by Jayne Castel
“It doesn’t matter what he wants,” a woman’s voice cut in then. “What is written is written. To go against the will of the Gods is foolish indeed.”
The crowd parted then, and a small wizened figure swathed in thick furs emerged. Mor’s breathing hitched. Old Murdina had ventured from her cave and come to them. Another woman—this one young and dark-haired, with lines of woad smeared across her cheeks—walked with Murdina, allowing the crone to rest upon her arm. Ailene, the bandruí of The Eagle, had left the encampment in the wake of the battle.
Together, the seers had visited them.
A shocked silence settled over the yard. The victors and the defeated alike grew still, their gazes settling upon the two women who stood before them. Even Wid stopped struggling, his gaze growing wide.
Watching the tension upon The Wolf chieftain’s face, Mor reflected just how much power the bandruís wielded among their people. These women were a conduit between this world and the next, between mortals and the Gods. Their divinations directed the future, and could break or make lives.
“Is this true then?” Artair asked, splintering the weighty hush. Mor’s uncle watched Old Murdina intently. “Have you read that this is the way?”
The crone nodded, before she cast a sly look at the woman beside her. “We have both seen it.”
All gazes settled upon Ailene then. The young bandruí’s face was stern, yet her blue eyes gleamed as her attention fixed upon Talor. He was still on one knee next to Mor.
“Mor told me what Murdina foretold,” she said softly. “But I sought to hear the full divination myself. You should have told me everything the moment you arrived at the camp, Talor … it would have made things easier for us all.”
“We thought you wouldn’t believe us,” Talor replied, holding his cousin’s gaze. “And in truth, it wasn’t something I wanted to accept myself.” He broke off there, his attention swinging back to Mor. The intensity on his face made her breathing quicken. “Until recently.”
“A seer can be wrong,” Wid growled.
“Aye … even the best of you can misread the omens,” Varar added. The Boar chieftain had kept silent during the discussion. However, he was scowling now. Unlike Tadhg and Galan, he had not stepped up to stop Wid. Watching him, Mor sensed the conflict in the chieftain.
Like Wid, he wanted retribution. The Boar had suffered greatly in this war, and although Varar had won back An Teanga, his people had been decimated by the invasion. It would take a long while for them to grow strong again.
“They did not misread about us.” Another woman appeared, pushing her way through the edge of the crowd. Fina’s face was grave as she crossed to Varar’s side and stood beside him. “If Ailene’s prediction could bring The Eagle and The Boar together, why would she be wrong about The Eagle and The Serpent?”
“I told you to keep away from the fort,” Varar muttered, his gaze narrowing.
“The fighting is done,” his wife countered with an irritated wave of her hand. “I’m with bairn, Varar … not made of eggshell.” Fina’s attention shifted across to Ailene then. “How sure are you of your prediction?”
The bandruí’s jaw firmed, her shoulders straightening. “I cast the bones again this morning,” she replied. “They continue to tell me the same thing … that there will be a union. The bloodshed ends today.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Bloodshed Ends Today
TALOR LISTENED TO his cousin speak, and the fear that had clamped his chest in a vise from the moment that Mor had leaped out in front of Wid eased just a little.
He was a warrior to the core. Joy flowed through him every time he unsheathed his weapons and went into battle. But the past few days had changed Talor, had made him view life from a different perspective.
His uncle Galan had once told him that hatred was like a serpent devouring its own head—an endless cycle that would never stop as long as you fed the beast. Glancing across at his uncle now, Talor knew that Galan would be the easiest of the four chieftains to convince. Galan mac Muin had spent his life striving for peace, and more often than not failing.
But today that could all change.
“Maybe some good can come from all of this,” he spoke up, focusing now on Wid’s glowering face, before his gaze flicked to Varar. The Boar chieftain still wore a hard, guarded expression. “Before the Cruthini landed upon our shores we were divided … suspicious of each other. But they united us, brought down the barriers that have kept us at each other’s throats for years. They made all of the grievances we had against each other seem petty.”
