Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  Gabhran nodded solemnly. He looked at Aine, who minutes before he had taunted, who had wanted him dead as well. Then he dropped his gaze, apparently struck by whatever he saw in her face.

  Taran’s hand tightened on his dagger, shaking from the effort of restraining himself. “Now you only have ten.”

  “Thank you,” Aine whispered. “I know that was not easy.”

  “You have no idea what you’ve done. People like Riagain and Gabhran and Macha—there is no honor in them. Be prepared, my lady, because your position affords you only so much protection. In fact, your status puts you in more danger.”

  “I don’t understand. What position? What status?”

  Taran shot her an incredulous stare. “As your father’s heir. Macha may have inherited clan leadership, but you inherited his wealth.”

  When Aine showed no comprehension, Taran took her by the shoulders. “Aine, you are one of the wealthiest women in Aron.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Eoghan’s back was on fire, and two days had done nothing to lessen the pain. After the flogging, he’d been taken to the healers’ cottage, where they slathered on foul-smelling salve to stave off infection and promote healing, and he’d been granted the rest of the day to recover. The next day, however, he was back to his regular duties and banned from weapons training until further notice.

  Now he knelt in Carraigmór’s great hall with a horsehair brush and a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing the accumulated grime from the stone floor. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt this morning. There was no point hiding his shame, not that he felt particularly shamed by it, and the rough linen only dragged against his lacerated skin. As it was, his movements stretched and pulled his healing flesh, and he could barely resist scratching the wounds open again.

  “Daigh showed great restraint.”

  Eoghan sat back on his heels and twisted toward Brother Riordan. “If this is restraint, I’d hate to see him lose control.”

  Riordan grinned. “He barely drew blood. There are few men with greater control of a whip. Have you ever stopped to wonder why Brother Daigh draws the short straw so often?”

  Eoghan hadn’t, but it was true. Daigh did carry out most discipline of this type. Liam, with his sight, could conceivably have stacked the odds in Daigh’s favor.

  Riordan’s smile faded, and he crouched beside Eoghan, his voice low. “The other day, you told me, ‘It’s my privilege to serve Comdiu.’ What did you mean by that?”

  Eoghan felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. “I was delirious with pain.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were completely lucid.”

  Eoghan shrugged and went back to scrubbing. The scratch of bristles against stone filled the space left by his silence.

  “Liam seems to believe you have the gift of sight like him, but I sense no magic in you at all. Yet you knew Conor needed your help before the first reports came from the forest. How do you explain that?”

  “That depends. Are you asking? Or is Master Liam?”

  “You saved my son’s life. I want to understand how.”

  Eoghan sighed. Riordan had always been perceptive, even more so than Liam. He’d believe nothing but the full truth. “Comdiu told me.”

  “You mean, you felt—”

  “No, I mean a voice in my mind clearly said, ‘Go to Conor and aid in his escape from Glenmallaig. Go now.’”

  Even though he must have expected an answer of this sort, Riordan looked stunned. “Comdiu speaks to you directly. How long has this happened?”

  “All my life. Don’t you wonder why my parents abandoned me in the forest? They must have thought I was insane. In any case, I tarried too long, debating whether to ask Master Liam’s permission. Conor already had things well in hand by the time I arrived. I just helped secure their passage out of Seare.” Eoghan didn’t tell how he had found Conor nearly unconscious in the forest, a sword in his hand and covered in blood, not all of it his own. Nor did he mention the haunted look in the young man’s eyes when he spoke of how that blood had gotten there.

  “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have told anyone. Surely, if Master Liam knew—”

  “It changes nothing. It was my choice to break the law, and now I pay the consequences. You will not tell the Ceannaire?”

  He phrased it as a question, but it was not a request.

  “I will not tell him,” Riordan said, straightening. “But there will come a time when you will wish you had not kept the secret. I promise you that.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Conor dreamed of fighting, of screams of pain and death. Over and over, he fought his way to Aine, only to have her remain just out of his reach. A river of blood swirled around his knees, pulling him down. Then it rose in a wave over him, washing him toward her. Their fingers were so close—he almost had her, but he couldn’t breathe . . .

