about the procedure for his punishment. In his lifetime at Ard Dhaimhin, he had seen a handful of floggings, and the memories were enough to twist his stomach into knots.
When he arrived, two massive posts had been set into deep holes, ropes hanging from rings set into their tops. Eoghan slowly descended the stairs to where Master Liam and the nine Conclave members awaited him, glad he had skipped the morning meal. Surely even battle could not be as nerve-wracking as the realization he would soon be completely at another’s mercy. When he approached, the men stepped back into a line before him, and the hum of voices in the amphitheater hushed.
Master Liam moved forward. “Brother Eoghan, you have admitted to breaking the laws of the Fíréin brotherhood by leaving the city without permission. You have been sentenced to twenty-five lashes with the whip. Do you wish to say anything in your defense?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well, then.” Master Liam withdrew a handful of straws and leveled them in his fist. “The Conclave will draw to determine who will carry out the sentence.”
One by one, the nine members drew straws. When Brother Daigh, the oldest of the Conclave, drew the shortest one, Eoghan’s heart sank. Daigh was not the strongest of the men, but he was the sternest. He would not let pity stay his hand.
Liam glanced at the lanky, blond-haired warrior beside him. “Brother Riordan, restrain Brother Eoghan.”
Regret crossed the man’s face. After Liam, this brother had played the biggest role in Eoghan’s upbringing. He also happened to be Conor’s father, a fact of which few knew and even fewer spoke.
“Remove your shirt,” Riordan said.
Eoghan pulled off the linen tunic and tossed it aside, keeping his expression blank.
Riordan buckled leather straps around Eoghan’s wrists and then threaded the ropes through the ring on each.
“I tried to speak with Master Liam,” he murmured.
“I knew what I was doing. Your son is safe. And by now, I would think you have a daughter as well.”
Relief and pleasure mingled with pain in the older man’s face. He placed a green willow rod between Eoghan’s teeth. “Comdiu protect you.”
The ropes pulled through the rings, stretching Eoghan’s arms out in a vee above his head, rendering him powerless, vulnerable. A frisson of fear scurried through him as Brother Daigh approached with a five-tailed cord whip in hand. At least it wasn’t leather like those they used on brothers who purposely harmed one another. This whip was meant to inflict pain, not to maim.
Eoghan steeled himself for the first lash, but even so, it stole his breath. Fiery pain seared across his back and rippled through his nerve endings. He clenched the willow rod between his teeth.
It was worse than he had imagined. But he would be silent. He would not show weakness. He braced himself for the second lash while the moments ticked by, each one an agony of anticipation. Only when the sting had faded to a manageable level did the whip crack again and pain seared him once more.
It took Daigh nearly twenty minutes to deliver the requisite twenty-five strokes, pausing between each to let the pain abate before he started again. Eoghan’s determination to remain silent disintegrated somewhere around number six, when he could no longer stifle his cries. By the end, his body was slicked with sweat or blood, and he sagged in his restraints until his arms felt as though they would be pulled from their sockets.
At last, two brothers lowered the ropes. Eoghan lay facedown on the ground, his muscles cramped and his throat raw, while calloused hands unbuckled the straps around his wrists.
“On behalf of my son,” Riordan’s voice whispered, “thank you.”
Eoghan managed to lift his head. “It is my privilege to serve Comdiu.” Then he collapsed on the hard ground.
CHAPTER THREE
Thirst, powerful and insistent, broke through the haze of Conor’s unconsciousness, followed by an ache that seemed to come from everywhere at once. A distant roar sent his head into a furious hammering that squelched all thoughts of movement. He lay still and gritted his teeth against the pain until it passed.
Slowly, he opened his eyes to the source of the roaring, which was actually just the lap of low tide. He was sprawled on a sandy beach, sand in every last crevice: eyes, nose, mouth. It hurt to move or even blink, and it took every last bit of strength to push himself to a sitting position.
A level swath of shoreline stretched in either direction, long grasses