Oath of the Brotherhood (31 page)

“It wasn’t me,” Conor said finally.

“What do you mean it wasn’t you?” Eoghan frowned, finally looking at Conor. “I just watched you.”

“Something happened back there. And don’t say I just managed to get out of my own way. It was more than that. I’m not that good.”

“Today you were.”

“Today Comdiu wanted me to win my freedom.” Conor studied his friend. Eoghan kept his thoughts close, but even he couldn’t hide the emotion roiling beneath the surface. Was it resentment? “I thought you would be pleased. This is a victory for you, too. Isn’t this what we’ve been working toward?”

“Of course I’m pleased!” Eoghan stopped. “You should have seen yourself. You were incredible. I’m proud to claim even the smallest bit of credit. It’s just that . . .” He shrugged. “You’re my only real friend. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t want you to stay.”

Conor gripped Eoghan’s arms, his gaze boring into his friend’s. “You’re my brother, Eoghan. I don’t just mean in Fíréin terms. If we survive this, we’ll cross paths again.”

“That’s a big if.” Eoghan pulled out of Conor’s grip and started back down the path. “The Conclave is naive if they believe Ard Dhaimhin will hold out against Fergus and the Red Druid indefinitely.”

“I’m not sure they do. They just can’t let go of their traditions. Promise me you won’t throw your life away.”

“I could ask the same of you.” Eoghan stopped at the base of Carraigmór’s steep upward climb. “This is where I leave you. I’ll go see to your provisions.”

“Thank you, Eoghan.” Conor wanted to say more, but they had already expressed too much sentiment for one day, so he turned and began the ascent for the last time.

At the top, the brother at the door admitted him without question. Riordan waited for him inside the cavernous hall with oddly bright eyes. “I never thought I would see this day, Conor.”

Conor followed Riordan down the corridor toward Master Liam’s study. “You thought I would lose.”

“That’s not what I meant. Labhrás would be proud of you.”

“Do you think so? He never wanted me to be a warrior.”

“We wanted it to be your choice. We knew you would seek your own way.”

“An awful lot of my path has been orchestrated from right here.” For the first time, though, Conor could look on the Fíréin’s interference without resentment. The plans of men succeeded only where Comdiu allowed it.

“Whatever you may think of our actions, we did what we believed was right. If mistakes have been made, they were made out of ignorance, not malice.”

Conor sensed the apology in the statement, the closest he would receive from any members of this proud brotherhood, even his own father. He extended his hand, and Riordan gripped his forearm for a long moment before turning to rap sharply on Liam’s door.

“Go on. I’ll wait here.”

The Ceannaire stood by a bookshelf, thumbing through a heavy volume. A familiar case lay on the desk. Conor shut the door behind himself and stood quietly, unwilling to speak first.

At last, Liam turned. “Conor. Right. We have some business here.”

“I’m swearing an oath?”

“A formality. As you know, few brothers leave Ard Dhaimhin once they enter, but from those who do, we require some assurances.” Liam moved to the table and lifted the latch on the case. Conor braced himself for the rush of power, but instead, he felt only the low, pleasant hum of energy. The magic drew him as Liam removed the sword from the case and planted the tip into the ground.

This close, Conor saw the details he had missed at the oath-binding: the gold-chased basket-weave design in the grip, the four-looped shield knot emblazoned on the pommel. He could just make out the fine etching of runes down the length of the blade.

He placed his palm atop the pommel, its iron smoothed and burnished by generations of oaths. Magic enveloped him immediately, spreading through his body like warm honey. He heard the faint whisper of voices, too many to distinguish individually, but he sensed the meaning of the words clearly. The oaths of thousands of men. His fingers flexed convulsively on the metal. The oath-binding was not simply symbolism?

“Conor?” Liam looked at him quizzically, and he realized the Ceannaire had been talking to him.

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you were ready. You need only answer the questions.”

Conor swallowed hard and nodded.

“Do you swear to uphold the sanctity, privacy, and safety of the Fíréin brotherhood outside of Ard Dhaimhin?”

“I do.” As Conor spoke the words, he felt a tug in his chest, followed by the whispered echo of his own voice.
I do.

“Do you swear to comport yourself with honor and dignity as befits your training and education at Ard Dhaimhin?”

“I do.” The echo grew louder, and Conor almost released the sword.

“Do you swear to never raise weapons against a Fíréin brother except in defense of your own life?”

“I do.”

Liam nodded to Conor, and he released the sword abruptly, expecting to find the shield knot burned into his palm. Of course it wasn’t.

“Then go with the blessing of the brotherhood. May Comdiu go before you in all your endeavors.”

