Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  The scenery wavered and shifted around him. He was concentrating so hard on staying upright that he almost missed the sound. Not a loud one, merely a crack of a twig that could have been his own misstep. While his pain-fogged mind tried to process the information, instinct screamed at him to draw his sword. He tried, but his right arm obeyed him no better than the left.

  The last warrior, a mountain of a man with arms like tree trunks, stepped out from behind a clutch of slender birch. Ordinarily, it would not have been enough to conceal him, even in the dark, but Conor now struggled to focus his vision on a single point. A slow smile spread across the warrior’s face. He raised his great sword two-handed and lunged at him with a cry.

  Conor sidestepped clumsily, tripped, and hit the ground in a hard roll. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the scrub.

  “Not so brave when you have to face me one-on-one, are you, boy?”

  Conor darted across an open patch to the safety of another group of trees, bent into a crouch. The swordsman whirled at the sound of his now-audible movements, but his eyes passed over the place where Conor knelt.

  He had to focus. If he didn’t finish this, he would die here. Then the man would take Aine back to Diarmuid.

  That thought snapped him out of his stupor. He had to think logically. His aim wasn’t worth risking the hand stones. The sword, then.

  Conor gathered his strength, forced the fog away by sheer will, and eased his sword from the scabbard. The weapon, usually so light and responsive, now felt like lead in his hand.

  He leaned the sword against his leg, point in the dirt, and took one of the stones from his pouch. He drew a deep breath and lobbed it as far as he could into the trees. The man whirled. With one last burst of energy, Conor took up the sword, threw himself into a staggering run, and drove the blade through his foe’s back.

  The momentum carried him forward even as his strength gave out, and he crashed to the ground onto his wounded arm. Pain burst in his shoulder and spread like fire through his body, blanking his vision and stilling his breath. He recognized, somewhere beyond the pain, he might not have killed the brute, but he could only writhe in agony.

  Then the pain faded into numbness. Conor turned his head and looked directly into the sightless eyes of the dead giant. The sword still impaled him, a lucky strike through the heart. An inch to either side, and the man would have lived long enough to kill him.

  I have to get back to Aine. Conor tried to push himself up, but his muscles refused to respond. In the corner of his vision, a man emerged from the trees. His mind screamed at him to defend himself. With every bit of strength left in his body, he wrenched the weapon free from the dead man beside him.

  Before he could think about what he planned to do with the sword, the world went dark.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Aine huddled in the corner of the cottage, shivering with cold and fatigue. She could scarcely process what had happened. Whether it was her manipulation or his own conscience, Keondric had sacrificed himself for them. He had kept his vow after all.

  He was not the only one. Ruarc. Lorcan. Even now, Calhoun held off the dark forces that threatened Lisdara. Tears slid down her cheeks as she considered all the people she loved now in danger, perhaps already dead.

  Then there was Conor. Even the Fíréin’s renown had not hinted at the extent of his abilities. She had always sensed he was capable of far more than even he suspected, but the brotherhood had honed his raw talent and determination into something remarkable.

  He would come back to her. He had to. He could not live through all that just to die now.

  Please, Lord, just bring him back safely.

  The answering certainty that washed over her gave her strength and purpose. She forced herself to rise, pushing away the bone-deep weariness that gripped her limbs. When he came back, they would probably not linger long. She rifled through the contents of the cottage, silently thanking Comdiu that He had turned these poor people’s misfortune into a blessing.

  A single dress hung on a peg with a linen shift. She discarded her wet underdress and slipped into the borrowed clothing. She had to overlap the eyelets of the dress’s lacing and cut off excess fabric at the hem, but at least it was warm and dry. Her shivering slowly subsided. She set aside a few pieces of men’s clothing for Conor, then continued to search the cottage. Anything edible had already been carried off by rats, but she did find a sharp bone needle, some gut thread, and a few tallow candle stubs.

  Time crawled, minutes turning into an hour, then two. The sick feeling seeped back in. Conor should be back by now. Had something happened to him?

