Oath of the Brotherhood (35 page)

When Conor awoke, he lay on a straw pallet on the cave floor, half-dressed and feeling like a wrung-out piece of cloth. Light shone dimly from a candle, illuminating the figure of a man bent over a tablet at the low table. Beagan.

Conor remembered his last thought before he had lost consciousness and sat up abruptly. He expected the familiar wave of pain and dizziness, but instead he felt only a distant throb. He touched his head, where a clean line of stitching marked a newly shaved patch of scalp. The lump had diminished drastically.

“What did you do to me?”

Beagan turned. “How do you feel?”

“Better. I don’t understand. I thought
 
—”

“I know. I’m sorry. I misjudged how quickly the tea would take effect in your condition. You needed to rest, and I needed you to sleep through your stitches. Are you hungry?”

Conor nodded, pleased to find his brain no longer seemed to rattle in his head with each movement. He joined Beagan at the
table, where the tracker pushed a plate of porridge and roasted game toward him.

“How long have I been out?”

“Almost a day. It’s sundown.”

Conor spooned the porridge into his mouth, forcing himself to fill his empty stomach slowly.

“Did you know I was once a physician?” Beagan asked.

Conor shook his head. It certainly explained the man’s skill with a draught and a needle.

“You’ve already guessed from my accent that I’m your countryman. I was, in my earlier years, the personal physician to Lord Fergus.”

“What happened?”

“I was a young man. I had a lovely wife and two daughters. We were wealthy. We lived on Fergus’s estate, but we had our own holdings. We were also Balians.

“It was not quite a secret, but I didn’t flaunt the fact either. Then the druid came, and suddenly Fergus wanted me to renounce my faith. I refused. He let the matter drop, or so I thought. When I came home one night, my wife and children were missing. We searched all night, but we only found them in the loch the next morning. Lord Fergus wrote it off as an accidental drowning, but everyone knew the truth.

“There were no more Balians there after that day. It’s one thing to give your own life for your beliefs, but another to have your family murdered for them.”

Conor drew a sharp breath. It hit too close to the fears he’d had about Labhrás’s family, an answer to a question he’d stopped asking. “That’s why you’re helping me?”

“Fergus and his druid use your loved ones against you. Whatever your mission was, it was threatening enough that they took your young woman from you.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t give in?” Conor asked slowly.

“Don’t you think I would have saved my family had I been given the chance?” The tracker rose, shedding his introspective demeanor in favor of the cool, calculated exterior Conor remembered. “Come. The last help I can give you.” He went to the wooden chest, unlatched the lid, and threw it open.

Weapons glutted the chest: swords, daggers, unstrung short bows with quivers of arrows. So many, in fact, that Conor looked at the tracker uneasily. Odran might be a little too comfortable with his duties, but Conor doubted even he had killed this many men.

“The Timhaigh seem to think the prohibitions don’t apply to them lately,” Beagan said almost gleefully. “There have been plenty of opportunities to put our training into practice.”

So that was what unsettled Conor so much about the tracker. This job was more than just a duty to him. It was revenge. He took out his hatred on the warriors of Tigh under the guise of protecting Ard Dhaimhin.

Conor approached the chest as Beagan rummaged through the weaponry. He drew out a sheathed sword and passed it to him. “See what you think of this one.”

Intricately stamped leather covered a steel scabbard, embossed with a complicated knotwork pattern. Conor grasped the plain hilt and drew the sword free, surprised to find the same knotwork design trailing down the blade. It was indeed masterful work. Conor made a few experimental strokes, wondering how it had been made so light.

“Some clan is missing this piece right now.”

“Some clan is missing more than that,” Beagan said, grinning. He continued to unearth items, one after another: daggers, spearheads, slings, hand stones, practically every weapon imaginable. Conor selected a heavy-bladed knife to replace the one at
his belt, which went back at his ankle, as well as a leather sling. He allowed himself a moment’s regret over the loss of Riordan’s silver dagger, but he had more important concerns now.

“Thank you,” Conor said. “I’m indebted to you.

Beagan shrugged. “Knew I might need them with all the unrest. Do you know where you’re going next?”

“Glenmallaig.” If Fergus and Diarmuid had orchestrated the kidnapping, they would enjoy the irony in making him return home to rescue Aine. “They’ll be waiting for me there.”

“Are you prepared to do what’s necessary to rescue her?”

Dread washed over him again. He had managed to put away the memory of how easily he had taken Eoin’s and Darragh’s lives, but theirs would not be the only blood on his hands by the end. “I’ll do what I must.”

