[Arry]

Brand frowned as the smell of blossoms drifted into his consciousness.

But it is nearly winter. . . I’m sure of that . . . there should be no apple blossoms, only the scent of coming cold on the wind . . .

His brow smoothed out as he recognized the source of the voice. Meghan’s voice. That’s what had prompted his recollection . . . Brand smiled and relaxed beneath his blankets.

At the edges of his hearing the sounds of the camp crept in. Leod’s voice and the shuffle of his steps as he moved carefully from wounded to wounded. In the distance came the soft voices of Dorran and Athwen. Fion’s soft laugh rang out . . . a moment of ease. A woman’s low voice asked questions of Leod . . . Vaenosa, perhaps. Someone’s boots crunched against the ground. A purposeful step. Osmod, he thought.

From a distance came the nickering of the horses. For a moment he thought he might get up and see to Lady. But the effort of getting up was too much; he settled back in. Incana would most likely be taking care of the horses. They were in good hands. Eostre, too, perhaps.

Meghan’s voice insinuated itself against the background sounds, drawing back his attention. The scent of apple blossoms blew in again on the breeze of her words.

It had been a struggle, the birth of the two kids . . . she was eleven . . . he could see her thin, sturdy little body bent carefully over the one her brother had handed her . . .