Oath of a Warrior (Legends of the Fenian Warriors Book 2)

by Mary Morgan

  He found his mouth parched and for a brief moment, Rory considered moving toward the table where a jug of water tempted him to quench his thirst. Lifting his head, he reached out with one hand, praying the jug would come to him. But he was a fool. There was no magic inside these four crystal walls. Furthermore, he was too weak and proud to move away from his haven of safety.

  By the Gods, the water should come to him! He was a great Fenian Warrior! Or was the power taken from him when he entered the Room of Reflection? He clenched his fist and brought it to his chest. Confusion muddled his thoughts. And the voices mocked him from afar.

  Distorted lights danced in front of his vision, and Rory blinked. Someone had dared to enter his prison unannounced. His fury rose at the intrusion. Did he not give orders to the guards to never return?

  “Leave me,” he growled in a hoarse voice.

  “You have been summoned to appear for your trial,” Taran replied calmly.

  Rory snarled, recognizing the voice of the warrior. Now they send those from the Brotherhood? “I have done nothing which requires judgment.”

  “Even if it would mean your freedom from this prison?” inquired Ronan, stepping forward.

  So they send two warriors. They must deem me mad. Rory clenched his hands. “You tempt fate by drawing near, my friend.”

  Ronan crouched down in front of him. “I dinnae fear ye, my Brother. And I am happy to hear ye call me friend.”

  Rory swallowed. He did not want to hurt Ronan. All he longed for was the darkness of solitude.

  “If ye have nae wish to go, I will keep ye company.” Ronan shifted to sit alongside Rory. “However long ye require, I shall wait.”

  Rory glanced sharply at the warrior, but remained silent.

  “I would have preferred liquid ambrosia or mead over water,” Taran professed, pouring water into a mug.

  “You always did like your drink sweet,” Rory responded gruffly.

  Taran winked. “And my women, too.”

  Ronan barked out in laughter, the sound echoing within the room, and Rory winced.

  Taran strode over and sat down in front of Rory. Holding the mug toward him, he said, “Drink a few sips, and I shall tell you about my latest conquest in the Pleasure Gardens.”

  Rory eyed him skeptically. He hesitated briefly and then took the offered liquid. When the brush of the sweet water touched his cracked, dry lips, he almost let out a groan. His thirst was so great, he drank deeply. Meeting the hard stare of Taran, he handed the mug back to him. “More.”

  Taran stood and retrieved the jug. Returning, he handed it to Rory.

  Lifting the jug to his mouth, he filled his parched body with the healing water. Stopping half way, he poured the rest over his head, splashing some on Ronan.

  “Ye will need more than water to clean the grime from your body.”

  Rory rubbed his eyes and dropped the jug. He looked from one warrior to the other. “Even now, I carry the stench from when we fought the Dark One and Lachlan. Yet, not one of them from the council cares that evil was defeated and we saved two worlds.”

  “We are not here to pass judgment,” uttered Ronan softly.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because ye need friends at your side when you appear for your trial.”

  “I deem two at your side are always better than one,” added Taran and held out his hand.

  Nodding slowly, Rory stretched out his legs. Though he was weak, the water had refreshed him and cleared the ghosts from the past within his mind. After grabbing the warrior’s outstretched hand, he stood on shaky limbs.

  Instantly, the four crystal walls splintered into shards of various colors, and the glass dome disappeared. All traces of his prison had vanished, and he found himself surrounded by pine trees. Sunlight streamed down through the canopy of branches, and Rory shielded his eyes from its intensity. He drew in a long breath of the clean, fresh air—filling his weak body. But his steps faltered when he started forward.

  “Would ye like me to transport ye to your chambers? All has been prepared. There, ye may use your magic.”

  Rory nodded. “I have no plans on entering the Fae council as a battered and bruised Fenian Warrior, so yes.”

  “You are not meeting with the Fae council,” interjected Taran.

  Keeping his steps slow and steady, he glanced sideways at the warrior. “Have I been duly sentenced?”

  Taran kept pace with him. “No. The king considered it wiser you should appear before an elder, away from the council.”

