“Then Labhrás did his job well. He educated him, he nurtured his gift, and then he sent him back here, just as we’d hoped. And now, you have your son back.”
Riordan glanced sharply at Liam, but he couldn’t summon any ill will toward the Ceannaire, even if he was the reason Riordan hadn’t made any effort to see Conor all these years. Things must unfold this way, Liam had said. If you want what’s best for him, you must watch from a distance.
It was not his place to question Liam. The burdens of the Ceannaire’s visions were his to carry and his to share. That he chose to bring Riordan so much into his confidence was already an honor. Still, Riordan had the uncomfortable feeling Liam’s plans for Conor went far beyond the small protections they had arranged.
He wasn’t sure what was more unsettling: knowing what the Ceannaire saw or being protected from it.
Liam knew of Riordan’s discomfort as he returned to the heart of Carraigmór, but it was from long years of acquaintance rather than any exercise of his gifts. He regretted keeping him in the dark about so many details, but the fewer who knew the secrets of Ard Dhaimhin, the more secure they all were.
Liam retrieved a torch from a bracket in the wall and turned down a short, empty corridor ending in a locked door without a keyhole. He spoke a handful of words in a language long forgotten and then pushed open the door. Not even Riordan knew of this place. The password had been embedded by magic no living soul could perform and was passed down from one Ceannaire to the next, ensuring only one man could enter.
He held the torch before him as he slowly descended a flight of narrow stairs, his shoulders brushing the wall in places. The soft hiss of fire joined the scuff of his footsteps on stone. Somewhere beyond, the plink of water reverberated off rock.
The corridor seemed to end ahead in a solid wall, but Liam turned sharply into the space that angled back from the passage and stepped into the chamber.
The Hall of Prophecies. The true heart of Carraigmór, its place of secrets. Its place of purpose.
It was more of a cavern than a room, rounded like the other chambers in the fortress and lined with rows upon rows of compartments, each containing a scroll or book. Daimhin had begun to collect them in his time, and each Ceannaire over the last five hundred years had added to their number. Some of the prophecies had been recorded by brothers of Ard Dhaimhin, while others had been collected from thousands of miles away, written in dozens of languages. Not all applied to Seare: in fact, only a small portion concerned the small isle at the corner of the known world. Liam sought one particular prophecy, written by Queen Shanna herself after Daimhin’s death. Few knew of it, which made the current situation that much more disturbing.
The Kinslayer shall rise, the Adversary looming treacherous over the bleeding land. Day shall be night, and the mist, unbound, shall wreak evil upon the sons of men.
In that hour alone the son of Daimhin shall come; wielding the sword and the song, he shall stand against the Kinslayer, binding the power of the sidhe, and, for a time, bringing peace.
Liam stared at the scroll that told the future of Seare. Wiser men than he had failed to decipher the full meaning of the prophecy, but now he had a better idea of what “the sword and the song” could mean and exactly what part the Fíréin might play in it.
There had been kinslayers before—bloody feuds among clans littered Seare’s violent past—but this particular one was different. Never before did the one in question have a Red Druid by his side, a man who had managed to cheat death for centuries.
A man who once held the very position Liam did now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A knock shuddered the door of the borrowed chamber, and Conor opened it immediately. Instead of Eoghan, a tall, whip-thin man stared back at him with barely veiled disdain.
“I’m Brother Slaine. Come with me.”
Conor grabbed his pack. “Where are we going?”
Slaine fixed a steely stare on him. “To the barracks. You may be a prince in Tigh, but here you’re just another novice. You will receive no special treatment.”
“I don’t expect any, sir,” Conor said, taken aback by his tone.
“And you will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?”
Conor nodded mutely. Slaine narrowed his eyes and gestured for Conor to follow him.
The brother said nothing on the long descent from Carraigmór, even when Conor slid down several steps on his tailbone and thumped to a stop against his legs. He simply stared at him until he righted himself and then wordlessly continued. Some of Conor’s anxiety faded. Brother Slaine might not be the most pleasant of men, but at least he didn’t seem inclined to comment on Conor’s shortcomings.
