TAD AND EREA rode into Dun Grianan on the eve of Mid-Winter Fire.
Perched behind Tad, Erea had a clear view over his shoulder at the coastal fort. She had only seen the sea a handful of times in her life, when her mother had taken her farther afield to barter at villages to the south-east of their home. Erea had deliberately avoided straying from home after her mother died, in fact she had hardly strayed from the Black Boar Woods since.
Yet the beauty of this place made Erea catch her breath now. To the northwest rose massive carven peaks, completely covered in a blanket of pristine snow. They appeared like the canines of a giant wolf. The waterfalls that usually flowed down the rocky sides of the mountain during the summer were now frozen giant icicles.
Erea’s gaze swept away from the mountainside, traveling south to where a dark loch stretched to the mouth of the channel beyond. Out on a promontory, rising against the fluttering snow, was a great stone tower. Smoke rose from its roof—as it did from the roofs of the dozens of huts clustered around the icy shore of the loch.
Wordlessly, Erea squeezed Tad around the waist; her arms were wrapped around him. A moment later she felt his hands squeeze hers in wordless support.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Not really,” she replied truthfully. Despite her awe at the surroundings, she was beginning to question the wisdom of agreeing to this. The past day had been magical. It was as if she had drunk her fill on honeyed mead, but she was only just starting to emerge from the fog of bliss that had enshrouded her and Tad over the past day. She didn't doubt him now; she believed in his love, and she felt the same way. Over the past day, he had shown her just how much he cared. And she had responded in kind.
No, her doubts had to do with the future looming before her at Dun Grianan. Would love be enough?
Erea took a pragmatic approach to life. She knew love did not fix everything. It had not been enough to stop her mother from succumbing to illness. Perhaps it would not be enough if Tad’s father opposed them.
“My father is likely to be in a foul mood,” Tad warned her. “He won’t be welcoming, but I'm hoping my kin will step in if he gets stubborn … it’s Mid-Winter Fire after all. A time for new beginnings.”
“Maybe we shouldn't have come,” she replied hesitantly. “We could make a life for ourselves in my home.”
“Aye, we could,” he replied, squeezing her hand once more, “and if this goes ill, that’s exactly what we shall do.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, their own worries. The closer they got to the great stone tower, the more nervous Erea grew.
She was not used to folk. She had spent years living alone with only her mother for company, and then she had only spent time with Tad. Crowds of people made her uneasy. She had never liked accompanying her mother to the markets, and had always been relieved when they returned home.
Erea hoped panic would not assail her inside the broch before anyone said a word.
Caorainn’s heavy hooves clip-clopped over the icy stone pavers that led up the causeway. The pony made his way between two banks of snow that had been shoveled out of the way to allow travelers to approach the broch.
The snow fell gently from a dusky sky. The light was growing dim; night would shortly fall. The icy air had chapped Erea’s cheeks. Her fingers were numb with cold. She longed to wrap her hands around a cup of mulled wine and soak in the heat from a roaring hearth. Yet she could not focus on that—she could only think about the confrontation that lay ahead.
The aroma of cooking greeted the pair as they drew up outside the stables, drifting down from the broch itself. Erea’s belly growled as she smelled roasting mutton, rich stew, and the scent of something buttery and sweet baking.
Tad dismounted before helping Erea down. There was no one around, for everyone was gathering inside for the feast of Mid-Winter Fire Eve. There would be another, even bigger, feast tomorrow at noon, but this evening the great oaken log would be set alight to call back the sun.
After leaving Caorainn unsaddled and rubbed down, with a pail of mash, Tad took hold of Erea’s hand and led her up the stone steps to the entrance of the broch. He did not speak, and when Erea glanced his way she realized why. Tad was as nervous as she was; his face was set in determined lines, his eyes narrowed. He was not looking forward to this any more than her. Tenderness and love surged within Erea; he was doing this for her. He would defy his father for her.
They entered the broch. A wall of heat, smoke, cooking smells, and the chatter of voices hit Erea. Blinking from the blaze of light that assaulted her eyes, she stumbled as she followed Tad inside. She had never seen so many people in one place. The decorations in here put her own efforts to shame. Great boughs of fir and pine decorated the stone walled interior of the tower. Clumps of drualus and ivy hung from the rafters, as did sprays of holly covered in blood-red berries.
This was the beginning of the ‘Long Night’, the night the folk of The Winged Isle beckoned back the sun. This time of year the grimmer gods—The Hag and The Reaper—ruled, whereas The Mother, The Warrior, and The Maiden dominated the warmer months when baby animals were born and crops grew.
It did not take the folk of the broch of Dun Grianan long to spot the return of the chieftain’s son, walking hand-in-hand with a woman they had never seen.
