Oath of the Brotherhood (28 page)

But why would the bard need convincing? Why would he rebuild the wards and not coordinate his efforts with Calhoun in the first place?

It was an odd inconsistency, and Conor couldn’t help but wonder if the bard had plans of his own. Still, it didn’t change what he knew he had to do.

When he returned to Ard Dhaimhin, Conor laid out all he had discovered in the last several weeks, expecting Eoghan to see his path as clearly as he did.

Instead, Eoghan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Conor. I can’t let you go.”

Conor stared at Eoghan in surprise. “It could be the key!”

“The key to what? If the bard is remaking the wards, he doesn’t need your help. The matter is already well in hand.”

Conor exhaled slowly and made his tone reasonable. “There’s something odd about the whole thing. I can feel it. Besides, we both know I’m meant to go back. What difference does it make if it’s now or later?”

“A great deal. Conor, you’ve made impressive progress. Astounding, actually. But you’re not ready to take your trials.”

“Then make me ready.”

“It’s been only two years, and it’s never been done in less than six. Talented as you are, and I do mean that, I’d need at least two more.”

Conor’s hopes plummeted. “What are you talking about, Eoghan?”

“Master Liam will not allow me to petition an apprentice who has been here for less than five years. If you’re right, you don’t have that long. That leaves you one option.”

“Please don’t tell me I have to challenge you,” Conor said.

Eoghan shook his head. “No. You have to challenge Master Liam. And you have to win.”

Aine ducked out of her tent
into the torch-lit night at the first sound of angry voices. “What’s happening?”

Lorcan nodded toward a nearby scuffle already being broken apart. “An argument over dice. Treasach has it well under control.”

The priest’s head bobbed above the cluster of onlookers as he defused the situation in his usual calm tone. Treasach had made himself indispensable since his arrival at camp, both in spiritual matters and in controlling the numerous fights and arguments that broke out on a daily basis. No one seemed anxious to strike a priest, especially one with hands that could crush a man’s head like a gourd.

The men were talking now, and they clasped forearms, the argument apparently forgotten. Treasach extracted himself from the group and made his way toward Aine.

“Only the third one tonight,” he said lightly, “and this one didn’t even end in bloodshed.”

Aine shivered. Lorcan ducked into the tent to retrieve her cloak before she could tell him the sensation had nothing to do
with the night air. She didn’t sense the presence of the sidhe, but she knew they were near. Sometimes, they came in the form of a seductive voice or a beckoning figure, luring men away from the camp in the night. Other times, they fomented distrust and anger over matters as small as a dice game. Already, six men had been killed in such arguments, their murderers shackled and sent back to Lisdara for trial.

“The waiting is getting to them,” Aine said. Lorcan returned with her cloak, and she shrugged it on as if it could protect her from the invisible threats. “These are not men given to idleness. I’d hoped the daily drills and devotions might have improved matters.”

“This is a subtlety I would not have expected from Fergus,” Treasach said.

“It’s exactly what I expected from the druid, though. I doubt Fergus is in control any longer, if he ever was.” Aine glanced at Lorcan. “It may be time to take a closer look at those wards. Be sure we haven’t missed anything.”

Aine had felt tugs on the wards several more times since the night Sualtam tried to kill her, and each time, the intensity of the dissent increased. Siomaigh flags no longer flew alongside Faolanaigh in the same camp. Seaghan and Abban maintained an amicable accord as commanders, but the sidhe had done a thorough job stirring up buried distrust and old animosity among the warriors.

“What exactly could you do if we did?” Lorcan asked.

“I suppose there’s nothing to be gained by investigating further if the wards hold. I just hate idleness as much as the men do.” Aine hugged her arms to herself and chewed her lip.

“Get some rest, my lady,” Lorcan said. “You’ve been working yourself to exhaustion.”

Aine gave the men brief smiles before ducking back into her
tent. Thank Comdiu for Ruarc, Lorcan, and Treasach. They buffered her against the worst of the camp’s conflict, even if they all dreaded the moment the sidhe decided to plant murderous thoughts in the heads of half a dozen men at once.

“Lord, I need direction,” she murmured as she settled onto the rickety campaign cot. Since the attacks on the wards began, she had done little but pray for faith and guidance. It was all within His plans, she knew, but she still waited for some indication of her next move.

The charm warmed against her skin, and Aine’s stomach erupted into butterflies. It had to be related to Conor. She turned the charm over in her hands. He was not dead. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that the Fíréin sentry had misled her.

