by Jayne Castel
The seer’s face screwed up as she peered at the entrails, a study in concentration.
Neither Talor nor Mor interrupted her.
Eventually, Old Murdina lowered the grisly objects and sat back on her heels. Her gaze swept from Mor to Talor. Mor frowned as she stared back at the crone; the seer wore a sly smile upon her face.
“I have advice for you,” the bandruí said finally, “although neither of you is going to like it.”
“Out with it then,” Talor said, his voice sharp now. Was Mor imagining it, or had he grown uneasy. Tension rippled off him as he regarded the seer with a cool stare.
The bandruí climbed to her feet, wincing as her old bones protested. “There is a way forward … a way to ensure that our people all survive the coming year.” Her gaze flicked between the two of them once more, before she continued. “If you want to bring peace to this isle, then you two must wed.”
Silence followed this proclamation.
Suddenly, all Mor could hear was the roar of her own breathing. It was so loud that it obliterated the crackle and pop of the hearth, the whistle of the icy wind outside the cave.
“What?” she finally managed, her voice hoarse. “Talor and I?”
The seer nodded, her sly smile widening. “It’s the only way.”
“Then your people are doomed,” Talor spoke up, his voice icy. “For there is no way I will ever bind myself to a Serpent woman.”
Old Murdina’s smile faded, and her smoke grey eyes narrowed. “Careful, lad. You could do far worse than Mor. I’ve seen the way you look at her. Your body wants her, even if your stubborn ways prevent you from admitting it to yourself.”
Mor’s belly twisted as she watched Talor’s face turn to stone. The thought of being handfasted to her was abhorrent to him; he did not even bother to hide his disgust at the very notion.
“Save your advice for the feeble-minded,” he snarled at the seer. “I have no use for it.”
With that, Talor turned on his heel and strode from the cave without a backward glance.
A heartbeat later Mor moved to follow him. She could not let Talor leave. He was her only chance at weaving peace.
“Stop, Mor.” Old Murdina’s sharp command forestalled her.
Whipping around, Mor fixed the crone with a baleful look. “You handled that well,” she snapped. “Couldn’t you have broached the subject more softly?”
Old Murdina croaked a laugh. “There’s little point in that, lass. Talor mac Donnel prefers plain speech.”
“Well, he didn’t like what you had to say.”
“It came as a shock to him, aye.”
Mor stepped back, glancing over her shoulder at the mouth of the cave. “I need to go after him … he has to see sense.”
“Nothing you say will make any difference,” the bandruí replied, her tone serious now. “Let him go. If Talor agrees to wed you … or to aid you in your quest for peace … it must be a decision he makes for himself.”
Chapter Thirteen
A Warrior’s Death
CATHAL MAC CALUM slammed his fist onto the table. Pain shot up his arm and splinters drove into his knuckles, yet he was too incensed to care.
“How is it possible that they could have just disappeared,” he railed at the group of warriors that surrounded him on the platform. “They won’t have just vanished into a fairy mound. They will be hiding somewhere … and you were supposed to find them.”
“The snow has made it difficult,” Tormud replied. He was the only warrior bold enough to respond, especially considering the chieftain’s enraged state. The rest held their tongues, their gazes wary and faces taut. None of them wanted to fail Cathal, and yet they all had. “It has covered their tracks … they could be anywhere.”
Cathal spat out a curse and stormed from the platform, shoving Tormud aside as he did so. He could not bear to look at their faces. He could not believe they were all so incompetent—especially Tormud, who was supposed to know this isle well. Even Old Murdina had been of no use to him. When he had been to visit her earlier in the day, the bandruí had merely looked at him with a smirk that had made him want to take a stick to her.
Ignoring the folk that filled the feasting hall, he stalked across the floor, kicking a dog out of the way as he went. The hound yelped and slunk away, but Cathal ignored it. Instead, he left the broch, welcoming the gust of icy air that hit his face the moment he stepped outside.
