by Jayne Castel
Tormud barked a laugh. “Then thank the Gods then that you’re not in charge, lad.”
The rest of the table erupted in laughter. Even Cathal raised a broad smile.
Only Mor and Artair did not join in the mirth. Instead, his brother wore a pensive expression while his daughter’s brow furrowed as she watched Tormud. Once the laughter had died down, she shifted her attention to Cathal.
“What of what Old Murdina told you, Da?” she asked. “She said conflict would come before Mid-Winter Fire … that’s just over a moon away.”
Cathal nodded and turned his attention back to The Boar. “What of that prediction, Tormud?”
The warrior huffed out a breath and raised his cup of ale to his lips, taking a deep draft. Lowering it, he wiped his mouth with a meaty forearm before replying. “I believe that the united tribes won’t attack before spring … but that doesn’t mean we can’t lay siege to them. The chieftains of this isle are aggressive, bold. None of them likes being on the defensive. That’s why we need to move first.”
Cathal listened to Tormud, his smile widening further. The Boar was cunning. Not for the first time, Cathal was pleased he had listened to Tormud’s council in the past. The man had not steered him wrong thus far. He had only seen defeat when he had disregarded the warrior’s advice. “So, we should hit Balintur?”
Tormud grunted. “Aye.”
“And why would we hit them where they are at their strongest?”
Tormud grinned, showing his teeth. “We too are strong, Cathal. Balintur is the keystone in the arch … if it falls, this isle is yours.”
Cathal picked up his own cup and drank deeply, draining it. Both his son and Tormud had given him ideas to mull over. “Further protect An Teanga or attack Balintur?” he rumbled. “I will think on this.”
Murmuring went up amongst his warriors, rippling down the table. Those at the tables below stopped eating and drinking and turned their gazes to the platform at the far end of the feasting hall. They were curious to know what had been discussed here, but they would learn of it soon enough.
Cathal sat back in his chair. It was a heavy seat, with carven eagle wings decorating the back. This summer he would have another chair made, one that would have serpents wreathing the armrests. However, he would keep this chair in his alcove, as a trophy.
His gaze slid down the table, taking in the eager faces of the men and women seated there.
Everyone seemed animated, excited about what the future held—everyone except Mor and Tamhas. Mor’s expression was blank, her moss-green eyes shuttered as she sipped at her ale. Tamhas on the other hand was frowning, and the knuckles of his hand that gripped his cup were white. He was staring at Tormud with a look of simmering dislike.
The bandruí’s warning nagged at Cathal then.
Someone will betray you.
When he had returned from visiting Old Murdina, Cathal had informed his warriors about her predictions regarding future conflict with the folk of this isle. But he had kept her warning of betrayal to himself. Instead, he decided to keep a close eye on those of his inner circle. If someone was sharpening their knife against him, he would ferret them out.
Yet, a few days had passed since he had visited the seer, and Cathal still did not have any idea who the traitor might be.
His most trusted warriors had fought at his side through many campaigns. Some had saved his life during battles. Others, like Tormud, had sacrificed much to follow Cathal.
That left Cathal’s own kin.
Mor was trustworthy. The lass had a quiet, introspective nature that made her hard to read at times, yet her loyalty was unquestionable. Artair had always followed him without question; his younger brother had never sought to challenge his authority over the tribe.
That only left Tamhas.
He could not imagine his son betraying him—but the look in the young man’s green eyes told another story. Tamhas resented Tormud. He did not like the influence the warrior had.
Tamhas had long dwelt in Dunchadh’s shadow, and he was eager to prove himself now that his elder brother was dead.
Cathal’s gaze narrowed as he continued to observe his son. He remembered his grandfather telling him once that the worst betrayals often occurred between family members.
I must watch him.
Chapter Fifteen
Turning Away
Balintur
Territory of The Eagle
MUIN SLID THE blade along the whet-stone in long, even strokes. He sat alone in the small dwelling he shared with Talor. The door was open, and the watery dawn light filtered in, bringing with it the aroma of oatcakes fresh off the griddle and the murmur of voices of folk getting ready for departure.
