Oath of the Brotherhood (11 page)

“Eat up. You won’t get another opportunity until supper. You’ve a long day ahead of you.”

Conor’s eyebrows flew up, but porridge pasted his mouth shut.

Riordan laughed. “Relax. Nothing too taxing. I suspect you’ll
have a hard enough time climbing back down. I heard Odran set a quick pace.”

“According to him, it was merely a crawl.”

“Odran’s sure-footed as they come. But he’s not the quickest among us, as you’ll come to find out.”

Conor fervently hoped he would never have the misfortune of traveling with any of them.

Riordan turned back to his breakfast, and Conor followed suit. Difficult to believe he sat beside a legend, a man who had given up power and wealth in favor of the Fíréin brotherhood. Blood relation or not, he was a stranger. Only the high esteem of Labhrás and Dolan led him to trust him as far as he had.

When they had finished the meal, Riordan set the tray aside and fixed his attention on Conor. “Now, I suppose you better tell me why you’re here.”

Conor began with how he had been sent to Lisdara as a hostage and ended with news of Galbraith’s murder and Labhrás’s execution, omitting Aine and his musical ability. Riordan listened intently, though his expression darkened when Conor mentioned the charges against Labhrás.

“What do you think?” Riordan asked when Conor finished. “You must have an opinion.”

Had any adult besides Dolan ever asked his opinion? “I think the druid and Lord Fergus killed the king and blamed Lord Labhrás because he’s a Balian.”

“You may be right. Galbraith was always suspicious of Labhrás, but he was bound by his oath to me. No doubt you’ve heard the story by now.”

Conor nodded. He hesitated to ask his next question, but it would eat at him until it found voice. “What about Lady Damhnait and the girls? What happened to them? Would my uncle . . . ?”

“I don’t know, Conor.” Riordan sighed. “If I know Labhrás, he would have made arrangements for their safety. He knew what he was risking by continuing to profess his faith openly. If there were any way to get them away safely . . .”

Please, Comdiu, let that be true
. Fergus would not spare those he deemed traitors, even if they were women and children. Conor’s stomach rebelled at the thought of Labhrás’s family
 
—his family
 
—being dragged away to their deaths. That was, if they hadn’t been slaughtered where they stood. A wave of dizziness passed over him.

“It’s strange that Galbraith would have willingly engaged a druid as a counselor, though,” Riordan continued, as if unaware of his words’ effect. “He distrusted them nearly as much as Balians.”

Conor recalled the vision Aine had shown him, grateful for the subject change. “Fergus arranged it. Besides, this one is different. Powerful. I think he’s a Red Druid.”

“Red Druid, hmm? You can feel his use of magic?”

Conor nodded.

Riordan looked thoughtful. “Interesting. Do you have any idea why Lord Labhrás told you to seek me out if something happened to him?”

“I’d assumed it was part of your plan. Yours and his, I mean.”

“What plan is that?”

Conor’s face heated. “I’d like to know that, too. I’ve never understood why you took such an interest in me.”

A flicker of sadness crossed Riordan’s face. “I knew your mother well. Her brother fostered at Glenmallaig for a time, and we always had much in common. Had I stayed in Tigh, she and I would be married now.”

“You and my mother. Married.”

“Indeed. Her clan was ambitious, and they wanted their blood
joined with the royal line. When I became a Balian, though, I knew I couldn’t live a lie in Tigh just to keep my throne.”

“So you turned her away.”

“No. I loved her.” For a moment, Riordan’s gaze turned distant. “I told her I was going to abdicate the throne. She agreed to leave Tigh with me.”

“You loved each other? Why . . . what . . . ?” Conor struggled to wrap his mind around the revelation. Then another possibility occurred to him. “Wait, you can’t mean I’m . . .”

“Máiréad always maintained you were Galbraith’s son. The timing was close enough no one questioned otherwise.”

“But you knew.” Conor’s heart rose into his throat, and the room swam before his eyes. Hadn’t he noticed the resemblance upon first glance? It explained so much, Galbraith’s strained relationship with Máiréad, his contempt for his son. . . . “I’m a bastard?”

“No! You are not a bastard.”

“You just said . . .”

Riordan reached out and touched Conor’s hand. He jerked it away. “Conor, your mother and I were married by a Balian priest. You are my legitimate son.”

Conor jumped up and paced in front of the bed. “I don’t understand. How can that be? She married my fath
 
—Galbraith. How could
 
—”

“Máiréad’s clan found out. They weren’t about to lose their chance to have their daughter become queen, much less for love of a Balian. Since the marriage wasn’t recognized by the throne, it was easy enough to make arrangements with Galbraith. It was his men that came for us.” A ghostly smile twisted Riordan’s lips. “I would have fought them for her, even knowing how it would end. She wouldn’t let me. She went back to Glenmallaig in order to spare me.”

Riordan’s pain showed clearly on his face, unmitigated by the passage of years. Conor’s anger faded. Riordan had done what he thought best, and he had loved Lady Máiréad. Of all the things he had said, Conor believed that most easily. “So that’s why you had Galbraith send me to Balurnan.”

