The High King's Bedroom, Dublin Castle.
High King Aed MacNeill lay on his back, staring blankly at the canopy above his bed.
He already knew where he was, and more importantly, he knew how close he had come to crossing over into the afterlife.
His battle-hardened body felt hollow, as if someone had drained all the blood from his veins and replaced it with freezing river water.
Slowly, and with grueling effort, Aed raised his hand and wiped it across his face. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the horrifying memory that kept replaying in his mind.
"I am so sorry, Lorcan..." Aed whispered into the quiet room, his voice breaking with crushing sorrow.
The fourteen-year-old cupbearer was dead... And Aed had merely watched it happen.
The memory was burned into the High King's brain. It was the night of the royal feast, just days before the grand tournament was to begin.
