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 sat 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.
The fire burned so bright that she could feel its heat caressing her face, even from many yards away. For a moment she closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth. When she opened them she realized Galan and Tea were standing next to her.
Neither of them had seen her. Instead they were arguing together, their voices low. Galan was holding Muin, who wriggled in his arms, oblivious to the tension between his parents. Galan’s expression turned hard as Tea snapped something at him. The cries and laughter from the surrounding crowd drowned out their voices, but Eithni knew what they were arguing about.
She tensed. The feast, which should have been the most joyous of the year, had been the most uncomfortable meal she had ever sat through. Galan had not lost his temper, something which awed Eithni, although both his brothers looked as if they would launch themselves across the fire pit at any moment and attack Urcal.
“He’ll think you weak,” Tea’s voice, sharp with anger, reached Eithni through the roar of the surrounding crowd.
“He’s dying for me to lash out,” Galan countered. “You’d have me give him what he wants?”