Conor paced the confines of his chamber for the next two days while he waited to hear his fate firsthand. The books he brought from Balurnan held his attention for only so long, and he was too distracted to put up much of a defense in his games of King and Conqueror with Dolan. When the servant put Conor’s king into check for the second time, he simply tipped the marble game piece in surrender and pushed away from the game board.
“The silence is maddening,” Conor said. “I’m going for a walk.”
Pacing the dim, smoky hallway did nothing to relieve the smothering sense of stillness. Labhrás’s country manor was smaller and more humble than this colossal keep, but it had been alive with warmth and laughter. Right now, smells of the evening’s supper would be drifting across the courtyard from the kitchen, signaling the coming night. The household warriors would eat with them in the hall before a cheery fire, while Labhrás’s three daughters took turns telling tales culled from educations no less thorough than Conor’s.
His chest ached at the recollection. His family was in Balurnan, regardless of the clan name he bore. He couldn’t imagine King Galbraith calling for him in the evenings as Labhrás had, to mull over the day’s events to the sound of the harp. The instrument had been in the Maonagh clan for generations, but they called it Conor’s harp since he was the only one who could coax a melody from its aged rosewood frame. He would give anything to be back there now, his hands on the strings, instead of sitting in this oppressive keep, waiting for someone else to decide his fate.
“The harp!” Conor’s feet carried him halfway down the corridor before he fully registered his intentions. He passed the secret chamber behind the tapestry, turned a corner, and stopped before a door that looked like every other entryway in the palace.
The latch gave easily, and the door opened into a large, dark room. Conor removed one of the thick candles from the iron stand inside and lit it from the torch in the hallway, then touched the flame to the other wax columns. They flared to life, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow.
Layers of dust and cobwebs covered the tapestries and darkened the colorful rug on the stone floor. Conor swept aside one of the cloths that covered the furniture and found a high-backed chair beneath it. When he lifted the flower-embellished cushion, he was rewarded with a memory of his mother, young and auburn-haired, painstakingly embroidering it by firelight.
“My mother’s sitting room.” How long had it been since he had set foot in this chamber? He’d last visited Glenmallaig three years ago, the same trip during which she’d had her accident, but those memories were as inaccessible as the others.
He wandered past the covered chairs and tables and stopped short before an object in the corner. Beneath the covering lay a beautiful Seareann lap harp, far finer than his instrument at Balurnan, its maple soundboard elaborately carved with mythological creatures. He touched a string, and it sprang back with a metallic hum, bringing with it a shard of memory.
He sat at his mother’s feet as she held the harp in her lap. Her fingers moved nimbly up and down the strings, demonstrating the major scales and chords, which she named as she plucked them. Conor reached out to touch the instrument.
“Would you like to try?” she asked, smiling down at him.
Conor sucked in a ragged breath. His mother had played the harp? How could he have forgotten that? He tried to hold on to the image, but he could have sooner captured smoke in his hands. Tears threatened to pool in his eyes.
Instead, he settled into the chair with the instrument. He plucked each string and made minute adjustments to the pins until every note rang true. When he played an arpeggio, a shiver of anticipation rippled across his skin.
Conor began with Labhrás’s favorite song, a ballad about a man who returned from war to find his family had moved on without him. That turned into a cheerier tune Labhrás’s wife favored. One by one, he played through each of his foster family’s most requested songs: a mournful ballad for Morrigan, the eldest daughter; a lively reel for Etaoin, the middle child; and finally a silly jig that had something to do with a dog disguised as a bard. He smiled as he imagined eight-year-old Liadan singing along in her off-key soprano.
Then the song shifted into a melody Conor couldn’t remember hearing, let alone playing. Music poured from the instrument, filling the room and reverberating through his bones while he lost himself within the notes of the song.
The door burst open with a bang. Conor’s fingers slid from the strings with a discordant twang as Labhrás shut the door behind him and snuffed out the candle flames with his fingertips. “Not a sound.”
Gooseflesh prickled Conor’s arms, and his heart thudded in his ears. He lost track of how long he sat there in the dark, gripping the harp. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and slid down his face.
Just when Conor had reached the limits of his patience, Labhrás broke the silence. “You mustn’t play here. You reveal too much. Come, quickly now; the king’s summoned you.”
Conor carefully set down the harp and rose, his gut twisting at the urgency in his foster father’s voice. He followed Labhrás out the door and down the stairs to Galbraith’s private chamber, the same chamber above which he’d eavesdropped just two days ago.
Inside the study, the king sat behind a large table, flanked by Fergus and Diarmuid. He gestured for Conor to approach.
“I’m sending you to Faolán. You’re to leave with Lord Riocárd in five days.”
Conor’s knees almost gave way, even though he had been expecting this very announcement. “Faolán. For how long?”
“Until you’re of age, at least. We’ve signed a treaty with King Calhoun. You’re to be his hostage to ensure our good faith.”
“I see. Is that all, my lord?”
Galbraith raised a hand in dismissal. Conor turned on his heel, and Labhrás opened the door for him.
“One more thing.” The king’s voice hardened. “Was that you earlier? The music?”
Conor’s heart rose into his throat, but he composed his expression before turning back to the king. “I’ve been studying in my chamber most of the afternoon.”
Galbraith gazed at him, his brow furrowed while he gauged his truthfulness. Then he waved him off.
As Conor turned back to the door, Diarmuid reached out and gripped the back of the king’s chair. Only then did Conor notice the fine sheen of sweat on the druid’s forehead.
“That was very unwise of you.”
Conor frowned at Dolan. He had expected the servant to reassure him about his upcoming journey to Faolán, not berate him for something he hadn’t realized was prohibited. “I still don’t understand why I can’t play.”
“After your mother died, the king decreed there was to be no music in the palace. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.”
Conor remembered little—a fact of which Dolan was trying to take advantage—but even he knew his parents’ marriage had been a political alliance, not a love match. He had seen how unwell the druid appeared. No, he was willing to bet the druid had forbidden music, not the king.
He could voice none of those thoughts, however, so he put on a humble expression. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Dolan looked unconvinced, but he nodded. “We’re going to Faolán then. I think you’ll find some differences in the hall of a Balian king.”
“Was this part of Riordan’s plan?”
“I don’t see how it could be. That decision was made years ago, and this was only decided in the last few days.”
Conor nodded, but things were falling into line far too neatly to be coincidence.
They are not coincidence. Not everything is decided by the plans of men.
Conor shivered. He rarely heard Comdiu speak so plainly. Even though he had been raised in the Balian faith, even though he knew Balus was Comdiu incarnate, he still had a difficult time believing his God intervened so directly in the lives of believers.
“In any case,” Dolan continued, “Lisdara will be a cheerier place to live than Glenmallaig, hostage or not.”
Hostage. That word brought him back to reality. He was not merely a guest, nor was this a long-term alliance through marriage. Galbraith had need of Faolán’s warriors, and his son’s life was simply surety. Conor had been disowned and dishonored, removed from any hope of leadership. He was a sacrificial pawn. When he was no longer of any use to Tigh, his life would depend solely on his value to Calhoun Mac Cuillinn, a fierce warrior of great repute.
Suddenly, Conor’s future—and his safety—looked far less certain.