Oath of the Brotherhood

by Carla Laureano

  Conor bowed his head, humbled by the praise. “Thank you, sir. But I believe it means Comdiu will not allow His plans to be thwarted by either of us.”

  Liam offered his hand, and Conor clasped his forearm. “Enjoy your accomplishment for now, and come to the fortress when you’re ready. We have some matters to address before you go.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Conor felt oddly serene in the aftermath of the match, as if he had merely watched the challenge. Tomorrow he would walk from the peace of Ard Dhaimhin and into the roiling uncertainty of a kingdom under siege, where he would face battles that would make his challenge match with Liam seem like idle play. Somehow, in this bubble of calm, the idea did not frighten him. It paled in comparison to the sudden thrill of hope that shot through him.

  Aine, I’m coming.

  Liam and Riordan remained on the crannog long after the others left, staring at the gently rippling surface of the lake.

  “You were right,” Riordan said finally.

  “About what?”

  “About everything. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  “You had the right to doubt,” Liam said. “I think Comdiu worked things out in spite of me, not because of me.”

  Riordan turned, studied Liam’s profile. “I don’t understand.”

  “Conor was correct. The age of the brotherhood will come to an end, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. It’s how it’s meant to end. I saw that today.”

  There were far too many layers in the statement to peel back, so Riordan went for the most obvious question, the one that had nagged him since the match. “It wasn’t a draw, was it? Conor was just a little quicker than you today.”

  Liam only gave his mysterious smile and turned to the waiting boat. Riordan shook his head and followed, but he knew he was right. Conor had somehow managed to beat the Ceannaire in a fair match, a fact disturbing in its symbolism. He climbed into the boat behind his leader, pushed away from the shore, and forced back a shiver of foreboding as they glided into deep water.

  After evening devotions, Conor and Eoghan made their way to Carraigmór. Every few feet, brothers stopped them with questions. Had it really been a draw? Had Conor actually managed to bleed a man who had never lost a match?

  Conor put them off the best he could and kept moving toward the fortress. Eoghan kept his eyes fixed on Carraigmór’s imposing bulk, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. It was a sure sign he was struggling not to speak his mind. But why? Was it the brothers’ sudden attention on Conor? Or did Eoghan sense, as Conor did, that there was far more involved in that match than a simple challenge?

  “It wasn’t me,” Conor said finally.

  “What do you mean it wasn’t you?” Eoghan frowned, finally looking at Conor. “I just watched you.”

  “Something happened back there. And don’t say I just managed to get out of my own way. It was more than that. I’m not that good.”

  “Today you were.”

  “Today Comdiu wanted me to win my freedom.” Conor studied his friend. Eoghan kept his thoughts close, but even he couldn’t hide the emotion roiling beneath the surface. Was it resentment? “I thought you would be pleased. This is a victory for you, too. Isn’t this what we’ve been working toward?”

  “Of course I’m pleased!” Eoghan stopped. “You should have seen yourself. You were incredible. I’m proud to claim even the smallest bit of credit. It’s just that . . .” He shrugged. “You’re my only real friend. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t want you to stay.”

  Conor gripped Eoghan’s arms, his gaze boring into his friend’s. “You’re my brother, Eoghan. I don’t just mean in Fíréin terms. If we survive this, we’ll cross paths again.”

  “That’s a big if.” Eoghan pulled out of Conor’s grip and started back down the path. “The Conclave is naive if they believe Ard Dhaimhin will hold out against Fergus and the Red Druid indefinitely.”

  “I’m not sure they do. They just can’t let go of their traditions. Promise me you won’t throw your life away.”

  “I could ask the same of you.” Eoghan stopped at the base of Carraigmór’s steep upward climb. “This is where I leave you. I’ll go see to your provisions.”

  “Thank you, Eoghan.” Conor wanted to say more, but they had already expressed too much sentiment for one day, so he turned and began the ascent for the last time.

