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“No, he hadn’t known any of it. Father and I agreed it was for the best.”
Though Brendan had wanted so many times to confide in his brother. He’d started so many letters to him in London before tossing them on the fire. At first afraid and then unable to involve his brother in what was growing to become an explosive situation. Best to keep him in London and safe out of the way.
Brendan’s hand tightened on the pint, the beer sloshing over his hand, but his voice remained calm. “His discovery of the truth was inevitable once Father’s diary came to his attention.”
“His Lordship’s more like the old earl than I imagined. Got his temper, for certes. He called me names. Cursed me for what I’d done. Threatened to kill me himself. I don’t blame him. I deserved that and more.”
Brendan swallowed around a sharp lump in his throat, a tremble in his fingers. His older brother’s fury wasn’t unreasonable. He had nearly died for Brendan’s crimes. Still, it only emphasized Brendan’s isolation.
“It’s why I came with Mr. O’Gara. He didn’t want me to come. Said I’d slow him up, but I wouldn’t let him leave without me. Locked him in a cupboard until he promised to bring me to you. Can you ever forgive me, Brendan?”
“For telling Aidan the truth?”
“Not about young Kilronan, no. For telling”—another furtive glance around the room—“them. For betraying your trust. My fault. All my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
Daz shoved himself back from the table. Slammed to his feet. Throwing the lapels of his coat open to reveal a grimy shirtfront. Squeezing his eyes shut. “Kill me! I deserve it!”
More than one startled fellow drinker looked up.
“Shhh, Daz. Sit down.”
“It’s no use, Brendan. I betrayed you to them. I deserve to die for what I did. Drive a dagger through my heart. Hilt-deep!”
Brendan laughed it off, casting a smile at the curious spectators. “It’s all right, everyone. An actor, you see. New stage production. Rehearsing his part. Jolly good, don’t you think?” Before turning his attention back to Daz, whispering, “Dash it all, man. Shut up and sit down before I gag you.”
“You’re right to be angry, Brendan. I sold you out. Offered up your life for mine. I was weak. But no longer. I’m here to pay my debt to you. A pistol. A knife. Choose your weapon.”
“Sit your bloody arse in the chair, man, and get ahold of yourself.” Brendan shoved him back in his seat. “Here. Drink this.” He pushed the tankard in front of him.
The old man gulped it down, rivulets seeping over his sagging cheeks. He wiped his mouth the back of his hand. “Ta, son. I needed that. Good of you. A last drink before the end.”
“Daz, I am not going to kill you. Why—”
Daz reached across the table, grasping Brendan’s hand in both of his. Pumping it up and down. “You’re a great lad. Always knew it. Better than all of them. Didn’t have the madness in you. Not like the rest of them.”
“Debatable, but now’s not the time to—”
“A weight off my old chest. I’ve carried the guilt so long. Thought I’d sent you to your grave. Thought the Amhas-draoi had tracked you and killed you like the rest of them. My conscience wouldn’t rest. Then Aidan turned up telling me you were alive. Made up my mind then and there to face you and take my punishment.”
Brendan had the odd impression of wandering into the middle of a conversation or the end of someone else’s story. Though as Daz rambled a picture emerged. The answer to a question he’d carried for seven years: Why?
Why—after he’d sent word with Daz of his willingness to surrender the Sh’vad Tual into their hands—had they attacked him? Why had the Amhas-draoi hunted him with such persistence over the ensuing years?
He’d assumed the answer lay in the depth of his crimes. That Scathach and the brotherhood had proclaimed his death and would see anything less as failure to destroy all vestiges of the Nine.
“Slow down, Daz. What happened after I sent you to the Amhas-draoi?”
Ahern’s face crumpled, great leaking tears rolling down his blubbery jowls as he arranged and rearranged the feather, the stick, the cherry stone. Moving them this way and that. His gaze locked upon the strange patterns. “Went like we agreed. Did just as you said. None suspected me. None stopped me.”
“Did you speak to Scathach?”
“Aye, the warrior queen is as fierce as they say, Brendan. She just had to look at me and I felt as if she were picking my brain apart particle by particle. Seeing every guilty secret.” He whipped free his handkerchief, giving another horrid honk. “That’s when I failed. So many questions, all talking one over the other. Scathach never taking her eyes off me. I grew confused. Muddled in my thinking. Never meant to hurt you. Never meant to betray you. My fault, though. I claimed your information as mine. They never knew you’d sent me. . . .” Daz’s voice trailed off into a horrified, strangled whisper. “Never knew about you at all.”
Brendan rubbed his injured hand up and down his thigh, working the kinked muscles loose. Pictured Daz’s confrontation with the Amhas-draoi. The circle of stern, angry faces. The drawn swords. The threats. It made perfect sense. Hell, he’d probably have done the same if standing at such an epicenter of warrior-mage fury.
Laughter started low in his gut. Worked its steady way up through his chest, loosening the taut muscles across his shoulders, the bands clamping his back, the stiff neck and the pain in his temples.
