Oath of the Brotherhood

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Oath of the Brotherhood Page 30

by Carla Laureano

“I am exhausted. Did you learn what actually happened?”

  “Each man has a different story. Best I can tell, they saw him fall but stayed with the retreat. Mac Eirhinin and his men went back for him.”

  The mention of Lord Keondric usually summoned uneasiness, but now she felt only gratitude. “Has he returned?”

  “They were pursued from the battlefield. Mac Eirhinin stayed behind to fight while the others fled with Gainor.”

  Aine understood what he left unsaid. It was the guards’ responsibility to bring the king’s tanist back safely, but it didn’t sit well to leave a man behind. She rubbed her temples. “Maybe I will go lie down. Lorcan should be back in a minute with someone to tend to Gainor.”

  Ruarc delivered her to her tent on the other side of the command pavilion, but she had no sooner stepped inside than she heard more shouts from the perimeter. Her heart leapt into her throat. She darted out as someone shouted, “Mac Eirhinin’s back!”

  “Blessed Comdiu. He’s alive?”

  Five men rode up the wide center aisle, Lord Keondric in the lead. The chieftain’s clothing was tattered and stained, and the bandage around his thigh barely staunched the flow of blood from a new wound. Still, he looked a far sight stronger than Gainor. She owed him a sincere word of thanks.

  Then Aine noticed the stranger in the party. He dismounted lightly and handed his reins to a servant. He was not one of Abban’s or Gainor’s men, but he seemed familiar nonetheless. His lean, muscular build said he was a warrior, and he wore old-fashioned clothing with his hair in a single braid. Fíréin?

  Then he turned and met her gaze, and her knees nearly buckled. He may have changed in three years, but she knew him all the same. A shock of recognition passed between them.

  Keondric was making some sort of introduction to the assemblage, but Aine barely heard him over the drumming of her heart. She took a halting step forward, and her shock turned to fierce joy that felt more like pain than pleasure.

  “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “Conor.”

  Conor hardly expected to see Aine in the group that greeted them at the center of camp. His brief glimpse in the forest had only hinted at the stunning woman she had become. When she stepped forward, he stood immobilized, his heart rising into his throat. Hope swelled within him at her expression, a mixture of amazement, joy, and something he feared to name.

  Conor started toward her, but before he could take more than a few steps, a bulky warrior with silver-blond hair positioned himself between them. “The lady may know you, friend, but we don’t.”

  The threat in the man’s voice was clear, as was the challenge in his eyes. Aine stepped forward and placed a hand on the man’s arm. “Conor is an old friend, Lorcan. It’s all right.”

  Lorcan bowed his head in acknowledgement and stepped away with obvious displeasure. Conor realized the entire group was watching the exchange with open interest. Apparently, so did Aine, because she stiffened and said formally, “This is such a surprise. How exactly did you come across Lord Mac Eirhinin?”

  “I’d like to know that as well,” came a booming voice. A bearded giant pushed to the front. “We feared the worst when you didn’t return, Mac Eirhinin.”

  “It would have been, if not for Conor. He warned us of the ambush. Conor, this is Abban Ó Sedna.”

  Conor bowed slightly. “Lord Mac Eirhinin exaggerates.”

  “I’m sure,” Abban said wryly. “Come, let’s discuss this in private.”

  Conor dared not glance at Aine as he followed Abban into the large canvas tent. Despite their polite phrasing, the words were an order, not an invitation. Mac Eirhinin may have accepted Conor as a friend, but this mountain of a battle commander might not be so easily convinced.

  Inside, Abban gestured to a chair near a large table spread with maps. The topmost one caught Conor’s attention, a fine rendering of Siomar and Faolán overlaid with a web of red lines. He read the legends on several—Callindor, Northglenn, Eavenwood—before the commander swept it out of view.

  The tent flap opened, admitting Mac Eirhinin with Aine and Ruarc steps behind. Abban gestured for them to approach, but only the young lord joined Conor at the table.

