Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  “Can you fight, too?” Conor asked.

  She shrugged. “I have some talent for archery, but I never really applied myself to it.”

  Conor’s lips twitched at the thought of the tiny girl drawing a war bow nearly her full height, but her frown made him bury his amusement as quickly as it had come.

  “Can we get back to the topic?” Treasach tried valiantly to revive the debate, but he was wise enough to know when he was defeated and dismissed them for dinner.

  Conor followed Aine into the corridor. “Are you going to the hall?”

  “I have to see Mistress Bearrach,” she said, regret plain in her voice. “I’ll see you later.”

  Without Aine’s company, dinner in the hall seemed much less appealing, so Conor returned to his room instead. He was probably the only man who found a woman’s knowledge of ancient battle tactics irresistible. Still, few boys in Tigh possessed Conor’s extensive education, and the idea Aine was more than a match for him intrigued him.

  When he entered his chamber, Dolan’s expression said something significant had happened. “You’re to meet Meallachán in the music room after dinner. He’s agreed to take you on as a student.”

  Conor’s stomach flipped. Calhoun had said he would arrange it, but when was the last time a king followed through on a promise like that? And how had Conor thought he could meet the standards of a master like Meallachán?

  His anxiety only intensified as he climbed the stairs to the upper-floor music room. There Meallachán sat alone on a stool, tuning a lute and looking deceptively ordinary in his plain tunic.

  Conor cleared his throat. “Master Meallachán?”

  “What do you think?” Meallachán plucked a string.

  “It’s a bit sharp,” Conor said hesitantly.

  The bard gave the pin a minute adjustment and plucked it again. “Better. Come, have a seat.”

  Up close, Meallachán looked older than he had thought, perhaps fifty, even though his wiry build and unlined face gave him the look of a much younger man. He handled the lute with a grace and surety that somehow reminded Conor of a master swordsman.

  “I hear you play?”

  Conor averted his eyes. Compared to Meallachán, he could hardly claim to be a musician. “Not really. Just a bit of the harp on my own.”

  “We’ll start with the cruit, then. It’s less complicated than the harp, but no less satisfying.”

  Conor nodded mutely. If the man asked him to bang the cook’s cauldron like a drum, he wouldn’t question it. Never mind the harp in the corner beckoned to him like an old friend.

  A light rap sounded at the door, and it creaked open. Aine slipped into the room, her expression sheepish. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Meallachán waved her in with a smile. “You’re not late. We’re just getting started.”

  Conor swallowed his nervousness. He hadn’t expected an audience. Embarrassing himself in front of Meallachán was one thing. Failing before Aine was another.

  “I have to warn you I’ve been pronounced hopeless,” Aine said. “You may regret taking me on before it’s all done.”

  “Nonsense. Anyone can learn given enough practice.” Meallachán guided Aine to a stool beside Conor and then produced two plainly crafted cruits: pear-shaped, long-necked instruments with six strings, their soundboards burnished by years of inexperienced hands.

  The bard began their lesson by naming the notes each string produced and demonstrating different scales. Then he showed them how to play the notes by plucking or strumming. Conor, though he had never touched a cruit, produced crisp, clear sounds, garnering a pleased nod from Meallachán.

  “A natural, indeed,” the bard said.

  When it came to Aine’s turn, however, she produced only a sickly twang. Meallachán adjusted her fingering until the notes sang truer, but frustration shone on her face.

  Meallachán taught a simple melody next, which Conor picked up with ease. Aine still struggled. She frowned, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her lips. Then her finger slipped from a string, and she bit back an oath.

  It was so out of character, Conor burst into laughter. Aine’s eyes widened, her cheeks going pink. Her dismay only made Conor laugh harder.

  “I told you I was hopeless! Please, Master Meallachán, may I just sit and listen?”

  “If that’s what you wish,” the bard said with a gentle smile. “I’m still willing to teach you.”

  “Respectfully, I just didn’t want to insult the king by rejecting his offer.”

  Meallachán nodded and returned to Conor’s lesson, giving him progressively more difficult exercises. “Are you sure you haven’t studied before?”

  “Not the cruit.”

  By the end of the lesson, some of Conor’s awe had faded. The bard was humble and utterly without artifice, genuinely pleased to share his knowledge. As Labhrás liked to say, important men demanded respect. Great men earned it.

  Meallachán had earned it.

  After the lesson, Aine followed Conor into the hallway. “Why did you lie to him?”

  “I didn’t! I’ve never studied the cruit. I do play the harp a little, but it seemed wrong not to learn what he wanted to teach me. Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  Conor smiled again, remembering her involuntary outburst. “After this morning, it’s nice to see there’s something you aren’t good at. I thought Treasach was going to die of apoplexy when you started talking about flying wedges and flanking maneuvers.”

  “You’re one to talk.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’d be careful he doesn’t try to bundle you back to Loch Laraigh. Besides, it seems hardly fair you know my weakness, and I don’t know yours.”

  “Then tag along when Gainor starts my sword training. I can practically guarantee you’ll have more talent at that than me. At least not being able to play the cruit won’t get you killed.”

