“Ye will want to see your grandfather.”
“I will.”
“I shall tak’ ye there myself. But first, let us provide ye with clean clothing and mayhap a brush-up. We do no’ want ye frightening the man off to Tìr na nÒg.”
“Do I truly look so bad as all that? And is he truly so ill?”
“Aye to both, lass,” Morag said. “But there is always hope. And is your arrival here no’ proof o’ how swiftly things can change? For good or ill.”
The healer arrived then, an aged man who wore a grave expression. It altered to one of concern as he examined the filthy wound at Adair’s shoulder. Aye, Bradana had done her best to keep it clean, but when even the bandaging was soiled, the task was impossible.
He gave Adair an assessing look before he said, “Well, Master Adair, ye must possess the strength of a warrior, that ye are no’ flat on yer back wi’ fever o’ this.”
“I had not the opportunity to give way,” Adair told him honestly.
“Well, if ye have lived this long, I predict a full recovery. The arrow must ha’ hit bone, for it did no’ burrow in so deep as it might ha’ done. Ye will heal.”
Adair nodded. “So long as I can fight, if I need to.”
“Amazing,” said the healer, “what a man can do when he must. And”—he eyed Wen, who sprawled on the rug that had been provided for him—“I collect this is to be my next patient?”
“If ye will no’ mind,” Bradana said softly.
“That is a very large hound. He will no’ bite me, will he?”
“Wen? Nay, he is good of nature and wise as any man.”
“Wiser, let us hope.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Well scrubbed andwearing clean clothing, with her hair untangled and plaited at great cost in pain, Bradana followed her step-grandmother into the alcove at the rear of the hall. The place where her grandsire lay.
The space smelled of many things. Tinctures and medicines. The herbs that had been scattered on the floor in an effort no doubt to sweeten the air. And something much worse that lay beneath it all.
Bradana’s gaze moved to the figure on the sleeping bench. When last she’d seen her grandsire, he’d been tall and vigorous with eyes as blue as her own, and a son—her Uncle Darroch—to match him.
Now she tried to weigh that image against the new impressions coming at her. The white head on the bolster. The face that had once been strong and handsome, deeply creased by pain.
“Rohracht?” Morag said. “Only look who has come. ’Tis your granddaughter, Bradana.”
“Eh?”
“Your granddaughter.”
“Bradana?” He fought his way up in the bed, gazing at Bradana in some surprise. Morag hurried to help him. “Granddaughter, is my daughter also here?”
“Nay, Grandfather.” Bradana moved forward softly, distressed to see him in such a state. “She is with Kendrick yet.”
Well enough, Bradana hoped, though she could not dismiss the memory of that last image. Had Mother birthed the baby early?
“I brought you this, to prove who I am.” In her hand she had tucked the blue brooch Mother had given her before her marriage, and now she held it out. Surely he would recognize it.
His blue eyes came up to meet hers. He smiled. “Lass, I ha’ no need to look at that. Ye ha’ the look o’ her about ye—yer mam, I mean.”
In her calm voice, Morag said, “Bradana has traveled far wi’ a companion to see ye.”
Bradana flicked a look at the woman. Aye, so, Morag did not wish her to worry the man.
