He was still struggling into his coat when Dolan shoved him unceremoniously into the chair and yanked a comb through his tangled hair. “A good thing we have no need for warrior’s braids.”
“Don’t remind me.”
When Dolan was finished, he offered a brass hand mirror, but Conor ignored it. He knew what he would see. Dolan had left his dark blond hair long and loose, as was the fashion for boys. Only men who had taken the field of battle were permitted to wear the many thin braids as a symbol of their valor. His fine wool jacket, worn over a linen shirt and pleated knee-length tunic, only served to highlight a rawboned frame that had yet to grow into a man’s physique. In a court that prized appearances, this was just one more area in which he was bound to disappoint.
“Let’s have this done with,” Conor said, rising. With any luck, his father would only give him a quick once-over before he returned to more important matters. After all, the return of a son from fosterage was hardly a state occasion, even if it did coincide with a meeting of the king’s council. Conor squared his shoulders and strode into the corridor, steeling himself for the audience below.
His steps faltered when he and Dolan entered the great hall. Men and women filled the room, pressed shoulder to shoulder and dressed in finery the likes of which Conor had never seen.
Voices rumbled at the front of the hall. Then, one boomed out, clear and deep among the rest. “Marcan, where is my son?”
Marcan appeared beside Conor and Dolan. “Right here, my lord.”
Heads swiveled toward them. As Marcan led him forward, the crowd parted, and whispers rustled through the room. Conor kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead. The cloying scents of perfumed oils, straw, wool, and silk closed around him, and the press of so many bodies after the isolation of Balurnan roused his instinct to flee. By the time the throne came into view, he could barely breathe.
King Galbraith had always loomed large in Conor’s memory, but he had chalked it up to a child’s outsized perceptions. Now, he realized his memories were accurate. Clad in a wolf’s-fur cloak with the steel crown of kingship upon his brow, the king nearly filled the throne. His waist-length hair, brown-blond like Conor’s, fell in warrior’s braids over his shoulder, and several plaits decorated his long beard. Beside him stood Lord Riocárd, Galbraith’s champion and captain of the guard, bearing the sword of kingship. The captain was a formidable man in his own right, fierce-eyed and broad-shouldered, but even he was dwarfed in his lord’s presence.
Conor looked away before his eyes could betray his anxiety—into the face of the only man he feared as much as his father. Lord Fergus, the king’s tanist, was an older, paunchier version of Galbraith, and he made the king seem downright warm by comparison. He took Conor in, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
Beside Fergus, a second man scrutinized him as one would observe an insect through glass, emotionless. The druid himself. Conor suppressed another shudder at the symbols of dark power tattooed on his neck and hands.
“Come here, boy,” Galbraith said. “Let me see you.”
Conor tore his eyes away from the observers and moved forward to kneel on the lowest step. He pressed his trembling hands together in front of him.
“Look at me!”
Conor jerked his head up and stared forward while the king’s gaze roamed over him.
One corner of Galbraith’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “Tell me, have you started your training yet?”
“What training would that be, sir?”
“Don’t be clever with me. You know to what I refer. Sword, bow, spear.”
“No, my lord.” Conor’s voice came out strangled, forced from his constricted throat.
“Then what exactly have you been doing for the last nine years?”
“Studying, my lord.”
“Studying?” Galbraith’s tone changed, a note of curiosity in it.
Conor’s heart lifted slightly. “Aye, my lord. History, mathematics, literature, astronomy, law, languages—”
“What languages?”
“I can read and write the common tongue, as well as Ciraean, Levantine, and Norin. My Melandran is passable, and I know a bit of the Odlum runes.”
Galbraith stared at him for a long moment. The hall fell silent but for the crackle of torches and the occasional rustle of a lady’s gown, every eye riveted on the spectacle before them. Then, in one swift movement, Galbraith reached over and ripped the sword from the scabbard in Riocárd’s hands. The ring of metal echoed in the hall as the blade stopped a fraction of an inch before Conor’s eyes.
“The only language our enemies understand is the language of the sword.” Galbraith’s eyes locked unflinchingly on his son’s.
Then the weapon was gone, tossed back to Riocárd. Galbraith stood, his expression thunderous as he scanned the assemblage. “Labhrás, where are you?”
“Here, my lord.”
All heads turned toward Lord Labhrás where he stood at the edge of the gathering. He wore unadorned garments of fine wool, though he was easily the equal in wealth to any of the onlookers, and he remained unruffled beneath the king’s furious stare. Conor would have given anything to possess even half that calm and dignity.
“I sent you a son, and you bring me back a daughter! Explain yourself.”
“I did as I was asked, my lord.” Labhrás’s voice was soft, unchallenging. “You wished your son to be educated.”
“As a warrior, not a scholar! What good is a man who cannot lift a sword to defend himself and his people? You have brought shame to Tigh.”
Labhrás took a step forward, his expression hardening. “It is no shame to know of the world outside one’s palace, my lord. Conor is a diligent student, and he excels in all he puts his hand to. I would think any man would be proud to call him his son.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd at Labhrás’s audacity, and Galbraith’s face turned an unhealthy shade of purple.
