“ARE YOU SURE you don’t want to ride up with us?” Tea adjusted her son in the sling across her front and glanced over at where Eithni was shouldering her pack. “I’m sure one of the warriors would let you travel with them.”
Eithni smiled back. “I prefer to walk.”
Tea snorted. “I can’t understand why?”
“I like the feel of the earth beneath my feet.”
Her sister gave Eithni an exasperated look. “I swear, I’ll never understand you.”
Eithni’s smile faded.
Tea sighed, stepping close to her sister. Eithni saw concern in her midnight blue eyes and tensed. She had a feeling she knew what was coming next. “I worry about you sometimes, Eithni.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Don’t I?” A look of sadness flitted across her sister’s proud face. “You’ve grown distant of late. Sometimes I look at you, and it’s as if you’re not even there … like you’ve traveled far inside yourself.”
Eithni held her gaze. She wasn’t going to deny it. “There’s nothing wrong,” she murmured. “It’s just how I deal with life. It makes things easier to distance myself … sometimes.”
“You’d tell me if something was worrying you?”
Eithni reached out and stroked the fine mat of dark hair upon Muin’s head. “Of course I would.”
She turned away from her sister then and joined the throng of folk heading north. She felt Tea’s gaze upon her as she walked away but did not look back. Tea knew her better than anyone, but even she did not know all that had befallen Eithni during her time alone at Dun Ardtreck with Forcus. Tea had asked, and Eithni had evaded the question, telling her that she would confide in her sister when she felt ready. Many moons had passed since that conversation, and Tea had never asked again—likewise Eithni had never brought the subject up.
She never intended to again.
Eithni followed the others up a gentle slope, away from the shadow of Beinn na Caillich, continuing their path north. Unlike the bright sunshine of the day before, the sky was overcast today and the breeze chill. Eithni had wrapped a woolen shawl about her shoulders although she knew she would warm up soon enough.
Hearing the thunder of hoof beats behind her, she glanced right and saw warriors on horseback approach, Galan and Tea out front. The group cantered up the hill, the long manes and tails of their ponies flying out like banners behind them as they rode toward the front of the column.
Among them Eithni spied Donnel.
The warrior stared straight ahead, his handsome face impassive, and rode past without acknowledging her. Eithni did not expect him to, and yet when she had caught him staring the night before she was sure she had seen naked longing in his eyes.
It had reminded her of Forcus although his eyes had been filled with a kind of crazed lust.
Eithni shuddered at the memory. Longing, lust—they were both just facets of the same thing. She wanted nothing to do with it.
And yet the look on Donnel’s face had entranced her. The power of his stare had held her captive for an instant. For a heartbeat their surroundings had faded and there had only been the two of them watching each other across the dying embers of the fire.
Enough.
Eithni shook her head, banishing the memory. It was foolish to relive the moment. Donnel was a devastatingly attractive man; only a woman made of stone would not respond to him. Still, the warrior had made his dislike for her clear, had been rude to her on many occasions now. And yet she had caught him watching her as if she were the loveliest thing he had ever seen.
She did not understand it.
It took them two more days to reach The Gathering Place.
It was a journey over wild land, through wide valleys under the shadow of great mountains. Huge sweeping peaks, tawny brown and gold, reared overhead, dwarfing the travelers. The peaks’ sheer majesty made Eithni feel very small in comparison—the band of travelers trekking through the vale was as tiny as a column of marching ants compared to these sleeping giants.
On the last afternoon before arriving at their destination, they drew near to a deep blue loch that stretched east. The terrain was barren and open here, the grass seared brown and studded with heather. To the north the land rose steeply, and at its crown a table of dark rock and the jagged outline of rocky pinnacles reared overhead. One in particular stood out, looming against the pale sky like an upraised thumb.
Eithni, who had never traveled to this part of the isle before, craned her neck up at the escarpment above her, before she glanced over at Ruith. “Is that where we’re going?
“Aye, that’s Bodach an Stòrr,” Ruith replied with a smile. “The Old Man of Storr.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be a giant’s thumb buried in the earth?” Eithni asked, her gaze returning to the distinctly shaped column of rock perched high above them.
Ruith’s smile widened to a grin. “There are plenty of stories about this place. But most believe the name comes from the tale of two giants—a man and his wife—who, while fleeing from enemies, made the mistake of looking over their shoulders as they ran. They were turned to stone.”
The two women joined the others as they climbed the hill. It was hard going as the way grew steadily steeper. Eventually the warriors who led the column were forced to dismount from their ponies and lead them the rest of the way.
Out of breath, Eithni crested the top of the hill, her face glowing with exertion, and turned back to admire the view. A vista of velvety green hills, an arm of headland, and glittering water greeted her. The day was drawing to a close and streaks of gold and purple decorated the sky.
A smile curved her lips. What a magnificent spot for The Gathering.
She had only ever been to one Gathering of the Tribes before, and that had been many summers earlier. She had been around six, Tea eight. They had traveled to the south coast, to the territory of The Boar. She remembered stuffing herself with rich cakes and playing knucklebones with the other children.
Turning, Eithni followed the others to the top of the hill, and there at last she saw The Gathering Place. Just below those soaring pinnacles of dark rock stretched a vast encampment of tents. Smoke rose into the sky from the cook fires, and she inhaled the aroma of roasting venison. A moment later the tinkle of laughter reached her.
There were many tents pitched here already, even though Mid-Summer Fire was not until the following night. Eithni’s skin prickled with excitement as her gaze swept over the sea of weathered hide. It had been a long while since she had seen so many people gathered in one place; she wondered which of the tribes had arrived before them.
Had the people of The Wolf arrived? Eithni quickened her pace, her smile widening. She had missed her tribe more than she had realized.
She spied a heavyset warrior with flowing, dark hair then, striding down the hill to greet them.
It was her cousin Wid—chieftain of The Wolf.
Tea, who was traveling up ahead, rushed forward to embrace him. They were laughing together, Wid admiring wee Muin, when Eithni rushed up.
“Wid!” She was gasping for breath now. That last sprint had finished her off.
“Bonny Eithni.” Wid clasped her in a bear hug and swung her round. “Have you not yet found yourself a husband?”
Eithni laughed off the comment. “Have you not yet found yourself a wife to sing for you in the evenings?”
Wid’s expression turned glum, and he shook his head. “There are few women my age in the fort, and raids and feuding have stripped our villages bare of all but bairns and crones.”
Eithni grinned. “Just as well you’ve come to The Gathering then. There will be plenty of young women here eager to meet you.” She stepped back, assessing him. “Your shoulders have grown as broad as an ox. What have you been eating?”
Other members of The Wolf tribe gathered around them then, and Eithni found her vision blurring with tears as she hugged them all. She loved her life at Dun Ringill. It had been a fresh start, and the fort had been in desperate need of a healer; but back among her own folk, who bore the mark of The Wolf proudly upon their right biceps, she felt a sense of belonging.
Still, she saw the curiosity on many of their faces as they greeted her. They all knew what had happened to her in the months after Tea’s handfasting to Galan. They would all be wondering how she was bearing up.
That was one thing she had not missed. At Dun Ringill, most folk let her be—let the past remain in the past.
Wid slung a heavy arm over Eithni’s shoulder, and they walked up the slope together. “The broch’s felt empty ever since you left,” he said. “No one else plays the harp as well as you.”