The morning of the challenge match dawned under a bright blue sky, without sign of the rain that had plagued Ard Dhaimhin for days. Conor took it as a good omen, even though his stomach began its somersaults when the first of the curious glances fell on him. So word had gotten around already.
He put his head down and strode toward the amphitheater, hoping that his posture would deflect most of the questions. He stifled a groan as Ailbhe fell into step beside him. True, it was Tor who had taken a dislike to him, but Ailbhe hardly did anything without his friend’s permission.
“You think you can win?” the boy asked, his tone more curious than challenging.
Conor flicked a glance at Ailbhe, forcing down a surge of defensiveness. “What do you think?”
Ailbhe studied him. “You fight like Brother Riordan. He’s the only one who’s ever beaten Master Liam.”
“You think so?”
“I hope so. If you lose, I have to do all Tor’s chores in the barracks for a month. Don’t let me down.” Ailbhe gave him a grin, the first real expression of solidarity, followed by a heavy thump on the shoulder. “Good fortune, Brother Conor.”
“Fortune,” Conor repeated numbly. He wasn’t sure which was more surprising: the fact that the boy had broken the Fíréin prohibition against gambling, or that he’d bet against his friend. On him.
A smile spread across Conor’s face. Perhaps he could do this after all.
When Eoghan slid onto a bench across from him, he was trying to steady his nerves and force down enough breakfast to sustain his energy through the match. He glanced up long enough to catch his mentor’s eye. “Do you have any advice for me?”
“Don’t think,” Eoghan said. “You have the training and the instincts. Don’t let your brain get in the way.”
“If that were a problem, I wouldn’t be in this situation.” Conor hadn’t meant to be funny, but when he caught Eoghan’s gaze, they both broke into nervous chuckles. “Whatever happens today, thank you. I know what you sacrificed to take me as an apprentice.”
“Some good it did you. I’d hoped to avoid this scenario. You ready?”
The words jolted Conor’s system and caused his heart to ricochet in his chest. He gave Eoghan a sober nod, every trace of humor vanishing. One way or another, in a few short hours, his life would take a dramatically new direction.
Eoghan let him save his energy and ferried him across the lake to the crannog. At least Conor was comfortable with the location, the site of much of his training. If he could just convince himself this was another practice match and keep his mind off the stakes, he might actually have a chance. Don’t let your brain get in the way. Very well. He’d already determined Comdiu would have to intervene in this one.
When they arrived at the yard, Master Liam waited with all nine Conclave members. Apparently, the Conclave stood with their leader. Conor didn’t look at them. He felt intimidated enough without reading the pity in their faces.
“Don’t let them rush you,” Eoghan whispered as they approached the yard. “Take as much time as you need. Work some forms. It’s your challenge.”
Eoghan handed Conor the bundle containing his weighted practice sword and the sharpened weapon for the challenge. He moved to the corner of the yard, feeling the other men’s gazes upon him. After a moment of hesitation, he chose the steel.
The practice weapon had been a good approximation of the real thing, but it still took several forms before Conor ceased to be aware of the sword in his hand. By then, he had worked up a sweat, and his muscles felt fluid and warm. He turned and saw Master Liam had done the same thing. At least he was taking Conor’s challenge seriously.
Now came the formalities. Conor stepped into the yard and called, “Liam, Ceannaire of the Fíréin brotherhood, I challenge you.”
Liam stepped forward. “Conor, apprentice to Eoghan of the Fíréin brotherhood, I accept.”
Brother Daigh entered the yard and gestured for them to approach. Riordan was not judging the match as was his privilege as first seat on the Conclave? Conor scanned the area and saw his father had joined Eoghan opposite the Conclave members. The sight warmed him.
Daigh was speaking now, and Conor turned his attention forward. “Brother Conor, the challenge.”
“Short swords to first blood.”
Liam nodded his agreement. “I accept.”
“You will fight to the first sign of blood, drawn intentionally by the opponent’s sword,” Daigh said. “If either should withdraw prior to that point, he shall forfeit the decision. Any questions?”
Conor shook his head. Liam smiled, not unkindly. Daigh continued, “Very well, then. Brothers, take your positions.”
Conor moved back several steps and assumed a guard stance. Liam raised his sword, completely at ease, as if they were chatting rather than fighting. Conor focused on his opponent’s eyes and used his peripheral vision to watch for a shift in stance that would indicate an attack.
