Part 2 (2/2)
Griane hurried toward her hut, praying that Faelia had remembered to put the stew on the fire and prepare a fresh batch of oatcakes. Her prayers-as usual-were not answered; the unbaked oatcakes sat on plaited withies, the stewpot beside them.
She shoved the baking stone atop the peat bricks and vented her anger on a bunch of wild onions. She tossed them into the stew, hefted the pot into the fire pit, and thrust a handful of dead twigs under it, watching to be sure they caught. At this rate, it would be dark before the stew was hot.
Squatting beside their pallet, she threw back the wolfskins. For a long moment, she eyed her best tunic, the one she wore only on feast days. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she pulled out her everyday tunic and skirt. Her fingers fumbled with the drawstrings of her birthing skirt.
Like a girl on her wedding night. Except Darak was more nervous than I was.
She kicked her birthing clothes under the wolfskins; time enough on the morrow to wash them. No time, alas, to rebraid her hair. A splash of water on her face, a quick look around the hut. Was it so much to ask that the children tidy their sleeping places instead of leaving the furs strewn about? It looked like a storm had blown through. She spent a few precious moments smoothing furs and folding clothing, then abandoned the effort and raced down to the lake.
Everyone was there, hugging family members, shouting greetings, waving to those whose coracles had yet to reach the beach. Darak was easy to find, a good head taller than most of the men. He'd caught Callie up in his arms, but freed one as Faelia flung herself on him. Keirith must still be with the Tree-Father.
You'd think he could abandon his lessons long enough to welcome his father home.
Darak's lips moved, still talking to the children, as his gaze swept the crowd. ”It's like you carry the sunset on your shoulders,” he'd once said in a most uncharacteristic burst of poetry. Her hair had been brighter then, even brighter than Faelia's. Age and worry had streaked the sunset with white, but still he found her.
The milling throng, the babble of voices, the glittering water of the lake all faded away. There was only that cool gray gaze and that slow smile and the ridiculous thumping of her heart. He walked toward her, Callie clinging to one hand, Faelia to the other.
”We didn't expect you so soon.”
”We were eager to get home.”
”No trouble at the Gathering?”
He shrugged, his glance straying to the children, letting her know without words that they would talk later.
”You were probably trying to seduce Seg's wife again.”
”Aye. Well. I've a great fondness for scolds.”
He freed his hands from the children to brush wisps of hair off her cheeks with his thumbs. Then he cupped her face and kissed her lightly. She hugged him hard, abandoning herself to the feel of that broad back under her fingertips, the familiar smell of leather and peat smoke and that indefinable something that was Darak and only Darak.
”I missed you, too, girl,” he whispered.
”Did you bring us presents from the Gathering, Fa?”
With a rueful grin, her husband slipped out of her arms and back into his role as father. ”Maybe.”
”Fa . . .” Callie danced from one foot to the other in impatience.
”Callum. Give your father a moment to catch his breath.”
”Fetch my pack and we'll see about presents.” Darak scanned the thinning crowd. ”Where's Keirith?”
”Praying, probably,” Faelia said. ”I snared twelve rabbits while you were gone and brought down four wood pigeons and three-”
”It's awful heavy.” Callie's face was mashed into a frown of concentration as he staggered toward them, dragging the pack. ”You must have brought a lot of presents.”
”Enough, both of you. Your father's probably starving. There's rabbit stew. And oatcakes. If they bake in time.” Griane spared a quick glare for Faelia who predictably rolled her eyes.
Hand in hand, she and Darak started up the slope. Suddenly, he pulled away. ”Urkiat. Forgive me. I'm a poor host.”
For the first time, Griane noticed the hawk-faced stranger. He smiled at Darak's words, but his rapt gaze remained fixed on her. Perhaps she looked better than she imagined.
”Griane, this is Urkiat. He's going to be spending a few days with us.”
Griane smoothed her hair, the vision of their untidy hut making her wince.
”Urkiat, this is my wife. My daughter, Faelia. And this one . . .” He bent down to retrieve the pack that Callie was attempting to drag up the hill. ”This is my younger son, Callum.”
Urkiat bowed. ”Griane. I can't tell you . . . It's . . . I am honored.”
Merciful Maker, another of the wors.h.i.+pful young men. Every summer brought one or two to the village, slack-jawed and stammering, to meet the great Darak Spirit-Hunter. Their own tribe had long since accepted their roles in the quest to find the spirit of the Oak-Lord, lost during that long-ago Midwinter battle. Even those who still remembered Darak's brother seemed to view the story of Tinnean's transformation from boy to tree as if it had happened to a stranger. And no matter how many times they heard the story of her interval in the Summerlands with the Trickster, it was hard to wors.h.i.+p the woman who dosed you with dandelion root and yellow dock to loosen your bowels.
”Best close your mouth,” Faelia said. ”Else you'll be having flies for supper.”
Urkiat flushed and snapped his mouth shut. Darak tugged Faelia's braid, unsuccessfully hiding a grin. As usual, it was left to her to preserve the proprieties. ”Forgive my daughter's rudeness, Urkiat. You are welcome to our village.”
G.o.ds grant the rabbit stew would stretch to feed another. He didn't look like a big eater, but the skinny ones invariably surprised you.
Faelia and Callie hung on their father as they walked back to the village, leaving her to make polite conversation with Urkiat. ”I judge from your accent that you come from the south.”
”Aye. I grew up by the sea.”
”You're a fisherman?”
”I was.”
Clearly, there was a story, one the young man didn't want to tell. She'd get it from Darak later.
”Was this your first Gathering?”
”Nay. I went once before. When I was young.”
Griane suppressed a smile. Despite the white scar that curved like the waxing moon from cheekbone to jaw, Urkiat couldn't be much older than twenty.
”How did you meet Darak?”
”I spoke at the convocation.”
”You're a chief?”
”Nay.”
”Oh. The chiefs invited you to speak?”
”Not exactly.”
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