DONNEL URGED HIS pony forward, letting the stallion have his head. Reothadh loved to race—for he hated to follow another pony. There were at least two dozen of them thundering along the wide valley. Far above rose wind-seared hills, with the dark outline of Bodach an Stòrr against a pale sky.
The race was on.
Donnel crouched low over the saddle, grinning as his grey gained on the leaders. Galan was up front on Faileas, fighting for first place with Loxa, who rode a heavy bay. Nostrils flaring, his powerful body surging beneath Donnel, Reothadh lengthened his stride.
Donnel drew level with the leaders—and glimpsed the exasperation on Galan’s face and the fury on Loxa’s—before surging ahead.
Reothadh’s heavy feathered hooves flew. He reached the end of the valley, where a cheering crowd had gathered—and won by at least two lengths.
The stallion did not want to stop there, and it took Donnel quite a distance to pull him up. Once Reothadh’s blood was up, he hated to stop running. He was strong too and fought the bit for a while. Donnel reined him in, in a wide arc, before circling back to the others.
The other riders had reached the finish now. Loxa had ridden off in disgust, while Galan waited for Donnel.
“What do you feed that pony?” he greeted Donnel with a grin. “He never used to be able to outdistance Faileas.” That was true. The shaggy black stallion—Shadow—had always won races in the past.
Donnel shrugged, leaning forward and patting his pony’s sweaty neck. “He seems to get feistier with age,” he replied. “Reo’s a leader, not a follower.”
Ever since Donnel’s return from the south, the grey had become harder to handle, his already fiery nature turning more aggressive. Donnel knew why—it was as if the pony sensed the change in its rider and had altered its nature to suit.
Now that the race was over, they began the ride back up the hill toward The Gathering Place. Half-way up, the going became so steep that the warriors were forced to dismount and lead their ponies.
Galan and Donnel made their way up, side-by-side. They walked in silence for a while, a breeze blowing in from the loch behind them, when Donnel eventually spoke.
“Has Tea ever said anything to you about what happened to her sister?”
Galan glanced at him, brow furrowing. “No … why?”
Donnel shrugged. He was not sure why he was asking this—it was just that after seeing Eithni and Loxa the day before he had been wondering about the healer. She had looked ashen, terrified—far more than the situation seemed to warrant.
“She just seems … a bit strange at times.”
Galan lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve always been harsh on Eithni—why?”
It was Donnel’s turn to frown now. “She meddles where she isn’t wanted.”
“She healed you when you wished to die, you mean?”
Donnel compressed his lips. There were times Galan was far too astute for his liking.
Silence stretched between them once more before Galan broke it. “I don’t know exactly what happened to Eithni at Dun Ardtreck. I remember how she looked when I arrived there, just after Tea slew Forcus—like a ghost. I remember the terrified look in her eyes and that she had trouble walking. Tea’s never said as much, but I think Forcus brutalized her.”
Donnel’s mood darkened at this news. That explained much—especially the fear in the girl whenever a man stood too close to her. A pang of self-recrimination assailed him then—a rare emotion these days. He had been harsh with her over the past few months; perhaps he should have been gentler.
Pushing the emotion aside, Donnel glanced back at Galan. Their gazes met. “What did you make of Urcal’s words last night?” Donnel asked.
He saw his brother tense and knew he did not welcome the question. Donnel had seen Galan and Tea argue afterward. Tea chafed at The Boar’s insolence, and Donnel was fully in agreement with her.
Urcal needed to be taught a lesson.
“I’ll say to you what I’ve said repeatedly to Tea, and Tarl,” Galan replied wearily. “Urcal has the mind of a ferret. He came here with a plan: to bait me into losing my temper. He wants me to be the chief who brings shame on his tribe at The Gathering. He wants a fight, but he’ll not be the one to throw the first punch.” Galan’s face went hard then. “I’ll not give the bastard what he wants.”
Donnel listened. Galan was right; Urcal did indeed have a plan. He did not miss an opportunity to hurl an insult in Galan’s direction or to lay scorn at his feet. It made Donnel grind his teeth each time The Boar opened his mouth. The sneering faces of Loxa and that bald-headed lout who followed Urcal everywhere did not help either. Donnel wondered how much longer he would be able to keep a leash on his temper.
He was not sure how Galan was managing to suffer the abuse. Was he made of stone? The other two chieftains, Fortrenn and Wid, had noted the situation too; although they both refrained from involving themselves. This was a dispute that Urcal and Galan would need to work out between them.
When Donnel did not respond, Galan’s gaze narrowed. “I know you disagree with me—but being chief isn’t always about drawing your sword and cutting men down the moment they speak against you. It’s more complicated than that.”
