Chapter Nineteen

“What’s done is done.” Wick delivered the words flatly, his eyes dull. “Now let us drop the matter.”

“No, I will not,” Barta told him. “I cannot.”

The two of them huddled beside the place where Tally lay, using their bodies to block the cold rain from his pallet. Following his abdication, Wick had gone to see how his young brother fared, and Barta trailed him with True in tow. True, however, had stepped away as if to afford them at least an illusion of privacy.

Barta, having argued long and vigorously for Wick to reconsider his decision, now became desperate to move him.

“What would Father say?” she asked at last. “Him barely cold, and already you throw away all he worked so hard for.”

Wick turned his head and looked into her eyes. She shied from the great pain she saw there. “Are you saying the valiant Radoc would be ashamed of me?”

“Not that, no.”

“No matter, Barta, for I am ashamed of myself! I set the guard last night. Why did they not hear the attackers? Did I choose the wrong men? Too few? Did I send men who were careless? They have paid for it now, right enough, their throats slit in the dark. Never to draw another breath, sing a song, or love a woman. I have buried Father, Mother, Bright, and so many others my heart has burst. Brude is right: I am not fit to lead.”

“Nor is he! Wick, he talks much, but what can he do to save us?”

“What can anyone do?”

“We need a good and sensible head in the lead. He is rash and hasty, and cruel.”

“Leave me be, Barta. I just want to mourn my dead.”

“So you abandon us in our need? You cannot just hand off the place of chief, Wick. That is not how it is done.”

“How is it done, Barta? Do we continue to beat our heads against the stone and watch those we love bleed? If Brude wants the ill-begotten place, I say let him take it.”

“What of my sons, who should be chief after you and Tally?”

He looked at her dully. “You have no son and may never do, if the Gaels have their way. We must let the future look after itself.”

“Father would be appalled.”

“I am not the man Father was. Can you not see that, Barta? I have always known it for truth. Now, with everything at risk, it’s time for me to admit it.”

“So you mean to take orders from Brude? Follow him like a meek hound pup?”

“We have already lost all Father tried so hard to hold. What matter my opinion of myself as compared to that?”

“Carrying on in his place matters, as does the welfare of the tribe.”

Slowly, Wick shook his head. “As soon as I am sure Tally will survive, I mean to light out from here.”

The breath seized in Barta’s lungs. “So you truly will abandon us?”

“What ‘us,’ Sister? Can you not see this tribe is in ruins?”

“The folk left are still our responsibility.”

“The heart of the tribe is gone. It died with Father, with Mother. Let Brude try to salvage what is left.”

Barta scrambled to her feet and stood looking down at her brother in disbelief. How could her world come apart so swiftly, and so completely?

“What about me?” she cried like the young child she knew, in her heart, she could no longer afford to be. “And Tally? Would you leave us here, subject to Brude’s whim, without you?”

Wick laid a hand on Tally’s brow. “Barta, you have long sought to make your own way. This will be your chance.”

“Not much of a chance, is it? Where will you go?”

“As far as my legs will carry me. North, perhaps.”

“And do what?”

Again his eyes met hers. “Lose myself.”

“Go to die, you mean? To waste away like an afterthought of the man you were? That is the worst betrayal of all.”

“Stand and shout at me all you wish, Sister. You will not move me.”

Barta hadn’t realized she’d been shouting. She closed her lips and glanced at True, who stood not far off, his shoulders hunched against the rain. Again she sought for some words that might turn her brother’s mind.

“Do not make this decision now,” she begged quietly. “Wait for the pain to ease. Wait till Tally wakes.”

“The pain will not ease. But, Sister, if it satisfies you, I will wait until morning.”

“Thank you, Wick. But nothing about this satisfies me.”

****

“Come and lie in my arms.” True drew Barta closer beneath the boughs of the tree under which they sheltered. Night had fallen like a thick blanket and the rain had eased, though the damp chill persisted. They still dared not light a fire, and Barta had wrapped Tally—who hadn’t yet awakened—close against the wet.

A poor encampment at best, but Brude had set guards all around, making a point of skipping over True for the duty, demonstrating his distrust.

True supposed he should mind the slight, but he felt too grateful for being at Barta’s side with leave to watch over Tally, who lay so still.

In truth, the whole encampment seemed uncannily still. Say what Barta would about Brude, he’d impressed the importance of silence on the remaining tribesfolk. Even the guard made no sound.

