When Conor returned to Ard Dhaimhin, he didn’t mention the incident involving Aine to Eoghan. He thought Odran might comment on it, but when days passed without the subject arising, he concluded the tracker had either forgotten or dismissed it as yet another unimportant detail about the outside world.
Conor’s fading ability, on the other hand, elicited more interest. He had barely been back a day when Eoghan said, “Odran tells me you’ve discovered a new gift.”
They were back on the crannog where his training had begun, working through the drills he had neglected for the past three weeks. Conor paused, sword in hand, and grinned. “I’d hoped I could keep it quiet. I was looking forward to practicing on you.”
“Too late, I’m afraid.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected. You must take after Riordan. He’s maddeningly difficult to track.”
“I take it you’ve tried?”
“I trained with him as you’re training with Odran. He’s not so easy to follow either, if you’re wondering.”
Conor remembered how Odran had faded beside him and then reappeared before Aine’s guards. Maybe he hadn’t struggled to keep up as much as he thought.
“What do you know about the wards?”
Eoghan frowned at the change of topic. “Not much. Why?”
“There have been disturbances outside the forest. I think it has something to do with the war in Siomar.”
“Odran’s been holding out on me.”
So Odran was Eoghan’s source of information after all. “I gathered Liam forbade it.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. It’s been too quiet for too long.”
“Do you suppose Brother Gillian would know something?”
“Gillian knows something about everything. Why so much interest in the wards?”
Conor hesitated. His thoughts about Aine were private, but perhaps Eoghan could help him. “We intercepted a small party of riders on the Seanrós borders. They said they were tracking a ward from outside.”
“And Odran let them go?”
“They weren’t a threat,” Conor said. “Just a couple of Faolanaigh scholars and their guards. I figured it had to do with the war, and I wondered what use the wards might be to them.”
“I know there were far more wards in Daimhin’s time, but they weren’t maintained after the kingdom split. And before you ask, I don’t know how maintenance is done. I’m not sure anyone does. Even the wards around Ard Dhaimhin are growing thin, or so I’ve heard. I can’t feel them myself. I don’t have the gift.”
But Conor did. He had felt them each time he crossed them in the forest, just as he felt the power of Meallachán’s harp, the oath-binding sword, the wheel charm. He drew on the same power each time he played.
You can do it at will, Odran had said about his fading ability.
Those with the gift of music have the instinctive ability to transform the language of music into the language of magic.
The storyteller makes his story real during the telling.
Even the wards around Ard Dhaimhin are growing thin.
His knees weakened at his sudden flash of insight. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?
“Eoghan, I need to go to Carraigmór. Are we done here?”
Eoghan frowned, but he nodded. They packed their supplies and crossed back to the shore, where Conor strode off toward the keep.
A brother escorted him to Liam’s study. The Ceannaire rose from his desk when he entered. “Conor. I didn’t expect you for a few hours yet. Is there a problem?”
“No sir. I’ve just been away so long I was anxious to play. Besides, I understand Eoghan has plans for my evening.”
Liam gestured to the harp in the corner. “As you wish.”
Conor’s hands shook as he took the harp onto his lap. He turned his mind to the wards that protected the fortress and waited, but not a single note surfaced in his mind.
“Is there a problem?” Master Liam asked.
“No, no problem.” He had to play something. It was his only way back to Aine.
The music came to him, but it wasn’t what he expected. His elation and confusion over seeing Aine spilled from the harp, and he turned the direction of the song with effort. He couldn’t afford to reveal too much, despite Liam’s claim he couldn’t interpret the music. Conor tried to shape the song’s direction, take it back to the wards, but instead, he managed only a discordant collection of notes. He dropped his hands from the strings, disappointment welling inside him.
“I’m sorry, Master Liam. I must still be tired from my last assignment.”
“Return tomorrow then, Brother Conor.”
Conor left the study, crushed by the weight of his failure. He had been so certain that if he could just focus on his objective, he could effect the transformation from music to magic and have some sort of impact on Carraigmór’s wards. Yet it felt like trying to speak a foreign language of which he had no knowledge.
