More feasting followed in honor of the Timhaigh guests, and the night after his arrival Conor dressed for a celebration again, this time in slightly plainer garments. As he made his way down to the hall, he was surprised to find only the slightest twinge of apprehension.
Far fewer guests crowded the hall, since the realm’s lords had already begun to return home. Gainor and Niamh sat at their regular places, but Niamh didn’t even look in Conor’s direction when he took the chair beside her. Even the guests seemed to have lost interest in him.
Something else caught their attention, though. Conor followed their gazes. Aine stood in the entry, her hands fisted in her skirts, which were made of fine blue wool that suited her far better than the previous night’s silk. No one in the hall moved, but whispers rustled among the tables.
Conor didn’t know what he meant to do until he stood, descended the dais, and crossed the floor to her side. Surprise surfaced in those luminous gray eyes when he gave her a little bow and held out a hand. “My lady, would you permit me?”
The surprise melted into a smile. She dipped her head. “Thank you.”
Aine placed her hand atop his, and Conor escorted her formally to the table. She smelled of fresh air and herbs, and the clean fragrance among the heavier scents of beeswax and rich food was almost as distracting as the insistent tingling in his palm where her fingers rested.
A servant scurried forward and pulled out the chair beside Conor’s. Aine sank into it gracefully. As Conor returned to his space, Niamh shot him a poisonous look, eliciting a grin from Gainor and raised eyebrows from a number of the guests.
Their attention shifted a moment later when Calhoun arrived without Riocárd. The king held up his hands for attention, and the lutist in the corner broke off his playing.
“I regret to inform you Lord Riocárd was called back to Tigh unexpectedly,” Calhoun said. “Fortunately, we may continue to enjoy Conor’s company.”
Conor frowned. Even Galbraith adhered to customary courtesy. What was so important he would risk offending his new ally by recalling Riocárd so soon after their arrival?
Aine shifted in her chair beside him, drawing his attention away from one puzzle and onto another. He already had a fair read on Calhoun, Gainor, and Niamh. But Aine, with her reserved manner, brilliant smile, and secret errands, remained a mystery. Add in an ageless quality that made it hard to tell if she was older or younger than him, and it was no wonder his eyes returned to her again and again.
“What is it?” she asked, finally catching him in his perusal.
Heat crept up his neck. He could hardly tell her his thoughts. “Who is Mistress Bearrach?”
Her expression shuttered, and her body stiffened.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s all right.” She raised her eyes to his again. “Mistress Bearrach is a healer. I’m apprenticed to her.”
That explained it then. Healers always seemed slightly mysterious, as if their vast, arcane knowledge separated them from ordinary people. “I think that’s admirable.”
“You do?”
“Of course. You’re doing something important. I haven’t done anything useful my entire life.” Conor flushed. Why had he said that aloud, least of all to her?
“I doubt that,” she said, but she shifted her eyes back to her plate.
Conor almost groaned. She’d withdrawn again, just when he thought they were establishing a connection of sorts. He slumped in his chair, determined to return to being invisible.
When Calhoun dismissed them from the hall, though, Aine didn’t immediately flee upstairs. Instead, she said, “It was thoughtful of you to escort me to the table. Thank you.”
“It was my honor.” Conor gave her an abbreviated bow. “It seems we are both something of strangers here.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you will fit in quite nicely here. Good night, Conor.”
“Good night.” Conor waited until she vanished from sight before he started up the stairs behind her. As he headed toward his chamber, an unfamiliar feeling settled in his chest, and it had nothing to do with magic.
Aine stood outside the door of her shared chamber, wishing she could wait until her sister fell asleep. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was argue. Still, she couldn’t avoid her forever. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Oonagh had already helped Niamh undress down to a linen chemise, and she was brushing the girl’s long hair. Niamh glanced up, but she said nothing.
Aine closed the door, relieved she wouldn’t be subjected to one of her sister’s tirades tonight. She undressed and washed her face and hands in the basin, then quickly climbed into bed. She thought she had forestalled a discussion, until Niamh waved a hand to Oonagh in dismissal. Aine’s heart sank.
As soon as the maid left, Niamh said, “You like him, don’t you?”
A flush crept up Aine’s neck. “You mean Conor, I presume.”
“Of course I mean Conor. I think you two have much in common. That’s good.”
This was not at all the direction Aine had expected the conversation to take. “Why the sudden interest in him?”
“I have no interest in Conor. But you have choices. Calhoun can’t marry you off without your clan’s permission, and you’re not there for them to make you a match in Aron. You might even choose for yourself. And if he should be highborn, a king’s son perhaps . . .”
