Chapter 31: Chapter 31: On The Road

Late in the evening of the first day of their journey, when the watch had been set and the others were asleep, Rory asked the question Padraig had asked Aonair no less than fifteen times, the question he'd refused to answer for the last four months. “Why did you go into the village?”

Aonair stirred the fire. “My head wants a pillow.”

As Aonair would have stood, Rory reached out a strong arm and laid hold of him. Twenty-two years of age to Aonair's seventeen, they were similar in height, but Rory had the advantage of thirty pounds of muscle. Sighing, Aonair gave up the fight before it started. Only Eoghan ever won a wrestling match against Rory and then only rarely.

Rory's voice was a deep whisper. “So what's the problem? You killed Diarmuid, a man who repeatedly cheated your brother. Eoghan would have killed him if you hadn't.”

There it was, the same assumption over and over, that Diarmuid deserved to die. On the way to Diarmuid's little hut in the woods, Aonair had tried to coax his brother from it. “Why not take a chicken?”

Eoghan didn't turn in the saddle.

“You can't eat a dead man.”

When they'd reached Diarmuid's pathetic hut, Eoghan barked, “Drag him from his bed.” His wife—skinny, her hair already graying—pleaded, “No, please, good sir.”

Diarmuid's four-year-old son had run crying to his mother.

The haggard woman had dared to lay hold of him—him, the dragon-touched. She had clutched the sleeve of his shirt. “Please, sir, we'll pay you back, I swear.”

He turned, his face mere inches from hers, staring into her desperate eyes.

Rory jerked his arm, pulling Aonair back to the present.

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“Padraig thinks you went to the tavern knowing the villagers were incensed over Diarmuid's death. Knowing they would attack you. He says you were trying to kill yourself.”

Only Padraig understood.

He tried to break free, but Rory's hold only grew tighter. How quickly the necessary words came to Aonair's lips. “I'm glad enough to be alive. I'll have my revenge.”

Rory's rough sigh was born of years of frustration. Damn, that dragon.

“There was a time when you told me everything. Remember, the tricks we played on Eoghan? I'm your brother. What's going on with you?”

Rage—the ever-present rage—welled up within him. How practiced he was. He turned cold eyes to Rory, his lips tightly pressed together.

Rory's tone spoke only of logic and reasoning. “As our lord's eldest, Eoghan must enforce the law. Diarmuid was a liar and a cheat. He never did an honest day's work. The man beat his wife.”

“Brother.” Aonair eyes betrayed nothing. “I'm going to kill a dragon. I'd like to get some sleep.”

Cussing, Rory let him go.

When Aonair closed his eyes, the dream returned, the air reeking of sulfur. The earth rumbled as the beast spoke. “Aonair, how convenient that you have come to me.”

 

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