The stern look on his face said he wasn’t going to be dissuaded, so she removed her apron and slipped out the door. She kept her head down as she trudged the well-worn path through the cottages to the walled garden, hoping the city’s inhabitants would take a clue from her posture and keep their distance.
She let herself into the small garden and raised her face to the thin rays of sunlight filtering down from the overcast sky. She had once spent hours in the garden, digging in the earth, drawing strength and peace from the landscape, cataloguing each healing herb, pulling the weeds that threatened to choke out the useful plants in her garden. Mistress Bearrach’s garden at Lisdara felt far away now. Who tended it now? Had it been razed by Keondric’s men? Did anyone see the value of her hard work in the midst of war?
She sank down on the wall, once more feeling the weight of what they faced. Can we even win this fight, Comdiu? It feels as though every time we make progress, the next wave is worse and harder to endure. What is Niall doing? How can we stop him?
Aine sighed, tracing an aimless pattern in the dirt with her toe. She resisted the urge to call out to Conor. They’d agreed on nighttime communications so she wouldn’t risk distracting him in a moment of attack, when his attention needed to be on his opponent.
“What is that?”
Murchadh’s trembling voice interrupted her thoughts. She straightened at the note of alarm. “What is what?”
“That.” He pointed at the design at her feet, and with a shock, she realized she had been tracing the shield rune over and over with her foot. How had she managed to do that without noticing? She’d been praying for wisdom and direction—was this her answer?
Murchadh’s leather-shod foot shot out and smeared the rune into oblivion. “You mustn’t, my lady. I don’t know where you learned that, but it is not for you to know.”
“I don’t understand. The runes are part of the foundation for Ard Dhaimhin. They exist on the objects of power we still possess, not to mention the Rune Throne itself. There isn’t anything evil about them.”
“No, my lady, not evil. But powerful beyond measure. There is so little we know about their origins that those who use them without understanding could bring us to ruin.”
She studied the healer, taking in the sudden authority of his speech. “This is no idle belief. You’ve seen them before. You know something about them.”
Murchadh looked around and then gripped her arm. “Come, this is not something of which we should speak in public.”
“Then come to Carraigmór and tell us what you know.”
“No, my lady. What I know is not for anyone else to learn. You will not convince me otherwise.”
She softened her voice, even though frustration was welling up inside. “You understand that once I tell Eoghan about this, he will summon you.”
“Aye. And if he summons, I will come. But I will not do it voluntarily.” Murchadh gave her a funny little bow, turned on his heel, and marched back to his cottage.
Uneasiness swelled inside her as she studied the obliterated design in the dirt. The healer was not given to hyperbole. What did he know that frightened him so much that it required a direct order to divulge?
The passage from this morning came back to her instantly. Knowledge of the runes had been forbidden once before. It couldn’t be a mere coincidence that this had happened on the same day, right after she had asked Comdiu for direction. An idea began to form in her mind. Could it be true? She had to look at the rolls of the brotherhood.
When she burst into the Ceannaire’s office, it was not Eoghan sitting at the desk but Riordan. “Aine? What’s wrong?”
“I need to see the brotherhood’s roster. The most recent volume.”
He didn’t question her, just pulled the heavy tome from a shelf and laid it on the desk. She had to guess where to look based on Murchadh’s age, but after several minutes of scanning the membership, she came to the healer’s entry: Murchadh (age 30). She frowned. She’d always assumed he had come to Ard Dhaimhin as a youth, raised in his healing vocation. Then she saw the notation at the end of the line, the spot reserved for the city or kingdom of origin: Sliebhan, Banndara N. She flipped the book closed. She didn’t need a translation to know that Banndara N. referred to the White Oak nemetons.
Murchadh had been a druid.
As Aine had expected, Eoghan summoned Murchadh before the Conclave as soon as he heard what the old healer had told her. The man halted before the nine men and Aine, his wrinkled skin turning the color of faded, bleached linen.
“Thank you for coming, Brother Murchadh.” With a warm smile, Eoghan gestured to an empty seat. Murchadh cast an uneasy glance around the table before settling into it. “We’ve called you here because—”
“You want to know about the runes.”
Aine exchanged a glance with Eoghan. They’d thought they would to have to pull the information from him bit by bit. She’d never expected him to come right out and acknowledge it.
“Aye. We want to know about the runes.”
The healer heaved a sigh and dropped his chin forward to his chest, his hands clasped in his lap. For several moments, Aine thought he wouldn’t answer or perhaps he had fallen asleep. When he raised his head, he wore a look of resignation. But instead of addressing Eoghan, he looked to Aine. “Ask your questions, my lady. I will answer you truly.”
Aine considered her questions carefully before speaking. “Were you a druid before you came to Ard Dhaimhin?”
Surprise flared in the healer’s pale gold eyes, but he nodded. “Aye. I was raised from infancy at Banndara.”
“What made you leave the nemetons? What made you leave the Old Ways in favor of the brotherhood?”
Murchadh licked his lips, a tremor shooting through his body. “What do you know about the history of the druids?”
