by Jayne Castel
A hush settled over the table. Next to Galan, Tarl was frowning. “Just leave this, Donnel,” he warned, his voice low. “The argument between us and The Boar has ended. I killed Wurgest in a fair fight, and now we must move on.”
“It wasn’t a fair fight,” Donnel snarled. “Wurgest sent his men to ambush and kill the rest of us, or have you forgotten?”
“And those warriors are dead now too,” Tarl countered, his gaze narrowing. “Would you have vengeance upon dead men?”
Donnel shoved his bowl of stew aside, spilling it onto the wooden table. However, he paid his supper no mind. He was glaring openly now at both his brothers. “Have you both lost your balls now you’ve taken wives?”
Tarl stared back at him a moment before he grinned. “Now you’re using my old insults,” he replied. “Find some new ones of your own instead of stealing mine.”
Next to Donnel, Eithni tensed. Her gaze flicked from brother to brother. Tarl was the only one smiling. Sometimes she thought he took very little in life seriously. Unlike Galan he rarely challenged Donnel on his behavior, but this evening was different.
“Maybe your balls are causing you trouble,” Tarl continued. “Find yourself a woman to plow, and you might wipe that scowl off your face.”
That sent a ripple of mirth down the table. Cal, Namet, Ru, and Lutrin roared with laughter. Lutrin, who had been swallowing a piece of bread started to choke, and Namet had to slap him on the back to dislodge it. Someone handed Lutrin a cup of wine to sip, and the warrior stopped coughing.
Donnel ignored them all. He had gone dangerously still, his handsome face hawkish. He gave Tarl such a glare that his brother’s smile faltered for a moment. “Speak to me like that again, and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”
Chapter Three
Blood for Blood
EITHNI STRETCHED, AWAKING slowly.
Her eyes flickered open, and she noticed the bright beams of light filtering through the cracks in the doorway. She sat up, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.
I’ve overslept.
It had been a rough night; she had slept fitfully and dreamed of Forcus again.
Such dark dreams always drained her.
Clambering out of her furs, Eithni dressed swiftly, pulling on a long sleeveless woolen tunic which she belted at the waist. Usually she would prepare herself some oatcakes and take her time over her first meal of the day. However, there was no time for that this morning. They were due to depart for The Gathering the following day, and there was still much preparation to get done.
Eithni left her hut, stepping out into the brightness of a warm breezy morning. The sun was well up in the sky by now. She had indeed overslept. Everyone else was busy with their chores while she languished in her furs.
“Morning, lass.”
Eithni turned to see Ruith working in the garden next to hers. The seer was on her knees, pulling up weeds.
“Good morn, Ruith,” Eithni replied, stifling a yawn. She still felt half-asleep.
“Late up?” The bandruí smiled, a web of wrinkles forming around her eyes as she did so.
“Aye—I slept badly.”
Ruith’s penetrating gaze did not shift from her. “Bad dreams again?”
Eithni nodded. Ruith knew about the demons that plagued her sometimes although she wisely did not press Eithni about them.
“I know a charm that might help,” the bandruí said after a moment. “Come by later, and I shall teach it to you.”
Eithni smiled. “Thank you, Ruith.” Her gaze shifted to the huge pile of weeds to the seer’s left. “What’s prompted this?” she asked, her smile widening.
“We’re going to be away for a wee while,” Ruith replied. “I don’t want to come back to find the weeds have grown over my front door.”
Eithni left Ruith to her weeding, making her way across the village to where a semi-circle of cone-roofed store huts sat. She could see Lucrezia and Deri there, hauling out wheels of cheese and haunches of cured meat for the journey.
“There you are,” Lucrezia greeted her. The woman’s high cheekbones were flushed from exertion. She was dressed in a skimpy leather vest that showed off the ample curves of her breasts and a short plaid skirt that left her legs bare. She looked as if she had just come from warrior training. “I was about to go looking for you.”
“No need,” Eithni said brightly. “Sorry I’m late.”