Donnel held his gaze. “So what are you going to do about Urcal? He’s not going to go away.”
Galan huffed. “I’m aware of that. Once The Gathering is over, I’m going to seek him out so we can have a private word. Maybe a resolution can be reached.”
Donnel stared at his brother. “You’re going to negotiate with him?” Anger surged up, quick and hot, like a flame catching hold of fat. “Why would you do that? The Boar conspired against us last year. Seeing Urcal speak the last two nights, I’d wager he not only knew what Wurgest was planning—but even encouraged him.”
Galan shook his head. “I still don’t believe that.”
“No, you won’t believe it—there’s a difference.” Donnel saw irritation flare in Galan’s eyes. Finally. Maybe if he pushed him hard enough, Galan would see sense. “The Boar don’t want peace. Once The Gathering is done, Urcal will start raiding our villages. Folk will start dying, all because you wouldn’t stand up to him here.”
“Enough,” Galan growled. “You sound like our father. All he cared about was defending our ‘honor’. Where did it get him? Screaming while he tried to push his own guts back into his body.” His brother gave him a hard look. “If things are to change they must start here.”
And with that Galan strode forward, pulling Faileas after him, making it clear their conversation was at an end.
Eithni carried a basket of bread over to the fire pit and placed it down next to the platters of roast meat, boiled and braised vegetables, and rich stew. The aroma of the food made her mouth water. After a day traipsing over the hills, watching pony races, hawk hunting, and more games, she was both tired and famished.
Today had definitely been an improvement on the day before. She had successfully avoided Loxa, and this evening The Boar had taken a seat with The Stag at one of the other fire pits, leaving The Wolf to join The Eagle for supper.
Eithni sat down between Lucrezia and Tea, and reached for a piece of bread. Her gaze traveled around the fire pit and rested upon Wid. Her cousin had done well with his hawk this afternoon. He had even beaten Galan and his hawk, Lann, on one occasion. The young Wolf chief sat next to a girl Eithni had not seen before. She bore the mark of The Boar upon her right arm but had chosen not to sit with her people this eve.
Buxom and flirtatious with thick dark brown hair and moss-green eyes, the young woman did not take her gaze off Wid as he spoke to her. She wore a tight-fitting leather bodice, cut low to reveal a swelling cleavage. Eithni’s mouth curved into a smile when she saw her cousin’s gaze kept dropping to admire it.
Men.
She shifted her attention from Wid then, traveling farther around the fire pit to where Ruith sat with a grizzled-looking warrior. He was a formidable-looking man, with sinewy arms that were covered with tattoos and scars. His thinning dark hair had been cut short against his scalp, and he had sharp features—yet his eyes were soft and his expression tender as he spoke with Ruith.
Eithni watched them with interest. She had seen Ruith and her Stag dancing together the night before. The seer laughed now, casting the man a teasing look before cocking her head. She looked decades younger this evening, her eyes dancing in the firelight. Clearly her friend’s worries had been unfounded. Her old lover still remembered her—still wanted her.
Smiling, Eithni took a bite of bread and chewed slowly. She was glad Ruith was happy this evening.
She glanced to her left then, at where Galan and Donnel sat, and her smile faded.
Both men wore grim expressions, and despite that they sat shoulder to shoulder, they were not talking. Watching them Eithni frowned. Had they argued?
Angry voices reached her, drawing her attention from Donnel and Galan.
Across the fire Wid and his companion had just been interrupted.
A tall man with long, black hair and a scowling face had stepped between them. Wid was glaring at him, and the girl was no longer smiling. Instead she looked petulant.
“Interesting,” Tea murmured from beside Eithni. “Looks like the lass is already spoken for.”
The Boar warrior took his woman by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Wid went to rise, protesting, but one of his men pulled him back down. Wid had already consumed a few cups of ale, and it had made him mouthy and reckless.
“Let the lass go,” the warrior next to The Wolf chief advised him. “She’s not worth the trouble.”
They watched The Boar drag the protesting woman over to a fire pit on the far side of the clearing.
“Poor Wid,” Eithni said with a sigh.
Beside her Tea huffed. “Not really—that one looked like trouble.” Eithni’s sister eyed her over a cup of ale. “Could you not see that?”
Eithni glanced back at where The Boar couple were now clearly arguing. The woman had gone red in the face and no longer looked pretty and flirtatious. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “I was pleased for him. He’s been lonely of late.”
Tea gave her a wry smile. “You see the good in all, don’t you?”
Eithni thought of Loxa and shook her head. “No, not everyone.”