“I would be that grateful, mistress.” For the briefest moment only, he laid his hand over hers.
“Together,” she told him, “we may yet arrive at the truth.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It made adifference, feeling that Conall’s sister believed in him. That she accepted he’d meant no harm to her brother. That she did not, perhaps, hate him.
She, among all women.
He went out to practice or to other work about the settlement with a lighter heart. It did not sting so much when others slighted him or he heard the grumbles and the whispers. Some among the warriors did not believe he belonged in their ranks, let alone at the foremost of them. When they gathered and especially when they drank, they became vocal about it.
Now, he began to notice most of them were close cronies of Cathair’s.
Cathair himself did not say much to Ardahl, but his hard glances relayed all that needed to be said. That, and the way he came at Ardahl when they faced one another in practice, with no regard for past injuries and no mercy.
Dornach did his best at such times to keep them separated and to keep them focused on the true enemy.
Dacha. Though they waited day by day for it, and night by night, he had not attacked again. Ardahl almost wished he would. Waiting for the blow to fall was agony.
But each day made him stronger. And he did have one or two who would speak to him—Muirin, who remained friendly, and Cullan, who had been assigned the permanent place as his charioteer.
Conall’s place.
He noticed now when Liadan came by the training field to stand among the other women. Noticed for a number of reasons. The way the sun caught her hair. The way she moved, and her smile. He saw her approach Brasha several times and speak to her in a quiet fashion, and ached to know what was said.
Always, he looked away quickly. Many an association had been made here at the training field. Indeed, Brasha had begun paying attention to Conall here, and their relationship had followed.
Whatever that relationship may have been.
Now in her coy fashion, Brasha followed no one but Cathair, and he strutted all the more when her eyes rested upon him.
One day after practice, Dornach came to Ardahl and placed a hand on his shoulder. In a low voice he said, “I want ye to know, we will be going into battle soon.”
Ardahl’s gaze flew to him. “Eh?”
“Aye. Do no’ spread that around, lad. The chief has been meeting wi’ mysel’ and his other advisors, including the druids. No one wants to sit and wait for another attack.”
“Nay.”
“Dacha haunts the border we share wi’ Brihan. Fearghal would like to chase him awa’ out o’ there while the season affords, and then try for a binding treaty wi’ Brihan, which would give us time to rebuild.”
Why was Dornach telling Ardahl all this? Privileged information.
“Ye will no’ speak o’ that to anyone, aye?”
“Aye, master.”
“I want to know if ye will be ready to fight when we roll out.”
“Aye, so, master. For certain.”
Dornach’s canny gaze moved over him. “Those hurts are not quite healed.”
“Well enough. I am nearly in top form.”
“I can see that, aye, but would no’ wish to undo the good ye have gained.” Emotions flickered in Dornach’s eyes. “I wanted ye to know, I would like to send ye out at the head o’ the men, Ardahl. Ye have earned it, in my estimation. But ’twill have to be Cathair this time.”
“I understand.”
