Tea reached Dun Ardtreck late morning. After a cold, still night of clear skies, an equally icy dawn had broken. She had not slept all night, for it had been too cold. As soon as it was light enough to make out her surroundings, she had climbed to her feet; her limbs stiff and achy, her feet and hands numb, and her teeth chattering.
She had resumed her journey, warming her chilled body against the furry warmth of her pony’s back. The ride had taken her over rolling hills and open barren moors that seemed to stretch on forever. She had forgotten what a bleak part of The Winged Isle her people lived in.
The sight of Dun Ardtreck at last, the broch perched upon the cliff silhouetted against a pale blue sky, made her spirits lift. She felt chilled to the marrow and her belly ached with hunger. She looked forward to taking her place before the hearth and warming her hands over it, and to seeing her kin once more.
Her heart swelled at the thought of seeing Loc and Eithni. She had been so angry with them after her handfasting that she had thrust them both from her thoughts. She had missed them but had hardly realized how much until she saw the familiar bulk of Dun Ardtreck before her once more.
She rode up the lower slopes of the hillside beneath the broch, past the settlement of roundhouses and wattle and daub hovels. There were plenty of folk outdoors, taking care of their morning chores—cutting wood, milking goats, or feeding fowl and geese. Some of the people stopped and stared as she rode past. Tea waved at them, but most of them—folk she had grown up amongst—merely stared at her as if she were a shade. Some of their faces were aghast, while others were bemused. Their reaction disquieted her. She had thought the people of Dun Ardtreck would rejoice at her return.
Perhaps her handfasting had turned them against her. Did they think she had gone to Galan willingly?
Tea clenched her chilled fingers around the leather reins. They would surely hate her if they learned how easily she had succumbed to him.
She urged the mare into a reluctant canter. The pony flattened its ears back and lumbered up the slope, between the cleft created by two large rocks, and toward the great stone arch of Dun Ardtreck.
Two warriors wielding spears guarded the entrance to the fort. Tea recognized them both—Loxa and Pont were young men that Forcus had taken under his wing in the spring to begin their training.
“Tea,” Pont greeted her, grinning, while Loxa stared at her brazenly. “Welcome home.”
Tea nodded to them and urged her mare through the gateway, reining it in before the steps leading up to the broch. Looking around her, Tea noted how busy it was—there were leather-clad men and women everywhere—yet the atmosphere was different to when she had left months earlier.
There were scenes of domesticity in the yard, just warriors practicing at swordplay or sharpening their blades. The smell of hot iron wafted across the yard toward her from the forge, and the clang of a hammer on an anvil echoed through the misty air. It was like a tolling bell, calling warriors to battle. Dun Ardtreck felt like a fort readying itself for full-scale war.
She recognized many of the men and women, although there were some new faces among them. Most of them looked pleased, albeit surprised, to see her, although one or two watched her with hard eyes.
Frowning, Tea swung down from the pony and led it through to the stables, noticing that Loxa had hurried up the steps to her right, presumably to alert her brother of her arrival. She would follow him inside soon, but first she had to find someone to see to her pony. In the stables, she recognized two of the lads who were mucking out the stalls.
“Tea,” one of them gasped, dropping his pitch-fork, his face paling. “What are you doing here?”
She inclined her head, fixing him in a hard stare. “I’ve returned to my people,” she replied firmly, “whom I never should have left.”
The two lads continued to stare at her.
Impatient now, Tea frowned. “What is it?” she snapped. “Do you two find it so strange that I should want to return home to my kin?”
“No … no…” the second lad stammered. “It’s just that …” His blue eyes met hers. “You don’t know, do you?”
Tea went still. Dread seeped through her as if she had stepped up to the neck into a cold loch. Suddenly, she just wanted to turn and flee, run far from here, to where the news that lay upon this lad’s lips would never touch her.
Yet, she did not.
***
Galan urged his stallion up the incline toward the brow of the hill. To the right rose the majesty of the Black Cuillins, their bulk looming overhead and blocking out the blue sky. It was the half-way mark between Dun Ringill and Dun Ardtreck but he still had a way to go.
Galan did let himself think about the memories this place evoked. Instead, his entire will was bent upon reaching his destination. Behind him rode Ru, Namet, Lutrin and Cal—and at their heels followed a band of twenty more warriors.
As he journeyed, Galan wished his brothers rode at his side. He trusted his warriors with his life, but he, Tarl and Donnel were close. Not just in age, for they were friends as much as brothers despite their contrasting personalities. He missed their counsel and wondered if the events of the past day might have played out differently if they been there to advise him.
Pushing these thoughts aside, for they did him no good, Galan stared ahead at where the landscape unfolded like a crumpled hessian blanket of bleak moorland to the north.
The fact remained that his brothers were not here, and might never return.
He was the eldest son. He had been made chief, and the decisions were his own to make. He was right to deal with the raiders as he had—swiftly and brutally. They had slaughtered a number of his people and destroyed four villages in doing so. Nonetheless, he had been wrong to jump to conclusions about Loc and Tea. He felt his error even more keenly now, for he realized that Tea did not know of her brother’s death.
