Oath of the Brotherhood

by C. E. Laureano

  “Eoghan surprised me. I didn’t think he would accept his commission.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He could have just taken an oath of brotherhood. By requesting an apprentice, he’s accepted the succession. If they vote in favor, he will be the next Ceannaire of Ard Dhaimhin. If they don’t, he’s free.”

  Conor felt sick. Last night, Eoghan hadn’t wanted to even take the oath, and today he had accepted the claim to the brotherhood’s leadership. “What does it mean for me?”

  “He will be responsible for your training, as Liam was for his. If he wishes, he can recommend you to be his successor.”

  Conor’s heart rose into his throat again, but Riordan wasn’t finished. “He will also put you forward for your oath of brotherhood. Under Eoghan’s tutelage, that’s likely to be sooner than later.”

  Conor gripped the side of the boat, glad Riordan was working the pulley, because the strength had gone out of his trembling limbs. Somehow, Eoghan had glimpsed the pattern just as Conor had. And once more, someone had made a very large sacrifice on his behalf.

  The oath-binding took place at Carraigmór two days after Eoghan’s trials. That morning, a brother presented Conor with a rough-spun linen robe and leather sandals. He bathed in the springhouse before pulling them on, then traversed the slippery steps up to Carraigmór.

  The guard let him in without comment. Torches and candles lit the cavernous hall, and a large, flat case lay before the Rune Throne. Riordan met him inside the door, similarly garbed.

  “Don’t be nervous. Stand in the back until you are called, and when Eoghan asks if you will undertake training as his apprentice, you say ‘aye.’ The rest is for him.”

  Conor nodded as the Conclave members filed in, dressed in the ceremonial robes. Master Liam and Eoghan followed, conversing quietly.

  Conor had expected some elaborate ritual, but Master Liam just lifted a hand, and the Conclave formed a line behind him. “Brother Eoghan, you are here today to offer your oath to the Fíréin of Ard Dhaimhin. You have already been instructed in the rights and responsibilities of this undertaking. Do you accept the offer that is extended to you?”

  Eoghan’s voice was clear but impassive. “Aye.”

  “Members of the Conclave, will you accept the oath of Brother Eoghan as admission to the brotherhood?”

  In unison, the nine men said, “Aye.”

  Master Liam raised his hand again, and Riordan retrieved the case on the step. He offered it across his open palms to the Ceannaire. Carefully, Master Liam lifted the lid and withdrew a plain, ancient sword.

  A surge of power hit Conor like a lightning bolt, humming along his skin and buzzing in his ears. It was the same magic that had created the ivory charm, the kind that emanated from Meallachán’s ancient harp. He steadied himself against the wall.

  Liam planted the sword point down into the stone floor. Eoghan knelt and placed his hand atop the pommel.

  “Brother Eoghan, do you swear loyalty to the Fíréin brotherhood of Ard Dhaimhin?” Liam asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Do you swear to uphold our laws and protect our traditions?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you forsake all other oaths and commitments to chief, clan, or kingdom, in favor of your oath to the Fíréin brotherhood?”

  Eoghan’s tone was wry. “Aye.”

  “Then rise, and be accepted as a member of the Fíréin brotherhood.”

  Eoghan rose and released the sword. Master Liam took it across both palms once more and laid it in the box. Conor caught his breath as the buzz died away. His heartbeat resumed its normal pace.

  Riordan passed the case to another brother and exchanged places with the leader. “Liam, Ceannaire of the Fíréin of Ard Dhaimhin, do you bring forth your apprentice, Brother Eoghan, for consideration as successor to your office?”

  “I do.” Liam’s voice echoed in the hall, clear and confident.

  “Brother Eoghan, the rights and responsibilities of this commitment have been explained to you. Do you willingly commit yourself to the future leadership of the Fíréin brotherhood and the sacrifices this entails?”

  Eoghan’s answer came more slowly than Liam’s. “Aye.”

  “As successor to Liam, Ceannaire of Ard Dhaimhin, you may claim the right to choose an apprentice, now or in the future. Do you wish to name an apprentice?”