Lucrezia shrugged. “No need to apologize … I was worried, that’s all.” Once a Roman centurion’s wife at the Great Wall to the south, Lucrezia had run a large home, and had even had servants. Yet here upon this isle, Lucrezia had embraced their way of life. She certainly was not afraid to get her hands dirty. Not only was she an excellent cook and gifted gardener, but she had learned to fight as well.
Eithni was a little in awe of her—as she would have been of Tea if she had not been her sister. Back in Dun Ardtreck, Eithni had been taught how to wield a sword and a fighting dagger, yet she had hated every moment. She loathed violence, now even more than when she was younger. She was not meant to be a warrior. Instead she had chosen the path of healer, which suited her much more. Her sister was tall and strong, while Lucrezia, although the same height as Eithni, had a lithely muscled frame. Eithni felt like a weakling next to her.
“How are things with you these days?” Lucrezia asked with a smile. “I feel we never get to chat.”
It was true—ever since Lucrezia had wed Tarl the two women hardly spent any time together. When Lucrezia had first arrived in Dun Ringill, she had shared Eithni’s hut for a time. Eithni had enjoyed the company, and Lucrezia was easy to live with. When her friend had moved into the broch to share Tarl’s alcove, Eithni had felt lonely for a time, although she had now gotten used to her solitary life once more.
“I am well,” Eithni replied. It was the response she gave all who asked after her. No one wanted to hear that a shadow of hopelessness dogged her steps most days. There was nothing they could do about it anyway.
“You’re just in time for a break,” Deri chimed in, her eyes twinkling as she produced a jug of goat’s milk and some clay cups. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
The three women sat down on the ground while Deri poured them some milk. Eithni took a large gulp; the milk was so fresh it was still warm. Opposite her Deri stretched out her legs before her and pulled back her skirts so the sun could bathe her skin. Curvy with a thick mane of brown hair, Deri was wedded to Cal, one of Galan’s warriors.
“I hope this sun lasts for The Gathering,” Deri sighed, turning her face up to the sky.
“Aye—after that bitter winter,” Lucrezia replied.
Deri snorted. “Last winter wasn’t that bad. We’ve had colder.”
Lucrezia shuddered, reminding her companions that she hailed from a much warmer land far to the south of The Winged Isle.
Eithni watched Lucrezia with interest; her friend’s homeland fascinated her. Lucrezia had spoken of long hot summers and a sweet fruit that they made wine from. She described a deep blue sea that you could swim in without shivering, for many moons of the year.
“Are you looking forward to The Gathering?” Deri asked them. “This is the first time The Stag have hosted one in nearly twenty summers.”
“It sounds a bit like the festivals I grew up with,” Lucrezia said after a pause. “I used to go into Roma every summer to watch them.”
Eithni leaned forward, fascinated. “Roma,” she said, rolling the ‘r’ the way Lucrezia did. Her friend had already described the great city to her: a grand place filled with great monuments of gleaming white marble. “The Eternal City?”
Lucrezia smiled back, her expression wistful. “That’s right—you’ve a keen memory.”
“You never told me why it’s called that.”
Lucrezia’s smile widened. “There’s a saying in my tongue: Quando cadet Roma, cadet et mundus—‘When Roma falls, so falls the world’. The people of my homeland believe that the city will stand foreve
r.”
Silence fell as Lucrezia’s companions digested this.
“Do you celebrate Mid-Summer Fire there?” Deri asked, her tone mildly curious. Unlike Eithni she did not hold a fascination for Lucrezia’s homeland.
Lucrezia nodded. “A festival celebrating Summanus, the god of thunder at night.”
“Really,” Eithni leaned closer still. “You have a god for that?”
Lucrezia laughed. “Aye, we have too many to count.” She leaned back, crossing her bronzed legs at the ankle. “These days, the god we call ‘The Father of Christ’ grows steadily ever more important. Those who follow him wish for all the other gods to be cast out—yet the old ways still endure.”
“What happens on Summanus then?” Deri asked. Despite herself, she was starting to look intrigued.
