The hut grew quiet, and yet—it did not. Liadan could feel him there, Ardahl MacCormac, just outside the door. Feel him even though she could not see him, as if he shouted his presence aloud.
How could she ever have been so mistaken in anyone? For she had admired him, to be sure she had. Even begun to desire him, after she grew old enough to understand what might exist between a man and a woman.
He had no woman among the tribe. Looked to no woman, though other young lasses of the clan spoke of him. He remained set upon working his way to the foremost of the tribe’s warriors, and on caring for his mother, both things she had admired.
Some whispered that only when he achieved the place he wanted, at the head of Fearghal’s men, would he consider taking a wife. Choosing a woman and handfasting with her.
Whether he was looking or not, he had never so much as glanced in Liadan’s direction. She told herself now how glad she was of it.
The serpent.
Knowing what he was and how mistaken she’d been in him, how was it she could still feel him outside the door?
She tried to comfort herself with the fact that Conall too had been mistaken in Ardahl. It did not help.
Conall. Her glorious older brother with the sunny smile, the dancing eyes, and the teasing tongue. He could brighten any day and lighten any mood.
How could it be that he was gone from the world?
Mam stirred and muttered fitfully, but did not wake. Liadan thought about taking some of the draught the healer had mixed, for he had left extra. Perhaps that would quiet her mind.
But what if Mam awakened and needed her?
Night settled around the hut with its accompanying quiet. What if, during this silent time, Conall arose from his cold bed on the hill and came walking down? Came home to the hut, seeking admittance. Seeking his place back from Ardahl, whom she could feel—
Breathing.
Och, but she had to get hold of herself. Find some rest, some peace. Tomorrow was likely to be terribly difficult. Mayhap not so difficult as today—for naught could be, but—
Mam stirred again and whispered a name in her sleep.Conall. Liadan squeezed her eyes shut and held on tight.
*
Morning came withlivid red light bleeding through the sky, a dire omen. To Ardahl, who had done no more that doze against the wall of the hut beside the door, it looked like the blood that hadspread across Conall’s tunic when he tried to remove the knife. Straight from his heart.
He did not want to face this day. Did not know how to alter the fact that he must.
He got to his feet, stretching his back and his legs, feeling three score years of age.
Staring at that sky, he knew to his bones something bad would occur this day. Just like yesterday. Mayhap every day for the rest of his life.
What would be expected of him? He struggled to think. Should he attend training as he and Conall always did?
He and Conall.
Folk would come by here to commiserate with Mistress MacAert, bring her comfort, and pour sympathy upon her.
None would spare a thought for him, though he’d lost something as vital to him as his right arm.
He blinked and again struggled to remember what had happened. How it had happened. As he had five score times already, he relived the argument with Conall there at the edge of the training field.
They rarely argued. Och, there had been annoyances, small things. He’d sometimes become aggravated with Conall’s teasing. Conall sometimes seemed to mind that he, Ardahl, gained higher honors than him on the field.
Nothing they could not shrug off.
This time—
For days, Conall had been needling him, and not in a friendly way. Voice sharper than usual, jibes just a bit sharper. There on the field, when they worked together, he had suddenly accused Ardahl of wanting him out of the way.
