“Brother Gillian? What are you doing here?”
“It didn’t work, did it?”
“No. How did you—”
“Not here. Help me back to my chamber, boy.”
Conor could hardly suppress his questions on the way back to Gillian’s chamber. When they were safely ensconced in the room, he blurted, “How did you know?”
“I could sense what you were trying to do.”
“Then why didn’t it work?”
“You tell me.”
Conor scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. “I have no idea. Usually I can think of something and play it.”
“Ah, but there is still a difference between music and magic, isn’t there? Music is a talent. Magic is a gift. Think of when you have used magic.”
He thought back to the night at Lisdara with Meallachán’s harp and just recently in the forest when he had faded from sight. “It was the most important thing to me at that moment.”
“There’s your answer then.”
Conor had another question. “Why are the wards so important anyway? Other than binding the sidhe.”
“They weren’t made to bind the sidhe,” Gillian said. “At the time, Seare was under attack from a bigger threat. After Daimhin and the coming of the truth, most of the druids retreated to the nemetons or one of the eastern isles. But a few, those you call the Red Druids, refused to give up their power. Fearing they would use their magic against the throne, Daimhin himself created the wards. The druids could not cross them. The sorcery within them is repelled by the Balian magic, and so their influence and movements were much restricted.
“While belief remained strong, the wards held. But as the influence of the darkness grew greater, the wards became weaker. They’re all but gone in Tigh and Sliebhan, and somewhat intact in Siomar and Faolán.”
“How do you know all this?” Conor asked in amazement.
Gillian turned his head and lifted his white hair. Faded black tattoos traced the lined skin of his neck. “You see, you must have the need to effect the wards. And you must have the tool used to create them all that time ago.”
Conor knew immediately. “Meallachán’s harp.”
“You are a clever boy. Now run along. I have nets to mend.”
Conor rose to leave. “Brother Gillian, if the wards fade where darkness holds sway, why have they begun to weaken in Ard Dhaimhin?”
Gillian opened his mouth to answer. Then he snapped it shut and gave a sharp shake of his head before he felt once more for his nets.
Knowing what needed to be done made little difference to Conor’s daily routine. He was still Eoghan’s apprentice, and he was far from being ready to take his trials. Short of Liam’s summoning Meallachán back to Carraigmór, he had no way to test his theory.
As if to temper Conor’s success with Odran, Eoghan proceeded to show him exactly how far he had to go in his training. Over the next several weeks, the older boy increased the intensity of his drills, leading them with as much effort as Conor exerted and extending the length of their practice matches. Eoghan pushed him to his limits, regardless of the bruises or lacerations they inflicted on each other. Conor’s time must be drawing short if Eoghan was attempting to give him a taste of a real life-or-death match. After nearly four weeks of the strict routine, Eoghan sent Conor back out with Odran to collect reports from the sentries along the southern edge of Rós Dorcha. A thrill of anticipation rippled through Conor when he realized these sentries might have direct knowledge of the war in Siomar.
Odran was no less abrupt than before, and he seemed to delight in seeing Conor fail, but he was meticulous in his teaching. Conor learned how to create different kinds of traps and snares and how to read tracks and estimate their makers’ weight and speed of travel. Odran also taught him how to take and maintain a heading in the tangled thicket of ancient trees. In short, he began to impart the skills that would keep Conor alive on his own.
Odran also drilled him in close-quarters combat, an entirely different way of fighting than the open-battlefield techniques he had learned from Eoghan.
“This is about survival,” he said. “In the forest, you don’t have the luxury of a fair fight. Seize whatever advantage you can.”
It was Odran’s short preamble to ambush using his fading skills. The Fíréin had perfected the strike-and-retreat tactics for which Seareann warriors were known, and this sort of fighting put Conor’s strategic thinking to good use.
In between lessons, Conor and Odran took messages between posts and met up with runners who would take them back to Ard Dhaimhin. The runners were odd and solitary, and they seemed to have forgotten how to behave in human company. Conor quickly gave up trying to befriend them.
