Oath of the Brotherhood

by Carla Laureano

  After an hour at their brisk pace, Abban’s camp came to view. Months ago, they had relocated north and west to a spot that held less strategic advantage but boasted other benefits. First, it was located at the intersection of two strong wards, which protected the camp from incursion and ensured no one infected by the druid’s sorcery could enter. Second, the only way to reach it was through a gauntlet of ward-laced open land or heavily defended Fíréin territory. Aine still felt proud of her contribution to their safety, even if Aran had been the one to note the site’s strategic significance.

  Since then, their numbers had tripled, gathering nearly twelve hundred warriors under half a dozen banners both Faolanaigh and Siomaigh, and Aine saw at a single glance the numbers had expanded again while they were gone. The banner flying prominently above Abban’s confirmed Gainor had arrived with his six hundred warriors from the north.

  Shouts went up as they entered camp, passing word of their arrival back to the command pavilion at its center. Men called out greetings, as often directed toward Aine as the well-respected warriors who accompanied her.

  “My lady, when you have a moment . . .” a man called out as she passed.

  “Come see me tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll have some time then.”

  Aine spent as much time as she could attending to the medical needs of the camp, but her mapping project kept her away for days or weeks at a time, leaving long lines of patients to attend when she returned. Between the men who would gather outside the infirmary in the morning and meetings with the commanders well into the night, she was guaranteed a series of exhausting days.

  Several young pages met them at the pavilion to take their horses. Aine dismounted and handed over her reins, intending to go straight to her tent, but Lord Abban swept aside the curtains of the pavilion.

  “Lady Aine, come, tell us what you found,” he called.

  Inside, Abban and Seaghan bent over the maps in close discussion with the two newcomers, Gainor and a man Aine recognized immediately—Keondric Mac Eirhinin.

  Gainor glanced up and favored Aine with a warm smile. He moved to her side and kissed both her cheeks in welcome. “Dear sister. You have news?”

  Aine stripped off her gloves and approached the table. “Lord Abban showed you our completed map?”

  “He insisted on waiting for you,” Abban said.

  “Very well. Aran needs to make the addition anyway. We followed the Corelain Wells ward into Fíréin territory today.”

  “Fíréin territory?” Seaghan repeated. “And you came back?”

  “The lady can be very persuasive,” Ruarc said.

  Aine retrieved a wide sheet of parchment from the wooden map chest and spread it atop the map they had been studying. Gainor’s eyebrows lifted, and Aine smiled. Cúan had truly outdone himself with the detailed drawing, rendering Seare’s eastern topography as lovingly and skillfully as any of the ancient illuminated maps. This one bore a spiderweb of crimson lines that covered all of Faolán and Siomar.

  “You can see the significance,” Aine said.

  Gainor studied the map intently. “They all lead to Ard Dhaimhin.”

  “Exactly. It took perhaps a quarter of an hour before we were stopped at sword point by a half-dozen Fíréin sentries.”

  Keondric looked at her with a warmth that heated her cheeks. “Bravely done, Lady Aine.”

  Aine rushed on without acknowledging the comment. “We suspected the wards were originally created and maintained from the High City, but we had to confirm they were still active within Fíréin territory. Whoever is rebuilding the wards, though, is doing it locally.” She tapped the map where the wards showed a second, dotted line.

  “Do you have any ideas yet?” Gainor asked.

  “Considering this is magic no one but the Fíréin remember,” Seaghan said, “we should assume it’s a brother. Or at least someone trained in Ard Dhaimhin.”

  “If it’s a brother,” Gainor said, “he’s either afraid he will be punished for interfering with the kingdoms, or he knows it would make him a target.”

  “Someone with the ability to make the wards could unmake them as well,” Aine said.

  “That’s exactly what troubles me.” Gainor sank into a chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “What if this person works for Fergus? He might be trying to get us to rely on the wards’ strength. If he were to break them, we would be taken by surprise.”

