Chapter Twenty-Three
The sun came up far too soon, chasing away the magical blanket of night and tossing Broccan back into reality—a new reality. One where he slowly removed stones from the weight he carried so that he could keep walking forward. With Emer.
She sat in front of him as they rode out of Ath Luain. When the women announced their plans to attend the fair in Cruachan Aí while the Fianna rode north, Illadan offered to escort them since it fell along their route.
In one day’s passing, they reached Cruachan Aí, the seat of the king of Connachta—who was also the father of Cormac, Conan, and Diarmid.
The fields surrounding the city were blanketed with festival goers.
Brightly colored tents and cart after cart of merchants and peddlers filled every available space.
Emer would have loved it. Broccan was glad to pass through, straight toward the king’s rath.
They rode by children running and screaming until they reached the familiar hall of King Cahill of Connachta.
Though Broccan had been there innumerable times over the course of Brian’s volatile relationship with Cahill, three of his companions had grown up in this very rath, at least until they came of fostering age at seven.
Cormac, Conan, and Diarmid led the way, dismounting and handing their horses to the stable boys.
They entered the giant rath, a relic of an ancient age, an enormous version of the roundhouses of the Hart’s Rest. Broccan wouldn’t even dare to guess at its dimensions.
He knew that it housed five full circles of compartments to the single one inside the Hart’s Rest. And in the king’s rath, each compartment was a full room unto itself, not a small space tucked behind half a wall.
“Eamon!” Diarmid called cheerily when the steward greeted them just inside the massive bronze doors. “How are you?”
“I’m here,” the thin, graying man replied. And he had been since Cormac was a child, if Broccan’s companions were to be believed.
“Is Teague about?” Cormac asked.
“Aye, this way.”
Eamon hadn’t led them more than a few steps into the main hall when Teague appeared. “I thought I heard my brother’s bellyaching,” he greeted them, pinning his gaze on Diarmid.
The four brothers shared a remarkable resemblance.
They were all of a similar height and frame, with dark hair that they all kept long and a touch wilder than Broccan would have.
Perhaps it was unmanageable, as they all appeared to handle it the same.
Aside from Teague’s sharper nose, the only noticeable difference was in their eyes.
Teague and Diarmid shared the same brown eyes, Cormac and Conan the same blue ones.
“How else would you know I was here?” Diarmid grinned.
“Did you come for the fair?”
Cormac stepped forward. “The women did. We’re just passing through, actually.”
Teague’s face brightened when his gaze landed on Alannah and Emer. “How did I miss the appearance of my favorite soon-to-be sisters?”
Broccan rolled his eyes so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if they never worked properly again. The women, however, appeared to enjoy his flattery.
“You’re welcome to stay in the rath for as long as you’re in Cruachan Aí,” Teague told Emer and Alannah.
“Thank you,” Alannah replied, her grin nearly as warm as Emer’s. Nearly.
“My pleasure.” Teague turned back to Cormac. “And where will you be off to?”
“We’re still looking for the brothers.”
Teague’s dark brow creased. “I thought you went to the place where they’d been posted.”
“They weren’t there,” Cormac replied. “They went missing during a skirmish with Aodh.”
“You think they’re hostages?”
“If they’re not, then they’re truly lost.”
If they weren’t hostages, then Broccan was going to keep searching.
Men didn’t just disappear. He would discover what had happened to them, if nothing else.
“Let’s hope Aodh is willing to treat with you, then.
He certainly had no interest in negotiating with anyone else.
” Teague waved Eamon over from across the hall.
“Eamon will find you rooms for the night. Best of luck to you.”
“This way, if you please,” Eamon called from the back of the room.
They once more fell into single file behind the elderly steward.
He led them past the first compartment, the innermost of five concentric hallways that wrapped the central hall.
Conan and Alannah, Cormac, and Diarmid disappeared in that compartment, undoubtedly toward the family’s quarters.
Turning down the third corridor, he pointed at room after room, directing the remaining warriors into their quarters.
Broccan and Emer’s room fell about halfway around the circular corridor, as best he could guess.
“It’s so cozy,” Emer breathed, setting her bag down beside the bed and circling the wedge-shaped room.
The back wall was a foot or two shorter than the front, but the entire room was as large as one of the guest cottages at the Hart’s Rest. A generous bed, a small table with two chairs, and a storage chest took up most of the space. Bronze braziers lit the room from all four corners.
She turned that steadfast, warm smile on Broccan. “And we’re in the third compartment. Can you imagine what the princes’ rooms must look like?”
“No need to imagine,” he told her. “We can just go have a look ourselves.”
Dark eyes gleamed at him in the light of the braziers. “Really?”
He snorted in amusement. “Of course. But if you want to go to the fair before dinner, we’d best get going.”
He’d barely finished speaking before she’d hurried past him and back into the corridor.
Even with the hour of dinner approaching, the crowd hadn’t thinned at all.
Indeed, it seemed busier than it had just a little while ago on their way into the rath, no doubt on account of the numerous merchants selling entire meals.
Makeshift alehouses and cookeries blended in among the rainbow of tents and carts.
So many delicious smells accosted him, that Broccan couldn’t put a name to a single one, though he’d happily sample them all.
“What would you like to do?” he asked her.
She placed a pensive finger against pink lips, tapping as she surveyed her options. Like a hawk that spied a mouse, she took off toward a wooden stall.
“Where are we—” Broccan’s question died on his lips. He knew exactly where they were going. The stall was piled with bowls and baskets of trinkets. Holy relics, ribbons, things that sparkled and shone but didn’t make much sense to him.
And beads.
“Emer,” he pleaded, his pulse throbbing against his temples. He wasn’t prepared for this, not in the least. “What are you doing?”
“You said you always buy Teamair beads, wherever you travel,” she told him. “You’re here at the fair and you couldn’t find any for her in Ath Luain, so it’s perfect. What was her favorite color?”
Broccan’s mouth worked, but no words emerged. He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat. He could do this. Cormac would tell him he should do this.
Emer waited patiently, not rushing him. She simply stood beside him.
“Blue,” he managed at last.
He let Emer lead him to where bowls of beads stood in a neat row.
They were mostly wood, bone, and glass, though one bowl held amber beads and another brass.
Emer picked up a wooden bead painted the same color as an egg in the spring—the cheeriest blue imaginable.
Leave it to Emer to find the happiest iteration of any color.
Broccan took it from her outstretched hand, rolling it between his fingers. “You’re right. It is perfect.” And so was she.