Conor sank down on the bed, the warmth he’d felt moments before squeezed out by a cold, hard knot in his middle. Surely his foster father hadn’t meant the words as they sounded. Did Labhrás believe he was in danger? Was Conor in danger too?
That alone would have been unsettling, but the kin to whom his foster father referred could only be his uncle, Riordan.
If something happened to Labhrás, Conor was to join the Fíréin brotherhood.
Once more, Conor traveled among armed, mounted men, and once more, their presence did not comfort him. A party of this size traveled slowly, with its complement of foot soldiers and mounted warriors. An endless stream of carts clattered along behind them, carrying their tents, food, and personal belongings, as well as a display of Tigh’s bounty for King Calhoun. At this pace, they would spend five days on the road, most of it only a stone’s throw from the ancient forest, Róscomain, and the dangers that lurked within. Even the brigandine jacket Conor wore, with its heavy metal plates sewn to boiled leather, failed to reassure him. It only reminded him how ineffective their weapons and armor would be against the threat in the mist.
But Róscomain’s dark, threatening edge became tedious after a few hours, and by midday Conor began to succumb to the monotony. He marked the regular movements of the outriders as they scouted ahead for threats. He listened to the conversations of men around him and tried to guess the regions of their birth from the subtle differences in their accents. He even composed harp melodies in his head to entertain himself.
When at last the light began to fade and the first tendrils of mist twined the trees, Lord Riocárd called a stop. The servants transformed an open meadow into a canvas village with astonishing speed, setting out lavishly furnished tents for both Riocárd and Conor. Dolan brought him a bowl of stew and a chicken leg with a flask of well-watered mead, but the food could not distract him from the tree line. Boredom may have dampened his anxiety over their proximity to the forest, but the falling darkness reminded him that he had legitimate reasons for fear.
Despite his nervousness, as Conor listened to the low sounds of men and horses among the creaks of armor and the crackle of campfires, his heavy eyelids drifted down. He retreated to his tent, where he wrestled off his brigandine and stretched out fully clothed atop a plush feather bed. As soon as he tugged the blanket over himself, he fell asleep.
Until a woman’s voice, low and sultry, beckoned him. Conor.
The sound entwined him, wrapping him in shivery fingers of pleasure. Half-sedated, Conor sat up slowly in his bed and stared toward the forest.
Lay the charm aside. You don’t need it. Come to me.
Conor’s hand closed around the charm, and it sent a jolt of alarm through his body. He startled awake, covered in gooseflesh despite the warmth of his blanket.
“They’re out there.” Dolan crouched beside Conor’s cot, the low flame from the single lantern glinting in the servant’s dark eyes.
“What are they?”
“Old magic from the beginning of time. The pagans call them the Folk, an ancient, half-human race that lives between our world and the next. But Balians believe they are the Fallen, the celestial beings who turned against Comdiu before time began. He gave them leave to wreak their will upon the earth. For a time, they were bound, but as Balus’s gifts wane, so does the protection against them. We call them the sidhe.”
In the dark, Conor trembled. Dolan had never spoken openly of the threat in the mist, and knowing the truth only heightened his fear. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized exactly how sheltered he’d been at Balurnan. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“So you won’t be drawn by their call. The sidhe can’t harm us directly. They can only deceive us, and our faith makes us less susceptible to their lies.” Dolan patted his shoulder. “Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”
Conor stretched out on the cot and closed his hand around the ivory wheel. Despite his efforts to sleep, disturbing questions swirled through his mind. The sidhe had beckoned him before. This time, though, the call had been harder to ignore. Would they just keep trying until he could no longer resist?
The camp stirred long before daylight without Conor finding sleep. Smells of smoke and cooking food wafted on the breeze with hushed voices and the sounds of weapons being checked and horses prepared. Then a string of curses drifted through camp.
Dolan left his side in a flash, disappearing from the tent before Conor could poke his head out the flap. When the older man returned, he wore a grim expression. “We lost three men last night. Left their horses and armor behind.”
