by Jayne Castel
Perched upon a wooden stump, Eithni sewed together pieces of deerskin to make clothing for the winter, while Donnel carved at a large lump of wood with a knife. He was fashioning a bowl so that Eithni could use it for cooking.
They worked in silence for a while, and as they did so, Donnel’s thoughts turned inward. They did that too often these days. He had never been like that before Luana’s death. Galan had always been the one who brooded. Donnel and Tarl were more light-hearted. Brooding did a man no good—it made problems loom to monstrous proportions.
Donnel’s thoughts turned to the last words Wid had spoken to him before leaving them. He had been angry with The Wolf chieftain for speaking up—giving his opinion when it had not been asked for—but his words had haunted him ever since. The situation with their winter stores made him consider Wid’s advice once more.
You have the chance to put things right … only, you’ll have to humble yourself to do it.
After a while Donnel’s thoughts turned full circle and he looked up, his gaze fastening upon Eithni. She was bent over her sewing, her brow furrowed as she thrust a bone needle through the hide before inserting a thin leather lace to bind two sections together.
“Eithni,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the drumming rain on the roof. “Wid was right.”
She glanced up, her eyes widening. “About what?”
“What he said about me needing to put things right. I’ve known the truth of it for a while but losing half our food stores has forced me to face it.”
Eithni went still. “Will you return to Dun Ringill and speak to Galan?”
He shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t be enough. He needs more than my word. I’ve broken it too many times. I need to give him proof that I’ve changed. Loxa deserved his end, but it wasn’t for me to give it to him. Urcal and Galan were right about that … it was their decision.” Donnel paused here, considering his next words before he spoke them. “To make things right I must go to Urcal and kneel before him.”
Eithni gasped. “You want to go to An Teanga?”
He nodded.
“But Urcal will kill you.”
“I don’t believe he will. He’s rough, but he’s a different man to Wurgest and Loxa. He understands the importance of peace. He respects our tribe … or did before The Gathering. He doesn’t want a blood feud. It galls me to do so, but I must humble myself before him.”
Eithni watched him, her heart-shaped face pale in the hearth light. “Then I will go with you,” she murmured.
Donnel frowned. “That’s not wise. It could be dangerous.”
“But you said he would listen to you. Were you lying to me?”
He huffed out a breath. This woman never let him get away with anything. “No—but I’d rather not take the risk of you coming to harm. It would be best for you to return to Dun Ringill. If Urcal did turn on me, you’d be in danger too.”
She put down her sewing and glared at him. “If you’re going to An Teanga than I shall too.”
“Eithni … I don’t want to argue with you again.”
“Then just accept it … or choose another path.”
Donnel huffed. “There isn’t any. I wish there was … but this is the only way.”
“Then don’t go.” Her voice was almost pleading now.
Donnel’s gaze met hers once more across the firelight. “Avoiding the truth isn’t going to fix what’s broken in me. Do you want to continue living with an angry bitter man?”
Her mouth thinned. “I’d prefer that to a dead one.”
Donnel gave a humorless smile. “And I’d prefer not to lie awake at night worrying how to feed us, and wondering when Urcal will attack our people. I slighted him terribly, and he’ll not forget it. The man deserves my apology.”
Eithni stared at him. He could see the warring emotions on her face. He knew she could see his point, but she was also scared for him. She did not believe Urcal mac Wrad was to be trusted.
Truthfully, Donnel was not sure either. However, one thing he did know about the warrior was that pride and honor mattered greatly to him; he remembered his father speaking of it a number of times. Never wound a Boar’s pride, he had warned his sons, for he has a long memory and sharp tusks.
Donnel’s mouth twisted at the memory. His father had not been a fool. Neither Donnel, nor Tarl had heeded Muin’s words—although they would have been wise to do so.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Shadow
EITHNI FASTENED THE last bag behind Reothadh’s saddle and glanced back at the place she had called home for the past two moons.
