THE RAIN FELL gently, pattering on the canopy of branches overhead and kissing the forest floor beneath.
Eithni walked a few yards behind Donnel. She enjoyed the feel of damp pine needles under her sore feet. Donnel led Reothadh this morning, for the pines pressed close in this part of the forest and the ground had grown uneven. Across his back Donnel carried his bow and a quiver of arrows so that he would be ready should prey of any kind cross their path. Fortunately he had brought his bow with him yesterday when he left The Gathering Place, tied behind the saddle. It would prove very useful in the days ahead.
Eithni found her gaze following Donnel. She admired the breadth of his shoulders, his proud stance. He wore breeches made of a grey-blue plaid and a dark leather sleeveless vest that revealed his muscular arms. His tall body was tense with purpose this morning, his gaze sweeping left and right.
They had set off at daybreak as soon as the grey light of dawn filtered through the trees to the east. Shortly after that the rain had begun. It was not cold though, and the air carried the sweet rich scent that only summer rain possessed.
Eithni’s stomach growled as she followed Donnel west, reminding her that she had not yet eaten today. The full reality of the situation was starting to creep upon her—and for the first time she realized why Donnel worried about having her out here with him.
She was used to her morning oatcakes, warm off the griddle and dripping with butter and honey. But out here in the wild there were no oats—or any grains—for cakes or bread. There was no cream for butter, and no beehives for honey. Their diet would consist only of what they could hunt or forage. If they did not find berries or edible plants, or catch animals or fish—they would starve.
It was a sobering thought and apprehension knotted in Eithni’s belly. It fully dawned upon her what Galan had done in banishing Donnel from the tribe. He had cast him out into a brutal world where even a warrior would struggle to survive.
They walked on, and the forest floor began to slope. Soon Eithni found herself picking her way down the steep, wooded side of a valley. Ahead she could see the land fell away into a deep cleft carpeted by dark bristling pines stretching out into the distance. Great bare carven peaks thrust up beyond the trees; rain clouds partially obscured the mountains this morning.
“Where are we?” Eithni called out to Donnel.
He paused and turned back to meet her eye for the first time since they had set off at dawn. “We’re in the heart of the mountains that divide the territories of The Wolf and The Stag,” he explained. “Uninhabited save for hunting parties.”
“The Glen of the Stags,” Eithni replied, smiling as she too realized where they stood. “That’s what the folk of Dun Ardtreck call this place. You’re right—the warriors hunt here.” She glanced at the peaks rising into the clouds to the north. That is the Cruachan …” She swept her gaze south to the lower more rounded peaks. “And that must be Creagan Mora.”
“Aye,” Donnel replied with a tight smile. “Looks like you know this area better than me.”
She shook her head. “I know of this place, for the warriors would return from hunting trips with stories of its beauty—but I’ve never been here.”
They continued down the wooded slope, reaching the valley below where a clear creek bubbled over mossy rocks. There, they continued west until they spied a lonely hut.
The dwelling sat back from the creek under the shadow of the northern side of the valley, with a view south. Made of stacked river stones and mud, its sod roof caved in and full of holes, Eithni could see at a distance that no one lived there.
“A deer hunter’s hut,” Donnel called out, quickening his stride as he approached the dwelling, leading his pony after him. “I was hoping to find one.”
Eithni heard the relief in his voice. Like her, Donnel had no doubt been mulling over the issue of how they would survive out here. Both of them were resourceful, but without shelter—a base of some kind—life would be hard.
As she approached, Eithni saw that there was still a stack of firewood piled up against the back of the hut. Donnel had already tied Reothadh up outside and had disappeared into the entrance.
Eithni reached the hut and ducked through the low doorway into a damp, dark interior. Daylight filtered in through the huge gap in the roof, and rain pattered on the dirt floor. There was some moss growing on the walls, and a fern had taken root in one corner. However, Eithni could see at a glance that with a bit of work they could make the hut inhabitable.
Donnel, who had been taking a look at the dark recesses of the hut, turned back to her. “What do you think?”
“I think no one’s going to mind if we repair it.”
He watched her, his expression inscrutable. “It’ll do then?”
She smiled back. “Aye, it will.”
Donnel strode through the undergrowth and approached the deer he had just shot. It was a beautiful doe with a rich, dark brown coat. He crouched before the beast, and saw that his arrow’s aim had been true. He had pierced her at the point where the back of the neck joined the skull. The doe had been dead when she hit the ground.
He reached out and ran his hand over the deer’s sleek coat. Fortune had indeed shone upon him to bring this beautiful creature into his path. The doe would give him and Eithni enough food for days, and the hide would come in useful too.
