“So you were right.” Donnán has taken Cian’s staff from Lir, examining it with a sadness that feels strangely stilted in the wake of the emotion he’s just put on display. “Was it with Cian’s body?”
“No.” Lir hesitates, and I can tell he doesn’t want to elaborate as Aodh marches me up. A few people have begun paying attention now, though most have resumed their meals and own conversations. “Deaglán here had it.”
Puzzlement, then wide-eyed anger from Donnán. He looks at me as if I had killed someone. “Why does he live?”
“He says it was given to him. There was a witness. And he isábálta,” adds Lir, in a lower voice. I don’t know the word, but he makes it sound significant.
“That does not matter,” snarls Donnán. His hand, I notice, has gone to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.
The conversation is too complicated and fast for me to follow after that, but one thing is clear enough: Donnán believes I should be executed, and he doesn’t want to wait around for it to happen. Lir protests, but I can see his uncertainty, his desperation to make his case. I get the impression that Donnán is his superior.
Aodh’s spear is still pointed at me but in a vaguely disinterested way, his focus more on the argument between the druids. Chatter nearby has eased, too, as others at the tables listen in curiously.
Heart pounding, I dart forward.
Aodh shouts and the druids both stop in surprise, but I’m not headed for the exit; even if Kegan and several others weren’t in between, I’d never make it more than a few steps outside the door.
Instead I slip past the fire, toward King Rónán.
The massive man next to him, the one adorned in the armbands and silver torc, has his spear in hand so fast I can barely countenance it. It doesn’t matter. I skid to my knees in front of the king’s table. Conversation around the hall has all but stuttered to a surprised stop.
“Great King Rónán. I am Deaglán ap Cristoval.” My father’s name tightens my throat as I say it, but I press on hurriedly as someone shouts behind me. “My arm is your arm. Itiomnaighmyself to you. If I break my oath, by gods andanammay the earth swallow me. The sea drown me. The sky burn me.” I finish with the same three words as the others before, barely gasping out the last one before there’s a hand tangling in my hair and jerking me violently, angrily backward. I can’t help but cry out as Aodh slaps me on the side of the head with his free hand.
“What is this?” The behemoth next to the king still grips his spear, eyes angry.
“King Rónán. He is marked for death. He carried thecomhlánam,” says Donnán, hurrying forward. I’ve heard the word before—it doesn’t mean staff, but I know that’s what it refers to.
There’s a murmur around the hall. Not a pleased one.
“And it was witnessed that he was given it freely.” Lir steps forward. There’s a gleam in his eye. “As it was witnessed that he sacrificed his arm in defending a family from a raid. This family have sworn a life-debt to him. So if he is to be executed, then they must be executed also.”
“What?” I try to twist, unsuccessfully thanks to Aodh’s grip on my hair. “No. Lir. Please.No.” This is the first I’ve heard of such an arrangement.
“The law is clear.” Donnán’s surprised by the revelation, but grimly determined.
For the first time, King Rónán speaks.
“You would deny his oath?” His deep, authoritative voice cuts easily through the hubbub.
Donnán hesitates. “Druidic law is clear—”
“Druidic law does not supersede an oath. It is my judgement to make, now.” Rónán says it calmly, but the power in his voice silences Donnán. He turns to me. “Did you do this thing?”
I lick my lips. “Cian gave me hiscomhlánam. Just before he died. I did not know it was … wrong, great king,” I say, reaching for the right words. “I am sorry for my speech. I am not of this land.”
Rónán nods slowly. “Not knowing is not always an excuse for acts. But if you are owed a life-debt by one of my people, then you are owed it by me. A life for a life, Deaglán. The life-debt is paid.” He glances at Lir. Something passes between them, unnoticed by most, though I think Donnán picks up on it. “Rise, Deaglán ap Cristoval. Before gods andanam, your oath is received. My hearth is your hearth.”
A murmur accompanies the words. Surprised, but not outraged. Donnán frowns but seems to accept the king’s decision; he walks over to the bowl on the table and takes the hawthorn branch. Dips it again and flicks it at me with ritual, practiced motion.
The blood is warm. Some gets in my mouth, salty and viscous. I feel like I am going to throw up.
I think that will be the end of it, but to my surprise, King Rónán speaks again. Loud. Addressing the entire room.
“To sacrifice in order to protect is the highest duty. Deaglán ap Cristoval, by witness, has done this, and in these times we are in need of good men. He is to be sent to Loch Traenala.”
This time the murmur that goes around the hall is shocked. Donnán looks stunned. The expression of the mountainous man next to the king is one of utter outrage.
Lir, in fact, is the only one whose surprise strikes me as feigned.
