by Jayne Castel
Galan’s fists clenched at his sides. I won’t believe it—not without proof.
Someone must have hated his family very much to have carved an eagle into Fina’s flesh as a message for her husband.
Galan was determined not to let this be; such accusations could not lie.
Tomorrow, I will get answers.
He knew exactly whom to ask.
***
A windy dawn greeted Dun Ringill. It whipped the dark surface of the lake into frothy peaks and gusted across the exposed hilltop, blowing straw, fowl feathers and dust into Galan’s face as he strode out of the fort and into the village below.
Folk called out to him and waved as he passed, but Galan did not slow his step. He had not been able to sleep the night before. Eventually the night’s chill had forced him indoors but he did not return to his alcove. Instead, he had sat by the hearth in the center of his feasting hall, surrounded by slumbering bodies. He had spent the night brooding, and by the time the sun rose over the hills to the east, his mood was black.
This morning, he would have answers.
The hovel he sought sat on the outskirts of the village, just yards from the stone defensive wall that ringed the fort. The dwelling was smaller than most and its thatch roof had been patched in many places. Galan walked past a neatly tended vegetable patch and small fowl coop, stepping through a rambling growth of herbs before he reached the door to the dwelling. The scent of baking griddle bread and the stronger aroma of burning peat wafted out.
Outside the door, Galan paused. He had not been to see the bandruí in a while. He had glimpsed her briefly at his father’s burial; a slight, cloaked figure at the back of the crowd. Muin had relied heavily on Ruith over the years, following her divinations and insights, especially after the loss of his wife. Yet Galan had never felt entirely comfortable in the seer’s presence; and he hesitated now on the threshold of her home.
“I know you’re there, Galan mac Muin,” a husky female voice greeted him through the wattle door. “Come inside. I won’t bite.”
Frowning, Galan pulled the door open and stepped into the hovel, squinting as his eyes got used to the dim light.
The bandruí squatted next to the fire pit, tending a wheel of bread she was toasting on an iron griddle. She wore a dark, long-sleeved tunic, and her greying hair braided into many plaits hung around her face. Ruith was nearing her sixtieth winter, but Galan could see she had once been a beauty. She had high cheekbones, piercing dark-blue eyes and a proud stance.
I wonder if Tea will look like her when she ages, he thought suddenly before catching himself. He did not want to think of his wife now. He needed to focus.
“Good morning, Ruith,” he greeted the seer.
She motioned to the stool on the opposite side of the fire pit. “Sit down.”
He did as bid, not taking offense at the familiar way the bandruí spoke to him. It was her manner. Ruith was not like other folk; she was a part of the soil, the air, the grass. She was Dun Ringill’s conduit to the gods and the world beyond.
The seer met his eye as he settled himself upon a stool, her mouth curving into a smile. “I saw you ride in with your new woman yesterday.”
Galan inhaled slowly, fighting the growing tension in his chest. This was why he had never felt comfortable with Ruith; he preferred plain speech. The seer rarely spoke about things directly.
“She hates me,” he admitted finally. “I thought it was because of the blood feud between our peoples, but last night I discovered there is more to it than that.”
Ruith met his eye across the fire. She flipped the wheel of bread over so it could cook on the other side. “Go on.”
“She accuses my father of raping and murdering her mother.”
The bandruí’s gaze widened at this, and relief crashed over Galan in a great wave. The seer did not know of this tale—it had to be a lie.
“When was this?” she asked.
“Ten years ago, I believe.” Galan paused here, thinking back. He would have been around fifteen at the time, yet he could not remember any incident that would have implicated his father.
“What did she say exactly?” Ruith asked finally.
Galan told her, word for word, what Tea had spat at him. When he spoke of the mark The Eagle being engraved into the dead woman’s flesh, the bandruí’s gaze narrowed. She removed the bread from the griddle and placed another wheel of dough on to cook.