The morning sun had just touched the top of the turf roof, casting its soft light over the glade. This lonely hut, encircled by pines, had been their haven, their shelter. It was a wrench to her gut to leave it.
Eithni looked over at where Donnel was saddling his stallion. “What about the rest of the food we’ve stored?” she asked. “It’ll surely spoil.”
He shook his head. “We’re leaving it for the hunters who will pass this way soon. This place was a mess when we found it—the warriors of The Wolf will appreciate us repairing it and filling the stores.”
Eithni sighed, her gaze returning to the store hut and the smoking embers of the fire she had just doused with water. “Spoken like a man,” she replied, unable to keep the edge of bitterness out of her voice. “Women don’t find it so easy to leave a home they have made.”
Donnel ducked under the pony’s neck and faced her. Two days had passed since he had made the decision to ride south to An Teanga, and in that time they had been so busy preparing for their departure that they had barely spoken of anything save practicalities.
His gaze was hooded this morning, his face hard to read. “I’ve been happy here too,” he said, stepping so close she had to crane her neck to meet his eye. “But the weather has been fair and we’ve barely managed to fill our bellies. You know things were about to get much harder for us.”
Eithni sucked in a deep breath. “Aye … so you say.”
He stepped back from her. “Are you ready?”
“Almost. I just need to check inside once more.”
“Go on then—we’ve got a long day’s ride ahead of us.”
Eithni stepped around him and went back into the hut. She had tidied it up this morning, leaving the two piles of ferns covered in deerskin for the next occupants. She had also laid the fire with sticks so that whoever came next would not have to search for kindling.
Sadness settled over her as her gaze swept the dim interior. It had been a humble abode, but she had been happy here. Her belly clenched when her thoughts shifted to what lay ahead. The future was suddenly uncertain. Donnel would face Urcal, and then what? If Urcal pardoned him, would they then return home to Dun Ringill, to their old lives? She the healer, he the warrior?
Circumstance had pushed them together, but would he want anything to do with her when they returned to Dun Ringill?
Goose. Eithni pushed this thought aside and pulled her fur mantle tight about her shoulders. What a thing to worry over. She had no control over the future. The situation between her and Donnel was tense enough without her working herself up over what might happen between them later. Let’s just get this visit to An Teanga over with.
She turned, ducked under the low lintel, and emerged into the dawn. Donnel had mounted his pony and was waiting for her. Reothadh, an impatient beast at the best of times, pawed at the ground, his nostrils flaring.
Eithni crossed to Donnel, and he reached down, grasped her hand, and pulled her up onto the saddle in front of him. Eithni tried to get comfortable, adjusting her skirt to cover her legs. She was acutely aware of Donnel sitting behind her, the warm solid strength of his body seeping into her back.
Eithni pushed down the desire that fluttered like a caged moth under her ribcage. Donnel had not touched her—had not kissed her—since their one night together. They had been busy over the past two days, but she had not failed to note t
hat he kept his distance physically from her. At night he retired to his side of the hearth.
Disappointment had flared in Eithni’s breast both nights, yet she had fought it. She wanted to curl up on her deerskin and weep, for she knew that there would be no other man besides Donnel for her. However, instead she had rolled onto her side so that she faced the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the sadness that rolled over her in waves.
Sitting pressed up against him now was a reminder of the effect this man had on her. Her breathing quickened, and heat flowered across her chest. She was grateful he could not see her face.
Without a word Donnel urged his stallion forward. They forded the creek and rode up the bank. Eithni forced herself not to look back at the deer hunter’s hut. Instead she kept her gaze forward—focused on the dark line of pines before her.
They rode west for a spell, following the valley in the cleft between the two mountains. After a while the vale opened out, the trees drew back, and they rode into the Glen of the Stags—wild open grassland under a pale blue sky.
At noon they stopped and ate some dried meat and crab apples upon a sun warmed stone at the rise of a hill. Eithni was surprised to find that she was hungry. The fresh air and early start had done much to restore her appetite.