  Aine stopped and turned that knowing gaze in his direction. “The world doesn’t need more warriors, Conor. There’s quite enough fighting without you contributing to it.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected that, given your education.”

  “There are good reasons to fight. I just fail to see the wisdom in forcing everyone into the warrior mold whether they fit or not.”

  “You sound like Lord Labhrás.”

  Now a mischievous light glinted in her eyes. “Lord Labhrás must be a wise man.”

  “Aye, he is.”

  They started walking again, until Aine drew up short of the staircase. Conor touched her hand, just a nudge. “Thank you.”

  Aine looked down in surprise. Then she nodded, her eyes finding his in a moment of wordless understanding. Conor watched her descend the steps until she disappeared from sight. He had just admitted his greatest weakness to her, and it mattered no more than a missed note on an old cruit.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Conor settled into life at Lisdara with surprising ease. Each morning before breakfast, he joined Aine in the stone chapel behind the keep to listen to Treasach or Iuchbar teach from the Holy Canon. Aine never asked him about his faith, but her searching looks said she suspected his attendance was not merely for show.

  Afterward, they breakfasted with the king and his siblings and then moved on to their studies with the priests. Iuchbar was knowledgeable, but he favored repetition and lecture over discussion. Conor preferred Treasach’s enthusiastic debates, which most often focused on ancient Seare.

  Despite the pleasure he took in worship and study, though, it was Aine’s presence that filled him with anticipation when he rose each morning. She was intelligent and witty, and she understood his thoughts without explanation. Yet they rarely strayed to personal topics. Conor sensed there were things she couldn’t bring herself to share with him. Perhaps she was just reluctant to disturb their easy companionship, or perhaps she knew, as Conor did, his presence at Lisdara was only temporary.

  On the afternoons he didn’t study with Meallachán, Conor accompa
nied Aine to the small, walled garden beside Mistress Bearrach’s clochan and helped her weed the neat rows. Here, she was in command. Conor followed her directions precisely, astounded by her knowledge of herbs and their uses, though he spent at least as much time admiring her as working. When she caught him watching her, her cheeks would color, but she’d give him a dazzling smile that made his stomach turn backflips.

  Only the snippets of gossip Dolan brought back disturbed the calm, steady flow of his life. Calhoun was still officially considering offers for Niamh’s hand, but once Lord Keondric presented his suit, the other men stepped back in deference. The royal bloodlines hadn’t been joined in centuries, for both practical and political reasons, but Calhoun seemed to be seriously considering the union. Niamh gave no indication whether she was pleased or upset by the possibility, but at least the distraction left her with even less interest in Conor than before.

  Further afield, the news was less benign. Reports of increasingly frequent Sofarende raids came from across the sea, though so far, Gwydden was holding them off. This was not necessarily good news. Should Gwydden prove too difficult to conquer, Galbraith’s fears of an invasion could become a reality.

  Still, Lisdara’s predictable pace erased some of the wariness that had been Conor’s constant companion since leaving Balurnan. Had anyone asked him, he would have said he was happy.

  Then at breakfast one morning in early summer, Calhoun announced, “We’ve delayed long enough. It’s time to begin your training. Your father expects you to show some skill with a blade, and we’ve neglected the matter too long.”

  Conor’s stomach lurched. At least it would be just Gainor and not the whole guard.

  As they departed for their morning lessons, Aine peered into his face. “Is it really that bad?”

  “I’ve never even held a sword.” The mere thought made Conor queasy.

  “If you’ve never held a sword, how do you know you’re no good at it?”

  “I know.”

  Aine just laughed. “Do you want me to come? I’ve had some training, but I’m really terrible. It could be fun.”

  The idea of gentle Aine with a sword in hand made him smile. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course I would!” She grinned. “Come on. We can laugh about our ineptitude at supper, and if you’re still feeling bad, I’ll serenade you with the cruit.”

  “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

  Conor’s mood brightened, even though the tiny girl’s lack of fighting ability hardly mitigated his own failures. Even if she someday inherited her clan’s leadership, her personal guard would protect her. When would she ever be called to take up a sword?

  Conor didn’t actually expect her to come, but when he arrived at the large room Gainor had designated for lessons, she waited with a wooden practice sword in hand.

  “It suits you,” Conor said, grinning. “The warrior-healer.”

  Gainor, on the other hand, burst into laughter when he arrived. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “I’m here to train,” Aine said. “You don’t think I can manage?”

  “Oh, I think you could manage quite well. I also think Calhoun would have my head. Go have a seat out of the way if you want to watch.”

  Aine rolled her eyes at Conor, but she took a seat on a nearby stool. Conor shot her a smile. Surprisingly, he felt no desire to have her leave.

  Gainor began by teaching stance, grip, and guard positions. They progressed to simple strikes and parries, and although Conor’s movements felt stiff and awkward, he managed to complete them without falling on his face. Then they moved on to a simple, choreographed bout meant to demonstrate the flow of movements. Conor kept up admirably until he forgot to block one of Gainor’s crossway slashes, and the wooden blade smacked into his neck.

  “Ouch!” Conor’s sword clattered to the ground.

  “What did you do wrong?”

