Oath of the Brotherhood

by Carla Laureano

  Conor nodded. “We have to go to Aron. Lisdara was our last option, and it’s under siege.”

  “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.” Eoghan’s expression sobered. “Lisdara has already fallen.”

  Aine let out a strangled cry, and Conor put his arm around her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “I’d hoped with Diarmuid dead . . .”

  “The druid’s dead?” Eoghan asked. “When?”

  “Mac Eirhinin killed him last night. Or at least, I assume he killed him. No one could survive a wound like that. But the wards are already broken, and Meallachán’s harp is probably gone.” He stroked Aine’s hair as she pressed her face to his shoulder, gripped by the sorrow of another loss. Eoghan watched them with a wistful look on his face.

  “I’m surprised Master Liam let you leave,” Conor said.

  “Master Liam doesn’t know.”

  Aine lifted her head. “Will you be punished? Surely when he learns you were helping us . . .”

  “Perhaps,” Eoghan said, but his expression left no doubt as to what he thought awaited him in Ard Dhaimhin. “It’s three days to Port an Tuaisceart. If you’ve any chance of beating the blockade, we must leave now.”

  Conor brushed tears from Aine’s cheek, silently questioning. She nodded. “Give me a few minutes to gather our things.” She pushed herself to her feet and began to fold supplies into the blanket.

  Eoghan drew Conor off a few paces and pitched his voice low. “They sent trackers after you. I took care of them, but they’ll send more. We’ll have to make haste.”

  “Aine’s a good rider. She can handle the pace.”

  “I understand why you moved heaven and earth to come back to her,” Eoghan said, his eyes returning to Aine. “She’s quite a woman.”

  “That she is.” Conor clasped Eoghan’s arm firmly. “Thank you. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

  “You have a second chance. Don’t waste it.”

  They traveled briskly north, Aine riding behind Conor on a large gelding, Eoghan on a chestnut mare. Aine said little, but from time to time, her arms tightened around his waist, and her body shook with silent sobs. He simply held her hand and locked away his own disturbing memories. He would have time to deal with those later. Right now, she needed his strength.

  Eoghan and Conor remained alert for pursuing riders, but none appeared. They could only conclude Glenmallaig’s new commander had decided to cut his losses in the druid’s absence.

  That evening, they talked quietly by the fire about the dire situation in which Seare now found itself.

  “I wouldn’t yet consider Ard Dhaimhin to be safe,” Conor said. “We presume Diarmuid is gone, but with the wards broken, there would be nothing stopping Fergus from attempting to take the city. He’d have ten thousand men at his disposal. From his perspective, those are good odds.”

  “We’ll be ready if he does. The Conclave has been considering the possibility they will have to defend the city. Nothing I said would sway them to send men to Faolán, though it probably wouldn’t have helped. Fergus struck Lisdara more quickly than anyone expected.”

  Conor glanced at Aine, who studied her ragged nails with more interest than they warranted. He took her hand, and she squeezed it tightly. “There’s only one thing that might have made a difference, but there’s no telling where the harp is now.”

  “I could try—” Aine began.

  “No. If I hadn’t left you to pursue the harp, you would have never been in danger. I won’t repeat that mistake.”

  Aine didn’t respond. Instead, she excused herself, claiming the need for privacy. When she was out of earshot, Eoghan said, “I know you. You’re not going to give up that easily.”

  “How can I? The harp is the key to retaking Seare, and I may be the only person left alive who can use it. I just won’t sacrifice Aine again in the process.” Conor’s voice caught. “I came too close to losing her.”

  Eoghan poked at the fire, then fixed him with a solemn look. “What happened at Glenmallaig?”

  Conor studied his hands. They were clean now, but he couldn’t forget the sight of them covered in other men’s blood. Nothing could have prepared him for the horror that pressed at the back of his mind like water behind a dam. Every time he opened his mouth, it threatened to rush out of him in a terrifying howl. He steadied his voice and said, “Treasach warned me there was a cost. I just didn’t know how high it would be.”

