“But some of the Companions were not satisfied with this existence. They coveted Comdiu’s power. A Companion named Arkiel led an uprising against Comdiu, which of course failed. Rather than destroy them, Comdiu banished them from His presence.
“When Comdiu created man in His image, Arkiel desired to rule over these creatures that were so like the Master he despised. He and his followers worked subtly to turn man against his Creator.
“Arkiel’s power over this world grew stronger until Comdiu sent His son, Balus, a sacrifice that broke the Adversary’s hold. His death reconciled fallen man to Comdiu, and with it opened access to a small piece of His power. Music—true music, a reflection of the divine praise of heaven—is part of that power.”
Conor listened raptly. He had never heard the Balian story of creation told this way. Music was a piece of a perfect world? No wonder it held so much resonance with him.
“Only a few have been chosen,” Meallachán said, “to possess the gift of music in its purest form—goodness that drives away the darkness. Daimhin himself was the greatest of them. But not all who have the gift recognize it.”
Conor looked down at the cruit in his hands. “You’re saying I have this gift?”
“You tell me, son.”
He remembered Labhrás’s reaction to his playing at Glenmallaig. “Why would He choose me? The Timhaigh adhere to the Old Ways.”
“Do you not follow Balus?”
Conor had skirted the issue since coming to Lisdara, but he could avoid it no longer. He gave a single nod.
“I’ll let you think on that then. And perfect your song.”
Conor remained on the stool, the cruit still in his hands. He knew it was true. Perhaps he had always known it. Was that why Riordan had insisted he foster with Labhrás, so his gift could be nurtured? Had he somehow guessed Conor possessed this ability?
And how did he explain all this talk of magic and the Fíréin and gifts of the Great Kingdom? He’d been raised not to believe in coincidence, only providence. So what did Comdiu expect from him?
Meallachán and the priests joined them in the hall for supper that night. Normally, Conor relished their lively conversation, but far too much had happened that day to join in. Aine’s gaze lit on him repeatedly, but whenever he glanced over, her eyes darted away.
While servants cleared the supper plates, Meallachán retrieved his harp and settled into a chair. Once again, Conor marveled at the craftsmanship of the magnificent instrument, his fingers tingling at the thought of touching those strings.
Meallachán smiled at him as if he knew his thoughts. “What shall we hear tonight? A ballad of unrequited love? A tale of heroism? Or do you fancy some dancing?”
“Play something from the Great Kingdom,” Conor said.
Eyebrows rose around the table, but Meallachán nodded graciously and set his hands to the strings.
Conor had thought Meallachán’s first composition was moving, but it paled in comparison to the melody that now spilled from the harp. Music from the heavens, Conor thought, older than time itself. He let the song wash over him until his heart swelled to bursting, and it took him a long moment after it ended to join the applause.
He had barely regained his composure when Meallachán asked, “What about you, Conor? Would you like to have a try?”
The blood drained from his face, and the pounding in his ears nearly drummed out his answer. “I couldn’t,” he heard himself say faintly. “Not after that.”
Aine touched his arm gently. “Please?”
One minute, he was taking in Aine’s hopeful expression, and the next he was seated in Meallachán’s chair. Reverently, he accepted the harp from the bard, then sucked in his breath. The instrument throbbed with unseen energy that crackled along his skin like the warning of an impending lightning strike. Conor brushed his fingers over the twenty-eight strings that made up the full, rich sound he had so desperately missed in the cruit, and his frantic pulse calmed.
Forgetting the expectant eyes upon him, he began to play.
Aine felt the yearning in Conor beside her, his eyes fixed on the bard. Apparently, Meallachán sensed it as well. When Conor wavered, she knew it would take only a quiet request to push him from his indecision.
As he prepared, he looked nothing like the perpetually uncertain boy she had come to know. His face relaxed, his eyes going distant, and he handled the instrument with both a respect and a surety she had seen only in the bard himself.
