by Jayne Castel
Unbidden he found his gaze sliding up Eithni’s girlish form. She wore her brown hair in a long braid; it had fallen to one side as she bent over the spit she was turning. The position drew her tunic tight over the pert roundness of her bottom.
She was a lovely sight.
Enough. Donnel shoved the lustful thoughts aside. Get ahold of yourself, man.
Had he not resolved to think nothing but sisterly thoughts toward Eithni from now on? His decision had lasted till the moment he had seen her again, before it fluttered away like leaves scattered in the wind.
Eithni turned then, having heard him approach. Her gaze was shuttered and her face composed. “That was well-timed,” she greeted him. Her voice was neutral, giving nothing of her emotional state away.
He nodded, tried to smile, and failed.
“Shall we eat out here?” she asked, turning to retrieve a pine platter. “The evening is too fair to be indoors.”
“Aye,” he replied. “Shall I carve the meat then?”
She nodded and handed him the platter, before moving away from the fire. Her gaze avoided his. He did not blame her for being guarded around him; he had been rude earlier, and he owed her an apology.
“I’m sorry … I upset you earlier, Eithni,” he said softly. “That’s wasn’t my intention.”
She shrugged and took a seat upon a wide rock near the fire. She watched him unsheathe a knife from his belt and slice the meat off the bone with it. Yet she still refused to meet his eye.
When he was done, Donnel carried the platter of meat over to the rock. There, they sat side by side and enjoyed the supper with some dandelion leaves and wild onions Eithni had foraged. It was a simple yet delicious meal.
The pair of them did not speak for a while as they ate, and despite the still, warm evening with the last of the sun dappling through the pines and the creek tinkling beside them, a tension lay heavy upon the air.
“I will not break, you know? I’m not as fragile as you think.” Eithni’s words, spoken softly, yet with determination, caught Donnel by surprise. Her directness disarmed him.
He swallowed a mouthful of venison and swiveled to face her. “It’s not that,” he replied, holding her limpid gaze. The Hag protect him, he wished she would not look at him in that way; it made it difficult to concentrate. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He tore his gaze away from hers. “After Luana died … I vowed I would never touch another woman.”
He could feel Eithni’s gaze upon him. “Why would you make such a vow?” she asked, incredulous. “You are still young. You could find another to love.”
He shook his head, negating her words. “Watching my wife die broke something in me. I never want to care for someone like that again. My soul belonged to her, and she took part of me with her when she died.”
He glanced back at Eithni to see she was listening to him, her elfin face solemn. “Then you’ve chosen a lonely life. Whether or not you believe it, we need others. Loss is a part of love for all of us … none of us escape The Reaper’s touch.”
Donnel’s mouth thinned. “Aye, and that’s why I’ll have no part of love … or the pain it brings.”
She looked at him squarely. “Is that why you avoid Talor? I thought you blamed him for Luana’s death.”
Once again, her directness disarmed him. He had met few folk who spoke as plainly as Eithni. Yet, unlike back in Dun Ringill, he was not angered by it.
“At first that was it,” he replied, considering her words as he spoke, “but now I do it for his own good … I can’t give him the love he deserves.”
“That makes no sense,” Eithni countered, a crease forming between her finely drawn eyebrows. “You’re lying to yourself, Donnel. Whether you’ll admit it or not, you care for your son. You’d be devastated if anything befell him.”
“Don’t tell me how I feel,” he growled in response. “You can’t read my mind.”
She stared back at him, not remotely cowed. “I understand more than you know,” she replied calmly. “After Forcus I told myself I’d never let another man near me … that I’d go to my cairn without ever taking a husband or bearing children. I felt tainted and believed I would poison any who came in contact with me.” She paused here, and her gaze met his. “But knowing you has opened my eyes. It has changed me. You’ve taught me that I can trust others … that I can welcome a man’s touch, his kiss. Even though you don’t want me—I should thank you for that.”
