“What are you going to do?” Eoghan asked as they started up the path toward the village, now slick from the rain.
“I’m going to Carraigmór.”
Eoghan shook his head. “You beat me today, Conor, but that doesn’t mean you can take on Master Liam. If you challenge him before you’re ready, you’ll lose your only opportunity—”
“I’m not going to challenge him. I’m going to make a case to the Conclave for why they should get involved in this war. I want them to send a party after Meallachán.”
A slow smile spread over Eoghan’s face. “The Conclave could overrule Liam with a majority vote. If you make a good enough case for yourself, it might work. I’ll back you.”
“No, don’t get involved. Once I’m gone, you may still have some influence with Master Liam. Maybe you can change his mind if I can’t.”
“And if you can’t?” Eoghan asked.
“Then I’ll fight him. If I lose, I’ll worry about the consequences then.” And trust he knew the sentries and runners well enough to make it out alive when he deserted. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
Conor had not told Eoghan about his dreams of Aine. He had felt her emotions—her exhaustion, her terror, but most of all her determination to do all she could to hold back the forces that threatened Faolán. Since then, he could swear she had called to him on more than one occasion. Where are you now? she had pleaded. Are you coming back to me?
His heart beat faster at the recollection. It was not his imagination, even if he could not precisely name the magic that allowed him these glimpses of her. Perhaps it was the charm. Or perhaps it was just the indefinable connection they had forged in his short time at Lisdara. Whatever the reason, he knew even if he could do nothing to halt the storm of war from overtaking Faolán, he wanted to spend those last days by her side.
Tell me if I’m doing the right thing, he pleaded skyward as he made his way back to the barracks. Please give me some indication of how I’m supposed to go about this.
Comdiu remained silent.
Then I’ll trust You to stop me if it’s the wrong choice. I just don’t intend on making it easy.
Now that he contemplated leaving Ard Dhaimhin to join a war that would almost certainly mean his death, the city seemed a world apart. It would be so easy to stay here and pretend none of what he knew really existed.
Until the last of the wards broke, and thousands of men streamed into Ard Dhaimhin, determined to seize Carraigmór’s throne for Fergus and his druid.
Somehow, he had to convince the Conclave to get involved, before their stubbornness killed thousands and ended the Fíréin brotherhood once and for all.
That night, Conor requested a meeting with the Conclave and the Ceannaire. To his surprise, Liam agreed immediately, granting him an audience the next morning.
After devotions, of which he comprehended only a handful of words, he climbed the stairs to the fortress. The brother on guard let him into the hall where ten men sat in a semicircle, Liam in the middle. Another chair sat opposite, facing them. It felt like a trial.
“Brother Conor,” Master Liam said, sweeping a hand toward the chair. “Please, have a seat, and share why you requested an audience with the entire Conclave.”
“It’s a matter than concerns all of the Fíréin,” Conor said. “And if you don’t mind, I’d rather stand.”
“Very well. What is on your mind?”
Conor took a deep breath. “No doubt you know Siomar has fallen to the Mac Nir’s army. You also know the wards that extend from the forests throughout Seare have begun to fail. I wished to ask the Conclave, and you, Master Liam, what you intend to do about it.”
“Why should we do anything?” Liam asked calmly.
Conor hadn’t expected that response. Evasion, perhaps, or annoyance, but not indifference. “I understand the Fíréin’s policy of noninterference, but the breaking of the wards affects Ard Dhaimhin. There can be no question Fergus means to control all of Seare and declare himself High King.”
Riordan looked at him sympathetically. “Surely you’re not suggesting Fergus will be able to conquer four thousand trained brothers.”
“He will have at least twice that number. It hardly matters if he can conquer Ard Dhaimhin or not. He will destroy it in the attempt. You know there is one who can create or unmake the wards. Find him, and bring him back here. The age of the brotherhood will end unless you intervene.”
