Of course, Genonn had known. On the day of the funeral, his own words, “He has sworn fealty to Dornoll,” hinted at the truth. The same words now thundering through his mind like an army charging into battle. Imrinn owed his fealty to Dornoll. When his brother told him the morning after their father’s death, he had not given it a second thought. So what if he preferred working in Caer Leb, tied to a druidess’s skirts? It was his choice. Imrinn had no argument with the Elder Council, which had always been Genonn’s fight.

But this?

He frowned down at Biróg and across at Fedelm. Both women stared at him, aghast. The druidess had not known Imrinn killed their father. She was as shocked as Fedelm, mouth open, staring up at him. He turned back to demand an explanation, but his brother had gone.

“Did either of you see where he went?” he asked.

“He headed up the hill,” Fedelm answered. “Towards the sacred circle.”

“I must speak to him,” Genonn said as he turned to follow Imrinn. He did not ask her to but was relieved when he felt Fedelm walking beside him. He knew he would need support before this morning became much older.

When they caught up with him, Imrinn was in the middle of the circle, staring into an azure sky. Genonn stopped by a standing stone, unsure what could have brought his brother to such a pass. If it were true, but of course, he knew it to be the truth. Further confirmation was a formality. Fedelm squeezed his hand gently, giving him the support he needed.

Genonn turned towards her. She smiled, trying to encourage him. Squeezed his hand again. He wanted to return her confidence but could not. Sighing, he turned back to Imrinn. He had no idea how to approach a lost soul who claimed to have murdered his father. Their father. How could Imrinn stand there gazing at the sky like nothing had happened? It was not right, not even by the standards of the Three Sisters.

Dropping Fedelm’s hand, Genonn walked between two stones marking the circle’s boundary. They were squat, full of crevices: somewhere for evil to hide. A smiling Imrinn turned as he neared. Was it a smile or a grimace? Difficult to discern with the sun behind his brother, making him a silhouette.

“Big brother, back from your travels and climbing the wrong oak, as is your wont.”

“Why are you here, staring into nothing?” Genonn asked as he moved around, getting the sun in the right place. He needed a clear view. Needed to see his brother’s eyes as he answered questions.

“I decided to come here and commune with him.”

“By him, you mean our father?” Genonn guessed.

“Of course, big brother, who else.”

“It was you shot the arrow that night?”

“It was.” Imrinn’s response was so quiet that Genonn strained to hear it. The words were simple but true. The infectious grin was still splitting his face; only this time, Genonn found he could resist the temptation to mirror it. “Quite a shot, not meaning to boast.”

“If you are so proud of killing him, why did you lay the blame at the feet of a fían?”

“I knew they were here. Blaming them seemed like a Tuatha-sent opportunity,” Imrinn shrugged as though trying to slough off responsibility.

“He was our father,” Genonn said, trying to stop his mind screaming at him from conflicting sides. It was Dornoll, so how can Imrinn claim it was him?

“You should have seen how happy he was when I met him at Lúr Cinn Trá the night before he returned to the island. He was so pleased I agreed to come back. It made me want to laugh out loud. If only he’d known.”

“You met him that night?” Fedelm asked.

“Aye. I allowed our father to convince me. It was fun to see the misplaced pride in his own achievement.”

“Not pride, Imrinn. Happiness,” Genonn sighed. “Why did you do it?” he asked, fighting to keep his composure.

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He wanted to scream at him. Rip him. Cut him open to find out what made him so treacherous. He was a murderer. His young brother. The boy he was meant to take care of. The boy he mistakenly tried to protect from their father, who Imrinn shot in the face. But he was not just a murderer. He was a father-killer.

Why?

“It had to be done, big brother. He was out of control, rushing the Five Kingdoms to destruction…”

“Why do you say that? He had nothing but the safety of the kingdoms at heart.”

As he said it, Genonn recognized it as the truth. His father had always been a loyal servant to the kingdoms. Had feared the arrival of the Romans and worked towards an end to the squabbling inherent in the clans, squabbling which would destroy them if it continued. Genonn felt a lump in his throat as he realized how he had abused his father for so many years. The realization dawned as he lay with Fedelm, listening to that whispered tale. The story of Ráth Droma. The story he refused to consider. Until now. Even with her head resting on his chest, he had not believed. Not really. He made the sounds he thought she wanted to hear, not trying to dupe her but unwilling to ruin the special moment.

