EITHNI KEPT RUNNING. Loxa was drawing close. She could hear his curses and the snort of his pony’s breathing.
Up ahead the riders were also approaching. She could make them out now. Donnel was out front, far ahead of the others, dust boiling up from behind his stallion’s huge feathered hooves. Behind him Eithni spied Galan and Tea. Her sister’s hair flew in the wind. Her son was not with her; instead she was dressed for battle, a wooden shield slung over her left arm. Tarl and Lucrezia rode directly behind Tea, their faces grim.
Donnel thundered past Eithni, heading farther up the valley to meet Loxa. He did not even look her way; his gaze was focused upon the warrior who galloped toward her.
Tea and Lucrezia pulled up when they reached Eithni, forming a protective circle around her. Meanwhile the other warriors raced past, following Donnel toward Loxa.
Lucrezia bent double and gulped in deep breaths of air. When she had recovered enough to straighten up, she saw that Donnel had almost reached Loxa. The others were still far behind him.
As she watched Donnel drew level with Loxa and threw himself from the saddle. He collided with The Boar warrior, knocking him off his pony, and the pair of them tumbled to the ground.
All three women watched, none of them speaking, as Donnel pounded into Loxa with his fists. The others had almost reached them now, Galan out front. He was yelling at Donnel, the boom of his voice echoing off the sides of the valley. However, Donnel was deaf to his brother. He was too far away for Eithni to see the expression on his face, yet she could see the savagery in his movements.
Donnel punched Loxa repeatedly in the face. The warrior tried to fight back, for he was a big strong man, but he was no match for Donnel’s fury. Donnel smashed him in the face once again before drawing a knife. The blade glinted as it swiped downward, and Loxa’s legs started to kick.
Donnel drew back, his face splattered with crimson, and watched while Loxa bled out on the ground beneath him.
Galan and the others arrived then. They swung down from their ponies, drew their weapons, and approached. However, they were too late.
The tension drained from Eithni’s body, and her legs began to tremble. She was safe, and Loxa was dead. It was over—she could relax now. She watched as Galan left the circle of warriors and strode over to where Donnel staggered to his feet.
And then, to her shock, Galan lunged at his brother. His fist shot out and hit Donnel squarely on the jaw. Donnel, who had barely straightened up, reeled back and crashed to the ground—out cold.
“Donnel!” Eithni took off, pushing past where Lucrezia and Tea were dismounting from their ponies, their gazes riveted upon the scene that had just unfolded before them.
She sprinted toward Donnel and had almost reached him when Galan grabbed hold of her arm. He pulled her up short and swung her round to face him. “Stay back, Eithni.”
Eithni gazed up at his handsome face, hard with rage, and saw a fierceness she had never witnessed before.
“Donnel’s hurt,” she gasped. “What have you done?”
“Get back.” The words came out in a low growl. His voice had an edge to it that made her take heed, and she did as bid, stepping back from him. She found herself standing next to Tea who had followed her up to the group of men. Lucrezia had also reached them, her dark gaze narrow as she surveyed the two men lying upon the ground.
Donnel stirred then. He groaned and shook his head before rolling onto his side. His eyes opened, and he fixed Galan with a baleful stare as he reached up and rubbed the side of his face. “You nearly broke my jaw.”
“Get up,” Galan replied. Eithni looked on, shocked. She did not recognize this enraged stranger. This was not Galan at all. Gone was the calm, fair-minded chieftain she adored and respected. It seemed that Donnel had finally pushed past the limits of Galan’s endurance and patience. He would take no more.
“Brother.” A few feet away Urcal lowered himself to his knees where Loxa lay, his throat slit open, his blue eyes glaring sightlessly up at the heavens. Then Urcal looked up, his own eyes glittering, and his heavy features twisting. “I’ll make you pay, Battle Eagle.”
Donnel, who had risen to his feet, spat out a gob of blood on the ground. “He had it coming.”
“Murdering maggot!” One of The Boar warriors who had accompanied Urcal here, the heavy-set bald man, lunged at Donnel. However, Urcal struggled to his feet and hauled him back. The Boar chief stepped forward, his gaze locking with Donnel’s.