“Folk gather at a great arena called the Circus Maximus in Roma. They offer cakes to Summanus, and then gladiators fight to the death, providing the blood sacrifice needed for the day.”
Eithni listened, a shiver running through her. Although the people of this tribe and her own did not sacrifice folk to honor the gods, she had heard tales of those who did. The thought chilled her. It cast a shadow over the sunny morning.
The three women finished their milk and rose to their feet. They then resumed the task of carrying out food from the stores and loading it onto the carts that would be traveling north with them.
By the end of the morning, they had piled three carts full of provisions, all of which they had been stockpiling for many moons for The Gathering. The chore completed, the women covered the carts with oiled tarpaulins to keep the rain off and hitched ponies. Then they led the ponies into the yard outside the broch.
Leading her pony, its feathered hooves clip-clopping hollowly on the hard sun-baked earth, Eithni caught sight of Galan and Donnel standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the broch. They were deep in discussion.
Her gaze rested on the two warriors in silent admiration.
Despite that she had not let a man come near her since Forcus, she could still appreciate a handsome, virile warrior. Galan and Donnel were of a similar height, and shared the same grey eyes and jet-black hair, although the similarities ended there. Galan was of a heavier build than his youngest brother. He was also less classically handsome than Donnel—his features sharper. He wore his dark hair long, flowing over his broad shoulders, whereas Donnel had clipped his short. Both men wore tight-fitting plaid breeches and leather vests, clothing which emphasized their muscular bodies.
Eithni’s gaze trailed down Donnel’s torso, admiring the hardness of his abdomen.
“Stop staring,” Lucrezia whispered in Eithni’s ear. “Donnel will catch you.”
Eithni jumped guiltily. She had not realized she had stopped short and was gawping at Donnel. “I wasn’t,” she snapped. However, Lucrezia was not fooled. She merely gave Eithni a knowing look and returned to her cart.
Eithni led the pony under the shadow of the wall and began to unshackle its harness. This was the coolest spot in the fort, and the supplies would remain here until the following morning. As she worked Eithni’s cheeks burned from being caught blatantly staring at Donnel.
What’s wrong with me today?
It seemed she had been out of sorts since rising late.
The aroma of roasting meat wafted out of the broch above her, causing Eithni’s belly to growl, and reminding her that she had missed her oatcakes earlier. She was definitely ready for her noon meal.
While Lucrezia and Deri finished unshackling their ponies, Eithni led hers across to the stables. On the way she passed Galan and Donnel. They were still talking, and did not even notice her presence. As she neared them she saw the look on their faces and tensed.
Galan looked angry, while Donnel wore a surly, mutinous expression.
“I want you to stay here,” Galan growled, folding his arms across his broad chest, “to rule the fort while I’m away.”
Donnel shook his head. “Namet and Ru are staying behind. They can look after Dun Ringill in your absence. You don't need me to remain here.”
Galan scowled. “I'd prefer one of my kin stayed behind.”
“Your warriors have ruled while you’re away before.” Donnel folded his arms across his chest, mirroring his brother’s gesture. “Admit it—that’s not why you want me back here.”
Galan’s gaze narrowed. “Peace is fragile upon this isle,” he replied coldly. “I won’t have you ruining everything I’ve worked for.”
“What makes you think I will?”
Galan huffed a breath. “Every time you open your mouth you speak of vengeance against The Boar. Blood for blood. You talk of little else these days.”
Donnel’s mouth thinned. “So you don’t trust me?”
“No, I don’t.” Galan stepped back from Donnel, signaling their conversation was over. “I’m sorry, Donnel—but you’re staying behind.”
Eithni walked on. As she entered the stables, she heard the low timbre of Donnel’s voice, answering Galan. He was not about to let the matter drop.
Blood for blood. Eithni shivered. She saw Galan’s point; Donnel was not himself these days.
She thought of Lucrezia’s words earlier that day. She remembered her description of the blood-thirsty games of her homeland: the men and women who fought, died, and bled into the earth to please the gods. Was Donnel’s quest for revenge that different?
