“A coward, then.”
Brendan shook his head. “I’m no coward, either.”
“Oh, no? Then why did ye flee the battle, all those years ago?”
He clenched his jaw. “Because I understood that ye cared nothing for the lives of the men who died, on either side. Ye didn’t care how many villages were plundered and ravished, how many innocents died. That day, when I left the battlefield, I realized that ye were aware all along how much suffering was caused in yer quest for power. Ye understood, and ye did not care. Ye judged it an appropriate sacrifice for ye to get what ye wanted.”
Laird Grahame snarled. “Don’t question me.”
“I will question ye. I won’t stop questioning ye, not until ye give me answers. Tell me, Father, did ye ever love me? Or was I just yer perfect wee killing machine?”
Brendan’s voice had risen, echoing around the courtyard. He didn’t realize that his sword had dropped until it was too late.
Laird Grahame bared his teeth. “Lairds don’t love, boy. I thought ye might have known that by now.”
The sword swung through the air, a silver flash. It reached the highest point of its arc, above Laird Grahame’s head.
And then it stopped.
Brendan flinched, holding his breath.
Did I somehow get through to him? Has he changed his mind?
He met his father’s eyes, sinking deep into a mottled red-and-purple face. Laird Grahame opened his mouth, but only a choking noise came out.
The sword fell onto the cobbles with a tremendous clatter, and people cried out. The Laird fell slowly, crumbling like a falling tower. He landed on his back with a thud, wheezing like a landed fish.
Brendan never thought twice. He dropped to his knees beside Laird Grahame, tugging at the high collar around his neck.
“Fetch him water,” he called, to no one in particular. Nobody moved, but people began to crowd in closer. “Fetch water! Or a healer, orsomething!”
“It’s his heart.” Noah spoke up. He was on his feet now, the soldiers that were meant to be guarding him standing and staring, motionless. “He’s complained of chest pains over the past month or two. The exertion must have been too much.”
Brendan swallowed thickly, glancing down at his father’s face. The redness was fading now, replaced by a bone whiteness. His eyes were wide, his jaw slack, sucking in rasping breaths.
“Ye were wrong, Father,” Brendan said, voice low. “Lairds do love. It was love that brought me back here. It was love that started all this. Love for my people, love for Freya, love formyself. I won’t be like ye, I can promise ye that.”
Laird Grahame lifted a shaking hand. Brendan flinched, half expecting a blow, or a last stab of a hidden knife. Instead, Laird Grahame’s hand rested against his cheek, his skin dry and papery. Brendan swallowed thickly.
Laird Grahame stared up at his son, a mixture of confusion, anger, and regret in his eyes. For a moment, Brendan was sure that he was going to say something.
The moment passed. The light in Laird Grahame’s eyes died away, and his hand fell limply back onto his chest.
Brendan sat back on his heels. The silence was absolute.
He’s dead.
It’s over.
Before anybody could say a thing, there was a cry of anger, and a figure came rushing through the crowds—Fergus. He had a dirk in his hand, raised high.
“I said I’d kill ye,” he hissed. “And so I?—”
He never finished his sentence. Brendan was on his feet in an instant. Dodging the stab, he grabbed Fergus’ wrist, deftly twisting the knife out of his grip and backwards. Fergus lurched forward, trying to free himself, and the knife went straight through his throat.
The silence in the courtyard was palpable. Brendan bit back a curse.
I’d hoped that no more blood would be shed.
