“Sunbathing instead of working, I see.”
Conor twisted sharply. Eoghan stood behind him, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m sorry. Brother Reamonn—”
“Relax. Master Liam told me I should show you around this afternoon.”
Conor pulled on his boots and slid from the rocks. Eoghan grinned when Conor’s knees buckled beneath him.
“I tried to get to you before Brother Slaine, but he’d already put you on Reamonn’s work detail. He can be harsh with newcomers.”
“So I gathered. Did you get that treatment when you came here?”
Eoghan shrugged. “I was abandoned as a child. I don’t remember it. Master Liam took me in, raised me here. Hard to believe he would have been a king, eh?”
“Not so hard.” In a way, Liam still was a king, though his realm was a strange place, full of incomprehensible subjects. “I knew his brothers. They’re cut from the same cloth. Master Liam’s more intimidating, though. He looks at you like he knows what you’re thinking.”
“Probably because he does,” Eoghan said with a smirk.
Conor halted for a moment, a question on his lips, but before he could ask it, Eoghan turned away. The older boy took pity on him and set a slow pace along the lakeshore road, pointing out the details Odran and Slaine had neglected. Conor heard the clack of wood and the clash of metal long before the training yards on the north side of the lake came into view, but even with advance warning, the sight stunned him into silence.
Nearly a thousand men and boys trained in an expansive compound, scattered across sandy training yards as far as he could see. Nearest them, boys as young as six or seven practiced with wooden swords, staffs, and spears under the watchful eyes of their drill leaders. Farther down, older boys and men trained with unsharpened steel within carefully choreographed routines. Conor paused to watch one young man work his way through a stunning sword form, his blade flashing gracefully.
“That’s Iomhar,” Eoghan said. “He’s one of the best swordsmen at Ard Dhaimhin. He’s about to take his oath of brotherhood.”
They moved on to the next practice space. A dozen brothers watched as two men circled one another with wooden swords. They feinted and parried, each looking for an opening until one close miss dissolved into a flurry of strikes that ended with one man on the ground, the other’s blade at his throat.
“Yield,” the beaten man said. “Lucky move.”
The winner withdrew his blade and hauled his opponent back to his feet. “If by lucky you mean skilled, then aye.” It was evidently a long-running joke between friends. His gaze traveled to where Eoghan and Conor stood. “Eoghan! Want to give it a go?”
“Not today. I’m showing our new novice around.”
The man laughed and turned his attention to Conor. “What about you? Aidan could use an opponent at his own skill level.”
Aidan slugged his friend in the shoulder, and Eoghan said, “For that, Sean, I might take your challenge.”
Aidan hooted with delight. “Now that’s a match I’d pay to watch. What’s wrong, Sean? Not so confident now?”
Conor glanced at Eoghan curiously. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing.” Color rose in the older boy’s face. “They’re just joking. Ignore them.”
Conor accepted the explanation, though he didn’t believe it. The men treated Eoghan with respect, even though he was their junior. “Why aren’t you training today?”
“My guide duties were in greater demand. Look ahead. There’s the archery range.”
Conor followed Eoghan to where a long line of men stood before dozens of straw targets. Bowstrings twanged, and arrows flew, most hitting their painted targets dead center. Was there anything those men couldn’t do?
“You may start with archery,” Eoghan said as the men nocked another round of arrows. “Don’t worry, you’ll be onto sword and staff soon enough.”
“If Master Liam hasn’t already decided to make me into a farmer.”
“Because you got assigned to Reamonn’s work detail? Everyone has to take their turn in the fields. Besides, you’re not a farmer. Even I can see that.”
“Right. Maybe I can teach languages or history or something. I’m certainly no warrior.”
Eoghan shook his head. “Don’t be so sure. You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“Like a dog with a bone. If you managed five hours with Reamonn on your first day and you’re still moving, you’re tougher than you think.”
The boy’s assessment relieved him. “I hope you’re right. I’d like Fergus to see the Fíréin made something out of me when my clan couldn’t.”
