Chapter Three
“You did what?” Broccan couldn’t keep the anger from his voice as he listened to the absurd story his companions told. “What in the world possessed you to make such a vow?” he growled. “And without consulting Brian first?”
Brian Boru, King of Mumhain, waved a hand to silence him.
Brian sat before the central hearth in the holding of King Cahill of Connachta, recovering from their long journey.
He wore a tunic of rich wine red with gold embroidery, an ochre cloak pulled over his lean frame.
The round room sat empty, save for Brian and his Fianna.
Cahill and his son Teague had retired to their personal chambers to allow Brian and his warriors privacy.
Broccan had been in the king’s service since the tender age of seven, and Brian was as much his father as his king.
As Brian’s hair had turned from bronze to gray, Broccan’s respect for the king had only grown.
Brian was a wise man and a powerful warlord.
If anyone could see éire united, it was him.
Illadan, leader of Brian’s elite Fianna warriors, stepped forward. “I take full responsibility,” he declared. “The women provided us aid and were endangered by our mission. It was the least we could do. I also felt it afforded us an opportunity to take stock of our enemy’s forces firsthand.”
Broccan’s temples throbbed, as they always did around such foolishness. “We have more important things to do than cater to the whims of simpering women.”
“We swore oaths to help those in need.” Conan, the man actually responsible for this mess, moved to stand beside Illadan. “Or have you forgotten?”
“We are on the brink of war and you believe sending Brian’s best warriors north on a manhunt is the right choice?” Broccan’s entire head throbbed now. He felt the blood pumping, pushing the limits of its confines and causing a terrible ache.
“You are both correct, of course,” Brian’s firm, unyielding voice cut through their argument like a blade through flesh. “While I would prefer we focus on larger problems, you were faced with a dilemma of your oaths and you made your choice. Now, we make the best of it. Explain to me your plan.”
“The brothers were stationed in a unit along Cahill’s border with Aodh,” Illadan replied in a measured tone. “But they are there no longer there, and are not in the death rolls. We plan to ride north to the unit and ask the men themselves. Someone will know where they’ve gone.”
Brian nodded, stroking his thick, gray beard. “You have one turning of the moon to put this matter to rest. Then we return to Cenn Cora.”
“Thank you,” Conan bowed.
Brian dismissed them with another wave. The eight men left him to his thoughts, gathering in the courtyard outside the towering roundhouse.
Conan strode up to Broccan, grinning as though they hadn’t just postponed their plans by a month. “You’ll cheer up once you taste Emer’s cooking.”
“I doubt that.” The truth was that nothing had cheered Broccan in the past nine years. After the fire took his wife and daughter, he doubted anything ever would again.
“It’s better than Moira,” Dallan, another of the men and a particularly loud one at that, added. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”
“I need to think,” was all the response Broccan offered as he stormed away from the lot of them toward Ath Luain proper.
How could they have been so foolish as to make a blood oath to two women who were practically strangers? Was he missing something? He must be, for even the most impulsive of his companions wouldn’t do such a thing without cause.
Clouds hung low in a bleak gray sky, threatening rain in the coming hours.
He doubted they’d break until well into the evening meal, though.
Few things compelled Broccan these days.
Since the loss of his family, he’d felt more like a ghost searching for the afterlife than a man still drawing breath.
Everyone had told him time would ease the pain, but at nine years and counting he no longer believed them.
The one small respite he found was in sharing his life with Teamair and Mella as though they yet lived.
It felt silly, childish even, but it was the only way he kept going.
Teamair, his dear wife, had loved making necklaces and bracelets from beads.
She’d amassed a small collection of glass, shell, and wooden beads that she transformed into beautiful gifts for those she’d loved.
There was no way in hell or on earth that Broccan was about to string up beads, but he still bought a new one for her collection everywhere he traveled, just as he had when she still lived.
Little Mella had been so small that she had only just started walking.
Broccan swallowed back the ache in his chest that rose every time he thought of her.
He’d always brought back a toy for her, either a doll of cloth or a smooth wooden figurine.
She’d liked the wooden horse from Cruachan best, and had protested loudly whenever it wasn’t in her chubby hands.
Aye, it hurt to think of them everywhere he went and to wonder if they ever saw the trinkets he brought back for them now.
But it hurt even more not to. At the very least, it ensured he remembered them, no matter how far he traveled or how long he was gone.
They deserved no less after he hadn’t been there to save them.
The day neared its close, and the market square at Ath Luain was filled with folk finishing up their business. Broccan couldn’t care less about their haggling and hawking. All he needed was a bead and a toy.
The toy was easy. He spied a table set up in front of a merchant’s cart, covered in trinkets and holy symbols.
Propped up against the cart on the back of the table, a trio of colorful dolls in bright-blue dresses smiled vacantly at him.
Broccan walked over in a trance, picking one up and inspecting it.
“How much?” he asked the woman manning the table. She looked a few years older than Broccan, with a kind face and an easy smile.
“A quarter of silver.” She smiled too happily. “Is it for your daughter?”
Pain lanced through his chest, the ache returning to his temples. “Aye,” he grunted, suddenly questioning himself.
Mella would be nearly eleven now. Would she find such a gift too childish and silly? She’d likely be more interested in boys and pretty dresses, excited to start her courting in a few years’ time. Broccan liked that thought even less.
“Do you have any beads?” he asked the woman.
She shook her head. “Sorry, no. You might try Scanlon over there. He mostly sells spices, but sometimes he has baubles.”
He paid her for the doll and walked across the cobblestones to the cart she’d pointed out.
Beads were his preference, but he could work with spices.
Teamair had loved cinnamon. She said it reminded her of him, spicy at first, but sweet and comforting all the same.
It would hold just as well as a bead for the return home, and the scent would be a reminder of her while he journeyed.
“Do you have any beads?” Broccan asked the brown-bearded man.
Like the woman he shook his head. “Sorry, not this trip. I can bring some for you next time.”
“Don’t bother,” Broccan muttered, scanning the array of herbs before him until he found it.
One, lone stick of cinnamon. He reached for it.
But another hand grabbed it first.