  “Why would he interest himself in the affairs of the Fenian—” Rory paused and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Of course. His son, Conn, is involved.”

  “It is not what ye think,” corrected Ronan.

  Rory resumed his steps. “No. I believe it is far worse and now the king has chosen an elite elder to dictate a more severe punishment. King Ansgar never did favor his son entering the Brotherhood.”

  “Conn is no longer a Fenian Warrior.”

  Halting, Rory’s eyes blazed with anger. “By the hounds, what mad realm have I entered into?”

  Chapter Three

  “One cannot favor the light over the darkness or the darkness over the light. Each is the balance to maintain a strong center.”

  ~Chronicles of the Fae

  Upon entering his chambers, Rory leaned against the oak doors for strength. Colors of the forest greeted him, along with the comforts he had forsaken in his prison. Food and drink were set out on a marble table, though he had requested none. Chairs, cushioned in green velvet beckoned him. Part of him longed to return to the darkness of his prison and for a brief moment, he almost called forth Ronan. Taking in deep calming breaths, he let his sight adjust to the soft glow of light filtering in through the quartz ceiling.

  Glancing around, he observed his chair by the hearth. Open on a side maple table was the book he had been pursuing before his brother, Liam had stormed into his chamber announcing the news about the evil druid, Lachlan. The monster had slipped through the Veil of Ages, endangering another Dragon Knight, and Liam required his assistance to thwart the druid. Together, they convinced Conn MacRoich to aid them in their plan.

  “So many moons ago,” he muttered and raked a hand through his hair. “And where are you now, my brother? Or Conn?”

  Pushing slowly away from the door, Rory strode into the innermost chamber. Removing a fresh tunic and pants from a massive trunk at the foot of his bed, he strode along the open corridor. Halting at the entrance, he stripped free from his torn clothing. The scent of the pine trees assaulted him. It was a haven like no other—trees, flowers, and the earth beneath him. In the center set an enormous copper tub, big enough for two or three people.

  His mind screamed not to enter this sanctuary, since he should not be granted this luxury. Yet, his body was battered, weary, and in need of healing. Gritting back a curse, he lifted a trembling hand, and warm, scented water filled the tub. Sinking into the liquid depths, he washed the stench of a battle that was fought almost a year ago from his skin and hair with a healing soap that soothed. Leaning his head back on the rim, he closed his eyes.

  We might have won the battle, but what about the other one? You saved two worlds, but were unable to rescue one human female. The voices taunted him.

  “Enough!” His bellow reverberated throughout the enclosure of trees. Rubbing his eyes vigorously, he stepped out of the tub and quickly dressed.

  Making his way back into his main chamber, Rory ignored the tempting fare displayed. Lifting a jug, he sniffed the contents. “Water.” How he longed for whiskey or ambrosia and snapped his fingers.

  A rare bottle of whiskey appeared. It was one made near the flowing waterfall of life close to the eastern border of the Fae realm. Opening the bottle, he guzzled deeply. The heat seared a path down his throat and into his body. Relishing the fiery liquid, he continued to drink until he judged the ghosts of the past had receded to the far reaches of his mind. Wiping his mout
h with the back of his hand, Rory now believed he was ready to face his trial and tossed the empty bottle into the hearth.

  Striding to his chamber door, he yanked it open. Ronan and Taran stood off to the side, speaking quietly. Halting their conversation, both warriors stepped forward and joined him.

  Rory met their gazes. “I am ready to meet my fate.” He gestured outward with his hand. “Lead the way.”

  Ronan nodded. “We are taking ye magically to the elder’s chambers.”

  Arching a brow, he sneered. “I am not good enough to walk among our people?”

  “Listen to us,” reasoned Taran. “We are doing this for you. The council has objections, and we do not wish to meet any of them along the path.”

  “I don’t fear them,” snapped Rory.

  “By the hounds,” groaned Ronan and placed an arm on Rory’s shoulder. In a brilliant flash, he transported them inside a chamber, lit only by torches along the dark, richly decorated paneled walls.

  Rory stumbled forward, slamming against a gnarled oak desk. “Bastard,” he growled. Righting himself, he turned on Ronan.

