Oath of the Brotherhood Read online

  “Even I don’t know that,” Labhrás said. “We were practically brothers, raised together in fosterage, but he always kept his own council. He was very specific, though. You were to be raised in our faith, and you were to be given an extensive education.” Labhrás placed his hand on Conor’s shoulder. “You see now why Galbraith would not want such a thing revealed. Should the Balians’ involvement in his choices become common knowledge, the council might dethrone him.”

  No wonder his father was furious. Conor’s scholarly pursuits and lack of fighting skill drew far too much attention to a fosterage that should never have been arranged. Yet he still couldn’t fathom why Riordan would have gone to so much trouble for him.

  Labhrás stood. “I’ve given you enough to think about for one day. But first . . .” He dipped a hand into the neck of his tunic and drew out a pendant on a long silver chain, then draped it carefully over Conor’s head. “This has been with me for long enough. It’s yours now.”

  Conor lifted the heavy pendant in his palm, his blood whooshing too fast through his veins. It was a wheel charm, a ring of ivory with three carved spokes representing the tripartite nature of Comdiu, a clear symbol of the Balian faith.

  “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “It’s a relic of the Great Kingdom, one of the few remaining objects of power. Keep it close, and keep it hidden. It will help.”

  “Help what?”

  “No more questions. Some things are better left unspoken.” Labhrás placed a light hand atop Conor’s head and then left the room.

  Conor turned the charm over and studied the runes inscribed there, but his knowledge of Odlum was too rudimentary to be of any help in deciphering their meaning. He briefly considered stowing it in one of his trunks. But Labhrás did nothing idly. If he’d given Conor the charm, he’d thought he needed the protection. Conor dropped it beneath his tunic before he could examine too closely the dangers from which he was being protected.

  Dolan entered and shut the door firmly behind him. “Let’s see it then.”

  It took Conor several moments to work up the courage to draw out the charm again. “Lord Labhrás said it was an object of power.”

  Dolan peered at it, but he made no move to touch it. “Labhrás has worn it for years. I’ve always suspected Riordan meant it for you when the time was right.”

  “What do you know about all this?”

  “I’ve served Labhrás since we were both children,” Dolan said. “He’s told me what I need to know to keep you safe, nothing else.”

  “And this?” Conor held up the charm. “This really has . . . magic?”

  Dolan just smiled.

  Conor rubbed his eyes wearily. Too much had happened in the last day to process. His dishonor before the court, the story of the kingship, the druid’s presence . . . and now he wore an object, which by all accounts was imbued by some long-forgotten Balian magic. The beginnings of a headache pulsed in his temples.

  “I have to think,” he muttered, rising. “I’ll be back in time for supper.”

  Dolan’s brows knit together, but he didn’t try to dissuade him. Conor concealed the charm and headed straight out his door. Since he barely remembered the layout of the keep, he picked a route at random and began to walk.

  Iron-bound doors dotted the stone hallway, but Conor didn’t try any of the handles. When he reached an intersection, he turned left down another corridor, this one decorated with moth-eaten, smoke-stained tapestries. This was part of the structure guests would never see. He trailed his fingers along the rough-hewn stone as he walked. The torch beside him guttered in an unseen breeze, yet the interior hallway had no doors or windows. He stopped as a shard of memory surfaced. Perhaps his direction had not been random after all.

  Slowly, Conor pushed aside one of the tapestries to reveal a narrow wooden door. His hand trembled on the latch. Coward. He drew a long breath and pushed the door inward on well-oiled hinges. Hidden, perhaps, but not forgotten.

  Conor stepped into blackness, the tapestry swinging back to block the torchlight. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the dim shapes of a chair and some sort of cabinet. He stretched out his arms, and his fingers brushed stone on either side.

  How could he have known this was here, but not remember the room itself?

  A memory jolted him abruptly: his younger self, crouched in the corner while Galbraith shouted and a woman sobbed in the distance. His mother. He could almost hear the shouting now . . .

