Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  Conor didn’t know what to say. This communal arrangement was a foreign concept, and yet it seemed natural for men who considered Comdiu their highest authority. But how were disputes resolved? Four thousand fighting men in one place seemed like a recipe for violence, Balian or not.

  “Here we are.” Daigh stopped short at the top of the stairs, where the short corridor ended in a solid wall. A door stood on each side. Daigh pushed open the door on the right and gestured for Conor to enter. “Someone will bring your bath water and something to eat. Call if you need anything.”

  “Call who?” Conor asked, but Daigh had already gone.

  Like the hall, Conor’s room was a near-spherical chamber carved from granite. Minerals sparkled in the walls. A plain wooden bedstead with a rush mattress stood in the corner beside a candle stand of twisted iron and a small bath. He sank down on the bed and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  A knock sounded at the door. It swung open to admit a dark-haired man. Even though he looked only a few years older than Conor, he already exhibited the lithe, fluid grace of Ard Dhaimhin’s warriors. He held up a large bucket of steaming water in each hand.

  Conor watched the young man pour the water into the tub. “Are you a novice?”

  “Apprentice. My name’s Eoghan. What’s yours?”

  “Conor.”

  He straightened and fixed Conor with a piercing look. “You’re the Timhaigh prince.”

  “My father was the king,” Conor said. “There’s a difference.”

  Eoghan flashed a grin. “There is at that. Why are you up here? Aren’t you going to start your novitiate?”

  “I don’t know. The Ceannaire has yet to make a decision.”

  Eoghan’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “That’s not what I heard. It sounded to me as if Master Liam has already made up his mind.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I’m assigned to the fortress this month. It’s easy to overhear things.” Eoghan moved to the door and threw him one last smile. “Good luck.”

  How did the Fíréin already know so much about him, when he knew so little in return? It was not as if he had planned this. Only his faith, or perhaps his desperation, had gotten him this far.

  Conor removed his soiled clothing and eased into the bath. The water stung the fresh cut on his forearm, but it was a small price to pay for the way it instantly relieved his strained muscles. He unraveled his dirty braids and scrubbed his hair clean with a cake of soap, letting his mind wander.

  What was Aine doing now? Supping with Calhoun and pretending to mourn him? Word of his death should have reached Tigh by now. Would Fergus even pretend his death was a loss, or would he try to work Calhoun’s supposed failure to his advantage?

  No, he couldn’t dwell on that. Fergus could find an excuse for war, with or without his disappearance. Conor had the right to honor his foster father’s wishes and ensure his own safety. Still, he had come to like and respect Calhoun Mac Cuillinn and his family. The idea of war falling upon Lisdara made him ill.

  “You are not responsible for the actions of everyone in Seare,” he told himself sternly. He was not that important, no matter what Lord Labhrás and his uncle had planned.

  The bath water had gone cold while he ruminated, so he climbed out into the chilly air and wrapped himself in the cloth Eoghan had left. He pulled his single clean shirt from his pack, slid it over his head, and stretched out on the bed to wait.

  Conor woke to near blackness, disoriented and groggy. It took a moment to remember he was at Carraigmór, a guest of the Fíréin. He squinted at the outline of the room, dimly illuminated by torchlight seeping under the door. The candles must have burned out. Exactly how long had he slept?

  The latch rattled, and the door swung open, spilling light into the room.

  “Uncle Riordan?” Conor squinted as his uncle lit a candle from the torch in the hallway.

  Riordan moved around the room, touching the flame to the other candles until flickering golden light bathed the chamber. He ducked out and returned with a large tray.

  Conor pushed himself up and groaned at his aching muscles. “I’m starving. I was afraid I missed supper.”

  “You did. This is breakfast. I took the liberty of bringing enough for two.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little past dawn.” Riordan set the tray on the end of the bed and sat next to it. “Help yourself. It won’t be hot for long.”

  Conor’s stomach grumbled. It was typical Seareann fare: oat porridge with rich honey, and fried fish. He took a bowl of porridge and studied his uncle.

