CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“What if it doesn’t work?” Conor paused outside the great hall, where Riordan, Eoghan, and the rest of the Conclave waited, expecting to witness the rebuilding of Ard Dhaimhin’s wards. He’d said he was sure he could rebuild them without Meallachán’s harp after what he had done in Cwmmaen’s hall, but it was all just supposition. What if he started to play and the only thing that happened was a little music? Why hadn’t he tried this in private first?

“It will work.” Aine stretched up to kiss him lightly and squeezed his arms in encouragement.

He nodded, buoyed by her belief in him. Whatever had happened earlier that day, the love shining in her eyes was real, as was her conviction that Comdiu had brought him here for this purpose. He actually believed it might be possible.

In a few moments, they would find out.

The harp sat beside a chair in the center of the room, innocuous, unremarkable. If he understood his gift, the actual harp should be immaterial. When he was finished, would it hum with power like Meallachán’s? Or would it go back to being just a simple instrument of polished maple, never hinting at the role it played in the protection of their city?

Conor strode into the room, making his expression confident, but he needn’t have bothered. The anticipation and anxiety in the room was palpable. The moment demanded he make some sort of announcement, a grand gesture, but he didn’t trust his voice. Instead, he sat in the chair and lifted the harp into his lap.

Aine took up a position across from him and offered him an encouraging smile. He took a breath, put his fingers to the strings, and began to play.

Unintentionally, the notes took on the form of an old song, the one he had composed for Aine years ago at Lisdara, before he left her for the first time. And then the music began to change. He lost sight of the individual notes, the melody. In his mind’s eye, he saw the music as a golden light, emanating from the harp and spreading out over the fortress.

He stretched himself further and it curved into a shining dome, encompassing the city, the forests, all the land the Fíréin had laid claim to, all the land they depended on for their sustenance. When it had expanded as far as he could see in his mind’s eye, he let it fall in a shimmering curtain to the ground. It was not the web of interconnecting wards that had originally protected the city and given warning to the sentries but a shield —a shield of song and magic and will, a barrier to those who meant to harm the new city that had emerged from the druid’s attack.

Satisfaction swelled in him as the last notes faded. He had done it. Conor opened his eyes and scanned the room.

“Is it done?” Riordan asked.

Conor looked to Aine. Her expression cracked his confidence and sent his heart plummeting. “Tell me.”

“It worked for a moment. The shield went up. But it dissipated the minute you stopped playing.”

Silence fell around the room, their hope dying with her words.

“So we do need the harp,” Eoghan said. “To make it permanent.”

Riordan looked to Conor. “And the harp is destroyed. What do we do now?”

“I don’t know.” Failure washed over him, heavier than before. “If Gillian still lived, he might know a way. I thought it would work.”

Where had he gone wrong? Had he not concentrated hard enough? Why had he not been able to will the outcome? He had been so sure —confident, cocky even —that he’d be able to rebuild the wards with nothing more than his gifts. Wasn’t that the purpose of his experience at Cwmmaen? To show him how he was meant to save Seare? To convince him he was needed back home?

Since when does Comdiu need you to save anyone or anything?

The chastisement cut through the jumble of his thoughts, illuminating the sheer arrogance of his assumptions. He’d assumed that his rescue from captivity had been for his benefit, the storm punishment for his disobedience, but maybe all of it had been to free Talfryn and his family from the grip of the sidhe. But if that were true, why show Conor the extent of his gifts?

Unless it wasn’t the extent of his gifts he was supposed to learn but rather the nature of them, their limitations.

His face burned as he realized the depth of his egotism. He’d actually believed Comdiu had given him the power to will the outcome of events, that He would hand over that sort of power to someone who hadn’t even been faithful with what he’d been gifted —someone who had failed his vows to his wife, had been deceived by evil . . .

Conor jerked his head up. The nature of his gifts. Hadn’t he just said to Aine that his gift was related to the control of magic? It made sense. Everything he’d done had been beneath the influence of Briallu’s glamour, including his archery session with Ial. He’d never actually been manipulating reality; he’d been manipulating the sidhe’s magic.

I’m sorry, Comdiu. I’ve been foolish. Prideful. Disobedient. Even when I thought I was doing Your work, I only had an eye to my own glory. Please don’t let Seare suffer because I was unfaithful. Show me. Tell me what to do.

He silently poured out his contrition, only vaguely aware of the conversation flowing around him, until that familiar tug cut through his thoughts. He gripped the chair as dizziness swept through him.

“Conor? What’s wrong?” Aine was by his side in an instant, a hand on his arm, a concerned look on her face.

