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Copyright © 2015 by Carla Yvonne Laureano. All rights reserved.
A NavPress resource published in alliance with Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
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ISBN 978-1-61291-631-6
Cover photography of people by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design.
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Some of the anecdotal illustrations in this book are true to life and are included with the permission of the persons involved. All other illustrations are composites of real situations, and any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Laureano, C. E. (Carla E.)
Beneath the forsaken city : a novel / by C.E. Laureano.
pages cm — ([Song of the Seare ; book 2])
Summary: Conor and Aine, torn apart once more, are surrounded by despair and danger but they cling to Comdiu’s plans for them and the homeland that depends on their survival, and allow themselves to be molded and refined for the challenges to come.
ISBN 978-1-61291-631-6
[1. Fantasy. 2. Prophecies—Fiction. 3. Soldiers—Fiction. 4. Healers—Fiction. 5. Faith—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.L372743Ben 2015
[Fic]—dc23 2014034051
Build: 2014-12-11 14:56:01
For Dad,
My most enthusiastic (and unexpected) fan.
I’m writing as fast as I can, I promise!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Discussion Questions
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Conor Mac Nir leaned against the railing of the Resolute in the dark, watching the choppy seas splash along the cog’s wooden hull. Overhead, storm clouds roiled, threatening to unleash their fury on the small ship. Squalls on the Amantine Sea were hardly unusual, but this one had hovered for nearly two days, circling like a bird of prey. No natural storm behaved this way, which left only the other, more unsettling explanation.
The druid is dead. I saw him fall. No one could have survived a wound like that.
Yet, after all they had been through, the memory held little reassurance. He’d seen the extent of the druid’s powers before they fled Seare. Diarmuid commanded his warriors with sorcery and compelled the creatures of the mist to do his bidding. Conor’s uncle may have begun the bloody war that laid waste to the island, but the druid controlled it. Conor could not deny the possibility that the sorcerer had once more cheated death.
Conor cast a glance back to the passenger cabin beneath the bulkhead, where his new wife, Aine, still slept peacefully. Taking her back to her birthplace would keep her safe for only so long. Her visions implied that the druid had a far larger plan than the mere conquest of their tiny island. It was only a matter of time before war touched Aron as well.
Unless I stop it.
A sudden gust whipped his blond hair from his braid, and the first drops of rain spattered down on him. He should go inside before the storm worsened, hold his wife, and enjoy their last few days together, but Aine was far too perceptive. She would look into his eyes and know what troubled him. He rested his forehead on the cool, damp railing and let out a sigh.
“I think it’s watching us.”
He jerked his head up again. Aine stood beside him on the deck, her honey-colored hair blowing loosely around her shoulders. His breath stilled for a moment. Even in the ill-fitting dress she had scavenged in their flight, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion and anxiety, she was breathtaking.
Perhaps all men felt that way about their wives. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge of the even greater obstacles awaiting him that made him want to remember every moment of their short reunion.
“Do you sense something?” he asked, looking back out onto the choppy sea.
Aine ducked beneath his arm and lifted her face to the sky. “It feels wrong. But that could just be my own worry.”
Not likely. They both possessed gifts of Balus. While his gift allowed him to transform the language of music into magic, hers gave her, among other things, an awareness of the power that surrounded them, light or dark. Her sense of the storm’s wrongness only confirmed his suspicion about the source.
The smattering of raindrops increased to a steady rain, and Conor squinted at the sky, wondering if the storm could possibly know their thoughts.
“Come inside before we both get soaked.” Aine laced her fingers through his and tugged him back toward the cabin.
He followed her, ducking beneath the low frame, and shut the door firmly behind them. Dim lamplight illuminated the tiny berth: wood-paneled walls, a narrow bunk, a single stool affixed to the floor. He’d begun to think of the ship’s cabin as a haven, isolated from the worries outside. Here they were ordinary newlyweds, beginning their life together, not storing up memories for a separation that might become permanent.
“You’re wet.” Aine gestured for him to hold up hi
s arms and pulled the damp tunic off over his head. Her hands lingered on his shoulders and then softly slid down his chest.
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“I’m assessing your injuries,” she said sternly, but her lips quivered against a smile. Then she sucked in her breath, and her playful manner slipped. “I don’t believe it.”
