The Sword and the Song Read online

  The man handed over his tablet. “Fewer incidents this week. The guards have helped, but some of the kingdom men have not taken well to the restrictions.”

  “I’m sure they haven’t.” That was the problem with introducing outsiders into Ard Dhaimhin. Those men were used to a measure of freedom that was simply untenable here. The tension between the former brothers who were used to obeying without complaint and the newcomers, who by Fíréin standards did nothing but complain, was only bound to escalate as their situation became more difficult.

  Conor dismissed the men with a nod and leaned back in his chair. He focused on his father. “What do you think?”

  “I think that you can’t expect kingdom men to uphold the same standards as the Fíréin when they haven’t had the benefit of our training or our ways of life.”

  “I don’t see how we have a choice. This arrangement works only if everyone pulls their own weight. Aine has even the women and children organized to maintain the cottage gardens to supplement our supplies. If we can’t get the newcomers to work with the brothers, we’ll most certainly starve.”

  “It is that dire?”

  “It’s that dire.” Conor sifted through the stacks of tablets on his desk and pushed one toward Riordan. “I was going to present an updated tally to the Conclave this afternoon. We’ll run out of food before midwinter unless we find an outside source of trade. And Niall still has a stranglehold on the kingdom. Anyone found to be trading with Ard Dhaimhin is to be summarily executed.”

  “If he starves us out, he doesn’t need to fight us.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Comdiu will provide,” Riordan said quietly, but doubt colored his tone. They both knew that being beloved of Comdiu did not exempt them from tragedy. Their Lord’s view was wide. In the scope of the entire world, who was to say He wouldn’t sacrifice the small sliver that was Seare for a greater purpose?

  “Sir? They’re ready for you.”

  Conor glanced up at the young brother who had poked his head into the office. It took a moment to register the honorific and a moment longer to realize what he meant. The Conclave. The meeting. He’d been so absorbed in his tallies that for a moment he’d forgotten the reason he was compiling the information. He shrugged on his sword and gathered up several wax tablets that contained the basic information he needed to convey. With the evidence before them, the Conclave could not fail to agree with his conclusions.

  The men were already gathered in Carraigmór’s great hall, just barely illuminated by a single man-sized candle, another of their conservation measures. A quick glance showed that only Eoghan was missing.

  They stood and bowed when Conor approached, another show of honor that rested uneasily with him. He nodded, and they all took their seats. “We’re just waiting for—”

  “I’m here.” Eoghan entered the room and took his seat without fanfare, his placid expression hinting nothing of their argument this morning.

  “Good. Brothers, you asked me for a report on the situation outside the city, and I’m afraid it’s not nearly as definitive as I’d hoped.” Conor sat and spread his tablets out in front of him. “It’s been nearly impossible to get an accurate read on the number of men that Niall commands currently because they’re spread throughout the countryside. I can only assume he is using some thread of sorcery to keep them under control and be able to summon them at a moment’s notice.”

  “That’s promising, though.” Gradaigh might be the youngest member of the Conclave, but he nonetheless brought a calm, balanced perspective to their discussions. “It means that, at present, he is not marshaling his forces against us.”

  “We don’t know that,” Conor said. “Just because he doesn’t have them gathered in one place doesn’t mean he’s not planning to attack.”

  “I don’t see how he could.” Dal, the exact opposite of Gradaigh in temperament and tone, spoke next. “Either he’s commanding his men by sorcery, which means he can’t enter the city because of your shield, or he doesn’t have enough nonsorcery-controlled men to be able to move against us.”

  “He doesn’t need to,” Conor said. “He’s already dealt Ard Dhaimhin a deathblow.”

  All eyes settled on him.

  Conor tugged one of the tablets nearer to him. “Our population has topped four thousand, two thousand of whom are warriors. The rest are women and children who have sought sanctuary here. At these current rates of consumption, we have about three months’ worth of food stored. We still have some fall and winter crops to be harvested, and there is hunting to be had in the forests and mountains to the south of the city, but it’s not nearly enough. At this rate, I’d estimate that our food stores will run out somewhere in midwinter.”