He was halfway across the hall when a thready voice called his name.
Brother Gillian stood in the doorway behind him, one hand braced on the wall. Conor rushed to his side and took his arm.
“Brother Gillian? What are you doing here?”
“It didn’t work, did it?”
“No. How did you—”
“Not here. Help me back to my chamber, boy.”
Conor could hardly suppress his questions on the way back to Gillian’s chamber. When they were safely ensconced in the room, he blurted, “How did you know?”
“I could sense what you were trying to do.”
“Then why didn’t it work?”
“You tell me.”
Conor scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. “I have no idea. Usually I can think of something and play it.”
“Ah, but there is still a difference between music and magic, isn’t there? Music is a talent. Magic is a gift. Think of when you have used magic.”
He thought back to the night at Lisdara with Meallachán’s harp and just recently in the forest when he had faded from sight. “It was the most important thing to me at that moment.”
“There’s your answer then.”
Conor had another question. “Why are the wards so important anyway? Other than binding the sidhe.”
“They weren’t made to bind the sidhe,” Gillian said. “At the time, Seare was under attack from a bigger threat. After Daimhin and the coming of the truth, most of the druids retreated to the nemetons or one of the eastern isles. But a few, those you call the Red Druids, refused to give up their power. Fearing they would use their magic against the throne, Daimhin himself created the wards. The druids could not cross them. The sorcery within them is repelled by the Balian magic, and so their influence and movements were much restricted.
“While belief remained strong, the wards held. But as the influence of the darkness grew greater, the wards became weaker. They’re all but gone in Tigh and Sliebhan, and somewhat intact in Siomar and Faolán.”
“How do you know all this?” Conor asked in amazement.
Gillian turned his head and lifted his white hair. Faded black tattoos traced the lined skin of his neck. “You see, you must have the need to effect the wards. And you must have the tool used to create them all that time ago.”
Conor knew immediately. “Meallachán’s harp.”
“You are a clever boy. Now run along. I have nets to mend.”
Conor rose to leave. “Brother Gillian, if the wards fade where darkness holds sway, why have they begun to weaken in Ard Dhaimhin?”
Gillian opened his mouth to answer. Then he snapped it shut and gave a sharp shake of his head before he felt once more for his nets.
Knowing what needed to be done made little difference to Conor’s daily routine. He was still Eoghan’s apprentice, and he was far from being ready to take his trials. Short of Liam’s summoning Meallachán back to Carraigmór, he had no way to test his theory.
As if to temper Conor’s success with Odran, Eoghan proceeded to show him exactly how far he had to go in his training. Over the next several weeks, the older boy increased the intensity of his drills, leading them with as much effort as Conor exerted and extending the length of their practice matches. Eoghan pushed him to his limits, regardless of the bruises or lacerations they inflicted on each other. Conor’s time must be drawing short if Eoghan was attempting to give him a taste of a real life-or-death match. After nearly four weeks of the strict routine, Eoghan sent Conor back out with Odran to collect reports from the sentries along the southern edge of Rós Dorcha. A thrill of anticipation rippled through Conor when he realized these sentries might have direct knowledge of the war in Siomar.
Odran was no less abrupt than before, and he seemed to delight in seeing Conor fail, but he was meticulous in his teaching. Conor learned how to create different kinds of traps and snares and how to read tracks and estimate their makers’ weight and speed of travel. Odran also taught him how to take and maintain a heading in the tangled thicket of ancient trees. In short, he began to impart the skills that would keep Conor alive on his own.
Odran also drilled him in close-quarters combat, an entirely different way of fighting than the open-battlefield techniques he had learned from Eoghan.
“This is about survival,” he said. “In the forest, you don’t have the luxury of a fair fight. Seize whatever advantage you can.”
It was Odran’s short preamble to ambush using his fading skills. The Fíréin had perfected the strike-and-retreat tactics for which Seareann warriors were known, and this sort of fighting put Conor’s strategic thinking to good use.
