“Ah, here is one who will know.”
Cathair burst in, looking overly large in his leather armor, fair hair gleaming in the gloom. His pale gaze went first to his chief, holding an odd gleam, then to the priests, and lastly to Ardahl’s face, openly hostile.
“My chief,” he gasped, breathless with his hurry.
“Cathair. You saw what happened to Conall MacAert, there on the field?”
“I saw some of it, my chief. Most of it.”
“Tell us as clearly as you can what you did see, as Ardahl seems unable.”
“Aye, chief.”
“Ye were nearby?”
“I was. We had all been at practice since just after dawn. Preparing for the battles to come wi’—”
Chief Fearghal said dryly, “I know wi’ whom we are at war.”
“To be sure. Forgive me.” Cathair wagged his head in sorrow. False sorrow? “Conall and Ardahl were sparring, across the field from Master Dornach.” He cast a glance at the war chief. “Asthey often do. I was no’ paying strict attention, not until I heard raised voices. They were quarreling.”
He shot a sharper look at Ardahl.
“Were they?” asked Dornach in surprise, as if Ardahl did not stand there.
“Aye. ’Tis what caught my attention. The shouting and a sudden flurry. I realized ’twas not sparring anymore but a true quarrel. Even as I turned my eyes that way, they struggled together. Over—over the knife, so it appeared. Before I could so much as take a step toward them, the blade was in Conall’s heart.”
“I had no hold of it,” Ardahl said. He must speak up or he would not have an opportunity. “I did not attack him.”
“Nay?” Chief Fearghal lifted a brow. “Then why are both your hands red with his blood?”
“I tried—I tried to pull the knife out, then remembered ’tis often fatal—” The horror of seeing Conall’s eyes go wide, of watching him begin to crumple, swamped him anew. “I swear to ye, I do not know how the knife got in his heart.”
“But ye did quarrel with him?”
“Nay.”
Cathair sneered. “I heard ye shouting.”
Ardahl shook his head. “I did not shout. Conall did. He took a sudden anger with me. He began to accuse me of—”
Of what, Ardahl truly could not say. It had happened so suddenly. Conall’s rage had been unprovoked, and his words unclear. Conall grew angry with him so seldom, though lately, aye, he had been much quicker to find fault.
“I do not know why he was angered or how—how—”
Steadily, Chief Fearghal asked of Cathair, “Was anyone else there with Conall and Ardahl? Another who could have committed this deed?”
“Nay, my chief. There was no one.”
“No one else who could have heard or seen what happened?”
“Nay.”
“Then”—Chief Fearghal’s gaze glinted—“we can but draw a single conclusion. Two young warriors. One still stands, and one lies dead.”
Was that a gleam of satisfaction Ardahl saw in Cathair’s eyes? In no fit condition to employ discernment, he could not tell.
“Chief Fearghal,” he said as steadily as he could manage, “Conall was as close to me as anyone in the world. I would never harm him.”