“I never thought you, of all people, would believe his horseshit.” Imrinn shook his head and laughed, an empty hollow sound to Genonn’s ears. “Our father worked to put Mac Nessa on the throne in Temuir. Allowed no one to get in his way.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“He killed Abradruad’s sister. Did you know? Hanged her from a tree before arriving in Ráth Droma and betraying you. Did you know, Genonn? No, of course you didn’t; otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, defending him.”

Genonn looked at Fedelm with questioning eyes. She shrugged and shook her head slightly, which he understood meant she did not know about Imrinn’s claim. Why would he say such a strange thing? And what possible bearing could it have?

“Who was this sister?” Genonn asked.

“You can’t stand there and tell me you don’t know. It was the same innocent you sent to get help from the Elder Council. The same–”

“Áine,” Genonn realized.

“Yes. The woodman’s intended wife. The one you always lamented, not knowing her fate. Well, now you know. Homely little Áine swung from a tree outside Indber Colptha because she thought our father to be on the side of justice. A misconception you gave her.”

“And Abradruad is Dornoll’s nephew.” The trunks of the palisade finally fell into place. “When did Dornoll convince you of all this?”

“Big brother?” Imrinn laced those two words with sarcasm, implying the question was idiotic. But the flash of red that swathed Imrinn’s neck and cheeks prevented the ruse from succeeding, pointing the finger at Dornoll as effectively as a verbal confirmation.

“You chose to believe Dornoll, which condemned our father–”

“She craved justice for her niece. And I gave her that justice. I summarily executed the man responsible. He didn’t deny it when I confronted him. Asked him if it were true. He spurted lies about how she’d tried to usurp power from their liege. How, with Donncha and his father, she tried to remove Mathaman. It was nonsense.

“When I told him the sentence, he begged me to reconsider. Told me I would never recover from killing him. He was afraid to die. The man who feared nothing…” Imrinn hesitated.

Oh, Imrinn, I think our father was right.

It all now made sense. Genonn remembered Kathvar’s nervousness on the day he died. He had been afraid of something. Imrinn thought it was a fear of death, but Genonn knew it was not death. He simply did not want to lose his son to murder. It did not matter that he was the target of that murder. It could never matter because his life had already been run. He was an old man. Imrinn was just a boy.

A boy in thrall to an evil woman.

He raised his eyebrows at Fedelm. She bowed her head, eyes half-closed. Reading what was in his mind and consenting. “Oh, Imrinn. I am so sorry, my brother.”

“Sorry for what? You’ve done nothing I’m aware of.”

Genonn felt a tear leak from the corner of his eye as he put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. Imrinn had had such promise. Bright. Strong. A youth who would have been a power in the Five Kingdoms and beyond. That promise was snuffed out by the wiles of a druidess who felt aggrieved by what had been another druid carrying out justice.

A sob felt like it tore a hole in Genonn’s throat as he pushed his dagger up under Imrinn’s sternum and into his heart. It would have been as close to immediate as death could be, he knew. Preferable to the slow death of the ever-tightening leather knot and an eternity in the bog. The death that would have been his brother’s lot if his role in Kathvar’s murder ever surfaced.

Genonn’s way was better. Much better. He laid the body down gently in the middle of the sacred circle and closed Imrinn’s eyes.

Fedelm placed a hand on his shoulder, “No one need know,” she said.

“Dornoll knows.”

“We can deal with Dornoll, but we must approach her carefully. She’ll never admit she manipulated a youth into committing murder. We have no evidence. The assembly will not convict on the hearsay of Bréannin.”

And the ravings of the madman lying at your feet, he read in her eyes. “Perhaps you are right. Either way, I shall need to confront her.”

“Let’s put Imrinn in my roundhouse. Then we can go to the feast hall and talk to her.”

“Yes,” Genonn said, gazing down at his brother. Imrinn appeared to be happy, as if asleep. Genonn hoped he had removed a burden from him. He wiped the knife on his triús and placed it in his brother’s hand, closing the fist around it. “Tell Father I know about Ráth Droma.”