He knew no more about love and women than Eoghan.
Unfortunately, that brought up another issue he didn’t want to think about. As they made their way from Carraigmór to the cookhouse, where the second wave of men was queuing for the morning meal, he realized he might have no choice. Just like yesterday, more men greeted Aine than Conor. It seemed his wife had inspired devotion in more than one brother. Once he and Aine took their bowls of porridge, he steered her away from the crowd to a more secluded spot beneath a cluster of trees.
She nudged him playfully. “Afraid to share me?”
“Something like that.”
Aine reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I love you and you alone. Don’t forget that.”
“Am I interrupting something?”
Conor glanced up to find Eoghan standing over them, arms crossed over his chest. He couldn’t keep the scowl from returning. “Aye.”
“Of course not,” Aine said, smiling. “Join us. We were just going to come looking for you.”
“We were?”
“You were.” She nudged Conor again, and he sighed.
“That gift of hers is a little disconcerting, isn’t it?” Eoghan said as he lowered himself down beside them.
“I try to ignore it, but sometimes you menfolk think so loud it’s like you’re shouting.”
Eoghan grinned. Conor tensed, but he continued to spoon porridge into his mouth. No matter what Aine claimed, it was obvious she and Eoghan had formed a rapport. And why not? Eoghan had been sent to help her, while Conor was paying the price for his disobedience.
Aine didn’t seem to notice, though. Either she wasn’t paying attention to his thoughts or she couldn’t read them all the time. He wished he knew for sure.
“Conor is going to try to rebuild the wards,” she told Eoghan. “We’ll need to summon the Conclave. Will you help?”
Eoghan looked intrigued. “Of course. I’ll wait for you in the hall.”
Conor said nothing as the brother left, and Aine turned back to her breakfast. When they were both finished, she took his bowl and stacked it in her own. Her hand lingered on his wrist.
“Eoghan and I are just friends,” she said. “I am yours, heart, body, and soul. You have nothing to fear from him or any other man.”
“I don’t doubt you,” he said. And he didn’t.
But that short discussion had changed something between them that even two months apart had not, and he had no idea how to fix it.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“What if it doesn’t work?” Conor paused outside the great hall, where Riordan, Eoghan, and the rest of the Conclave waited, expecting to witness the rebuilding of Ard Dhaimhin’s wards. He’d said he was sure he could rebuild them without Meallachán’s harp after what he had done in Cwmmaen’s hall, but it was all just supposition. What if he started to play and the only thing that happened was a little music? Why hadn’t he tried this in private first?
“It will work.” Aine stretched up to kiss him lightly and squeezed his arms in encouragement.
He nodded, buoyed by her belief in him. Whatever had happened earlier that day, the love shining in her eyes was real, as was her conviction that Comdiu had brought him here for this purpose. He actually believed it might be possible.
In a few moments, they would find out.
The harp sat beside a chair in the center of the room, innocuous, unremarkable. If he understood his gift, the actual harp should be immaterial. When he was finished, would it hum with power like Meallachán’s? Or would it go back to being just a simple instrument of polished maple, never hinting at the role it played in the protection of their city?
Conor strode into the room, making his expression confident, but he needn’t have bothered. The anticipation and anxiety in the room was palpable. The moment demanded he make some sort of announcement, a grand gesture, but he didn’t trust his voice. Instead, he sat in the chair and lifted the harp into his lap.
Aine took up a position across from him and offered him an encouraging smile. He took a breath, put his fingers to the strings, and began to play.
Unintentionally, the notes took on the form of an old song, the one he had composed for Aine years ago at Lisdara, before he left her for the first time. And then the music began to change. He lost sight of the individual notes, the melody. In his mind’s eye, he saw the music as a golden light, emanating from the harp and spreading out over the fortress.
He stretched himself further and it curved into a shining dome, encompassing the city, the forests, all the land the Fíréin had laid claim to, all the land they depended on for their sustenance. When it had expanded as far as he could see in his mind’s eye, he let it fall in a shimmering curtain to the ground. It was not the web of interconnecting wards that had originally protected the city and given warning to the sentries but a shield—a shield of song and magic and will, a barrier to those who meant to harm the new city that had emerged from the druid’s attack.
Satisfaction swelled in him as the last notes faded. He had done it. Conor opened his eyes and scanned the room.
“Is it done?” Riordan asked.
Conor looked to Aine. Her expression cracked his confidence and sent his heart plummeting. “Tell me.”
“It worked for a moment. The shield went up. But it dissipated the minute you stopped playing.”
Silence fell around the room, their hope dying with her words.
“So we do need the harp,” Eoghan said. “To make it permanent.”
Riordan looked to Conor. “And the harp is destroyed. What do we do now?”
“I don’t know.” Failure washed over him, heavier than before. “If Gillian still lived, he might know a way. I thought it would work.”
Where had he gone wrong? Had he not concentrated hard enough? Why had he not been able to will the outcome? He had been so sure—confident, cocky even—that he’d be able to rebuild the wards with nothing more than his gifts. Wasn’t that the purpose of his experience at Cwmmaen? To show him how he was meant to save Seare? To convince him he was needed back home?
