There had been deaths on both sides. “Many of our valiant gave their lives to defend us,” as he put it. “We will honor each one of them. And I vow to ye—Dacha will feel the sting of our swords in revenge.”
He went on to say the warriors’ hall, which had escaped the flames, would be used to house those whose huts had burned, until they could be rebuilt. And he urged those who still had houses to open them to friends and relations.
“What one o’ us has,” he said gravely, putting an arm around his wife, “belongs to us all.”
Liadan’s gaze moved again to Maeve, who looked so isolated even though her son stood beside her. Had she lost her hut? If so, should Liadan offer to house her?
Who else would?
“Mam,” she began. The decision should by rights belong to her mother. But Mam’s eyes still looked vacant, empty of understanding.
The chief’s speech done, Liadan crossed to the group on the other side. Ardahl watched her come, the expression in his hazel eyes guarded and intent.
Exchanging a glance with him, she felt…wary. Awkward. So glad to see him still alive, she had no words for it.
“Mistress MacCormac.” She reached out and took Maeve’s hands. “Your house—did it survive the fire?”
The woman shook her head, her eyes on the ground. “Nay. I was able to save some things, but—”
Liadan squeezed her fingers. “Then ye must come and stay wi’ us. Just until—until things can be made right.”
Maeve’s gaze came up and met hers. “Your mother will no’ want me there.”
“Your son is already with us. I feel it is only right.”
Maeve shook her head. “I have lost my son.”
“He stands here beside ye.”
“He is Beith MacAert’s son now.”
Liadan shot a look at Ardahl. His face appeared drawn with weariness or pain, smudged with dirt and ash.
“Persuade her,” she bade him. “Where else will she go?”
He said nothing. Liadan turned and walked away back to her charges, not quite able to dismiss the gladness lodged in her heart. He lived. He would be returning to the hut.
She should not rejoice in that, yet she did.
Chapter Twenty
Aman, asArdahl well knew, could sometimes become so weary he grew numb and stupid with it. If he kept pushing through, he came right out the other side. He had been here in the past. After a hard battle, he and Conall had joked about it, turned silly with it. Laughed.
He could not imagine laughing now. His body screamed at him, each movement a protest. Every part of him demanded relief. He had driven his muscles and his nerves beyond endurance. He saw no rest in sight.
The settlement lay in shambles, and Chief Fearghal had done little more than promise them further battles. As if that was what his people needed now. They needed comfort and reassurance, the impossible hope that all would come right.
But for folk such as theirs, the promise of vengeance could be a comfort. Vengeance for the dead. Fearghal knew that. On some level, so did Ardahl.
The thought of further battles provided a blow to his heart. They did not yet know who had survived this one. He’d seen some of his fellow warriors—including Cathair—but a number were so far missing.
Did they lie dead like Conall?
The dead would need burying. The settlement guarding. Homes rebuilt.
He felt tired enough to die.
He turned to his mother. “Will ye go to stay wi’ Mistress MacAert?”
