by Jayne Castel
If anyone was going to slit his throat, he would prefer it was her.
And yet, at that moment, the survival instinct surged once more, cutting through the madness of his rage. Once again it occurred to him that he really did not want to die. He stared back at Mor, watching the firelight glint off her blade, and realized that he had truly reached a crossroads.
Death or compromise. He had a choice to make.
Chapter Eleven
Keeping Oaths
THE CRACKLE OF the hearth and their ragged breathing were the only sounds inside the hut. Eventually, Talor broke the tense standoff between them. “I’d rather you didn’t slit my throat, woman.”
“Then you need to cooperate with me,” she replied, her voice flint hard. “Enough of the insults, enough of the hate. I’m done with it.”
Talor grimaced and rubbed his aching forehead. He regarded her warily. “That’s hardly a strategy,” he replied. “Last time I asked, you didn’t have a plan … has that changed?” He knew his comment was arrogant, and he had injected a challenge into his voice deliberately.
Mor’s dark auburn brows knitted together for a moment, before she slowly lowered her blade, re-sheathing it. She moved away from him then, returning to her side of the fire. But her gaze never left him. She was still wary of him, and was right to be.
“We need guidance,” she said finally. “If we are to change the course of things between our peoples, someone must help us.”
Talor folded his arms across his chest. “Who exactly?”
Her mouth thinned. He was still deliberately goading her, and he could see her temper still simmered. Talor knew he was being an unreasonable, rude bastard, but he just could not seem to stop himself. The urge to lash out was too strong.
“We should go and see Old Murdina,” Mor said finally. “She’s the bandruí of my tribe.”
Talor stiffened. “We can’t go back to Dun Ringill.” He pointed out. “We’ll get caught.”
Mor shook her head. “Our seer doesn’t live within the walls of the fort,” she replied. “She dwells in a cave on the shore south of Dun Ringill. Do you know it?”
Talor nodded. Of course he knew the cave. He had played in it often enough as a child, and had first lain with a woman there. His lover was a lass he had spent a summer with, years earlier. As the warm weather waned, so did his interest, and although she had been upset, the girl soon found solace in the arms of another. She was wed now and had recently given birth to her second child. There were no hard feelings between them these days.
“It’s still too close to the fort,” he said after a pause. “It’ll be risky to approach it.”
“That’s why we should wait until dusk,” she replied. Mor leaned back, a little of the tension ebbing from her shoulders. “If we leave here during the afternoon, we will reach the cave as night falls. It should be easier to arrive unseen.”
Talor watched her a moment. He did not like this idea. He had a lot of respect for his cousin Ailene, their own tribe’s bandruí, but he did not know Old Murdina. Some seers were said to be full of malice and cunning. You could not trust them all. The woman might try to manipulate them, or she might betray them to Cathal.
“Won’t the bandruí just go straight to your father?” he asked after a pause.
Mor huffed a bitter laugh, before she ran a hand over her face. The act revealed the strain she was under. She hid it well, but betraying her own people was costing her. “Old Murdina won’t say a word to my father,” she replied softly. “She can’t stand him.”
They set out from the hut, bathed in wintry sunshine. At first it looked as if the good weather was going to linger and the snow might just start to melt. But as they trekked west, out of the heart of the mountains and across the rolling hills that stretched toward the coast, the sky darkened. The pinkish hue on the horizon warned that the good weather had merely been a respite. More snow was coming.
Even so, the break in the weather made traveling easier.
Mor allowed Talor to lead the way. She did not take her eyes off him as he walked. Her gaze bored a hole in his back.
No one had ever incensed her like he had back in the hut. For a few rage-fueled moments, she had wanted to kill him.
Her belly still ached from the blow he had delivered, and her left cheekbone felt swollen and tender to the touch where his knuckles had grazed it. Nevertheless, she had delivered a few damaging blows of her own, and she had not lied to him: she had been ready to slit his throat with her knife in the end. He had pushed her to the limit, and she had sorely regretted saving his hide.
