Aine gaped, aghast at the thought of yet another fantastic ability added to her reputation. Then she sighed. “Very well. If it means they’re staying away, they can say whatever they want. I don’t have the energy to deny every new rumor.”
Part of her still remained uncomfortable with her selectiveness, though. Those who sought her meant well. It was not every day they had access to someone who had been brought back from the dead, with Comdiu’s Companions as proof of His protection.
Within days, though, it hardly mattered. Clouds roiled off the coast of the Silver Sea and spread westward into an angry gray ceiling. When the skies opened, they loosed ceaseless sheets of rain that sounded more like the roar of a river than a winter downpour.
The storm’s cold crept through the walls and condensed on the thick glass windows. Fires burned in hearths, and servants worked through the night to keep braziers stoked with glowing coals. Aine moved her usual studies down to the hall next to the fire in an attempt to dispel her constant chill.
“No patients today?” Niamh asked as she took a seat beside her sister, her sewing basket in hand.
“The roads are flooded. It will be a miracle if anyone can get in or out of Lisdara for the next few weeks.”
“Thank Comdiu for that.” Niamh sighed as she withdrew the strip of embroidery she’d been working on for the last month. The gold knotwork would eventually edge her wedding dress, Aine knew. Just as she knew it was not weariness that kept her from completing it.
Aine pitched her voice below the rain. “When must you decide?”
Niamh lowered her hands to her lap, crumpling the delicate work. “It’s decided. I’m to marry Lord Keondric.”
“When?”
“Within the year, unless we’re at war. Calhoun said he will not have me be the young widow of another man’s clan.”
“That’s a kindness, at least.”
A sardonic smile twisted Niamh’s face. “Clever of our brother, is what it is. He ensures Keondric will send above and beyond the men he’s required to provide for the war, and if he’s killed, Calhoun can give me as a prize to another victor.”
Aine wanted to argue, but she couldn’t discount the idea. Calhoun was kind and honorable. But he was a king, and he looked to the safety of his crown and his people above all else. His beautiful sister was a powerful bargaining tool.
“At least you get a rest,” Niamh continued. “You’ve done nothing but work since we’ve come back from Dún Eavan.”
Aine shot Niamh a wry smile. “You sound like Ruarc.”
“Then Ruarc is right. You haven’t seemed happy.”
The comment startled Aine. It had been so long since she had thought about being happy, even the word sounded foreign. She hoped for contentment, perhaps, or peace, but happiness seemed out of reach.
“Have you thought about returning to Aron? Maybe it would be easier after . . . you know.”
Aine studied her sister. Sometimes it was difficult to remember Niamh knew nothing of her gift or what had really happened when she drowned in Loch Eirich. “I’ve thought about it, but distance won’t change anything. And at least here I can do some good.”
“You couldn’t heal in Aron?”
“Aronans are suspicious of anything that seems too much like magic. Healers who aren’t effective don’t draw many patients, and those who are too effective fall under suspicion.”
“I can see why you’d stay then,” Niamh said. “Healing badly or not at all doesn’t seem like much of a choice.”
Niamh went back to her sewing, and Aine stared into the crackling flames, her book forgotten in her lap. She’d never truly considered returning to Aron, even after Conor had left. It seemed like a poor way to repay Calhoun for his welcome and his support of her studies. Besides, Lord Balus had said she was bound to Seare’s future, not Aron’s.
The flames leapt and twisted in her vision, mesmerizing her with their changing patterns of orange, red, and blue. The sudden roar of rain on the slate roof drummed out the fire’s crackle, filling her ears and echoing in her head. Aine looked toward Niamh in alarm, but her sister seemed unaware of the storm’s increased fury. Then the room went black.
Aine froze. Her heart pounded, and her frightened breath rasped loud in her ears. Water ran in rivulets down her face, plastering her hair to her head. She no longer sat in her chair at Lisdara, but instead huddled in the bushes, peering through a canopy of leaves at a coastal village. Waves churned against the rocky shoreline, threatening the boats that had been pulled up and overturned for safety.