Eoghan studied him for a long moment, then turned away. “Be careful what you wish for, friend.”
His dark tone made Conor’s stomach lurch, but Eoghan moved on with the tour so quickly, he wondered if he’d imagined it. His guide led him to where yet another group of men practiced unarmed fighting in soft sand.
Conor watched with interest as two combatants grasped at each other’s arms and attempted to throw each other off balance. One of the men kicked out, and his opponent captured his leg and drove him to the ground. After an intense struggle in the loose sand, one finally managed to snake an arm around the other’s neck from behind. The pinned man turned an alarming shade of red and then made a quick gesture with his free hand. The other released him immediately, and they sprang to their feet once more.
“King Daimhin brought this style of fighting back from Hesperides,” Eoghan said. “It’s more effective than Seare’s traditional wrestling.”
“Undoubtedly.” Conor couldn’t imagine any of the kingdom’s warriors relinquishing weapons in favor of unarmed combat, but surely there was value in knowing how to subdue an opponent empty-handed.
Another pair took the place of the first, and a second match began. Conor and Eoghan watched a bit longer before moving on. These men trained to a degree Conor had never imagined, far more than any of the king’s guards. How did Eoghan think Conor could ever become one of them if he’d barely attempted the less rigorous training in the kingdoms?
“It’s almost supper time,” Eoghan said. “We should hurry.”
They fell into a crowd of men with the same idea, all heading for the cookhouse. “How do they manage to feed so many?” Conor asked.
“Mealtimes are staggered,” Eoghan explained. “They serve about five hundred at a time.”
“I feel sorry for the cooks.”
“Hope you never draw mess duty, then.”
Conor grinned. “You should hope I don’t, because I’d be a wretched cook.”
When they arrived, a long line already snaked from the cookhouse, a large pavilion-like structure with a vented roof and canvas panels that could be drawn down against the weather. It housed four large fires topped with the biggest iron pots Conor had ever seen. Two brothers worked each cauldron, ladling stew into waiting bowls, while six more distributed chunks of crusty rye bread from a wooden crate the size of a wagon. Conor took his bowl and bread and followed Eoghan out to one of the dozens of tables and benches behind the cookhouse.
The soup was tasty, made from a peppery broth and filled with fish, turnips, and beans: plain fare in comparison to the king’s table, but it was hot and filling.
“Not quite what you’re used to?” Eoghan asked.
Were his thoughts that obvious? “I could eat this quite happily every day for years.”
“You probably will. We pretty much live on beans and fish. Oh, and oats. Lots and lots of oats.”
Conor chuckled. As they mopped up the last bit of soup with their bread, he noticed men heading toward a part of the city he had not yet explored. He nodded toward them in silent inquiry.
“Evening devotions,” Eoghan said. “We should go, too. If we’re late, we’ll have to stand.”
They returned their bowls to the cookhouse—Conor pitied the dishwashers even more than the cooks—and fell into the crowd. T
hey traveled toward the tree line at the northeastern edge of the city and then down a steep path that opened into a massive granite amphitheater. Dozens of tiers ringed the bowl-shaped space, and about half of the seats were already filled. Only then did Conor begin to get a sense of how many men Ard Dhaimhin housed.
“Look, there’s Brother Riordan.”
Conor followed Eoghan’s gaze. Riordan waved at them from one of the lowest tiers of the amphitheater.
Conor uneasily trailed Eoghan down the steps. The boy exchanged greetings with men every few steps. When they reached the bottom, Conor saw Riordan had saved a space big enough for the three of them. He took a seat between the two men.
“Evening, Eoghan,” Riordan said with a nod. He turned to Conor and put a hand on his shoulder. “How was your first day?”
“Slaine got to him first and sent him to Reamonn,” Eoghan said.
Riordan’s eyes flicked to Conor’s blistered hands. “How long’d you last?”
