Could she have defended Mam against intruders, had she stayed? Could she, without a weapon? They might both have died.
It came to her then in a rush, how precious was her life. How precious the lives of all who had survived—and how fragile. The gods had spared them, and there must be a reason.
She lifted her head, thinking about it. Could she repay such mercy by huddling here, weak and broken? If she had a life still, she must do something with it.
“Liadan,alanna, how d’ye feel?” Maeve laid a hand on Liadan’s back, and she looked into a pair of kind hazel eyes, so much like Ardahl’s that it shook her. Aye, Maeve was a good woman, and a strong one.
“Better. I am better this morning.”
“Good. The men are coming back from their places at guard. Ardahl will be here soon.”
“Aye.” And Liadan would meet him on her feet. “Is there anywhere to wash?”
“I will see.”
Maeve hurried off. Liadan did her best to straighten her clothing, but it hung on her in tatters, beyond saving. Like one seeing them for the first time, she surveyed her injuries—a long gash up her left arm, a wound at one shoulder that did not seem terribly deep but had bled much, a nick to one ear. Bruises everywhere. She would no doubt be black and blue when she stripped down.
She had other clothing, but it would be at the hut. Her every instinct flinched from the thought of the place, even though she supposed they were fortunate to still possess a roof when so many did not.
She struggled to imagine what would happen this day, and failed. It helped a woman to know. But her mind merely stuttered over it. Dead to bury. Wounds to tend. Children to care for and many to feed.
She must make herself useful.
She had survived for a reason.
Maeve reappeared at her side. “Come. There is hot water.”
A kind of communal washing place had been set up halfway to the midden. Numb-looking women, elders, girls, and children all lined up to use it, many with wounds far worse than Liadan’s. No one spoke much. Children wailed; mothers tried to comfort them in hushed voices.
When they returned to their sleeping place, Ardahl was there before them. Liadan wanted once more to rush into his arms, but did not. Yesterday had gone, and a hundred eyes watched. Tongues would soon wag if she clung to him.
Her brother’s killer. Thenathrach.
Only he was not that.
He looked like a stranger, tall and battered and wounded, his hair long having escaped from its battle plaits and hanging in a tangle. How badly was he hurt? She’d scarcely asked yesterday. But aye, bandaging stood out against his tanned skin as well asunbandaged scrapes and gashes, only the worst of which had been wrapped.
Their gazes met and spoke a thousand words, though Ardahl uttered none upon seeing her. Nor did she speak.
“Come and wash,” his mam told him, and towed him away. A woman came by, handing out breakfast. Liadan claimed three portions, even though the sight and smell of the food still made her ill.
She caught no sight of Flanna before Ardahl and his mam returned. The three of them sat together on their blankets, which smelled of smoke.
At last Maeve spoke. Looking at her son, she asked, “What will happen today?”
He shook his head. “Burials, no doubt.”
“Burials, aye. The chief will make a speech.” He usually did. He might speak of healing.
Could they heal from this?
“I do no’ doubt,” Ardahl said softly, “he will try to set up some kind of structure. Those who are hurt must be seen. Food. Shelter if it rains. Defense.”
Liadan eyed him. He would have to go from her, to take his turns in the guard over and over again. She would have to manage without his presence—over and over again.
She let her fingers whisper over the length of his sword, which she’d kept beside her in the grass. Smooth. Strong. Reassuring. In an odd way, it grounded her.
Even if she was not touching him, the connection between them held.