  “I forgot how to parry.” Conor glanced at Aine, expecting to see a grin at his poor showing. Instead, she stared at him, pale and trembling. “Aine? Are you all right?”

  Aine blinked. “What? Oh, I just . . . I don’t feel so well. I’m going to get some air.” She slid from the stool and rushed out the door.

  What was that about? For a moment, Aine had looked as if she were seeing right through him.

  “Back to work,” Gainor said. “Let’s take it more slowly.”

  Conor fared no better the second time, his mind returning to Aine’s odd behavior.

  Gainor finally pronounced him hopelessly distracted and dismissed him for the day, though he actually seemed pleased. “We may make a fighter out of you yet.”

  The world doesn’t need any more fighters, Conor thought, but he merely bowed and headed off in search of Aine.

  Aine stumbled from the keep, her heart pounding. Her excuse hadn’t fooled Conor, but the truth was even more unbelievable. Only once she reached the privacy of the clochan’s enclosed garden did she manage a steady breath.

  Lord, what did I see?

  The instant Gainor’s sword had connected with Conor’s neck, the practice room had disappeared, a forest scene in its place. Conor, looking much as he did now, knelt on the mossy ground, a gleaming blade at his throat. Recalling his expression sent another spasm of horror through her. It had been the terrified and resigned look of someone about to die.

  Just because she saw it didn’t mean it was going to happen. Maybe it was symbolic, a warning. She should tell Conor what she had seen. If he didn’t go into the forest, he would never be in danger. But what if knowing of her vision actually brought it about?

  Aine covered her face with her hands and drew a deep, shuddering breath. This was why she concealed her gifts. Mistress Bearrach knew about her insight into her patients, but that knowledge could bring no harm to others. If Calhoun knew she sometimes saw the future, he might be tempted to make decisions based on her imperfect visions. Kings had been led astray by far less. She could not risk anyone learning the truth.

  Even if it meant Conor might die.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to whom?”

  Aine jerked her head up. Conor stood at the garden entrance, his forehead creased in concern.

  “I was just muttering nonsense,” she said. “Why are you here?”

  “I was worried about you.” He picked his way through the rows of plants. “Don’t tell me you have a headache. I know you too well for that.”

  Aine bit her lip, tempted to spill out the whole story. She may have only known him for a handful of weeks, but her heart told her he would never betray her.

  No. She couldn’t risk it. He was a Mac Nir, after all. Who knew what could happen if his father found out? She closed her eyes. “Please, Conor, don’t make me lie to you.”

  When she opened them again, curiosity and hurt played across his expression, but he only said, “As long as it wasn’t sheer horror over my ineptitude.”

  “No, it wasn’t that at all. You made a respectable showing for your first lesson.”

  “Maybe.” Conor smiled at her. “Come on. Let’s go snatch some pastries from the kitchen.”

  She returned the smile and moved toward the gate. Before they could step through, he grasped her arm and tugged her back gently.

  His touch seared her skin through her sleeve and sent a shiver through her entire body. He stared into her eyes, his intensity making her breath catch. “You can trust me, Aine. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know.” Her heart flopped over painfully in her chest.

  His hand slid down her arm and squeezed her fingers so quickly she might have imagined it. “Good. Let’s go back.”

  Aine followed him back to the keep, struggling to make sense of the sudden surge of feelings. Her world had shifted in a single instant, and she had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

  The cook surrendered the meat pies willingly, and they stood in a back
corridor to eat them, laughing at the bits of pastry that clung to their clothing and hands. When it was time to part ways—Aine to her lessons with Mistress Bearrach and Conor to the music room—he could barely pull himself away.

  As Conor climbed the stairs, though, the memory of her words in the garden resurfaced, leaving him more confused than ever. Something was wrong. He should be pleased Aine hadn’t tried to deny it, but the irrational part of him only saw she didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth.

  And why should she? He was Timhaigh. She’d known him for only a few months.

  The music room lay empty. Once more, the harp called to him, but he ignored it and took up the cruit instead. He still couldn’t bring himself to play the harp at Lisdara. To create real music in a place was like deciding to call it home. Succumbing to that desire would only make it that much harder to leave when the time came.

  Conor picked out a tune of his own making, halting and imperfect and hampered by the cruit’s six strings when the music in his head demanded the harp’s twenty-eight. He layered the melody with counterpoints and variations until he could play something that approximated his feelings. He was so absorbed in his tune he didn’t notice the man standing inside the doorway.

  “That sounds like a love song,” Meallachán said.

  Conor broke off the song. “Almost. It’s not quite what I heard in my head.”

  Meallachán nodded solemnly and made his way to the other chair a few feet away. “It’s a gift, you know. Music. And I don’t mean a gift like being able to craft a verse of poetry or construct a stained-glass window. It’s a gift, one of the few things left of Comdiu’s perfect world. One Balus gave to His believers when He restored our connection to Comdiu through His death.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Meallachán took the other cruit from the stand and began to pluck out an idle melody. Even that thoughtless, simple tune was beautiful. “Before man was created, Comdiu made the beings known as the Companions, perfect creations that lived to glorify Him. They praised Him with music and singing so magnificent mortal ears could not bear it.