Dark in far more than the lack of light.
“Son, have ye had breakfast?”
“Nay, no’ yet.”
“Then come away in.”
She would seek to feed him, never mind her own exhaustion. Always thinking of others, was Ma. He followed her reluctantly into the hall, which lay dim and empty, full of shadows and the scents of countless fires and countless feasts. Quarrie’s ancestors had been here so long, no one could remember when this chunk of rock had not been theirs.
How dare the accursed Norse try to threaten them from it?
“Sit,” Ma said. “Eat.”
The place she had set, not bothering to light a fire, looked pitifully small in the great room. Quarrie sat, and she settled opposite him. Though he felt hollow inside, the bannock cake she offered did not tempt him.
He rubbed his hands over his face.
“I wanted to talk wi’ ye,” Ma said.
“Aye.” They needed to talk. Rationally, if it were possible to set aside their emotions. Likely not.
He lowered his hands and looked at her. A lovely woman once and still, despite all the trials she had borne. The loss of several babes long ago. The loss of Quarrie’s younger brother, Kyle, in battle two years past. And now—Da.
He did not favor her, his ma. She had honey-gold hair and pale gray eyes. He took after Da, copper brown and hazel. Her pale skin—
Now bloomed purple on one cheek.
“How did ye come by that bruise?” Quarrie caught his breath. “He never struck ye? Da?”
Her eyes met his for an instant and promptly filled with tears. “He did no’ mean to. His arms were flailing. He caught me—”
Quarrie’s remaining interest in his breakfast fled. His da, for all his strength and ferocity in battle, was a gentle man with women and in fact had drummed that lesson into his sons.
We are here to protect our women, always, lads. Especially the women we love.
As he loved ma.
He had not meant to hurt her, nay. He had been off his head last night. That did not make it any better.
“Ma—” Quarrie began, but did not know what to say. He had been there. He should have protected her.
“’Tis all right.” But her lips trembled. “He is sleeping now. I had to gi’ him double the draught the healer left. I hated to do it, but—”
“Aye.” He had begged her, last night, to summon the healer. She had refused to get the elderly man out of his bed till early morning.
“’Tis just that he is in so much pain,” Ma half wept. “It turns his mind.”
It had turned Da into a stranger, a man they barely knew.
“We ha’ increased the strength o’ the draughts to where he is either near senseless, or—like he was last night. The healer says if the draughts cease to work, we will ha’ to restrain him. Quarrie, that will kill yer father.”
It would. Yet they had in fact already restrained him last night with their own limbs, if not by binding.
“I think”—Ma raised her eyes to Quarrie’s—“ye should take over for him. Tak’ the place o’ chief officially, is wha’ I mean. Now, at the beginning o’ the season, in case there is trouble.”
Quarrie’s stomach clenched so violently that he wanted to vomit.
“I ken fine,” she went on in a voice that trembled, “ye are already performing all his duties.”