The sentries, on the other hand, welcomed the company, and Conor needed only to offer interesting stories or news from Ard Dhaimhin to elicit information in return. Their sharp eyes missed nothing, including the nuances of the shifting loyalties in the southern kingdoms.
The most interesting intelligence came from their last stop, a sentry named Ciaran. He was the polar opposite of Innis, tall and slender with the arrow-straight posture of a man too disciplined to be bent by time. He wore his long white hair in a queue away from a deeply lined face the tone and texture of fine, old leather.
Ciaran took a single look at Conor and said, “You want to ask me about the wards. Come in. I put on a pot of tea when I felt you coming.”
Conor exchanged a startled glance with Odran and followed the man into his small cottage. A large table sat in the center of the room surrounded by four stools, an oddly inviting vignette for a border sentry. The interior smelled of wood smoke and fragrant herbs. Ciaran lifted the pot from the fire with a hook and produced three cups from a board above the hearth.
“Now, sit, Odran, or at least smile. Pretend this is a friendly visit.” He glanced at Conor and shook his head. “Too serious, this one. But you . . . I feel music in you. What would you like to know?”
Conor sat and took the proffered cup. “You tell me. You seem to know why I’m here.”
“You’re here about a woman.”
Conor nearly choked on his tea. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s always about a woman, dear boy,” Ciaran said, unfazed. “But you want to know what I’ve felt, don’t you?”
Conor nodded, alternately intrigued and baffled. Either the sentry was completely mad, or he possessed a gift of sight not unlike Liam’s and Aine’s.
“Usually the wards are quiet,” Ciaran said. “I can feel the comings and goings of the runners and trackers, and not long ago, a number of warriors died on the wards. But lately, someone has been rebuilding them.”
Conor’s mouth went dry. “Who?”
“I can’t tell you that. If that’s what you’ve come to find out, you’ve wasted a trip.”
But Conor knew. If Meallachán’s harp was the instrument used to make the wards, the bard must be rebuilding them. Why wouldn’t Meallachán have simply told Aine what he knew?
Unless he had already left Lisdara.
Conor almost laughed at the bitter irony. Had he stayed at Lisdara, both the bard and his instrument would be within reach. Yet he would never have known what must be done had he not come to Ard Dhaimhin.
But why would the bard need convincing? Why would he rebuild the wards and not coordinate his efforts with Calhoun in the first place?
It was an odd inconsistency, and Conor couldn’t help but wonder if the bard had plans of his own. Still, it didn’t change what he knew he had to do.
When he returned to Ard Dhaimhin, Conor laid out all he had discovered in the last several weeks, expecting Eoghan to see his path as clearly as he did.
Instead, Eoghan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Conor. I can’t let you go.”
Conor stared at Eoghan in surprise. “It could be the key!”
“The key to what? If the bard is remaking the wards, he doesn’t need your help. The matter is already well in hand.”
&n
bsp; Conor exhaled slowly and made his tone reasonable. “There’s something odd about the whole thing. I can feel it. Besides, we both know I’m meant to go back. What difference does it make if it’s now or later?”
“A great deal. Conor, you’ve made impressive progress. Astounding, actually. But you’re not ready to take your trials.”
“Then make me ready.”
“It’s been only two years, and it’s never been done in less than six. Talented as you are, and I do mean that, I’d need at least two more.”
Conor’s hopes plummeted. “What are you talking about, Eoghan?”
“Master Liam will not allow me to petition an apprentice who has been here for less than five years. If you’re right, you don’t have that long. That leaves you one option.”
“Please don’t tell me I have to challenge you,” Conor said.
Eoghan shook his head. “No. You have to challenge Master Liam. And you have to win.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Aine ducked out of her tent into the torch-lit night at the first sound of angry voices. “What’s happening?”
Lorcan nodded toward a nearby scuffle already being broken apart. “An argument over dice. Treasach has it well under control.”
