“Aye,” Morda replied evenly. “I am the king, after all. The council advises. I decide.”
Fachtna took several steps forward, crossing his arms. “Yet you did not seek our advice.”
“The decision was a simple one. I didn’t require it.”
“Still, we should have been consulted.” This time it was Donnchad, king of the Uí Kinsella, who spoke up, earning a nod of approval from Fachtna. The Uí Kinsella were a rival branch of Dallan’s kin who had lost the throne three hundred years ago and were desperate to regain it. Apparently, they hoped to do so by siding with Fachtna.
Several other men voiced their agreement with Donnchad’s statement.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Morda said. “Dallan was the right choice.”
“You know my claim is stronger,” Fachtna shot back.
“By law your claims are equal, and you seek only to divide instead of unite.”
“If we had a common enemy to unite against, it would be a simpler task,” Fachtna spat. “But you’ve seen fit to get in bed with that enemy.”
Dallan had heard enough. Stepping forward, he took up Morda’s defense. “You would rather be at war? Throwing men’s lives away instead of working toward prosperity and peace?”
Fachtna’s sharp gaze pierced Dallan. “And where have you been this past year? You disappeared after the battle, and last I saw you, you raised your swordagainstyour kinsmen.”
“Only the oath breakers,” Dallan replied.
He and Morda had feared this turn in the discussion, as Fachtna’s son, Baeth, had died in that battle only a month earlier. Baeth led a contingent of warriors from Laigin, whom Brian had asked to join him as allies. Instead, Baeth’s men turned on Brian and nearly killed the king.
“Sitric mentioned that you fought with Brian, not Laigin.” Fachtna’s lips curled upwards. “As one of his Fianna.”
Everyone, even those who had been in favor of him as second, broke into a chaos of concern over that statement. Dallan hadn’t been in contact with any of his family once he’d learned that his sister was Brian’s captive. He’d set out to rescue her, by any means, in the end joining Brian’s group of elite Fianna warriors. It wasn’t a decision he regretted, nor did it necessarily disqualify him from the kingship.
Not normally, at least. But the look on Fachtna’s face told Dallan that nothing about this discussion would proceed ‘normally.’
“Don’t grieve for your son by punishing your nephew,” Morda warned.
“Does it not concern you that he is sworn to Brian? To a man making every effort to steal the high kingship and rule all Éire?”
“You and I have also sworn to Brian, Fachtna. As well as all the rest of you,” Morda reminded the council. “Following the battle, we all swore oaths as allies.”
“The oath of an ally,” Donnchad began, stepping forward beside Fachtna, “is not the same as the oath of a Fianna. Dallan has sworn to defend the king’s life, to carry out missions in his name, to further Brian’s plots, perhaps even against our own men. If he is so dedicated to another kingdom, how can he rule his own?”
“Indeed,” Fachnta agreed, “how could he be expected to ride to battle against Mumhain if the alliance should fall? He would be little better than Brian’s puppet. We may as well call ourselves men of Mumhain, for Laigin would be consumed by Brian’s beastly ambitions.”
A roar of agreement and anger followed that ridiculous speech as a cold sweat overtook Dallan. The bastard was actually winning over the council. Though Morda had the final say as king, going against the council could put him in danger. According to ancient laws, a king could not rule if he were not of sound body, leading to many cases of blinding, or worse, stealing the throne from an unpopular ruler.
The men of Laigin had taken the loss at Dyflin hard. And now they were placing the blame soundly at Morda’s feet. He understood their mistrust of his position—Dallan had gone and sworn fealty to the man who’d crushed them in battle and forced an alliance. Even to Dallan it sounded outrageous.
That was when he realized that he and Morda could not win this debate. Aye, they could bring in a brehon, a master of the laws, to judge the case, and likely he’d rule in favor of Morda and Dallan. But that wasn’t the true cause of the dissent. Fachtna wanted Morda off the throne, and he was using Dallan to get it. Even if Dallan stayed on as second, he feared for Morda’s safety.
“What is it you want?” Dallan asked, tired of his incessant arguing. “You’ve voiced many complaints yet offered no solutions.”
“To my mind, you’ve committed treason twice over,” Fachtna declared. “First, when you swore your sword to Brian without the council’s approval, and again when you took the oath as second knowing of this conflict of your loyalty.”
The rush sounding in Dallan’s ears distracted him from Morda’s livid response. He saw the king’s face growing redder as he argued on Dallan’s behalf. They had both predicted the council turning on Morda.
Neither had foreseen the men turning on Dallan.
He watched the arguing between them grow more and more heated, knowing he had no choice, really. The punishment for treason was death.
It was his life or Morda’s. It was his life, or war for his people—in two kingdoms. If Morda agreed with Fachtna and sentenced Dallan, he would at least gain the council’s respect once more.
