Conor’s first spear lesson took place the next morning. As he followed his céad mates around the lake to the practice yards, he could not shake his apprehension. Eoghan may have dismissed his concerns as mere imagination, but Conor could not rid himself of the feeling there was a bigger tapestry being woven, and he was seeing only one small part of the design.
“Delusions of grandeur,” he muttered to himself.
Those delusions did not extend to his first drills as an apprentice. Their instructor, Brother Teallach, a cast-iron man in his fifties, did not consider his lack of training an excuse for not keeping up with his céad mates. Conor barely caught the spear the instructor tossed him.
“First form!” Teallach barked.
The group moved in unison into a straight thrust, and Conor stumbled forward in time to avoid getting a spear through his back.
“Second form!”
The thrust shifted to a high block, and once more, Conor followed a beat behind.
The class dragged on painfully, Conor shadowing every movement and feeling hopelessly uncoordinated. Even after the hard labor of the past year, his arms and shoulders twinged from exertion, and a bead of sweat rolled down his back. It was his first day, he reminded himself. He couldn’t expect to get everything right on his first try.
Conor was relieved when Teallach split them into pairs, until he realized he had no partner. The instructor appeared before him, spear in hand. “Your attack.”
How was he supposed to do that? Conor hadn’t really learned the movements in the forms, though he understood they were meant to be applied against an opponent. He gripped the spear in both hands and lunged forward. Teallach knocked his spear aside and thwacked him hard on the ribs, then on the side of the head.
“Again,” Teallach said.
Conor tried again with the same results, but this time the instructor’s strikes were harder. His ribs stung, and his head ached.
“Again!”
How had he blocked that? The third time, he was ready to meet the instructor’s counterattack. Teallach gave his own spear a quick flick of the wrist, and Conor’s weapon clattered to the hard-packed earth.
A hint of a smile played on the older man’s lips. “Good. It didn’t take you long.” Teallach hooked his foot under the spear’s shaft and tossed it back to Conor. “Once more.”
By the end of the session, Conor had a handful of bruises to add to his count, but he was blocking and countering simple strikes with surprising facility. His arms and shoulders burned from the new movements, but a thin shred of hope had returned.
Conor followed the rest of the group to the next lesson, archery with Brother Seamus. Seamus was more patient than Teallach had been, and by the end of the lesson, Conor was at least able to loose arrows in the direction of his target, even if most of them struck the dirt in front of it.
He approached his third and final lesson of the day with aching muscles and a feeling of dread. Hand stones were the most traditional weapons of Seare, and while swordsmanship was more highly regarded, hardly a warrior or traveler went without a pouch of stones on his belt. Still, the groans of the younger boys as they approached the target scaffolds with their painted wooden discs made it clear this was their least favorite lesson.
While Conor’s céad mates selected their caches of stones and took their places in front of the targets with a combination of resignation and discipline, the instructor drew him aside. A young, fair-haired Siomaigh, Nuallain shared Eoghan’s calm, approachable manner. “You’ve never used these?”
Conor shook his head.
The instructor showed him the proper way of holding the stone and different methods of cocking his arm for the release. It was like skipping stones on a lake, something Conor had spent hours doing on summer afternoons.
Nuallain fired a stone. It hit the target with a crack and spun the disc backward on its rope. “Give it a go.”
Conor eyed a target beside the one Nuallain had just hit, about twenty paces away. He took aim and released the stone sidearm. To his shock, the projectile hit the target with as much force as Nuallain’s, dead center.
Nuallain arched an eyebrow. “Try another target.”
It was another ten paces back, so Conor could hardly believe it when he struck the target with equal accuracy.
“We may have found your weapon. Try this.” Nuallain made a few minor adjustments to the angle of Conor’s arm and his release and then handed him a larger stone. This time, the projectile hit the wooden disc with such force it cracked it in two and sent one half spinning off behind.
“That would kill a man,” Nuallain said approvingly.
Conor grinned. How appropriate his natural talent lay in the least-regarded ability of the kingdoms, one requiring finesse rather than brute strength. He cast a glance down the line and received an approving nod from Merritt.
The other boys had free time between morning sessions and their lessons at the fortress, but Conor proceeded to Carraigmór as usual. He couldn’t help pouring his elation over the morning’s minor successes into his playing at Carraigmór, even though his arms ached so badly he could barely hold the harp.