“It's not for you to deal out justice,” Urcal ground out. “You’re not a chief. You rode ahead to reach Loxa first. You took matters into your own hands, but you had no right. My brother would have been punished … I would have seen to it.”
Donnel’s mouth twisted, his gaze narrowing. “No punishment from you would have been sufficient.”
“Enough, Donnel,” Galan snapped. “You gave me your word that you wouldn’t shed blood at The Gathering. You have dishonored me … you have dishonored us all.”
Donnel flinched at that. They were harsh words for a warrior who lived and died by his honor. “Loxa didn’t care about honor,” he replied, his voice harsh. “He abducted Eithni—he raped her.”
“He did not,” Eithni spoke up, the words bursting out of her. She knew she was not helping Donnel’s cause, but she could not let the others think Loxa had defiled her.
All gazes swiveled around, pinning her to the spot. However, she stood firm, lifting her chin to meet Donnel’s gaze across the yards that separated them. “He tried, but I hit him with a rock and managed to escape … but he would have caught me, if you hadn’t arrived when you did.”
Next to her, Tea put an arm around Eithni’s shoulders, squeezing tight. “Well done,” she whispered. “I knew you had it in you.”
However, Galan was no longer looking at Eithni. His attention had returned to Donnel, his big body coiled with fury. “You've gone too far this time.” Galan’s voice sounded choked, as he forced out each word. “Urcal speaks true. Your act can’t go unpunished.”
“Let me split him open,” the bald warrior growled.
“Kill him,” Urcal agreed, coiling his huge body as he rose to his feet at Loxa’s side. His face twisted into a sneer. “Cut the Battle Eagle down.”
Galan turned slowly to Urcal, his expression savage. “I will not slay my own kin,” he replied, his voice flat and cold. His attention returned to his brother then. “Donnel mac Muin … you are exiled … banished from our lands. Until you can mend the rage in your heart and the bitterness that has poisoned your soul.” He broke off, his breathing ragged. “Until you can make amends for this, you are no longer welcome at Dun Ringill.”
Donnel stared back at him, and under the light summer tan on his face the warrior paled. “You’re casting me out?”
“Aye, that’s right. You have shamed our tribe. You have—”
“Galan,” Tarl cut in. Eithni had been so focused on Galan and Donnel she had forgotten that their brother stood a few feet away, observing the entire altercation. Tarl’s face was stern, his eyes haunted. “Stop this. Don’t say words you can never take back. Donnel’s still our brother. He only did what he thought was right.”
Eithni’s gaze shifted, taking in the faces of Tea and Lucrezia. They both looked aghast.
Galan shook his head, vehement. “He knows the rules of our tribe, but he chose to ignore them.” The torment on Galan’s face pained Eithni; she could see every word cost him, yet he would not relent. “Donnel has become a danger to himself, and to the rest of us. He must bear the consequences of his actions.”
Galan looked back at Donnel, and the two brothers stared at each other. Time drew out, the tension in the air so heavy Eithni could taste it. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a battle drum. This was wrong. Galan could not cast Donnel out for killing a man like Loxa. The Boar warrior had deserved his end.
And yet Galan was.
Donnel’s face turned to stone. Without another word he turned and strode away, toward the entrance of the valley Eithni had just fled from. He walked tall and proud, the only sign of turmoil visible in the tenseness of his shoulders.
The group watched him go, none of them uttering a word. A cool breeze sighed down the valley, feathering across Eithni’s skin. Her chest ached as she watched Donnel go. Tea’s arm tightened around her shoulders in an iron band, almost as if her sister knew Eithni wished to go after him.
When Donnel was little more than a speck in the distance, Urcal broke the long silence. “Do you think that will appease me, Eagle,” he growled. “My brother lies dead at my feet.”
The look in Galan’s eyes was dangerous as he turned to face The Boar chieftain. “And I’ve just banished my own brother, stripped him of all honor.”
“There is still a price to be paid,” Urcal snarled. “Blood for blood.”
Galan stepped forward, his face twisting. “Loxa abducted a woman … and intended to rape her. I’m not sure I wouldn’t have cut him down myself, if I had been the first to reach him. He broke the laws of our people, the peace of The Gathering. You have just lost a brother … and so have I. We will leave it at that.”