Donnel stared back at her. She made him feel wretched, ashamed. She was far stronger than him, this wisp of a woman. He wished he could be like her, could face the things that scared him most, yet he could not.
Eithni made him feel things he did not want. He was relieved to know his kisses had not traumatized her, but what had blossomed between them had to be stopped.
For both our sakes.
Eithni crouched by the creek and washed the carcass of the water fowl she had just gutted. This would be tonight’s supper. It was a cool afternoon, for a brisk wind blew in from the north-east. It had an edge to it. Harvest Fire had passed and autumn now approached.
She suppressed a shiver at the thought of the warm months’ ending. The weather had been mild of late, and it was easy to forget that The Winged Isle endured long freezing winters.
Both she and Donnel were working hard to prepare for the winter, yet it was not nearly enough. She had prepared deerskins for the cold weather: a vest for them each, and a new pair of breeches for Donnel. However, they really needed furs—seal or wolfskin ideally. They also needed more food.
Eithni straightened up from the creek and carried the carcass over to the fire pit, where she skewered it. A few feet away sat their store hut, which they were slowly starting to fill with dried meat and fish, as well as edible roots. Eithni had found some crab apple trees a few days earlier and had picked them clean—the fruit was sour, but the apples would store well over the winter.
Lost in thought, Eithni counted the moons she and Donnel would have till the cold arrived—until Gateway at least. She would need to work harder.
The heavy thud of hooves on damp ground ripped Eithni from her thoughts. Heart racing, she glanced up, and her hand reached for the boning knife she carried at her waist.
Warriors upon shaggy ponies were approaching from the west.
She looked around frantically. Donnel was away hunting and would not be back for a while yet. She was alone here, and it was too late to run, for the men had seen her.
What if Urcal has come to seek vengeance for his brother?
Eithni straightened her spine, her hand still clasped over the hilt of her knife, and watched them draw near. If The Boar had indeed found them, she would have to face them on her own.
A moment later her fear dissolved as she recognized the warrior leading the group: big and broad, with a swarthy complexion and a mane of jet-black curls.
“Wid!”
Her cousin’s face creased into a wide grin, and he waved, urging his pony into a brisk trot. Eithni rushed across to him, her feet flying over the mossy ground. Wid reached her, swung down from his pony, and threw his arms around her, crushing Eithni in a bear-hug.
“I thought we might find you around here,” he greeted her, still grinning as he pulled back. His gaze shifted behind her, sweeping left to right. “Where’s Donnel?”
“He’s out hunting.”
Wid’s gaze returned to Eithni. “How are you, cousin? You’re too thin, but you look well enough. Your cheeks are rosy … your eyes bright.”
“I’m well.” Eithni stepped back from him, uncomfortable under the close scrutiny. “It’s just the fresh air and hard work.” Her gaze shifted to The Wolf warriors who had pulled up behind Wid. A wide smile stretched across her face, for she recognized them all.
When she looked back to Wid, her eyes stung with tears. “You are all a very welcome sight. Out here, I’d begun to think the rest of the world had disappeared.”
Wid huffed. “No, the rest of us are stil
l here.” He paused, his smile fading. “I went to Dun Ringill a few days ago. The mood there is grim—Galan is worrying himself sick although he will admit it to no one.”
Eithni nodded, sadness dulling her joy at seeing her cousin again. “It’s not right,” she murmured, “this bad blood between brothers.”
“Aye,” Wid replied with a grimace. “Let us hope they resolve it.”
“I don’t see how they will,” she answered. They continued on their way toward the hut. “Donnel is even more bull-headed than Galan. He’d starve out here in the wild rather than humble himself before his brother.”
Wid frowned. “Aye, and that’s what worries Galan.” His gaze settled upon the hut then and the seriousness faded from his face. He turned to Eithni grinning. “This place was falling to pieces—you’ve transformed it.”
