The day after Luana’s burial it began to snow. Pristine white flakes floated down from a scree-colored sky and settled over the land, covering it in a thick white crust. Days passed and as mid-winter approached, the snow continued to fall, obscuring Luana’s cairn in a blanket of white.
Life moved indoors. The air inside the fort often felt close with the smell of peat smoke, wet wool, dogs and stale sweat.
Like she had in her first days at Dun Ringill, Tea threw herself into a flurry of industry. Not wanting to remain inside, Tea braved the cold. Wrapped up in furs, she went fishing, collected shellfish, went hunting with Galan, or helped look after the ponies and livestock within the fort.
She dreaded going indoors, for every time she stepped inside the feasting hall she was reminded of Luana’s absence. How often had she come indoors to see her friend kneading bread at one of the long tables, or adding finishing-touches to a stew bubbling over the hearth? The fort seemed a joyless place without her.
Life without her sister-by-marriage felt cold indeed. It was not that the other women were unpleasant, but that Tea felt very different to them. Deri was cheerful company but she was not Luana—no one could replace her.
One afternoon, Tea came in from feeding the fowl that lived in the yard outside, a basket of warm eggs under one arm. It was freezing outdoors; even her short time out in the swirling snow had left her hands and feet numb with cold. Teeth chattering, Tea hurried over to the glowing hearth and tried to ignore the squealing of two lads nearby who were being reprimanded by their mother.
She was just helping herself to a cup of warmed ale when Galan entered the fort.
Snowflakes dusted his dark hair and had settled upon the fur mantle about his shoulders. Spotting Tea, he raised a hand in greeting, and she did likewise. As always, the sight of him caused her belly to flutter in excitement.
Ever since the night of Luana’s burial, when he had held her in his arms while she wept, the tension between them had eased. She had appreciated the comfort he had given her, and how he had asked nothing in return. They still slept back-to-back upon their bed of furs but now would often talk together for a while after retiring for the night. They had become friends, and Tea was beginning to know the man beneath the role of chieftain—a deep-thinking man with a dry sense of humor.
Tea reached for a second wooden cup. “Warmed ale?” she asked Galan. “You look like you could do with some.”
“Aye,” he replied with a smile. “I’ve just been out helping repair the southern walls. It’s bitter out there.”
She poured a large cup of steaming ale and passed it to him. Galan took a sip and gave a sigh of pleasure.
At that moment, Donnel entered the fort. Like Galan, he wore a snow-dusted mantle, yet the sight of him gave Tea a pang of misgiving. She had always liked Donnel before—preferring him to Tarl—but Luana’s death had changed him. His handsome face had turned austere, and he wore a perpetual scowl, his muscular frame taut and his shoulders tense. He strode across to the hearth and thrust out his hands over the burning peat.
“Some warmed ale, Donnel?” Tea asked.
He screwed up his face as if she had just offered him dog piss and shook his head.
“Have you been to see Mael of late,” Galan asked his brother. “I dropped in to see her earlier. Your son thrives.”
Donnel shrugged in response, his gaze never leaving the dancing flames in the hearth. “I care not,” he said finally.
“Talor is your son,” Galan replied evenly. “Surely you wish to see him grow.”
Donnel looked up, fixing his brother in a gimlet stare. “He took Luana away from me. I don’t need a constant reminder.”
“But a part of Luana lives on through him,” Tea spoke up. It was hard to see Donnel so bitter; a painful reminder of her own behavior. “He has her eyes.”
“Still your tongue,” Donnel snarled. “I’ve no wish to hear your opinion Wolf-bitch.”
“Donnel!” Galan cut in, his voice snapping like a whip. “Show some respect when you speak to my wife.”
Donnel regarded them both, his gaze flint-hard. His mouth then curled as if he found the sight of both of them distasteful. “I didn’t come in here to share an ale or argue,” he growled. “I’m leaving—riding south to join Tarl and the others.”
Galan’s face went hard at this news. “It’s too late, they’ll be too far away by now.”
Donnel shook his head. “There’s still time. Tarl told me that they would be gathering warriors until after mid-winter, before they ride to the wall.”
Galan’s gaze met his. “Is this what Luana would have wanted?”
Donnel’s face twisted. “She’s not here to have a say in the matter.”
“Then you shouldn’t go. Don’t throw your life away—think of your son.”
Donnel shook his head. “I only care about fighting. If I die helping to defeat the oppressors, I’ll be content.”
