Oath of the Brotherhood (19 page)

Aine could not bring herself to loose the shout of warning lodged in her throat. She watched as half a hundred men divided into groups and descended on the thatch-roofed homes, kicking down doors. Then came the screaming. Men burst from the cottages, only to be cut down mercilessly by the warriors.

Within minutes, the scene again fell eerily silent. Instead of looting, though, the invaders gathered in the center of the village. Aine shifted for a better view.

One of the men jerked his head in her direction and then strode toward the clutch of bushes where she crouched. Aine clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle her involuntary whimper. He stopped just feet in front of her, and the bushes parted. She shrank back.

A fine-boned, angular face peered down at her from the folds of his hood. Seareann features, not Lakelander. He held out a
hand. Blood smeared the black spirals tattooed across the back of it. Fear spiked through her. She knew what those meant.

“Come out, little one,” he said soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Aine crept out, drawn against her will by the thread of command in his voice, at once beckoning and repellant.

“What’s your name?”

Aine opened her mouth to answer, but a young boy’s voice came out instead, tremulous, frightened. “Teag.”

“Teag,” the druid repeated pleasantly. “Tell me, Teag, how did you know to hide out here in the rain when everyone else was inside?”

Aine
 
—or Teag, she now realized
 
—shrank back. She didn’t want to answer, but the words came out anyway. “I saw it. No one believed me.”

“Extraordinary. Well, Teag, I’m very glad I found you.” The man knelt down and gestured for her to come closer. He murmured something in a language she didn’t understand. Then faster than she could even see, the man drew a dagger and plunged it into her chest.

Agony blanked her vision, and Aine fell back, paralyzed by pain and terror. A second man came to the tattooed man’s side.

“He told no one of consequence,” the druid said.

“Good.” The new warrior bent down and wrenched the knife from her chest, then handed it back to his companion. Blood gushed out of her in a warm flood. “We’re done here.”

They rejoined the group, leaving her behind. Now Aine knelt beside the boy, separated from his thoughts. Sorrow washed over her when she saw how young he looked, perhaps only ten, with a thatch of light brown hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose. He looked up at her with recognition. “You saw, my lady?”

“I saw.” Aine’s voice broke, and tears spilled down her face. “You did well, Teag. You were very brave.”

“I didn’t call you here. He did.” He raised a trembling hand. Aine turned, but she saw only empty space. When she turned back, the boy was dead.

“Aine!”

She jerked as strong hands shook her. She blinked at the familiar sensations: the warmth of the flames, the dancing firelight, the hollow roar of rain on the roof. Ruarc knelt before her, and Niamh and Leannan hovered behind them. Her sister looked terrified.

“What happened?”

“You were in a trance,” Niamh said shakily. “I got Leannan and Ruarc. I didn’t know what else to do.”

The details of her vision came back to Aine, so clear she could hardly believe she had not just been in a coastal village. She looked between Ruarc and Leannan, dread twisting her stomach.

“Find the king. Tigh is going to invade Sliebhan.”

Conor said nothing to Eoghan
about having witnessed his impressive display of sword work, nor that he knew about his status as Master Liam’s apprentice. It might not be a secret, but Eoghan had obviously chosen not to mention it for a reason.

Covertly, he watched the older boy with awe. If the Fíréin were among the best warriors in the known world, and Eoghan had bested several of them without apparent effort, what exactly did that make him? Conor could see the reason for the brutal physical labor, now that he had witnessed the results of Fíréin training. How could he be expected to wield a sword if he could not even lift it?

He also understood the reason for the Fíréin’s strict prohibition against idleness. With their days filled with study, work, training, and prayer, the brothers had little time to dwell on the outside world. Aine drifted to the back of his mind, but she always remained present. She made her way into his prayers at night and inspired him to press forward when he was too exhausted to stay on his feet. If she had the faith to call upon Comdiu’s Companions to save her from the sidhe, he could
have the faith to continue down the path Comdiu had set before him.

Then Master Liam summoned him to Carraigmór. Conor followed the messenger up the stairs, clenching his hands into fists to still their tremors. Had Liam learned that Riordan had told him about Aine? No, that matter was between Liam and Riordan. Surely there couldn’t be any cause for complaint about Conor’s work. He labored as diligently as ever.

When the brother showed him into Liam’s private study, he stopped short. A harp stood beside a chair in the middle of the room. The Ceannaire gestured for him to enter, but Conor could not take his eyes from the instrument.

Liam folded his hands atop his desk. “I’m told you are having some difficulty adjusting to your loss.”