Donnel had been cast out from the tribe. It was a terrible fate. The Winged Isle could be a brutal place, with long, bitter winters. A man or woman alone rarely survived long, for if hunger did not kill you, the cold would.
A numbness settled over Eithni as she mounted. She could not bear the thought of Donnel being on his own, wrestling with his anger and bitterness without the support of his kin.
With Donnel gone, Galan had given Reothadh to Eithni. The pony jogged and tossed his head. The stallion was too strong for her, but Galan was too distracted to care. The Eagle chief’s handsome face had turned fierce, his gaze hard.
It was a somber procession that turned south-east back in the direction of Bodach an Stòrr. Urcal led the way, with Loxa’s body slung across the back of his pony. The two other Boar warriors followed close behind, and The Eagles brought up the rear. They all traveled at a sedate walk now.
Eithni rode at the very back of the group, alongside Lucrezia. Her friend had not spoken during or after Donnel’s banishment although her gaze was troubled, her full lips compressed. After they had ridden for a spell, Lucrezia glanced Eithni’s way. “I’m so sorry.” Her heavily accented voice was hushed, filled with sorrow. “After everything you’ve been through, I can’t believe another man would try to hurt you.” Lucrezia broke off there, warring emotions flickering across her face. “I’m glad Donnel killed that bastard.”
Eithni gave a distracted nod, as if coming out of a trance. Her thoughts had turned inward. Her body was present, yet her mind had been far away. She glanced ahead at where Galan rode, Tea silent at his side. “Galan shouldn’t have sent him away,” she murmured.
“He did it to save Donnel’s life,” Lucrezia replied. “Urcal wanted blood. It was the only thing Galan could do to prevent it.”
Eithni’s mouth thinned. She knew that, yet she could not overcome the wrongness of deserting Donnel. He was angry at the world, but he was not a brute like Loxa. He had come to her rescue twice.
I can’t abandon him.
She pulled up Reothadh, nipping him with her knees as he fought her. “I can’t go with you,” she gasped. “I have to go after him.”
Lucrezia swung around to face Eithni, her features tightening. “That’s not a wise idea. Donnel’s proud and angry … he won’t welcome the company.”
Eithni shook her head. “I don’t care. I’m going.”
She was aware then that the others had pulled up ahead and were turning in their saddles to look at her.
“What’s wrong?” Tarl called back.
“She’s going after Donnel,” Lucrezia replied.
“No, she’s not,” Galan barked. “Eithni … you’re staying here with us.”
Reothadh danced on the spot, his heavy feathered hooves beating out a tattoo on the dusty ground. He could feel Eithni’s tension, her desire for flight.
“I am going, Galan,” she called back, rebellion catching fire in her veins. “I’m a Wolf, not an Eagle. You can’t command me. I choose exile. You have all given up on Donnel, but I will not.”
With that she wheeled the stallion around and gave him his head. Reothadh leaped forward, kicking up his heels behind him. Together they tore off, back toward that lonely valley where Donnel had disappeared.
GALAN CURSED AND wheeled Faileas around.
He could not believe this—as if he was not wrestling hard enough with his conscience over Donnel, he now had Eithni to contend with. He could not let the healer go after his brother; he had to get her back.
But as he turned Tea caught Faileas’s reins, hauling him to a halt. “Leave her.”
Galan met his wife’s midnight blue stare. They had not spoken since his altercation with Donnel. During the whole ordeal she had neither contradicted nor applauded him, and he had been grateful to her for that. Sending Donnel away was like taking a knife to his own chest. He felt sick to his gut, the sensation worse with each furlong he rode.
“Tea,” he growled. “Let me pass.”
She shook her head, her expression pleading now. “Let her go. Eithni’s the only one who understands Donnel, the only one who can help him. She’s our only chance of saving him … he won’t be able to leave the darkness without help.”
Galan stared back at her, the truth of her words filtering through the red haze of anger that had settled over him ever since he had seen Donnel kill Loxa. She was right. Grief twisted deep inside Galan’s chest. Alone and isolated with his rage there was no telling what Donnel might do.
