Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The Mac Cuillinn has invited you to breakfast in his chambers.”

  Conor rolled over and rubbed his eyes. He had slept deeply and dreamlessly for the first time since leaving Balurnan, but he still felt tired. Sunlight already cast kaleidoscopic patterns through the stained-glass window.

  “I’m to dine with Calhoun? Why?”

  Dolan fixed Conor with a hard stare. “He’s the king. He needn’t explain himself.”

  Conor threw back the blankets. “Something understated then. Best to show a full measure of humility.”

  Twenty minutes later, dressed in a simple tunic belted over a saffron-dyed linen shirt, he followed a servant through the maze of hallways to the opposite side of the keep. When they came to a closed door at the end of the corridor, the servant knocked lightly and pushed the door open. Conor took a halting step inside.

  The king and his three siblings sat at a small, rectangular table near the windows. Calhoun glanced up and waved casually at an empty seat. “Conor, come. The tea’s getting cold.”

  Conor wordlessly slipped into the vacant seat beside Niamh, directly across from Aine. Calhoun nudged the earthenware pot in his direction before he resumed his conversation with Gainor about the honey production in Lisdara’s hives, but neither girl gave any sign of awareness of his presence.

  His ears burned as he poured tepid liquid into an empty cup. He clearly didn’t belong here. Why had Calhoun invited him if no one was going to even acknowledge him? To his relief, several servants chose that moment to arrive with their breakfast: warm oatcakes with honey and butter, poached fish, and fried quail eggs. At least if he was eating, he wouldn’t be expected to make polite conversation.

  Calhoun looked up from his conversation as if seeing him for the first time. “Conor. Have you met my other sister, Aine?”

  Aine’s gaze flicked to Conor’s face. Her eyes were the same quicksilver gray as Niamh’s, dark-lashed and intelligent. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. She was not nearly as plain as he had first thought. Then he remembered Calhoun’s question and stammered out, “Uh, no, I haven’t had the pleasure. My lady.”

  Aine dipped her head and offered a reserved smile before returning to her meal. Calhoun looked between the two of them with a thoughtful expression. The Mac Cuillinn was far too perceptive.

  “I like to breakfast with my family when I’m at Lisdara,” Calhoun said. “You are not obligated to join us, but know you’re welcome at my table.”

  Conor swallowed. “Thank you, my lord. You’re very generous.”

  “Not at all. Now, there’s a matter we must discuss.”

  Conor’s heart beat harder at the ominous statement, but he kept his expression blank.

  “We value education in my household. Brothers Treasach and Iuchbar have generously come from the monastery at Loch Laraigh for that purpose, and I think you will find them as knowledgeable as your tutors back home.

  “On the matter of your sword training, Gainor and I have agreed it can wait until you settle in. After that, Gainor will work with you himself until you feel comfortable joining the men in the yard.”

  Conor supposed he should be embarrassed by how keen Calhoun’s measure of him had been, but he couldn’t summon anything but relief.

  “In the meantime,” the king continued, “you’ll have your afternoons free to pursue your own interests. I thought perhaps you might spend some time with Meallachán.”

  This time, Conor could not keep his shock from his face. “Meallachán?”

  Calhoun arched a brow. “Did I get that wrong? I guessed you were a musician.”

  “No. I am. At least, I try. But Meallachán?”

  “It’s your choice. None of my siblings have the talent or the inclination, and it seems a shame not to take advantage of his willingness to teach.”

  “It would be a great honor,” Conor managed at last. “Thank you, truly.”

  Calhoun waved off Conor’s thanks. “Good, that’s settled. Now, I believe Treasach is expecting you three in the library.”

  Niamh rose immediately, but Aine didn’t move. Instead, she addressed her brother in a surprisingly deep, Aronan-accented voice. “By your leave, Calhoun, Mistress Bearrach asked me to go to Fionncill this morning.”

  “As long as Ruarc accompanies you,” Calhoun said.

  “Thank you.” Aine’s brilliant smile lit her entire face and once more shattered Conor’s train of thought. “I’m looking forward to putting my studies into practice.”