“Where are you now?” she whispered, pressing the charm between her hands. “Are you coming back to me?”

She laughed bitterly at her own foolishness and dropped the ivory wheel beneath the neckline of her shift. She should not wish for it. Conor was safer in Ard Dhaimhin, separate from the problems of the kingdoms. He was probably happy playing his harp and poring through old tomes of history. Perhaps he had even learned to fight a little. Why would she wish on him this sick, creeping sense of uncertainty, the inevitability of defeat even as they vowed to fight to their last breath? This was no place for him. It was no place for her.

“I need to sleep. I’m driving myself mad.” Aine tossed aside her cloak and climbed beneath her blanket without bothering to take off her boots. Within moments, she plunged into a sea of troubled dreams, tossed relentlessly among images of war, the bean-sidhe at the lake, Conor, and half a dozen other times and places that made no sense to her. The images built with ever-increasing dread into a crescendo
 
—

Aine gasped awake, her blood pulsing in her ears. Only the occasional muffled voices of the perimeter patrol broke the camp’s silence. What had awoken her? Was it merely the dream?

She was about to dismiss her anxiety as a product of her troubled dreams when she felt a deep, discordant vibration, like the snap of a harp string midnote. She struggled to identify the source until it came a second time with dizzying nearness.

“Oh, dear Comdiu, please,” she whispered. Then panic took over, pumping blood through her veins. She grabbed her cloak and darted from the tent.

Lorcan bounded to his feet from where he sat on guard outside. Before he could ask, Aine said, “Wake Abban. Find Ruarc. The wards have snapped.”

Horror crossed Lorcan’s face, and for a moment, he too stood immobilized. Ruarc appeared almost immediately. “I’ll wake him. Lorcan, stay with Aine.”

Within minutes, they gathered in the command pavilion, the map of the wards spread out before them. Aine’s hand shook as she pointed to several intersecting lines. “They’ve unmade Callindor, Southbrook, and Threewaters. I used to be able to feel them, and now . . . I feel nothing.” Her voice broke on the last word, but she gathered herself before tears could come.

“We’ll rouse the camp and send a rider to Seaghan. Just because they’ve broken the wards doesn’t mean they’ve attacked yet. They could be biding their time.”

“Send riders to Gainor, too. They might be able to fall back behind Westfalen. It’s one of the reinforced wards.” It was a futile hope, though. A strong ward could be broken just as easily as a weak one.

The camp churned in barely controlled chaos. Abban sent two riders to Gainor’s camp, as did Seaghan. The Siomaigh were more familiar with the terrain and had a greater chance of
arriving safely. Each camp readied two hundred men. Too few, but they were only meant to cover Gainor’s retreat should the Faolanaigh warriors be taken unaware.

“I want to go,” Aine said.

Abban shook his head. “I’ll be leading one of the forces south, so I need you here. The men know and respect you. Prepare for casualties.”

“But the injured men
 
—”

“The ones who survive the trip back are the ones you can help. The others will be beyond your skills. I’ve been fighting my whole life, Lady Aine. If I thought you could help, I’d send you. You are of more use here.”

When Abban wrote his message to Calhoun, Aine added a few lines of her own, urging him to rely on Lisdara’s physical defenses rather than the compromised wards. Ensorcelled warriors or not, the fortress was built to withstand a siege.

Ruarc took her aside once the message had been dispatched to Calhoun. “If we have to fall back, I’m taking you to Lisdara. Lorcan is organizing a party of riders now.”

Aine started to protest, but Ruarc cut her off. “No arguments. If we see battle, we return. You are too valuable to risk being taken as a hostage. I assure you, you will be imprisoned and forced to aid their side, until they need you no longer. It will not be a pleasant end.”

Aine shivered. If he had been trying to frighten her, he had succeeded. Besides, she could hardly argue when it made good strategic sense. No king would want his commanders to be captured and tortured, and Aine’s knowledge was more damaging than what most battle captains could give up.

She paced the confines of the command pavilion for the next two days, clutching the ivory charm and murmuring prayers while Lorcan and Ruarc alternated guard duty. Half of
her prayed for a vision of the battlefield, even as the other half resisted it. What good was it to know what was happening when she could do nothing about it?

On the third day, two riders appeared on lathered horses, bearing separate messages. Despite the fact she was not technically in charge, they sought her out.