Conor’s eyes went to the trees, where the mist had already begun to recede. “What did Riocárd say?”
“He’s calling them deserters. They’ll double the watches tonight, but it won’t help.”
“You sound as if this is not the first time.”
Dolan glanced back at the milling camp, the tightness of his mouth betraying his concern. “Not all casualties of past campaigns have been from battle, lad. Róscomain takes its due, even if the enemy takes more.”
Conor shuddered. He might have escaped the sidhe’s grasp last night, but he knew how close he’d been to succumbing to the voice. Had he not been wearing the charm, he might be among the missing.
They rode well into twilight the second day, resting the horses and foot soldiers only as long as necessary and eating cold meals to avoid the time it took to light fires. The warriors eyed the tree line warily, grasping swords and spears at the slightest noise.
As Dolan predicted, Riocárd doubled the watch.
Despite his fears, Conor slept soundly, troubled only by the usual dreams of the unknown. In the morning, though, another warrior was missing, and the two dozen men on watch couldn’t account for his disappearance. He had simply vanished.
“Or the others were spelled,” Conor muttered as Dolan helped him into his armor.
Days melded into nights in a dreamlike fashion as they continued their progress toward Faolán. By the fifth day, when they at last broke free of the shadow of Róscomain in favor of open country, even the heartiest warriors looked drawn and anxious.
In four nights, they had lost eleven men.
They entered the meadowlands that indicated the border between Tigh and Faolán, the dark demarcation of Róscomain barely visible in the distance. The warriors drew their first easy breaths since leaving Glenmallaig. Here in the open country, the sidhe held little sway. Everyone knew the creatures of the mist clung to their dark forest, content to prey upon those who traveled the king’s road.
That night, the mist blanketed the open country as thickly as it had the forest’s edge. In the morning, three more men were gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
A contingent of Faolanaigh warriors met them in the meadows as the sun edged midway from its apex to the western horizon. The eight guardsmen rode powerful Gwynn stallions, each man dressed plainly in leather and plate with hammered helms. The Mac Cuillinn’s green standard flapped above them in the brisk afternoon breeze.
Riocárd called a halt and waited as a single man in the center rode forward. The Faolanaigh warrior removed his helm, displaying a shock of copper hair that curled wildly out of warrior braids, and tucked it under his arm. “Lord Riocárd, on behalf of Faolán, I bid you welcome and offer you the hospitality of Lisdara.”
Riocárd dipped his head in acceptance. “Mac Cuillinn, I gladly accept your offer.”
Mac Cuillinn? Conor gaped at the disheveled man while Riocárd took his place alongside the Faolanaigh king and the guards shuffled themselves into order around them. Conor hung back with the other Timhaigh where he could observe their host unnoticed.
Although it was hard to judge on horseback, Calhoun Mac Cuillinn seemed to be of middling height and powerfully built, evidence of long years wielding a sword. A close-clipped red beard covered the lower half of his handsome face. His eyes, hazel-green and attentive, scanned their party and the surroundings with military discipline. Con
or instantly liked him.
He was so absorbed in his study of the king he didn’t notice the keep until it loomed before them. Mortared walls of gray stone rimmed a flat-topped hill, and ancient oaks, already leafing out with spring foliage, lined the interior walls. Beyond, barely visible through the greenery, rose the domed slate roof of the palace itself. Unlike Glenmallaig, with its stark lines and mist-wreathed battlements, Lisdara exuded warmth and welcome.
The road to the keep wound up a series of steep switchbacks, narrowing at times to a width barely sufficient for a cart. Conor kept his mount carefully to the inside wall and fixed his gaze straight ahead, not daring to look anywhere but the road until they leveled off before an open pair of massive timber gates.
Up close, Lisdara was even more impressive. Gray stone slabs paved the courtyard, and brilliantly colored glass windows marked the upper floor of the cylindrical keep, displaying scenes from the Balian Scriptures, as well as saints, kings, and martyrs. Conor had heard about such magnificent artistry from his tutor, but he’d never thought he would see it in person.