In between lessons, Conor and Odran took messages between posts and met up with runners who would take them back to Ard Dhaimhin. The runners were odd and solitary, and they seemed to have forgotten how to behave in human company. Conor quickly gave up trying to befriend them.
The sentries, on the other hand, welcomed the company, and Conor needed only to offer interesting stories or news from Ard Dhaimhin to elicit information in return. Their sharp eyes missed nothing, including the nuances of the shifting loyalties in the southern kingdoms.
The most interesting intelligence came from their last stop, a sentry named Ciaran. He was the polar opposite of Innis, tall and slender with the arrow-straight posture of a man too disciplined to be bent by time. He wore his long white hair in a queue away from a deeply lined face the tone and texture of fine, old leather.
Ciaran took a single look at Conor and said, “You want to ask me about the wards. Come in. I put on a pot of tea when I felt you coming.”
Conor exchanged a startled glance with Odran and followed the man into his small cottage. A large table sat in the center of the room surrounded by four stools, an oddly inviting vignette for a border sentry. The interior smelled of wood smoke and fragrant herbs. Ciaran lifted the pot from the fire with a hook and produced three cups from a board above the hearth.
“Now, sit, Odran, or at least smile. Pretend this is a friendly visit.” He glanced at Conor and shook his head. “Too serious, this one. But you . . . I feel music in you. What would you like to know?”
Conor sat and took the proffered cup. “You tell me. You seem to know why I’m here.”
“You’re here about a woman.”
Conor nearly choked on his tea. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s always about a woman, dear boy,” Ciaran said, unfazed. “But you want to know what I’ve felt, don’t you?”
Conor nodded, alternately intrigued and baffled. Either the sentry was completely mad, or he possessed a gift of sight not unlike Liam’s and Aine’s.
“Usually the wards are quiet,” Ciaran said. “I can feel the comings and goings of the runners and trackers, and not long ago, a number of warriors died on the wards. But lately, someone has been rebuilding them.”
Conor’s mouth went dry. “Who?”
“I can’t tell you that. If that’s what you’ve come to find out, you’ve wasted a trip.”
But Conor knew. If Meallachán’s harp was the instrument used to make the wards, the bard must be rebuilding them. Why wouldn’t Meallachán have simply told Aine what he knew?
Unless he had already left Lisdara.
Conor almost laughed at the bitter irony. Had he stayed at Lisdara, both the bard and his instrument would be within reach. Yet he would never have known what must be done had he not come to Ard Dhaimhin.
But why would the bard need convincing? Why would he rebuild the wards and not coordinate his efforts with Calhoun in the first place?
It was an odd inconsistency, and Conor couldn’t help but wonder if the bard had plans of his own. Still, it didn’t change what he knew he had to do.
When he returned to Ard Dhaimhin, Conor laid out all he had discovered in the last several weeks, expecting Eoghan to see his path as clearly as he did.
Instead, Eoghan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Conor. I can’t let you go.”
Conor stared at Eoghan in surprise. “It could be the key!”
“The key to what? If the bard is remaking the wards, he doesn’t need your help. The matter is already well in hand.”
Conor exhaled slowly and made his tone reasonable. “There’s something odd about the whole thing. I can feel it. Besides, we both know I’m meant to go back. What difference does it make if it’s now or later?”
“A great deal. Conor, you’ve made impressive progress. Astounding, actually. But you’re not ready to take your trials.”
“Then make me ready.”
“It’s been only two years, and it’s never been done in less than six. Talented as you are, and I do mean that, I’d need at least two more.”
Conor’s hopes plummeted. “What are you talking about, Eoghan?”
“Master Liam will not allow me to petition an apprentice who has been here for less than five years. If you’re right, you don’t have that long. That leaves you one option.”
“Please don’t tell me I have to challenge you,” Conor said.
Eoghan shook his head. “No. You have to challenge Master Liam. And you have to win.”