  “You are not under guard here because Mac Eirhinin calls you a friend,” Abban said. “Your Timhaigh accent, however, immediately puts your motives under suspicion. So that leaves two questions: who are you and how did you happen upon Lord Gainor’s party?”

  Conor briefly considered lying, but too many people had witnessed Aine’s reaction. It was only a matter of time before they puzzled out the truth. Too bad the truth would put no one at ease.

  “My name is Conor. Once, my clan name was Mac Nir.”

  Abban seemed surprised, but whether by his identity or his transparency, Conor couldn’t guess. “It was Mac Nir? You claim it no longer?”

  “My forebears have hardly done it honor.”

  Abban glanced at Aine. “Is this true? Is he who he claims?”

  Aine cleared her throat, but she didn’t look at him when she said, “It’s true.”

  “You’re in remarkably good health for a man who has been dead three years. Care to explain?”

  Conor surveyed the commander. Lord Abban would continue to press as long as he answered his questions. “Suffice it to say I had my reasons for disappearing as I did. I’ve spent the last three years at Ard Dhaimhin, and now I’ve come back to offer assistance.”

  “The Fíréin deign to send one man to help in our war?” Abban flashed a sardonic smile. “How kind.”

  “I come of my own accord. The brotherhood stays out of the kingdoms’ affairs, even in these dire times.” Conor kept his sudden pang of concern from surfacing on his face. The commander would be within his authority to have him summarily executed as a spy. “Are you so confident in your victory that you would turn down another skilled fighter?”

  Mac Eirhinin spoke up. “We were ambushed. Conor alerted us and took down eight men himself with only a staff and a sling. Had it not been for his intervention, we would all be dead, including Lord Gainor. I’d say he’s proved his intentions rather thoroughly.”

  Abban turned back to him. Before the chieftain could speak, Conor said quietly, “The simple fact is this: I am a Balian. Fergus and his druid seek to destroy all that is good in Seare. I could not stand by in Ard Dhaimhin and watch it happen. I have some information that can be of use if you will allow me to join you.”

  Abban nodded slowly, still wary, but the worst of the suspicion had disappeared from his expression. “We can discuss the matter over supper. I expect you’ll want to wash first. Mac Eirhinin, have Lady Aine look at that leg before you lose any more blood.”

  The dark-haired lord struggled to his feet.

  “Come to the infirmary,” Aine said. “You’ll need stitches. If you’ll excuse us, my lords.” Her eyes settled on Conor and flitted away again. She followed the young chieftain from the tent, Ruarc a step behind them.

  Abban watched them go. “She’s something, isn’t she? I would have said a lady in this camp would be a disaster, but the men regard her as a lucky charm. She’s saved us all more than once.”

  “The lady healer of Lisdara,” Conor said. “She’s something of a patron saint.”

  “Indeed.” Abban fixed his eyes on Conor. “Son, you might as well be honest with me. You’re here because of her. I know the two of you became close when you were at Lisdara.”

  “She is part of the reason I’m here,” Conor said. “But that won’t keep me from my duty, should it come to it.”

  “I believe you.” Almost to himself, Abban added, “I just hope it makes a difference.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Conor scrubbed the grime from his face and hands and did his best to make himself look presentable. Abban had not yet returned, but since he wasn’t anxious to face the scrutiny of the camp, he sat down in one of the chairs and began to check over his weapons.

  The tent canvas rustled, and Conor looked up, ex
pecting the commander. It was Aine.

  He set aside his sword and rose. Behind her, the twilight had succumbed to night, and the light from the pavilion’s oil lamps turned her hair to burnished gold. She had changed her dress, and the simple wool clung to curves he didn’t remember her having.

  Aine took a step toward him, then halted. Her eyes locked with his, but he could read nothing of her thoughts in their depths.

  His stomach back-flipped. Could he have been wrong about her reaction? After all, she was no longer the shy girl he’d met at Lisdara, but a confident woman who commanded the respect of an entire camp. How could he blame them when his own heart hammered so hard in his chest he could barely breathe?