Ignoring it all, Muin continued to sharpen the blade. The action steadied him; it was his ritual before going into battle. Sharpening his blade focused his thoughts, drove out distractions.
It was a fine sword, molded in the style of the Caesars. His uncle Tarl had brought back weapons from the Great Wall to the south, daggers and swords among them. Muin’s sword had a wide cast iron blade with a rounded tip. The blade had a bronze pommel and an ivory handle. His father had gifted it to Muin on his thirteenth birthday.
At the thought of Galan, Muin’s jaw clenched.
He was still sore after their argument the evening before—although another incident had darkened his mood further.
That kiss.
He had made a few mistakes in his life, including telling Ailene how he felt about her. But none had been as foolish as kissing her.
The look on her face when he stepped away had been like a punch to guts.
“Are you ready, cousin?” Talor stuck his head in through the door. The warrior’s face was tense, his tone clipped. “The army is going to move out soon.”
“Aye.” Muin rose to his feet and sheathed the blade over his shoulder with one easy movement. Then, picking up a light leather pack, he followed Talor out into the grey morning.
A drizzle fell, shrouding the surrounding landscape in tones of milky white and grey. It was poor weather for traveling, although the cloud cover would make it easier for them to move unseen.
The plan was to cut east from Balintur, journeying deep into the mountainous heart of the isle, before traveling down the east coast and approaching An Teanga from the north-east. It was quite a loop, and many furlongs longer than if they had entered Boar territory directly. Yet it meant that the enemy would be far less likely to spot them.
Striding through the village, Muin focused his thoughts on what was to come. It was easier to think about the upcoming battle than on what he was leaving behind. It was truly over between him and Ailene now. In just a few days, the friendship he had believed would endure a lifetime had disintegrated completely.
A dull ache had taken up residence deep within Muin’s chest, twisting whenever his thoughts shifted to Ailene.
Then don’t think about her, he counseled himself, irritation arrowing through him.
Around them an expectant, tense air had settled over the village—like an indrawn breath. Many of the faces they passed, most of them folk staying behind, were somber, their gazes shuttered. Bairns clung to their mother’s skirts, watching wide-eyed as heavily-armed warriors strode past. Just like between the chieftains, feelings toward this campaign were divided among the united tribes. More than a few had misgivings. Even so, the chieftains had made their decision.
The army was moving out, and An Teanga was its destination.
“You’re quiet this morning,” Talor observed, falling into step beside his cousin.
Muin cast him a shuttered look. “You know I’m not one to fill silences.”
Talor huffed a laugh, although his gaze remained upon Muin’s face. “Aye … but you have a scowl to make even your friends keep their distance.”
Muin shrugged off the comment.
Talor shot him a shrewd look. “I saw Fingal mac Diarmid after you broke his nose. He’s swearing vengeance.”
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Muin snorted. “Let him.”
Talor continued to observe Muin with an intensity that made him stiffen. He knew that look. His cousin was about to start prying. “I take it things haven’t progressed with Ailene?” he asked quietly.
Muin clenched his jaw. “No.”
“Maybe you need to try harder. You could always—”
“Enough,” Muin growled. “Leave it, Talor.”
His cousin’s brow furrowed, but this time he held his tongue.
The pair entered the clearing at the heart of the village, where a dense crowd of warriors waited. A low rumble of conversation lifted into the mist. The men and women spoke amongst themselves in low, determined voices. Muin could not help but notice that the different tribes grouped together.
Despite that they were all fighting on the same side these days, the old divisions still remained. Muin was no different, for he headed toward where a large company of Eagle warriors had gathered.
