Cathair shifted on his feet. “Then he must take Conall’s place in the ranking.”
Behind ye, ye mean, Ardahl thought but did not say.
“To be sure,” Dornach barked, turning those burning eyes now on Cathair. “And so he shall. Let us get to work. And the first man I see o’ ye lifting a blade to his fellow will answer to me.”
That did not mean things henceforth got easier for Ardahl. His fellows continued to glare at him from the corners of their eyes. To whisper. Those he faced while sparring held nothing back and, save for Muirin, had nary a good word for him.
When the session ended, when the promised rain moved in, proving the omen of the red morning, and Dornach called it, Ardahl found himself covered with bruises, scrapes, and not a few bloody wounds.
His fellows, clearing off quickly, would now repair to the warriors’ hall, where they would shelter amid an atmosphere of camaraderie. Ardahl had no doubt as to what their subject of conversation would be.
He had nowhere to go, save back to the hut, where Conall’s mother wailed and his sisters could not hide their hatred for him.
As he moved to leave the field, Dornach called him back. “Ardahl, a moment.”
Ardahl stood with the cold rain sluicing down him while the war chief approached. Once again, the canny, dark eyes examined him.
“Are ye much hurt?”
“Nay.”
“They were rough on ye.”
Ardahl lifted his head and said nothing. He stung from the wounds, and the slights—mayhap the second more than the first.
Dornach’s gaze narrowed. “Lad, I have known ye from a young age, when ye came running here and asked to train well before your time. I know ye like a son o’ my own. What happened?”
Ardahl’s only answer was a shake of his head.
Dornach swore softly. “I believe full well ye would never ha’ hurt that lad. He was dear to ye as your own blood.”
“Dearer.” Ardahl choked. It helped—it helped that this man whom he had respected for so long did not think the worst of him. It solved nothing, yet it did assuage some of the pain.
He looked the war chief in the eye. “I do not know what happened. Believe me when I say so. We were sparring. He—he turned on me. Turned on me like a rabid hound. I saw such rage in his eyes.” Ardahl swallowed hard. “I believe he would ha’ killed me in that moment. We struggled. The knife ended up in his chest. I began to draw it out again, but there was so much blood—”
“Is that all?”
“All, master.”
Dornach stood there regarding him with the rain running down his face. Unflinching. At last one of his big hands came up to clap Ardahl’s shoulder.
“Aye, well, there will be more to it, ye may be sure. More may be discovered. Meanwhile, ye must bear your punishment.”
“’Tis still harder to bear his absence.”
“His absence wounds all o’ us. A bright light, was Conall MacAert.”
“Master Dornach, why would he turn on me that way?”
Slowly, Dornach shook his head. “I cannot say. I cannot fathom. My advice to ye is, accept your punishment. Fill his place well. Work hard. Trust in the gods that all will come clear in time.”
Trust in the gods? Dornach rarely spoke such words, and they startled Ardahl now. Apart from a prayer muttered before a battle, under the duress of the priests, the gods had little to do with him.
Why should they now step forward and take an interest in his life?
Unless—the startling thought occurred to him—they already had. Perhaps they already had.
Chapter Eleven
