They fell on him, tearing clothes from his body. When they’d stripped him naked, they wrenched him to his feet. He stumbled forward, determined to stay upright on his wobbly legs. Should he fall with his hands bound behind his back, he would be kissing the dirt.
Another round of inappropriate laughter welled up. They were taking him to be executed, and he was worried about stumbling.
The warriors propelled him from what he now recognized as a timber hut into glaring day. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sunlight, focusing instead on the breeze that cooled his battered face. His bare feet thudded on wood planking, but his head throbbed too fiercely to come up with a reasonable explanation.
He wrenched his eyes open when the first piece of rotten produce hit him. It exploded in a wet, putrid mess on his chest before sliding down his skin. He closed his nose against the smell and turned to the child he assumed had thrown it. Whatever his gaze may have held, the boy stepped behind his mother. Conor only got the impression of apron, skirt, and a steely glare. The boy might fear him, but the woman did not.
And indeed, why would anyone fear him in this state? He was naked, bound, covered in dirt and blood, and barely able to walk under his own power.
They think you have magic.
He tried to hold on to the thought. It was important somehow. But it slipped away in the spinning of his brain. Norin words flowed around him, no longer making any sense, just lulling him into the peaceful arms of the dark.
And then he was being forced to his knees. A moment of clarity came back at the touch of a blade to his neck.
I don’t want to die.
He focused on those words to keep the darkness at bay. If he died, there would be no one to help Aine. If he died, Seare would suffer beneath the druid’s rule without anyone to deliver them.
They think you have magic.
He raised his head and forced defiance into his tone. “What makes you think you can kill me now? You failed before. Do you want to fail again before your people?”
“We shall see, shan’t we?” The blade lifted from his neck as his executioner prepared for the killing blow. Conor tensed, fear flooding the space his feigned courage had left behind.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Conor jerked at the new voice, heavy with command.
“He’s a spy. He should be executed as such.”
A hand grasped Conor’s hair and yanked his head back. “Where are you from, boy?”
Conor found himself staring into a pair of sea-green eyes. Was it his imagination, or did they seem curious? He forced enough moisture into his mouth to answer. “Seare.”
“And what interest does Seare have in us?”
“I cannot speak for Seare, but I have no interest in you other than convincing you not to kill me.”
The man’s brow furrowed, but before Conor could determine what that might mean, another voice cut in. “He killed Rún and Bjarne. He possesses magic.”
The commander’s expression darkened. He released Conor abruptly and stepped back. Conor tried to focus, but he could make out only bulk and pale hair. “Restrain him in the goat shed. If he survives his injuries, I’ll question him myself.”
Once more, hands lifted him to his feet, but he could barely coordinate the movement of his legs through his rush of relief. He would not die—at least not today.
His captor shoved him into a shed smelling of hay, animal, and manure. He sprawled on the hard earth.
“You won’t survive your injuries,” the man muttered.
Only then did Conor notice the three men who trailed the first.
Fear vanished into agony as blows rained down on his entire body, delivered by foot and fist and spear haft. He curled into a ball, trying to evade the punishment even as he wished for a killing strike. He had wanted a clean death, a warrior’s death, not to be bludgeoned on the ground like vermin. And then, at last, the final blow came, bringing with it the blessed relief of oblivion.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Aronan galley Beacon pulled in its oars as the first breath of wind filled its sails. Its crew had been on duty for almost six months, patrolling the Aronan coast not only for Sofarende invaders but also for Seareann attacks. With the defeat of Faolán a recent memory, King Bress of Aron would not assume that the new monarch’s avarice would end with his conquest of Seare.
Cass Mac Onaghan, captain of the Beacon, had seen enough wars to know how quickly they could boil over into neighboring nations, so he, like the others, kept his eyes peeled on the horizon. Still, he didn’t expect trouble today, and his mind was more fixed on the uncomfortable flare of gout that troubled his feet. He was already fifty in a land where most men would not achieve another decade, and the longer he spent at sea, the more his dream of comfortable retirement looked unlikely.