  Calhoun gestured to the older sister. “Niamh, you can show Conor to the library then.”

  Niamh shot Conor a pointed look, and he leapt to his feet, his chair’s legs shrieking against the stone floor. He gave Calhoun a hasty bow. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The king waved him away once more, and Conor followed Niamh back into the hallway. His awe faded with each step. Niamh might be beautiful, but she was also sullen and rude. Aine, on the other hand, merely seemed reserved.

  That smile, though, had been anything but shy. Who was Mistress Bearrach to elicit that sort of reaction? And what sort of business did she have outside Lisdara?

  He certainly couldn’t ask Niamh. Even if she did deign to speak with him, she seemed no friendlier with her half sister than she was with him. Instead, he fumbled to fill the silence. “What exactly do Treasach and Iuchbar teach?”

  “Treasach’s specialty is languages, history, and geography. Iuchbar teaches mathematics and law.”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “Languages.” A chilly half smile formed on her lips. “I wouldn’t worry if you don’t take to it. From what I hear, a Mac Nir needs only wield a sword.”

  Heat rushed to Conor’s cheeks. She had obviously guessed what the delay in Conor’s training meant. A surge of defensiveness propelled his next words—in Norin. “Normally, you would be right. But my education has been somewhat unconventional.”

  Niamh stared at him, uncomprehending.

  He switched to Levantine. “The language of the Kebarans perhaps?”

  Another blank stare. Finally, he said in the common tongue, “I wouldn’t worry about it. From what I hear, a Faolanaigh princess need only be sweet and biddable to catch a husband.”

  Niamh’s expression hardened. He hadn’t thought it possible for her to look any colder. Inwardly, he cursed his impulsiveness when she picked up her pace, forcing him to nearly run after her.

  When they arrived at the library door, Niamh looked at him pointedly, and it took a moment to understand what she wanted. He jerked the door open, and she brushed past him without a glance.

  Lisdara’s library was twice the size of Balurnan’s, high-ceilinged and packed with books. Small square tables, each with two chairs, had been placed strategically around the room. Niamh sat at one of them, her glare warning Conor away from the empty seat beside her. He chose another spot and turned his attention to his new teacher.

  One thing seemed certain about Treasach: priesthood was a recent avocation. In contrast to the soft, contemplative look of the priests he’d encountered, Treasach was built like a fighter, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, with large, scarred hands. The scholar’s queue at the nape of his neck struck Conor as a ridiculous disguise, like putting a collar on a warhorse and calling it a hunting dog.

  His smile of welcome was genuine, though, and he approached Conor with an outstretched hand. “You must be Conor. Welcome. I’m Brother Treasach.”

  “Thank you.” Conor gave him something halfway between a nod and a bow. “I’m looking forward to returning to my studies.”

  “Good! Let’s begin then. I take it Lady Aine’s not coming?”

  “She had other business. The Mac Cuillinn approved.”

  Treasach nodded and retrieved a large tome from the table. To Conor’s relief, the topic was not language, but history, specifically Ciraean social and political structure. Within minutes, Treasach had drawn Conor into a lively debate about the merits of republ
ican and monarchical rule.

  “Seareanns have combined the best of both methods,” Conor said. “The Senate never could have accomplished what the emperor did because they spent too much time debating theoretical topics. Likewise, Cira had too many tyrannical rulers for the people to ever fully embrace such a method of government.”

  Treasach smiled wryly. “You do realize the Seareann kingdoms are monarchies?”

  “Of course. But even in Daimhin’s time, the clans were free to rule themselves and elect their own kings, while having the advantage of a higher authority to settle disputes, make peace, and organize an army.”

  “So you’re a proponent of reinstating the High Kingship?”

  Conor hesitated. “I think there are some tactical advantages to centralized rule, especially in times of war. But it would take a catastrophe of unprecedented proportions to bring it about now.”