  “Aye. I name Brother Conor.”

  “Brother Conor, come forward.”

  Conor moved toward his father on shaky legs. He caught a hint of a smile on Riordan’s face as Eoghan turned, but his friend looked appropriately solemn when he spoke.

  “By accepting the apprenticeship, you submit yourself to my authority in all matters but your membership within the brotherhood. So far as my requirements do not contradict those of the Fíréin brotherhood, nor the teachings of Comdiu as fulfilled in Lord Balus, do you undertake my training and guidance, willingly and without reservation?”

  “Aye.”

  Riordan addressed the assemblage then. “Brothers of the Conclave. Do you confirm the oaths of Brother Eoghan, successor to Liam, and Brother Conor, apprentice to Eoghan?”

  “We do,” they said in unison.

  Master Liam surveyed the gathering, his eyes settling on Conor. “Let it be so noted in the rolls of the Fíréin brotherhood.”

  When Conor returned to the céad’s clochan that evening, Eoghan’s few possessions were gone, ostensibly moved into the oath-bound brothers’ barracks. He wanted to ask Eoghan why he had changed his mind, and why he had staked his future at Ard Dhaimhin on Conor’s apprenticeship, but he didn’t appear at meals that day or the next.

  On the second morning, Eoghan caught Conor on the way back from devotions. “I asked Master Liam to excuse you from your afternoon duties four days a week. There’s no way we can accomplish what I intend if you’re constantly exhausted.”

  “Thank you,” Conor said, though he wasn’t yet sure it warranted gratitude. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “You’ll continue your regular drills for now. You’ll train with me four days a week, starting today. The other days, we’ll take what time we can find. Meet me at the docks after you finish with Cairbre.”

  Eoghan’s casual words piqued Conor’s curiosity. Why did they need to practice on the crannog? He stumbled through his morning drills, distracted, earning a few new bruises from spear practice and producing an unusually poor performance with the staff sling. When he finally arrived at the dock, he felt stretched thin by anticipation and anxiety.

  Eoghan stood beside the nearest boat, a canvas-wrapped bundle beneath one arm. He gestured for Conor to take the position at the prow and clambered in after him.

  Conor began the slow, difficult task of ferrying the boat across. Neither spoke for a time. Then Conor paused at the end of a long pull and turned to his friend. “Why?”

  Eoghan understood. “Your path is your own. I think you should have the chance to follow it.”

  “I know it couldn’t have been an easy decision,” Conor said. “Thank you.”

  Eoghan didn’t answer. When the boat’s hull bumped against the sandy shore, Conor jumped out into the shallow water and dragged it up the beach.

  Eoghan led him toward the yard where he had taken his trials only days before. “You said you would give anything to have my skill. Did you mean it?”

  It felt like a trick question. “Aye.”

  “Good. Because you have a lot of catching up to do, and it won’t be easy.” Eoghan unrolled the bundle with a flourish, revealing two sets of swords, one wood, the other unsharpened steel. He took the wooden practice weapons and tossed one to Conor. “We’ll start with these. They’re heavier. You’ll be glad for it later.”

  Conor caught the sword. Metal weights studded its length. It was lighter than he expected, but then again, he had just spent the last year doing little but cultivating, casting, and carrying.

  “You already have the skills to b
e a good swordsman. You read people. You think ahead—as you proved the last five times you beat me at King and Conqueror. And according to Nuallain, you can take down a man with a stone from a hundred yards, so I’m guessing you have pretty good coordination.” He grinned at Conor, who couldn’t help but smile back. This was the Eoghan he remembered. “You just need strength and technique. Those are the two easiest factors to cultivate.”

  “How?”

  “With repetition.” The wicked glint in Eoghan’s eye said he would be a far more exacting taskmaster than Lughaire could ever be.

  Eoghan did more than drill the movements into Conor by rote, though. He demonstrated each technique and then explained every aspect of it, from which muscles should be engaged in its proper execution to its uses and weaknesses. By the time twilight fell, Conor’s mind felt just as exhausted as his body.