  “That’s why we have rangers patrolling the wards,” Abban said. “I’ve never been that comfortable with magic. I don’t doubt Lady Aine’s word, but I feel better with a few extra pairs of human eyes on our enemies’ movements.”

  Gainor studied the map silently for a minute and then pointed to a spot several miles south of Threewaters. “I intended to encamp here. Now, it seems to me we’d be better here, at the intersection of what you call Callindor and Southbrook. We could muster warriors anywhere in Siomaigh within hours should the outriders send word Fergus is mounting an attack.”

  Aine glanced at Gainor. “Who’s watching Faolán’s borders with Tigh if you’re here?”

  “Lord Fliann. His men know the countryside so well a rabbit couldn’t cross the border without their notice. Why?”

  Aine indicated a spot along the Faolanaigh border that abutted Róscomain. “We haven’t been able to map this area. There doesn’t seem to be a ward here, even on the edge of the forest. Conor once hinted they encountered trouble there on their way to Lisdara. It’s the only weak spot we’ve found.”

  “I’ll send word to Fliann right away,” Gainor said. “If there’s a weakness, you can expect the druid to exploit it.”

  Aine nodded. “Thank you. Now if you gentlemen don’t need me, I’m going to rest. I’m sure there will be a line forming at the infirmary in the morning.”

  Gainor and Seaghan bowed, and Abban said, “Thank you, Lady Aine. Your assistance has been invaluable.”

  Aine inclined her head in acknowledgement and stepped from the tent into the fading sunlight. She let out a weary sigh. Her nerves were stretched taut, and her mind whirred constantly with what-ifs. What if she was wrong about the wards? What if one of her assurances about their strength led to the deaths of these warriors she had come to know and respect? She had done her best to use her abilities for Seare, but deep down she was just a girl who had been thrown into deep water.

  She’d gone no more than a few steps when a voice called out, “Lady Aine!”

  She turned as Lord Keondric strode toward her. She’d always thought him handsome, with coal-black hair and brilliant, almost unnaturally blue eyes. But something about his smile made her heart beat too fast . . . and not in a pleasing way. She took a step back, and Ruarc put a steadying hand on her back.

  “What you’ve done here is impressive,” Keondric said. “I wanted to congratulate you on the accomplishment.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She dipped her head while searching for a way to extricate herself.

  Ruarc saved her. “The lady is tired, my lord; she’s just far too polite to say so. Perhaps you could speak later.”

  Keondric gave her a graceful bow. “Forgive me. I just wanted to convey my admiration. We will, after all, be family someday soon. Rest well, my lady.”

  Aine licked her lips and nodded. Why did the man unnerve her so? He’d been polite and solicitous when she had encountered him at Lisdara, but she’d never been struck with this uneasiness in his presence. Was it because there was something more than brotherly admiration in his gaze? He was betrothed to her sister, but she knew full well it was not a love match. He and Niamh had never said more than a handful of words to each other.

  “You might as well get used to the admiration,” Ruarc murmured behind her. “I understand Calhoun has already received a number of discreet inquiries about you.”

  Aine’s eyes rose to Ruarc’s face in alarm. “Surely, he wouldn’t—”

  “No. Now is not the time. But the war will eventually end, and you can’t avoid the
question forever.”

  “Conor’s coming back, Ruarc.” Aine poured every ounce of conviction she could muster into her voice, even though inside she wasn’t nearly so sure. “Besides, we have far greater things to worry about.”

  Aine tossed beneath the wool blanket in her tent that night, listening to the brisk summer wind rustle and snap the canvas sides. Her confidence fell away with the tears that rolled down her cheeks. It was futile, she knew in her heart. All her work, the wards, the maps . . . they would only slow down the spread of evil that threatened to swallow Seare. Balus had told her clearly things would worsen before they improved, and now she feared her intervention would only delay the inevitable.

  Or was it the unpleasant feelings dredged up by Keondric’s admiration that colored her perspective? Ruarc seemed to believe she’d give up and someday marry another man, but she refused to believe the sentry’s words. Conor wasn’t dead. She’d know somehow. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t changed his mind and decided to make a home at Ard Dhaimhin.

