Oath of the Brotherhood (36 page)

Conor followed the trap lines,
hoping to come across sentries or trackers who could confirm he was on the right path, but he traveled for days without seeing a single soul. Finally, on the fourth day, he met a young sentry named Pól, who, despite a propensity to ramble, provided him with food and an important bit of information: a man and a woman had passed a few days earlier on horseback, headed west.

Conor nearly collapsed beneath the weight of relief. Aine still lived.

He regained more strength with each passing day, and with it, his stamina and his stealth. His head still felt tender, but at least his balance and vision problems had dissipated. He began to believe he might succeed after all.

On the eighth day after Aine had been taken, Conor reached the margin of Róscomain and stopped short. This was the very road that had taken him to Lisdara three years ago. Even knowing Aine lay at the end of that road, he hesitated. In the forest, he was swift and confident. In the open, he was just another man, a target.

In that case, he might as well work it to his advantage. He unraveled his braid and pulled it back in a more common fashion. These days, tattered clothing drew little interest, and the dirt and blood helped disguise his garments’ distinctly old-fashioned cut. Once he was convinced he looked sufficiently unremarkable, he broke free of the tree line and started down the road.

He sorted through his options as he walked. Aine would be at Glenmallaig by now. Was she being treated like a prisoner or a guest? There were dungeons beneath the east walls, but the conditions were so appalling it defeated the purpose of taking her there alive. More likely, she would be under guard in the guest chambers.

You’ve brought me this far, merciful Comdiu. You’ll have to create the opportunities. This won’t be easy.

The last time he had prayed that kind of prayer, he had fought Liam to a draw. This time, he had to win.

On the second day, Conor began to see signs of life and commerce: oxcarts carrying goods to and from the fortress or men on horseback. They paid him no attention, other than to avoid him, and sometimes not even then. He smiled to himself, buoyed by the unexpected discovery. If his fading ability worked as well in the open as it did in the forest, he might just have found a way to breach the fortress unnoticed. He still needed physical entry, though.

Late that afternoon, an opportunity presented itself. One of the carts that had passed him earlier now listed dangerously on the side of the road, its cargo of apples partially unloaded. A gray-haired man struggled to lift the cart while a young girl watched.

“Need help?” Conor asked as he approached.

The man jerked his head up and surveyed Conor warily. “Depends. You a wainwright?”

“No, but we might be able to get you to Glenmallaig and have it fixed properly. I assume that’s where you’re going?”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “You?”

“The same. I’ve a message to deliver, and I’m tired of walking.”

The man relaxed. “What happened to your horse?”

“Bandits.” Conor pointed to the stitches in his scalp and said, “Villager fixed me up, but horses aren’t that easy to come by. Shall we get this wheel off?”

Between the two of them, they lifted the wagon enough to remove the wheel from the axle. Fortunately, nothing was broken. The iron cap had worked free, letting the wheel slide off at an angle.

“You happen to have a hammer?” Conor asked. The man shook his head. “A rock it is then.”

In the end, the fix took less than an hour, including loading the apples into the cart. The man and the girl climbed onto the buckboard, and Conor hopped onto the back. “You mind?” he asked, holding up an apple.

“Help yourself. I’m Breck, by the way, and this is my granddaughter, Airmid.”

“Cahan,” Conor said.

“Much obliged to you, Cahan.”

Conor drew his sword baldric over his head and stashed it out of sight among the bushels. With any luck, the gate guards wouldn’t question his presence. Maybe they’d just assume he was another orchard hand.

“Where you coming from?” Breck called over his shoulder. Conor pretended not to hear him, and the man didn’t ask again.

Facing backward on the cart, he didn’t notice their approach to Glenmallaig until they began to slow. Conor shivered. Three years away had done nothing to diminish the dread the fortress cast over him, and knowing Aine was a prisoner inside only intensified the feeling.

