Oath of the Brotherhood

by Carla Laureano

  It deserved Meallachán’s harp, but this came close to the aching beauty he had heard in his mind. He now recognized the motif that had worked its way into his song days before, the one that represented this girl he loved.

  When he finally set the harp on the floor and looked at Aine, he saw his feelings reflected in her glistening eyes. She rose and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, her hair brushing his shoulders and enveloping him in the scent of lavender. Then, just as swiftly, she was gone.

  Conor pressed his fingers to the spot where she had kissed him, still feeling her warm breath on his skin and the touch of her lips to his cheek. His heart thrummed in his chest, urging him to go after her and kiss her properly. To say something—anything—to convey how he felt about her.

  That was ridiculous, though. He’d known her for only a few months. How could he be sure these feelings wouldn’t just fade away?

  But the song couldn’t lie. In his hands, the harp spoke only truth.

  Life moved forward, even though for Conor, everything had changed. Aine didn’t mention the night she had kissed him, and Conor didn’t bring it up, though it was never far from his mind. He could barely stand beside her without the overwhelming desire to take her in his arms. From the look on her face in rare, unguarded moments, he knew she felt the same pull toward him. Yet she seemed determined not to be caught alone with him.

  Then one night, Calhoun summoned him to his study before supper. The king sat at the table, alone, his expression somber.

  “Sit down.”

  Conor sat. His stomach pitched when he saw the parchment lying before Calhoun, its blue wax seal broken. He swallowed several times before he managed to speak. “What is it?”

  “King Galbraith is dead.”

  “What? How? I don’t . . .”

  Calhoun softened, his eyebrows knitting together. “He was ambushed on the road near Glenmallaig. He and a number of his guard were killed. Lord Fergus was wounded, but he survived.”

  Conor stared at the king. Surely he should feel something. Grief, anger, something other than this terrible blankness.

  “There’s more. Lord Labhrás has been arrested for treason.”

  “That can’t be. He would never—”

  “They claim he plotted to kill Galbraith and eliminate Fergus from the succession in order to put a Balian on the throne.”

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “He was to be executed tonight at sundown. It’s already done.” For the first time, the king’s demeanor cracked, sympathy shining in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Conor.”

  Conor’s breath wheezed through his tight chest, and the room spun wildly. He closed his eyes, grappling for control, until a horrifying thought occurred to him. “His family? What’s to be done with them?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “I do not know.”

  Conor gripped the edge of the table and blindly pushed himself to his feet. Then he remembered himself and said hoarsely, “By your leave, my lord.”

  Calhoun nodded. Conor stumbled to his chamber, simultaneously numb and aching. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands.

  Labhrás had known this would happen. He had warned him back in Glenmallaig, but Conor somehow never believed it. Why would he? Labhrás was loyal. He simply could not have been involved in any plot to overthrow the king. Perhaps bring a grievance before the council, who alone had the power to depose Galbraith, but never kill him.

  Yet another part of him was not so sure. There were too many strange coincidences. Labhrás’s friendship with Riordan. Conor’s unusual upbringing. The Balian charm. Conor’s gift. The druid’s hatred—or was it fear?—of music. And now Galbraith’s assassination, for which Labhrás and a Balian conspiracy were blamed.

  No. Even if Labhrás were capable of such a thing, the council would never elect a Balian king. More likely, Galbraith’s tolerance of the Balians made him a target. The only person who truly benefited from this situation was Fergus, his tanist.

  The door opened, and Dolan entered, his expression pained.

  Even to his own ears, Conor’s voice sounded distant and lifeless. “You know this wasn’t an accident, Dolan. Labhrás was no traitor. Tell me what you know.”

  “I know nothing of this, Conor.”

  “It’s time to stop protecting me! Tell me!”

  Dolan sighed. “Labhrás did not confide in me. Perhaps he was a convenient scapegoat. Maybe they convicted him out of spite. I don’t know.”

  Conor heard the truth in the servant’s voice. He crumpled, and the fight left him in a rush. His first thought had been the safety of Lady Damhnait and the girls, but his position was no less precarious. “What happens now? Will Fergus call me back to Tigh? Or will he arrange an accident for me, too?”

  “I don’t know. Calhoun will act honorably, but it all depends on your uncle now.” Dolan placed a hand atop Conor’s head in silent commiseration and left him to his grief.

  After a few minutes, Conor stood and wandered to the music room. He slumped into a corner, ignoring the harp. He couldn’t bear to hear his sorrow on its strings. He imagined Labhrás being led to his execution, his head held high. Conor didn’t even know if his foster father had been beheaded or hung. He did know the lord’s station would not have spared him the indignity of having his head mounted beside the keep’s gate.

  Conor’s gorge rose. No, he could not dwell on those things, not when he had a decision to make. He buried his head in his hands.

  A familiar herbal scent enveloped him, and a hand touched his shoulder. He lifted his head. Aine knelt beside him, an expression of pained sympathy on her face. He steeled himself for her words of consolation, but she simply reached out and put her arms around him.

