“The silence is maddening,” Conor said. “I’m going for a walk.”
Pacing the dim, smoky hallway did nothing to relieve the smothering sense of stillness. Labhrás’s country manor was smaller and more humble than this colossal keep, but it had been alive with warmth and laughter. Right now, smells of the evening’s supper would be drifting across the courtyard from the kitchen, signaling the coming night. The household warriors would eat with them in the hall before a cheery fire, while Labhrás’s three daughters took turns telling tales culled from educations no less thorough than Conor’s.
His chest ached at the recollection. His family was in Balurnan, regardless of the clan name he bore. He couldn’t imagine King Galbraith calling for him in the evenings as Labhrás had, to mull over the day’s events to the sound of the harp. The instrument had been in the Maonagh clan for generations, but they called it Conor’s harp since he was the only one who could coax a melody from its aged rosewood frame. He would give anything to be back there now, his hands on the strings, instead of sitting in this oppressive keep, waiting for someone else to decide his fate.
“The harp!” Conor’s feet carried him halfway down the corridor before he fully registered his intentions. He passed the secret chamber behind the tapestry, turned a corner, and stopped before a door that looked like every other entryway in the palace.
The latch gave easily, and the door opened into a large, dark room. Conor removed one of the thick candles from the iron stand inside and lit it from the torch in the hallway, then touched the flame to the other wax columns. They flared to life, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow.
Layers of dust and cobwebs covered the tapestries and darkened the colorful rug on the stone floor. Conor swept aside one of the cloths that covered the furniture and found a high-backed chair beneath it. When he lifted the flower-embellished cushion, he was rewarded with a memory of his mother, young and auburn-haired, painstakingly embroidering it by firelight.
“My mother’s sitting room.” How long had it been since he had set foot in this chamber? He’d last visited Glenmallaig three years ago, the same trip during which she’d had her accident, but those memories were as inaccessible as the others.
He wandered past the covered chairs and tables and stopped short before an object in the corner. Beneath the covering lay a beautiful Seareann lap harp, far finer than his instrument at Balurnan, its maple soundboard elaborately carved with mythological creatures. He touched a string, and it sprang back with a metallic hum, bringing with it a shard of memory.
He sat at his mother’s feet as she held the harp in her lap. Her fingers moved nimbly up and down the strings, demonstrating the major scales and chords, which she named as she plucked them. Conor reached out to touch the instrument.
“Would you like to try?” she asked, smiling down at him.
Conor sucked in a ragged breath. His mother had played the harp? How could he have forgotten that? He tried to hold on to the image, but he could have sooner captured smoke in his hands. Tears threatened to pool in his eyes.
Instead, he settled into the chair with the instrument. He plucked each string and made minute adjustments to the pins until every note rang true. When he played an arpeggio, a shiver of anticipation rippled across his skin.
Conor began with Labhrás’s favorite song, a ballad about a man who returned from war to find his family had moved on without him. That turned into a cheerier tune Labhrás’s wife favored. One by one, he played through each of his foster family’s most requested songs: a mournful ballad for Morrigan, the eldest daughter; a lively reel for Etaoin, the middle child; and finally a silly jig that had something to do with a dog disguised as a bard. He smiled as he imagined eight-year-old Liadan singing along in her off-key soprano.
Then the song shifted into a melody Conor couldn’t remember hearing, let alone playing. Music poured from the instrument, filling the room and reverberating through his bones while he lost himself within the notes of the song.
The door burst open with a bang. Conor’s fingers slid from the strings with a discordant twang as Labhrás shut the door behind him and snuffed out the candle flames with his fingertips. “Not a sound.”
Gooseflesh prickled Conor’s arms, and his heart thudded in his ears. He lost track of how long he sat there in the dark, gripping the harp. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and slid down his face.
Just when Conor had reached the limits of his patience, Labhrás broke the silence. “You mustn’t play here. You reveal too much. Come, quickly now; the king’s summoned you.”