At first, he coaxed a soft, tentative melody from a few strings. A chill rippled over her skin, similar to the bolt of energy she had felt when she first saw him. The song gradually built and broadened, as he added layer upon layer of complexity. Aine closed her eyes, and images came unbidden.
Conor, a young child at his mother’s knee, watching her play the harp and yearning to touch the instrument. A harsh, discordant run of notes—violence distantly remembered. Longing, loss, and at last acceptance and understanding in the strict tutelage of a man Aine guessed was Lord Labhrás. Fear and loneliness . . .
. . . and a beckoning of something darker, sinister and yet seductive, battling for his soul. She recognized the dark magic of the isle. Brilliant light battered back the shadowy tendrils, but they always remained, a counterpoint to the brighter notes.
Then came a mixture of love, fear, and longing. He was playing his present here at Lisdara, imbuing the music with a constant battle of hope and uncertainty. A repeated motif anchored the wild scattering of runs that spiraled off the melody, then drew them inexorably back. From the way it gripped her heart, Aine knew it had to symbolize her. Just when she thought she could bear no more, the music faded, the last chord reverberating with longing and inevitability.
Conor remained still, his hands on the strings and his eyes closed. Sweat beaded on his brow. Aine blinked to clear the fog from her vision and realized it was tears. A quick glance around the table showed the others fixed awestruck to their seats, all but Meallachán and Treasach, who exchanged a satisfied glance.
Conor opened his eyes. He stood, placed the harp gently on the floor, then walked unsteadily from the room without a single word.
Calhoun shook off the spell first and looked around the table. “Good night, then.”
Aine rose and followed Niamh and Gainor from the room; Meallachán and the priests remained seated. She hung back just outside the hall, still too bewildered to feel guilty about eavesdropping.
Calhoun spoke so quietly she had to strain to hear. “It seems you were right. What now?”
Silence stretched. Then Meallachán spoke. “I’m afraid even I did not expect this, my lord. This boy has had next to no formal training. I daresay we haven’t seen a gift this strong since Daimhin’s time.”
“Since Daimhin himself, you’re saying,” Calhoun said.
“It’s a mistake to let him stay here,” Meallachán continued. “The longer he plays, the more notice he is bound to draw. That could be disastrous.”
“Diarmuid would never have allowed Galbraith to send him here if he knew. Someone went to great lengths to conceal him from notice,” Treasach said.
Calhoun’s voice held a touch of bitterness. “Well, your kind love secrets, don’t they?”
“It’s a dangerous time for him,” Meallachán said, as if the king hadn’t spoken. “The decisions he makes here will determine the future. All of our futures.”
“Send him away then,” Treasach said. “He’d be safe in—”
“No,” the bard said firmly. “It must be his decision. You cannot tear him away from her against his will. There’s a bond there that goes beyond friendship. I heard it in the music.”
Aine’s cheeks burned. She had been right. She expected Calhoun to sound surprised, but he only said, “I recognized it from the beginning. But there’s only so much he can learn here, and the stronger he grows, the more of a target he becomes.”
Aine jerked in shock. Her elbow knocked the wrought-iron candle stand across the st
one floor with an ear-shattering screech. The hall went silent. A chair scraped away from the table, but she didn’t stay to see who it was. Instead, she turned and fled, her heart beating so hard she thought she might faint.
Conor’s musical gift marked him not just as a Balian, but something more. That put him in danger from his own clan. If Diarmuid moved against him, even the protections around Lisdara might not be enough to shield him. The only place beyond the reach of the druid’s dark magic was Ard Dhaimhin.
Conor must leave Lisdara. And soon.
CHAPTER TEN
After Conor played the bard’s harp in the great hall, the others treated him with a mixture of hesitance and respect. Treasach and Meallachán stared at him appraisingly when they thought he wasn’t looking, and even Niamh seemed less aloof. That alone would have been unsettling.