  “Ration,” Gradaigh said immediately. “Cut the men to half.”

  “Which will get us to spring. And then what? Do you expect they’ll be able to live on bean sprouts until summer harvest?”

  “What do you suggest?” Dal shot back, his tone irritated.

  Conor cleared his throat. “I’m suggesting that we look further afield.”

  “Leave Ard Dhaimhin, you mean. That’s exactly what the druid wants—to force us out of our city, to where we are defenseless.”

  “Better to fight now, while the men are still strong, than to wait for an attack when they’re weak from a winter of half rations. How successful do you think we’ll be in defending the city, including the women and children, if the men are unable to fight?”

  The men shifted uncomfortably at the table—all but Riordan, who stared at him with clear and understanding eyes. He understood the difficulty of what Conor proposed, and he understood that only desperation would drive him to the suggestion.

  “What do you think the druid wants with the city anyway?” Gradaigh asked. “It’s not as if there’s much left.”

  “What he wanted in the first place, I’d think. He still wants the oath-binding sword. He still wants to eliminate Balus’s gifts. Attacking us in our weakness would go a long way to accomplishing that.”

  “You’re asking us to abandon a city to which our brotherhood has pledged defense for half a millennium.” Dal’s flat tone held a distinct note of accusation.

  “We’ve already changed our ways by allowing brothers to leave and opening the city to refugees,” Riordan said. “It seems to me that mere tradition is no longer an adequate argument for inaction.”

  “And it seems to me that you’re awfully anxious for war.” Dal turned his scowl on Riordan. “Did you enjoy your taste of the fight so much that you’re anxious to return us to it?”

  “I’ve seen enough bloodshed and destruction for a lifetime. Yet pretending that dangers don’t exist outside our borders will win us nothing.”

  Conor softened his tone and tried a different tactic. “Brothers, I’m no more anxious for war than any of you. That’s why I believe we must be slow and strategic. Attack from a position of strength, without exposing our weaknesses. If you think Niall’s desire for battle with Ard Dhaimhin was sated in a single attack, you’re wrong. He will come at us again.”

  “What say you, Eoghan?” Gradaigh asked. “You’ve been quiet.”

  A hush fell over the table as all eyes rested on Eoghan. Conor tensed, waiting for his response, trying not to show his irritation. Eoghan had not been involved in the gathering of this information, yet Conor instinctively knew that their uncrowned king’s opinion would hold far more weight than his own. When Eoghan finally spoke, his tone was low and measured. “I don’t want outright war.”

  A few triumphant glances passed around the table.

  “But you’re wrong if you believe we can stay like this indefinitely. You chose Conor—Ard Dhaimhin chose Conor—for a reason. He speaks the truth of our situation.”

  “So you think that we, too, must conquer the kingdoms?” Dal asked stiffly.

  “I believe we must venture outside our city. But not now.”

  The group erupted into conversation, shocked by Eoghan’s
stance, but for different reasons. Conor rapped the hilt of his dagger against the table to gain their attention. Then he directed his question to Eoghan. “When, then, do you suggest we make our move? In the dead of winter, when we’ll be hampered by weather? If you understand the situation as you say you do, you know that we haven’t the food or the supplies to bide our time through another season.”

  “And I know that when the time is right, Comdiu will speak.”

  Conor’s breath hissed out from his teeth and he sank into the chair. He didn’t need to take a vote to know what the Conclave would decide. Conor might be the one with responsibility for the day-to-day operations of the city, but Eoghan heard the very voice of Comdiu. How could anyone argue with that?

  Yet Conor was not wholly convinced Eoghan was speaking on behalf of their God. “Tell me, then. What has Comdiu said about the fact that you refuse the call to leadership?”

  Eoghan’s dark gaze fixed on him, hard, dangerous even. “You question my honesty? I have said that I did not feel it was time.”

  “You’ve said plenty more than that. You wish to exercise your influence as king without taking the responsibility.”