  “It will take time.”

  “And what happens when Aine realizes what I’m capable of? Right now, she’s just relieved to be alive, but in time . . . she’ll never look at me the same again.”

  “You do her a disservice,” Eoghan said. “She loves you, Conor, truly. I think she’s far wiser than you give her credit for. Would you do it any differently, knowing the cost?”

  Foliage crunched underfoot as Aine returned, looking small and vulnerable in her borrowed clothing. His love for her struck him like a blow to the chest, painful in its intensity.

  “No. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  Their third day on the road stretched into night, and they entered Port an Tuaisceart as the sky lightened to gray. The sleepy village on the Faolanaigh border was little more than an inlet for the fishing boats and coastal skiffs that brought supplies to Faolán’s northern coast, but Eoghan seemed remarkably assured they would find what they were seeking.

  They left the horses and followed Eoghan down to the harbor. Seabirds called overhead as they circled in search of food, and a few fishermen stood on the docks, loading their nets onto the boats for the day’s work. A single-masted cog, out of place in the tiny port, floated at anchor a few hundred yards offshore, its draft too deep for the shallow harbor. When they neared the dock, Conor could just make out the name Resolute and a pair of familiar shield knots emblazoned on the side.

  A rowboat separated from the ship and glided toward the docks, carrying two men. Eoghan caught the rope they tossed up to him and fastened it securely before offering a hand to the older of the two. Despite his graying hair, the man still possessed a strong body and a particular quality of movement that bespoke Fíréin training. Conor then understood Eoghan had done far more than arrange a few horses to bring them from the forest.

  “Brother Eoghan, I presume?” the man said.

  “Captain Ui Brollacháin. I wasn’t sure you had gotten my message.”

  “Barely,” he replied. “But one doesn’t refuse a favor of the Ceannaire himself.”

  Conor’s heart beat faster as he comprehended the significance. Eoghan shot him a bleak smile before he turned back to the captain. “This is Brother Conor and Lady Aine. They’ll be your passengers.”

  Ui Brollacháin bowed to Aine and offered his hand to Conor. “Welcome. We’d best be getting to the ship. We’ll be chancing the blockades as it is.” He bowed to Eoghan. “Give my regards to Master Liam.”

  Eoghan nodded. Conor waited until the captain climbed back into the boat before he spoke. “You shouldn’t have risked so much. You know the penalty for such a thing. You could come with us.”

  “No. If I leave, all those who helped me will pay because I engaged them under false pretenses. I knew the price when I started out.”

  Conor blinked back tears. He’d thought after all that had happened, he’d be immune to the effect of yet another sacrifice. He gripped Eoghan’s arm and then clapped him into an embrace. “Thank you, my friend. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m fully expecting your firstborn son to be named after me,” Eoghan said with a grin.

  Conor laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as forced as it felt. “You can count on it.”

  Eoghan turned to Aine and bowed. “My lady. Conor is truly a fortunate man.”

  “Thank you, Eoghan.” Aine put her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. “You are a true friend. We won’t forget this.”

  Eoghan disentangled himself, looking moved by her spontaneous thanks. “Go now, you two. Your ship awaits.
”

  Conor took Aine’s pack and helped her into the rowboat. Eoghan loosened the tether and tossed the rope back down. As they rowed away from the dock, Conor lifted a hand in farewell and saw his friend’s answering wave.

  Once aboard the Resolute, they found an out-of-the-way spot at the rail, and Conor held Aine protectively in front of him while the crewmen drew the sail up the mast and hauled in the anchor. As the ship sailed from port under its billowing canvas, he strained for one last glimpse of Eoghan, standing with the two horses near the dock.

  “What will happen to him when he returns to Ard Dhaimhin?” Aine asked.

  “Fíréin discipline is harsh. If he’s lucky, flogging.”