Conor gave a deep bow. “Thank you, Master Liam.”

“One more thing.” Liam opened a small box on his desk and withdrew a wooden coin embossed with the same shield knot emblazoned on the sword.

“What is this?”

“The symbol of the brotherhood. It will identify you to others like you in the kingdoms. Where you see this mark, you can be assured of assistance. Go now. Follow the path Comdiu has set before you.”

Conor turned the coin over in his hand, struck by sudden, unexpected regret. “Somehow I didn’t expect leaving would be this difficult.”

“‘The path of the faithful is perilous and fraught with sorrows as well as blessings,’” Master Liam quoted.

Conor closed his hand around the wooden coin and gave the Ceannaire another low bow. “Thank you, Master Liam. For everything.”

When he emerged, Riordan waited for him on the stairs. “Done?”

“It wasn’t what I expected. Did you hear it, too?”

Riordan’s brow furrowed. “Hear what?”

Conor’s thoughts now seemed foolish and fanciful. Perhaps he had just imagined the whispers, fueled by stories of heroes and enchanted swords. It was an unsatisfying explanation,
though, and Conor knew magic when he felt it. But it hardly mattered now. He was leaving behind this strange brotherhood with its oaths and strictures and magic-imbued swords for the far more frightening reality of war in the kingdoms.

“Tell me the truth,” he said suddenly. “Let’s assume the match against Master Liam was an aberration, or maybe even a miracle. You’ve seen me fight. Can I survive in the kingdoms?”

Riordan seemed to consider his answer before speaking. “Conor, you are an extraordinarily gifted swordsman. Eoghan’s skill and your hard work notwithstanding, you should have never been able to accomplish what you did in such a short period of time. I’ve seen few who can match you, here or in the kingdoms.”

Conor swallowed his protest, stunned by the praise.

“But I will caution you,” Riordan said. “You are still very young. As many men will resent you for your skill as respect you for it, and it won’t always be readily apparent which is which. Politics in the kingdoms do not favor those who threaten the established order. Don’t lose your focus on what is important.”

“You sound as if I’m returning to seize the throne from Fergus,” Conor said.

“You may think of yourself as a dishonored clansman with Fíréin training, but you are still a Mac Nir. Some will seek to use you for that. Just be wary.”

Later that night, Conor and Eoghan shared a small jug of mead on the crannog where they had spent so many evenings drilling.

“Some people won’t believe you’re there just to fight,” Eoghan said, “especially when you’ve been thought dead for the past three years. You might be mistaken for a spy.”

“It’s a poor spy who draws so much attention to himself,”
Conor said wryly. “Besides, Calhoun knows me. He wouldn’t believe I would align myself with the man who killed Lord Labhrás.”

“These are strange times. I take it you’re going to find Aine?”

“I am.”

“Will you sweep in and declare your undying love?” Repressed laughter underpinned Eoghan’s tone.

Conor rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one who’s been killing himself to be worthy of a king’s sister. Don’t pretend you haven’t wondered what she’ll think of you now.”

He had, but he wasn’t about to admit it aloud. “Knowing Aine, she’ll be utterly unimpressed.”

“Don’t be so sure. After a few years on the front, she probably has a new perspective on warriors.”

“How do you know she’s on the front?”

Eoghan bowed his head. “Odran told me you saw her in the forest. I know she’s been mapping wards for the king for almost two years.”

Conor wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty he hadn’t told Eoghan the truth or angry his friend had kept the knowledge from him. “She’ll have a map of the wards, and her captain will know where Fergus and his army are. They’ll be able to give me an idea of where I should seek Meallachán.”

“She’s at Abban’s camp, wherever that might be,” Eoghan said. “One of the border sentries could tell you where they’ve gone. After what we heard about Semias, they may already be in retreat.”

Conor set aside the mead jug, his head now aching nearly as badly as his body. It was far too easy to forget the reality of what awaited him.

“It’s going to be a long journey,” he said, pushing himself to
his feet. “I should take advantage of a soft bed and a roof over my head while I still can.”

They returned to the shore in silence, Eoghan’s discomfort plain in his stiff movements as he drew them back across the water. Conor couldn’t reassure him. They all made their decisions, for good or bad. Even Eoghan, his closest friend, his brother, had held back information, and Conor had done the same. It was time to strike out on his own, follow his own path.

How strange that in the end, Master Liam seemed to understand best of all.

Conor slept soundly on his last night in Ard Dhaimhin, but it stemmed more from exhaustion than from peace of mind. He woke automatically before the bugles roused the city. He had already said his good-byes, and now he just wanted a quiet departure.

