“Even though it appears you have?”
Another step sounded at the door and Ardahl’s mother hurried in. She had clearly come running from her weaving, with the bits of fluff all stuck to her clothing and her hair—auburn like his own—tumbling down. A face stark white with disbelief turned to Ardahl.
“Chief Fearghal. What has happened? My son—”
She reached to clasp Ardahl’s hands but stopped when she saw the blood.
“Ardahl! What?”
“That, Mistress Maeve, is what we are trying to determine. A treacherous and terrible deed has been committed.”
“Those outside, chief, those who ran to me said—they said Conall MacAert lies dead.”
“So he does. Slain by the hand of his friend.”
“Nay, nay, that cannot be. That cannot. My son would not do such a thing. My son—”
“Your son, mistress, will be held until justice can be pronounced.”
“Nay.”
“Our priests need time to ponder the occurrence, and the law.”
“I cannot lose my son. I cannot! He is all I have.”
“Mistress,” the head druid said in a voice like the knelling of a bell, “it is as the chief says. We must ponder. We must study the laws and determine what is right in this matter.”
“I cannot lose him,” Mam said almost madly. “I cannot!” She drew a breath. “Let me take him home until you determine your justice.”
“A man lies dead,” said Chief Fearghal. “Ardahl will remain in our custody until he receives his determination.”
Ardahl lifted his eyes to his mother’s in agony. Since his father’s death when he was but eleven, they had held each other. Been a family of two. He had done everything he could—including working to become foremost among Fearghal’s warriors—for her sake.
Now he must abandon her. She looked as terrified by that prospect as he felt.
“Mam. Mam, I did not do this thing. I did not harm him.”
She nodded.
But Chief Fearghal said, “Then who did? He has no answers, mistress. Go home and pray. Pray for justice.”
*
Not until nightfall,when they had fitted out a stout pen for him, did they let him clean his hands. By then it was near impossible. Conall’s blood had dried hard, had become part of him, settled into the cracks and folds of his skin. He asked for a bucket of water, but the smell of the loosened blood sickened him, so he retched into the slop pan.
Good thing he hadn’t eaten anything since dawn. Little came up but sorrow.
They had given him nothing besides the slop bucket and a blanket, so he sat on that and tried in vain to determine what had befallen him.
What he wanted—the one person with whom he needed to talk—was Conall. To him had Ardahl always turned with any trouble. They would walk or sit together and work things out. Make sense of any difficulty.
Although, indeed, lately Conall had seemed less ready to come to him. A bit short with him from time to time. There was something in it. Ardahl’s tired mind could not figure what.
There had been much pressure upon all of them. Knowledge of the battles that would come this summer, and must be won if Chief Fearghal meant to hold his lands. The effort to remain at or near the best of Dornach’s young warriors.
Such pressure—to be the best, to display courage in any situation—would plague anyone. Play upon the spirit.
But if troubled in that way, why had Conall not come to him? Since the very first battle they had entered together as young warriors, Conall had confided each doubt, every fear.