Chapter Four
Departure
DONNEL READIED HIS pony in the dimly lit stall, slipping the bridle over the grey’s head before swinging the saddle onto its broad back. Around him he could hear the rise and fall of warriors’ voices as they prepared their own mounts to ride out.
The day of departure for The Gathering had come.
The pony—a gift from Donnel’s father five summers earlier—shifted impatiently and stomped a heavy feathered foot, narrowly avoiding Donnel’s booted one.
“Easy, lad,” Donnel murmured. “We'll be on our way soon enough.” He reached out and ran his palm along the stallion's neck. During the winter the pony grew a shaggy coat, but this time of year he was sleek. Donnel had named the pony Reothadh—Frost—and had broken him in himself. He remembered Reothadh as a colt; he had been a dappled grey then although now the years had faded his coat to match his name.
The pony whickered in response, and Donnel smiled. Since Luana’s death Reothadh had been the only company he could tolerate. The pony asked nothing of him. It did not judge or demand he mend his mood. The stallion accepted him, no matter how dark his humor.
“Donnel.”
Galan’s voice hailed him. Donnel tensed and cast a glance over his shoulder at where his brother had entered the stall, his tall broad form blocking out the sunlight behind him.
“I thought I told you to stay behind.”
Donnel heaved in a deep breath. He had been waiting for this moment. He turned, and their gazes met across the stall.
“Will you not heed me?” Galan asked.
Donnel’s first instinct was to argue, but he had already tried that. Galan was as stubborn as he himself was; if Donnel wanted to join the others on this trip, he would need to take a different approach. Although it galled him to do so, he would attempt to be humble.
Donnel dropped his gaze. “I wish to travel with you, brother,” he replied, softening his voice. “The last months have been hard. Everywhere I look there are memories of her. Time spent away from here would do me good.”
It was a ruse. Donnel knew Galan had a soft heart. He would think he was doing Donnel a favor by letting him attend The Gathering. As Donnel had hoped, his brother’s hawkish features gentled. “You're not planning to cause trouble at The Gathering then?”
Donnel’s mouth curved. “You’re taking Tarl with you. He’s more likely to cause a scrap than me.”
Galan snorted. “Not since he wedded. That Roman lass has tamed our brother it seems.”
Donnel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Tamed inde
ed. Tarl was still a bit of a rogue, but these days he was content with his life.
Galan watched him for a moment longer. “I need you to give me your word,” he said quietly. “I need you to promise that you will shed no blood at The Gathering. It’s too important for our people.”
Donnel swallowed the irritation rising within him. He wanted to bite his brother’s head off for that, but it would only result in Galan forcing him to remain at the fort. Donnel had to go north—he had to face those Boar bastards. However, he could not let Galan see what festered in his heart.
“Aye,” he replied, forcing himself to hold Galan’s eye. It was hard to lie to him. His brother was a good man, a fair man. “I give you my word.”
Craven. Anger rose up within Donnel, biting at his throat. After their skirmish with The Boar a year earlier, Donnel had wanted vengeance, but Galan would not hear of it. Galan saw his decision as right, for he would keep the peace at any cost, yet to Donnel it was cowardice.
We’ve become strangers to each other.
Galan watched him a moment longer, considering his words. Then he gave a swift nod. “Finish saddling your pony. We ride out shortly.”
Alone in the stall once more, Donnel tightened Reothadh’s girth and slapped the pony on the rump. “Ready, lad? Off on another journey together.”
The grey snorted, making it clear he was done waiting. Donnel led him from the stall and out into the bright sunlight. Mid-Summer Fire was close now. They would reach The Gathering Place to the north just in time to celebrate it with the other tribes. It was a glorious morning, and the atmosphere of excitement within the fort was infectious. A chatter of animated voices surrounded Donnel, yet he was immune to their mirth.
Around him the people of Dun Ringill readied themselves for departure. Children clambered excitedly up onto the backs of wagons, fighting for the most comfortable spot, while their parents finished loading up rolls of hide and packs of supplies. Shaggy ponies were everywhere. Their long tails were swishing and their feathered hooves stamping as warriors mounted up.
