The Sword and the Song (23 page)

“How could that even be possible? She’s been under guard since she arrived. She’s barely even left the fortress, and certainly not without supervision.”

Aine cringed. “I asked her for help a few days ago. She went to Murchadh for me.”

“I don’t understand,” Eoghan said.

“I needed herbs and I didn’t want anyone to know. I sent her to Murchadh early in the morning.”

“Why?”

She was going to have to make a full confession. Dodging
the issue wasn’t going to work here. “I was beginning to have labor pains, and it’s much too early. I asked her to go get a tea to stop them.”

“Aine, you should have told someone!” Riordan said.

“And risk you telling Conor? He has enough on his mind without worrying about me. Trust me.”

“So you think that Morrigan spoke with Murchadh. She was the one who gave the order to him?”

“It seems reasonable, doesn’t it? It’s been years since Murchadh swore his oath. Suddenly, Morrigan shows up with information that proves to be true but doesn’t help us at all. Then days after I enlist her help with Murchadh, he tries to kill me.”

“It still could be a coincidence,” Riordan said. “All of that can be explained away by the fact that the war is escalating. It doesn’t mean she’s responsible for that, too.”

Eoghan sighed. “I’d have to agree with Riordan. But, just in case, I’ll change her guards.”

It was a logical, measured response, even if deep down, Aine knew she was right. Morrigan had some part in all of this; she was sure of it. She just had no way to prove it. The rune branded into Morrigan’s flesh prevented Aine from learning what she knew and what she had done. And despite the fact the dungeons had indeed been equipped for their intended purpose, she was sure Eoghan would never stoop to the painful and bloody step of removing the rune from her flesh.

Were it to be marred in some way though . . . Would a small cut, for example, negate the rune so Aine could find a way through to her mind?

She immediately dismissed the idea. To remove the rune would be to allow Niall to contact Morrigan. If she were innocent, they would be putting her at risk. If she were guilty, who knew what Niall could accomplish with unfettered access to her?

She kept the idea to herself, instead extracting a promise from the three men that they would not tell Conor. In return, she gave her word that she would notify them about any additional troubles, phrasing it in a way that left her as much flexibility as possible. Her father-in-law and her future king didn’t need to know every detail about her pregnancy, even if they did treat her as though she were carrying the crown prince.

But she couldn’t say that she was surprised by the news that awaited her when she awoke the next morning and was called to Eoghan’s office.

“Brother Murchadh is dead.”

The temperature took a rapid dip,
making Conor wonder if perhaps the sidhe were congregating en masse, despite the fact that the wards kept them at a harmless distance. Then he realized that among the concerns of magic and war and the movement of men, their late-coming fall had finally arrived. Frost misted the slate roofs of Ard Bealach’s buildings in the morning, and the sun took longer and longer each day to burn off the night’s chill.

Conor’s life at Ard Bealach consisted of the same minutia as his life at Ard Dhaimhin: assessing their supplies, evaluating their defenses, setting up the routines on which the Fíréin-trained men thrived. Since Conor didn’t have access to the rune that would seal the tunnels seamlessly again, he ordered his men to wall it back up with stones and mortar several feet thick. He knew full well this wouldn’t stop someone who was truly determined to enter. But the miles of dark tunnel at least fed to their advantage.

He devised a plan to sleep as little as possible, which involved taking a watch with the men and allowing himself to doze only right before someone came to wake him for his turn. The cold
night air kept him alert enough to discharge his duty until he could fall senseless into bed for the remaining pair of hours until dawn.

Even he recognized it wasn’t the best solution, especially as his temper grew shorter and his tone more caustic with each passing day. It was better than reliving the nightmares each time he closed his eyes. In some ways, it might have been easier had he actually undergone physical torture; the body had much more reliable ways of anesthetizing pain and clouding memories than the mind.

He wasn’t sure whether he felt relief or dread in stronger measure when the replacements finally arrived, exactly two weeks after the taking of Ard Bealach.

Conor ordered the gates opened to receive the party, fifty men and six packhorses. He picked out Nuada instantly, several inches taller than Conor with a rail-thin body. He reminded Conor of a war bow, stretched taut with anticipation even in movement.

Nuada came forward and gave him a respectful bow. “Sir, I’m reporting as ordered to take command of Ard Bealach.”

