by Jayne Castel
Ailene stared back at her, surprise filtering through her. She had lived with Ruith for years, and not once had the old woman ever told her that story. She wished Ruith had confided in her.
“You took your parents deaths hard,” Eithni said after a pause. “I was worried about you after we lost Mael.”
When Ailene did not reply, a smile curved Eithni’s mouth. “Not everyone we love abandons us,” she said, squeezing Ailene’s hand once more. “Happiness is hard to achieve if we push others away. We have to risk our hearts if we want to live a full life.”
Chapter Sixteen
A Chill Premonition
TIREDNESS PRESSED DOWN on Ailene as she readied herself to retire to her furs for the night. She moved around her hut, going through her usual tasks. Now that the evenings were getting cold, she made sure the hearth had a fresh lump of peat upon it. She also put out a clean wooden cup on her work table and the ingredients for her morning oatcakes. Ailene liked to be organized in the mornings.
The routine soothed her, distracted her from her churning thoughts. She had been in a state all day, unable to focus on her usual chores.
Going to see Eithni had not been a good idea. Instead of calming her, the healer had merely made Ailene even more confused. She had suggested that Ailene’s feelings for Muin ran deeper than she realized, that her anger toward him masked another emotion—one she did not want to face.
“Enough,” Ailene muttered, scrubbing her hand over her face. “No more thinking tonight … no more worrying.”
Undressing quickly, for despite the glowing fire pit, the evening was nippy, she climbed naked into her nest of furs. She then pulled them up under her chin.
Ailene lay there, staring up at the rafters, and wondered if she would manage to get any sleep at all. Despite that her body and mind cried out for rest, her thoughts still whirled. Eithni’s well-meaning advice plagued her.
We have to risk our hearts if we want to live a full life.
Is that what she was doing … hiding from life? Ailene’s head ached; she was tired of going over and over this, like a rat chasing its tail. She wanted oblivion to chase away her worries.
She had thought sleep would elude her, however, the warmth and softness of the furs cocooned her, and in the end, fatigue won, pulling her down into its clutches. Ailene fell into a deep slumber.
She dreamed of water.
It slid over her limbs, bone-numbingly cold yet as gentle as a mother’s touch. Ailene swam swiftly through the darkness, diving through the water like a selkie, her long hair trailing behind her.
Surfacing, she inhaled the crisp, smoke-laced night air, her gaze traveling north.
A great stone broch rose against the horizon, its squat, dark outline silhouetted against the star-sprinkled sky. Treading water, Ailene tried to get her bearings. The broch was familiar, although she could not quite place it.
The tower sat at the end of a promontory, the low outline of hills behind it. A row of braziers encircled its base, throwing out golden light over the surrounding loch. It was not Dun Ringill, for her home perched upon a cliff and was surrounded by a high wall.
Recognition flooded over Ailene then, memories of a past gathering of the tribes.
An Teanga.
As Ailene floated there, she saw shapes move past her. It was a moonless night, which made the stars shine even brighter. Warriors swam by, heading toward the stony shore that surrounded the base of the broch.
Ailene did not follow them. Instead, she continued to tread water, watching as figures climbed out of the water and crept around the edge of the tower. They were heading toward its only entrance, which was east-facing.
Surprise feathered across Ailene. During their scouting mission, Fina had reported that there had been warriors stationed around the base of the broch. Yet tonight it appeared undefended.
The warriors of the united tribes continued to climb out of the water, moving up the bank to where braziers burned. But they had not gone more than a few yards when a tide of warriors, blades glinting in the starlight, flowed out from the shadows.
Ailene’s breathing hitched.
The Serpent had lain in wait, preferring to watch the approach across the loch from the shadows so that any enemy would think the shore was undefended.
Ailene opened her mouth to shout a warning to the others still swimming past her. However, no sound escaped her lips. She was struck mute.
At least two dozen attackers had reached the rocks now. They clambered up only to find themselves beset upon.
Panic exploded within Ailene. She had to warn them—she had to do something.
Striking out, she swam in long strokes toward the shore. The cold bit at her skin, turning her feet and hands numb, yet she paid it no mind.
She crawled out of the water and discovered that she was naked.
Surprised, Ailene ran her hands down her wet flanks. What was she doing out here anyway? She had never been a strong swimmer.
Craning her neck, she fixed her attention on the figures a few yards above her. Iron glinted in the light of the braziers; the fires illuminated the grim faces of the men and women who now fought to the death.
And in amongst them, Ailene spied a familiar figure.
Big and broad-shouldered, Muin was hard to miss. Ailene had watched him at sword-play in the warriors’ enclosure enough times to recognize his fighting style immediately as well. He fought boldly, using his blade to slash and stab with ruthless efficiency.
Muin fought savagely now, and there was an edge of desperation to it. Ailene realized, with rising panic, that he was surrounded and outnumbered. Despite his strength, Muin was struggling to hold them all off.
And as she looked on, unable to help or to warn him, a huge man with wild hair that shone red-gold in the brazier light lunged at him, axe aloft.
The axe blade slammed into Muin’s neck, and he went down.
