Oath of the Brotherhood (33 page)

Conor scrubbed the grime from his face and hands
and did his best to make himself look presentable. Abban had not yet returned, but since he wasn’t anxious to face the scrutiny of the camp, he sat down in one of the chairs and began to check over his weapons.

The tent canvas rustled, and Conor looked up, expecting the commander. It was Aine.

He set aside his sword and rose. Behind her, the twilight had succumbed to night, and the light from the pavilion’s oil lamps turned her hair to burnished gold. She had changed her dress, and the simple wool clung to curves he didn’t remember her having.

Aine took a step toward him, then halted. Her eyes locked with his, but he could read nothing of her thoughts in their depths.

His stomach back-flipped. Could he have been wrong about her reaction? After all, she was no longer the shy girl he’d met at Lisdara, but a confident woman who commanded the respect of an entire camp. How could he blame them when his own heart hammered so hard in his chest he could barely breathe?

Then the barest hint of a smile lifted her lips. She crossed the pavilion in a few swift steps, and he enfolded her in his arms. The sense of rightness he’d felt at Lisdara settled over him, as if he’d reclaimed a piece of himself he’d forgotten was missing.

“I wasn’t sure you would come back,” she whispered into his tunic.

He stroked her hair. “I heard you call for me. It just took me a while to make my way here.”

Aine pulled away and stared up at him, her cheeks wet with tears, her gray eyes wide. He smoothed a lock of hair away from her face, and she inhaled sharply at his touch. The transparent longing in her expression made his knees weak.

She caught his hand and ran her fingers over the calluses on his palm and his fingertips, the marks of the sword and the harp. “You’ve been playing.”

“Every day.” He closed his fingers around hers, his eyes never leaving her face. “That’s why I’m here. I found the answers I sought at Ard Dhaimhin.”

Ruarc slipped into the tent, unsurprised to see them standing so close. “Ó Sedna and Mac Eirhinin are on their way back.”

“Thank you.” Aine tried to pull away, but Conor held her fast. Ruarc cleared his throat, and Conor released her an instant before the two noblemen entered the tent.

Abban barely gave them a glance as he crossed to the table. “Good. You’re both here. We have much to discuss. I’ve invited Lord Keondric to join us.”

Conor found himself seated beside Abban, facing Aine and Mac Eirhinin, just as the servants arrived with pots of venison stew and trays of crusty rye bread. His eyes kept returning to her while the servants placed the food before them. When he managed to tear his gaze away, Mac Eirhinin was watching him, his expression hard. A hint of unease rippled through Conor.

They ate in silence. When the servants returned to remove the bowls and refill their ale, Conor cleared his throat and addressed the table. “What can you tell me of our situation here? I’ve received only the broad strokes.”

“The situation is we’ve lost a third of our men in the south,” Abban said. “We’ve holed up behind the last strong wards we can find, much good that will do us. Calhoun has another five hundred men on the Timhaigh border, just in case. Meanwhile, we can’t engage our enemy for fear the sorcery will infect us.”

“Fergus is using blood magic to control his men,” Aine explained. “It’s like a parasite. When the victim dies, it looks for another host.”

“The infected can’t cross the wards?” Conor asked.

“No, but Fergus has someone who can unmake them,” Abban said. “He’s using the wards to control our movements, place us where he wants us. Eventually those will fail, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Conor saw the reality of the situation in the expressions of those around the table. “That’s not entirely true. We can find the ward-breaker.”

“It would take time,” Abban said. “Time to discover who this person is, time to reach him.”

“I know who it is. It’s the bard Meallachán.”

Aine gasped. “Meallachán? Why would he help our enemy?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s being forced. Maybe he’s infected. Besides, we don’t need
him
. We just need his harp.”

“You learned how the wards are made?” Aine asked, breathless. “You could rebuild them?”

“If that were possible,” Mac Eirhinin mused, “the ensorcelled warriors would be trapped between the wards, unable to move.”

They exchanged glances, afraid to give in to sudden hope.

“We’ll need to tell Calhoun,” Abban said. “I don’t trust the
message to be sent by rider. Aine, you will go to Lisdara and speak with him. We can have a party ready in two days.”

