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 herbrother’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, expressionunchanging, 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.