After that, his daily routine varied only slightly. Some days, Teallach taught casting with the spear, or they worked with staffs instead. Nuallain taught them how to use hand slings and staff slings, for which Conor proved to have equal facility, even if he preferred throwing by hand. A small but shockingly strong brother named Cairbre introduced him to Hesperidian wrestling, which he took to with surprising alacrity.
Only archery remained a struggle. As Conor built strength to draw the bow, his range improved, but his aim did not. He was forced to admit he might never be a particularly proficient archer.
The only weapon with which he did not practice was the sword, and it was the one he wanted to learn most. Swordsmanship was the pinnacle of a Fíréin warrior’s skills, but while the other members of his céad trained with Ard Dhaimhin’s sword master, Brother Lughaire, Conor continued his menial duties around the village. Most days, he worked and trained from sunup to sundown with only his daily climb to Carraigmór as rest, and many nights, it was all he could do not to fall asleep in his bowl.
“Apparently the Fíréin don’t value sleep or free time,” Conor told Eoghan at supper one night.
“Or maybe Master Liam is trying to keep you busy. Most apprentices are required to attend lessons rather than join work details every day.”
“Maybe no one else has had my education.”
“Ciannait was raised by druids.” Eoghan shot him a significant look. “He probably knows more than all of us combined, and he’s spending his afternoons alone in the library.”
Conor didn’t have much time to ponder the inequity. He had far too much training to make up, and he felt too thinly stretched to think beyond the next task at hand. He spent his few moments of free time practicing empty-handed spear thrusts or drawing an imaginary bow. He saw Eoghan less and less, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of his overwhelming schedule or Eoghan’s. The older boy seemed distracted whenever he was around, and sometimes he didn’t appear even for supper.
Then one night before lights-out, Eoghan perched on the edge of Conor’s bed. “Master Liam has asked me to take my oath.”
Conor grimaced. Even if he hadn’t already noted Eoghan’s dissatisfaction, his friend’s tone would have told him he wasn’t pleased. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll take the oath. I don’t have much choice, do I? I’m clanless. I’ve never even seen the kingdoms.”
“You could become a mercenary. The Aronan clan chiefs would pay dearly to have a man of your skills.”
“I don’t want to spill blood as my livelihood. That means I stay here. I’m not like you, Conor. I don’t speak five languages. I can’t name the capitals and kings of every known country. I’m good with a sword, and that’s it.”
“That’s no small thing,” Conor said. “I would give anything to have your skill. Riordan says you’re the best swordsman Ard Dhaimhin’s ever produced, and he’s not given to hyperbole. Can you imagine if you could train Faolán’s and Siomar’s warriors? Fergus would find the Balian nations a little harder to conquer than Sliebhan.” The other boys threw them curious looks, so Conor lowered his voice and said, “It would be the next best thing to Liam allowing the Fíréin to fight.”
“You might be right.”
When Eoghan stood, Conor didn’t know which decision, if any, his friend had made. Slaine extinguished the torches, cutting off any further conversation. In the morning when he woke, Eoghan was already gone.
Brother Slaine took Conor aside on his way back from morning devotions. “You’re excused from drills. Meet Brother Riordan at the small dock. He’ll explain.”
Baffled, Conor turned down toward the lakeshore, where his father already awaited him by the boats. “What’s this about?”
“Brother Eoghan’s taking his trials this morning. He’s asked that you be present. Come on, we’ll be late.”
Conor clambered into one of the smaller boats, which was attached to a pulley by a thick rope. Riordan grasped the top line and drew the craft across the hundreds of yards between the shore and the largest of the crannogs. Conor had been on the smaller of the islands, where the nets and fishing boats were kept, but the larger one was restricted to oath-bound brothers.
The vessel bumped against the steep shore, and Conor clambered out. The island, which had seemed so small from a distance, now proved to be as large as Lisdara’s courtyard, sparsely dotted with trees. At the center lay the sandy testing ring.
More than a dozen men, including Master Liam and Eoghan, already waited. Conor recognized the Conclave and senior members of the brotherhood who led weaponry drills for the older men. Eoghan stood grimly in their midst, receiving last-minute instructions.
Riordan stopped Conor a few paces from the ring. “We wait here.”
Across the yard, Eoghan bowed and then selected a spear from a nearby pile. Six of the brothers did the same. Even from a distance, Conor could see iron spearheads in place of the usual wood. His friend assumed a defensive stance, and the others surrounded him.
