A few men hid smirks.
“Then why should we accept you as an apprentice?” Master Liam asked.
Conor met the Ceannaire’s gaze unflinchingly. “I should ask you the same thing. You knew my intentions before Brother Daigh posed the question. Yet here I am, an apprentice candidate.”
“Brother Conor’s position is not unusual,” Riordan said. “We do not require apprentices to bind themselves to the brotherhood. He is just more vocal about his intentions than most.”
Master Liam looked at each of the Conclave members in turn before he addressed Conor. “Brother Riordan is correct. We do not force apprentices to take oaths, nor do we require novices to undertake apprenticeships. You may leave if you wish. If you stay, you will be pledging yourself to our training for as long as we deem necessary. You may choose whether to take vows when you are put forth for full brotherhood, whenever that may be. But once you embark on this path, you are required to see it through.”
Conor balked at Master Liam’s words. It could take years to complete his apprenticeship. But what other choice did he have? He still had to discover his purpose in being here, and remaining a novice was not an option.
Still, he could barely force out the words. “I accept.”
“Good,” Liam said. “You will attend drills with your céad in the morning. Given what I understand of your exceptional education, sending you to lessons with them would be redundant, so you’ll continue your current duties in the afternoon.”
The Ceannaire sat back with a satisfied smile. “Your novitiate is complete. Now your apprenticeship at Ard Dhaimhin begins.”
“They accepted me as an apprentice.” Conor sat across from Eoghan at a table near the cookhouse. “For a second, I thought they were going to kick me out. Master Liam did not seem pleased with me.”
“Congratulations,” Eoghan said, but his tone was distracted.
Conor watched his friend push a chunk of fish around his half-empty bowl. “What’s wrong?”
Eoghan met his eyes and lowered his voice. “News from Sliebhan. King Fergus has seized the throne without a battle. All of Bodb’s chieftains and their warriors have sworn fealty.”
Gooseflesh prickled Conor’s skin. Fergus had conquered the country with only minor bloodshed, and now he had all Sliebhan’s warriors behind him. The situation smacked of sorcery. “When did this happen?”
“Word came last night. It’s been a few days at most.”
They’d learned the news yesterday. And today Conor agreed to commit himself to an apprenticeship for an undefined period of time.
What had Riordan said? He fears you will leave before you’re ready if you don’t sever all ties to the kingdoms.
“They bound me here before I could hear the news.” Saying it aloud only confirmed his suspicions.
Eoghan looked at him strangely. “Why would they do that? You’d have to be mad to go back to the kingdoms now.”
“I don’t know.” But Conor felt the pull toward the turmoil of his uncle’s conquest the same way he had felt the pull toward Ard Dhaimhin. He was as enmeshed in the future of the kingdoms as he was bound to Liam’s plans in the High City.
Conor rubbed his arms against his sudden chill, despite the fact the evening air was mild. Comdiu, protect me, he thought, a ward against the unknown to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Conor’s first spear lesson took place the next morning. As he followed his céad mates around the lake to the practice yards, he could not shake his apprehension. Eoghan may have dismissed his concerns as mere imagination, but Conor could not rid himself of the feeling there was a bigger tapestry being woven, and he was seeing only one small part of the design.
“Delusions of grandeur,” he muttered to himself.
Those delusions did not extend to his first drills as an apprentice. Their instructor, Brother Teallach, a cast-iron man in his fifties, did not consider his lack of training an excuse for not keeping up with his céad mates. Conor barely caught the spear the instructor tossed him.
“First form!” Teallach barked.
The group moved in unison into a straight thrust, and Conor stumbled forward in time to avoid getting a spear through his back.
“Second form!”
The thrust shifted to a high block, and once more, Conor followed a beat behind.
The class dragged on painfully, Conor shadowing every movement and feeling hopelessly uncoordinated. Even after the hard labor of the past year, his arms and shoulders twinged from exertion, and a bead of sweat rolled down his back. It was his first day, he reminded himself. He couldn’t expect to get everything right on his first try.
