by Jayne Castel
Eithni joined them and took charge of preparing The Warrior Cake, named after the god who governed over the warm months of the year. This was a moist cake made with oats, ground walnuts, butter, honey, and small tart plums. It was a rich sweet made only on special occasions, and would be drizzled with warm honey before serving.
As she worked Eithni gossiped with the chatty young woman next to her, who like Eithni was caught up in the atmosphere of festivity this morning.
“It feels like the morn of Mid-Winter Fire,” the girl said with a giggle. “Only, without the cold and snow.”
“And days of games to look forward to,” Eithni added, grinning. “At Mid-Winter we do nothing but eat.”
“Have you seen all the handsome warriors here?” the girl asked, her bright gaze roving over the surrounding crowd. “I hope to dance with at least six every night!”
Eithni laughed. “You’ll be exhausted by the time The Gathering ends.”
“Aye.” The young woman gave her a sly look. “But I might have found myself a husband.”
Soon the nutty aromas of baking drifted over the camp, and once the other women had prepared a huge batch of oatcakes on the griddle, Eithni broke her fast.
Excited chatter grew around The Gathering Place as the sun rose high into the sky and burned off the morning dew.
The first games of The Gathering were about to commence. Removing her Warrior Cakes from the stone oven the men had erected the day before, Eithni set the sweets out to cool and covered them with a cloth. Then she followed the tide of excited revelers out to the gentle slope beyond the ring of tents.
Eithni’s gaze slid over the men amassing for the first of the strength contests: Clachneart—the Stone of Strength. This game called for the strongest men from each tribe. Lutrin, whose size and strength far outstripped any of the other Eagle men, even Galan, represented The Eagle. The two chiefs of The Stag and The Boar represented their tribes, and a young warrior built like an ox stepped up on behalf of The Wolf.
Roars went up as each contestant launched a heavy stone from the front of his shoulder using only one hand. The man who could throw it the farthest won—and that warrior was Urcal mac Wrad, chief of The Boar.
“Beast of a man,” Lucrezia muttered from where she perched on the grass next to Eithni. “I bet he wins this contest at every Gathering.”
Eithni agreed with her; there were few men here who could equal Urcal’s size and girth.
The next game was The Warrior’s Hammer. This contest challenged men to whirl a heavy iron hammer in circles before releasing it over their shoulders.
Urcal won this one too—and the shouts and cries of victory from The Boar supporters were deafening.
The last of the strength contests was the Clach cuid fir—The Manhood Stone. For this event the crowd gathered around the base of the rocky escarpment that towered over their Gathering. Here, there were a number of boulders and rocks scattered about, embedded in the soft earth—and the challenge was to see who could pick up the largest.
Fortrenn, chieftain of The Stag, won that contest, but only just. Fortrenn’s son, a self-confident young warrior named Tadhg, took second place; while The Boar chieftain came in third. Urcal it seemed was a poor loser, for he glowered at Fortrenn, his heavy-featured face the color of liver after all his exertion. Not remotely cowed by The Boar’s aggression, Fortrenn gave a great booming laugh and slapped Urcal on the back. “You can’t win them all, old friend.”
After an exciting morning the crowd filtered back into the encampment for the noon meal. The women served thick barley and mutton stew that had been simmering since dawn, fresh bread, and oatcakes. Mead and ale flowed although many of the men held back, for there would be a game of Camanachd in the afternoon, and the warriors wanted to be sharp for it.
The first tournament was to be between The Eagle and The Stag.
Once the noon meal had settled in their bellies, the crowds amassed on the slope once more. Eithni stood at one end, watching as twelve Eagle warriors—Galan, Tarl, and Donnel among them—strode out to meet their Stag opponents. Each man carried a curved stick.
Eithni watched, fascinated. She had seen men play Camanachd many times in Dun Ardtreck. It was a brutal if hugely entertaining game to watch; indeed, Eithni had seen matches that had gotten bloody.
She watched now as Galan barreled into Tadhg mac Fortrenn before slamming the smooth round stone into their opponent’s goal.
