Harvest Fire arrived upon the isle with shorter days and a chill to the air. The folk of Dun Ardtreck celebrated the changing of the seasons with a great slaughter of animals—sheep, goats and pigs—for the coming winter. After the blood-letting ceremony at dusk, Tea and her sister helped the other women carry pails of blood and entrails back up to the fort, while the men carried the carcasses. Days of work lay ahead when the women would make blood pudding and sausages. Once the meat had hung, they would need to salt much of it to ensure they had food for the bitter months.
As dusk fell, the folk of Dun Ardtreck lit great fires on the slopes beneath the fort. Harvest Fire was just one of the many days the folk of The Winged Isle celebrated. At Harvest Fire, night and day were of equal length—and this balance meant the night was a powerful, magical time. Druids and healers would be out tonight, making divinations about the months to come or asking favors of the gods.
The revelers drank newly pressed cider before the fire and danced around the flames, the boom of drums thudding through the gloaming. Afterward, they wandered indoors to enjoy a great feast.
Inside the great circular feasting hall that was lined with alcoves, folk sat at long wooden tables, perched upon low benches. They feasted upon roast goat, braised beans, salted pork, and fresh bread. Mead and ale flowed, while a harpist played near the crackling fire pit in the center of the hall.
Loc had taken his father’s place at the head of the chieftain’s table. His young cousin, Wid, and most trusted warrior, Forcus, now sat at his right hand. It still felt odd to sit here without Domech’s booming voice. Loc’s was a quieter, brooding presence.
The roar of voices was deafening inside the stone space, but Tea felt apart from it all. She sat near the head of the chieftain’s table. Next to her, Eithni took listless bites of meat, her heart-shaped face pale and strained. A month had passed since their father’s death, yet Eithni was not bearing up well. Three years younger than Tea, Eithni was small and delicate with fine light brown hair the color of walnut—the same looks and coloring as their mother. Like her mother, Eithni was a sweet, gentle soul. Tea shared her sister’s melancholy this eve, for she too still felt her father’s loss keenly. She could not bring herself to smile and share in the revelry of Harvest Fire.
Tea sipped at a cup of mead, ignoring the chatter of conversation around her, and glanced up at the carved wooden beams that ran overhead. They depicted the gods, and the special times of year folk honored them. As always, the carved figures drew her in.
There was The Mother, presiding over Mid-winter; and The Warrior taking part in the Mid-Summer Fire. Nearby, a carving showed The Maiden dancing at Earth Fire and Bealtunn. Directly overhead, Tea spied The Hag watching over tonight’s celebration—Harvest Fire. The only god not honored above was The Reaper, the god that ruled Gateway—the festival that marked the beginning of the dark, bitter months. It boded ill for any who tried to depict his likeness.
Tea’s gaze lingered on the stooped figure of The Hag, an aged crone bent over a cauldron—a symbol of both life and death that reminded Tea of her father. She hoped he was being treated well in the afterlife.
“Tea.”
She dropped her gaze from the ceiling and glanced at her brother, realizing that he had been trying to catch her attention. She met his eye and gave an apologetic smile. “Aye, Loc.”
“Did you hear what I was saying?”
Tea blinked. “No, I was far away—sorry.”
Her brother’s face was tense, his blue gaze clouded. “No matter—it bears repeating anyway.”
Next to him, Forcus was scowling. “Spare us,” he muttered. “I’ve already heard enough.”
Ignoring the warrior, Loc focused on his sister. They were only eighteen months apart and had always been close. Yet ever since his father’s death there was something different about him. It was something she could not put her finger on; a tension, a resolve.
“I was saying that this feuding must come to an end,” Loc said quietly, spearing a piece of meat with his knife.
“Aye,” Tea replied with a sharp nod. “With the destruction of our enemies.”
Forcus gave a grunt of approval. “At least one of you sees sense.”
Tea frowned, her gaze flicking between him and Loc. “Excuse me?”
Around them, the feasting hall had quietened. Although Loc’s voice was not as loud as his father’s had been, the tone of it commanded respect. However, some of the warriors were exchanging wary glances in a way that immediately put Tea on guard.
Her brother sighed. “I’m not talking about war, Tea. This blood feud is a beast devouring its own tale. If we continue to feed the beast, it will never die.” He gave her a long, hard look. “I’m talking about peace.”
Tea stared at him a moment before giving a disdainful laugh. “Over my dead body.”
Loc shook his head, making it clear it was he who led here, not his spirited sister. “No, for what must be done this tribe needs you to live.”
Tea stiffened, while beside her Eithni had stopped pretending to eat and now watched her brother and sister keenly. Opposite Tea, Forcus had gone still. The cold, hard look on his face made it clear that Loc had not shared these thoughts with him. Not heeding the deathly silence at the table, her brother continued.
“I will not make the same mistakes as my father,” he said, his voice low and flat. “I will not leave wives without husbands and families without fathers.” Loc’s gaze fused with Tea’s. “You will wed the chieftain of The Eagle and bring peace to The Winged Isle.”
For a few moments, Tea did nothing. She merely sat there, reeling at her brother’s proclamation.
“What?” she finally rasped, her fingers curling around the bone-handled knife she had been using to eat her meal.
