Her father, Alsandair Mac Tamhais, had always spoken of Seare as a wild place, barely one step removed from its pagan roots, enmeshed in magic both dark and mysterious. Aronans thought themselves highly civilized and pragmatic, an affectation that made them closed-minded about anything that hinted at the supernatural. Lord Balus’s coming had ended the need for magic, they said, and anyone who practiced it must serve a darker power.
Aine’s pace quickened as she returned to the chamber she shared with Niamh. Magic hung heavy over Seare. She had felt it as soon as she set foot on the dock: the pulse of a pure, brilliant power, and beneath it, a sinuous strand of something older and much darker. That same darkness lingered in the forest beyond Lisdara, and sometimes she felt it seeking, testing the protections woven into the keep’s walls. No one else seemed to notice the invisible battle that waged beyond, though, and admitting her sensitivity would only bring unwanted scrutiny. Even the ancient healer, Mistress Bearrach, did not know Aine’s secrets, but the longer she studied with her, the more difficult they were to conceal.
Oonagh, the lady’s maid she shared with Niamh, was folding clothes into a large oak chest when Aine entered her chamber. “My lady! I thought you were at your lessons!”
“I’m riding with Mistress Bearrach this morning. Will you send for Ruarc? I can find my riding clothes.”
Oonagh curtsied in acknowledgement and hurried from the room. Aine took her time selecting a brown wool dress and a lightweight cloak from the wardrobe. She had just pulled on the clothing when a familiar rap sounded at the door. She slid a sheathed knife onto her belt and buckled it quickly, then swept the cloak around her shoulders. When she opened the door, Ruarc lounged against the opposite wall.
Aine had known her Seareann bodyguard for so long it was hard to see him as others did, but objectively, his mere presence was enough to discourage untoward thoughts. Middle-aged, but as lean and strong as he had been in his early years, Ruarc projected restrained menace, like a viper poised to strike.
He was the gentlest soul she had ever met. He could also kill remorselessly with the proper provocation. The latter was likely why Lady Ailís, with her last breath, had passed his duty to Aine. Ruarc never questioned the matter. He had merely appeared at her side, and he had not left it since.
“You look troubled,” he said, falling into step beside her. “What is it?”
“The same as always.”
Ruarc fingered the dagger at his belt, a sure sign he was troubled. “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come here. You’ve been unsettled since we arrived in Faolán.”
“And what was there left in Aron? Mother’s dead.” Aine swallowed the lump in her throat. Six months was not long enough to dim her sense of loss. She steadied her voice and continued, “Aunt Macha has no use for me. She tolerated me for Father’s sake. If she found out . . .”
“I know, but—”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just harder to ignore certain aspects of my talents here than it was in Aron.”
They emerged into the bright morning sunlight and started across the courtyard to the beehive-shaped clochan, a stone remnant of a more primitive age that now served as Mistress Bearrach’s residence.
“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” Ruarc said, his brow furrowing as he studied her. “Something else is bothering you.”
“It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. The Mac Nir boy disturbed her. She couldn’t look at him without feeling the subtle hum of energy, a stronger, brighter version of the threads underpinning Faolán. Worse yet, she had dreamed of him in Aron the night before Calhoun’s invitation arrived. She had been poised to decline until she was struck with the certainty that that boy waited for her in Lisdara. Instead, the words had spilled out, “Tell my brother I’ll come.”
Ruarc’s frown deepened. “My duty is to protect you, Aine. If you hold things back, it makes my job much harder.”
Aine forced a smile and put a light hand on his arm. “I have full confidence in you.” A pity his particular skills would be of no help in this situation.
Just as they arrived at the clochan, the door sprang open. An elderly, white-haired woman scowled at them from the threshold. “What took you so long?”
“Forgive us,” Aine said, aware that Ruarc was struggling against a smile. He found Mistress Bearrach’s ill temper more amusing than she did. Then again, he didn’t bear the brunt of it. Still, the old healer knew more medicine and herb lore than a dozen of the clan’s physicians, and Aine had already learned more from her in four months than in two years with her aunt’s knowledgeable, but skeptical, practitioners.
