EITHNI MASHED THE herbs to a thick green paste with her pestle and mortar. The potion was for Lucrezia: nettle and milk-thistle were known to help a woman’s womb quicken.
Alone in her tiny tent, seated upon a fur where she would sleep later, Eithni continued to work the herbs together while listening to the sounds of the other Eagles finishing setting up camp. She was fortunate as most unwed women merely shared a tent with kin. Yet she, as Tea’s sister, had a privileged position in the tribe and so received her own tent.
Around her Eithni could hear the chatter of women's voices punctuated by the excited cries of children, and the rumble of men's voices. The aromas of cooking were stronger now, wafting in through the crack in the leather flap covering the opening to her tent. The strains of music and laughter also reached her.
The sounds of celebration.
Eithni smiled as she worked. Seeing her kin again had buoyed her mood. She had missed Wid more than she had realized.
It was getting late in the day. Outside the tent the sun was setting and the camp was preparing for the first of five long days of feasting, drinking, and games. Eithni would join them shortly; she just had to finish this potion for Lucrezia.
She stopped mashing the herbs and poured some water into the mortar. She then mixed the contents well before pouring them into a clay bottle, which she stoppered. Humming to herself Eithni put away her pestle and mortar. She placed it next to the basket that she took everywhere with her—it was her healer’s basket and contained a collection of herbs, powders, and ointments.
Her work complete, Eithni rose to her feet, slipped out of the tent, and walked toward the center of The Gathering Place. The trampled grass was prickly underfoot, and the ground was still warm from a sunny day.
The stone pinnacles, bathed in gold from the last rays of sun to the west, cast long shadows over the land. The ground beneath the rocky escarpment sloped gently for a spell, and this was where the tribes had pitched their tents. Farther on though, the ground fell away, the track winding its way down to the hills below.
Eithni continued to hum to herself, enjoying the sound of the bone whistle that now accompanied the lute. She had left her harp in the tent this evening for, although she would undoubtedly play during The Gathering, she wished to remain an observer tonight. She just wanted to relax and enjoy listening to the other musicians.
Four enormous fire pits had been dug into the clearing at the center of The Gathering Place, and a number of venison carcasses were now spit-roasting over glowing embers. Eithni’s belly growled; she was ravenous after a day’s hard journeying.
Spying Tea and Galan taking a seat at one of the fire pits, she crossed to them and sat down between her sister and Lucrezia. Wordlessly she passed Lucrezia the small clay bottle. “Mix it with water every morning,” she murmured.
Her friend nodded, her dark gaze gleaming, before she tucked the bottle away. “Thank you, Eithni.”
Next to Lucrezia, Tarl was oblivious to the woman’s hushed words. He was deep in rowdy conversation with Lutrin. Between them it looked as if they had already finished a jug of ale and had started their second.
Eithni settled in front of the fire, tucking her legs under her. Her gaze traveled over the circular space where men, women, and children jostled for a seat. Their voices mingled with the crackle of roasting haunches of venison. It was a warm evening too, which had put everyone in high spirits.
A wide smile stretched Eithni’s face as she soaked in the joy that thrummed around her. Life had become so serious of late, but here she could shed it all like a heavy winter mantle.
Eithni reached forward and poured herself a cup of ale. Taking a sip, she resumed her observation of her surroundings. Unlike inside the broch of Dun Ringill, where they all had designated seats at the chieftain’s table, she could sit where she liked tonight. As such it was a relief to see that Donnel was not next to her, but instead seated next to Galan a few feet away. The brothers were talking quietly, their voices muffled by the roar of the conversation surrounding them.
Next to Eithni, Tea cast her sister a smile. “Isn’t it good to be here?”
Muin sat gurgling in his mother’s arms. His fingers reached up and tangled in Tea’s long unbound hair. Tea winced and unsnarled her dark tresses from his chubby hands.
Eithni nodded. “Aye—I’d forgotten what fun The Gathering is.”
Tea was about to respond when excited shouts broke out across the clearing. Eithni glanced up to see a group of dark figures stride into the camp, approaching through a gap in the tents.
“The Boar have arrived!” A man shouted.
Roars of welcome went up as a huge warrior swaggered into their midst. Broad, both in shoulder and girth, Urcal mac Wrad was a sight to behold. The chieftain of The Boar had wild, dark hair, threaded with grey, and a beard to match. His dark blue eyes swept the crowd with cunning. He was barechested, with swirls and circles painted in blue woad over his hairy chest. Urcal of The Boar was built like the beast after which his tribe was named.