“You dare—”
“I did what was agreed upon, my lord. Shall I remind you of the terms of that agreement?”
Galbraith’s mouth compressed into a thin, hard line. Conor looked between the two men in amazement as the king swallowed a sharp response.
“Then you may take responsibility for what he has become. He is no son of mine.” He strode down the dais and passed Conor without another glance.
Someone sniggered in the silence, but Conor barely noticed as the room wavered around him. He had been dismissed, possibly disowned, the favor that fell on an only son withdrawn as quickly and easily as Galbraith’s tossed sword.
“Come, Conor.” Labhrás lifted him to his feet, his hand clamped around Conor’s biceps. He steered him away from the gathering toward an intersecting corridor.
The druid stepped into their path with a pleasant smile. “Allow me to introduce myself, young man. I’m Diarmuid.”
Conor blinked back a wave of dizziness. “You’re the druid.”
“Aye. Considering your education, I suspect you understand what that means better than most.”
Labhrás inserted himself between Conor and the druid, his expression hard. “It’s best I return the boy to his chamber now.”
Diarmuid merely smiled. “When you want answers, Conor, all you need do is ask.”
Before Conor could puzzle through the cryptic offer, Labhrás ushered him past the man toward the stairs. “That could have gone worse.”
“How?”
Labhrás arched an eyebrow, and Conor remembered what they strove to keep from the king and his druid. The question of religion, and the fact his education could not have been accomplished without the services of a Balian priest, had never arisen.
Conor felt stronger and clearer with every step away from the hall, and his dizziness faded. He thought back to the exchange between Labhrás and Galbraith. Was the king actually afraid of what Labhrás might say? Never would he display that kind of weakness before the lords of the realm unless what Labhrás could reveal would be far mor
e damaging.
When they reached Conor’s chamber, they found Dolan waiting. “So?”
“About what we expected,” Labhrás said.
Conor looked between the men, open-mouthed. “You knew this would happen? You knew my father would disown me?”
“That was for show,” Labhrás said. “Clan law doesn’t allow him to disown blood. But aye, I expected his anger. As did you.”
“I suppose I did.” Conor focused on his foster father again. “What was that all about? What agreement?”
Labhrás and Dolan exchanged a glance, and then the servant slipped out the door. Labhrás gestured for Conor to take a seat on the bed and pulled up a chair beside him.
“Perhaps I owe you an apology. Most of that had nothing to do with you. You recall, of course, that your uncle, Riordan, sat the throne before your father.”
“He abdicated in order to join the Fíréin.” Conor understood the pull of the legendary brotherhood. Nearly every young boy in Seare fantasized about being one of those preternaturally gifted warriors, but only the Balian clans followed the tradition of sending the firstborn son to the Fíréin. That a king of Tigh would abandon his throne in favor of a Balian warrior-brotherhood was unfathomable.
“Galbraith was not the council’s first choice as Riordan’s successor,” Labhrás said. “Several of us, myself included, looked to the minor royal branch, though a Mac Laighid has not sat the throne for generations. Riordan, however, pushed hard for Galbraith’s election. He swung enough votes to win him the tanistry, and when he abdicated a few months later, he handed him the throne.”
“Why not just take himself out of the succession?”
“If he did that, he couldn’t influence the council’s selection. Of all the candidates, Galbraith was most likely to be sympathetic toward the Balians, considering your mother was one. The king—and the rest of the council—are well aware he owes his throne to a Fíréin brother. That’s why he didn’t argue when Riordan returned from Ard Dhaimhin and insisted you be fostered with me.”
Conor’s mind whirred. “I never even met Riordan. Why would he take such an interest in me?”
“Even I don’t know that,” Labhrás said. “We were practically brothers, raised together in fosterage, but he always kept his own council. He was very specific, though. You were to be raised in our faith, and you were to be given an extensive education.” Labhrás placed his hand on Conor’s shoulder. “You see now why Galbraith would not want such a thing revealed. Should the Balians’ involvement in his choices become common knowledge, the council might dethrone him.”
No wonder his father was furious. Conor’s scholarly pursuits and lack of fighting skill drew far too much attention to a fosterage that should never have been arranged. Yet he still couldn’t fathom why Riordan would have gone to so much trouble for him.
Labhrás stood. “I’ve given you enough to think about for one day. But first . . .” He dipped a hand into the neck of his tunic and drew out a pendant on a long silver chain, then draped it carefully over Conor’s head. “This has been with me for long enough. It’s yours now.”
Conor lifted the heavy pendant in his palm, his blood whooshing too fast through his veins. It was a wheel charm, a ring of ivory with three carved spokes representing the tripartite nature of Comdiu, a clear symbol of the Balian faith.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“It’s a relic of the Great Kingdom, one of the few remaining objects of power. Keep it close, and keep it hidden. It will help.”
“Help what?”
“No more questions. Some things are better left unspoken.” Labhrás placed a light hand atop Conor’s head and then left the room.
Conor turned the charm over and studied the runes inscribed there, but his knowledge of Odlum was too rudimentary to be of any help in deciphering their meaning. He briefly considered stowing it in one of his trunks. But Labhrás did nothing idly. If he’d given Conor the charm, he’d thought he needed the protection. Conor dropped it beneath his tunic before he could examine too closely the dangers from which he was being protected.
