Warrior's Secret (The Pict Wars Book 2) Page 5

  “Take a seat,” Eithni said, reaching for a pinch of something, which she added to her mortar, before continuing to pound. “I don’t suppose you could poke the fire?”

  Ailene did as bid, reaching for an iron poker and prodding at the lump of peat that burned there.

  “You’re a little pale this morning,” Eithni observed, pausing in her mashing a moment. Her delicately-featured face tensed, her warm hazel eyes narrowing. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  Ailene huffed. “I’m well enough.”

  She should have known Eithni would note that something was amiss. As a healer, the older woman was finely attuned to the emotional and physical states of those around her.

  Eithni put down her pestle, wiped her hands on a cloth, and moved across to the fire. She then settled herself down on a stool opposite and fixed Ailene in a level look. “Tea told me about yesterday’s meeting,” she said, her gaze shadowing. “I wish the bones had better news.”

  Ailene’s lips thinned. “As do I.”

  “Donnel tells me it’s a good thing that the chieftains have made a plan,” Eithni continued, “but to be honest the thought of more battles … more bloodshed … just sickens me.”

  Ailene nodded. She could not agree more. “The peace was never going to hold,” she replied with a sigh. “The chieftains won’t rest until Cathal mac Calum and his horde are crushed.”

  “So, they’ll attack An Teanga before Mid-Winter Fire?”

  “Aye … it looks like it.”

  Silence fell between the two women, and Eithni’s brow furrowed. She focused upon Ailene then before inclining her head. “You’re not just worried about the coming conflict, are you?” she mused. “There’s something else?”

  “No, there isn’t,” Ailene replied, waving her away with a nervous laugh. “Stop fussing.”

  She wanted to tell someone about Muin’s confession, yet this was not the right moment.

  “Your face betrays you.” Eithni shook her head, folding her arms under her breasts. “You’ve got dark smudges under your eyes. Are you sleeping?”

  Ailene pulled a face. “Not much … I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  Eithni’s expression clouded. “We all do.”

  Ailene dropped her gaze to the glowing lump of peat. “I’m the only bandruí here … it’s a lot of responsibility to shoulder.”

  “The other chieftains left their seers at home for a reason,” Eithni replied, her heart-shaped face growing solemn. “Too many predictions can confuse things … they trust the bandruí of The Eagle … and for good reason.”

  “But what if I accidentally steer them wrong?”

  “You won’t, lass. You may be young still, but you have a close bond with the spirit world. Ruith was always impressed with your skills.”

  Ailene ran a hand over her face. At twenty four she didn’t feel so young anymore; most women of her age were already wed with a clutch of bairns pulling at their skirts.

  “There have been so many changes of late,” she said after a long pause. “I feel uprooted.”

  Eithni sighed, understanding lighting in her eyes. “Aye, I know what you mean. How I miss our home in Dun Ringill, with its rambling garden.”

  Ailene’s mouth curved into a soft smile at the thought of her own small hut in the fort. It sat next to Eithni’s much larger dwelling—Donnel had added extra rooms onto that hut over the years. She too had a garden there. The hut sat apart from the other dwellings in the fort, near the eastern walls. After her mother had died, she had gone to live there with Ruith. She hated to think of the Cruthini living there now.

  “I too am a woman who resists change.” Eithni smiled at her then, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Give my sister a blade and a shield, and she’ll go anywhere, live anywhere, but I’ve always preferred home and hearth. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it does mean we often feel adrift at times like this.”

  Muin followed his companions across wind-seared hills. A short distance from Balintur, they reached the coast and descended a steep bank to where a single rowboat sat upon the rocks. The sea beyond was rough and grey, and seabirds screeched and wheeled overhead.

  Frowning, Muin took in the choppy water and the rough surf that broke against the rocks.

  “Not the best weather to be taking to the water,” Talor commented, echoing Muin’s own thoughts.

  “I’d prefer to wait until a windless day,” Varar replied, glancing back at Talor over his shoulder as he picked his way across the slippery rocks. “But this time of year, this is the best we can hope for.”

