Chapter One
April, 1002
Conan stood inthe small solar at the fortress of Cenn Cora, waiting. He knew something had happened, or Brian, King of Mumhain and Conan’s foster father, would have come sooner. He’d been invited almost a month ago now, but had only arrived this morning. The first thing he’d done hadn’t been to visit his newborn great-niece, but to call a meeting.
The seven other men who stood waiting with Conan were the best men he knew. They’d all sworn an oath to Brian, completing a rigorous set of trials and forming a band of elite warriors—the Fianna. Their sole purpose was to act as his right hand on missions that proved too difficult or too delicate for the aging king or the average soldier.
Brian himself sat in one of the four chairs, frowning at the lot of them over a thick, grey beard. His blue eyes found first Conan, then his younger brother Diarmid, before finally landing on his older brother Cormac.
“Your father built a bridge,” he declared. “A damned inconvenient one, at that.”
Conan blinked. He must have heard that wrong. “Our father died this winter. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Cahill, King of Connachta, had sired five children who yet lived. His eldest, Dunla, was Brian’s young and devoted wife. Next was Teague, a rat of the highest order who had remainedwith Cahill and sided against Brian. It was best never to believe a single word that spewed from his mouth. Cormac, Conan, and Diarmid—all three Fianna who had served Brian since childhood—were the last three, in that order.
The king raised a crooked finger, one of many injuries from his fighting days. “You saw him fall into the sea,” he countered. “You did not see his body.”
“You cannot mean that old bastard survived the fall!” Diarmid cried. None of them liked their father, and that was putting it mildly.
“Impossible,” Cormac agreed, calm and rational as ever. “It would’ve broken his bones, at the very least.”
“How do you know?” Illadan, their leader and Brian’s nephew, asked.
Conan knew the answer as soon as Illadan finished the question. There was only one way Brian could have learned such a thing—Teague, perhaps the least trustworthy man in Éire and, unfortunately, Conan’s eldest brother.
“Teague sent a messenger a few days after you did,” he told them. “I sent men north to investigate the validity of his news, and they found it to be true.”
“Theysawour father?” Conan pressed.
“They did,” Brian grumbled. “But I’m more concerned about the causeway. He’s blockaded us from the Sionainn.”
Conan hadn’t believed he could be more shocked than to learn that his father yet lived. But to build a bridge across the Sionainn would take immeasurable manpower and materials. In many places it was near a mile wide. “Where?”
“Ath Luain.” Brian turned toward Conan. “Through the shallows so he could add posts more easily, I’d imagine. The men I sent said it’s about three-quarters of a mile across at their estimation.”
“Is it over the ford?” Cormac asked, thinking much the same as Conan. One of the most travelled fords across the Sionainn sat near Ath Luain.
Brian shook his head. “Just north of it.”
Conan couldn’t believe any of it. His father surviving a fall from a hundred feet or more into the sea was absurd enough. But then to imagine he recovered sufficiently to take another stab at Brian and build this causeway felt surreal. If Brian’s men hadn’t seen his father themselves, Conan would have been certain that Teague had made it all up and built the causeway himself.
“You told us he didn’t miss the rocks,” Conan recalled aloud. How could he have survived?
Brian shrugged, sighing. “That was how it looked. Teague says he broke many bones, but has healed enough to walk again. And plot against me, apparently.”
“What do you want us to do?” Illadan asked, getting to the heart of the matter. “Do you want us to kill him?”
“I’d considered it,” Brian began, “but it won’t serve my interests best. We have Teague helping us, which lessens Cahill’s threat. I need to focus on winning over the north and convincing Malachy to cede the kingship. If I were a younger man, I’d ride there myself and rid Cahill’s body of his head for threatening my son’s life. But my years grow longer as my time grows shorter. We must prioritize unification.”
Several months ago, while they overwintered in Dyflin on a different mission, Cahill had kidnapped the king’s son in an attempt to force his cooperation. While not an unheard-of tactic among the many kings of Éire, he was no less the bastard for it.
Conan was young enough and more than willing to exact vengeance on his king’s behalf, but he knew what Brian was getting after. “You think making peace with them will prove the most effective way to gain the kingship,” he guessed.
“I do. We’ve been using force for years in attempts to sway one another, and it has accomplished nothing but bloodshed along the borders. When we worked together, we took Dyflin and Laigin. I plan to travel north and convince Cahill and Malachy to confront Aodh with me.”
“When do we leave?” Illadan asked. Conan knew he was already making plans. The man couldn’t help himself.
“Broccan, Cormac, Conan, Diarmid and I leave in a few days. We will ride to meet Cahill and Malachy in Ath Luain and travel north into Ulaid from there. I’ve already sent messengers to request the meeting. The rest of you leave tomorrow, and when I return from the north, I expect that causeway to be gone. I leave the method and manner to your discretion, save that no one be able to link me or Mumhain to its destruction.”
