Oath of the Brotherhood (22 page)

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.

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 figures 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.”

“And if it costs her own?” Calhoun asked. Ruarc averted his gaze. “That’s what I thought.”

“The decision is not Ruarc’s,” Aine said, sensing she was losing this battle. “It should be mine. If I’m willing to take the risk, and you believe it to be strategically sound, you cannot look at the situation as my brother. You are a king. You owe it to your people to protect them, whatever the personal cost.”

Calhoun stared at the charm, the pulse of a muscle in his jaw betraying his conflict. Finally, he said, “I’ll consider it.” When she began to protest, he held up a finger. “That’s all I’m willing to promise. Now I suggest you go think long and hard about what you’ve proposed.”

Aine rose and retrieved the charm from the table. “Thank you, Calhoun.”

He waved a hand. “Go. I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.”

Ruarc escorted her from the study. He remained silent the whole way back to Aine’s chamber.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked, her voice small in the echoing corridor.

Ruarc touched her shoulder. “No, I’m proud of you. Your mother would be as well.”

Aine reached out and quickly squeezed his hand, and she saw him smile before he left her at her chamber.

In the end, Calhoun relented. He didn’t look pleased with the idea, but it was an opportunity he could not pass up. He gave orders to prepare for a swift departure, and Aine tried not to dwell on her dangerous task as she collected the books, herbs, and implements she might need on the battlefield. Not until Ruarc met her at the door of her chamber with a leather breastplate did she fully comprehend the peril.

Seek My wisdom, accept My guidance. It is not for you to know what is to come. Only know I am with you, and there is no task for which My strength is not sufficient.

Aine let out her breath in a long, silent sigh.
Your will be done
.

She held up her arms for Ruarc to strap on the armor.

The group that had been chosen to accompany Aine to Lord Abban’s camp in northern Siomar seemed an unlikely one, even if they were all professional warriors and, as Calhoun assured her, the best of their kind. The group’s leader, Lorcan, compact and brawny with white-blond hair, possessed a careful, measured manner Aine found reassuring. The red-haired twins, Myles and Uilliam, spent most of their time arguing and insulting one another. Dark and lanky Sualtam remained silent, but his comportment
 
—a sense of violence barely reined in
 
—made her edgy.

Only two other members of their party were not warriors: Cúan and Aran, the mappers. Their job would be to scribe the wards as Aine found them, a task for which their knowledge of Seareann topography would be essential. They looked just as uncomfortable on horseback in their armor as Aine felt.

Lorcan set a swift pace from Lisdara with the ease of a natural horseman, and he seemed to sense when the horses needed rest or the riders grew tired. Even with frequent breaks to stretch and change to their remounts, Aine’s legs and back soon ached from the effort of balancing at a trot. They did not take the most direct route south, but rather avoided certain holdings while riding close to others. Some nights, they cold-camped in copses of trees or beneath hollows cut in the rolling hillsides, eschewing fires in case they drew the wrong sort of attention. When they neared the homes of Calhoun’s loyal lords, two of their warriors rode ahead with letters of introduction from the king and secured the households’ cooperation.

In many places, the holdings were no more than scraggly plots of farmland and thatch-roofed cottages where the lords and servants slept communally in their halls. The lords offered their hospitality with less and less enthusiasm as the group neared Siomar’s border. Ruarc often slept upright beside Aine, his sword across his lap, because he didn’t like the way the lord or his sons looked at her.