“Talor won’t be,” Galan replied. “Do you really want to leave him without a father?”
Tea glanced between the two men; it was clear that Galan was fighting a losing battle. Donnel had no intention of changing his mind. Every objection Galan raised only made his resolve stronger.
“He won’t even remember me,” Donnel said finally. “I should have done as Tarl asked and ridden south with the others. I would have been spared watching my wife die in agony. I want the world to pay. I will spill the blood of the Caesars till the earth is stained red. I will make the gods weep for taking her from me.”
***
Donnel departed the following morning. The snow silently fell in thick flurries as Galan watched him saddle his pony, a heavy-set grey stallion that their father had gifted his youngest son five years earlier. The stallion would carry him as far as the village of Kyleakin, on the south-eastern coast of the isle. There, he would have to travel by boat across the narrow channel to the mainland, and find another mount to continue his journey.
Tea stood a few feet behind Galan, silently looking on while Donnel made his final preparations. She had deliberately stepped back to give the brothers some time alone, and Galan appreciated the gesture.
He stepped forward and passed Donnel a leather bag filled with freshly baked bread, boiled eggs, salted pork, a wedge of cheese and small, sweet apples. “Tea has packed this for you,” he said quietly. “It should sustain you for a couple of days, at least.”
Donnel turned and took the bag from him, nodding his thanks.
Now that his brother had made his decision, a little of his hostility toward the world had eased. He had found an outlet for his rage and was merely impatient to be away.
“Here.” Galan handed him a sword, sheathed in a leather scabbard inscribed with the swirling symbols of their people. “You earned one of these years ago.”
Donnel’s eyebrows raised. “I’ve a spear and an axe.”
“And now you’ve a blade as well.”
Donnel inclined his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. “But this is your sword.”
“I’ve asked the smith to make me another—this one is for you.”
Donnel took the sword and buckled it around his hips. “Thank you, Galan.”
“We’ll make offerings for you at the Mid-Winter Fire,” Galan replied, “for you and Tarl both.”
Donnel favored him with a wry smile. “You think we both need it?”
Galan’s mouth twisted. “No matter how skilled he is, a warrior needs The Reaper on his side.”
Donnel tied the bag of food behind his saddle and slung his shield over his back before turning once more to his brother. For the first time since Luana’s death Galan saw Donnel’s expression soften.
“I’ve been difficult to live with of late,” Donnel admitted quietly, “and I’m sorry for it. Grief has brought me low.”
“None of us judge you for that,” Galan replied. “I know how much you loved her.”
Donnel’s eyes shone as his gaze met Galan’s. Then, wordlessly, the two brothers hugged.
“May the Warrior ride with you into battle at the wall,” Galan said, feigning a heartiness he did not feel.
“And may the Mother bless you and Tea both,” Donnel replied, casting a speculative look in Tea’s direction. “I know it was not a match either of you would have chosen—and I still doubt it will bring lasting peace—but it could be the making of you both.”
With that, Donnel turned and took hold of the reins, guiding his stallion out of the stall into the yard beyond. The pony’s hooves sunk up to its fetlocks in snow. Galan walked out behind him and watched Donnel mount. Eager to be off, the beast tossed its head, jangling its bit.
Donnel rode out of the yard, through the stone arch and down the slippery path leading to the defensive walls. Galan and Tea followed him, their boots crunching in the snow. It was a still morning, and the snow fell silent and thick. Reaching the outer wall, Galan climbed the icy steps, taking Tea’s hand as he did so to prevent her from slipping. Standing side-by-side, they watched Donnel ride out of the fort.
Like Tarl, nearly three months earlier, Donnel twisted in the saddle and waved when he was around a furlong distant from them. He had pulled up the fur-lined hood of his cloak, partially obscuring his face.
Galan raised his hand in farewell and remained there, watching, until pony and rider disappeared over the brow of the hills to the east.
Only then did Tea speak. “Don’t blame yourself—you couldn’t have prevented him from going.”
“Aye,” Galan replied, his voice bleak. He saw the wisdom of her words but that did not ease the ache in the center of his chest. The weight of responsibility had never felt heavier; he almost felt smothered by it. He tore his gaze from the snowy horizon and looked at her. “I could lose them both.”
He watched her expression soften, her finely-boned, proud face slightly upturned as she stared up at him. They both knew there was no response she could make that could ease his fears, and so she remained silent. Even so, he saw understanding in her dark-blue eyes, and compassion.