THE SUN HUNG low in the sky when Tad reached Dun Grianan at last. Snow still covered the immense bulk of Beinn Edra—the high mountain that rose to the north—although it had melted around the shores of Loch Mealt. The waters of the lake were blue-grey this afternoon, reflecting the color of the sky overhead.
Tad urged Caorainn into a canter along the path leading past clusters of cone-roofed huts and fields still frosted with snow. Smoke rose from the roofs, and Tad inhaled the aroma of stew and roasting meat as he rode by. Night fell early this time of year, and folk were already cooking their suppers.
The path led Tad around the shore of the loch and onto a low promontory. At the end of it rose the bulk of a great stacked stone broch.
Surrounded by water on three sides, with expansive views in all directions, the broch of Dun Grianan perched in an excellent defensive position. The warriors who stood guard on the walls could see if anyone was coming long before they reached the lake itself.
Loch Mealt—often a deep blue in summer—was a salt-water lake. Its mouth stretched east out to sea, to the wide channel separating The Winged Isle and the mainland.
Warriors hailed Tad as he trotted up the causeway to the outer wall.
“I was wondering where you’d got to,” one of Tad’s friends, Callum, shouted down. “Your father’s about to send out a search party.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Tad called back, grinning up at Callum. “Just a dusting of snow.”
Callum snorted. “Aye, explain that to Fortrenn.”
Tad was still grinning as he rode into the stable yard and dismounted. He was relieved to be home—the journey back from the Black Boar Woods had given him too much time on his own, alone with his thoughts. Surrounded by noise and other people, he could distract himself once more.
He had to stop thinking about Erea, and about the fact he had hated leaving her. He kept remembering that kiss, the sweet taste of her; he had wanted much more. It had been a wrench to turn his back and ride away.
In the stables, Tad saw to Caorainn. He rubbed the gelding down and left him with a large net of hay. Then he went to see his father.
The broch seemed overly loud and chaotic after Tad’s time away. He stepped into a warm, smoky space filled with men, women, and children. The chatter and rumble of voices echoed high up into the smoke-blackened rafters. Women prepared the evening meal over the central fire pit while men sat drinking ale at the long tables that formed a square around it. Some of those seated there spied Tad and called out to him.
He waved back but did not join them for a cup of ale, as he usually would. Instead, he stepped up onto the circular platform that ran around the perimeter of the feasting hall and made his way to the far end, to the chieftain’s table, where his father sat. On the way, Tad passed a number of curtained alcoves—these spaces were where he, and the rest of Fortrenn’s kin, slept.
His father watched him approach. Clean-shaven, with the same curly brown hair—but threaded with grey—as his son, Fortrenn mac Nyle was a huge man. Blue tattoos covered his brawny arms, and a thick scar marred one side of his face: an old wound taken during a violent skirmish against the people of The Wolf many years earlier.
On a shelf behind the chief sat the heavy mantle he wore for special occasions—a russet-colored stag hide with the head and massive pair of antlers still intact. On the wall next to it hung a collection of treasures Stag warriors had brought back from last year’s campaign to the Great Wall in the south: a gold-plated eagle, a centurion’s sword, and one of the pillaged iron helms.
This afternoon Fortrenn wore a stern expression. He lounged back on his carven chair, a horn of mead in one hand. To his right sat Fortrenn’s brother Bevan, and to his left was Colene, Tad’s mother.
“Welcome home, son,” Fortrenn rumbled.
Tad grinned. “I hear you were about to send out a search party?”
“Aye.” His father’s brow furrowed. “Does that amuse you?”
Tad shrugged. “I’ve returned safe and sound, as you can see.”
Next to Fortrenn, Bevan gave Tad a dark look. “You’re too cocky for your own good, lad. One day it’s going to get you into trouble … I warned you snow was coming.”
“You’re looking remarkably well for a man who’s been living in the wilds for days,” Fortrenn observed.
“I found an abandoned hut in the Black Boar Woods,” Tad replied. “I took shelter there till the weather broke.”
Silence followed Tad’s answer. He was not sure why he had lied—had not told them about Erea. Yet something made him hold that information back.
Both his father and uncle shifted uneasily in their seats, while the warrior seated next to Bevan—a scarred man named Ailig—leaned forward, frowning.
“Did you find anyone living there, lad?”
Tad shook his head, observing Ailig. Did memories of Olwen, the witch woman, still unnerve him, even after all these years?
Silence fell at the chieftain’s table then. Tad took the opportunity to take his place, next to where his mother, Colene, sat quietly winding wool onto a spindle—and helped himself to a cup of mead. He acknowledged her with a nod and a smile, and Colene smiled back.
Tad then glanced over to where his father, Bevan, and Ailig still wore tense expressions. “There was no sign of the sorceress,” Tad reassured them. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
His uncle Bevan sighed and raised his cup in a silent toast to Tad. “Good to hear … hopefully The Reaper took her years ago.”
Fortrenn’s mouth had thinned, while next to him a frown marred Colene’s usually smooth brow. Although she had not joined the conversation, Tad’s mother had listened to every word.
“Aye.” Fortrenn raised the horn of mead to his lips and drank deeply. “That woman was trouble. She brought nothing but grief to this broch.” His blue eyes shadowed then, and he glanced over at his wife. “She stole Fenella from us.”
Tad went still. Fenella was his younger sister who had died in infancy. His light-hearted mood dimmed. “I didn’t realize she was one of the five the sorceress killed,” he said.
His father gave him an exasperated look. “You were very young when she died. It pained your mother to mention Fenella so we never spoke of your wee sister again.” Fortrenn paused here. “Yet we’ve never forgotten her … or the witch responsible for her death.”
A tense silence settled over the table then. Both Bevan and Ailig looked down at their cups. Observing their faces, Tad wondered if there was more to this tale. However, the grim look on his father’s face, and the tense expression on his mother’s, warned him from pressing further. He lifted his cup to his lips and took a long draft of honeyed mead.
The news about Fenella discomforted him.
How would he have reacted to meeting Erea if he had known? A few days earlier he would have believed his father’s words without question—yet much had changed since then. Erea certainly believed her mother was a victim of hatred, that the folk here had plotted to rid themselves of her.
Tad was not sure what to believe. Maybe Erea’s mother was guilty after all.
It has nothing to do with Erea, he told himself, pushing aside his sense of unease. I’ll not blame her for her mother’s crimes.
A few moments later Ailig and Bevan appeared to shrug off the dark mood that had settled over the table. They resumed the conversation that Tad’s arrival had interrupted, their words a low rumble.
Fortrenn poured himself some more mead, ignoring his companions. His gaze had turned inward. Tad watched him a moment, curious at his father’s mood. The Stag chief was not one to brood.
Meanwhile Colene turned and fixed her grey-eyed gaze upon her son. Putting down her spindle, she reached out and placed a hand over his forearm, squeezing gently. “It’s good to have you home, Tad.”