Through the rain, she saw the waves had already caught several large vessels and pulled them out to sea. But no, the boats were moving toward shore, not away, untouched by the ocean’s roiling surface. They cut through the water and bumped against the shoreline. Aine rose from her hiding place for a better view.
Men poured from the boats, and she ducked back into the bushes, her heart thudding again. They were foreign-looking, dressed in brightly dyed tunics over leather-strapped trews. They carried iron-studded bucklers and heavy broadswords, even larger than the great swords Seareanns used in battle. Sofarende.
Aine could not bring herself to loose the shout of warning lodged in her throat. She watched as half a hundred men divided into groups and descended on the thatch-roofed homes, kicking down doors. Then came the screaming. Men burst from the cottages, only to be cut down mercilessly by the warriors.
Within minutes, the scene again fell eerily silent. Instead of looting, though, the invaders gathered in the center of the village. Aine shifted for a better view.
One of the men jerked his head in her direction and then strode toward the clutch of bushes where she crouched. Aine clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle her involuntary whimper. He stopped just feet in front of her, and the bushes parted. She shrank back.
A fine-boned, angular face peered down at her from the folds of his hood. Seareann features, not Lakelander. He held out a hand. Blood smeared the black spirals tattooed across the back of it. Fear spiked through her. She knew what those meant.
“Come out, little one,” he said soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.”
Aine crept out, drawn against her will by the thread of command in his voice, at once beckoning and repellant.
“What’s your name?”
Aine opened her mouth to answer, but a young boy’s voice came out instead, tremulous, frightened. “Teag.”
“Teag,” the druid repeated pleasantly. “Tell me, Teag, how did you know to hide out here in the rain when everyone else was inside?”
Aine—or Teag, she now realized—shrank back. She didn’t want to answer, but the words came out anyway. “I saw it. No one believed me.”
“Extraordinary. Well, Teag, I’m very glad I found you.” The man knelt down and gestured for her to come closer. He murmured something in a language she didn’t understand. Then faster than she could even see, the man drew a dagger and plunged it into her chest.
Agony blanked her vision, and Aine fell back, paralyzed by pain and terror. A second man came to the tattooed man’s side.
“He told no one of consequence,” the druid said.
“Good.” The new warrior bent down and wrenched the knife from her chest, then handed it back to his companion. Blood gushed out of her in a warm flood. “We’re done here.”
They rejoined the group, leaving her behind. Now Aine knelt beside the boy, separated from his thoughts. Sorrow washed over her when she saw how young he looked, perhaps only ten, with a thatch of light brown hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose. He looked up at her with recognition. “You saw, my lady?”
“I saw.” Aine’s voice broke, and tears spilled down her face. “You did well, Teag. You were very brave.”
“I didn’t call you here. He did.” He raised a trembling hand. Aine turned, but she saw only empty space. When she turned back, the boy was dead.
“Aine!”
She jerked as strong hands shook her. She blinked at the famili
ar sensations: the warmth of the flames, the dancing firelight, the hollow roar of rain on the roof. Ruarc knelt before her, and Niamh and Leannan hovered behind them. Her sister looked terrified.
“What happened?”
“You were in a trance,” Niamh said shakily. “I got Leannan and Ruarc. I didn’t know what else to do.”
The details of her vision came back to Aine, so clear she could hardly believe she had not just been in a coastal village. She looked between Ruarc and Leannan, dread twisting her stomach.
“Find the king. Tigh is going to invade Sliebhan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Conor said nothing to Eoghan about having witnessed his impressive display of sword work, nor that he knew about his status as Master Liam’s apprentice. It might not be a secret, but Eoghan had obviously chosen not to mention it for a reason.
