A leaden weight settled in Conan’s stomach. He had been placed in the group traveling with his father and Teague. And the last thing he wanted was to see either of them again, let alone travel with them for weeks and pretend at civility.
“If it’s all the same to you,” he ventured, looking to his king, “I’d prefer to destroy the bridge.”
Brian narrowed his sharp eyes, regarding Conan. “I’ll allow it,” he said at last. “Though I don’t think you can avoid them forever, nor should you.”
Conan inclined his head, knowing better than to argue with the man. Normally, he took every word of advice the aged king offered him. But he couldn’t imagine what purpose it might serve to give either of them a moment more of his time.
“Now,” Brian declared, rising slowly from his wooden chair, “I must see my great-niece.”
Illadan, the father of the newest addition to the king’s family, jumped to action, leading them all to the feasting hall at the heart of their holding in Cenn Cora. Inside, a circle of women satbefore the fire, working on projects and talking softly amongst themselves.
Eva, Finn’s wife, balanced a partly-sewn baby gown atop her swollen belly. Their child would follow its cousin near midsummer.
Niamh, Dallan’s wife, tied herbs into bundles to hang in her stillroom. She stood when she spotted the men entering the hall, smiling at them warmly.
Ethlinn, Illadan’s wife, cradled their daughter. Little fingers wiggled tellingly above the swaddling, a look of pure joy lighting Ethlinn’s face.
Cara, who had wed Conan’s brother Diarmid, and Astrid, who had wed his brother Cormac, sat on either side of her, cooing over the wee girl. It was no secret that Astrid wanted children sooner rather than later. Now that Eva, her cousin, was carrying, Astrid could talk of little else.
“Let me see little Liadan,” Brian called, walking to stand over Ethlinn and the babe. Gone was the stern king plotting against his enemies. In his place, a doting grandsire. Brian had always held a fondness for children—it was one of the things that Conan had found endearing in his own youth.
Conan followed behind him, peeking at Liadan over Brian’s shoulder. She still hadn’t much in the way of hair, but what little she had was fair as undyed linen. Her squashed, plump face was starting to show signs of resembling her parents, though to Conan she mostly looked like any other baby. He supposed if he ever had his own child one day, he’d be able to tell them apart.
“Has your mother come by to visit her namesake?” Brian asked Illadan as he took the swaddled babe into his own arms.
“Aye,” Illadan smiled, never taking his eyes off his daughter. “She was here a month before the birth and only left a few days ago, and then only with great reluctance.”
“Children are a blessing,” Brian told him. “Don’t squander yours.”
Conan missed Illadan’s reply, distracted by Niamh. Or, rather, Niamh’s absence. And Dallan’s, he noted, completing his scan of the hall. Leaving the rest of them to fawn over the babe, he ventured back out into the courtyard in search of his missing friends.
Niamh could not have children, though she and Dallan didn’t talk about it often. It hadn’t occurred to Conan until just now that all of this fuss over the baby might be difficult for them. As a skilled healer and midwife, Niamh had tended both mother and child for months and had delivered Liadan herself. She was always ready to watch the babe so that Ethlinn could get some rest. She and Dallan had done nothing but support their friends, but Conan realized that perhaps it hadn’t been with as much ease as it appeared.
He found them sitting atop a low stone wall at the far eastern edge of the courtyard. Dallan’s arm held his wife, a dark swath across her waterfall of golden hair.
Conan hopped onto the wall on the other side of Niamh, contemplating what he should say. A dozen or more ideas ran through his mind, but in the end he landed on blunt honesty.
“How are you doing?” he asked them both.
Niamh turned to him. Pale tracks ran down her cheeks, the only sign that she’d been crying. “I always knew it would be hard,” she said softly. “It alwayswashard. I just didn’t realize it would be this hard.”
“The harder the battle, the stronger the warrior,” Conan replied. “I don’t think there are many who could do what you’re doing with so much grace and strength, myself included.”
“It’s kind of you to say that.”
Conan stood, facing them both. “I didn’t say it to be kind. I said it because it’s true, and I want to make sure you know it.” He looked to Dallan. “Both of you.”
He left them,not wanting to impose on their privacy. His vast experience with betrayal meant that he knew just how valuable the support of a true friend could be. No matter what, he’d ensure that his friends found that in him. The last thing he wanted was to turn into his wretched brother.
Chapter Two
Rain pelted herworn woolen cloak as Alannah forded the flooding road to reach Glasny’s alehouse. It had been raining for days, spring breaking in full force and testing the integrity of the dikes along the River Sionainn. If not for the newly finished bridge, Alannah would’ve been soaked to her knees crossing the ford.
Heaving into the creaky oaken door, she threw it open and hurried into the alehouse and out of the gale. Glasny turned toward her, his deep blonde waves even wilder than usual today.
Glasny’s alehouse was the most unassuming building in all of Ath Luain. It looked like a large cottage, with perhaps a bit of extra seating outside. No sign denoted it as anything other than what it seemed. Yet everyone in town knew it was the only place to go for a good ale and a sympathetic ear.
“I wondered what sort of depraved soul would come drinking as the sun yet rose,” he grinned. He kept his beard short beneath a rounded nose and hazel eyes. His oval face was handsome and always friendly, and he’d been one of her father’s best friends before the sickness took him.
