Oath of the Brotherhood

by Carla Laureano

  Then there was Carraigmór. All his life, Conor had heard tales about the impenetrable fortress on the cliff, but the traditional descriptions missed the mark. It was not a fortress built upon a cliff, but rather it was the cliff, carved from the sheer granite rock face that dropped hundreds of yards down into the lake. He could make out glass windows and square stone balustrades, but if he hadn’t known where to look, he might have overlooked the structure entirely. It felt ancient, organic, as if it had sprung up from the land itself. He could not help but be humbled before the sight.

  Odran watched him, a slight smile playing on his lips. Conor opened and closed his mouth several times before he managed to speak. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Few who aren’t Fíréin have,” Odran said with pride. “Come, it’s still a long way to the city.”

  Conor followed Odran down the steep, narrow switchbacks, barely wide enough for a single man to pass. Occasionally, Conor heard a birdcall he presumed came from a sentry, and Odran whistled a reply.

  After nearly an hour, the switchbacks flattened into a path that bordered the marshy lakeshore. From this vantage, the lake looked more like a sea. Conor knew he was gaping like a child, but he didn’t try to restrain himself. He couldn’t imagine a newcomer who wouldn’t be impressed by Ard Dhaimhin.

  Odran paused for Conor to catch up and led him down the road into the main village, where the Fíréin’s principal industries took place: blacksmithing, candle making, weaving, tanning. Ard Dhaimhin teemed with life, brimming with sights and sounds he would have imagined only in the great seaports. The clang of metal rang above conversation and the rumbling wheels of the handcarts that seemed to be the city’s main mode of transport. Quenching iron drifted on the air, melding with the smells of hot beeswax, food, and wood smoke.

  Odran directed Conor’s attention to the expanse of fertile land beyond the craftsmen’s cottages. “We cultivate all our food. Wheat, flax, and greens are grown back there. The beehives in the alfalfa fields provide honey and pollinate the orchards. We raise goats and chickens in the pasturelands beyond. As you can see, we have everything we need.”

  Conor quickly noted the greatest difference between the Fíréin city and those of the kingdoms: the lack of women and children. It seemed odd to see men engaged in pursuits like laundry and cooking; odder still that they all appeared trim and muscular, the kind of men Conor would expect to see displaying sword work in the practice yard. Most gave Conor’s passage no notice, though a few raised hands in greeting to Odran.

  After what had to be miles, they approached the massive cliff. Hundreds of narrow steps marked the side of the mountain, glistening with the water that seeped from the hillside. Conor stared at the steps. He had forgotten his exhausted body in his awe of the city, but the mere thought of traversing this staircase made his muscles quiver.

  “Come on,” Odran said. “You first.”

  He’d come this far. It was pointless to give up now. He forced his rubbery legs forward and counted the steps as he climbed, hoping to distract himself from both the dizzying view and his bone-deep weariness.

  “King Daimhin was either very intelligent or very suspicious,” Conor muttered after he had counted two hundred steps and still the fortress loomed high above them.

  “Both, I’m sure. The climb made his lords think hard about the matters they brought before him.”

  Conor’s chuckle dissolved into a wheeze. “That’s one way to encourage men to solve their own problems.”

  The top of the stairs emptied through a tall, square doorway into a granite terrace only two spans deep and twice as wide. Smooth stone, polished by five hundred years’ worth of foot traffic, paved the floor. Another short flight of stairs led up to a nondescript wooden door, where a single guard stood watch.

  “Conor Mac Nir,” Odran told the guard. “He’s expected.”

  Odran turned to Conor. “This is where I leave you. Good luck.”

  Conor watched the tracker descend the steps until he realized the guard was holding the door for him. He stepped inside and once more was unable to keep the wonder from his face. A great cavern of rock surrounded him, its vaulted ceilings stretching beyond the reach of the massive, man-sized candles that lit the interior. Two long rows of oak chairs lined the sides of the hall, drawing his eye to the room’s centerpiece. The famed Rune Throne was not a chair, exactly, but an interwoven tangle of ancient roots, polished to a high shine. Tendrils cradled a marble slab upon which were etched the Odlum characters that gave the throne its name. A fitting throne for a king who had carved his fortress from a cliff.

  A second man met Conor inside the door. “Conor Mac Nir? Please wait here.” The man disappeared down a corridor, his footsteps echoing off the rock.

  He was standing in the fortress of the High King of Seare, Conor thought in amazement. Daimhin himself had walked these halls.

  Footsteps reverberated off stone, and Conor turned toward the sound. He knew the man instantly, not because they’d ever met, but because it was like seeing a vision of himself in the future. Like his younger brothers, Riordan Mac Nir possessed wheat-colored hair and blue-gray eyes, but he was taller and more slender, his wiry build corded with lean muscle.

  Riordan’s long stride ate up the space between them, and he crushed Conor in a bone-breaking embrace. “Conor! When Brother Odran sent word back, I thought he had to be mistaken!”

  Conor pulled back, recalling what had precipitated his trip. “The king is dead. Lord Labhrás has been executed.”

  A shadow of grief passed over Riordan’s face. “I know. I’m sorry, son.”

  “Lord Labhrás told me to find you if something should happen to him, so I left Lisdara. They think I’m dead.” He snapped his mouth shut on his ramblings.

  “You look halfway there. Let’s get you some food and a hot bath, and you can tell me the story from the beginning.”

  Conor nodded mutely, surprised by the instant affinity he felt for his uncle. Despite the obvious Mac Nir resemblance, Riordan reminded him more of Labhrás than Galbraith. Still, he could not forget that this man had orchestrated his early life. To what end he was not yet sure.

  For now, he put aside those concerns in favor of more pressing questions. “Do we have to go back down the stairs?”

