Conor donned his tunic, his pulse pounding in his ears from the urgency in Slaine’s orders. Most of his céad mates were already dressed, a few still combing and braiding their hair. Some headed up the steps into the gray morning.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and thrust them into his boots.
His toes squelched into something cold and wet.
Snickers from across the room drew his attention. Tor and his game partner. Perfect. He should have anticipated something like this. No wonder the other lads had laughed at him.
He pulled his muddy feet out of his boots, marched to the cold fire pit, and emptied the lake from them. Wordlessly, he shoved his feet back in, trying not to grimace. The leather was ruined, and the sand would likely give him blisters, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing their prank had hit its mark.
Conor lingered as long as he dared, letting the others go before him. Eoghan waited for him outside, an appraising look on his face. His eyes dipped to Conor’s boots, and a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
“So I’m to be the new target,” Conor said as they moved toward the amphitheater. “For how long?”
“Tor and Ailbhe like to test the new boys. They’ll keep pressing until you put a stop to it.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Beat them. At archery. At staff practice. While they sleep.”
Conor chuckled at his friend’s wicked grin. Then he remembered the game Tor and Ailbhe had been playing the night before. “King and Conqueror?”
Eoghan’s grin widened, and he thumped Conor on the back hard enough to knock the breath out of him. “That’ll do, princeling. For a start.”
Conor quickly fell into an unvarying routine of labor and worship: up at dawn, morning devotions in the amphitheater followed by a quick breakfast, then off to his morning work. Sometimes he tilled or planted. Other days, he hauled nets on Loch Ceo, carried water from the lake, or performed any number of other duties that left him aching and exhausted. Still, he never complained, and he never stopped, turning his mind to Aine or a harp composition he would never play. His stoicism garnered curious looks but never praise: after all, he was just doing what was expected of a Fíréin brother.
Afternoons passed with easier but no less tedious pursuits: braiding wicks for the chandlers, gutting fish in the cookhouse, or washing dishes in one of the many troughs for which he had carried water. In the evenings, he whittled small chunks of wood into the approximation of game pieces for King and Conqueror, working as quickly as he could manage to put together his own game board. So far, he’d woken up to find a frog, a centipede, and some unpleasantness from the goat pens in his boots.
“You’d better do something quick,” Eoghan observed one morning. “Your footwear won’t endure much more ill treatment.”
Conor grinned. “This is my last piece. And it’s time for a little retaliation.”
He didn’t have time to propose a game of King and Conqueror to Tor and Ailbhe that night. They were far too busy trying to locate the smell coming from where he’d smeared the goat dung on the undersides of their mattresses. The rest of the céad roared with laughter while they tore apart their spaces looking for the source.
And in one instant, Conor’s status in the céad shifted.
Tor wasn’t first to approach him for a game, though. That honor went to Larkin, one of the older of the men, soon to take his oath of brotherhood. He settled onto the bed while Conor briefly explained the rules, then asked half a dozen simplistic questions before proceeding to eliminate Conor’s army in thirty-six moves.
“Never underestimate your opponent,” Larkin said. “Even if he gives you reason to do so.” He glanced back to where Tor watched them and gave Conor a significant nod.
The warning made him nervous, but the retaliation Conor expected didn’t come.
That was the reason behind the backbreaking routine, he realized. The veneer of peace over Ard Dhaimhin was something of an illusion. Conflict and resentment still simmered beneath the surface. Most of the time, though, the men were too exhausted to do anything more than trade pranks or snide comments. Still, Conor held his breath, waiting for Tor’s dislike to erupt into something more.
The first time Conor saw a man whipped bloody in front of the entire assembly for striking a brother in anger, he understood why it never would.
Physical labor and discipline might have been the life’s blood of Ard Dhaimhin, but he soon learned daily devotions were its beating heart. The Fíréin required all members to attend evening convocation, but most of the oath-bound brothers attended the morning gathering as well. Sometimes Master Liam led the service, but other members of the Conclave, including Riordan, also took their turns. It was an awe-inspiring sight, all those men, all believers, gathered in one place to study the word of Comdiu. Every time they raised their voices in unison for the invocation, it sent chills across Conor’s skin.