“Very little.” Aine glanced around at the Conclave members, who all looked as perplexed as she felt. “I know there are those who stay with the Old Ways—devoted to nature and the unity of all life. And I know there are those who delve into blood magic.”
“Like Niall.”
“You knew Niall?”
“I knew of Niall. You see, the druidic religion is not so far removed from the brotherhood as most believe.”
Murmurs erupted around the table. Eoghan held up a hand, and the whispers stilled. “Go on.”
“I am not saying that we believe in the same god. I’m not saying that those who serve the gods and goddesses of the Old Ways accept the truth as we know it. But our lives are similar: humility, devotion to our rites, self-sufficiency. At least that’s how the nemetons have operated since the druids were confined to them in Daimhin’s age. But just like here, just like in the kingdom, there are those who are seduced by the promise of power, who are tempted to reach into things forbidden.”
“The Red Druids,” Riordan said from the opposite end of the table.
“Aye. You see, the Red Druids understand the power of blood. This is not so far from what the Balians believe in, the power of the blood of Lord Balus. But the druids of the nemetons also understand the power of the word.”
“The power of the word,” Eoghan said. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
Understanding dawned within Aine. “The power of written language.”
“But the druidic magic is of the oral tradition, is it not?” Gradaigh asked.
“Aye. It is now. Because . . .” Murchadh hesitated. “The runes were given to us first.”
“That’s preposterous!” Dal thundered, jumping to his feet. “The runes were brought to Seare by King Daimhin.”
Eoghan stared at Dal and gave him a barely perceptible shake of his head. The older man visibly drew his composure around himself and sat down in a huff.
“That’s not entirely true,” Eoghan said quietly. “Lady Aine has recently found some writings that implied King Daimhin and Queen Shanna rediscovered them—with the help of the druids.”
“Have yo
u never wondered why the magic of the isle predates the coming of Lord Balus?” Murchadh asked. “Why some of the wards seemed so old? Why the druids’ influence was so feared?”
“Speak plainly,” Dal said. But now his tone was far more frightened than angry.
“Very well. But I warn you, you may not like what I tell you.”
Murchadh looked at every single one of them in turn, his gaze lingering on Aine. “The meanings of the runes were given to a few who existed here on the isle. They were not given to our order. Our order was formed from those to whom Comdiu granted the understanding of His divine language.”
Angry voices erupted around the table, but Aine barely heard them over the whoosh of blood in her ears. Aye. It made sense, considering how the shield rune on Morrigan’s body had blocked her power. The only thing that could overcome the gifts of Balus would have to be other gifts of Comdiu. That would explain how the shield rune had also warded off the dark spirits of the isle. “They were given to the druids to bind the sidhe, to stop their power. But the sidhe corrupted your order.”
Murchadh’s shoulders slumped, this time with relief. “There were still those who had the clarity of mind and purpose to put them to their intended use. With the runes, they bound the sidhe to a sort of half realm, to the forests surrounding the nemetons. And then they scattered the runes across the land. They recognized that even though it was too much power to be contained in the hands of one man or group of men, there still might be need of it later.”
“I don’t understand. Scattered how?”
“They etched them on the standing stones, spread across the whole of Seare. The secret was to die with those who knew, all but a select few. When the bindings faded and the sidhe were loosed, it was those druids who worked with Daimhin to reclaim them.”
“Why did the bindings fade in the first place?” Eoghan asked, his expression intent.
“I don’t know. That’s not something I was ever told.”
“Go on,” Eoghan said. “Why has no one revealed this until now?”
“It is our greatest secret. Those who still belong to the order would bear the secret to their deaths. The tattoos we take are a reminder of our responsibility as guardians of those runes, even if most of us no longer possess the ability to read them ourselves.”
Murchadh drew down his tunic to reveal the spiral of faded black ink on his chest. “Only by the grace of Comdiu did I reject the teachings of my order and turn to Lord Balus.”
“What I don’t understand is why you reacted so violently to the rune,” Aine said. “From what I understand, it was not the runes themselves that you found to be evil but rather the fact that men were corrupted by their thirst for power.”
“Good men,” Murchadh said softly. “Ones who believed, at one time, in the only True God. And the thirst for power slowly twisted them, made them susceptible to the sidhe’s lies. If we, the ones chosen to bear that power, were corrupted by it, what makes you think you’re any different?”
Silence fell around the table. Aine had to concentrate on drawing her breath evenly in and out of her lungs. “If Comdiu erased the understanding of the runes from human knowledge, why would He allow some of us to read them again? Are you saying that He made a mistake in giving that power to man the first time? Are you saying He’s making a mistake again?”
“I am not qualified to judge the wisdom of Comdiu,” Murchadh said. “I only tell you what I know of the druidic tradition and how we came to be what we are now. And I offer a warning: using the runes for your own ends, being too dependent on them, may be your downfall, just as it was ours.”
Aine nodded slowly. “Thank you for sharing your knowledge with us, Brother Murchadh.”
The healer rose and gave them a little bow. Just before Murchadh reached the door, Eoghan stood and called after him, “Brother? You referred to the druidic order as ‘we.’ Do you still consider yourself one of them even now that you’ve accepted the salvation that Lord Balus offers?”