  But no, that wasn’t part of the memory. He really could hear voices. He held his breath, straining his ears for the source of the sound until he could distinguish individual words.

  “—the coast of Gwydden. Some say they’re making a permanent settlement.”

  “Sofarende don’t settle. They pillage and burn and go back to their islands.”

  “Not this time. If they establish a permanent base—”

  “Enough.” Though Conor had not recognized the other voices, there was no mistaking the king’s authoritative baritone. “The Sofarende are a real threat, whether they settle or not. Eventually, they’ll look for richer targets, and Tigh is the first in sight.”

  Conor realized he was hearing a private meeting of the king’s council, filtered up from the chamber below. He should leave immediately—he couldn’t be the only one who knew of this room—but he couldn’t pull himself away from the conversation.

  “We can handle an invasion,” Fergus said scornfully. “Why run to Faolán for help?”

  “Because they will share the casualties. And whether you admit it or not, they command more skilled warriors in the northern territories than we have in all of Tigh. It’s time to make our peace with the Mac Cuillinn.”

  Silence fell. Conor barely breathed.

  “You know I must object to this plan, my lord,” Labhrás said after a long pause. “Sending Conor to Faolán—”

  “You have only yourself to blame,” Galbraith said scornfully. “If you’d raised the boy in a manner befitting his station, I would never have considered such a thing. At least now Conor can be of some use to Tigh.”

  Blood drummed in Conor’s ears. He didn’t want to hear any more. He stumbled over the chair in his haste to get to the door and pushed into the corridor without considering who might be on the other side of the tapestry.

  The hallway was still deserted, though, so he took a moment to catch his breath. He should never have stayed once he realized the room’s purpose. How had he found it the first time? And who else knew of its existence?

  Conor steadied himself with a hand against the wall while his other one reached automatically for the charm beneath his shirt. The ivory emanated a subtle but unmistakable warmth through the linen.

  Only then did he realize that for the first time since returning to Glenmallaig, his mind felt completely clear.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence his buried memories had led him here right after he put on the charm. Was that what Labhrás meant when he said it would help? Did that mean his memory loss was due to another, darker sort of magic? If Diarmuid truly was a Red Druid, such a spell wouldn’t be beyond his ability. But if that were true, what was he trying to make him forget?

  Conor had to work out the details before anyone learned of his suspicions. At least it sounded as if he wouldn’t have to conceal them for long.

  The king was sending him to Faolán.

  As a hostage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Conor paced the confines of his chamber for the next two days while he waited to hear his fate firsthand. The books he brought from Balurnan held his attention for only so long, and he was too distracted to put up much of a defense in his games of King and Conqueror with Dolan. When the servant put Conor’s king into check for the second time, he simply tipped the marble game piece in surrender and pushed away from the game board.

  “The silence is maddening,” Conor said. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Pacing the dim, smoky hallway
did nothing to relieve the smothering sense of stillness. Labhrás’s country manor was smaller and more humble than this colossal keep, but it had been alive with warmth and laughter. Right now, smells of the evening’s supper would be drifting across the courtyard from the kitchen, signaling the coming night. The household warriors would eat with them in the hall before a cheery fire, while Labhrás’s three daughters took turns telling tales culled from educations no less thorough than Conor’s.

  His chest ached at the recollection. His family was in Balurnan, regardless of the clan name he bore. He couldn’t imagine King Galbraith calling for him in the evenings as Labhrás had, to mull over the day’s events to the sound of the harp. The instrument had been in the Maonagh clan for generations, but they called it Conor’s harp since he was the only one who could coax a melody from its aged rosewood frame. He would give anything to be back there now, his hands on the strings, instead of sitting in this oppressive keep, waiting for someone else to decide his fate.

  “The harp!” Conor’s feet carried him halfway down the corridor before he fully registered his intentions. He passed the secret chamber behind the tapestry, turned a corner, and stopped before a door that looked like every other entryway in the palace.