  Still, she made herself wait. Blundering around in the dark would only worsen the situation. If he returned and she wasn’t there, they could end up wandering around the forest all night or worse.

  Just when she could bear the wait no longer, the door burst open. A large man filled the doorway, Conor’s body slung over his shoulder like a life-sized rag doll. She backed away, clutching the dagger in the folds of her skirt.

  “You have nothing to fear from me, Lady Aine. He’s hurt.”

  Aine surveyed the dark-haired man uneasily. He looked to be carved from rock, all muscle and sinew, and he moved with a particular grace she had unconsciously come to associate with Conor. Fíréin. She nodded jerkily and gestured to the bed, though she still gripped the knife.

  “Who are you?”

  “Brother Eoghan, my lady. I’m a friend of Conor’s. I’m told you have . . . certain gifts?”

  She just nodded again. Eoghan laid Conor gently on the bed and stepped back. Her insides twisted. He looked so pale that had it not been for the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, she would have thought he was dead. And the blood . . . the left side of his tunic was soaked, his hands smeared with it. Which was worse? That it was all his? Or that it wasn’t?

  She sat down beside Conor and placed her hand against his cheek. Sensations instantly flooded her mind, and she exhaled in relief. “He’s exhausted, and he’s lost blood, but he’ll recover. He just needs rest.”

  “Something neither of you will get much of,” Eoghan said. “Can you fix his arm?”

  Aine nodded. The man’s posture said he was far more concerned for Conor than his calm tone suggested. She retrieved the needle and thread and said hopefully, “I don’t suppose there’s fresh water nearby?”

  Eoghan passed her the water skin slung over his shoulder. She unbuckled Conor’s belt and sword baldric and set them aside, then slit his tunic from cuff to hem. “Help me get this off him.”

  Eoghan lifted him while she gingerly removed the garment. Purple bruises mottled Conor’s torso, but he otherwise seemed whole. Aine washed the sword wound and surveyed the damage. The gash was deep, and it bled as she manipulated it, but at least it was a clean cut from a sharp blade. She threaded the needle clumsily in the candlelight and began her delicate work, aware of Eoghan’s scrutiny as she made a row of even, tiny stitches. Conor stirred in his sleep, but he did not wake.

  When she finished, she bound his arm with linen scraps left over from her hasty alterations and turned to cleaning the rest of the blood and grime from his body.

  “You’ve done this more than once, I can see,” Eoghan said.

  Aine brushed a piece of damp hair from Conor’s eyes. “I spent two years on the Siomaigh front. There were plenty of opportunities for practice.” She glanced back at Eoghan. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but what are you doing here? I thought the Fíréin stayed out of this sort of thing. He’s no longer one of you.”

  “Conor has won the respect of a number of brothers. When I heard what he was planning, I thought he could use some help.”

  “We’re indebted to you,” Aine said softly.

  Eoghan looked embarrassed. “Not at all, my lady. For now, sleep. I’ll keep watch outside.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eoghan bowed and stepped out the door.

  Aine stretched out o
n the mattress beside Conor and pulled the blanket over them. After a moment’s hesitation, she laid her head on his uninjured shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, as if she could force strength back into his body through sheer will. She managed a few incoherent words of prayer, and then she succumbed to her exhaustion.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Conor awoke with a start in the dimly lit room, disoriented. After several moments, he recognized the cottage in which he had left Aine, but the events afterward remained fuzzy. How had he gotten here?

  He quickly realized he was not alone on the mattress. Aine slept beside him, her body pressed alongside his, her head resting on his bare chest. He caught his breath, allowing himself a moment of pure pleasure at the feel of her beside him and the peaceful expression on her lovely face as she slept.

  Where was the pain? By all rights, he should be in agony from the injuries to his arm and head and the overexertion of the last few weeks. The newly stitched wounds itched and stung, but he recognized those sensations as signs of healing. The rest of his body felt as if he had just completed a day’s labor at Ard Dhaimhin, a bearable feeling, pleasant even. How was that possible?

