Oath of the Brotherhood

by Carla Laureano

  Who was the man? And what had just happened? Conor struggled for breath as they ascended a long flight of stairs, a pang of foreboding striking deep in his gut. He gave his head a sharp shake to clear away the sluggishness. Only once he was halfway up the stairs did he regain enough clarity to survey his surroundings.

  They looked completely unfamiliar.

  He glanced behind him to the hall to reassure himself they hadn’t detoured while he was in a daze, but no . . . this was the main staircase to the upper floor. He must have traveled this very path thousands of times, both in his early years at fosterage and in his visits back home.

  Why couldn’t he remember it?

  Marcan stopped near the top of the stairs and pushed a door open. “Here we are, just as you left it. Your trunks are being brought up now, and I’ll send the boys in to fill the tub.”

  Conor stepped inside, expecting a rush of recognition, but this room felt just as foreign as the stairway. Faded tapestries dampened both the chill and the echo from the stone walls. Fine woolen blankets and a wolf’s pelt covered the shelf bed on one end, and a single chair with a threadbare cushion stood beside the carved oak armoire. Opposite it, a wooden bathing tub waited, already half-filled with water.

  The door banged open to admit four of the keep’s servants, each pair carrying a heavy wooden trunk between them. They plunked them unceremoniously near the door, then escaped into the corridor without a bow or even a nod.

  Dolan scowled at their backs, then turned to the trunks and loosened the leather straps on the nearest one. He immediately began to unpack Conor’s garments with practiced efficiency, shaking out the wrinkles before he hung them in the wardrobe.

  Conor watched Dolan work for several minutes. “Who were the men in the hall?”

  “Three of them were minor lords.”

  “And the fourth?”

  Only the slightest pause in the servant’s movements betrayed his discomfort with the question. “Unless I miss my guess, there is a druid once more at Glenmallaig.”

  Conor sank onto the edge of the bed, his breath catching in his throat. A druid. They were not uncommon in the kingdom of Tigh. Most were quiet, contemplative men, content to remain isolated in the nemetons until they were called upon to perform the rites of Tigh’s gods and goddesses at the quarter year or to tender folk cures for ailments. Conor had come across their kind outside Balurnan, and while the Balians denounced their pagan ways, few could perform any magic beyond benign hearth charms.

  Yet this druid’s suffocating presence said he was no harmless earth wizard. Conor had grown up hearing stories of the Red Druids, blood mages of immense power that counseled kings and led men in battle. Could this man be one of them? Did the Red Druids even still exist, outside of history and bards’ tales?

  Before he could voice his thoughts, a light knock at the door announced the arrival of two boys with steaming buckets of water in each hand.

  “Bathe,” Dolan said, while the boys emptied the water into the tub. “I’ll go fetch your supper. Lord Labhrás should be up soon.”

  Conor smiled his thanks, though food was the last thing on his mind. It was bad enough he was about to face his father and explain why he had not yet laid hands on a sword. Now he might have to contend with a Red Druid, whose kind were notorious and ruthless inquisitors, a man who looked at him as if he already knew Conor’s most dangerous secret.

  He forced down his unease and stripped off his travel-stained garments. His skin prickled, but a quick glance over his shoulder assured him the door remained closed. He slid quickly into the bath’s meager concealment. Breathe. They couldn’t know. Labhrás had been careful. No books of Scripture or religious symbols had come with them, and Dolan’s discretion was unquestionable.

  If the king found out, it would take only a whisper to destroy Labhrás’s status in the kingdom. Galbraith may have relaxed the restrictions on Balianism during his reign, but not so long ago, adherence to the forbidden faith would have landed their severed heads beside the keep’s gate. Even now, Balian converts did not retain possession of their lands and titles for long.

  Lord Balus, protect us, Conor prayed silently, not daring to give voice to the words. May You be the shield between us and our enemies. May You be the Light that guides our path. May everything we do further the work of Your kingdom.