Another snowy dusk was settling. Snow gusted in, carried by a biting north wind. It was a vicious night to be outdoors, a night when those without shelter would surely freeze.
Maybe the cold has claimed them both.
The thought brought Cathal mixed reactions: a surge of vindictive pleasure at the thought of the Eagle warrior lying frozen in a gully, and a knife-blade of grief under his ribcage at the image of his daughter’s lifeless eyes staring up into the sky.
Fury swiftly followed, seizing him by the throat.
How could Mor do this to me?
Cathal stormed down the steps, nearly slipping on the sheet of ice that had frozen over them. He then made his way across the yard and climbed another set of steps, these even steeper and more perilous than the last, and reached the top of the high wall that encircled the fort. On a clear day, it afforded a view of the rocky shoreline to the south, where Old Murdina dwelt in that damp cave, and the craggy headland beyond. But tonight, the snow obscured everything.
The wind was strong up here, buffeting him. Cathal had been so caught up in a rage that he left the broch without a fur cloak. As such, the wind clawed at his exposed skin, driving sharp needles into his flesh.
Cathal welcomed the sensation, for it pushed out the seething rage that had nowhere to go.
Walking to the edge of the wall, he clenched his hands by his side and tried to control the anger that clawed its way up his throat. He wanted to kill, to maim. He wanted to howl into the wind at the cruelty of fate.
After a few moments Cathal realized he was not alone.
Breathing heavily, he turned his gaze right, at where a broad-shouldered figure swathed in fur watched him. Despite his injuries, Artair had followed him up here.
“Here.” His brother handed him a cloak. “I thought you’d need this.”
Cathal took the cloak without a word of thanks and slung it around his shoulders. Immediately, the biting cold retreated just a little, allowing the furnace of his fury to warm him once more.
“They’ve all deserted me, Artair,” he ground out finally, his gaze sweeping south. “I arrived on these shores with three children. None are left.”
“Mor could still be alive,” his brother rumbled.
“It doesn’t matter if she still breathes,” Cathal growled back. “She’s dead to me now.” He glanced back at Artair then. Illuminated by the light of a brazier, his brother’s face looked tired and haggard. Those injuries he had sustained in the siege of Balintur pained him still. Cathal wondered if Artair would ever fully recover from them. “Why did she do it? Why did she betray me?”
Artair shook his head, his gaze shadowing. “I’m as mystified as you,” he admitted softly. He stepped closer to Cathal then, and the two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder as the wind buffeted their backs. “You don’t think she fell for him, do you?”
Cathal’s mouth twisted. “If she did, it was the swiftest love affair I’ve ever witnessed. Mor didn’t spend any time alone with that Eagle bastard … did she?”
“I never saw her do so.”
Silence fell between them for a long moment, and when Cathal finally glanced at his brother, he saw Artair staring out into the snowy evening. “They can’t have survived out there,” he murmured.
Cathal grunted. “You forget, Talor mac Donnel is one of the Eagle. He knows these lands. If there was a hiding place, he’s sure to have found it.”
Another silence drew out between the brothers, and when Artair finally broke it, his voice was quiet, cautious. “Are you still set on remaining upon
this isle, Cathal?”
Cathal clenched his jaw before replying, “Aye … more than ever.”
“There are still close to two hundred of us within the walls of Dun Ringill,” Artair replied, his voice carefully neutral. “Two hundred men and women who would follow you anywhere … you know that.”
“Aye,” Cathal growled. “What of it?”
“You may have lost Dunchadh, Tamhas … and Mor … but you still have the rest of us,” Artair continued. “You hold our lives in your hands. Are you sure you want to see the end to our people on this rock?”
Cathal cut his brother a sharp look. “What makes you think it will be our end?”