Conor was relieved when Teallach split them into pairs, until he realized he had no partner. The instructor appeared before him, spear in hand. “Your attack.”
How was he supposed to do that? Conor hadn’t really learned the movements in the forms, though he understood they were meant to be applied against an opponent. He gripped the spear in both hands and lunged forward. Teallach knocked his spear aside and thwacked him hard on the ribs, then on the side of the head.
“Again,” Teallach said.
Conor tried again with the same results, but this time the instructor’s strikes were harder. His ribs stung, and his head ached.
“Again!”
How had he blocked that? The third time, he was ready to meet the instructor’s counterattack. Teallach gave his own spear a quick flick of the wrist, and Conor’s weapon clattered to the hard-packed earth.
A hint of a smile played on the older man’s lips. “Good. It didn’t take you long.” Teallach hooked his foot under the spear’s shaft and tossed it back to Conor. “Once more.”
By the end of the session, Conor had a handful of bruises to add to his count, but he was blocking and countering simple strikes with surprising facility. His arms and shoulders burned from the new movements, but a thin shred of hope had returned.
Conor followed the rest of the group to the next lesson, archery with Brother Seamus. Seamus was more patient than Teallach had been, and by the end of the lesson, Conor was at least able to loose arrows in the direction of his target, even if most of them struck the dirt in front of it.
He approached his third and final lesson of the day with aching muscles and a feeling of dread. Hand stones were the most traditional weapons of Seare, and while swordsmanship was more highly regarded, hardly a warrior or traveler went without a pouch of stones on his belt. Still, the groans of the younger boys as they approached the target scaffolds with their painted wooden discs made it clear this was their least favorite lesson.
While Conor’s céad mates selected their caches of stones and took their places in front of the targets with a combination of resignation and discipline, the instructor drew him aside. A young, fair-haired Siomaigh, Nuallain shared Eoghan’s calm, approachable manner. “You’ve never used these?”
Conor shook his head.
The instructor showed him the proper way of holding the stone and different methods of cocking his arm for the release. It was like skipping stones on a lake, something Conor had spent hours doing on summer afternoons.
Nuallain fired a stone. It hit the target with a crack and spun the disc backward on its rope. “Give it a go.”
Conor eyed a target beside the one Nuallain had just hit, about twenty paces away. He took aim and released the stone sidearm. To his shock, the projectile hit the target with as much force as Nuallain’s, dead center.
Nuallain arched an eyebrow. “Try another target.”
It was another ten paces back, so Conor could hardly believe it when he struck the target with equal accuracy.
“We may have found your weapon. Try this.” Nuallain made a few minor adjustments to the angle of Conor’s arm and his release and then handed him a larger stone. This time, the projectile hit the wooden disc with such force it cracked it in two and sent one half spinning off behind.
“That would kill a man,” Nuallain said
approvingly.
Conor grinned. How appropriate his natural talent lay in the least-regarded ability of the kingdoms, one requiring finesse rather than brute strength. He cast a glance down the line and received an approving nod from Merritt.
The other boys had free time between morning sessions and their lessons at the fortress, but Conor proceeded to Carraigmór as usual. He couldn’t help pouring his elation over the morning’s minor successes into his playing at Carraigmór, even though his arms ached so badly he could barely hold the harp.
After that, his daily routine varied only slightly. Some days, Teallach taught casting with the spear, or they worked with staffs instead. Nuallain taught them how to use hand slings and staff slings, for which Conor proved to have equal facility, even if he preferred throwing by hand. A small but shockingly strong brother named Cairbre introduced him to Hesperidian wrestling, which he took to with surprising alacrity.
Only archery remained a struggle. As Conor built strength to draw the bow, his range improved, but his aim did not. He was forced to admit he might never be a particularly proficient archer.