The village below already bustled with activity. Smoke drifted on the air with the delectable smell of frying fish and the milder aroma of oat porridge. Slaine led him down the path toward the cluster of squat clochans and stopped before an open door. He gestured for Conor to enter.
The structure was the size of Glenmallaig’s hall, but round and sunken several feet below ground. An enormous stone-paved fire pit situated beneath a hole in the thatched roof provided both warmth and light. Dozens of earthen platforms had been dug out from the exterior wall, arranged like spokes of a wheel.
“How many boys live here?” Conor asked, amazed.
Slaine scowled. “About seventy at present, between the ages of fifteen and twenty. You will do everything with your céad while you are here at Ard Dhaimhin: eat, bathe, sleep, and train. You’ll meet them later. They’re all at morning drills.”
Conor’s heart sank at the mention of drills. He had hoped not to expose his failures so soon after his arrival. Master Liam had said he wouldn’t be allowed to leave, but he didn’t yet know the extent of Conor’s inexperience.
“Come on, boy, don’t stand here gaping. You’ve got work to do. Brother Reamonn is waiting.”
Dutifully, Conor followed Slaine up the steps and into the morning sunlight, suppressing the urge to ask about Brother Reamonn. He almost had to run to keep up with Slaine’s long stride. The céad leader took a winding route through the village to where the buildings thinned into small gardens then fields in various stages of crop growth. In the farthest fields, corn and wheat already produced stalks past his waist. Nearer, root crops leafed out into neatly spaced rows, around which a dozen brothers hilled soil or pulled weeds. Slaine led him to a wide, untilled field, where at least thirty men toiled with hoes and spades.
“Brother Reamonn!” Slaine shouted.
A man in the middle of the field lifted his head and trotted toward them. Fiery-haired and covered in freckles, the bare-chested brother looked well on his way to a sunburn.
“I have another for you,” Slaine said, jerking his head in Conor’s direction. “Much luck may you have of him.”
“Grab a hoe and find yourself a spot.” Reamonn indicated a small handcart holding iron-bound farm implements.
So it was to be manual labor for him. Maybe Liam had taken his measure and deemed him unsuited to the warrior life. Conor selected a long-handled hoe from the cart. “What do I do now?”
“Get to work,” Reamonn said. “We have to cultivate the whole field before we can get in the winter rye. Go on, get started.”
Conor gulped and trudged out into the field past the last man. Awkwardly, he swung the hoe and drove the metal blade into the parched ground. The impact shuddered up his arms and into his shoulders and back.
“Here, let me show you.” The brother nearest him, middle-aged and already perspiring, approached him. “Put your hands here”—he adjusted Conor’s grip—“and swing it like so. Use the weight of the hoe to your advantage.”
Conor tried again. The tool bit into the ground far more easily. “Thank you. I’m Conor, by the way.”
“Corgan. Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
Conor returned to work, making quicker progress this time, but before long, his arms, shoulders, and back ached as much as his legs. He t
ook a stinging hand away from the hoe and found blood seeping from newly formed blisters. He paused to catch his breath until he noticed Reamonn’s sharp gaze on him.
The row of tilled earth grew before him with agonizing slowness. Every movement sent fiery pain through his body until it hurt to even breathe. Still, he continued, forcing his mind to accept the pain rather than fight it. He still felt his aching muscles, the stinging pain in his palms, the rhythm of the hoe as it swung overhead and down into the earth, but distantly. His mind wandered to Riordan, but that only brought back the sick feeling, so he turned his thoughts instead to Lisdara. It would be midsummer soon, and Calhoun’s lords would be returning for the Cáisc celebration. Longing struck deep in his chest as he imagined Aine smiling beneath a crown of wildflowers, her hair braided and twined with ribbons. In his pleasant reverie, he kissed her beneath the wide green canopy of Lisdara’s oak trees.
“Brother Conor!”
