by Jayne Castel
The fire burned so bright that she could feel its heat caressing her face, even from many yards away. For a moment she closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth. When she opened them she realized Galan and Tea were standing next to her.
Neither of them had seen her. Instead they were arguing together, their voices low. Galan was holding Muin, who wriggled in his arms, oblivious to the tension between his parents. Galan’s expression turned hard as Tea snapped something at him. The cries and laughter from the surrounding crowd drowned out their voices, but Eithni knew what they were arguing about.
She tensed. The feast, which should have been the most joyous of the year, had been the most uncomfortable meal she had ever sat through. Galan had not lost his temper, something which awed Eithni, although both his brothers looked as if they would launch themselves across the fire pit at any moment and attack Urcal.
“He’ll think you weak,” Tea’s voice, sharp with anger, reached Eithni through the roar of the surrounding crowd.
“He’s dying for me to lash out,” Galan countered. “You’d have me give him what he wants?”
Chapter Ten
Racing
DONNEL URGED HIS pony forward, letting the stallion have his head. Reothadh loved to race—for he hated to follow another pony. There were at least two dozen of them thundering along the wide valley. Far above rose wind-seared hills, with the dark outline of Bodach an Stòrr against a pale sky.
The race was on.
Donnel crouched low over the saddle, grinning as his grey gained on the leaders. Galan was up front on Faileas, fighting for first place with Loxa, who rode a heavy bay. Nostrils flaring, his powerful body surging beneath Donnel, Reothadh lengthened his stride.
Donnel drew level with the leaders—and glimpsed the exasperation on Galan’s face and the fury on Loxa’s—before surging ahead.
Reothadh’s heavy feathered hooves flew. He reached the end of the valley, where a cheering crowd had gathered—and won by at least two lengths.
The stallion did not want to stop there, and it took Donnel quite a distance to pull him up. Once Reothadh’s blood was up, he hated to stop running. He was strong too and fought the bit for a while. Donnel reined him in, in a wide arc, before circling back to the others.
The other riders had reached the finish now. Loxa had ridden off in disgust, while Galan waited for Donnel.
“What do you feed that pony?” he greeted Donnel with a grin. “He never used to be able to outdistance Faileas.” That was true. The shaggy black stallion—Shadow—had always won races in the past.
Donnel shrugged, leaning forward and patting his pony’s sweaty neck. “He seems to get feistier with age,” he replied. “Reo’s a leader, not a follower.”
Ever since Donnel’s return from the south, the grey had become harder to handle, his already fiery nature turning more aggressive. Donnel knew why—it was as if the pony sensed the change in its rider and had altered its nature to suit.
Now that the race was over, they began the ride back up the hill toward The Gathering Place. Half-way up, the going became so steep that the warriors were forced to dismount and lead their ponies.
Galan and Donnel made their way up, side-by-side. They walked in silence for a while, a breeze blowing in from the loch behind them, when Donnel eventually spoke.
“Has Tea ever said anything to you about what happened to her sister?”
Galan glanced at him, brow furrowing. “No … why?”
Donnel shrugged. He was not sure why he was asking this—it was just that after seeing Eithni and Loxa the day before he had been wondering about the healer. She had looked ashen, terrified—far more than the situation seemed to warrant.
“She just seems … a bit strange at times.”
Galan lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve always been harsh on Eithni—why?”
It was Donnel’s turn to frown now. “She meddles where she isn’t wanted.”
“She healed you when you wished to die, you mean?”
Donnel compressed his lips. There were times Galan was far too astute for his liking.
Silence stretched between them once more before Galan broke it. “I don’t know exactly what happened to Eithni at Dun Ardtreck. I remember how she looked when I arrived there, just after Tea slew Forcus—like a ghost. I remember the terrified look in her eyes and that she had trouble walking. Tea’s never said as much, but I think Forcus brutalized her.”
Donnel’s mood darkened at this news. That explained much—especially the fear in the girl whenever a man stood too close to her. A pang of self-recrimination assailed him then—a rare emotion these days. He had been harsh with her over the past few months; perhaps he should have been gentler.
