“Join us, Ardahl, and break your fast.”
“Nay, thank ye. I have eaten.” A hasty meal provided by Liadan.
Liadan. The very thought of her made it hard to breathe. She’d slept beside him last night, what little she had slept. Soft and vulnerable. Trusting him to protect her, even though she did not truly trust him.
A sacred debt, she had become. Was that what the druids had intended? That he would fulfill Conall’s duty at the prodding not of duty, but love?
Nay, but it had been meant as a punishment. Had it not? He could never ask Aodh now.
He lifted his head and met Dornach’s gaze. “I am here reporting for duty. Fit for standing guard or a patrol, whatever ye ask o’ me.”
Dornach glanced at his wife, pale and shattered, and at Ardahl’s mam, who had followed him in and stood listening.
“There is much to be done,” he admitted. “And all hands will be needed.”
“Aye, Master Dornach. How many dead?”
“More than a score. No’ all o’ them warriors.”
His wife began to weep.
“There are three bairns,” Dornach said, “and some women.”
“I would volunteer for the burials.”
Swiftly, Dornach ran his gaze over Ardahl. “I am no’ certain ye are yet fit.”
“I say that I am.”
“I hear wha’ ye say, lad. And while I admire ye for offering, I must differ.” He clasped Ardahl by the shoulder. “Come ye with me.”
Together they went outside into the morning. Here in the watery light, the weariness and pain showed clearly in Dornach’s face.
“Listen to me, Ardahl. I do no’ want the women to hear this, but I wish ye to know the truth. Dacha will be back. Sooner rather than later, if I do not mistake it. The season has just begun, and he has shown his intentions.”
“Aye, so.”
“Listen.” Dornach’s hand tightened on Ardahl’s shoulder. “We shall have to meet him here, or on the border. When that happens, I will need every warrior. No’ every gravedigger, understand? No’ every guard.”
“I am no’ certain I—”
Dornach gazed into Ardahl’s eyes. “I saw how ye fought in the battle at the border. Saw what ye did there. I also saw the wounds ye took. Despite what happened wi’ Conall, I believe ye belong at the head o’ the men.”
Shock ripped through Ardahl. “But—Cathair. He is already your assistant and wants to stand at the head o’ the men.”
“I know he does. And he is a fine warrior, is Cathair. Valuable to me. I believe”—Dornach’s gaze did not waver—“he would do anything to gain first place among Fearghal’s men.”
Ardahl’s eyes narrowed. What was Dornach saying, exactly? “Ye think—”
“Whisht, lad. Such suspicions are no’ to be spoken aloud. Keep your eyes peeled, and so will I. The long and the short o’ it is, I need ye healed and at your best when the next battle comes. No’ still suffering wounds torn open while buryin’ the dead.”
“I see,” said Ardahl, who didn’t, not entirely.
“Go home. Rest. Think on wha’ I have said. Andnotsaid.”
“Aye.”
“Be ready with your sword when I call ye.”