Barta planted the flat of her hand on True’s chest and whispered into his ear, “Do you think there’s any chance of persuading Wick to stay? I sent Gant to speak with him—to no avail.”

At least Master Gant had survived the battle, though Barta’s friend had been found severely wounded and badly burned after being trapped beneath a collapsed roof. Like most of the others, he wore a look of shock and did not appear fit to persuade anyone of much.

“True, I have been thinking—perhaps Tally and I should go with Wick, wherever he goes.”

True stiffened. “Without me, do you mean?”

“No, of course not. Wherever I go, you go also. Tell me that’s so.”

“Wherever you go, I go.”

She pressed her forehead to his and held on to him tight, like a drowning woman. “What would I do without you, True? You are the one comfort left to me. And such a comfort! Tell me how it is I feel better—as if I can breathe—just because I’m near you.”

He could explain it; he dared not. “Does it matter? We are together; that means more than anything.”

She nodded brokenly. “And, True, will you provide me any sort of comfort I need this night? If I ask you to love me, will you?”

“I do love you. You know that. Not just this night: always.”

She made a sound, half gasp and half sob. “And forever?”

“There is only forever for us, Mistress.”

“Barta.”

“Barta.”

She pressed her open mouth to his and the taste of her flooded upon him. He growled deep in his throat and gathered her into his arms, onto his knees. In the wet darkness, her mouth became a single point of comfort so strong it lifted him from his misery. He needed no more than this.

She sighed and tasted the inside of his mouth with her tongue. Her hand burrowed beneath his tunic and pressed against his bare skin. Bliss streamed to his head and even memory faded away.

But she broke the kiss almost at once and said raggedly, “I want to touch you, but it seems wrong…so much loss, so much death. How should we take our pleasure amidst that?”

“How should we not? Life is of the moment—only that. Here, and then gone so swiftly. We must take what we need.”

“Perhaps you are right.” She pressed her mouth to his again, licked him deeply. Her hand took a decided turn downward and warmth spread through him in the wake of the bliss, followed by sharp desire.

He wanted—but he possessed no words at all.

Her fingers encountered the laces on his leggings, paused, and wiggled beneath. His whole body leaped to attention—wounds, aches, and even sorrow forgotten. She curled her fingers around the part of him she sought, and he stiffened. Feelings, raw and hot—so different from those of a hound—poured through him. He wanted to mate with her. Would she be receptive?

As a hound, he’d never had any doubt, could tell by scent as well as behavior when a bitch would accept him. This baffled him—emotions and impulses all tangled together, and his need to protect her at all cost. Even from his desires?

She murmured and began to caress him with her hand. Enflamed, he contemplated flipping her over and completing the act that should be so simple but was not. Confusing him further, she showered his face with little kisses and began to whisper in the darkness.

“True, tell me everything will come right—lie to me if you have to. Say that we will heal, that we’ll defeat the westerners, that Tally will awaken and you and I will never lose each other.”

His throat closed beneath the lash of his emotions; her hand remained inside his leggings, closed around him in a caress. He had no words.

“Because of all things, I could not bear to lose you too.” As she spoke, he tasted her tears on his tongue. “Not after my parents, so many of our friends…and Loyal.”

“Loyal,” he struggled to tell her, “would not want you to mourn him so deeply.” Of this at least he was certain. “There is nothing he would not have done for you, given for you.”

“How can you say that? You did not know him.”

“He was your hound. He could feel no anger. And he loves you still.”

She began to weep in earnest.

“No,” he bade her. Using his fingers, he wiped the tears from her cheeks, captured her lips with his, and slid his tongue into her mouth again.

He needed to make her feel how completely they remained bound to one another—that nothing could ever truly part them even if his body perished again. Or if hers did. That thought caused such pain in his heart he could scarcely breathe, and he felt for the first time the truth of what she’d felt when she lost Loyal. When she lost him.

Desire it as he may, the Lady had not promised to leave him with her forever. Their only “forever” consisted of the shimmering cord that bound them spiritually.

But for now, they lay close enough to make one flesh. The last time they had come this close to mating, the Gaels had attacked. Did she want him now? Would it bring her the comfort she craved?

She moaned; True thought he heard the sound echo in the still night. With his senses and emotions both overloaded, it took him a moment to grasp the truth. He tumbled to it a moment after Barta stiffened in his arms and pulled away from him.

“Tally!” she breathed. “Thank the good lady—he wakes.”