“Your father knew Fina,” she said when the silence had stretched out so long that Galan had begun to think she would never reply. “They met when they were very young at a gathering of the tribes. She was from the northern tip of the isle, from Dun Skudiburgh.” The seer paused here, her gaze meeting Galan’s. “Muin spoke to me of her once—they bonded at the gathering. He’d hoped to wed her but the feuding between our tribes made their union impossible.”
Galan stared at her. He had not come here expecting this. He had wanted assurance that his father and Tea’s mother had never met, not that they had once been lovers. Bitterness soured his mouth.
“So you think he could have murdered her?”
The bandruí raised a finely arched eyebrow. “You’ve come here looking for guarantees I can’t give, Galan. I knew your father well, but I cannot account for all his actions.”
Galan inhaled deeply, fighting his growing frustration. “Then, knowing him as you did, do you think he’s capable of it?”
Ruith cocked her head. “Your father was proud and could be brutal at times. I think he regretted losing Fina. I know not if he secretly raged over it.”
Galan clenched his jaw before answering. “You can’t help me, can you?”
The seer flipped the second wheel of bread off the hot plate and rose to her feet, dusting flour from her hands.
“I can cast the bones, and ask them for you?”
Galan shook his head, rising to his feet with her. “No, I’ll leave you now—thank you for your time.”
Ruith had known his father better than anyone—better even than his mother had. After his mother’s death, Galan had wondered if they had been lovers, such was their closeness. So if the seer could not be sure that his father was innocent of this atrocity, he could not cast Tea’s words aside as lies. The bones would be no further help to him.
Ruith watched the chieftain leave. Her gaze slid over his tall, broad-shouldered form in frank admiration. Galan wore plaid breeches this morning and a leather tunic, leaving his muscular arms bare. His long dark hair spilled down his back; its color and sheen made her think of a selkie—creatures that lived as seals in the sea but took human form on land. Male selkies were thought to be incredibly handsome in their human form, with great powers of seduction over women.
For a brief moment, Ruith wished she was a young woman again. She sensed he was a man who knew how to please a woman in the furs; his father had been such a man too. Galan’s wife was a fortunate woman indeed—although she clearly thought otherwise.
Ruith knew Galan’s worth; she had watched him grow from infant, to child, and then into a man. Out of the three sons, Galan reminded her of Muin the least. He had far more of his mother in him—a silent strength and a deep wisdom. Muin had ever been of a more reactive temperament, far more like Tarl. He had gone at life like a bull whereas his eldest son was watchful, farsighted.
Ruith let out a gentle sigh. Muin. She missed him. They had been friends for many years, and then after his wife’s death, he had found solace in her furs. The nights now felt cold and lonely without him.
Pushing aside thoughts of her dead lover, the seer’s attention shifted back to the young Eagle chieftain. She had not been surprised when Galan had accepted the Wolf chief’s peace offering. He was a warrior but knew that leadership was about more than war. Ruith was pleased Galan had chosen peace, although she knew many at Dun Ringill did not share her relief. Folk here had suffered because of the People of The Wolf; it would take them a while to forget.
What will come of this uni
on?
Curious, Ruith drew the leather bag containing her ‘telling bones’ from her skirt and poured them out onto her palm; the pieces of bone, inscribed with the symbols of her people, rattled as she weighed them in her hand and squatted once more beside the hearth. Thinking upon Galan and is wife—a woman of the People of The Wolf—she then cast the bones on the dirt floor. The light was dim inside her hovel so Ruith had to climb down on stiff knees to read them properly.
The two bones depicting The Wolf and The Eagle had fallen close to each other—a good sign. Perhaps this handfasting would bring peace after all … yet some of the other bones worried her. The Bent Arrow upon a Crescent Moon had fallen directly above the symbols of the two tribes, and up against it, the mark of the Serpent.
The seer sat back on her heels, her gaze narrowing. She was glad Galan had not seen these bones, for her divination boded ill.
Her reading spoke of death and betrayal.