Pushing the emotion aside, Donnel glanced back at Galan. Their gazes met. “What did you make of Urcal’s words last night?” Donnel asked.
He saw his brother tense and knew he did not welcome the question. Donnel had seen Galan and Tea argue afterward. Tea chafed at The Boar’s insolence, and Donnel was fully in agreement with her.
Urcal needed to be taught a lesson.
“I’ll say to you what I’ve said repeatedly to Tea, and Tarl,” Galan replied wearily. “Urcal has the mind of a ferret. He came here with a plan: to bait me into losing my temper. He wants me to be the chief who brings shame on his tribe at The Gathering. He wants a fight, but he’ll not be the one to throw the first punch.” Galan’s face went hard then. “I’ll not give the bastard what he wants.”
Donnel listened. Galan was right; Urcal did indeed have a plan. He did not miss an opportunity to hurl an insult in Galan’s direction or to lay scorn at his feet. It made Donnel grind his teeth each time The Boar opened his mouth. The sneering faces of Loxa and that bald-headed lout who followed Urcal everywhere did not help either. Donnel wondered how much longer he would be able to keep a leash on his temper.
He was not sure how Galan was managing to suffer the abuse. Was he made of stone? The other two chieftains, Fortrenn and Wid, had noted the situation too; although they both refrained from involving themselves. This was a dispute that Urcal and Galan would need to work out between them.
When Donnel did not respond, Galan’s gaze narrowed. “I know you disagree with me—but being chief isn’t always about drawing your sword and cutting men down the moment they speak against you. It’s more complicated than that.”
Donnel held his gaze. “So what are you going to do about Urcal? He’s not going to go away.”
Galan huffed. “I’m aware of that. Once The Gathering is over, I’m going to seek him out so we can have a private word. Maybe a resolution can be reached.”
Donnel stared at his brother. “You’re going to negotiate with him?” Anger surged up, quick and hot, like a flame catching hold of fat. “Why would you do that? The Boar conspired against us last year. Seeing Urcal speak the last two nights, I’d wager he not only knew what Wurgest was planning—but even encouraged him.”
Galan shook his head. “I still don’t believe that.”
“No, you won’t believe it—there’s a difference.” Donnel saw irritation flare in Galan’s eyes. Finally. Maybe if he pushed him hard enough, Galan would see sense. “The Boar don’t want peace. Once The Gathering is done, Urcal will start raiding our villages. Folk will start dying, all because you wouldn’t stand up to him here.”
“Enough,” Galan growled. “You sound like our father. All he cared about was defending our ‘honor’. Where did it get him? Screaming while he tried to push his own guts back into his body.” His brother gave him a hard look. “If things are to change they must start here.”
And with that Galan strode forward, pulling Faileas after him, making it clear their conversation was at an end.
Eithni carried a basket of bread over to the fire pit and placed it down next to the platters of roast meat, boiled and braised vegetables, and rich stew. The aroma of the food made her mouth water. After a day traipsing over the hills, watching pony races, hawk hunting, and mo
re games, she was both tired and famished.
Today had definitely been an improvement on the day before. She had successfully avoided Loxa, and this evening The Boar had taken a seat with The Stag at one of the other fire pits, leaving The Wolf to join The Eagle for supper.
Eithni sat down between Lucrezia and Tea, and reached for a piece of bread. Her gaze traveled around the fire pit and rested upon Wid. Her cousin had done well with his hawk this afternoon. He had even beaten Galan and his hawk, Lann, on one occasion. The young Wolf chief sat next to a girl Eithni had not seen before. She bore the mark of The Boar upon her right arm but had chosen not to sit with her people this eve.
Buxom and flirtatious with thick dark brown hair and moss-green eyes, the young woman did not take her gaze off Wid as he spoke to her. She wore a tight-fitting leather bodice, cut low to reveal a swelling cleavage. Eithni’s mouth curved into a smile when she saw her cousin’s gaze kept dropping to admire it.
Men.