Conor looked down at himself, startled. Two days ago, his body had been mottled with blue and purple bruises left from almost constant travel and fighting. Yesterday they had already faded to the yellow and green that indicated healing.
Today they were gone, as if they had never existed.
Aine lifted her gaze in surprise and then turned him to examine the gash on his arm, the one he’d gotten when fighting their way free of his uncle’s fortress. The stitches were still in place, but where the wound had been now lay only a weal of healed skin.
“How is this possible?”
Conor shook his head. It shouldn’t be. He’d never shown any particular inclination toward fast healing. Then again, during his time with the Fíréin brotherhood, he’d discovered a number of things about himself that shouldn’t be possible.
“What do we do now that it’s healed around the stitches?” he asked.
“The gut will dissolve on the inside. I can try to cut the bits on the surface, but it will hurt if I have only a dagger.”
“It can wait until we make landfall.” The idea of cutting tiny stitches with a sharp blade on a pitching ship didn’t sound appealing. Conor grinned at her. “Besides, I can think of better ways to use our time.”
Aine blushed, but she lifted her face to accept his kiss. He spun her around and pulled her onto his lap on the narrow berth, his arms tightening around her.
She stilled and looked into his eyes. “You’re going back, aren’t you?”
His heart lurched. Right now, the last thing he wanted to think about was leaving her. He forced his muscles to relax. “If I can find the harp and rebuild the wards, it will cripple their forces. It’s my responsibility.”
“I know. Whatever happens, just remember I love you.”
“And you are my world, Aine. Never forget that.”
He kissed her again, and his resolve slipped. It wasn’t right. He’d given her up once with the intention of doing his duty to Seare, and where had that led? They’d been betrayed, Conor nearly killed, and Aine kidnapped. They’d barely eluded Diarmuid’s grasp, and for all Conor’s trouble, he was no closer to finding Meallachán’s harp, the object of power he needed to rebuild the wards. If he’d only kept her close, men wouldn’t have died needlessly protecting her.
Aine was his wife now. That made her his responsibility, didn’t it? What kind of man was he if he abandoned her?
The ship jerked sharply, and Conor thrust out an arm against the bulkhead to keep them in the berth. The movement was followed by a drop in the other direction. Overhead, the tap of raindrops turned into a deafening roar.
“I should see if they need an extra set of hands.” Conor eased her onto the bunk beside him and reached for his tunic. He shrugged it on and then leaned over and dropped a light kiss on her lips. “I’ll be back.”
The situation on deck was worse than Conor had expected. He slipped and slid across the wood as sheets of rain poured down on him. A jagged fork of lightning split the sky, followed by a crash of thunder that nearly vibrated him off his feet. The deck tilted at an odd angle, and he went down on one knee. When the ship righted itself, he struggled to his feet and made his way toward the stern.
Captain Ui Brollacháin braced himself on the starboard side, feet spread, attempting to hold the rudder steady amidst the chaos.
“What can I do?” Conor shouted.
The captain gestured to where crewmen fought the wind’s pull on the ungainly square sail. Conor started toward them as a huge wave crashed over the port rail. Water swirled around his calves and nearly swept his feet out from under him, but still he slogged forward.
Foreboding prickled the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder, and his blood turned to ice. Aine clung to the cabin’s open door, her hair and clothes plastered to her by the driving rain, water rushing around her feet. Her lips moved, but her shout was lost on the wind.
“Stay there!” he yelled as he made his way back to her. “Go back inside!”
Conor was nearly within arm’s reach when a huge wave abruptly turned the ship sideways. He hit the deck hard and skidded toward the railing, grabbing a coil of rope to slow his slide. Aine scrabbled for a handhold, but her fingers just scraped over the slick decking. A scream ripped from her as the flow of water carried her over the rail.
The ship shifted back to level. Conor scrambled to the side in time to see Aine surface between the massive swells, surrounded by jetsam and pieces of splintered wood.
She can’t swim.
The terrified thought crystallized in his mind, blotting out all else. Without stopping to consider the wisdom of his action, he clambered over the rail and dove cleanly away from the ship.
The impact of the water momentarily stunned him. Instantly, the cold curled through his extremities as the churning waves bore him downward. It took him several moments to figure out which direction was up. He broke the surface with a gasp and threw a panicked glance around him.