He did not deserve it.
Nonetheless, in the end he listened to her. She had seen the suspicion in his gaze. He did not like the idea of going to the seer. But then he was not keen to ally himself with her at all.
Talor was short on options at this point. Old Murdina would also have food, and they could take shelter in her cave overnight before deciding on their next move.
Mor continued to watch Talor as they traveled west, her gaze taking in the breadth of his shoulders, accentuated by the fur cloak he wore. Unlike most Cruthini men, he had cut his dark hair short. It was a severe style that gave an edge to his good looks. And even though he bore numerous injuries, and was struggling through deep snow, she noticed the lithe, fluid way in which he moved. It was a predatory stride. And despite everything, the heat of attraction resurfaced once more, pooling in her core.
He was the rudest, most aggravating man she had ever met, and yet her attraction to him had not diminished. On the contrary, it had grown.
By mid-afternoon, the sky had completely clouded over and a sharp wind gusted in from the north. Shortly after that, the snow started to flutter down once more. Fortunately, they were half way toward their destination now, and Talor seemed to know exactly where he was headed. Of course, he had grown up in these lands, had hunted and patrolled these hills since he was a lad. He did not hesitate as he traveled west.
The days were short this time of year, and so dusk came upon them all too soon. A murky, snowy gloaming made visibility difficult. But still, Talor did not slow his pace. Mor hurried after him, hoping that he really was as confident as he appeared.
And then, as the last of the light faded, they reached the coast.
Through the swirling snow, Mor spied the fires of Dun Ringill. The fort perched like a beacon upon the clifftop a few furlongs away. The braziers atop its walls cast a golden light that could be seen in every direction for quite some distance. Spying it as well, Talor drew to a halt. The action was so sudden that Mor nearly ran into the back of him. She stepped up next to her companion and shifted her gaze to his profile, noting the hawkish set of his features.
She did not like the expression she saw there.
“You promised,” she said, her voice low and hard. “Doesn’t an oath mean anything to you?”
Talor turned to her then, his gaze seizing hers. For a moment she thought he might argue with her again, that he might deliberately provoke her like he had in the hut.
But a shadow passed over his features instead, still visible despite that the light had almost faded completely. “Lucky for you, an Eagle warrior keeps his word,” Talor replied.
Watching him, it dawned on Mor that his behavior back in the hut had been aimed at goading her. She suspected he had never intended to break his oath—what he had wanted was a fight.
Before she could question Talor about it, he turned from her, leading the way down the steep, snowy bank. “Follow me … the cave is just up ahead.”
“Murdina,” Mor called out softly as she treaded through the snowdrift at the mouth of the cave. “Are you there?”
For a moment dread twisted her stomach, as she feared the seer might have left the cave and taken refuge at the fort, driven out of her cold, damp home by the snow. But then she spied the glow of a fire up ahead, and her belly relaxed.
The bandruí was here after all.
“Come forward,” a cool, w
hispery voice called out. “Who is it who disturbs me on such a night?”
“It’s me … Mor.”
A pause followed, and when the voice spoke again, it was a lot warmer. “Come forward, lass.”
Mor stepped through into the cave itself. A messy space greeted her. Murdina had only dwelt here a few months, and already it looked as if this cave had been her home for years.
Piles of animal bones and stacks of drying herbs lay upon the floor, and a heap of peat sods had been stored up against one wall. As she entered, Mor’s gaze slid past a row of wooden cages. Each one housed a different creature. She glimpsed a stoat, a gull, a goose, and a black rat. The rat peered up at her with gleaming eyes.
Mor’s attention did not remain upon the cages for long—instead, it shifted to the tiny woman seated before the fire.
She had known Old Murdina her whole life, and even when she had been a bairn, the bandruí had always seemed ancient to her. A network of deep lines carved her round face, although her sunken smoke-grey eyes were cunning. As always, the seer was garbed in a long sleeveless tunic, her frail body weighed down by an assortment of jewelry made from bone. Around her thin shoulders she wore a fur cloak to ward off the chill, and heavy fur boots covered her feet. During the warmer months, Murdina went barefoot.
