Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  The heavy doors opened, and a pale, haggard man emerged from the structure. Keondric dismounted first and lifted her down, steadying her while her legs adjusted to solid ground.

  “This is Glenmallaig’s steward,” he said. “He’ll take care of you. I’ll check on you later.”

  Aine moved toward the gaunt man and then turned impulsively. “Thank you, Keondric. I can’t agree with what you are doing, but most men would not have been so kind.”

  A ghost of a smile lifted Keondric’s lips, and for a moment, something like genuine pleasure sparked in his eyes. “I keep my vows, my lady.”

  Aine forced what she hoped looked like a sincere smile and went with the steward into Glenmallaig’s great hall.

  “I’m Marcan,” the steward said. He gestured for her to follow him down the intersecting corridor. “You are not under guard, because there is no way to escape. You may go wherever you like within the fortress, but if you try to leave the courtyard, the guards have orders to kill you. Do you understand?”

  Aine nodded mutely. Inside, the feel of sorcery was not as pronounced, but it still made her skin crawl. Was this the druid’s version of the wards? She followed Marcan up a staircase to a circular corridor above.

  “This will be your room,” he said, opening a door halfway down the hall. “If you need anything, just ask one of the servants.”

  Aine stepped inside, and Marcan closed the door behind her. Automatically, she put her hand on the latch. It gave easily. She might be a prisoner, but at least she would not be confined to her chamber.

  Tears welled up again, but she stuffed them down and locked them away. She couldn’t break. Until now, she had harbored hope someone would come after her. But Ruarc was dead, Lorcan most likely along with him. Even if Conor were alive, he didn’t know she was in danger.

  And if he did come for her? The fortress was filled with warriors. He had trained with the Fíréin, but what could one man do against Glenmallaig’s strength?

  That meant she could depend only on herself and what few weapons she had at her disposal. Keondric’s affection. Her modest beauty. The ivory charm hidden in her bodice.

  Aine curled up behind the curtains of her shelf bed, her heart heavy, and lifted up wordless prayers to Comdiu, but the only answer she received was that already spoken. For your faith, you will be rewarded. Cling to that when the price seems too much to bear.

  The words she had always taken as encouragement chilled her. What exactly would that price be?

  A knock sounded at the chamber door. Aine pushed herself from the bed and straightened her disheveled dress and hair, determined to put on a brave front for Keondric. She opened the door and lurched back. The chieftain stood there, but he was not alone.

  “Come.” The druid lifted a finger, and the charm flared hot beneath her dress. Aine didn’t move.

  His expression shifted, unreadable yet chilling, and she held her breath as he approached. “There’s no need to be afraid. I just thought we might take a few moments to get acquainted. My name is Diarmuid.”

  “I know who you are,” Aine said.

  He stopped before her and trailed the backs of his fingers across her face as a lover would, as Conor had touched her. Behind him, Keondric stiffened. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to hold the druid’s gaze, even though his magic threatened to suffocate her.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. “And powerful. I thought Keondric had potential. But you, young one, you have no idea of what you are capable, do you?”

  His words made no sense, but Aine would never admit it. She glared at him and pressed her lips tightly together.

  Diarmuid’s fingers slid down her neck to the silver chain and hovered over the spot where the ivory charm lay. His smile faded. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to take it from you.”

  “Can’t take it, you mean.” She poured every ounce of defiance she possessed into her stare.

  Diarmuid laughed. “I like your fire, little one. I know I promised Keondric he could have you, but I’m sorely tempted. . . . Ah, but that’s a discussion for another day. We’ve still to determine what choice your young man makes. I know you share my anticipation.”

  Diarmuid turned and exited in a swish of dark robes. Keondric cast an unsettled look in her direction before following the druid from the room. Aine stood her ground until the door closed. Then she fell to the stone floor of her prison, shaking.

  Aine had composed herself by the time Keondric returned with two servants bearing supper trays. She knew what she had to do.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” he said.