  Then the barest hint of a smile lifted her lips. She crossed the pavilion in a few swift steps, and he enfolded her in his arms. The sense of rightness he’d felt at Lisdara settled over him, as if he’d reclaimed a piece of himself he’d forgotten was missing.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come back,” she whispered into his tunic.

  He stroked her hair. “I heard you call for me. It just took me a while to make my way here.”

  Aine pulled away and stared up at him, her cheeks wet with tears, her gray eyes wide. He smoothed a lock of hair away from her face, and she inhaled sharply at his touch. The transparent longing in her expression made his knees weak.

  She caught his hand and ran her fingers over the calluses on his palm and his fingertips, the marks of the sword and the harp. “You’ve been playing.”

  “Every day.” He closed his fingers around hers, his eyes never leaving her face. “That’s why I’m here. I found the answers I sought at Ard Dhaimhin.”

  Ruarc slipped into the tent, unsurprised to see them standing so close. “Ó Sedna and Mac Eirhinin are on their way back.”

  “Thank you.” Aine tried to pull away, but Conor held her fast. Ruarc cleared his throat, and Conor released her an instant before the two noblemen entered the tent.

  Abban barely gave them a glance as he crossed to the table. “Good. You’re both here. We have much to discuss. I’ve invited Lord Keondric to join us.”

  Conor found himself seated beside Abban, facing Aine and Mac Eirhinin, just as the servants arrived with pots of venison stew and trays of crusty rye bread. His eyes kept returning to her while the servants placed the food before them. When he managed to tear his gaze away, Mac Eirhinin was watching him, his expression hard. A hint of unease rippled through Conor.

  They ate in silence. When the servants returned to remove the bowls and refill their ale, Conor cleared his throat and addressed the table. “What can you tell me of our situation here? I’ve received only the broad strokes.”

  “The situation is we’ve lost a third of our men in the south,” Abban said. “We’ve holed up behind the last strong wards we can find, much good that will do us. Calhoun has another five hundred men on the Timhaigh border, just in case. Meanwhile, we can’t engage our enemy for fear the sorcery will infect us.”

  “Fergus is using blood magic to control his men,” Aine explained. “It’s like a parasite. When the victim dies, it looks for another host.”

  “The infected can’t cross the wards?” Conor asked.

  “No, but Fergus has someone who can unmake them,” Abban said. “He’s using the wards to control our movements, place us where he wants us. Eventually those will fail, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Conor saw the reality of the situation in the expressions of those around the table. “That’s not entirely true. We can find the ward-breaker.”

  “It would take time,” Abban said. “Time to discover who this person is, time to reach him.”

  “I know who it is. It’s the bard Meallachán.”

  Aine gasped. “Meallachán? Why would he help our enemy?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he’s being forced. Maybe he’s infected. Besides, we don’t need him. We just need his harp.”

  “You learned how the wards are made?” Aine asked, breathless. “You could rebuild them?”

  “If that were possible,” Mac Eirhinin mused, “the ensorcelled warriors would be trapped between the wards, unable to move.”

  They exchanged glances, afraid to give in to sudden hope.

  “We’ll need to tell Calhoun,” Abban said. “I don’t trust the message to be sent by rider. Aine, you will go to Lisdara and speak with him. We can have a party ready in two days.”

  “I’m not leaving the camp! Who will see to the men?”

  “Gainor needs a physician,” Mac Eirhinin said. “Your replacement can see to them. You’ll be safer at Lisdara, behind walls and wards.”

  Aine leapt to her feet and looked at each of them in turn. “Do you understand what you are saying? It sounds easy enough—just find Meallachán and his harp and bring them back here. If you can find him, and if you can reach him, he’ll be guarded.” She appealed to Conor. “It’s a suicide mission. Do you know how little chance there is for success?”

  “If not me, then who?” Conor asked quietly. “I’m Timhaigh. I can blend in. I’ve been well-trained by the Fíréin. And I’m the only one who can use the harp. It’s the sensible move.”

  Aine blinked back tears, but she said nothing.

  Conor sought to lighten the mood. “Who knows? I already came back from the dead once.”

  Her eyes flashed. “How dare you make light of it! You have no . . .” She closed her eyes and reined in her anger. “I need to see to Gainor. Excuse me.”