“I heard that you had gone missing,” Old Murdina greeted Mor, her gaze as sharp as ever. The bandruí’s attention shifted then to the man entering the cave behind her. “And that you’d freed your father’s prisoner.”
Mor glanced over her shoulder at Talor, judging his reaction. Unsurprisingly, he was frowning; his lean, muscular frame tense as he watched the seer.
“Talor mac Donnel,” Old Murdina murmured, raising a gnarled hand to beckon him closer. “I have heard all about your brave yet reckless deed. Cathal must be going soft with age if you still breathe.”
Talor did not answer. Instead, he moved forward, stepping up next to Mor in the circle of the firelight.
Observing him, a smile stretched across the crone’s face. Then, to Mor’s consternation, the seer licked her lips. “Ah, it all becomes clear now,” she said, her voice developing a crooning edge. “No wonder you saved this one’s life, Mor. He’s a feast for the eyes.”
Chapter Twelve
What Must Be Done
THE BANDRUÍ’S WORDS made Mor’s cheeks warm. She had not brought Talor here so that Old Murdina could make lecherous comments. Casting a look at Talor’s profile, she saw that his expression had not changed. His blue eyes were shuttered as he continued to watch the seer.
Old Murdina rose to her feet, her bone jewelry rattling. Drawing her fur close around her shoulders, she shuffled over to Talor. Watching her, Mor wondered just how old Murdina was. She was kin to Mor, for she had been her mother’s great aunt. Lena had been very close to the seer, had followed her advice on all things. Mor knew that her father resented the closeness of their relationship—been jealous of it even. Ever since Lena’s death, he only sought Old Murdina’s advice when circumstance forced it.
The seer drew close to Talor and craned her neck, gazing up at him.
Wordlessly, she then reached up a hand, her wizened fingers tracing the lines of his face. “Even beaten and bruised you are quite a sight,” Old Murdina murmured.
Mor noted that Talor did not react to her touch. He did not flinch away as her father might have, nor did he appear to stiffen. Instead, he merely watched her, his face inscrutable now.
Old Murdina’s smile turned wolfish as she trailed one hand down his neck, and splayed her palm over his heart. “If I was forty years younger, I’d invite you to my furs,” she said, before giving a soft cackle.
Mor’s embarrassment flamed hotter. “Murdina,” she said, her voice sharp. “Talor isn’t here to be—”
“Quiet, lass,” the crone cut her off. “I’ll get to you in a moment … but first your friend here has my full attention.”
Watching Talor, Mor saw the way his body stiffened at the word ‘friend’. However, he still did not move away from the bandruí’s bold touch. His mouth curved just a little as he held the old woman’s gaze, as if her words amused him.
Mor clenched her jaw. Surely he was not going to encourage Old Murdina?
“You are an interesting one, Talor mac Donnel,” the seer said after a pause. “Your history is steeped in blood and sorrow … and yet there is strength in you … and great courage.” Old Murdina inclined her head then, as if being in physical contact with the warrior told her things. “You never knew your mother … she died either in birthing you or soon after.”
Talor’s faint smile faded, yet he still did not speak.
After a moment the bandruí continued. “Your father … he is quite a man too … a great warrior, feared by many.”
“Next you’re going to tell me that I lost my half-sister in battle recently … that it was Cathal himself who slew her.” Talor did speak then. His voice was low, dangerous.
Old Murdina cackled at this, removing her hand from his chest but not stepping back from him. “I already know all that, lad. Cathal himself was here earlier today. He told me who you were, and why you’d tried to kill him. But you never told him of your family history, did you?”
A nerve flickered in Talor’s cheek. “And what else do you know of me?”
The bandruí favored him with another sly smile. “I know that you attract women to you easily as breathing … and yet you have never been in love.”
Talor did react then; a faint blush stained his cheekbones, and he took a step back from Murdina, his eyebrows raising. “A lucky guess, I’d say, old woman.”