Since when does Comdiu need you to save anyone or anything?
The chastisement cut through the jumble of his thoughts, illuminating the sheer arrogance of his assumptions. He’d assumed that his rescue from captivity had been for his benefit, the storm punishment for his disobedience, but maybe all of it had been to free Talfryn and his family from the grip of the sidhe. But if that were true, why show Conor the extent of his gifts?
Unless it wasn’t the extent of his gifts he was supposed to learn but rather the nature of them, their limitations.
His face burned as he realized the depth of his egotism. He’d actually believed Comdiu had given him the power to will the outcome of events, that He would hand over that sort of power to someone who hadn’t even been faithful with what he’d been gifted—someone who had failed his vows to his wife, had been deceived by evil . . .
Conor jerked his head up. The nature of his gifts. Hadn’t he just said to Aine that his gift was related to the control of magic? It made sense. Everything he’d done had been beneath the influence of Briallu’s glamour, including his archery session with Ial. He’d never actually been manipulating reality; he’d been manipulating the sidhe’s magic.
I’m sorry, Comdiu. I’ve been foolish. Prideful. Disobedient. Even when I thought I was doing Your work, I only had an eye to my own glory. Please don’t let Seare suffer because I was unfaithful. Show me. Tell me what to do.
He silently poured out his contrition, only vaguely aware of the conversation flowing around him, until that familiar tug cut through his thoughts. He gripped the chair as dizziness swept through him.
“Conor? What’s wrong?” Aine was by his side in an instant, a hand on his arm, a concerned look on her face.
“I don’t know. Just an . . . odd feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“Ever since I was in Gwydden, I’ve felt a pull to Carraigmór. At firs
t I thought it was just Comdiu nudging me back to Seare, but it got stronger the closer I got to Ard Dhaimhin. I assumed that when I rebuilt the wards, it would go away.” He winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s rather uncomfortable.”
He noticed that the hall had fallen silent again and all the Conclave members were looking at him. “What?”
Riordan and Eoghan exchanged a glance.
“What is it?” Conor asked.
Eoghan shook his head. “Couldn’t be.”
“Give him a chance,” Riordan said. “It would explain a great deal about what’s happened here.”
Conor glanced at Aine. “Do you know what this is about?”
“I do now. But I shouldn’t tell you. I don’t want to interfere with how this is unfolding.”
Frustration welled up within him again at being the only one in the room who didn’t know what was going on. “Lead the way, then, since you all have this figured out.”
Aine took his hand, undoubtedly meaning to calm him, but he barely managed not to shake it off. He’d been back a day, and already he felt as if everyone around him knew his business better than he did. He turned down the corridor that led to the Ceannaire’s study, making a quick turn into an intersecting corridor before they reached the stairs.
He moved forward, drawn by feel more than sight. It was here, the place, the object, whatever it was that called him so strongly. Riordan and Eoghan slowed, looking around them, talking in low tones, but he couldn’t make out the words. He trailed a finger over the stone as he walked and then stopped abruptly.
“Here. Don’t you see the door?” It was set seamlessly into the stone wall, almost unnoticeable even though it was wood instead of stone. He traced his finger along the joint of where the two materials met, unable to keep his eye on both at the same time. How was that possible?
“An enchantment,” Aine murmured. “Old magic.”
He shot her a curious glance, and when he looked back to the door, he blinked. The stone wall shimmered in front of him. “Remarkable. How do we get in?”
“There’s a password,” Eoghan said. “I’ve heard it, but I can’t remember it. It should have passed to me as Liam’s successor, but . . .”
A password. That tickle in the back of his mind grew. He opened his mouth and unfamiliar syllables floated out.
The door opened with a soft whoosh. Conor exchanged startled looks with the others, then pushed it open.
Beyond the doorway was a cramped passage, lit by an otherworldly glow. He hesitated before plunging into the narrow space.
He was dimly aware of the others following. This place had a hush, as if it were cut off from the rest of Ard Dhaimhin. Perhaps it was. A sense of magic, not the light touch of the wards but something deeper and more rooted, passed over him. He stumbled.
“I feel it too,” Aine whispered behind him.
At least it wasn’t just his imagination. He continued downward until the corridor ended in the stone wall and then doubled back on itself at an angle. Ancient defenses, like the passageways into Ciraen cities, ambush spots. Something about this room was important enough to defend with both cunning and magic.
Feeling as if he were breaching some sort of inner sanctum, Conor stepped through the entrance.
A surge of power nearly brought him to his knees. Aine rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.”
He turned in a circle, taking in the cubbyholes, all the parchments and scrolls that filled them. “What are all these?”
“Prophecies,” Eoghan said. “Writings that have been collected from all over the world since Daimhin’s time. Even Liam knew only a fraction of what is contained here.”
“Was this room what called you?” Riordan asked.