  “Of course not.” Inwardly, Aine recoiled at the intimacy of dining with him in her chamber, but she forced a pleasant smile and took her seat. The servants placed the food on the table and quickly departed.

  “Has everyone treated you kindly?” Keondric asked.

  “Aye, except . . .” Aine set down her spoon and put on a tremulous expression. “I’m frightened. You said you wouldn’t let anyone harm me.”

  Keondric’s expression darkened, and his hand tightened around his own spoon. “Has someone hurt you?”

  “Not yet. But surely you can see the druid doesn’t mean to keep his bargain. He wants me for himself.”

  Keondric let out a breath and tried to smile. “I can hardly blame him. You are a captivating woman.”

  “It’s more than that. I know when a man desires me.” She met his eye, and he shifted uncomfortably, as she knew he would. “But he covets something else. What did he mean when he mentioned your potential?”

  Keondric’s smile faded. She had struck a nerve. Good. She reached out and rested her hand lightly atop his on the table. “Please, you can trust me with your thoughts.”

  His eyes flicked down to their hands. When they returned to her face, they were softer, less suspicious. “Diarmuid was the one who first recognized my gifts. My father said they betrayed our blood. But the druid showed me I could be more than my father, groveling before a king who had no more right to the throne than we.”

  “You learned your skills from Diarmuid? You implied you possess the gifts of Balus, like me.”

  “I do. Did you know Diarmuid was once Fíréin? He was their leader. But the brotherhood couldn’t see that the High King must once again take the throne.”

  “You’re to be the High King?”

  Keondric’s enthusiasm dimmed a little. “Of course not.”

  That had been a mistake. She needed to make him feel powerful if she were to convince him to help her, and he needed to believe they were on the same side. “Then what does he want with people like us? Those with the gifts?”

  “I don’t know. I was useful because I could cross wards, but now they’ve all been broken.”

  “Will he kill us now?” Aine hardly needed to feign the tremor in her voice.

  Keondric stood swiftly, then knelt before her and took her hands in his. “The druid may not honor his promises, but I honor mine. I will protect you. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She lowered her eyes in what she hoped looked like maidenly shyness, and he returned to his seat. “Now, please, eat. It does you no good to waste away.”

  Aine picked up her spoon again, but she hardly tasted her food. She had just proven how easily Keondric could be manipulated. He had been seduced by promises of power, and he truly believed her affection was real. Now she knew why.

  A subtle spell weakened his will, just enough to alter his natural inclinations, but not enough to trigger the wards. In that moment, she actually felt sorry for him. Would he have done any of this if the druid had not changed him, gaining his trust through his insecurities?

  Aine did her best to keep up with the inconsequential conversation as they ate, but from Keondric’s slight frown, she could tell he knew something was wrong. When he rose to leave, she moved into his path. “May I confide something?”

  “Of course, my lady. Anything.”

  “This may be what the druid wants from me.
” She drew the charm on its chain from beneath her dress and laid it across her palm.

  Keondric touched it with one finger, then jerked as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning. “What was that?”

  “You tell me.”

  He just shook his head, but she saw doubt forming in his eyes. “Good night, Aine.”

  “Good night, Keondric.” Comdiu, let it be enough.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Conor followed the trap lines, hoping to come across sentries or trackers who could confirm he was on the right path, but he traveled for days without seeing a single soul. Finally, on the fourth day, he met a young sentry named Pól, who, despite a propensity to ramble, provided him with food and an important bit of information: a man and a woman had passed a few days earlier on horseback, headed west.

  Conor nearly collapsed beneath the weight of relief. Aine still lived.

  He regained more strength with each passing day, and with it, his stamina and his stealth. His head still felt tender, but at least his balance and vision problems had dissipated. He began to believe he might succeed after all.