Conor carefully set down the harp and rose, his gut twisting at the urgency in his foster father’s voice. He followed Labhrás out the door and down the stairs to Galbraith’s private chamber, the same chamber above which he’d eavesdropped just two days ago.
Inside the study, the king sat behind a large table, flanked by Fergus and Diarmuid. He gestured for Conor to approach.
“I’m sending you to Faolán. You’re to leave with Lord Riocárd in five days.”
Conor’s knees almost gave way, even though he had been expecting this very announcement. “Faolán. For how long?”
“Until you’re of age, at least. We’ve signed a treaty with King Calhoun. You’re to be his hostage to ensure our good faith.”
“I see. Is that all, my lord?”
Galbraith raised a hand in dismissal. Conor turned on his heel, and Labhrás opened the door for him.
“One more thing.” The king’s voice hardened. “Was that you earlier? The music?”
Conor’s heart rose into his throat, but he composed his expression before turning back to the king. “I’ve been studying in my chamber most of the afternoon.”
Galbraith gazed at him, his brow furrowed while he gauged his truthfulness. Then he waved him off.
As Conor turned back to the door, Diarmuid reached out and gripped the back of the king’s chair. Only then did Conor notice the fine sheen of sweat on the druid’s forehead.
“That was very unwise of you.”
Conor frowned at Dolan. He had expected the servant to reassure him about his upcoming journey to Faolán, not berate him for something he hadn’t realized was prohibited. “I still don’t understand why I can’t play.”
“After your mother died, the king decreed there was to be no music in the palace. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.”
Conor remembered little—a fact of which Dolan was trying to take advantage—but even he knew his parents’ marriage had been a political alliance, not a love match. He had seen how unwell the druid appeared. No, he was willing to bet the druid had forbidden music, not the king.
He could voice none of those thoughts, however, so he put on a humble expression. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Dolan looked unconvinced, but he nodded. “We’re going to Faolán then. I think you’ll find some differences in the hall of a Balian king.”
“Was this part of Riordan’s plan?”
“I don’t see how it could be. That decision was made years ago, and this was only decided in the last few days.”
Conor nodded, but things were falling into line far too neatly to be coincidence.
They are not coincidence. Not everything is decided by the plans of men.
Conor shivered. He rarely heard Comdiu speak so plainly. Even though he had been raised in the Balian faith, even though he knew Balus was Comdiu incarnate, he still had a difficult time believing his God intervened so directly in the lives of believers.
“In any case,” Dolan continued, “Lisdara will be a cheerier place to live than Glenmallaig, hostage or not.”
Hostage. That word brought him back to reality. He was not merely a guest, nor was this a long-term alliance through marriage. Galbraith had need of Faolán’s warriors, and his son’s life was simply surety. Conor had been disowned and dishonored, removed from any hope of leadership. He was a sacrificial pawn. When he was no longer of any use to Tigh, his life would depend solel
y on his value to Calhoun Mac Cuillinn, a fierce warrior of great repute.
Suddenly, Conor’s future—and his safety—looked far less certain.
CHAPTER FOUR
A tailor accompanied Dolan to Conor’s chamber the next morning. Despite Galbraith’s contempt for his son, it seemed he would not let him leave for Lisdara unprovisioned. It would reflect poorly on the king should Conor arrive with only one chest of plain clothing better suited to a minor landholder than a king’s son.
The tailor took his measurements with his fleshy lips pursed in dissatisfaction. Conor endured the perusal in silence. His scrawny frame would not do justice to the fine clothing, so he left the selection of fabrics and trims to Dolan’s judgment. He wouldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t merely to avoid his father’s displeasure.
You’ve pretended to be something you’re not for years. It’s the clothing that bothers you?
Conor shifted uneasily, earning a glare from the tailor. The piercing comments came more frequently now, and Conor couldn’t say he was entirely comfortable with them. He voiced his disquiet to Labhrás, expecting his foster father to discount the episodes as imagination.