  “Aye,” Fina replied, her gaze scanning the cloudy sky. “And from the looks of things, we shouldn’t have any rain … for today at least.”

  Varar reached the boat and shouldered off the heavy pack he had brought, which contained rations since they would not have time to fish or hunt for food. Then, Fina climbed in and picked up the oars.

  Together, the three men heaved the wooden rowboat off the rocks and towed it into the surf. Muin waded in, inhaling sharply as the gelid water soaked through his plaid breeches and bit into his skin. The water of the sea and the lochs around The Winged Isle was cold all year round, but now on the cusp of the bitter season, it was freezing.

  Beside Muin, Talor breathed a curse.

  However, once they waded in there was no going back, and since Varar did not mutter a complaint, neither Muin nor Talor was about to. Despite that The Eagle and The Boar were friends these days, the old rivalry was not yet forgotten. Talor especially was highly competitive where Varar was concerned.

  They pushed the boat through the foaming surf and then, when they were far enough away from the rocks, climbed on board.

  Fina then turned the boat around and rowed them out into the open sea.

  It was hard going. The wind seemed stronger out from land. It stung their exposed faces and slowed Fina’s progress. As soon as they had moved away from the shore, Varar picked up a second pair of oars and started to row in unison with his wife.

  The boat bobbed, rolled, and dipped in the choppy seas, yet slowly, they inched their way west, circuiting the peninsula that jutted out from the mainland. Once they rounded its western tip, they would then row south, making for Boar territory.

  Later on, Talor and Muin would take their turns at rowing, but for now Muin merely clung on as the boat pitched and rolled. Queasiness rose within him, but he kept it at bay by making sure his gaze fixed upon land and sucking in deep lungfuls of cold, briny air.

  It helped—a little.

  At least the nausea took his mind off what he had left behind and his humiliation.

  Part of him never wanted to return to Balintur. If they had not been so preoccupied with the invaders, he would have been tempted to take a year-long hunting trip to the isle’s remote north. Anything to avoid Ailene.

  Eventually, they rounded the rocky headland before rowing across the wide mouth to Loch Slapin.

  Muin shifted his attention east, his gaze narrowing. Dun Ringill was there, just out of sight, perched like a great watchtower on the cliffs above the loch.

  “Don’t worry … we’ll get it back,” Talor’s voice intruded.

  Muin tore his gaze from the eastern horizon to meet his cousin’s eye. Talor had a look he knew well: both stubborn and fierce. There was no doubt in his expression, only determination.

  “Once An Teanga is liberated, only Dun Ringill remains,” Talor reminded him. “We’ll surround them … starve those dogs out if we have to. The fort will one day be ours again.”

  Looking away, Muin glanced east once more. Longing for his home rose up within him with such force it made his chest ache. “Aye, it will,” he murmured.

  Chapter Seven

  Through the Mist

  BALINTUR FELT EMPTY without Fina, Talor, and Muin.

  After the noon meal, Ailene took a walk through the fields outside the walled village. Usually, Fina would have accompanied her, for it was the time of day when the two women often chatte
d together before afternoon chores began. However, today Ailene strolled alone.

  Her gaze went to where men were shoring up the high wall that encircled the village. They were digging a ditch around the base of it, which they would later fill with iron spikes.

  But those men were not the only people working outdoors. As Ailene cut a path through the fields, she passed folk bent over beds of cabbage and turnip. The last of the harvest had been reaped, yet there were still a few hardy vegetables that grew over the colder months. She also passed women and children carrying water up to the village from a well outside the walls.

  Carrying a basket looped over one arm, Ailene made a mental note to stop and help herself to a cabbage on the way home. She would make a pottage for supper. However, the basket was not for vegetables, but for collecting herbs. Every so often, Ailene would venture out in search of special plants, which she used in her role as bandruí.

  The nearest woodland was an oak thicket a few furlongs north-east of the village. It was a decent walk, although Ailene was glad to stretch her legs.

