Page 12 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

T he next ten days flew by in a whirlwind of cutting, sawing, and laying boards to construct the temporary housing necessary to fit the many suitors soon headed their way.

Cormac tried not to think overmuch on what would follow after the housing was finished.

He didn’t know how he felt about any of it, aside from conflicted.

Seemingly overnight, Astrid had gone from someone he avoided at all costs to someone who stole the majority of his thoughts.

Many times over those long days of building he contemplated how he might break the news to the rest of the Fianna, to his brothers, that he would be competing for Astrid’s hand in marriage.

Though he knew an explanation of his plan would quickly dissolve any argument they might have, or even any jesting at his odd shift in allegiance, he still felt that he hadn’t found the right words.

It was a good plan—he was convinced of that—but something inside him gnawed at him throughout those long days of manual labor.

As the first contestants started trickling into Dyflin, Cormac accepted that the time had come to inform his brothers, and then the rest of the Fianna, of his decision to compete.

After dinner in Sitric’s hall one day before the games began, Cormac took his brothers to the alehouse in the heart of Dyflin—an occurrence so unusual that they cast him sidelong glances the entire way.

They found the alehouse busier than usual, with both the indoor and outdoor tables stuffed to overflowing, no doubt on account of the impending tournament.

Diarmid, turning on his notorious charm, approached Maeve, the establishment’s owner with whom he’d become well-acquainted in the course of their time in Dyflin.

Cormac didn’t even overhear what was said, but following a few brief words, they were seated in the far back corner inside the alehouse, quite near to the bar itself.

“Are you going to tell us why you brought us here?” his middle brother, Conan, asked as Maeve brought their first round of ale.

“Is it that odd for me to want to spend a night out with my brothers after weeks of hard work?” Even Cormac wasn’t convinced at the tone in his own voice.

“You rarely leave Sitric’s estate,” Diarmid replied, “and when you do it’s only because we force you.”

“True, true,” Cormac conceded, though he wasn’t able to smile with his admission as he normally would. “The truth is, I’ve brought you here to tell you something, and I had hoped that copious amounts of ale and the promise of an evening out might hinder any untoward comments.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have told us that,” Diarmid laughed, taking a swig of ale. “Now I’m obligated to go out of my way just to make said comments.”

Conan shoved Diarmid, making his ale slosh out of the mug. “Out with it,” Conan demanded. “I’ll make sure he’s not too hard on you, though I can’t imagine what our responsible older brother could possibly have done that he believes merits commentary from us heathens.”

“After great consideration, I have made the decision to enter into the tournament.”

For a long moment, his brothers stared at him blankly, as though unable to comprehend what he’d said.

“You mean in the tournament here?” Conan asked, his grey-blue eyes wide with skepticism.

“The very same, but before you make any wild assumptions, let me explain my plan.” He didn’t get much farther than that before the pair of them burst into laughter.

“You’re going to compete for the hand of the woman who drives you absolutely mad?” Conan sputtered.

“It’s because he’s secretly in love with her,” Diarmid teased. “That’s how they get you. First they irritate you, then they ensnare you.”

“Shall I tell Cara your views on the matter, then?” Cormac prodded his brother, knowing full well Diarmid’s new betrothed would have a thing or two to say over it.

“I’m certain it wouldn’t surprise her,” Diarmid chuckled, “but I’d appreciate it if you told it in the context of this story.”

“So what’s really going on then?” Conan asked.

Though both Cormac’s brothers were lighter of spirit and wilder than Cormac ever had been, Conan was the more thoughtful of the two, and the more likely to see the truth behind Cormac’s statement.

“She approached me about it,” Cormac explained, “and offered a truce. If I help her get out of a marriage entirely, in return she will convince Sitric to marry Sláine.”

“How is competing going to save her from a marriage?” Conan asked.

Diarmid took it in an entirely different direction, instead, staring pointedly at Cormac with his piercing chestnut gaze and setting down his ale. “You’re not actually interested in her, are you?”

Cormac choked on his next swig of ale. “Not in the least,” he assured his brother. “It was simply the easiest way to get her out of the way so that we could accomplish our mission.”

“Alright,” Diarmid allowed hesitantly, “but I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“How is it a terrible idea?” Cormac asked. “I thought it through, and the only thing that could possibly go wrong would be Sitric—” he paused.

“Forcing you to actually marry her and thus break your oath to Brian?” Conan finished for him.

“Aye,” Cormac allowed, “but I’d be willing to anger Sitric if it meant keeping my oath to Brian. I won’t be marrying her, no matter how this turns out, but I’m going to do my best to set her up to marry someone of her choosing.”

“What does that even mean?” Conan asked. “Are you going to help some other man win if she says she wants to marry him instead?”

“If that’s what it comes to, yes,” Cormac told him.

“I can’t marry her, so if she finds someone she would actually like to marry, I’ll happily help him on his way to victory.

I’ll even put in a good word for him with Sitric along the way.

” It was the least he could do after his questions caused all this in the first place.

After several more rounds of questioning, his brothers grudgingly agreed that it was, in fact, an acceptable plan. Three refills later, Diarmid got his attention once more.

“Do you have any idea who else might be coming?” he asked. “Has Astrid told you who’s competing?”

“I’ve not spoken with her much since we came to our agreement,” Cormac responded. “We’ve both been busy getting ready for the tournament, but as I understand it Sitric invited about a dozen or so men to compete. I had to ask him to include me.”

“Well, you should have told us sooner,” Conan grumbled, “then we could have given you all of our excellent advice so you had enough time to use it.”