But Labhrás only nodded. “Until now, you’ve looked to me for direction, but you are practically a grown man. It’s time you let Comdiu guide your decisions.”
“So you don’t think I’m imagining things?”
“Not at all.” Labhrás placed both hands on Conor’s shoulders. “Just remember, it’s your choice what to believe and how much to reveal.”
“Aye, my lord.” Conor’s throat tightened around the words. Until now, he hadn’t understood all Labhrás had done for him. Though they shared no blood, Labhrás was his father.
“I’m proud of you, son. You will bring honor to Tigh.” The older man squeezed Conor’s shoulders. Then he changed his mind and pressed him into a strong embrace. “Look to Comdiu, and you won’t go wrong.”
Labhrás released him and moved to the door. Then he turned back, his expression sober. “If you ever need anything, and I’m not . . . available . . . remember I’m not the only one looking out for you. You’ll always have a place with kin if you want it.” He sent him a sad smile, then slipped out the door.
Conor sank down on the bed, the warmth he’d felt moments before squeezed out by a cold, hard knot in his middle. Surely his foster father hadn’t meant the words as they sounded. Did Labhrás believe he was in danger? Was Conor in danger too?
That alone would have been unsettling, but the kin to whom his foster father referred could only be his uncle, Riordan.
If something happened to Labhrás, Conor was to join the Fíréin brotherhood.
Once more, Conor traveled among armed, mounted men, and once more, their presence did not comfort him. A party of this size traveled slowly, with its complement of foot soldiers and mounted warriors. An endless stream of carts clattered along behind them, carrying their tents, food, and personal belongings, as well as a display of Tigh’s bounty for King Calhoun. At this pace, they would spend five days on the road, most of it only a stone’s throw from the ancient forest, Róscomain, and the dangers that lurked within. Even the brigandine jacket Conor wore, with its heavy metal plates sewn to boiled leather, failed to reassure him. It only reminded him how ineffective their weapons and armor would be against the threat in the mist.
But Róscomain’s dark, threatening edge became tedious after a few hours, and by midday Conor began to succumb to the monotony. He marked the regular movements of the outriders as they scouted ahead for threats. He listened to the conversations of men around him and tried to guess the regions of their birth from the subtle differences in their accents. He even composed harp melodies in his head to entertain himself.
When at last the light began to fade and the first tendrils of mist twined the trees, Lord Riocárd called a stop. The servants transformed an open meadow into a canvas village with astonishing speed, setting out lavishly furnished tents for both Riocárd and Conor. Dolan brought him a bowl of stew and a chicken leg with a flask of well-watered mead, but the food could not distract him from the tree line. Boredom may have dampened his anxiety over their proximity to the forest, but the falling darkness reminded him that he had legitimate reasons for fear.
Despite his nervousness, as Conor listened to the low sounds of men and horses among the creaks of armor and the crackle of campfires, his heavy eyelids drifted down. He retreated to his tent, where he wrestled off his brigandine and stretched out fully clothed atop a plush feather bed. As soon as he tugged the blanket over himself, he fell asleep.
Until a woman’s voice, low and sultry, beckoned him. Conor.
The sound entwined him, wrapping him in shivery fingers of pleasure. Half-sedated, Conor sat up slowly in his bed and stared toward the forest.
Lay the charm aside. You don’t need it. Come to me.
Conor’s hand closed around the charm, and it sent a jolt of alarm through his body. He startled awake, covered in gooseflesh despite the warmth of his blanket.
“They’re out there.” Dolan crouched beside Conor’s cot, the low flame from the single lantern glinting in the servant’s dark eyes.
“What are they?”
“Old magic from the beginning of time. The pagans call them the Folk, an ancient, half-human race that lives between our world and the next. But Balians believe they are the Fallen, the celestial beings who turned against Comdiu before time began. He gave them leave to wreak their will upon the earth. For a time, they were bound, but as Balus’s gifts wane, so does the protection against them. We call them the sidhe.”
