Chapter Thirty
A nd so, Ardahl wondered, how did a man, in the span of one day, go from being despised to among the most honored? It scarcely made sense, and amid all the grief and confusion, he could barely grasp it. He did not feel honored. He had far too many dire troubles occupying his mind.
Life as they’d known it when they rode off in more than a score of bright chariots had ended. A hundred terrible discoveries came at him that day, slamming against him like tree limbs tossed in a gale. Loss upon loss and horror upon horror. Pain and exhaustion. Hunger that simmered beneath the nausea.
Liadan would not part from him, and he did not want to part from her. He had no name for what had been born between them and needed none. It was strong. Quite possibly unbreakable.
She needed him, as did Mam. The three of them, together. As a trio, they were eventually seen by a healer—the same that had accompanied the warriors westward. He and only one of his fellows remained. The third of their number, Dathi, had died defending a group of children.
Such stories abounded. The mass horror did not lessen the individual losses. Ardahl could not imagine how they would recover from this.
When night fell, they built a great bonfire there beside the spring. It being a mild night, they would all stay together. Only they were not all together. Flanna, whom Ardahl saw across the way with Lasair and her mother, refused to come near Liadan.
Dornach, with an ugly cut to his face and a great, bloody wound at one shoulder, approached.
“We are organizing a watch.” He flicked a glance at Liadan, who clung to Ardahl. “Ye may take the last turn, toward morning. I am that sorry—everyone is needed.”
“I understand.”
He would have to reason with Liadan. Comfort her somehow. But he had no words of comfort.
“Son?”
From somewhere, Mam had obtained food. She knelt before Ardahl and Liadan, offering up the bowl full of choice morsels.
Ardahl’s stomach felt sick, but his hunger remained nonetheless. Raising his gaze to his mam’s, he asked, “Where did ye get all this?”
“Over there.” She jerked her head. “The women are cooking. Chief Fearghal himsel’ insisted ye should have all this. Is it true, son, what he said? Ye saved his life?”
That made Liadan stir also, and pull away to look at him.
He grimaced. “Aye, but I am no hero. Men save one another all the time in battle.” And he had not been able to save Cullan.
It was not right, was it, for him to have more than others around them? Still and all, it was how their clan functioned. In the hall, the foremost warrior sat in the highest place and received the choice portions.
He did not want to be first. Not without Conall, and mayhap not at all. Once, mayhap—but that was no longer why he fought.
Though the food might tempt Liadan and Mam.
“Here,” he told the girl beside him. “Take somewhat to eat.”
“I cannot possibly.”
“Do it for me. Lest later, when I go to my turn at guard, I will no’ be easy in my mind about ye. Ye too, Mam. Let us share this.”
They did, Liadan taking but a few bites and Mam little more. Ardahl finished the rest, unable to deny that he was ravenous.
The others around them ate and settled to attempt sleep. Children wept and women also, invisible in the night. Some folk wandered. Ardahl’s wounds made themselves felt, and the sting kept him awake, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
Liadan dozed against his shoulder, and Mam slept at his side. Once, Liadan roused to say, “I keep seeing her. Lying there. Every time I close my eyes.”
“Aye.” He often saw Conall also, lying at his feet with the dirk in his chest. And Cullan slumped in the grass beside the chariot. Was there no end to it? “Whisht, now.”
When one of the men came and called him to take his place at watch, he had to set Liadan aside. Half asleep, she murmured a protest, and he tucked the hilt of his sword into her hands.
Out in the dark at the edge of the settlement, the night felt perilous. They formed a chain, each man just out of sight from the next and within call.
He could see the light from the bonfire, still burning. He could make out the line of the hills above and hear the rushing stream.
Beyond that could lurk anything. A hundred warriors creeping. Death come to finish them all.
When a thread of light appeared and spread in the east, he breathed a sigh of relief. That light appeared divine, as if brought by the god Lugh himself, riding in his golden chariot.
He stayed where he was till a man came to relieve him, saying the chief had decided to keep a watch in daylight also. The fellow was elderly, but he had a determined look in his eyes.
