Ordered to take Conall’s place, he would presumably need to train and fight among the other warriors. She tried to imagine what that would be like after having slain one so dear to those ranks, and then tried not to. She did not care.
But aye, he would need weapons. Her brother’s sword that had also been her father’s.
An abomination to see it in his hand.
His hands, stained red. Aye, she had seen the remnants of Conall’s blood there.
Suddenly she wanted to vomit, retch into the night pot as Mam had. She choked back the sickness and set about preparing the breakfast, never once glancing at the shadow that sat beside the door.
When the barley cakes were ready, she passed him a portion, still not looking at him, which he accepted. The three of them ate in silence, save for the sound of Mam’s soft sobs. After, Liadan entered Conall’s sleeping place and gently asked her mother if she would take something to eat.
She quietly gathered up Conall’s belongings. The cherished sword and the small knife—another besides the black one—he usually wore in his belt. A clean tunic, one she’d washed with her own hands. A spare kilt and a pair of leggings.
All still smelling of Conall.
These she carried out and thrust into Ardahl’s hands. For an instant he looked repulsed. His expression shut down—all but for his eyes. She could still see what lay in his eyes.
Flanna, silent as the spirit she now resembled, slipped away to Mam.
Liadan faced Ardahl and asked, “What is to happen now?”
He shook his head. “I cannot say. I ha’ never before been in this position.”
She wanted rid of him. She imagined he wanted rid of this duty even more. They were caught, the two of them. Bound together in a terrible way, by the druids’ decree.
She said, merely because she was used to speaking to Conall, and Conall was not there, “I shall have to persuade Mam to accept this. I do not know how.” Or how to accept it herself.
“I am sorry. Mistress Liadan, pray, look at me.”
She forced herself to do so. There he stood, slim and tall with her brother’s belongings in his arms.
“I did no’ mean to harm him.” He said it slowly and deliberately with emphasis, as if by doing so he could convince her. “I never would.”
“And yet,” she returned, everything within her rejecting him, “he lies dead. And ye do not.”
He bowed his head. Once again, Liadan’s sympathetic heart tried to imagine what he felt. She thrust the consideration from her also, violently.
“If ye would do something for me—for us,” she told him bitterly, “ye will get out of my sight.”
He went out in silence, leaving naught behind him but a glimpse, through the leather door, into the red morning.
Chapter Ten
Ardahl went tothe training field as he had nearly every day of his life for the past half-score years. In all weather. In times of victory and relative peace, or under threat of war. When tired, when wounded, when eager. A place he belonged—the wide, wide field surrounded by low drystone walls had always welcomed him.
Till now.
Never had it been harder to go there than this morning. Conall did not walk at his side.
Conall did not walk at his side.
But he wore Conall’s clothing, his own being foul with dirt and blood. And he carried Conall’s sword in his hand.
That made for an odd juxtaposition. So often had he seen the weapon clutched in Conall’s fingers; so often had he plucked it up out of the turf to return to his friend, it felt familiar. But och, so wrong in his hand.
The red of the sky had bled away, but clouds hung heavy on the western horizon, promising rain. The light felt stark, and it lit the scene—the green, green turf with the young men all gathered, the glittering weapons and a pony or two off to the side—too sharply.
Just as at the spring, he was met with silence, this one as sharp-edged as the swords. A broad sea of antagonism.