  “You might actually make a swordsman out of me someday,” Conor said as they climbed back into the boat.

  “Or die trying.”

  Conor laughed and drew the boat back along the rope to the shore, his overtaxed arms and shoulders protesting furiously. By the time they’d finished, those wooden swords hadn’t felt so light.

  “Same time tomorrow,” Eoghan said when they parted. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

  That night, Conor dreamed not of Aine or even of war, but of thrusts and parries. For the first time, his ambitions did not seem so grandiose.

  The day following Conor’s first lesson with Eoghan, he vowed to make up for the previous morning’s distracted performance. He threw himself into his drills, garnering looks of approval from his instructors. His archery remained mediocre, but he was beginning to accept that as typical. By the time he crossed the lake with Eoghan, he was already mentally and physically spent.

  Eoghan drilled parries and counters until Conor’s arms and shoulders ached. Every movement had to be perfect, the angle of arm and hand just so, at least a hundred times before they could move on. Sloppy execution, whether from laziness or unresponsive muscles, earned another round of drills. Conor learned, as he had in the early days of his novitiate, to command obedience from his body even when it screamed for rest and to force his mind to accept pain and exhaustion without complaint. Unconsciously, the habit carried over into his other practices, and his work with the spear and bow leapt forward as well.

  Even afternoons on the lake or in the fields did not excuse him from drills with his new mentor. Some days, Eoghan met him on the path to the village with their weapons and some food so they could drill until evening devotions, eating in the time it took to cross the lake. Other times, they took torches to the practice yard where Conor had watched Eoghan unobserved and worked into the small hours of the night.

  If Eoghan was pleased with Conor’s progress, he never said so. He praised perfect execution when Conor managed it, and he never berated or belittled him when he repeated his mistakes. He merely said, “Again,” and launched into yet another lengthy sequence. The elation of grasping a difficult skill far outweighed any praise of Eoghan’s anyway, so Conor didn’t complain at the repetition, even when he practiced the same maneuver a thousand times in a row.

  Still, Eoghan’s training went beyond conscientiousness, and its urgency made Conor uneasy. It was as if they were racing against an unnamed deadline.

  You have a lot of catching up to do, Eoghan had said on that first day, as if time weren’t in abundance at Ard Dhaimhin. Perhaps Eoghan’s glimpse of the larger pattern had been more comprehensive than his own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Aine observed the changes at Lisdara from her chamber’s windows, anxiety nagging at her stomach. As soon as word of Sliebhan’s capitulation arrived, Calhoun had locked down the fortress, restricting visitors to those lords and chieftains whom he specifically summoned.

  Aine waited for Calhoun to announce he was sending them back to Dún Eavan, but instead he just forbade them from leaving the keep, even to walk in the courtyard. No one took the time to explain the situation to her and Niamh, but Aine could guess the reason. Fergus could never have taken Sliebhan’s capital and secured the oaths of Bodb’s clan chiefs with so little bloodshed if the Red Druid did not control someone on the inside. Calhoun would not let that happen to Lisdara.

  Grim-faced warriors came and went at all hours, bringing promises of men and arms from Faolán’s clan chiefs. Calhoun remained cloistered in his private chambers unless a full convocation of the council required the great hall, and though Aine wanted to ask him what plans they made, nothing short of another vision could gain her admission to the closed meetings.

  Then the news she dreaded came on the heels of two riders bearing the red-and-black banner of Siomar. When Ruarc arrived at her chamber, his dark expression warned her of what was coming.

  “Fergus engaged a small company of Siomaigh warriors near the Sliebhanaigh border. Both sides took heavy casualties, but Siomar lost more. Calhoun sent Lord Abban with several céads.”

  Aine’s heart sank, and Niamh asked shakily, “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’re at war,” Ruarc said. “Calhoun will not let the fighting move north into Faolán. If anyone can hold them back, it’s Abban’s men. They’re among Seare’s best warriors.”

