“You must. We must be strong for Mam.”
Much to ask of a lass with only eleven winters to her name. But Flanna straightened and blinked the tears away.
She whispered, “Sister, what will happen to us?”
Cursed if Liadan knew.
*
Daylight came throughthe gaps in the walls of Ardahl’s prison, flickering just as his courage had flickered all the night long.Sleep had not found him, and by morning dread lay in the pit of his stomach like a block of ice.
He suspected the chief—or possibly Dornach—had stationed guards outside the hut where he was being held, because he could hear them whispering from time to time. Talking about him, no doubt.
He wondered who they were. Whomever, he undoubtedly had trained and fought beside them. Feasted and drank—laughed with them.
Now they guarded him, in his dishonor.
As it had all night, his mind poked and prodded at what had happened yesterday afternoon. The sudden anger in Conall’s clear blue eyes, coming seemingly from nowhere. The dagger. The rush of horror as Ardahl realized his best friend intended to attack him. The brief, violent struggle.
The blade in Conall’s heart.
He still could not tell how it had ended there. The very question made him pace and sweat.
It could not be. None of this could be occurring. All a dream, mayhap. Or a horrible joke. Conall would appear at the door of the pen and give him a wide, mischievous smile, his eyes as bright as the morning.
All would be as ever, right between them. Because none of what had happened yesterday could have happened at all. An evil dream. Naught more.
But then, what about the traces of blood still on his hands? That which he had not been able to wash away, caught deep in the lines and creases. Conall’s blood.
Voices sounded outside—a query and an answer. The bar lifted and the door swung open on its leather hinges.
Daylight outlined a large figure. Blinking against the brightness, Ardahl identified him.
Dornach, with his woolen plaid slung over his shoulder. Wearing his sword.
“Ardahl MacCormac,” he called, “ye are to come wi’ me.”
“Where?”
“To the chief’s hall. To receive your sentence.”
Suddenly, Ardahl’s legs threatened to fail him. He’d not experienced the like since before his first battle.
None o’ that, lad,he bade himself.Ye will keep face and conduct yourself like a man.
That determination nearly deserted him when he stepped forward and got a look at Dornach’s expression. Bleak as winter it was, and twice as cold.
This man who had trained him, laughed with him, been like a second father to him, could not now look him in the eyes.
Och, by the gods, he was doomed.
Chapter Five
Chief Fearghal satin 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.