“I don’t know. Just an . . . odd feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“Ever since I was in Gwydden, I’ve felt a pull to Carraigmór. At first I thought it was just Comdiu nudging me back to Seare, but it got stronger the closer I got to Ard Dhaimhin. I assumed that when I rebuilt the wards, it would go away.” He winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s rather uncomfortable.”

He noticed that the hall had fallen silent again and all the Conclave members were looking at him. “What?”

Riordan and Eoghan exchanged a glance.

“What is it?” Conor asked.

Eoghan shook his head. “Couldn’t be.”

“Give him a chance,” Riordan said. “It would explain a great deal about what’s happened here.”

Conor glanced at Aine. “Do you know what this is about?”

“I do now. But I shouldn’t tell you. I don’t want to interfere with how this is unfolding.”

Frustration welled up within him again at being the only one in the room who didn’t know what was going on. “Lead the way, then, since you all have this figured out.”

Aine took his hand, undoubtedly meaning to calm him, but he barely managed not to shake it off. He’d been back a day, and already he felt as if everyone around him knew his business better than he did. He turned down the corridor that led to the Ceannaire’s study, making a quick turn into an intersecting corridor before they reached the stairs.

He moved forward, drawn by feel more than sight. It was here, the place, the object, whatever it was that called him so strongly. Riordan and Eoghan slowed, looking around them, talking in low tones, but he couldn’t make out the words. He trailed a finger over the stone as he walked and then stopped abruptly.

“Here. Don’t you see the door?” It was set seamlessly into the stone wall, almost unnoticeable even though it was wood instead of stone. He traced his finger along the joint of where the two materials met, unable to keep his eye on both at the same time. How was that possible?

“An enchantment,” Aine murmured. “Old magic.”

He shot her a curious glance, and when he looked back to the door, he blinked. The stone wall shimmered in front of him. “Remarkable. How do we get in?”

“There’s a password,” Eoghan said. “I’ve heard it, but I can’t remember it. It should have passed to me as Liam’s successor, but . . .”

A password. That tickle in the back of his mind grew. He opened his mouth and unfamiliar syllables floated out.

The door opened with a soft whoosh. Conor exchanged startled looks with the others, then pushed it open.

Beyond the doorway was a cramped passage, lit by an otherworldly glow. He hesitated before plunging into the narrow space.

He was dimly aware of the others following. This place had a hush, as if it were cut off from the rest of Ard Dhaimhin. Perhaps it was. A sense of magic, not the light touch of the wards but something deeper and more rooted, passed over him. He stumbled.

“I feel it too,” Aine whispered behind him.

At least it wasn’t just his imagination. He continued downward until the corridor ended in the stone wall and then doubled back on itself at an angle. Ancient defenses, like the passageways into Ciraen cities, ambush spots. Something about this room was important enough to defend with both cunning and magic.

Feeling as if he were breaching some sort of inner sanctum, Conor stepped through the entrance.

A surge of power nearly brought him to his knees. Aine rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Aye.”

He turned in a circle, taking in the cubbyholes, all the parchments and scrolls that filled them. “What are all these?”

“Prophecies,” Eoghan said. “Writings that have been collected from all over the world since Daimhin’s time. Even Liam knew only a fraction of what is contained here.”

“Was this room what called you?” Riordan asked.

“No.” Conor walked slowly around the chamber, letting his senses guide him, even though he saw nothing to distinguish any spot from another. Then he paused. A drawer, barely perceptible among the shelves. He grasped the ring and pulled.

A familiar case lay inside it.

“The sword.” The sword that had called to him so strongly during the oath binding ceremonies, the blade upon which the clan chiefs of Seare had sworn their allegiance to King Daimhin. He removed the case and carried it to the table in the middle of the room.

There could have been discussion in the background, but Conor heard nothing. The thrum of power, so much like the magic in Meallachán’s harp, vibrated through him, aligning itself with the beat of his heart. He flipped the latch, bracing himself for a blast of power.

But it did not come. Instead, the magic faded to a mere whisper, the ripple of water over rocks in a stream. The etchings on the blade glowed in the dim light.

He closed his hand around the grip and lifted it before him, not on his palms as he would handle a ceremonial blade but as a weapon. A surge of electricity traveled up his arm and nearly took his breath away.

Then the whispers began. Echoes at first, then stronger, the sounds of men’s voices vowing their allegiance to the brotherhood, to the High King. An idea began to take shape in his mind. He looked to Aine and saw the same wonder reflected in her eyes.

A smile stretched her lips. “Aye.”

He replaced the sword in the case, and the voices faded, the hum of power dwindling to nothing. He closed the box and flipped the latch shut.

“This is what the druid wanted. And now I know why.”