Oath of the Brotherhood Page 5

  Beside a man who strongly resembled Calhoun—presumably the king’s younger brother and tanist, Gainor—sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Pale red-gold hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders, and even from this distance, Conor could tell her eyes were the luminous gray of quicksilver. His heart took up residence in his throat. It could be none other than Lady Niamh, Calhoun’s twenty-year-old sister, “the jewel in Lisdara’s crown.” For once, the lavish descriptions had not been exaggerated.

  A moment later, the page handed him off to yet another servant, who led him to his chair. His pulse quickened when he realized he was to be seated beside her, but she did not even acknowledge his presence. Fortunately, Calhoun and Riocárd chose that moment to make their entrance. The assembled guests rose to their feet in one motion, the women applauding and the men pounding their fists on the tables. Calhoun grinned broadly as he passed through the cacophony, pausing every few steps to converse with his lords. Riocárd held himself confidently, but he knew his part, and he hung back in deference to the king.

  Calhoun took his place on the dais and held up his hands. The noise ceased, and the guests took their seats amidst a rustle of silk and linen, anticipation written in their expressions.

  “My lords and ladies of Faolán, it has been a generation since we have had the pleasure of hosting our Timhaigh brethren. I consider it the greatest honor to present Lord Riocárd of Tirnall, champion to the king of Tigh.”

  The room erupted into applause, and fists pounded on wooden tables again, as if Calhoun had announced the king himself. Riocárd stood and gave a slight bow. When the noise died down, Calhoun continued, “I also would like to welcome King Galbraith’s son, Conor, whom I will have the pleasure of hosting here at Lisdara for the next several years.”

  The response was only slightly less enthusiastic for this announcement. Conor flushed and threw a grateful look toward Calhoun for his generous welcome, not daring to look at Niamh for her reaction.

  Servants appeared at every entrance to the hallway, bearing spectacular platters of fried fish, roast pheasant, and candied vegetables. A goblet appeared at Conor’s elbow. He took it and sipped the heavily spiced wine while other servants began to dish out choice morsels.

  The man to Niamh’s right leaned back with a friendly smile and held out his hand. “I’m Gainor, Calhoun’s brother. Welcome to Lisdara.”

  Conor smiled in return and clasped Gainor’s forearm. “Thank you, Lord Gainor. I’m certain I’ll like Lisdara, if this welcome is any indication.”

  “Calhoun knows how to throw a feast. As you’ve no doubt guessed, this charming creature beside you is our sister, Niamh.”

  Conor bowed his head, afraid to look her in the face. “Descriptions have not done you justice, my lady.”

  “Nor you, my lord.” The press of Niamh’s lips into a thin line belied her practiced tone. Her eyes slid over him before she turned her attention back to her own wine goblet.

  Gainor pushed himself away from the table and settled into the empty seat on Conor’s other side. “Don’t mind her. We mere mortals are beneath her notice. Now, you don’t need to learn everyone’s name right away, but I’ll at least tell you who to hide from.”

  Gainor waited for the last servant to move away, then attacked the sumptuous-looking food loading his plate. Conor picked at the food while Calhoun’s brother pointed out various guests.

  “That right there”—Gainor indicated a handsome young man with night-black hair—“is Keondric Mac Eirhinin, lord of Rathmór, Faolán’s largest holding besides the king’s. His clan has always supported Mac Cuillinn even though Clan Eirhinin has royal blood. He’s the wealthiest man in Faolán besides Calhoun.”

  “So should I avoid him or grovel before him?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s far too rich and important to be bothered with the likes of you.”

  Conor grinned. He picked out a hard-looking older man with graying hair and sharp features. He reminded Conor of Galbraith’s lords. “What about him?”

  “Good eye. Avoid him. He hates everyone except Niamh. He’s had designs on her for years.”

  “But he’s old enough to be her father!”

  “His son’s old enough to be her father. All the same, don’t get cornered by him. Lord Duggan has a terrible temper.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Conor’s plate looked more appetizing as his stomach unclenched, the unexpected empathy lifting his spirits.