  “Well put, Conor.” Treasach gave a satisfied nod. “Have you aspirations of politics then?”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  Treasach smiled and closed the book. “I think that’s enough for today. I’ll see you, and hopefully Aine, tomorrow.”

  Conor rose from his seat and moved toward Niamh. Rude or not, she deserved an apology for his harsh words. But she rushed from the room before he could reach her.

  “Give her time,” Treasach said softly at Conor’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.”

  Conor wasn’t so sure. If he hadn’t let his anger get the better of him, he wouldn’t have to work twice as hard to win her over. As he left the library, though, he remembered her dismay at being seated with him at the feast. Somehow, he doubted anything he did would make her view him with less than contempt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aine Nic Tamhais left Calhoun’s study with a distinct uneasiness in her stomach. Truthfully, the sensation had not been far from her since coming to Lisdara four months before.

  Her father, Alsandair Mac Tamhais, had always spoken of Seare as a wild place, barely one step removed from its pagan roots, enmeshed in magic both dark and mysterious. Aronans thought themselves highly civilized and pragmatic, an affectation that made them closed-minded about anything that hinted at the supernatural. Lord Balus’s coming had ended the need for magic, they said, and anyone who practiced it must serve a darker power.

  Aine’s pace quickened as she returned to the chamber she shared with Niamh. Magic hung heavy over Seare. She had felt it as soon as she set foot on the dock: the pulse of a pure, brilliant power, and beneath it, a sinuous strand of something older and much darker. That same darkness lingered in the forest beyond Lisdara, and sometimes she felt it seeking, testing the protections woven into the keep’s walls. No one else seemed to notice the invisible battle that waged beyond, though, and admitting her sensitivity would only bring unwanted scrutiny. Even the ancient healer, Mistress Bearrach, did not know Aine’s secrets, but the longer she studied with her, the more difficult they were to conceal.

  Oonagh, the lady’s maid she shared with Niamh, was folding clothes into a large oak chest when Aine entered her chamber. “My lady! I thought you were at your lessons!”

  “I’m riding with Mistress Bearrach this morning. Will you send for Ruarc? I can find my riding clothes.”

  Oonagh curtsied in acknowledgement and hurried from the room. Aine took her time selecting a brown wool dress and a lightweight cloak from the wardrobe. She had just pulled on the clothing when a familiar rap sounded at the door. She slid a sheathed knife onto her belt and buckled it quickly, then swept the cloak around her shoulders. When she opened the door, Ruarc lounged against the opposite wall.

  Aine had known her Seareann bodyguard for so long it was hard to see him as others did, but objectively, his mere presence was enough to discourage untoward thoughts. Middle-aged, but as lean and strong as he had been in his early years, Ruarc projected restrained menace, like a viper poised to strike.

  He was the gentlest soul she had ever met. He could also kill remorselessly with the proper provocation. The latter was likely why Lady Ailís, with her last breath, had passed his duty to Aine. Ruarc never questioned the matter. He had merely appeared at her side, and he had not left it since.

  “You look troubled,” he said, falling into step beside her. “What is it?”

  “The same as always.”

  Ruarc fingered the dagger at his belt, a sure sign he was troubled. “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come here. You’ve been unsettled since we arrived in Faolán.”

  “And what was there left in Aron? Mother’s dead.” Aine swallowed the lump in her throat. Six months was not long enough to dim her sense of loss. She steadied her voice and continued, “Aunt Macha has no use for me. She tolerated me for Father’s sake. If she found out . . .”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just harder to ignore certain aspects of my talents here than it was in Aron.”

  They emerged into the bright morning sunlight and started across the courtyard to the beehive-shaped clochan, a stone remnant of a more primitive age that now served as Mistress Bearrach’s residence.

  “It’s more than that, isn’t it?” Ruarc said, his brow furrowing as he studied her. “Something else is bothering you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  But it wasn’t nothing. The Mac Nir boy disturbed her. She couldn’t look at him without feeling the subtle hum of energy, a stronger, brighter version of the threads underpinning Faolán. Worse yet, she had dreamed of him in Aron the night before Calhoun’s invitation arrived. She had been poised to decline until she was struck with the certainty that that boy waited for her in Lisdara. Instead, the words had spilled out, “Tell my brother I’ll come.”