  The latch gave easily, and the door opened into a large, dark room. Conor removed one of the thick candles from the iron stand inside and lit it from the torch in the hallway, then touched the flame to the other wax columns. They flared to life, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow.

  Layers of dust and cobwebs covered the tapestries and darkened the colorful rug on the stone floor. Conor swept aside one of the cloths that covered the furniture and found a high-backed chair beneath it. When he lifted the flower-embellished cushion, he was rewarded with a memory of his mother, young and auburn-haired, painstakingly embroidering it by firelight.

  “My mother’s sitting room.” How long had it been since he had set foot in this chamber? He’d last visited Glenmallaig three years ago, the same trip during which she’d had her accident, but those memories were as inaccessible as the others.

  He wandered past the covered chairs and tables and stopped short before an object in the corner. Beneath the covering lay a beautiful Seareann lap harp, far finer than his instrument at Balurnan, its maple soundboard elaborately carved with mythological creatures. He touched a string, and it sprang back with a metallic hum, bringing with it a shard of memory.

  He sat at his mother’s feet as she held the harp in her lap. Her fingers moved nimbly up and down the strings, demonstrating the major scales and chords, which she named as she plucked them. Conor reached out to touch the instrument.

  “Would you like to try?” she asked, smiling down at him.

  Conor sucked in a ragged breath. His mother had played the harp? How could he have forgotten that? He tried to hold on to the image, but he could have sooner captured smoke in his hands. Tears threatened to pool in his eyes.

  Instead, he settled into the chair with the instrument. He plucked each string and made minute adjustments to the pins until every note rang true. When he played an arpeggio, a shiver of anticipation rippled across his skin.

  Conor began with Labhrás’s favorite song, a ballad about a man who returned from war to find his family had moved on without him. That turned into a cheerier tune Labhrás’s wife favored. One by one, he played through each of his foster family’s most requested songs: a mournful ballad for Morrigan, the eldest daughter; a lively reel for Etaoin, the middle child; and finally a silly jig that had something to do with a dog disguised as a bard. He smiled as he imagined eight-year-old Liadan singing along in her off-key soprano.

  Then the song shifted into a melody Conor couldn’t remember hearing, let alone playing. Music poured from the instrument, filling the room and reverberating through his bones while he lost himself within the notes of the song.

  The door burst open with a bang. Conor’s fingers slid from the strings with a discordant twang as Labhrás shut the door behind him and snuffed out the candle flames with his fingertips. “Not a sound.”

  Gooseflesh prickled Conor’s arms, and his heart thudded in his ears. He lost track of how long he sat there in the dark, gripping the harp. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and slid down his face.

  Just when Conor had reached the limits of his patience, Labhrás broke the silence. “You mustn’t play here. You reveal too much. Come, quickly now; the king’s summoned you.”

  Conor carefully set down the harp and rose, his gut twisting at the urgency in his foster father’s voice. He followed Labhrás out the door and down the stairs to Galbraith’s private chamber, the same chamber above which he’d eavesdropped just two days ago.

  Inside the study, the king sat behind a large table, flanked by Fergus and Diarmuid. He gestured for Conor to approach.

  “I’m sending you to Faolán. You’re to leave with Lord Riocárd in five days.”

  Conor’s knees almost gave way, even though he had been expecting this very announcement. “Faolán. For how long?”

  “Until you’re of age, at least. We’ve signed a treaty with King Calhoun. You’re to be his hostage to ensure our good faith.”

  “I see. Is that all, my lord?”

  Galbraith raised a hand in dismissal. Conor turned on his heel, and Labhrás opened the door for him.

  “One more thing.” The king’s voice hardened. “Was that you earlier? The music?”

  Conor’s heart rose into his throat, but he composed his expression before turning back to the king. “I’ve been studying in my chamber most of the afternoon.”