  Her stocks of herbs were starting to get low, and there were a few items that she did not want to run out of. Ruith had spent years teaching Ailene the properties of the many herbs she grew in her wild garden. But without her garden, Ailene had to go farther afield to gather the herbs she needed.

  Reaching the woods, Ailene inhaled the fresh earthy scent of the copse. Around her rose a sea of spreading oaks. Most of them had nearly lost all their leaves, their majestic branches creating a canopy overhead.

  The strain of the past few days eased. Oak woods were sacred places for bandruí. They considered oaks the king of all the trees. Often, if Ailene felt confused and in need of clarity, she would visit the nearest oak tree and sit down under it. The calming shade of a mighty oak made decision-making much easier.

  Ailene drew a slender knife from her belt and peeled off some oak bark. With winter coming it was a useful item to have nearby, for burning it helped ward off illness and pain.

  Moving on, she snipped off cuttings from a lonely fir tree that sat on the edge of the oak thicket. Needles from this tree were used in blessing a mother and her newborn. Morag, Varar’s sister, had just given birth, and Ailene wanted to keep both mother and bairn safe. Next she collected cuttings of Blackthorn, Ash, Betony, and Hawthorne, among others. All of these plants had specific properties—from healing and protection, to warding off evil spirits, and defending warriors in battle.

  Ailene needed them all.

  The light was starting to fade by the time she returned to Balintur. Cresting the final hill before the village, she stopped a moment, her gaze resting upon her destination. The watch had lit braziers atop the stone walls. After a blustery day, the wind had finally died. The men and women who worked the fields all day had returned home as dusk settled over the land.

  Ailene heaved a sigh. It was now too dark to help herself to a cabbage. It looked like she would be having oatcakes for supper—again.

  Hiking her now heavy basket up on one hip, she continued down the hill to the north gate.

  The warriors standing guard greeted her as she approached. Ailene’s heart sank when she recognized one of them: Fingal.

  The Wolf warrior flashed her a wide grin and stepped forward to block her path. “You’re late this eve, Ailene. We’ve just closed the gates.”

  Ailene raised her chin slightly, meeting Fingal’s eye. Last time they had shared words, he had been angry, threatening even. But now he was back to his brash, teasing self. Even so, she did not trust him.

  “I’m sure you’ll open them … for me,” she replied, forcing a smile.

  “I might, for a kiss.”

  Ailene stiffened. She really was not in the mood for this. However, she was careful not to let her smile slip. “Did you hear that, Owen?” she called out to the other Wolf warrior guarding the gates. “Fingal is hankering for a kiss … why don’t you give him one?”

  Owen, an older man with a weather-beaten face, snorted a laugh. “He won’t be getting one from me.”

  Ailene turned back to Fingal. “Then I suppose I shall be out here all night,” she replied. “For you won’t be receiving a kiss from me either.”

  Fingal’s grin had faded, and he took a step toward her. “That’s not very friendly.”

  Ailene did not reply. Instead, she cast a pleading look at Owen.

  “Enough of this, Fingal,” the guard rumbled. “Let the lass pass.”

  Fingal did not reply for a moment. Instead, he stared at Ailene. Beneath the brashness and aggression, she saw disappointment darken his eyes. He had not forgotten Gateway either it seemed, or forgiven.

  “Very well.” He stepped back and shouldered the heavy gate open.

  Ailene released the breath she had been holding. Thank the Gods, he was not going to be difficult.

  However, as she passed by him, Fingal dipped his head close. “But sooner or later, I’m collecting that kiss,” he murmured, his voice rough, “and I care not if you give it willingly.”

  The light faded, taking the buffeting wind with it. Drifting on the smooth surface of the sea, the four companions seated in the boat shared a light supper of oatcakes and sheep’s cheese, washed down with apple wine.

  A full moon rose to the north-east, hovering above the bulk of the headland they had just rounded: the great Sleat peninsula on The Winged Isle’s southern extremity. They were deep in Boar lands now but still some distance from An Teanga.