In the dark, Conor trembled. Dolan had never spoken openly of the threat in the mist, and knowing the truth only heightened his fear. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized exactly how sheltered he’d been at Balurnan. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“So you won’t be drawn by their call. The sidhe can’t harm us directly. They can only deceive us, and our faith makes us less susceptible to their lies.” Dolan patted his shoulder. “Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”
Conor stretched out on the cot and closed his hand around the ivory wheel. Despite his efforts to sleep, disturbing questions swirled through his mind. The sidhe had beckoned him before. This time, though, the call had been harder to ignore. Would they just keep trying until he could no longer resist?
The camp stirred long before daylight without Conor finding sleep. Smells of smoke and cooking food wafted on the breeze with hushed voices and the sounds of weapons being checked and horses prepared. Then a string of curses drifted through camp.
Dolan left his side in a flash, disappearing from the tent before Conor could poke his head out the flap. When the older man returned, he wore a grim expression. “We lost three men last night. Left their horses and armor behind.”
Conor’s eyes went to the trees, where the mist had already begun to recede. “What did Riocárd say?”
“He’s calling them deserters. They’ll double the watches tonight, but it won’t help.”
“You sound as if this is not the first time.”
Dolan glanced back at the milling camp, the tightness of his mouth betraying his concern. “Not all casualties of past campaigns have been from battle, lad. Róscomain takes its due, even if the enemy takes more.”
Conor shuddered. He might have escaped the sidhe’s grasp last night, but he knew how close he’d been to succumbing to the voice. Had he not been wearing the charm, he might be among the missing.
They rode well into twilight the second day, resting the horses and foot soldiers only as long as necessary and eating cold meals to avoid the time it took to light fires. The warriors eyed the tree line warily, grasping swords and spears at the slightest noise.
As Dolan predicted, Riocárd doubled the watch.
Despite his fears, Conor slept soundly, troubled only by the usual dreams of the unknown. In the morning, though, another warrior was missing, and the two dozen men on watch couldn’t account fo
r his disappearance. He had simply vanished.
“Or the others were spelled,” Conor muttered as Dolan helped him into his armor.
Days melded into nights in a dreamlike fashion as they continued their progress toward Faolán. By the fifth day, when they at last broke free of the shadow of Róscomain in favor of open country, even the heartiest warriors looked drawn and anxious.
In four nights, they had lost eleven men.
They entered the meadowlands that indicated the border between Tigh and Faolán, the dark demarcation of Róscomain barely visible in the distance. The warriors drew their first easy breaths since leaving Glenmallaig. Here in the open country, the sidhe held little sway. Everyone knew the creatures of the mist clung to their dark forest, content to prey upon those who traveled the king’s road.
That night, the mist blanketed the open country as thickly as it had the forest’s edge. In the morning, three more men were gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
A contingent of Faolanaigh warriors met them in the meadows as the sun edged midway from its apex to the western horizon. The eight guardsmen rode powerful Gwynn stallions, each man dressed plainly in leather and plate with hammered helms. The Mac Cuillinn’s green standard flapped above them in the brisk afternoon breeze.
Riocárd called a halt and waited as a single man in the center rode forward. The Faolanaigh warrior removed his helm, displaying a shock of copper hair that curled wildly out of warrior braids, and tucked it under his arm. “Lord Riocárd, on behalf of Faolán, I bid you welcome and offer you the hospitality of Lisdara.”
Riocárd dipped his head in acceptance. “Mac Cuillinn, I gladly accept your offer.”
Mac Cuillinn? Conor gaped at the disheveled man while Riocárd took his place alongside the Faolanaigh king and the guards shuffled themselves into order around them. Conor hung back with the other Timhaigh where he could observe their host unnoticed.
Although it was hard to judge on horseback, Calhoun Mac Cuillinn seemed to be of middling height and powerfully built, evidence of long years wielding a sword. A close-clipped red beard covered the lower half of his handsome face. His eyes, hazel-green and attentive, scanned their party and the surroundings with military discipline. Conor instantly liked him.
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