Ice washed over Ailene. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, while around her, everything went black.
Trembling, she blinked—and when she opened her eyes again, she was no longer standing naked on the edge of a loch, but instead in the midst of swirling mist, before a line of cairns.
A crow’s caw echoed through the damp air, and then Ailene caught the sound of a woman singing a lament for the dead. The singer’s voice trembled as grief threatened to overwhelm her.
Ailene did not want to move, and yet her feet refused to obey her. She was dressed now in a long tunic, with a fur mantle around her shoulders, as she walked barefoot across the frozen ground.
The mist cleared, and a crowd of mourners appeared before a burial mound. Heads bowed in grief, the sounds of gentle sobbing drifted across to Ailene, mingling with the sad lament.
Tea stood at the edge of the mourners, head held high as she sang. Tears ran down her proud face, even as her voice shook.
Ailene walked closer, dread mounting with each step.
There, upon a litter lay Muin mac Galan. Dressed in black leather, his strong hands clasped over the hilt of his sword, his handsome face did not look serene in repose. His expression was stern, his skin unnaturally pale.
A sob rose in Ailene’s chest, the crushing pain almost unbearable.
“Muin … no!”
Ailene sat up, heart slamming against her ribs.
Gods, not again.
Darkness shrouded her, save for the welcoming glow of embers in the nearby fire pit. Like the last dream, in which she had first witnessed Muin’s burial, Ailene found herself sweat-soaked and shaking in the aftermath.
But this dream had been far more detailed than the first, far more vivid.
She had been there, had felt the cold water brush against her skin and the frozen ground numbing her bare feet.
Trembling, Ailene gathered a fur around her nakedness and got up, shuffling over to the fire pit.
Seated there, she cupped her face in her hands.
The Reaper take me, I have seen the future.
She had been so relieved when Muin had returned from the scouting mission. Afterward, she had cast off her dream as folly. Yet the vision she had just experienced could not be ignored. Her dream had not warned her of that scouting mission to An Teanga, but of the siege itself.
The journey that Muin had just departed for.
He had not even let her bless him before leaving.
She had seen it all, seen him cut down by a mortal wound to the neck. Muin would not survive this campaign, would not return to Balintur.
Panic surged within Ailene. Heart pounding, she lurched to her feet, clutching the fur around her.
Muin could not die. She would not let him. Sweat beaded across her skin once more, as a sickening realization settled over her.
Life was not worth living without Muin mac Galan.
“Gods,” she whispered. Bile rose up, stinging the back of Ailene’s throat. “Eithni was right.”
She could not bear facing the future without him. Ailene’s vision blurred, but as she faced the truth about her feelings toward her oldest friend, guilt surged within her.
She had dismissed that earlier dream, when she should have heeded its warning. Muin should not have gone with the others. If she had warned Galan, he would have forbidden it.
Ailene started to shuffle back and forth across the dirt floor of her hut, agitated now. She had to do something, yet panic had momentarily rendered her witless.
“I have to tell someone,” she muttered.
Initially, all she had been able to think about was Muin. But it was not just his life at risk. Her vision of An Teanga had given her a chill premonition of what was to come. The warriors of the united tribes would swim in from the loch to a slaughter. Someone needed to reach the army and warn them.
She had to let Tadhg mac Fortrenn and Wid mac Manus know.
Ailene shrugged off the fur and reached for her clothing. It was a chill night so she pulled on a thin linen tunic, a heavy plaid skirt, a long-sleeved woolen tunic, and a leather vest that she laced at the front. Then she hauled on fur-lined boots and a fur cloak.
Moving toward the door, Ailene’s step suddenly faltered.
There was no time to go to the chieftains, no time to convince them of what she had seen. If she rode after the army now, she could be well away from Balintur before the first blush of dawn stained the eastern sky.
She could not remain in Balintur while Muin edged toward his doom. She did not want to be forced to wait here, anxious to know whether the slaughter had taken place. She had to warn Muin—she had to warn all of them.
This was her mess, and she would be the one to fix it.
Grabbing a leather satchel, Ailene stuffed a wedge of cheese, left-over oatcakes, and a bladder of water inside. Then she strapped her only weapon, her father’s slender boning knife, around her waist.
Pulling up the hood of her fur cloak, Ailene made for the door.
She was ready to go.
The guards at the gate looked surprised to see a woman astride a shaggy dun pony appear out of the darkness.
One of the men stepped forward, peering up at her.
“Ailene, is that you?” He was an Eagle warrior, a handful of years older than Ailene.
“Aye, Macum,” she greeted the man with a brittle smile, pushing back her hood slightly so he could see her face. “Good morning.”
The warrior raised a dark eyebrow. “A bit early for a ride, isn’t it?”
“I need to gather herbs,” she replied, keeping the smile plastered to her face. “Ones vital to weaving protection charms around this village.”
“You have to depart now?”
“Aye … there is a special variety of moss that grows in the foot hills of the Black Cuillins. If I depart early, I can be there and back in a day.”
“We should send an escort with you.”