He had nothing to take with him but his good wool cloak, serviceable if a bit too short, the clothes on his back, and the small pouch of coins he had brought from Lisdara. He’d never before realized how little he actually owned.

When he crept from the barracks into the pale morning, Riordan and Eoghan were waiting for him.

“You didn’t think we’d miss seeing you off, did you?” Riordan said with a hint of a smile.

Conor returned it. “I’m glad you’re both here.”

“Especially since we have your weapons,” Eoghan said. “Let it not be said the brotherhood sent you away defenseless.”

Eoghan held up a sheathed sword on a leather baldric. Conor took it and drew the blade from the scabbard. It was plain, well-made steel, with a leather-wrapped grip and a brass pommel, meant for use and not for show. He shrugged on the baldric and
adjusted the buckle so the sword rested comfortably across his back, an easy draw from his right shoulder. “Thank you.”

“We’re not done.”

The two men also presented him with a staff sling, a leather pouch for his hand stones, and a small parcel of food.

“No bow?” Conor asked.

“We thought about it,” Eoghan said, “but it would just be useless weight. You couldn’t hit a man with an arrow if you threw it at him.”

Conor laughed. “Sadly, that’s true.”

“There’s one last thing.” Riordan produced a dagger from beneath his tunic and handed it to him, hilt first.

Conor’s eyes widened. The dagger was a lovely old piece with a slender, silver-chased handle and stamped leather sheath, as much for display as for service.

“This was the only thing of value I took from Tigh when I joined the brotherhood,” Riordan said softly. “I’d like you to have it.”

Conor examined it closely. Unexpectedly, his throat constricted, and he fought back tears. “I wish . . .”

“I know. These three years have been an unexpected blessing, Conor. I never thought to see you become a man.” Riordan pulled Conor into a warm embrace, the kind Labhrás would have given him. “Trust Comdiu to guide you, and your path will become clear.”

It was nearly the same thing Labhrás had said that last day at Glenmallaig
 
—the last time Conor had ever seen him. Tears rose again and threatened to spill over. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Father.”

He quickly turned to Eoghan, who looked uncomfortable. “I’ll see you soon, brother.”

Eoghan nodded and gripped his arm. The long look they
shared told Conor more of his friend’s thoughts than he’d ever say. Had it not been for Conor, this departure might have been his.

Conor started toward the long set of switchbacks that would take him up and out of the city. He felt eyes on him until he reached the top, but when he turned back to wave a last farewell, the two men were gone.

Conor chose his route through the forest deliberately,
following the trap lines and avoiding sentry posts. The trackers would notice his presence on the wards, but they would be too far away to intercept him. Not coincidentally, his path took him to the one sentry who would demand little in return for information.

He arrived at Brother Innis’s post while the sun was still high on the second day. The old man waited outside his dugout when Conor stepped into view.

“I thought you might come.” Innis turned and disappeared inside.

“These preternatural abilities of yours disturb me,” Conor said as he followed him into the damp earthen hut.

The sentry laughed, a sound like the rustle of dried leaves. “Preternatural, no. Odran brought news of your victory against the Ceannaire as soon as it happened. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

“Odran can be seen only when he wants to be. Besides, it wasn’t a victory; it was a draw.”

“That is a victory. But you’re not here to boast.”

“No.” Conor rummaged through his bag, drew out a ripe stone fruit, and set it on the table. “I’d hoped for a favor.”

Innis eyed the fruit hungrily. It hadn’t taken long to discover the old man’s weakness. The sentries’ diets were nutritious but unvarying, and they rarely included the more delicate of Ard Dhaimhin’s produce.

Innis took the fruit and inhaled its fragrance like some men savored wine. “What is the favor?”

“Do you know the location of the Faolanaigh camps in Siomar? I understood they might be falling back.”

“Behind the Faolanaigh border. Most of the Siomaigh wards were broken.”

“I’ve heard. Where is Lord Abban now?”

“In a place we call the Triangle, where three strong wards intersect at the edge of the young forest. Near a village called Eames.”

“I know it.” The village must have sprung up with the wards, because it was one of the few on Ard Dhaimhin’s ancient maps that still existed. “How about the others?”

“Lord Gainor will be joining them with what’s left of his men.”

Conor did not need to ask what had happened. Even if Gainor had seen the Siomaigh coming, he would not have known Semias was no longer an ally.

He swallowed, struggling to maintain his impassive tone when he felt anything but. “What about Calhoun’s sister?”

“The healer? Alive. In fact, most of Abban’s camp is alive because of her. She sensed the wards break and called the retreat.”

