by Jayne Castel
Fina’s grin flashed white in the moonlight. “Don’t worry … I won’t.”
Ailene walked through the mist.
It was as thick as porridge, so dense that when she stretched out her hand, it disappeared.
Cold, damp air kissed her skin, and nearby a crow cawed.
The coarse croak made foreboding pebble across Ailene’s skin. She had never liked crows, with their beady eyes and sharp beaks. Among her people the crow was an omen of death. The bird straddled the worlds of the living and the dead and was often seen as a messenger between the two. The crow symbol carved onto her telling bones was one that she dreaded.
Ailene’s breathing quickened.
Death was in the air.
Before her, the mist cleared. A row of cairns appeared, fresh mounds of earth silhouetted against a gloomy sky. A crowd of mourners were gathered before one, lonely figures clad in dark hooded cloaks.
Ailene walked toward them, her feet dragging.
She had attended too many burials in her life. She had grown to dread them.
A woman’s voice split the chill silence, soulful and sad.
Ailene’s step faltered. It was Tea, Galan’s wife. She was singing a lament.
Heart pounding now, Ailene resumed her path toward the cairns. Tea stood nearest, a tall figure before a bier. Her proud face was tilted up to the heavens as she sang; tears streaked her cheeks.
Ailene stopped breathing.
Tea rarely wept. Who lay on the bier behind her?
She wanted to turn then and flee back through the curling mist, and yet it was as if a string was tied around her waist. It pulled her forward, step by step, closer to the burial mound. The doorway yawned open, waiting to receive the body of the dead.
Tea sang on, but none of the words made sense to Ailene. It was as if the woman spoke another tongue. However, the grief in her voice was unmistakable. One of her kin lay dead at her feet.
The crowd parted then, admitting Ailene into their midst.
She did not want to look at the body upon the bier, and yet Ailene knew she must.
They wanted her to look.
Her gaze settled upon the tall, bulky figure of Muin mac Galan.
The warrior was dressed in a black leather vest and breeches, his feet bare. Muin’s face was ashen, his expression grave in death. His chalk-white hands were clasped over the hilt of the sword that lay upon his torso.
“No!”
Heart pounding, Ailene sat up.
For a moment she was not sure where she was, and then she remembered.
She was in her hut, in Balintur—and she had just awoken from a terrible dream.
“Gods,” she whispered, raising a shaking hand to her face. Darkness surrounded her. She slept naked, yet sweat slid down between her breasts and shoulder blades.
Dread prickled her skin, making her shiver.
Ruith had told her of such dreams, yet until now Ailene had never experienced one.
Trembling, she wrapped a fur around her and rose to her feet, padding over to the fire pit in the center of her dwelling. The peat still glowed there, so she grabbed a poker and stirred the embers before adding another fresh lump of peat to the fire. It started to smoke before flaming to life, filling the interior of her hut with light.
Ailene let out a ragged breath.
She did not want to sit in the dark, not after such a terrible dream.
But as she sat there, and her heart slowly steadied, fear cramped her belly.
Once again she wished Ruith was alive to talk to. She needed guidance.
And yet she knew herself it was not a dream like others.
Dreams were not usually so vivid, so clear. It was as if she had stepped into another time.
Ailene shuddered and pulled the furs closer still.
Try as she might to deny it, she knew it was a vision rather than a dream she had just seen.
She had just caught a glimpse of the future.
Chapter Eight
Blood Will Soak the Earth
Dun Ringill
Territory of The Serpent
CATHAL MAC CALUM did not want to visit the bandruí.
The crone lived outside the walls of the fort. He had been displeased to learn that the seer had shunned the safety of Dun Ringill’s stone walls in favor of a cave—but no one questioned Old Murdina. If she wanted to dwell in such a place, the choice was hers. The bandruí had always preferred to live apart from folk, even back on the mainland.