  “There will be no quarrels or fighting inside my chambers, or I shall restrain you,” shouted a familiar voice behind Rory.

  “Loran?” Stunned, he twisted around to meet the hard gaze of the elder. “You are to be my judge?”

  The Fae stepped forth, his arms clasped behind his back. “Yes. Do you give your sacred word there will be no violence in these chambers?”

  Rory battled his fury and swallowed. He’d rather stand before a council of nine puny members than before one of the most revered Fae elders in their realm. His respect for Loran was immense, but not for the council members. “You have my word.”

  The elder gave a curt nod. “You may take your place.” He gestured for Rory to take a seat in the center of the chamber.

  “I wish to remain standing.” Rory glanced at Ronan and Taran standing guard near the door.

  Loran waved his hand in the air, and the chair slammed against the back of Rory’s legs, forcing him to sit. “I have no desire to strain my neck to look up at you while I am sitting.”

  Turmoil bubbled to the surface, and Rory fought for control. “Did you choose to be my…arbitrator?”

  The Fae elder adjusted his robes, and he took his seat behind the desk. “I was sought out by another.”

  Rory clenched his hands on the sides of the chair. “Is my crime so severe that I’m to be treated thusly? Hidden away, because you are all ashamed of what I did?”

  Loran folded his arms over his chest. “What crime do you believe you’ve committed?”

  “Nothing!” He shoved a fist into the air. “We saved two worlds that night. Lachlan had opened the door for the Dark One to enter. If not for us and the Dragon Knights, we would not be having this conversation.”

  Loran angled his head. “Why did you not alert your other Brothers? There is strength in numbers.”

  “We three were the guardians over the wives of the Dragon Knights. To involve other warriors would doom them to this unjust treatment.”

  “Surely you were prepared for the consequences.”

  Rory lifted his chin. “Of course. It was a path agreed upon. And one I would proudly venture into again.”

  “Did you not believe the Dragon Knights had the power to prevent this on their own?”

  “No.”

  “I believe you.”

  Loran’s response astonished Rory. “Then why am I here? Why confine me to the Room of Reflection for so long?”

  The elder sighed. “Unfortunately, the council does not share my viewpoint on what happened. If it were up to them, they would send you to the Hall of Remembrance to reflect on that deed and any others.”

  A sliver of unease snaked its way up Rory’s spine. The Hall of Remembrance was one place he feared to enter. The ghosts of his past lived there in vivid detail. They would surround him and fill him with their cries and sorrow. Beads of sweat broke out along his brow. Her whispered screams echoed near him, and Rory fought the urge to look over his shoulder, fearing she would be there. He fought the memories of the past within his mind.

  “Where are you, Fenian Warrior?” demanded Loran.

  Rory snapped his gaze back to the elder. “Here in this dungeon,” he growled.

  Taran stepped away from the door, and it did not go unnoticed by Rory.

  “Is there a reason you stalk me, Taran?”

  The warrior held his hands up. “I am only here as your friend.”

  Chaos swirled inside Rory’s mind. His friends were all gone. Fragments of another time blinded his thoughts. Pushing aside one battle, another surged forth—one where they held victory over the evil who attempted to enter their worlds. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Releasing a shuddering breath, he asked, “Where are Conn and Liam?”

  “We are not here to discuss them,” replied Loran.

  His hands clawed into the sides of the chair. “Then what do you want of me?”

  “What are you hiding, my friend?” inquired Conn, stepping forth from the shadows.

  Standing slowly, Rory took in the form of the Fenian warrior. Shock, elation, and fury swept through him as one emotion. This was not the Fae he remembered. No longer was Conn part of the Brotherhood as his gaze swept over the royal garments and silver bands on his upper arms—denoting his true heritage. One of the royal household. Traitor!

  Rory’s fists clenched, and he inclined his head. “Prince Conn.”

  Conn nodded.

  He leaned near him. “Did you barter for your freedom by taking your place as heir to the Fae kingdom?”

  Conn’s eyes flashed silver. “It was not my freedom I negotiated for. Now answer my question.”