Brother Reamonn’s shout intruded on his daydream. Conor looked up and saw they were alone in the field, the sun beating down from its zenith. A wide swath of cultivated earth stretched before him. Reamonn waved him over.
Conor’s muscles cramped, the pain nearly knocking him to his knees, but he forced himself to limp forward with the hoe.
“That’s enough for today,” Reamonn said. “Good work.”
“Thanks.” Conor gritted his teeth as his shoulder seized. “What now?”
“Slaine didn’t say?”
Conor shook his head. Even his hair hurt.
Reamonn looked him over closely. “I should send you to catch up with the rest of your céad, but you might not wake up tomorrow. Take the afternoon at your leisure. Tell Slaine it was my idea.”
Conor silently blessed Brother Reamonn for his mercy and limped away, too exhausted to care about what Slaine would do if he found him shirking his duties. It seemed to take hours to reach the village. Once there, his plan ended. If he lay down, he wouldn’t be able to move later. Instead, he staggered toward the lake, where he perched on a rock, dragged off his boots, and dangled his aching feet in the cold water. He closed his eyes and let slow, even breaths fill his body.
“Sunbathing instead of working, I see.”
Conor twisted sharply. Eoghan stood behind him, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m sorry. Brother Reamonn—”
“Relax. Master Liam told me I should show you around this afternoon.”
Conor pulled on his boots and slid from the rocks. Eoghan grinned when Conor’s knees buckled beneath him.
“I tried to get to you before Brother Slaine, but he’d already put you on Reamonn’s work detail. He can be harsh with newcomers.”
“So I gathered. Did you get that treatment when you came here?”
Eoghan shrugged. “I was abandoned as a child. I don’t remember it. Master Liam took me in, raised me here. Hard to believe he would have been a king, eh?”
“Not so hard.” In a way, Liam still was a king, though his realm was a strange place, full of incomprehensible subjects. “I knew his brothers. They’re cut from the same cloth. Master Liam’s more intimidating, though. He looks at you like he knows what you’re thinking.”
“Probably because he does,” Eoghan said with a smirk.
Conor halted for a moment, a question on his lips, but before he could ask it, Eoghan turned away. The older boy took pity on him and set a slow pace along the lakeshore road, pointing out the details Odran and Slaine had neglected. Conor heard the clack of wood and the clash of metal long before the training yards on the north side of the lake came into view, but even with advance warning, the sight stunned him into silence.
Nearly a thousand men and boys trained in an expansive compound, scattered across sandy training yards as far as he could see. Nearest them, boys as young as six or seven practiced with wooden swords, staffs, and spears under the watchful eyes of their drill leaders. Farther down, older boys and men trained with unsharpened steel within carefully choreographed routines. Conor paused to watch one young man work his way through a stunning sword form, his blade flashing gracefully.
“That’s Iomhar,” Eoghan said. “He’s one of the best swordsmen at Ard Dhaimhin. He’s about to take his oath of brotherhood.”
They moved on to the next practice space. A dozen brothers watched as two men circled one another with wooden swords. They feinted and parried, each looking for an opening until one close miss dissolved into a flurry of strikes that ended with one man on the ground, the other’s blade at his throat.
“Yield,” the beaten man said. “Lucky move.”
The winner withdrew his blade and hauled his opponent back to his feet. “If by lucky you mean skilled, then aye.” It was evidently a long-running joke between friends. His gaze traveled to where Eoghan and Conor stood. “Eoghan! Want to give it a go?”
“Not today. I’m showing our new novice around.”
The man laughed and turned his attention to Conor. “What about you? Aidan could use an opponent at his own skill level.”
Aidan slugged his friend in the shoulder, and Eoghan said, “For that, Sean, I might take your challenge.”
Aidan hooted with delight. “Now that’s a match I’d pay to watch. What’s wrong, Sean? Not so confident now?”
Conor glanced at Eoghan curiously. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing.” Color rose in the older boy’s face. “They’re just joking. Ignore them.”