Neither of them said much, for each had retreated into their own thoughts. Leaving the hut and the simple life they had built there had affected them both it seemed. Eithni felt cast adrift, and not even Donnel’s presence could reassure her.
After a brief rest they continued on, turning south now over an open landscape bordered by soaring peaks. And as they rode, the dark outline of the Black Cuillins inched ever closer. By dusk they reached the foothills and made camp by a stream near the path leading up to the Lochans of the Fair Folk—the Fairy Pools where Tea and Galan had wed just under two years earlier.
Eithni sat on the grass near the small fire pit as Donnel coaxed a lump of peat into flame, and craned her neck to take in the majesty of those black crags. This close the mountains had a forbidding quality, for they appeared carved out of coal, all smoky hard edges against the blushing dusk sky.
The Lochans of the Fair Folk were nestled above them in the foothills of the mountains—a mystical place for their people. Gazing up at the last of the sun bathing the tips of the Cuillins, Eithni found herself remembering Tea and Galan’s handfasting ceremony. It had taken place before a great storm. Her brow furrowed when she recalled the potion she had made for her sister; one that stripped her of her inhibitions and allowed Tea and Galan to consummate their marriage. Their brother, Loc, had put her up to it. He had been desperate for peace between The Eagle and The Wolf, even if it meant drugging Tea to do it.
I shouldn’t have done that, she thought. It had nearly ruined her relationship with Tea forever.
Still, Tea had looked beautiful and fierce as she stood there at the edge of The Wishing Pool and made her vows. Galan—bare-chested, his naked skin painted in swirls and circles—had made Eithni’s girlish heart flutter.
She had envied Tea. She had wanted a handsome noble-hearted warrior like that for herself.
“It all began that day,” Eithni murmured, voicing her thoughts aloud without even realizing it. “The story of our people uniting.”
Donnel looked up from where he had just managed to light the peat. Pungent smoke drifted up into the still night air. His gaze narrowed as he too looked up at the Black Cuillins. Watching him Eithni wondered if this place brought back memories.
“Luana insisted on coming to the handfasting,” he said after a moment. “She was heavy with child and had not carried Talor easily. We argued before leaving Dun Ringill … but in the end I relented.” A shadow passed over his face. “I shouldn’t have.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Eithni replied gently. “If the birthing sickness took her, the trip here wouldn’t have caused it.” She paused, remembering the laughing dark-haired beauty she had seen with Donnel at the handfasting. She felt mousy in comparison. How could she possibly live up to the memory?
“What did you love the most about Luana?” The question surprised her. She did not want to cause him pain or remind herself of his lost love—yet at the same time she was curious about the woman he had loved so deeply.
She was worried the question might anger Donnel, but instead he smiled. “Her kindness,” he replied without hesitation. “She was big-hearted and cared deeply for others.” He paused here, his gaze shifting from the mountains to Eithni. “Not that different to you really.”
Eithni warmed under the unexpected compliment.
He turned from the Black Cuillins and glanced back at the smoking peat. The tender gold flames were growing now. “You are different to her in many ways though. Luana was earthy, straight-forward, and practical, but you …” He paused here, as if searching for the right words. “… you are elemental. Like the first blush of warmth in spring, the sparkle of frost on a winter’s dawn, or the breeze that rushes in from the loch and steals your breath from you. Sometimes I wonder if you are really of this world.”
Eithni stopped breathing. “That’s beautiful, Donnel,” she murmured. “I’m not sure I do your words justice.”
His mouth quirked. “Aye, you do. Don’t let the likes of me steal your light, Eithni.” He paused here, pain shadowing his eyes. “These days I cast a shadow over all who come near me.”
Eithni watched him a moment. She was starting to feel lightheaded, and then realized she had been holding her breath. Sucking in a lungful of air, she noted the atmosphere between them had changed. A tension had grown while they were talking; one that made her acutely aware of him.
