“What is the news from the border?” she asked.
“Naught to the good. The Gaels have shifted their camp once again, and still closer. I am surprised on a still night like this we cannot hear them farting. They’ve also increased in number. How many men do you suppose they lost in your raid?”
“Hard to say. Perhaps eight or nine.”
“They will not feel it now. They must have brought more men in from the west. I expect they breed like vermin.”
“Ill news indeed.” Barta reflected on it unhappily. “Has someone told my father?”
“Brude goes to him now. We will have to decide what’s to be done.”
“What can be done?”
Gant shrugged. “Fall back eastward, try to join with other tribes farther north.” He drank again. “That is what your brother thinks we should do.”
She took the empty cup from his hand and replaced it with her full one.
He grunted his thanks. “So what did you want to tell me?”
“It is about Brude, in truth. He’s asked for my hand.”
“What?” Gant lowered his cup. “I do not think I heard you right.”
“He’s gone to my father and said he’s willing to take me to wife. He seems to think no one’s handling me properly.”
“And he believes he could?” Gant snorted. “You’d kill one another in a fortnight—if it took that long.”
“What can I do, Gant?”
“Refuse. It would not be the first time you rebelled against what folk want you to do. By the goddess, I should think they would expect it.”
“Father has lost all patience—and indulgence—with me now. What if he decides he wishes to be rid of me?”
“And?”
“And lays down his law. I mistrust Brude’s motives in this—even if I did not detest him. He as much as admitted to me my only value lies in the fact that my son may one day be in line to be chief.”
Gant shrugged. “Men like Brude are never satisfied with their lots in life. I would not put much past that one. Just dig in your heels and keep refusing. Your mother will no doubt take your part, and in the end she has a great deal of influence with your father. Now, if you do not mind, I am tired and want to go off to my bed.”
“Gant, wait.”
He paused reluctantly in the act of heaving himself to his feet and looked at her.
Barta drew a breath. “Do you also blame me for the deaths of our friends…and Loyal? Is that why you have been avoiding me?”
“I have not been avoiding you, Barta.”
“You most certainly have. I’ve barely seen you these past days.”
“This is so, but only because, as I say, you have dropped me for your new companion.”
“I have not.”
“You have not stopped by the meeting hut.”
“True is not welcome there. The young men do not trust him.”
“And you would never consider leaving him behind.”
“It is not just that. It hurts to go there and find so many of our friends missing, to know I am responsible.”
Gant leaned toward her. “You know how fond I am of you, Barta. We have shared many a laugh, many a sunny afternoon, and more than a few escapades. But I say to you now, as a friend: it is time to lay your preoccupation with your own feelings aside, to grow up from a spoiled child into a woman. Begin thinking what is best for the tribe, not just about how others perceive you.”
Barta recoiled as if struck. “Is that what you think of me? You agree with Brude’s opinion? And so,” she fired up, “do you think I should accept Brude for husband—for the good of the tribe?”
“I have already told you I do not. Wick is my friend, and I am concerned with his interests. By the god’s horns, stop feeling sorry for yourself and do likewise.”
Barta swallowed hard. “Gant, I know I have my faults. I have never denied that. Do not turn from me; I need all the allies I can get.”
“If you are in search of an ally, you would do better to leave me alone and speak with Avinda.”
“Avinda? What has she to do with it?”
“She has been certain this last half year that Brude would wed with her, once winter comes. She might have something to say about him asking for you instead.”
Barta squirmed uncomfortably. Avinda—an undisputed beauty—had never liked her and frequently mocked her for not being part of the women’s circle.
One side of Gant’s mouth quirked upward. “Don’t like that suggestion, do you? There are some folk from whom you will ask favors and some you will not.”
Again she gazed into Gant’s eyes, wondering if he had always seen her flaws as clearly as now. Then why had he claimed to be her friend so long?
She sighed. “I will speak with Avinda.”
“Humbly? Because she will accept nothing less.”
“Most humbly.”
“Then I wish you well of it.”
****
Even at this hour the hut belonging to Avinda’s father bustled with activity, his being one of the tribe’s larger families. In truth, they were two families, as Avinda’s father had married twice—the second time after his first wife died—and begat a whole new set of children.
Barta, who had never voluntarily set foot there before, stood wondering for the first time how it would feel being forced to accept a stepmother. Avinda, among the eldest children of the first family, must long to escape.
Barta knew she would, in Avinda’s place. Even now, at nightfall, children darted about and wrestled on the doorstep. Screaming and conversation sounded from within.
Still, Barta found it difficult to feel sympathy for Avinda, who was as sly as she was beautiful and had a tongue that cut like a knife. Barta did her best to avoid the woman.
Usually.
Now she gazed down at the two little ones tumbling over one another at her feet—a boy and a girl—and asked. “Is your sister, Avinda, within?”
They ignored her. One squealed as the other bit her arm.
Little monsters! Essa would never put up with such nonsense.
Someone stuck her head out the door from inside, a girl of about twelve—Avinda’s younger sister. “Why have you come?”
“I wish to see Avinda.”
