His mam led him into the hut, relieved him of his weapons, and sat him beside the fire. “Liadan, run and get the basin. We shall clean his wounds here as best we may before I fetch the healer.”
Liadan obeyed, looking as if she would burst. Ardahl felt the same way—he would come to pieces if he did not touch her soon. When she brought the basin, Mam waved her to the task, and Liadan knelt beside Ardahl with her pot of soap.
As soon as she laid hands upon him, her cool fingers on his torn arm, the agony eased. The terrible tension inside Ardahl backed down a few steps. He could breathe more easily.
For Liadan, the tears came. They brimmed up from her eyes and ran unheeded down her face even as her fingers caressed him.
“Och, by all the gods, I did not think I would see ye again.”
From the corner of his eye, Ardahl saw his mam go out into the clear light. The moment she did, Liadan came forward into his arms. Settled across his knees and wrapped both arms around him. Held him tight, and tighter.
“I tried to keep believing,” she said in a broken voice. “As ye bade me do. I did my best. But the fear—”
“Aye.” He wove his fingers into her hair. Absorbed the feel of her, breathed in her scent. “There were times I doubted I would be able to return. But I did. I did.”
He gazed into her face. “I ha’ so much to tell ye, Liadan. Conall was there.”
“What?” Her eyes widened.
“He came to me. Fought beside me. I hung back so Dornach and Cathair could get the lad awa’. I did no’ expect to survive. But then—he came. Him, or his spirit. Fought beside me. Fetched me awa’ in a ghostly chariot—”
She drew back a little, laid one hand on his cheek, and ran it up to his brow.
“Nay,” he told her, “I do no’ have fever. It happened, Liadan. And he told me—”
“He spoke to ye, my brother?”
“Aye. He saved me. And he told me what happened the day he died.”
Chapter Fifty
Liadan gazed intothe eyes of the man she loved. They appeared over-bright, as if he did in fact harbor a fever. And well he might. He’d returned to her covered in wounds, had Ardahl, more than she could readily count.
He had returned to her.
She could scarcely believe it, still. Her heart sang with wonder, a glorious sort of tune that flowed through her even as she worried for the state of his mind.
“Ardahl, dear one, ye could no’ have seen Conall. He is away toTír na nÓg.”
“He is not. At least, not yet.” He shook his head decisively. “He has stayed, Liadan, mayhap to help us. And he has told me the truth.”
He clutched at her now with both hands, one seeping blood where a slash across his knuckles had broken open.
“Tell me. Tell me, then.” Truth or imagining, or fevered, waking dream, he needed to unburden himself.
“’Twas Brasha, as we thought. Brasha and Cathair. She was always Cathair’s from the start. She played at wanting Conall. Bedded him, by all the gods. Drew him under. Then she fed him lies—that I had tried to seduce her away from him.”
“What? But ye would never—”
“I would never.” Absently, he caressed her shoulder. “I did know his manner of late had changed, sharpened. And thatmorning—well, he grew angry wi’ me as never before. I laid it down to the coming battles. The hard work o’ training.”
“There is anger, andanger.”
“Aye. They wanted him angry enough to kill me. I believe Brasha would ha’ harped at him and harped at him when they were together, until she poisoned his mind so he would strike against me. As he did.”
Liadan hissed out her anger. She longed to take up Ardahl’s sword, to march out and face the wretched, black-hearted wench who had so betrayed her brother.
But not yet.