“I’m not leaving the camp! Who will see to the men?”

“Gainor needs a physician,” Mac Eirhinin said. “Your replacement can see to them. You’ll be safer at Lisdara, behind walls and wards.”

Aine leapt to her feet and looked at each of them in turn. “Do you understand what you are saying? It sounds easy enough
 
—just find Meallachán and his harp and bring them back here.
If
you can find him, and
if
you can reach him, he’ll be guarded.” She appealed to Conor. “It’s a suicide mission. Do you know how little chance there is for success?”

“If not me, then who?” Conor asked quietly. “I’m Timhaigh. I can blend in. I’ve been well-trained by the Fíréin. And I’m the only one who can use the harp. It’s the sensible move.”

Aine blinked back tears, but she said nothing.

Conor sought to lighten the mood. “Who knows? I already came back from the dead once.”

Her eyes flashed. “How dare you make light of it! You have no . . .” She closed her eyes and reined in her anger. “I need to see to Gainor. Excuse me.”

Conor glanced at Abban. “Should she
 
—”

“Ruarc or Lorcan will be outside. They’re never far. In the meantime, get some rest. Ask one of the captains for an extra blanket. Unfortunately, we have plenty now.”

“Thank you.” Conor rose and nodded to each. “My lords.”

After the stifling tension of the tent, the air felt gloriously cool, the faint smell of summer rain just discernible beneath wood smoke and cooking food. He drew in a deep breath and attempted to quiet his mind, but Aine’s stricken, accusing stare refused to leave him.

There was no other way. He had been prepared for this very
mission, his life saved, his path guided, so he could accomplish this task. And yet now that he was back, now that he knew Aine had not forgotten him, how could he bear to leave her again?

He searched the camp for Aine’s tent, trying to convince himself he actually sought Ruarc to discuss plans for her departure. Within minutes, he had exhausted all the possibilities. He was about to give up and seek a place to bed down for the night when he caught sight of two silhouettes at the edge of camp beyond the supply tents: one tall and imposing, the other slender and cloaked.

Ruarc turned as he approached. He relaxed visibly when he recognized Conor and moved off a few paces to give them their privacy.

“It’s not fair,” Aine said hoarsely. Tears streaked her cheeks again. He reached for her, and she moved into his embrace without hesitation. “I don’t want to lose you again. I’ve prayed for this moment for three years. To think it might have only been so you could leave and do this . . . it’s cruel.”

“You must commit me to Comdiu again. I’m alive only by His will.” He rested his chin atop her head, surprised by how naturally they fit together, how little shyness he possessed around her. “I felt you die in Dún Eavan. When I thought you were gone, it broke me. I believed Comdiu must be unspeakably cruel to take you away. When I learned you still lived, I realized how little I understood of Comdiu’s plans and how quick I was to dismiss Him. If this is why He brought us here, I have to trust things will unfold according to His will.”

Aine tilted her head back to look at him. “While I was in the lake, Lord Balus spoke to me. He told me there were dark days ahead for Seare and I must be faithful. I’ve tried, but this . . . I don’t want to believe I was spared just to be a part of this.”

The anguish in her voice tore at Conor’s heart. He searched
for words to reassure her, but they all felt inadequate. Instead, he slid one hand behind her neck and kissed her gently. Aine melted into the embrace, her hands moving up his back as she gave herself to the kiss, and the warmth he’d felt flared into something more. He disentangled himself with effort and stepped back.

“I should have told you how I felt before I left,” he said.

She smiled. “I knew. I heard it in your song.”

“I have loved you from the moment I took your hand in the hall. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember. I dreamed of you before I ever came to Lisdara. Somehow I knew I would love you.”

Her words made him giddy. She loved him. The fears that had haunted him for three years vanished. “And now? Have you since come to your senses?”

She shook her head, mischief surfacing in her expression. “I’m afraid those are long gone.”

“Good.” He sobered and took her hands again. “Because if I come back, I want to marry you. If you’ll have me.”

Tears sprang to her eyes again, but she was smiling. “Of course I will. Nothing would make me happier.”

