Ciaran couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe; he felt as though his father had taken a sword and run him through with it. His knees started to buckle. He managed one syllable.
“Da --”
Eoghan turned away from him.
“We should rally with the men Padraig summoned,” Dolan said. He cast Ciaran an apologetic look.
“Aye,” Eoghan said. “This way.”
Ciaran started after him, but Odran put a hand on his arm.
“Lad, I wouldn’t.”
Ciaran watched his father vanish into the night shadows, uncaring of the heat of the flames behind him, of the cries of the enemy.
“Is it true?”
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