  “Conor,” Riordan said softly.

  Conor shook his head, aware this was a fight he could never win, despite the righteous anger boiling in his chest. Why had he expected anything different? Eoghan had been raised in Ard Dhaimhin, among men who spoke and debated and supposedly prayed for Comdiu’s will but never did anything. They stood by and watched while Seare lost its magic, while the kingdoms were slowly overrun by an evil man, and they did nothing. Had Liam not been so stubborn, had he let them fight, perhaps Niall wouldn’t even be in power now.

  “I take it you’re all in favor of waiting?” Conor asked.

  “Let’s put it to a vote,” Daigh said. “In favor of revisiting the situation in another month, say aye.”

  “Aye.”

  “Opposed?”

  “Opposed,” Conor and Riordan said simultaneously. He met his father’s eyes and gave him a swift nod.

  “The ayes have it. Master Conor, if you would present any new information in one month—”

  Conor pushed away from the table and gathered his tablets, not waiting to hear the rest of the conversation. He stalked from the room, fury trembling in his limbs. He was halfway back to the Ceannaire’s study when Eoghan’s voice rang out behind him. “Conor, please wait.”

  He stopped and turned. Eoghan walked toward him, his palms turned forward in a gesture of truce. “I don’t want this to turn into a battle between us.”

  “That’s the problem, Eoghan. This has nothing to do with us. This has to do with the well-being of four thousand people for whom we, as leaders, are responsible.”

  “What would you have me do? Do you think I have not begged Comdiu for the answer to this very question? He has not spoken to me. I take that to mean we wait. Comdiu’s timing is not always our timing.”

  “I’m sure the mothers in the village will find that to be a comfort as they watch their children starve to death,” Conor said. “Because that’s what this decision means. A failure to act means death, just as the brotherhood’s failure to act in the war meant the death of countless of our countrymen, including Aine’s family.”

  Eoghan studied him closely. “Is this what this is really about? Revenge? Aine would not want men to die in vengeance for her family.”

  “I thought you knew me better than that, Eoghan. When you can bring yourself to embrace your calling, then we can talk. Until then, I have work to do.”

  Conor kept his pace deliberate, measured, willing Eoghan to stay behind. Should he follow him, Conor couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t come to blows. Besides, he didn’t have time for futile arguments. He had mere weeks to put together a more compelling case for action, one that even Eoghan and his claim to know Comdiu’s will couldn’t sink.

  Conor might have been rejected as king, but he had been chosen as leader of Ard Dhaimhin. He would not fail them.

  A dozen sword forms, and Eoghan still felt like punching something.

  He lowered his sword and sucked air into his lungs, wishing for the quiet of the mind that came only from pushing his body to its absolute limits. But he felt nothing. For the last two months, he’d spent nearly all day every day with the men in the training yard. It would take much more than a few sword forms to reach that point of blissful exhaustion, yet he dared not return to Carraigmór with this roiling anger burning in his gut.

  When you can bring yourself to embrace your calling, then we can talk.

  He adjusted his grip on the sword and launched into yet another form, the memory of Conor’s scorn churning inside him. There were perhaps three men that he respected, three men he had loved in this world. One of them was dead, sacrificed for Ard Dhaimhin. The other two—Conor and Conor’s father, Riordan—stood opposed to him. They thought he was shirking his duty, avoiding Comdiu’s calling.

  They were right.

  Conor, Aine, and Riordan—the entire Conclave, in fact—accepted that Eoghan was meant to be High King. Daimhin’s own writing stated that the man who would sit the Rune Throne would hear the voice of Comdiu, and he was the only one who fit that description.

  So why could he not bring himself to embrace it?

  He broke off the form and lowered his sword. It was no use. A dozen forms or a thousand—they would still not exorcise this feeling of failure or bring the peace he sought.

  You’re seeking peace where there is none to be found.

  Comdiu’s piercing presence stopped the thoughts in their tracks. “What shall I do, then? What do You want from me?”

  Your obedience.