  On the eighth day after Aine had been taken, Conor reached the margin of Róscomain and stopped short. This was the very road that had taken him to Lisdara three years ago. Even knowing Aine lay at the end of that road, he hesitated. In the forest, he was swift and confident. In the open, he was just another man, a target.

  In that case, he might as well work it to his advantage. He unraveled his braid and pulled it back in a more common fashion. These days, tattered clothing drew little interest, and the dirt and blood helped disguise his garments’ distinctly old-fashioned cut. Once he was convinced he looked sufficiently unremarkable, he broke free of the tree line and started down the road.

  He sorted through his options as he walked. Aine would be at Glenmallaig by now. Was she being treated like a prisoner or a guest? There were dungeons beneath the east walls, but the conditions were so appalling it defeated the purpose of taking her there alive. More likely, she would be under guard in the guest chambers.

  You’ve brought me this far, merciful Comdiu. You’ll have to create the opportunities. This won’t be easy.

  The last time he had prayed that kind of prayer, he had fought Liam to a draw. This time, he had to win.

  On the second day, Conor began to see signs of life and commerce: oxcarts carrying goods to and from the fortress or men on horseback. They paid him no attention, other than to avoid him, and sometimes not even then. He smiled to himself, buoyed by the unexpected discovery. If his fading ability worked as well in the open as it did in the forest, he might just have found a way to breach the fortress unnoticed. He still needed physical entry, though.

  Late that afternoon, an opportunity presented itself. One of the carts that had passed him earlier now listed dangerously on the side of the road, its cargo of apples partially unloaded. A gray-haired man struggled to lift the cart while a young girl watched.

  “Need help?” Conor asked as he approached.

  The man jerked his head up and surveyed Conor warily. “Depends. You a wainwright?”

  “No, but we might be able to get you to Glenmallaig and have it fixed properly. I assume that’s where you’re going?”

  “Aye,” he said slowly. “You?”

  “The same. I’ve a message to deliver, and I’m tired of walking.”

  The man relaxed. “What happened to your horse?”

  “Bandits.” Conor pointed to the stitches in his scalp and said, “Villager fixed me up, but horses aren’t that easy to come by. Shall we get this wheel off?”

  Between the two of them, they lifted the wagon enough to remove the wheel from the axle. Fortunately, nothing was broken. The iron cap had worked free, letting the wheel slide off at an angle.

  “You happen to have a hammer?” Conor asked. The man shook his head. “A rock it is then.”

  In the end, the fix took less than an hour, including loading the apples into the cart. The man and the girl climbed onto the buckboard, and Conor hopped onto the back. “You mind?” he asked, holding up an apple.

  “Help yourself. I’m Breck, by the way, and this is my granddaughter, Airmid.”

  “Cahan,” Conor said.

  “Much obliged to you, Cahan.”

  Conor drew his sword baldric over his head and stashed it out of sight among the bushels. With any luck, the gate guards wouldn’t question his presence. Maybe they’d just assume he was another orchard hand.

  “Where you coming from?” Breck called over his shoulder. Conor pretended not to hear him, and the man didn’t ask again.

  Facing backward on the cart, he didn’t notice their approach to Glenmallaig until they began to slow. Conor shivered. Three years away had done nothing to diminish the dread the fortress cast over him, and knowing Aine was a prisoner inside only intensified the feeling.

  He schooled his expression to boredom as the cart approached the open drawbridge, even though he felt sure the guards could hear the frantic thump of his heart. The cart rattled across and then stopped. While Breck stated his business to the warrior at the gate, another guard walked the length of the cart. Conor concentrated on making himself as uninteresting as possible. For a long moment, the guard paused, then strode back to his partner. Conor let out his breath in a rush when the cart lurched forward again. He’d done it.

  He had no intention of testing his anonymity, however. As soon as they entered the courtyard, Conor grabbed his sword from its concealment, hopped off the back of the cart, and faded into the shadows of the inner wall.