He schooled his expression to boredom as the cart
approached the open drawbridge, even though he felt sure the guards could hear the frantic thump of his heart. The cart rattled across and then stopped. While Breck stated his business to the warrior at the gate, another guard walked the length of the cart. Conor concentrated on making himself as uninteresting as possible. For a long moment, the guard paused, then strode back to his partner. Conor let out his breath in a rush when the cart lurched forward again. He’d done it.

He had no intention of testing his anonymity, however. As soon as they entered the courtyard, Conor grabbed his sword from its concealment, hopped off the back of the cart, and faded into the shadows of the inner wall.

From here, he could survey the entire fortress, as well as the armory and the kitchen. Guards stood watch, but there were far fewer than he had expected. With the king campaigning, perhaps there was little to guard. Besides, who would attack? Calhoun was wholly occupied with the siege on Lisdara, and all of Tigh’s other enemies had been vanquished.

A servant emerged from the fortress with a wooden tray, headed to the kitchen. Perfect timing. He would be able to slip in unnoticed when the watch changed. Unfortunately, he still had no idea where Aine was being held, and he couldn’t search every chamber in the keep.

Conor lounged against the wall and studied the other men while he finished his apple. Their numbers might be fewer than expected, but discipline was as strict as ever. Each man stood at attention, no casual conversations, nothing to eat or drink, their eyes taking in the movements of everyone in the courtyard. Getting into the fortress would be far easier than getting back out.

He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He had come too far to give up because their escape route looked less
than ideal.
You brought me here, Comdiu. I’ll trust You to make a way.

True to his estimation, only a half hour passed before men appeared in the courtyard to relieve the day watch. Conor tossed aside the apple core and strode casually toward the keep’s back entrance. The guard at the door looked him over as if trying to place him, but he did not stop him as Conor entered the lower corridor.

He concentrated on blending in and followed the man in front of him at a discreet distance.

“Evening, Artagan,” his quarry said to a passing guard.

“Better hurry, Naoise,” Artagan said with a grin. “It’ll be your head if you’re late again.”

Naoise shot back a particularly colorful oath, which made Artagan laugh. Conor filed away the names as a plan began to form.

The guard made a sharp left turn and started up the stairs to the corridor that encircled the top level of the fortress. Conor waited until he reached the top before he ran up the stairs and burst into the hallway.

“Naoise! Glad I caught you!”

Naoise turned and frowned as Conor approached, pretending to be out of breath. “They want a guard on the girl’s chamber tonight. I’m supposed to take your post.”

“Under whose orders?” the guard asked, scowling.

Conor stared at him in disbelief. “Whose do you think?” Naoise still looked unconvinced, so he shrugged. “Fine, go ask if you don’t believe me. Or I can go back and say you have better things to do.”

He surreptitiously sized up the guard as the man considered. Naoise was middle-aged, with a layer of fat covering muscle, but he outweighed Conor by at least a hundred pounds. Regardless
of which way this conversation turned, Conor would have to kill him. The idea sickened him, but he had little choice. He only hoped the man would lead him to Aine first.

Naoise swore again. “Fine. Doesn’t matter to me if I stand here or there all night. Just tell Sloane to get his assignments straight instead of sending his errand boy.” He looked Conor over with a smirk. “Riocárd must be hard up for men if he’s drafting from the nursery.”

Conor played his role and scowled at him, but inside, he was stunned. Riocárd was still in charge here? That explained the level of discipline from the guards on watch. It also meant they would be as diligent and well-trained as ever. Naoise chuckled at his own joke and ambled down the hallway toward the guest chambers.

Conor waited until he stopped before a room and strode toward him, drawing his dagger. His guts twisted, but it was too late to change his mind. As Naoise turned, Conor drove the dagger under the guard’s ribs and into his heart, then eased his bulk to the floor. He couldn’t look Naoise in the eye as the man’s life ebbed away. He cleaned his hands and blade on the guard’s clothes and found he was trembling.