  At the top, the brother at the door admitted him without question. Riordan waited for him inside the cavernous hall with oddly bright eyes. “I never thought I would see this day, Conor.”

  Conor followed Riordan down the corridor toward Master Liam’s study. “You thought I would lose.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Labhrás would be proud of you.”

  “Do you think so? He never wanted me to be a warrior.”

  “We wanted it to be your choice. We knew you would seek your own way.”

  “An awful lot of my path has been orchestrated from right here.” For the first time, though, Conor could look on the Fíréin’s interference without resentment. The plans of men succeeded only where Comdiu allowed it.

  “Whatever you may think of our actions, we did what we believed was right. If mistakes have been made, they were made out of ignorance, not malice.”

  Conor sensed the apology in the statement, the closest he would receive from any members of this proud brotherhood, even his own father. He extended his hand, and Riordan gripped his forearm for a long moment before turning to rap sharply on Liam’s door.

  “Go on. I’ll wait here.”

  The Ceannaire stood by a bookshelf, thumbing through a heavy volume. A familiar case lay on the desk. Conor shut the door behind himself and stood quietly, unwilling to speak first.

  At last, Liam turned. “Conor. Right. We have some business here.”

  “I’m swearing an oath?”

  “A formality. As you know, few brothers leave Ard Dhaimhin once they enter, but from those who do, we require some assurances.” Liam moved to the table and lifted the latch on the case. Conor braced himself for the rush of power, but instead, he felt only the low, pleasant hum of energy. The magic drew him as Liam removed the sword from the case and planted the tip into the ground.

  This close, Conor saw the details he had missed at the oath-binding: the gold-chased basket-weave design in the grip, the four-looped shield knot emblazoned on the pommel. He could just make out the fine etching of runes down the length of the blade.

  He placed his palm atop the pommel, its iron smoothed and burnished by generations of oaths. Magic enveloped him immediately, spreading through his body like warm honey. He heard the faint whisper of voices, too many to distinguish individually, but he sensed the meaning of the words clearly. The oaths of thousands of men. His fingers flexed convulsively on the metal. The oath-binding was not simply symbolism?

  “Conor?” Liam looked at him quizzically, and he realized the Ceannaire had been talking to him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I asked if you were ready. You need only answer the questions.”

  Conor swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Do you swear to uphold the sanctity, privacy, and safety of the Fíréin brotherhood outside of Ard Dhaimhin?”

  “I do.” As Conor spoke the words, he felt a tug in his chest, followed by the whispered echo of his own voice. I do.

  “Do you swear to comport yourself with honor and dignity as befits your training and education at Ard Dhaimhin?”

  “I do.” The echo grew louder, and Conor almost released the sword.

  “Do you swear to never raise weapons against a Fíréin brother except in defense of your own life?”

  “I do.”

  Liam nodded to Conor, and he released the sword abruptly, expecting to find the shield knot burned into his palm. Of course it wasn’t.

  “Then go with the blessing of the brotherhood. May Comdiu go before you in all your endeavors.”

  Conor gave a deep bow. “Thank you, Master Liam.”
<
br />   “One more thing.” Liam opened a small box on his desk and withdrew a wooden coin embossed with the same shield knot emblazoned on the sword.

  “What is this?”

  “The symbol of the brotherhood. It will identify you to others like you in the kingdoms. Where you see this mark, you can be assured of assistance. Go now. Follow the path Comdiu has set before you.”

  Conor turned the coin over in his hand, struck by sudden, unexpected regret. “Somehow I didn’t expect leaving would be this difficult.”

  “‘The path of the faithful is perilous and fraught with sorrows as well as blessings,’” Master Liam quoted.

  Conor closed his hand around the wooden coin and gave the Ceannaire another low bow. “Thank you, Master Liam. For everything.”

  When he emerged, Riordan waited for him on the stairs. “Done?”

  “It wasn’t what I expected. Did you hear it, too?”

  Riordan’s brow furrowed. “Hear what?”