  “No.” Riordan chuckled. “There are guest chambers here at Carraigmór. You can stay here until other arrangements are made.”

  Conor nodded, though the mention of other arrangements stirred up nervousness. Riordan would welcome him—after all, Conor was his nephew—but would the Ceannaire?

  His uncle flagged down a gray-haired man passing in the corridor. “Brother Daigh, would you show Conor to one of the guest rooms? I’m late for my evening lesson.” Riordan glanced at Conor. “Don’t worry, Daigh will get you settled. I’ll find you later.”

  Conor looked at Brother Daigh, alarmed he was inconveniencing one of Ard Dhaimhin’s elders. “I’m sure I can find my way if you’ve other things to do.”

  “It’s no trouble. Come, it’s not far.”

  Riordan nodded reassuringly to Conor, so he followed Brother Daigh through an arched doorway. The corridor curved upward like a tunnel and climbed a steep flight of stairs carved out of polished rock. Thick torches set in iron brackets cast intersecting pools of light and painted the ceilings with soot.

  As they proceeded deeper into the fortress, Conor studied Brother Daigh. He, too, had the bearing of a fighter, despite the fact he had to be somewhere in his sixties. Why was he acting like a servant?

  “Our ways will seem odd after life in the kingdoms,” Daigh said. “I thought so when I came. But whether a novice or the Ceannaire himself, we are all equal in Comdiu’s eyes. We all take our turns serving at Carraigmór and working the land.”

  “How do you keep order?”

  “We have ranks. As Conclave members, Brother Riordan and I rank below only the Ceannaire himself, so we have the responsibility of giving direction to our bro
thers. But we value humility as much as we prize accomplishment.”

  Conor didn’t know what to say. This communal arrangement was a foreign concept, and yet it seemed natural for men who considered Comdiu their highest authority. But how were disputes resolved? Four thousand fighting men in one place seemed like a recipe for violence, Balian or not.

  “Here we are.” Daigh stopped short at the top of the stairs, where the short corridor ended in a solid wall. A door stood on each side. Daigh pushed open the door on the right and gestured for Conor to enter. “Someone will bring your bath water and something to eat. Call if you need anything.”

  “Call who?” Conor asked, but Daigh had already gone.

  Like the hall, Conor’s room was a near-spherical chamber carved from granite. Minerals sparkled in the walls. A plain wooden bedstead with a rush mattress stood in the corner beside a candle stand of twisted iron and a small bath. He sank down on the bed and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  A knock sounded at the door. It swung open to admit a dark-haired man. Even though he looked only a few years older than Conor, he already exhibited the lithe, fluid grace of Ard Dhaimhin’s warriors. He held up a large bucket of steaming water in each hand.

  Conor watched the young man pour the water into the tub. “Are you a novice?”

  “Apprentice. My name’s Eoghan. What’s yours?”

  “Conor.”

  He straightened and fixed Conor with a piercing look. “You’re the Timhaigh prince.”

  “My father was the king,” Conor said. “There’s a difference.”

  Eoghan flashed a grin. “There is at that. Why are you up here? Aren’t you going to start your novitiate?”

  “I don’t know. The Ceannaire has yet to make a decision.”

  Eoghan’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “That’s not what I heard. It sounded to me as if Master Liam has already made up his mind.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I’m assigned to the fortress this month. It’s easy to overhear things.” Eoghan moved to the door and threw him one last smile. “Good luck.”

  How did the Fíréin already know so much about him, when he knew so little in return? It was not as if he had planned this. Only his faith, or perhaps his desperation, had gotten him this far.

  Conor removed his soiled clothing and eased into the bath. The water stung the fresh cut on his forearm, but it was a small price to pay for the way it instantly relieved his strained muscles. He unraveled his dirty braids and scrubbed his hair clean with a cake of soap, letting his mind wander.

  What was Aine doing now? Supping with Calhoun and pretending to mourn him? Word of his death should have reached Tigh by now. Would Fergus even pretend his death was a loss, or would he try to work Calhoun’s supposed failure to his advantage?

  No, he couldn’t dwell on that. Fergus could find an excuse for war, with or without his disappearance. Conor had the right to honor his foster father’s wishes and ensure his own safety. Still, he had come to like and respect Calhoun Mac Cuillinn and his family. The idea of war falling upon Lisdara made him ill.

  “You are not responsible for the actions of everyone in Seare,” he told himself sternly. He was not that important, no matter what Lord Labhrás and his uncle had planned.

  The bath water had gone cold while he ruminated, so he climbed out into the chilly air and wrapped himself in the cloth Eoghan had left. He pulled his single clean shirt from his pack, slid it over his head, and stretched out on the bed to wait.

  Conor woke to near blackness, disoriented and groggy. It took a moment to remember he was at Carraigmór, a guest of the Fíréin. He squinted at the outline of the room, dimly illuminated by torchlight seeping under the door. The candles must have burned out. Exactly how long had he slept?

  The latch rattled, and the door swung open, spilling light into the room.

  “Uncle Riordan?” Conor squinted as his uncle lit a candle from the torch in the hallway.

  Riordan moved around the room, touching the flame to the other candles until flickering golden light bathed the chamber. He ducked out and returned with a large tray.

  Conor pushed himself up and groaned at his aching muscles. “I’m starving. I was afraid I missed supper.”

  “You did. This is breakfast. I took the liberty of bringing enough for two.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little past dawn.” Riordan set the tray on the end of the bed and sat next to it. “Help yourself. It won’t be hot for long.”

  Conor’s stomach grumbled. It was typical Seareann fare: oat porridge with rich honey, and fried fish. He took a bowl of porridge and studied his uncle.

  “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 flicke
r 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.”