“I’ll not wed him.”
Loc mac Domech sighed and looked up from the game of knuckle bones he was having with Wid. His gaze settled upon where his sister stood, hands on hips, before him.
“I’ll take my life if you force me.”
Loc watched his sister silently for a few moments, taking in her blazing eyes, pinched lips and rigid stance. He did not believe for a moment that Tea would do such a thing, yet the paleness of her face and the hollows under her eyes worried him somewhat. He did not like to see her suffer.
Guilt needled him. He did not want to do this to his proud sister, but he would not cast away this opportunity to forge peace.
“Do I need to confine you to your alcove until we leave?” he asked, deliberately keeping his voice low, his tone neutral. If he responded with anger, Tea would merely use it as an excuse to rage at him again. Their arguments since his announcement five days earlier had been blistering. Now, every time the siblings entered the feasting hall together, the inhabitants of the broch cast wary glances their way—holding their breaths till the next tempest.
“Did you just hear me?” she ground the words out, a nerve ticking in her jaw as she sought to restrain her temper. “I said I’d—”
“I heard you,” Loc cut her off, aware that Wid was now shifting nervously on the bench opposite him. His cousin knew there was another storm brewing. Loc rose to his feet and met his sister’s eye. “But I tire of having the same argument, day after day. It will not change my mind.”
Tea stepped close to him. She was tall and met his eye easily. “Muin mac Uerd raped and murdered our mother. Have you forgotten that?”
Loc inhaled deeply. This was the argument she used most frequently against him, the one she knew wounded the deepest. Yesterday, she had slapped him when they had discussed this. His jaw still ached from her blow. He did not want to raise his hand to his sister—but if she lost control again, he would have no choice.
“I could never forget it,” he replied softly, “but Galan is not Muin. Why should he pay for his father’s crimes?”
“He fought at the battle where father fell, did he not?”
“He did.”
“He has killed our people too. He’s our enemy,” Tea concluded.
Loc remembered Galan there in that steep vale strewn with boulders—a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with long dark hair who fought with cold, precise brutality. Yet the two of them had not crossed swords that day. After the ambush, once both chiefs had fallen, Galan had the chance to slay Loc and his men—instead he had let them live, had given them time to escape. Loc had known then that Galan mac Muin was different to his father.
Loc sighed. He was wearying fast of this discussion. “Battle is different, Tea,” he replied. “You know that.”
“How is it different?”
“It just is. When two war parties clash, they know there will be death on both sides—it’s expected.”
Tea glared at him, incensed now. “I’m not some goose-brained woman you can patronize. I’ve been trained to fight—and I would have been with you that day if father hadn’t forbidden it.”
Loc’s mouth thinned. “He was right to forbid it. You and Eithni are all that is left of our family’s female line. You must be protected.”
He watched her hands clench and unclench at her sides. He could see the fury that pulsed through her. Even before their father’s death, Tea had been so full of anger, so embittered for one so young. She had been young when they brought Fina’s mutilated body back to Dun Ardtreck—but that day Loc had seen his sister change. Overnight, she went from an energetic and mischievous lass, to a self-contained, angry girl who wanted to fight with the world.
She had trained as a warrior alongside Loc, and was as good as any of the men, but Domech had insisted she stay behind whenever he led a war party out. Tea had raged at her father’s decision but Domech would not be moved.
Looking into his sister’s blazing gaze, Loc realized there would be no reasoning with her—instead her continued defiance forced him to be harsh.
“You will wed Galan mac Muin,” he growled. “Even if I have to drag you into his bed myself.”
Tea reeled back as if he had struck her, nearly colliding with Eithni who was sitting upon a stool behind her, winding wool onto a wooden spindle. Tea’s younger sister cried out, toppling off her stool onto the rushes. However, Tea was so incensed that she did not even notice.
“You’re a disgrace to his line,” she snarled. “I’m ashamed to call you my brother.”
Then she spat on the rushes between them and stormed off to her alcove, the goat-skin hanging swishing shut behind her.
Tea was sitting upon a pile of furs inside her alcove, staring blankly at the pitted stone wall, when Eithni poked her head inside.
“Can I come in?”
Her sister’s face was pale and pinched, her hazel-green eyes wide with fright. Tea felt a rare pang of remorse. Tea and Loc’s fights of late had reduced Eithni to tears more than once, and although Tea had no intention of relenting she was sorry to see her sister so upset.
“Aye,” Tea replied, her voice husky from shouting. Now that her anger had burned itself out, she felt exhausted, drained.
Eithni stepped into the alcove and let the hanging fall shut behind her. Then she padded across to Tea and sat down on the furs next to her. Wordlessly, she reached out and took Tea’s hand.
Tears prickled Tea’s eyelids. Her sister’s gentleness was disarming. She squeezed Eithni’s hand in silent thanks.
After a few moments her sister spoke. “Please don’t fight Loc any longer,” she murmured. “It will not change things—it will only make you hate each other.”
“I don’t hate him,” Tea replied, “but I can’t let him do this to me—to us.”
She glanced over at Eithni and saw that she was watching her steadily. They were so different—Tea was like a tempest, Eithni a summer breeze—and yet they had always been close. Tea kept herself apart emotionally from most people. She only let her brother and sister into her private world, and now that Loc had betrayed her Tea was starting to feel as if no one but Eithni cared what happened to her.
Eithni held her gaze, her own calm and resolute. “I can make it easier for you,” she said softly.
Tea frowned, not understanding her sister’s meaning. When she did not respond, Eithni continued. “I can make you a special potion—one that will soothe your nerves and make the handfasting easier to bear.”
Tea stared at Eithni, swallowing the hysteria that bubbled within her. She had not even thought that far ahead, for in her mind she still refused the match outright. Yet her sister’s words reminded her of what lay ahead. She would wed this enemy, would have to lie with him as his wife, and bear his whelps. Eithni had not meant to alarm her, but she had.
Her sister was a healer. Since girlhood, she had helped old Maud, the cunning woman who tended the ill at Dun Ardtreck. Maud had died last winter and now Eithni had taken over as healer. Tea knew Eithni took her role seriously—however, her skills could not mend what ailed her sister.
Tea removed her hand from Eithni’s and stood up. She then began to pace the narrow space, her bare feet sinking into the thick furs that covered the floor of the alcove. Panic made it hard to breathe.
“Give me something to stop my heart,” she choked out the words. “Prevent this handfasting from ever taking place. That’s the only thing that can help me.”
“I won’t do that.” Eithni jumped to her feet and grasped Tea by the arm, forcing her to turn and face her. Despite her small frame, she had a surprisingly firm grip. “I’d take my own life before I’d ever harm you.” Eithni’s eyes glittered with tears. “Please stop fighting this, Tea. Whether you wish it or not, Loc will insist you wed The Eagle chieftain. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be—don’t ruin the few days we all have left together.”
Tea stared at her. If Loc had spoken those words, she might have lashed out at him. Yet she would never do so with Eithni—and her sister knew it. Eithni was only trying to help her, only trying to mend things between Tea and Loc. But she did not understand that some rifts could not be bridged. Some wounds cut too deep.
Tea’s throat constricted and she felt tears sting her eyelids. “For your sake, I’ll stop raging,” she agreed finally, “but it changes nothing. I’ll not pretend to welcome this union, and I’ll not forgive Loc for giving me to the enemy.”