Liadan.
His longing for her was a livid wound. Would he die with her name on his lips?
Nay, he would not die. He could not. For he must return to her.
He held that thought and only that thought till they reached the border with Brihan’s lands. There, at a place marked by three white boulders, Dornach held up his hand.
Ardahl already knew the plan. They would pass through here, where Fearghal said Brihan had placed no guards.
Or Dacha would have an army waiting, if Brihan had betrayed them.
Dornach nodded. They passed through with no more than a whisper of the air around them.
“We must hasten,” Dornach called softly. “All depends on darkness.”
They rode more quickly now through country they did not know. The dome of the sky above them turned deep blue and then black, with only the faintest of light hanging in the west like a beacon.
Ardahl’s heart rose and fell like his pony’s hooves. Brihan had not betrayed them. Not yet. But Dacha might want to lure them onto his own land before taking them prisoner.
Would they be killed outright? Would there be torture first? Could he endure?
Aye, if he clung to the thought of Liadan.
When, some inestimable length of time later, Dornach drew them up again, it was with considerably more caution. A small clearing lay ahead, full of dim light. As they entered it, a man stepped out.
He was cloaked, hooded, unrecognizable. Brihan’s man, here under cover? Who could tell? Ardahl tensed, ready to turn his mount and flee if so much as a second shadow stirred. His pony was winded—he would not get far.
“Granan?” Dornach spoke the name of their contact.
“Aye. Leave your ponies here in the shadows. We go the rest o’ the way on foot.”
Ardahl exchanged glances with Dornach as they dismounted. Dornach once again touched him on the shoulder. Reassurance. But this was the moment when the worst of the nightmare began.
Granan shoved back his hood. He had a thin, tense face and worried eyes. “Ye must be absolutely silent and follow my every move. There are guards everywhere ahead, but I know where they stand. We will need to get into the hut where the lad is held.”
“How?” Cathair sounded as edgy as Ardahl felt.
“A section o’ the wall has been cut awa’. Put back again.”
“Dacha does not know this?” Dornach now.
“Nay. ’Twas done in secret. I bribed the man who watches the lad.”
Ah, well, if this man—Granan—did not turn on them, the guard might well. With what might a man be bribed to turn against his chief?
“We canna stand here talking. Come.”
With a conviction that he went to his death, Ardahl did.
Though it must by now be past the middle of the night, the settlement did not lie quiet. As soon as their party of four emerged from a small woodland, there was light—a good fire burning somewhere ahead—and bustle, and voices carrying on the clear night air. A man laughed. Another spoke in a rumble.
Granan crept between Ardahl and Dornach. “See that building there? The small hut between the two taller ones. Donen is there.”
Donen. Aye, the lad had a name and an identity. Someone’s son.
“We will go forward one at a time. I will go first. Pick up your heads and walk like ye belong here.”
“’Tis too bright,” Cathair protested. “I thought ’twould be darker.”