“No.” Conor walked slowly around the chamber, letting his senses guide him, even though he saw nothing to distinguish any spot from another. Then he paused. A drawer, barely perceptible among the shelves. He grasped the ring and pulled.
A familiar case lay inside it.
“The sword.” The sword that had called to him so strongly during the oath binding ceremonies, the blade upon which the clan chiefs of Seare had sworn their allegiance to King Daimhin. He removed the case and carried it to the table in the middle of the room.
There could have been discussion in the background, but Conor heard nothing. The thrum of power, so much like the magic in Meallachán’s harp, vibrated through him, aligning itself with the beat of his heart. He flipped the latch, bracing himself for a blast of power.
But it did not come. Instead, the magic faded to a mere whisper, the ripple of water over rocks in a stream. The etchings on the blade glowed in the dim light.
He closed his hand around the grip and lifted it before him, not on his palms as he would handle a ceremonial blade but as a weapon. A surge of electricity traveled up his arm and nearly took his breath away.
Then the whispers began. Echoes at first, then stronger, the sounds of men’s voices vowing their allegiance to the brotherhood, to the High King. An idea began to take shape in his mind. He looked to Aine and saw the same wonder reflected in her eyes.
A smile stretched her lips. “Aye.”
He replaced the sword in the case, and the voices faded, the hum of power dwindling to nothing. He closed the box and flipped the latch shut.
“This is what the druid wanted. And now I know why.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Conor.”
He stopped pacing the Hall of Prophecies and dropped his hands from where they’d been locked behind his head. “You saw it as clearly as I did. This is why I was called back. This is why the succession of Fíréin leadership passed to me and not to Eoghan.”
The sword could solve so much. They needed men. Warriors, soldiers, whatever he wanted to call them. Men who would be willing to fight to retake their country, now scattered across Seare. Thanks to the sword, he knew who they were, knew he could call them back. But how?
“Aye, we need men,” Aine said softly. It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t voiced his thoughts aloud. “But we can’t call them back until we reinstate the wards. Right now they’re safe because they’re scattered. The druid doesn’t know who they are. But what’s to keep him from just destroying the city, with all our men inside?”
“His plan must be bigger than that.” But Conor couldn’t discount her words. Without the wards, they were at the druid’s mercy. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “So we’re back to where we were before.”
“Maybe there’s something in these records that could tell us about the wards or the harp,” Aine mused, wandering along the shelves.
“There are thousands of pieces of writing here. The right one would practically have to jump into your hands.”
They met each other’s eye as a thought occurred to them simultaneously. Aine put voice to it. “The timing of it . . . you felt the sword call to you right after you failed to rebuild the wards.”
He winced at her word choice, but she was right. So what were they missing?
He went to the case on the table and opened it. Once more the thrum of magic vibrated through him, so different from the magic of the wards and yet similar to Meallachán’s harp.
“That’s it,” Conor murmured. He lifted the sword from the case, this time holding it flat across his palms. Its etchings glistened in the soft light.
No, not etchings—runes.
Excitement gripped him. He peered closer at the blade. Most of the symbols he didn’t recognize. He’d interpreted them originally as Odlum, but they were different somehow. Then his eyes focused on a familiar symbol: a three-spoked wheel, like the charm Aine wore around her neck—and the symbol carved into the tuning pin of Meallachán’s harp.
Conor’s pulse suddenly throbbed through his entire body. He could barely choke words from his tight throat. “We need Eoghan.”
Ten minutes later, Conor,
Eoghan, and Aine gathered in the Ceannaire’s office above with the sword, the harp, and the pouch of tuning pins. Conor flipped open the sword’s case as Eoghan laid out the eight pins he had salvaged from the ruins of Cill Rhí. Aine placed her charm on the table between them, its carved symbols facing up.
“They’re runes,” Eoghan said in surprise.
“Aye.” Not all of the runes on the pins were present on the sword or vice versa, but several—the wheel, something that looked like an arrow, and a strange crosshatch—were. Conor reached for the nearest pin and held it in his hand, expecting to feel some indication of magic, but he felt nothing.
“I don’t understand,” Conor murmured. “I was sure this was the source of the sword’s power.”
“Maybe it is,” Aine said. “The runes are a language, right? You can’t just put random words together and expect them to mean something.”
“So they only work together,” Eoghan said. “Which means you need to put them in the harp. We already know these mean something or they wouldn’t have been on Meallachán’s instrument.”
“But we have less than a third of the pins. How do we know we have the ones we need?”
They frowned as they looked over the items, all objects of power, all mysterious.
“The three have this one in common.” Aine pointed to the rune that looked like a wheel charm.
Eoghan lifted it and considered. “The name of Comdiu, the three parts of our God.”
Conor glanced at Eoghan, startled, and nodded. It made sense. He unscrewed the first tuning pin and replaced it with the rune pin, then tuned the string until it sounded true.
He plucked it one last time, and a deep vibration hummed inside him. His eyes widened. “What’s next?”
Aine scanned the runes. “This one is common among all three as well.”
Eoghan picked it up. “Protection. Actually, it’s the rune for sword, but it means the same thing.”
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