The only weapon with which he did not practice was the sword, and it was the one he wanted to learn most. Swordsmanship was the pinnacle of a Fíréin warrior’s skills, but while the other members of his céad trained with Ard Dhaimhin’s sword master, Brother Lughaire, Conor continued his menial duties around the village. Most days, he worked and trained from sunup to sundown with only his daily climb to Carraigmór as rest, and many nights, it was all he could do not to fall asleep in his bowl.
“Apparently the Fíréin don’t value sleep or free time,” Conor told Eoghan at supper one night.
“Or maybe Master Liam is trying to keep you busy. Most apprentices are required to attend lessons rather than join work details every day.”
“Maybe no one else has had my education.”
“Ciannait was raised by druids.” Eoghan shot him a significant look. “He probably knows more than all of us combined, and he’s spending his afternoons alone in the library.”
Conor didn’t have much time to ponder the inequity. He had far too much training to make up, and he felt too thinly stretched to think beyond the next task at hand. He spent his few moments of free time practicing empty-handed spear thrusts or drawing an imaginary bow. He saw Eoghan less and less, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of his overwhelming schedule or Eoghan’s. The older boy seemed distracted whenever he was around, and sometimes he didn’t appear even for supper.
Then one night before lights-out, Eoghan perched on the edge of Conor’s bed. “Master Liam has asked me to take my oath.”
Conor grimaced. Even if he hadn’t already noted Eoghan’s dissatisfaction, his friend’s tone would have told him he wasn’t pleased. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll take the oath. I don’t have much choice, do I? I’m clanless. I’ve never even seen the kingdoms.”
“You could become a mercenary. The Aronan clan chiefs would pay dearly to have a man of your skills.”
“I don’t want to spill blood as my livelihood. That means I stay here. I’m not like you, Conor. I don’t speak five languages. I can’t name the capitals and kings of every known country. I’m good with a sword, and that’s it.”
“That’s no small thing,” Conor said. “I would give anything to have your skill. Riordan says you’re the best swordsman Ard Dhaimhin’s ever produced, and he’s not given to hyperbole. Can you imagine if you could train Faolán’s and Siomar’s warriors? Fergus would find the Balian nations a little harder to conquer than Sliebhan.” The other boys threw them curious looks, so Conor lowered his voice and said, “It would be the next best thing to Liam allowing the Fíréin to fight.”
“You might be right.”
When Eoghan stood, Conor didn’t know which decision, if any, his friend had made. Slaine extinguished the torches, cutting off any further conversation. In the morning when he woke, Eoghan was already gone.
Brother Slaine took Conor aside on his way back from morning devotions. “You’re excused from drills. Meet Brother Riordan at the small dock. He’ll explain.”
Baffled, Conor turned down toward the lakeshore, where his father already awaited him by the boats. “What’s this about?”
“Brother Eoghan’s taking his trials this morning. He’s asked that you be present. Come on, we’ll be late.”
Conor clambered into one of the smaller boats, which was attached to a pulley by a thick rope. Riordan grasped the top line and drew the craft across the hundreds of yards between the shore and the largest of the crannogs. Conor had been on the smaller of the islands, where the nets and fishing boats were kept, but the larger one was restricted to oath-bound brothers.
The vessel bumped against the steep shore, and Conor clambered out. The island, which had seemed so small from a distance, now proved to be as large as Lisdara’s courtyard, sparsely dotted with trees. At the center lay the sandy testing ring.
More than a dozen men, including Master Liam and Eoghan, already waited. Conor recognized the Conclave and senior members of the brotherhood who led weaponry drills for the older men. Eoghan stood grimly in their midst, receiving last-minute instructions.
Riordan stopped Conor a few paces from the ring. “We wait here.”
Across the yard, Eoghan bowed and then selected a spear from a nearby pile. Six of the brothers did the same. Even from a distance, Conor could see iron spearheads in place of the usual wood. His friend assumed a defensive stance, and the others surrounded him.