  “Foolish girl,” she whispered. “Pining for someone who might never return.”

  She threw the blanket aside and wrapped her cloak around herself. Through the gap in the tent flaps, morning light glimmered in the gray sky. Creaks and rustles paired with the muted voices of men, signs the camp was beginning to stir. She pushed aside the canvas and stepped into the steady breeze.

  Where did I lose my way, Lord? Her eyes drifted beyond the camp to the copses of ash in the distance. I was so certain I knew what You wanted from me, and now I have no idea.

  A gust of wind whipped her unbound hair across her face, stinging her skin.

  I have allowed you to succeed in this endeavor, came the answer with chill certainty, but this was not what I asked of you.

  Aine shivered. Before she could ask the question, the answer came: Have faith in Me. Seek My wisdom, accept My guidance.

  They were the same words Balus had given her when she was beneath the water, but somehow they only confused her more. Wasn’t that what she was doing? If mapping the wards and healing were not her true purpose, then what was?

  There are so yet so many who do not know Me, who have never heard My name. It is for the love of these multitudes this storm of darkness must be stopped.

  The answer had been there all along. Seare might be the first battleground, but the war was far wider. Knowledge of Balus was the end goal, not peace.

  A ward vibrated at the edge of her awareness like a plucked harp string. She saw the map’s red lines in her mind’s eye, and instantly, she knew where the disturbance had originated. She spun on her heel, intending to fetch Ruarc, but he already stood behind her.

  “Something breached one of the wards,” Aine said. “We need to go investigate.”

  “Warriors?”

  “I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like sorcery, but I’ve never been able to distinguish ordinary people crossing them before. It has to be something else.”

  “Have Abban send a scouting party.”

  “They won’t know what to look for. It has to be me.”

  To her surprise, Ruarc didn’t argue. Abban, on the other hand, resisted vehemently. He relented only when Aine agreed to add another ten warriors to her usual twenty. Once the sun rose high enough to cast shadows, Aine set out with her guard and three packhorses carrying food and shelter for their two-day excursion.

  “What do you expect to find?” Lorcan asked once they cleared the camp.

  “Not a pile of dead Sliebhanaigh warriors if that’s what you mean.”

  Lorcan still looked uneasy, but the other men seemed unaware of the danger. They had traveled without incident along these wards for so long, they no longer expected battle or ambush. That alone disturbed Aine.

  She identified the ward early in the day, but they rode for hours without any indication of trouble. Aine began to doubt her own certainty about the breach’s location. Then, as the sun dipped behind the tree-lined horizon, she pulled up short. A kernel of cold formed in her middle, and a chill crept across her skin, as if she had passed into a pocket of winter amidst the summer warmth.

  “Here.” She had felt this sensation only once in her life, and it was one she couldn’t mistake.

  Ruarc and Lorcan closed around her protectively.

  “What is it?” Ruarc asked.

  “Sidhe.”

  “Here?” Lorcan asked. “Are you sure?”

  “The last time I felt this, a bean-sidhe tried to drown me in Loch Eirich. I’m certain.”

  “What about them?” Ruarc jerked his head toward the guardsmen who watched her expectantly.

  “Don’t say anything yet.” She turned to the waiting warriors and called, “There’s nothing here. Whatever disturbed the ward is gone.”

  Relief—and perhaps disappointment—rippled through the group. She turned back to Lorcan and Ruarc and said, “I don’t want to camp here tonight. I’ve had enough contact with the sidhe for one lifetime.”

  Fortunately, the men didn’t ask the question that nagged at her: why would the sidhe appear in the middle of a sparsely populated region of Siomar, when before they seemed to hover around the border forests? Had their assumption that the wards repelled the sidhe been wrong? Were they somehow attracted to sources of power, whether dark or light?

  That, of course, assumed this had been happenstance. There might be a far more calculated reason behind the disturbance.

  Ruarc apparently had come to the same conclusion. When they made camp, he said, “We’ll double the watches tonight. We’ll take no chances this might be a trap of some sort.”