Liam leapt forward, his sword a blur of offensive strikes. Only Conor’s instincts kept the bright blade from his flesh. Blessed Comdiu, he’s fast!
Liam paused, and Conor countered with a low thrust. The Ceannaire brushed it aside as he might swat a gnat. His elbow was low, part of Conor’s mind noted, filing the fact away for future use. He’d be weak countering an overhand slash . . .
Conor tried it, but Liam parried and countered easily. He leapt out of the way as the tip of the Ceannaire’s sword sliced open his tunic. There was a collective indrawn breath as the witnesses waited for the slow blossom of red beneath, but it never came. That had been far too close.
Don’t think. You have the training and the instincts. Conor forced himself to relax and met the next onslaught with more confidence, but his blade got nowhere near Liam. Unless Conor developed the miraculous ability to draw blood from several inches away, he was going to wear down long before the Ceannaire.
Back and forth they went, circling for better position, each meeting the other’s blade before it could strike home. Sweat trickled down Conor’s face and dripped onto his tunic, more from anxiety than exertion. At least Liam no longer looked so fresh. He, too, was having to work harder to keep the equilibrium of the match.
The air seemed to thicken then, time slowing by just a fraction. The tension melted from Conor’s body and the scene turned soft around the edges. He found himself parrying just a bit faster, countering a split second quicker. He was acutely aware of the movement of air currents around them, the sound of the sand beneath their feet, the rasp of breath in his lungs. Details began to register in the back of his mind: the shift of weight to Liam’s offhand side, the slightest flicker of an eyelash when he was about to feint, the way he held his breath before delivering a particular strike.
Then time sped up again, and Conor was fighting faster than he had thought himself capable, moving without conscious thought. Before he could even register his intention, he saw his opening and took it.
Pain seared Conor’s throat. He halted and realized the tip of Liam’s sword had broken the skin just above his collarbone. It was a masterful show of control: a mere fraction more and Conor would be dead, or at the very least, mute. Blood slowly trickled down his chest.
Liam was breathing hard. “Well done, Brother Conor. Another minute, and you might have had me.”
Only then did the other details—and the reason for the shocked silence—seep in. A slight smile stretched Conor’s lips.
Liam followed his gaze downward to his chest, where the tip of Conor’s blade lay against his ribs amidst a slowly spreading red stain.
“It’s a draw!” Daigh announced in shock.
Their eyes met, and cautiously, they withdrew their weapons. It took all Conor’s willpower not to reach up and touch the wound. Instead, he asked, “What does a draw mean?”
“The decision is Liam’s,” Daigh said.
Conor’s heart fell to his stomach. All his hard work was for naught?
“Bravely fought, Brother Conor,” Liam said. “I haven’t had a match like that in years. You should be proud of what you have accomplished, as should Brother Eoghan.”
“Thank you, sir,” Conor said, but he felt only the heavy weight of failure.
“I am satisfied you have met all the requirements of our training and then some. If you still wish it, I release you from your apprenticeship. Leave Ard Dhaimhin with my blessings.”
Conor stared for what felt like a full minute. “I can leave? Even though I didn’t win?”
“The fact you risked this challenge when you were given an alternative shows both character and purpose. You’ve proven you have your own path to follow.”
Conor bowed his head, humbled by the praise. “Thank you, sir. But I believe it means Comdiu will not allow His plans to be thwarted by either of us.”
Liam offered his hand, and Conor clasped his forearm. “Enjoy your accomplishment for now, and come to the fortress when you’re ready. We have some matters to address before you go.”
“Aye, sir.”
Conor felt oddly serene in the aftermath of the match, as if he had merely watched the challenge. Tomorrow he would walk from the peace of Ard Dhaimhin and into the roiling uncertainty of a kingdom under siege, where he would face battles that would make his challenge match with Liam seem like idle play. Somehow, in this bubble of calm, the idea did not frighten him. It paled in comparison to the sudden thrill of hope that shot through him.
Aine, I’m coming.
Liam and Riordan remained on the crannog long after the others left, staring at the gently rippling surface of the lake.
“You were right,” Riordan said finally.
“About what?”
“About everything. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“You had the right to doubt,” Liam said. “I think Comdiu worked things out in spite of me, not because of me.”
