Cara heartily agreed.
“It’s not desolate,” Diarmid argued from behind her. She wasn’t the least surprised he chose to be disagreeable. “There’s activity everywhere. It’s bleak.”
She and Niamh both turned around to look at him.
“Cloudy skies, the wailing of gulls, puddles of water blacker than a pond in hell. I’d go with bleak.” He grinned at her, that same grin he’d used on the innkeeper.
And, as always, her insides melted. She decided sometime during dinner the night before that no matter how skilled he may be with sword or spear, that smile was his most potent weapon. Based on how often he wielded it, he knew that, too. Cara had absolutely no interest in Diarmid, beyond perhaps convincing him to consider reforming his ways, yet her body always reacted when he pinned her with that wicked, charming smile.
It irritated her almost as much as his juvenile behavior. Almost.
Split logs paved the roads of Dyflin, making a commendable attempt to keep the bog from overtaking the walkways. Most of the time, they succeeded. Occasionally, Cara’s horse lost its footing on the slippery wood. All of the homes were built in the same foreign style as the inn, woven wattle fences separating the endless rows of adjoining properties. Everything, from the land to the buildings to the people, was so different from Thurles. For a town only a few days to the east and one kingdom over, it felt like a completely different island.
They wound their way gradually upward through the center of town. The tall masts of ships peeked above the sloped roofs of thatch and high palisade that hid the harbor from sight. The slow buzzing of saws and the clink of a smith’s hammer sang a craftsman’s song as they rode. The smell of brine, pitch, and pine filled every breath Cara took until they reached the far side of the settlement. Then it smelled of peat and roast boar.
A shorter palisade, of a height with many of her warrior companions, encircled a large group of buildings along the eastern edge of Dyflin. She counted at least two gigantic halls,easily twice as long and tall as the inn, and five other buildings as they entered Sitric’s holding.
“Welcome, friends!” A tall, fair-haired beast of a man bellowed when they’d begun dismounting. “Dallan,” their host made it to the grinning warrior in three long strides, embracing him like a brother. “’Tis good to see you again, cousin.” Sitric’s voice held a musical lilt that Cara found both unexpected and pleasing.
“’Tis good to be back again,” Dallan replied, returning Sitric’s embrace.
“And Finn!” Sitric turned cheerily toward the tallest man among the Fianna, whose sand-colored hair was nearly a match to Sitric’s. Sitric spoke to Finn in a foreign tongue, leaving Cara to guess at what was said. When Dallan laughed at the exchange, she realized that he, too, must speak the language of the Fin Gall.
“You’ll be wanting to learn it, I imagine,” Diarmid whispered to her, walking to stand beside her as Sitric loudly greeted each and every one of them. Though Cara could have done without his ostentatious enthusiasm, she was impressed that he remembered each of their names, and a good deal more about each man.
“I suppose I will,” she admitted.
“Most in his hall speak both languages,” Diarmid added. “All the craftsmen and artisans come from the countryside and nearby villages, so the language of our people is just as common.”
“How do you know that?”
The corner of Diarmid’s lips curved upward. “Enat told me last night.”
Before she could release the barb forming in her mind, Sitric reached her. Or, rather, reachedforher. Instinctively, Cara took a step backward. Sitric’s smile fled, his jovial attitude dissipating like a morning mist.
“You find me repulsive?”
Oh, Lord. She hadn’t even said a word and she’d already botched her only duty. “No, no,” she hurried. “You surprised me, I’m afraid. I find you quite charming.”
He eyed her skeptically. In truth, Cara had no desire to embrace a man she’d only just met. She didn’t even embrace her sister that often anymore. In an attempt to prove her point, Cara extended her arm to him, expecting him to bow or something equally respectable.
Instead, he pulled her into a vise-like embrace. Cara went stiff, so uncomfortable she couldn’t even muster the willpower to return the gesture. When he released her, she found nine pairs of eyes watching them apprehensively. Diarmid’s pained look told her it was as bad as she’d feared. Niamh offered her a sad but encouraging smile.
Cara wanted nothing more than to melt into one of the muddy puddles littering this cursed town. Instead, she raised her chin and did her best impersonation of Diarmid’s blasted grin. “You have a lovely home here,” she lied, hoping it wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Perhaps you could show me around?”
“As my lady wishes,” Sitric replied, some of the mirth returning to his tone. “Astrid!” he shouted into the nearest hall. He turned to Dallan. “That girl’s never around when I need her.”
“She’s around,” Dallan chimed in. “She’s probably ignoring your bellyaching.”
A stunning woman stepped out of the hall, certainly not the young girl Cara had pictured at Sitric’s words. Though her features were quite striking, Cara couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s fiery red hair, like embers glowing in a blacksmith’s forge. “Or she’s doing your chores,” the woman, presumably Astrid, replied tartly. Her freckle-flecked face lit up when she spotted Dallan. She squealed as she ran to leap into his waiting arms. “Is Eva coming, too?”
“No,” Dallan replied sadly. “Though she certainly wishes it.”
Astrid rolled her lips into a pouty frown. “Perhaps I’ll have to venture to Cenn Cora to see her. It’s been too long.”
“She would love that,” Finn, Eva’s husband, said, walking over to introduce himself to Astrid. “She can’t stop talking about her wonderful cousin.”
“You mean me, right?” Sitric interjected.
