A tailor accompanied Dolan to Conor’s chamber the next morning. Despite Galbraith’s contempt for his son, it seemed he would not let him leave for Lisdara unprovisioned. It would reflect poorly on the king should Conor arrive with only one chest of plain clothing better suited to a minor landholder than a king’s son.
The tailor took his measurements with his fleshy lips pursed in dissatisfaction. Conor endured the perusal in silence. His scrawny frame would not do justice to the fine clothing, so he left the selection of fabrics and trims to Dolan’s judgment. He wouldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t merely to avoid his father’s displeasure.
You’ve pretended to be something you’re not for years. It’s the clothing that bothers you?
Conor shifted uneasily, earning a glare from the tailor. The piercing comments came more frequently now, and Conor couldn’t say he was entirely comfortable with them. He voiced his disquiet to Labhrás, expecting his foster father to discount the episodes as imagination.
But Labhrás only nodded. “Until now, you’ve looked to me for direction, but you are practically a grown man. It’s time you let Comdiu guide your decisions.”
“So you don’t think I’m imagining things?”
“Not at all.” Labhrás placed both hands on Conor’s shoulders. “Just remember, it’s your choice what to believe and how much to reveal.”
“Aye, my lord.” Conor’s throat tightened around the words. Until now, he hadn’t understood all Labhrás had done for him. Though they shared no blood, Labhrás was his father.
“I’m proud of you, son. You will bring honor to Tigh.” The older man squeezed Conor’s shoulders. Then he changed his mind and pressed him into a strong embrace. “Look to Comdiu, and you won’t go wrong.”
Labhrás released him and moved to the door. Then he turned back, his expression sober. “If you ever need anything, and I’m not . . . available . . . remember I’m not the only one looking out for you. You’ll always have a place with kin if you want it.” He sent him a sad smile, then slipped out the door.
Conor sank down on the bed, the warmth he’d felt moments before squeezed out by a cold, hard knot in his middle. Surely his foster father hadn’t meant the words as they sounded. Did Labhrás believe he was in danger? Was Conor in danger too?
That alone would have been unsettling, but the kin to whom his foster father referred could only be his uncle, Riordan.
If something happened to Labhrás, Conor was to join the Fíréin brotherhood.
Once more, Conor traveled among armed, mounted men, and once more, their presence did not comfort him. A party of this size traveled slowly, with its complement of foot soldiers and mounted warriors. An endless stream of carts clattered along behind them, carrying their tents, food, and personal belongings, as well as a display of Tigh’s bounty for King Calhoun. At this pace, they would spend five days on the road, most of it only a stone’s throw from the ancient forest, Róscomain, and the dangers that lurked within. Even the brigandine jacket Conor wore, with its heavy metal plates sewn to boiled leather, failed to reassure him. It only reminded him how ineffective their weapons and armor would be against the threat in the mist.
But Róscomain’s dark, threatening edge became tedious after a few hours, and by midday Conor began to succumb to the monotony. He marked the regular movements of the outriders as they scouted ahead for threats. He listened to the conversations of men around him and tried to guess the regions of their birth from the subtle differences in their accents. He even composed harp melodies in his head to entertain himself.
When at last the light began to fade and the first tendrils of mist twined the trees, Lord Riocárd called a stop. The servants transformed an open meadow into a canvas village with astonishing speed, setting out lavishly furnished tents for both Riocárd and Conor. Dolan brought him a bowl of stew and a chicken leg with a flask of well-watered mead, but the food could not distract him from the tree line. Boredom may have dampened his anxiety over their proximity to the forest, but the falling darkness reminded him that he had legitimate reasons for fear.
Despite his nervousness, as Conor listened to the low sounds of men and horses among the creaks of armor and the crackle of campfires, his heavy eyelids drifted down. He retreated to his tent, where he wrestled off his brigandine and stretched out fully clothed atop a plush feather bed. As soon as he tugged the blanket over himself, he fell asleep.
Until a woman’s voice, low and sultry, beckoned him. Conor.
The sound entwined him, wrapping him in shivery fingers of pleasure. Half-sedated, Conor sat up slowly in his bed and stared toward the forest.
Lay the charm aside. You don’t need it. Come to me.
Conor’s hand closed around the charm, and it sent a jolt of alarm through his body. He startled awake, covered in gooseflesh despite the warmth of his blanket.
“They’re out there.” Dolan crouched beside Conor’s cot, the low flame from the single lantern glinting in the servant’s dark eyes.
“What are they?”
“Old magic from the beginning of time. The pagans call them the Folk, an ancient, half-human race that lives between our world and the next. But Balians believe they are the Fallen, the celestial beings who turned against Comdiu before time began. He gave them leave to wreak their will upon the earth. For a time, they were bound, but as Balus’s gifts wane, so does the protection against them. We call them the sidhe.”
In the dark, Conor trembled. Dolan had never spoken openly of the threat in the mist, and knowing the truth only heightened his fear. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized exactly how sheltered he’d been at Balurnan. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“So you won’t be drawn by their call. The sidhe can’t harm us directly. They can only deceive us, and our faith makes us less susceptible to their lies.” Dolan patted his shoulder. “Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”
Conor stretched out on the cot and closed his hand around the ivory wheel. Despite his efforts to sleep, disturbing questions swirled through his mind. The sidhe had beckoned him before. This time, though, the call had been harder to ignore. Would they just keep trying until he could no longer resist?
The camp stirred long before daylight without Conor finding sleep. Smells of smoke and cooking food wafted on the breeze with hushed voices and the sounds of weapons being checked and horses prepared. Then a string of curses drifted through camp.
Dolan left his side in a flash, disappearing from the tent before Conor could poke his head out the flap. When the older man returned, he wore a grim expression. “We lost three men last night. Left their horses and armor behind.”
Conor’s eyes went to the trees, where the mist had already begun to recede. “What did Riocárd say?”
“He’s calling them deserters. They’ll double the watches tonight, but it won’t help.”
“You sound as if this is not the first time.”
Dolan glanced back at the milling camp, the tightness of his mouth betraying his concern. “Not all casualties of past campaigns have been from battle, lad. Róscomain takes its due, even if the enemy takes more.”
Conor shuddered. He might have escaped the sidhe’s grasp last night, but he knew how close he’d been to succumbing to the voice. Had he not been wearing the charm, he might be among the missing.
They rode well into twilight the second day, resting the horses and foot soldiers only as long as necessary and eating cold meals to avoid the time it took to light fires. The warriors eyed the tree line warily, grasping swords and spears at the slightest noise.
As Dolan predicted, Riocárd doubled the watch.
Despite his fears, Conor slept soundly, troubled only by the usual dreams of the unknown. In the morning, though, another warrior was missing, and the two dozen men on watch couldn’t account for his disappearance. He had simply vanished.
“Or the others were spelled,” Conor muttered as Dolan helped him into his armor.
Days melded into nights in a dreamlike fashion as they continued their progress toward Faolán. By the fifth day, when they at last broke free of the shadow of Róscomain in favor of open country, even the heartiest warriors looked drawn and anxious.
In four nights, they had lost eleven men.
They entered the meadowlands that indicated the border between Tigh and Faolán, the dark demarcation of Róscomain barely visible in the distance. The warriors drew their first easy breaths since leaving Glenmallaig. Here in the open country, the sidhe held little sway. Everyone knew the creatures of the mist clung to their dark forest, content to prey upon those who traveled the king’s road.
That night, the mist blanketed the open country as thickly as it had the forest’s edge. In the morning, three more men were gone.