A shout went up on the opposite side of the ship, and Cass hurried larboard. His first mate, Miach, pointed at a speck on the water in the distance. Cass squinted.
“Probably a seal,” he said. “Too small to be of note.”
But as the Beacon drew nearer, Cass could see a splash of white in the dark ocean, floating atop the water. Not a seal but a woman, snagged on a piece of wood that might once have been a barrel or a crate.
“Lower the dinghy,” he ordered. “She’s probably a victim of the storms.”
Miach called for three men, and within minutes, the dinghy cut through the water toward the victim. Cass watched as the men retrieved the corpse and hauled the waterlogged woman into the boat. They rowed back quickly—too quickly—and when the boat neared, Miach shouted, “She’s alive!”
Cass snapped his fingers at the cabin boy. “Prepare my quarters. Plenty of blankets.”
Crewmen lowered a sling to haul up the woman, and then more men helped lay her gently on the deck. The way they immediately stepped back to give her room prompted Cass to take a closer look. She was young, her skin pale and translucent, her lips tinged blue from exposure. With her hair splayed out in a wet tangle on the deck and her tattered dress clinging to her body, Cass could nearly believe she was a selkie in her human form.
But that was ridiculous. A human woman she was and, by the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, alive by only the thinnest of threads.
“Take her to my cabin.” Cass looked at Miach, who wore the same stunned expression. “It looks like we’re back into port after all.”
Miach dragged his eyes away from the girl and then called for the oars again. As the galley crawled toward shore, Cass followed the man who carried her back to his cabin. He was not given to flights of fancy, but even he had the feeling there was more to this than a mere shipwrecked survivor.
Aine was cold—bone-deep, shivering, nauseatingly cold. The water relinquished its grip, bringing with it the weight of gravity as she was lifted from the buoyant swells of the sea. But her eyes would not open and allow her to see what had plucked her from the waves.
Then something warm and dry wrapped around her, and someone rubbed her hands and feet. They stung as feeling returned to them. She wanted to cry out, but her mind and voice were still buried beneath half-consciousness. She had no choice but to endure the torment, shuddering as warmth returned to her chilled body. Then the sensations finally subsided and she slept.
Aine’s next conscious sensation was the gentle sway of a ship, comforting like the rocking of a cradle. Had she just dreamed it all? Were the storm and her near-drowning and the piercing cold merely figments of her imagination?
She pried her eyes open and found herself staring at a wood-paneled ceiling. A wool blanket scratched her chin. She was in a bunk somewhere, but it was not the cabin on the Resolute.
“How are you feeling?” A man’s voice, soft but colored with a distinct Lowland accent.
She turned her head and tried to focus on the speaker’s face. Red hair, close-cropped beard, kind brown eyes. She remembered the question and whispered, “Thirsty.”
He filled a cup from a pitch
er and pressed the rim to her lips. She drank until he took it back. “Not so quick. You’ll make yourself ill.”
“Where am I? Who are you? How did I get here?”
She tried to sit up, but he placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back against the pillow. “My name is Cass Mac Onaghan. You’re aboard my ship, the Beacon. We pulled you out of the water a few hours ago.”
“Who’s your lord?”
“Lord Riagain of Ionbhar Dealrach. He’s the chief of—”
“Clan Comain, I know.” The words came automatically. The captain’s expression changed.
“You know him?”
Aine didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The coincidence was almost too much to bear. “He’s my cousin.”
“But that would make you—”
“Aine Nic Tamhais.”
Cass paled. “You’re supposed to be in Faolán. We’d assumed you were dead!”
“Nearly. My companion and I escaped. Did you . . . did you find anyone else among the wreckage?”
“No, my lady. Just you. And there was no wreckage.”
Perhaps the Resolute had survived after all. Perhaps they had pulled Conor back on board. He might still be alive. Hope bloomed in her chest, but Cass’s next words filled her with dread again.
