"It is not so easy as you believe, my son. All of Ireland would suspect treachery if Niall of theSeven Betrayals, my champion, dropped dead at the banquet table. We shall have to be more subtle. You must prove yourself worthy to be my heir."
"But how—"
"We will use something that takes its effect slowly weighing him down like the onset of a sickness. When Niall feels the exhaustion begin to overtake him, he will retire to his chamber. You will slip from the great hall, steal in, and kill him. But you must do so before the evidence of the poison is written across his face."
Magnus's eyes widened in fear. "But he is most skilled. What if—"
"He will be weak as a newborn babe. I will make certain the potion is strong enough so that even you can kill him."
Magnus flinched as if Conn lashed him across the face.
"Come, my son, tell me, how many times have you imagined this in your dreams? Your sword piercing Niall's flesh, his eyes round as he sees his death in your eyes, his blood gushing hot over your hand. Finally the cur that stole the prize portion belonging to you will pay for his insolence. We will make him pay, you and I."
"But every eye would turn to me if Niall is cut down. All Glenfluirse knows how I hate him."
Conn smiled as his son regarded him with the special dread accorded a sorcerer, wavering, wavering. "Do you believe your own father would put you in danger? You kill Niall. Trust me to arrange the rest. No one else in Glenfluirse will ever know that it was you who dealt Niall death."
"But how? I do not understand."
"You will make it look as if it were an accident. After all, a man everyone believes is in his cups often slips, falls. It is possible he could injure himself with his own sword, is it not? No man could prove that Niall was murdered after you drive Niall's own sword through the wound you have made in his body. Only you and I... we will know the truth, will we not, my son?"
It was a lure that a far stronger man would have been powerless to resist, the soft, secretive purr in Conn's voice, the slyness of his smile. Magnus wavered. Surrendered. He rose to his feet, bracing himself upright with the edge of a shattered bench.
"I will do it," Magnus vowed as Conn always knew he would. "Let the betrayer's son die."
Conn peered into the face of his firstborn, a twinge of guilt in his gut. "This is one grim truthany chieftain must accept," Conn said, his voice edged with regret. "Death is often necessary to safeguard his rule."
Sometimes even the death of the chieftain's own son...
Chapter 21
The banquet hall shone bright as a new-polished sword, tables groaning beneath the weight of the finest foods Glenfluirse could provide. Yet the people beneath the timbered roof were eager for a feast of another kind.
Weaned from their mothers' breasts to be nourished by the hero tales of Ireland, they hungered to witness the birth of a legend. They moved through the days of celebration as people in a dream, knowing that their children's children would sit before roaring fires generations from now, listening while bards not yet born sung tales of Niall of the Seven Betrayals.
Garbed in their finest, they relished the fact that they were here during this magical time.Torcs and bracelets coursed gold rivers about white throats and wrists, bodies adorned with rich billows of cloth ornamented with threads of madder and saffron and green. Warriors boasted of their own feats of valor, while wives and daughters clustered about them. But no man in Glenfluirse could compete with the guest the banquet honored, the champion Conn had claimed as his own.
Niall leaned against the table, reminding himself that the bard accorded him a rare honor. The harp, that most exquisite of weapons, waited a mere arm's length from where he sat, the bard, with his ageless eyes and his voice rich with the essence of time, had promised all present a new epic, written for this occasion, to capture for all time Niall's courage and his quests. Merely two moons ago, Niall would have rejoiced in all of it—the feast and the praise, the honor and the triumph.
But despite the haunch of the finest meat—the champion's portion—which steamed before Niall, despite the mad gaiety of a people who loved their revels nearly as much as their merry wars, Niall could scarce wait until the night was over and he could find respite in his own solitary bed.For even the halls of Conn's fortress were haunted now by shades from Castle Daire.
From the moment the feasting began, all he could think of were the women he had left behind. How Fiona's eyes would have widened at such a repast, how amazed she would be at countless delicacies she had never tasted. How Caitlin would have glittered in this setting, a jewel so rare she would outshine any woman in the chamber.
Only his mother was impossible to imagine in this hall. Too many ghosts still lingered to overwhelm her. The faces might have aged in the years since she left Glenfluirse for the last time, but scattered among the crowd were some of the same men who had condemned her husband to die.
Why had he never considered that? Niall mused, picking at a splinter in the wood of the table. He had lived at this fortress most of his life, knew almost all who dwelled within these walls, but never had he searched the faces, wondered who among them had taken pleasure in Ronan of Daire's execution and who might have felt regret.
He scanned the crowd, seeking out the grizzled beards, the lined faces, the hair threaded through with silver and wondered. After amoment, he shook himself inwardly. What was he attempting to do? Make this endless night an even worse form of torture? He should at least seem to be enjoying himself.
Niall tore a chunk of rich meat from the haunch with his teeth, but the venison tasted as dull as dried leaves. Even so, he could not bear to waste it. Fortunately, there was one at Glenfluirse who would devour the haunch in a twinkling, Niall thought. He grinned as Owaine's grimy face rose in his memory.
The boy he had charged to bring his message to Conn had obviously carried out his task in good faith. The vast remains of the champion's portion should put some meat on his scrawny bones so he would at least have a fighting chance on the practice field he had yearned after for so long.
Aye, Niall thought, an hour in Owaine's company would dull the worst of this yearning to be home. Excusing himself to the bard, Niall made his way to where Conn sat in his place of honor among his six sons. Ignoring glares that once would have pierced like lances, Niall bowed before Conn.
"Ah," Conn said, his smile touched with censure. "He comes to his chieftain at last, this son Ihonor above all others."
A discontented rumble sounded from Conn's flame-haired offspring.