Galan ground his jaw. “I hope you’re right, wife.”
What are you doing?
The question repeated itself over and over in Eithni’s mind, in time with each thud of Reothadh’s heavy hooves. She cantered down the rocky valley in the direction Donnel had disappeared, the wind buffeting against her face as she rode.
She had acted on instinct. Her gut had demanded she follow Donnel, and she had answered its call. Only now that she had left the others behind did she question her decision. She slowed Reothadh to a trot, scanning the rocky sides of the valley to the north and the south of her.
The stallion was content to slow its gait for now, having been allowed to run for the first part of their journey. It was important they slowed down. She did not want to miss Donnel.
They continued down the valley, and Eithni spied the rock overhang where Loxa had taken her. Memories of those awful moments when she was sure Loxa would rape her resurfaced, and she shuddered.
Thanks to Donnel, Loxa was gone. He won’t threaten me anymore.
Tearing her gaze away from the overhang, Eithni urged the stallion on. The valley grew narrower, its steep sides rearing up. Huge boulders the size of brochs studded the rough ground.
Eithni shivered in the wind that whistled down the corridor the valley created. Despite that it was mid-summer, the wind was cool, raising the fine hairs on the back of her bare arms. Ripped from her tent the night before, she carried no cloak to keep her warm.
Nervousness churned through her body. She was not used to traveling on her own. This landscape was so desolate, so lonely. The emptiness put her on edge, made her doubt her decision to follow Donnel.
What if I’ve made a huge mistake?
After a while the valley widened a little, and she and Reothadh splashed over a burn. It was here she spied footprints on the far bank. Even though she was no tracker, Eithni could see they were fresh.
Donnel has passed this way.
She continued with renewed hope and courage. He could not have journeyed much farther than this, for he was on foot.
The morning drew out, and Eithni saw that the sun was now directly overhead, a white disc burning through the bank of cloud that obscured the sky. She had been riding for a while, and she imagined the others had returned to The Gathering Place by now.
Her heart was racing, her stomach clenched in a hard ball; yet she was glad she had not gone with them. She could and would not abandon Donnel.
Her gaze swung ahead, and there, seated upon a flat stone, staring south-west, was a man.
Eithni’s breathing quickened. Donnel.
She drew up Reothadh and watched the warrior for a few moments. He had not yet seen her, as his gaze was fixed upon the horizon. She could not help but notice that he was staring in the direction of Dun Ringill.
He cut a lonely figure there, as if carven from stone.
Eithni urged the stallion up the slope and rode toward him. Eventually Donnel heard her approach. His gaze shifted from the horizon, swinging around to watch her.
His brow furrowed, and the look on his face was anything but friendly.
Misgiving stirred within Eithni, yet she continued up the hill toward him. She would not lose her courage now. She had faced Galan, and she would face Donnel too. At the bottom of the stone, she swung down from Reothadh, tied the stallion up and climbed to join Donnel.
“Why are you here?” His voice was wintry. “I have no need of a healer. Be gone, woman.”
That was a lie, for she could see he was bleeding. He had sustained a cut to his bicep during the struggle with Loxa, and although it was not deep, it needed tending to.
“I haven’t come as a healer,” she replied, lowering herself to sit next to him. She stretched out her legs before her and arranged her skirts. On a hot day the stone would be warm, but it was chill on this cool afternoon. “I’m here as a friend.”
Donnel snorted. “We’re not friends.”
Eithni ignored his rudeness. “I don’t know what we are,” she admitted softly. “All I know is that twice you’ve saved me. I owe you a great debt … I couldn’t let you go into exile alone.”
She glanced back at him and saw that his gaze had returned to the horizon. His face was grimmer than she had ever seen it. “Did Galan send you?” he growled.
“No, he didn’t want me to come.” She paused here before allowing herself a rueful smile. “However, I reminded him that I am not a woman of The Eagle, but The Wolf. He can’t stop me from going after you.”
Donnel looked back at her. “I didn't think you had it in you,” he admitted, his tone softer than before. “But then I didn't think you had it in you to fight Loxa off.”
