Chapter Eight
S natches of sleep were all Liadan had that night. She made sure Mam lay comfortably upon her bed, and saw Flanna into her own small sleeping place before seizing a blanket and lying on the floor beside Mam.
Her mind too full, her body aching, she listened as Flanna cried herself to sleep. Counted Mam’s deep breaths. The draught must have been a strong one. It sent her well under and, thank all the gods, stopped her weeping.
The hut grew quiet, and yet—it did not. Liadan could feel him there, Ardahl MacCormac, just outside the door. Feel him even though she could not see him, as if he shouted his presence aloud.
How could she ever have been so mistaken in anyone? For she had admired him, to be sure she had. Even begun to desire him, after she grew old enough to understand what might exist between a man and a woman.
He had no woman among the tribe. Looked to no woman, though other young lasses of the clan spoke of him. He remained set upon working his way to the foremost of the tribe’s warriors, and on caring for his mother, both things she had admired.
Some whispered that only when he achieved the place he wanted, at the head of Fearghal’s men, would he consider taking a wife. Choosing a woman and handfasting with her.
Whether he was looking or not, he had never so much as glanced in Liadan’s direction. She told herself now how glad she was of it.
The serpent.
Knowing what he was and how mistaken she’d been in him, how was it she could still feel him outside the door?
She tried to comfort herself with the fact that Conall too had been mistaken in Ardahl. It did not help.
Conall . Her glorious older brother with the sunny smile, the dancing eyes, and the teasing tongue. He could brighten any day and lighten any mood.
How could it be that he was gone from the world?
Mam stirred and muttered fitfully, but did not wake. Liadan thought about taking some of the draught the healer had mixed, for he had left extra. Perhaps that would quiet her mind.
But what if Mam awakened and needed her?
Night settled around the hut with its accompanying quiet. What if, during this silent time, Conall arose from his cold bed on the hill and came walking down? Came home to the hut, seeking admittance. Seeking his place back from Ardahl, whom she could feel—
Breathing.
Och, but she had to get hold of herself. Find some rest, some peace. Tomorrow was likely to be terribly difficult. Mayhap not so difficult as today—for naught could be, but—
Mam stirred again and whispered a name in her sleep. Conall . Liadan squeezed her eyes shut and held on tight.
*
Morning came with livid red light bleeding through the sky, a dire omen. To Ardahl, who had done no more that doze against the wall of the hut beside the door, it looked like the blood that had spread across Conall’s tunic when he tried to remove the knife. Straight from his heart.
He did not want to face this day. Did not know how to alter the fact that he must.
He got to his feet, stretching his back and his legs, feeling three score years of age.
Staring at that sky, he knew to his bones something bad would occur this day. Just like yesterday. Mayhap every day for the rest of his life.
What would be expected of him? He struggled to think. Should he attend training as he and Conall always did?
He and Conall.
Folk would come by here to commiserate with Mistress MacAert, bring her comfort, and pour sympathy upon her.
None would spare a thought for him, though he’d lost something as vital to him as his right arm.
He blinked and again struggled to remember what had happened. How it had happened. As he had five score times already, he relived the argument with Conall there at the edge of the training field.
They rarely argued. Och, there had been annoyances, small things. He’d sometimes become aggravated with Conall’s teasing. Conall sometimes seemed to mind that he, Ardahl, gained higher honors than him on the field.
Nothing they could not shrug off.
This time—
For days, Conall had been needling him, and not in a friendly way. Voice sharper than usual, jibes just a bit sharper. There on the field, when they worked together, he had suddenly accused Ardahl of wanting him out of the way.
“What are ye saying?” Ardahl spat at him. “Do no’ be a fool. I would lay down my life for ye, as well ye know.”
“Would ye? Would ye?” Real anger had flared in Conall’s eyes. “Let us see, then.”
He threw down his sword and drew the dagger from his boot. For one mad moment, Ardahl had thought it a joke. Then he saw—felt—that it was not.
His own sword fell from his hand. When Conall flew at him, the two of them grappled together. It had been like wrestling a fury, unrestrained.
The black-handled knife with which Conall attacked him had ended up in Conall’s own breast.
Ardahl still did not know quite how.
If he could relive it in truth instead of in his mind… If he could go back and live those moments over again…
He would stand and let Conall do as he would to him. Make no move that could harm his best friend.
So deep was his regret.
A figure appeared out of the grim morning and approached the place where he stood. That of a young man it was, and someone Ardahl knew right well.
Muirin MacGradh had been friend to both Ardahl and Conall a long while. Someone with whom they trained. Laughed and drank.
Now the young man with the dark-brown mane of hair bore no smile, nor any hint of one. He walked up to the front of the hut and stood eyeing Ardahl gravely.
For the span of many heartbeats he failed to speak. At last he said, “Tell me it is no’ true.”
“’Tis not. I would never have harmed Conall. Ye know that.”
“I know that, aye. ’Tis why I came. I spent the night trying to make myself believe ye did this thing. I could not, quite.”
A wave of profound relief hit Ardahl. So strong was it, it swayed him where he stood.
“What happened?” Muirin asked.
“I ha’ been sitting here the night long trying to answer that question.”
Muirin’s dark eyes glinted. “Ye had his blood on your hands.”
“Aye.” No denying it.
“He lies dead.”
“Aye. Ye know I would never meaningly harm a hair of him.”
“An accident, then?”
Had it been an accident? Given the struggle and Conall’s clear intent to attack him, he had to believe its opposite.
He shook his head. “No matter. He is dead and I ha’ my sentence to live out.”
“’Tis a hard fate, Ardahl. Ye were first among us.”
“Not quite. Cathair is still first.” He had very nearly made it there, though. “That does not matter either. Muirin, if ye would do one thing for me—”
“Name it.”
“Look after my mam. Make sure she is safe and does not go wanting. Without me there to look after her…”
Muirin’s gaze softened. “Aye, I will.”
“She does no’ deserve to pay for this misdeed.”
“I am no’ certain ye do either. But the druids have spoken.”
The door at Ardahl’s back swung open a crack. Liadan peered out, lit by the garish red morning.
She took in Ardahl and Muirin. “I wondered who was speaking.”
Muirin gave a short bow. “My condolences, mistress. Conall was among my closest friends, and I was ever so fond o’ him.”
“Thank ye.”
Ardahl and Liadan both watched the young man walk away. Easier that than for Ardahl to face the deep wound in Liadan’s eyes.
“I am certain,” he said slowly, “he is but the first of your visitors this morning.”
Liadan said nothing in response to that. Instead, she swept the door open farther and thrust a pot at him.
“Conall always fetched our water first thing.”
Ardahl accepted the pot but did not move. “How is your mam this morning?”
Her face clouded, proving its rosiness a mere reflection from the horizon.
“She is sick and groggy from the draught. And just look at that red sky!” She tossed her hands in the air. “I suppose ye will expect breakfast.”
“Do no’ worry for me.”
She swore bitterly, a curse Ardahl could not mistake, since it had been so often on Conall’s lips, and shut the door.
With the ewer in hand, he trudged off to meet his fate.