Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  “And you?” Aine asked the second messenger.

  “I left right after Keene, my lady. Lord Abban wanted you to know they weren’t attacked by Sliebhanaigh. They were Siomaigh.”

  The tent fell silent. Mavin’s jaw flexed convulsively. “I’ll go speak with Seaghan.”

  “I’ll go,” Aine said. “Lord Seaghan won’t lie to me. He won’t see me as a threat.”

  Mavin considered only a moment. “Take ten men. Send someone ahead, and meet him on neutral ground. If there’s any sign of aggression, send a rider back. I’ll ready our warriors.”

  Aine nodded. “Thank you.”

  She kept her demeanor calm, but inwardly, she felt sick. Siomaigh attacking Faolanaigh could mean only one thing. Diarmuid had gotten to Semias as he had to Bodb. Fergus would now have the combined forces of three kingdoms behind him, nearly ten thousand warriors. Faolán could muster perhaps two thousand more if Calhoun took men from the villages. Without some sort of intervention, their resistance would be short-lived.

  Less than an hour later, Aine’s party crossed the half mile of meadow to the Siomaigh camp, beneath the Mac Cuillinn’s banner and a threatening gray sky. Aine stopped the men at a safe distance and dispatched the bannerman to take her request for parlay to Seaghan. She held her breath, praying they would not receive the messenger’s head in reply.

  She felt faint when the bannerman came back, the green flag snapping above him in the gusty wind. The warriors around her let out a collective sigh of relief. “He’ll see you. He’s coming out.”

  A party of six riders rode from the camp beneath a red-and-black banner just as raindrops began to spatter around them. Seaghan himself carried his standard. They reined in a safe distance away, and the commander rode forward.

  Aine glanced briefly at Ruarc and Lorcan before she separated from her own party to meet him.

  “Lady Aine. I’m encouraged to see you.”

  “Lord Seaghan.”

  Seaghan studied her for a moment, his blue eyes sharp in spite of the fatigue that lingered around the edges. “We’ve received orders to attack any Faolanaigh on Siomaigh land.”

  Aine swallowed the lump in her throat, but she kept her voice strong. “I see. Are you informing us of your intentions or giving us an ultimatum?”

  Seaghan considered before he heaved a sigh. “Neither. Semias has betrayed us. He no longer commands my loyalty.” He tossed the standard to the ground between them, the red-and-black banner a wound on the green earth. “We’ll fight with Faolán if you’ll grant us asylum.”

  Aine stared hard at him, pretending to weigh his sincerity while her thoughts whirled. This was not what she had expected. Did she even possess the authority to speak on Calhoun’s behalf? “I would venture to say the Mac Cuillinn would welcome your warriors. If you swear an oath.”

  “Your king would require our fealty?” Seaghan’s eyes narrowed. “We are Siomaigh. We fight for Siomar.”

  “I require your oath you will fight with and not against Faolán, and you will not seek to take Faolanaigh lands and titles as payment for your service.” Her conviction built with every word. She straightened atop the horse and made her voice hard. “Otherwise, we will consider you and your warriors enemies. If you had not noticed, we now outnumber you two to one.”

  A wry smile crossed Seaghan’s face. “Do you wish anything else from me, my lady? My firstborn son, perhaps?”

  Aine stared back, unsmiling. “Do not mock me, Lord Seaghan. I ask nothing unreasonable. In this, I do speak for my king. I doubt you will receive as good an offer from yours.”

  Seaghan bowed his head. “You have my oath, Lady Aine. My men and I will not fight against Faolán . . . unless your king should throw in his lot with Fergus, in which case, my oath is void. We will not seek lands or titles, but we will expect reasonable provender and shelter once we enter Faolanaigh lands.”

  “Fair enough.” Aine worked to keep the satisfaction from her face. “Expect retreating forces in the next several days. We may need to fall back behind the border should this ward break like the others.”

  Seaghan gave her a tight bow from horseback and wheeled his mount. Aine watched him leave before she called to her own party, “Let’s go deliver the good news.”

  They had ridden a few minutes when Lorcan said, “I don’t remember securing an oath being one of our goals when we came here.”

