Chapter Six
T he wind blew hard up on the height, making the whole world glitter with shards of brightness. A glorious sort of day, far too lovely for laying one’s adored older brother to rest.
As Liadan stood there buffeted by that breeze, she told herself not to think of that. To close her mind upon the fact that her brother would go into the stony ground and be covered over. An abomination. Rocks would be piled atop him, and though the view from here was far-reaching and very bonny, he would not be able to see. The hills in the distance. A pair of lochs, all a-gleam. Far to the east, the sea.
All in motion. The very air in motion.
Liadan, standing with one arm around Flanna and the other around her mother, told herself Conall was no longer an inhabitant of the flesh that went into the earth. Not if she believed what the priests and the shanachies said. For he had winged away to the land for the ever young. With Da.
Her gaze moved to her father’s grave, not an actual stone’s throw away, alongside her grand-da and countless others of the valiant.
Did she believe the priests? The same who had lumbered them with an intruder in their midst.
He who had slain her brother.
Her gaze moved to Ardahl MacCormac and narrowed. She still could not believe what the high priest had said. Her mind would not comprehend it. There he stood with the stain of her brother’s blood still upon his hands—for she’d seen that when they followed him and his guards up the rise.
Were they to accept this dreadful serpent into their lives? Welcome him to their tiny home?
She could not.
He stood now, tall and slender on the far side of the grave that the men had come up and prepared ahead of time. The sunlight lit his auburn hair, worn loose down his back, to fire—something she might once have admired, in another time and place.
No more.
He had absolutely no expression on his face, features closed tight. Hazel eyes wide and blank.
An odd thought occurred to her. Mayhap he could no more accept what happened than she.
Chief Fearghal stood at the head of the grave. The three priests surrounded it. Liadan had seen these burials before. Speeches would be made. Honor paid.
No sooner did Fearghal draw breath to speak than an interruption occurred. A young woman darted forward from the crowd of onlookers and gave a cry.
A beauty she was, and no mistake, with long brown hair and the face of a goddess. Liadan had watched her brother pursue Brasha for nearly a year before winning her attention. She felt certain Conall had been in love with the young woman, though he’d never come out and told her so.
Ardahl would know. Her gaze returned to her brother’s friend. Conall had told him everything.
Liadan had not seen Brasha at the sentencing, though, to be sure, she must have been there. Now, apparently unable to contain her grief, she stumbled forward and cast herself upon Conall’s shrouded form.
Mam had given her best blanket, the one that had covered Conall’s sleeping place, for his shroud. Never to be seen again.
Those gathered in the crowd cried out as one when the beauty cast herself upon her deceased lover. Liadan knew the folk of her tribe. Loyal and valiant to the heart, they loved a good tale, loved a gossip and scandal, and such a display. This would be talked of for days. Years.
Lamenting, Brasha lay upon the sun-warmed ground. The men standing round preparing to lower Conall into his grave, the same who had prepared it, reached to lift her, at which she cried out and struggled to free herself.
So she could cast her body upon Conall’s yet again.
The onlookers gave a collective sigh. Mam sobbed brokenly. Flanna stared aghast, and the high priest, Aodh, withdrew from Brasha fastidiously.
Brasha’s parents stepped forward and gently took hold of her. They melted back into the circle of onlookers.
Aodh began to speak. Liadan could not deny his words were beautiful. With the rhythm of song, they seemed to spiral up, up through that bright air. To take wing as Conall’s soul must have, and fly far. Away from the pain, the ache, the strife.
Conall went into the ground. It seemed like such a simple thing but was not. Mam broke then and ran forward in her turn, falling to her knees beside her son. She wailed, and the women in the gathering wept with her in sympathy and understanding.
This was no new thing. Since the commencement of the battles with the tribes to the west, such scenes occurred far too often.
But those men had died by an enemy’s hand. Not that of a friend.
She went forward to embrace her mother. Draw her to her feet. That brought her all too close to Ardahl MacCormac, on the other side of the grave. He stood as if carved of stone, expression unchanging, not taking Conall’s place at all. For Conall would have stooped to Mam’s side, sought to comfort her, swung her up in his arms protectively.
Instead, it was Cathair who hurried forward and lifted Mam with ridiculous ease.
“Thank ye,” Liadan murmured.
He nodded, his fair hair bright in the sun. He stood with them while the grave was filled and never let go of Mam until the three of them—Mam, Flanna, and Liadan together—stepped forward hand in hand to place their stones.
There was singing then, soaring laments that pierced Liadan to the heart and reduced most of the onlookers to tears.
Finally Chief Fearghal spoke. “Here lie our honored dead. Another bright warrior has joined their ranks, this day. All honor to him!”
With nothing more to be said, they turned to walk back down the stony slope.
“Would you like help getting your mother home, mistress?” Cathair asked Liadan politely.
That was for Ardahl to do. But he was somewhere behind her. Glancing back, she saw that Fearghal spoke to him fiercely. She wished she could catch the words.
She turned and looked full in Cathair’s eyes. “You are certain Ardahl MacCormac did this terrible thing? Killed my brother?”
Did something flicker in the bright blue of those eyes? It might have been regret. “Aye, mistress. I saw.”
She drew a breath that made her chest hurt. “’Twould be a kindness for you to help us home.”
They went slowly, Cathair supporting Mam even as Conall might. When they reached their door, tribesfolk came flooding in, giving their condolences and embracing Mam.
When Liadan looked around again, Cathair had gone.
But Ardahl approached. His two guards flanked him still, and Liadan wondered madly if her family was to be lumbered with all three of them. But both guards, after deep nods at Mam, peeled off, leaving Ardahl standing alone.
The mourners avoided him as if he caused a sickness, stepping around him so he stood very much isolated. Alone and quiet. Did he feel no sorrow? None of this wild grief that tore at Liadan inside?
He was a serpent indeed. Never had Liadan been so mistaken as in once fancying she admired him.
Not until many moments had passed and the mourners cleared from the door did Liadan realize Ardahl’s mother had followed them. She looked small and very much stricken when she stepped up to embrace her son.
“Mam, I must stay here now.”
“But ye have to return home for your belongings. Your clothing. Your sword.”
A muscle jumped in Ardahl’s cheek. “Chief Fearghal says none of those things are mine any longer. Conall’s belongings are now mine.”
“But—”
“Mam, ye must trade my belongings as ye can for the things ye will need.”
“Not your sword.”
“Even my sword.”
“It was your father’s before ye. I will not lose it as well as—as well as ye.” Her voice broke.
“Ye may need to trade for food and the like.”
Liadan’s mother pushed up, her face ravaged by grief. “Be gone from my door, Maeve MacCormac. Your son has stolen the life o’ mine. So ye have a son no more. The priests say this is justice.”
Maeve flinched as if she’d been struck. Ardahl bent swiftly and kissed her cheek. “I love ye, Mam. I assure ye—I did not do this thing.”
With a sob, Liadan’s mam fled into their hut. Flanna followed. Even as Ardahl’s mam walked away, Liadan and Ardahl stood looking at one another.
Vile serpent, she thought again. She did not feel sympathy for him. She did not.
But for his mam, just a bit.