  “I’ve done everything You’ve asked of me.”

  Have you?

  “Aye.”

  That was a lie, though, and it didn’t take word from Comdiu to tell him. His entire life, he had been raised to do his duty, groomed to take leadership from Liam. But when Conor had beaten the Ceannaire in a challenge match to earn freedom from his oaths, he’d dared to hope that perhaps his duty was done, that he could be free.

  You worry about losing a life that did not belong to you. Why do you doubt Me?

  I don’t doubt You. I’m not needed here. Liam’s plans for me failed. Conor was doing a fine job in the position of Ceannaire, and the city ran as smoothly as it ever had under Liam’s command, even considering the presence of the kingdoms’ subjects. Few people would question Conor should he decide to step forward and claim the kingship.

  Men’s most foolish decisions are made from fear.

  I am not afraid.

  Are you not? Then you are foolish.

  What do You want from me, Comdiu? Do You want me to be afraid, or do You want me to be courageous? Even in his mind, Eoghan’s voice took on a petulant tone that made him cringe.

  Comdiu’s next words came with a tinge of amusement. You are afraid because you believe you are alone. Do I not walk with you? Do I not speak to you? Why do you think you have been chosen? My leaders must be of My heart, My mind. Why do you rely on your own strength when you have Me?

  The chastisement, kind as it was, filled him with shame. Eoghan bowed his head.

  Which do you think better achieves My glory: your pride or My strength?

  The shame only intensified, raising a lump in his throat. He had been focusing on his own shortcomings, his own desires. Did he think Comdiu wasn’t aware of his weaknesses?

  I have not given this gift since Daimhin’s time. I have given it to you for a purpose. Will you obey?

  What choice did he have? There was no way to outrun Comdiu’s plans, even if he wanted to. And hadn’t he learned long ago that he was far better off within Comdiu’s will than outside it?

  Yet the fear grew in his chest, squeezing out the kernel of assurance that Comdiu’s words had placed in him. Tell me what I must do. Give me a sign.

  Eoghan expected Comdiu to chastise him for his lack of faith. Instead, He merely said, Retu
rn to Carraigmór.

  “Carraigmór? I had planned on—” He cut himself off. One would think that a lifetime of discipline and service would have left him more prepared to obey.

  Instead of turning toward the practice yard where he had been spending his days, he turned toward Carraigmór. “Very well, Lord. Direct all my steps. I will obey.”

  He climbed the long flight of slick steps to Carraigmór, nodded to the brother on guard as he passed, and entered the great hall. Even having been raised here, the technology that had managed to carve an entire fortress from a granite cliff still awed him. Each room was like a cavern, the corridors that connected them rounded like tunnels and smoothed and polished by hundreds of years of feet and hands. What kind of knowledge must Daimhin have possessed to accomplish such a thing in an age where hardened steel had just been discovered?

  Eoghan turned into an intersecting corridor that led to his chamber on the south side of the fortress, his mind fixed so firmly on the past that he nearly collided with a figure coming from the opposite direction. He reached out to steady his victim before he realized it was Aine.

  Abruptly, he dropped his hands from her shoulders, his face burning. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “Clearly.” Her wry tone set an uncomfortable squirming in his gut. He swallowed and struggled for something noncommittal to say but only managed an awkward silence.

  Aine’s smile faded, making him think she was all too aware of his thoughts. But that only made him focus on the concern tracing her pretty face, the way her braided hair fell over her shoulder and tangled in the chain of her ivory charm. His hand was on its way to pull the braid free before he realized what he was doing and jerked his hand back.

  Her gray gaze collided with his, and her eyes widened. Then her shock gave way to determination. “Eoghan, we need to talk.”

  “Not necessary, my lady.” If he could melt into the stone wall behind him and save them this embarrassment, he would. He had tried to suppress his feelings for her to no avail. Each time he managed to convince himself it was just a passing infatuation, one look at her would make him feel like pledging his undying devotion. Even more humiliating, both Conor and Aine were fully aware of it.