“Are you saying we should thank them?” Wid spat out the words. He was red in the face now and panting from the force of his outrage.
“No,” Talor countered. “All I’m saying is that the future is now ours to shape as we wish.” His gaze narrowed as it held Wid’s. “You once hated The Eagle. My people killed scores of yours. After Galan and Tea wed, you could have decided to carry on the feud, but instead you decided to put our history behind you. Why can’t you do that again?”
A nerve flickered under Wid’s left eye as he stared back at Talor. “They killed my son,” he rasped. “I miss Bred with every waking breath.”
“As I miss Bonnie,” Talor replied softly. “And yet I am willing to let the past go.”
Another silence settled across the yard, broken by a bairn’s wail inside the broch. The cry was lusty, life-affirming—the squalling of a newborn hungry for its mother’s teat. The skin on Talor’s forearms prickled as he listened.
Wid heard it too, and as Talor watched him, the man’s face crumpled, tears leaking down his cheeks. There was no need for Talor to say another word, the infant’s crying had driven his point home.
The Wolf chieftain sagged in Tadhg and Galan’s arms, and when Talor glanced back at Varar, he saw that his friend’s face had softened too, his gaze now shadowed.
The danger that had crackled in the air between them all dissolved now, and for the first time Talor was aware of the gentle kiss of the noon sun bathing his face.
He turned then to Mor and saw that she had risen to her feet. He raised his chin to meet her eye once more.
“Are you going to get off your knees now?” she asked, a husky edge to her voice.
Talor shook his head. He had not planned to throw himself between Wid and Mor, but at a certain point during their confrontation, something had splintered within him—the last shield that had kept him from facing the truth.
Mor had only been part of his life for a few days, and yet he could not bear the thought of continuing without her. The way she was prepared to sacrifice herself for her people, the brave way she faced death squarely without even flinching, made him want her even more than he already did.
He could search the whole world and never meet anyone like her again.
“There is a saying upon this isle,” he said finally. “Your feet will bring you to where your heart is … I never realized it, but from the moment I came into this world, my path was leading me to you.”
Old Murdina had spoken true. It was written. He and Mor had been destined for each other. He was tired of fighting fate, fighting what he knew to be the right choice.
Mor’s eyes gleamed. “So, this was always meant to be then?”
“Aye … you didn’t have a chance to answer me before,” he replied, his mouth curving. “Will you be my wife, Mor?”
She stared at him, before a tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. Even so, it felt like an eternity to Talor before she replied.
“Gladly,” Mor whispered.
A strange calm settled over Dun Ringill in the aftermath of the siege. Talor had noted such an atmosphere before. After the din and chaos of battle, the world always seemed to grow still and watchful. It was a time for reflection, a time to grieve for those lost—even for the victors.
Stepping inside Dun Ringill for the first time in many moons, Talor’s breath caught. The Serpent survivors had been emptied out
of the broch—they would reside for the time being in the village beyond until a decision was made about their future. In the days to come, The Wolf, The Stag, and The Boar would return home, but for the moment they remained at Dun Ringill, and the chieftains and their kin took the alcoves that lined the feasting hall inside the broch, while their warriors slept upon the rush-strewn floor.
“It looks bigger than I remember.” Fina stepped up to Talor’s shoulder, her arm snaking around his waist as she hugged him tight.
Talor tore his gaze from his surroundings and cast her a smile. “Aye … we were getting cramped at Balintur … it doesn’t look as though The Serpent damaged anything.”
A few yards away, warriors heaved a fresh lump of peat onto the great fire pit that warmed the space. Men and women filled the broch, and yet the mood was subdued. Talor had expected more festivity, more excitement, at getting their broch back—but mostly he just saw relief and fatigue on the faces surrounding him.
“I’m glad it’s over,” he murmured. “I just wish Bonnie had lived to see us back here.”