Aine struggled to follow her sister’s logic. “Is that what this is about? You think I came here to make an advantageous marriage? I assure you, I’ve never intended to interfere in any match Calhoun might arrange for you.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to get married. Calhoun has been hearing offers for my hand this week, and I have no say in the matter. I’m a head of cattle at auction.”
“I can’t believe Calhoun would do something like that.” But even as she spoke, Aine realized how little she actually knew her elder brother.
“It’s the burden of noble birth. Look at our mother. Father in the grave no more than a year, and she’s auctioned to Aron. Never mind the fact she had young children here.”
The bitterness in Niamh’s voice turned Aine’s irritation to sympathy. Of course Niamh would resent her. Aine was a product of the union that took away her mother, leaving her with nursemaids until she was of marriageable age.
“Oh, Niamh, I am sorry. Surely it won’t be so bad . . .”
“You know nothing, Aine. And I don’t want your pity.” Niamh climbed into bed and blew out the candle, plunging them into darkness.
Aine pulled up her own blankets and stared at the shadows the moonlight cast through the stained-glass windows. She had known coming to Seare would not just be a joyful reunion with family she’d never met. But only now did she realize, in that same deep place that recognized the isle’s bright magic, that she had been brought here to meet Conor. Her dreams always had meaning, even if she didn’t understand their purpose.
Like the dream she had had of Ruarc offering his sword to her. Lady Ailís had not hinted at its meaning until it was too late. Aine still didn’t know how her abilities could have failed her so badly.
Or perhaps she had chosen not to notice her mother’s sickness. There was nothing she could have done anyway. The tumor had been killing Ailís from the inside out.
Aine buried her face in her pillow and let her silent tears fall. What good were these gifts if she couldn’t save her own mother? Why would Comdiu show her those things if she hadn’t been meant to stop them?
She had asked Him that question repeatedly in the last six months, and the answer still eluded her. You’re doing something important, Conor had said. He couldn’t have pierced her more directly if he’d tried. No matter how many people she helped, it could not erase the knowledge that she’d failed the one person who meant the most to her.
Isn’t it possible you weren’t meant to carry this sorrow forever? Why do you insist on doing everything by your own power when there is One whose strength is greater than your own?
The last thought struck with a pang of undeniable truth. It was pure pride, this impulse to hold her problems close, instead of trusting the One whose vision was clearer than hers. Why did she think she could have stopped her mother’s death if Comdiu wanted to call Ailís home?
I don’t know why You took her. I don’t know why You sent me here, but I know it was Your doing. Please show me my purpose.
Aine couldn’t remember the last time she had settled into bed without a knot of tension in her stomach. Tonight, though, she had given her troubles to One more adept at handling them than she. She fell asleep.
Conor ate alone in his room the next morning, battling the urge to see Aine. He had probably just imagined the tenuous connection between them. They had just met, after all. So why did that possibility bother him so much?
He needn’t have worried, though. On his way to morning lessons, Aine fell into step with him in the corridor. “We missed you at breakfast today.”
“I’m guessing Niamh is not included in that statement. No duties with Mistress Bearrach?”
“Not today. I’m sorry I missed yesterday’s lessons. I heard you made quite an impression on Brother Treasach.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I spoke with him after morning devotions in the chapel.”
“You have a chapel?” Conor stopped short. He had never set foot inside a Balian place of worship. It hadn’t occurred to him Lisdara would have its own.
“Indeed. You’re welcome to join me. I’m there nearly every morning.”
Conor hesitated. He was still unsure of how much he should reveal here, even though Labhrás had told him it was his decision. “I may do that,” he said slowly, and Aine rewarded him with a bright smile.
Treasach waited for them in the library. “Conor, Aine. Where’s Niamh?”
“She’s indisposed,” Aine said. Conor wondered if Niamh’s sudden illness had been timed to avoid them.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Never mind, then. Sit! We have a lot to cover.”
Conor exchanged a grin with Aine at the priest’s enthusiasm, and they settled at a nearby table.
“Have you ever heard about Daimhin’s unseemly history?” Treasach folded himself into a chair much too small for his frame. “He was the youngest son of an unimportant clan, without lands or title, so he hired out his sword on the continent. Over time, he banded together with other men like him, and they became a formidable fighting company in great demand. Their travels took them throughout the Ciraean Empire, where they saw the abuses of the emperor’s policies firsthand. Eventually, they moved south to the Levant on the Ciraean Sea, where Daimhin and his companions met a man named Balus.”