“There are dozens of ships missing, my lady. We can inquire when we reach Dún Caomaugh.”
“Dún Caomaugh? We were sailing for Fermaigh!”
“I find that hard to believe, my lady. Fermaigh is far northwest of where we found you. Isn’t it likely you are mistaken?”
Aine fixed him with a cool stare. “We were sailing for Fermaigh. Perhaps we got blown off course.”
“Aye, of course, my lady. I meant no offense.”
Aine sighed. Alienating the man would not help. He might call her my lady, but he was still a Lowlander. “No offense taken, Captain, I assure you. What do we do now?”
“We put in at Dún Caomaugh and send word to Brightwater and Forrais.”
Unease crept into her gut at the mention of the two fortresses. Instinct, perhaps. Or was it Comdiu’s leading?
“Perhaps we should hold off on that. I’d rather no one know I’m alive until I arrive at Forrais.” She held Cass’s eyes for a long moment. “Can I trust you to assist me?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Thank you. Do you suppose you could find me some clean clothes and a basin of water?”
Cass nodded and averted his eyes. Perhaps he was just now realizing that her clothes were in rags and hanging off of her. He stood, gave her an awkward little bow, and hurried out of the cabin.
Aine buried her face in her hands. She could barely sort through her battered emotions for words of prayer. Thank you for saving me, Lord. Once again I live when I should have died. There was no other way to explain her survival. But what about Conor? Could he still be alive? Perhaps the crew of the Resolute had been able to retrieve him, even if she had been washed away.
Cass returned with a basin of water and a folded set of clean clothing, probably borrowed from a cabin boy. His fingers brushed hers as he handed them over. He jerked his hand away. “There’s a comb in the drawer, my lady. When you’re ready, I’ll have some food brought to you.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “Your kindness is appreciated.”
As soon as he left, Aine stripped off her salt-stiffened dress and shift. The man’s shirt, tunic, and trousers were worn but clean, and they fit her reasonably well. She found the comb where Cass had indicated and then fashioned her stiff, tangled hair into a queue. With any luck, she could pretend to be a boy once they reached Dún Caomaugh.
A knock at the cabin door startled her. A cabin boy poked his head through the door and nudged it open with his shoulder, holding a tray of food. He set it down on the small table.
“Thank you,” she said.
The boy met her eyes for a moment before dropping his attention back to the decking. “You’re welcome, my lady.” He paused uncomfortably for a moment and then turned on his heel and fled the room.
Aine forced herself to take a seat in front of the tray. The meal was just fish soup and bread, hearty and warming, but her stomach was suddenly too tight to eat. She bowed her head as tears rolled down her cheeks.
My husband, my heart . . . where are you? Are you even alive?
This couldn’t be happening. She and Conor had been separated for three years, reunited, separated again, finally married, and now after two days as husband and wife, she didn’t know if he lived or died. Her chest felt as though it were in a vice, but she still managed to choke out a sob.
Is this a test, Lord? How could You let this happen to us again? Is he even alive? Please, please, let him be alive.
Somewhere inside her, she knew that Comdiu never caused bad things to happen, nor did He allow anything to happen that she couldn’t handle with His help. Still, that knowledge did nothing to ease the ache. What more did she have to lose? Both her parents were dead. Ruarc, her faithful guard, had been killed protecting her, most likely Lorcan with him. Her siblings—Calhoun, Gainor, and Niamh—had undoubtedly been slaughtered after Lisdara’s fall. And now Conor had been taken from her by an unnatural storm.
She pushed away from the table, lay down on the narrow bunk, and sobbed.
That night, Cass supped with Miach in the first mate’s small cabin. They had anchored just off the coast of Dún Caomaugh, within sight of the harbor lights, close enough that they should have docked and allowed the men to take their shore leave for the evening. But that would have meant finding an inn for his special passenger, and he wasn’t quite ready to relinquish her, nor answer questions about how she had come to be aboard his ship.