  Ruarc’s frown deepened. “My duty is to protect you, Aine. If you hold things back, it makes my job much harder.”

  Aine forced a smile and put a light hand on his arm. “I have full confidence in you.” A pity his particular skills would be of no help in this situation.

  Just as they arrived at the clochan, the door sprang open. An elderly, white-haired woman scowled at them from the threshold. “What took you so long?”

  “Forgive us,” Aine said, aware that Ruarc was struggling against a smile. He found Mistress Bearrach’s ill temper more amusing than she did. Then again, he didn’t bear the brunt of it. Still, the old healer knew more medicine and herb lore than a dozen of the clan’s physicians, and Aine had already learned more from her in four months than in two years with her aunt’s knowledgeable, but skeptical, practitioners.

  Mistress Bearrach thrust a bulging leather sack at Ruarc. “There, young man, carry this for me and go get our horses. Go on, I’m not getting any younger, you know. At this rate, I’ll be dead before you return.”

  Ruarc hid a grin and jogged back across the courtyard to where a boy waited with three blanketed horses.

  “Thank you for allowing me to accompany you today,” Aine said.

  Mistress Bearrach harrumphed. “Just don’t kill anyone. That’s one mistake I can’t fix.”

  Ruarc returned with their horses then, saving Aine from answering. He helped the healer mount first and then gave Aine a leg up onto her own mare. The horse danced nervously beneath her, obviously sensing she was a barely competent rider. Mistress Bearrach, by contrast, seemed as comfortable atop her mount as on her own feet, despite the fact horses were not common in Seare outside the palaces of kings.

  The horses’ hooves thudded on packed earth as they made their way down the steep switchbacks with Mistress Bearrach in the lead. At the bottom, the old woman turned due south onto a trail that was little more than a few hoof prints in the grass. Aine would have missed it had she not been following the healer so closely. After a few minutes of open meadow, the trees began to grow more thickly, forming the young forest that bordered Seanrós. Aine shivered at the touch of magic on her skin.

  Mistress Bearrach cast a glance over her shoulder. “You feel it, do you? Good. You’re not a total disap
pointment.”

  Aine’s eyebrows lifted. Perhaps Mistress Bearrach saw more than she let on.

  They traveled slowly through the border woods, breathing in the heavy scent of damp earth and vegetation. After nearly an hour, the small trail joined a larger road, and the trees again thinned into rolling countryside.

  Aine drew a deep breath, and her earlier tension began to melt away in the quiet. Peat smoke drifted faintly on the breeze, wafting from the hearths of the whitewashed cottages in the distance. Ivory-fleeced sheep with black faces grazed freely, unhindered by enclosures. A cow lifted its head and lowed softly as they passed.

  Up ahead, the road widened into a large area of hard-packed dirt. A square building with a shingled, peaked roof loomed before them, the lime-washed wickerwork and great three-spoked wheel identifying it as a church.

  “This is Fionncill,” Mistress Bearrach said.

  “Only this?” Compared to Aine’s birthplace, Forrais, this smattering of cottages and pastureland hardly qualified as a village.

  A throng closed around them as they rode into the square. There were women in rough-spun skirts and wool shawls, tending dozens of children among them. Frail elders, propped up by daughters and grandsons. Men wrapped in bandages or wracked with coughing. Aine threw a panicked glance at Ruarc. So many patients, so many expectations. How could they possibly tend them all?

  Ruarc dismounted first and helped her down from her horse. As soon as Aine’s feet touched the ground, several children began tugging at her clothes.

  “Are you really the king’s sister?” A tow-headed girl, perhaps six years old, looked up at Aine with wide blue eyes.

  “I am. My name is Aine. What’s yours?”

  “Mara, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and smiled shyly.

  A little boy, who had been hiding behind Mara’s skirts, popped to Aine’s side. “Are you going to fix my mama?”