Cathal drew his fur mantle close around him, head bent against the gusting wind, and crunched down the pebbly shore. The stone bulk of Dun Ringill rose at his back against a stormy sky. The wind brought spots of rain with it.
The mouth of the cave loomed ahead. It sat well back from the tideline, safe enough from high seas.
Climbing up over seaweed-covered rocks, The Serpent chieftain approached the entrance to the cave. A brazier burned there, and Cathal inhaled the cool scent of burning mint. Bandruís used the herb to cleanse the air.
“Murdina,” he called out. “It is I … Cathal.”
A low laugh greeted him. “Of course it is … enter then.”
Blinking, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Cathal walked inside. He scanned the murky interior and focused his attention upon the bent figure seated beside a glowing fire pit.
Pale eyes glinted, fixing upon him in a way that made misgiving crawl down Cathal’s spine.
He had never liked Old Murdina. The only reason he tolerated her all these years was because she was Lena’s great aunt. His wife had adored the crone, had followed her advice in all matters. After Lena’s death, nearly a year earlier, Cathal had been tempted to cast the bandruí out, yet he had not acted on the instinct.
Murdina was respected, and feared, by his people. He would not risk her cursing them all.
Even so, the sight of her cunning, wrinkled face, her sly smoke-grey eyes, made his hackles rise.
The crone knew he disliked her.
“I was wondering when you’d pay me a visit, Cathal,” Murdina spoke. She had a low, rasping voice that reminded Cathal of a crow’s caw. Just another reason why the woman unnerved him.
“I’ve been busy,” he grunted, approaching the fire pit. A low stool sat there, awaiting visitors. Cathal took it without being asked to sit.
“So I’ve seen.” The crone peered at him, her gaze narrowing. “But it is more than that. You took your son’s death ill … you’ve grown leaner, and I see the lines of grief upon your face.”
Cathal tensed. His first-born, Dunchadh, had fallen during the siege of Balintur three moons earlier. The black dog of sorrow, which he had only recently driven off after the loss of Lena, had returned to snap at his heels.
The days following Dunchadh’s death had been bleak indeed. Cathal had raged, had blamed the remaining members of his family—his son Tamhas in particular, and even his beloved daughter Mor—for the disaster at Balintur. The village should never have fallen. Once his fury toward his remaining son had burned out, he had turned it outward.
The tribes of this isle would pay for Dunchadh’s death. Cathal had arrived upon An t-Eilean Sgitheanach—The Winged Isle—with no rancor toward its people. Of course, they were never going to meekly step aside and let the Cruthini take their lands. However, they had been harder to crush than he had expected.
Some days his thoughts about the revenge he would exact upon the four chieftains who led their people against him made his belly ache.
His stomach burned now as he met the bandruí’s eye. “The bitter season is almost upon us,” he rumbled, deliberately avoiding discussing Dunchadh. “I need to know what the coming months will bring.”
Murdina’s wrinkled face grew intense. “Have you had any contact with the enemy?”
Cathal shook his head.
“No demands or threats?”
“None,” Cathal replied. “I suspect they’re rebuilding their strength so that they can attack in the spring.”
> Murdina gave a cackle. It was then that Cathal saw that he had interrupted her in the midst of making a necklace. A pile of small bones—most likely from fish, birds, and rodents, lay upon her lap. She was threading them onto a piece of leather.
Cathal frowned. Dressed in a long sleeve-less plaid tunic, the seer was weighed down by bone jewelry: necklaces, bracelets, and even a belt made of bone around her thin waist. He did not see that she needed more of the macabre adornments. Yet the old woman said that the bones spoke to her, advised her.
“Your enemies probably think the same of you,” she pointed out, favoring him with a gap-toothed grin. “They will be imagining you here … licking your wounds while you shore up your defenses.”
Cathal clenched his jaw. He did not appreciate the mocking edge to the bandruí’s voice. She had always been kind, reverent even, to Lena. Yet with Cathal, the woman was often goading when he spoke to her.