“Aye. Welcome. Your men can unload your supplies in the courtyard and put the ponies in the stables beyond. Come, I’ll give you a tour.”

Conor led Nuada up the two stone steps into the hall, aware of the man’s intense observation of him even though he didn’t understand it.

“They said something about ensorcelled men in torture chambers,” Nuada said finally.

“Aye, that’s been taken care of. The fortress is warded just as Ard Dhaimhin and the corridors have been, so you will be safe from the sidhe as well. Just use caution if you venture out into the villages. The spirits still have influence there.”

“Have you seen many of the villagers?”

“No. And, frankly, we’ve avoided it. As you’ll see when I show you the storerooms, our resources are limited. We can’t afford to be overrun with petitioners such as Ard Dhaimhin.”

Nuada seemed startled by his words. “Isn’t that the point of all this? To liberate the region?”

“The point of this was to establish a strategic outpost,” Conor said. “If we want to help the local people, we’re better off focusing on ending the threat to them altogether. Come, I’ll show you the upper quarters before we tour the barracks and the catacombs.”

Conor led the young commander up the stairs to the upper floor. Confusion poured off Nuada as they went. Had he ever been that green? Surely there had been a time he’d thought he could not only save the world but all the people in it as well. But that conceit had died a long time ago.

He threw open his chamber first. “These are currently my quarters. I chose them for the view of the courtyard, but you can do what you wish. There are a few other rooms up here, but the bulk of the men will need to be quartered below.”

Conor didn’t tarry in the tour of the upstairs but immediately led Nuada down two floors to the catacombs. When the other man faltered, Conor said, “You’ll get used to the smell. It fades a bit more each day. You should have been here before we cleared the chambers.”

Secretly, he felt a twinge of satisfaction at Nuada’s weak stomach, though he didn’t comment. He could hardly blame the young man for being accustomed to Ard Dhaimhin’s cleanliness and sanitation. It took venturing out into the wider world to understand the wonder of what King Dhaimhin and Queen Shanna had accomplished.

Conor named off the chamber’s purposes as they passed.
“Storeroom for dried goods. Root cellar. More storage. These are the dungeons. Only one cell is occupied at present. The rest of the prisoners met unfortunate ends.”

“What is to be done with him?” Nuada asked.

Conor paused in front of Somhairle’s cell. The man didn’t open his eyes, but the rhythmic tapping of his foot told Conor he was awake and listening to every word. “I’m considering taking him back with me.”

The tapping stopped, and Somhairle squinted through one open eye. “Take me back where?”

“Ard Dhaimhin. They’re more creative with punishment. I haven’t the time.”

“All talk,” Somhairle muttered.

“You think so?” Conor said. “You don’t believe I’m capable of following through?”

Somhairle’s other eye opened. He fixed Conor with a suddenly penetrating stare. “I meant them. You are capable of all that and more. And it terrifies you.”

Conor swallowed, frozen in that knowing gaze for what felt like hours. Then he shrugged in his best imitation of nonchalance and turned back the way they’d come. “I’m beginning to think he’s mad.”

“Quite,” Nuada murmured.

Conor showed the commander the tunnel that held the barracks, and then they climbed upward once more. Nuada sucked in a grateful breath of fresh air from the hall. “I have the tallies in my chamber. There are enough stores to get you through winter if you’re frugal, which is more than I can say for Ard Dhaimhin, but we’ll all be scrambling not to starve come spring. The Clanless will come trade meat and furs for coin. Any questions?”

“When are you leaving? When do I meet the rest of the men?”

“You mistake your orders. My men return with me. You’re more or less on your own.”

Two weeks. It might as well have been one long day, as seamlessly as one sleepless night flowed into the next. Conor’s group packed the ponies that had brought them to Ard Bealach with enough supplies to reach the High City. Conor personally put Somhairle into chains and assigned four men to watch him. The prisoner didn’t even acknowledge their presence, just followed with a docility that made Conor wonder if he really was mad. The newness of the shield rune suggested he might have been subject to the sidhe’s influence previously. Conor knew better than anyone what the spirits could do to a man’s mind.

