A sharp thrill went through Ardahl, despite his weariness, his immense distress, the grief and the pain. He tangled a hand in her hair and pressed her closer.
“Had ye no’ been here, I do not think I could have gone on either.”
Mam gave a muffled sniff and covered her face with her hands. Aye, so, mayhap she did weep after all, but only out of love.
“Liadan, have your hurts all been tended?”
“Aye,” Mam answered, “but there was only the one healer, and him in much demand. She needs to be seen again. And ye?”
“The same.” Ardahl let his gaze drift over the terrible scene before him. “We will worry about that later.”
“Aye. Come to the spring. It is where—where most are meeting.”
“Conall’s hut—” he began.
Liadan stirred in his arms. “I canna go there. I canna go there again.”
*
Nausea took Ardahlin a hard grip as they moved through the settlement. The sickness came backed by anger—that such a thing could have happened while they were away fighting to prevent it. That Brihan, long a neutral neighbor between them and Dacha, could have turned against them this way.
He felt worry and concern for his mam, who appeared ready to fall down. Liadan refused to leave go of him, and they moved in a bonded pair, not speaking but for one exchange when she picked up a weapon from the ground.
“Is that my sword?”
“Aye.”
An odd thought circulated in his head thereafter, more or less independent and disconnected from the horror. If a woman possessed a man’s sword, did that mean she also owned his heart? He did not know, but figured he’d better leave it in her hands.
At the spring, where the chief did find and reunite with his family, Fearghal made a speech. Or tried to. The chief, clearly broken, stumbled over his words and struggled with his emotions.
He promised revenge. Rebuilding. Reparation. Ardahl barely listened, busy numbering heads in the crowd. Those here. Those missing.
How many dead?
The chief’s voice caught his ear when he heard his own name.
“At the border, we were victorious. And this man, Ardahl MacCormac, saved the life of his chief. I declare him now first among our valiant warriors.”
Chapter Thirty
And so, Ardahlwondered, how did a man, in the span of one day, go from being despised to among the most honored? It scarcely made sense, and amid all the grief and confusion, he could barely grasp it. He did not feel honored. He had far too many dire troubles occupying his mind.
Life as they’d known it when they rode off in more than a score of bright chariots had ended. A hundred terrible discoveries came at him that day, slamming against him like tree limbs tossed in a gale. Loss upon loss and horror upon horror. Pain and exhaustion. Hunger that simmered beneath the nausea.
Liadan would not part from him, and he did not want to part from her. He had no name for what had been born between them and needed none. It was strong. Quite possibly unbreakable.
She needed him, as did Mam. The three of them, together. As a trio, they were eventually seen by a healer—the same that had accompanied the warriors westward. He and only one of his fellows remained. The third of their number, Dathi, had died defending a group of children.
Such stories abounded. The mass horror did not lessen the individual losses. Ardahl could not imagine how they would recover from this.
When night fell, they built a great bonfire there beside the spring. It being a mild night, they would all stay together. Onlythey were not all together. Flanna, whom Ardahl saw across the way with Lasair and her mother, refused to come near Liadan.
Dornach, with an ugly cut to his face and a great, bloody wound at one shoulder, approached.
“We are organizing a watch.” He flicked a glance at Liadan, who clung to Ardahl. “Ye may take the last turn, toward morning. I am that sorry—everyone is needed.”
“I understand.”