  He let out a long, shuddering sigh and sank further into the warm water, concentrating on moving his breath in and out of his lungs. Inch by inch, he forced his mind away from his worries. He could not afford to seem afraid here. To show any discomfort would only make them wonder what he was hiding.

  Conor.

  He sat bolt upright in the bath, sloshing water over the sides. He whipped his head around, looking for the source of the whispered voice.

  I know what you conceal, Conor. Soon, they all will. I can protect you.

  Gooseflesh prickled his skin, and the warm water turned cold. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

  Join me, Conor. You’ll be safe . . .

  He jerked awake with a yelp and slid underwater before he even realized he had fallen asleep. He surfaced, spluttering, to find Labhrás watching him from the doorway.

  The older man’s lips twitched. “Taking a swim?”

  Conor blinked. Steam still rose from the surface of the water, and the floor beside the tub was dry. A dream. Just a dream.

  He shook his head with a self-conscious laugh. “Not intentionally.” He wrung water from his tangled hair and reached for the cloth beside the tub. Only once he had dried himself off and tugged a clean linen shirt over his head did he dare voice his question. “Is it true? Is there a druid at Glenmallaig?”

  Labhrás nodded and sat down on the bed. “His name’s Diarmuid. He’s been present at court for at least a year, though I’d be surprised if he hasn’t had an influence for longer than that. I don’t need to tell you—”

  “—the less he knows of us, the better? No. That one I figured out for myself.”

  Labhrás sighed. “There are things we must discuss, Conor, but they are not topics for tonight. Eat, try to get some sleep. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Conor knew better than to press him, even though there was little chance he could put any of this out of his mind tonight. He watched his foster father move to the door and then called out, “Lord Labhrás?”

  “Aye, Conor?”

  “I don’t remember this place. Any of it. My chamber, the hall. . . . It’s only been three years. I should remember something, shouldn’t I?”

  He expected Labhrás to reassure him, to tell him he had been grieving his mother when they last visited Glenmallaig, too young to remember anything before that. Instead, Labhrás met his eyes seriously. “Aye, you should remember something. Good night, lad.”

  Conor exhaled heavily and scrubbed his hands over his face. Nothing about this trip felt right. Not the escort, not the mist, not the druid’s presence. He was not foolish enough to assume any of it was connected—not yet—but he knew with certainty he was far out of his depth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Conor, wake up!”

  Conor jolted to alertness, his hands flying up to shield himself before he realized it was only Dolan. Bright sunlight already streamed through the bubbled glass windows of his chamber. He let out a long breath and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes while he found his voice. “What time is it?”

  “Late. I let you sleep through breakfast, but now you’re wanted in the hall.”

  “The king?”

  “Indeed. Get dressed. He is not a patient man, your father.”

  Conor slid from bed and dressed reflexively in the clothes Dolan handed him. The moment he dreaded was almost upon him. Would his father berate him in front of everyone? Or was it to be a private audience, with no one to witness how Galbraith expressed his displeasure?

  He was still struggling into his coat when Dolan shoved him unceremoniously into the chair and yanked a comb through his tangle
d hair. “A good thing we have no need for warrior’s braids.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  When Dolan was finished, he offered a brass hand mirror, but Conor ignored it. He knew what he would see. Dolan had left his dark blond hair long and loose, as was the fashion for boys. Only men who had taken the field of battle were permitted to wear the many thin braids as a symbol of their valor. His fine wool jacket, worn over a linen shirt and pleated knee-length tunic, only served to highlight a rawboned frame that had yet to grow into a man’s physique. In a court that prized appearances, this was just one more area in which he was bound to disappoint.

  “Let’s have this done with,” Conor said, rising. With any luck, his father would only give him a quick once-over before he returned to more important matters. After all, the return of a son from fosterage was hardly a state occasion, even if it did coincide with a meeting of the king’s council. Conor squared his shoulders and strode into the corridor, steeling himself for the audience below.