When the isle is mine, I’m ridding myself of this bitch.
“I came here for news of what the future holds,” he growled. “Not your opinions.”
Murdina’s grin faded, and he saw irritation flare in those pale eyes. The bandruí didn’t like it when he was rude to her. Cathal cared not for her hurt feelings though.
“What do the birds tell you?” he pressed, leaning forward.
The seer sniffed, her gaze dropping to the bones on her lap. She then picked up a piece and threaded it onto her necklace.
“There were few wrens upon this isle when we arrived in summer,” she said eventually, her voice sullen, “and none now they have flown south.”
“But what of the crows … the eagles?”
Her mouth pursed. “The birds of prey are loyal to the folk of this isle, they give me nothing.” She threaded another piece of bone onto her necklace before continuing. “The crows speak of death, but that’s no surprise … they croak of nothing else.”
Irritation pulsed within Cathal at this news. “I need more than that, Murdina.”
The seer glanced up, her gnarled hands pausing in their work. “I can do a divination from the clouds?”
“Go on then.”
With a heavy sigh, the old woman put her necklace to one side and rose to her feet. Her bone jewelry rattled as she moved. She was small, so frail these days she appeared birdlike. However, Cathal was not fooled by her appearance. Murdina was tougher than most of his battle-hardened warriors.
Retrieving a wand made of yew from the corner of her cave, the seer padded barefoot toward the entrance. “Come, Cathal.”
Ignoring that the woman had just addressed him as if he were a dog, the chieftain stood up and followed her out into daylight.
Despite that the day was cold and grey, the sunlight still stung Cathal’s eyes after the dimness within the cave. He stopped a few feet behind the bandruí, watching as she scratched symbols into the dirt in front of her. The yew wand bore scratches, lines that she added to with each passing season. Before her she drew the symbol of the serpent, and then scratched out lines, some straight, some curving, around it.
Cathal remained silent. He knew from previous experience that Murdina hated to be interrupted during divinations. As he looked on, the seer raised her face to the heavens, her eyes closing. She then started to chant, muttering words under her breath that the wind tore away before they reached Cathal.
Long moments passed, and then the bandruí opened her eyes, her gaze scanning the sky.
Cathal also focused his attention upon the heavens. It was a wild sky; racing dark clouds boiled overhead. Surely, the seer would be able to divine much from it. The chieftain’s breathing quickened as he waited. He was impatient for news. The need to take action burned within him.
Eventually, Murdina dropped her gaze from the sky and turned to him.
The stern look on her face made Cathal grow still. “What is it?” he demanded. “What did you see?”
“Contradictory things,” the bandruí admitted, her fingers tightening around her wand. “Strange things.”
“Such as?”
The seer moved toward him, her bones rattling. “There will be conflict soon … before spring,” she replied. Outdoors, the daylight highlighted the web of lines that crisscrossed her face. Cathal was not sure how old the woman was, although she had been the tribe’s seer ever since his father’s time.
Cathal’s brows knitted together. “Will they attack Dun Ringill?”
Murdina let out an irritated sigh. “The clouds cannot give me details such as that. They only hint at what will come.”
“And what are they hinting at, exactly?” Cathal demanded between gritted teeth.
How he wished Lena was at his side. It had always been her role to visit the bandruí. Murdina had been more forthcoming with the chieftain’s wife.
“The balance of power is shifting,” the seer replied, her gaze never leaving his face. “Blood will soak the earth before Mid-Winter Fire.” She paused there. “You must decide whether you move first, or let the united tribes of this isle come to you.”
Cathal’s nostrils flared. That was a discussion he needed to have with his warriors back at the broch. Frustration exploded within him, and he was suddenly seized by the urge to be elsewhere.
“Thank you, seer,” he grunted, stepping around her. “I will think on this.”