Conor held his breath as the first warrior attacked, but he needn’t have worried. Eoghan met the spear thrust confidently, knocking the point wide and countering quickly. The other five moved in then, and Conor’s mouth dropped open as the boy fluidly defended himself from six attackers, using the weapon as both staff and spear. His spear point stopped mere inches from the throat of one, and the defeated brother stepped away from the fray, eliminated by what would have been a killing blow. One by one, the other men fell, until Eoghan was left only with the most experienced of the group.
The two men fought, wielding their spears so quickly Conor was hard-pressed to follow individual movements. Then Eoghan misstepped, and his spear sailed from his grip. Conor gasped as the brother moved in to finish him.
Eoghan sidestepped the thrust and tackled his opponent to the ground, knocking the spear from his hand. The two men grappled in the loose sand, evenly matched in weight and strength, until it looked as if Eoghan was locked in an inescapable clinch. Then, in a blur of movement, Eoghan reversed the hold. He braced a knee on the other man’s neck and held the armlock firm until his opponent submitted.
Conor gaped. He knew Eoghan’s skills surpassed his own, but this went far beyond his imaginings. He had eliminated six far more experienced men in the space of three minutes. Eoghan helped his defeated opponent to his feet and retrieved their discarded spears.
Conor found his voice. “Is that the test?”
“Only part of it,” Riordan said. “The easier part.”
Eoghan returned the spears to the pile and moved to a stretch of canvas laid at the edge of the yard. Conor couldn’t see the objects laid upon it until Eoghan chose one. A short sword.
This time, the odds were better, three against one, or so he thought until he recognized two of the men. One was Iomhar, the boy whose sword form Conor had admired on his first day. The other was Brother Lughaire, the sword master himself.
From the moment of the first attack, though, Conor could see Eoghan was in control of the match. He moved lightly and quickly, defending every attack. Almost immediately, the first man fell, struck in the neck with the flat of Eoghan’s blade.
“He’s only nineteen,” Riordan said in a low voice. “I can’t wait to see him at thirty.”
Conor didn’t reply, captivated by the display. Even the talented apprentice was no match for him, and Eoghan was just toying with him, prolonging the match. Iomhar lost his weapon next and slunk from the yard, leaving Eoghan and Lughaire alone.
They circled one another warily, too respectful of the other’s skill to rush in. Then Eoghan sprang, driving back the sword master with a series of flawless attacks. Lughaire battled back and put Eoghan on the defensive. Swords flashed faster. Somewhere this trial had ceased to be a mock battle and ventured into a real skirmish.
Apparently, Master Liam felt the same, because he shouted, “That’s enough! Stand down!”
Eoghan disengaged first, keeping his guard up until he was out of striking distance. His chest rose and fell from exertion. The men bowed warily to one another and moved back toward Master Liam.
Riordan nudged Conor forward. “We can join them now.”
Conor approached the small group, more awed than ever by his friend. He had never seen anyone fight like that, not even among the Fíréin. Conor tried to catch his eye, but Eoghan’s gaze was fixed on the Ceannaire.
“You more than meet the requirements for admission to the brotherhood,” Liam said to Eoghan. “Will you take the oath?”
“Aye. Upon one condition.”
“Oh?” Master Liam said. “What is that?”
“I wish to take an apprentice.”
“That’s a highly unusual request.”
Beside Conor, Riordan said, “It’s not without precedent. Master Fionntan took an apprentice when he accepted his commission.”
“Of which Brother Eoghan is well aware.” Liam smothered a smile. “Whom do you propose to mentor, then?”
“Brother Conor.”
Conor’s knees weakened. Eoghan was demanding to mentor him as a price of remaining with the Fíréin brotherhood?
Master Liam caught Conor’s eye. “Brother Conor, what say you?”
It took him several moments to find his voice. “It would be an honor, sir.”
“It will require the approval of the Conclave,” Master Liam said. “We will give you an answer tomorrow.”
Riordan nudged Conor toward the boats. He followed his father, too stunned to speak. They were halfway across the lake when Conor noticed Riordan’s smile. “What?”
“Eoghan surprised me. I didn’t think he would accept his commission.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He could have just taken an oath of brotherhood. By requesting an apprentice, he’s accepted the succession. If they vote in favor, he will be the next Ceannaire of Ard Dhaimhin. If they don’t, he’s free.”
Conor felt sick. Last night, Eoghan hadn’t wanted to even take the oath, and today he had accepted the claim to the brotherhood’s leadership. “What does it mean for me?”
“He will be responsible for your training, as Liam was for his. If he wishes, he can recommend you to be his successor.”