Focus
. If he could not overcome his revulsion, he and Aine would die. He couldn’t leave the guard here for someone to find. He sheathed his weapon and tried the door latch. It gave easily.

But the room was empty.

So much for his plan. He shouldered open the door and dragged the body inside, then kicked the door shut with his foot.

“Conor?”

His heart leapt into his throat as Aine slid from the shelf bed. Her eyes drifted to the dead man and then back to his face. He steeled himself for her expression of horror, but she only launched herself into his arms. “Thank Comdiu you’re alive. I prayed you would come . . .”

Conor buried his face in her hair and allowed himself one blessed moment of relief. She was alive. He had found her. He held her at arm’s length, searching her tearful face for some evidence of her ordeal. “Are you all right? Have you been hurt?”

“No, I’ve been treated kindly. But we have to hurry. Diarmuid may already know you’re here.”

“Diarmuid’s at Glenmallaig?” Conor’s blood surged. The sorcerer was so close. He could put an end to this, avenge the deaths of Labhrás and his mother, perhaps even give Calhoun a chance . . .

And if Diarmuid killed him instead? What would happen to Aine?

“Conor, please.”

He met Aine’s eyes, simultaneously heartened and terrified by the trust he saw there. He kissed her gently. “No matter what happens, remember I love you. Quietly now.” He took her hand, opened the door, and stepped out into the empty hallway.

They made it only a few feet before a robed, tattooed man stepped into the corridor. Sorcery, thick and invisible, twined around their legs, halting them in midstep.

“Well, well,” the druid said, his booted feet scuffing the floor as he approached. “You chose love over duty after all. Come to rescue your fair maiden, just like a bard’s tale.” He caressed the word
bard
with a mocking smile. “I certainly hope you’re a better musician than rescuer. Seems the Fíréin have been careless in their training since my departure.”

Anger flared at the taunt, but Conor forced it back down. “I was about to say the same about your house guard.”

Diarmuid chuckled. “Merely for show, my boy. Nothing happens here without my knowledge. I saw you the moment you broke the perimeter. You Balians are so . . . bright.” The druid
cocked his head as if listening. “Speaking of which, here comes another one.”

Mac Eirhinin rounded the corner on cue. Conor felt rather than heard Aine’s sudden intake of breath. He checked another flare of fury against Aine’s kidnapper and used the druid’s distraction to test the bonds of sorcery that held them. They were as impenetrable as mortar.

The Faolanaigh lord ambled toward them, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You captured them. I’m so pleased. It would have been a shame to let our prize escape so easily.” The way Mac Eirhinin’s eyes caressed Aine from head to toe uncorked Conor’s carefully contained anger once more.

“You’re a traitor,” Aine hissed, loathing thick in her voice.

Mac Eirhinin’s expression hardened, and he turned to the druid. “You’ve got what you wanted. The boy is here. I hope you mean to honor your agreement now. I have plans for her.”

“So do I,” Diarmuid said.

Mac Eirhinin’s smile faded. He looked at Aine, and his expression softened a degree, giving Conor a glimpse of the feeling he had tried to hide in Abban’s camp. Then his gaze traveled to Conor and changed again, but not into hatred or even dislike. Resolve. He gave a barely perceptible nod and flicked his eyes toward the stairwell.

Before Conor could make out his meaning, a dagger appeared in Mac Eirhinin’s hands. He spun and plunged the blade into the druid’s body.

“Go!” Mac Eirhinin shouted, wrenching the blade free. “Get her out of here!”

The bonds wrapping Conor and Aine evaporated. Conor drew his sword, pulling Aine behind him toward the stairs, but he couldn’t help looking back. Mac Eirhinin crumpled to the ground just as the sorcerer sank down beside him in a crimson pool.

They took the steps downward at a breakneck speed and emerged into the lower hallway in time to meet the first guard. Conor ran him through before he had time to draw his weapon and pulled Aine onward.