Eithni shrugged, a smile tugging at her mouth. “It’s hardly a chieftain’s broch, but we’ve made it comfortable enough.”
He inclined his head, his gaze searching her face. “Donnel’s mood was bleak the last time I saw him. He doesn’t mistreat you, does he?”
Eithni held Wid’s gaze, a warmth suffusing her at her cousin’s concern. Wid was a good man. “No, quite the opposite,” she replied. “He has looked after me well and even tolerates my prattle.”
Wid snorted. “I don’t remember you ever being the sort to talk a man’s ear off?”
Eithni laughed before turning to the others who were all dismounting. “See to your ponies and take a seat by the fire. We don’t have much food for supper, but we can share it with you.”
“Put it away for yourselves; we’ve got plenty of food to share,” Wid replied. “Oatcakes, butter, eggs, and cheese.”
Eithni’s mouth filled with saliva at the mention of her favorite foods. “It will be a feast then.”
“We’ve got ale too,” one of The Wolf warriors called out.
Eithni grinned across at him. “Donnel had better get back soon then, before you drink it all, Beli.”
Chapter Twenty
Visitors
THE FIRELIGHT CAST a golden veil over the faces of the men seated around the fire. The eve was warm, and so the warriors sat on their cloaks rather than wearing them around their shoulders. Their faces flushed from the fire—and with a good meal and ale inside them—Wid and his men relaxed around the hearth.
The crackle of flames accompanied Beli’s voice as he sang them a ballad about the beauty of the mountains upon their isle.
I see the mist covered mountains
High peaks with lonely slopes
I see woods, I see thickets
I see fair, fertile fields
I see the deer on the ground of the corries
Shrouded in a garment of mist.
The atmosphere was very convivial. Even Eithni, who did not usually like strong drink, had downed her fair share of ale. She had washed down the slabs of bread, butter, and boiled eggs she had eaten with glee. Her stomach stuffed and limbs drowsy, she now leaned up against a rock a few feet from the fire.
Beli sang on, his voice rising as he described the bleak yet starkly beautiful mountains of their homeland. Eithni wished she had her harp, that it had not been crushed underfoot at The Gathering. She wanted to play it now, to lose herself in the music.
Eithni’s gaze traveled around the fire to where her cousin sat next to Donnel. The latter looked as if he was about to fall asleep. Like Eithni, he was not used to eating so much and had not touched ale for some time.
Eithni’s attention rested upon Donnel. It had been a while since their kiss and the words that had passed between them afterward. She had regretted her frankness at the time—for there had been an awkward tension between them for a spell—yet after a day or two they slipped back into their usual routine.
However, Donnel kept his distance from her now, and Eithni took care not to accidentally brush up against him in the hut or to do anything to put him on edge. She had not knowingly done so before, yet ever since that day in the forest she was aware of the attraction between them.
It lay dormant now, but the ghost of it was always there, coloring every interaction.
Still, Donnel seemed determined to ignore it.
His behavior saddened her, as much for him as for herself. The kiss had been freeing for Eithni, unlocking a fear that had gnawed at her ever since she had left Dun Ardtreck.
The fear that she would go mad with terror if a man ever touched her again.
Beli finished his song, and the warriors around the fire pit applauded him.
“How long will you stay?” Donnel asked Wid when the cheering had died down. “It’s good to have company again.”
“A few days if we can,” Wid replied. “We’ve come to the glen for some hunting. Yet there doesn’t seem to be much prey about. Have you hunted it out?”
Donnel grimaced. “Hardly … the deer seem to have moved on this year.”
Wid gave a shrug. “We’ll try our luck again tomorrow.”
“Can I join you?” Donnel asked. “Stalking deer on my own gets tiresome.”
Wid grinned back. “Of course … I’d take offence if you didn’t join us.”
Eithni watched them, a smile curving her lips. She was glad Donnel had male company again—even if it was only for a few days. She and Donnel had fallen into a comfortable routine, but he was used to having other warriors around. She had suspected he missed his brothers, and his ease with Wid confirmed it.