The specificity of the information gave Conor pause. Those were details one could have only if there were a Fíréin informant in Abban’s camp. But that was not his current concern. Aine was alive. He sagged with relief.

“Thank you,” he said. “Enjoy your fruit.”

“I will.” Innis once again examined the gift closely, his visitor forgotten. Conor shook his head and slipped out the door into the forest.

He got his bearings and struck out due north. If his calculations were correct, he could arrive in Abban’s camp in fewer than two days. The mere thought of seeing Aine sent his heart beating double-time and his thoughts skittering off in unproductive directions, but he forced his mind back to his surroundings. He could not forget he would soon be leaving Fíréin-protected territory and entering an area where wards were failing and enemy forces sought a foothold.

He camped beneath a stand of alder, eating Eoghan’s provisions cold so he wouldn’t have to light a fire. Even though he was still on Fíréin lands, he dared not draw attention to himself. He slept sitting upright against the trunk of one of the great trees, his sword beside him, his ears attuned to any unusual sounds, even in sleep. Nothing larger than an owl ventured near all night, though, and Conor departed before first light.

He knew the instant he left Seanrós, even without the wards. Younger trees mingled with the old, and the interlaced canopy of branches overhead let in more light. In places, he could see patches of blue sky above him. Here, he took even more care to move soundlessly. The Fíréin were not the only skilled trackers in these woods.

Still, he saw no sign of any other human. Throughout the morning, he smelled smoke, probably from the trappers who lived in the border woods, eking out a paltry living from small animal pelts, but he kept his distance. The forest thinned further, and midafternoon sunlight slanted into his eyes through the gaps in the canopy overhead. He would reach open land long before nightfall.

Then he noticed the silence. The songbirds should have been
trilling their chorus. Conor stopped, ears trained on the forest sounds, and faded into the foliage around him.

The nearby call of a red-throated warbler raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Warblers should not be this far from their roosts in the western mountains. In fact, Conor hadn’t seen or heard one since leaving Tigh. Silently, he fished several hand stones from his pouch and loosened the dagger at his belt.

He crouched among the ferns for several moments, watching and waiting. He hadn’t imagined the sound, had he? No, the birds were still silent. There was someone out there.

A flash of white caught his eye, and Conor whipped his head around in time to see a man melt into the trees. A skilled woodsman, but not Fíréin. They knew better than to wear such conspicuous colors. Conor waited a moment and then plunged silently from his hiding place.

He followed the man by ear and let distance stretch between them. Ahead, he saw another flash, perhaps sunlight catching steel. The signal’s recipient?

When they came within a hundred yards of where forest thinned into open land, the two men stopped. Conor faded into a stand of saplings, measuring his breathing, every muscle controlled. What were they waiting for?

Leaves rustled around him, but the day was still. He scanned the trees and saw three more men. His ears told him there were more behind him. If they had glimpsed him before, they couldn’t find him now, or they assumed he was one of their party. After all, what were the chances a stranger would wander into their midst?

Perhaps it was not merely coincidence that brought him here. Conor scanned the trees again.

Five more men. Nine total. The glint of metal indicated weapons. An ambush? And for whom?

Conor lost track of the time he spent in concealment, but the shadows had lengthened when he at last heard the soft thud of hooves beyond the tree line. The men must have cut across the forest’s edge to intercept a party of riders.

The warbler called again, and the man in the lead moved forward. Conor moved with him, counting on his fading ability to hide the fact he wasn’t one of them. The sound of horses drifted closer, this time with the low drone of voices. An errant breeze threw a few clear, Faolanaigh-accented words his way.

Conor closed on the man to his right, aware of the others nearby. He would have to do something quickly, or it would not just be the Faolanaigh riders in trouble. He readied a stone in his hand and waited for an opportunity.

There. The man had stopped behind a screen of foliage. Conor launched the stone, and it connected with the back of the stranger’s head with a crack. He went down with a soft thud.

Conor did not allow himself to dwell on the thought he may have killed him. Instead, he pressed toward the edge of the forest, trying to get a glimpse of the riders.

Six men atop fine, mud-splattered horses followed the tree line closely. A red-haired man slumped atop a large bay, swathed in bloody linen. When he turned to speak to the black-haired warrior beside him, Conor drew in his breath sharply. Was that Gainor Mac Cuillinn?

He studied him a moment longer. It was unmistakably Calhoun’s younger brother. Was this small party all that remained of Gainor’s forces?

The urgency of the situation struck him. There did not seem to be a whole man among them. They would be no match for a fight they saw coming, let alone a surprise attack. He had to do something.

