DONNEL READIED HIS pony in the dimly lit stall, slipping the bridle over the grey’s head before swinging the saddle onto its broad back. Around him he could hear the rise and fall of warriors’ voices as they prepared their own mounts to ride out.
The day of departure for The Gathering had come.
The pony—a gift from Donnel’s father five summers earlier—shifted impatiently and stomped a heavy feathered foot, narrowly avoiding Donnel’s booted one.
“Easy, lad,” Donnel murmured. “We'll be on our way soon enough.” He reached out and ran his palm along the stallion's neck. During the winter the pony grew a shaggy coat, but this time of year he was sleek. Donnel had named the pony Reothadh—Frost—and had broken him in himself. He remembered Reothadh as a colt; he had been a dappled grey then although now the years had faded his coat to match his name.
The pony whickered in response, and Donnel smiled. Since Luana’s death Reothadh had been the only company he could tolerate. The pony asked nothing of him. It did not judge or demand he mend his mood. The stallion accepted him, no matter how dark his humor.
“Donnel.”
Galan’s voice hailed him. Donnel tensed and cast a glance over his shoulder at where his brother had entered the stall, his tall broad form blocking out the sunlight behind him.
“I thought I told you to stay behind.”
Donnel heaved in a deep breath. He had been waiting for this moment. He turned, and their gazes met across the stall.
“Will you not heed me?” Galan asked.
Donnel’s first instinct was to argue, but he had already tried that. Galan was as stubborn as he himself was; if Donnel wanted to join the others on this trip, he would need to take a different approach. Although it galled him to do so, he would attempt to be humble.
Donnel dropped his gaze. “I wish to travel with you, brother,” he replied, softening his voice. “The last months have been hard. Everywhere I look there are memories of her. Time spent away from here would do me good.”
It was a ruse. Donnel knew Galan had a soft heart. He would think he was doing Donnel a favor by letting him attend The Gathering. As Donnel had hoped, his brother’s hawkish features gentled. “You're not planning to cause trouble at The Gathering then?”
Donnel’s mouth curved. “You’re taking Tarl with you. He’s more likely to cause a scrap than me.”
Galan snorted. “Not since he wedded. That Roman lass has tamed our brother it seems.”
Donnel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Tamed indeed. Tarl was still a bit of a rogue, but these days he was content with his life.
Galan watched him for a moment longer. “I need you to give me your word,” he said quietly. “I need you to promise that you will shed no blood at The Gathering. It’s too important for our people.”
Donnel swallowed the irritation rising within him. He wanted to bite his brother’s head off for that, but it would only result in Galan forcing him to remain at the fort. Donnel had to go north—he had to face those Boar bastards. However, he could not let Galan see what festered in his heart.
“Aye,” he replied, forcing himself to hold Galan’s eye. It was hard to lie to him. His brother was a good man, a fair man. “I give you my word.”
Craven. Anger rose up within Donnel, biting at his throat. After their skirmish with The Boar a year earlier, Donnel had wanted vengeance, but Galan would not hear of it. Galan saw his decision as right, for he would keep the peace at any cost, yet to Donnel it was cowardice.
We’ve become strangers to each other.
Galan watched him a moment longer, considering his words. Then he gave a swift nod. “Finish saddling your pony. We ride out shortly.”
Alone in the stall once more, Donnel tightened Reothadh’s girth and slapped the pony on the rump. “Ready, lad? Off on another journey together.”
The grey snorted, making it clear he was done waiting. Donnel led him from the stall and out into the bright sunlight. Mid-Summer Fire was close now. They would reach The Gathering Place to the north just in time to celebrate it with the other tribes. It was a glorious morning, and the atmosphere of excitement within the fort was infectious. A chatter of animated voices surrounded Donnel, yet he was immune to their mirth.
Around him the people of Dun Ringill readied themselves for departure. Children clambered excitedly up onto the backs of wagons, fighting for the most comfortable spot, while their parents finished loading up rolls of hide and packs of supplies. Shaggy ponies were everywhere. Their long tails were swishing and their feathered hooves stamping as warriors mounted up.
Donnel swung up onto his stallion’s back, paying none of the bustling crowd around him any mind. He followed a line of warriors on horseback out of the yard and through the stone arch into the village beyond. There, more folk joined the throng.
Besides the group of warriors Galan would leave behind to protect the fort in his absence, a few others would stay on in Dun Ringill. Mael was among those; after losing her husband she was in no mood for celebration.
As he approached the southern perimeter, Donnel’s gaze shifted to the two huts to the right of the gate. He spied Ruith emerge from her hovel. The bandruí was dressed for travel in a long plaid tunic, belted at the waist. She wore a pack on her back and carried a wooden walking staff. At sixty winters the woman was still a force to be reckoned with, yet she lacked the stamina of the younger members of the party.