Erea felt their gazes settle upon her.
She squeezed Tad's hand tightly and heard the bones creak. However, he did not flinch, his own grip firm and unwavering. Gaze forward, he guided her across the rush-strewn floor, threading between long tables that were being set up for the feast. He wound his way to where a table perched upon a raised platform at the far end of the hall.
And there Erea saw Fortrenn mac Nyle for the first time. An impressive sight, he wore a stag’s head mantle that made him look like a hunter god brought to life.
Erea wet her lips nervously. How would he react to her?
Fortrenn had been talking to the dark-haired warrior next to him, laughing over something, when the woman to his left—a faded beauty with a gentle face—leaned in close and said something to him. Her gaze was upon Tad and Erea as they approached.
The chieftain’s blue-eyed gaze snapped up, spearing them both.
Tad and Erea kept moving until they stood at the foot of the platform. The chatter and rumble of conversation that had intensified upon their arrival now died to a whisper. Erea could still feel the weight of their stares upon her, yet she ignored them. Instead, she kept her attention focused upon the man who held their fate in his hands.
“Evening, father,” Tad greeted the Chieftain of the Stag. “Merry Mid-Winter Fire.”
“I swear you’ve grown deaf, lad,” Fortrenn growled back. “I told you not to come back unless you were willing to wed Isla. That wench at your side is not your betrothed.”
Erea felt a gentle squeeze of her hand. Things were going as expected. Neither of them thought this would be easy.
“We’ve come to appeal to your kindness, father,” Tad replied. “This is Erea of the Black Boar Woods. She is the daughter of Olwen, whom you cast from the fort years ago. But whether or not her mother was guilty of the crimes she was accused of, Erea is not.” Next to him, Erea shifted uncomfortably, her gaze narrowing. “She sheltered me from a storm, and she has stolen my heart. She is a good woman and a brave soul. I would be proud to name her my wife … but I would like your blessing, father.”
The whispers in the broch had now died completely. It was so quiet in here that Erea could hear the ragged inhale of her breathing, the thunder of her heart against her ribs.
“And if I don’t give you my blessing?”
“I will wed Erea anyway.”
Fortrenn’s expression darkened. “If you don't need my blessing, then why are you here? You wish to grind your insolence and disobedience in my face?”
“No …” Tad was deliberately not rising to his father’s challenge. “I don't need your blessing, but I wish for it. I’m your only son. I have no wish to be estranged from you. All I have done is fallen in love. Why should I be punished for it?”
His father's mouth twisted. “You’re good with words, lad. You’ve always been able to charm your mother and uncle into seeing things your way, but there are some of us you can’t convince.” Fortrenn’s gaze shifted to Erea then, and she nearly wilted under its force. He had the same blue eyes as his son, but they were harder, more ruthless. “This is the spawn of the witch woman. Do you know what your mother did here, lass? Did Tadhg tell you that she took my daughter’s life as well?”
Erea went cold. His words intimidated her, yet she held his gaze and refused to shrink away. “My mother was innocent of those crimes,” she replied, surprised at how calm she sounded. “She did not deserve to be exiled.”
Fortrenn’s expression did not change. “She was a murdering witch.” He leaned back in his chair, the back of which had also been carved into a stag’s head, and picked up a large wooden cup.
It was then that Erea noted something that made her breathing still.
Most of the men here, including Tad, wore leather bracers covering their forearms, yet the Chieftain of the Stag did not. Erea’s gaze slid from his hand, down his forearm, to where the blue tattoo of a snake coiled its way from wrist to elbow.
The mark of the serpent.
Time rolled back, and she was sitting with her mother by the fire. Olwen had drunk two cups of bramble wine and was in a melancholy mood.
“Tell me of my father?” Erea asked.
Olwen had shaken her head. “Best you know little of him.”
Frustrated, Erea huffed. “Can’t you tell me what he looked like at least? Was he handsome?”
Her mother had sighed then, her gaze riveted upon the dancing flames of the fire, unfocused and distant. “He had eyes as deep blue as the Pools of the Fairy Folk,” she had murmured. “A great warrior with the scars of battle upon his face and the mark of the serpent upon his right arm.”
Erea had not even noticed the chieftain’s facial scar till now—a deep slash down one side of his face.
No, it can’t be. Her mind refused to believe it—and yet she was staring at the evidence.
Erea tore her hand from Tad’s and stepped back.
Tad turned. “Erea … don’t listen to him. I believe you, that’s all that matters.”
But Erea was not listening. Her heart was beating so loudly she could not hear anything else. She had to get out, fly from this place, and never return.
She turned, dodging the hand that Tad put out to restrain her. Then, she fled as if pursued by wolves from the Broch of Dun Grianan.