The priest’s head bobbed above the cluster of onlookers as he defused the situation in his usual calm tone. Treasach had made himself indispensable since his arrival at camp, both in spiritual matters and in controlling the numerous fights and arguments that broke out on a daily basis. No one seemed anxious to strike a priest, especially one with hands that could crush a man’s head like a gourd.
The men were talking now, and they clasped forearms, the argument apparently forgotten. Treasach extracted himself from the group and made his way toward Aine.
“Only the third one tonight,” he said lightly, “and this one didn’t even end in bloodshed.”
Aine shivered. Lorcan ducked into the tent to retrieve her cloak before she could tell him the sensation had nothing to do with the night air. She didn’t sense the presence of the sidhe, but she knew they were near. Sometimes, they came in the form of a seductive voice or a beckoning figure, luring men away from the camp in the night. Other times, they fomented distrust and anger over matters as small as a dice game. Already, six men had been killed in such arguments, their murderers shackled and sent back to Lisdara for trial.
“The waiting is getting to them,” Aine said. Lorcan returned with her cloak, and she shrugged it on as if it could protect her from the invisible threats. “These are not men given to idleness. I’d hoped the daily drills and devotions might have improved matters.”
“This is a subtlety I would not have expected from Fergus,” Treasach said.
“It’s exactly what I expected from the druid, though. I doubt Fergus is in control any longer, if he ever was.” Aine glanced at Lorcan. “It may be time to take a closer look at those wards. Be sure we haven’t missed anything.”
Aine had felt tugs on the wards several more times since the night Sualtam tried to kill her, and each time, the intensity of the dissent increased. Siomaigh flags no longer flew alongside Faolanaigh in the same camp. Seaghan and Abban maintained an amicable accord as commanders, but the sidhe had done a thorough job stirring up buried distrust and old animosity among the warriors.
“What exactly could you do if we did?” Lorcan asked.
“I suppose there’s nothing to be gained by investigating further if the wards hold. I just hate idleness as much as the men do.” Aine hugged her arms to herself and chewed her lip.
“Get some rest, my lady,” Lorcan said. “You’ve been working yourself to exhaustion.”
Aine gave the men brief smiles before ducking back into her tent. Thank Comdiu for Ruarc, Lorcan, and Treasach. They buffered her against the worst of the camp’s conflict, even if they all dreaded the moment the sidhe decided to plant murderous thoughts in the heads of half a dozen men at once.
“Lord, I need direction,” she murmured as she settled onto the rickety campaign cot. Since the attacks on the wards began, she had done little but pray for faith and guidance. It was all within His plans, she knew, but she still waited for some indication of her next move.
The charm warmed against her skin, and Aine’s stomach erupted into butterflies. It had to be related to Conor. She turned the charm over in her hands. He was not dead. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that the Fíréin sentry had misled her.
“Where are you now?” she whispered, pressing the charm between her hands. “Are you coming back to me?”
She laughed bitterly at her own foolishness and dropped the ivory wheel beneath the neckline of her shift. She should not wish for it. Conor was safer in Ard Dhaimhin, separate from the problems of the kingdoms. He was probably happy playing his harp and poring through old tomes of history. Perhaps he had even learned to fight a little. Why would she wish on him this sick, creeping sense of uncertainty, the inevitability of defeat even as they vowed to fight to their last breath? This was no place for him. It was no place for her.
“I need to sleep. I’m driving myself mad.” Aine tossed aside her cloak and climbed beneath her blanket without bothering to take off her boots. Within moments, she plunged into a sea of troubled dreams, tossed relentlessly among images of war, the bean-sidhe at the lake, Conor, and half a dozen other times and places that made no sense to her. The images built with ever-increasing dread into a crescendo—
Aine gasped awake, her blood pulsing in her ears. Only the occasional muffled voices of the perimeter patrol broke the camp’s silence. What had awoken her? Was it merely the dream?
She was about to dismiss her anxiety as a product of her troubled dreams when she felt a deep, discordant vibration, like the snap of a harp string midnote. She struggled to identify the source until it came a second time with dizzying nearness.