Donnel liked to think he needed no one. He thought he could cut himself from everything that made life worthwhile, yet it was like trying to hold back the tide with your hands—impossible.
Having Wid here will do him good, she thought, leaning against the rock sleepily. He spends too much time on his own during the day.
The heat of the fire, a full belly, and a skin of ale all had a soporific effect upon Eithni. She worked hard during the day and usually crawled onto her ferns early. This eve though, she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The rumble of men’s voices lulled her, and before she knew it she drifted off to the sound of Beli beginning another song.
When she awoke again, Eithni found herself pressed against a man’s chest.
She stirred, looking up to find herself in Donnel’s arms. He was carrying her toward the hut.
“Donnel,” she mumbled, still half-asleep. “The others … I need to organize furs for them.”
“They’ve brought their own and will sleep outside around the fire,” he replied. “Don’t worry about them.”
He ducked inside the hut and carried her across to the mound of ferns covered with deerskins in the left corner of the space. “You’re exhausted, lass,” he murmured, his voice a low caress. “Get some rest.”
Donnel lowered her onto the furs and released her. A sense of loss swept over Eithni as he stepped away; waking up to find herself in his arms had bathed her in warmth. Now that she was away from the fire and the heat and strength of his body, she shivered. The evening had been warm earlier, but now the air had cooled.
“Here.” Donnel lay something heavy over her. “Your cousin brought us furs. You will be more comfortable now.”
Eithni wanted to thank him, but sleep was pulling her under once more, and her eyelids felt incredibly heavy. Moments later she sank into a deep sleep.
Donnel stepped away from Eithni and watched her sleeping face. The glow of the moonlight through the open doorway illuminated the sweetness of her features, captivating him. For a long moment he stood there, observing her.
She’s lovely.
Eithni made keeping his distance very hard. It was not her fault—ever since their kiss she had kept away from him—it was his. He found it hard to concentrate whenever she was near, found himself staring whenever she was not looking his way. He had awoken the sleeping beast with that kiss, and despite his adamant words to Eithni, it would not go easily back into its cage.
The Reaper take him, he wanted her.
She had fallen asleep
by the fireside while the men sang, talked, and drank around her. Donnel had not wanted to wake her, so he had picked her up to carry her to her bed. It had been a mistake, for the moment he felt that warm supple body against his, the moment he inhaled her scent, his body betrayed him.
This was no good. He had put up a convincing front—and had even believed the argument he had put forward—yet his need for Eithni grew with each passing day. He did not want this, but his body had other ideas. It was betraying him. He needed to find a way to regain control, or one of these days he would throw Eithni down on the ground and take her—and there would be nothing tender about it.
Ignoring the ache in his loins, Donnel turned from Eithni and crossed to his pile of ferns, covered with the deerskins that Eithni had expertly cured. He lay down on his side, facing the door. Snores filtered in, as one of Wid’s men fell asleep.
Donnel tried to relax his body; the bed of ferns and deerskin was surprisingly comfortable. He was tired, and he ached from days out hunting, yet sleep would not come.
He needed to do something before he gave in to the beast.
Eithni said she was not afraid of him, yet he had done nothing more than kiss her. There was a heartbreaking innocence about her at times; one he did not want to destroy. She trusted him and wished to see only the good in him.
Eithni thought she could heal him, but he knew better. She did not see the blackness that rotted his heart. She did not realize that he was beyond help.
Donnel clenched his jaw and shut his eyes. I can’t have Eithni live with me any longer. She has to go.
The stag bounded through the trees, narrowly escaping the fletched arrow that thudded into a nearby tree trunk.
Wid let out a curse and pulled up his pony. He then swung down from the saddle and strode over to where the arrow still quivered in the tall pine. “I almost had him.”
“You were yards out,” one of Wid’s men called. “Are you losing your eyesight, man?”