  The tears Conor had safely locked away broke free in torrents, streaming down his face and dampening her hair and dress. She held him silently while he sobbed like a heartbroken child on her shoulder. When he pulled away, her cheeks were damp.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked hoarsely. He brushed the tears from her face.

  “I know you loved him. You can’t blame yourself.”

  Conor wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “The king was murdered, Aine. Fergus and Diarmuid killed him, and they used it as a reason to execute Lord Labhrás.”

  Aine’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Because Galbraith owed his throne to Balians, and Labhrás was one of them. There’s more, though. I think the druid made me forget something I overheard years ago. It’s only a matter of time before he comes after me.”

  “What if you could see what happened?”

  “How?”

  Wordlessly, Aine took both of his hands in hers. She closed her eyes and seemed to be concentrating, so Conor did the same.

  The memory struck him with a jolt.

  He was fourteen years old, and he had accompanied Labhrás to a council meeting at Glenmallaig. So far, he had only heard his mother and father fighting over him. He retreated to the secret place of his childhood, the little room behind the tapestry. He thought the chamber below would be empty, but he could hear the drone of male voices. He pressed his ear to a particular section of the wall and strained to make out the words.

  “He will not yield,” a deep male voice said. Not his father. Lord Fergus.

  “Then convince him,” an unfamiliar voice said. He had a quiet, educated tone, but he was used to being obeyed.

  “And if he will not accept you as a counselor?”

  “Then he will be dealt with. But let us not rush to judgment. Galbraith may be stubborn, but he has the respect of the lords. It is worth being circumspect. Replacing a king is a delicate matter.”

  “Conor! There you are. What—”

  His mother stood in the doorway, letting a shaft of light stream into the small room. Perhaps she heard the voices below, or perhaps she just read the terror on Conor’s face, but she stretched out a hand. “Quickly, we must go!”

  Conor scrambled out the
door. His mother’s grip crushed his hand as she dragged him down the corridor toward her sitting room. Then she stopped.

  A robed man stood in the hallway, smiling, but Conor did not find it reassuring. He stared at the tattoos on the man’s hands and neck. Fear shuddered through him as the man began to mutter under his breath.

  Lady Máiréad pushed Conor behind her. “Your spells will not work on me, sorcerer. You will be beaten from this castle. When my husband finds out—”

  “He will not find out. Let’s take your son back to his chamber, shall we? There’s no need for him to see this.”

  The queen blanched, but she obeyed, moving toward Conor’s chamber. He followed meekly. Lady Máiréad placed him in the chair by the armoire and kissed him softly on the forehead.

  “I love you, Conor,” she whispered, gripping his shoulders hard while tears trickled down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

  She left, but he didn’t watch her go. He couldn’t move, speak, think. Then the sorcerer returned, minutes later. Diarmuid knelt down beside him and said, not unkindly, “Don’t resist me, and this won’t hurt at all.”

  Conor shook free of the memory as terror surged through him, as strong as it must have been in the moment he’d experienced it. He stared at Aine, wide-eyed. “What just happened?”

  She averted her eyes. “You’re not the only one with a gift.”

  He stared, trying to understand what she was saying. The scene had been too clear to be a buried memory. It could only have been a vision. But that meant his mother’s death hadn’t been an accident after all, not a freak tumble down the staircase as everyone claimed. Was that why he couldn’t remember that part of the keep?

  “The druid killed my mother. Why did he kill her and not me?”

  “She was a Balian. I don’t think his spells would work on her. But you were susceptible.”

  Conor forced air in and out of his lungs. He was the reason his mother had been killed. If he’d been stronger, resisted the spell, he might have saved her and Labhrás. The only two people he’d ever truly loved were dead because of him.

  No, that was not true. A third sat beside him now.

  He tried to withdraw his hands, but Aine held them fast. “Conor, it was not your fault. The druid is responsible for your mother’s death, not you.”

  “You saw what happened. She came to find me, and because of that, she died.” He shook his head. “I have to leave.”

  “Calhoun would protect you—”

  “Even if he could, it’s not me I’m worried about.” He stood and helped Aine up, still holding her hands.

  “Conor, grief causes people to make poor decisions. Don’t act hastily.”

  He smiled sadly. “I’m not. Lord Labhrás knew this was going to happen, and he told me what to do.”

  He leaned forward and kissed Aine’s cheek as she had done in this room not long ago. She rested against him for a moment, and he could feel her hesitation as she searched for something to say. Finally, she just gave his hands a squeeze and slipped out the door. Conor watched her go, his heart in his throat, but there was nothing left to say.

  When he returned to his chamber, he told Dolan, “I’m leaving Lisdara tomorrow. No one must know of it until I’m well into Seanrós. Once I’m in Fíréin territory, they won’t be able to touch me.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want? There are other ways—”

  “No.” Conor shook his head. “There is no other way. Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” Dolan said, but his brows furrowed with concern.

  Conor lay in bed that night and stared at the ceiling. Comdiu, am I doing the right thing? Labhrás told me to find Riordan if something should happen to him. He’s never steered me wrong. But if that’s true, why is this so difficult?

