Fedelm sat at the table in her roundhouse, staring at the boy. His snores were enough to wake a dead wolfhound, but she didn’t mind. Not really. They were rhythmic and, for some strange reason, helping her to think about the druid, thoughts distracting her from the death of Cú.

She thought she knew why the old man wanted to talk to Genonn. It had to be another attempt at sharing the truth behind Ráth Droma. Something else was bubbling under the surface, though. Shortly after they arrived in Caer Leb, the druid became very tense and fidgety. She had seen him angry and joyful, condescending and brutal, but she had never seen him nervous, and it was a worry.

She wondered if he was nervous about his upcoming talk with Genonn but decided it could not be that. Kathvar had seen far too much to be anxious about talking with his eldest son. No, there was something else on the old man’s mind. It was as though he was afraid of something, which she found surprising after Bradán’s words in the hostel. The young warrior claimed the druid feared nothing.

So what could be driving him to such tenseness?

She could think of nothing and decided to talk to Genonn about it when he returned from the sacred circle. Maybe he, too, had noticed something. Should she sit him and Imrinn down together and talk about it? In truth, it might distract her from thinking so much about Cú.

Why did he choose Emer? A constant thought she found herself having to suppress. It was as though her mind was telling her he died because of that choice, even though she knew that was not true.

Her heart jumped when Genonn shouted, “Help me, someone.”

She ran to her door, threw back the cowhide cover, and stared over the fire burning in the settlement center into the black night. At first, she could see nothing but could hear the laboring breath of someone coming down the hill from the sacred circle. She saw others gathering, shouting questions, and looking up the slope.

What’s happened? Have they had a fight?

Did Kathvar finally lose his sanity and draw that sword she had always thought was for show? Genonn could be headstrong, as could Kathvar. Never a good mix when the subject for discussion was so contentious.

Genonn eventually struggled into the light, carrying what appeared to be a heavy burden. She didn’t understand. He seemed to have been on a night hunt instead of with his father. What was he doing, struggling with what appeared to be the carcass of a deer?

As he staggered nearer to her roundhouse, she could see it was a man in his arms. Were they grey robes? And then she recognized the head lolling back, the grey beard.

“Oh no,” Fedelm said, putting her hand over her mouth and holding open the cowhide for Genonn. “Put him on the table.”

Lee was sitting on her cot, staring sleepy-eyed, “What’s happening?”

“Go back to sleep, Lee. You’ll have a long day tomorrow.” As though Fedelm’s words enchanted him, Lee fell back and was snoring within moments.

“I feel like I will throw up,” Genonn said as he placed his father on the table.

“What happened?”

“Someone shot an arrow at him while we were talking. Right there at the top of the hill.”

“Where did it strike?” she asked, not seeing any arrow protruding from the old man–her friend, she realized–lifting a hand to her mouth.

“His eye.”

It was then she noticed the gore around his face. Tendrils of torn flesh hanging from his eye socket. She swallowed the urge to gag. No wonder Genonn felt sick. The sight of bloody scraps of meat hanging down his father’s face, grey matter keeping it company, was enough to make anyone sick.

“Where’s the arrow?”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“I left it in the circle. Pulled it out, hoping… I have no idea what I was hoping. It was barbed,” Genonn said, explaining the wreckage.

“I’m so sorry. I will fetch Imrinn. Will you be alright for a little while? Lee can keep you company.”

Genonn sank into a chair without a word.

As she pushed her way through the gathering crowd, Fedelm couldn’t help thinking about the desperation in Genonn’s eyes. It was only days since the look she saw on his face had been that of a son tolerating a parent entering their second childhood. The look in his eyes as he sank into the chair beside his father squeezed her heart. It had been all she could do to stop a sympathetic sob. But not only in sympathy.

She found Imrinn’s roundhouse in darkness and was about to return to Genonn when she saw him leaving the feast hall with Dornoll.

Calling to them, she ran over. They looked guilty, and Imrinn was scuffing his boots in the dust when she arrived. Surely not, she thought as she explained what had happened.

“I’ll see you back at your roundhouse,” Imrinn said after Fedelm explained.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see this arrow. It might provide a clue about the killer.”

“I should come and offer support,” Dornoll said to Fedelm, who nodded and retraced her steps through the ever-burgeoning crowd in front of her roundhouse.

Inside, they found Genonn still beside the table, staring into the ruined face of his father. Dornoll walked over and placed a hand on Kathvar’s cheek, causing Fedelm to frown. Such tenderness among the gore seemed misplaced–poorly timed, perhaps. Maybe it would be better to wait until the remains were better prepared. Still, she supposed the destruction would remain regardless of what was done to prepare the body for burial. No amount of cleaning would hide the wound. The eye had gone, the socket punched through. Genonn’s removing the barbed arrow had torn the cheek, the nose, and perhaps part of Kathvar’s eyebrow line. The lower face was untouched, frozen in a mocking grin, shouting for justice, for his sons to avenge his bloody and brutal murder.

Did she love him? Fedelm wondered.

After a few moments, Dornoll turned to Genonn and said, “If you need me, I will be in my roundhouse.”

Genonn nodded but did not speak. Fedelm watched Dornoll as she left with a frown on her face. She believed that grief impacted people differently, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen anything quite so strange.

“Imrinn has gone for the arrow,” she said, feeling the statement was lame. She had no idea how to talk to someone suffering such hurt. “He thinks it might help identify the killer.”

Genonn did not respond; he just continued to stare at his father. Fedelm walked over and put her hand on his shoulder, which she thought to be a better idea than mouthing inane platitudes.

“It’s as I thought,” Imrinn said, throwing back the cover to the roundhouse.

“What?” Genonn asked.

“It’s marked with the signature of a fían.” He walked over and laid the arrow beside their father before placing Kathvar’s black staff against the end of the table. “I brought this, too.”

“You can tell a warband by their arrows?” Fedelm asked.

“Yes. The different groups have ogham markings on their arrow shafts. Like the banners of kings and chieftains, it helps to build their reputations. This arrow is from Nechtan’s band, which does not surprise me. He is a master archer who can kill a man at the witching hour.”

“How do you know all this?” Fedelm asked.

“I infiltrated Medb’s army as a spy. There were archery competitions. The skill of this Nechtan was obvious. Like I said, he’s a master archer.”

“I did not know you were spying,” Genonn said, turning to his brother for the first time. Imrinn shrugged. “Why would a fían use such a cowardly method?”

“As someone renowned for their intelligence, you can be so innocent, big brother.”

“What do you mean by that?” Genonn asked without his usual verve.

“They were hired as assassins, not as honorable warriors. This has nothing to do with the code and everything to do with silver.”

Fedelm turned from one to the other, unsure how they could discuss their stupid code’s finer points in the light of events. Kathvar was dead beside them, and still, their minds were stuck in the same rut.

“Let us go, then,” Genonn stood. “If we ride now, we can catch them before they take ship in Caer Gybi.”

“They are a full fían, big brother. We would be better to get some support. Perhaps go and find Conall and ask for his help.”

“You need to bury your father before you do anything,” Fedelm said, unable to keep the anger from her voice before blushing in shame at her outburst.

Genonn did not seem to have noticed, gazing at her in confusion. Finally, the truth of her words broke through his pain barrier.

“We will bury him tomorrow,” he said.

Imrinn agreed, putting his hand on Genonn’s shoulder. “It will be easy to track a warband. There’s no need to start the hunt right away.”