Conor’s heart rose into his throat again, but Riordan wasn’t finished. “He will also put you forward for your oath of brotherhood. Under Eoghan’s tutelage, that’s likely to be sooner than later.”
Conor gripped the side of the boat, glad Riordan was working the pulley, because the strength had gone out of his trembling limbs. Somehow, Eoghan had glimpsed the pattern just as Conor had. And once more, someone had made a very large sacrifice on his behalf.
The oath-binding took place at Carraigmór two days after Eoghan’s trials. That morning, a brother presented Conor with a rough-spun linen robe and leather sandals. He bathed in the springhouse before pulling them on, then traversed the slippery steps up to Carraigmór.
The guard let him in without comment. Torches and candles lit the cavernous hall, and a large, flat case lay before the Rune Throne. Riordan met him inside the door, similarly garbed.
“Don’t be nervous. Stand in the back until you are called, and when Eoghan asks if you will undertake training as his apprentice, you say ‘aye.’ The rest is for him.”
Conor nodded as the Conclave members filed in, dressed in the ceremonial robes. Master Liam and Eoghan followed, conversing quietly.
Conor had expected some elaborate ritual, but Master Liam just lifted a hand, and the Conclave formed a line behind him. “Brother Eoghan, you are here today to offer your oath to the Fíréin of Ard Dhaimhin. You have already been instructed in the rights and responsibilities of this undertaking. Do you accept the offer that is extended to you?”
Eoghan’s voice was clear but impassive. “Aye.”
“Members of the Conclave, will you accept the oath of Brother Eoghan as admission to the brotherhood?”
In unison, the nine men said, “Aye.”
Master Liam raised his hand again, and Riordan retrieved the case on the step. He offered it across his open palms to the Ceannaire. Carefully, Master Liam lifted the lid and withdrew a plain, ancient sword.
A surge of power hit Conor like a lightning bolt, humming along his skin and buzzing in his ears. It was the same magic that had created the ivory charm, the kind that emanated from Meallachán’s ancient harp. He steadied himself against the wall.
Liam planted the sword point down into the stone floor. Eoghan knelt and placed his hand atop the pommel.
“Brother Eoghan, do you swear loyalty to the Fíréin brotherhood of Ard Dhaimhin?” Liam asked.
“Aye.”
“Do you swear to uphold our laws and protect our traditions?”
“Aye.”
“Do you forsake all other oaths and commitments to chief, clan, or kingdom, in favor of your oath to the Fíréin brotherhood?”
Eoghan’s tone was wry. “Aye.”
“Then rise, and be accepted as a member of the Fíréin brotherhood.”
Eoghan rose and released the sword. Master Liam took it across both palms once more and laid it in the box. Conor caught his breath as the buzz died away. His heartbeat resumed its normal pace.
Riordan passed the case to another brother and exchanged places with the leader. “Liam, Ceannaire of the Fíréin of Ard Dhaimhin, do you bring forth your apprentice, Brother Eoghan, for consideration as successor to your office?”
“I do.” Liam’s voice echoed in the hall, clear and confident.
“Brother Eoghan, the rights and responsibilities of this commitment have been explained to you. Do you willingly commit yourself to the future leadership of the Fíréin brotherhood and the sacrifices this entails?”
Eoghan’s answer came more slowly than Liam’s. “Aye.”
“As successor to Liam, Ceannaire of Ard Dhaimhin, you may claim the right to choose an apprentice, now or in the future. Do you wish to name an apprentice?”
“Aye. I name Brother Conor.”
“Brother Conor, come forward.”
Conor moved toward his father on shaky legs. He caught a hint of a smile on Riordan’s face as Eoghan turned, but his friend looked appropriately solemn when he spoke.
“By accepting the apprenticeship, you submit yourself to my authority in all matters but your membership within the brotherhood. So far as my requirements do not contradict those of the Fíréin brotherhood, nor the teachings of Comdiu as fulfilled in Lord Balus, do you undertake my training and guidance, willingly and without reservation?”
“Aye.”
Riordan addressed the assemblage then. “Brothers of the Conclave. Do you confirm the oaths of Brother Eoghan, successor to Liam, and Brother Conor, apprentice to Eoghan?”
“We do,” they said in unison.
Master Liam surveyed the gathering, his eyes settling on Conor. “Let it be so noted in the rolls of the Fíréin brotherhood.”