They stared at each other, and the sensation grew. Eithni’s pulse quickened as she saw his pupils dilate. He felt it as strongly as she did she realized—this quickening, this desire—he was just bent on denying it.
“You won’t steal my light, Donnel,” she said after a long silence. “You lifted a shadow from my heart.”
Chapter Twenty-five
All of You
DONNEL URGED HIS pony into a swift canter—Reothadh’s heavy feathered hooves eating up the distance. This was the third morning of their journey. They were passing through the heart of Eagle territory. To the west was the peninsula where Dun Ringill sat, yet Donnel did not turn in that direction. Instead he continued on, crossing a land he knew as well as the lines of his own palms.
Eithni perched before him, her body jolting against his with each stride. They both had layers of clothing between them, for she wore a heavy fur mantle, but the warmth and feel of her body against his had been painfully distracting.
Her unbound hair tickled his face, and he inhaled the scent of rosemary from her clothing. He was aware of her long legs next to his. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing milky skin. His fingers itched to caress it.
As he rode he thought about the things he had said to Eithni the night they camped under the shadow of the Black Cuillins. There was something about this woman that made him speak recklessly—and yet he could not bring himself to regret those words. The fact of it was that she enchanted him.
It was early afternoon when they reached the boundary between The Eagle and The Boar territories: The Valley of the Tors.
Donnel slowed Reothadh to a walk as they rode down the steep rock-studded slope. Great tors rose from the damp earth: dark sentries against the sky.
“Is this the place where Tarl fought Wurgest?” Eithni asked, speaking for the first time since they had rested at noon.
“Aye,” Donnel replied. He remembered following Galan into the valley and seeing Tarl, bloodied but victorious, sitting on the ground with Lucrezia in his arms, Wurgest dead next to him. Black, brutal rage had fueled Donnel that day. He had helped cut down all The Boar warriors who had ambushed them, but it had not been enough. He had wanted to drown the whole world in blood.
With a jolt Donnel realized that he no longer felt that way.
The fury, the bi
tterness that had gnawed at his gut day and night, was gone. He no longer sought vengeance for a wrong that could never be put right. He no longer wished he was dead.
This woman sitting before him in the cradle of his arms was the reason.
“It was a dark day,” he murmured, “for we lost Alpia. It was that anger I carried with me to The Gathering … it was why Galan didn’t want me there.” His gaze swept across the empty valley. “And now it’s as if it never happened. You expect the earth to carry the stains of battle forever, but as soon as the first rain comes they’re washed away.”
A cool slender hand enclosed over his forearm. “If only it was the same with us,” she replied softly. “If only the rain could wash the past away.”
Silence stretched between them while Donnel struggled to master his feelings. A wave of tenderness hit him; it almost hurt to breathe. This woman had no idea what she did to him, how just the sound of her soft voice tore down the walls he had so painstakingly built.
“You were my rain,” he replied, his voice coming out as a rasp. “The only reason I’m able to face Urcal is because of you. Being with you lanced the poison from me … you truly are a healer.”
Her hand squeezed his, and he heard her inhale deeply. They rode across the wide valley floor now, and Donnel reached out with his free hand, wrapped it around her, and drew her back against him so that their bodies pressed close. It was no good. He had been fighting this for days now; he could no longer deny it.
The wind had blown her hair to one side and he leaned forward, kissing the soft skin of her nape. Eithni moaned, and his body reacted to the sound, his groin hardening against the curve of her bottom pressed up against it.
The Reaper take me—I must have her.
The more he resisted his need for her, the worse it got. He had to give in to it or go mad.
At the far side of the valley, he drew up his pony and swung down from the saddle. He helped Eithni down after him and pulled her into his arms. Their mouths collided, hot and hungry. She melted against him, linked her arms around his neck, and pushed her body along the length of his. Her firm, pert breasts thrust against him, and when her tongue timidly stroked his a hunger wilder than any he had known reared up within him.
