Galan mac Muin reined in his pony and glanced up at the darkening sky. He did not like the look of those roiling purple clouds to the east, or the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance. However, the bleak crags of the mountains, the Black Cuillins, loomed overhead, telling him that their destination was near.
Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze slid over the procession behind him. Only a few of them—him, his brothers and his proven warriors—rode on horseback. The rest of his band travelled on foot. It took half a day to reach the gathering place, the half-way point between Dun Ardtreck and Dun Ringill. They had been climbing for a while now, crossing rivers, peat moor and rocky hills covered in heather, to reach the sacred pools.
Behind Galan, his brother Tarl met his eye. “I can hear the first waterfall,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Your bride is near.”
Galan cocked his head. He too could hear the low roar of water tumbling down from a great height. His chest tightened slightly in response—suddenly this was becoming real. When a warrior had arrived from Dun Ardtreck a month earlier with word that The Wolf chieftain wished to make peace, Galan had been initially suspicious. However, Loc mac Domech’s emissary was an articulate woman, who put forward a strong, convincing argument—and Galan was of a mind to believe her.
Now that they were just a short distance from their destination, Galan’s suspicions rose once more.
I hope I have not brought my people into a trap.
The youngest of the three brothers, Donnel, drew up alongside Tarl then. His wife, Luana, pregnant with their first child, rode double with Donnel, her slender arms wrapped around his waist.
The sight of Luana gave Galan a pang of misgiving. Donnel’s wife had insisted on accompanying them—but what if they were riding into an ambush?
“Why have we stopped,” Donnel asked, his face troubled. “Is something wrong?”
Tarl grinned at his younger brother. “Looks like Galan’s having second-thoughts.”
Donnel smirked. “Bit late for that now.”
Ignoring them both, Galan swung down from Faileas—‘Shadow’—the shaggy, heavy-set stallion that had carried him here. “We go on foot from here,” he announced.
Ignoring his brothers’ grins, Galan turned and led the way up the rocky incline. The path was steep and rough but his pony managed to pick its way up the hillside. Finally, the first waterfall hove into view; a frothing column of water thundering down from craggy grey rocks.
Mist from the fall drifted across the path and caressed Galan’s face. He inhaled deeply. The air smelled perfumed here. He had not been to the pools in a long while, but this place touched him, as it had on his last visit.
He turned then to Tarl, who stepped up beside him. His brother’s teasing expression had been replaced by one of wonder. His gaze travelled over the waterfall for a few moments before it flicked to Galan.
“Are you sure this place is as sacred to them as it is to us. What if they’ve laid a trap?”
Galan gave a tight smile. “The Lochans of the Fair Folk are revered by us all,” he reminded his brother quietly with more confidence than he actually felt. “They will not shed blood here.”
Tarl snorted. “You have more trust in them than me.”
Galan favored his brother with a long look. “To forge peace, I must.” He paused here, his gaze shifting to the column behind him. Trust was one thing, stupidity another. “Tell everyone to have their weapons within easy reach though … just in case Loc mac Domech turns out not to be a man of his word.”
They continued on their way farther up the hill, alongside the River Brittle to the remaining lochans—pools—beyond. Their destination was a large, clear blue pool framed by a natural stone arch. Known as the Wishing Pool, it was a favorite spot for handfastings among the four tribes that lived upon The Winged Isle. It also was a place favored by the Fair Folk—the Aos Sí—the fickle, magical creatures that cohabited the same earth as men. As such, it was wise to treat this spot with respect.
As they approached the Wishing Pool, Galan spied a cluster of hide tents pitched on the hill above it. A row of figures stood there, their dark, cloaked figures outlined against the stormy sky, watching the party approach.
Galan’s body tensed at the sight of them. He had faced these people in battle countless times but this meeting would be different. The daughter of his people’s enemy awaited.
He could not imagine she was looking forward to this union.
Not that Galan was either. He did not like the idea of wedding a woman he had never met. She might look like the rear end of a goat or have a shrewish temper and a voice that could shred a man’s nerves to dust. However, this was a sacrifice he was ready to make.
The memory of his father, screaming as he tried to push his entrails back inside his body, still haunted his dreams. Despite his father’s death, The Eagle had won that day—but for Galan it had been a hollow victory. That was why he had let the rest of the enemy war party flee with their lives. The price had been too high. Too much blood had been spilled, too much hate had festered between the tribes for decades now.
Galan was ready for peace.