Aine gasped, and Conor said, “Daimhin met Lord Balus? I’ve never heard that.”
“Not only did he meet Him, he studied with Him. He and his men tried to fight the Levantine authorities who broke Balus on the wheel, but our Lord wouldn’t allow it. They stood watch at His tomb, and when Balus was resurrected, He appeared to them.”
“I know this story!” Conor said. “But the Canon doesn’t name Daimhin.”
“No, it doesn’t. But we know he was there when Balus gave His disciples great gifts to be used for His glory and told them to spread His teachings to the ends of the earth.”
“You mean magic,” Aine said. “The Balian magic that has been forgotten.”
“Almost forgotten,” Treasach said. “Have you not wondered how the Fíréin have held Ard Dhaimhin all these years?”
So it wasn’t just the brotherhood’s fighting skills that held off incursions into the old forest. For hundreds of years, no one but the brotherhood had laid eyes on King Daimhin’s capital city, secluded behind the miles of thick, dark forest. Legend claimed that only when a high king again united the warring nations under a single throne would the Fíréin relax their vigilance.
“If the gifts still exist, then why aren’t they more well-known?” Aine asked, drawing Conor’s attention back to the lesson.
“That’s an excellent question. As Daimhin grew older, and it became time to name his heir, he realized his sons had not held true to their gifts or the teachings of Balus. He was set to announce a successor not of his bloodline, but rather than lose their inheritance, his sons murdered him and divided his kingdom. They legitimized their actions by claiming Daimhin’s gifts were worthless. Tigh and Sliebhan outlawed the practice of the gifts altogether, and Faolán and Siomar actively discouraged it. Like any other ability, magic weakens without practice. Only the Fíréin still exercise the gifts openly, and even among the brotherhood they have begun to fade.”
Conor nodded thoughtfully. It had always seemed strange the Great Kingdom had been divided so easily. He should have guessed it related to magic.
“But this was not why I brought up the topic,” Treasach said. “Daimhin was raised in the old clan government. Through his travels, he was exposed to Ciraean imperialism and occupation, Levantine religious law, and the teachings of Balus. All these influences, he brought back to Seare. Today, we will look at how the laws and structures of those governments influenced both the old Seareann kingdom and our current ones.”
It was a brilliant way to teach both history and law. Still, Conor thought there was more to this lesson than a creative way to engage their interest. He would swear that what Treasach told them of Seare’s origin was not written in any history book.
Despite the distracting implications, Conor found himself drawn into the discussion. Aine was at least as knowledgeable as he, and she spoke with both conviction and eloquence. Treasach sat by and grinned when their discussion about the cause of the Ciraean Empire’s fall turned heated.
When Aine diverged into specific Ciraean military tactics Daimhin modified for use in Seareann terrain, Conor just stared at her, speechless. He finally managed to squeeze out, “Where did you learn that?”
Aine blushed. “All highborn children in Aron are schooled in the strategy of warfare, since women can inherit clan leadership.”
“Will you someday?”
“Not likely. I’m third in line after my two uncles. They still drilled these things into my head, though. We studied the Seareann conquest in great depth.”
“Can you fight, too?” Conor asked.
She shrugged. “I have some talent for archery, but I never really applied myself to it.”
Conor’s lips twitched at the thought of the tiny girl drawing a war bow nearly her full height, but her frown made him bury his amusement as quickly as it had come.
“Can we get back to the topic?” Treasach tried valiantly to revive the debate, but he was wise enough to know when he was defeated and dismissed them for dinner.
Conor followed Aine into the corridor. “Are you going to the hall?”
“I have to see Mistress Bearrach,” she said, regret plain in her voice. “I’ll see you later.”
Without Aine’s company, dinner in the hall seemed much less appealing, so Conor returned to his room instead. He was probably the only man who found a woman’s knowledge of ancient battle tactics irresistible. Still, few boys in Tigh possessed Conor’s extensive education, and the idea Aine was more than a match for him intrigued him.
When he entered his chamber, Dolan’s expression said something significant had happened. “You’re to meet Meallachán in the music room after dinner. He’s agreed to take you on as a student.”
Conor’s stomach flipped. Calhoun had said he would arrange it, but when was the last time a king followed through on a promise like that? And how had Conor thought he could meet the standards of a master like Meallachán?
His anxiety only intensified as he climbed the stairs to the upper-floor music room. There Meallachán sat alone on a stool, tuning a lute and looking deceptively ordinary in his plain tunic.
