So instead he raised his hand, leveling her with a murderous look. “I yield!” he shouted, doing his best to make a show of it for the crowd. He stood, waving to the men and women who clapped and whistled. But even as he smiled for them, he leaned close enough that only Niamh could hear his words.
“You’ve saved your man, I’ll grant you that,” he whispered, “but now his uncle is left unguarded.”
“Luckily Morda is cleverer than you,” she shot back. “And so am I.” She left before he could respond, already wondering how in the world she could dishonor him enough to keep Morda safe. Niamh didn’t take two steps before Dallan had scooped her up in his arms, kissing her until the crowd was good and riled, leaving her breathless.
“You,” he breathed into her ear as he set her down, his voice rough, “are in so much trouble.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dallan kept hishands firmly about Niamh’s waist, hardly able to believe it was finally over as the crowd rushed toward them. His heart, his mind, his very soul felt ravaged by the whirlwind of the past few days. He held her to him as they stood, a rock in the sea of villagers.
“Dallan,” she whispered, pulling his head down nearer her lips. “Your uncle.”
Like a smith’s hammer on steel, the realization of their actions struck him. If he had not been executed, then the deal had been broken. And Morda was once again in danger. More so, since Fachtna had been demeaned by Niamh’s duel.
Spinning to find Morda in the burgeoning chaos, Dallan exhaled in relief when he spotted the king just behind his guards. Until he saw Fachtna behind the king. He dropped his hand from Niamh’s slender waist, running to Morda’s side.
Dallan watched Fachtna pick up his sword from underfoot, turning toward Morda. But he had not trained as a Fianna for the past year only to watch his uncle murdered before his eyes. He leapt through the crowd like a salmon upstream, forging a path, thinking of nothing but getting between Morda and that blade.
He was faster. He was stronger. He was better.
With practiced hands, he unsheathed a sword from one of the guard’s belts as he flew past, bringing it down atop Fachtna’s with chilling resonance. Morda spun around, his guards takingthe wide-eyed Fachtna in hand as they realized what had happened.
“Shall I kill him?” Dallan asked, relishing the thought of ridding Morda of this nuisance once and for all.
Fachtna said nothing, his face ashen, his eyes murderous. Morda tilted his head, hands clasped behind his back, as he considered his brother.
“No,” he declared at last. “The council resented the last time I left them out of a decision. This time, we will consult the people that Fachtna has worked so diligently to befriend.” Morda turned, motioning for the guards to bring Fachtna before him and calling the crowd to silence. The space of one man was all that separated the kings from the people on the grassy field at the forest’s edge.
“Fachtna has just committed treason, attempting to stab your king in the back,” Morda began. His booming voice held everyone’s attention. “The punishment for treason is death, as he reminded me yesterday. But he is family, and I would be willing to exile him instead of taking his life. Furthermore, though he refused to consult a judge yesterday, I wish to do so in order to uphold the laws of our people. Brocc, would you step forward?”
A tawny-haired man, small of stature, walked out from the crowd, inclining his head to Morda.
“What is the penalty by law for attempting to murder a man?”
Brocc stood straight, leveling a glare at Fachtna. “It is different when that man is also a king,” he explained in a voice far louder than Dallan had expected. “For attempting to murder a man, with a weapon and before a crowd but without harming him, the fine is one pound of silver.”
Several folks gasped, but Niamh looked to Dallan, and he could see she thought the same thing he did: it was far too smalla price to deter Fachtna. Aye, it was more than the price of cinnamon, but Fachtna held lands in his own right. Such a fine would hardly register on his ledgers.
“For attempting to murder a king, should a hanging not be demanded, the fine is two pounds of silver,” Brocc continued. “And, as an advisor of law, I would suggest that should he be fined instead of executed, he also lose at least one hand—the one that attempted to kill you.”
“Ah,” Morda nodded, a slight smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “A compromise.”
A brilliant one, Dallan realized, impressed at the judge’s cunning. To be a king, a man must be whole of body, according to the ancient laws. If Fachtna lost a hand, he would lose his own landsandhe would no longer have a claim to the throne.
Morda turned back to the crowd. “You’ve heard the judge’s advice. So now I ask you: Should we hang Fachtna? Or should we uphold the laws and the peace by demanding his hand and a fine?”
Shouts rang up to take his hand, drowning out nearly everything else, until it became a chant. Morda turned to Fachtna. “You heard them. It seems your people do love you after all.” The king nodded to one of his guards, who pushed Fachtna to his knees in the center of the crowd, pinning his arm to the ground. Dallan saw Niamh cover her eyes as the guard’s sword came down.
“Our healer saysit was a good, clean cut,” Morda relayed as Dallan and Niamh joined him in his solar later that afternoon. “And he’s not gone feverish.”
“Good,” Niamh replied, frowning slightly. “If you want to keep him alive, though, the wound will need minding for the next sennight at least.”
Dallan took her hand, offering her a small smile. He knew she was thinking of Tadhg and his leg.
“I met with the small council following the spectacle, and they requested that he also be exiled from Laigin.”
That surprised Dallan. And also concerned him. Their support wavered too quickly, making them unreliable unless they were finally prepared to stand strong behind Morda. “Will you do it?” he asked.