The girl stared at Barta with opaque eyes. “Mistress Barta? Will you introduce me to the incomer who won the contest?” Abruptly she demanded, “Is it true he has no wife?”
A sharp spear of emotion unfurled in Barta’s chest. “What is that to you? You are far too young for such an interest.”
“I am not.”
“Please to go fetch your sister.”
The girl withdrew, and Barta stood feeling unwelcome until Avinda appeared a moment later and stepped out into the gathering night.
“What do you want?” She arched her brows at Barta.
“Just a word, Avinda.”
“And why should I waste a word on you?”
Humble, so Gant had said… Barta tamped down her rising annoyance and made her tone sweet. “There is a matter we need to discuss.”
That brought curiosity to Avinda’s eyes. But she said, “This is not a good time. We are about to take our supper. Come back in the morning.”
She bent and chased the two unruly children inside. Before she could turn and follow them, Barta said, “I can see why you would wish to escape this house and claim a place of your own. You must be very eager for your marriage with Brude.”
That made Avinda turn back and stare. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, and for several moments she did not speak. Had she heard already that the man she’d claimed had offered for Barta? Not many secrets endured long among members of the tribe.
But Barta thought Avinda did not look sufficiently upset to possess that news.
“What are my marriage plans to you, Barta?” she demanded.
“Spare me a word and I will tell you.”
Abruptly, Avinda turned back to the house and called, “I will be but a
moment.” She told Barta, “Come.”
The din within the hut fell away as they stepped off into the trees. The forest—ever present in Barta’s spirit, if not her conscious mind—seemed to cradle her and offer strength.
“Very well, then, what is this about?”
“Gant tells me, Avinda, that you and Brude are set to wed come winter. Of course, beautiful as you are, you could choose any among our warriors. I wonder that you’ve chosen him.”
“Do you? You spend your time thinking on my choices, eh, when you are not planning dangerous raids on the Gaels in defiance of your betters?”
Well, and that only enforced the reasons Barta did not like Avinda. She twitched but said nothing.
Avinda drew herself up. “Brude is the finest this tribe has to offer.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and I will always require the best.” Avinda’s curiosity had not faded. Her gaze moved sharply over Barta’s face. “I did consider your brother Wick; he has attained an important position in the tribe, but he lacks Brude’s ambition.”
As if Wick would look twice at this sharp-clawed she-cat! Humble, Barta reminded herself again.
She ducked her head. “Oh, Brude has ambition all right, and has been acting upon it. You may be interested to know he’s asked my father for my hand.”
Avinda’s lips parted until she gaped; she tottered where she stood. “What?”
“You heard me. It is a purely strategic move on his part. He cares nothing for me, obviously.”
“Obviously.” Avinda had gone pale, and her eyes glittered in the half light.
“You did not know?”
“I did not. He promised we would wed as soon as the first snow fell and the fighting ended for the season.” Avinda glared harder. “And why do you bring me this news, Barta Daughter of Radoc? We are not friends.”
“I want your help.”
“Why should I help you, a rival?”
“Because I’ve no wish to wed with Brude and I am afraid he will try and pressure my father to it.” After kissing True, she had set her heart on wedding with him, but turning her father’s mind to that would be a difficult task. “These are dire times; the Gaels press us hard. By spring we could be anywhere and in desperate straits indeed, possibly with our backs to the eastern sea, defeated.”
“Do not even say such things. Do you not know saying it invites it?” Avinda whispered a prayer before she went on. “You always were an unnatural creature, Barta, spending your time with the men—or the hounds—rather than the rest of us girls. But never so unnatural as now. Why would you turn down a man such as Brude? As I say, he is the best the tribe has to offer.”
When Barta did not answer at once, Avinda’s expression turned cunning. “Ah, I know what it is—you want the newcomer instead. Which of our young women has not been following him with her eyes since he appeared so suddenly…so magically? He is the main subject on their tongues—how graceful his limbs, how bright his eyes. The strength he showed during the trial, and how he might fit between their legs.”
Barta, unused to even thinking about such things, much less speaking of them, blushed hotly. Avinda gave a cruel laugh. “You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Rumor has it you’ve never welcomed any man—even Gant—to your bed.”
“What has that to do with the matter at hand? Do you want Brude for husband or no?”
Avinda sobered abruptly. “I do.”
“Then will you work with me?”
Avinda hesitated, her gaze now entirely serious. “I will. But the goddess help me in such an unnatural alliance.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Goddess, help me.”
True whispered the words to the stars and waited for a sense of the beautiful lady’s presence. It did not come. Following his death, while he floated in the darkness, he’d made his request to return to Barta—all he wanted or could imagine wanting. Simple it had seemed, save for the Lady’s sanctions. He needed only to be with Barta as in the past. That had always been enough.
The truth proved far different. Life as a person proved immeasurably complicated—just as the Lady had warned. There existed layers upon layers of feelings and implications, all difficult for him to understand.
He no longer knew how to make his mistress happy. In the past he had needed only to put his face in her lap or lick her chin to elevate her mood. Now he could still sense her emotions, but his presence often seemed to add to her distress rather than alleviate it.
