Except these past few weeks.
Now he saw dismay, regret, raw pain, and a level of frustration that matched his own.
“I fear what may happen if she wakes to see ye again.”
Ardahl repeated with patience he did not feel, “I am no’ allowed to leave.”
Iron entered her eyes. “’Tis unbearable, this. By the gods, I cannot imagine what the druids were thinking.”
Ardahl said nothing. The lass Flanna had disappeared into Conall’s sleeping cubby. With their mother incapacitated, it seemed he and Liadan must find a path through this dreadful situation.
Not until she began to turn away from him did he say, “What d’ye wish me to do?”
“Go away.” She bit out the words in a fierce whisper, turning to face him again. “Far away where I have to see ye nevermore. Go back to your mam. Or better yet, take yoursel’ off and forever wander the face o’ the world.”
“I would if I could.”
Her lips turned down. For an instant Ardahl thought she would weep. Too strong, perhaps. How old was she now? He tried to calculate it in his head. She’d been a mere toddler whenhe and Conall started playing together. A slim girl by the time they’d taken the field for the first time. A pest, sometimes, whom he had ignored.
Since he had a score and three winters, she must herself be approaching a full score. How was it that a young woman so lovely as this had not been taken to wife by anyone?
“Then”—she waved a hand wildly—“take yoursel’ and sit outside the door. I do no’ want her seeing ye first thing if she wakes.”
“Outside the door. Like a hound?”
Conall had a hound once. It had, to be sure, lain either outside or inside the door depending on the weather, unless it could sneak into Conall’s sleeping place to lie with him.
He fished for the name. “Like Blooney?”
She gave a stiff nod. “Till we can come to grips wi’ this.”
Outside the door. Where he would be prey to the gaze of every passerby. Stares of condemnation. Sympathy. Scorn. There, he would be beneath contempt.
He might have said he was meant to take Conall’s place, and that was not outside the door. Instead he gazed into Liadan’s eyes and said nothing.
He was meant to claim Conall’s sword as well. If he were to guard the door, he needed a weapon. Instead he had nothing except his empty hands, still rimmed with his best friend’s blood.
He nodded and slipped outside. The afternoon had just begun to fade, its brightness seeping away over the hills to the west. He stood and breathed deep, unthinkingly taking in the scents of this place he loved. Wood smoke and animals at a distance, and food cooking.
His stomach rumbled. How could he be hungry? Surely he felt far too sick inside to contemplate food. Yet he could scarce remember the last time he had taken anything to eat.
One mercy—Conall’s hut lay at the far side of the settlement, away from the chief’s hall and the training field. Not many were about. The few who did pass stared at him as if he had six arms and three heads.
No one spoke to him.
But he—and his sentence—would be the talk of the tribe for weeks. Aye, the druids—whom, he had to admit, he had mostly disregarded in the past save for their prayers ahead of a battle—did deal in reparation. Seldom did they impose such a sentence as this.
He walked around the side of the hut where most folk kept a wash pan, bucket, and pot of soap. Conall’s family being no exception, he found what he needed and availed himself of it.
He scrubbed till his skin was raw, till the last of Conall’s blood came away and only new trickles, from abraded skin, were his own.
Then he returned to the front door, hunkered down on his heels beside it, and waited.
Chapter Eight
Snatches of sleepwere all Liadan had that night. She made sure Mam lay comfortably upon her bed, and saw Flanna into her own small sleeping place before seizing a blanket and lying on the floor beside Mam.
Her mind too full, her body aching, she listened as Flanna cried herself to sleep. Counted Mam’s deep breaths. The draught must have been a strong one. It sent her well under and, thank all the gods, stopped her weeping.