  Rory sneered. “I will not answer to you. Leave.”

  “Listen to me—”

  Dark fury burst inside Rory. His friend had betrayed them all. Just like the events of the past. Must he suffer along with traitors—be it human or Fae? Did they not once stand together as brothers in a cause? “Never again!” he roared and leveled a blow against Conn. The Fae prince staggered, but quickly regained his footing.

  Intense pain radiated throughout Rory’s body as Conn directed a blast of power outward, sending him flying to the other side of the chamber. He slammed against the wall, dazed. Doing his best to shove the pain aside, Rory stood. Glaring at Conn, he watched as the Fae strode forward.

  Despair and darkness clouded his judgment. “Do not come any closer,” warned Rory.

  Conn waved his hand in the air, enclosing them both within a sphere of magic. “Answer. My. Question.”

  Rory’s jaw clenched so tight, he feared it would snap. “Nae!”

  Conn arched a brow. “What time period are you in?”

  Confused by the question, Rory glanced around. “This…realm.” Conn’s binding energy swirled tighter around them.

  “Talk to me, Rory,” Conn pleaded. “You cannot hold back any longer.”

  “There is naught to speak of.”

  “Shit! You speak in the old tongue,” argued Conn and took another step closer. “And you dream.”

  Icy tendrils of fear swept over Rory. How did he know? How was it possible? He tried to breathe, the chamber closing in all around him, and the stench of another past battle filled his nostrils. The images flashed in front of him, and he blinked, forcing them away. “I have nau…nothing to say,” he replied in a clipped tone.

  Conn leveled a finger at him. “You may lie to me, but you can no longer do so to yourself. It is evident in your demeanor and your eyes. If you continue on this path of destruction, you will fade into the shadows. I am here to assist you, not condemn you.”

  Rory frowned. Using all his strength, he willed the visions away and cleared his mind. His hands clenched and unclenched. Drawing in a shaky breath, he released it slowly. Meeting Conn’s intense gaze, he still did not intend to reveal his dark secret. He, Fenian Warrior, Rory MacGregor, was not some untrained warrior to b
e schooled by another, regardless if he was the Prince of the Fae.

  “My path is my own, if I’m allowed, along with my past,” stated Rory, crossing his arms over his chest. “Serve my punishment, or set me free.”

  Conn sneered. “Do you honestly believe I would set you free in your condition?” Fury showed in his eyes. “If you have no wish to share your dreams, then I have no choice than to order you into the Hall of Remembrance where we can all witness what you are hiding.”

  Rage mixed with fear took hold and Rory lashed out once again at Conn. This time, the prince did nothing to stop him, as he continued to slam his fists into the Fae. “I will never, ever step into that place,” he bellowed, the sound reverberating throughout the chamber. The walls shook and the torches’ flames snapped eerily.

  “Stop!” shouted Loran, raising his staff into the air.

  His wrath so great, the order barely registered within Rory’s mind. As other hands dared to touch him, he fought the intrusion, striking out with ferocity. Yet, he found himself weakening, and his voice going hoarse. The struggle to remain standing was too much, and he collapsed onto the ground.

  Instantly, crystal shackles were placed around his wrists. Sweat poured down his body, seeping into the earth. Bitterness clawed inside him as the land reached out in healing. He banished its soothing touch with a single thought.

  Voices from those around him, mocked him. He shook his head to rid their cries. Where was he? Was she here?

  “Rory MacGregor, Fenian Warrior to the Fae, my brother, I order you to speak what you have kept hidden from us. I order you to give your account—here in this place of silence. We—Taran, Ronan, and High Elder, Loran will guard your secret. This is not a choice any longer.”

  Weary and frustrated, Rory could no longer contain the emotions.

  Conn knelt in front of him. “I give you my word, I shall keep whatever you say between us. All record will be banished even from the Hall of Remembrance.

  Rory shuddered. She came to him unbidden as the maiden he knew from the first day they met, and as the ashen charred shell of her death. Pain tore into his heart, ripping apart what he had thought healed. Lifting his head, his eyes blazed with anger and sorrow, and one word tore free in a guttural cry.