  “It seemed like a good idea,” Aine said. “I can’t imagine Calhoun wanting six hundred Siomaigh on Faolanaigh lands without some assurance they won’t turn and join their countrymen.”

  Lorcan’s smile held more than a hint of admiration. “I pity anyone who has to negotiate with you, my lady.”

  Aine summoned a weak smile in return, but her hand still trembled on the reins. She had done well, better than Mavin could have managed, but it felt like a bandage on a gushing wound. This quick solution would not hold forever.

  As if on cue, she felt a deep vibration, followed by a snap that struck her like a physical blow. The last ward protecting Abban’s camp had broken.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The skies opened up over Ard Dhaimhin, sheeting rain and sending anyone without urgent business rushing for cover. The two men in the practice yard, however, hardly seemed to notice, locked in the intensity of an evenly matched contest. The older of the two, dark-haired and muscular, seemed to have the upper hand, handling his short sword with the assurance of a born warrior, the heavy blade no weightier in his hand than a reed. His opponent, tall and blond, waited for something, unwilling to take the offense. Then he lunged, a move so quick and unexpected his opponent barely had time to parry.

  “He’s got Mac Nir reflexes,” Liam said approvingly.

  “He hasn’t won yet,” Riordan said. From the sheltered outcropping above the yard, he could see the way the young man saved his energy for the killing blow, not risking exposing himself to such an experienced opponent. The men they watched could have bested the most skilled swordsmen in the four kingdoms. At times, it was still hard to believe one of them could be his son, Conor.

  That skill was hard-won. While Eoghan had had the chance to develop his abilities gradually, Conor had lived the sword for two years, drilling and fighting six or eight hours a day. Had Riordan not seen it with his own eyes, he would have deemed the outcome impossible. They should not have been able to turn a scrawny seventeen-year-old boy into an able warrior in only three years.

  “Eoghan’s preparing Conor to fight me,” Liam said. “Watch. That’s my move.”

  Now that Liam had drawn his attention to it, Riordan saw the subtle change in Eoghan’s usual style, the way he shifted to his offhand side, a certain rhythm of parry and counterattack. He hadn’t realized the young brother was such a gifted mimic. Entranced by the similarities, he did not immediately register the Fíréin leader’s words. “Why would he do that?”

  Liam produced a wrinkled sheet of parchment and handed it to Riordan. His heart sank at the contents. “This is confirmed? Siomar has fallen?”

  “Along with half the old wards. The druid found someone who knows the binding magic.” Liam sighed. “I knew it would happen. I just didn’t expect it so soon. I thought we’d have another year with him at least.”

  “You orchestrated it all, didn’t you?” Riordan asked, not taking his eyes from the match. “You never planned on keeping him here.”

  Liam cast him a sidelong glance. “I know you disagree with my methods, but had I not arranged the pieces, Conor would still be shoveling dirt in a field somewhere.”

  Riordan swallowed down a sharp answer at the realization Liam had manipulated him rather than trusting him with the truth. “So you’ll accept Eoghan’s petition?”

  “I’ll still make Conor fight me.”

  “Can he win?”

  Liam shrugged, an eloquent movement that said he knew but would not divulge his secrets. He took the letter back and turned away.

  “Aren’t you going to watch the rest of the m
atch?”

  “I don’t need to,” Liam said over his shoulder.

  Riordan turned back to the scene below. Conor’s sword cut through the sheets of rain, moving so quickly Riordan barely saw the motion that disarmed Eoghan and set the tip of the blade against his chest. The two men stood unmoving for a moment. Then Conor withdrew the sword and extended a hand to his mentor.

  Riordan turned away. He didn’t know what the future held for his son, or even what Liam had sought to bring about, but Conor’s time at Ard Dhaimhin was drawing to a close.

  “Well done, my friend.” Eoghan squinted in the rain and made a face at his sodden clothing, now plastered to his body. He bent down to retrieve his fallen practice sword. “I saw it coming, I just wasn’t quick enough.”