He led Faileas up the hill toward The Wolf camp. Ahead, a group of men came out to greet the newcomers. Galan was aware that his brothers now flanked him. He stole a glance behind to see that his four most trusted warriors—Ru, Namet, Lutrin and Cal—had ridden up to the head of the column. Their faces were stern, their gazes watchful.
Despite that he had agreed to this meeting, Galan shared some of their tension. This was the first peaceful meeting between The Wolf and The Eagle for at least two decades. It felt strange—almost unnatural—to approach without his sword unsheathed and ready for battle.
A man stepped forward from the crowd at the crest of the hill, and strode down to meet him.
Galan recognized Loc mac Domech immediately. He had seen him during their last skirmish; the pair of them had fought at different ends of the rocky ravine where their war parties had met, yet even then Galan had known him to be the chieftain’s son.
Tall and lean, with a shock of black hair and piercing dark-blue eyes, The Wolf chieftain’s face was stern as he approached. Galan sensed his wariness but hardly blamed him; this meeting was new territory for them both.
Since The Wolf chieftain was walking toward him alone and unarmed, Galan decided to pay him the same courtesy. He passed Faileas’s reins to Tarl and walked forward to meet Loc.
The two men halted about two feet apart.
“Good day,” Galan greeted him.
Loc favored him with a tight smile. “You came—I’m glad.”
Galan smiled back, a little of his own tension easing as he realized that Loc mac Domech was indeed sincere. “Aye—I gave my word.”
Loc’s mouth quirked slightly before his gaze flicked to Galan’s escort waiting a few yards behind him. “I won’t lie to you, Galan. Many of my people are against this union. I hope yours took the news better than mine did.”
Galan’s gave a humorless laugh. “No—they didn’t.”
“And your brothers?”
“Tarl and Donnel are more skeptical than me, but they will accept the new way of things in time. We are all tired of war.”
Loc nodded. “As are we. This feud has gone on for so long, none of us know why we hate each other, only that we do.”
Galan inclined his head slightly, studying Loc. Here was a man who would make a great leader. A man who understood the price of war on his people. Galan was glad Loc had sent word to him, and glad that he had agreed to forge peace between their tribes.
“And what of your sister?” Galan did not want to ask the question but knew he must. “Does she hate my people?”
Loc’s mouth thinned, giving Galan his answer. “I wish I could say she is of the same mind as me,” he admitted, “but she is too much like her father to let the past go so easily.”
“Yet she has agreed to wed me?”
Loc gave a bitter smile. “Aye—under duress.”
This news did not please Galan, although he had not expected any different. He did not want to share the furs with a hissing and spitting she-cat. Still, it could not be helped—at least she understood her duty to her people.
Galan’s gaze slid over the crowd amassed behind Loc. “Where is my bride?”
“Getting ready for her handfasting,” Loc replied, “as must you. Come—we have ale, wine and mead to share with you and your people.”
Galan nodded before turning back to where his brothers and warriors stood. He beckoned them forward and then followed Loc up the slope to the tents. It looked as if the People of The Wolf had arrived here at least a day earlier; the grass underfoot was crushed and slightly muddy in places, and a village of hide tents now covered the hillside.
The aroma of roasting venison, no doubt for the handfasting feast, wafted through the camp. It was a delicious aroma but Galan found he was not hungry; he was too tense to think about food.
“Here.” Loc poured Galan a cup of frothy ale and passed it to him, before holding up a cup of his own for a toast. “To lasting peace.”
Galan was aware of hostility around them—from the men and women of his own band, and from Loc’s. There were two hulking warriors standing a few feet behind Loc, who did not look friendly. Galan did not like the cold, assessing way the men’s gazes moved over him and his escort. Loc mac Domech may have been ready to make peace but some of his warriors clearly were not.
Casting a look behind him, at where Tarl and Donnel were accepting cups of ale, Galan noted their hard faces and narrowed gazes. Things were not so different in his own camp—it had taken a while to convince his brothers to come here. Behind Tarl and Donnel, some of Galan’s warriors looked uncomfortable. He had bid them to leave their weapons with the ponies but they clearly were not pleased to be facing the People of The Wolf without a sword, axe or spear grasped in their hands.
Galan stepped close to his brothers, his own brow furrowing.
“Would the pair of you try smiling?” he growled. “I don’t want a fight breaking out before I wed.”
Tarl snorted, glancing over at where the big warriors still stood eyeballing them. “If those bastards stop staring at me, I might.”
“Ignore them.”
Donnel rolled his eyes and raised the cup of ale to his lips. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”