Talfryn clamped a hand on Conor’s shoulder, eyes never leaving his own bowl. “Don’t interfere.”
“But—”
“It is not your fight. They already fear your reputation as Fíréin. Don’t give them another reason to look your way.”
Conor lowered himself back down, though fury at the injustice burned inside him. Someone had to stop it. But not him. Not today. Aine’s life depended on his staying alive and being of use to Haldor, at least long enough to find her and order her release.
Another warrior approached and spoke quietly to Conor’s guard, who booted Conor in the hip. “Get up. Haldor wants you now.”
“Good luck,” Talfryn mumbled.
Conor struggled to his feet, only to be pushed forward by the new guard. It was the warrior who had tried and failed to kill him, twice. As they walked, Conor tried to note landmarks, get his bearings, but the village’s symmetrical nature defied his efforts. They neared a barn, and the guard unceremoniously pushed him into the nearest trough.
When Conor surfaced, spluttering, the guard grinned. “You smell like goat dung. Wash.”
The water was hardly cleaner than his body, but it was better than nothing. Conor dunked his head under again and scrubbed the filth from his hair and face and then did the best he could to wash his trousers while they were still on his body. When the guard yanked him from the trough, he was hard-pressed to say if it were an improvement.
The warrior tossed him a rough-spun tunic, barely cleaner than the trousers.
“Put it on.”
Conor held up his bound hands. “How do you suggest I do that?”
“You wait. Now let’s go.”
Conor tucked the shirt beneath his arm and wrung the mucky water from his trousers as he walked, shivering in the brisk morning breeze. The warrior had done an admirable job of making him uncomfortable. By the time they reached Haldor’s house, Conor’s teeth were chattering.
Just as he had the previous day, the guard pointed Conor to the bench, but he did not secure him to it this time, nor did he make a move to untie the bonds. He merely stood nearby with his hand on his sword, glaring at Conor as if daring him to make a move. Conor clamped down his chattering teeth and gripped his hands together in his lap.
The door to the cottage opened abruptly and Haldor strode in. He removed his sword belt and set it aside, not looking at Conor or the guard.
“Untie him and then leave us.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
Grudgingly, the Norin warrior untied Conor’s bonds, muscles tensed as if he expected some sort of attack. Then he strode from the room.
“I can barely move,” Conor said. “What does he fear?”
“Magic.” Haldor fixed a searching gaze on him. “But if you had the ability to strike him down with a word, I imagine you would have done it already.”
“Would I? Perhaps I want information about Aine more than I wish you and your men dead.”
Haldor stared and then broke into a smile. “Very well. Let us begin. After you dress.”
Conor nodded and shrugged on the tunic but stayed seated. “We need something to write with.”
“Aye.” Haldor rummaged in a chest and produced two wax tablets and a stylus, though he never turned his back on Conor. “Does it surprise you to know I read and write?”
“Not at all. We’ll start here.” Conor took the stylus and carefully wrote out the Seareann alphabet, sounding the letters out as he went. Haldor repeated them, not at all self-conscious.
The Sofarende warrior proved to be an apt student, and he absorbed everything Conor taught him, even if the Seareann language sounded rough and strange on his tongue. When they were done for the day, Conor asked, “Why are you so interested in my language?”
“I thought you of all people would understand. Knowing the enemy’s language is useful, is it not?”
“Aye, it is. Why do you trust me?”
“I don’t. You are my enemy, and you will kill me if you get the chance.” Haldor stood and took the stylus and tablet from him. “But unless your brotherhood teaches you to do something magical with wax and wood, I will count myself safe enough. For now.”
Conor nodded. Haldor seemed like an honorable man, but the Sofarende leader was still an enemy, no matter how respectfully he acted. Conor recalled Talfryn’s words. When Haldor got what he wanted, Conor’s presence among them would no longer be worth the risk.
He needed a plan. Fast.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aine’s food lasted two days.