She shifted her attention from Wid then, traveling farther around the fire pit to where Ruith sat with a grizzled-looking warrior. He was a formidable-looking man, with sinewy arms that were covered with tattoos and scars. His thinning dark hair had been cut short against his scalp, and he had sharp features—yet his eyes were soft and his expression tender as he spoke with Ruith.
Eithni watched them with interest. She had seen Ruith and her Stag dancing together the night before. The seer laughed now, casting the man a teasing look before cocking her head. She looked decades younger this evening, her eyes dancing in the firelight. Clearly her friend’s worries had been unfounded. Her old lover still remembered her—still wanted her.
Smiling, Eithni took a bite of bread and chewed slowly. She was glad Ruith was happy this evening.
She glanced to her left then, at where Galan and Donnel sat, and her smile faded.
Both men wore grim expressions, and despite that they sat shoulder to shoulder, they were not talking. Watching them Eithni frowned. Had they argued?
Angry voices reached her, drawing her attention from Donnel and Galan.
Across the fire Wid and his companion had just been interrupted.
A tall man with long, black hair and a scowling face had stepped between them. Wid was glaring at him, and the girl was no longer smiling. Instead she looked petulant.
“Interesting,” Tea murmured from beside Eithni. “Looks like the lass is already spoken for.”
The Boar warrior took his woman by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Wid went to rise, protesting, but one of his men pulled him back down. Wid had already consumed a few cups of ale, and it had made him mouthy and reckless.
“Let the lass go,” the warrior next to The Wolf chief advised him. “She’s not worth the trouble.”
They watched The Boar drag the protesting woman over to a fire pit on the far side of the clearing.
“Poor Wid,” Eithni said with a sigh.
Beside her Tea huffed. “Not really—that one looked like trouble.” Eithni’s sister eyed her over a cup of ale. “Could you not see that?”
Eithni glanced back at where The Boar couple were now clearly arguing. The woman had gone red in the face and no longer looked pretty and flirtatious. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “I was pleased for him. He’s been lonely of late.”
Tea gave her a wry smile. “You see the good in all, don’t you?”
Eithni thought of Loxa and shook her head. “No, not everyone.”
Chapter Eleven
To Her Rescue
EITHNI WOVE HER way through the dancers—her harp in hand. The feasting was done. It was time to join the other musicians. She would lose herself in her harp for a while.
She made her way through the jostling drunken crowd, heading toward where a young man played the bone whistle. However, she had gone just a few paces when a strong hand fastened around her arm and yanked her back.
“Where are you going, lass?”
Eithni swung round to see Loxa grinning down at her. He was not an ugly man, not like his frightening eldest brother. Yet the arrogance on his face, the lust in his eyes, made him terrifying to Eithni. She wilted under that stare.
“To play my harp,” she replied, hating that her voice came out in a frightened bleat.
“Not before we’ve danced.”
“No, I don’t—”
But Loxa was not listening. His grip on her upper arm was so tight it hurt. He yanked her with him as he strode toward the heart of the dancers. Eithni’s harp flew out of her hand. She dug her heels in and tried to retrieve it, but Loxa dragged her away.
Amongst the dancers he turned to her. They were close to the fire here, the flames dancing in Loxa’s eyes. The heat was blistering against Eithni’s skin.
Loxa yanked her against him, laughing as she struggled. “So you have some fire in you after all, timid Eithni?” He grinned down at her. “I can’t wait to get you in the furs.”
Donnel was not in the mood to join the revelry. Nonetheless, he found himself on the edge of the circle of dancers, a wooden cup of ale in hand. He did not wish to join the crowd, but he did wish to keep an eye on the warriors of The Boar, who were celebrating with raucous abandon.
Flexing his fingers against his cup, Donnel recalled his argument with Galan earlier and felt his anger rise once more. His jaw ached from clenching it.
Galan is wrong. The longer he ignores Urcal, the worse it will get.
Donnel's gaze flicked over at where his eldest brother stood on the edge of the crowd, arguing with his wife again. Tea had fire in her blood. Donnel continued to watch his brother. Over the past months he and Galan had argued frequently. He had accused his brother of cowardice on a few occasions, an insult that could get a man killed. Yet Galan had not lost his temper with him—not once.
