The Sword and the Song

Oath of the Brotherhood
introduces readers to a medieval world in which the natural and supernatural collide in sometimes frightening and often beautiful moments of Christian allegory and emotional truth. Author C.E. Laureano does not hesitate to strike her characters in the heart, contrasting the dissonance of passionate despair against the brighter chords of hope as they are forced to exchange betrayal for aid, death for life, friendship for sacrifice, honor for faithfulness, and all for love.

USA TODAY

The second installment of the Song of Seare series is just as good as the first. Conor and Aine’s struggles to hold on to hope makes them lovable characters who resonate with readers. The setting is unique and the plot moves quickly and is very engaging. Readers will be thirsty for the final book in the trilogy. This series is a must-read!

ROMANTIC TIMES

This is Christian fiction presented as high fantasy in an old Ireland–inspired setting. Fantasy readers will be happy with the magic, fighting, and the quest the hero undertakes. Christian fiction readers will be content with the religious message. . . . Inspirational fiction presented in an accessible way.

SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL

The balance of clear storylines and a detailed fantasy world makes this book accessible to people who want to start dipping their foot into the waters of fantasy, and trust me, the water will be warm and welcoming. Laureano has created the beginning of a unique series that will satisfy many readers, and she will definitely leave her own special mark on the genre with the Song of Seare and in future works to come.

TEEN READS

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The Sword and the Song

Copyright © 2015 by Carla Yvonne Laureano. All rights reserved.

A NavPress resource published in alliance with Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without written permission from NavPress, PO Box 35001, Colorado Springs, CO 80935.
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The Team:

Don Pape, Publisher

Caitlyn Carlson, Aquisitions Editor

Reagen Reed, Editor

Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design.

Cover symbol photograph copyright © zhevi/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of cave copyright © Khlongwangchao/Thinkstock. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations are taken from the
Holy Bible
, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Published in association with WordWise Media Services, 4083 Avenue L, Suite #225, Lancaster, CA 93536.

ISBN 978-1-61291-632-3

ISBN 978-1-63146-331-0 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-63146-332-7 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-63146-330-3 (Apple)

For Reagen: editor, ringmaster, and plotter extraordinaire.

Thanks for helping me bring order to the chaos. I couldn’t have done it without you.

The sword came close enough
for him to feel the breath of wind in its passing. Conor jumped back, meeting the edge of the blade too late with his own, and groaned as the impact shuddered into his arms and shoulders.

“You’ve gotten slow.” Eoghan backed off a fraction, just enough that Conor would know he was letting him rest. “This is what happens when you get lazy.”

“I wasn’t lazy,” Conor said through gritted teeth. “I was in captivity.” He used the momentary distraction to launch his attack, harrying his friend with a flurry of strikes. Eoghan brushed them aside in the same way one would swat at a gnat.

Eoghan was right: Conor was slow. And lazy.

The idea burned like fire in his gut. Three months. He had left Ard Dhaimhin for the war in the kingdoms three months ago at the pinnacle of his skills, besting both his friend and Master Liam, former Ceannaire of the Fíréin brotherhood, before he left. And now he could barely keep up in a simple practice match, his arms and shoulders shaking with the exertion of holding the lightweight wooden sword.

Never mind that what he’d said to Eoghan was true. He’d been captured by the Sofarende and fed survival rations for a month, then been entrapped in a sidhe’s glamour at the keep of a Gwynn prince for another. The last of his bruises had just faded, and he’d barely returned to his sword work. His victory over the prince’s guard captain in Gwydden hinted that perhaps it wasn’t his skills that were subpar, but it still rankled to have fallen so far behind his friend, his mentor
 
—his king.

He sprang forward on a surge of energy and irritation, directing one flawless strike after another. Eoghan blocked each of them, but he couldn’t counter under the speed. Then Conor closed too much of the gap between them, and Eoghan’s sword connected with his right wrist. Involuntarily, Conor’s hand opened and the sword fell to the soft sand.

“Yield?” Eoghan asked.

Conor’s answer was a shoulder into Eoghan’s midsection as he drove him to the ground. Eoghan let out a surprised laugh along with the air in his body as they hit the sand. They grappled for a minute before Conor realized his mistake. He might have several inches on the other man, but Eoghan packed dozens more pounds of muscle, especially considering the weight Conor had lost off his already-lean frame. Half a dozen moves, and Eoghan had Conor in an inescapable clinch, his face pressed into the dirt, sand grinding into his mouth.

