Chapter Thirty-One
Liadan faced thedark doorway of the hut, which yawned in front of her. She’d come with the best possible intentions. To see what remained inside. To find what might be used by herself or others. To lay aside fears, if she could.
But now her feet froze to the ground. She could not take a single step forward.
Six days—and six endless, uncomfortable nights—had passed since the attack. Ardahl had been proven right in his assumption. Chief Fearghal had made a speech. In truth, he had made several of them.
So also had the druid priests, the two of them who remained. Tamald, who had been second to Aodh, had stepped up to support the chief, declaring that as a clan they now had a divine purpose. Insisting that their gods were with them and would help them answer the treachery with which they’d been met, as it deserved.
Thereafter, the two priests had circulated among the members of the tribe advising any who required it. Liadan had herself met with Tamald at Maeve’s insistence. Kindly and with exhaustion in his deep blue eyes, he had assured her Mam’s death was not her fault, and he prayed with her that she might find peace.
Hesitantly, she’d told him, “Master Tamald, I feel as if I must now have a purpose.”
“To be sure, my dear.” The kindness in his eyes deepened. “Each and every one of us has a purpose. Do we not return here to this world of sorrows time after time only to discover and achieve that purpose?”
She’d whispered, “We have lived before?”
“Indeed. What use would one life be? We come to live out the lessons we have learned before. To meet those we have known before. Discover your purpose, lass, and ye will find your courage and your meaning. One life”—he smiled at her ruefully—“is not all.”
That had comforted her in an odd way, the more she thought about it. She found hope in the belief that she would meet her da and Conall again—if not inTír na nÓgthen in some future, unimagined existence. And Mam. Would she have the chance to ask Mam’s forgiveness? It came to her that if she had not the courage to face one empty hut, how could she ever face a future life?
Now that she stood here though, her resolve wavered. Mayhap she should have brought Maeve with her and not come alone. But Maeve was busy helping the mothers with young children, and those about to deliver amid all this madness. Liadan had come to rely on her too much.
Just as she’d come to rely on Ardahl.
Ardahl. She scarcely knew what to make of him. She scarcely understood her feelings for him, what he meant to her.
A strong man, unflinching in the face of the sentence the druids had placed upon him. Steadfastly carrying the weight of his wounds. Surely she could be as strong as him.
The hut, so she assured herself, was empty. Mam’s body no longer lay sprawled there. Many burials had taken place, including hers.
Liadan took a step forward. Another. She ducked through the doorway and went in.
Dust motes danced in the light coming through the smoke hole. No body lay on the floor. Or upon Conall’s sleeping bench, which she could see straight back from the door. Belongings lay strewn everywhere, though, the reeds scuffed into drifts on the floor.
Beneath the scents of smoke and disuse, it smelled like home.
They could come back here—she, Maeve, and Ardahl could, even if Flanna refused. Many people who still had huts standing had returned to them. It would get them out of the weather and free up space desperately needed by others.
Had she the courage?
She heard a sound behind her and whirled, the breath catching in her throat. Ardahl ducked in through the door, his gaze fastened to her.
Some of his injuries, the most superficial, had healed. Most had not. He appeared thinner than he had been, and strained. But as he moved, the sun turned his auburn hair to fire. She’d rarely seen a better sight.
He wore his weapons with his shield on his shoulder and must be on the way to practice, which Fearghal had reinstated long since, despite all the injuries.
Their lives currently hung upon a strong defense.
Ardahl’s gaze met hers, burning with emotions she could not name.
“All right?”
“Aye. She is not here.” Liadan gusted out a breath. “Not here.” Only she was, if but in spirit. This had been Mam’s hearth. Where she cared for her family.
For the first time it occurred to Liadan—it was best, perhaps, Mam had ended that life here, of all places.
Ardahl came forward, and she went into his arms. Just as simply as that. He wore his leather armor, which made a roughpadding against her cheek, but she did not mind and merely clutched him harder.
