Six months later …
“FIRE!”
EITHNI GLANCED up from where she had been harvesting chamomile. Ruith’s garden was a riot of herbs. The seer did not use half of what she grew so Eithni, as the fort’s healer, was allowed to gather what she needed for her remedies.
Straightening up, Eithni raised her gaze—and saw a column of black, oily smoke staining the pale morning sky.
“Fire!”
The call came again, but Eithni was already off, running. The smoke was rising from the far side of Dun Ringill, on the eastern edge of the scattering of houses that lay between the fort and the outer perimeter.
Eithni sprinted up the stone path, her bare feet flying. She passed low-slung round huts made of stacked-stone, with conical roofs. The smell of roasting meat wafted out of doorways, a reminder that the noon meal approached.
As she ran, Eithni caught sight of flames licking into the sky. Shouts and cries echoed over the village inside the walls. When she crested the hill, her gaze seized upon the dwelling that burned before her.
Her heart leaped into her throat. She knew this roundhouse well. This was the home of Mael and Maphan, and their daughter, Ailene. Talor, their nephew, also dwelt here.
Eithni choked back a sob and pushed her way through the amassing crowd. The fire roared like a stag. The roof looked like it was about to cave in.
“Gods … no!” Eithni rushed forward, toward the open doorway. She had to see if anyone was trapped inside.
“Eithni—stop.” A strong hand grasped her by the shoulder and pulled her back. She glanced back to see Lutrin, one of the chieftain’s warriors, standing behind her. “It’s too dangerous,” he said, his ruggedly handsome face stern. “Tarl and Donnel have already gone in there.”
Eithni swiveled round, her gaze returning to the narrow entrance. “But where’s Mael … and Maphan?” she gasped.
An instant later two figures burst out of the roundhouse’s entrance.
Donnel, tall and dark, carried a child under each arm. He was swiftly followed by Tarl, his brown-haired elder brother, who dragged an unconscious man out behind him.
Maphan.
The two children Donnel held—Talor, who was now one and a half, and Ailene, who was approaching her third winter—were coughing and wheezing. Tears streaked their stricken faces, and their eyes were huge.
Donnel carried the boy and girl clear of the burning house, with Tarl at his heels.
The roof exploded behind them. Plumes of flame leaped high, sending showers of sparks into the heavens. The gathering crowd staggered back, but Eithni rushed up to where Tarl was laying Maphan on the ground. Behind him the two children were wailing in Donnel’s arms. It was a good sign as it meant that the smoke had not gotten into their lungs. Eithni would check on them later, but for the moment it was their father who needed her attention.
She dropped to her knees beside the unconscious warrior. Maphan, a well-built man with long, dark hair and sharp features, lay there as if asleep.
“Maphan …” She shook him gently. “Can you hear me?”
“I found him face down by the fire pit,” Tarl rasped, his face smudged with soot, his grey eyes streaming from smoke. “He’d been frying something in lard—but it fell onto the floor when he collapsed. I think that’s what started the fire. The bairns were trying to rouse him when we entered.”
Eithni frowned. Leaning over, she felt for a pulse. There was none. Then she lowered her ear to his chest, but there was no rise and fall of his rib cage, no rhythmic thud of his heart.
Eithni straightened up, her gaze meeting Tarl’s once more. “He’s dead,” she whispered.
“Maphan!” A woman’s cry split the air. Eithni looked up to see Mael, her skirts billowing, her dark hair streaming out behind her, as she sprinted up the path toward them. She carried a basket under one arm. Reaching them, Mael threw her basket to one side, the sorrel and parsley she had collected scattering over the ground. Then she dropped to her knees at her husband’s side. “What's wrong with him?” Mael glanced up. “Eithni?”
Eithni inhaled deeply. She loved being a healer—preserving life, and bringing new life into the world—but she hated this part of it. Looking into someone's eyes and telling them their loved one was dead or dying tore her insides to pieces.
“I’m sorry, Mael,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”
Silence settled over them. Mael stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. For a few moments the woman simply refused to believe it.
The gathered crowd hushed as they all realized that Maphan was dead. It was a shock; Maphan had been a healthy warrior of twenty-seven winters, who should have lived for many more.
A wail went up, shattering the quiet. Mael slumped forward and threw herself over her husband's body. The two children howled as well, both of them struggling under Donnel’s grip.
Shaking, Eithni rose to her feet, her gaze meeting Donnel’s for the first time since he had carried the children to safety. Both of them wriggled against him, but he held them in a grip of iron. Talor’s face had gone bright red. The wee lad wept, struggling under Donnel’s arm. He was frightened and wanted Mael to comfort him.
But Mael was struggling to accept her beloved Maphan was dead.
Donnel’s face was hewn from stone as his gaze held Eithni’s. “What killed him?”
“I don’t know,” Eithni replied.
His mouth thinned. She could feel his disdain for her, could almost taste it. She had cured Donnel of a soured wound many months earlier. She had brought him back from the brink of death—and he had never forgiven her for it. She knew he resented her—that he thought her interfering—but she did not care. She would not stand by and let someone die.
The Battle Eagle. He had earned that name while fighting to the south. It suited him, Eithni thought, for these days Donnel was at war with the world.
It was hard to like Donnel of late, and yet there was something about him that fascinated Eithni. She often felt an odd restlessness well within her when he was near—a sensation she did not understand or welcome.