“You make a compelling argument, Brother Conor,” Liam said with a bare smile. “But you are forgetting we have vowed only to hold the city and Daimhin’s throne until the return of the High King, whoever and whenever that may be. If we abandon that, we abandon the vows that have kept us strong for five hundred years.”
Conor looked at the Conclave in disbelief. “When I first came to Ard Dhaimhin, Master Liam, you told the parable of the man who entrusted his money to his servants. You said the Fíréin life is harsh and disciplined so we would be ready when Comdiu called us to His work.
“When is that time, if not now? Men have lived and died here for centuries, training for some glorious purpose that never comes to pass. And now that time is at hand, and you refuse to act? All that is good in the kingdoms is threatened. We alone have the ability to end this evil, to restore good to our land. If you cannot see this is Comdiu’s work, then you are no better than the unfaithful servant who hid his master’s gold and was thrown out into the dark as punishment.”
The members of the Conclave stared, stunned by his boldness. His heart raced wildly, and he struggled to maintain his composure while he waited for Liam’s answer. Had he been successful in startling him from his complacency?
“I commend your passion on the subject, Brother Conor,” Liam said. “But we have taken oaths. I will remind you that you have as well. Would you abandon your honor so easily?”
“I take my vows seriously. But honor demands I act. You may choose to hold the brotherhood back from a fight that is right and just, but I will not be part of that decision. I will leave Ard Dhaimhin to find the bard Meallachán and his harp. Failing that, I will fight with Faolán.”
“You agreed to remain until you fulfilled the requirements of your apprenticeship,” Brother Daigh said, his voice hard. “You are not eligible for petition for two more years.”
Conor drew a deep breath. He felt as if he watched the exchange from the outside now. “I understand. I am exercising my right of challenge.”
The Conclave burst into amazed murmurs, all except Riordan and Liam. The Ceannaire smiled. “Since you are my apprentice’s student, I have first right to the challenge. However, I will cede that right to another member of the Conclave if you wish.”
Conor looked around the circle. The men seemed as shocked as he felt. Any of them would be an easier opponent than Liam, even his father, who was the largest and strongest of the ten. Liam had given him a way out, and Riordan’s expression urged him to take it. There was more at stake here than release from his apprenticeship, though. They had dismissed his pleas to join the war. They saw him as a foolish boy who knew nothing of battle, who was ready to throw his life away in a futile fight.
“Thank you, but I extend my challenge to you, Master Liam.”
The Ceannaire’s smile broadened. “Very well. I accept. The match will take place on the large crannog tomorrow after morning devotions. Tell Brother Eoghan he will witness his apprentice’s trials.”
Conor gave Master Liam a short bow. “Aye, sir. Thank you.”
He escaped Carraigmór as quickly as he could, his heart squeezed painfully in his rib cage. What had just happened? He’d gone before the Conclave to make a reasoned case for their involvement. Instead, he’d ended up challenging a man who, rumor said, had never lost a match. Conor wasn’t even sure of the rules of the challenge. He might have forfeited his life should he lose.
“Your challenge, your terms,” Eoghan told him. “You can choose to fight to the death or merely to first blood, though no one
has chosen the former in centuries.”
“Do I have any hope of winning?”
“You beat me,” Eoghan said, but it was hardly the resounding assurance he’d hoped for.
Conor’s foolishness mocked him through sleepless hours. What had he been thinking? He’d extended the challenge, which was bad enough, but then he’d refused to take the easier course offered him. It was as if someone else had inhabited his body and spoken on his behalf. He hardly remembered doing it.
That was ridiculous. He had no one to blame but himself.
Or did he? Hadn’t he dared Comdiu to stop him? He’d even said he wasn’t planning on making it easy, as if he could concoct any plan that could challenge the Almighty Creator. Perhaps his own foolishness meant rather than a quiet tap on the shoulder, Comdiu would stop him in a sensational and humiliating manner.
Or maybe Comdiu just needed to make it clear he couldn’t get out of this through his own power.