Of course Donnel did not truly think Galan craven; those had been angry words spoken out of bitterness. Deep down he knew Galan to be the greatest warrior of them all. Donnel had earned the name ‘Battle Eagle’, but all the Caesars he had slain had been victims to his killing rage, his fury at the world.
Galan was more dangerous, for his anger was far slower to kindle. Donnel had rarely seen the beast unleashed, and he wondered what would happen here if Galan’s temper did eventually snap. Urcal was playing a dangerous game.
The music had increased in tempo, the bone whistle shrill in his ears. Shouts and cries from the dancers lifted high into the night sky. Laughter and cries of merriment drifted across the hillside, and at the heart of it all the great bonfire illuminated the night.
Donnel took a deep draft from his cup, his gaze sliding over the crowd of revelers. And there in the midst of them—surrounded by swirling dancers—his gaze alighted upon Loxa and Eithni.
The moment he saw her, Donnel knew the woman was not there out of choice. Her gaze was wild, her face the color of milk. She struggled against Loxa as he swung her around, his hand gripping her forearm.
Eithni wore a long green tunic this eve, belted around her slender waist. The garment was so long that it nearly brushed the ground. Her walnut-colored hair flew out behind her as Loxa swung her left and right. His face was alive as he watched her, grinning.
Even from this distance Donnel could see Eithni’s eyes glittering with unshed tears. He could also see livid marks on her bicep, as Loxa released one arm before gripping the other.
The music stopped for a moment, and Loxa pulled Eithni into his arms and tried to kiss her. Eithni twisted her face away, pushing at the hard wall of his chest with her hands. The bone whistle and lute began once more, and the dancers resumed their frenzy. However, Loxa did not join them this time. Instead he continued to try and kiss the reluctant Eithni.
Watching them Donnel clenched his jaw once more. He did not want to get involved, but Loxa had taken liberties with that lass ever since their arrival. Something had to be done. Not only that—this was an opportunity for Donnel to vent the aggression that had been growing within him since his arrival at Th
e Gathering.
Donnel dropped his half-drunk cup of ale to the ground and shouldered his way through the crowd. Dancers shifted out of his way although one or two warriors cast him dark looks as he jabbed them in the ribs with his elbows to get them to move aside.
Donnel paid none of them any mind. His attention was riveted upon Eithni. She was speaking to Loxa now; it looked as if she was pleading.
Reaching them, Donnel took hold of Eithni and pulled her out of Loxa’s arms. “You promised me a dance, lass”, he said, raising his voice over the music and laughter.
“Piss off,” Loxa growled. He made a grab for Eithni, but she jumped back, cowering against Donnel. “The girl’s mine tonight.”
Donnel drew Eithni farther away from the warrior. “I think not, Boar. Look at the lass’s face. Look into her eyes. Does that look like a woman who’s keen for your company?”
“Dun Ringill dog.” Loxa spat on the ground between them. “Leave the girl to me—she’ll warm up soon enough.”
“No, I won’t,” Eithni rasped from beside Donnel, speaking out at last.
Loxa’s expression darkened at that, and his gaze narrowed. “What’s this—the mouse speaks up for itself?”
To Donnel’s surprise Eithni held Loxa’s gaze. “Stay away from me, Loxa,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’ve no wish to dance with you.”
Donnel drew Eithni back farther toward the ring of dancers. “You heard her, Boar. Go and find a woman who is willing.”
In truth, after Urcal’s inflammatory words during yesterday’s feast, Donnel was spoiling for a fight. He had never liked the look of Loxa and itched to pummel that sneering face. However, a fierce protective instinct overrode the urge to brawl. Eithni needed his help. His thirst for reckoning could wait.
Loxa’s handsome face was twisted into a grimace of resentment. It was an expression Donnel knew well—one he had seen on Wurgest’s face when he had challenged Tarl for Lucrezia. It was of a grievance that would not be forgotten.