  Carefully, he eased himself from beneath Aine’s head. Her eyes fluttered open, and she jerked upright, her face flaming. “Oh! I didn’t realize—”

  Conor silenced her apology with his mouth. Her hand slid behind his neck and twined through his tangled hair, and he shivered with an entirely different sort of pleasure.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  Conor jerked away from Aine, and his hand closed on the sword beside him before he recognized the man standing in the doorway. “Eoghan?”

  Eoghan shut the door behind himself, doing a poor job of hiding his smile. “It didn’t take you long to recover.”

  “Can you blame me?” Conor retorted. Aine blushed an even deeper shade of pink. “What are you doing here?”

  Eoghan folded himself into a chair as Conor untangled himself from the blankets. “The trackers passed word back to me. I thought you might need help. Looks like I was too late, though. It took me some time to procure the horses. In a few hours, there won’t be any safe place for you in Seare.”

  Conor nodded. “We have to go to Aron. Lisdara was our last option, and it’s under siege.”

  “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.” Eoghan’s expression sobered. “Lisdara has already fallen.”

  Aine let out a strangled cry, and Conor put his arm around her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “I’d hoped with Diarmuid dead . . .”

  “The druid’s dead?” Eoghan asked. “When?”

  “Mac Eirhinin killed him last night. Or at least, I assume he killed him. No one could survive a wound like that. But the wards are already broken, and Meallachán’s harp is probably gone.” He stroked Aine’s hair as she pressed her face to his shoulder, gripped by the sorrow of another loss. Eoghan watched them with a wistful look on his face.

  “I’m surprised Master Liam let you leave,” Conor said.

  “Master Liam doesn’t know.”

  Aine lifted her head. “Will you be punished? Surely when he learns you were helping us . . .”

  “Perhaps,” Eoghan said, but his expression left no doubt as to what he thought awaited him in Ard Dhaimhin. “It’s three days to Port an Tuaisceart. If you’ve any chance of beating the blockade, we must leave now.”

  Conor brushed tears from Aine’s cheek, silently questioning. She nodded. “Give me a few minutes to gather our things.” She pushed herself to her feet and began to fold supplies into the blanket.

  Eoghan drew Conor off a few paces and pitched his voice low. “They sent trackers after you. I took care of them, but they’ll send more. We’ll have to make haste.”

  “Aine’s a good rider. She can handle the pace.”

  “I understand why you moved heaven and earth to come back to her,” Eoghan said, his eyes returning to Aine. “She’s quite a woman.”

  “That she is.” Conor clasped Eoghan’s arm firmly. “Thank you. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

  “You have a second chance. Don’t waste it.”

  They traveled briskly north, Aine riding behind Conor on a large gelding, Eoghan on a chestnut mare. Aine said little, but from time to time, her arms tightened around his waist, and her body shook with silent sobs. He simply held her hand and locked away his own disturbing memories. He would have time to deal with those later. Right now, she needed his strength.

  Eoghan and Conor remained alert for pursuing riders, but none appeared. They could only conclude Glenmallaig’s new commander had decided to cut his losses in the druid’s absence.

  That evening, they talked quietly by the fire about the dire situation in which Seare now found itself.

  “I wouldn’t yet consider Ard Dhaimhin to be safe,” Conor said. “We presume Diarmuid is gone, but with the wards broken, there would be nothing stopping Fergus from attempting to take the city. He’d have ten thousand men at his disposal. From his perspective, those are good odds.”

  “We’ll be ready if he does. The Conclave has been considering the possibility they will have to defend the city. Nothing I said would sway them to send men to Faolán, though it probably wouldn’t have helped. Fergus struck Lisdara more quickly than anyone expected.”

  Conor glanced at Aine, who studied her ragged nails with more interest than they warranted. He took her hand, and she squeezed it tightly. “There’s only one thing that might have made a difference, but there’s no telling where the harp is now.”

  “I could try—” Aine began.