  “Do you want to bring the boat aground?” Fina asked Varar as she brushed crumbs off her lap. “We can press on in the morning.”

  Varar shook his head. The hoary light of the moon reflected off the arrogant planes of his face, glinting off his tiny hoop earring. “We’re safer under the cover of darkness,” he pointed out. “If we follow the coastline east, we should reach the fort before dawn … we’ll be able to get closer to it that way.”

  Listening to The Boar chieftain, Muin felt fatigue press down upon him, warring with the tension that rippled through his body. Of course, Varar’s words made sense. They were much easier to spot in daylight, especially once they rowed closer to An Teanga.

  However, after traveling all day, his back and shoulders ached. Even taking turns at rowing, he was done in.

  Varar was tired too; Muin could see the lines of fatigue on his face. Yet, if he was not going to rest, none of them would.

  Fina did not reply, although Muin imagined she was as exhausted as the rest of them.

  “Very well,” Talor replied, his tone resigned. However, Muin noted that his shoulders were tense. Like his companions, Talor was preparing himself for their arrival at their destination. He took one final swig from the wine bladder before stoppering it. “We’d better get moving then.” He picked up the oars, his fingers flexing around the smooth wooden surface. Talor then glanced over his shoulder at where Muin perched behind him. “Ready?”

  Muin heaved in a deep breath and picked up the oars. Luckily, his hands were already calloused from sword practice and hard labor. Even so, the tendons in his fingers protested as he tightened them around the oars. “Aye, let’s go.”

  The cousins resumed their rowing, the rhythmic splash the only sound in the clear, still night. The water gleamed like oil in the moonlight.

  The wind, although wearing, had cooled their skin on the journey south. Now, without it, sweat trickled down Muin’s face and neck.

  Even so, he enjoyed rowing, for it helped burn off the nervous excitement that bubbled up inside him with each furlong that they inched closer to An Teanga. It was the same sensation that built before battle, one that dissolved the moment he unsheathed his sword and rushed at the enemy. He could sense the building tension in all his companions, despite that conversation had ceased for the present.

  They had been traveling for a while, before Varar spoke up again. “An Teanga sits at the end of a wide sound.” He kept his voice low, yet it seemed to carry in the stillness. “The broch itsel
f has a clear view in every direction for many furlongs distant. It’ll be impossible to get close in daylight.”

  “So how do we get near enough to spy on their defenses?” Muin asked. “The enemy will have sentries patrolling the land around the fort.”

  “We’ll be invisible enough before sunrise, as long as they don’t hear the splash of our oars. We should be able to get close to the broch,” Varar replied. “But once dawn breaks, we’ll need to find somewhere to hide across the water from the fort.”

  “You want us to row up to the broch?” Fina asked, an edge to her voice. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “No,” Varar growled, “but do you have a better idea?”

  “I do,” Talor replied before Fina could bite back. His voice was strained as he continued to row. “I suggest we keep back from the fort, find somewhere to hide, and scout out the land once dawn breaks.”

  “I’ll do the scouting,” Fina replied quickly.

  “Wait.” Varar’s tone sharpened. “I’m leading this mission, wife. I’ll decide who risks their neck.”

  “I’m the obvious choice, husband,” Fina countered, not remotely cowed by Varar’s stern tone. Instead, Muin heard the anticipation in her voice. She loved scouting missions.

  Listening to them, Muin’s mouth curved. Varar mac Urcal had met his match in Fina. She bowed before no man and never would. Even so, he tensed at the thought of his cousin putting herself at risk. She could be reckless at times.

  “I’m small and quick, and can hide my tracks better than the rest of you.” Fina pointed out. “And, I know An Teanga well enough.”

  Muin suppressed a snort. Of course she did. Fina had been Varar’s prisoner just a few months earlier. How quickly things could change. Varar and Fina had once been mortal enemies. She had loathed the man then, but now they were wed.

  Fina’s pointed words were not lost on Varar. “Very well,” he replied, although his tone was rough with disapproval. “But you’d better not let them see you.”