He laughed, and she threw her arms around his neck. Then he kissed her again until they were both breathless and trembling. Ruarc cleared his throat, and Aine jerked away to a safe distance. Conor threw a sheepish glance at the guard, expecting to see warning in his expression, but Ruarc struggled against a smile.

Conor grinned. “She’s just agreed to marry me.”

“So I gathered.” Ruarc said. “I suggest we all return to camp
 
—separately
 
—before you draw unwanted attention to yourselves.”

Aine threw an embarrassed look at her guard, but she stretched up on tiptoe to steal one last kiss from Conor. “Good night.”

“Good night, my love.” Conor squeezed her hand and smiled as she disappeared back into camp with Ruarc.

She still loved him. She wanted to marry him.

If he came back alive.

At the thought, the joy he had felt moments before turned cold. What were the chances he’d actually live to follow through on that promise? Had he just condemned Aine to even more heartache?

Lord, have I just done a terrible thing?

The first fat drops of rain stung his face as they spattered down around him. If it was an answer, he didn’t know what it meant.

The days before Aine’s departure for Lisdara
passed far too quickly. Conor stole any moment he could to hold her and reassure himself he was not merely dreaming her presence, but those moments were few and far between. She darted around the camp, ensuring her patients would be cared for in the short time between her departure and the arrival of the king’s physician. Gainor continued to worsen despite her tireless efforts, and Conor saw how the possibility of losing him pained her.

“I know what’s killing him; I just can’t stay ahead of the infection.” Aine wrapped her arms around Conor’s waist and pressed her head against his chest, as if he was all that stood between her and disaster. “What use is my gift when I know what must be done, but I can’t do it fast enough?”

Conor kissed the top of her head, but inwardly, her words mirrored his own thoughts. The messengers that would bring vital intelligence on the enemy’s movements were late, and with each passing day, his opportunity to find Meallachán’s harp waned.

To distract himself, he joined sword drills with the other men. He sensed them sizing him up, and he knew he did not fall
short in the comparison. He had spent more time with a sword in the last two years than many of the younger men had in their entire lives. Still, he knew they were far more comfortable with the idea of taking lives than he. He wasn’t yet sure if that was good or bad.

Treasach waited for him after one such drill. Conor had known the priest was in camp, but their paths hadn’t yet crossed.

“The warrior-bard,” Treasach said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “I never thought to see you as comfortable handling a sword as a harp.”

“That makes two of us. Your kind does their work well.”

The priest didn’t try to deny it. “Our kind, you mean. Still, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

Conor struggled with words for a long moment. “I couldn’t kill.”

“You see that as a weakness?”

“I see it as a liability. What if I can’t do what needs to be done?”

“You should thank Comdiu you had the choice. Taking a man’s life when it is justified and necessary is nothing to be ashamed of, but it is not to be celebrated. When it is time, you will do what needs to be done. Just know there is a cost.”

Conor nodded. So far, he’d been able to avoid being directly responsible for anyone’s death, but he couldn’t fool himself into thinking that would last forever, especially if he were to go after the harp.

The morning of Aine’s scheduled departure, while he pretended to sleep under a gray, lowering sky, the long-awaited messenger galloped into camp. Conor jumped from his bedroll and raced toward the command tent, shrugging on his sword as he ran. His heart rose into his throat at the standard: not the simple green banner of a Faolanaigh messenger, but Calhoun’s crowned wolf.

Aine, Ruarc, and Abban had already arrived, weary but alert. Aine moved to Conor’s side, her expression controlled, implacable. But when her hand found his, concealed by the folds of her skirt, he felt a tremor ripple through her.

The messenger handed over a sealed parchment and collapsed into a chair while the commander read the message.

Abban lowered the parchment slowly. “Lisdara’s under siege.”

Aine sagged against Conor, the brave front slipping. He put a steadying arm around her shoulders and asked, “How is that possible? The wards around the keep still hold.”

“The warriors that landed on the eastern coast were not ensorcelled. Calhoun managed to send the message before the attack.”

“Gainor predicted this,” Aine said. “Fergus made us rely on the wards for protection and then struck once we felt secure. Why didn’t Calhoun escape to Dún Eavan while he could?”

“The king wouldn’t leave his men, my lady,” the messenger said. “Lady Niamh begged him to come with her.”