She continued to fill the water skin from the stream that meandered alongside the road, but she ate the last morsel of cheese at midday rest. What was she to do now? She’d barely walked twenty miles from Dún Caomaugh. Her legs, back, and feet ached with every step, and her stomach grumbled in annoyance.
If she could just make it to a crossroads inn, she could dispatch a message to Forrais. Surely Lady Macha would send a carriage for her if she knew she were alive.
And how do you plan on paying the messenger? Here in the Lowlands, no one would take her word that payment would be forthcoming when the message was delivered. Besides, she couldn’t openly identify herself. Aine chewed her lip thoughtfully. She had no skills that could earn her coin and a bed while she waited, at least none she wanted to reveal in her superstitious homeland. And if she had a way to earn some coin, she’d be better off hiring a ride to Forrais. No, at least for now, she would have to keep walking.
Aine trudged on with her head tilted down inside her hood. The twinge of hunger turned into a gnawing ache as the day went on. When she could walk no more, she withdrew from the row into another copse of trees.
Lord, what do I do now? Hysteria tinged the words in her mind. Two days. Only two days and she’d begun to panic. How much longer would she survive on her own?
She didn’t dare sit until she’d refilled her water skin. She wouldn’t be able to get back up if she rested now. She tramped through the brush toward the stream, sliding the strap from her shoulder.
A smile crept onto her face for the first time in days. Watercress spread along the edge of the stream and several feet up the bank like a lacy green carpet. It hardly qualified as a proper supper, but just the idea of tasting something besides the faintly musty water from the skin cheered her.
Thank you, Lord. I’ll trust You’ll bring something more substantial later.
She gathered fistfuls of the ruffled, thin-stemmed plant and returned to the spot she’d chosen for her bed. Her smile widened.
A patch of flat beige mushrooms clustered between the roots of a tree. A close inspection assured her they were an edible variety. As far as filling her stomach was concerned, the unexpected bounty was almost as good as meat.
That night, her meager forage felt like a feast. She couldn’t live forever on greens and mushrooms, but it was enough to take the edge off her hunger. She wrapped herself in her cloak and lay down beneath the shelter of the trees.
Protect me, Lord.
Before she could put words to a more proper prayer, she was asleep.
Aine jerked awake, blinking in the sudden brightness. Blue-gray morning light lit her tree-sheltered abode. The cold air nipped her skin when she ventured a limb from beneath her cloak. She yanked her arm back under the wool with a gasp.
Unease nagged at the edge of her consciousness, a sure sign that something had woken her. It certainly wasn’t because she was rested. Behind the urgent pounding of her heart lay exhaustion that would take more than an evening to erase.
Even though she was alone, she moved deeper into the trees to perform her morning tasks and then headed back to the stream to bathe her hands and face in the frigid water. She rose, still dripping, and turned back the way she’d come.
And stifled a scream at the man barring her way.
Tall and muscular, covered by a wolfskin mantle, he just smiled at her. No sooner did a startled gasp escape her lips than a hand clamped ov
er her mouth from behind.
“No screaming,” the first man said, his hand touching the hilt of his sword. “It’ll be easier for you if you go gentle.”
Aine sucked air in through her nose. Her heart ricocheted in her chest. Think! Don’t panic. Build and scars indicated a warrior, as did his weaponry: long sword, dagger, small knife, bow. The man holding her felt strong too, but it didn’t take much muscle to overpower a woman her size. He smelled of sweat, damp wool, and leather, but not the stench that would indicate an unfamiliarity with regular bathing.
Lord Riagain’s men had caught up with her.
Aine closed her eyes and let her body go limp as if she’d succumbed to a swoon. As soon as her captor’s grip loosened, she kicked back at his leg and broke free.
She made it only a few steps toward the road before something heavy bore her to the ground, scraping her palms and forearms on the rocky earth and shredding the sleeves of her underdress. Despite the pain, she struggled forward on her hands and knees, but the man flipped her over and pinned her to the ground. His hands cut off the circulation in her wrists while his knees dug into her legs.