Covertly, he watched the older boy with awe. If the Fíréin were among the best warriors in the known world, and Eoghan had bested several of them without apparent effort, what exactly did that make him? Conor could see the reason for the brutal physical labor, now that he had witnessed the results of Fíréin training. How could he be expected to wield a sword if he could not even lift it?
He also understood the reason for the Fíréin’s strict prohibition against idleness. With their days filled with study, work, training, and prayer, the brothers had little time to dwell on the outside world. Aine drifted to the back of his mind, but she always remained present. She made her way into his prayers at night and inspired him to press forward when he was too exhausted to stay on his feet. If she had the faith to call upon Comdiu’s Companions to save her from the sidhe, he could have the faith to continue down the path Comdiu had set before him.
Then Master Liam summoned him to Carraigmór. Conor followed the messenger up the stairs, clenching his hands into fists to still their tremors. Had Liam learned that Riordan had told him about Aine? No, that matter was between Liam and Riordan. Surely there couldn’t be any cause for complaint about Conor’s work. He labored as diligently as ever.
When the brother showed him into Liam’s private study, he stopped short. A harp stood beside a chair in the middle of the room. The Ceannaire gestured for him to enter, but Conor could not take his eyes from the instrument.
Liam folded his hands atop his desk. “I’m told you are having some difficulty adjusting to your loss.”
Conor’s eyes flew to the Ceannaire’s face, but he lowered them quickly, afraid of what Liam might see in his expression.
“I thought you might find some comfort in this. Will you play for me?”
Conor’s chest tightened. He could not help revealing his innermost feelings once his fingers touched the strings. Yet, he couldn’t deny Master Liam. He didn’t want to.
Wordlessly, he sat and lifted the harp onto his lap. It was an old, beautiful instrument, its maple frame plain and graceful, the bone pins carved with delicate flourishes. Conor waited for the thrill of power he had felt from Meallachán’s harp, but found nothing there but his own anticipation. Relieved, he began to play.
He was only a few bars into a traditional Seareann folk melody when Liam interrupted.
“Conor, play for me.”
Conor understood what he asked, but even this instrument held the potential for disaster. The Ceannaire wanted to know how he felt when he thought Aine was dead? Then he would. Conor took a deep breath and began again.
The initial notes from the harp were so chilling he almost regretted his decision. He clenched his jaw and played every ounce of that crippling grief into his impromptu composition. When he was finished, he felt nauseated and wrung-out, but he lifted his chin defiantly at Master Liam.
The Ceannaire, too, appeared shaken, but he composed himself quickly. “Thank you, Conor. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a brother with the gift of music. Even longer since we’ve had one who could interpret it. I had hoped . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “Your gift deserves to be exercised, even if we have no proper teacher for you. Will you play for me again?”
“As you wish,” Conor said.
“After morning drills then.”
Dismissed, Conor set aside the harp and walked to the door on trembling legs. Riordan waited outside, his expression a mix of wonder and pain.
“I had no idea,” he said, but Conor didn’t know if Riordan referred to his gift or the emotion he had revealed. “Come, there’s someone you should meet.”
Conor obediently followed his father upward through a maze of corridors until Riordan stopped before a door and knocked sharply. The door opened to reveal an ancient, white-haired man with blindness-clouded eyes.
“Brother Gillian,” Riordan said. “I have someone to introduce.”
Gillian’s face lit up. “Riordan, my boy, come in! My new acquaintance wouldn’t happen to be your nephew, Conor, would it?”
“Aye, sir,” Conor said immediately. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Brother Gillian opened the door wider and stepped aside to admit them. Only a bed, a chest, and a narrow desk filled the sparse chamber. A partially mended fishing net hung from a hook on the ceiling in the corner, no doubt a task Gillian could accomplish without sight.
The old man turned his face to Conor. “Are you the one responsible for the music I just heard?”
“Aye, sir.”
Riordan put a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Brother Gillian knows more about the magic of Daimhin’s age than any man alive. He can answer your questions.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Riordan’s tone said he meant it literally.