Beagan clapped a hand on his shoulder and returned to his reports at the table, leaving Conor to brood over the reality of his mission.

Just know there is a cost
.

In the five days it took to reach Glenmallaig,
Aine attempted to establish a rapport with her captor. Keondric already possessed a degree of genuine affection for her, but there was a coldness behind his manner she hadn’t been able to thaw.

“Why do we travel alone?” Aine asked when they stopped to rest. “I don’t doubt you can protect me, but with all the turmoil . . .”

“We’re perfectly safe,” Keondric said. He did not elaborate.

But Aine had begun to form her own theory.
Your intended is not the only one with gifts
, he had said. When they passed within shouting distance of several Faolanaigh warriors without even a head turning in their direction, she concluded he must be able to conceal them from sight.

That meant it was most likely a gift of Balus. No wonder he had so easily gained their confidence. They had relied on the wards and forgotten how easily men could be corrupted through conventional methods.

By any standard, hers was a pleasant captivity. Keondric remained solicitous, kind, and attentive. He stopped frequently
to allow her to rest and made sure she had enough to eat and drink. He gave her his blanket to sleep beneath, and never did he touch her in a way she could deem inappropriate. Yet beneath it all, Aine sensed a hunger, a lust, the object of which she could not identify. It could have been power or safety or her, but it was overriding.

She had long since lost her sense of direction, so their descent toward Glenmallaig took her by surprise. Her first impression of the fortress chilled her. A murky black moat encircled it, lapping at the bottom of the earthen ramparts. Shreds of mist clung to their tops despite the clear, warm day. Aine shuddered at the evil that skittered across her consciousness: not only the sidhe’s magic, but the druid’s as well.

The drawbridge groaned down, and Keondric spurred the horse forward. The ivory charm burned white-hot when they broke the veil of sorcery. She swayed, sickened by its stench.

The heavy doors opened, and a pale, haggard man emerged from the structure. Keondric dismounted first and lifted her down, steadying her while her legs adjusted to solid ground.

“This is Glenmallaig’s steward,” he said. “He’ll take care of you. I’ll check on you later.”

Aine moved toward the gaunt man and then turned impulsively. “Thank you, Keondric. I can’t agree with what you are doing, but most men would not have been so kind.”

A ghost of a smile lifted Keondric’s lips, and for a moment, something like genuine pleasure sparked in his eyes. “I keep my vows, my lady.”

Aine forced what she hoped looked like a sincere smile and went with the steward into Glenmallaig’s great hall.

“I’m Marcan,” the steward said. He gestured for her to follow him down the intersecting corridor. “You are not under guard, because there is no way to escape. You may go
wherever you like within the fortress, but if you try to leave the courtyard, the guards have orders to kill you. Do you understand?”

Aine nodded mutely. Inside, the feel of sorcery was not as pronounced, but it still made her skin crawl. Was this the druid’s version of the wards? She followed Marcan up a staircase to a circular corridor above.

“This will be your room,” he said, opening a door halfway down the hall. “If you need anything, just ask one of the servants.”

Aine stepped inside, and Marcan closed the door behind her. Automatically, she put her hand on the latch. It gave easily. She might be a prisoner, but at least she would not be confined to her chamber.

Tears welled up again, but she stuffed them down and locked them away. She couldn’t break. Until now, she had harbored hope someone would come after her. But Ruarc was dead, Lorcan most likely along with him. Even if Conor were alive, he didn’t know she was in danger.

And if he did come for her? The fortress was filled with warriors. He had trained with the Fíréin, but what could one man do against Glenmallaig’s strength?

That meant she could depend only on herself and what few weapons she had at her disposal. Keondric’s affection. Her modest beauty. The ivory charm hidden in her bodice.

Aine curled up behind the curtains of her shelf bed, her heart heavy, and lifted up wordless prayers to Comdiu, but the only answer she received was that already spoken.
For your faith, you will be rewarded. Cling to that when the price seems too much to bear.

The words she had always taken as encouragement chilled her. What exactly would that price be?

A knock sounded at the chamber door. Aine pushed herself from the bed and straightened her disheveled dress and hair, determined to put on a brave front for Keondric. She opened the door and lurched back. The chieftain stood there, but he was not alone.

“Come.” The druid lifted a finger, and the charm flared hot beneath her dress. Aine didn’t move.