Eithni tensed. After the events of last summer, relations between The Boar and The Eagle had been strained. She hoped this Gathering would smooth things. Without meaning to she glanced over at Donnel. The warrior had gone still, his chiseled features hewn of stone, his gaze narrowed. Next to Donnel, Galan’s expression was inscrutable. It was impossible to know what the arrival of The Boar meant to him, even if Donnel’s hostility was clear. Misgiving feathered down Eithni’s back. She hoped Galan would keep an eye on Donnel while they were here.
She shifted her attention back to where The Boar tribe filed into the clearing. Urcal walked beside a barrel-chested bald man with a scowling face, no doubt a relative or warrior of high-standing, while a small dark haired woman followed the two men. This would be Urcal’s wife, Modwen. The chieftain’s wife was a faded beauty, her features tired, her expression resigned. She carried a boy of around three winters on her hip. A plump girl of around thirteen walked a step behind Modwen. Both children had their father’s wild dark hair.
However, when Eithni’s gaze shifted behind them, her breathing hitched.
Her gaze alighted upon a man of around her own age, a warrior who strutted into the clearing as if it belonged to him. Unkempt dark hair and dark blue eyes marked him as Urcal’s kin. The man could have been named handsome, if it wasn’t for the unpleasant smirk he wore.
Loxa mac Wrad.
Eithni remembered him from last summer. Urcal’s youngest brother had traveled to Dun Ringill to deliver Wurgest’s challenge to Tarl. She would never forget the way he had stridden into the broch with the same arrogance he now walked into this camp with, or the challenge in his eyes as he had faced Galan and his brothers.
Loxa’s gaze swept the crowd before settling upon Galan, and a wild smile split his face. Then he spotted Tarl, who had stopped laughing with Lutrin and was watching The Boar under hooded lids.
Lastly Loxa’s gaze alighted upon Eithni. And there it stayed.
His grin faded. He stared at her, stripping her naked with his eyes. He watched Eithni as if they were alone in this clearing and he was about to take her. The feral hunger she saw there made Eithni’s heart begin to hammer against her ribs.
She knew that look; she had seen the same crazed expression in Forcus’s eyes before he had defiled her for the first time. Eithni felt herself wilt beneath the raw heat of his gaze—and yet just like a year earlier she did not look away.
She was not brave like Tea. She could not kill a man with a knife under the ribs or sword blade to the neck. Yet she had a stubbornness that was a type of courage, and it was that strength that made her hold his gaze. He was trying to dominate her, and she would not let him.
“Urcal!” A big man rose to his feet. Around his shoulders he wore the skin of a stag, the head and antlers perched upon his head. He had a handsome face although his looks were marred by a heavy scar that ran down his right cheek. Fortrenn, chieftain of The Stag, was an imposing sight as he stepped forward to welcome The Boar chieftain. “You’re late!”
“Fortrenn!” Urcal boomed back. “You know I like to make an entrance.”
The two men strode across the clearing and crushed each other in a bear-hug. A roar of cheers and shouts went up around them, and the newcomers took their seats at the fireside.
Loxa, who had kept staring at Eithni while his brother greeted The Stag chief, looked away for a moment while he took his place at Urcal’s right hand. Eithni seized the chance and dropped her own gaze to her lap. Heart pounding, she stared down at her cup of ale. She would not look his way for the rest of the night. The man who had frightened her a year earlier terrified her now.
She could not believe she had forgotten about him and had not realized he would come to The Gathering. She had never met his elder brother Wurgest, but the man sounded like he had been a crazed murderous brute. He had tried to rape Lucrezia and nearly killed Tarl. She hoped Wurgest’s younger brother was not as dangerous.
“Galan!” Urcal raised a cup of ale toward The Eagle chieftain. “Good evening to you and your people.”
Galan inclined his head and raised his own cup, smiling. “Welcome, Urcal.”
Urcal favored him with a wolfish grin. “Making a name for yourself as a peace weaver, I hear?”
The Boar did not phrase that as a compliment. There was no mistaking the gleam of challenge in his dark-blue eyes.
Galan did not reply but merely inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“I remember you when you were still at your mother’s tit,” Urcal rumbled. “Your father was so proud. ‘My firstborn son. He will make our people strong,’ he said. What would he think of you now?”
“I hope I prove him right,” Galan replied. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the space between the two men. “Making friends with our neighbors makes all of us strong. If we’re not out killing each other, our tribes can grow and prosper.”
“Well said,” Wid called out from across the fire.
Urcal ignored The Wolf chieftain, his gaze remaining upon Galan. The two men watched each other for a moment longer before Urcal’s mouth curved into a sneer. “And what about us, Galan mac Muin? Are we friends?”