Everyone was dressed and armed for battle. Some men went scantily clad, while others like Muin, wore plaid breeches and leather vests. Many of the women, Fina included, had donned little more than two bands of leather, covering their loins and breasts. Warriors had painted swirls of blue woad on their faces and exposed limbs. Sharpened iron gleamed despite the dull dawn: spears, axes, swords, and pikes.
Still frowning after Muin’s biting reply, Talor ran an eye over him. “Is that all you’re carrying into battle?”
Muin shrugged. He wore his sword on his back and a dagger strapped to his right thigh. “It’s all I need.”
As he was staying behind, Talor was unarmed this morning. However, Muin knew that his cousin never went into battle without an arsenal of weaponry: a bow and a quiver of arrows, two axes on his back, and a collection of knives strapped all over his body.
Fina strode over to them then, a quiver of arrows over one shoulder and a sword swinging at her side. She had painted whorls and designs in blue over her bare arms and legs.
“We’re going soon,” she informed them, her expression as fierce as her appearance. “Ailene just has to perform blessings first.”
Muin went still at the mention of the bandruí. He had hoped to leave without seeing her.
And yet there she was, walking barefoot through the crowd, a clay pot full of burning dried herbs in one hand, a divining wand in the other.
Deep in concentration, Ailene had not seen him. She looked different this morning; her hair was braided and pulled up to coil around the crown of her head. She wore bracelets and necklaces that rattled as she walked. Thin streaks of woad decorated her cheeks.
She did not look like the lass he had grown up with; Ailene appeared older, more distant.
Folk nodded and murmured to her when she passed, while Ailene blessed them with her wand. The smell of incense drifted over Muin as she approached.
Panic surged within him. He could not face her, not after last night.
Clenching his fists at his sides, he turned away, and remained that way until Ailene had passed by.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Fina’s sharp voice roused Muin from his brooding.
He turned to find his cousin scowling at him. Muin frowned in response. “Excuse me?”
“Ailene just tried to bless you, and you gave her your back.”
“I don’t need a blessing.”
Fina’s gaze narrowed. “Of course you do. Have you and Ailene fallen out?”
Muin heaved in a deep breath. He had almost reached the limit of his patience. First Talor and now Fina—he was tired of their meddling. Could they not leave him alone? He had bitten Talor’s head off earlier, but Fina was not the sort to leave well alone.
He decided that ignoring her was the best option. Without answering, Muin simply walked off, leaving Fina glaring at his back.
Ailene glanced over her shoulder, at where Muin was now moving away from the company of Eagle warriors. He shouldered his way through the crowd, his broad back rigid. Fina watched him go, her expression thunderous.
Humiliation pulsed hot through Ailene. Rude bastard. She could not believe he had just shunned her.
In front of everyone.
Choking back the outrage that made her hands tremble, Ailene forced herself to focus on the task at hand.
She whispered a blessing and dipped her wand over the shoulders of the two chieftains who would lead the mission to An Teanga: Varar and Galan. The chieftains of The Stag and The Wolf would remain behind to protect Balintur. However, they were sending warriors on the campaign. Wid’s only surviving son, Calum, led The Wolf, and Tadhg’s eldest daughter, Moira, led The Stag.
Ailene moved over to Calum and Moira, holding the cresset of burning herbs aloft so that they could inhale it.
“May The Warrior guide your blades,” she murmured, her voice husky with the embarrassment that still burned bright within her. “May The Hag protect you.” Moira, a dark-haired, statuesque young woman, favored her with a tense smile. Calum, a stocky young man with a short beard, nodded his thanks.
Unlike Muin, neither of them turned their back on her.
Ailene’s temper flared once more. To think that she had actually felt sorry for him last night, had keenly felt his mortification. She had lain awake during the night, wondering if she should go to him so that they could at least part on good terms.
He had not even wanted to bid her farewell.
Her cheeks still glowed with embarrassment. She had seen the shock on the warriors’ faces surrounding them when Muin had given her his back. Fina had looked as if she wanted to launch herself at her cousin and hit him around the head.