  Aine said nothing. That reassurance made sense to fighting men, but even she knew skill and experience went only so far. The one thing she could do was pray.

  She began to spend her free time in the small stone chapel, praying or sitting silently while lengthening shadows marked the passing hours. Ruarc stood watch over her from the back of the sanctuary, and Treasach and Iuchbar occasionally joined her, but aside from the three men, she held her vigil alone.

  She missed Meallachán’s presence. The bard had left with Calhoun’s second contingent of men, but he didn’t disclose his destination. The absence of music somehow made Aine think of Conor even more, and she replayed his nightly serenades in her mind. Sometimes, when she hummed a bar from his compositions, the ivory charm warmed against her skin. Did Conor think of her still? Did he know the threat they faced here in the kingdoms?

  “Fergus is finding Siomar harder to conquer than expected,” a voice said in her ear.

  Aine nearly jumped off the chapel bench. She hadn’t heard Treasach enter. “You’ve learned something?”

  “He’s definitely using sorcery, even though no one has identified the druid.”

  “Then how do they know?”

  “The Siomaigh were in retreat across the Threewaters, and then like that”—Treasach snapped his fingers—“the Timhaigh stopped. Those that kept going dropped dead before they even reached the bank of the river. The rest were too afraid to try. Their captains couldn’t get them to cross, and the Siomaigh archers picked them off one by one.”

  Aine stared in disbelief. “How is that possible?”

  “Magic.”

  “You mean Balian magic.”

  Treasach nodded. “Wards used to cover the whole island, but I had no idea so many remained. Whatever sorcery Fergus is using can’t abide their power. Being able to sense the wards would be a mighty big advantage for our side.”

  “Aye, I imagine it would.” Aine’s heart suddenly beat too hard in her chest, and her head felt as if it was underwater. Did Treasach know something of her abilities? Or was this all just happenstance?

  No. Not happenstance. A gift. Perhaps even clear direction from Comdiu.

  “I don’t like that look,” Ruarc said when Treasach left. He stood before Aine, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “Calhoun will never send you to the front.”

  “Even if it means we can hold off Fergus indefinitely?” A feverish certainty gripped her. “Ruarc, you are a warrior. You know how important choosing the battlefield is. If we knew where the wards were, we’d have the upper hand.” Aine stood, determined to march into Calhoun’s chamber with her idea as soon as she could request an audience, but Ruarc’s iron grip held her back.

  “Until someone figur
es out who’s identifying the wards. How long do you think it would be until Fergus and his druid sent assassins after you?”

  “I’ll have you to protect me,” she said, but he scowled. “Ruarc, war is ugly, and men die needlessly. How could I not try to stop it if I could?”

  “You don’t even know you can!”

  Aine recalled the tingling sensation of the wards in the forest, how the charm seemed to warm at her breast at the merest thread of magic. “I can.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “I trust you to use your talents. You must trust me to use mine.”

  “No,” Calhoun said flatly.

  Aine gaped at him. It was not the reaction she had expected when she forced her way into his private study. “Why not?”

  “For one, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  Calhoun frowned. “Because you’re not a warrior.”

  “I’m not asking you to give me a sword and send me into battle. Just let me go to Siomar and scout the area, see what I sense!”

  “What do you propose? Ride back and forth and hope you stumble over a ward? Not only is it dangerous, it’s completely impractical. No. I won’t do it.”

  Aine bit her lip. This was not going at all the way she envisioned it, and Ruarc had the nerve to look pleased. Lord, if You want me to do this, You’re going to have to make a way.

  An idea came to her. She pulled the ivory charm on its silver chain over her head and placed it on the table between them. “I have this.”

  Calhoun looked unimpressed. “A wheel charm?”

  Aine flipped it over to reveal the carved runes. “An ancient wheel charm, made with the same magic used in the wards.”

  “Where did you get that?” Calhoun nudged it gingerly with his finger.

  “Conor gave it to me. He didn’t tell me where he got it.”

  Calhoun looked to Ruarc. “What say you?”

  “Personally, I hate the idea. But if she’s right, think of the lives it could save.”