  He scanned the room again, and his eyes fell on a girl he was sure had not been there moments before. She was unremarkable but for a mane of shiny hair that fell in a sheet around her shoulders. Her pale green silk gown clearly hadn’t been made for her—it hung off her small frame and clashed with the honey color of her hair. She glanced in his direction, and their eyes locked. Her gaze pinned Conor in his seat. A chill, not altogether unpleasant, rippled over his skin.

  “Who’s that?” he choked out, finally daring to break the connection.

  Gainor followed Conor’s gaze. “Aine, our half sister. I hadn’t thought she would attend.”

  “I didn’t know you had another sister.”

  “Our mother married an Aronan chieftain after our father, the king, died. We hardly knew Aine, but since both her parents have passed, Calhoun invited her to live at Lisdara. I’ll introduce you tomorrow. You’re of an age, I think.”

  Conor nodded mutely, his mind returning to the odd sensation that stretched between them. Was he so naive about women he could be struck speechless by two of them in the same evening? No, he had been taken by Niamh’s beauty, but this was something completely different. He felt as if he knew Aine, even though he was sure he had never seen her before tonight. He dared another glance in her direction, but her place was now vacant.

  For the rest of the meal, Gainor entertained him with witty stories about other feasts and carefully unnamed guests, though the chill emanating from Niamh was almost palpable. She’d probably expected far more from the son of a Timhaigh king. He could hardly blame her for being disappointed. He fell short of his own expectations most of the time.

  The noise in the hall died abruptly as a man dragged a chair to the foot of the dais. He was unassuming, dressed in well-made but drab clothing, his dark hair touched with gray. Only when he produced a stunning walnut harp did Conor realize he was not a servant. Anticipation fell heavily in the hall, the silence unbroken even by the rustle of clothing.

  “The bard, Meallachán of Killary,” Gainor whispered.

  Conor barely heard him. He had never dreamed he would be sitting a handful of feet away from the most celebrated bard in Seare.

  Meallachán took his time tuning the harp, then began a plaintive melody that felt both familiar and wondrously new, his fingers flying over the strings. When he began to sing in a mellifluous tenor that enriched and deepened the ethereal sound of the harp, Conor at last understood the reason for the bard’s renown. Calling both Conor and Meallachán musicians was like classifying both a raindrop and an ocean as water.

  The melody washed over him as his eyes drifted closed. His heart ached at the sheer beauty of the music, and his fingers itched to take up a harp and join its voice to the harmony. He settled for committing each note to memory with the hope of later reproducing even a fraction of that wondrous sound. When the last notes died away, he opened his eyes in time to see Gainor wipe tears from his cheeks.

  Conor met the gaze with his own blurred eyes, and the king’s brother smiled sheepishly. Even Niamh looked moved. As the bard launched into a folk tune meant to break the melody’s spell, Conor glanced down the table and saw Calhoun watching him thoughtfully.

  The king gave him a slight nod, then turned his attention back to the bard, leaving Conor to wonder exactly how much of his soul he had bared on his face when he thought no one was looking.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The Mac Cuillinn has invited you to breakfast in his chambers.”

  Conor rolled over and rubbed his eyes. H
e had slept deeply and dreamlessly for the first time since leaving Balurnan, but he still felt tired. Sunlight already cast kaleidoscopic patterns through the stained-glass window.

  “I’m to dine with Calhoun? Why?”

  Dolan fixed Conor with a hard stare. “He’s the king. He needn’t explain himself.”

  Conor threw back the blankets. “Something understated then. Best to show a full measure of humility.”

  Twenty minutes later, dressed in a simple tunic belted over a saffron-dyed linen shirt, he followed a servant through the maze of hallways to the opposite side of the keep. When they came to a closed door at the end of the corridor, the servant knocked lightly and pushed the door open. Conor took a halting step inside.

