He was so absorbed in his study of the king he didn’t notice the keep until it loomed before them. Mortared walls of gray stone rimmed a flat-topped hill, and ancient oaks, already leafing out with spring foliage, lined the interior walls. Beyond, barely visible through the greenery, rose the domed slate roof of the palace itself. Unlike Glenmallaig, with its stark lines and mist-wreathed battlements, Lisdara exuded warmth and welcome.
The road to the keep wound up a series of steep switchbacks, narrowing at times to a width barely sufficient for a cart. Conor kept his mount carefully to the inside wall and fixed his gaze straight ahead, not daring to look anywhere but the road until they leveled off before an open pair of massive timber gates.
Up close, Lisdara was even more impressive. Gray stone slabs paved the courtyard, and brilliantly colored glass windows marked the upper floor of the cylindrical keep, displaying scenes from the Balian Scriptures, as well as saints, kings, and martyrs. Conor had heard about such magnificent artistry from his tutor, but he’d never thought he would see it in person.
As the procession rattled into the courtyard, the arch-topped doors of the palace opened and spilled out a host of servants. A middle-aged man, tall and thin with bright copper hair and beard, stepped forward. He bowed first to the Mac Cuillinn, then Riocárd.
“Lord Riocárd, welcome to Lisdara. I am the Mac Cuillinn’s steward, Leannan. We’ve prepared the guest house for you, and there is ample space in the meadow below for your men.”
“I’m sure the accommodations will be adequate, Leannan,” Riocárd said calmly. He dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, then looked to Calhoun. “I imagine you will not begrudge us a bit of rest before we come to the hall?”
Calhoun, still atop his own mount, dipped his head graciously. “Of course. My servants will see to any needs you may have.”
Riocárd nodded stiffly, reminding Conor the two nations had not so long ago been enemies.
“My lord, may I take your mount?”
Conor snapped his gaze away from the men. A young boy looked up at Conor expectantly. Conor dismounted and put the horse in the boy’s charge, then watched Leannan direct the chaos in the courtyard with practiced calm. Servants unloaded trunks and took horses to the stable, while the guardsmen retreated back down the hill to the meadow below. He scanned the space for Dolan and his possessions, but found neither. He’d have to find his quarters on his own, then.
Conor made it only a few steps toward the guest house—a large, thatch-covered structure on the western edge of the enclosure—before a man blocked his path. He stumbled to a halt.
The king of Faolán stood before him, surveying him with a thoughtful smile. “You must be Conor.”
“Aye, my lord.” Too late, Conor realized he should bow and managed only a graceless bob of his head. A flush crept up his neck. Hardly the impression he’d hoped to make on the man who controlled his future.
To his credit, Calhoun only clapped a large hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the palace. “Leannan!” The slender steward emerged from the throng immediately. “Will you show our new guest to his chamber?”
Calhoun turned back to Conor, smiling warmly. “We’ll have time to get acquainted later. Right now, let Leannan take you to your quarters. If you need anything, just ask him.”
Conor watched Calhoun stride back into the crowd, speechless, until Leannan caught his attention.
“This way, my lord. I’ve already had your things sent up.”
Conor followed the steward up the front steps of the keep, still stunned by the friendly and utterly informal welcome. They passed through Lisdara’s elegant hall, and the steward glanced back to make sure Conor was still following before leading him down an adjoining corridor. “I took the liberty of putting you on the family’s side of the keep. The guest quarters are grander, but these are more comfortable.”
Conor followed Leannan up the long flight of stairs, mentally marking their path. The palace was bigger than it looked from the outside, far bigger than Glenmallaig, which had always seemed like the largest structure in Seare. The steward turned right down an intersecting corridor at the top of the stairs, then left at another short one. Conor sensed movement out of the corner of his eye and whipped his head around in time to see the swish of skirts into one of the chambers.
He stared at the empty corridor, wondering who the girl was, until he realized Leannan was standing before an open door.
“This is your room.”
