CHAPTER FIFTY

It had actually been easy, Eoghan thought.

The failed first attempt aside, it seemed that Conor possessed the skills and knowledge necessary to protect the city. Carraigmór’s magic had somehow chosen him to be their leader.

The only thing left to do was convince Conor that he was meant to be High King. Riordan and Daigh certainly thought so or they wouldn’t have ceded him power so easily. The rest of the Conclave could be convinced. Conor might refuse the title of Ceannaire, but he was already making decisions on their behalf. Eoghan’s role in the High City was over, just as he’d always intended.

So why did he feel so bereft?

Pride, he decided, as he made his way toward the training yards. He’d always known that Conor possessed abilities and education that were vast even by Fíréin standards. It was time to stop moping and make the most of what he was meant to do. Just because the brotherhood had effectively been dissolved didn’t mean there weren’t still men to be trained, captains to be developed. He was good with a sword, and he was good at teaching others to be good with a sword.

He paused at the edge of one yard to watch two young men, perhaps six-and-ten, bouting with wooden weapons. Eoghan recognized one as Fíréin by his fluid style. The other was kingdom trained but no less talented —a recent refugee, probably, escaping the druid’s conscripted army.

“Halt,” Eoghan called, and the two boys backed off in surprise. The Fíréin apprentice bowed immediately, but the other one just stared at him.

“What are your names?” Eoghan asked.

“Colm, sir,” the first boy said.

Apparently the opponent figured Eoghan was someone of note because he sketched a hasty bow. “Anraí, sir.”

“You’ve got good form, Anraí. But I want you to watch me and tell me what I’m doing that you’re not.” He took the sword and faced Colm. “Your attack.”

Colm came at him with a series of flawless offensive strikes. The boy was going to be good someday. Eoghan easily deflected the blows without countering, trusting Anraí to pick up the nuances of his technique.

Then he stepped back and addressed the new student. “What did you note?”

The boy stared, puzzled. Then understanding dawned on his face. “Your weight. It’s centered. I’m reaching.”

“You’re reaching,” Eoghan repeated with a nod. He handed the boy his weapon and then watched as the two resumed their match. When he was satisfied that Anraí had made the correction, Eoghan moved on.

After stopping and working with half a dozen groups, a calm settled over him. Perhaps Conor’s return was an answer to his prayers. He’d always known he belonged at Ard Dhaimhin, even as he chafed at the restrictions placed on him. He loved teaching, fighting, the rhythm of life in the city. Even as he mourned Master Liam’s passing, he could admit that without the pressure of living up to expectations as the Ceannaire’s successor, he could be happy here.

What did it matter if Conor received the acclaim? Even though Eoghan had given his entire life to Ard Dhaimhin . . .

I see all men equally, though I may call them to different tasks.

It was both chastisement and encouragement. Eoghan bowed his head beneath the weight of Comdiu’s words. I will serve in whatever task You set before me. Forgive me.

I still have plans for you.

Aye. Eoghan would do what Comdiu asked him, even if that meant he would never again see the world outside Ard Dhaimhin’s borders, never find a woman who looked at him with the same love Aine had for Conor. If Comdiu called him to fight, he would fight. If He told him to follow, he would follow.

And if I call you to lead?

Lord?

There was no answer. Eoghan shook his head and went back to his rounds. Maybe Comdiu was just making the point that it was not his place to dictate what he would or would not do. He needed only to offer his will to obey and stand ready to respond when he was called.

He forgot about the somewhat one-sided conversation as the days passed, pushing aside the twinge of jealousy he felt as Conor stepped into the space Liam had left vacant.

He was hardly surprised, then, when one of the younger boys serving in the fortress told him he’d been summoned to the Ceannaire’s office. His friend hadn’t wasted any time in assuming the prerogatives of the station. And why should he? Conor was the son of a king, born to leadership. He’d already shown that he had his own path to follow, the rules and goals of the brotherhood aside.

Eoghan shoved down those thoughts and raised a silent prayer of apology to Comdiu for their bitter tone. He’d never thought of himself as being uncharitable, but then again, he’d always enjoyed a certain status within the brotherhood. How uncomfortable to realize that his humility had been just a sham.

He climbed the stairs to Carraigmór slowly, wondering what Conor could have to say to him. But when he arrived at the Ceannaire’s office, it was not simply his friend waiting. Riordan and Aine were with him.

“There’s something you should see,” Conor said. “Sit down.”

Eoghan lifted an eyebrow at the command, but he sat. A stack of scrolls on the desk drew his attention.

Aine spoke first. “I found the message from your mother, Eoghan. You said that she was a Fearghail?”

“That’s right. Why?”

Aine turned a book toward him, a heavy leather-bound tome that took up half the table. “This is a genealogy of Sliebhan. Fearghail is a noble clan.”

Eoghan looked between Aine and the book. “So? It’s not as if they had any contact with me after I was given up.”

Aine pointed to an entry near the bottom of the page. “This right here? Fionnuala Nic Fearghail? I think that’s your mother. It shows she married a Beollain about five-and-twenty years ago.”

When Eoghan looked at her blankly, Conor said, “Beollain is the minor royal branch in Sliebhan. Just like Laighid is to Nir, or Eirhinin is to Cuillinn.”

“What are you saying? That I have claim to the throne of Sliebhan?” Eoghan laughed. “Maybe that meant something before, but Sliebhan has fallen. Royal blood hardly matters now.”

“Eoghan,” Aine said more gently, “have you ever heard the story of how the Great Kingdom split?”

He frowned. Everyone knew the story. “Daimhin was disappointed his sons hadn’t held true to their faith or their gifts. He named a successor who was not of his direct line, and rather than lose what they felt was their birthright, his sons killed him.”

Aine nodded. “There’s more, though. We found one of Daimhin’s journals in the Ceannaire’s study. I can only guess Liam already suspected he may have been wrong about the prophecy.”

Eoghan looked at the three others in the room. They stared at him, as if willing him to read the direction of their thoughts.

“Daimhin spoke of a boy who possessed the same gift he did,” Conor said.

“Music,” Eoghan guessed.

“No,” Conor said. “Comdiu spoke to Daimhin. Directly. As I believe Comdiu speaks to you. He wanted the High King of Seare to be guided not by his own thoughts and prejudices but directly by Comdiu himself. That is why Daimhin’s sons rebelled against him: because they did not hear Comdiu’s voice.”

The breath left him like flame snuffed from a candle. “You can’t possibly mean . . .”

“We do,” Riordan said. “If we reread the prophecy in this light, it’s altogether possible.”

“But the sword and the song —Conor has wielded both already to restore Ard Dhaimhin. In a sense, he’s already fulfilled that prophecy.”

Conor shook his head. “I believe the prophecy does refer to me. But I won’t wield the sword and the song. I believe I am the sword and the song, a tool in the hand of the one who will deliver our island from this evil.”

Something unsettlingly hard glimmered in Conor’s gaze as he stepped around the desk, something Eoghan couldn’t reconcile with the young man he knew. But even the books had not prepared him for Conor’s next words.

“I am not destined to be High King, Eoghan. You are.”