“We didn’t think we’d see you alive again.”
“I doubted it myself.” Though the pain of losing Egan had not fully diminished, it was easier to live with the guilt.
“Would you like to join us for a small meal? My wife could offer some pottage or—“
Kieran shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I should go and greet my family.”
“Your father will want to see you.” Steafán’s expression turned grim. “He has not been well these past few weeks.”
Kieran didn’t want to hear any more. “We’ll go and see them now.” He bade his cousin a good morn and squared his shoulders. He knew not what sort of welcome he would receive, if any at all.
When he reached his parents’ home, the door stood open to let in the daylight. He saw his mother Eithne stirring a large iron pot. She looked at least ten years older than when he’d last seen her. Gray streaks lined her deep brown hair, and wrinkles edged her eyes and mouth.
“Dia dhúit, Mother,“ he greeted her. Eithne whirled around, her mouth dropping open. Seconds later, her eyes filled with tears. She opened her arms to him, weeping softly as he let her pull his head down against her neck. “You’re home. Blessed saints, you’re home.”
“I’ve missed you,” he said quietly, returning his mother’s fierce embrace. She kissed his cheek and wiped the tears away from her face. Quietly, he introduced Iseult and the children.
Eithne’s smile widened. “Marcas, come and see. It’s our Kieran. He’s alive.”
Marcas sat beside a low table, unmoving. Unlike Eithne, he appeared exactly the same. Leathery skin stretched across a dark-bearded jaw, his face framed by black hair touched with silver.
Every muscle in his body tensed as Kieran approached his father. He prepared himself for his father’s wrath, or possibly cold silence.
He wasn’t prepared to see the grief upon Marcas’s face. When he sat opposite the table, his father’s hand shot out to his, gripping his palm with a remarkable strength before dragging him into an embrace.
“My son,” Marcas breathed.
Forgiveness poured through him, and Kieran felt like a young lad once again, wanting so hard to please. “I’m sorry.”
Marcas wept openly. “Thank God you returned. I didn’t want to lose both of you.”
“I blamed myself for losing Egan,” Kieran admitted. “I was afraid to return.”
“But you did.” Marcas leaned against the table for support as he stood. “The tribe has needed your strength these past few months. There is much to be done.”
“There is,” Kieran agreed. “And it’s time for a new beginning.”
Anothermoonwaxedandwaned, and Iseult’s stomach grew just as round as full. The days were shorter now, and frost coasted the grasses each morn. Aidan was old enough to be fostered, but she could not bring herself to part with him. Not just yet. Often she would see Kieran swinging Aidan up onto his shoulders, speaking about fishing and the ringfort plans for Ennisleigh, as though the boy could understand every word.
Kieran had only begun framing the palisade wall, and most of it was unfinished. Inside the fortress were half a dozen stone huts, one of them set aside for their own use until therathwas completed.
“Several of my kinsmen have promised to join us here,” he said. “Perhaps one day we will have enough to become a clan of our own.”
“What of your father?”
“He prefers the old ways. Likes to argue, Marcas does. And he’ll argue about a decision I’ve made.”
“And what is that?”
“I’ve taken another name for us. We will call ourselves after my brother’s memory.”
“Your brother Egan who was killed?”
He nodded. “We will be the sons of Egan, those my brother could never have. The MacEgan clan.”
Iseult embraced him, her hand touching the back of his neck. “I think he would be pleased by it.”
Kieran led her inside the wooden fortress, its walls barely begun. “One day, this will be your home, when it is finished.” One small area was sheltered, and he took her within its space.