“Yield?”

“Yield.” Conor drew a deep breath when Eoghan released him and the weight shifted off him. He pounded his fist into the sand in frustration, only to look up and find his friend regarding him sympathetically. “Don’t say it.”

“You need to get back into drills with the other men
 
—”

“I said, don’t say it.”

“I know you’re distracted by your reunion with Aine
 
—”

“Aine is not a distraction.” Conor shook the sand out of his tunic and retrieved his practice sword. He weighed it in his hand for a minute before tossing it back into the pile. “Unlike the reason you brought up this topic. When are you going to announce it?”

“You’re the ones who insist that I’m meant to be the High King.” Eoghan deflated, his conflict plain in his stance. “I don’t want this.”

“Just as I don’t want to be responsible for the city, but it seems that Carraigmór has chosen me as clearly as the prophecies have named you. Speaking of which, the prefects are probably waiting for me. Don’t forget the Conclave meeting this morning.” Conor picked up his sword
 
—his real sword
 
—and shrugged it on. Ever since the attack on Ard Dhaimhin, not a warrior went about unarmed. They could not lose a minute should their enemy decide to finish the job he started.

Conor trudged up the path from the private practice yard, noting the change in light from dawn to full day as he moved into the village proper. Wood smoke carried the scent of food on the breeze, and the faint noises from the craftsmen’s cottages said that the day’s work at Ard Dhaimhin had already begun. Thousands of people, many of them fleeing the druid’s violent anti-Balian actions in the kingdoms, and no way to provide for them. In the days after the druid had laid waste to the city, they’d made an assessment of their resources. Three-quarters of their crops burned, half of the livestock killed, the forest animals and bees gone. The fish in the lake dead, and so many of them that the Fíréin hadn’t been able to salvage them. Who knew how long the city would be feeling the effects of that habitat’s destruction?

And he was responsible for it. Not just because he should have been here to intervene sooner but because he had inherited
responsibility for the city when the password of Ard Dhaimhin’s secret places passed to him.

He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. Running the city required authority, but he couldn’t help but feel his was merely borrowed. Ever since he had announced to the Conclave his belief that Eoghan, not he, was destined to become the new High King, there had been an uncomfortable power shift. They still obeyed Conor’s orders, but now their obedience came with a sideways look, a held breath, to see if this was the moment Eoghan would finally step up and take leadership. That he held back didn’t change the fact Conor was filling a position that was not rightfully his.

Men nodded to him as he passed, but in his current mood, he wondered if their acknowledgment weren’t a shade less deferential than it would be toward Eoghan.

This isn’t about me
, Conor told himself firmly.
This is about the future of Ard Dhaimhin, the future of Seare. And the men need to know who will be leading them when the time comes.

The men needed the assurance that Comdiu had once again sent them their High King.

Conor changed his plans midstride. Rather than make his usual rounds through the village, he turned toward Carraigmór, the great keep on the edge of Loch Ceo, carved with forgotten technology from the massive granite rock face. He’d have just enough time to clean up and head to the Ceannaire’s office before the prefects arrived with their reports. And thus would begin another long day in Ard Dhaimhin. The only bright spot was the possibility of seeing his wife for a few minutes before he started into the day’s tasks. Knowing her, she’d be dressed and ready to start her work at the healers’ cottage in the village below.

But when he reached their small, sparse chamber in the upper reaches of the keep, his wife still lay beneath the heavy
coverings of wool and fur, her eyes closed. A frown creased his forehead. This was unusual for her. But then, she had been working harder than anyone expected of her, putting in long hours in the village below during the daylight and then again in the keep with her stacks of books after dark.

Quietly, he poured tepid water in the basin and washed the worst of the sand and sweat from his body. As he was reaching for a clean tunic, a rustle from the bed caught his attention. Aine was watching him, a sleepy smile on her face.

“I was beginning to worry.” He sank down on the edge of the bed and propped himself on one elbow beside her.

“What time is it?”

“An hour past dawn. I just came back to change after my match with Eoghan.”

“So late?” Alarm lit her eyes, and she sat up abruptly. “What happened to your arm?”

Conor glanced down at the long red abrasion that stretched from his elbow to his wrist. He hadn’t noticed it through his annoyance. “The bout turned into something of a wrestling match, I’m afraid.”

