“Thus the Feast to Odin,” he confirmed.
Food was brought to them course by course, each served in a trencher he shared with Dani. Pottage, soups, roasted meats, and sweet creations all made from the MacDowylt’s meager storage of supplies. Every dish accompanied by a seemingly endless supply of the ale and served to the soul-searing beat of drums and pipes.
While the feast itself was a custom of his father’s people, the music belonged to his mother’s world. Primitive, ancient, it stirred his blood.
At intervals the music would pause long enough for the players to rotate, allowing each group of four musicians to rest until it was their turn to play again.
During one such interval the old cook, Ada, appeared at his side, a cloth-wrapped box held reverently in her hands.
It was time.
He accepted the bundle, laying it on the table in front of him. Peeling back the soft linen he exposed a box, hand-carved in generations past from the wood of the sacred rowan tree. He lifted the lid to reveal three large drinking horns, each engraved with the symbol of one of their gods.
He stood and poured a draft of ale from his tankard into the first horn, lifting it above his head.
A hush fell over those gathered in the room, many of whom had followed him for years. The warriors among the assembled lifted their tankards above their heads in a duplication of his move.
“For victory and power,” he called out.
“For victory and power,” they echoed.
“For Odin,” they all yelled in unison with him, downing their drinks even as he swallowed the contents of the drinking horn.
He laid it back on the table and picked up the second, once again pouring a swallow from his tankard into the horn before lifting it above his head.
“For faith in yer own strength and power,” he called, waiting until the room had once again filled with the echo of his words. “For Thor,” he yelled above the noise, leading the room in the toast before downing that drink as well.
A third time, he picked up a horn and poured the remainder of his ale into it before lifting it above his head to lead his people in the final blessing.
“For good years and peace.” He waited until the echo died to lead the chant of “For Frey.”
He downed the last of his ale and sat, carefully replacing the three horns in their box while the room reverberated in shouts and cheers that were quickly drowned out by the resumption of the pounding, pulsing music.
“Did you think to keep this from me? Did you no think I’d be smart enough to recognize the purpose of this gathering?” Dermid shoved his way to the table, his fair skin mottled with anger and too much ale. “Patrick says I’m to be left behind on the morrow. I want to go with you, Colm. You need me there.”
Malcolm had known this moment would come, just as he’d known his answer would be a blow to Dermid’s pride, no matter how he might try to position it. All the same, he would not see the young man’s life at risk.
“I’d ask yer understanding. I leave you behind to see to my castle. To see to my people.”
“Do you take me for a fool? It’s horse dung you think to rub my face in now. I’m no a youngling. I’ve a right to go with you. Christiana is my sister too.”
If Dermid wouldn’t accept an excuse, he’d have the truth, though Malcolm doubted it would satisfy him any better.
“Yer my brother, Dermid. As I’d have Christiana safe with me, so, too, I’d have you safe. You stay behind.”
“Patrick is yer brother too, but he trails along, sniffing yer butt like a dog on every campaign, does he no?”
Beside him, Patrick rose to his feet.
“Patrick is a seasoned warrior, fighting at my side as my right hand. You’ve no his experience.” Malcolm reached out, laying his hand over Dermid’s. “Yer my brother. I love you. I’d no ever place yer life in jeopardy.”
Dermid slapped his hand away, staggering back at his own exertion. “Love me? Ha!” He spit on the floor at his feet. “Torquil was right about you. You care for nothing but yer own glory.”
“Dermid . . .” Malcolm thought to soothe, but his brother stormed away, weaving a path through the crowd.
“He’ll be fine.” Patrick reclaimed his seat, shaking his head with a grin. “Well, fine once the ale-sick passes. He’ll come to his senses when his head clears. He’s no one to hold on to an anger.”
Malcolm nodded, hoping his brother was right. But angry or no, Dermid would remain behind. He might be angry, but at least he’d be alive. More than many in this hall would be able to say in a week’s time.