Ailene frowned. The Hag curse him, she wished another had been posted at the gates; Macum, whose wife had just given birth to their fourth daughter, was known for being overly protective with women.
“Stop your fussing,” she said, waving him off. “I’m riding north into safe lands. I don’t need an escort.”
Macum looked unconvinced. “It’s cold out, and there was a moonbow earlier.”
Ailene fought the urge to scowl. A moonbow—a pink hue over the moon—was a sign of coming bad weather. She did not relish the idea of riding through the wind and rain to reach the army. But it could not be helped. This had to be done. The only way they would keep her here would be if they tied her up. She would not be kept from Muin’s side.
“A little rain doesn’t bother me,” she replied. Her face was starting to ache from the effort it was taking to keep her smile in place. “The sooner I set off, the sooner I’ll be back.”
Macum watched her for a moment longer before heaving a long-suffering sigh.
Ailene was fortunate. Few women, beside those who were warriors, were allowed to ride out on their own. But Ailene was not like other females. Macum, like many within these walls, minded her. She was allowed freedom that wives and mothers were not.
“Very well, lass.” He stepped back and motioned for the other guards to open the gates. “Watch how you go though.”
“I will,” Ailene assured him.
Moments later she was riding through the gates into a cold, windy night. It was very late, or early depending on how you saw things, and the moon had set. The fires atop the walls of Balintur illuminated the surrounding hills, and when Ailene glanced up, she could see the starry sky behind racing clouds.
Urging her pony on, her heels sinking into its furry flanks, Ailene rode north. This was not the direction of travel she intended, but she needed to go this way, just in case the guards at the gate were watching her depart.
Once she crested the hill and Balintur was no longer visible at her back, she reined the pony east and circled around.
The pony belonged to her. His name was Eòrna—Barley. Named so, for during the summer, the gelding’s coat looked like sun-ripened grain. This time of year, however, when he grew his thick winter coat, his color darkened. Like the other ponies of this isle, Eòrna was heavy-set with a bristling mane, long tail, and large feathered hooves. He had a dogged, calm temperament, and Ailene trusted him completely.
They rode over bare hills, cutting east in the direction the army had taken. Up ahead the outlines of great mountain peaks rose against the star-strewn sky. She would have to traverse those ranges, cutting between them to reach the eastern coast.
A stinging wind gusted against Ailene’s cheeks as she urged Eòrna into a choppy trot. In order to ride astride the gelding’s barrel-like sides, she had been forced to hike her skirt up, exposing her bare legs to the elements.
A grim smile tugged at Ailene’s mouth then. She was no warrior. She had seen how scantily clad Fina had been when she left for battle. It was as if the cold did not touch her. In contrast, Ailene was fully clothed and wore a heavy fur cloak around her shoulders.
She certainly was not at risk of freezing out here, but unlike Fina, she was a woman who preferred the comforts of home to braving the elements.
Ailene’s smile faded then. But brave them she would—for Muin.
Chapter Seventeen
Journeying East
AILENE TRAVELED LONG through the darkness, continuing even as the eastern sky grew light and sun kissed the tawny slopes of the mountains that now loomed above her.
Just after dawn, she halted for a short spell, stopping Eòrna by a burn so that the pony could rest and take a drink. She ate a few mouthfuls of oatcake and cheese too, although her appetite was poor this morning. Her belly had tied itself in knots in the aftermath of that dream.
Every time she closed her eyes, she could see Muin falling, an axe-blade buried in the back of his neck.
Nausea crept up her throat once more, panic assailing her in a sickening wave.
The thought of never hearing the low rumble of his voice, never again seeing the gentle cu
rve of his mouth when he smiled, or the warmth in those slate-grey eyes, made it hard to breathe.
Muin had stolen up on her. All these years, she had seen him only as a friend, but now she would never view him that way again.
He was her other half, and if she lost him, it would shatter her—just as her mother had withered and died after losing Ailene’s father.
Mounting her pony once more, Ailene pressed on. The mountains rose above her now, massive peaks that dwarfed her. The landscape of the interior of this isle never failed to make her feel tiny and unimportant in the scale of things. These mountains would stand forever, yet her life-span would be over in the blinking of an eye.
The wind howled through the pass, catching at Ailene’s cloak. She kept an eye out for signs of the army that had also traveled this way, and soon found them: hoof prints marked the soft earth.
She was headed in the right direction.
Traveling on her own made Ailene nervous. She had spent her life surrounded by the close-knit community at Dun Ringill. Every time she had journeyed farther afield, she always had company. Out here in the wilderness, with only her pony and the odd bird of prey that glided overhead for company, she felt vulnerable. Ailene glanced around as she rode, eyes scanning her surroundings for any sign of danger.
Unconcerned by his rider’s nervousness, Eòrna plodded on.
The rain swept in from the east, heavy curtains of it that blanketed the sky and pummeled the ponies, men, and women who made their way through the shallow valley.
Muin bowed his head and rounded his shoulders. The rain had held off for most of the day, but now it drove in: icy, stinging needles that made the ponies hold their heads low and flatten their ears back.