  Evening passed into deep night without any sign of danger. Still, Aine led the men in the old prayer she had said at Dún Eavan. “Comdiu protect us, Comdiu watch over us, Comdiu be at the left and the right and smooth the way before us. Comdiu stand between us and the harm of this world, and banish the darkness with the light of Your son, Balus.”

  She repeated it once more through, comforted by the number of voices that joined hers. The mood lightened as the men claimed Comdiu’s protection. Only a few remained silent, uncomfortable with the prayer, and they were fewer than she had expected.

  Weary from her sleepless nights and a string of days on horseback, Aine retreated to the simple tent. Ruarc bedded down just outside the opening. The flickering of the flames against the canvas and the snap of the fire lulled her to sleep.

  Aine jolted awake in the middle of the night, her heart pounding. She poked her head through the tent opening. The fire had died, and the only light came from a crescent moon overhead. She could just make out the shapes of the sleeping men.

  “What’s wrong?” Ruarc whispered.

  “I don’t know. Something woke me.” She scanned the camp with a tickle of disquiet. “Ruarc, who was on watch?”

  Ruarc made his own quick assessment, and alarm broke over his face. He nudged the man nearest him with his toe. “Wake up!”

  Instantly, the men sprang awake, weapons in hand. Ruarc kicked the fire’s embers to life again. “We’re missing men.”

  A quick count revealed only three of the seven men assigned to the watch. Those missing were the four who had not voiced the prayer with the rest of them.

  “The sidhe,” Aine whispered to Ruarc. “They must have lured them away.”

  “Take Aine,” Ruarc said, gesturing to Lorcan.

  The blond warrior hastened to her side, his sword drawn. “My lady.”

  Unsettled, Aine followed Lorcan into the center of the group, which quickly closed around her. Ruarc and several others lit torches and searched for the missing sentries, but she knew they would find nothing. They had gone willingly, just as Aine had when the apparition lured her to the lakeshore.

  The back of her neck prickled. She started to turn, but Lorcan shoved her roughly to the ground. She hit the turf hard and pulled her dagger free from her belt just as Lorcan’s blade deflected a thrust meant for her. A quick clash of metal, and the attacker lay at h
er guard’s feet, a red stain spreading across his chest.

  Ruarc appeared beside her in the chaos, his own weapon drawn, and helped her up with his free hand. “Who is it?”

  “Sualtam,” Lorcan said grimly. “I would have bet my life he was a loyal man.”

  “He probably was a loyal man.”

  All eyes turned to Aine. She still gripped her dagger in a shaking hand, and it took several tries to sheath it at her belt. “It was the sidhe.”

  “The sidhe lured the sentries away?” Lorcan asked. “Made Sualtam try to kill you?”

  “The sidhe can make you see whatever they wish, if you don’t guard yourself carefully. They exploit our weaknesses, play on our emotions, cloud our judgment. I should have expected it.”

  “Which means we need to return to camp,” Ruarc said. “I don’t think this attack was any accident.”

  Aine looked back to the dead man, her heart still racing. “I don’t think so, either.”

  Hours dragged by as they waited for the sky to lighten enough to start the trip back to camp. It gave Aine far too much time to mull a new, troubling question: did the sidhe have their own agenda, or were they now doing Diarmuid’s bidding?

  She wasn’t sure which was worse: the idea Fergus and his druid might control the sidhe, or that she had two separate enemies who wanted her dead.

  Aine knew something was wrong when they reached the camp. Too many sentries watched the perimeter, and they scrutinized her party suspiciously as they entered.

  Abban met them outside the main tent before they could dismount. His haggard appearance told of his own sleepless night.

  “What happened?” Aine asked.

  “Come inside, and we’ll talk there.”

  Aine glanced back to be sure Ruarc followed and caught Lorcan’s eye. “You, too.”

  Lorcan followed them wordlessly into the command tent. Abban noted the second man’s presence with a raised eyebrow, but he waited for Aine to speak.