Galan left the bandruí’s hovel with a heavy heart and strode up the incline back toward the squat shape of the fort. He had been sure Ruith would set his mind at ease, but she had only raised more questions.
Father knew Fina. Doubt niggled at him. He did not want to believe Tea, but the bandruí had sown the seed now and it began to germinate. He would not speak to his brothers of this; they must never know. If Tea did speak the truth, he would have to learn to live with it. However, his hopes that she would one day thaw toward him had shattered. She thought she had good reason to hate him.
Galan had almost reached the entrance to the fort when he spied Donnel approaching. His youngest brother’s face was unusually serious this morning, his muscular frame tense with purpose. The wind ruffled his short dark hair as he waved to Galan.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Galan stopped. “Why—is something wrong?”
Donnel shook his head. “Not sure—guards at the defense have spotted riders approaching from the south-east.”
Galan went still. “How many?”
“Thirty, at least.”
“Cruthini?”
Donnel nodded. “I think so—they do not look foreign.”
Galan relaxed slightly. The invaders who lived south of the great wall were a threat to their lands, but they had never ventured this far north. Even if the riders were Cruthini, folk of the lands north of the wall, he had good reason to be wary. “Gather the men,” he ordered, turning on his heel toward the stables. “We’ll ride out to meet them.”
Chapter Twelve
The Campaign
The warriors entered the fort. Their voices rose high into the rafters, echoing off the stone, and shattering the scene of domestic peace within.
Tea rose from her place by the hearth, the flax basket she had been weaving clutched in her hands. Next to her, Luana also got to her feet. The young woman’s delicate features scrunched in discomfort as she massaged her lower back.
“This babe kicks,” she muttered.
Tea glanced at her, casting Luana a look of sympathy. The two women had barely spoken that morning, although Luana seemed to be content to work in silence. For her part, Tea was in a black mood and did not welcome company. She had not seen Galan since their confrontation the night before; dread clenched in her belly at having to speak with him again. However, she put aside her own concerns for a moment as her gaze settled upon Luana’s face. The young woman had looked drained ever since returning from their journey.
“You should rest,” she observed.
Luana waved her away. “There’s too much to be done.”
Tea spied Galan then. Tall, dark and stern, he strode into the wide space, followed by his brothers. He saw Tea and walked to her. The intensity of his gaze speared her, and she nearly wilted under the force of it. Then, remembering who she was—the daughter of warriors who stared down their foes—she held his eye, tilting her chin imperiously.
Galan’s gaze narrowed and he shifted his gaze to Luana.
“We have visitors.” Galan greeted his sister-by-marriage, ignoring Tea completely. “They will eat with us at noon. Can you make sure we have enough to feed them?”
Luana nodded. “Who are they?”
“Warriors of this isle, and Cruthini from across the water. They’re gathering fighters for a campaign to the south.”
Tea watched the warriors with fascination as they took their places at the long tables that formed a square around the great hearth. Most of the newcomers were male although there was a handful of women amongst them.
The warriors were lightly clad. Many of them left their limbs bare, showing off their tribal markings. The women wore leather bindings across their breasts, their hair pulled back from their faces in elaborate braids.
All of them—men and women alike—bore the blue painted symbols of their people. Tea spied the mark of The Stag on a handful of them, as well as tattoos of The Boar; it appeared this group had already visited two of the tribes living upon The Winged Isle. The People of The Stag were her mother’s people, a tribe that inhabited the east and far northern coast of The Winged Isle. The People of The Boar occupied the isle’s south and south-eastern corners. Of Tea’s own people—The Wolf—she saw none. She imagined the group would travel to Dun Ardtreck next.
Seated next to Galan, Tea helped herself to some boar stew, before her gaze returned to the warriors once more.