“Niamh’s at Dún Eavan?” Aine asked.

“Which is where you are going,” Ruarc said. “If it wasn’t safe for you before, it’s even more dangerous now.”

Abban addressed the messenger. “Take some food and rest, young man. We’ll find you if we need you.”

The messenger departed, and Abban tossed the letter on the table. He sank into the recently vacated chair. “Seaghan can guard the southern front while we move our remaining céads north to Lisdara.” He gestured to a servant. “Find Mac Eirhinin.”

“I’m here.” Mac Eirhinin strode into the tent, holding another message. “This just came.”

Abban took the parchment. “The messenger?”

“Dead. Took an arrow as he fled the battlefield. It’s a miracle he even reached us. What does it say?”

Abban’s scowl deepened as he scanned the message. “The force on the Timhaigh border has been attacked.”

“And this time they were ensorcelled,” Aine guessed. “There aren’t any wards there.”

Abban swore sharply. “Fliann’s men will be no help now. We’ll be lucky if we don’t end up fighting them ourselves. All right, Mac Eirhinin. Spread the news. We break camp and move north.”

Conor had the eerie sensation of control slipping from their grasp. He couldn’t wait for a messenger from the south that might never come, and yet he could hardly run off without direction. He enfolded Aine in his arms and absently brushed away the stray hairs that escaped her braid. As his fingers touched her silver necklace, he realized what he had overlooked. He took her hand and drew her outside the tent.

In the dull gray morning, he tugged the charm on its chain from beneath her bodice. “Can you do something for me?”

Understanding dawned on her face. “You want me to find Meallachán.”

Ruarc joined them on their way to Aine’s tent and took up a position just inside the entrance. She sank onto her cot and curled her fingers around the charm. Conor clasped her free hand in both of his.

Aine closed her eyes, and Conor waited for sign of a vision. Minutes passed. He had just begun to relinquish hope when her hand tightened on his, and her forehead creased. A tear trickled down her cheek.

“I saw him. He’s been tortured.” She opened her eyes. “I think he’s in a church or a monastery. It had a big stained-glass window of a saint, a man holding a scale and an olive branch. Does that help?”

“Saint Simeon,” Conor said immediately. “It has to be the abbey at Cill Rhí. It’s a few miles outside of Beancaiseal.”

“How do you know?”

“I studied architecture, too.” He sent her a sheepish smile. “It’s built in the Ciraen style, the only one of its type. I’m sure of it.”

Aine didn’t return the smile. Her throat worked, and she gripped his hand harder. “I don’t want you to go. Please, come with me to Dún Eavan.”

Ruarc quietly excused himself, and Conor took Aine’s other hand as well. “Did you see something else? Something you’re not telling me?”

“No, it’s just . . . what if this is it? What if we never see each other again?”

Conor pulled her close, wishing he had some way to reassure her, but he couldn’t banish the feeling of dread that had come with the first messenger. If Lisdara fell, Fergus and Diarmuid succeeded. Only Faolán stood between them and total control of the four kingdoms. “We must trust Comdiu will not abandon us, Aine. It’s all we have left.”

She swiped at her eyes. “If everyone is leaving, I need to see my supplies from the infirmary are properly packed.” She touched her forehead to his, as if drawing resolve from his closeness, and then stood. “I’ll find you later.”

Conor dropped his head into his hands.
Lord, guide me. Help me complete this task set before me. Protect Aine. Let me survive to marry her.
He didn’t know what else to say. Their needs were both simple and overwhelming.

Conor found Abban in the command pavilion and emotionlessly outlined his plan. He would take four accomplished riders and swordsmen, a party small enough to slip unnoticed past the enemy. He would form his plan to get inside Cill Rhí once they could survey its defenses. From there, his success would be in Comdiu’s hands. Abban’s expression turned grim, but he simply nodded.

Mac Eirhinin found him as he left Abban’s tent and walked silently beside him for several breaths before he spoke. “I don’t like it.”

Conor shot him a sidelong glance. “Like what?”

“Aine should go to Dún Eavan now. Our intelligence is at least a week old. By the time a group this large reaches Lisdara, there is no telling where the enemy might be. She’s better off with a small, fast party of riders that can slip around Fergus’s forces.”