  “No. If I hadn’t left you to pursue the harp, you would have never been in danger. I won’t repeat that mistake.”

  Aine didn’t respond. Instead, she excused herself, claiming the need for privacy. When she was out of earshot, Eoghan said, “I know you. You’re not going to give up that easily.”

  “How can I? The harp is the key to retaking Seare, and I may be the only person left alive who can use it. I just won’t sacrifice Aine again in the process.” Conor’s voice caught. “I came too close to losing her.”

  Eoghan poked at the fire, then fixed him with a solemn look. “What happened at Glenmallaig?”

  Conor studied his hands. They were clean now, but he couldn’t forget the sight of them covered in other men’s blood. Nothing could have prepared him for the horror that pressed at the back of his mind like water behind a dam. Every time he opened his mouth, it threatened to rush out of him in a terrifying howl. He steadied his voice and said, “Treasach warned me there was a cost. I just didn’t know how high it would be.”

  “It will take time.”

  “And what happens when Aine realizes what I’m capable of? Right now, she’s just relieved to be alive, but in time . . . she’ll never look at me the same again.”

  “You do her a disservice,” Eoghan said. “She loves you, Conor, truly. I think she’s far wiser than you give her credit for. Would you do it any differently, knowing the cost?”

  Foliage crunched underfoot as Aine returned, looking small and vulnerable in her borrowed clothing. His love for her struck him like a blow to the chest, painful in its intensity.

  “No. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  Their third day on the road stretched into night, and they entered Port an Tuaisceart as the sky lightened to gray. The sleepy village on the Faolanaigh border was little more than an inlet for the fishing boats and coastal skiffs that brought supplies to Faolán’s northern coast, but Eoghan seemed remarkably assured they would find what they were seeking.

  They left the horses and followed Eoghan down to the harbor. Seabirds called overhead as they circled in search of food, and a few fishermen stood on the docks, loading their nets onto the boats for the day’s work. A single-masted cog, out of place in the tiny port, floated at anchor a few hundred yards offshore, its draft too deep for the shallow harbor. When they neared the dock, Conor could just make out the nam
e Resolute and a pair of familiar shield knots emblazoned on the side.

  A rowboat separated from the ship and glided toward the docks, carrying two men. Eoghan caught the rope they tossed up to him and fastened it securely before offering a hand to the older of the two. Despite his graying hair, the man still possessed a strong body and a particular quality of movement that bespoke Fíréin training. Conor then understood Eoghan had done far more than arrange a few horses to bring them from the forest.

  “Brother Eoghan, I presume?” the man said.

  “Captain Ui Brollacháin. I wasn’t sure you had gotten my message.”

  “Barely,” he replied. “But one doesn’t refuse a favor of the Ceannaire himself.”

  Conor’s heart beat faster as he comprehended the significance. Eoghan shot him a bleak smile before he turned back to the captain. “This is Brother Conor and Lady Aine. They’ll be your passengers.”

  Ui Brollacháin bowed to Aine and offered his hand to Conor. “Welcome. We’d best be getting to the ship. We’ll be chancing the blockades as it is.” He bowed to Eoghan. “Give my regards to Master Liam.”

  Eoghan nodded. Conor waited until the captain climbed back into the boat before he spoke. “You shouldn’t have risked so much. You know the penalty for such a thing. You could come with us.”

  “No. If I leave, all those who helped me will pay because I engaged them under false pretenses. I knew the price when I started out.”

  Conor blinked back tears. He’d thought after all that had happened, he’d be immune to the effect of yet another sacrifice. He gripped Eoghan’s arm and then clapped him into an embrace. “Thank you, my friend. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m fully expecting your firstborn son to be named after me,” Eoghan said with a grin.

  Conor laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as forced as it felt. “You can count on it.”

  Eoghan turned to Aine and bowed. “My lady. Conor is truly a fortunate man.”

  “Thank you, Eoghan.” Aine put her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. “You are a true friend. We won’t forget this.”