She could have no idea of the difficult position her arrival put him in. She was much too young to remember the conflict between Alsandair Mac Tamhais and his Lowlander cousin. It had already been fanned into a blood feud by the time Mac Tamhais rejected a suitable Lowland bride in favor of the Seareann queen, Lady Ailís. Ostensibly he had meant to build alliances across the Amantine, but most thought Mac Tamhais just refused to dilute Highland stock with Lowlander blood. And so the feud had festered for nearly thirty years.
The whole situation was not without irony. The only thing a Highlander hated more than the Lowland clans was magic, something Seare had in abundance. There had even been some rumors about Lady Ailís, considering her eldest son had been sent to Ard Dhaimhin in the old tradition.
All of which led Cass to his unfortunate lie. He had no choice but to notify Lord Riagain of Lady Aine’s presence, and the chieftain would want her sent on to Brightwater. Lord Alsandair’s daughter was too valuable a hostage to be given up so easily.
Cass tapped his foot anxiously under the table. It was only then he realized the pain that had plagued him all season was gone. Frowning, he stuck his booted foot out beside him.
“What are you doing?” Miach asked.
Cass yanked his boot off. The swelling in his ankle was completely gone. He probed the flesh experimentally, but the expected twinge never came.
Impossible. Just this afternoon he was cursing his gout and limping around deck. And now . . .
He thought back through the day’s events. A slow smile spread across his face. The girl. When she had touched him, a jolt of energy had flashed through him, so quickly he’d written it off as imagination. Oh, this just kept getting better.
“What are you looking so pleased about?”
Cass’s grin widened. “Miach, my friend, the gods have smiled on us today.” Perhaps that comfortable retirement was not as far out of reach as he’d thought.
CHAPTER FIVE
Aine sat up in the berth and rubbed her swollen eyes. It must be morning, though she couldn’t tell from the windowless cabin’s unchanging light. It took several moments to register the change in the ship’s motion from the rocking of waves at anchor to the forward momentum of the oars. They were going ashore.
Her stomach ba
ckflipped at the idea. Would she hear that the Resolute had been among the storm’s casualties? Or would there be no word at all? Dún Caomaugh was far from Fermaigh. Wreckage would be washing up on the Aronan coast for weeks, and if Conor had perished at sea, she might never learn what had happened to him.
Aine splashed water from the basin onto her face and neck. She couldn’t lose hope until she knew something for certain.
A sharp rap on the door made her dry her face quickly and straighten her borrowed clothing. The captain poked in his head, his eyes averted. “Lady Aine. May I enter?”
“Of course, Captain. It’s your cabin.”
“We’ve docked,” he said, and Aine realized that the motion had indeed stopped. He held out a cloak. “We will be going ashore soon. You should put this on.”
An unexpected spike of fear skewered her as she took the garment. She clutched it to her chest as if it could offer her some protection against the unknown.
Minutes later, Aine disembarked from the Beacon, accompanied by the captain and several crewmen. She surveyed the teeming dock quarter from the safety of the cloak’s voluminous hood. Thickly muscled men secured the vessels to the docks with heavy ropes; fishermen unloaded their catches; merchants transported chests and casks to and from their ships in oxcarts. Farther in, hawkers’ carts displayed their wares, from fish and produce to leather goods and cloth.
At last, they stopped before a tiny inn, little more than a large thatched-roof cottage at the quiet end of a market street. Tantalizing scents wafted from a nearby bakery, and the soft whicker of horses came from a stable down the way. They were comforting details, familiar.
Aine followed Mac Onaghan into the structure, where a balding man, about five-and-thirty, greeted them. “Cass, the room’s ready as you asked. Come with me.”
“The room is for my young friend,” Cass told the innkeeper as they passed through the common room to the back corridor. “See that she isn’t disturbed. She’s had a difficult few days and could use the quiet.”
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