Cormac smiled at his brothers, wondering why he had waited so long to talk to them about it.

He was so used to them making light of everything and turning life into one great jest that he hadn’t really thought of them as fonts of wisdom or sage advice.

He made a note not to underestimate them the same way in the future.

All his life he’d been the one looking out for them.

He’d happily carried the weight of that responsibility, especially as he knew it was his fault they’d been disowned by their father.

Perhaps it was time for Cormac to start focusing more on his own goals and less on raising his brothers.

They were grown men now, Fianna warriors in their own right.

And it wasn’t that he had raised them entirely on his own, either.

Brian had been as a father to them since the day of his sister’s wedding.

But Cormac knew that the fault of their poor relationship with their family lay entirely with him, and that was no small burden to carry.

The least he could do was to help them every step of the way.

The rest of their evening passed in jovial conversation and outrageous betting on who had been invited to compete in the games and whether or not they would show up.

Nearing midnight, Cormac stood and ushered his brothers out the door of the alehouse and back up toward Sitric’s holding.

Tomorrow the games began, and Cormac knew that what he needed more than anything else was a good night’s sleep.

The following morn started with a bang. Moments after he woke, a clattering sounded outside his bedroom window. Cormac flew from his bed to find all of the Fianna beneath his window, shouting at him and cheering for him to come out.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He should’ve known they’d cause a scene.

He knew it was all in good fun, but the attention put every nerve on edge until they frayed into a thousand tiny flames, his skin burning like a Lughnasadh bonfire.

Sighing in resignation, he put on his clothes and fortified himself.

Not for the day of friendly competition, but for the onslaught of support he knew he would get from his friends.

He went out to join them, grabbing a couple of oat cakes on his way through the hall.

They shouted and called to him as he met them in the courtyard, laughter and cheering and a good dose of slapping him on the back following his every step.

“You’re going to crush them all,” Conan assured him with a smack on his shoulder.

“If you need any help with the rules, come to us,” Finn told him, motioning to himself and Dallan, who were both well-versed in the Ostman games.

“We’ll be right there if you need us, shouting so loud that your opponents won’t be able to think straight,” Diarmid promised with a dimpled grin.

Cormac didn’t doubt it, thanking them as they walked together down to the tournament field on the outskirts of Dyflin.

In spite of the late night out with his brothers, he felt ready to take on whatever challenges came his way.

He wasn’t worried over his opponents, but instead was curious about what men would be competing against him.

The temporary housing that they had helped build bustled with activity.

Families had already arrived and buzzed like bees about a hive as they settled into the four small halls, unloading carts and unpacking horses.

Cormac didn’t recognize any of the men he saw carrying their belongings into whichever hall they’d been assigned.

Astrid and her mother stood in their midst like trees in a storm, directing everyone to the appropriate rooms.

Sitric greeted each guest with huge hugs for which he was known. It amused Cormac to no end to watch how everyone reacted when the giant of a king charged them, arms wide, as though he were going to squeeze the life from them.

“Cormac!” Sitric bellowed from across the field, waving him over with a beaming smile.

When they came within earshot and arms’ reach, Sitric pulled Cormac into an enthusiastic hug, of the sort he’d given every single person that morn.

“The man who wishes to wed my sister! Well, one of them, anyway,” he chuckled.

Cormac slipped a sidelong glance at Astrid, who stood but a few feet away with Gormla. She narrowed her eyes at her brother. “You shouldn’t prod him,” she chastised. “His pride will be bruised enough in the coming games.”

“I doubt that,” Diarmid championed, stepping forward beside Cormac. “He’s going to beat every single one of them.”

Long before the sun rose to its zenith, all of the men Sitric invited seated themselves around the field to listen to several of Sitric’s men instruct them on the rules of the day’s game.

Knattleikr , they called it, though that meant naught to him.

As far as Cormac could tell, it was a game of wrestling that somehow involved a ball and a wooden stick.

Two of Sitric’s men demonstrated the game briefly, but it did little to convince Cormac that the ball and stick were necessary at all to the game.

All the men stood, preparing to take sides against one another.

Astrid and Gormla, along with much of Sitric’s household, sat along the edge of the field to watch the opening match of the games.

Sitric’s men handed out long wooden sticks, as thick as a woman’s arm and twice as long.

Cormac allowed himself one swift glance at Astrid, who gave him the slightest hint of a smile and a nod indicating her support.

His friends, on the other hand, shouted so loudly that Cormac could hardly hear his own thoughts.

The sixteen competitors paired up, throwing stones to determine which men were of comparable strength.

Cormac was paired with a man a hair shorter than him but just as broad.

Tall, with sandy blonde hair that reminded Cormac of Finn’s, the man clearly knew his way around a sword.

They stood about ten yards apart, his opponent holding the stick and preparing to hit the ball to him when another group of horses rode into the settlement.

Perhaps he’d misunderstood Astrid when she said fifteen men were invited.

Or perhaps Sitric had later invited another competitor.

The men around Cormac were entirely focused on the game; not one seemed to notice.

Cormac’s attention was divided between the game and the horses.

He couldn’t quite make out the features of the men, but he could tell there were no women with them.

Astrid rose, presumably to greet the newcomers, but something about the entire situation felt wrong, setting the hairs on the back of his neck on end.

Sitric’s men began the count. His opponent raised the stick, drawing Cormac’s attention sharply back to the game at hand. And at the same moment that the stick cracked against the ball, Cormac heard a sound that he’d hoped never to hear again. His stomach dropped as he caught the ball.

And his father’s voice rang out across the field.