They buried Luana—daughter of Cern, wife of Donnel—in a cairn of stone upon a hillock east of the fort. The day was cold, the air damp with the promise of coming snow. A biting north-westerly wind buffeted the mourners as they carried the body up the hillside to its final resting place.
Tea walked behind Galan and his brother, each step leaden. She wore a heavy fur cloak, yet it could not warm the chill within her. In her twenty winters she had seen far too much death.
The loss of Luana seemed so cruel, and the injustice of it left a bitter taste in her mouth. In her arms, she carried a small creature with a fluff of downy black hair, wrapped in fur to ward off the chill. Next to Tea walked Mael, Luana’s elder sister. She too carried a babe, although her daughter was nearly three moons older than Talor. She still had plenty of milk, so she would raise her nephew.
Grief mottled and lined Mael’s pretty face, making her look much older. Her slender shoulders shook as she silently wept. Tea deeply felt her grief, reflecting on how she would react to losing Eithni in the same way; it did not even bear thinking about. Her own eyes burned with tears, and it was with great effort that she kept her grief at bay.
The light was fading, the pale sun disappearing to the west. Night would soon settle on Dun Ringill and the deep loch behind it. Tea, Mael and Deri had spent the day preparing Luana for her burial, cleaning her body and dressing her in a beautiful woolen robe edged in sable fur. Mael had sobbed as she had brushed out her sister’s thick dark hair.
Now the time had come to bid Luana goodbye, to send her forth to meet her ancestors.
The procession of mourners reached the stacked-stone cairn and waited as the men—Galan and Donnel among them—slid Luana’s bier into the tomb. By rights, it should have been Mael to sing her sister’s final lament, yet she was now bent double with sobs, so that her husband was forced to take her daughter from her lest she accidently hurt her.
Tea inhaled deeply. She would sing it; she owed Luana that much.
Her voice, low and strident, but with a slight quaver, rang out across the hillside. It lifted and fell in grief as Tea sang of beauty, kindness and a gentle spirit taken too soon. The lament had an intensity, a passion that stilled all that heard it.
Even Donnel, who flanked the entrance to Luana’s cairn, lost his expression of contained fury as she sang. Instead, he bowed his head at its haunting vehemence. Tea sang on, watching as tears streamed down Donnel’s proud face. She was singing this for him, for her father … for all men who had lost a woman they loved.
When the final strains of the lament died away, Tea felt wrung out. Blinking back the tears that blurred her vision, she swayed slightly on her feet. She did not resist when Galan put an arm around her shoulders to steady her.
The light dimmed further and the mourners turned back toward the fort. They walked slowly, cloaked somber figures in the gloaming. A light supper of broth and bread awaited them inside, but Tea did not join them.
Instead, she took a lantern—an oil filled clay vessel that guttered in the wind—and carried it down to the water’s edge. Seated on a flat stone, with the bulk of the fort looming above her, Tea looked out across the loch. The dark waters gleamed from the reflected fires of Dun Ringill above.
Tea drew her cloak close and stared sightlessly into the distance.
Luana was dead. Never again would she tease Tea about Galan, or sit spinning by the hearth gossiping with Deri. Nor would she see her son grow to a man, or watch her husband age. The Reaper had taken her too young, for no purpose at all but to cause suffering.
Tea picked up a smooth stone and hurled it into the gleaming water, hearing the hollow sound of it falling in deep water. Then she picked up another and threw that, and another; hurling stones until her arm ached.
Breathing heavily she slumped on her stone seat. The injustice of it choked her. The Reaper always choose the kindest, the best, and left the others behind. Luana had deserved a long and happy life.
The gods are so cruel, she thought bitterly.
“Tea.”
A man’s voice behind her made Tea turn. Even in the darkness, she recognized Galan’s height and breadth.
“May I join you?”
Her first instinct was to rail at him, to send him away from her as she had during her first days at Dun Ringill. Although fury filled her about Luana’s loss she felt no anger toward her husband.
None of this was his fault.
Wordlessly, she nodded.
Galan stepped forward and sat down on a boulder next to her. They sat so close that their thighs were almost touching. Tea could feel the heat of his body next to hers. His nearness calmed her a little and gave her a sense of comfort. Galan had such a peace, a strength about him.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Tea eventually whispered. “It doesn’t seem real.”
“No one can believe it,” Galan replied. “Least of all, Donnel.”
It was true, Galan’s brother was far from accepting of his wife’s death. The only moment when he had shown the grief that tore him up inside was during Tea’s lament. The rest of the time he raged. His fury at losing Luana burned like a wintry fire. When the midwife had confirmed Luana dead, he had stormed from the alcove and proceeded to tear the hall beyond to pieces with his bare hands. Dogs, children, men and women alike fled as he smashed stools, snapped distaffs, crushed pottery underfoot and upended tables. Finally, it had taken Galan and three others to bring him down, pinning him to the rushes as he bellowed and cursed.
Once dawn broke, his rage had burned inward. He had sat, unmoving, by the hearth, staring into the flames as the folk of Dun Ringill set about repairing the damage he had wrought.
“Do you worry about him?” Tea asked Galan finally. She remembered her father’s grief over her mother. Donnel’s reaction reminded her of him.
“There is little point in that,” Galan replied wearily. “He will grow to accept his loss … in time.”
Tea’s mouth compressed. “My father never did.”
Silence stretched between them then. The muted sounds of the fort—the rise and fall of voices and the wail of an infant—reached them. Sadness filled Tea at the sound. “It’s not right that Talor will grow up without a mother.”
“Mael will look after him.”
“It’s not the same. Luana would have been a wonderful mother.”
Galan sighed. “You must stop this, Tea.”
She stiffened, turning to him in the darkness. “Stop what?”
“Tormenting yourself, railing against fate. Sometimes I look at you and I see a woman who would bend the world to her will, if she could.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“It’s impossible. You’ll only kill yourself trying.”
Her throat constricted. “I can’t be like you,” she choked out the words. “You’re so accepting of everything. Don’t you ever get angry? Don’t you ever rage at the injustice of it all?”
She felt his intense gaze on her face. His own features were partly thrown into shadow by the flickering lantern, yet she sensed she had struck a nerve.
“We don’t all have the luxury of giving our impulses free rein,” he replied, the tightness of his voice the only hint that she had offended him.
“So I’m supposed to tell myself that Luana’s death was right, to just accept it?” She heard the scorn in her voice but was not sorry for it. His fair-mindedness made her want to lash out.
“No,” he replied, his voice strained now. “Grief and loss must be felt, just don’t let them poison your heart.”
“It’s too late for that,” she snapped. “There’s nothing left of it to poison.”
“Don’t say that,” he replied, his voice suddenly hard. He leaned forward, his hand fastening around her forearm. “You’re too young, too strong to give up.”
His touch, the heat of his skin against hers, caused Tea’s anger to ebb. In its place sorrow bubbled up. “There’s been so much death,” she gasped, “so much pain. I just want it to stop.”
A sob rose within her, and then suddenly tears spilled over like a bursting dam. She doubled over, her shoulders shaking with the force of her grief. She had been holding it back all day, trying to remain strong while others wailed and sobbed, but she could not do it any longer.
Wordlessly, Galan gathered her up in his arms and pulled her against him. The gesture swept away the last vestiges of restraint within Tea. She sank against him, buried her head against his chest, and wept as if her heart would break.