As the procession rattled into the courtyard, the arch-topped doors of the palace opened and spilled out a host of servants. A middle-aged man, tall and thin with bright copper hair and beard, stepped forward. He bowed first to the Mac Cuillinn, then Riocárd.
“Lord Riocárd, welcome to Lisdara. I am the Mac Cuillinn’s steward, Leannan. We’ve prepared the guest house for you, and there is ample space in the meadow below for your men.”
“I’m sure the accommodations will be adequate, Leannan,” Riocárd said calmly. He dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy, then looked to Calhoun. “I imagine you will not begrudge us a bit of rest before we come to the hall?”
Calhoun, still atop his own mount, dipped his head graciously. “Of course. My servants will see to any needs you may have.”
Riocárd nodded stiffly, reminding Conor the two nations had not so long ago been enemies.
“My lord, may I take your mount?”
Conor snapped his gaze away from the men. A young boy looked up at Conor expectantly. Conor dismounted and put the horse in the boy’s charge, then watched Leannan direct the chaos in the courtyard with practiced calm. Servants unloaded trunks and took horses to the stable, while the guardsmen retreated back down the hill to the meadow below. He scanned the space for Dolan and his possessions, but found neither. He’d have to find his quarters on his own, then.
Conor made it only a few steps toward the guest house—a large, thatch-covered structure on the western edge of the enclosure—before a man blocked his path. He stumbled to a halt.
The king of Faolán stood before him, surveying him with a thoughtful smile. “You must be Conor.”
“Aye, my lord.” Too late, Conor realized he should bow and managed only a graceless bob of his head. A flush crept up his neck. Hardly the impression he’d hoped to make on the man who controlled his future.
To his credit, Calhoun only clapped a large hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the palace. “Leannan!” The slender steward emerged from the throng immediately. “Will you show our new guest to his chamber?”
Calhoun turned back to Conor, smiling warmly. “We’ll have time to get acquainted later. Right now, let Leannan take you to your quarters. If you need anything, just ask him.”
Conor watched Calhoun stride back into the crowd, speechless, until Leannan caught his attention.
“This way, my lord. I’ve already had your things sent up.”
Conor followed the steward up the front steps of the keep, still stunned by the friendly and utterly informal welcome. They passed through Lisdara’s elegant hall, and the steward glanced back to make sure Conor was still following before leading him down an adjoining corridor. “I took the liberty of putting you on the family’s side of the keep. The guest quarters are grander, but these are more comfortable.”
Conor followed Leannan up the long flight of stairs, mentally marking their path. The palace was bigger than it looked from the outside, far bigger than Glenmallaig, which had always seemed like the largest structure in Seare. The steward turned right down an intersecting corridor at the top of the stairs, then left at another short one. Conor sensed movement out of the corner of his eye and whipped his head around in time to see the swish of skirts into one of the chambers.
He stared at the empty corridor, wondering who the girl was, until he realized Leannan was standing before an open door.
“This is your room.”
Conor entered hesitantly. Sunlight streamed through another stained-glass window, casting fanciful patterns across the spacious stone chamber. Embroidered draperies enclosed a shelf bed topped with a luxurious-looking feather mattress, and a large chair sat by the window. On the other side of the room, his trunks awaited unpacking beside the tub.
“You’ll want a bath before supper,” Leannan said. “I’ll send someone up with hot water. Would you like refreshment in the meantime?”
“Aye, thank you. Leannan . . .”
The man turned in the doorway. “Aye?”
“I’ve lived rather simply my whole life. You don’t need to go to any trouble for me. We both know I’m a hostage.”
“It’s no trouble. Besides, the Mac Cuillinn gave orders you were to be treated like family. If there’s a mistake, you’d best take it up with him.” A smile twitched at the corners of the steward’s mouth.
Conor fought his own smile. “In that case, perhaps we shouldn’t bother him.”
“Very well. Let me know if you need anything.”