Conor held his breath as the first warrior attacked, but he needn’t have worried. Eoghan met the spear thrust confidently, knocking the point wide and countering quickly. The other five moved in then, and Conor’s mouth dropped open as the boy fluidly defended himself from six attackers, using the weapon as both staff and spear. His spear point stopped mere inches from the throat of one, and the defeated brother stepped away from the fray, eliminated by what would have been a killing blow. One by one, the other men fell, until Eoghan was left only with the most experienced of the group.
The two men fought, wielding their spears so quickly Conor was hard-pressed to follow individual movements. Then Eoghan misstepped, and his spear sailed from his grip. Conor gasped as the brother moved in to finish him.
Eoghan sidestepped the thrust and tackled his opponent to the ground, knocking the spear from his hand. The two men grappled in the loose sand, evenly matched in weight and strength, until it looked as if Eoghan was locked in an inescapable clinch. Then, in a blur of movement, Eoghan reversed the hold. He braced a knee on the other man’s neck and held the armlock firm until his opponent submitted.
Conor gaped. He knew Eoghan’s skills surpassed his own, but this went far beyond his imaginings. He had eliminated six far more experienced men in the space of three minutes. Eoghan helped his defeated opponent to his feet and retrieved their discarded spears.
Conor found his voice. “Is that the test?”
“Only part of it,” Riordan said. “The easier part.”
Eoghan returned the spears to the pile and moved to a stretch of canvas laid at the edge of the yard. Conor couldn’t see the objects laid upon it until Eoghan chose one. A short sword.
This time, the odds were better, three against one, or so he thought until he recognized two of the men. One was Iomhar, the boy whose sword form Conor had admired on his first day. The other was Brother Lughaire, the sword master himself.
From the moment of the first attack, though, Conor could see Eoghan was in control of the match. He moved lightly and quickly, defending every attack. Almost immediately, the first man fell, struck in the neck with the flat of Eoghan’s blade.
“He’s only nineteen,” Riordan said in a low voice. “I can’t wait to see him at thirty.”
Conor didn’t reply, captivated by the display. Even the talented apprentice was no match for him, and Eoghan was just toying with him, prolonging the match. Iomhar lost his weapon next
and slunk from the yard, leaving Eoghan and Lughaire alone.
They circled one another warily, too respectful of the other’s skill to rush in. Then Eoghan sprang, driving back the sword master with a series of flawless attacks. Lughaire battled back and put Eoghan on the defensive. Swords flashed faster. Somewhere this trial had ceased to be a mock battle and ventured into a real skirmish.
Apparently, Master Liam felt the same, because he shouted, “That’s enough! Stand down!”
Eoghan disengaged first, keeping his guard up until he was out of striking distance. His chest rose and fell from exertion. The men bowed warily to one another and moved back toward Master Liam.
Riordan nudged Conor forward. “We can join them now.”
Conor approached the small group, more awed than ever by his friend. He had never seen anyone fight like that, not even among the Fíréin. Conor tried to catch his eye, but Eoghan’s gaze was fixed on the Ceannaire.
“You more than meet the requirements for admission to the brotherhood,” Liam said to Eoghan. “Will you take the oath?”
“Aye. Upon one condition.”
“Oh?” Master Liam said. “What is that?”
“I wish to take an apprentice.”
“That’s a highly unusual request.”
Beside Conor, Riordan said, “It’s not without precedent. Master Fionntan took an apprentice when he accepted his commission.”
“Of which Brother Eoghan is well aware.” Liam smothered a smile. “Whom do you propose to mentor, then?”
“Brother Conor.”
Conor’s knees weakened. Eoghan was demanding to mentor him as a price of remaining with the Fíréin brotherhood?
Master Liam caught Conor’s eye. “Brother Conor, what say you?”
It took him several moments to find his voice. “It would be an honor, sir.”
“It will require the approval of the Conclave,” Master Liam said. “We will give you an answer tomorrow.”
Riordan nudged Conor toward the boats. He followed his father, too stunned to speak. They were halfway across the lake when Conor noticed Riordan’s smile. “What?”
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