Conor entered hesitantly. Sunlight streamed through another stained-glass window, casting fanciful patterns across the spacious stone chamber. Embroidered draperies enclosed a shelf bed topped with a luxurious-looking feather mattress, and a large chair sat by the window. On the other side of the room, his trunks awaited unpacking beside the tub.
“You’ll want a bath before supper,” Leannan said. “I’ll send someone up with hot water. Would you like refreshment in the meantime?”
“Aye, thank you. Leannan . . .”
The man turned in the doorway. “Aye?”
“I’ve lived rather simply my whole life. You don’t need to go to any trouble for me. We both know I’m a hostage.”
“It’s no trouble. Besides, the Mac Cuillinn gave orders you were to be treated like family. If there’s a mistake, you’d best take it up with him.” A smile twitched at the corners of the steward’s mouth.
Conor fought his own smile. “In that case, perhaps we shouldn’t bother him.”
“Very well. Let me know if you need anything.”
Conor stared at the closed door long after Leannan left. He’d been at Lisdara for a handful of minutes, and already he’d experienced more kindness than he’d received in his own father’s keep. Was that what Dolan had meant by the difference in the hall of a Balian king?
Moments later, a procession of boys arrived to fill his tub. Dolan hadn’t yet reappeared, so Conor stripped off his clothing and eased into the bath with a sigh. After five days on horseback, he’d forgotten how luxurious a tub of warm water could be.
The door creaked open, and Dolan poked his head in with a smile. “I see you wasted no time.”
“I couldn’t stand the road dust any longer.”
Dolan entered, balancing a platter, and then nudged the door shut with his foot. “Leannan sent this up for you.”
Conor’s stomach rumbled at the sight of soda bread spread with butter and honey. He took the wooden mug in a dripping hand and sipped cautiously. Sweetened, heavily watered mead traced a warm line down his throat. Dolan unpacked his finest garments from his trunk and laid them on the bed.
“Where exactly am I supposed to wear those?”
“The feast tonight, of course. An alliance between Tigh and Faolán is unprecedented. All the lords of the realm have come to witness the event.”
The once-comforting mead sloshed in Conor’s stomach, considering a quick exit. He felt awkward enough at his own father’s court, and now he was to be put on display at Lisdara?
“How many exactly?”
“Conor, relax. No one expects you to do anything but smile and nod and pretend to enjoy yourself. The attention will be on Riocárd and Calhoun anyway.”
“I hope you’re right.” For the first time, Conor was glad for his new wardrobe. He may not be the warrior his father expected, but at least he wouldn’t shame his homeland.
Minutes later, wrapped in a clean linen cloth and trying to force down the soda bread, he considered the clothing Dolan held up before him. “I’ll leave it to you. I can’t believe we’re to feast after so long on the road. Sleep would be a far kinder welcome.”
“Calhoun will treat Lord Riocárd as he would your father, and that means lavish feasts. The Mac Cuillinn may lack vanity, but he understands how this game is played.”
Conor flopped back on the bed cushions with a sigh and pressed his fingers to his eyes. A game. His father had surely devised this alliance as just part of a larger plot that would benefit neithe
r him nor Faolán. But Calhoun wouldn’t consider such an agreement unless he too had a plan in which a royal hostage could be of use.
Conor stifled a yawn. As his heartbeat slowed, the tension knotting his shoulders melted away. It couldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a moment, could it?
Conor woke to gentle shaking. He jerked upright and nearly collided with Dolan, who bent over him. The stained-glass windows were dark, and several thick candles now lit the room.
“The guests are already in the hall,” Dolan said.
Conor’s heart lurched. He looked down at his shaking hands and knew he’d be lucky to put on his own boots.
Fortunately, Dolan had no intention of letting Conor do anything on his own. The servant sat him down firmly in the single chair and began the tedious task of combing the tangles from his damp hair. Conor gritted his teeth while Dolan fashioned locks into tiny plaits. Apparently, no one was supposed to know about Conor’s failures, even if the warrior braids were a blatant lie.
