“You were angry, aye?” Cormac asked while Duncan bent over, heaving.
He nodded.
“That is how you should attack a man, but don’t be angry when you do it.”
“Why not?” Duncan asked. “I did better, didn’t I?”
“Anger makes you fast and foolish. Keep the technique, but abandon the emotion behind it. Hit through your stroke; don’t stop when you reach your mark.”
Breathing normally again, Duncan stood and swung his sword through several practice strokes. “What will I do while you’re gone?”
“Run,” Cormac answered easily. “You need better stamina for a battle. And make Abban practice with you every day.” He pointed a finger at Duncan to emphasize his orders. “Every. Single. Day. You understand?”
Duncan nodded. “Stab Abban every day and then run away.”
“Your first battle is on the horizon, and you must survive it if you want to join the Fianna one day.”
“I’m fifteen, Cormac,” Duncan groaned. “You can stop worrying. My father was fourteen when he raided Luimneach.”
“He was twenty-seven,” Cormac countered with a laugh at the bold lie. “And it matters not. I’ll never stop worrying over you.”
It was the truth, though he spoke it lightly. Duncan wasn’t his relative by blood, but Cormac considered him a nephew all the same. Cormac’s eldest sister had raised the boy, and Cormac had lived at Caiseal since Duncan’s birth. Earlier, even. He’d learned long ago that blood didn’t make a family.
The monastery bell rang for morning prayers, and Cormac stood to return to the fortress proper. “Time to go,” he told Duncan. “Don’t want to be late.”
They climbed the hill back to the fortress at Caiseal, the Rock as some called it, to find Diarmid, his youngest brother, and Finn, another warrior in Brian’s band of Fianna, jesting in the courtyard. His brother guffawed so loudly at something Finnsaid that even the horses waiting beside them turned to look. As the two men laughed and spoke, it seemed they hadn’t a single concern over their upcoming journey east. Illadan, the leader of the Fianna, watched them from the feasting hall’s steps.
Cormac sighed heavily, glancing toward the greying eastern sky. Dark, angry clouds chased the sun toward the western horizon, no doubt bent on drowning them before the day’s end. At least Brian allowed them use of two of his carriages for the women. Narrowing his eyes at the coming storm, Cormac only hoped the carriages were watertight.
They couldn’t wait much longer to leave if they wanted to make any progress toward Dyflin today. By the looks of it, the rain would be heavy enough to wash out the road, or at the very least slow them considerably.
“Ready to leave,” Cormac ordered his two companions on his way past them and into the feasting hall.
Inside, he found the rest of their traveling party chatting merrily around the central hearth, as though they weren’t running late at all. Sláine, the youngest daughter of King Brian Boru of Mumhain, waved to him as he entered. Catrin, younger sister of the Lady Cara, who had recently accepted his brother Diarmid’s proposal of marriage amidst quite a scandal—the sort of scandal that only his devilish younger brother could cause, was too invested in some story she told to notice his approach.
King Brian and Queen Dunla, Cormac’s elder sister, farewelled the two women. Dunla’s marriage to Brian had been the last attempt to forge a peace between Cormac’s father, King Cahill of Connachta, and the ambitious King of Mumhain. Cormac’s chest still ached every time he thought of that night when his father had left them.
Tall of stature and grey-haired, Brian was well into the later years of his life, though he managed it well enough to continue riding to battle with his men. Dunla, on the other hand, was onlymiddle-aged, her black hair peppered with grey but her skin still smooth with youth. Cormac had questioned his sister’s marriage to a man so much her senior, even a man so kind as Brian, but Dunla radiated joy and contentment. It had been clear from very early in their marriage that Dunla was happy with her choice of husband, odd though it may seem to some.
“Cormac,” Brian called when he noticed his foster son’s appearance in the hall, “walk with me a moment.”
Cormac did as his king bid, accompanying him on a circuitous route through the back of the hall that eventually would bring them to the courtyard.
“I have a matter that must be handled with tact and delicacy,” Brian began. “I am sending two women in appearance only, to appease Sitric with the illusion of a choice in the matter of his bride.”
Cormac looked askance at the aged king. A thousand questions formed in his mind, but he knew better than to interrupt. Instead he held his tongue and nodded his understanding.
“Sitric must marry Sláine. If he is wise, he will see the political advantage for him in choosing her over Catrin, but Sitric has ever an unpredictable temperament. I feel the choice should be obvious, but I need you and Illadan to ensure he, too, sees it that way.”
The task suited Diarmed best, though Cormac fully understood why the king hadn’t asked for him. His brother’s love affair with the first bride Brian sent to Sitric had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Their family name would lose all value to Brian if they failed him in this a second time.
“You have my word,” Cormac assured him. “I will see it done.”
Brian inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. “Don’t hesitate to remind Sitric that a betrothal was one of theterms of our peace. Should he forfeit the marriage, he will also forfeit the peace. My patience with him is nearing its end.”
Cormac hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d grown fond of the affable Ostman over the course of their many meetings. If Brian sent men to subdue him again, Cormac and the Fianna would be among them. The thought soured his mood considerably, fueling his resolve to get Sitric married with all haste.
They left Caiseal before the ill wind brought the clouds to meet them. Unfortunately, Dyflin lay east of Caiseal—which meant they rode straight into the storm.