Mistress Bearrach thrust a bulging leather sack at Ruarc. “There, young man, carry this for me and go get our horses. Go on, I’m not getting any younger, you know. At this rate, I’ll be dead before you return.”
Ruarc hid a grin and jogged back across the courtyard to where a boy waited with three blanketed horses.
“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you today,” Aine said.
Mistress Bearrach harrumphed. “Just don’t kill anyone. That’s one mistake I can’t fix.”
Ruarc returned with their horses then, saving Aine from answering. He helped the healer mount first and then gave Aine a leg up onto her own mare. The horse danced nervously beneath her, obviously sensing she was a barely competent rider. Mistress Bearrach, by contrast, seemed as comfortable atop her mount as on her own feet, despite the fact horses were not common in Seare outside the palaces of kings.
The horses’ hooves thudded on packed earth as they made their way down the steep switchbacks with Mistress Bearrach in the lead. At the bottom, the old woman turned due south onto a trail that was little more than a few hoof prints in the grass. Aine would have missed it had she not been following the healer so closely. After a few minutes of open meadow, the trees began to grow more thickly, forming the young forest that bordered Seanrós. Aine shivered at the touch of magic on her skin.
Mistress Bearrach cast a glance over her shoulder. “You feel it, do you? Good. You’re not a total disappointment.”
Aine’s eyebrows lifted. Perhaps Mistress Bearrach saw more than she let on.
They traveled slowly through the border woods, breathing in the heavy scent of damp earth and vegetation. After nearly an hour, the small trail joined a larger road, and the trees again thinned into rolling countryside.
Aine drew a deep breath, and her earlier tension began to melt away in the quiet. Peat smoke drifted faintly on the breeze, wafting from the hearths of the whitewashed cottages in the distance. Ivory-fleeced sheep with black faces grazed freely, unhindered by enclosures. A cow lifted its head and lowed softly as they passed.
Up ahead, the road widened into a large area of hard-packed dirt. A square building with a shingled, peaked roof loomed before them, the lime-washed wickerwork and great three-spoked wheel identifying it as a church.
“This is Fionncill,” Mistress Bearrach said.
“Only this?” Compared to Aine’s birthplace, Forrais, this smattering of cottages and pastureland hardly qualified as a village.
A throng closed around them as they rode into the square. There were women in rough-spun skirts and wool shawls, tending dozens of children among them. Frail elders, propped up by daughters and grandsons. Men wrapped in bandages or wracked with coughing. Aine threw a panicked glance at Ruarc. So many patients, so many expectations. How could they possibly tend them all?
Ruarc dismounted first and helped her down from her horse. As soon as Aine’s feet touched the ground, several children began tugging at her clothes.
“Are you really the king’s sister?” A tow-headed girl, perhaps six years old, looked up at Aine with wide blue eyes.
“I am. My name is Aine. What’s yours?”
“Mara, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and smiled shyly.
A little boy, who had been hiding behind Mara’s skirts, popped to Aine’s side. “Are you going to fix my mama?”
&n
bsp; “I’m certainly going to try. Where is your mama?”
The boy grabbed her hand and dragged her across the yard to where a pale, red-haired woman cradled a tiny infant on the front steps of the church. “Mama! This is Aine! She’s going to make you better.”
Color bloomed in the woman’s ashen cheeks. “Hush now, Donall. I’m sorry, my lady. He hasn’t yet learned to hold his tongue.”
“No need to apologize.” Aine smiled and sat down on the steps beside her. “What’s your name?”
“Caitlinn Ó Laoghaire, my lady. My husband’s Donall the Elder. One of the Mac Cuillinn’s tenants.”
Aine nodded and turned her attention to the infant. “May I?”
Caitlinn gave the baby over to Aine without protest. Automatically, Aine extended her awareness into the boy, seeking signs of illness, but she found only a drowsy sense of well-being and the faint stirring of hunger. Whatever troubled the mother, she had not let it affect the care of her newborn.