“She’s still with us,” Fina replied, squeezing him against her once more. “I felt her presence this morning, standing at my side as I watched you launch your last attack at the gates. A soft smile graced her lips then, her grey eyes misting. “Listen to me … it must be the bairn … I’m not usually so weepy.”
Talor smiled back, his throat constricting. He understood how his cousin felt though; being back here again had moved him more than he had thought it would. Standing inside this broch brought back so much—memories of when Bonnie had been with them. Still, he liked the idea of her watching over them as they went into battle, the idea that although her body lay beneath a cairn of stones, her soul flew free.
Talor slung an arm around Fina’s shoulders and led her toward the chieftain’s table, where platters of food were being set out for supper. It had been a long, exhausting day, and Talor had spent most of it helping to clear out the bodies of the dead. Repairs had already begun on the gates and walls, although it would take many days for all signs of the siege to be erased from Dun Ringill.
Fina stepped away from Talor and joined Varar at the table. Husband and wife shared a long and tender look, before Varar handed her a cup of milk. A few feet away, Muin wrapped a protective arm around Ailene’s shoulders, while she leaned into him, smiling at something he had just said.
Warmth filtered over Talor at seeing all three of his cousins so happy. It had been a hard year, the most difficult of his life, and it had tested them all to the limit. But they had emerged stronger—and hopefully wiser.
Yet Talor hesitated to join his kin just yet. Before he settled down to a hot meal and a cup of ale, there was someone he wanted to see first.
Turning on his heel, Talor strode from the broch and into the village beyond. Outside, night had settled, although the fires on the walls sent out a red-hued glow over the fort. The ground inside the inner wall was slippery and slushy, but beyond a thick carpet of snow still lay upon the frozen earth. It would take a few days before it started to melt, if more snow did not fall in the meantime.
Unlike when they had arrived at Dun Ringill, the sea of conical-roofed huts and roundhouses that filled the space between the inner and outer perimeter were now occupied. Smoke rose from the slits in the sod roofs, and the aroma of cooking oatcakes filled the air.
Passing through the archway and the ruined gates, Talor turned left and made his way toward the northern edge of the village, where what remained of The Serpent tribe now resided.
An uneasy peace had settled over the fort, and Galan had taken precautions. A makeshift wooden perimeter now rose between The Serpent lodgings and the rest of the village, and a row of Eagle warriors guarded it.
They let Talor through without comment, and he made his way to the largest of the roundhouses that rose up near the northern wall.
As he approached, a tall figure ducked out of the doorway and rose to meet him.
“I had a feeling you were on your way,” Mor greeted Talor. The golden light of the fires on the walls caught the red hues of her hair. As always, she wore it unbound, and the waves cascaded over the fur wrap about her shoulders.
Talor’s mouth quirked. It was strong, this link between them, and he had felt it too inside the broch. He had known Mor wanted to see him, to speak to him, and so he had come to her.
Nearing Mor, Talor reached out, cupping her cheek with his hand. “How is everyone?” he asked. He noted the tension on her face, the sadness in her eyes. She had hoped to save her father, but that had not come to pass.
“Subdued … and nervous about what the future holds,” she replied. “But my uncle leads The Serpent now, and they trust him.”
Talor nodded. Artair had shown courage, emerging from the broch unarmed to stand between the attackers and the last of his people.
In the aftermath of the siege, The Serpent had kept their distance from the warriors of the united tribes. Despite that Wid had backed down, animosity still ran high. It would take a while for the anger and need for revenge to settle down completely. In the meantime, everyone needed to take time to eat, drink, rest, and sleep.
Stepping closer still, Talor gazed deep into Mor’s moss-green eyes. She stared back at him, unflinching, her expression softer than he had ever seen it. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked after a pause.
“No,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Terrified.”
She gave a soft laugh. “Really? This was your idea.”
“Aye … one of my better ones. Still … I never thought I’d wed. I imagined I’d fall in battle before that day ever came.”