  “If not?”

  Conor hesitated. “Execution.”

  Aine stifled a cry. Tears slid down her face, and Conor could not keep his own from welling in his eyes again.

  “So many sacrifices,” she whispered. “How many people died so we could live?”

  They stood at the rail until the ship picked up speed and began to track northeast toward Aron, the shoreline fading into an expanse of green-blue.

  “What will Lady Macha say when I show up with you in Forrais unannounced?” Conor asked.

  “She won’t be able to say anything when I introduce you as my husband.” Aine turned toward him expectantly.

  “Aine . . .” Conor began, but she silenced him with a finger on his lips.

  “Do you love me?”

  “Of course I do. I’ve never loved anyone else. But—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, Conor. I don’t know if we will have a tomorrow. But I don’t want to live in fear any longer.”

  He looked into her eyes and saw the truth. She had known all along. Known he would have to leave again, known this time he might not return. Still, she wanted to be his wife. His heart swelled. He took her face in his hands and kissed her until she was breathless and laughing.

  “I’ll find the captain,” he said with a smile.

  They said their vows on deck at sunset before Comdiu and the sea, with a dozen amused crewmen as their witnesses. Conor barely heard the words through his surge of joy when the captain joined their hands and declared them husband and wife. He could not even find the words for prayer, but he knew Comdiu would understand his gratitude for bringing them together on this path, despite all the heartaches and sacrifices they had endured along the way.

  Aine smiled as Conor bent to seal their union with a kiss. The crew whistled and stomped the deck in approval, and she laughed as he led her to the low-slung passenger cabin beneath the forecastle that would be their bridal chamber.

  Still, Conor could not help looking back at the ominous storm clouds gathering on the horizon. He felt a brief pang of unease, a warning their troubles could not be escaped so easily. Then he put his worries aside. If he had learned a single lesson from all that had happened, it was that Comdiu was faithful. Whatever their future path held, they did not walk it alone.

  BEHIND THE STORY:

  THE FÍRÉIN BROTHERHOOD

  When I created the setting for the Song of Seare, I drew heavily on the true history and culture of Ireland between the third and the eighth centuries A.D. Many of the unusual details that set the story apart from other English- or continental-inspired medieval fantasy—such as the election of the kings and their successors (tanists)—come directly from the pages of Irish history, as do many of the fashions, customs, and laws.

  But when it came to creating the Fíréin Brotherhood, I had a more difficult task at hand. I wanted the warrior-brotherhood to feel both realistic to the setting, but also have a magical, mysterious quality about it. After all, when the book opens, Conor is most definitely not the typical fantasy hero, and it was going to take more than a simple mentor to turn him from a bookish scholar into the reluctant but proficient warrior he becomes by the end of the book.

  THE HISTORICAL ORIGIN OF THE FÍRÉIN

  I drew on the real-life existence of two groups for the basis of the Fíréin. The first is a group known as the Red Branch Knights (even though “red” is thought to be a mistranslation of the Gaelic word for “royal.”) This was a militia who, according to the heroic stories, were loyal to the King of Ulster. Every summer, they would come to Emain, the seat of the king, to drill and train in military skills and arms. Other stories of the Red Branch Knights speak of their medical prowess, including an entire medical corps that traveled with the Ulster Army. These accounts imply that though they were essentially mercenaries, they were not uneducated nor unintelligent; they were renowned for their knowledge and healing abilities long before the first mention of what we’d consider “proper” physicians in Ireland.

  Another group was known as the Fianna, or the Fena of Erin. This fighting force was loyal to the High King of Ireland, most notably in the late 200s AD. I was most interested in the fact that in addition to their fighting ability, candidates had to prove they were educated men by their ability to recite a large amount of poetry and stories, one of the markers of learning of the era. Another account speaks of how the men had to be able to run swiftly through the forest without snagging their long, unbound hair on branches (something that inspired my conception of the trackers and runners of the Fíréin brotherhood). Interestingly, the Fena’s loyalties remained uncertain: sometimes they fought with the High King and sometimes against. The histories don’t tell us why, leaving me to imagine that their loyalties were based on some internal criteria other than loyalty to title, clan, or bloodline.