“It’s something you never get used to,” Riordan said. “I had to hide my faith for so long, it still seems incredible to worship openly.”
Conor studied his father’s profile. The convocation was the one time of day he saw him alone. They rarely spoke, but Riordan seemed to be content to just sit quietly together. “Is that why you stayed all these years?”
“I stayed because it was the one place I knew you’d always be able to find me.”
Conor turned back to the rapidly emptying amphitheater. “I’m glad.”
And surprisingly, he meant it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mistress Bearrach gave Aine three days to mourn Conor before she demanded she return to her lessons in the clochan. Aine obeyed. She needed a distraction. Even though Conor was not actually dead, she still felt his loss with each breath. The knowledge he was safe and beyond the druid’s reach was her only comfort.
She threw herself into her lessons at Lisdara, and Mistress Bearrach gradually gave her more responsibility for healing the sick and injured that flowed through the keep’s gates. Focused on doing what little she could to contribute to her adopted homeland, she was surprised to learn she was no longer referred to as the king’s Aronan sister, but “the lady healer of Lisdara.”
“There hasn’t been a noble healer here for centuries,” Ruarc said. Never mind her clan was Tamhais, not Cuillinn. Calhoun’s patronage and shared bloodline was enough for the people.
The Cáisc celebration approached with startling speed amidst Aine’s duties, and the castle’s servants built greenery-draped archways and wheels in the courtyard under Leannan’s watchful eye. Far below the mount, pavilions and platforms sprang up to house the musicians, performers, and food stands that would entertain the masses. Cáisc marked the resurrection of Comdiu’s son, Balus, after His brutal death at the hands of Ciraean authorities, and Calhoun spared no expense. It was a time to celebrate the many blessings Comdiu had bestowed upon Faolán.
Despite her sadness, Aine found herself caught up in the merry spirit. Aron celebrated far more solemnly: several days of fasting, followed by a somber feast and homily. It’s a weighty observance for a weighty occasion, Lady Ailís had always said. Now Aine realized the words had been at least partly tongue-in-cheek.
The lords and their families streamed into Lisdara, trailing carts of tribute to the king and retinues of servants and nursemaids. Niamh hosted the wives and grown daughters with music and embroidery and genteel female company, while Aine took charge of the children. The younger ones relished the opportunity to explore Lisdara’s grounds and surrounding lands, and Aine paired picnics with scavenger hunts for healing herbs. Perhaps she might spark an interest in one of these girls. It would benefit the other clans to have skilled healers at their disposal.
“Putting them to work, I see,” Gainor said with amusement.
“Look at their faces.” Aine was teaching the girls how to braid lavender into swags to dry, and they attacked the task with enthusiasm. “This may be the first time they’ve had th
e opportunity to do something useful.”
“Their mothers will be pleased to hear you don’t think perfecting their embroidery is useful.”
Aine wrinkled her nose and shooed him off to his manly duties.
On the day of the Cáisc feast, musicians, mummers, and jugglers roamed Lisdara and its environs. Servants provided a steady supply of delicacies from the kitchens, and wine, ale, and mead flowed freely, though on this day the men seemed more conscious than usual of their consumption. Aine escorted crowds of excited children around the various games set up in the meadow below. She joined them in tossing painted rings onto stakes and found herself laughing just as merrily as her charges.
At sundown, the celebration moved indoors. Once the children had been tucked safely into their beds, the adults settled into their seats with honeyed mead and cakes while Meallachán brought out his harp. Aine’s heart beat faster as the bard tuned the instrument. Conor had been the last to play in the hall. She pretended not to notice the sympathetic glance Gainor sent her way.
Before Meallachán could sound the first note, the doors to the hall burst open, and the captain of Calhoun’s guard strode in, his expression grim. The warrior knelt at the king’s side and murmured something in his ear. Aine watched Calhoun’s expression shift, and her heart plummeted.