Riordan turned, studied Liam’s profile. “I don’t understand.”
“Conor was correct. The age of the brotherhood will come to an end, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. It’s how it’s meant to end. I saw that today.”
There were far too many layers in the statement to peel back, so Riordan went for the most obvious question, the one that had nagged him since the match. “It wasn’t a draw, was it? Conor was just a little quicker than you today.”
Liam only gave his mysterious smile and turned to the waiting boat. Riordan shook his head and followed, but he knew he was right. Conor had somehow managed to beat the Ceannaire in a fair match, a fact disturbing in its symbolism. He climbed into the boat behind his leader, pushed away from the shore, and forced back a shiver of foreboding as they glided into deep water.
After evening devotions, Conor and Eoghan made their way to Carraigmór. Every few feet, brothers stopped them with questions. Had it really been a draw? Had Conor actually managed to bleed a man who had never lost a match?
Conor put them off the best he could and kept moving toward the fortress. Eoghan kept his eyes fixed on Carraigmór’s imposing bulk, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. It was a sure sign he was struggling not to speak his mind. But why? Was it the brothers’ sudden attention on Conor? Or did Eoghan sense, as Conor did, that there was far more involved in that match than a simple challenge?
“It wasn’t me,” Conor said finally.
“What do you mean it wasn’t you?” Eoghan frowned, finally looking at Conor. “I just watched you.”
“Something happened back there. And don’t say I just managed to get out of my own way. It was more than that. I’m not that good.”
“Today you were.”
“Today Comdiu wanted me to win my freedom.” Conor studied his friend. Eoghan kept his thoughts close, but even he couldn’t hide the emotion roiling beneath the surface. Was it resentment? “I thought you would be pleased. This is a victory for you, too. Isn’t this what we’ve been working toward?”
“Of course I’m pleased!” Eoghan stopped. “You should have seen yourself. You were incredible. I’m proud to claim even the smallest bit of credit. It’s just that . . .” He shrugged. “You’re my only real friend. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t want you to stay.”
Conor gripped Eoghan’s arms, his gaze boring into his friend’s. “You’re my brother, Eoghan. I don’t just mean in Fíréin terms. If we survive this, we’ll cross paths again.”
“That’s a big if.” Eoghan pulled out of Conor’s grip and started back down the path. “The Conclave is naive if they believe Ard Dhaimhin will hold out against Fergus and the Red Druid indefinitely.”
“I’m not sure they do. They just can’t let go of their traditions. Promise me you won’t throw your life away.”
“I could ask the same of you.” Eoghan stopped at the base of Carraigmór’s steep upward climb. “This is where I leave you. I’ll go see to your provisions.”
“Thank you, Eoghan.” Conor wanted to say more, but they had already expressed too much sentiment for one day, so he turned and began the ascent for the last time.
At the top, the brother at the door admitted him without question. Riordan waited for him inside the cavernous hall with oddly bright eyes. “I never thought I would see this day, Conor.”
Conor followed Riordan down the corridor toward Master Liam’s study. “You thought I would lose.”
“That’s not what I meant. Labhrás would be proud of you.”
“Do you think so? He never wanted me to be a warrior.”
“We wanted it to be your choice. We knew you would seek your own way.”
“An awful lot of my path has been orchestrated from right here.” For the first time, though, Conor could look on the Fíréin’s interference without resentment. The plans of men succeeded only where Comdiu allowed it.
“Whatever you may think of our actions, we did what we believed was right. If mistakes have been made, they were made out of ignorance, not malice.”
Conor sensed the apology in the statement, the closest he would receive from any members of this proud brotherhood, even his own father. He extended his hand, and Riordan gripped his forearm for a long moment before turning to rap sharply on Liam’s door.
“Go on. I’ll wait here.”
The Ceannaire stood by a bookshelf, thumbing through a heavy volume. A familiar case lay on the desk. Conor shut the door behind himself and stood quietly, unwilling to speak first.
At last, Liam turned. “Conor. Right. We have some business here.”
“I’m swearing an oath?”
“A formality. As you know, few brothers leave Ard Dhaimhin once they enter, but from those who do, we require some assurances.” Liam moved to the table and lifted the latch on the case. Conor braced himself for the rush of power, but instead, he felt only the low, pleasant hum of energy. The magic drew him as Liam removed the sword from the case and planted the tip into the ground.
