Oath of the Brotherhood Read Free

Fergus, the king’s tanist, was an older, paunchier version of Galbraith, and he made the king seem downright warm by comparison. He took Conor in, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
    Beside Fergus, a second man scrutinized him as one would observe an insect through glass, emotionless. The druid himself. Conor suppressed another shudder at the symbols of dark power tattooed on his neck and hands.
    “Come here, boy,” Galbraith said. “Let me see you.”
    Conor tore his eyes away from the observers and moved forward to kneel on the lowest step. He pressed his trembling hands together in front of him.
    “Look at me!”
    Conor jerked his head up and stared forward while the king’s gaze roamed over him.
    One corner of Galbraith’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “Tell me, have you started your training yet?”
    “What training would that be, sir?”
    “Don’t be clever with me. You know to what I refer. Sword, bow, spear.”
    “No, my lord.” Conor’s voice came out strangled, forced from his constricted throat.
    “Then what exactly have you been doing for the last nine years?”
    “Studying, my lord.”
    “Studying?” Galbraith’s tone changed, a note of curiosity in it.
    Conor’s heart lifted slightly. “Aye, my lord. History, mathematics, literature, astronomy, law, languages   —”
    “What languages?”
    “I can read and write the common tongue, as well as Ciraean, Levantine, and Norin. My Melandran is passable, and I know a bit of the Odlum runes.”
    Galbraith stared at him for a long moment. The hall fell silent but for the crackle of torches and the occasional rustle of a lady’s gown, every eye riveted on the spectacle before them. Then, in one swift movement, Galbraith reached over and ripped the sword from the scabbard in Riocárd’s hands. The ring of metal echoed in the hall as the blade stopped a fraction of an inch before Conor’s eyes.
    “The only language our enemies understand is the language of the sword.” Galbraith’s eyes locked unflinchingly on his son’s.
    Then the weapon was gone, tossed back to Riocárd. Galbraith stood, his expression thunderous as he scanned the assemblage. “Labhrás, where are you?”
    “Here, my lord.”
    All heads turned toward Lord Labhrás where he stood at the edge of the gathering. He wore unadorned garments of fine wool, though he was easily the equal in wealth to any of the onlookers, and he remained unruffled beneath the king’s furious stare. Conor would have given anything to possess even half that calm and dignity.
    “I sent you a son, and you bring me back a daughter! Explain yourself.”
    “I did as I was asked, my lord.” Labhrás’s voice was soft, unchallenging. “You wished your son to be educated.”
    “As a warrior, not a scholar! What good is a man who cannot lift a sword to defend himself and his people? You have brought shame to Tigh.”
    Labhrás took a step forward, his expression hardening. “It is no shame to know of the world outside one’s palace, my lord. Conor is a diligent student, and he excels in all he puts his hand to. I would think any man would be proud to call him his son.”
    Gasps rippled through the crowd at Labhrás’s audacity, and Galbraith’s face turned an unhealthy shade of purple.
    “You dare   —”
    “I did what was agreed upon, my lord. Shall I remind you of the terms of that agreement?”
    Galbraith’s mouth compressed into a thin, hard line. Conor looked between the two men in amazement as the king swallowed a sharp response.
    “Then you may take responsibility for what he has become. He is no son of mine.” He strode down the dais and passed Conor without another glance.
    Someone sniggered in the silence, but Conor barely noticed as the room wavered around him. He had been dismissed, possibly disowned, the favor that fell on an only son withdrawn as quickly and easily as Galbraith’s tossed sword.
    “Come, Conor.” Labhrás lifted him to his feet, his hand