  The king and his three siblings sat at a small, rectangular table near the windows. Calhoun glanced up and waved casually at an empty seat. “Conor, come. The tea’s getting cold.”

  Conor wordlessly slipped into the vacant seat beside Niamh, directly across from Aine. Calhoun nudged the earthenware pot in his direction before he resumed his conversation with Gainor about the honey production in Lisdara’s hives, but neither girl gave any sign of awareness of his presence.

  His ears burned as he poured tepid liquid into an empty cup. He clearly didn’t belong here. Why had Calhoun invited him if no one was going to even acknowledge him? To his relief, several servants chose that moment to arrive with their breakfast: warm oatcakes with honey and butter, poached fish, and fried quail eggs. At least if he was eating, he wouldn’t be expected to make polite conversation.

  Calhoun looked up from his conversation as if seeing him for the first time. “Conor. Have you met my other sister, Aine?”

  Aine’s gaze flicked to Conor’s face. Her eyes were the same quicksilver gray as Niamh’s, dark-lashed and intelligent. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. She was not nearly as plain as he had first thought. Then he remembered Calhoun’s question and stammered out, “Uh, no, I haven’t had the pleasure. My lady.”

  Aine dipped her head and offered a reserved smile before returning to her meal. Calhoun looked between the two of them with a thoughtful expression. The Mac Cuillinn was far too perceptive.

  “I like to breakfast with my family when I’m at Lisdara,” Calhoun said. “You are not obligated to join us, but know you’re welcome at my table.”

  Conor swallowed. “Thank you, my lord. You’re very generous.”

  “Not at all. Now, there’s a matter we must discuss.”

  Conor’s heart beat harder at the ominous statement, but he kept his expression blank.

  “We value education in my household. Brothers Treasach and Iuchbar have generously come from the monastery at Loch Laraigh for that purpose, and I think you will find them as knowledgeable as your tutors back home.

  “On the matter of your sword training, Gainor and I have agreed it can wait until you settle in. After that, Gainor will work with you himself until you feel comfortable joining the men in the yard.”

  Conor supposed he should be embarrassed by how keen Calhoun’s measure of him had been, but he couldn’t summon anything but relief.

  “In the meantime,” the king continued, “you’ll have your afternoons free to pursue your own interests. I thought perhaps you might spend some time with Meallachán.”

  This time, Conor could not keep his shock from his face. “Meallachán?”

  Calhoun arched a brow. “Did I get that wrong? I guessed you were a musician.”

  “No. I am. At least, I try. But Meallachán?”

  “It’s your choice. None of my siblings have the talent or the inclination, and it seems a shame not to take advantage of his willingness to teach.”

  “It would be a great honor,” Conor managed at last. “Thank you, truly.”

  Calhoun waved off Conor’s thanks. “Good, that’s settled. Now, I believe Treasach is expecting you three in the library.”

  Niamh rose immediately, but Aine didn’t move. Instead, she addressed her brother in a surprisingly deep, Aronan-accented voice. “By your leave, Calhoun, Mistress Bearrach asked me to go to Fionncill this morning.”

  “As long as Ruarc accompanies you,” Calhoun said.

  “Thank you.” Aine’s brilliant smile lit her entire face and once more shattered Conor’s train of thought. “I’m looking forward to putting my studies into practice.”

  Calhoun gestured to the older sister. “Niamh, you can show Conor to the library then.”

  Niamh shot Conor a pointed look, and he leapt to his feet, his chair’s legs shrieking against the stone floor. He gave Calhoun a hasty bow. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The king waved him away once more, and Conor followed Niamh back into the hallway. His awe faded with each step. Niamh might be beautiful, but she was also sullen and rude. Aine, on the other hand, merely seemed reserved.

  That smile, though, had been anything but shy. Who was Mistress Bearrach to elicit that sort of reaction? And what sort of business did she have outside Lisdara?

  He certainly couldn’t ask Niamh. Even if she did deign to speak with him, she seemed no friendlier with her half sister than she was with him. Instead, he fumbled to fill the silence. “What exactly do Treasach and Iuchbar teach?”