He heaved the deer up, slinging it across his shoulders. Then he picked up his bow and made for home.
Home. A ruined hut in the midst of a forgotten valley. It was not the broch of Dun Ringill, but it was a roof over their heads. And when he had finished patching the roof it would hopefully keep them warm and dry. When he had set out hunting, Eithni had been hard at work cleaning out the interior of the hut and making it livable. He had been gone a while, and he wondered how her afternoon had fared.
By the time he reached the deer hunter’s hut, the light was starting to fade. The rain had stopped mid-afternoon although a veil of damp hung over the forest. A pink hue shaded the western sky promising good weather for the day to come.
As he approached the mud and stone dwelling, Donnel breathed in the scent of wood smoke—and the smell of cooking. His belly growled, and his mouth filled with saliva.
What has she found to cook?
Eithni emerged from inside. One look at her, and he could see she had spent the afternoon toiling. Dirt smudged her cheeks, and untidy wisps of brown hair had come loose from her braid, curling damply around her face. She carried a broom fashioned out of a pine branch. Her face lit up when she saw him.
Her reaction pleased him. An unexpected warmth spread out across his chest. He had almost forgotten the pleasure of returning home to find a woman awaiting him with a welcoming smile.
Then he remembered that Luana used to come out to meet him, and the warmth turned chill.
“A deer!” Eithni rushed forward. “On your first hunting trip too!”
Donnel forced a smile, trying to banish the lingering pain of memories he preferred to keep buried. “Aye, but what’s that I smell? Fish?”
Her smile widened, and her eyes were warm. “Trout. I’m cooking it on a stone in the fire pit. Come inside. It’s nearly ready.”
Eithni picked the last piece of trout flesh off the bones and popped it into her mouth, sighing with pleasure. “That was delicious.”
“I’ll get to work on that deer carcass tomorrow morning,” Donnel promised her. “You’ll have a feast of roast venison tomorrow eve.” He sat across the fire from her, the firelight caressing the handsome lines of his face.
Eithni watched him a moment. He had been quiet over supper, his gaze introspective. She did not question him over his mood; she was just relieved that they had found a place to live and that they had at least eaten once today.
She shifted her attention from Donnel then, her gaze taking in her surroundings. There were still gaps in the roof, which they would take a look at the following day, but she had done her best to clean out the interior of the hut. She had gathered ferns from the river bank and made two small beds for them. They would not make a particularly comfortable bed, but she would gather more ferns tomorrow and see if she could find something softer to place on top.
“You did well, today.” Donnel broke the silence, his voice low. “This place looks unrecognizable.”
Eithni huffed, covering up the rush of pleasure his comment brought. “I’ve still got plenty to do … but it is an improvement.”
He gave her a speculative look. “You’re tough, Eithni. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman so resourceful.”
She smiled back, warming under the compliment. “All the women of my family are—we’ve had to be.”
“And a healer too. Was your mother one?”
Eithni shook her head. “My grandmother was, on my father’s side, but she died when I was wee. I barely remember her.” Eithni paused here, her smile turning melancholy. “I look like my mother although she was fiercer than me.”
It was Donnel’s turn to huff. “You’re fierce enough, I’d say.”
Eithni laughed, the sound lightening her soul. It had been a while since she had let mirth in. “With Tea as a sister, I have much to live up to.”
He met her gaze. “You are different to Tea … but now that I’ve spent time with you I see you have the same iron will.”
“That comes from my father,” Eithni replied. “He could be as stubborn as a boar.”
“Stubbornness runs in my family too. Galan, Tarl, and I are all bull-headed.” Donnel’s face grew grim as he spoke of his brothers.
“This isn’t the end, you know,” she said quietly. “Give Galan time to calm down, and he will welcome you back.”
Donnel shook his head, his mouth thinning. “You don’t know my brother as I do. He is slow to anger and endlessly patient with those he loves. However, when his temper snaps it takes a long while to mend. Some things he will never forgive.”
Eithni watched him. “He was once angry with my sister, but that did not last. It will be the same with you.”
Donnel’s mouth twisted. “He was in love with Tea, and he realized he had misjudged her. This isn’t the same … Galan’s patience has slowly been stretching to its limit where I’m concerned. Before we set out to The Gathering, he made me promise not to spill blood. I agreed although that promise meant nothing to me—Loxa merely gave me the excuse I’d been looking for.” Donnel looked away. “Galan knows that.”
Empathy swept over Eithni. She longed to go to him, to put her arms around those strong shoulders and comfort him. However, she did no such thing. She was wary of touching him. Not only that, but Donnel would not welcome her sympathy. The man wore his grief, his anger, like a shield. No one would dare penetrate it.