The sight of the fierce women caused bitterness and longing for war to well within her. She too could fight. Many of the warrior women were tall and strong, as she was, and easily matched their menfolk in combat ability. Tea’s father and brother had taught her how to fight with her fists, and how to use an axe, spear or sword. They had offered the same to Eithni, but Tea’s gentle younger sister had declined; her gifts lay with healing the sick and injured, not with warfare. However, despite her father’s eagerness to teach Tea how to fight, Domech had never allowed her to accompany him to any of the skirmishes against their enemies.
You’re too valuable, lass, he had told her, his eyes glistening with emotion. I lost your mother, I will not lose you too.
Tea was deep in thought, brooding upon the past, when Galan’s voice roused her. He was questioning the leader of the band; a huge man named Wurgest with a dense black hair and beard, and wild blue eyes. Wurgest bore the mark of The Boar tattooed onto his right bicep.
“How many warriors have you gathered?” Galan asked.
“At least two-hundred of our own people wait on the shores of the mainland,” Wurgest replied in between huge bites of stew. “The Scotti and Atecotti are also gathering and travelling south as we speak.”
Galan’s dark eyebrows shot up. “They will join you?”
Wurgest nodded, his intense gaze spearing Galan. “Aye, there’s even word of the Saxones readying themselves to the south. The time has come to fight back against the Caesars.”
Listening to this, Tea felt a thrill of excitement. Yet Galan’s strong-featured face gave nothing away. She could not tell if this news pleased him or not.
“Why now?” he asked. “Have you news from beyond the wall?”
Wurgest grinned. “Aye. The great empire is weakening, rotting from the inside out. A few winters back, they fought amongst themselves, and since then the mood at their garrison has turned sour. The cruel general who leads them, Catena, is hated. There are deserters and rebels willing to join with us.”
“And when will you move against them?” Galan asked.
Wurgest’s grin widened, making him look half-mad. “Mid-winter.”
“I will go with you.”
To Galan’s right, Tarl spoke up. Tea watched Galan’s younger brother with interest. She did not like Tarl’s cockiness, but today his face was serious, and his grey eyes gleamed as he held Wurgest’s gaze. “I will bring Eagle warriors to aid you.”
“Tarl.” Galan’s voice cracked across the table like a whip. “You forget yourself.”
Blinking, as if suddenly remembering his brother sat next to him, Tarl tu
rned to Galan. His expression hardened. “Don’t try to stop me, Galan,” he warned. “Or any of us who wish to join the campaign. Unlike you, I still have balls.”
Tea’s breath caught at this insult.
She had noticed Tarl’s attitude toward her had bordered on insolence, but she had not realized he also resented his elder brother.
Galan leaned forward, his gaze snaring his brother’s. Tea had to admit his self-restraint impressed her. Tarl had just insulted him in front of kin, warriors and guests. A more volatile man would have lashed out.
“I still have my balls, brother,” Galan growled, his face like hewn stone, his grey eyes narrowed. “Would you like to see them?”
A stunned silence followed before Tarl’s mouth quirked. Wurgest threw back his head and roared with laughter, shattering the tension at the table.
Galan shifted his attention to The Boar warrior. “I decide who joins with you,” he rumbled. “I can spare twenty spears, and my brother will lead them.”
The big warrior nodded, still grinning. “A generous offer—thank you, Galan.”
“I want to go too.”
Tea had spoken without even realizing it. Desperation had welled up in her upon hearing Galan offer his warriors to the war band. The chance to escape this marriage, to fight for The Winged Isle, was too enticing and she could not still her tongue.
Galan inclined his head toward her. “You cannot, Tea.”
She narrowed her gaze. “I can fight as well as any of them—my kin taught me well.”
A smile crinkled the corners of Galan’s eyes, the austerity of his face softening. “I’m sure they did, but the answer is still the same. Your purpose, to forge peace between our tribes, is just as noble as Tarl’s.”
His words kindled rage in Tea’s breast. Her heart started to thud against her ribs, and she was aware that every eye at the table now rested upon her. Fuming, she glared at him. “In your eyes, perhaps. But I’m better suited to warfare,” she challenged. “I’m no peace-weaver.”