“I sent word to Dun Ringill, and have just heard back,” Loc continued, seemingly unaware of the hostility that crackled in the air around him. “Their new chief, Galan mac Muin, is of the same mind as me—he wants peace and is willing to wed you, if that means no more blood will be shed between our tribes.”
Tea’s lip curled. “The son of a butcher? I’ll not wed him.”
“Yes, you will.”
Tea struggled to her feet, shaking from the force of her rage. “Betrayer!” she shouted. Around them the entire feasting hall had gone silent. The revelers stopped eating and drinking and turned to watch brother and sister lock horns. “Father would kill you for your weakness, your cowardice!”
Loc rose to his feet, his face thunderous. “Bravery isn’t always measured by how many men you slay,” he growled. “Sometimes it takes courage to choose peace.”
Tea resisted the urge to spit at him, to rake his face with her nails and kick him in the cods. “I’ll not wed that murderer’s spawn. Father would never have allowed this.”
Loc’s gaze went hard. “Father is dead.” His voice was cold and flat. “I’m chief now—and my word here is law.”
Tea left the feasting hall then—it was either that or attack her brother. She was not so incensed that she forgot her place. Like her, Loc was proud and stubborn. He would never back down, especially in front of his warriors. She would shame him at her peril.
She stormed out of the warm, smoky interior, crushing rushes underfoot as she went. Outside, a cold wind whistled around the broch’s solid base, causing the peat braziers to gutter and spit. On the hill below, the Harvest Fire bonfires were burning down to glowing embers.
Tea had come outside without her mantle, but despite that she wore only a sleeveless woolen tunic cinched in at the waist with a heavy bronze belt, she barely noticed the chill. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, and she pushed it aside, blinking back tears of rage as she did so.
How dare he?
It was unthinkable that she would marry The Eagle chieftain—utterly unthinkable. In the days since burying her father, all she had thought about was revenge. She had lain awake in her alcove and imagined the day her brother would lead his men against the People of The Eagle and slaughter them all. Instead, he had been plotting peace, using her as his pawn. He expected her to live among them, to bear her enemy’s children.
Tears now scalded her cheeks. He could not send her away. Dun Ardtreck was her world. She would not leave her sister alone, could not abandon the people here who depended on her. As her mother had done with her father, Tea co-ruled the fort with her brother. However, like Domech, Loc had the final say.
Her belly twisted painfully. She felt like a fat lamb about to be sacrificed at Earth Fire. And it was her own brother who whetted the blade.
“Tea … are you well?”
She turned to see a man’s broad silhouette emerge from the broch behind her. Forcus stepped up beside her. The guttering braziers illuminated the masculine lines of his face but threw his eyes into darkness. Like her, Forcus had come outside without his cloak. Wearing only leather breeches, he did not even flinch at the cold. Dark swirls inked his broad torso, and around his neck he wore a leather thong with an amber pendant carved into the shape of a wolf’s head.
Tea shook her head and looked away. She did not wish for company. She never let others see her upset—tears were for private. Even Forcus, who had been her lover for a time, had never seen her weep.
“Your brother is a fool,” Forcus said finally.
In other circumstances, Tea would have railed at him for insulting her kin, but not this evening. Tonight he spoke the truth.
“Does he really believe in what he’s saying?” she asked, her voice husky with the effort she was making to control her panic. “Does he really trust them?”
Forcus barked a laugh. “Of course not. He’s desperate for peace and will do anything to achieve it.”
“But Muin’s son—why has he agreed to this?”
“It seems that he too has lost his stomach for war.”
Tea turned to face him. She refused to believe that her brother could get away with this. “But surely, Loc stands alone? His warriors won’t follow him.”
“Many agree with him, including Wid.”
Tea stared, aghast. “But why?”
“Seems they are tired of war. They believe Loc can give them a better life.”
Dread crawled over her skin at this news. Loc’s warriors had been her last hope; her only chance that her brother’s mind could be changed. Without their support, she was lost.
Hopelessness swamped her—for the first time in her life she despaired. She had been through much in her twenty winters. Her mother, Fina, had died young. Tea had been barely ten winters old, when the enemy attacked Fina and her escort on her way home from visiting relatives on the north-east of the isle. Muin, The Eagle chieftain, had raped and murdered Fina. Domech had never been the same since.
Was it any wonder he had sought to destroy the man responsible for his wife’s death?
Tea knew she was strong, yet the desire to throw herself off the cliff outside the fort walls overwhelmed her.
I’ll not wed Muin’s whelp.
Sensing her desperation, Forcus stepped quietly forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Forget about all this. Let’s leave it behind,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Come with me. We’ll go tonight and cross to the mainland and begin a new life there.”
Tea stared up at him, blinking. She was in turmoil over Loc’s decision, and Forcus was proposing she run away with him? He spoke as if they were still together. She and Forcus had ended their affair over a year earlier, for his domineering ways had made her feel suffocated. Once more, he reminded her why she had left him.
Tea twisted away from him, anger rising. “Are you mad? I’m not leaving this isle.”
He watched her, his broad, heavily muscled body going still. “You’d rather wed that Dun Ringill dog then?” Each word cut like a knife blade but Tea did not flinch.
“I’ll not wed anyone.” She choked the words out, rage strangling her. “I won’t be any man’s slave.”
He gave a cold laugh and turned away from her. “That’s exactly what you’ll be.”