Murchadh thought for a long moment. “Do you still consider yourself a brother of Ard Dhaimhin even though you may someday be king?” With that cryptic question, the healer turned and slipped out the door, leaving stunned silence in his wake.
Aine’s mind whirred, trying to organize all the bits of information he had given them with what she already knew. Shanna had said the language had been scattered. That was most surely the runic language that had been distributed across the standing stones of Seare, those old places of worship that predated the coming of Balianism. Shanna and Daimhin had likely collected them and compiled them in one place for their use. But where? The Hall of Prophecies held no such volume.
She looked up to find Eoghan watching her, a peculiar look of curiosity on his face. When she averted her eyes from his, they landed on a point behind his shoulder. The Rune Throne.
She broke into laughter, aware it was tinged with a bit of hysteria. Of course. It was so obvious that they’d continually overlooked it. She clamped her hands over her pregnant belly as stitches stabbed into her sides and she tried to catch her breath. “Truly, we are among the most foolish of people, or it has powers of concealment that we never dreamed of.”
All attention landed on her, some faces betraying worry, others outright bewilderment.
“The Rune Throne. It’s the key. It’s the object that contains all the runic knowledge of the kingdom, and it’s been right under our noses. It has to have some sort of concealment for us to have continually overlooked it. An added layer of protection in case Ard Dhaimhin was ever sacked.”
Full understanding hit her like an avalanche. The look on Eoghan’s face said he’d made the connection at the same time she did.
“The boy,” he said.
“Aye,” Aine said. “Not standing on stone. The standing stones.”
“Once Niall failed to take Ard Dhaimhin, he decided to compile his own key.”
Riordan looked between them, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with his taking of the fortresses?”
“Old Balian fortresses,” Eoghan explained. “Some of them used the old standing stones as foundations or cornerstones. There are only a few intact circles left out of the hundreds that were once scattered across the country. Most of the original stones are now inside, part of, or beneath the oldest structures in Seare.”
“Which have the weakest defenses,” Aine murmured. “Convenient.”
“Not so convenient,” Riordan said. “No one really knows where all the stones are, where they were used, or how many existed. He’s taken two fortresses this month, but it could take him years to locate them all.”
“Then we have time to stop him,” Eoghan said.
“How?” Dal asked.
But Eoghan had no answer for that. As they exchanged glances around the table, Aine’s exhilaration at having solved the puzzle gave way to a heavy dread. They might know the druid’s plans, but without a way to fight him on his own territory, they were no closer to stopping him than they were before.
They continued the slow trek down through the pass for the next three days, but Conor struggled to keep his mind on the terrain in light of what Aine had told him. The druids had once been followers of Comdiu? It wasn’t so much that Conor had thought them evil, exactly. His interactions with the ones who occasionally came to Balurnan from the Timhaigh nemetons had been pleasant, if a bit confusing. But being raised a Balian in a country that was hostile to his faith, he’d begun to think of all those who held opposing viewpoints as the enemy. In some cases, like his uncle, he had been right. But it sounded as though the druids weren’t necessarily one of those cases.
What else might they have been wrong about?
Aine had promised to continue to dig through Shanna’s journals to see if she could find anything that shed light on the runes, but that still didn’t solve the more pressing problem: the druid was collecting them, and they had no way to stop him. Facing him and his ten-thousand-strong army was
no more advisable now than it had been when they were trying to protect their countrymen.
That made taking Ard Bealach all the more important. It was too new to contain any standing stones, but it would be a valuable stronghold from which to deploy men, another location to which they could recall their sworn brothers. Assuming they ever figured out how to use the sword to do that.
Oenghus moved up beside Conor, his hand resting on his sword. “This would be Esras coming.”
Conor followed the man’s gaze, but he didn’t see anything but trees and granite. “Where?”
“There.” As Conor watched, what he thought was part of the forest clarified into the shape of a man dressed in dark brown and green, his only visible weapon a short sword at his waist. He descended the granite rock face with the gravity-defying balance of a mountain goat and then came to rest in front of them.
“What did you find?” Oenghus asked.
“Four only. No difficulties.”
Oenghus glanced at Conor and explained, “Four sentries in the pass ahead of us. Esras has taken care of them.”
“Won’t they notice that they’re missing men?”
“Our men have replaced them. We’ve been watching them long enough to know their signals. As usual, overconfidence will be their downfall.”
“We’re indebted to you.”
“We’re counting on that.” There was a touch of humor in the words though. Oenghus nodded a dismissal at Esras, who disappeared back up the cliff face as quickly as he had appeared.
“And how far does your assistance reach?”
“Will we fight with you, you’re asking?” Oenghus’s humor faded. “We will clear the passes and perimeter of sentries. We can give you information, but we don’t involve ourselves in matters that don’t concern us. How do you think we’ve lived peacefully for so long?”
“That sounds exactly like the Fíréin’s policy,” Conor said. “And look where we are now.”
“You’re alive, which is more than I can say about most of those who oppose Keondric. No, I will not send men to die in your battle. But our offer of hospitality continues.”
The Sword and the Song Page 13
