Even Liam knew only a fraction of what is contained here.”
“Was this room what called you?” Riordan asked.
“No.” Conor walked slowly around the chamber, letting his senses guide him, even though he saw nothing to distinguish any spot from another. Then he paused. A drawer, barely perceptible among the shelves. He grasped the ring and pulled.
A familiar case lay inside it.
“The sword.” The sword that had called to him so strongly during the oath binding ceremonies, the blade upon which the clan chiefs of Seare had sworn their allegiance to King Daimhin. He removed the case and carried it to the table in the middle of the room.
There could have been discussion in the background, but Conor heard nothing. The thrum of power, so much like the magic in Meallachán’s harp, vibrated through him, aligning itself with the beat of his heart. He flipped the latch, bracing himself for a blast of power.
But it did not come. Instead, the magic faded to a mere whisper, the ripple of water over rocks in a stream. The etchings on the blade glowed in the dim light.
He closed his hand around the grip and lifted it before him, not on his palms as he would handle a ceremonial blade but as a weapon. A surge of electricity traveled up his arm and nearly took his breath away.
Then the whispers began. Echoes at first, then stronger, the sounds of men’s voices vowing their allegiance to the brotherhood, to the High King. An idea began to take shape in his mind. He looked to Aine and saw the same wonder reflected in her eyes.
A smile stretched her lips. “Aye.”
He replaced the sword in the case, and the voices faded, the hum of power dwindling to nothing. He closed the box and flipped the latch shut.
“This is what the druid wanted. And now I know why.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Conor.”
He stopped pacing the Hall of Prophecies and dropped his hands from where they’d been locked behind his head. “You saw it as clearly as I did. This is why I was called back. This is why the succession of Fíréin leadership passed to me and not to Eoghan.”
The sword could solve so much. They needed men. Warriors, soldiers, whatever he wanted to call them. Men who would be willing to fight to retake their country, now scattered across Seare. Thanks to the sword, he knew who they were, knew he could call them back. But how?
“Aye, we need men,” Aine said softly. It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t voiced his thoughts aloud. “But we can’t call them back until we reinstate the wards. Right now they’re safe because they’re scattered. The druid doesn’t know who they are. But what’s to keep him from just destroying the city, with all our men inside?”
“His plan must be bigger than that.” But Conor couldn’t discount her words. Without the wards, they were at the druid’s mercy. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “So we’re back to where we were before.”
“Maybe there’s something in these records that could tell us about the wards or the harp,” Aine mused, wandering along the shelves.
“There are thousands of pieces of writing here. The right one would practically have to jump into your hands.”
They met each other’s eye as a thought occurred to them simultaneously. Aine put voice to it. “The timing of it . . . you felt the sword call to you right after you failed to rebuild the wards.”
He winced at her word choice, but she was right. So what were they missing?
He went to the case on the table and opened it. Once more the thrum of magic vibrated through him, so different from the magic of the wards and yet similar to Meallachán’s harp.
“That’s it,” Conor murmured. He lifted the sword from the case, this time holding it flat across his palms. Its etchings glistened in the soft light.
No, not etchings—runes.
Excitement gripped him. He peered closer at the blade. Most of the symbols he didn’t recognize. He’d interpreted them originally as Odlum, but they were different somehow. Then his eyes focused on a familiar symbol: a three-spoked wheel, like the charm Aine wore around her neck—and the symbol carved into the tuning pin of Meallachán’s harp.
Conor’s pulse suddenly throbbed through his entire body. He could barely choke words from his tight throat. “We need Eoghan.”
Ten minutes later, Conor, Eoghan, and Aine gathered in the Ceannaire’s office above with the sword, the