Artair exhaled sharply, anger splintering his usual reserve. Artair was very different to Cathal. The Serpent chieftain knew he had a fiery temper, that his brother had always been the cool, level-headed one. “They outnumber us now,” Artair pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter. We are better fighters. We can wait them out inside these walls.”
“Can we? The walls aren’t the problem … how long do you think the gates will hold out against a sustained attack? If they encircle us, they’ll hammer at our defenses until they get through … and then we’ll be massacred.”
“Aye, but it will be a warrior’s death for all of us,” Cathal shot back. “We won’t slink away like cowards.”
“None of us are craven,” Artair countered, exasperated now. “None of us have anything to prove. But as chieftain, you have the power to give us back a future … to take us from these shores to a new home.”
“Enough,” Cathal snarled, his patience snapping. He had come up onto the wall to be alone with his rage—not to be nagged. His brother had just succeeded in fueling his ire further. All this talk of fleeing like beaten hounds made his gut twist. “There is nowhere else for us, Artair,” he continued. “We came here as a last resort. The mainland is lost to us. We make our stand here. There is no other choice.”
Artair did not reply immediately. Instead, he let the wind howl between them for a few moments, let the blizzard consume them in a white world, before he answered. And when he did, his voice was rough with anger. “There’s always a choice, Cathal. Always.”
Chapter Fourteen
Making Choices
MOR SET OUT for the hunter’s hut at first light.
Old Murdina had convinced her not to attempt the journey in the darkness, especially as another snowstorm had howled in, blanketing the world in white. Instead, Mor shared a light supper of oatcakes and hard cheese before wrapping herself up in her fur cloak near the glowing hearth. It was cold, damp, and drafty inside the cave, and the ground was rock-hard. Mor had not thought she would manage to sleep at all, yet she had—such had been her exhaustion. But with the first blush of dawn, she had risen, bid the seer farewell, and set off east toward the mountains.
“The Gods have spoken. If you want peace, then a union with Talor mac Donnel is the only way,” the bandruí had reminded her. The crone had shuffled to the mouth of her cave to see her off. “Only then will an alliance be formed between our people.”
Mor had acknowledged the comment with a curt nod, before she pulled her cloak tightly about her and emerged into the freezing dawn.
The snow still fell lightly now, although the wind had died. The morning felt eerily quiet.
I hope he returned to the hut. Mor struggled up the slope and headed toward the brow of the first snow-covered hill. He could have just gone back to his people.
The thought made Mor’s belly tighten. Upon awaking, she had told herself that despite his anger the night before, Talor would see sense once he calmed down. He would be waiting for her at the hut—and this time would be ready to talk.
He’ll be there, she assured herself.
Mor feared she might not find the valley again. Fortunately, she had paid attention the day before when they had traveled to Old Murdina’s cave, and had noted that for the most part, Talor had led her directly west, without too many detours north or south. As such, she kept her course steady in the opposite direction.
Once the mountains loomed before her, it was easier to get her bearings. She remembered the shape of one of them, thrusting skyward like a shark fin. The valley where they had sheltered lay at the bottom of it, with the hut at the far end.
The sight of the small dwelling made relief crash over Mor in a great wave. She had been traveling all morning, and all the while the snow had silently fallen. She was tired now, and her feet and hands were numb. Old Murdina had given her some more oatcakes to take with her, and she still had a bladder of water.
She wondered how Talor was faring. He would not have eaten anything since the day before and would likely be weak with hunger.
But when Mor ducked into the low entrance of the hut, she found the interior empty. She moved over to the hearth and checked the ashes there. They were stone cold; no one had been here since they had left it the day before.
Talor had not returned as she had hoped.
Sitting back on her haunches, Mor spat out a curse. She should have realized the man had no honor. She had saved his life, and this was how he repaid her?
A chill washed over her then, and her skin prickled. She suddenly felt like a complete goose. She had been too trusting. It had been idiocy to take him into her confidence.
The memory of how his face had twisted, when Old Murdina had made her divination, made her skin prickle with humiliation. The thought had revolted him.