Conor stared at the closed door long after Leannan left. He’d been at Lisdara for a handful of minutes, and already he’d experienced more kindness than he’d received in his own father’s keep. Was that what Dolan had meant by the difference in the hall of a Balian king?
Moments later, a procession of boys arrived to fill his tub. Dolan hadn’t yet reappeared, so Conor stripped off his clothing and eased into the bath with a sigh. After five days on horseback, he’d forgotten how luxurious a tub of warm water could be.
The door creaked open, and Dolan poked his head in with a smile. “I see you wasted no time.”
“I couldn’t stand the road dust any longer.”
Dolan entered, balancing a platter, and then nudged the door shut with his foot. “Leannan sent this up for you.”
Conor’s stomach rumbled at the sight of soda bread spread with butter and honey. He took the wooden mug in a dripping hand and sipped cautiously. Sweetened, heavily watered mead traced a warm line down his throat. Dolan unpacked his finest garments from his trunk and laid them on the bed.
“Where exactly am I supposed to wear those?”
“The feast tonight, of course. An alliance between Tigh and Faolán is unprecedented. All the lords of the realm have come to witness the event.”
The once-comforting mead sloshed in Conor’s stomach, considering a quick exit. He felt awkward enough at his own father’s court, and now he was to be put on display at Lisdara?
“How many exactly?”
“Conor, relax. No one expects you to do anything but smile and nod and pretend to enjoy yourself. The attention will be on Riocárd and Calhoun anyway.”
“I hope you’re right.” For the first time, Conor was glad for his new wardrobe. He may not be the warrior his father expected, but at least he wouldn’t shame his homeland.
Minutes later, wrapped in a clean linen cloth and trying to force down the soda bread, he considered the clothing Dolan held up before him. “I’ll leave it to you. I can’t believe we’re to feast after so long on the road. Sleep would be a far kinder welcome.”
“Calhoun will treat Lord Riocárd as he would your father, and that means lavish feasts. The Mac Cuillinn may lack vanity, but he understands how this game is played.”
Conor flopped back on the bed cushions with a sigh and pressed his fingers to his eyes. A game. His father had surely devised this alliance as just part of a larger plot th
at would benefit neither him nor Faolán. But Calhoun wouldn’t consider such an agreement unless he too had a plan in which a royal hostage could be of use.
Conor stifled a yawn. As his heartbeat slowed, the tension knotting his shoulders melted away. It couldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a moment, could it?
Conor woke to gentle shaking. He jerked upright and nearly collided with Dolan, who bent over him. The stained-glass windows were dark, and several thick candles now lit the room.
“The guests are already in the hall,” Dolan said.
Conor’s heart lurched. He looked down at his shaking hands and knew he’d be lucky to put on his own boots.
Fortunately, Dolan had no intention of letting Conor do anything on his own. The servant sat him down firmly in the single chair and began the tedious task of combing the tangles from his damp hair. Conor gritted his teeth while Dolan fashioned locks into tiny plaits. Apparently, no one was supposed to know about Conor’s failures, even if the warrior braids were a blatant lie.
Dolan then dressed him in layers of fine linen, wool, and silk, all in royal Timhaigh blue. When the servant held up the mirror for him, Conor hardly recognized himself. Glenmallaig’s tailor had done an admirable job in using pleats and tucks to camouflage his lack of muscle. The effect wasn’t half bad.
“I look . . .”
“Like a prince.” Dolan smiled and set the mirror down. “Now, enough admiring yourself. It’s time to go to the hall.”
On cue, a servant appeared at the door. Conor shot one last, helpless look at Dolan before following the boy down the corridor to the staircase, where he was handed off to a richly dressed page. At the entrance of the great hall, Conor halted. He had expected a few dozen lords and ladies, not this gathering of hundreds. Strains of a lute drifted over the deafening roar of voices.
To Conor’s everlasting gratitude, the page did not announce him, though he hardly needed to. As soon as he stepped into the hall, all heads swiveled toward him, and their curious eyes took him in from top to bottom. He fixed his gaze on the dais and reminded himself to breathe, only to have the air whoosh from his lungs again.
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