Liadan did not believe she had ever asked too much of life. Just for those she loved to be safe. For a stout roof when the wind blew, and food enough to sustain her, and hers.
But perhaps that had been too much to ask after all. For look what she’d lost. Look what was gone from her. Her da, and Conall of the bright, strong heart, and her mam.
Ardahl.
But—had Ardahl ever been hers? Aye, they had lain together. He’d possessed her body for a time as she’d possessed his. And he owned her heart forever, he did. There would never be another man in her sight.
But what they shared was forbidden. And being so, it seemed to her all too likely he would never return from this dire battle to which he’d gone. That the gods might so resolve their forbidden love. Take him from her, perhaps in punishment.
For he went at the head of the men to defend his chief. First into battle. First to fall?
If he did not return—
A small sound escaped her throat, a wordless entreaty to Brigid. If he did not return, she supposed she would have to live on—there would be no choice. She would live at least until Chief Dacha’s forces came and burned the settlement, killed the old men, and made slaves out of the rest of them.
She would fight when they came. Take up Ardahl’s sword. Do as he’d taught her. She might and she might not survive.
It would not be living, though, without him.
“Please,” she whispered to the goddess. “Please.”
Maeve entered the hut behind her. The woman had been wandering the settlement since their warriors rolled out, unable to keep still.
Liadan experienced a stab of pity. Poor Maeve. She had already lost her son once, denied him by Aodh’s ruling that turned him into someone else’s son instead. Circumstances had so altered their lives that she had come here to live with them. Had him back for a time.
Was she to lose him again now, for good?
“Lass,” Maeve gasped, “wha’ is it? Has word come?”
“Nay.” Moving like an old woman, Liadan got to her feet. “But I fear—”
She and Maeve looked at each other. Liadan saw her own terror reflected in the woman’s eyes.
“It does no good to fear,” Maeve said. “All we can do is wait.” She added softly before Liadan could speak, “And aye, I know what torture it is.” Reaching out, she brushed Liadan’s cheek. “Just as I know what it is ye feel for my son.”
“Forbidden,” Liadan whispered.
“We shall see. The good Brigid can accomplish many things. Come—the women are waiting at the spring, hoping a messenger might arrive.”
The women were, indeed, located at the spring, a whole throng of them. Some had brought what weapons they couldfind. The old men and the lads too young to go off to fight stood with them, and all eyes turned westward.
If Dacha’s forces did come, if they rolled over Fearghal’s and Brihan’s men combined and came to pillage and burn, they would find weapons waiting.
Yet no messenger and no enemy warriors came. Old Fergus said a pair of lads had been sent out to watch and had not been heard from again. The group fell unnaturally quiet, so much so that Liadan could hear birds singing in the trees, not far off.
Birds that did not know life and death teetered on what was to come.
Even the bairns in the crowd remained mostly quiet. Women sat down with their backs to the spring and nursed them, rocked them, coaxed them to sleep.
The afternoon dragged on toward evening.
At last, a cry came. A long, undulating cry it was, causing a disturbance of the very air, as if the world suddenly trembled. Those waiting were instantly on their feet. Facing all into the sunset.
One of the two lads who’d been sent out appeared, approaching at a dead run.
“They come. They come!”
“Who comes?” The words appeared on Liadan’s lips, and she heard them repeated all around.