Calhoun stood. “My lords and ladies, I’m afraid I need a word with the council.”
Aine and Niamh exchanged an alarmed glance, but they rose with the wives, daughters, and minor lords who would not be privy to the discussion. Speculation rustled through the hall as it slowly drained of all but Calhoun’s council members. The two girls reluctantly retreated to their chamber, but not before Aine caught a glimpse of a nervous-looking, travel-stained man.
“Do you think this has something to do with Conor?” Niamh asked when they reached their chamber, worry cracking her usual shell of disdain.
“He didn’t look like an official messenger.” Still, Aine hadn’t liked the look on Calhoun’s face.
The king summoned Aine and Niamh to his chamber early the next morning. Gainor sat with him, but their breakfast spread was conspicuously absent.
“What I’m about to tell you must not leave this room,” Calhoun said. “We have learned that on Cáisc morning, King Fergus ordered the execution of over one hundred Balian villagers and their families, presumably for conspiring with Labhrás Ó Maonagh against the crown. He has made it clear he will enforce the ban on the Balian faith by any means necessary.”
The blood drained from Aine’s face. “Blessed Father,” she whispered. Conor had been right in fearing for his life should he return to Glenmallaig.
Calhoun looked between the girls. Weariness had deepened the lines of his face, making him look far older than his years. “Our alliance puts us in a difficult position. We will attempt to address this matter with diplomacy. Should that fail . . .” He shook his head. “I cannot countenance the murder of Balian brethren.”
“You would go to war over this?” Aine asked.
Calhoun looked at Gainor. “I cannot discount the new king may not react favorably to our meddling in what he considers internal matters. Until this is resolved, I want you girls to go to Dún Eavan.”
“The fortress?” Aine knew only that Dún Eavan was one of several Faolanaigh strongholds.
“I want you safe before we dispatch our messengers,” Calhoun said. “That gives you the rest of the day to prepare. In the meantime, I must remind you to say nothing. And prepare for a long stay.”
Aine and Niamh took their leave, too stunned to speak, and walked back to their chamber. Aine drew Ruarc aside in the hallway. “Are we going to war?”
“I don’t know. We should consider returning to Aron, though. There’s no reason to put yourself in danger.”
There was nothing for her in Aron. Still, she nodded. “I’ll consider it.”
Inside, Niamh paced the chamber, chewing on her thumbnail. “Calhoun promised me I would never have to go back to Dún Eavan. It’s cursed.”
“Cursed? How exactly?”
Niamh shuddered and refused to elaborate.
“We’ll bring lots of things to do. You play the cruit passably well. Perhaps you can teach me.” She stopped when she realized Niamh wasn’t listening. Her sister could be dramatic, but the fact Niamh had abandoned her hostility so abruptly spoke of a bigger threat. Aine lifted up a silent, wordless prayer and tried not to acknowledge the chill that had crept into her heart.
While Niamh packed her necessities—embroidery, game pieces, and an extensive wardrobe—Mistress Bearrach helped Aine fill a trunk with herbs, tinctures, and salves. They would be traveling with a company of fifty men, half of whom would stay behind at the fortress. They would likely need the remedies at some point, especially if they stayed for an extended period.
Even knowing they’d be traveling with a large party did not prepare Aine for the gathering that met them the next morning. The majority were clansmen of Cuillinn and its septs, professional fighters the chiefs employed for such occasions. Calhoun must truly fear for their safety if he’d arranged this kind of escort.
Niamh looked pale when she arrived in the courtyard, dark shadows smudging the skin beneath her eyes. She had just climbed into the carriage when the curtains slid back.
“I don’t suppose there’s room for one more?” Meallachán asked.
Aine’s heart lifted. She gestured to the enormous leather case on Meallachán’s back. “For you or your harp?”
The bard smiled. “My harp and I are never separated. I’ll just have to ride then.”
“I’m surprised Calhoun was willing to give you up.”