“It might be easier if you could just talk things out.”

“Eoghan isn’t ready to talk about anything that matters.” Not about the kingship. Not about the fact the other man harbored feelings for Conor’s wife.

Maybe it was good that Eoghan’s skills surpassed his own at the moment. The mere thought made Conor want to grind him into the sand, something that was wholly inadvisable when thinking about his uncrowned king.

Conor shifted his attention instead to the book on the chair beside the bed, one he’d had to pry from her fingers when he’d returned to the chamber the night before. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing helpful. King Daimhin didn’t even bother to date this one, though from some of the entries, I’m guessing it’s from the fourth or fifth year of his reign.”

“But nothing about the sword?”

Aine pushed back the covers and retrieved her dress from the peg beside the bed. “No, mostly just his musings about clan disputes. Thoughts on how to get his chiefs to stop squabbling and start working together against a common enemy.”

“What enemy?”

“He doesn’t say.”

Conor’s momentary hopes deflated. When they’d found the cache of journals written in Daimhin’s own hand, they’d been sure it would contain something useful about those mysteries of the kingship that still remained locked away: the sword, the Rune Throne, the wards. But in the month in which Aine had pored over the books while Conor had read through those written in foreign languages, she’d found absolutely nothing of help.

“Maybe he purposely left the details out,” Aine said. “He had no reason to think his line would die with him. Magic is typically something passed down from one generation to another.”

“And yet he rambled on about grain tallies and livestock breeding.”

“He works through his thoughts on paper, as you do with music or in the practice yard.”

Conor paused to look at her
 
—really look at her. Not for the first time, he thought what an excellent queen she’d make. Intelligent. Insightful. More patient than any man had a right to expect. More hardworking than she had a right to expect of herself.

The shadows beneath her eyes had deepened sometime in the last few weeks, and he hadn’t even noticed. “Aine, maybe you should take some time to rest.”

“Nonsense. I’m fine.” She pulled her dress over her head and began lacing the front with brusque movements, as if he might forcibly prevent her from preparing for the day.

He remained seated and just watched her. After a few moments, she stopped and sighed. “I have to do something, Conor. I hate feeling useless, and that’s what I would be if I sat here and did nothing but read old books all day.”

He couldn’t argue with that when he felt the same way. “Just promise me you won’t work yourself to exhaustion.”

She hesitated, but at last she nodded. He kissed her lightly on the lips, donned his tunic, and steeled himself for whatever awaited him in the Ceannaire’s office.

He strode down the corridors to the other side of the keep, where Master Liam’s old study lay. The thought still brought on a pang of grief. He might have disagreed with the old Ceannaire, who had also happened to be Aine’s half brother, but Liam had helped Conor develop the skills that saved his and his wife’s life more than once. Not to mention access to knowledge that had helped him reinstate the protective wards that kept the city safe from magical incursion. The city still reeled from the loss of its leader.

When he entered the small chamber, Brother Riordan waited for him. Conor’s father had temporarily taken on leadership in the city, only to cede it to his son when he returned
 
—just another way the chain of command in Ard Dhaimhin had been tangled since Liam’s death. “There you are. Someone said they’d seen you below before daybreak.”

“Practice match with Eoghan.”

“How’d it go?”

The look Conor gave Riordan must have said it all, because the older man chuckled. “Give yourself some time. After the treatment your body has received, some rest isn’t out of order.”

“And if the druid decides to attack again, I’ll be less than useless.”

“Losing to one of the brotherhood’s most talented swordsmen hardly qualifies you as useless. You haven’t noticed that Eoghan is spending all of his time in the training yards these days?”

Conor hadn’t, but it explained much. Maybe he wasn’t as out of shape as he thought after all. Before he could say anything, a rap sounded at the door and two men entered.

“Sir,” the first one said, bowing to Conor.

Riordan made a move toward the door, but Conor gestured to an empty chair. “Please, stay. I’d like your opinion.”

Riordan lowered himself into the seat, while the two prefects remained standing.

Conor accepted a wax tablet from the first man and scanned the notations there. “What’s the latest tally, Arlyn?”

“We’re nearly back to four thousand,” Arlyn said. “Two thousand of them warriors, the rest mainly women and children.”

Conor nodded, though his heart sank. Four thousand. That was close to the city’s population before it had been attacked, but now more than half of their food was gone. He glanced at the second man. “Your report?”

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.