The boy reached into his grimy shirtfront, extracting a sheet of vellum sweaty and stinking, much battered from the journey.
Conn grimaced, then turned his back on the boy and read. Triumph surged through him, delight more exhilarating than the moment when he had struck off Ronan's head.
It is done! he rejoiced. Better still, his plan had worked even beyond his own imaginings. Niallwas already so troubled by the act he had performed that he could not face his chieftain, could not face the other warriors. Before long, the most honorable warrior Conn had ever known would not even be able to face himself. What poetic justice that would be, everyone in Glenfluirse believing Ronan's only son had died by his own sword, drowning in shame.
Conn thrust the missive into the fire that burned in the hearth, watching the flames devour it. At last, he turned to Owaine.
"Curiosity is a powerful force. You are certain you did not read what Niall wrote?" he asked again.
Outraged at the insult but trying to conceal it, Owaine peered up at him, guileless as a calf at slaughter time. "Even if I were such a deceitful cur, I could not betray the greatest warrior of Glenfluirse. I cannot read."
Conn smiled. "You are a fine lad. A brave one. One deserving of a reward. You say you wish to be a warrior. Every warrior needs a weapon."
Conn drew the dagger from his waist, the jeweled hilt shimmering. "Come here, boy. Close. I will honor you with the dagger of a chieftain." Aye, a voice in Conn's head jeered, and a death far above the station of a beggar the likes of you.
But Owaine took a step backward. He could not possibly suspect Conn was about to kill him?
"I wish to keep the dagger I have," the lad asserted stubbornly.
Conn gaped, stunned. "What weapon could be finer than the dagger of a chieftain?"
"The dagger of a hero who will live forever." Owaine's eyes filled with awe as he drew the familiar, shimmering weapon from beneath the folds of his dirt-encrusted clothes. "The magical blade Niall of the Seven Betrayals won in his quest."
Irritation bit deep. Why should it annoy him so? Conn wondered. It was nothing but the rejection of a fool boy, too stupid to be canny, blinded by hero worship and the tales men whispered of valor in battle and hints of Niall's mysterious quests.
Conn grimaced. It had seemed so wise years ago when he had forbidden Niall to speak of his quests. Conn had thought silence would keep Niall from growing too powerful, too famed among the people. Niall had kept that oath, but in the end, Ronan's son had turned that sword against him as well. There were others who discovered fragments of stories regarding Niall's feats of courage, men who filled long, dark hoursof night with tales that grew grander, more magical, with each telling. Strange that in all his plotting, Conn had never guessed that mysterious scraps of tales would only make the people ravenous for more, the bits of tales they could glean about Niall's heroics far more intriguing than full-blown stories could ever be.
In the end, those tales would have made Niall immortal while Conn faded into the mists of time, until no man living knew his name. But the death of Caitlin of the Lilies would change all that. Once all Ireland knew Glenfluirse's great warrior had cut her down in cold blood, Niall of the Seven Betrayals would live in infamy until the end of time.
Murderous rage ripped through Conn, rage he had so seldom allowed himself to feel. Even now it was a mistake.
He saw something flash into the boy's eyes—the wariness of a wild thing that has had to fight its whole life to survive. With an oath, Conn lunged for Owaine, the dagger blade aimed at the boy's throat. But Owaine flung up his arm, Niall's dagger blocking Conn's blow with a strength and skill impossible for a boy so small.
Thrown off balance, Conn stumbled, fell, striking his midsection on the hard edge of atable as Owaine darted past him. Conn could not speak, could not breathe, his chest a burning pit of pain as the boy raced from the room.
Conn gasped, staggered after Owaine, but the boy was gone. "Magnus!" Conn struggled to cry out, certain his son would have the sense to grab the runaway boy. But Magnus was busy taking out his own anger upon one of the castle hounds.
Conn kicked over a bench to get his attention. Magnus wheeled, eyes widening in shock as he saw Conn doubled over. "The boy," Conn croaked. "Catch the boy!"
An hour later, Magnus returned, failure and dread etched in his face. "It is as if he vanished by some druid spell!" he defended himself, rubbing his sweaty brow in bemusement.
Conn's hands knotted into fists. "Gather a score of the warriors you trust most. Send them in search of this Owaine."
Magnus stared in astonishment. "The... warriors that I—"
"Aye, you fool! Are you deaf? Those loyal only to you." And those who hate Niall, Conn left unspoken, for that core of loyalty Niall had won in some warriors was as unyielding as iron. "Did the boy say where he came from?"
"The west."
"Aye. That is where he will flee, to try to warn his hero, to tell Niall—" Conn stopped, glared at his son. "Begin your search in that direction. Tear the countryside to shreds if you need to. Whoever shelters the boy must be killed. And whoever finds the boy will be rewarded beyond his wildest hopes, as long as he speaks not a word to the lad, aye, nor to anyone except you. This is what you will tell your men."
Magnus beamed.
"I offer you a chance to prove yourself," Conn said.
"I will bring the boy to you, and the warrior as well," Magnus vowed.
"Nay." Conn fingered the blade of his own dagger. "You will kill them both."