But it was Aine’s manner that weighed on him most. She still smiled and bantered with him, but he glimpsed sadness behind her eyes. He yearned to tell her the night in the hall was an aberration, fueled by the emotion of Meallachán’s music. He wanted to promise her he would never touch a harp again if she would just stop looking at him with those searching eyes.
He wouldn’t be able to do it, though. The harp in the music room, a poor approximation of Meallachán’s fine instrument, drew him each night after the others went to sleep. He tried to play quietly, but the music overtook him, and he could scarcely remember the notes when he finished.
One night, he had just taken up the harp when the door clicked open beyond the circle of candlelight. A small, shadowed figure crept into view. Aine.
She wore a dressing gown, and with her hair falling loosely around her shoulders, she looked simultaneously childlike and ageless. She pulled up a stool beside him. “I couldn’t sleep. Will you play for me?”
He could no more resist her request now than he could in the hall. He put his hands to the strings and began to play the song he had first composed on the cruit.
It deserved Meallachán’s harp, but this came close to the aching beauty he had heard in his mind. He now recognized the motif that had worked its way into his song days before, the one that represented this girl he loved.
When he finally set the harp on the floor and looked at Aine, he saw his feelings reflected in her glistening eyes. She rose and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, her hair brushing his shoulders and enveloping him in the scent of lavender. Then, just as swiftly, she was gone.
Conor pressed his fingers to the spot where she had kissed him, still feeling her warm breath on his skin and the touch of her lips to his cheek. His heart thrummed in his chest, urging him to go after her and kiss her properly. To say something—anything—to convey how he felt about her.
That was ridiculous, though. He’d known her for only a few months. How could he be sure these feelings wouldn’t just fade away?
But the song couldn’t lie. In his hands, the harp only spoke truth.
Life moved forward, even though for Conor, everything had changed. Aine didn’t mention the night she had kissed him, and Conor didn’t bring it up, though it was never far from his mind. He could barely stand beside her without the overwhelming desire to take her in his arms. From the look on her face in rare, unguarded moments, he knew she felt the same pull toward him. Yet she seemed determined not to be caught alone with him.
Then one night, Calhoun summoned him to his study before supper. The king sat at the table, alone, his expression somber.
“Sit down.”
Conor sat. His stomach pitched when he saw the parchment lying before Calhoun, its blue wax seal broken. He swallowed several times before he managed to speak. “What is it?”
“King Galbraith is dead.”
“What? How? I don’t . . .”
Calhoun softened, his eyebrows knitting together. “He was ambushed on the road near Glenmallaig. He and a number of his guard were killed. Lord Fergus was wounded, but he survived.”
Conor stared at the king. Surely he should feel something. Grief, anger, something other than this terrible blankness.
“There’s more. Lord Labhrás has been arrested for treason.”
“That can’t be. He would never—”
“They claim he plotted to kill Galbraith and eliminate Fergus from the succession in order to put a Balian on the throne.”
“What’s going to happen to him?”
“He was to be executed tonight at sundown. It’s already done.” For the first time, the king’s demeanor cracked, sympathy shining in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Conor.”
Conor’s breath wheezed through his tight chest, and the room spun wildly. He closed his eyes, grappling for control, until a horrifying thought occurred to him. “His family? What’s to be done with them?”
Calhoun shook his head. “I do not know.”
Conor gripped the edge of the table and blindly pushed himself to his feet. Then he remembered himself and said hoarsely, “By your leave, my lord.”
Calhoun nodded. Conor wandered blindly to his chamber, simultaneously numb and aching. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands.
Labhrás had known this would happen. He had warned him back in Glenmallaig, but Conor somehow never believed it. Why would he? Labhrás was loyal. He simply could not have been involved in any plot to overthrow the king. Perhaps bring a grievance before the council, who alone had the power to depose Galbraith, but never kill him.