It sounded like his own thought, but it was too rational to have come from his churning head. His heart lifted, hope blossoming. Maybe he had just been given a shove in the right direction.
I’ll leave this up to You then. You know better than I that three years cannot compete with a lifetime of training. If it’s Your will I leave Ard Dhaimhin, You’ll have to make it happen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The morning of the challenge match dawned under a bright blue sky, without sign of the rain that had plagued Ard Dhaimhin for days. Conor took it as a good omen, even though his stomach began its somersaults when the first of the curious glances fell on him. So word had gotten around already.
He put his head down and strode toward the amphitheater, hoping that his posture would deflect most of the questions. He stifled a groan as Ailbhe fell into step beside him. True, it was Tor who had taken a dislike to him, but Ailbhe hardly did anything without his friend’s permission.
“You think you can win?” the boy asked, his tone more curious than challenging.
Conor flicked a glance at Ailbhe, forcing down a surge of defensiveness. “What do you think?”
Ailbhe studied him. “You fight like Brother Riordan. He’s the only one who’s ever beaten Master Liam.”
“You think so?”
“I hope so. If you lose, I have to do all Tor’s chores in the barracks for a month. Don’t let me down.” Ailbhe gave him a grin, the first real expression of solidarity, followed by a heavy thump on the shoulder. “Good fortune, Brother Conor.”
“Fortune,” Conor repeated numbly. He wasn’t sure which was more surprising: the fact that the boy had broken the Fíréin prohibition against gambling, or that he’d bet against his friend. On him.
A smile spread across Conor’s face. Perhaps he could do this after all.
When Eoghan slid onto a bench across from him, he was trying to steady his nerves and force down enough breakfast to sustain his energy through the match. He glanced up long enough to catch his mentor’s eye. “Do you have any advice for me?”
“Don’t think,” Eoghan said. “You have the training and the instincts. Don’t let your brain get in the way.”
“If that were a problem, I wouldn’t be in this situation.” Conor hadn’t meant to be funny, but when he caught Eoghan’s gaze, they both broke into nervous chuckles. “Whatever happens today, thank you. I know what you sacrificed to take me as an apprentice.”
“Some good it did you. I’d hoped to avoid this scenario. You ready?”
The words jolted Conor’s system and caused his heart to ricochet in his chest. He gave Eoghan a sober nod, every trace of humor vanishing. One way or another, in a few short hours, his life would take a dramatically new direction.
Eoghan let him save his energy and ferried him across the lake to the crannog. At least Conor was comfortable with the location, the site of much of his training. If he could just convince himself this was another practice match and keep his mind off the stakes, he might actually have a chance. Don’t let your brain get in the way. Very well. He’d already determined Comdiu would have to intervene in this one.
When they arrived at the yard, Master Liam waited with all nine Conclave members. Apparently, the Conclave stood with their leader. Conor didn’t look at them. He felt intimidated enough without reading the pity in their faces.
“Don’t let them rush you,” Eoghan whispered as they approached the yard. “Take as much time as you need. Work some forms. It’s your challenge.”
Eoghan handed Conor the bundle containing his weighted practice sword and the sharpened weapon for the challenge. He moved to the corner of the yard, feeling the other men’s gazes upon him. After a moment of hesitation, he chose the steel.
The practice weapon had been a good approximation of the real thing, but it still took several forms before Conor ceased to be aware of the sword in his hand. By then, he had worked up a sweat, and his muscles felt fluid and warm. He turned and saw Master Liam had done the same thing. At least he was taking Conor’s challenge seriously.
Now came the formalities. Conor stepped into the yard and called, “Liam, Ceannaire of the Fíréin brotherhood, I challenge you.”
Liam stepped forward. “Conor, apprentice to Eoghan of the Fíréin brotherhood, I accept.”
Brother Daigh entered the yard and gestured for them to approach. Riordan was not judging the match as was his privilege as first seat on the Conclave? Conor scanned the area and saw his father had joined Eoghan opposite the Conclave members. The sight warmed him.