“Oh, dear Comdiu, please,” she whispered. Then panic took over, pumping blood through her veins. She grabbed her cloak and darted from the tent.
Lorcan bounded to his feet from where he sat on guard outside. Before he could ask, Aine said, “Wake Abban. Find Ruarc. The wards have snapped.”
Horror crossed Lorcan’s face, and for a moment, he too stood immobilized. Ruarc appeared almost immediately. “I’ll wake him. Lorcan, stay with Aine.”
Within minutes, they gathered in the command pavilion, the map of the wards spread out before them. Aine’s hand shook as she pointed to several intersecting lines. “They’ve unmade Callindor, Southbrook, and Threewaters. I used to be able to feel them, and now . . . I feel nothing.” Her voice broke on the last word, but she gathered herself before tears could come.
“We’ll rouse the camp and send a rider to Seaghan. Just because they’ve broken the wards doesn’t mean they’ve attacked yet. They could be biding their time.”
“Send riders to Gainor, too. They might be able to fall back behind Westfalen. It’s one of the reinforced wards.” It was a futile hope, though. A strong ward could be broken just as easily as a weak one.
The camp churned in barely controlled chaos. Abban sent two riders to Gainor’s camp, as did Seaghan. The Siomaigh were more familiar with the terrain and had a greater chance of arriving safely. Each camp readied two hundred men. Too few, but they were only meant to cover Gainor’s retreat should the Faolanaigh warriors be taken unaware.
“I want to go,” Aine said.
Abban shook his head. “I’ll be leading one of the forces south, so I need you here. The men know and respect you. Prepare for casualties.”
“But the injured men—”
“The ones who survive the trip back are the ones you can help. The others will be beyond your skills. I’ve been fighting my whole life, Lady Aine. If I thought you could help, I’d send you. You are of more use here.”
When Abban wrote his message to Calhoun, Aine added a few lines of her own, urging him to rely on Lisdara’s physical defenses rather than the compromised wards. Ensorcelled warriors or not,
the fortress was built to withstand a siege.
Ruarc took her aside once the message had been dispatched to Calhoun. “If we have to fall back, I’m taking you to Lisdara. Lorcan is organizing a party of riders now.”
Aine started to protest, but Ruarc cut her off. “No arguments. If we see battle, we return. You are too valuable to risk being taken as a hostage. I assure you, you will be imprisoned and forced to aid their side, until they need you no longer. It will not be a pleasant end.”
Aine shivered. If he had been trying to frighten her, he had succeeded. Besides, she could hardly argue when it made good strategic sense. No king would want his commanders to be captured and tortured, and Aine’s knowledge was more damaging than what most battle captains could give up.
She paced the confines of the command pavilion for the next two days, clutching the ivory charm and murmuring prayers while Lorcan and Ruarc alternated guard duty. Half of her prayed for a vision of the battlefield, even as the other half resisted it. What good was it to know what was happening when she could do nothing about it?
On the third day, two riders appeared on lathered horses, bearing separate messages. Despite the fact she was not technically in charge, they sought her out.
“Ruarc, fetch Lord Mavin, please. He’ll need to hear this.” Aine poured water for the exhausted messengers with shaking hands. Before they even had a chance to finish their drinks, Mavin appeared in the tent. The pale-haired captain was only a few years older than her, and Aine knew nothing about him other than that Abban trusted him.
“I was on my way. What news?”
The messengers began to rise, but Mavin waved them back down. “You can tell us just as easily seated.”
One of the men, whom Aine recognized as Abban’s messenger, spoke first. Aine realized he was probably younger than her. “They’re in retreat. Lord Abban says to hold this position as long as the last ward remains. Otherwise, remove to the border camp.”
“Casualties?” Aine and Mavin asked in unison.
“Heavy. I left two days ago, and Abban had already lost half of his men. Lord Gainor was in retreat with a hundred warriors, but they were fighting admirably.”
Oath of the Brotherhood Page 25