Dolan then dressed him in layers of fine linen, wool, and silk, all in royal Timhaigh blue. When the servant held up the mirror for him, Conor hardly recognized himself. Glenmallaig’s tailor had done an admirable job in using pleats and tucks to camouflage his lack of muscle. The effect wasn’t half bad.
“I look . . .”
“Like a prince.” Dolan smiled and set the mirror down. “Now, enough admiring yourself. It’s time to go to the hall.”
On cue, a servant appeared at the door. Conor shot one last, helpless look at Dolan before following the boy down the corridor to the staircase, where he was handed off to a richly dressed page. At the entrance of the great hall, Conor halted. He had expected a few dozen lords and ladies, not this gathering of hundreds. Strains of a lute drifted over the deafening roar of voices.
To Conor’s everlasting gratitude, the page did not announce him, though he hardly needed to. As soon as he stepped into the hall, all heads swiveled toward him, and their curious eyes took him in from top to bottom. He fixed his gaze on the dais and reminded himself to breathe, only to have the air whoosh from his lungs again.
Beside a man who strongly resembled Calhoun—presumably the king’s younger brother and tanist, Gainor—sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Pale red-gold hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders, and even from this distance, Conor could tell her eyes were the luminous gray of quicksilver. His heart took up residence in his throat. It could be none other than Lady Niamh, Calhoun’s twenty-year-old sister, “the jewel in Lisdara’s crown.” For once, the lavish descriptions had not been exaggerated.
A moment later, the page handed him off to yet another servant, who led him to his chair. His pulse quickened when he realized he was to be seated beside her, but she did not even acknowledge his presence. Fortunately, Calhoun and Riocárd chose that moment to make their entrance. The assembled guests rose to their feet in one motion, the women applauding and the men pounding their fists on the tables. Calhoun grinned broadly as he passed through the cacophony, pausing every few steps to converse with his lords. Riocárd held himself confidently, but he knew his part, and he hung back in deference to the king.
Calhoun took his place on the dais and held up his hands. The noise ceased, and the guests took their seats amidst a rustle of silk and linen, anticipation written in their expressions.
“My lords and ladies of Faolán, it has been a generation since we have had the pleasure of hosting our Timhaigh brethren. I consider it the greatest honor to present Lord Riocárd of Tirnall, champion to the king of Tigh.”
The room erupted into applause, and fists pounded on wooden tables again, as if Calhoun had announced the king himself. Riocárd stood and gave a slight bow. When the noise died down, Calhoun continued, “I also would like to welcome King Galbraith’s son, Conor, whom I will have the pleasure of hosting here at Lisdara for the next several years.”
The response was only slightly less enthusiastic for this announcement. Conor flushed and threw a grateful look toward Calhoun for his generous welcome, not daring to look at Niamh for her reaction.
Servants appeared at every entrance to the hallway, bearing spectacular platters of fried fish, roast pheasant, and candied vegetables. A goblet appeared at Conor’s elbow. He took it and sipped the heavily spiced wine while other servants began to dish out choice morsels.
The man to Niamh’s right leaned back with a friendly smile and held out his hand. “I’m Gainor, Calhoun’s brother. Welcome to Lisdara.”
Conor smiled in return and clasped Gainor’s forearm. “Thank you, Lord Gainor. I’m certain I’ll like Lisdara, if this welcome is any indication.”
“Calhoun knows how to throw a feast. As you’ve no doubt guessed, this charming creature beside you is our sister, Niamh.”
Conor bowed his head, afraid to look her in the face. “Descriptions have not done you justice, my lady.”
“Nor you, my lord.” The press of Niamh’s lips into a thin line belied her practiced tone. Her eyes slid over him before she turned her attention back to her own wine goblet.
Gainor pushed himself away from the table and settled into the empty seat on Conor’s other side. “Don’t mind her. We mere mortals are beneath her notice. Now, you don’t need to learn everyone’s name right away, but I’ll at least tell you who to hide from.”
Gainor waited for the last servant to move away, then attacked the sumptuous-looking food loading his plate. Conor picked at the food while Calhoun’s brother pointed out various guests.