The seer gave another wheezing laugh. “Of course.”
Old Murdina shifted her attention to Mor then, her gaze raking over her from head to foot. “And as for you … this was something I also foresaw.”
Mor stepped closer to the bandruí, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Your father came to me a few months ago, looking for advice.”
“Aye, and you told him that blood would be spilled before Mid-Winter Fire.”
Old Murdina’s mouth twisted. “That’s not all I told him.” The crone fingered one of the many bone bracelets that encircled her thin wrists, before she continued. “I also advised him that one of those in his inner circle would betray him … and you just have.”
Heat flushed through Mor. “I haven’t.”
The seer raised a silvery eyebrow. “And what do you call freeing a prisoner and escaping from the fort with him? You should have witnessed your father today … I’ve never seen him so angry.”
The gleam in Old Murdina’s eyes revealed that she had enjoyed seeing Cathal in such a state. The dislike went both ways, it seemed.
“This … wasn’t a betrayal,” Mor choked out the words once more. “I didn’t do this to hurt my father, but to help him.”
“And how is that?”
“You’ve seen what he’s like, Murdina. Since Ma died, he has focused on glory for our people and nothing else. When he lost my brothers, he became even more blinkered. Artair has tried to talk to him about leaving the isle. I want him to negotiate peace so we can stay here, yet he won’t hear a word of it … something had to be done.”
Mor broke off there, aware that Talor’s gaze was upon her. A frown marred his brow as he studied her, his gaze wary.
The bandruí also watched her, a thoughtful expression upon her face. “You hope to weave peace by freeing your father’s prisoner?”
“Aye, but I have no idea what to do next. We need your help, Murdina. Please guide us … tell us what must be done in order to end this conflict.”
A shadow moved in the old woman’s pale grey eyes. Her face went unusually grave then. “Bloodshed is a way of life for our people, lass. It has been for generations now.”
Mor held the seer’s gaze, her own never wavering. “Then perhaps it’s time to take a new path.”
“You’d go against your own father to achieve this?”
/> Mor swallowed hard. “If that’s what it takes.” They were brave words, although each one of them stabbed her in the heart. She adored her father, hated the thought of him being angry or disappointed with her. But the time to worry about pleasing Cathal was over. She had spent too many years following him unquestioningly. This campaign was wrong. She had to help end it.
“I will do a reading,” the seer said.
More inhaled sharply. “Thank you.”
Old Murdina’s face twisted. “Don’t thank me yet, lass … you might not like what I tell you.”
With that, the seer cast Talor a shrewd look. “Can you fetch me the stoat from one of those cages?”
Talor’s mouth compressed at the request. Then, after a heavy pause, he nodded. Without a word, he moved past Mor to the cages at the back of the cave. The animals and birds within shifted nervously, as if sensing his intent. Talor approached the cage at one end containing the stoat. The creature shrank back, teeth baring, and Talor hesitated.
“Go on, lad,” Old Murdina urged, a note of glee in her voice. “I wouldn’t mess around if I were you. Stoats have sharp teeth.”
Mor cast the bandruí an irritated look. She was enjoying herself a bit too much.
Talor’s expression darkened, before he opened the top of the cage and thrust his hand inside, pulling out the small, wriggling creature. The stoat was pretty, with a chestnut body, a white belly, and a black-tipped tail. Talor had sensibly gripped it around the neck, yet it clawed and snarled at him all the same as he turned and carried it over to where Old Murdina waited.
The seer met Talor on the other side of the fire. She grabbed the stoat and wrung its neck in one swift movement, before flinging its corpse onto the dusty ground. Then, drawing a thin blade from her belt, the seer knelt and slit open the hapless rodent’s belly.
Mor’s bile rose as a foul smell permeated the air of the cave. Old Murdina did not appear to even notice or care. Instead, she pulled out the stoat’s entrails, laying them upon the dusty floor. Then, she held them up to the firelight, studying the offal intently. Picking up the liver first, and then the long rope of the intestines.