“All morning,” Eoghan said. “Reamonn actually gave him the afternoon off.”
Riordan nodded approvingly and thumped Conor’s back. “Well done, son.”
Master Liam appeared in the center of the amphitheater then, and the rumble of voices subsided. He called out, “Greetings to my faithful brothers.”
“Greetings,” the group replied in unison.
Liam lifted his hands, his eyes cast upward. Conor started as the entire gathering joined in the invocation. “Almighty Father, Maker of the Heavens and the Earth, Salvation of the Righteous, Punisher of the Wicked, Light of All Nations, and Lord of All . . .”
The Ceannaire continued alone, “May You shine Your blessings of faith, courage, and hope upon us. Let us be receptive to Your words and write Your commands upon our hearts. Blessings to Him who Is, Was, and Always Will Be. So may it be.”
“So may it be,” the group echoed.
Liam paused, his eyes searching the faces until his gaze met Conor’s and just as swiftly moved on. “Welcome, friends, old and new. May Comdiu be with you.”
“Comdiu be with you,” the assembly said.
“Today I wish to tell you a story from the Second Canon of the Holy Writ, one our Lord Balus told to the Kebarans. A rich man was about to embark upon a long journey. He gave differing amounts of coin to his servants to oversee while he was gone. When the master returned, he called his servants to account for the money. The first servant had invested wisely by buying a vineyard and planting it, and he returned twice the money with which he had been entrusted. For this, the master praised him and made him the steward of all of his vineyards.
“The second servant hadn’t as much money as the first, so he bought several young sheep. When those sheep multiplied, he sheared them and had the fleece woven into cloth, and sold it at the marketplace. He too returned twice the amount to his master. For his faithfulness, he was put in charge of all the master’s flocks.
“The third servant was afraid to lose the money, so he buried it out of sight. When the master saw he had hidden the coin rather than using it, he was angry and threw the servant out into the night.”
Conor listened in fascination. He had never heard the story before, though it reminded him of others he had learned in Balurnan’s great hall. Around him, heads nodded in understanding.
“Comdiu has given us all gifts. Some men use them for their own glory. Some hide them for fear of being asked to venture beyond their experience. We will all be called to account on the Day of Judgment for what use we made of them. Those of us who used our gifts for Comdiu’s kingdom will be welcomed into His presence. Those of us who squandered our opportunities in this life will have to answer for our foolishness.
“We do not choose our abilities or our circumstances. We choose only our actions. That is why Fíréin life is harsh and unyielding, filled with discipline, hard work, and study. Not so we may boast of our great strength, our courage, our knowledge, but so we may develop our gifts to their fullness and be ready for the day Comdiu calls us to His work.”
Liam’s eyes swept the amphitheater, and they once again landed on Conor. The directness of his gaze pierced him. Liam hadn’t asked about Conor’s gifts, but Eoghan implied he could read thoughts. Was this story meant for him?
No, that was ridiculous. There were at least three thousand men present. Still, Conor couldn’t dismiss the sense the Ceannaire spoke directly to him.
The devotions lasted an hour, and despite Conor’s attempt to focus on Liam’s Scripture recitation, his mind kept wandering back to the parable. Perhaps he had read too much into it. After all, wasn’t the Fíréin life based on hard work and using one’s abilities to the fullest, regardless of what those were?
Conor felt guilty for his sense of inadequacy, his wish he could be something he wasn’t. So what if the most important thing he did was hoe fields or haul nets? His sweat and toil would still contribute to Ard Dhaimhin.
The convocation closed with another prayer. Then the men dispersed into the dim twilight, scattering to the barracks or the bathhouses. Riordan lingered near the front and placed a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “Stick with Eoghan when you can. He’ll point you in the right direction.”
“What about you?” The words spilled from Conor’s mouth before he could consider how desperate they sounded.
Riordan’s smile turned sympathetic. “We each have our own duties, Conor. I’ll be here if you truly need me. But it’s best you settle into your céad. Your loyalty lies there now.”