She would have reached Dun Ardtreck by now; she would have discovered the truth. His chest constricted. The peace he and Loc had worked so hard to weave was now unravelling before his eyes. It was far more fragile than he had realized. All it had taken were a few harsh words, and he had shattered everything he had worked so hard to build. Cruelly, he only had himself to blame.
Fool, he thought bitterly. If she hates you now, you deserve it.
***
Tea stood in the great broch of Dun Ardtreck. The crackle and pop of embers in the hearth seemed loud in the ominous silence.
It felt strange to step back inside this broch. She knew its curved lines, its carvings, as well as the lines of her own palm. Yet today it did not feel like home anymore.
There was a strange atmosphere indoors. Outside, it felt as if warriors were about to march off to battle, whereas indoors there was a breathless tension. Usually, at this time of the morning, as noon approached, men and women filled the broch, with children and dogs getting underfoot as they prepared the main meal of the day.
What few servants and slaves there were in the feasting hall scurried past like frightened mice. They cast Tea nervous looks as they tended the boar stew that bubbled in a heavy iron pot sat over the hearth.
After speaking to the lads in the stables, Tea had stumbled blindly up the stairs into the broch. Inside, she found Forcus and Eithni waiting for her by the hearth. Grief swelled in Tea’s breast when her gaze met Forcus’s. She clenched her jaw and forced back burning tears.
“Is it true?” she whispered. “Is Loc dead?”
Forcus stared back at her before nodding. His handsome face was set into austere lines this morning. Tall and intimidating, with wavy brown hair that fell over one of his pale blue eyes, Forcus was bare-chested, although he wore a heavy fur mantle over his shoulders to ward off the chill.
The sight of Eithni next to him shocked Tea. Her sister had lost a lot of weight since she had last seen her. She looked fragile; her heart-shaped face was drawn, her skin pale and her hazel-green eyes hollowed. She stared at Tea with a look akin to horror.
Tea’s belly twisted, and her gaze flicked from her sister, back to Forcus.
Eventually, he spoke. “Loc fell during a boar hunt, just before Mid-Winter Fire,” he began gently. “One of the beasts gored him in the belly.”
Tea stared back, unable to take his words in. She could not imagine her brother, who had been a formidable warrior and skilled hunter, dying in such a fashion. She had always thought that Loc would meet the same end as his father, in battle—a warrior’s end.
She glanced back at Eithni, seeking confirmation. However, Eithni had dropped her gaze to the floor. Tea saw that she was trembling.
“I don’t understand,” Tea managed finally. “Why did no one send word? I should have been here for his burial.”
“There was no need,” Forcus rumbled. “We did not want to disturb you in your new life.”
The sarcastic inflection on these last two words brought Tea’s head up sharply. The heat of shame filled her, making her forget her chilled limbs and the ice-grip of grief. “He was my brother,” she said softly. “I had the right to know.”
She looked back at Eithni, willing her to raise her head and meet her eye once more. She barely recognized this waif as her sister. Eithni had never possessed her force of character, but she had never been like this—a pale shadow.
“Eithni.” She took a step toward her. “What’s wrong?”
Her sister did not reply, and she kept her head lowered as if she had not even heard Tea speak.
“Your sister has taken Loc’s death hard,” Forcus told her. “I have given her what comfort I can, but she finds it difficult to rally.”
Tea fixed her stare upon him. His expression was shuttered, making it nearly impossible to gauge his feelings. Yet she saw the tension in his big frame. Despite the gentleness of his words, she sensed he was not pleased to see her.
“Where are Wid and the others?” she asked. She looked around the empty space, as if expecting to see her dark-haired cousin emerge from one of the alcoves yet he did not.
“Away hunting,” Forcus replied.
Tea’s gaze narrowed. “The lads in the stables tell me that you are chieftain now?” She stared him down. “Surely as kin, Wid should have taken Loc’s place.”
Forcus raised a dark eyebrow. “Wid is a cousin to Loc through the male line, not the female. Since your family has no males on the female line, I have as much right to rule as chief as he.”
Tea stared at Forcus, scowling. Sometimes she forgot that Forcus was a lot older than her. He was not that many winters younger than her parents. The age gap between them had not mattered when they were lovers; he had always seemed younger, immature compared to her father—yet now she saw him in a different light.
He did not look sorry that Loc was gone—despite that Tea had always thought them as close as brothers.
Not only that, but she wagered that he had taken his place as chieftain by force after her brother’s death.
Loc is gone.
Grief slammed into Tea’s belly like a battering ram, driving through the wall she had kept in place since entering the broch. She turned away from Forcus, tears burning down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to keep herself from crumbling. She stumbled back a few paces and collapsed upon a bench next to the wall, doubling over as sorrow hit her once more.
Her brave, good-hearted brother was gone. It seemed that wherever she went, grief followed her.
This was no homecoming.