Conor cleared his throat. “Master Meallachán?”
“What do you think?” Meallachán plucked a string.
“It’s a bit sharp,” Conor said hesitantly.
The bard gave the pin a minute adjustment and plucked it again. “Better. Come, have a seat.”
Up close, Meallachán looked older than he had thought, perhaps fifty, even though his wiry build and unlined face gave him the look of a much younger man. He handled the lute with a grace and surety that somehow reminded Conor of a master swordsman.
“I hear you play?”
Conor averted his eyes. Compared to Meallachán, he could hardly claim to be a musician. “Not really. Just a bit of the harp on my own.”
“We’ll start with the cruit, then. It’s less complicated than the harp, but no less satisfying.”
Conor nodded mutely. If the man asked him to bang the cook’s cauldron like a drum, he wouldn’t question it. Never mind the harp in the corner beckoned to him like an old friend.
A light rap sounded at the door, and it creaked open. Aine slipped into the room, her expression sheepish. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Meallachán waved her in with a smile. “You’re not late. We’re just getting started.”
Conor swallowed his nervousness. He hadn’t expected an audience. Embarrassing himself in front of Meallachán was one thing. Failing before Aine was another.
“I have to warn you I’ve been pronounced hopeless,” Aine said. “You may regret taking me on before it’s all done.”
“Nonsense. Anyone can learn given enough practice.” Meallachán guided Aine to a stool beside Conor and then produced two plainly crafted cruits: pear-shaped, long-necked instruments with six strings, their soundboards burnished by years of inexperienced hands.
The bard began their lesson by naming the notes each string produced and demonstrating different scales. Then he showed them how to play the notes by plucking or strumming. Conor, though he had never touched a cruit, produced crisp, clear sounds, garnering a pleased nod from Meallachán.
“A natural, indeed,” the bard said.
When it came to Aine’s turn, however, she produced only a sickly twang. Meallachán adjusted her fingering until the notes sang truer, but frustration shone on her face.
Meallachán taught a simple melody next, which Conor picked up with ease. Aine still struggled. She frowned, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her lips. Then her finger slipped from a string, and she bit back an oath.
It was so out of character, Conor burst into laughter. Aine’s eyes widened, her cheeks going pink. Her dismay only made Conor laugh harder.
“I told you I was hopeless! Please, Master Meallachán, may I just sit and listen?”
“If that’s what you wish,” the bard said with a gentle smile. “I’m still willing to teach you.”
“Respectfully, I just didn’t want to insult the king by rejecting his offer.”
Meallachán nodded and returned to Conor’s lesson, giving him progressively more difficult exercises. “Are you sure you haven’t studied before?”
“Not the cruit.”
By the end of the lesson, some of Conor’s awe had faded. The bard was humble and utterly without artifice, genuinely pleased to share his knowledge. As Labhrás liked to say, important men demanded respect. Great men earned it.
Meallachán had earned it.
After the lesson, Aine followed Conor into the hallway. “Why did you lie to him?”
“I didn’t! I’ve never studied the cruit. I do play the harp a little, but it seemed wrong not to learn what he wanted to teach me. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
Conor smiled again, remembering her involuntary outburst. “After this morning, it’s nice to see there’s something you aren’t good at. I thought Treasach was going to die of apoplexy when you started talking about flying wedges and flanking maneuvers.”
“You’re one to talk.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’d be careful he doesn’t try to bundle you back to Loch Laraigh. Besides, it seems hardly fair you know my weakness, and I don’t know yours.”
“Then tag along when Gainor starts my sword training. I can practically guarantee you’ll have more talent at that than me. At least not being able to play the cruit won’t get you killed.”
Aine stopped and turned that knowing gaze in his direction. “The world doesn’t need more warriors, Conor. There’s quite enough fighting without you contributing to it.”
“I wouldn’t have expected that, given your education.”
“There are good reasons to fight. I just fail to see the wisdom in forcing everyone into the warrior mold whether they fit or not.”
“You sound like Lord Labhrás.”
Now a mischievous light glinted in her eyes. “Lord Labhrás must be a wise man.”
“Aye, he is.”
They started walking again, until Aine drew up short of the staircase. Conor touched her hand, just a nudge. “Thank you.”
Aine looked down in surprise. Then she nodded, her eyes finding his in a moment of wordless understanding. Conor watched her descend the steps until she disappeared from sight. He had just admitted his greatest weakness to her, and it mattered no more than a missed note on an old cruit.