His expression shifted, unreadable yet chilling, and she held her breath as he approached. “There’s no need to be afraid. I just thought we might take a few moments to get acquainted. My name is Diarmuid.”

“I know who you are,” Aine said.

He stopped before her and trailed the backs of his fingers across her face as a lover would, as Conor had touched her. Behind him, Keondric stiffened. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to hold the druid’s gaze, even though his magic threatened to suffocate her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “And powerful. I thought Keondric had potential. But you, young one, you have no idea of what you are capable, do you?”

His words made no sense, but Aine would never admit it. She glared at him and pressed her lips tightly together.

Diarmuid’s fingers slid down her neck to the silver chain and hovered over the spot where the ivory charm lay. His smile faded. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to take it from you.”

“Can’t take it, you mean.” She poured every ounce of defiance she possessed into her stare.

Diarmuid laughed. “I like your fire, little one. I know I promised Keondric he could have you, but I’m sorely tempted. . . . Ah, but that’s a discussion for another day. We’ve
still to determine what choice your young man makes. I know you share my anticipation.”

Diarmuid turned and exited in a swish of dark robes. Keondric cast an unsettled look in her direction before following the druid from the room. Aine stood her ground until the door closed. Then she fell to the stone floor of her prison, shaking.

Aine had composed herself by the time Keondric returned with two servants bearing supper trays. She knew what she had to do.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” he said.

“Of course not.” Inwardly, Aine recoiled at the intimacy of dining with him in her chamber, but she forced a pleasant smile and took her seat. The servants placed the food on the table and quickly departed.

“Has everyone treated you kindly?” Keondric asked.

“Aye, except . . .” Aine set down her spoon and put on a tremulous expression. “I’m frightened. You said you wouldn’t let anyone harm me.”

Keondric’s expression darkened, and his hand tightened around his own spoon. “Has someone hurt you?”

“Not yet. But surely you can see the druid doesn’t mean to keep his bargain. He wants me for himself.”

Keondric let out a breath and tried to smile. “I can hardly blame him. You are a captivating woman.”

“It’s more than that. I know when a man desires me.” She met his eye, and he shifted uncomfortably, as she knew he would. “But he covets something else. What did he mean when he mentioned your potential?”

Keondric’s smile faded. She had struck a nerve. Good. She reached out and rested her hand lightly atop his on the table. “Please, you can trust me with your thoughts.”

His eyes flicked down to their hands. When they returned to her face, they were softer, less suspicious. “Diarmuid was the one who first recognized my gifts. My father said they betrayed our blood. But the druid showed me I could be more than my father, groveling before a king who had no more right to the throne than we.”

“You learned your skills from Diarmuid? You implied you possess the gifts of Balus, like me.”

“I do. Did you know Diarmuid was once Fíréin? He was their leader. But the brotherhood couldn’t see that the High King must once again take the throne.”

“You’re to be the High King?”

Keondric’s enthusiasm dimmed a little. “Of course not.”

That had been a mistake. She needed to make him feel powerful if she were to convince him to help her, and he needed to believe they were on the same side. “Then what does he want with people like us? Those with the gifts?”

“I don’t know. I was useful because I could cross wards, but now they’ve all been broken.”

“Will he kill us now?” Aine hardly needed to feign the tremor in her voice.

Keondric stood swiftly, then knelt before her and took her hands in his. “The druid may not honor his promises, but I honor mine. I will protect you. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She lowered her eyes in what she hoped looked like maidenly shyness, and he returned to his seat. “Now, please, eat. It does you no good to waste away.”

Aine picked up her spoon again, but she hardly tasted her food. She had just proven how easily Keondric could be manipulated. He had been seduced by promises of power, and he truly believed her affection was real. Now she knew why.

A subtle spell weakened his will, just enough to alter his
natural inclinations, but not enough to trigger the wards. In that moment, she actually felt sorry for him. Would he have done any of this if the druid had not changed him, gaining his trust through his insecurities?

Aine did her best to keep up with the inconsequential conversation as they ate, but from Keondric’s slight frown, she could tell he knew something was wrong. When he rose to leave, she moved into his path. “May I confide something?”

“Of course, my lady. Anything.”

“This may be what the druid wants from me.” She drew the charm on its chain from beneath her dress and laid it across her palm.

Keondric touched it with one finger, then jerked as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning. “What was that?”

“You tell me.”

He just shook his head, but she saw doubt forming in his eyes. “Good night, Aine.”

“Good night, Keondric.”
Comdiu, let it be enough.