“No. I did that because from the moment I saw you, even at a week old, I could sense you had a gift. I knew it would be extinguished at Glenmallaig, so I arranged your fosterage with Labhrás, where it would be nurtured.”

Labhrás had always encouraged Conor’s playing, giving him access to bards and musicians and calling for him each time he returned to Balurnan. “I always just thought he liked music. I didn’t know there was anything special about it until I came to Lisdara.”

Riordan’s eyebrows lifted. “Your gift is music?”

“You didn’t know?”

“When you said you felt the druid’s power, I assumed you could recognize magic in others, like me. Have you sensed power in anyone else?”

Conor thought of Aine. Other than the connection between them, which he attributed to a different sort of magic, he’d had no inkling of her gifts. He hadn’t noticed anything unusual about Riordan, either. “The only other magic I sensed was from the charm Lord Labhrás gave me.”

Riordan smiled. “He gave you the charm. I hoped he would. Do you have it with you?”

“No, I left it behind.”

Riordan nodded, and his smile faded. Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “I know this is a lot to take in. I know you need time before . . .” He swallowed hard. “Just know I’ve never been happier than I am right now, seeing you stand before me.”

Conor wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Riordan seemed to understand. “I’ll send someone up with suitable clothing, and then I’ll take you to Master Liam. After that, we’ll see.”

Conor watched his uncle
 
—no, his father
 
—leave the room, struggling to think through his shock. All these years, trying to live up to the expectations of the king, never understanding the reason for his hatred. If someone had told him . . .

What? That he was the product of an unsanctioned marriage between his mother and the king’s brother? That short of Riordan’s claim of paternity, Galbraith had no choice but to acknowledge him?

No, the revelation didn’t make him feel any better. All it did was prove he had been rejected by two fathers, not just one. Conor had thought coming here would answer all his questions, but instead it had just created more.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. Conor opened it, hoping it might be Eoghan, but it was another young man, bringing the promised clothing. Conor thanked him and shut the door quickly.

The garments were plain and serviceable, made from earth-colored linen. He pulled on the close-fitting trousers and oversized tunic and buckled on the scraped leather belt. Then he used the comb and leather thong the boy had brought to fashion his hair into a club at the base of his neck.

True to his word, Riordan appeared minutes later. “Ready?”

Conor squared his shoulders and tried to adopt Riordan’s easy confidence, though he had no idea if it was successful. As they wound their way through the intersecting tunnels into the great hall, he burned every detail of his father into his brain, hoping it would lead to some sort of understanding.

In the great hall, a brother scrubbed the stone floor with a
horsehair brush. Riordan stopped before him. “Master Liam, I would like to present my son, Conor.”

The word
son
grated on Conor’s raw nerves, but his discomfort shifted to confusion when he realized Riordan was addressing the man on his knees. This was the Ceannaire?

The man pushed himself to his feet and wiped his damp hands on his tunic. He was common-looking, of average height and muscular build, with long, reddish-blond hair bound into the customary braid. Something in his erect, yet relaxed posture made Conor think of a bowstring, the potential of power contained in stillness. His face brought back the genealogy lessons Conor should have remembered long before now.

“You’re Liam Mac Cuillinn!”

Liam fixed his gaze on Conor. “Have we met?”

If Liam had seemed unassuming moments before with a brush in hand, the illusion was long gone. No doubt many a man had lost his resolve in the presence of the Ceannaire, but Conor had more at stake here than most.

“I know Lord Calhoun and Lord Gainor,” he answered. “There is a distinct family resemblance.”

“Aye, I understand you became quite close to my family at Lisdara.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. Master Liam sounded as if he was making idle conversation, but Conor was sure nothing the Ceannaire did was idle. Could he possibly know about Conor’s attachment to Aine?

Liam studied him closely. “You left Lisdara to find Riordan. Did you get the answers you sought?”

“I asked the questions I meant to,” Conor said. “But the answers weren’t what I expected.”

Unexpectedly, the Ceannaire smiled. He exchanged a look with Riordan and turned back to Conor. “What now?”

“I was hoping you might tell me, sir.”

“I won’t hold you here against your will. If you’ve satisfied your curiosity, I’ll arrange an escort out of the forest.”

“But Odran said
 
—”

“Being the Ceannaire allows me to make up my own mind. What would you like to do?”

Conor glanced at Riordan, whose intense gaze belied his studied calm. If Conor left, he’d never know anything more about his father, and his presence would still bring danger to those he loved in Faolán.

“Everyone thinks I’m dead,” Conor said. “I have nowhere to go.”

“You wish to become a novice then?”

Conor hesitated. “Aye. I do.”

“Think carefully, young man,” Liam said. “When I said you could leave, it was as a guest. As a novice, you will be committing yourself to our training and our rules. They are not meant to be easy. Often they can be downright unpleasant. This is not a decision to be undertaken lightly.”