A roar went up around Eithni, the loudest shouts coming from Tea and Lucrezia. Her sister looked as if she wanted to be out there herself, and would have been, if she had not borne a babe on her hip. Tea’s expression was fierce, her blue eyes alight.
The game quickly turned vicious. There were few rules—besides not being able to touch the stone with your hands or feet—and none of them prevented brawling. Yet the warriors seemed to love every moment of it. Tarl went down under a heap of Stag warriors who tackled him as he hit the stone to Lutrin.
Donnel lunged forward and beat the struggling men off Tarl with his stick before hauling his brother to his feet. Tarl’s nose was bleeding, but he was grinning. Both men then set off after the stone again.
Eithni watched them with a shake of her head. She would never understand why men loved thrashing each other.
“Are you enjoying the game?” A man’s voice drew Eithni’s attention. She turned to find Loxa standing next to her. The thrill she had been enjoying, for The Eagles looked close to winning now, drained from her.
Eithni stared at him but did not answer.
“I am Loxa,” he rumbled, staring down at her. He was a huge man although not the beast his elder brother was. “What is your name?”
Eithni swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry. “Eithni,” she finally replied. Around them the roaring and cheering continued as the game reached its climax.
“Run, Galan—run!” Tea screamed.
“Smash it, Tarl!” Lucrezia bellowed.
The two women were oblivious to the fact that Loxa had drawn close and towered over Eithni.
Heart pounding Eithni glanced around her. She wanted to flee, but she knew she was safest here, in the midst of a crowd.
“I saw you last summer in Dun Ringill,” Loxa continued, his gaze devouring. “Your beauty bewitched me then … as it does now.” He stepped closer still. “Are you promised to a man?”
Eithni shook her head. “I’ve no wish for a husband.” Her voice came out in a croak.
He grinned. “What of a lover?”
A chill settled over Eithni, turning the warm summer’s day to winter. Yet her reticence did not put Loxa off; if anything his expression turned even more wolfish.
“I like a coy woman,” he growled. “Makes my blood run hot.”
Panic bubbled up within her. She stepped away from Loxa, hands clenched by her sides. And at that moment a roar went up on the slope below.
Eithni tore her gaze away from Loxa to see that Donnel had just scored the victory goal. For once his handsome face was creased in a grin. He laughed as his brothers lifted him high into the air. This game belonged to The Eagles.
Donnel let his brothers carry him up the slope, before they dumped him unceremoniously on the ground in front of the crowd of Eagle men, women, and children who had watched the game.
Lucrezia launched herself forward and pulled Tarl into a passionate kiss, not seeming to care that the warrior’s face was covered in blood. Likewise Tea’s eyes were shining as she embraced Galan.
Donnel picked himself up off the ground and allowed himself to be slapped on the back from all angles.
He loved a good game of Camanachd. It was a bit like battle but without the risk of death. Joy had been rare of late, but the game had lightened his mood.
Stepping out of the crush of excited people, Donnel’s gaze roamed over the rest of the crowd—and alighted upon Eithni. She was standing off to one side, pale and tense, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. A huge man with wild dark hair towered over her.
He was whispering things to her, standing far too close. The girl looked as if she was either about to faint or flee.
Loxa mac Wrad … what’s he up to?
He remembered this warrior well, remembered the way he had strutted into their broch, and the arrogance with which he had addressed all of them.
Eithni did not welcome the man’s attentions—that much was clear. She looked like a cornered fawn. Donnel was debating whether to intervene when Urcal roared Loxa’s name from a few yards away. With one last quiet word in Eithni’s ear, Loxa strode away.
Eithni stood there, staring down at the ground for a few moments as if she was trying to pull herself together. Then she looked up and straight at Donnel, catching him observing her.
Chapter Nine
Feasting and Words
A GREAT FIRE BURNED that evening next to The Gathering Place. Like many areas of The Winged Isle, the slopes below Bodach an Stòrr were treeless—so the men dug out a large fire pit and dragged in peat to burn for the night. While they prepared the fire, the others of the tribes readied the food for the feast.
