“I should have told him long before this.”
Riordan stood on one of Carraigmór’s narrow granite balconies, his gaze sweeping the broad expanse of the Fíréin’s domain. He sensed rather than saw the Ceannaire a few paces behind him in the doorway.
“You did what was best for the boy,” Liam said. “The truth would have profited no one.”
“Perhaps.” The knowledge that his reunion with Conor may have come too late tempered Riordan’s joy. Still, the corner of his lips twitched up in a smile when he recalled how Conor had stood his ground before Liam. “He’s a remarkable boy.”
Liam smiled too. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“You mean Conor’s musical ability?”
“Aye. He has a rare gift with the harp.”
As many years as Riordan had known Liam, the man’s uncanny ability to see into the minds of others still discomfited him. “You read that from the meeting in the hall?”
“No, I received a message from Meallachán while you were away.” Liam chuckled. “He was concerned the boy might draw the wrong attention to himself should he remain.”
“Why didn’t he send him here directly?”
“My youngest sister, Aine. They seem to have a significant connection, but I don’t yet know how she’s involved in this.”
“Did Meallachán tell you that, too?”
“No, that I got from Conor directly.” Liam’s amusement faded. “He seems to know quite a bit about Labhrás. Did you tell him?”
“He came to tell me.” Riordan swallowed as if it could push down the sudden ache in his chest. He had been among the onlookers, concealed by his cloak, when his foster brother and oldest friend had walked to the headsman.
“Then Labhrás did his job well. He educated him, he nurtured his gift, and then he sent him back here, just as we’d hoped. And now, you have your son back.”
Riordan glanced sharply at Liam, but he couldn’t summon any ill will toward the Ceannaire, even if he was the reason Riordan hadn’t made any effort to see Conor all these years. Things must unfold this way, Liam had said. If you want what’s best for him, you must watch from a distance.
It was not his place to question Liam. The burdens of the Ceannaire’s visions were his to carry and his to share. That he chose to bring Riordan so much into his confidence was already an honor. Still, Riordan had the uncomfortable feeling Liam’s plans for Conor went far beyond the small safeguards they had arranged.
He wasn’t sure what was more unsettling: knowing what the Ceannaire saw or being protected from it.
Liam knew of Riordan’s discomfort as he returned to the heart of Carraigmór, but it was from long years of acquaintance rather than any exercise of his gifts. He regretted keeping him in the dark about so many details, but the fewer who knew the secrets of Ard Dhaimhin, the more secure they all were.
Liam retrieved a torch from a bracket in the wall and turned down a short, empty corridor ending in a locked door without a keyhole. He spoke a handful of words in a language long forgotten and then pushed open the door. Not even Riordan knew of this place. The password had been embedded by magic no living soul could perform and was passed down from one Ceannaire to the next, ensuring only one man could enter.
He held the torch before him as he slowly descended a flight of narrow stairs, his shoulders brushing the wall in places. The soft hiss of fire joined the scuff of his footsteps on stone. Somewhere beyond, the plink of water reverberated off rock.
The corridor seemed to end ahead in a solid wall, but Liam turned sharply into the space that angled back from the passage and stepped into the chamber.
The Hall of Prophecies. The true heart of Carraigmór, its place of secrets. Its place of purpose.
It was more of a cavern than a room, rounded like the other chambers in the fortress and lined with rows upon rows of compartments, each containing a scroll or book. Daimhin had begun to collect them in his time, and each Ceannaire over the last five hundred years had added to their number. Some of the prophecies had been recorded by brothers of Ard Dhaimhin, while others had been collected from thousands of miles away, written in dozens of languages. Not all applied to Seare: in fact, only a small portion concerned the small isle at the corner of the known world. Liam sought one particular prophecy, written by Queen Shanna herself after Daimhin’s death. Few knew of it, which made the current situation that much more disturbing.
The Kinslayer shall rise, the Adversary looming treacherous over the bleeding land. Day shall be night, and the mist, unbound, shall wreak evil upon the sons of men.
In that hour alone the son of Daimhin shall come; wielding the sword and the song, he shall stand against the Kinslayer, binding the power of the sidhe, and, for a time, bringing peace.
Liam stared at the scroll that told the future of Seare. Wiser men than he had failed to decipher the full meaning of the prophecy, but now he had a better idea of what “the sword and the song” could mean and exactly what part the Fíréin might play in it.
There had been kinslayers before—bloody feuds among clans littered Seare’s violent past—but this particular one was different. Never before did the one in question have a Red Druid by his side, a man who had managed to cheat death for centuries.
A man who once held the very position Liam did now.