  Conor glanced at Abban. “Should she—”

  “Ruarc or Lorcan will be outside. They’re never far. In the meantime, get some rest. Ask one of the captains for an extra blanket. Unfortunately, we have plenty now.”

  “Thank you.” Conor rose and nodded to each. “My lords.”

  After the stifling tension of the tent, the air felt gloriously cool, the faint smell of summer rain just discernible beneath wood smoke and cooking food. He drew in a deep breath and attempted to quiet his mind, but Aine’s stricken, accusing stare refused to leave him.

  There was no other way. He had been prepared for this very mission, his life saved, his path guided, so he could accomplish this task. And yet now that he was back, now that he knew Aine had not forgotten him, how could he bear to leave her again?

  He searched the camp for Aine’s tent, trying to convince himself he actually sought Ruarc to discuss plans for her departure. Within minutes, he had exhausted all the possibilities. He was about to give up and seek a place to bed down for the night when he caught sight of two silhouettes at the edge of camp beyond the supply tents: one tall and imposing, the other slender and cloaked.

  Ruarc turned as he approached. He relaxed visibly when he recognized Conor and moved off a few paces to give them their privacy.

  “It’s not fair,” Aine said hoarsely. Tears streaked her cheeks again. He reached for her, and she moved into his embrace without hesitation. “I don’t want to lose you again. I’ve prayed for this moment for three years. To think it might have only been so you could leave and do this . . . it’s cruel.”

  “You must commit me to Comdiu again. I’m alive only by His will.” He rested his chin atop her head, surprised by how naturally they fit together, how little shyness he possessed around her. “I felt you die in Dún Eavan. When I thought you were gone, it broke me. I believed Comdiu must be unspeakably cruel to take you away. When I learned you still lived, I realized how little I understood of Comdiu’s plans and how quick I was to dismiss Him. If this is why He brought us here, I have to trust things will unfold according to His will.”

  Aine tilted her head back to look at him. “While I was in the lake, Lord Balus spoke to me. He told me there were dark days ahead for Seare and I must be faithful. I’ve tried, but this . . . I don’t want to believe I was spared just to be a part of this.”

  The anguish in her voice tore at Conor’s heart. He searched for words to reassure her, but they all felt inadequate. Instead, he slid one hand beh
ind her neck and kissed her gently. Aine melted into the embrace, her hands moving up his back as she gave herself to the kiss, and the warmth he’d felt flared into something more. He disentangled himself with effort and stepped back.

  “I should have told you how I felt before I left,” he said.

  She smiled. “I knew. I heard it in your song.”

  “I have loved you from the moment I took your hand in the hall. Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember. I dreamed of you before I ever came to Lisdara. Somehow I knew I would love you.”

  Her words made him giddy. She loved him. The fears that had haunted him for three years vanished. “And now? Have you since come to your senses?”

  She shook her head, mischief surfacing in her expression. “I’m afraid those are long gone.”

  “Good.” He sobered and took her hands again. “Because if I come back, I want to marry you. If you’ll have me.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes again, but she was smiling. “Of course I will. Nothing would make me happier.”

  He laughed, and she threw her arms around his neck. Then he kissed her again until they were both breathless and trembling. Ruarc cleared his throat, and Aine jerked away to a safe distance. Conor threw a sheepish glance at the guard, expecting to see warning in his expression, but Ruarc struggled against a smile.

  Conor grinned. “She’s just agreed to marry me.”

  “So I gathered.” Ruarc said. “I suggest we all return to camp—separately—before you draw unwanted attention to yourselves.”

  Aine threw an embarrassed look at her guard, but she stretched up on tiptoe to steal one last kiss from Conor. “Good night.”

  “Good night, my love.” Conor squeezed her hand and smiled as she disappeared back into camp with Ruarc.

  She still loved him. She wanted to marry him.

  If he came back alive.

  At the thought, the joy he had felt moments before turned cold. What were the chances he’d actually live to follow through on that promise? Had he just condemned Aine to even more heartache?

 

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