Eithni waited for the seer at the end of the path. Dressed in a long sleeveless tunic, a woolen wrap around her slender shoulders, the healer wore a pensive expression this morning. Her fine walnut-brown hair had grown long of late, and she wore it braided down her back. The young woman was gazing out over the procession of riders, her heart-shaped face composed, her hazel eyes shuttered.
Eithni annoyed Donnel, and yet he found his gaze drawn toward her. You would not think such a slight fey-looking girl could be so irritating—but she was like a dog with a bone, constantly nagging him about his responsibilities as a father.
Donnel had taken vicious pleasure in defying her. And it was odd, for he noted that each fiery encounter between them cost her. Yet she persisted. He had heard rumors that she had been ill-treated at Dun Ardtreck before coming here. He believed it too, for he had seen fear in her eyes two days earlier when he had pushed his face close to hers and told her to leave him be.
There was another reason he resented Eithni though, not just for her interfering ways.
She had saved his life.
He had awoken after that deathly fever on his return home from the campaign to the south, only to find himself in the alcove where his wife had perished three moons earlier. Then he had met Eithni’s gaze and resentment had consumed him. He had wanted to die—why would she not let him?
Donnel tore his gaze from the healer, who now hurried alongside Ruith to join the column, and urged Reothadh forward. He rode up alongside Lutrin, who journeyed upon a heavyset chestnut mare.
“Fine morning, Donnel,” Lutrin greeted him. Donnel merely grunted a response.
He and Lutrin were the same age, born just two days apart during the same harsh winter. The warrior was loyal to Galan, but it was Donnel with whom Lutrin had grown up and sparred with. The two of them had once been as close as brothers, but these days they had little to say to each other. Lutrin was unwed and seemed happy to remain so. He did not understand what Donnel had suffered.
“So, Galan let you come after all,” Lutrin observed with a wry grin. “He says you won’t cause any trouble.”
Donnel scowled. “I gave my word.”
Lutrin gave him a speculative look. It reminded Donnel that the warrior had a sharp mind; he was not easy to fool. “And what weight does your word carry these days?” he asked.
Donnel snorted, looking away. “We shall soon see,” he replied.
Eithni was one of the last to leave Dun Ringill. She walked up the slope, leaving the stone perimeter behind, and paused. Twisting, she looked back over her shoulder at where the fort spread out behind her.
Dun Ringill was glorious this morning. Perched on the edge of the glittering waters of Loch Slapin, the fort sat upon the western shores of The Winged Isle, looking over a vast lake that led out to sea. To the north she could see the dark craggy outline of the Black Cuillins. The silhouette of those mountains would always remind her of Tea and Galan’s wedding, for they had been handfasted in the shadow of those mighty peaks. To the south a long headland thrust out into the water, and beyond it rose layers of mountains that faded to grey blue against the clear sky.
Eithni sighed. She loved this land. The broch of Dun Ringill stood proud and solid against the sky, the conical roofs of the roundhouses spreading out around it gilded in the sun.
“You gaze as if this will be the last time you look upon the fort.” A woman’s voice, edged with amusement, reached her, drawing Eithni out of her reverie. She turned to see Ruith watching her. The seer had a penetrating stare, like she was trying to see into your very soul.
Eithni smiled in an attempt to mask her discomfort. “It’s just that I miss my home already. I hope it doesn’t get overrun with mice while we’re away.”
Ruith made a clucking sound. “Not this time of year, there’s too much food for them elsewhere.” She gave Eithni an assessing look. “Worry not, lass. Your hut will still be standing when we return. Sometimes it's good to have a break from our surroundings. You’ll appreciate it all the more on our return.”
The seer linked her arm through Eithni’s, and the two women continued up the slope. They were roughly the same height although Ruith’s body was hard and sinewy, while Eithni’s was slender and soft.
Ruith cast Eithni a grin then. “The Gathering is always great fun. I attended my last one ten summers ago. There was a warrior of The Stag there who gave me many nights of pleasure. I wonder if he’s still alive … or if he’d find me too old and withered these days. I wouldn't mind some more nights in the furs with him.”
Eithni’s cheeks warmed at this. Ruith could be so frank about her relations with men. Too frank for Eithni’s liking. She had never spoken of her past to the seer, but she sensed that Ruith knew. In a fort this size few of them had any secrets.
Perhaps the silence alerted Ruith to her discomfort, for the bandruí gave her arm a gentle squeeze, her grin transforming into a warm smile. “Come, lass. Wipe that worried look off your face. It’s not good to remain in isolation—it breeds bad blood between the tribes. The Gathering is a time of joy, a time for us to mingle with the other folk of this isle. You will see.”