Conor’s eyes flew to the Ceannaire’s face, but he lowered them quickly, afraid of what Liam might see in his expression.

“I thought you might find some comfort in this. Will you play for me?”

Conor’s chest tightened. He could not help revealing his innermost feelings once his fingers touched the strings. Yet, he couldn’t deny Master Liam. He didn’t want to.

Wordlessly, he sat and lifted the harp onto his lap. It was an old, beautiful instrument, its maple frame plain and graceful, the bone pins carved with delicate flourishes. Conor waited for the thrill of power he had felt from Meallachán’s harp, but found nothing there but his own anticipation. Relieved, he began to play.

He was only a few bars into a traditional Seareann folk melody when Liam interrupted.

“Conor,
play
for me.”

Conor understood what he asked, but even this instrument held the potential for disaster. The Ceannaire wanted to know
how he felt when he thought Aine was dead? Then he would. Conor took a deep breath and began again.

The initial notes from the harp were so chilling he almost regretted his decision. He clenched his jaw and played every ounce of that crippling grief into his impromptu composition. When he was finished, he felt nauseated and wrung-out, but he lifted his chin defiantly at Master Liam.

The Ceannaire, too, appeared shaken, but he composed himself quickly. “Thank you, Conor. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a brother with the gift of music. Even longer since we’ve had one who could interpret it. I had hoped . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “Your gift deserves to be exercised, even if we have no proper teacher for you. Will you play for me again?”

“As you wish,” Conor said.

“After morning drills then.”

Dismissed, Conor set aside the harp and walked to the door on trembling legs. Riordan waited outside, his expression a mix of wonder and pain.

“I had no idea,” he said, but Conor didn’t know if Riordan referred to his gift or the emotion he had revealed. “Come, there’s someone you should meet.”

Conor obediently followed his father upward through a maze of corridors until Riordan stopped before a door and knocked sharply. The door opened to reveal an ancient, white-haired man with blindness-clouded eyes.

“Brother Gillian,” Riordan said. “I have someone to introduce.”

Gillian’s face lit up. “Riordan, my boy, come in! My new acquaintance wouldn’t happen to be your nephew, Conor, would it?”

“Aye, sir,” Conor said immediately. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Brother Gillian opened the door wider and stepped aside to admit them. Only a bed, a chest, and a narrow desk filled the sparse chamber. A partially mended fishing net hung from a hook on the ceiling in the corner, no doubt a task Gillian could accomplish without sight.

The old man turned his face to Conor. “Are you the one responsible for the music I just heard?”

“Aye, sir.”

Riordan put a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Brother Gillian knows more about the magic of Daimhin’s age than any man alive. He can answer your questions.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Riordan’s tone said he meant it literally.

When they were alone and seated on Gillian’s bed, the aged brother said, “You have questions. Ask.”

Conor wondered where to start. “Master Liam said it had been a long time since we’ve had a brother with this gift, but even longer since there was one who could interpret it. What did he mean?”

“Ah, interpretation of music,” Gillian said. “Well, you see, magic possesses a language, and so does music, in its own way. Those with the gift of music have the instinctive ability to transform it into the language of magic. And some have the ability to understand what it says.”

“How?”

Gillian smiled. “If we knew that, it wouldn’t be magic.”

Despite himself, Conor smiled back. “What about the instruments themselves?”

“You speak of Meallachán’s harp? A very rare instrument, that is, one of the few remaining objects of power.”

Another object of power. Conor leaned forward. “What does it do?”

“It amplifies the abilities of the player, whatever those are. Tell me, young man, what exactly is your gift?”

“I don’t know. I just . . . play.”

“And what do people think or feel when they hear it?”

“I tell stories, I suppose, without words.”

Gillian smiled, as if he’d known what Conor was going to say. “All good stories are
true
. Even if they were completely made up by the storyteller, there is something in them that resonates with us. Courage. Love. Self-sacrifice. The storyteller makes his story real through the telling. I’ll let you think on that.”

Recognizing his dismissal, Conor rose. “May I visit you again, Brother Gillian?”

“Any time you like, son. I’ll be waiting for you.”

As Conor climbed down from Carraigmór, he mulled the elderly brother’s words. How many times had he said the harp spoke truth? Yet there was far more in Gillian’s statement than he could properly grasp.

An hour ago, Conor had been convinced he could be content with a life of diligent labor. Now he wasn’t so sure. Gillian seemed to hold the answer for which he had been searching, even if he didn’t yet know the question.