A bony hand shot out, gnarled fingers studded with iron and bone rings fastening around his forearm. “Wait,” the bandruí croaked. “There is more.”
Cathal stiffened. Reluctantly, he turned to Murdina. “Tell it then.”
They were standing so close that the crone had to crane her neck up to meet his gaze. She smelled musty, of age and dried herbs. “The clouds held a warning,” Murdina said, her voice lowering. “Someone will betray you, Cathal … someone in your inner circle.”
Cathal stared down at her, his body tensing further. “Who?”
“The clouds do not say.”
“For the love of the Gods, woman,” Cathal exploded. “What use are you to me, if you cannot give me details.”
Murdina released his arm and stepped back, her grey eyes hooding. “I don’t exist to serve you, chieftain,” she replied, her voice a low rasp. “I’m merely a conduit between this world and the next … and I have given you much to think on.” She turned to go then, heading back toward the cave. However, before disappearing inside, the bandruí turned and cast Cathal a cold look over her shoulder. “Watch your back … for someone you love is whetting their blade and awaiting their chance.”
Chapter Nine
Occupied Territory
An Teanga
Territory of The Serpent
MUIN PEERED ACROSS the water, at where the outline of the broch of An Teanga rose against a backdrop of velvet green hills. “Fina should be back by now,” he murmured, frowning. “Where’s she got to?”
Next to him, Talor shifted while Varar remained still. The three of them crouched behind a large boulder by the water’s edge. It was the closest they could safely get to their destination without risking being spotted. They had hidden their boat out of sight in the trees behind them just before dawn, and then Fina had crept off to investigate further.
However, the sun was high in the sky now—and Muin’s fiery cousin had not yet reappeared.
“I should go after her,” Talor muttered under his breath. “She’s taking too long.”
“If anyone goes after Fina, it’ll be me,” Varar growled, a warning in his voice. “And would the pair of you stop worrying. I wouldn’t have let her go if I didn’t think she was the best person for the task.”
Talor cast Varar a dark look in reply, while Muin’s mouth thinned. Fina was like a sister to him and Talor; and despite her prowess as a warrior, they both tended to be overprotective of her.
Varar, it seemed, was more inclined to trust in her abilities.
“Keep your voices down.” An irritated female whisper reached them then. “Sound carries across the water.” A moment later a small fig
ure emerged from the broom bushes to the left of the boulder.
Fina.
A slow smile stretched across Varar’s face as he turned to face his wife. “I was just reassuring these two that you were on your way back.”
Fina grinned before sinking to her haunches behind the boulder. A light sheen of sweat covered her golden skin, her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing fast. “Good to know someone thinks I’m capable of spying on the enemy without getting caught,” she replied.
Talor snorted, but Muin’s swift elbow to the ribs stopped him from commenting further.
“What did you discover?” Varar asked, his face growing serious.
Fina wiped her brow with the back of her hand before answering. “It was difficult to get close to the broch,” she admitted. “They’ve got sentries everywhere. I nearly got spotted twice.” Fina paused here, the confidence ebbing from her face. “There were more of them than I thought,” she admitted. “I thought I was going to have to kill one … but luckily he didn’t see me sneak past.”
Muin frowned. “Killing sentries won’t help us. How many are defending the fort?”
“Difficult to tell … but I’d say at least two-hundred warriors.”
Muin exhaled sharply. He had hoped the garrison at An Teanga would be far smaller than that.
“Where are they guarding?” Varar asked. His body had gone still as he took in his wife’s news.
“There’s one posted every few yards around the base of the broch, keeping watch on the water,” Fina replied. “It’s just as well we didn’t try to bring the boat in closer.” She paused there, her brow furrowing. “They’ve also posted sentries at the gates leading from the village to the broch, and along the entire perimeter of the village itself.”
“Any sentries farther out?” Muin asked.
Fina nodded. “Like I said, they’re thick on the ground. I saw a number on the eastern and western approaches.”