This close, Conor saw the details he had missed at the oath-binding: the gold-chased basket-weave design in the grip, the four-looped shield knot emblazoned on the pommel. He could just make out the fine etching of runes down the length of the blade.
He placed his palm atop the pommel, its iron smoothed and burnished by generations of oaths. Magic enveloped him immediately, spreading through his body like warm honey. He heard the faint whisper of voices, too many to distinguish individually, but he sensed the meaning of the words clearly. The oaths of thousands of men. His fingers flexed convulsively on the metal. The oath-binding was not simply symbolism?
“Conor?” Liam looked at him quizzically, and he realized the Ceannaire had been talking to him.
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked if you were ready. You need only answer the questions.”
Conor swallowed hard and nodded.
“Do you swear to uphold the sanctity, privacy, and safety of the Fíréin brotherhood outside of Ard Dhaimhin?”
“I do.” As Conor spoke the words, he felt a tug in his chest, followed by the whispered echo of his own voice. I do.
“Do you swear to comport yourself with honor and dignity as befits your training and education at Ard Dhaimhin?”
“I do.” The echo grew louder, and Conor almost released the sword.
“Do you swear to never raise weapons against a Fíréin brother except in defense of your own life?”
“I do.”
Liam nodded to Conor, and he released the sword abruptly, expecting to find the shield knot burned into his palm. Of course it wasn’t.
“Then go with the blessing of the brotherhood. May Comdiu go before you in all your endeavors.”
Conor gave a deep bow. “Thank you, Master Liam.”
“One more thing.” Liam opened a small box on his desk and withdrew a wooden coin embossed with the same shield knot emblazoned on the sword.
“What is this?”
“The symbol of the brotherhood. It will identify you to others like you in the kingdoms. Where you see this mark, you can be assured of assistance. Go now. Follow the path Comdiu has set before you.”
Conor turned the coin over in his hand, struck by sudden, unexpected regret. “Somehow I didn’t expect leaving would be this difficult.”
“‘The path of the faithful is perilous and fraught with sorrows as well as blessings,’” Master Liam quoted.
Conor closed his hand around the wooden coin and gave the Ceannaire another low bow. “Thank you, Master Liam. For everything.”
When he emerged, Riordan waited for him on the stairs. “Done?”
“It wasn’t what I expected. Did you hear it, too?”
Riordan’s brow furrowed. “Hear what?”
Conor’s thoughts now seemed foolish and fanciful. Perhaps he had just imagined the whispers, fueled by stories of heroes and enchanted swords. It was an unsatisfying explanation, though, and Conor knew magic when he felt it. But it hardly mattered now. He was leaving behind this strange brotherhood with its oaths and strictures and magic-imbued swords for the far more frightening reality of war in the kingdoms.
“Tell me the truth,” he said suddenly. “Let’s assume the match against Master Liam was an aberration, or maybe even a miracle. You’ve seen me fight. Can I survive in the kingdoms?”
Riordan seemed to consider his answer before speaking. “Conor, you are an extraordinarily gifted swordsman. Eoghan’s skill and your hard work notwithstanding, you should have never been able to accomplish what you did in such a short period of time. I’ve seen few who can match you, here or in the kingdoms.”
Conor swallowed his protest, stunned by the praise.
“But I will caution you,” Riordan said. “You are still very young. As many men will resent you for your skill as respect you for it, and it won’t always be readily apparent which is which. Politics in the kingdoms do not favor those who threaten the established order. Don’t lose your focus on what is important.”
“You sound as if I’m returning to seize the throne from Fergus,” Conor said.
“You may think of yourself as a dishonored clansman with Fíréin training, but you are still a Mac Nir. Some will seek to use you for that. Just be wary.”
Later that night, Conor and Eoghan shared a small jug of mead on the crannog where they had spent so many evenings drilling.
“Some people won’t believe you’re there just to fight,” Eoghan said, “especially when you’ve been thought dead for the past three years. You might be mistaken for a spy.”
“It’s a poor spy who draws so much attention to himself,” Conor said wryly. “Besides, Calhoun knows me. He wouldn’t believe I would align myself with the man who killed Lord Labhrás.”
“These are strange times. I take it you’re going to find Aine?”