  Conor’s thoughts now seemed foolish and fanciful. Perhaps he had just imagined the whispers, fueled by stories of heroes and enchanted swords. It was an unsatisfying explanation, though, and Conor knew magic when he felt it. But it hardly mattered now. He was leaving behind this strange brotherhood with its oaths and strictures and magic-imbued swords for the far more frightening reality of war in the kingdoms.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said suddenly. “Let’s assume the match against Master Liam was an aberration, or maybe even a miracle. You’ve seen me fight. Can I survive in the kingdoms?”

  Riordan seemed to consider his answer before speaking. “Conor, you are an extraordinarily gifted swordsman. Eoghan’s skill and your hard work notwithstanding, you should have never been able to accomplish what you did in such a short period of time. I’ve seen few who can match you, here or in the kingdoms.”

  Conor swallowed his protest, stunned by the praise.

  “But I will caution you,” Riordan said. “You are still very young. As many men will resent you for your skill as respect you for it, and it won’t always be readily apparent which is which. Politics in the kingdoms do not favor those who threaten the established order. Don’t lose your focus on what is important.”

  “You sound as if I’m returning to seize the throne from Fergus,” Conor said.

  “You may think of yourself as a dishonored clansman with Fíréin training, but you are still a Mac Nir. Some will seek to use you for that. Just be wary.”

  Later that night, Conor and Eoghan shared a small jug of mead on the crannog where they had spent so many evenings drilling.

  “Some people won’t believe you’re there just to fight,” Eoghan said, “especially when you’ve been thought dead for the past three years. You might be mistaken for a spy.”

  “It’s a poor spy who draws so much attention to himself,” Conor said wryly. “Besides, Calhoun knows me. He wouldn’t believe I would align myself with the man who killed Lord Labhrás.”

  “These are strange times. I take it you’re going to find Aine?”

  “I am.”

  “Will you sweep in and declare your undying love?” Repressed laughter underpinned Eoghan’s tone.

  Conor rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not the one who’s been killing himself to be worthy of a king’s sister. Don’t pretend you haven’t wondered what she’ll think of you now.”

  He had, but he wasn’t about to admit it aloud. “Knowing Aine, she’ll be utterly unimpressed.”

  “Don’t be so sure. After a few years on the front, she probably has a new perspective on warriors.”

  “How do you know she’s on the front?”

  Eoghan bowed his head. “Odran told me you saw her in the forest. I know she’s been mapping wards for the king for almost two years.”

  Conor wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty he hadn’t told Eoghan the truth or angry his friend had kept the knowledge from him. “She’ll have a map of the wards, and her captain will know where Fergus and his army are. They’ll be able to give me an idea of where I should seek Meallachán.”

  “She’s at Abban’s camp, wherever that might be,” Eoghan said. “One of the border sentries could tell you where they’ve gone. After what we heard about Semias, they may already be in retreat.”

  Conor set aside the mead jug, his head now aching nearly as badly as his body. It was far too easy to forget the reality of what awaited him.

  “It’s going to be a long journey,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I should take advantage of a soft bed and a roof over my head while I still can.”

  They returned to the shore in silence, Eoghan’s discomfort plain in his stiff movements as he drew them back across the water. Conor couldn’t reassure him. They all made their decisions, for good or bad. Even Eoghan, his closest friend, his brother, had held back information, and Conor had done the same. It was time to strike out on his own, follow his own path.

  How strange that in the end, Master Liam seemed to understand best of all.

  Conor slept soundly on his last night in Ard Dhaimhin, but it stemmed more from exhaustion than from peace of mind. He woke automatically before the bugles roused the city. He had already said his good-byes, and now he just wanted a quiet departure.

  He had nothing to take with him but his good wool cloak, serviceable if a bit too short, the clothes on his back, and the small pouch of coins he had brought from Lisdara. He’d never before realized how little he actually owned.

  When he crept from the barracks into the pale morning, Riordan and Eoghan were waiting for him.