He shifted forward, seeking the leader of the ambush.
Whether he made a mistake or it was pure bad luck, the man chose that exact moment to look in his direction. His expression changed when he realized Conor was not one of his band.

Conor calculated his options in a split second. He couldn’t silence the man before he sounded the alarm. Instead, he rushed for the tree line. “Gainor, go!”

For a single moment, all six men turned, too startled to even draw their weapons. Then the first arrow flew, and the ambushers burst from cover.

Gainor hesitated only a moment before digging in his heels and kicking the horse into a gallop. Arrows flew thick around him, but the powerful charger carried him quickly out of range. Conor was vaguely aware the others had followed, but he had no time to check if he was alone. He fitted a stone to his staff’s sling and aimed at the nearest archer. It caught the man solidly in the chest, and he dropped like a sack of grain. The second stone flew just as true, taking down another bowman.

That left the swordsmen, and there were far more of them than Conor had estimated. He left his sword sheathed and gripped his staff with both hands. The first man rushed him, a second close behind. Conor sidestepped an attack and countered with a well-aimed strike to the midsection, then drew his staff free in time to deflect the arc of the second man’s blade. Surprise registered on his opponent’s face, giving Conor the opportunity to brush aside the sword and swing the staff into his head.

As he turned, he glimpsed the dark-haired rider, now engaged in a pitched battle with a skilled swordsman.

Four men closed around Conor, two in front and two behind. He parried one thrust in time to whirl and block another attack from behind. He needed to get out of this deadly circle. Gouges already weakened the staff, and he could not continue to meet their blades as if it were steel. He defended
himself furiously from two, sometimes three attackers at once, desperately looking for an opening. Finally, he saw a flaw in the rightmost attacker’s guard and drove the end of the staff into the center of his chest. The man went down, unable to breathe through his paralyzed diaphragm.

Conor circled into the gap left by the felled man so he could face the others one at a time. A second man feinted skillfully, but Conor waited until he overcommitted himself and delivered a vicious strike to the head.

The remaining two pressed forward, working like a pair of hunting wolves. One harried him while the other looked for an opportunity to take him down. Conor resisted the urge to draw his sword. In the seconds it took him to trade weapons, they would descend on him.

He shifted to the offense and pressed the first man back. A sharp blow to the wrist broke the bones and sent his weapon flying. Another strike to the head dropped him, unconscious, to the turf. Before the second man could comprehend what had happened, Conor swung the staff full force into his midsection. His opponent’s ribs gave a sickening crunch, and he pitched to the ground.

Conor whirled, looking for the next attack, but he and the dark-haired man stood alone. The other warrior’s four opponents lay dead, but Conor’s still lived, some unconscious, others writhing in pain.

Relief flooded into the space left by adrenaline, and Conor bent forward, bracing his palms on his knees. Somehow, he had survived his first test unscathed.

“Are you wounded?” the other man asked.

“No.” Conor straightened and shook off a wave of dizziness. “I’m fine. You?”

“No worse than before.” The warrior took in the scene
matter-of-factly, unperturbed by the men he had slain. “That was some display. Why didn’t you kill them?”

Why didn’t he? Conor cast about for a reasonable explanation. “I figured they’d need to be questioned.”

“I know who sent them.” The man walked to one of Conor’s disabled opponents and wordlessly thrust the sword into his chest.

Conor clenched his jaw and pushed down nausea as the warrior executed the men he had so painstakingly kept alive. When he thought he could speak neutrally, he asked, “Did Lord Gainor get away?”

“Aye, and four of his bravest guards as well.” The man walked to Conor and offered his hand. “Keondric Mac Eirhinin.”

So that’s why he recognized him: he was the young lord Gainor had pointed out during his first feast at Lisdara. Conor clasped his forearm. “Conor.”

“Brother Conor?”

“Just Conor will do.”

Mac Eirhinin nodded and pushed no further. “We’re indebted to you. As you can tell, we were in no shape to meet an ambush.”

“You’ve seen battle already.” Conor nodded towards the man’s bandaged thigh.

“If you can call it that. It was a massacre.” Mac Eirhinin wove through the bodies, collecting weapons and tossing them into a pile. “How did you come to intervene?”

“Just passing through. I tracked the men here. I didn’t expect to see Gainor.”

“How do you know Lord Gainor?” The warrior’s bland tone didn’t quite cover his intense interest.

“We met some years ago.”

Mac Eirhinin only nodded and gestured to the weapons.
“Take what you like. Ó Sedna will send men back to collect the rest.”

Conor didn’t need anything beside his sword and staff, but the nobleman watched him, assessing, so he took his time looking through the pile of weapons. Finally, he chose a serviceable knife with a sharp, thin blade.