  From here, he could survey the entire fortress, as well as the armory and the kitchen. Guards stood watch, but there were far fewer than he had expected. With the king campaigning, perhaps there was little to guard. Besides, who would attack? Calhoun was wholly occupied with the siege on Lisdara, and all of Tigh’s other enemies had been vanquished.

  A servant emerged from the fortress with a wooden tray, headed to the kitchen. Perfect timing. He would be able to slip in unnoticed when the watch changed. Unfortunately, he still had no idea where Aine was being held, and he couldn’t search every chamber in the keep.

  Conor lounged against the wall and studied the other men while he finished his apple. Their numbers might be fewer than expected, but discipline was as strict as ever. Each man stood at attention, no casual conversations, nothing to eat or drink, their eyes taking in the movements of everyone in the courtyard. Getting into the fortress would be far easier than getting back out.

  He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He had come too far to give up because their escape route looked less than ideal. You brought me here, Comdiu. I’ll trust You to make a way.

  True to his estimation, only a half hour passed before men appeared in the courtyard to relieve the day watch. Conor tossed aside the apple core and strode casually toward the keep’s back entrance. The guard at the door looked him over as if trying to place him, but he did not stop him as Conor entered the lower corridor.

  He concentrated on blending in and followed the man in front of him at a discreet distance.

  “Evening, Artagan,” his quarry said to a passing guard.

  “Better hurry, Naoise,” Artagan said with a grin. “It’ll be your head if you’re late again.”

  Naoise shot back a particularly colorful oath, which made Artagan laugh. Conor filed away the names as a plan began to form.

  The guard made a sharp left turn and started up the stairs to the corridor that encircled the top level of the fortress. Conor waited until he reached the top before he ran up the stairs and burst into the hallway.

  “Naoise! Glad I caught you!”

  Naoise turned and frowned as Conor approached, pretending to be out of breath. “They want a guard on the girl’s chamber tonight. I’m supposed to take your post.”

  “Under whose orders?” the guard asked, scowling.

  Conor stared at him in disbelief. “Whose do you think?” Naoise still looked unconvi
nced, so he shrugged. “Fine, go ask if you don’t believe me. Or I can go back and say you have better things to do.”

  He surreptitiously sized up the guard as the man considered. Naoise was middle-aged, with a layer of fat covering muscle, but he outweighed Conor by at least a hundred pounds. Regardless of which way this conversation turned, Conor would have to kill him. The idea sickened him, but he had little choice. He only hoped the man would lead him to Aine first.

  Naoise swore again. “Fine. Doesn’t matter to me if I stand here or there all night. Just tell Sloane to get his assignments straight instead of sending his errand boy.” He looked Conor over with a smirk. “Riocárd must be hard up for men if he’s drafting from the nursery.”

  Conor played his role and scowled at him, but inside, he was stunned. Riocárd was still in charge here? That explained the level of discipline from the guards on watch. It also meant they would be as diligent and well-trained as ever. Naoise chuckled at his own joke and ambled down the hallway toward the guest chambers.

  Conor waited until he stopped before a room and strode toward him, drawing his dagger. His guts twisted, but it was too late to change his mind. As Naoise turned, Conor drove the dagger under the guard’s ribs and into his heart, then eased his bulk to the floor. He couldn’t look Naoise in the eye as the man’s life ebbed away. He cleaned his hands and blade on the guard’s clothes and found he was trembling.

  Focus. If he could not overcome his revulsion, he and Aine would die. He couldn’t leave the guard here for someone to find. He sheathed his weapon and tried the door latch. It gave easily.

  But the room was empty.

  So much for his plan. He shouldered open the door and dragged the body inside, then kicked the door shut with his foot.

  “Conor?”

  His heart leapt into his throat as Aine slid from the shelf bed. Her eyes drifted to the dead man and then back to his face. He steeled himself for her expression of horror, but she only launched herself into his arms. “Thank Comdiu you’re alive. I prayed you would come . . .”