  “Eat up. You won’t get another opportunity until supper. You’ve a long day ahead of you.”

  Conor’s eyebrows flew up, but porridge pasted his mouth shut.

  Riordan laughed. “Relax. Nothing too taxing. I suspect you’ll have a hard enough time climbing back down. I heard Odran set a quick pace.”

  “According to him, it was merely a crawl.”

  “Odran’s sure-footed as they come. But he’s not the quickest among us, as you’ll come to find out.”

  Conor fervently hoped he would never have the misfortune of traveling with any of them.

  Riordan turned back to his breakfast, and Conor followed suit. Difficult to believe he sat beside a legend, a man who had given up power and wealth in favor of the Fíréin brotherhood. Blood relation or not, he was a stranger. Only the high esteem of Labhrás and Dolan led him to trust him as far as he had.

  When they had finished the meal, Riordan set the tray aside and fixed his attention on Conor. “Now, I suppose you better tell me why you’re here.”

  Conor began with how he had been sent to Lisdara as a hostage and ended with news of Galbraith’s murder and Labhrás’s execution, omitting Aine and his musical ability. Riordan listened intently, though his expression darkened when Conor mentioned the charges against Labhrás.

  “What do you think?” Riordan asked when Conor finished. “You must have an opinion.”

  Had any adult besides Dolan ever asked his opinion? “I think the druid and Lord Fergus killed the king and blamed Lord Labhrás because he’s a Balian.”

  “You may be right. Galbraith was always suspicious of Labhrás, but he was bound by his oath to me. No doubt you’ve heard the story by now.”

  Conor nodded. He hesitated to ask his next question, but it would eat at him until it found voice. “What about Lady Damhnait and the girls? What happened to them? Would my uncle . . . ?”

  “I don’t know, Conor.” Riordan sighed. “If I know Labhrás, he would have made arrangements for their safety. He knew what he was risking by continuing to profess his faith openly. If there were any way to get them away safely . . .”

  Please, Comdiu, let that be true. Fergus would not spare those he deemed traitors, even if they were women and children. Conor’s stomach rebelled at the thought of Labhrás’s family—his family—being dragged away to their deaths. That was, if they hadn’t been slaughtered where they stood. A wave of dizziness passed over him.

  “It’s strange that Galbraith would have willingly engaged a druid as a counselor, though,” Riordan continued, as if unaware of his words’ effect. “He distrusted them nearly as much as Balians.”

  Conor recalled the vision Aine had shown him, grateful for the subject change. “Fergus arranged it. Besides, this one is different. Powerful. I think he’s a Red Druid.”

  “Red Druid, hmm? You can feel his use of magic?”

  Conor nodded.

  Riordan looked thoughtful. “Interesting. Do you have any idea why Lord Labhrás told you to seek me out if something happened to him?”

  “I’d assumed it was part of your plan. Yours and his, I mean.”

  “What plan is that?”

  Conor’s face heated. “I’d like to know that, too. I’ve never understood why you took such an interest in me.”

  A flicker of sadness crossed Riordan’s face. “I knew your mother well.
Her brother fostered at Glenmallaig for a time, and we always had much in common. Had I stayed in Tigh, she and I would be married now.”

  “You and my mother. Married.”

  “Indeed. Her clan was ambitious, and they wanted their blood joined with the royal line. When I became a Balian, though, I knew I couldn’t live a lie in Tigh just to keep my throne.”

  “So you turned her away.”

  “No. I loved her.” For a moment, Riordan’s gaze turned distant. “I told her I was going to abdicate the throne. She agreed to leave Tigh with me.”

  “You loved each other? Why . . . what . . . ?” Conor struggled to wrap his mind around the revelation. Then another possibility occurred to him. “Wait, you can’t mean I’m . . .”

  “Máiréad always maintained you were Galbraith’s son. The timing was close enough no one questioned otherwise.”