“As did I,” Mor replied, before her eyes shadowed. “You don’t regret proposing to me, do you?”
Talor shook his head. “Never.” He cleared his throat then, suddenly overcome. A wave of protectiveness slammed into him. “I’m not just doing this for our people, Mor. I’m too selfish for that. I’m doing this because I want you.”
“You’re not selfish,” she whispered. Mor raised a hand then, cupping the fingers that cradled her cheek. “I’ve never met anyone more loyal, more capable of love. What you did today … I will never forget it.”
Talor smiled and stepped closer still, enfolding Mor in his arms. She came willingly, her face resting against his neck, her arms wrapping around his waist. Her nearness, the feel of her lips against the sensitive skin under his ear, inflamed Talor. His pulse quickened, and his groin started to ache. And yet he held back.
Tonight was for tenderness. Tomorrow they would be handfasted, and after that he would claim Mor as his wife.
But he could sense the blanket of sorrow that hung over Mor as he held her, and knew that she grieved for her father.
No words were needed now.
Talor tightened his hold on her, burying his face in the rosemary-scented softness of her hair. He was not going to pretend he had liked the man. If he was honest, he was pleased that the bastard was dead, and yet in the end Cathal had been prepared to sacrifice his own pride for his people. He had not deserved the death that Tormud had dealt him, stabbed in the back.
Cathal was to blame for much suffering, although he had brought his people to The Winged Isle in search of a better life. His mistake had been in thinking he could take this land from its people by brute force. His arrogance had been his undoing.
But he was Mor’s father all the same, and she had loved him as much as Talor did his own father. He would not taint her memories of the man. He would hold her while she grieved for him.
And so they stood together, bodies pressed close, arms wrapped around each other, and let the healing power of the night enfold them.
Chapter Thirty
A Second Chance
TALOR AND MOR wed upon the stony beach that stretched south of Dun Ringill. A chill breeze gusted in off the water, pulling at the heavy plaid skirt that Mor had donned for the occasion. The wind ruffled Talo
r’s short hair and tangled Mor’s long tresses. With the world still carpeted in snow, there were no flowers to weave through her hair; instead, Old Murdina had presented her with sprigs of drualus—mistletoe—a sacred plant for their people. Mor wore the drualus, in a crown about her forehead, but no other adornment; they had fled with very little from their homeland.
The crone looked on now, standing at the edge of the crowd that had gathered near the waterline to watch the couple’s handfasting. She wore a fey smile upon her wrinkled face, observing Ailene keenly as she unwrapped a length of plaid from around the couples joined hands. They had just made their vows to each other, and the crowd of men, women, and bairns who watched the ceremony had gone still. Mor had even heard a few sniffs, as some of the women wiped away tears.
Even though many in the fort were still wary of uniting The Eagle and The Serpent, it was a hard-hearted soul indeed who could walk away dry-eyed from a handfasting. Even Wid mac Manus had attended the ceremony, although Mor had not looked The Wolf chieftain’s way since it had begun.
Despite the cold, both Talor and Mor stood barefoot on the icy stones. Mor’s feet had started to ache from the chill, but she paid them no mind. Instead, her attention was wholly focused upon the dark-haired man who stood before her.
Talor mac Donnel was breathtakingly handsome this morning. Clad in black leather breeches and vest, a golden torque around his throat bearing two carven eagle heads meeting, the sight of him made Mor’s breathing catch. And the fierce look on his face as he promised to stand by her side, to protect her and their children, made her chest ache.
Ailene finished removing the plaid ribbon binding them and stepped back. “You are now bound, one to the other.” The seer’s voice echoed out across the windy shore. Ailene then caught Talor’s eye and favored him with an impish grin. “Kiss her then.”
Talor grinned back at his cousin and, stepping forward, cupped Mor’s face with his hands and swept in for a kiss. Mor’s eyes closed, and she leaned into him, losing herself in the scent of his skin, the strength of his hands, the contained passion of his lips sliding across hers.