  His steps faltered when he and Dolan entered the great hall. Men and women filled the room, pressed shoulder to shoulder and dressed in finery the likes of which Conor had never seen.

  Voices rumbled at the front of the hall. Then, one boomed out, clear and deep among the rest. “Marcan, where is my son?”

  Marcan appeared beside Conor and Dolan. “Right here, my lord.”

  Heads swiveled toward them. As Marcan led him forward, the crowd parted, and whispers rustled through the room. Conor kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead. The cloying scents of perfumed oils, straw, wool, and silk closed around him, and the press of so many bodies after the isolation of Balurnan roused his instinct to flee. By the time the throne came into view, he could barely breathe.

  King Galbraith had always loomed large in Conor’s memory, but he had chalked it up to a child’s outsized perceptions. Now, he realized his memories were accurate. Clad in a wolf’s-fur cloak with the steel crown of kingship upon his brow, the king nearly filled the throne. His waist-length hair, brown-blond like Conor’s, fell in warrior’s braids over his shoulder, and several plaits decorated his long beard. Beside him stood Lord Riocárd, Galbraith’s champion and captain of the guard, bearing the sword of kingship. The captain was a formidable man in his own right, fierce-eyed and broad-shouldered, but even he was dwarfed in his lord’s presence.

  Conor looked away before his eyes could betray his anxiety—into the face of the only man he feared as much as his father. Lord Fergus, the king’s tanist, was an older, paunchier version of Galbraith, and he made the king seem downright warm by comparison. He took Conor in, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.

  Beside Fergus, a second man scrutinized him as one would observe an insect through glass, emotionless. The druid himself. Conor suppressed another shudder at the symbols of dark power tattooed on his neck and hands.

  “Come here, boy,” Galbraith said. “Let me see you.”

  Conor tore his eyes away from the observers and moved forward to kneel on the lowest step. He pressed his trembling hands together in front of him.

  “Look at me!”

  Conor jerked his head up and stared forward while the king’s gaze roamed over him.

  One corner of Galbraith’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “Tell me, have you started your training yet?”

  “What training would that be, sir?”

  “Don’t be clever with me. You know to what I refer. Sword, bow, spear.”

  “No, my lord.” Conor’s voice came out strangled, forced from his constricted throat.

  “Then what exactly have you been doing for the last nine years?”

  “Studying, my lord.”

  “Studying?” Galbraith’s tone changed, a note of curiosity in it.

  Conor’s heart lifted slightly. “Aye, my lord. History, mathematics, literature, astronomy, law, languages—”

  “What languages?”

  “I can read and write the common tongue, as well as Ciraean, Levantine, and Norin. My Melandran is passable, and I know a bit of the Odlum runes.”

  Galbraith stared at him for a long moment. The hall fell silent but for the crackle of torches and the occasional rustle of a lady’s gown, every eye riveted on the spectacle before them. Then, in one swift movement, Galbraith reached over and ripped the sword from the scabbard in Riocárd’s hands. The ring of metal echoed in the hall as the blade stopped a fraction of an inch before Conor’s eyes.

  “The only language our enemies understand is the language of the sword.” Galbraith’s eyes locked unflinchingly on his son’s.

  Then the weapon was gone, tossed back to Riocárd. Galbraith stood, his expression thunderous as he scanned the assemblage. “Labhrás, where are you?”

  “Here, my lord.”

  All heads turned toward Lord Labhrás where he stood at the edge of the gathering. He wore unadorned garments of fine wool, though he was easily the equal in wealth to any of the onlookers, and he remained unruffled beneath the king’s furious stare. Conor would have given anything to possess even half that calm and dignity.

  “I sent you a son, and you bring me back a daughter! Explain yourself.”

  “I did as I was asked, my lord.” Labhrás’s voice was soft, unchallenging. “You wished your son to be educated.”

  “As a warrior, not a scholar! What good is a man who cannot lift a sword to defend himself and his people? You have brought shame to Tigh.”

