At first glance, Kylar thought the child, for he was hardly more, was already dead. He’d seen enough of death to recognize its face. He judged the boy to be about ten, with fair hair and cheeks still round with youth. But those cheeks were gray, and the hair was matted with blood. Those who circled and knelt around the boy made way when Deirdre hurried through. “Get back now,” she ordered. “Give him room.” Before Deirdre could kneel, a weeping woman broke free to fall at her feet and clutch at her skirts with bloodstained hands. “My baby. Oh, please, my lady! Help my little boy.” “I will, Ailish. Of course I will.” Knowing that time was precious, Deirdre bent down and firmly loosened the terrified woman’s hold on her. “You must be strong for him, and trust. Let me see to him now.” “He slipped, my lady.” Another youth came forward with a jerky step.
