"Mother-Creator, you've been wounded! Didn't you hear the call for retreat? Come on. ."
Jenna blinked away blood, trying to see the face.
"Ennis?"
"No, it’s MacEagan," came the soothing voice. "Lean on me, Jenna
That’s it; let me support your weight. We have to leave now. ."
. . there was the flickering of candles and the smell of wet stone, and a form moving in the twilight
"Here, Holder. Please sip this… "
She could smell the anduilleaf in the crude clay mug the old man was holding out to her. For a moment, disoriented, she thought it was Seancoim and her heart leaped inside her, but then her vision cleared and she recognized him as the Banrion’s healer. He held out the mug toward her; she pushed it away. "No, I won’t drink that."
"It will take away the pain."
"No!" She pushed at it again even though she could feel herself yearn-ing to drink it, to lose herself and the suffering in the leaf’s milky embrace. The healer grimaced and pouted, but he put the anduilleaf aside. Jenna was relieved; she didn’t know if she could have resisted if he’d insisted a third time. She tried to raise herself up, and the movement pulled at the stitched and healing wounds, making her cry out and bringing back all the anguish: in the wounded left arm, in the scarred right, her head, her stomach. .
. . her stomach. She touched her abdomen, relieved to feel an answer-ing stir. The healer grunted. "The babe is fine," he said, and responded to Jenna’s shocked look with a faint, conspiratorial smile. "Aye. The Banrion told me since 1 was looking after you and she felt I needed to know. But no one else will know unless you tell them. At least not until it’s obvious. That’s another reason you need to rest, Holder."
"I need to understand-"
"Understand what?" a new voice intruded. Someone had thrust aside a woolen curtain Jenna hadn’t noticed before, letting in a stream of sunlight that made her eyes water and blink, revealing the stone walls of a small cavern. The curtain dropped
down behind the silhouetted form and the room went dark again.
"Ah, Tiarna MacEagan," the healer said. "Holder, I'll leave you with your husband, then. Maybe he can get you to drink the infusion."
Husband. . Jenna found herself turning the strange word over in her head as the healer left the room. MacEagan walked over and sat at the edge of the blankets on which she lay. A long cut crossed his forehead, scabbed brown with the skin an irritated red along the edges, and one hand was wrapped in bandages. "Infusion?"
She shook her head. "You're hurt."
"Have you seen yourself?" he answered. "At least I'm walking. It's a rare person out there who isn't wounded, and there are far too many familiar faces missing." A sadness came over his own face.
"Alby?"
MacEagan smiled momentarily. "No, he's alive, though he took injuries like the rest. He wouldn't leave me, even though he's more a liability with the sword than an asset."
"I'm glad to hear that. I know how you would have felt if you'd lost him."
Again the smile came and vanished. "That's kind of you to say. Still, it was a terrible battle, and a terrible cost we paid."
The sounds and memories flooded back to Jenna in disjointed, uncon-nected fragments: the initial assault, the confusion, the bitter victory of killing Aron, the struggle with Mac Ard, Thraisha's sacrifice, the stunning moment when she lost Lamh Shabhala. . She reached for the stone with a gasp. Aye, it was still there, but drained entirely of power. "I remember. . You came, I think, and helped me up. ." She shook her head. "I don't remember anything past that. It's all gone. And it was only yesterday."
"It was two days ago," he told her. "You were badly hurt. I wasn't sure you were even going to live." He told her then: how the two of them together fended off another attack from Mac Ard and the Tuathian Hold-ers with Lamh Shabhala and his own cloch, falling back past the square and finally finding what was left of the Inishlander defenders near the base of the Croc a Scroilm; fighting their way through another wave of Tuathians; Kianna falling near the harbor and the Ri MacBradaigh severely wounded, but fighting his way to them; finally reaching the winding road to the keep, then making their way into the deep clefts beyond.
It was like a tale to Jenna, unreal. There was no memory of it in her at all. He might as well have been speaking of a battle fought a century ago with other people.
"Where are we now?" she asked after he’d finished.
"In the mountains north of the city." His lips twisted. "In the same caverns that Severii O’Coulghan used when he retreated after Mael Armagh’s attack. We can only hope that this will turn out the same. The Tuathians hold Dun Kiil for now. Scouts have told us that more ships are coming from Falcarragh, and that the banner of the Ri Ard flies above the keep."
Jenna sat up, grimacing as her body protested the movement. For a moment, the cavern whirled around her and she thought she might lose consciousness, but she closed her eyes until the spinning passed. She started to raise her left hand to MacEagan, then realized it was bound to her side. Instead, she reached out with the stiff lump of her right. She could see the scars of the mage-lights beyond the stained sleeve of her leine. "Help me up again," she told him.
"You should rest," he told her.
"There’s not time for that, and I’m not the only one hurt. I need to talk to the Banrion and I want to see those who fought with us." She reached out again. "Help me." She paused. "My husband."
He responded with a quiet smile. Then he stood, crouched down again, and took her hand and arm. "Let’s walk together, then, wife."
Jenna found that they were encamped in a narrow valley nestled between tall, steep slopes covered with purple heather and thickets. Bright rills capered down the sides to a small river curling through the valley bottom before vanishing into the misty distance, where the indistinct backs of more mountains loomed. The hillsides were studded with
hollows and shallow caves eroded from the soft limestone that protruded from under the thin skin of earth, and crude tents and lean-tos littered the ground. Campfires lifted columns of white smoke into the fog. The remnants of the Inishlander army had rejoined their families, but Jenna saw many tents where solemn-faced women hugged silent children to them. They would nod silently toward her as she passed. Jenna expected to see anger and blame in their faces, but there was none; there was only the aching loss. She wished she had words of comfort for the widows, for the father-less children. She could only gaze back at them, echoing their pain. One of them clutched at Jenna's cloca as they passed, and Jenna stopped. The woman could have been no more than a year or two older than Jenna, with a child nuzzling at her breast under the red-dyed leine of mourning, and a boy that might have been three years old at her side. "Holder, she said, "My son… he wanted to see you. ."
Jenna knelt down in front of the woman. The boy peered out at her from under his mam's arms; she pushed him forward. He held back for a moment and seemed to gather his courage, lifting his face and frowning sternly. He took a step toward Jenna.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Mahon." The boy's voice was serious and quiet. "My da died."
"I know," Jenna answered softly, with a glance at his mam. "He was a brave man."
"Did you know him? His name was Deelan. Deelan MacBreen."
"No," Jenna told him. "I'm afraid I didn't. But I wish I had."
"When I'm older, I'm going to be a soldier like my da. Mam said she would give me his sword, and I'll come fight with you."