“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.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“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 safeguards 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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A knock shuddered the door of the borrowed chamber, and Conor opened it immediately. Instead of Eoghan, a tall, whip-thin man stared back at him with barely veiled disdain.
“I’m Brother Slaine. Come with me.”
Conor grabbed his pack. “Where are we going?”
Slaine fixed a steely stare on him. “To the barracks. You may be a prince in Tigh, but here you’re just another novice. You will receive no special treatment.”
“I don’t expect any, sir,” Conor said, taken aback by his tone.
“And you will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?”
Conor nodded mutely. Slaine narrowed his eyes and gestured for Conor to follow him.
The brother said nothing on the long descent from Carraigmór, even when Conor slid down several steps on his tailbone and thumped to a stop against his legs. He simply stared at him until he righted himself and then wordlessly continued. Some of Conor’s anxiety faded. Brother Slaine might not be the most pleasant of men, but at least he didn’t seem inclined to comment on Conor’s shortcomings.
The village below already bustled with activity. Smoke drifted on the air with the delectable smell of frying fish and the milder aroma of oat porridge. Slaine led him down the path toward the cluster of squat clochans and stopped before an open door. He gestured for Conor to enter.
The structure was the size of Glenmallaig’s hall, but round and sunken several feet below ground. An enormous stone-paved fire pit situated beneath a hole in the thatched roof provided both warmth and light. Dozens of earthen platforms had been dug out from the exterior wall, arranged like spokes of a wheel.
“How many boys live here?” Conor asked, amazed.
Slaine scowled. “About seventy at present, between the ages of fifteen and twenty. You will do everything with your céad while you are here at Ard Dhaimhin: eat, bathe, sleep, and train. You’ll meet them later. They’re all at morning drills.”
Conor’s heart sank at the mention of drills. He had hoped not to expose his failures so soon after his arrival. Master Liam had said he wouldn’t be allowed to leave, but he didn’t yet know the extent of Conor’s inexperience.
“Come on, boy, don’t stand here gaping. You’ve got work to do. Brother Reamonn is waiting.”
Dutifully, Conor followed Slaine up the steps and into the morning sunlight, suppressing the urge to ask about Brother Reamonn. He almost had to run to keep up with Slaine’s long stride. The céad leader took a winding route through the village to where the buildings thinned into small gardens then fields in various stages of crop growth. In the farthest fields, corn and wheat already produced stalks past his waist. Nearer, root crops leafed out into neatly spaced rows, around which a dozen brothers hilled soil or pulled weeds. Slaine led him to a wide, untilled field, where at least thirty men toiled with hoes and spades.
“Brother Reamonn!” Slaine shouted.
A man in the middle of the field lifted his head and trotted toward them. Fiery-haired and covered in freckles, the bare-chested brother looked well on his way to a sunburn.
“I have another for you,” Slaine said, jerking his head in Conor’s direction. “Much luck may you have of him.”
“Grab a hoe and find yourself a spot.” Reamonn indicated a small handcart holding iron-bound farm implements.
So it was to be manual labor for him. Maybe Liam had taken his measure and deemed him unsuited to the warrior life. Conor selected a long-handled hoe from the cart. “What do I do now?”
“Get to work,” Reamonn said. “We have to cultivate the whole field before we can get in the winter rye. Go on, get started.”
Conor gulped and trudged out into the field past the last man. Awkwardly, he swung the hoe and drove the metal blade into the parched ground. The impact shuddered up his arms and into his shoulders and back.
“Here, let me show you.” The brother nearest him, middle-aged and already perspiring, approached him. “Put your hands here”—he adjusted Conor’s grip—“and swing it like so. Use the weight of the hoe to your advantage.”
Conor tried again. The tool bit into the ground far more easily. “Thank you. I’m Conor, by the way.”
“Corgan. Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
Conor returned to work, making quicker progress this time, but before long, his arms, shoulders, and back ached as much as his legs. He took a stinging hand a
way from the hoe and found blood seeping from newly formed blisters. He paused to catch his breath until he noticed Reamonn’s sharp gaze on him.
The row of tilled earth grew before him with agonizing slowness. Every movement sent fiery pain through his body until it hurt to even breathe. Still, he continued, forcing his mind to accept the pain rather than fight it. He still felt his aching muscles, the stinging pain in his palms, the rhythm of the hoe as it swung overhead and down into the earth, but distantly. His mind wandered to Riordan, but that only brought back the sick feeling, so he turned his thoughts instead to Lisdara. It would be midsummer soon, and Calhoun’s lords would be returning for the Cáisc celebration. Longing struck deep in his chest as he imagined Aine smiling beneath a crown of wildflowers, her hair braided and twined with ribbons. In his pleasant reverie, he kissed her beneath the wide green canopy of Lisdara’s oak trees.
“Brother Conor!”
Brother Reamonn’s shout intruded on his daydream. Conor looked up and saw they were alone in the field, the sun beating down from its zenith. A wide swath of cultivated earth stretched before him. Reamonn waved him over.
Conor’s muscles cramped, the pain nearly knocking him to his knees, but he forced himself to limp forward with the hoe.
“That’s enough for today,” Reamonn said. “Good work.”
“Thanks.” Conor gritted his teeth as his shoulder seized. “What now?”
“Slaine didn’t say?”
Conor shook his head. Even his hair hurt.
Reamonn looked him over closely. “I should send you to catch up with the rest of your céad, but you might not wake up tomorrow. Take the afternoon at your leisure. Tell Slaine it was my idea.”
Conor silently blessed Brother Reamonn for his mercy and limped away, too exhausted to care about what Slaine would do if he found him shirking his duties. It seemed to take hours to reach the village. Once there, his plan ended. If he lay down, he wouldn’t be able to move later. Instead, he staggered toward the lake, where he perched on a rock, dragged off his boots, and dangled his aching feet in the cold water. He closed his eyes and let slow, even breaths fill his body.
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