  “Lucky move,” Conor said, even as elation over his victory coursed through him.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. I’ve been working you hard for months. It’s paid off. Just in time, too.”

  “Have you heard something?”

  Eoghan hesitated, but at last he nodded. “Siomar has fallen. Semias’s men have attacked the Faolanaigh. They must be under Fergus’s control.”

  “The wards?”

  “Broken.”

  Conor swore under his breath. “I’m too late then. They have Meallachán.”

  “I’m sorry, Conor. I feel responsible, even though I don’t think you could have done anything to stop it.”

  “It’s not your fault. And you’re right. I probably couldn’t have done anything to stop it.” He hesitated over the next question. “Have you heard anything—?”

  “About Aine? No.”

  Good. If Liam’s sister had been hurt or killed, news would surely have made it back to Ard Dhaimhin. Only Faolán stood between Fergus and complete domination of the isle now. How long before he declared himself High King and invaded Ard Dhaimhin? With the wards failing, the Fíréin had no choice but to get involved. Should the war come to the city, there would be much more at stake than just their way of life.

  “What are you going to do?” Eoghan asked as they started up the path toward the village, now slick from the rain.

  “I’m going to Carraigmór.”

  Eoghan shook his head. “You beat me today, Conor, but that doesn’t mean you can take on Master Liam. If you challenge him before you’re ready, you’ll lose your only opportunity—”

  “I’m not going to challenge him. I’m going to make a case to the Conclave for why they should get involved in this war. I want them to send a party after Meallachán.”

  A slow smile spread over Eoghan’s face. “The Conclave could overrule Liam with a majority vote. If you make a good enough case for yourself, it might work. I’ll back you.”

  “No, don’t get involved. Once I’m gone, you may still have some influence with Master Liam. Maybe you can change his mind if I can’t.”

  “And if you can’t?” Eoghan asked.

  “Then I’ll fight him. If I lose, I’ll worry about the consequences then.” And trust he knew the sentries and runners well enough to make it out alive when he deserted. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

  Conor had not told Eoghan about his dreams of Aine. He had felt her emotions—her exhaustion, her terror, but most of all her determination to do all she could to hold back the forces that threatened Faolán. Since then, he could swear she had called to him on more than one occasion. Where are you now? she had pleaded. Are you coming back to me?

  His heart beat faster at the recollection. It was not his imagination, even if he could not precisely name the magic that allowed him these glimpses of her. Perhaps it was the charm. Or perhaps it was just the indefinable connection they had forged in his short time at Lisdara. Whatever the reason, he knew even if he could do nothing to halt the storm of war from overtaking Faolán, he wanted to spend those last days by her side.

  Tell me if I’m doing the right thing, he pleaded skyward as he made his way back to the barracks. Please give me some indication of how I’m supposed to go about this.

  Comdiu remained silent.

  Then I’ll trust You to stop me if it’s the wrong choice. I just don’t intend on making it easy.

  Now that he contemplated leaving Ard Dhaimhin to join a war that would almost certainly mean his death, the city seemed a world apart. It would be so easy to stay here and pretend none of what he knew really existed.

  Until the last of the wards broke, and thousands of men streamed into Ard Dhaimhin, determined to seize Carraigmór’s throne for Fergus and his druid.

  Somehow, he had to convince the Conclave to get involved, before their stubbornness killed thousands and ended the Fíréin brotherhood once and for all.

  That night, Conor requested a meeting with the Conclave and the Ceannaire. To his surprise, Liam agreed immediately, granting him an audience the next morning.

  After devotions, of which he comprehended only a handful of words, he climbed the stairs to the fortress. The brother on guard let him into the hall where ten men sat in a semicircle, Liam in the middle. Another chair sat opposite, facing them. It felt like a trial.

  “Brother Conor,” Master Liam said, sweeping a hand toward the chair. “Please, have a seat, and share why you requested an audience with the entire Conclave.”

  “It’s a matter than concerns all of the Fíréin,” Conor said. “And if you don’t mind, I’d rather stand.”

  “Very well. What is on your mind?”