Yet another part of him was not so sure. There were too many strange coincidences. Labhrás’s friendship with Riordan. Conor’s unusual upbringing. The Balian charm. Conor’s gift. The druid’s hatred—or was it fear?—of music. And now Galbraith’s assassination, for which Labhrás and a Balian conspiracy were blamed.
No. Even if Labhrás were capable of such a thing, the council would never elect a Balian king. More likely, Galbraith’s tolerance of the Balians made him a target. The only person who truly benefited from this situation was Fergus, his tanist.
The door opened, and Dolan entered, his expression pained.
Even to his own ears, Conor’s voice sounded distant and lifeless. “You know this wasn’t an accident, Dolan. Labhrás was no traitor. Tell me what you know.”
“I know nothing of this, Conor.”
“It’s time to stop protecting me! Tell me!”
Dolan sighed. “Labhrás did not confide in me. Perhaps he was a convenient scapegoat. Maybe they convicted him out of spite. I don’t know.”
Conor heard the truth in the servant’s voice. He crumpled, and the fight left him in a rush. His first thought had been the safety of Lady Damhnait and the girls, but his position was no less precarious. “What happens now? Will Fergus call me back to Tigh? Or will he arrange an accident for me, too?”
“I don’t know. Calhoun will act honorably, but it all depends on your uncle now.” Dolan placed a hand atop Conor’s head in silent commiseration and left him to his grief.
After a few minutes, Conor stood and wandered to the music room. He slumped into a corner, ignoring the harp. He couldn’t bear to hear his sorrow on its strings. He imagined Labhrás being led to his execution, his head held high. Conor didn’t even know if his foster father had been beheaded or hung. He did know the lord’s station would not have spared him the indignity of having his head mounted beside the keep’s gate.
Conor’s gorge rose. No, he could not dwell on those things, not when he had a decision to make. He buried his head in his hands.
A familiar herbal scent enveloped him, and a hand touched his shoulder. He lifted his head. Aine knelt beside him, an expression of pained sympathy on her face. He steeled himself for her words of consolation, but she simply reached out and put her arms around him.
The tears Conor had safely locked away broke free in torrents, streaming down his face and dampening her hair and dress. She held him silently while he sobbed like a heartbroken child on her shoulder. When he pulled away, her cheeks were damp.
“Why are you crying?” he asked ho
arsely. He brushed the tears from her face.
“I know you loved him. You can’t blame yourself.”
Conor wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “The king was murdered, Aine. Fergus and Diarmuid killed him, and they used it as a reason to execute Lord Labhrás.”
Aine’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because he was a Balian. There’s more, though. I think the druid made me forget something I overheard years ago. It’s only a matter of time before he comes after me.”
“What if you could see what happened?”
“How?”
Wordlessly, Aine took both of his hands in hers. She closed her eyes and seemed to be concentrating, so Conor did the same.
The memory struck him with a jolt.
He was fourteen years old, and he had accompanied Labhrás to a council meeting at Glenmallaig. So far, he had only heard his mother and father fighting over him. He retreated to the secret place of his childhood, the little room behind the tapestry. He thought the chamber below would be empty, but he could hear the drone of male voices. He pressed his ear to a particular section of the wall and strained to make out the words.
“He will not yield,” a deep male voice said. Not his father. Lord Fergus.
“Then convince him,” an unfamiliar voice said. He had a quiet, educated tone, but he was used to being obeyed.
“And if he will not accept you as a counselor?”
“Then he will be dealt with. But let us not rush to judgment. Galbraith may be stubborn, but he has the respect of the lords. It is worth being circumspect. Replacing a king is a delicate matter.”
“Conor! There you are. What—”
His mother stood in the doorway, letting a shaft of light stream into the small room. Perhaps she heard the voices below, or perhaps she just read the terror on Conor’s face, but she stretched out a hand. “Quickly, we must go!”
Conor scrambled out the door. His mother’s grip crushed his hand as she dragged him down the corridor toward her sitting room. Then she stopped.
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