Had not Ardahl done the same?
He bent his head and pressed it against his upraised knees. Only months ago, Conall had confided that he had feelings, true feelings, for Brasha, the young woman he’d been seeing for the past half year. Not passing pricks of attraction or titillation as they all felt toward young women from time to time. This had become a matter of the heart.
“I do not know if I should tell her,” Conall had said. Ardahl could still hear the hesitancy in his voice and see the wonder in his eyes. “I have never spoken those words to anyone.” He’d grinned suddenly. “Save to my mam and our old hound, Blooney.”
Ardahl hadn’t known how to advise him. Women were dubious creatures, often harder to face than a screaming enemy warrior. And such words, once spoken, could not be recalled.
Now, huddled there on the floor of his cell, he wished he’d asked Conall for more. Had he spoken to Brasha of what wasin his heart? Had she returned his feelings? Would she, too, be grieving him this night?
What would happen come morning? He lifted his head from his knees and looked at the remnants of Conall’s blood on his hands. The druids would deliberate. The entire tribe, and Chief Fearghal in particular, relied upon their wisdom.
Whatever sentence they handed down as justice would be carried out. Should that be a sentence of death—
Ardahl drew a painful, jerky breath into his lungs. He had not expected his life to end so soon. Of course, any warrior, and one so often sent in at the head of his fellows, faced the possibility of death. That, though, was a matter that lay in the hands of the gods. Swift and fierce, it would come in a flurry.
As had Conall’s death. A flurry so unexpected, he could not say how it had occurred.
If the druid Aodh came forth with a sentence of death for him, he would be hauled out to face it before all the tribe. His friends. His mam. Och, poor Mam. She, along with everyone he knew, would watch him die.
Had he the courage to face such a fate?
Chapter Four
Liadan sat upall night with her mother, who sobbed and grieved without relent. Though she sent Flanna off to her bed, she doubted the poor lass got much rest. Mam’s lamenting filled the small roundhouse.
By first light, which came early at this time of year, she was worried enough by her mother’s state that she sent Flanna running for the healer.
Dathi himself arrived not much later, limping along after Flanna, for he was an aged man. Liadan met him at the door.
“Master Dathi, I am that grateful for your presence. I do not know what to do with my mam. She cries so hard I fear she will do herself a harm.”
In truth, Mam had thrown herself down upon Conall’s bed, the very place he had for most of his life laid his head, and refused to come away.
Dathi looked at Liadan with faded blue eyes. “Grief is grief, my lass, and in my experience the best remedy is to let it run its course.”
“Aye, Master Dathi, yet I have never seen grief like this. Not even when my da died.” He had perished from a wound got in battle that had taken poisoning.
Dathi lifted a brow. “If I recall correctly, your father’s death was long and slow.”
“Aye, so.” Hideously slow.
“Your mother had time to prepare herself. What happened yesterday—” He shook his head.
Liadan still could not believe what had happened yesterday. Conall and Ardahl, best of friends. But everyone said Conall’s blood had covered Ardahl’s hands.
“I will speak with her.”
Dathi did, at length and with kindness. Liadan, hovering nearby, listened. Her respect for the aged healer, already lofty, soared.
“Mistress MacAert, ye must take hold o’ yourself. Ye be frightening your daughters.”
“I have lost my son! My strong and bonny Conall. The pride o’ his father’s eye and the very spit o’ him. The lad I have loved since the first I took him to my breast. I have lost him!”
“Aye, and a heavy thing it is to bear. But ye will do no good lying here weeping yourself into a sickness.”
“He is gone from me.”
“Ye must remember he has gone in all his glory to the land of the ever-young, to live on in strength and beauty.”