  “But you knew.” Conor’s heart rose into his throat, and the room swam before his eyes. Hadn’t he noticed the resemblance upon first glance? It explained so much, Galbraith’s strained relationship with Máiréad, his contempt for his son. . . . “I’m a bastard?”

  “No! You are not a bastard.”

  “You just said . . .”

  Riordan reached out and touched Conor’s hand. He jerked it away. “Conor, your mother and I were married by a Balian priest. You are my legitimate son.”

  Conor jumped up and paced in front of the bed. “I don’t understand. How can that be? She married my fath—Galbraith. How could—”

  “Máiréad’s clan found out. They weren’t about to lose their chance to have their daughter become queen, much less for love of a Balian. Since the marriage wasn’t recognized by the throne, it was easy enough to make arrangements with Galbraith. It was his men that came for us.” A ghostly smile twisted Riordan’s lips. “I would have fought them for her, even knowing how it would end. She wouldn’t let me. She went back to Glenmallaig in order to spare me.”

  Riordan’s pain showed clearly on his face, unmitigated by the passage of years. Conor’s anger faded. Riordan had done what he thought best, and he had loved Lady Máiréad. Of all the things he had said, Conor believed that most easily. “So that’s why you had Galbraith send me to Balurnan.”

  “No. I did that because from the moment I saw you, even at a week old, I could sense you had a gift. I knew it would be extinguished at Glenmallaig, so I arranged your fosterage with Labhrás, where it would be nurtured.”

  Labhrás had always encouraged Conor’s playing, giving him access to bards and musicians and calling for him each time he returned to Balurnan. “I always just thought he liked music. I didn’t know there was anything special about it until I came to Lisdara.”

  Riordan’s eyebrows lifted. “Your gift is music?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “When you said you felt the druid’s power, I assumed you could recognize magic in others, like me. Have you sensed power in anyone else?”

  Conor thought of Aine. Other than the connection between them, which he attributed to a different sort of magic, he’d had no inkling of her gifts. He hadn’t noticed anything unusual about Riordan, either. “The only other magic I sensed was from the charm Lord Labhrás gave me.”

  Riordan smiled. “He gave you the charm. I hoped he would. Do you have it with you?”

  “No, I left it behind.”

  Riordan nodded, and his smile faded. Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “I know this is a lot to take in. I know you need time before . . .” He swallowed hard. “Just know I’ve never been happier than I am right now, seeing you stand before me.”

  Conor wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Riordan seemed to understand. “I’ll send someone up with suitable clothing, and then I’ll take you to Master Liam. After that, we’ll see.”

  Conor watched his uncle—no, his father—leave the room, struggling to think through his shock. All these years, trying to live up to the expectations of the king, never understanding the reason for his hatred. If someone had told him . . .

  What? That he was the product of an unsanctioned marriage between his mother and the king’s brother? That short of Riordan’s claim of paternity, Galbraith had no choice but to acknowledge him?

  No, the revelation didn’t make him feel any better. All it did was prove he had been rejected by two fathers, not just one. Conor had thought coming here would answer all his questions, but instead it had just created more.

  A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. Conor opened it, hoping it might be Eoghan, but it was another young man, bringing the promised clothing. Conor thanked him and shut the door quickly.

  The garments were plain and serviceable, made from earth-colored linen. He pulled on the close-fitting trousers and oversized tunic and buckled on the scraped leather belt. Then he used the comb and leather thong the boy had brought to fashion his hair into a club at the base of his neck.

  True to his word, Riordan appeared minutes later. “Ready?”

  Conor squared his shoulders and tried to adopt Riordan’s easy confidence, though he had no idea if it was successful. As they wound their way through the intersecting tunnels into the great hall, he burned every detail of his father into his brain, hoping it would lead to some sort of understanding.

  In the great hall, a brother scrubbed the stone floor with a horsehair brush. Riordan stopped before him. “Master Liam, I would like to present my son, Conor.”

  The word son grated on Conor’s raw nerves, but his discomfort shifted to confusion when he realized Riordan was addressing the man on his knees. This was the Ceannaire?