Eithni was silent for a few moments, considering her words before she replied. “It was you, Donnel. After you brought me back to my tent I lay awake for a long while afterward. I made the decision that if I was ever cornered again I would fight.”
His mouth twisted. “Only, the chance came quicker than you’d thought.”
“Aye, he took me by surprise. But the moment I could … I fought back.”
Donnel watched her steadily. She could see the desolation in his eyes, the war within him that had carved deep lines either side of his mouth, making him appear much older than he really was. The rage and bitterness of the past year and a half was finally taking its toll. It would eventually kill him if he did not fight it.
“I don’t want you with me,” he said after a long pause. “I’m not fit company for anyone … it’s not fair on you.”
She shook her head. “You’re not getting rid of me Donnel mac Muin. I’ll follow you like a dog … wherever you go.”
Donnel barked out a humorless laugh. “Gods, you’re stubborn, woman. You’ve been a thorn in my arse ever since I got back from fighting the Caesars.”
Eithni drew herself up, indignant. “Someone has to stand up to you.” Her gaze narrowed as she stared him down. “You don’t scare me, Battle Eagle.”
He looked away. “Don’t call me that.”
Donnel strode down the valley, aware of the woman following close behind upon Reothadh. He had given her his pony to ride, for he noticed she was limping from the cuts to her feet.
Donnel clenched his jaw. He did not want Eithni with him—she was a responsibility he did not need—and yet he could not dredge up the will to fight her. The scene with Galan had drained him. He felt empty, weary to the bone. He felt as if he could lie down and sleep for days. Before Eithni had arrived, shattering his solitude, it had felt as if the wind blew straight through him. He had felt as if he were the last man alive.
The unthinkable had happened—Galan had banished him. There was no worse punishment for a warrior. Death was preferable.
Battle Eagle. I’m not worthy of the name.
Galan’s words still rang in his ears; he would never forget them. The look on his brother’s face as he had banished him would stay with him forever. He would never be able to return to Dun Ringill—not unless he could humble himself to make amends for what he had done and erase the bitterness and rage from his heart.
Donnel was not sure he ever could.
Eithni’s arrival had just made him feel worse. Not only had he been exiled, but he had involved her too. She was grateful to him, but the truth was he had acted selfishly. He had not killed Loxa for her but for himself. It was vengeance for the grudge he had carried against The Boar for a year now. He had enjoyed pummeling Loxa to the ground and taking a knife to the warrior’s throat. He had liked that too much.
He had gone too far, crossed an invisible line. Galan had warned him, told him to rein himself in, yet he had not listened. The need for reckoning had turned him deaf to his brother.
Galan is right, he thought dully. I’m a danger to myself, and to the tribe. I wouldn’t trust me.
Aye, for there was still a part of him that did not regret slaying Loxa, a part of him that would do it again if given the chance. Yet killing the warrior had not given him the sense of vindication he had expected. He was not victorious, just hollowed out, numb.
Ahead of the valley the land opened out, and he spied the dark line of a pine forest. It would not take them long to reach it, and they would make camp there for the night. After that Donnel was not sure where he would go. For the first time in his life he had no purpose.
The shadows were lengthening when they reached the forest of tall spruce at last. The resinous scent of sap lay heavy in the air, and there was a mattress of springy pine needles underfoot.
Donnel chose a small clearing to make camp and dug out a fire pit with a stone. Then Eithni went looking for firewood while he withdrew the flint and tinder he always carried in his saddle bag upon Reothadh and set to work lighting a fire. It was a slow, laborious process, but one he had learned to do as soon as he could walk. As the light started to fade, a fire roared in the pit. Eithni drew close, warming her hands over the flames, her pretty face drawn and pale.
Donnel straightened up. “We need food,” he said roughly. Truthfully, he had no appetite at all; the day’s events had sickened him, robbing him of hunger. However, he could see that Eithni needed to eat. He had a bow, a slingshot, and a knife. He would go hunting. “I’ll be back soon.”
Eithni glanced up, those soulful eyes resting upon him. “You’re not going to run off are you?”
He watched her, disarmed by the directness of her gaze. “No,” he replied, too weary to care if she believed him or not. “I won’t.”