When Conor returned to the céad’s clochan that evening, Eoghan’s few possessions were gone, ostensibly moved into the oath-bound brothers’ barracks. He wanted to ask Eoghan why he had changed his mind, and why he had staked his future at Ard Dhaimhin on Conor’s apprenticeship, but he didn’t appear at meals that day or the next.
On the second morning, Eoghan caught Conor on the way back from devotions. “I asked Master Liam to excuse you from your afternoon duties four days a week. There’s no way we can accomplish what I intend if you’re constantly exhausted.”
“Thank you,” Conor said, though he wasn’t yet sure it warranted gratitude. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“You’ll continue your regular drills for now. You’ll train with me four days a week, starting today. The other days, we’ll take what time we can find. Meet me at the docks after you finish with Cairbre.”
Eoghan’s casual words piqued Conor’s curiosity. Why did they need to practice on the crannog? He stumbled through his morning drills, distracted, earning a few new bruises from spear practice and producing an unusually poor performance with the staff sling. When he finally arrived at the dock, he felt stretched thin by anticipation and anxiety.
Eoghan stood beside the nearest boat, a canvas-wrapped bundle beneath one arm. He gestured for Conor to take the position at the prow and clambered in after him.
Conor began the slow, difficult task of ferrying the boat across. Neither spoke for a time. Then Conor paused at the end of a long pull and turned to his friend. “Why?”
Eoghan understood. “Your path is your own. I think you should have the chance to follow it.”
“I know it couldn’t have been an easy decision,” Conor said. “Thank you.”
Eoghan didn’t answer. When the boat’s hull bumped against the sandy shore, Conor jumped out into the shallow water and dragged it up the beach.
Eoghan led him toward the yard where he had taken his trials only days before. “You said you would give anything to have my skill. Did you mean it?”
It felt like a trick question. “Aye.”
“Good. Because you have a lot of catching up to do, and it won’t be easy.” Eoghan unrolled the bundle with a flourish, revealing two sets of swords, one wood, the other unsharpened steel. He took the wooden practice weapons and tossed one to Conor. “We’ll start with these. They’re heavier. You’ll be glad for it later.”
Conor caught the sword. Metal weights studded its length. It was lighter than he expected, but then again, he had just spent the last year doing little but cultivating, casting, and carrying.
“You already have the skills to be a good swordsman. You read people. You think ahead—as you proved the last five times you beat me at King and Conqueror. And according to Nuallain, you can take down a man with a stone from a hundred yards, so I’m guessing you have pretty good coordination.” He grinned at Conor, who couldn’t help but smile back. This was the Eoghan he remembered. “You just need strength and technique. Those are the two easiest factors to cultivate.”
“How?”
“With repetition.” The wicked glint in Eoghan’s eye said he would be a far more exacting taskmaster than Lughaire could ever be.
Eoghan did more than drill the movements into Conor by rote, though. He demonstrated each technique and then explained every aspect of it, from which muscles should be engaged in its proper execution to its uses and weaknesses. By the time twilight fell, Conor’s mind felt just as exhausted as his body.
“You might actually make a swordsman out of me someday,” Conor said as they climbed back into the boat.
“Or die trying.”
Conor laughed and drew the boat back along the rope to the shore, his overtaxed arms and shoulders protesting furiously. By the time they’d finished, those wooden swords hadn’t felt so light.
“Same time tomorrow,” Eoghan said when they parted. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
That night, Conor dreamed not of Aine or even of war, but of thrusts and parries. For the first time, his ambitions did not seem so grandiose.
The day following Conor’s first lesson with Eoghan, he vowed to make up for the previous morning’s distracted performance. He threw himself into his drills, garnering looks of approval from his instructors. His archery remained mediocre, but he was beginning to accept that as typical. By the time he crossed the lake with Eoghan, he was already mentally and physically spent.
Eoghan drilled parries and counters until Conor’s arms and shoulders ached. Every movement had to be perfect, the angle of arm and hand just so, at least a hundred times before they could move on. Sloppy execution, whether from laziness or unresponsive muscles, earned another round of drills. Conor learned, as he had in the early days of his novitiate, to command obedience from his body even when it screamed for rest and to force his mind to accept pain and exhaustion without complaint. Unconsciously, the habit carried over into his other practices, and his work with the spear and bow leapt forward as well.
Even afternoons on the lake or in the fields did not excuse him from drills with his new mentor. Some days, Eoghan met him on the path to the village with their weapons and some food so they could drill until evening devotions, eating in the time it took to cross the lake. Other times, they took torches to the practice yard where Conor had watched Eoghan unobserved and worked into the small hours of the night.
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.