Free Oath of the Brotherhood by C. E. Laureano Page B

the look of a much younger man. He handled the lute with a grace and surety that somehow reminded Conor of a master swordsman.
    “I hear you play?”
    Conor averted his eyes. Compared to Meallachán, he could hardly claim to be a musician. “Not really. Just a bit of the harp on my own.”
    “We’ll start with the cruit, then. It’s less complicated than the harp, but no less satisfying.”
    Conor nodded mutely. If the man asked him to bang the cook’s cauldron like a drum, he wouldn’t question it. Never mind the harp in the corner beckoned to him like an old friend.
    A light rap sounded at the door, and it creaked open. Aine slipped into the room, her expression sheepish. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
    Meallachán waved her in with a smile. “You’re not late. We’re just getting started.”
    Conor swallowed his nervousness. He hadn’t expected an audience. Embarrassing himself in front of Meallachán was one thing. Failing before Aine was another.
    “I have to warn you I’ve been pronounced hopeless,” Aine said. “You may regret taking me on before it’s all done.”
    “Nonsense. Anyone can learn given enough practice.” Meallachán guided Aine to a stool beside Conor and then produced two plainly crafted cruits: pear-shaped, long-necked instruments with six strings, their soundboards burnished by years of inexperienced hands.
    The bard began their lesson by naming the notes each string produced and demonstrating different scales. Then he showed them how to play the notes by plucking or strumming. Conor, though he had never touched a cruit, produced crisp, clear sounds, garnering a pleased nod from Meallachán.
    “A natural, indeed,” the bard said.
    When it came to Aine’s turn, however, she produced only a sickly twang. Meallachán adjusted her fingering until the notes sang truer, but frustration shone on her face.
    Meallachán taught a simple melody next, which Conor picked up with ease. Aine still struggled. She frowned, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her lips. Then her finger slipped from a string, and she bit back an oath.
    It was so out of character, Conor burst into laughter. Aine’s eyes widened, her cheeks going pink. Her dismay only made Conor laugh harder.
    “I told you I was hopeless! Please, Master Meallachán, may I just sit and listen?”
    “If that’s what you wish,” the bard said with a gentle smile. “I’m still willing to teach you.”
    “Respectfully, I just didn’t want to insult the king by rejecting his offer.”
    Meallachán nodded and returned to Conor’s lesson, giving him progressively more difficult exercises. “Are you sure you haven’t studied before?”
    “Not the cruit.”
    By the end of the lesson, some of Conor’s awe had faded. The bard was humble and utterly without artifice, genuinely pleased to share his knowledge. As Labhrás liked to say, important men demanded respect. Great men earned it.
    Meallachán had earned it.
    After the lesson, Aine followed Conor into the hallway. “Why did you lie to him?”
    “I didn’t! I’ve never studied the cruit. I do play the harp a little, but it seemed wrong not to learn what he wanted to teach me. Don’t you think?”
    “I suppose.”
    Conor smiled again, remembering her involuntary outburst. “After this morning, it’s nice to see there’s something you aren’t good at. I thought Treasach was going to die of apoplexy when you started talking about flying wedges and flanking maneuvers.”
    “You’re one to talk.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’d be careful he doesn’t try to bundle you back to Loch Laraigh. Besides, it seems hardly fair you know my weakness, and I don’t know yours.”
    “Then tag along when Gainor starts my sword training. I can practically guarantee you’ll have more talent at that than me. At least not being able to play the cruit won’t get you killed.”
    Aine stopped and turned that knowing gaze in his direction. “The world doesn’t need more warriors,