“Do you not think she’d be safer in the company of several hundred warriors? A small party is fast, but indefensible.”

“Not with men like Ruarc and Lorcan.”

Conor stopped and faced Mac Eirhinin, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe this is merely concern for the king’s sister.”

Mac Eirhinin could not meet his eye. “Come now. Half the men in camp are in love with her, especially those of us who have had the benefit of her care.”

“I hadn’t realized you knew her so well.”

“I’ve had cause to admire her for some time.”

Conor sighed. Aine somehow drew people to her. He could hardly blame Mac Eirhinin for his admiration. “Then what do you recommend?”

“Send her usual escort. Those men have put their lives in danger at her command more than once. Riding hard, they could reach Dún Eavan in five days. She’ll be safe at the fortress before we ever engage the enemy.”

Everything Mac Eirhinin said was perfectly sensible, and yet the idea unsettled Conor. The other man must have sensed his ambivalence, because he said quietly, “No one would blame you if you chose to escort her there yourself. You could be at Cill Rhí in two weeks. Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be done fighting by then.”

The idea, so appealing when Aine had begged him, sounded even more sensible from Mac Eirhinin’s mouth. He could concentrate on his task if he knew she was safe in Dún Eavan.

No, two weeks was too long. “I can’t. But I’ll speak with Abban and get his opinion.”

Abban thought the chieftain’s advice to be sensible, and Ruarc agreed. In addition to four men who had escorted Aine to Abban’s camp, Ruarc selected six more from the mapping party. The warriors went to make their preparations, and Conor stood alone with Aine outside her tent for what could be the last time.

“I don’t want to leave you again,” he whispered in her ear.

“All will be as it should.” She smiled. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Conor reached for a smile. It felt as false as hers looked. “I have a good reason to come back, don’t I?”

He kissed her, but it was a bittersweet farewell, coming so soon after their reunion. When she stepped away, tears pooled in her eyes. “They’re ready for me. I have to go.”

Conor walked her to her horse and lifted her onto it, his hands lingering on her waist. She caught one of them as he drew away. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I’ll do everything within my power.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I love you, Aine.”

“And I love you. Go with Comdiu.”

Ruarc caught Conor’s eye and nodded, a wordless assurance she would be as safe as he could make her. The group moved forward, the men closed around her, and then she was gone from his sight.

Conor didn’t expect the crushing sense of loss. He walked amidst the camp in various stages of dismantle and forced down his feelings with each step. He couldn’t afford any distractions from his goal now.

When he reached the site where Abban’s command tent had once stood, the commander spoke with four men. Abban waved Conor over.

“These are your men. Gair, Darragh, Bram, and Eoin. They’ll see you there safely.”

Gair and Eoin were the older of the quartet, perhaps five-and-thirty, with the self-assured air of professional warriors. Darragh and Bram weren’t much older than Conor, but he had watched them drill and knew they were beyond competent.

“I’m glad to have you,” he said. “Has Lord Abban told you the mission?” When they nodded, Conor continued, “We’ll travel fast with remounts. Bring only weapons and enough food to get there and back. Rest up, because we’ll be moving fast, and if we’re successful, we’ll be leaving with warriors on our heels.”

Darragh and Bram exchanged a grin, just a little too enthusiastic about the scenario.

Lord, preserve us
, Conor thought.

Abban and his men left that afternoon, leaving behind only scarred earth as a testament to the camp’s existence. Now a mere five warriors crowded around a small fire. Conor tested the edge of his sword and drew a whetstone down its length a few times before he turned his attention to the binding on his staff sling.

“Can you really do what Abban says?” Darragh asked.

Conor looked up at the warrior’s skeptical tone. “I hope so. Until I have the harp, I can’t know for sure.”

“Then we get the harp,” Bram said.

Conor met Gair’s knowing gaze. It would not likely be that easy.

When morning came, they broke camp silently and efficiently, dousing the embers and packing their few supplies onto the horses. Their planned route would take them along the edge of Rós Dorcha until they broke southeast toward the abbey.
Fortunately, his four companions proved to be as good riders as they were swordsmen. Abban had chosen well.