Lads, their faces red from standing so close to the fire pits, turned haunches of venison and boar over the glowing coals. Mid-Summer Fire was a celebration of the bounty of the warm season, and so as well as Warrior Cake the women had prepared a variety of breads. Some were studded with nuts and fruits, while others were enriched with milk, butter, and eggs.
Eithni worked alongside the other women, preparing vegetables to be boiled for the feast. She was glad to be away from the men, especially after her encounter with Loxa, but she was also angry.
With him—with herself.
Why can’t I be like Tea? She would never let a man intimidate her.
When Loxa had started whispering filth in her ear, of all the things he would like to do to her, she should have slapped his face or at least walked way. Instead she had remained there shaking like a reed in the wind.
Her meekness made her angriest of all.
“Eithni?” Ruith spoke up from next to her. “If your scowl gets any deeper it’ll split your forehead—what ails you?”
Eithni glanced up. She had not even realized that Ruith was next to her; she had hardly seen the seer since their arrival here. It appeared Ruith had indeed found her old lover and had spent last night with him.
Eithni huffed a sigh. “I just wish I was braver.”
Ruith’s sharp, blue gaze narrowed. “Why’s that?”
Eithni tensed. She had no wish to share what had happened earlier that day. It made her skin crawl to remember Loxa and the things he had said to her. “I'm just tired of being afraid, that's all,” she replied. That was the truth too. Eithni’s gaze flicked to where her sister was teasing Galan a few feet away. “Tea isn’t afraid of anything.”
Ruith snorted. “That's not true. Tea had to overcome her greatest fears in order to find happiness with Galan. We all have things that scare us … even if we don't carry them for all the world to see.”
Eithni raised an eyebrow. “Even you?”
The bandruí gave her a wry smile. “Aye … even me. Why do you think I have remained alone all these years? I have no man, no children. Being a seer didn't stop me from having them. It was me.”
Eithni frowned. “What do you mean?”
Ruith held her gaze. “I had a difficult upbringing,” she said quietly after a moment. She spoke plainly but with a different tone to the one she usually used. There was a brittleness Eithni had never heard before. “My parents were always at war. They fought like wolves, and when I was five my father killed my mother in a jealous rage after she danced with another man at Bealtunn.” The seer halted there, her gaze suddenly far away. “He was exiled for his crime … driven out of the tribe to die alone. I don’t think I ever got over it, and I’ve never trusted a man since.” Ruith glanced back at Eithni, her smile strained. “So you see, you’re not the only one with fears.”
At dusk the men and women of the tribes danced around the great bonfire, laughter and music lifting high into the night.
Eithni sat with two other musicians: one playing a lute, the other a bone whistle. She was glad to have a task—glad to be kept busy. Loxa would not bother her while she played her harp.
She had not seen him for the rest of the day. Yet she had the feeling the warrior was there, lurking on the fringes of the firelight. Watching her.
Eithni played energetically, her fingers flying as one song flowed after another. Mid-Summer Fire was a celebration of life, summer, and warmth, and the songs were joyous. Finally, when her fingers ached from playing, the dancing ceased for a spell, and the tribes gathered around fire pits at the heart of the camp for the Mid-Summer Fire Feast.
Eithni squeezed in between Tea and Lucrezia. She sipped a cup of wine and nibbled at a platter of roast meat and vegetables. However, she had little appetite this evening. Her encounter with Loxa had put her out of sorts; it reminded her of a past she had tried to bury. She could not regain the lightness of spirit she had arrived at The Gathering with. Even Ruith’s words had not made her feel better. She appreciated her friend confiding in her. However, it was not the same—Ruith did not know what it was like to live each moment in fear.
The Boar and The Eagle sat close to each other this evening, sharing the same fire pit. Urcal sat across the fire, his gaze focused upon Galan.
Watching Urcal, trepidation curled in the pit of Eithni’s belly—it was clear he had things to say to The Eagle chieftain.