She desperately searched for some sign of humanity in his bearded face, something to which she could appeal. How could his blue eyes look both cold and angry at the same time?
“Dunchaid, let her up,” the other man said, but he sounded more amused than annoyed.
“Riagain wants her for her magic, not her body. No reason we shouldn’t have some fun with her. Look. I think she likes me.”
Aine’s stomach roiled. Please, not that! Anything but that! As if he heard her plea, he released her hands, but her surge of relief was short-lived when he fumbled with the hem of her skirt.
A scream tore from her lips, and she struck out, her nails just grazing his cheek. His expression turned savage then, lips curling into a sneer, and he hit her openhanded across the face. Her vision blanked from the pain.
He’s going to violate me and then take me to Brightwater, where Comdiu only knows what Lord Riagain will do with me. The thought broke through her haze of pain and panic.
Comdiu, help me!
His movements stilled. Aine opened her eyes and saw first the blade at her attacker’s throat and then the blurry figure of a man holding the sword.
“Up, slowly, if you value your life.”
The coldness in the voice made her shiver before she recognized the Highland accent.
Apparently Dunchaid recognized it too. He laughed, but he eased his weight off her. His hand inched toward the knife sheathed in the baldric across his chest.
“Blade!” she screamed.
Dunchaid ripped the knife free, but before he could do more than clear the sheath, her rescuer’s blade opened the man’s throat in a shower of blood. Dunchaid’s expression froze. Then he toppled to the ground at her feet.
Aine scrambled back on her hands and heels, the torn skin burning at the friction. “You killed him.”
“Aye. A cleaner death than he deserved.”
Aine looked up at her rescuer in disbelief. Tall and middle-aged, he wore a short fur cape over leather and plate. His dark, unbound hair tangled in the brass-studded sword baldric across one shoulder. He might have been handsome if not for the scar that tugged one side of his mouth into a permanent half sneer.
Aine met his eyes and shivered at their coldness. “Who are you?”
He ignored her question and offered his hand. After a moment of hesitation, she took it and he hauled her to her feet. He looked her over as he might examine a horse, dispassionately. “Have you been injured? Did I interrupt him before or after?”
Blood rushed to her face in both humiliation and relief. “No. He hadn’t yet.” She touched her throbbing cheekbone and looked over her scraped hands and arms. “Just scratches.”
The man gave a tense nod and swiveled on his heel. Only then did Aine notice that her rescuer was not alone. A blond man, young and muscular, held Dunchaid’s companion at swordpoint on his knees.
The dark-haired warrior smiled as he approached, his booted feet scuffing the ground in a way that seemed somehow calculated. A feral smile creased his face, or perhaps his cold green eyes just made it seem that way. Aine’s chill returned.
“Lord Gabhran, you’re a difficult man to track. I didn’t expect to find you doing your own dirty work.”
Surprise and confusion rippled across the captive’s face. For a moment, Aine almost felt sorry for him.
“Oh, you don’t remember me? Let me remind you, then. My name is Taran Mac Maolain. You killed my daughter, Caer, after you offered her your protection as a nobleman. You ordered her tortured without mercy, as I shall now do with you.”
Understanding dawned on Lord Gabhran’s face. Taran lifted his sword, still wet with Dunchaid’s blood, and placed the tip against Gabhran’s chest. He drew it slowly downward, slicing fabric, and if Gabhran’s gasp were an indication, flesh beneath it.
Aine looked among the three men in bewilderment. What had she wandered into? It sounded as if Taran had been tracking this Lord Gabhran. Had it been mere coincidence he’d caught up with him in time to save her?
No. She didn’t believe in coincidence.
Taran turned to the blond man. “You captured him. Do you dispute my claim on his life?”
“Do with him as you wish.” The words were laced with an unfamiliar accent. “After we question him.”
“No. I haven’t the time or the tools to question this man as he deserves.”