“I am.”
“Will you sweep in and declare your undying love?” Repressed laughter underpinned Eoghan’s tone.
Conor rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not the one who’s been killing himself to be worthy of a king’s sister. Don’t pretend you haven’t wondered what she’ll think of you now.”
He had, but he wasn’t about to admit it aloud. “Knowing Aine, she’ll be utterly unimpressed.”
“Don’t be so sure. After a few years on the front, she probably has a new perspective on warriors.”
“How do you know she’s on the front?”
Eoghan bowed his head. “Odran told me you saw her in the forest. I know she’s been mapping wards for the king for almost two years.”
Conor wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty he hadn’t told Eoghan the truth or angry his friend had kept the knowledge from him. “She’ll have a map of the wards, and her captain will know where Fergus and his army are. They’ll be able to give me an idea of where I should seek Meallachán.”
“She’s at Abban’s camp, wherever that might be,” Eoghan said. “One of the border sentries could tell you where they’ve gone. After what we heard about Semias, they may already be in retreat.”
Conor set aside the mead jug, his head now aching nearly as badly as his body. It was far too easy to forget the reality of what awaited him.
“It’s going to be a long journey,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I should take advantage of a soft bed and a roof over my head while I still can.”
They returned to the shore in silence, Eoghan’s discomfort plain in his stiff movements as he drew them back across the water. Conor couldn’t reassure him. They all made their decisions, for good or bad. Even Eoghan, his closest friend, his brother, had held back information, and Conor had done the same. It was time to strike out on his own, follow his own path.
How strange that in the end, Master Liam seemed to understand best of all.
Conor slept soundly on his last night in Ard Dhaimhin, but it stemmed more from exhaustion than from peace of mind. He woke automatically before the bugles roused the city. He had already said his good-byes, and now he just wanted a quiet departure.
He had nothing to take with him but his good wool cloak, serviceable if a bit too short, the clothes on his back, and the small pouch of coins he had brought from Lisdara. He’d never before realized how little he actually owned.
When he crept from the barracks into the pale morning, Riordan and Eoghan were waiting for him.
“You didn’t think we’d miss seeing you off, did you?” Riordan said with a hint of a smile.
Conor returned it. “I’m glad you’re both here.”
“Especially since we have your weapons,” Eoghan said. “Let it not be said the brotherhood sent you away defenseless.”
Eoghan held up a sheathed sword on a leather baldric. Conor took it and drew the blade from the scabbard. It was plain, well-made steel, with a leather-wrapped grip and a brass pommel, meant for use and not for show. He shrugged on the baldric and adjusted the buckle so the sword rested comfortably across his back, an easy draw from his right shoulder. “Thank you.”
“We’re not done.”
The two men also presented him with a staff sling, a leather pouch for his hand stones, and a small parcel of food.
“No bow?” Conor asked.
“We thought about it,” Eoghan said, “but it would just be useless weight. You couldn’t hit a man with an arrow if you threw it at him.”
Conor laughed. “Sadly, that’s true.”
“There’s one last thing.” Riordan produced a dagger from beneath his tunic and handed it to him, hilt first.
Conor’s eyes widened. The dagger was a lovely old piece with a slender, silver-chased handle and stamped leather sheath, as much for display as for service.
“This was the only thing of value I took from Tigh when I joined the brotherhood,” Riordan said softly. “I’d like you to have it.”
Conor examined it closely. Unexpectedly, his throat constricted, and he fought back tears. “I wish . . .”
“I know. These three years have been an unexpected blessing, Conor. I never thought to see you become a man.” Riordan pulled Conor into a warm embrace, the kind Labhrás would have given him. “Trust Comdiu to guide you, and your path will become clear.”
It was nearly the same thing Labhrás had said that last day at Glenmallaig—the last time Conor had ever seen him. Tears rose again and threatened to spill over. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Father.”
He quickly turned to Eoghan, who looked uncomfortable. “I’ll see you soon, brother.”
Eoghan nodded and gripped his arm. The long look they shared told Conor more of his friend’s thoughts than he’d ever say. Had it not been for Conor, this departure might have been his.
Conor started toward the long set of switchbacks that would take him up and out of the city. He felt eyes on him until he reached the top, but when he turned back to wave a last farewell, the two men were gone.