  Galbraith gazed at him, his brow furrowed while he gauged his truthfulness. Then he waved him off.

  As Conor turned back to the door, Diarmuid reached out and gripped the back of the king’s chair. Only then did Conor notice the fine sheen of sweat on the druid’s forehead.

  “That was very unwise of you.”

  Conor frowned at Dolan. He had expected the servant to reassure him about his upcoming journey to Faolán, not berate him for something he hadn’t realized was prohibited. “I still don’t understand why I can’t play.”

  “After your mother died, the king decreed there was to be no music in the palace. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.”

  Conor remembered little—a fact of which Dolan was trying to take advantage—but even he knew his parents’ marriage had been a political alliance, not a love match. He had seen how unwell the druid appeared. No, he was willing to bet the druid had forbidden music, not the king.

  He could voice none of those thoughts, however, so he put on a humble expression. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  Dolan looked unconvinced, but he nodded. “We’re going to Faolán then. I think you’ll find some differences in the hall of a Balian king.”

  “Was this part of Riordan’s plan?”

  “I don’t see how it could be. That decision was made years ago, and this was only decided in the last few days.”

  Conor nodded, but things were falling into line far too neatly to be coincidence.

  They are not coincidence. Not everything is decided by the plans of men.

  Conor shivered. He rarely heard Comdiu speak so plainly. Even though he had been raised in the Balian faith, even though he knew Balus was Comdiu incarnate, he still had a difficult time believing his God intervened so directly in the lives of believers.

  “In any case,” Dolan continued, “Lisdara will be a cheerier place to live than Glenmallaig, hostage or not.”

  Hostage. That word brought him back to reality. He was not merely a guest, nor was this a long-term alliance through marriage. Galbraith had need of Faolán’s warriors, and his son’s life was simply surety. Conor had been disowned and dishonored, removed from any hope of leadership. He was a sacrificial pawn. When he was no longer of any use to Tigh, his life would depend solely on his value to Calhoun Mac Cuillinn, a fierce warrior of great repute.

  Suddenly, Conor’s future—
and his safety—looked far less certain.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A tailor accompanied Dolan to Conor’s chamber the next morning. Despite Galbraith’s contempt for his son, it seemed he would not let him leave for Lisdara unprovisioned. It would reflect poorly on the king should Conor arrive with only one chest of plain clothing better suited to a minor landholder than a king’s son.

  The tailor took his measurements with his fleshy lips pursed in dissatisfaction. Conor endured the perusal in silence. His scrawny frame would not do justice to the fine clothing, so he left the selection of fabrics and trims to Dolan’s judgment. He wouldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t merely to avoid his father’s displeasure.

  You’ve pretended to be something you’re not for years. It’s the clothing that bothers you?

  Conor shifted uneasily, earning a glare from the tailor. The piercing comments came more frequently now, and Conor couldn’t say he was entirely comfortable with them. He voiced his disquiet to Labhrás, expecting his foster father to discount the episodes as imagination.

  But Labhrás only nodded. “Until now, you’ve looked to me for direction, but you are practically a grown man. It’s time you let Comdiu guide your decisions.”

  “So you don’t think I’m imagining things?”

  “Not at all.” Labhrás placed both hands on Conor’s shoulders. “Just remember, it’s your choice what to believe and how much to reveal.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Conor’s throat tightened around the words. Until now, he hadn’t understood all Labhrás had done for him. Though they shared no blood, Labhrás was his father.

  “I’m proud of you, son. You will bring honor to Tigh.” The older man squeezed Conor’s shoulders. Then he changed his mind and pressed him into a strong embrace. “Look to Comdiu, and you won’t go wrong.”

  Labhrás released him and moved to the door. Then he turned back, his expression sober. “If you ever need anything, and I’m not . . . available . . . remember I’m not the only one looking out for you. You’ll always have a place with kin if you want it.” He sent him a sad smile, then slipped out the door.