Taran withdrew his sword, and Gabhran let out a slight breath, his mouth tipping up in a cocky smile.
“Don’t be so relieved, Lord Gabhran. If I questioned you, I’d be tempted to cut out your lying tongue before putting a blade through your heart, which is a mercy you don’t deserve.” Taran sheathed his sword. Then, as if an afterthought, he drove a booted heel into Gabhran’s ribs. The prisoner grunted and doubled over in the other warrior’s grasp.
“That’s all he’ll get from me. We’ll save him for Lady Macha.”
Gabhran blanched, and Aine’s pulse sped again. There were definitely nuances to this situation she didn’t grasp.
Taran finally turned to her, his expression lightening the barest degree. “Come, Lady Aine. We’ve much ground to cover tonight, even with a prisoner. Lord Riagain surely sent more than just two men to retrieve you, and contrary to what you might believe, I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to shed any more blood today.”
“How do you know my name?”
The warrior shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Try me.”
He stopped and sighed. “Comdiu sent me. For whatever reason, you must not be allowed to die.”
CHAPTER NINE
Aine stumbled after the warrior. “What do you mean, Comdiu sent you?”
“Just what I said.” Taran nudged his captive forward with his elbow, holding the rope that fastened Gabhran’s hands behind his back.
“Do you work for my aunt?”
Ahead of them, the Lakelander snorted and the older warrior chuckled. “Not quite. But she’ll pay handsomely for this captive.”
“So you’re mercenaries.” Aine stopped and stared at the two of them. She’d never have taken them for sellswords, not from their educated speech and fine clothing, though she’d hardly had enough contact with any other kind to know the difference.
Taran kept walking, though his tone dripped with sarcasm. “Mercenaries who just saved your life, my lady. I’d think you’d show more gratitude.”
“Taran,” the other warrior said quietly. “She’s just a girl.”
“No, he’s right. I am grateful. I just don’t understand. Why are you here? No one even knows I’m in Aron.”
Taran jerked his head toward their captive. “Someone knows you’re in Aron. And that someone is prepared to pay twenty silver pennies to have you, relatively intact.”
Aine trembled again at the reminder of what Taran had saved h
er from. No, Lord Riagain cared nothing for her, only her gifts. That had been the reason she’d waited so long to tell Calhoun. In the end, her visions hadn’t been much help to anyone, anyway.
In fact, her visions had sent Conor to his death. Her husband had just proved to be harder to kill than anyone had expected.
The pain, sharper for being unexpected, pierced her midsection, and she caught her breath. Not now. She couldn’t address her grief and still function in the present. “Do you intend to take me to Lord Riagain?”
“Weren’t you listening, girl? Gabhran here slaughtered my daughter. On whose orders do you think he did that?”
“Oh, it was Riagain’s orders,” Gabhran put in. “But the pleasure was mine.”
Taran spun and laid a well-aimed punch across the captive’s mouth. “I’m not daft enough to let you goad me into killing you quickly. But don’t think I won’t break every bone in your body, strap you to your horse, and let Macha have whatever’s left of you.”
Gabhran spat blood, his face pale, though it might have just been the pain of the strike. Surely the huge man had broken some teeth and rattled his brain a bit. Taran yanked the prisoner forward again, a twitch of his head indicating that Aine should follow.
She tried to figure out the situation through her fear-addled thoughts. So they weren’t working for Lady Macha, and they weren’t after her for the bounty. That meant they had reasons of their own for rescuing her, reasons they had not yet disclosed.
Unless Taran’s statement that Comdiu sent him was not mere hyperbole.
They broke from the trees onto the road, where another dark-haired man, this one short and slender, stood with five horses. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket and an elaborately stamped leather baldric, which held his short sword and a pair of daggers. Another member of their group?
“Ah, you found her,” the man said in another unfamiliar accent, this one both soft and guttural. “And in one piece, I see.”
Taran gave a terse nod. “Any sign of others?”
“Alone. Didn’t want to share the reward, most likely.”
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