun to the west, cast long shadows over the land. The ground beneath the rocky escarpment sloped gently for a spell, and this was where the tribes had pitched their tents. Farther on though, the ground fell away, the track winding its way down to the hills below.
Eithni continued to hum to herself, enjoying the sound of the bone whistle that now accompanied the lute. She had left her harp in the tent this evening for, although she would undoubtedly play during The Gathering, she wished to remain an observer tonight. She just wanted to relax and enjoy listening to the other musicians.
Four enormous fire pits had been dug into the clearing at the center of The Gathering Place, and a number of venison carcasses were now spit-roasting over glowing embers. Eithni’s belly growled; she was ravenous after a day’s hard journeying.
Spying Tea and Galan taking a seat at one of the fire pits, she crossed to them and sat down between her sister and Lucrezia. Wordlessly she passed Lucrezia the small clay bottle. “Mix it with water every morning,” she murmured.
Her friend nodded, her dark gaze gleaming, before she tucked the bottle away. “Thank you, Eithni.”
Next to Lucrezia, Tarl was oblivious to the woman’s hushed words. He was deep in rowdy conversation with Lutrin. Between them it looked as if they had already finished a jug of ale and had started their second.
Eithni settled in front of the fire, tucking her legs under her. Her gaze traveled over the circular space where men, women, and children jostled for a seat. Their voices mingled with the crackle of roasting haunches of venison. It was a warm evening too, which had put everyone in high spirits.
A wide smile stretched Eithni’s face as she soaked in the joy that thrummed around her. Life had become so serious of late, but here she could shed it all like a heavy winter mantle.
Eithni reached forward and poured herself a cup of ale. Taking a sip, she resumed her observation of her surroundings. Unlike inside the broch of Dun Ringill, where they all had designated seats at the chieftain’s table, she could sit where she liked tonight. As such it was a relief to see that Donnel was not next to her, but instead seated next to Galan a few feet away. The brothers were talking quietly, their voices muffled by the roar of the conversation surrounding them.
Next to Eithni, Tea cast her sister a smile. “Isn’t it good to be here?”
Muin sat gurgling in his mother’s arms. His fingers reached up and tangled in Tea’s long unbound hair. Tea winced and unsnarled her dark tresses from his chubby hands.
Eithni nodded. “Aye—I’d forgotten what fun The Gathering is.”
Tea was about to respond when excited shouts broke out across the clearing. Eithni glanced up to see a group of dark figures stride into the camp, approaching through a gap in the tents.
“The Boar have arrived!” A man shouted.
Roars of welcome went up as a huge warrior swaggered into their midst. Broad, both in shoulder and girth, Urcal mac Wrad was a sight to behold. The chieftain of The Boar had wild, dark hair, threaded with grey, and a beard to match. His dark blue eyes swept the crowd with cunning. He was barechested, with swirls and circles painted in blue woad over his hairy chest. Urcal of The Boar was built like the beast after which his tribe was named.
Eithni tensed. After the events of last summer, relations between The Boar and The Eagle had been strained. She hoped this Gathering would smooth things. Without meaning to she glanced over at Donnel. The warrior had gone still, his chiseled features hewn of stone, his gaze narrowed. Next to Donnel, Galan’s expression was inscrutable. It was impossible to know what the arrival of The Boar meant to him, even if Donnel’s hostility was clear. Misgiving feathered down Eithni’s back. She hoped Galan would keep an eye on Donnel while they were here.
She shifted her attention back to where The Boar tribe filed into the clearing. Urcal walked beside a barrel-chested bald man with a scowling face, no doubt a relative or warrior of high-standing, while a small dark haired woman followed the two men. This would be Urcal’s wife, Modwen. The chieftain’s wife was a faded beauty, her features tired, her expression resigned. She carried a boy of around three winters on her hip. A plump girl of around thirteen walked a step behind Modwen. Both children had their father’s wild dark hair.
However, when Eithni’s gaze shifted behind them, her breathing hitched.
Her gaze alighted upon a man of around her own age, a warrior who strutted into the clearing as if it belonged to him. Unkempt dark hair and dark blue eyes marked him as Urcal’s kin. The man could have been named handsome, if it wasn’t for the unpleasant smirk he wore.
Loxa mac Wrad.