“That right there”—Gainor indicated a handsome young man with night-black hair—“is Keondric Mac Eirhinin, lord of Rathmór, Faolán’s largest holding besides the king’s. His clan has always supported Mac Cuillinn even though Clan Eirhinin has royal blood. He’s the wealthiest man in Faolán besides Calhoun.”
“So should I avoid him or grovel before him?”
“Don’t worry. He’s far too rich and important to be bothered with the likes of you.”
Conor grinned. He picked out a hard-looking older man with graying hair and sharp features. He reminded Conor of Galbraith’s lords. “What about him?”
“Good eye. Avoid him. He hates everyone except Niamh. He’s had designs on her for years.”
“But he’s old enough to be her father!”
“His son’s old enough to be her father. All the same, don’t get cornered by him. Lord Duggan has a terrible temper.”
“Duly noted.”
Conor’s plate looked more appetizing as his stomach unclenched, the unexpected empathy lifting his spirits.
He scanned the room again, and his eyes fell on a girl he was sure had not been there moments before. She was unremarkable but for a mane of shiny hair that fell in a sheet around her shoulders. Her pale green silk gown clearly hadn’t been made for her—it hung off her small frame and clashed with the honey color of her hair. She glanced in his direction, and their eyes locked. Her gaze pinned Conor in his seat. A chill, not altogether unpleasant, rippled over his skin.
“Who’s that?” he choked out, finally daring to break the connection.
Gainor followed Conor’s gaze. “Aine, our half sister. I hadn’t thought she would attend.”
“I didn’t know you had another sister.”
“Our mother married an Aronan chieftain after our father, the king, died. We hardly knew Aine, but since both her parents have passed, Calhoun invited her to live at Lisdara. I’ll introduce you tomorrow. You’re of an age, I think.”
Conor nodded mutely, his mind returning to the odd sensation that stretched between them. Was he so naive about women he could be struck speechless by two of them in the same evening? No, he had been taken by Niamh’s beauty, but this was something completely different. He felt as if he knew Aine, even though he was sure he had never seen her before tonight. He dared another glance in her direction, but her place was now vacant.
For the rest of the meal, Gainor entertained him with witty stories about other feasts and carefully un
named guests, though the chill emanating from Niamh was almost palpable. She’d probably expected far more from the son of a Timhaigh king. He could hardly blame her for being disappointed. He fell short of his own expectations most of the time.
The noise in the hall died abruptly as a man dragged a chair to the foot of the dais. He was unassuming, dressed in well-made but drab clothing, his dark hair touched with gray. Only when he produced a stunning walnut harp did Conor realize he was not a servant. Anticipation fell heavily in the hall, the silence unbroken even by the rustle of clothing.
“The bard, Meallachán of Killary,” Gainor whispered.
Conor barely heard him. He had never dreamed he would be sitting a handful of feet away from the most celebrated bard in Seare.
Meallachán took his time tuning the harp, then began a plaintive melody that felt both familiar and wondrously new, his fingers flying over the strings. When he began to sing in a mellifluous tenor that enriched and deepened the ethereal sound of the harp, Conor at last understood the reason for the bard’s renown. Calling both Conor and Meallachán musicians was like classifying both a raindrop and an ocean as water.
The melody washed over him as his eyes drifted closed. His heart ached at the sheer beauty of the music, and his fingers itched to take up a harp and join its voice to the harmony. He settled for committing each note to memory with the hope of later reproducing even a fraction of that wondrous sound. When the last notes died away, he opened his eyes in time to see Gainor wipe tears from his cheeks.
Conor met the gaze with his own blurred eyes, and the king’s brother smiled sheepishly. Even Niamh looked moved. As the bard launched into a folk tune meant to break the melody’s spell, Conor glanced down the table and saw Calhoun watching him thoughtfully.
The king gave him a slight nod, then turned his attention back to the bard, leaving Conor to wonder exactly how much of his soul he had bared on his face when he thought no one was looking.
Oath of the Brotherhood Page 4