There. She was still above water, but the terrified look on her face said she wouldn’t last long.
Conor swam against the pull of the water with powerful overhand strokes until she was within arm’s reach. But each time he came near enough to grasp her hand, the swell carried him backward again. When her head dipped below the water, it took longer for her to resurface.
Then, finally, the water gathered beneath him, promising to carry him that last inch to her side.
“Grab my hand!” he shouted.
His fingers slid over her wet skin and then held. But before he could pull her to him, a wave crashed over him with the force of a war hammer, breaking his grip. Aine slipped from his grasp, taking with her his hope and his last shred of consciousness, everything but the roiling blackness of the sea.
CHAPTER TWO
Eoghan sensed the changes in the land surrounding Ard Dhaimhin as soon as he crossed into the old forest. He’d never been able to identify the protective wards that allowed the trackers and sentries to monitor the passage of travelers through the dim, dense woods, but somehow he felt their absence all the same. Since the druid had broken the wards, the Fíréin were as good as blind in their own forest.
He told himself it was that knowledge that sent a shiver of foreboding through him, but that wasn’t the whole truth. He had disobeyed Master Liam—or rather, broken the laws of the brotherhood, which was the same thing—and he wasn’t entirely sure what awaited him upon his return. Physical punishment? Banishment? Execution?
Eoghan sensed movement in the trees to his right, and his hand moved to the dagger on his belt. Then he relaxed. “Odran.”
The tracker emerged from the forest, his footsteps silent. “You came back. Everyone assumed you’d be on your way to Aron by now.”
So news had traveled fast. He shouldn’t be surprised. With or without the wards, the brotherhood knew everything that went on in the kingdoms. “Master Liam?”
“The Ceannaire would like to see you.”
“In bonds?”
Odran shook his head. “He knew you’d return.”
Eoghan exhaled, though he’d guessed as much already. The fact that Liam had reared him like his own son would not have kept the Ceannaire from issuing the death order had he truly doubted Eoghan’s loyalty. In that case, he’d already be trussed on the forest floor like a boar. Eoghan could beat Odran in a fair fight, but no one could match the tracker in an ambush.
“How did you find me without the wards?”
“The usual way. Master Liam has tripled the border watch. No one escapes notice for long.”
“Any incursions yet?”
The tracker shook his he
ad.
“Good. Perhaps the druid’s death will cool the Mac Nir’s enthusiasm for the High City.”
“The druid’s not dead. Beagan can still feel a sorcerer at Glenmallaig.”
Eoghan paused, taken aback. “Conor saw him fall.”
Odran just shrugged.
Eoghan switched topics. “You going my way?”
“No. I just thought you’d want to know what awaited you at the city.”
Eoghan nodded his thanks, and the tracker faded back into the foliage with no more sound than the wind. Eoghan continued toward Ard Dhaimhin, his tread light but his mind heavy.
The brotherhood was not yet safe. If the druid was still alive, it was only a matter of time before the Mac Nir attempted to seize the city. If he could convince . . .
Eoghan cut off that line of thinking immediately. Once, perhaps, he’d had some influence with the Conclave, as successor to the brotherhood’s leadership.
Now he would be fortunate to survive the day.
Full night had fallen by the time Eoghan reached the switchback that led down to the moonlit city. The usually bustling village lay silent, the brothers already retired for the night in the squat clochans and cottages that served as barracks. It was the very reason he’d tarried so long in the forest, as news of his disobedience and desertion had surely spread through the city. Too many brothers knew him to allow for a quiet return.
He traversed the path down the hill, the trill of nightingales preceding him—sentries, sending word that an authorized traveler had arrived. By the time he reached the fortress, the Ceannaire would surely know his prodigal apprentice had returned.
Finally, Eoghan turned onto the lakeshore road, concentrating on the rhythm of his steps to calm his heartbeat. He had done what was required. He had known the consequences of his actions before he left. Whether those consequences involved his death was now out of his hands.
Your death does not serve My plans, came a voice in his head, the words as clear as if they had been spoken aloud. But you shall still suffer the consequences of your disobedience.
Eoghan sagged in relief, not just at the reassurance he would not die today but at the return of the voice that had been a constant companion throughout his life. It had been silent for too long, and he’d been afraid to wonder what that might mean.
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