  “Treasach’s specialty is languages, history, and geography. Iuchbar teaches mathematics and law.”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “Languages.” A chilly half smile formed on her lips. “I wouldn’t worry if you don’t take to it. From what I hear, a Mac Nir needs only wield a sword.”

  Heat rushed to Conor’s cheeks. She had obviously guessed what the delay in Conor’s training meant. A surge of defensiveness propelled his next words—in Norin. “Normally, you would be right. But my education has been somewhat unconventional.”

  Niamh stared at him, uncomprehending.

  He switched to Levantine. “The language of the Kebarans perhaps?”

  Another blank stare. Finally, he said in the common tongue, “I wouldn’t worry about it. From what I hear, a Faolanaigh princess need only be sweet and biddable to catch a husband.”

  Niamh’s expression hardened. He hadn’t thought it possible for her to look any colder. Inwardly, he cursed his impulsiveness when she picked up her pace, forcing him to nearly run after her.

  When they arrived at the library door, Niamh looked at him pointedly, and it took a moment to understand what she wanted. He jerked the door open, and she brushed past him without a glance.

  Lisdara’s library was twice the size of Balurnan’s, high-ceilinged and packed with books. Small square tables, each with two chairs, had been placed strategically around the room. Niamh sat at one of them, her glare warning Conor away from the empty seat beside her. He chose another spot and turned his attention to his new teacher.

  One thing seemed certain about Treasach: priesthood was a recent avocation. In contrast to the soft, contemplative look of the priests he’d encountered, Treasach was built like a fighter, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, with large, scarred hands. The scholar’s queue at the nape of his neck struck Conor as a ridiculous disguise, like putting a collar on a warhorse and calling it a hunting dog.

  His smile of welcome was genuine, though, and he approached Conor with an outstretched hand. “You must be Conor. Welcome. I’m Brother Treasach.”

  “Thank you.” Conor gave him something halfway between a nod and a bow. “I’m looking forward to returning to my studies.”

  “Good! Let’s begin then. I take it Lady Aine’s not coming?”

  “She had other business. The Mac Cuillinn approved.”

  Treasach nodded and retrieved a large tome from the table. To Conor’s relief, the topic was not language, but history, specifically Ciraean social and political structure. Within minutes, Treasach had drawn Conor into a lively debate about the merits of republican and monarchical rule.

  “Seareanns have combined the best of both methods,” Conor said. “The Senate never could have accomplished what the emperor did
because they spent too much time debating theoretical topics. Likewise, Cira had too many tyrannical rulers for the people to ever fully embrace such a method of government.”

  Treasach smiled wryly. “You do realize the Seareann kingdoms are monarchies?”

  “Of course. But even in Daimhin’s time, the clans were free to rule themselves and elect their own kings, while having the advantage of a higher authority to settle disputes, make peace, and organize an army.”

  “So you’re a proponent of reinstating the High Kingship?”

  Conor hesitated. “I think there are some tactical advantages to centralized rule, especially in times of war. But it would take a catastrophe of unprecedented proportions to bring it about now.”

  “Well put, Conor.” Treasach gave a satisfied nod. “Have you aspirations of politics then?”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  Treasach smiled and closed the book. “I think that’s enough for today. I’ll see you, and hopefully Aine, tomorrow.”

  Conor rose from his seat and moved toward Niamh. Rude or not, she deserved an apology for his harsh words. But she rushed from the room before he could reach her.

  “Give her time,” Treasach said softly at Conor’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.”

  Conor wasn’t so sure. If he hadn’t let his anger get the better of him, he wouldn’t have to work twice as hard to win her over. As he left the library, though, he remembered her dismay at being seated with him at the feast. Somehow, he doubted anything he did would make her view him with less than contempt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aine Nic Tamhais left Calhoun’s study with a distinct uneasiness in her stomach. Truthfully, the sensation had not been far from her since coming to Lisdara four months before.