“Go on down, Master Ardahl. The women are making breakfast.”
*
The endless night came to a finish with a rush of golden light and sickness in the pit of Liadan’s stomach. She woke feeling cold to her bones, her hands wrapped around the hilt of Ardahl’s sword, which he had left with her when he rose to go on guard.
She sat up and, fumbling, laid the weapon on the ground beside her, drew up her knees, and pressed her forehead against them.
Where was her sister? Flanna had to be nearby, as were all the surviving members of the clan. But Flanna blamed Liadan for Mam’s death.
What could she have done differently? She’d had no idea when she left Mam that they would fall under attack. The healers’ hut had been only steps away.
Fateful steps.
Could she have defended Mam against intruders, had she stayed? Could she, without a weapon? They might both have died.
It came to her then in a rush, how precious was her life. How precious the lives of all who had survived—and how fragile. The gods had spared them, and there must be a reason.
She lifted her head, thinking about it. Could she repay such mercy by huddling here, weak and broken? If she had a life still, she must do something with it.
“Liadan, alanna , how d’ye feel?” Maeve laid a hand on Liadan’s back, and she looked into a pair of kind hazel eyes, so much like Ardahl’s that it shook her. Aye, Maeve was a good woman, and a strong one.
“Better. I am better this morning.”
“Good. The men are coming back from their places at guard. Ardahl will be here soon.”
“Aye.” And Liadan would meet him on her feet. “Is there anywhere to wash?”
“I will see.”
Maeve hurried off. Liadan did her best to straighten her clothing, but it hung on her in tatters, beyond saving. Like one seeing them for the first time, she surveyed her injuries—a long gash up her left arm, a wound at one shoulder that did not seem terribly deep but had bled much, a nick to one ear. Bruises everywhere. She would no doubt be black and blue when she stripped down.
She had other clothing, but it would be at the hut. Her every instinct flinched from the thought of the place, even though she supposed they were fortunate to still possess a roof when so many did not.
She struggled to imagine what would happen this day, and failed. It helped a woman to know. But her mind merely stuttered over it. Dead to bury. Wounds to tend. Children to care for and many to feed.
She must make herself useful.
She had survived for a reason.
Maeve reappeared at her side. “Come. There is hot water.”
A kind of communal washing place had been set up halfway to the midden. Numb-looking women, elders, girls, and children all lined up to use it, many with wounds far worse than Liadan’s. No one spoke much. Children wailed; mothers tried to comfort them in hushed voices.
When they returned to their sleeping place, Ardahl was there before them. Liadan wanted once more to rush into his arms, but did not. Yesterday had gone, and a hundred eyes watched. Tongues would soon wag if she clung to him.
Her brother’s killer. The nathrach .
Only he was not that.
He looked like a stranger, tall and battered and wounded, his hair long having escaped from its battle plaits and hanging in a tangle. How badly was he hurt? She’d scarcely asked yesterday. But aye, bandaging stood out against his tanned skin as well as unbandaged scrapes and gashes, only the worst of which had been wrapped.
Their gazes met and spoke a thousand words, though Ardahl uttered none upon seeing her. Nor did she speak.
“Come and wash,” his mam told him, and towed him away. A woman came by, handing out breakfast. Liadan claimed three portions, even though the sight and smell of the food still made her ill.
She caught no sight of Flanna before Ardahl and his mam returned. The three of them sat together on their blankets, which smelled of smoke.
At last Maeve spoke. Looking at her son, she asked, “What will happen today?”
He shook his head. “Burials, no doubt.”
“Burials, aye. The chief will make a speech.” He usually did. He might speak of healing.
Could they heal from this?
“I do no’ doubt,” Ardahl said softly, “he will try to set up some kind of structure. Those who are hurt must be seen. Food. Shelter if it rains. Defense.”
Liadan eyed him. He would have to go from her, to take his turns in the guard over and over again. She would have to manage without his presence—over and over again.
She let her fingers whisper over the length of his sword, which she’d kept beside her in the grass. Smooth. Strong. Reassuring. In an odd way, it grounded her.
Even if she was not touching him, the connection between them held.