“Aye. Fachtna, Baeth’s father, is causing trouble,” Dallan explained, though it only sounded like an excuse to his own ears. “He’s angling for my uncle’s throne.”
Brian leaned forward at the mention of Baeth. “That bastard who tried to kill me?”
“That’s the one.” During their final trial before taking their oaths as warriors of the Fianna, the men defended Brian from an attempt on his life by Dallan’s own cousin. It had been too near a thing. Luckily, Finn had stepped in, or else the battle may have turned disastrous.
“I knew there was division over the throne,” Brian said, “but I hadn’t realized Baeth’s father was the source of the dissent.”
“If he takes it, make no mistake, he’ll march on Mumhain within a sennight. Morda needs a second to strengthen his position. He has no one else.”
Brian rubbed his chin, moving the bristles on his trimmed grey beard. “Have you already sworn to him as second?”
“I have.”
The king’s brow furrowed deeply. “Then I see no way around it,” he admitted. “But you do realize you and Morda are both in danger until this is resolved, don’t you?”
The small part of Dallan that had held out for a different resolution deflated in resignation. “I wish it were otherwise, but I cannot let the kingdom collapse into civil war, danger or not.”
“No,” Brian agreed, “you cannot. It would destroy more than just Laigin. If you can find some way to ensure Fachtna never takes the throne, you are always welcome among my Fianna.”
They both stood, moving toward the door.
“I will do my best,” he promised, though at the moment it felt futile.
Brian smiled sadly. “You always do. That’s why Morda needs you.”
As Dallan embraced him, Brian spoke under his breath. “A word of advice from an old king to a future one: Treat them all like your top man, but don’t trust a single one.”
Dallan thanked him and took his leave, finally beginning to understand how Brian had managed such a long and successful reign. If fate did intend for him to be a king, it would be a mighty feat to be half the king Brian was.
But there wasn’t time for musing. He’d have the next day or two to strategize as he traveled to Nás, the royal seat of Laigin.
At present, however, Dallan faced the most difficult conversation of all, the one he’d been dreading for days.
He strode across the fog-shrouded courtyard, headed for the infirmary.
Chapter Thirty-One
At some pointin the night, Niamh had slipped into a fitful sleep. She hadn’t dared return to the room she shared with her mother and Máire. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to face them yet, to be barraged by questions to which she didn’t even know the answers. Though the notion of lying on the cot for the next few hours, wallowing in her heartache, felt awfully tempting, Niamh knew that wasn’t the path to healing.
What had she told her mother when her father had left? What had she told Alva when her husband announced his plans to marry a second woman?
She’d told them those fool men didn’t deserve them anyhow. Then she made them a warm, steamy infusion of mint leaves with lavender and roses. So, instead of curling up like Morrígan on the cool, rough floor, Niamh stood and put a pot to boil over the infirmary’s small hearth, desperately missing the cozy little cottage that sat in a pile of ashes and broken dreams somewhere beyond the keep.
Niamh had just started gathering dried lavender and rose petals when Dallan walked in, his broad frame filling the doorway. She didn’t look up from her table, dropping a pinch of lavender buds into her smooth stone mortar. She felt his presence behind her, watching her work over her shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she lied. She still hadn’t decided how to tell him what she’d overheard, though she began contemplating it, knowing the inevitability of the discussion this morn.
“There’s something I should have told you,” he began hesitantly, his voice pained. “I knew it would upset you, so I’ve put it off longer than I ought.”
Niamh stilled. Perhaps she wouldn’t be the one to bring it up after all. “Best get it over with, then.”
Dallan blew out a heavy breath. “Brian and Morda each gave me a choice before I arrived in Thurles—join one and reject the other. Morda wanted me to swear the oath and become his second, Brian wanted to adopt me as his son so that I will remain with the Fianna and never rule Laigin.”
Niamh’s mouth fell open. How could it not? She’d expected a confession about whatever ploy he’d concocted with Finn, about how he concealed his true feelings about her infertility. Not this. Not more secrets. She could hardly believe it, though at this point she shouldn’t be surprised.
“Niamh,” he pleaded with quiet insistence, “will you look at me, please?”
