“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?”
Hadit 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.”