Suddenly, she questioned everything. Although the seer thought differently, maybe the fascination she’d had with him from beginning—that pull, like a moth to a flame—had all been on her side only.
Mor breathed another curse before raking a hand over her face.
What now?
Her choices were limited. Wearily, she heaved herself up off the ground and exited the hut. After trudging through the snow since dawn to reach her destination, the last thing she wanted to do was continue walking. There was enough peat left for her to build another fire, and she desperately wanted to rest for a while.
But Talor would not help her; something had to be done. She could not hide out here in the mountains and pretend nothing had happened. Panic now churned through her. This was all her doing; she had taken this responsibility on herself. No one had forced her on this path.
Desperation twisted her belly. Mor fisted her hands at her sides, forcing down the spiraling panic. She had to act. If Talor would not aid her, maybe others would.
Despite everything, she was as committed to peace as she had ever been. It was too late to turn back now. She would take this to the very end, wherever that led her.
Squaring her shoulders, Mor cast one final glance back at the hut, and then she turned and retraced her steps down the snow-covered valley.
Talor trudged up the incline and drew to a halt.
Even covered in three feet of snow, he knew this valley instantly.
A deep, steep sided vale, studded with great towering stacks of stone, spread out before him. The tors thrust up out of the snow, stark against the surrounding blanket of white. Casting his gaze over the valley, Talor reflected on all the bloodshed that had taken place in this spot. The Valley of the Tors, for that was its name, marked the boundary between The Boar and The Eagle. Many battles had occurred here, the most recent of which had been the violent skirmish between the two tribes last summer. It had occurred just days before the Cruthini invaded. Fina had lost her entire patrol in that fight and fallen prisoner to Varar mac Urcal.
Talor’s mouth twisted at the memory. Much had happened since then.
It seemed like years ago, not last summer.
Breathing heavily, Talor decided to rest for a short while. He sagged against one of the tors, taking strength from its bulk. After leaving Mor and the seer the night before, he had traveled down the coast. There were more caves, harder to reach and far less comfortable, farther south. Talor had sheltered in one of them for the rest of the night before pre
ssing on with the dawn.
Walking gave him plenty of time to think, to mull over the events of the past few days. However, when his thoughts shifted to Mor, guilt arrowed through him.
You shouldn’t have walked out on her.
Talor ground his teeth and shoved aside his needling conscience.
I had to … going to that cave was a waste of time.
The bandruí’s proclamation still rang in his ears, shadowing him as he trudged south. It reminded him of the prediction that Ailene had made over a month earlier at Mid-Winter Fire. She had been so excited that evening, seeking him out as he took up his place upon the wall for the night watch.
“The bloodshed will end,” his cousin had told him, her blue eyes shining with joy. “The bones speak of a union between The Serpent and The Eagle.”
Talor had curled his lip at her words and rudely turned his back upon her. The notion had been ridiculous.
And yet Old Murdina’s divination had been uncomfortably close to Ailene’s.
Talor shook his head, attempting to dislodge the thoughts that plagued him. He had done the right thing in walking away from that cave, in distancing himself from that Serpent woman. Now he just had to reach An Teanga, where his cousin Fina resided. Once he reached Varar and Fina, he would be safe. He would be able to rest up, fill his belly, and rebuild his strength to fight the enemy once more.
The day drew out, and exhaustion dragged at him. He had slaked his thirst with some snow, but his belly ached in hunger. His head was starting to spin now, and he could feel weakness filtering through his limbs. Talor needed to reach The Boar stronghold by the day’s end. But it was an ambitious plan; he risked collapsing before arriving at his destination.
Talor heaved in a deep breath, stubbornness forcing him on. He shoved himself away from the tor he had been leaning against and staggered down the hill. He would not be beaten. He had managed to cheat death a few times over the past days. He could not let it be for nothing.
