Through the ages, Rardove chiefs had been marked by five things; intemperate recklessness, beautiful women, granite-hard determination, pale blue eyes, and inked tattoos across half their bodies: the other half was left as bare as God had been sent them into the world, a truce between the old gods and the new.
Tadhg was not marked; he was not of the Rardove derbfine, the four degrees of blood kinship that allowed a man to rise to the head of the family and become chief. Tadhg could never become The Rardove. He could never be great.
Fáelán was practically built for the role.
Powerful in body and mind, with long dark hair, pewter blue eyes, and a natural command, everything about him was meant to lead.
But there was no one to lead anymore. No princedom, no barony, no land, no chief, no people. The clan had been wiped out when the English arrived.
Truth, the Rardove clan been heading down the path of depravity and weakness for decades prior to their final fall, called to recklessness, hedonism, and drink more than greatness. So it was no surprise that it had come to this, not to Tadhg.
But Fáelán’s heart had been ripped out.
Which meant he did not have one now.
Tadhg knew the moment he saw him that all hope was lost. The look in Fáe’s eye, the lines of his face, the graceful yet predatory stance of his body: he’d been lost entirely to the dark side.
Fáelán had become a stark naught, and reveled in it.
Which would make him exceptionally difficult to negotiate with.
Tadhg had no coin, no gems, nothing of value to offer. Only their ruptured past. And the dagger.
Fáelán stepped into the room and the force of seeing him now, after all these years, struck Tadhg hard enough so he couldn’t move for a moment.
When he did, he stepped away from the wall and thrust out a hand.
Fáelán did not reach for it.
Tadhg retracted it with a bitter laugh. “You too?”
“Me too what, little brother?” Fáelán came slowly into the room. “Me too, finding it interesting you’d come here, to us who you abandoned, for help? Aye, then: me too.”
“Fáe,” he said quietly. “You know why I left. I could not do this anymore.” He glanced at the room, at the ill-gotten goods, at Máel, who smiled his cold, dark smile.
“He could not do me anymore, Fáe,” Máel observed softly. “Little Brother does not like me.”
“I do not trust you,” Tadhg said tersely.
“You do not trust any of us.” Fáelán said as he paced the room like the hunter he was. “No, you could not do what we did anymore, Tadhg. You could only go and serve the king of the Galls, who took our land, destroyed our people. You turned against us—”
“I never turned—”
“What would you call it?”
“Fáe—”
“What do you want here?”
The parry of words were curt and sharp, and Tadhg wiped his hand over his face, then dropped it. “I need your help.”
“What sort of help?”
“Magdalena needs food and rest, and safety.”
“Magdalena?”
“My woman.” Even here, now, there was a thrill inside him at the words, a hot savage satisfaction.