Daigh was speaking now, and Conor turned his attention forward. “Brother Conor, the challenge.”
“Short swords to first blood.”
Liam nodded his agreement. “I accept.”
“You will fight to the first sign of blood, drawn intentionally by the opponent’s sword,” Daigh said. “If either should withdraw prior to that point, he shall forfeit the decision. Any questions?”
Conor shook his head. Liam smiled, not unkindly. Daigh continued, “Very well, then. Brothers, take your positions.”
Conor moved back several steps and assumed a guard stance. Liam raised his sword, completely at ease, as if they were chatting rather than fighting. Conor focused on his opponent’s eyes and used his peripheral vision to watch for a shift in stance that would indicate an attack.
Liam leapt forward, his sword a blur of offensive strikes. Only Conor’s instincts kept the bright blade from his flesh. Blessed Comdiu, he’s fast!
Liam paused, and Conor countered with a low thrust. The Ceannaire brushed it aside as he might swat a gnat. His elbow was low, part of Conor’s mind noted, filing the fact away for future use. He’d be weak countering an overhand slash . . .
Conor tried it, but Liam parried and countered easily. He leapt out of the way as the tip of the Ceannaire’s sword sliced open his tunic. There was a collective indrawn breath as the witnesses waited for the slow blossom of red beneath, but it never came. That had been far too close.
Don’t think. You have the training and the instincts. Conor forced himself to relax and met the next onslaught with more confidence, but his blade got nowhere near Liam. Unless Conor developed the miraculous ability to draw blood from several inches away, he was going to wear down long before the Ceannaire.
Back and forth they went, circling for better position, each meeting the other’s blade before it could strike home. Sweat trickled down Conor’s face and dripped onto his tunic, more from anxiety than exertion. At least Liam no longer looked so fresh. He, too, was having to work harder to keep the equilibrium of the match.
The air seemed to thicken then, time slowing by just a fraction. The tension melted from Conor’s body and the scene turned soft around the edges. He found himself parrying just a bit faster, countering a split second quicker. He was acutely aware of the movement of air currents around them, the sound of the sand beneath their feet, the rasp of breath in his lungs. Details began to register in the back of his mind: the shift of weight to Liam’s offhand side, the
slightest flicker of an eyelash when he was about to feint, the way he held his breath before delivering a particular strike.
Then time sped up again, and Conor was fighting faster than he had thought himself capable, moving without conscious thought. Before he could even register his intention, he saw his opening and took it.
Pain seared Conor’s throat. He halted and realized the tip of Liam’s sword had broken the skin just above his collarbone. It was a masterful show of control: a mere fraction more and Conor would be dead, or at the very least, mute. Blood slowly trickled down his chest.
Liam was breathing hard. “Well done, Brother Conor. Another minute, and you might have had me.”
Only then did the other details—and the reason for the shocked silence—seep in. A slight smile stretched Conor’s lips.
Liam followed his gaze downward to his chest, where the tip of Conor’s blade lay against his ribs amidst a slowly spreading red stain.
“It’s a draw!” Daigh announced in shock.
Their eyes met, and cautiously, they withdrew their weapons. It took all Conor’s willpower not to reach up and touch the wound. Instead, he asked, “What does a draw mean?”
“The decision is Liam’s,” Daigh said.
Conor’s heart fell to his stomach. All his hard work was for naught?
“Bravely fought, Brother Conor,” Liam said. “I haven’t had a match like that in years. You should be proud of what you have accomplished, as should Brother Eoghan.”
“Thank you, sir,” Conor said, but he felt only the heavy weight of failure.
“I am satisfied you have met all the requirements of our training and then some. If you still wish it, I release you from your apprenticeship. Leave Ard Dhaimhin with my blessings.”
Conor stared for what felt like a full minute. “I can leave? Even though I didn’t win?”
“The fact you risked this challenge when you were given an alternative shows both character and purpose. You’ve proven you have your own path to follow.”
Oath of the Brotherhood Page 27