As she suspected, a short while into the feast Urcal spoke. “When we found Wurgest’s body … crows had plucked out his eyes.”
The words rang out across the fire although The Boar chief’s face was expressionless as he spoke. The brutality of the statement caused conversation to die, and all gazes swiveled to Galan to see how he would respond. There was no mistaking the challenge in Urcal’s voice.
Galan swallowed a mouthful of roast meat, his tall broad frame going still. There was little anyone could say to such a statement, and Galan was not a man to waste words. Wisely he waited for Urcal to continue.
“We also found the bodies of Boar warriors slain on the hillside close to that valley.” Urcal’s voice was a low growl. “I take it The Eagles are responsible for their deaths as well?”
Galan frowned. “You speak as if you know nothing of that day. You know the reason Wurgest and Tarl met. Did you know Wurgest intended to betray Tarl’s trust? Did you know he sent a group of warriors to ambush and kill the rest of us?”
“The rules of the fight dictated that the two warriors should meet alone,” Urcal replied. “Yet you and your men rode out after Tarl.”
Galan’s scowl deepened. “Aye, we did—yet Tarl had no knowledge of it. Instead Wurgest left your fort with a group of men. From the first he planned treachery. Did you know of this?”
The words hung in the air. Urcal glanced at the huge bald warrior next to him, and the two men shared a look. “Treachery you call it?” Urcal finally replied. He spoke slowly, measuring each word. “I would say my brother was merely being careful.”
Urcal had deliberately not answered Galan’s question, making it clear he had known of Wurgest’s plans.
“Your brother was mad.” Tarl leaned forward, his face hard, his grey eyes narrowed. “He couldn’t let the past lie, but when he challenged me I honored his terms. He and I met and fought alone, and in the end I killed him. The matter should end there.”
Seated a few feet away, Galan cast his younger brother a quelling look. Eithni knew why: Tarl could be a hothead at times, and even Lucrezia’s influence could not erase a volatile temper. Galan would not want him starting a brawl—not here on a night like Mid-Summer Fire—not at The Gathering. Eithni remembered the night of Tea and Galan’s handfasting; it seemed an age ago now. Tarl had drunk too much ale and had started a fight with one of The Wolf warriors. Galan had not been pleased.
Eithni’s gaze shifted from Tarl to where Donnel sat next to him. His brother sa
t so still he looked to be scarcely breathing, only his burning eyes and the resentment in his expression gave him away. He glowered at The Boar chieftain with searing intensity.
Watching Donnel, Eithni remembered how he had witnessed her encounter with Loxa. After The Boar had swaggered away, she had looked up and found Donnel observing her. She wished he had not seen the incident although at least Donnel would not question her. He did not care enough to do so.
Meanwhile Urcal had listened to Tarl, a sneer twisting his heavy features. Not acknowledging the warrior’s words, The Boar chief shifted his attention back to Galan.
“Your father and I were friends. He wouldn’t have been foolish enough to make an enemy of The Boar. Are you such a fool?”
“I don’t wish to make an enemy of you either,” Galan replied evenly. “What happened between Tarl and Wurgest was a personal matter that started far to the south and has been dealt with. This has nothing to do with the relations between our tribes. Would you let a dispute that got out of hand destroy the peace between us?”
Urcal’s mouth twisted further. “Galan the Peacemaker.” He spat out the words as if they were foul. “You’re not the man Muin was.”
Eithni’s belly twisted at these words; they were deliberately inflammatory. Urcal sought to enrage Galan. And yet The Eagle chieftain’s expression did not change. Only the hardness in those storm-grey eyes hinted at any anger within.
“I’m not my father,” he said finally. “I am my own man. You’d do well to remember that, Urcal mac Wrad.”
The jaunty strains of a bone whistle drifted over the slope beneath the camp. Mead, wine, and ale had flowed over the feasting and now the revelers returned to dance around the great fire once more.
Eithni watched the dancers, her harp tucked under her arm. This night represented a significant point in the wheel of the year. That roaring bonfire would give life to the sun and encourage mild weather to ensure a bountiful harvest.
