“Itismy own.”
They kissed again there beside the hearthplace, knowing they might have only moments before life once more intruded. And he told himself it was enough to hold this woman for even a brief time. For was not time a circle also? And might they not have other lifetimes?
When his mam returned, she wore a curious look on her face. They sat apart by then, Ardahl with his eyes half closed, absorbing the fact that Liadan remained beside him.
Mam called them forth. “Ardahl, son, ye must come. The chief has stopped me on my way. He bade me tell ye that he needs to see ye at once.”
Ardahl’s eyes flew open. “Now? ’Tis no’ another attack? Dacha has not the men.”
“Nay, no’ that. He is outside the warriors’ hall, with the druids and some other men.”
When Ardahl arose, it was with a groan, and Liadan had to help him, her shoulder beneath his arm. They went forth so with her supporting him as she would a brother. And indeed, Ardahl fancied he caught a glimpse of Conall from the corner of his eye.
Smiling.
Folk stared as they went by. Some followed. And indeed, a good number of people stood out in front of the hall when they reached it.
Dusk had fallen by then, upon this day that had held so much. Too much. The last of the gloaming lit the sky with soft radiance, and Ardahl’s heart leaped in his chest with the love he felt for this place.
He turned his gaze on the people awaiting them. The first person he saw was Brasha. She stood to one side with her father, and she was weeping into her hands.
And Chief Fearghal with his wife beside him. Aye, both the surviving druids wearing grave, serious expressions.
What was this? What, on this night when he desired only peace?
“Och, by the goddess Brigid,” Liadan whispered in his ear. “What now?”
And then Ardahl saw Cathair stepping out to stand shoulder to shoulder with Fearghal. His heart sank violently. Some new horror, then. Some accusation cooked up between Cathair and Brasha, perhaps.
Some penance he would have to bear.
He and Liadan stepped up with Mam at their side. Ardahl raised his gaze to that of his chief, who stirred suddenly and held up his hand, stilling any murmurs from those gathered.
Into the clear night air, he declared, “It has come to my ears there has been a grave miscarriage of justice. We are gathered here this night to put it right.”
Ardahl tensed and felt Liadan go rigid at his side.
“Not long since, we lost one o’ our best young men. Conall MacAert perished on the training field, and the blame fell upon this man, Ardahl MacCormac. His closest friend.” Fearghal glanced at the two grim-faced druids. “A sentence was imposed, as dictated by the highest of our most sacred laws. Ardahl MacCormac would carry the blame for the death o’ his friend and would henceforth take Conall’s place and live out the balance o’ his life.”
Tamald stepped forward, his eyes meeting Ardahl’s. “So it is,” he declared. “Much has transpired since then, but Ardahl MacCormac has carried this blame.
“Ardahl MacCormac,” he called out almost melodiously into the dark, “just recently ye did come to me and ask me to rescind this punishment due to an injustice.”
“I did,” Ardahl managed to croak.
“I told ye I could no’ do so without the main witness to Conall’s death confirming the injustice.”
“Ye did.”
“And so he has done.”
What?
Cathair stepped forward from Fearghal’s side.
His wounds, too, had been tended. The linen bandages, like his pale hair, reflected the light from the torches at the front of the hall. His face, though, appeared still paler, and might have been carved from stone.
“Ardahl MacCormac,” he announced for all to hear, “I stand here to confess I ha’ done ye great ill. Both ill thoughts and ill wishes I ha’ aimed against ye.” He hesitated an instant. “And false accusations.