When they were alone and seated on Gillian’s bed, the aged brother said, “You have questions. Ask.”
Conor wondered where to start. “Master Liam said it had been a long time since we’ve had a brother with this gift, but even longer since there was one who could interpret it. What did he mean?”
“Ah, interpretation of music,” Gillian said. “Well, you see, magic possesses a language, and so does music, in its own way. Those with the gift of music have the instinctive ability to transform it into the language of magic. And some have the ability to understand what it says.”
“How?”
Gillian smiled. “If we knew that, it wouldn’t be magic.”
Despite himself, Conor smiled back. “What about the instruments themselves?”
“You speak of Meallachán’s harp? A very rare instrument, that is, one of the few remaining objects of power.”
Another object of power. Conor leaned forward. “What does it do?”
“It amplifies the abilities of the player, whatever those are. Tell me, young man, what exactly is your gift?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . play.”
“And what do people think or feel when they hear it?”
“I tell stories, I suppose, without words.”
Gillian smiled, as if he’d known what Conor was going to say. “All good stories are true. Even if they were completely made up by the storyteller, there is something in them that resonates with us. Courage. Love. Self-sacrifice. The storyteller makes his story real through the telling. I’ll let you think on that.”
Recognizing his dismissal, Conor rose. “May I visit you again, Brother Gillian?”
“Any time you like, son. I’ll be waiting for you.”
As Conor climbed down from Carraigmór, he mulled the elderly brother’s words. How many times had he said the harp spoke truth? Yet there was far more in Gillian’s statement than he could properly grasp.
An hour ago, Conor had been convinced he could be content with a life of diligent labor. Now he wasn’t so sure. Gillian seemed to hold the answer for which he had been searching, even if he didn’t yet know the question.
Conor visited Brother Gillian several times a week after he finished with Master Liam, and he looked forward to the old man’s teaching as much as he did the harp. Gillian’s knowledge
extended far beyond magic, and he taught Conor forgotten details about the history of the Great Kingdom and the aftermath of its fall.
Then Eoghan surprised him with his own news from the kingdoms. “They’re calling your young woman ‘the lady healer of Lisdara.’ They’re saying she can heal men’s bodies and read their hearts.”
“That’s preposterous.” Inwardly, though, Conor didn’t doubt it. Aine had summoned his childhood memories, but she hadn’t said it was the only thing she could do. “Besides, how would anyone know what’s going on at Lisdara?”
“You yourself said Master Liam seems to know everything. How do you think he gets all that information? The brothers who decide not to take oaths go back to the kingdoms and pass along the news we wouldn’t otherwise hear in the middle of the forest.”
He supposed that made sense. Without question, Meallachán and Treasach were both Fíréin. Master Liam and his informants had far more influence than Eoghan suspected. “Will you let me know what else you hear?”
Eoghan’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I know I’m not meant to stay here. Master Liam already lied to me once. I can’t trust him to tell me when it’s time to leave.”
“What exactly are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t want to be surprised by what awaits me when I go.” While Conor was taking risks, he ventured, “I know you’re Master Liam’s apprentice. I saw you practice months ago.”
Eoghan grimaced. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself. Everyone treats me as if I’m already the Ceannaire. I didn’t want you to feel the same way.”
“You’re nothing like Master Liam. When it’s your turn to lead the brotherhood, I hope you’ll remember that.”
Eoghan expression turned sad then. “Maybe it won’t come to that. I’ll see you at devotions.”
Conor watched him leave. Great honor or not, Eoghan liked Liam’s plans no more than Conor did.
After that, Eoghan no longer tried to hide the fact his existence at Ard Dhaimhin was both more privileged and more disciplined than that of his céad mates. He had unrestricted access to Master Liam and many of the Conclave members, yet the Ceannaire held him to impossibly high standards. Failure was not permitted, and Eoghan constantly had to prove his worth as Liam’s successor, even if it was not a future he desired for himself.
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