  The man pushed himself to his feet and wiped his damp hands on his tunic. He was common-looking, of average height and muscular build, with long, reddish-blond hair bound into the customary braid. Something in his erect, yet relaxed posture made Conor think of a bowstring, the potential of power contained in stillness. His face brought back the genealogy lessons Conor should have remembered long before now.

  “You’re Liam Mac Cuillinn!”

  Liam fixed his gaze on Conor. “Have we met?”

  If Liam had seemed unassuming moments before with a brush in hand, the illusion was long gone. No doubt many a man had lost his resolve in the presence of the Ceannaire, but Conor had more at stake here than most.

  “I know Lord Calhoun and Lord Gainor,” he answered. “There is a distinct family resemblance.”

  “Aye, I understand you became quite close to my family at Lisdara.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. Master Liam sounded as if he was making idle conversation, but Conor was sure nothing the Ceannaire did was idle. Could he possibly know about Conor’s attachment to Aine?

  Liam studied him closely. “You left Lisdara to find Riordan. Did you get the answers you sought?”

  “I asked the questions I meant to,” Conor said. “But the answers weren’t what I expected.”

  Unexpectedly, the Ceannaire smiled. He exchanged a look with Riordan and turned back to Conor. “What now?”

  “I was hoping you might tell me, sir.”

  “I won’t hold you here against your will. If you’ve satisfied your curiosity, I’ll arrange an escort out of the forest.”

  “But Odran said—”

  “Being the Ceannaire allows me to make up my own mind. What would you like to do?”

  Conor glanced at Riordan, whose intense gaze belied his studied calm. If Conor left, he’d never know anything more about his father, and his presence would still bring danger to those he loved in Faolán.

  “Everyone thinks I’m dead,” Conor said. “I have nowhere to go.”

  “You wish to become a novice then?”

  Conor hesitated. “Aye. I do.”

  “Think carefully, young man,” Liam said. “When I said you could leave, it was as a guest. As a novice, you will be committing yourself to our training and our rules. They are not meant to be easy. Often they can be downright unpleasant. This is not a decision
to be undertaken lightly.”

  Conor drew himself up straighter. “Neither was Lord Labhrás’s decision to risk death to follow his conscience, or Riordan’s choice to give up his throne. I understand what I’m doing.”

  Liam studied him with that knowing gaze, then gave a single nod. “Riordan, find him a place in Slaine’s céad. Eoghan can show him the city.” His smile made Conor’s stomach do a somersault. “Rest up, young man. Tomorrow you begin your training.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I should have told him long before this.”

  Riordan stood on one of Carraigmór’s narrow granite balconies, his gaze sweeping the broad expanse of the Fíréin’s domain. He sensed rather than saw the Ceannaire a few paces behind him in the doorway.

  “You did what was best for the boy,” Liam said. “The truth would have profited no one.”

  “Perhaps.” The knowledge that his reunion with Conor may have come too late tempered Riordan’s joy. Still, the corner of his lips twitched up in a smile when he recalled how Conor had stood his ground before Liam. “He’s a remarkable boy.”

  Liam smiled too. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “You mean Conor’s musical ability?”

  “Aye. He has a rare gift with the harp.”

  As many years as Riordan had known Liam, the man’s uncanny ability to see into the minds of others still discomfited him. “You read that from the meeting in the hall?”

  “No, I received a message from Meallachán while you were away.” Liam chuckled. “He was concerned the boy might draw the wrong attention to himself should he remain.”

  “Why didn’t he send him here directly?”

  “My youngest sister, Aine. They seem to have a significant connection, but I don’t yet know how she’s involved in this.”

  “Did Meallachán tell you that, too?”

  “No, that I got from Conor directly.” Liam’s amusement faded. “He seems to know quite a bit about Labhrás. Did you tell him?”

  “He came to tell me.” Riordan swallowed as if it could push down the sudden ache in his chest. He had been among the onlookers, concealed by his cloak, when his foster brother and oldest friend had walked to the headsman.