Conor nodded, keeping his expression blank as Riordan climbed past him on the amphitheater’s stairs. He had no right to feel disappointed. What else had he expected? Riordan might have been the man who fathered him, but he hadn’t involved himself beyond whatever plans he and Labhrás had concocted.
He had been foolish to believe things would be different here.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Eoghan showed him the way back to their céad’s barracks, and Conor’s stomach clenched a little tighter with every step. Easy for Riordan to say his loyalty should lie with his céad. He already knew these boys. Or men, really. To these seventy strangers, Conor was just an outsider.
Smoke curled from the hole in the thatched roof when they arrived, light spilling from the open door along with the rumble of male voices. As Conor climbed down the steps into the cavernous space, the noise quieted.
Eoghan didn’t seem to notice. “Lads, this is our new novice, Brother Conor.”
Anyone who hadn’t already been staring stopped what he was doing. Conor’s skin prickled under the scrutiny. Was he supposed to say something?
Instead, he just gave a nod and turned to Eoghan. “Where do I sleep?”
“Choose an empty bunk.”
The noise resumed around him as the men turned back to their tasks. Some swept the hard-packed floor, while others sketched or wrote with charcoal nubs on scraps of birch bark. They all looked strong, fit, and much older than Conor. A few gave him appraising glances as he passed, sizing him up and dismissing him just as quickly.
He didn’t fit here any better than he had in Tigh.
He stopped at the first empty bed he found and sat on the edge of the mattress. The routine seemed to be winding down, his céad mates removing shoes and tunics and settling onto their bunks. He hesitated. It wasn’t as if he could hide his thin scholar’s body forever, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to make a fool of himself.
Conor looked up when a pair of trousered legs came into view. The boy was about Conor’s age, tall, muscular, with black hair and eyes nearly as dark.
“You’re the prince.”
Eoghan had said the same thing earlier, but this felt like an indictment.
Conor cleared his throat. “Not anymore, I suppose.”
The boy looked him over, then his mouth tipped up in a sardonic smile. “Nice boots.”
Conor looked down again, confused. Then he realized the Fíréin all wore soft, simply laced shoes. His fine, calf-high leather boots mar
ked him as a nobleman as surely as if it had been branded on his forehead. He flushed.
“Tor, you coming? It’s your turn.”
Tor threw a glance at a younger boy a few bunks away, where he waited with a cross-shaped game board. King and Conqueror, Conor guessed. “Aye. I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Conor with a smirk. “Sleep well, princeling.”
Conor frowned at the boy as he swaggered away. A few others chuckled as if they were in on the joke. He scanned the area for Eoghan, but his only friend had already been swallowed into the huge room.
Slaine strode into their midst, and the sound died instantly. He glanced around, his gaze settling on Conor just long enough to say he had noted his presence. “Lights out, lads.”
Instantly, a half dozen men rose and snuffed out the rush lights, sending a waft of acrid smoke into the air even as they plunged the clochan into semidarkness. Only the small fire in the pit illuminated the rest of the céad as they settled down for the night.
Conor stripped down to his trousers, hung his tunic on the peg above his bed, and climbed beneath the scratchy wool blanket. Almost immediately, soft snores filled the room. He sighed. He would never be able to rest with the racket of seventy men snoring. Perhaps he should pray a bit first.
He only made it through the opening words before sleep took him.
Sounding horns intruded on his dreams.
Conor burrowed deeper under his blankets, trying to escape the noise, until a rough but familiar voice growled, “Up now, boy!”
Conor gasped as the blanket was ripped away, the cold air hitting his bare skin, and jerked upright. He rubbed his gritty eyes and struggled to speak through his tight throat. Surely he couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two. “What time is it?”
“Time to get up.” Slaine grabbed Conor’s tunic from the peg and tossed it at him. “Convocation, breakfast, then Reamonn. Quickly now.”
Oath of the Brotherhood Page 13