“Ruarc, fetch Lord Mavin, please. He’ll need to hear this.” Aine poured water for the exhausted messengers with shaking hands. Before they even had a chance to finish their drinks, Mavin appeared in the tent. The pale-haired captain was only a few years older than her, and Aine knew nothing about him other than that Abban trusted him.

“I was on my way. What news?”

The messengers began to rise, but Mavin waved them back down. “You can tell us just as easily seated.”

One of the men, whom Aine recognized as Abban’s messenger, spoke first. Aine realized he was probably younger than her. “They’re in retreat. Lord Abban says to hold this position as long as the last ward remains. Otherwise, remove to the border camp.”

“Casualties?” Aine and Mavin asked in unison.

“Heavy. I left two days ago, and Abban had already lost half of his men. Lord Gainor was in retreat with a hundred warriors, but they were fighting admirably.”

“And you?” Aine asked the second messenger.

“I left right after Keene, my lady. Lord Abban wanted you to know they weren’t attacked by Sliebhanaigh. They were Siomaigh.”

The tent fell silent. Mavin’s jaw flexed convulsively. “I’ll go speak with Seaghan.”

“I’ll go,” Aine said. “Lord Seaghan won’t lie to me. He won’t see me as a threat.”

Mavin considered only a moment. “Take ten men. Send
someone ahead, and meet him on neutral ground. If there’s any sign of aggression, send a rider back. I’ll ready our warriors.”

Aine nodded. “Thank you.”

She kept her demeanor calm, but inwardly, she felt sick. Siomaigh attacking Faolanaigh could mean only one thing. Diarmuid had gotten to Semias as he had to Bodb. Fergus would now have the combined forces of three kingdoms behind him, nearly ten thousand warriors. Faolán could muster perhaps two thousand more if Calhoun took men from the villages. Without some sort of intervention, their resistance would be short-lived.

Less than an hour later, Aine’s party crossed the half mile of meadow to the Siomaigh camp, beneath the Mac Cuillinn’s banner and a threatening gray sky. Aine stopped the men at a safe distance and dispatched the bannerman to take her request for parlay to Seaghan. She held her breath, praying they would not receive the messenger’s head in reply.

She felt faint when the bannerman came back, the green flag snapping above him in the gusty wind. The warriors around her let out a collective sigh of relief. “He’ll see you. He’s coming out.”

A party of six riders rode from the camp beneath a red-and-black banner just as raindrops began to spatter around them. Seaghan himself carried his standard. They reined in a safe distance away, and the commander rode forward.

Aine glanced briefly at Ruarc and Lorcan before she separated from her own party to meet him.

“Lady Aine. I’m encouraged to see you.”

“Lord Seaghan.”

Seaghan studied her for a moment, his blue eyes sharp in spite of the fatigue that lingered around the edges. “We’ve received orders to attack any Faolanaigh on Siomaigh land.”

Aine swallowed the lump in her throat, but she kept her
voice strong. “I see. Are you informing us of your intentions or giving us an ultimatum?”

Seaghan considered before he heaved a sigh. “Neither. Semias has betrayed us. He no longer commands my loyalty.” He tossed the standard to the ground between them, the red-and-black banner a wound on the green earth. “We’ll fight with Faolán if you’ll grant us asylum.”

Aine stared hard at him, pretending to weigh his sincerity while her thoughts whirled. This was not what she had expected. Did she even possess the authority to speak on Calhoun’s behalf? “I would venture to say the Mac Cuillinn would welcome your warriors. If you swear an oath.”

“Your king would require our fealty?” Seaghan’s eyes narrowed. “We are Siomaigh. We fight for Siomar.”

“I require your oath you will fight with and not against Faolán, and you will not seek to take Faolanaigh lands and titles as payment for your service.” Her conviction built with every word. She straightened atop the horse and made her voice hard. “Otherwise, we will consider you and your warriors enemies. If you had not noticed, we now outnumber you two to one.”

A wry smile crossed Seaghan’s face. “Do you wish anything else from me, my lady? My firstborn son, perhaps?”

Aine stared back, unsmiling. “Do not mock me, Lord Seaghan. I ask nothing unreasonable. In this, I do speak for my king. I doubt you will receive as good an offer from yours.”

Seaghan bowed his head. “You have my oath, Lady Aine. My men and I will not fight against Faolán . . . unless your king should throw in his lot with Fergus, in which case, my oath is void. We will not seek lands or titles, but we will expect reasonable provender and shelter once we enter Faolanaigh lands.”