Dolan entered and shut the door firmly behind him. “Let’s see it then.”
It took Conor several moments to work up the courage to draw out the charm again. “Lord Labhrás said it was an object of power.”
Dolan peered at it, but he made no move to touch it. “Labhrás has worn it for years. I’ve always suspected Riordan meant it for you when the time was right.”
“What do you know about all this?”
“I’ve served Labhrás since we were both children,” Dolan said. “He’s told me what I need to know to keep you safe, nothing else.”
“And this?” Conor held up the charm. “This really has . . . magic?”
Dolan just smiled.
Conor rubbed his eyes wearily. Too much had happened in the last day to process. His dishonor before the court, the story of the kingship, the druid’s presence . . . and now he wore an object, which by all accounts was imbued by some long-forgotten Balian magic. The beginnings of a headache pulsed in his temples.
“I have to think,” he muttered, rising. “I’ll be back in time for supper.”
Dolan’s brows knit together, but he didn’t try to dissuade him. Conor concealed the charm and headed straight out his door. Since he barely remembered the layout of the keep, he picked a route at random and began to walk.
Iron-bound doors dotted the stone hallway, but Conor didn’t try any of the handles. When he reached an intersection, he turned left down another corridor, this one decorated with moth-eaten, smoke-stained tapestries. This was part of the structure guests would never see. He trailed his fingers along the rough-hewn stone as he walked. The torch beside him guttered in an unseen breeze, yet the interior hallway had no doors or windows. He stopped as a shard of memory surfaced. Perhaps his direction had not been random after all.
Slowly, Conor pushed aside one of the tapestries to reveal a narrow wooden door. His hand trembled on the latch. Coward. He drew a long breath and pushed the door inward on well-oiled hinges. Hidden, perhaps, but not forgotten.
Conor stepped into blackness, the tapestry swinging back to block the torchlight. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the dim shapes of a chair and some sort of cabinet. He stretched out his arms, and his fingers brushed stone on either side.
How could he have known this was here, but not remember the room itself?
A memory jolted him abruptly: his younger self, crouched in the corner while Galbraith shouted and a woman sobbed in the distance. His mother. He could almost hear the shouting now . . .
But no, that wasn’t part of the memory. He really could hear voices. He held his breath, straining his ears for the source of the sound until he could distinguish individual words.
“—the coast of Gwydden. Some say they’re making a permanent settlement.”
“Sofarende don’t settle. They pillage and burn and go back to their islands.”
“Not this time. If they establish a permanent base—”
“Enough.” Though Conor had not recognized the other voices, there was no mistaking the king’s authoritative baritone. “The Sofarende are a real threat, whether they settle or not. Eventually, they’ll look for richer targets, and Tigh is the first in sight.”
Conor realized he was hearing a private meeting of the king’s council, filtered up from the chamber below. He should leave immediately—he couldn’t be the only one who knew of this room—but he couldn’t pull himself away from the conversation.
“We can handle an invasion,” Fergus said scornfully. “Why run to Faolán for help?”
“Because they will share the casualties. And whether you admit it or not, they command more skilled warriors in the northern territories than we have in all of Tigh. It’s time to make our peace with the Mac Cuillinn.”
Silence fell. Conor barely breathed.
“You know I must object to this plan, my lord,” Labhrás s
aid after a long pause. “Sending Conor to Faolán—”
“You have only yourself to blame,” Galbraith said scornfully. “If you’d raised the boy in a manner befitting his station, I would never have considered such a thing. At least now Conor can be of some use to Tigh.”
Blood drummed in Conor’s ears. He didn’t want to hear any more. He stumbled over the chair in his haste to get to the door and pushed into the corridor without considering who might be on the other side of the tapestry.
The hallway was still deserted, though, so he took a moment to catch his breath. He should never have stayed once he realized the room’s purpose. How had he found it the first time? And who else knew of its existence?
Conor steadied himself with a hand against the wall while his other one reached automatically for the charm beneath his shirt. The ivory emanated a subtle but unmistakable warmth through the linen.
Only then did he realize that for the first time since returning to Glenmallaig, his mind felt completely clear.
It couldn’t be a coincidence his buried memories had led him here right after he put on the charm. Was that what Labhrás meant when he said it would help? Did that mean his memory loss was due to another, darker sort of magic? If Diarmuid truly was a Red Druid, such a spell wouldn’t be beyond his ability. But if that were true, what was he trying to make him forget?
Conor had to work out the details before anyone learned of his suspicions. At least it sounded as if he wouldn’t have to conceal them for long.
The king was sending him to Faolán.
As a hostage.
CHAPTER THREE
Conor paced the confines of his chamber for the next two days while he waited to hear his fate firsthand. The books he brought from Balurnan held his attention for only so long, and he was too distracted to put up much of a defense in his games of King and Conqueror with Dolan. When the servant put Conor’s king into check for the second time, he simply tipped the marble game piece in surrender and pushed away from the game board.
Oath of the Brotherhood Page 2