  Still, while archaeological and contemporary sources tell us that these two groups did exist, the historical fact has been so well folded into myth and legend that it’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s fiction. That suited me just fine when using them as a basis for the Fíréin: in the tales, both groups perform feats that call upon supernatural skills and knowledge that go well beyond the abilities of the typical historical Irish warrior. These otherworldly myths gave me the foundation for a brotherhood that would be spoken about in Seare with a mixture of admiration and apprehension.

  THE FÍRÉIN TRAINING AND FIGHTING STYLE

  In the Song of Seare, the Fíréin warriors have been awarded an almost mythological stature by the warriors of the kingdoms, reinforced by the fact that brothers who return to the kingdoms do so quietly and without drawing attention to their training at Ard Dhaimhin, adding to the perception that many may enter, but few may leave. I wanted their status as incomparable fighters to be rooted in truth—they really were better trained than the kingdom’s men, even those professional warriors who did nothing but prepare for battle—but I also wanted those reasons to be perceived as supernatural ability.

  The solution to that problem was presented by the history of High King Daimhin, who formed the personal guard from which the Fíréin were descended. I described him as a mercenary living in the east, where he ostensibly worked with and fought alongside men of different origins and traditions. I theorized that he could have learned different regions’ fighting systems, which he would have internalized and brought back to Seare, then taught later to his personal guard. The unfamiliar methods would have not only taken opponents off guard and made them easier to subdue, but would also have conferred upon Daimhin’s men an almost heroic status.

  This is why the training methods of Ard Dhaimhin utilize the traditional weapons of Seare (hand stones, slings, staff, spear, bow, and sword) but use a more formalized, codified system of training that is similar to both Roman Gladiatorial schools and the Chinese Shaolin Temple, birthplace of Shaolin Kung Fu. From the Roman accounts, I took the use of wooden practice swords and the graded levels of training. From the Chinese side, I drew on my own martial arts experience, which spans both Korean and Chinese arts. Kung fu in particular focuses heavily on conditioning and strength training as well as cultivating a sense of family within the school. (In fact, in addition to traditional Chinese forms of address used in my school, we referred to eac
h other as brother and sister.) It was this stratified and yet communal feel that I adopted for the Fíréin brotherhood, layered with its obvious monastic overtones.

  Additionally, I conceived of the Fíréin-made swords as being thinner and lighter—more consistent with a Chinese-style weapon and technique. Were this set in an environment with medieval-style plate armor, this would be a disadvantage, but in an era where armor was a combination of padded clothing, boiled leather, and small metal plates sewn to other materials, the fast, nimble Fíréin fighting style would have been devastating and difficult to defend against.

  ARD DHAIMHIN AND THE MONASTIC LIFE

  We learn in later books how Ard Dhaimhin went from being the seat of the High King and a thriving city to a cloistered society whose borders cannot be breached upon threat of death. In part, this is a nod to Ireland’s existing centers of learning and worship in the form of the nemetons—groves, shrines, and temples that served as the center of ancient Celtic paganism. But there is also the monastic tradition that grew up after the coming of Christianity to the isle, or in the case of this story, when Daimhin brought Balianism back to his homeland.

  While Irish monasteries were known for welcoming students of all origins for varying periods of time without requiring them to make a life-long commitment (known as a permeable monasticism), they were also protected by great walls, and for good reason. As a center of learning, they were also known as centers of great wealth, something that drew later incursions from the Vikings, who wanted to pillage the monasteries’ riches. Irish monasticism is less reclusive than forms practiced elsewhere in Europe and no doubt benefited from the flow of information and out of settlement walls, while preserving a degree of separation from secular concerns.