Had he been wrong to return?
No, not that. Never that. They belonged together; the silver cord still connected them. He need only learn to interact with her as he’d once learned to run at her side or attack a chariot.
He must pay heed to the things that gladdened her. Had it made her happy when he kissed her and licked the inside of her mouth? He thought it had, in a strange and excited way. And it had excited him.
The next time he was with her, should he do that again? The very idea started a hum in his blood.
He glanced at Pith’s hut, now dark and silent. True had helped the old man to his bed before coming out into the peaceful dark to wait for…what? The goddess did not mean to show herself, and Barta—
His ears caught a soft rustle—movement—through the trees. Someone approached, and by her step he knew her. He got to his feet and watched her slip like a shadow toward Pith’s door.
“Mistress, here.”
She checked, altered her course, and came to him. He quested for her emotions the way he used to scent for information on the wind.
“True? What are you doing out here?”
“Pith sleeps and I did not wish to disturb him. Come, sit with me.”
She stood unmoving, facing him—stiff to the point of quivering. He caught her shoulders between his hands and she eased somewhat, though her turmoil leaped at him.
“What is it? Where have you been?”
Her only answer came wordlessly as she stepped into his arms. She placed her head against his shoulder and her beloved scent filled him, making everything suddenly right.
Why did there have to be words and complicated feelings, both nearly beyond him? Why couldn’t this be all?
He wrapped her tight in his arms and closed his eyes on a wave of bliss. Her heart beat against his, and her palms pressed his back.
“True, what would I do without you? I’ve lost so much. I’ve lost everything.”
“The goddess willing, you will not lose me.” Yet the knowledge chewed at him: the Lady had not promised them forever. And if Barta failed to guess his identity, the spell would one day end.
“I spoke with Gant. Like the others, he condemns me.”
That True found hard to believe. Gant always lent Barta his support. He whispered, “Why?”
“He sees my faults. In truth, I am rife with failings. He loved our friends who were lost, full well, and just like the others, he blames me for their deaths. He loved Loyal, for all that.” Her voice cracked. “He brands me selfish and tells me to get the upper hand on my feelings.”
But her feelings were all: they had guided True for most of his life, made up the substance of his world. He shook his head. “I do not understand. For him to harden his heart against you…”
“The night of the raid, he did warn me it was a bad idea, he and the others. Did I listen? I thought I could prove something about myself. Clearly, I have… I believe Gant regrets he did not go to Wick that night and stop things before they went so far. If he had, our friends and Loyal would still be alive. What wouldn’t I give to have Loyal here with me?”
He drew her still closer.
“I also think Gant is a bit jealous—of you.”
“Eh?” Jealousy, foreign to the nature of a hound, made no sense to him.
“He more or less accused me of dropping his company for yours.”
“Does he not know I would never get between you and one of your friends?”
Barta made no reply.
&nbs
p; “And,” True struggled on, trying to express his feelings, “does he not trust me despite my proving of myself during the trial?”
“Few of them do. I fear the trial did not accomplish what my mother hoped.”
He attempted to look into her face. “And you, Mistress? Do you trust me?”
She raised her head and looked into his eyes. By the faint light sifting through the trees he saw her confusion, wonder, and belief. “Yes. But it’s my heart that trusts you, not my head, and I do not know how to convince anyone else.”
“Does it matter what anyone else thinks so long as we are together?”
“No. Yes. It doesn’t matter when I’m with you; the rest of the time…”
If he had his way, they would never be apart. “Tell me, Mistress, what I may do to help you.”
“Hold me, just like this. I feel such comfort when I touch you.”
That he understood, for it matched what he felt. He drew her nearer and ran his hands up her back until he reached her hair. She wore it braided tight, like her emotions, and he used the unfamiliar appendages of his fingers to work at the plaits, thinking only of her ease. How must it feel to have Gant turn from her?
How might it feel if Barta turned from him, True? His very spirit quailed at that prospect.
Barta, motionless beneath his touch as he freed her hair, said softly, “The goddess is teaching me a lesson, or a series of them. I’m being shown a few truths about myself—and I do not like what I see.” She gave a half laugh. “Do you know what I had to do this evening?”
“No, what?”
“Beg Avinda for her help. You do not know her—have not met her yet—but she is the most beautiful young woman of the tribe.”
“That is not possible. You are most beautiful.” Those strange and powerful feelings had begun flooding through him again. He wanted to touch her mouth with his, wanted to lick her everywhere.
She made a sound of surprise, once more tipped her face up and engaged his eyes. “I almost think you believe that.”
“I see only you, Mistress. I need only you.”
“Call me by my name. Call me Barta,” she requested, and pressed her mouth to his.
As a hound he had lived mainly by instinct. Life existed in the moment and he acted at the impetus of the strength inside him. He’d already learned the life of a person proved much more difficult. But now instinct took over in a rising wave to which he surrendered. Men, it seemed, fell victim to impulses as strong as those of a hound yet far more pleasurable.
Loyal and True Page 10