Eithni remembered him from last summer. Urcal’s youngest brother had traveled to Dun Ringill to deliver Wurgest’s challenge to Tarl. She would never forget the way he had stridden into the broch with the same arrogance he now walked into this camp with, or the challenge in his eyes as he had faced Galan and his brothers.
Loxa’s gaze swept the crowd before settling upon Galan, and a wild smile split his face. Then he spotted Tarl, who had stopped laughing with Lutrin and was watching The Boar under hooded lids.
Lastly Loxa’s gaze alighted upon Eithni. And there it stayed.
His grin faded. He stared at her, stripping her naked with his eyes. He watched Eithni as if they were alone in this clearing and he was about to take her. The feral hunger she saw there made Eithni’s heart begin to hammer against her ribs.
She knew that look; she had seen the same crazed expression in Forcus’s eyes before he had defiled her for the first time. Eithni felt herself wilt beneath the raw heat of his gaze—and yet just like a year earlier she did not look away.
She was not brave like Tea. She could not kill a man with a knife under the ribs or sword blade to the neck. Yet she had a stubbornness that was a type of courage, and it was that strength that made her hold his gaze. He was trying to dominate her, and she would not let him.
“Urcal!” A big man rose to his feet. Around his shoulders he wore the skin of a stag, the head and antlers perched upon his head. He had a handsome face although his looks were marred by a heavy scar that ran down his right cheek. Fortrenn, chieftain of The Stag, was an imposing sight as he stepped forward to welcome The Boar chieftain. “You’re late!”
“Fortrenn!” Urcal boomed back. “You know I like to make an entrance.”
The two men strode across the clearing and crushed each other in a bear-hug. A roar of cheers and shouts went up around them, and the newcomers took their seats at the fireside.
Loxa, who had kept staring at Eithni while his brother greeted The Stag chief, looked away for a moment while he took his place at Urcal’s right hand. Eithni seized the chance and dropped her own gaze to her lap. Heart pounding, she stared down at her cup of ale. She would not look his way for the rest of the night. The man who had frightened her a year earlier terrified her now.
She could not believe she had forgotten about him and had not realized he would come to The Gathering. She had never met his elder brother Wurgest, but the man sounded like he had been a crazed murderous brute. He had tried to rape Lucrezia and nearly killed Tarl. She hoped Wurgest’s younger brother was not as dangerous.
“Galan!” Urcal raised a cup of ale toward The Eagle chieftain. “Good evening to you and your people.”
Galan inclined his head and raised his own cup, smiling. “Welcome, Urcal.”
Urcal favored him with a wolfish grin. “Making a name for yourself as a peace weaver, I hear?”
The Boar did not phrase that as a compliment. There was no mistaking the gleam of challenge in his dark-blue eyes.
Galan did not reply but merely inclined his head
in acknowledgment.
“I remember you when you were still at your mother’s tit,” Urcal rumbled. “Your father was so proud. ‘My firstborn son. He will make our people strong,’ he said. What would he think of you now?”
“I hope I prove him right,” Galan replied. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the space between the two men. “Making friends with our neighbors makes all of us strong. If we’re not out killing each other, our tribes can grow and prosper.”
“Well said,” Wid called out from across the fire.
Urcal ignored The Wolf chieftain, his gaze remaining upon Galan. The two men watched each other for a moment longer before Urcal’s mouth curved into a sneer. “And what about us, Galan mac Muin? Are we friends?”
Chapter Eight
The Games Begin
MID-SUMMER FIRE DAWNED with a pale blue sky promising fine weather for the day ahead. Eithni rose from her furs and padded barefoot out of her tent.
The air smelled of dew-wet grass, and the scent of peat and cooking smells from the night before still lingered. A babe’s wail went up to her left—Muin was announcing his hunger to the world and ensuring his parents were awake to see to his needs.
Eithni smiled as she heard the rumble of Galan’s voice, punctuated by Tea’s feminine lilt. The pair were definitely awake. However, there were no sounds coming from the next tent—Tarl and Lucrezia had retired late and even two tents away Eithni had been able to clearly hear their cries and groans.
Eithni’s smile faded. The others teased Tarl and Lucrezia over it, but the couple’s blatant display of their passion for each other made Eithni uncomfortable. What they experienced was unthinkable for her; she could not understand it.
For Eithni coupling brought only humiliation, fear, and pain.
Leaving the tents behind Eithni walked out to the nearest fire pit where a group of women from all the tribes were preparing breads and cakes for the evening’s festivities.