Chapter Twenty-Eight
L iadan’s group did encounter other survivors, shadowy figures that materialized out of the trees in small bands of two, three, or more. They came with their own terrible stories, tears, and hushed lamenting.
Ferghan gathered them in. Some of the other old men sought to soothe them, an impossible task. The rain passed, and far to the west, the sky brightened though ugly clouds still hung overhead.
West. Where Ardahl was. In battle.
Had he survived?
Wet to the skin, they shivered. The children wept until they cried themselves to sleep. Maeve remained near Liadan, always close at hand.
“Has anyone seen the chief’s wife?” someone asked. She spoke in a whisper. Sound carried, and they were mice hiding from an eagle.
No one had.
“There will be more groups o’ us,” Ferghan reiterated. “She and his wains may be there.”
Time passed. Liadan found herself sitting on a fallen tree, shivering so her teeth rattled, with Maeve still beside her.
“Come,” Ardahl’s mother said. “Ye can leave go of that sword now. Let’s see if you are hurt.”
“I canna.” Liadan’s hand remained fused to the hilt. Spots of blood, too thick to be chased by the rain, clung to the blade.
“Ye can. Here now, gi’ it to me.” Maeve attempted to pry the weapon from Liadan’s hand. Liadan would not release it. “Now, lamb,” Ardahl’s mother crooned. “At least lay it across your knees.”
Liadan did. It balanced there, winking at her in the glimmers of western light.
“Ye gave this sword to me.”
“I did,” Maeve confirmed.
“Whose is it?”
“That is Ardahl’s. He fights wi’ your brother’s, as ye know. That was left with me. I brought it awa’ when my hut burned. And when I heard—when I heard the screaming begin, I drew it out.”
Staring at the sword, Liadan said nothing. He had carried this at his side. His hand, like hers, had grasped the hilt.
Her heart tried to stir within her. Had he survived? Had he fallen? Did he exist yet beneath this same sky? She shut the thoughts down tight.
She could not let herself feel.
“Come now, let us see if you are hurt.”
“I am all right.”
“Ye are no’. There is blood on your clothing.”
Liadan looked down at herself in surprise. “Not mine. I do not think.”
“Aye, it is. Ferghan?” Maeve called softly. “Where is the healer?”
“Is she hurt bad?”
“Aye.”
“But I feel naught.”
She felt naught.
A darkness came into her head. Voices, hushed, surrounded her. When she returned to herself, one of the healers appeared miraculously and knelt before her, his basket set on the sodden ground.
“How did ye come here?”
He gave her a grim look. “Hush.”
Disobedient, she stared at the wound he treated on her arm. “I do not remember getting that wound.”
“Warriors rarely do.”
“I am not—” She stopped. Ardahl’s sword still lay across her knees. Did that make her a warrior?
When the healer finished his work, Maeve came and sat close beside Liadan, put an arm around her, and drew her in.
“My mam…” Liadan began.
“I know, bairn. I know. I saw. Cry it out, if ye must.”
But Liadan could not cry.
“I do not know where my sister may be.”
“’Tis a torture, not knowing.”
This woman did not know where her son was. Just like Liadan. She did not know if Ardahl be living or lost.
An agony.
“Rest.” Maeve tucked Liadan’s head into the crook of her shoulder. “All we can do is wait.”
*
They waited till dawn, none of them sleeping save the children, the adults too chilled to find slumber. At first light, scouts went stealing out to read the lay of the land.
They came back at length to report the enemy had gone, having destroyed whatever they could and slain whomever they’d encountered. Their plan to burn down the rest of the settlement had been mostly thwarted by the rain.
“There be other groups like us,” one of the men reported, “who flew and hid. One has already gone back down. Others will follow.”
“Is it safe for us to return?” asked a woman cradling two children.
“So far as we can tell.” The scout—a rare surviving member of the guard who had found them during the night—shrugged.
Said an older woman, “What if they return?”
That question went unanswered. Another member of the scouting group who’d ventured farther afield came hurrying.
“Our men return! They are far to the west yet but on our land. Donnacht has taken them the news.”
Is Ardahl among them? Liadan wanted to ask, but her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.
“The chief comes!” the man cried as if in answer.
Those gathered exchanged glances. The chief’s wife and young children had not yet been found. Mayhap they were with one of the other groups of fugitives.
Maeve tightened her arm around Liadan. “They return,” she murmured, “and will defend us. Let us go home. Bring the sword.”
The air reeked of smoke, so thick and heavy that Liadan could scarcely draw a breath without choking. When they reached the settlement, they found others there before them. With no one in charge, folk wandered around looking lost, many of the woman weeping.
Liadan could not go home. Her mam lay there—and not for a fortune in gold could she have made herself walk in. The hut of Maeve—who seemed to have set herself to look after Liadan—had burned long since. So had that of Dornach, where she’d been staying.
Like so many others, they fetched up near the spring, lost souls at sea. One of the older men took charge, sent out others to patrol the perimeter and send word when their men drew close.
More and more folk drifted in from the hills. That was when Flanna, still with Lasair and Lasair’s mother, found Liadan. Flanna flew into her sister’s arms, weeping with relief.
“Liadan! Sister! Is Mam all right? Where is she?”
Clinging to her sister, Liadan could not speak.
“Liadan? Why are ye all bandaged? Are ye sore hurt?”
“Flanna.” Liadan drew away just far enough to look into her sister’s face. It was smudged with dirt and soot, streaked by tears. “Mistress MacCormac and I made it awa’ out o’ the fighting. Mam—Mam did not.”
“What?” Flanna’s blue eyes widened impossibly. “I do not understand.”
“I left her at the hut.”
“Ye—what?”
“I left her to go and fetch the healer, ye see. I was on my way there when—”
“She is at the hut? Let us go.” Flanna started away, pulling Liadan’s hand.
“Flanna, nay. Nay, ye do no’ want to see.”
“If she is there—”
“They killed her. They killed her, Flanna.”
Suddenly, Liadan dissolved into tears. Her legs gave way and she crumpled to her knees, covered her face with her hands. Hiding. Hiding from what had happened.
“Ye left her?” Was that shock or accusation Liadan heard in Flanna’s voice? “An ailing woman? Alone?”
“Here now,” Maeve said softly. “’Tis no’ your sister’s fault.”
Flanna turned on the woman. “Ye get away from me. Your son killed our Conall. Now we have naught left.”
Lasair’s mother, still standing by, took Flanna in her arms. “Here now, here now.”
Liadan remained where she was on the ground. She wanted to fall through it. She wanted to disappear from the world. The hardest thing of all, to stay and face the truth.
The chief’s wife and young children returned to the settlement not long before their men arrived from the west. Like everyone else, Mistress Bridie looked pale with shock and strain, but she set to right away giving instructions, asking whoever was able to begin gathering the dead that they might be numbered, identified, and buried.
Still, Liadan could not make herself return to her hut. Flanna had moved away from her. Liadan and Maeve sat isolated amid all the confusion, one thought only obsessing Liadan’s mind.
Had Ardahl survived?
If he had fallen in battle, she would have nothing—nothing left. Conall gone. Mam gone. Flanna having disowned her. She would have no reason to go on.
The clouds broke and watery sunlight flooded the settlement, making it more terrible somehow. Suddenly, women began exclaiming. Calling out. Crying and running.
Their returning menfolk had arrived. A much-reduced fighting force. Limping chariots.
Liadan got to her feet, there beside the spring, and waited, trembling in every limb.