Under Donnel’s left arm little Ailene was weeping piteously. “Da,” she wailed. “Wake up, Da!”
Eithni stepped forward. “Give the girl to me, Donnel,” she instructed gently.
He released Ailene without a word, and Eithni gathered the sobbing child in her arms. Ailene’s thin body trembled with fear; like Talor she was too young to understand what death meant. “What’s wrong with Da?”
There were no words of solace Eithni could offer. She could only hold the child.
Behind them the dwelling continued to burn. It had been a substantial roundhouse—one of the largest and most comfortable in the village. Maphan had built it just before he and Mael had wed three summers earlier. This house had been one of Eithni’s favorite spots. She had spent many an afternoon here gossiping with Mael as the children played at their feet.
But now it was burning to ashes before them, along with Mael’s life.
Still cradling Ailene, Eithni turned away from Donnel and closed her eyes. Tears escaped, burning down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Mael.”
Tea pulled the sobbing woman into her arms and hugged her tightly. Eithni stood behind them, still holding a sniffling Ailene in her arms while Eithni’s elder sister, Tea, did her best to comfort Mael. Tea and her husband Galan—chieftain of The Eagle tribe—had rushed from their broch the moment news of the fire reached them. Tarl’s wife had also joined them; Lucrezia stood next to her husband, her face drawn as she gazed upon the smoldering ruins of the roundhouse.
Galan’s expression was grim. He hunkered down before Maphan and regarded the warrior silently.
“Maphan seemed well when I went eeling with him yesterday,” Tarl spoke up from behind Galan. “What could have taken him?”
Galan looked up and grief flashed across his hawkish features. “Remember what killed our mother? Sometimes there are silent things at work within us that strike without warning.”
Behind them Donnel snorted. He still gripped Talor under one arm, and although the lad had stopped crying, he wore a miserable expression as he hung there. Watching them Eithni realized that Talor most likely considered Donnel a stranger. In the one and a half years of his life, this man had not come near him once. Talor wanted the comfort of someone he knew and trusted. Likewise, Eithni saw the tension in Donnel’s broad shoulders as he held the lad. It was only the severity of this situation that kept him from casting the boy aside.
“Don’t try to make sense of it,” Donnel growled, his voice harsh. “It’s just life, brother. The Reaper comes for us all.”
Galan frowned. A tense silence settled over the gathered crowd.
Eithni held her breath, waiting for Galan to respond harshly to Donnel. The two of them had done nothing but argue of late.
When he did not, Donnel’s lip curled. He thrust Talor at Lutrin, who was standing to his left. “Here … take him.”
Lutrin had just gathered the lad in his arms when Donnel turned and stalked away without another word.
Eithni watched him go, outrage flowering in her breast.
She was not like Tea; she had never been brave or forthright. Yet Donnel’s attitude riled her. How dare he? His behavior was unacceptable—especially when Maphan’s body, not yet cold, lay just a few yards away.
Wordlessly, Eithni passed Ailene to Tea and hurried off after Donnel.
She caught up with him, just as he entered the stone arch that led toward the broch.
“Donnel!”
He ignored her, and so she reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him up short. “Donnel—wait!”
He turned, his dark eyebrows rising in surprise. Not for the first time, Eithni was struck by just how handsome he was. The plaid breeches and leather vest he wore showed off his tall muscular body. His chiseled features, beautifully molded mouth, straight nose, and long eyelashes were breathtaking. All three of the brothers—Galan, Tarl, and Donnel—were attractive but, to Eithni, Donnel was the most striking. Yet bitterness had cast a harshness over his features.
She had set eyes on Donnel mac Muin for the first time nearly two years earlier, at Tea and Galan’s wedding. He had been married then, his lovely wife Luana heavily pregnant. Even so, Eithni had been captivated by The Eagle warrior. How she had wished to find a man so handsome for herself.
But that was before she had returned home to Dun Ardtreck—before Forcus.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she gasped, out of breath from running after him. “It won’t bring her back.”
His gaze narrowed. “What?”
“You have to let your anger go. Talor needs you.”
His expression turned thunderous. “We’ve had this conversation before, Eithni. I don’t need to hear this again.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Clearly, you do. Talor has just lost his uncle—a man he sees as a father.”
Had she imagined it, or did Donnel flinch at that?
Headless she pressed on. “Mael is on her own now. She needs your help.”
A dangerous light ignited in those slate-grey eyes then. All three of the brothers had those eyes, the color of a stormy sky.
Donnel stepped forward, leaned down, and pushed his face close to hers. “I never thought you to be simple-minded,” he growled, “but today I swear you have the brains of a goose. Heed me, woman. I do not wish to see the lad. Stop meddling and leave me alone.”
He turned then and strode off, crossing toward the steps leading up to the broch.
Eithni did not follow him.
She dropped her hands from her hips, the fight going out of her. She suddenly felt shaky and close to tears. Confrontations were never easy for her at the best of times, but Donnel’s grief had given his temper a vicious edge. He had left her badly shaken.
Eithni inhaled sharply and dashed away a tear that rolled down her cheek.
Enough. Don’t let the man get to you—don’t waste tears on him.
She should not have followed him—she realized that now. She had to accept that there were some things she could not heal. It tore at her heart to think of Talor growing up without a father. One day he would learn that the man who had sired him could not bear to look upon him. Donnel did not seem to realize this, or to care.
Yet Eithni now understood she could not make him see sense.