Chapter Five
C hief Fearghal sat in the great chair at the head of his hall with his druid priests gathered in a group beside him. If Dornach appeared grim, the chief looked forbidding. His gaze fastened to Ardahl the moment he entered and did not waver.
Others were present. Seniors of the chief’s council and, as Ardahl saw to his horror, Conall’s family. His two sisters stood supporting his mother as if holding her upright. All three stared as if they had never seen him before. Had not given him countless meals. Had him in their hut and treated him fondly.
And there—the elite among the warriors, including Cathair. They gazed at Ardahl with a variety of expressions. Protest. Disbelief. And interest. Cathair—but nay, Ardahl could not quite name what he saw in Cathair’s eyes.
More people came flooding in behind, just like the sunlight. Ordinary clansfolk, these, come out of curiosity. And with them, escorted by a guard—
Ardahl’s own mother.
His heart fell to his feet when he saw her. Even though she, among them all, seemed to reach for him with her eyes. Speak to him with her gaze. Seek to comfort him. Suddenly he wanted nothing so much as to be at home with her beside their own fire, in simple harmony.
Her escort led her to stand at Fearghal’s left hand, opposite Conall’s family.
The two women—Conall’s mother and Ardahl’s—had long been companions of a sort. Both had lost their husbands, and their sons were fast friends. They had worked and laughed together.
Now they stood opposed as enemies.
Once more, Ardahl’s legs threatened to fail him. He straightened them along with his spine. All he had at this moment was his dignity. His status, hard earned. Naught but his pride. His heart might be in shreds; he must keep his head high.
But if they sentenced him to death, these druids, these learned men who knew so much, what would happen to his mam?
Sentenced to death. No more to see the sunlight on the water. The green grass covering the hills. The wild deer and the raw beauty of this land he loved.
Chief Fearghal cleared his throat, and the room went silent. From outside, Ardahl heard a lark on the wing, trilling her song from a full heart.
Fearghal did not rise. Instead, he lifted his hand to indicate the head druid, Aodh.
That man stepped forward directly into the beam of light streaming down through the smoke hole at the center of the round chamber’s roof. He made an impressive sight all clad in white with his long hair, equally white, hanging down. He wore the sigils of his office, a golden medallion and brooch of amber. He wore also the gold scythe at his belt that declared his standing as high priest.
He looked like a man about to deliver a sentence of death.
If that be so, Ardahl thought, then so be it. He need only summon the strength to meet that death bravely, so as not to dishonor himself. His father’s name. His mother. Then he would be free to fly away and follow Conall to Tír na nóg , where they might be together again.
But ah, what would happen to Mam with him gone?
Aodh spoke in his sonorous voice, into the silence.
“Yesterday upon the field of practice, a dire deed did occur. One young warrior in the fullness of his life was cut down by another. Here stands the accused.” He pointed a long finger at Ardahl. “And here, the witness.” Cathair.
“My fellows and I have deliberated all night over the fit punishment. Considered the laws. Studied what the Brehon tradition tells to us, searched for wisdom and an outcome that is just.
“A family”—he waved at Conall’s mother and sisters—“has lost their son. Their provider, even as a young man has lost his life.”
He will commit me to death . In that moment, Ardahl believed it. The sunlit face of the priest wavered before him.
“A chief,” Aodh went on, “has lost his warrior. Should he lose another?”
Everyone there stared. Just like Ardahl, they had expected a swift sentence of death. Still, they made not a sound. To interrupt the druid priest would be beyond reproach.
“If a family has lost its provider,” Aodh said weightily, “the law says they should have another in his place. Who better than he who cost them their own? Ardahl McCormac, step forward.”
He did, though he could no longer feel his feet on the floor.
“Having slain Conall MacAert, have you anything to say?”
“I did not mean to harm him. He was my closest friend.”
Gravely, Aodh shook his head. “It does not matter. For does he not still lie dead? You will henceforth take Conall MacAert’s place in his household. Be a son to his mother and a brother to his sisters. Ye will support them, provide for them in all they need. Ye will take Conall’s place in service to your chief and fulfill his vow of fealty. This is justice, and this the gods do decree.”
A murmur rustled through the chamber, among those gathered. Gasps and whispers. Ardahl distinctly heard his own mother gasp and turned his eyes to her.
He asked, “What of my own mother?”
“She is henceforth without her son.”
It was not death—at least it was not death, and he saw Mam’s relief in her eyes. Not much better than a sentence of death, though, for did they not decree that he should lose himself? All that he was?
To take Conall’s place.
He spoke again, in a croak. “For how long? How long must I serve this sentence?”
“It is a life sentence,” Aodh said. “So do the gods decree.”
Ardahl turned his gaze upon Conall’s family, not sure what reaction he expected. Certainly not the horror he saw. Dismay so wide and deep it surpassed comprehension.
They did not want him. To be sure, they did not. They wanted their own lad, who brought laughter and sunlight into their lives.
Chief Fearghal spoke in a rumble. “When, Master Aodh, does this sentence commence?”
“Directly after young Conall’s funeral.”
“That will take place this afternoon. We shall all go up on the rise where our honored dead are laid.” He fixed a burning gaze upon Ardahl. “When we come back down, ye will become Conall MacAert, for the duration o’ your life.”
Nay . But Ardahl could not speak that word. Not to his chief, to whom he owed fealty. Not in the face of the priests who studied and kept the law. Yet—
How did a man surrender all he was, and all he might be? A dire punishment indeed.
Mayhap death would have been easier.
He did not expect what happened next. His mother, a quiet, retiring sort of woman, should not step out there before them all, putting herself forward. And yet she walked quietly to face Conall’s mother, to look her in the eye.
“Beath MacAert,” Mam called. “Will ye no’ put a stop to this madness? Ye alone can refuse the priests’ decree.”
Was that true? Could anyone halt what Aodh declared came from the gods?
With raw heartache in her eyes, Mistress MacAert said, “I cannot.”
Mam raised her voice, a thing she did but seldom. She raised it so it echoed round the chamber. “If ye accept this, I will lose my son.”
“As I ha’ lost mine, Maeve MacCormac.”
Conall’s little sister sobbed. Her elder sister caught her in clinging arms. Ardahl’s gaze slipped over them and fastened upon his mother, who seemed to droop where she stood.
Defeated. Abandoned.
All because of him.
And a deed he had never intended to occur.