Was it worth it, this campaign of Rory’s? Not for the first time, he contemplated that question. Farlan, before he defected, had tried to reason Rory out of his determination to conquer the glen.
Aye, Farlan had a reason. Yet he was right that the cost in lives, in suffering, in heartache, had become very high. Could it be justified by a vow made by Rory’s ancestors long ago?
The old chief, Camraith—Rory’s father and Leith’s uncle—had led with wisdom and forbearance. Though there had been running skirmishes and cattle raids all Leith’s life, Camraith had held his hand from wreaking destruction. He’d harbored a respect for Iain MacBeith, now also a man dead.
All those years, so Leith thought, Rory had held a belief that Clan MacBeith would be easy to overthrow. The smaller and hence weaker clan just awaited conquest.
Only they had not proved weaker during this campaign.
Rory had not counted on the three sisters MacBeith.
Leith folded his left arm over his forehead and sought refuge in sleep. He felt heavy in his limbs, weak and cold to the bones, despite his clothing and the two blankets. When the fog came into his mind, he welcomed it. He came to himself only once and again, sensing dimly that the whole top of his left arm lay saturated with blood.
Perhaps I am dying. If he did die here alone in this wretched pen, would his spirit then travel home after? He’d heard from other men, some who’d recovered from dire wounds not unlike his own, that their departed loved ones came to fetch them at the end. Who would he see? His uncle Camraith, with his steady gaze and benevolent smile? His own da? His grandmother, whose busy hands had always seemed to shed love over him?
Leith,he thought he heard her whisper,’tis a long journey. Are ye strong enough?
He’d always been strong, aye. He’d taken it for granted. Unlike Rory, who’d sprouted first like a sapling and filled out after, Leith had grown steady into a broad, solid frame. He’d competed with the others at feats of strength.
He was not used to lying weak as a newborn lamb while he contemplated his death.
“Grandma, I am no’ sure I can make it home.”
Then wait, lad. It may no’ yet be your time.
A voice closer to him, one that fit well into his dream or whatever else this was, spoke aloud. “Is he dyin’?”
He opened his eyes, or tried to. A flare of light blinded him, and he closed them again.
“He’s bled a terrible lot. Better get the healer.”
Mistress Rhian. But he did not seem able to say her name aloud.
The light faded. He wondered if night had come again so swiftly. He wondered, still more vaguely if this was his permanent night.
Time passed as he floated. He imagined he flew, flew over the glen.
He recognized it at once, though he’d never seen it from this perspective. How beautiful it all looked, the green turf cradled between the upturned mountains. There, the loch glittering the way it always did in the first light of dawn.
Morning must have come. He was flying home. He had only to cross the loch and he would be there.
And yet—did he want to go, when he left Rhian MacBeith behind? Torn by the question, he hovered, no more than a spirit in the air. He must go back, despite the sickness and pain.
Wherever she was, there he must also be.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rhian lay fastasleep when someone came pounding on her door. It had taken her a long while to reach the oblivion of sleep. Prey to her thoughts, and worse, her emotions, she’d thought the refuge would never come. When it did, it came deeply and seamlessly, without dreams.
Now some idiot arrived, waking her up again. There had better be a good reason.
She sat up in the bed, her hair tangled around her, and listened. No sounds of attack from beyond the small, silent chamber. No cries of alarm. That meant Rory MacLeod had not returned.
“Mistress Rhian! Mistress Rhian—”
Curses, it was a cry of alarm after all. The pounding at her door resumed. She got to her feet and went to answer it.
Adair, a member of the guard, stood there scowling. One of Leith’s guards. She snapped awake instantly. “What is it?”