Conor accepted the explanation, though he didn’t believe it. The men treated Eoghan with respect, even though he was their junior. “Why aren’t you training today?”
“My guide duties were in greater demand. Look ahead. There’s the archery range.”
Conor followed Eoghan to where a long line of men stood before dozens of straw targets. Bowstrings twanged, and arrows flew, most hitting their painted targets dead center. Was there anything those men couldn’t do?
“You may start with archery,” Eoghan said as the men nocked another round of arrows. “Don’t worry, you’ll be onto sword and staff soon enough.”
“If Master Liam hasn’t already decided to make me into a farmer.”
“Because you got assigned to Reamonn’s work detail? Everyone has to take their turn in the fields. Besides, you’re not a farmer. Even I can see that.”
“Right. Maybe I can teach languages or history or something. I’m certainly no warrior.”
Eoghan shook his head. “Don’t be so sure. You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“Like a dog with a bone. If you managed five hours with Reamonn on your first day and you’re still moving, you’re tougher than you think.”
The boy’s assessment relieved him. “I hope you’re right. I’d like Fergus to see the Fíréin made something out of me when my clan couldn’t.”
Eoghan studied him for a long moment, then turned away. “Be careful what you wish for, friend.”
His dark tone made Conor’s stomach lurch, but Eoghan moved on with the tour so quickly, he wondered if he’d imagined it. His guide led him to where yet another group of men practiced unarmed fighting in soft sand.
Conor watched with interest as two combatants grasped at each other’s arms and attempted to throw each other off balance. One of the men kicked out, and his opponent captured his leg and drove him to the ground. After an intense struggle in the loose sand, one finally managed to snake an arm around the other’s neck from behind. The pinned man turned an alarming shade of red and then made a quick gesture with his free hand. The other released him immediately, and they sprang to their feet once more.
“King Daimhin brought this style of fighting back from Hesperides,” Eoghan said. “It’s more effective than Seare’s traditional wrestling.”
“Undoubtedly.” Conor couldn’t imagine any of the kingdom’s warriors relinquishing weapons in favor of unarmed combat, but surely there was value in knowing how to subdue an opponent empty-handed.
Another pair t
ook the place of the first, and a second match began. Conor and Eoghan watched a bit longer before moving on. These men trained to a degree Conor had never imagined, far more than any of the king’s guards. How did Eoghan think Conor could ever become one of them if he’d barely attempted the less rigorous training in the kingdoms?
“It’s almost supper time,” Eoghan said. “We should hurry.”
They fell into a crowd of men with the same idea, all heading for the cookhouse. “How do they manage to feed so many?” Conor asked.
“Mealtimes are staggered,” Eoghan explained. “They serve about five hundred at a time.”
“I feel sorry for the cooks.”
“Hope you never draw mess duty, then.”
Conor grinned. “You should hope I don’t, because I’d be a wretched cook.”
When they arrived, a long line already snaked from the cookhouse, a large pavilion-like structure with a vented roof and canvas panels that could be drawn down against the weather. It housed four large fires topped with the biggest iron pots Conor had ever seen. Two brothers worked each cauldron, ladling stew into waiting bowls, while six more distributed chunks of crusty rye bread from a wooden crate the size of a wagon. Conor took his bowl and bread and followed Eoghan out to one of the dozens of tables and benches behind the cookhouse.
The soup was tasty, made from a peppery broth and filled with fish, turnips, and beans: plain fare in comparison to the king’s table, but it was hot and filling.
“Not quite what you’re used to?” Eoghan asked.
Were his thoughts that obvious? “I could eat this quite happily every day for years.”
“You probably will. We pretty much live on beans and fish. Oh, and oats. Lots and lots of oats.”
Conor chuckled. As they mopped up the last bit of soup with their bread, he noticed men heading toward a part of the city he had not yet explored. He nodded toward them in silent inquiry.
“Evening devotions,” Eoghan said. “We should go, too. If we’re late, we’ll have to stand.”
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