  He didn’t really expect an answer, so he wasn’t surprised when he got none. His swirling thoughts settled, though, and exhaustion took over. Only a single memory resurfaced before he was lost to sleep: the warmth of Aine against him and the sweet smell of her skin as he brushed his lips across her cheek.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The following day, while Dolan made preparations for his departure, Conor opened his writing box.

  To his highness, my uncle Fergus,

  I heard the terrible news of my father’s death. I will be coming home with all haste to mourn him properly, provided I can convince the Mac Cuillinn to give an adequate escort.

  I hope we may discuss this arrangement my father made on my behalf. I cannot question his judgment, but I fear he may have been unduly influenced by those who do not have Tigh’s best interests at heart.

  I know the former king looked upon me with disappointment. During my time at Lisdara, I have come to see those flaws as weaknesses as he did. I beg of you the opportunity to prove myself worthy of the Mac Nir name. Perhaps I can restore some of the honor that was lost to our clan.

  Please also tell Master Diarmuid I have matters I wish to discuss if he is still willing.

  Humbly, your nephew, Conor Mac Nir.

  He nearly choked on his disgust as he sanded and sealed the page, impressing a blob of blue wax with the Mac Nir seal. A silver coin accompanied the letter into a page’s hand to ensure its speedy departure. Once the letter was away from the palace, he requested an audience with Calhoun.

  “Please sit,” the king said when Conor entered his chamber. He gestured to a chair. “How are you?”

  Conor perched stiffly on the edge of the seat. “I’d like to see my father interred with our ancestors.”

  “You know why that’s not possible.”

  “Because I’m a hostage.” Conor let his shoulders slump, as if he had not expected that answer.

  “Because it would be irresponsible to allow you to leave, given the circumstances. I took an oath to keep you safe at Lisdara. Nothing has changed.”

  Conor hardened his expression, even though his heart ached. “You’ll forgive me if oaths don’t mean as much to me as they once did. By your leave.”

  Calhoun bowed his head, his expression sympathetic. “You may go.”

  Conor didn’t answer as he trudged from the room. Disgust churned inside him. The king didn’t deserve to be treated with such disrespect, but it was necessary to his plan. Calhoun would need to offer Fergus a plausible explanation for his disappearance. By the time the king understood the reason for his behavior, he would be long gone.

  Conor spent the evening pacing his room, thinking about his last and most difficult task. After the movements of the palace stilled, and the night sounds faded to silence, he crept into the music room. He lifted the harp from its spot and began to play Aine’s song. The rough edges of his composition melted away as he played his emotions into the notes. All this time, he’d thought they were due to the harp, when in reality the rough edges had been his.

  Aine appeared at the door within a handful of measures, cast in shadow by the candlelight. She had been waiting, just as he had hoped. He stopped in midsong and put aside the instrument.

  “You’re leaving?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

  He nodded.

  “They’re saying you argued with Calhoun, but I didn’t believe it.”

  Conor rose from his chair. “You’re going to hear a lot of things in the next few days. You know the truth.”

  Aine wrapped her arms protectively around herself and stared at the floor. For a moment, he considered abandoning the plan and trusting in Lisdara’s protection. But the druid wouldn’t hesitate to destroy Calhoun and his family should they shield him.

  He lifted Labhrás’s charm from around his neck. “I want you to have this.”

  Her eyes widened. She touched the runes with a shaky hand. “Where did you get this?”

  “Lord Labhrás gave it to me for protection. Will you wear it?”

  Aine nodded, and he slipped the chain over her head. She fingered the charm reverently and tucked it beneath her shift.

  “I don’t know how lon
g I’ll be gone. You shouldn’t wait for me.”

  “I would, you know.” She lifted gleaming eyes to his face.

  The rest of his thoughts spiraled away, and it took a moment to gather them enough to speak. “I know. But I want you to live your life. You deserve to be happy.”

  A single tear slid down Aine’s cheek. He reached out and caught it on his finger. He should just say good-bye and be done with it, but he couldn’t leave without showing her how he felt about her. He brushed her hair from her face with both hands so he could look at her one last time.

  Aine rose up on her tiptoes and hesitantly pressed her lips to his. It was all the encouragement he needed. He pulled her close and felt her tremble as she melted against him, her arms sliding around his neck. Something fell into place in his heart, a sense of rightness, the deep conviction they had been brought together for a reason. This would not be their last moment together.

  He broke the kiss first, but he still held her tight against him. He couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “If it’s in my power, I’ll come back to you.”

  She disengaged herself from his embrace, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. “I’ll keep the charm safe for you until then.” Before he could say another word, she was gone.

  Conor let out a long breath and dragged his mind back to the final step of his plan. He blew out the candle and hurried back to his chamber, where Dolan waited with a bulging leather saddlebag. “Said your good-byes?”

  Conor sighed and scrubbed his hands against his face. If he thought of Aine, he wouldn’t be able to make himself leave. “It’s time.”

  No one marked their passing as he and Dolan crept down a back staircase and made their way to the stables. When Conor began to blanket and bridle his mare, however, a stable boy poked his head from the hayloft. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “It’s okay, boy,” Dolan said soothingly. “An early morning errand is all. Grab a few more minutes of sleep while you can.” He looked at Conor. “You know where you’re going?”