“How old is this little one?” Aine asked.
“Born a fortnight ago, my lady.”
“A difficult birth, was it?”
“Aye. The midwife barely stopped the bleeding with an application of casewort and yarrow.”
“I see.” Aine handed the child back to his mother. “May I examine you?”
When the woman nodded, Aine made a show of her cursory examination, though she hardly needed to. She immediately sensed the sluggishness Caitlinn hadn’t been able to shake off since the child’s birth. The woman had been far closer to death than she knew.
“I’ll mix a tonic of yellow dock, stinging nettle, and dandelion to strengthen your blood,” Aine said. “It may still be a month or two before you regain your energy, though. Try not to exhaust yourself.”
Caitlinn bowed her head in relief. “Thank you, Lady Aine. You are very kind.”
“Not at all.” Aine smiled at Mara and Donall. “Take care of your mama, all right?”
The children beamed.
Ruarc handed her a wax tablet and stylus before she could ask. She jotted down the woman’s name, her diagnosis, and the remedy and then moved on to the next patient.
None of the patients taxed Aine’s skills, considering a single touch revealed what ailed their bodies. She made her examinations and assured them she could mix a remedy back at Lisdara. Soon, her wax tablet was full of names and notes, and the crowd dwindled to only a handful of petitioners.
When the last patients had been seen, Mistress Bearrach strode to Aine’s side and took the tablet without asking. She scanned the notations, clucking her tongue. “Too fast. You don’t spend enough time with the patients.”
Aine’s cheeks heated. “Do you think I got the diagnoses wrong?”
Mistress Bearrach’s scowl returned, but her black eyes twinkled. “I have no doubt they are correct. But it won’t do to make it look so easy. People begin to ask questions.”
Aine swallowed hard. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Don’t you? When you touch them, you know what’s wrong with them, just as you felt the wards.”
Aine tried to deny it, but her dry mouth wouldn’t form the words.
For the first time, the old healer looked at her kindly. “I know how difficult it is to keep such a thing secret. There shouldn’t be a need. But even here, different can be dangerous.”
Then, as if the conversation had never taken place, Mistress Bearrach said, “Don’t dawdle now, you two. You’d think I was asking you to carry the horse, not the other way around. We still have work to do.”
Aine mounted with her guard’s help and spurred her mare after the healer, concealing her smile. Apparently she was not the only one hiding her true nature.
A quick glance at Ruarc, however, showed no such amusement. In fact, he looked as troubled as she had ever seen him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
More feasting followed in honor of the Timhaigh guests, and the night after his arrival Conor dressed for a celebration again, this time in slightly plainer garments. As he made his way down to the hall, he was surprised to find only the slightest twinge of apprehension.
Far fewer guests crowded the hall, since the realm’s lords had already begun to return home. Gainor and Niamh sat at their regular places, but Niamh didn’t even look in Conor’s direction when he took the chair beside her. Even the guests seemed to have lost interest in him.
Something else caught their attention, though. Conor followed their gazes. Aine stood in the entry, her hands fisted in her skirts, which were made of fine blue wool that suited her far better than the previous night’s silk. No one in the hall moved, but whispers rustled among the tables.
Conor didn’t know what he meant to do until he stood, descended the dais, and crossed the floor to her side. Surprise surfaced in those luminous gray eyes when he gave her a little bow and held out a hand. “My lady, would you permit me?”
The surprise melted into a smile. She dipped her head. “Thank you.”
Aine placed her hand atop his, and Conor escorted her formally to the table. She smelled of fresh air and herbs, and the clean fragrance among the heavier scents of beeswax and rich food was almost as distracting as the insistent tingling in his palm where her fingers rested.
A servant scurried forward and pulled out the chair beside Conor’s. Aine sank into it gracefully. As Conor returned to his space, Niamh shot him a poisonous look, eliciting a grin from Gainor and raised eyebrows from a number of the guests.
