She stumbled in the grass and nearly went down. Ahead of her in the green field she could see—
A great crowd of warriors. Liadan could see them standing all around Mam, who knelt in the rough grass, bent over something else.Someoneelse. Keening, keening.
The messenger, who had brought the dread news, turned back to look at her. Liadan’s younger sister, Flanna, came after her, calling out.
Time slowed and then stopped, just like Liadan’s feet, which dragged to a halt. She had reached her mother’s huddled form. The air around her grew bright. Too bright.
Her mam’s yellow hair had come loose in the run and tumbled messily down her back. The pale-gray fabric of her tunic dress looked dull against grass so green it hurt the eyes, and there—there—
Red. Rich and full, not rusty like that dried on the bandages she sometimes helped to wash. All over the tunic she had herself helped to weave for her brother. Thick and padded the garment was, so it might afford him some protection if he entered battle.
It had done nothing to stop the blade of the knife that protruded from his heart.
She fell to her knees beside her mother and stared into her brother’s face.
Untouched, it appeared calm and peaceful as he did when sleeping. Perhaps he merely slept, withal.
But nay. So much blood. Too much.
Conall’s yellow hair made another bright patch against the sod. His eyes, blue as her own, lay closed.
A sob rose to her throat and fought for release. Mam wailed and wailed. Flanna came down into the grass beside Liadan. Only twelve years old, would Flanna understand?
“My son! My son! I ha’ lost my only son!”
The warriors stood silent in a respectful circle. One of them stooped—it was Cathair, foremost among their young men. That was, unless Ardahl could be considered foremost. Ardahl. Where was he? Surely he above all others should be here at Conall’s side.
Cathair bent close over Mam. He touched her shoulder gently and spoke in her ear so Liadan could hear.
“’Twas Ardahl who did this. Ardahl took your son’s life.”
Mam lifted her face and stared at him. Eyes awash with tears, cheeks blotched and reddened, she looked nothing like herself.
“Nay. Ardahl is nearest to him in all the world.”
“They quarreled. I saw it all.”
Another warrior stepped across from the clot of men not far away and called Cathair by name. The young man straightened with a last pat for Mam’s shoulder. His pale eyes slid over Liadan and Flanna before he turned away.
“Cathair, the chief requires ye.”
“Ardahl,” Mam whispered in a voice such as Liadan had never heard. “Ye have taken my son. I will ne’er forgive ye. Ne’er.Ne’er.”
She broke down then into wild sobs. Liadan and Flanna clung to her even as the pain and disbelief warred in Liadan’s heart.
Ardahl. Nay. From as far back as she could remember, Conall and Ardahl had run together, laughed together, trained together. Could such a bond be severed even by a knife’s blade?
Someone helped her up, strong arms lifting her. The same arms lifted Mam and Flanna in turn. Ferghan, one of the senior warriors, stood there.
“Come, mistress. We must take him. Carry him to the healers.”
Mam raised a devastated face. “He is alive? They can save him?”
“Nay, mistress, nay. They will care for him, wash him. Prepare him for his cairn. We who loved him will carry him. Ye may follow behind.”
But the dagger is still in his heart. His very own dagger.
Liadan wanted to spit that out. She could see the hilt of the dagger quite clearly as the men tenderly, so tenderly, lifted her brother. The pattern on the handle, showing through the slickcoating of blood. That very dirk Chief Fearghal had given Conall when he entered the chief’s service.
