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she had not appeared when she did, more of us would be dead.”
    Thanking them, Conor called for a servant to take them to the kitchens to be fed before they were escorted back home. When they were gone, he moved to the hearth, hoping the flames would order his thoughts.
    Amethyst, not red, was the color he saw.
    It was difficult to keep the woman from intruding upon his thoughts. Erika Silverhair. Erika meant “forever strong” in her language. It suited her. He had never known a woman so vibrant and alive with untapped energy and passion. How defiant she had been despite the obvious pain she endured. How unbowed, despite the fact that she faced death and he was her only salvation.
    How she fired his blood.
    Heat surged through him, but the fire from the hearth was not the culprit. He walked to the table, reaching for the ale. “What else can you tell me about our guest, Ardan?”
    The other man settled onto the bench opposite Gwynna. “I happened upon a wandering bard at a bruidean on the southeast road. He wove an incredible tale of the Angel of Death.”
    He paused, refilling his tankard. “She killed a man with her hair.”
    Gwynna gasped. Even Conor had to raise an eyebrow at that. “I did not credit you for a jester, old friend.”
    Ardan set his drink down. “The bard swears he saw it with his own eyes. A man was attacking a child who was refusing him at the top of her lungs. It was said that the Angel took down her braid and looped it around the man’s neck in the blink of an eye. Jerked him right off his feet. He died facedown in the dust in the middle of the lane. No one lifted a finger against her. In fact, she was feasted.
    “There are other stories, all the same. When she attacks, it’s to defend those too weak to defend themselves. She and her brother take hires from merchants and nobles who need extra protection. At the start of each hire, she has to challenge their best with whatever weapon they choose, to first draw of blood. From what I heard, she’s never lost a challenge. And all her kills have been honorable.”
    Conor’s lips twitched. “You seem disappointed, Ardan, to discover that the Angel fights fair.”
    “A female warrior is unnatural.”
    Gwynna’s back straightened with an audible crack. “It wasn’t so long ago that the women of Connacht fought alongside their men in battle. And ’tis certain the way of things that many have need to fight now.”
    Ardan dipped his head. “My pardon, my lady.”
    Conor joined them at the table. “Our Gwynna is more apt to trust than most.”
    Conor swallowed deep of his ale, then turned to Ardan. “Anything else?”
    “Just that she has made more enemies than allies during her time here. Her sense of justice had pricked the ire of many a boaire .”
    So, the cattle lords may have put a price on her head. Interesting. “If we are to credit these tales, and I believe we should, that means that someone else attacked the village. Who?”
    “Ronan of Ulster.”
    The sound of his enemy’s name sent an icy rage through Conor. “This smells of his hand. It is sly and underhanded, and he craves the blood of innocents.”
    Ardan stood. “When?” was all he asked.
    “We will return, measure for measure, what Ronan has dealt to us,” Conor said, his voice cold. “That I promise you. But first, you will take yourself off to rest, Ardan. You deserve it.”
    The warrior left. Gwynna turned to Conor. “What of Erika?”
    “What indeed?” Conor had no intention of giving the Viking her freedom. He doubted she would leave anyway, especially without her brother.
    “Let us go see the Valkyrie.”
    They left the hall and went outside. Rains had swept through with their usual quickness, leaving a fresh crispness in their wake. The breeze that gamboled a continuous dance over the hills carried the warm promise of summer. The people of Dunlough went about their daily duties with laughter and song, and the younger children darted between the circular