Conor visited Brother Gillian several times a week after he finished with Master Liam, and he looked forward to the old man’s teaching as much as he did the harp. Gillian’s knowledge extended far beyond magic, and he taught Conor forgotten details about the history of the Great Kingdom and the aftermath of its fall.

Then Eoghan surprised him with his own news from the kingdoms. “They’re calling your young woman ‘the lady healer of Lisdara.’ They’re saying she can heal men’s bodies and read their hearts.”

“That’s preposterous.” Inwardly, though, Conor didn’t doubt it. Aine had summoned his childhood memories, but she hadn’t said it was the only thing she could do. “Besides, how would anyone know what’s going on at Lisdara?”

“You yourself said Master Liam seems to know everything. How do you think he gets all that information? The brothers who decide not to take oaths go back to the kingdoms and pass along the news we wouldn’t otherwise hear in the middle of the forest.”

He supposed that made sense. Without question, Meallachán and Treasach were both Fíréin. Master Liam and his informants had far more influence than Eoghan suspected. “Will you let me know what else you hear?”

Eoghan’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I know I’m not meant to stay here. Master Liam already lied to me once. I can’t trust him to tell me when it’s time to leave.”

“What exactly are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to be surprised by what awaits me when I go.” While Conor was taking risks, he ventured, “I know you’re Master Liam’s apprentice. I saw you practice months ago.”

Eoghan grimaced. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself. Everyone treats me as if I’m already the Ceannaire. I didn’t want you to feel the same way.”

“You’re nothing like Master Liam. When it’s your turn to lead the brotherhood, I hope you’ll remember that.”

Eoghan expression turned sad then. “Maybe it won’t come to that. I’ll see you at devotions.”

Conor watched him leave. Great honor or not, Eoghan liked Liam’s plans no more than Conor did.

After that, Eoghan no longer tried to hide the fact his existence at Ard Dhaimhin was both more privileged and more
disciplined than that of his céad mates. He had unrestricted access to Master Liam and many of the Conclave members, yet the Ceannaire held him to impossibly high standards. Failure was not permitted, and Eoghan constantly had to prove his worth as Liam’s successor, even if it was not a future he desired for himself.

Occasionally, between assignments, Conor stole down to the clearing to watch Eoghan practice. His friend possessed a natural gift, and even men who had spent their entire lives training at Ard Dhaimhin struggled to match him. He fought with grace and focus and a pent-up passion that spoke to the depth of his misery.

Conor knew something about expectations and just how unhappy they could make a person, but Eoghan rebuffed any attempts he made to talk about it, turning the conversation instead to Aine or to news from the outside. When not on the training grounds, Eoghan fought the restrictions on him by passing along information gleaned from the runners or the oath-bound brothers. Mostly it was just gossip, but Conor welcomed the respite from the tedium.

Then in midwinter, Eoghan learned a bit of information that went far beyond the usual gossip.

“There have been Sofarende attacks up and down the coast of Sliebhan,” he whispered. They lingered at supper, alone at their table, the other boys having already departed for evening devotions. “Fergus has moved troops into the country under the guise of defending Seare, but rumor claims they’ve used sorcery to gain control over King Bodb.”

“What about Siomar and Faolán?” Conor asked.

“They’ve given Fergus an ultimatum. If he doesn’t move his men back across the border, they’ll declare war.”

War. Conor should not be surprised, considering the history
of conflict among the four rival kingdoms, yet in his short life he had known only a period of tentative peace. This time, however, Fergus had a sorcerer on his side. “What’s Master Liam say?”

“‘The Fíréin don’t involve themselves in the matters of the kingdoms,’” Eoghan said. It was an oft-repeated doctrine in the brotherhood.

“This isn’t a little border dispute. This is a conquest of Seare. Fergus wants to eradicate the Balians from the island. Do you think he’ll stop without attacking Ard Dhaimhin? He wants to sit the Rune Throne.”

Eoghan glanced around. “We’re not supposed to know this, Conor. Keep your voice down.”

Conor fell silent, pushing down his sense of foreboding. This was why brothers were isolated. It was sheer torture knowing what was going to happen and not being able to do anything about it. His face twisted. Not that he could do anything about it if he were there. He’d be killed the moment he stepped onto the battlefield.

He took comfort in the fact that Faolán was more than a match for Tigh. Galbraith would not have made an alliance if he did not fear Calhoun’s might. Yet there was no telling the extent of the druid’s capabilities. The mere fact they had moved warriors into Sliebhan proved the balance of power had shifted.