  Conor took a deep breath. “No doubt you know Siomar has fallen to the Mac Nir’s army. You also know the wards that extend from the forests throughout Seare have begun to fail. I wished to ask the Conclave, and you, Master Liam, what you intend to do about it.”

  “Why should we do anything?” Liam asked calmly.

  Conor hadn’t expected that response. Evasion, perhaps, or annoyance, but not indifference. “I understand the Fíréin’s policy of noninterference, but the breaking of the wards affects Ard Dhaimhin. There can be no question Fergus means to control all of Seare and declare himself High King.”

  Riordan looked at him sympathetically. “Surely you’re not suggesting Fergus will be able to conquer four thousand trained brothers.”

  “He will have at least twice that number. It hardly matters if he can conquer Ard Dhaimhin or not. He will destroy it in the attempt. You know there is one who can create or unmake the wards. Find him, and bring him back here. The age of the brotherhood will end unless you intervene.”

  “You make a compelling argument, Brother Conor,” Liam said with a bare smile. “But you are forgetting we have vowed only to hold the city and Daimhin’s throne until the return of the High King, whoever and whenever that may be. If we abandon that, we abandon the vows that have kept us strong for five hundred years.”

  Conor looked at the Conclave in disbelief. “When I first came to Ard Dhaimhin, Master Liam, you told the parable of the man who entrusted his money to his servants. You said the Fíréin life is harsh and disciplined so we would be ready when Comdiu called us to His work.

  “When is that time, if not now? Men have lived and died here for centuries, training for some glorious purpose that never comes to pass. And now that time is at hand, and you refuse to act? All that is good in the kingdoms is threatened. We alone have the ability to end this evil, to restore good to our land. If you cannot see this is Comdiu’s work, then you are no better than the unfaithful servant who hid his master’s gold and was thrown out into the dark as punishment.”

  The members of the Conclave stared, stunned by his boldness. His heart raced wildly, and he struggled to maintain his composure while he waited for Liam’s answer. Had he been successful in startling him from his complacency?

  “I commend your passion on the subject, Brother Conor,” Liam said. “But we have taken oaths. I will remind you that you have as well. Would you abandon your honor so easily?”

  “I take my vows seriously. But honor demands I act. You may choose to hold the brotherhood back from a fi
ght that is right and just, but I will not be part of that decision. I will leave Ard Dhaimhin to find the bard Meallachán and his harp. Failing that, I will fight with Faolán.”

  “You agreed to remain until you fulfilled the requirements of your apprenticeship,” Brother Daigh said, his voice hard. “You are not eligible for petition for two more years.”

  Conor drew a deep breath. He felt as if he watched the exchange from the outside now. “I understand. I am exercising my right of challenge.”

  The Conclave burst into amazed murmurs, all except Riordan and Liam. The Ceannaire smiled. “Since you are my apprentice’s student, I have first right to the challenge. However, I will cede that right to another member of the Conclave if you wish.”

  Conor looked around the circle. The men seemed as shocked as he felt. Any of them would be an easier opponent than Liam, even his father, who was the largest and strongest of the ten. Liam had given him a way out, and Riordan’s expression urged him to take it. There was more at stake here than release from his apprenticeship, though. They had dismissed his pleas to join the war. They saw him as a foolish boy who knew nothing of battle, who was ready to throw his life away in a futile fight.

  “Thank you, but I extend my challenge to you, Master Liam.”

  The Ceannaire’s smile broadened. “Very well. I accept. The match will take place on the large crannog tomorrow after morning devotions. Tell Brother Eoghan he will witness his apprentice’s trials.”

  Conor gave Master Liam a short bow. “Aye, sir. Thank you.”

  He escaped Carraigmór as quickly as he could, his heart squeezed painfully in his rib cage. What had just happened? He’d gone before the Conclave to make a reasoned case for their involvement. Instead, he’d ended up challenging a man who, rumor said, had never lost a match. Conor wasn’t even sure of the rules of the challenge. He might have forfeited his life should he lose.

  “Your challenge, your terms,” Eoghan told him. “You can choose to fight to the death or merely to first blood, though no one has chosen the former in centuries.”