  Labhrás took a step forward, his expression hardening. “It is no shame to know of the world outside one’s palace, my lord. Conor is a diligent student, and he excels in all he puts his hand to. I would think any man would be proud to call him his son.”

  Gasps rippled through the crowd at Labhrás’s audacity, and Galbraith’s face turned an unhealthy shade of purple.

  “You dare—”

  “I did what was agreed upon, my lord. Shall I remind you of the terms of that agreement?”

  Galbraith’s mouth compressed into a thin, hard line. Conor looked between the two men in amazement as the king swallowed a sharp response.

  “Then you may take responsibility for what he has become. He is no son of mine.” He strode down the dais and passed Conor without another glance.

  Someone sniggered in the silence, but Conor barely noticed as the room wavered around him. He had been dismissed, possibly disowned, the favor that fell on an only son withdrawn as quickly and easily as Galbraith’s tossed sword.

  “Come, Conor.” Labhrás lifted him to his feet, his hand clamped around Conor’s biceps. He steered him away from the gathering toward an intersecting corridor.

  The druid stepped into their path with a pleasant smile. “Allow me to introduce myself, young man. I’m Diarmuid.”

  Conor blinked back a wave of dizziness. “You’re the druid.”

  “Aye. Considering your education, I suspect you understand what that means better than most.”

  Labhrás inserted himself between Conor and the druid, his expression hard. “It’s best I return the boy to his chamber now.”

  Diarmuid merely smiled. “When you want answers, Conor, all you need do is ask.”

  Before Conor could puzzle through the cryptic offer, Labhrás ushered him past the man toward the stairs. “That could have gone worse.”

  “How?”

  Labhrás arched an eyebrow, and Conor remembered what they strove to keep from the king and his druid. The question of religion, and the fact his education could not have been accomplished without the services of a Balian priest, had never arisen.

  Conor felt stronger and clearer with every step away from the hall, and his dizziness faded. He thought back to the exchange between Labhrás and Galbraith. Was the king actually afraid of what Labhrás might say? Never would he display that kind of weakness before the lords of the realm unless what Labhrás could reveal would be far more damaging.

  When they reached Conor’s chamber, they found Dolan waiting. “So?”

  “About what we expecte
d,” Labhrás said.

  Conor looked between the men, open-mouthed. “You knew this would happen? You knew my father would disown me?”

  “That was for show,” Labhrás said. “Clan law doesn’t allow him to disown blood. But aye, I expected his anger. As did you.”

  “I suppose I did.” Conor focused on his foster father again. “What was that all about? What agreement?”

  Labhrás and Dolan exchanged a glance, and then the servant slipped out the door. Labhrás gestured for Conor to take a seat on the bed and pulled up a chair beside him.

  “Perhaps I owe you an apology. Most of that had nothing to do with you. You recall, of course, that your uncle, Riordan, sat the throne before your father.”

  “He abdicated in order to join the Fíréin.” Conor understood the pull of the legendary brotherhood. Nearly every young boy in Seare fantasized about being one of those preternaturally gifted warriors, but only the Balian clans followed the tradition of sending the firstborn son to the Fíréin. That a king of Tigh would abandon his throne in favor of a Balian warrior-brotherhood was unfathomable.

  “Galbraith was not the council’s first choice as Riordan’s successor,” Labhrás said. “Several of us, myself included, looked to the minor royal branch, though a Mac Laighid has not sat the throne for generations. Riordan, however, pushed hard for Galbraith’s election. He swung enough votes to win him the tanistry, and when he abdicated a few months later, he handed him the throne.”

  “Why not just take himself out of the succession?”

  “If he did that, he couldn’t influence the council’s selection. Of all the candidates, Galbraith was most likely to be sympathetic toward the Balians, considering your mother was one. The king—and the rest of the council—are well aware he owes his throne to a Fíréin brother. That’s why he didn’t argue when Riordan returned from Ard Dhaimhin and insisted you be fostered with me.”

  Conor’s mind whirred. “I never even met Riordan. Why would he take such an interest in me?”