Conor drew himself up straighter. “Neither was Lord Labhrás’s decision to risk death to follow his conscience, or Riordan’s choice to give up his throne. I understand what I’m doing.”

Liam studied him with that knowing gaze, then gave a single nod. “Riordan, find him a place in Slaine’s céad. Eoghan can show him the city.” His smile made Conor’s stomach do a somersault. “Rest up, young man. Tomorrow you begin your training.”

“I should have told him long before this.”

Riordan stood on one of Carraigmór’s narrow granite balconies, his gaze sweeping the broad expanse of the Fíréin’s domain. He sensed rather than saw the Ceannaire a few paces behind him in the doorway.

“You did what was best for the boy,” Liam said. “The truth would have profited no one.”

“Perhaps.” The knowledge that his reunion with Conor may have come too late tempered Riordan’s joy. Still, the corner of his lips twitched up in a smile when he recalled how Conor had stood his ground before Liam. “He’s a remarkable boy.”

Liam smiled too. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“You mean Conor’s musical ability?”

“Aye. He has a rare gift with the harp.”

As many years as Riordan had known Liam, the man’s uncanny ability to see into the minds of others still discomfited him. “You read that from the meeting in the hall?”

“No, I received a message from Meallachán while you were away.” Liam chuckled. “He was concerned the boy might draw the wrong attention to himself should he remain.”

“Why didn’t he send him here directly?”

“My youngest sister, Aine. They seem to have a significant connection, but I don’t yet know how she’s involved in this.”

“Did Meallachán tell you that, too?”

“No, that I got from Conor directly.” Liam’s amusement faded. “He seems to know quite a bit about Labhrás. Did you tell him?”

“He came to tell me.” Riordan swallowed as if it could push down the sudden ache in his chest. He had been among the onlookers, concealed by his cloak, when his foster brother and oldest friend had walked to the headsman.

“Then Labhrás did his job well. He educated him, he nurtured his gift, and then he sent him back here, just as we’d hoped. And now, you have your son back.”

Riordan glanced sharply at Liam, but he couldn’t summon any ill will toward the Ceannaire, even if he was the reason Riordan hadn’t made any effort to see Conor all these years.
Things must unfold this way
, Liam had said.
If you want what’s best for him, you must watch from a distance.

It was not his place to question Liam. The burdens of the Ceannaire’s visions were his to carry and his to share. That he chose to bring Riordan so much into his confidence was already an honor. Still, Riordan had the uncomfortable feeling Liam’s plans for Conor went far beyond the small protections they had arranged.

He wasn’t sure what was more unsettling: knowing what the Ceannaire saw or being protected from it.

Liam knew of Riordan’s discomfort as he returned to the heart of Carraigmór, but it was from long years of acquaintance rather than any exercise of his gifts. He regretted keeping him in the
dark about so many details, but the fewer who knew the secrets of Ard Dhaimhin, the more secure they all were.

Liam retrieved a torch from a bracket in the wall and turned down a short, empty corridor ending in a locked door without a keyhole. He spoke a handful of words in a language long forgotten and then pushed open the door. Not even Riordan knew of this place. The password had been embedded by magic no living soul could perform and was passed down from one Ceannaire to the next, ensuring only one man could enter.

He held the torch before him as he slowly descended a flight of narrow stairs, his shoulders brushing the wall in places. The soft hiss of fire joined the scuff of his footsteps on stone. Somewhere beyond, the plink of water reverberated off rock.

The corridor seemed to end ahead in a solid wall, but Liam turned sharply into the space that angled back from the passage and stepped into the chamber.

The Hall of Prophecies. The true heart of Carraigmór, its place of secrets. Its place of purpose.

It was more of a cavern than a room, rounded like the other chambers in the fortress and lined with rows upon rows of compartments, each containing a scroll or book. Daimhin had begun to collect them in his time, and each Ceannaire over the last five hundred years had added to their number. Some of the prophecies had been recorded by brothers of Ard Dhaimhin, while others had been collected from thousands of miles away, written in dozens of languages. Not all applied to Seare: in fact, only a small portion concerned the small isle at the corner of the known world. Liam sought one particular prophecy, written by Queen Shanna herself after Daimhin’s death. Few knew of it, which made the current situation that much more disturbing.

The Kinslayer shall rise, the Adversary looming treacherous over the bleeding land. Day shall be night, and the mist, unbound, shall wreak evil upon the sons of men.

In that hour alone the son of Daimhin shall come; wielding the sword and the song, he shall stand against the Kinslayer, binding the power of the sidhe, and, for a time, bringing peace.

Liam stared at the scroll that told the future of Seare. Wiser men than he had failed to decipher the full meaning of the prophecy, but now he had a better idea of what “the sword and the song” could mean and exactly what part the Fíréin might play in it.

There had been kinslayers before
 
—bloody feuds among clans littered Seare’s violent past
 
—but this particular one was different. Never before did the one in question have a Red Druid by his side, a man who had managed to cheat death for centuries.

A man who once held the very position Liam did now.