Enough … don’t waste your thoughts on him.
Ailene focused her attention instead on the surrounding crowd. She sensed the nervous energy of the amassed companies of warriors around her, their eagerness to move out. Many of them shifted restlessly, while others began to beat their weapons against their oaken shields as they awaited the horn that would signal their departure.
Stepping back, Ailene whispered one final incantation and glanced over at where Galan and Varar still watched her intently. “It is done,” she announced. “The Gods will be with you.”
“Can I speak to you for a moment?”
Eithni glanced up from where she was adding salt to her turnip and cabbage pottage. “Of course … take a seat.”
Ailene entered the round-house and moved to the hearth, lowering herself onto a stool. She suddenly felt foolish for rushing here as soon as the army had departed. But the moment the warriors had gone, emptying Balintur, she had been anxious and on-edge. She needed to confide in someone, or she would burst.
“I have a problem … and I don’t know how to resolve it.”
Eithni brushed the salt off her hands, alarm flashing across her fine features. “What is it, lass?”
“It’s Muin,” Ailene replied, before drawing in a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “He’s in love with me.”
The healer stiffened, her eyes widening. “He told you this?”
“Aye … a few days ago.”
Eithni reached for a damp cloth and wiped her hands. “You don’t share his feelings, I take it?”
Ailene dug her fingernails into her palms so hard that she winced. “No … but things have gotten … complicated.”
Eithni crossed to the stool next to Ailene and lowered herself onto it. The pair of them were alone in the round-house. Eara had gone off to collect water, Bonnie was at sword practice, and Donnel was taking a shift guarding the wall. “Start at the beginning,” she said gently. “I’m listening.”
Ailene ran a hand over her face. She did not really want to face all of this, and yet she longed to unburden herself, to reveal the truth to one person at least.
Slowly, she began to speak. She told the tale from the beginning, from the evening of the council when they had decided to send a scouting party to An Teanga, to the events of the night before.
She left nothing out.
By the time she halted, her face was burning like an ember and sweat was trickling between her shoulder blades and breasts.
Eithni was watching her with a soft expression that made Ailene’s belly contract. Silence stretched between them for a few moments, before the healer reached out and took Ailene’s hand. “Are you sure you don’t have feelings for Muin?”
Ailene swallowed hard. “Of course I do … I love him … as a friend. He’s always been part of my life.”
“I wasn’t talking about friendship, lass.”
Ailene stared back at her. “I don’t know,” she whispered, “I really don’t. He’s made me so angry of late. When he turned his back on me earlier, I wanted to slap him.”
Eithni sighed, her slender fingers gently squeezing Ailene’s hand. “Letting someone into your heart can be frightening,” she murmured, “especially if you’ve been hurt.”
Eithni’s eyes shadowed then. Ailene knew of the healer’s history. Before falling in love with Donnel, she had sworn to spend her life alone after being brutalized by a Wolf warrior who had murdered her brother and taken control of The Wolf stronghold, Dun Ardtreck. It had taken a lot for Eithni to trust again—but in the end Donnel’s love had won her over.
But Ailene had never been harshly treated. She had no reason to keep Muin at arm’s length. She did not understand this wall that she had built around her, or how to tear it down. She was not sure she wanted to; there was safety in walling yourself off from others.
“Maybe seers are meant to live alone,” Ailene said finally. “Ruith never took a husband.”
Eithni inclined her head. “She had her reasons … did Ruith ever speak to you of her past?”
Ailene shook her head. “I only know she also lost her parents young.”
“Aye … but not like you did. Her father killed her mother in a jealous rage when Ruith was only five. The folk of Dun Ringill cast him out in punishment, to die alone. Ruith told me the story once, many years ago, at a gathering of the tribes. She admitted to me that she had never gotten over what happened, or trusted a man ever since.” Eithni broke off there, her gaze scanning Ailene’s face. “Ruith remained alone out of fear of being hurt, not because she was happier that way.”
