“Just a little.”
It did, a little more than a little, then relief, cool and soothing on her throat. Warm, healing down her sides where the bruising ran deep.
“It’s better. It’s all right. Boyle.”
“Shh. Hush now. That’ll take a bit longer, but he’s fine, he’s doing fine. Look and see while I finish.”
Through streaming tears, Iona looked over, saw Boyle’s hands. Still raw, but no longer blackened and blistered. Still, he’d gone gray with the treatment, and the pain.
“Can’t I help?”
“They’ve got him. I’ve just your ankle left here. It’s not broken, but it’s badly wrenched.”
“I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Hush.”
“Alastar. He hurt Alastar. He said he’d burn him alive.”
“He’s cut a bit, that’s all. Why don’t you see to that? See to your horse.”
“Yes. Yes. He needs me.”
She gained her feet, walked, a bit drunkenly, to the horse. “You’re so brave. I’m so sorry.”
Swallowing tears, she laid her hands on the first gash, and began to heal it.
“I’ve used two of the vials from your bag.” Meara handed them to Branna. “One for the blood, the other for the ash. I felt a bit like one of those forensic types.” Then she let out a shuddering breath. “Oh God, Branna.”
“We won’t talk of it here. We need to get home.”
“Can we?”
“I got us here. I’ll get us back.”
“Where did he go, bloody bastard?”
“I don’t know. We hurt him, and he lost blood—plenty of it—but it’s not finished. I saw him slide away, using the fog, into the fog. Our fire scorched, and well, but didn’t take him. It was not finished tonight, for all we thought it would be. I’m taking us back,” she called out. “Are you ready?”
“Christ, yes.” Fin put an arm around Boyle, helped him stand.
“I’m fine now, I’m fine. Help her get us home, the both of you.”
Nudging the other men aside, Boyle walked to Iona. “Let me see you.”
“I’m okay. Branna took care of it. Alastar. I can’t heal this scar. He’s scarred.”
Boyle studied the slash of white over the gray flank. “A battle scar, worn with pride. We’re going home now, all of us. Up you go. And none of that,” he added as the tears rolled. “Stop that now.”
“Not yet.” She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck as the ground tilted, as the air turned and turned.
And kept her silence as they left the clearing, and the ruins.
EPILOGUE
IONA ACCEPTED THE WHISKEY, WITH GRATITUDE, AND CURLED INTO the corner of the living room sofa. The fire snapped, but brought comfort instead of fear and pain.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t good enough. He rolled right over me.”