“I’m free to go where I please. It simply pleased me to stay at Lisdara for the last ten years. Trust me, Dún Eavan is gloomy enough with music. You don’t want to experience it without.”
“You’ve been there?”
Meallachán’s expression sobered. “Aye. And if you had, you’d realize the king would not send you there without good cause.”
Aine wanted to ask more about the fortress, but Niamh looked on the verge of hysterics. She would have plenty of time to question him once they arrived, though. Meallachán wouldn’t be coming if it were to be a mere fortnight’s stay.
A stable hand brought the bard’s horse around, and Aine noted he elected to carry the heavy instrument rather than entrust it to the servants. Not that there was any room in the carts. Niamh had packed three trunks for every one of Aine’s.
Shouts rose outside, and immediately, the carriage lurched forward amidst a symphony of squeaks and rattles. No one spoke, only the creak of wood and the thud of horses’ hooves breaking the stillness. Niamh fidgeted in her seat. Then she rose and settled beside Aine. Silently, she twined their fingers together. Aine shoved down her shock and squeezed Niamh’s hand.
When they had been on the road for some time, the curtain on Niamh’s side of the carriage drew back to reveal a homely, pock-marked man on horseback. “How are you ladies faring?”
“We’re fine, Donnan, thank you,” Niamh said.
He nodded and let the curtain fall.
“Donnan?” Aine inquired innocently.
“My guard. Calhoun assigned him.”
Aine struggled to keep the smile from her face. “He seems pleasant.”
“Well, Calhoun apparently felt it was inequitable for one sister to have a guard and not the other.”
“You had a guard before, I understand.”
“Who told you? Gainor?”
A grin surfaced on Aine’s lips. “What was his name? Brogan? I hear you could have gotten him hanged the way you were carrying on after him.”
“I was twelve!” Niamh protested, coloring. “They should have known better than to assign me a young, handsome guard!”
“Well, it seems Calhoun has learned from his mistakes.”
Niamh tried to look annoyed, but a smile stretched her face, and they dissolved into helpless giggles. The anxiety lifted from
Aine’s chest. Perhaps some good might come from the situation if it began to repair her relationship with her sister.
They stopped briefly for refreshments under strict watch at midday, then were hurried back into the carriage. Just as the sun began to sink into the horizon, they rattled to a stop. The door on Aine’s side sprang open, and Donnan helped Aine, then Niamh, to the ground. “Ladies, welcome to Dún Eavan.”
Aine stared, dumbstruck by her first glimpse of Loch Eirich, an expanse of water so large she could barely see the far shores. The setting sun shone beneath the canopy of clouds, reflecting brilliant shades of red, orange, and amber onto the lake’s glimmering surface. In the center, the crannog and its fortress sprang from the water, its silhouette craggy and uneven against the backdrop of sky. Aine felt a stir of recognition, an acknowledgment of something ancient.
“Calhoun promised I would never have to come back here,” Niamh whispered tremulously.
“It’ll be all right,” Aine murmured. “You’ll see.”
“Ladies.” Ruarc ushered them to a waiting bark boat attached to a thick rope that stretched between the shore and the crannog. Aine, Niamh, and Meallachán were selected to cross first with the girls’ guards. A man on the shore cranked the wheel that drove the pulley, and the boat lurched free of the sandy bank.
“The staff is expecting us,” Ruarc said as the boat glided across the lake. “The king sent a rider ahead this morning.”
“Does he keep staff permanently on the island?” Aine asked.
“A few. Anytime the clan comes for any length, they bring their own servants. Right now, it’s just the cook, the housekeeper, and Dún Eavan’s steward.”
Niamh trembled. Aine grasped her sister’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly, despite her own twinge of apprehension.
As the boat drew near the crannog, Aine could make out the details of the fortress, an uneven oval constructed from a haphazard jumble of stone, earth, and timber with arrow slits for windows. Smoke drifted from an outbuilding, which Aine guessed to be the kitchen.
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