Their attention shifted a moment later when Calhoun arrived without Riocárd. The king held up his hands for attention, and the lutist in the corner broke off his playing.
“I regret to inform you Lord Riocárd was called back to Tigh unexpectedly,” Calhoun said. “Fortunately, we may continue to enjoy Conor’s company.”
Conor frowned. Even Galbraith adhered to customary courtesy. What was so important he would risk offending his new ally by recalling Riocárd so soon after their arrival?
Aine shifted in her chair beside him, drawing his attention away from one puzzle and onto another. He already had a fair read on Calhoun, Gainor, and Niamh. But Aine, with her reserved manner, brilliant smile, and secret errands, remained a mystery. Add in an ageless quality that made it hard to tell if she was older or younger than him, and it was no wonder his eyes returned to her again and again.
“What is it?” she asked, finally catching him in his perusal.
Heat crept up his neck. He could hardly tell her his thoughts. “Who is Mistress Bearrach?”
Her expression shuttered, and her body stiffened.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s all right.” She raised her eyes to his again. “Mistress Bearrach is a healer. I’m apprenticed to her.”
That explained it then. Healers always seemed slightly mysterious, as if their vast, arcane knowledge separated them from ordinary people. “I think that’s admirable.”
“You do?”
“Of course. You’re doing something important. I haven’t done anything useful my entire life.” Conor flushed. Why had he said that aloud, least of all to her?
“I doubt that,” she said, but she shifted her eyes back to her plate.
Conor almost groaned. She’d withdrawn again, just when he thought they were establishing a connection of sorts. He slumped in his chair, determined to return to being invisible.
When Calhoun dismissed them from the hall, though, Aine didn’t immediately flee upstairs. Instead, she said, “It was thoughtful of you to escort me to the table. Thank you.”
“It was my honor.” Conor gave her an abbreviated bow. “It seems we are both something of strangers here.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you will fit in quite nicely here. Good night, Conor.”
“Good night.” Conor waited until she vanished from sight before he started up the stairs behind her. As he headed toward his chamber, an unfamiliar feeling settled in his chest,
and it had nothing to do with magic.
Aine stood outside the door of her shared chamber, wishing she could wait until her sister fell asleep. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was argue. Still, she couldn’t avoid her forever. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Oonagh had already helped Niamh undress down to a linen chemise, and she was brushing the girl’s long hair. Niamh glanced up, but she said nothing.
Aine closed the door, relieved she wouldn’t be subjected to one of her sister’s tirades tonight. She undressed and washed her face and hands in the basin, then quickly climbed into bed. She thought she had forestalled a discussion, until Niamh waved a hand to Oonagh in dismissal. Aine’s heart sank.
As soon as the maid left, Niamh said, “You like him, don’t you?”
A flush crept up Aine’s neck. “You mean Conor, I presume.”
“Of course I mean Conor. I think you two have much in common. That’s good.”
This was not at all the direction Aine had expected the conversation to take. “Why the sudden interest in him?”
“I have no interest in Conor. But you have choices. Calhoun can’t marry you off without your clan’s permission, and you’re not there for them to make you a match in Aron. You might even choose for yourself. And if he should be highborn, a king’s son perhaps . . .”
Aine struggled to follow her sister’s logic. “Is that what this is about? You think I came here to make an advantageous marriage? I assure you, I’ve never intended to interfere in any match Calhoun might arrange for you.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to get married. Calhoun has been hearing offers for my hand this week, and I have no say in the matter. I’m a head of cattle at auction.”
“I can’t believe Calhoun would do something like that.” But even as she spoke, Aine realized how little she actually knew her elder brother.
“It’s the burden of noble birth. Look at our mother. Father in the grave no more than a year, and she’s auctioned to Aron. Never mind the fact she had young children here.”
The bitterness in Niamh’s voice turned Aine’s irritation to sympathy. Of course Niamh would resent her. Aine was a product of the union that took away her mother, leaving her with nursemaids until she was of marriageable age.
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