Conor kept an eye out for any sign of the Clanless, but Oenghus and his party never appeared. He couldn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t have the energy or the clarity of mind to spar with the man. Nor was he sure anymore that they were actually on the same side, though he was the first to admit that his judgment was hazy. He put Ferus in charge on the way back, trusting the man’s steady demeanor to compensate for his exhaustion.

The only thing that he did continue to do was play his harp. It seemed to be the only thing that brought a measure of clarity to his thoughts. As soon as they made camp at night, he would put his fingers to the strings, heedless of who might be listening, and play whatever came to mind. Sometimes they were the old songs taught to him as a child by the traveling bards, things his fingers knew instinctively. Other times they would be completely new compositions, which he cut off midsong. Labhrás had once told him he gave away too much with his playing, and this time he knew it to be true. Even he could hear the anguish and confusion in the notes.

Once they crossed into Fíréin territory, the days seemed to stretch on even longer, knowing that they were within the city’s boundaries but still had more than a week to travel. The last bits of grain had been harvested, leaving short stubs where there had once been golden fields. A fine layer of frost draped the countryside each morning, giving it all a slightly storybook appearance and adding to the unreality of the trip in his increasingly hazy state.

Then on the seventeenth night after they had left Ard Bealach, they entered the village proper, down to the last crumbs of food in their packs. Conor numbly removed his belongings from the pony while Ferus handed off the leads to the young men in charge of the animals. Just being back in the High City brought a little life to his limbs.

“Sir, will you be all right?” Ferus looked directly into Conor’s eyes as if to make sure that he understood what he was asking.

Had he really been that insensible since they left Ard Bealach? He thought back and realized he could remember almost nothing of the preceding weeks. But he nodded. “Fine. I’m going to wash in the springhouse before I go to the fortress.”

“Aye, sir.” Ferus hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, and then just gave a little bow.

“Ferus?”

“Sir?”

“Well done. You have proven your fitness as a leader.”

“With all due respect, sir, it was mostly due to you. Between the wards and your playing, trouble stayed far away from us.”

What did his playing have to do with anything? It wasn’t worth the time it would take to ask. “Even so. You’ve earned your rest.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope you find some here as well.”

Conor hiked his bag over one shoulder and wove his way
through the village toward the bathhouse that had been erected over the hot springs in the center of the city. He managed friendly responses to the men’s greetings, though conversation was the last thing he felt like at the moment. He stepped inside the steam-filled structure, and immediately the warmth took the edge off the ever-present chill in his extremities. There were a few men bathing, and Conor just gave them polite nods while he dropped his bag and stripped off his clothing.

Conor had just managed to slide into a hot pool when a voice came from overhead. “Sir, you’ve returned from Ard Bealach?”

He winced and squinted up at the boy who was squatting by the edge of the pool. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, with the gangly, overeager demeanor of a young man desperate to make his mark on the world. Conor searched in vain for his name and came up empty. “Aye.”

“We’ve all heard how you took the fortress bloodlessly. It must have been a glorious battle.”

Conor closed his eyes and gave a pained, weary chuckle. Bloodlessly? In a sense. Glorious? Not even close. “The fortress is secure. It matters little how it happened.”

“Aye, but they say the magic stretches all the way from here across half of Sliebhan.”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Apparently, he was becoming something of a legend. Too bad it wasn’t even close to true.

“Aye, sir. I hope someday that I will have the chance to serve under you.”

The innocent words struck him with such melancholy weight that he didn’t know what to say. Had he been so naive at that age? How had he managed to become so cynical in a mere seven years? He cleared his throat. “Son, I appreciate that, but I hope you never have the need.”

It was apparently good enough, because the boy gave him a
bow and hurried off. The other men followed suit, leaving Conor alone with his thoughts in a room full of steam. Only when he dozed off and slid up to his chin in the water did he finally rouse himself enough to get out and dress so he could go up to Aine.

The three hundred steps of the fortress might as well have been a thousand for how they felt to his aching muscles and his weary mind. When he reached the top, he accepted the greetings of the guards on duty with a nod. Inside, he snagged the first brother he found. “Let Master Eoghan know that I’ve returned and I’ll speak with him in the morning. I’m going to see my wife.”

But when he reached the upper corridor where his chamber lay, he stopped. Iomhar leaned casually against the wall opposite the door. Conor frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Iomhar straightened abruptly and bowed. “Sir, waiting for the night guard.”

Conor just blinked at him.