  “You didn’t think we’d miss seeing you off, did you?” Riordan said with a hint of a smile.

  Conor returned it. “I’m glad you’re both here.”

  “Especially since we have your weapons,” Eoghan said. “Let it not be said the brotherhood sent you away defenseless.”

  Eoghan held up a sheathed sword on a leather baldric. Conor took it and drew the blade from the scabbard. It was plain, well-made steel, with a leather-wrapped grip and a brass pommel, meant for use and not for show. He shrugged on the baldric and adjusted the buckle so the sword rested comfortably across his back, an easy draw from his right shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “We’re not done.”

  The two men also presented him with a staff sling, a leather pouch for his hand stones, and a small parcel of food.

  “No bow?” Conor asked.

  “We thought about it,” Eoghan said, “but it would just be useless weight. You couldn’t hit a man with an arrow if you threw it at him.”

  Conor laughed. “Sadly, that’s true.”

  “There’s one last thing.” Riordan produced a dagger from beneath his tunic and handed it to him, hilt first.

  Conor’s eyes widened. The dagger was a lovely old piece with a slender, silver-chased handle and stamped leather sheath, as much for display as for service.

  “This was the only thing of value I took from Tigh when I joined the brotherhood,” Riordan said softly. “I’d like you to have it.”

  Conor examined it closely. Unexpectedly, his throat constricted, and he fought back tears. “I wish . . .”

  “I know. These three years have been an unexpected blessing, Conor. I never thought to see you become a man.” Riordan pulled Conor into a warm embrace, the kind Labhrás would have given him. “Trust Comdiu to guide you, and your path will become clear.”

  It was nearly the same thing Labhrás had said that last day at Glenmallaig—the last time Conor had ever seen him. Tears rose again and threatened to spill over. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Father.”

  He quickly turned to Eoghan, who looked uncomfortable. “I’ll see you soon, brother.”

  Eoghan nodded and gripped his arm. The long look they shared told Conor more of his friend’s thoughts than he’d ever say. Had it not been for Conor, this departure might have been his.

  Conor started toward the long set of switchbacks that would take him u
p and out of the city. He felt eyes on him until he reached the top, but when he turned back to wave a last farewell, the two men were gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Conor chose his route through the forest deliberately, following the trap lines and avoiding sentry posts. The trackers would notice his presence on the wards, but they would be too far away to intercept him. Not coincidentally, his path took him to the one sentry who would demand little in return for information.

  He arrived at Brother Innis’s post while the sun was still high on the second day. The old man waited outside his dugout when Conor stepped into view.

  “I thought you might come.” Innis turned and disappeared inside.

  “These preternatural abilities of yours disturb me,” Conor said as he followed him into the damp earthen hut.

  The sentry laughed, a sound like the rustle of dried leaves. “Preternatural, no. Odran brought news of your victory against the Ceannaire as soon as it happened. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  “Odran can be seen only when he wants to be. Besides, it wasn’t a victory; it was a draw.”

  “That is a victory. But you’re not here to boast.”

  “No.” Conor rummaged through his bag, drew out a ripe stone fruit, and set it on the table. “I’d hoped for a favor.”

  Innis eyed the fruit hungrily. It hadn’t taken long to discover the old man’s weakness. The sentries’ diets were nutritious but unvarying, and they rarely included the more delicate of Ard Dhaimhin’s produce.

  Innis took the fruit and inhaled its fragrance like some men savored wine. “What is the favor?”

  “Do you know the location of the Faolanaigh camps in Siomar? I understood they might be falling back.”

  “Behind the Faolanaigh border. Most of the Siomaigh wards were broken.”

  “I’ve heard. Where is Lord Abban now?”

  “In a place we call the Triangle, where three strong wards intersect at the edge of the young forest. Near a village called Eames.”

  “I know it.” The village must have sprung up with the wards, because it was one of the few on Ard Dhaimhin’s ancient maps that still existed. “How about the others?”