  Conor started awake to find a dark shape huddled over him, a hand clamped over his mouth. Instinctively he jammed his knee into his assailant’s midsection. The man let out a soft groan, but didn’t loosen his grip.

  “Cease, Conor, it’s Talfryn!”

  Conor stilled his struggling as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he made out the Gwynn’s familiar face.

  “Are you awake now?”

  Conor nodded mutely.

  “Good. I’m going to release you.” Talfryn rocked back on his heels, pressing a hand to his stomach. “You were making enough noise to call the guards down on us. Trust me, you don’t want to do that.”

  Conor pushed himself up on the straw mat, blinking away the last shreds of sleep. The dream had seemed so real, so terrifying, but it had just been his pent-up fears, his buried guilt, getting the best of him.

  “I’m sorry. I was dreaming.”

  “About your wife?”

  “Aine could be out there anywhere. After everything we went through to escape, I’ve lost her again. I couldn’t keep her safe.”

  “That isn’t your responsibility, Conor.”

  “I’m her husband. I killed for her. I would have died for her. Do you understand that?” He squeezed his head in his hands as if he could physically push back the memories. He had told Eoghan he didn’t regret any of the things he had done to rescue her from Glenmallaig, but they still plagued him. He could picture the face of every man he’d killed, even if he didn’t know their names. Men who had just been following orders, who had been serving their king and ensuring their families’ survival. Men exactly like him.

  Talfryn stayed quiet for a long moment. “You are a warrior. But you grieve the lives you take.”

  Conor simply nodded. He had done what was necessary, but he could not bring himself to rejoice over the bloodshed.

  “One day you will be faced with the choice to fight or die. If your wife is out there somewhere, do you not owe it to her to escape? To look for her?”

  “Haldor is sending word—”

  “The Sofarende are not the only ones who would like to have a Highlander woman in their grasp. Even if they do, do you think Haldor will keep his bargain? These men are not like us, Conor. Their concept of honor does not extend to their enemies.”

  Despite the logic behind Talfryn’s words, Conor knew the Sofarende captain was an honorable man. Haldor would keep his bargain because his word meant something to him. But even if it didn’t, would it matter? Conor meant what he said about his oath being to Comdiu and not to man. If it came down to it, could he bring himself to break his oath and fight?

  “Think about it.” Talfryn slid away onto his own mat. “There will come a moment, a single opportunity, and if you are not ready for it, it will pass you by.”

  Conor lay back down and stared at the dark ceiling. Was Talfryn planning something? Or was he just warning him against having too much trust in his bargain with Haldor? Conor didn’t need a reminder that his position was precarious, that he might someday be forced to fight or die. For now, he had no choice but to act in good
faith and trust Haldor to do the same.

  Still, Talfryn’s words planted a kernel of doubt. As they walked to breakfast in the morning, he watched the movements of the guards, looking for times when the warriors were lax, opportunities to seize a weapon. He found few. The Norin warriors might not have been particularly disciplined, but they were well-trained and experienced. They kept their weapons under their control and stored tools or other objects that could be used against them far out of reach of the prisoners. When they did allow the prisoners to use shovels and picks, it was under the scrutiny of several fierce and heavily armed warriors.

  Just as well. When Conor was not with Haldor—who gave him nothing more dangerous than a wooden stylus—he was kept under guard in the prison cottage. Occasionally he would be brought out to carry water or lug grain sacks. Either the bucket or the grain could be used to throw his guard off balance long enough to seize a weapon, but he wouldn’t make it far on his own in daylight. Too much space to cover, too many warriors to face. Even using his ability to fade, he’d never make it more than a few feet toward the outer wall.

  Besides, now that Haldor knew of Aine’s existence, her safety depended on Conor’s cooperation.

  So he cooperated, ignoring the searching looks that said Haldor expected him to break their agreement at any moment. Instead, Conor patiently taught his pupil to write Norin words with the common alphabet until he deemed him ready to begin learning vocabulary.

  “We’ll start with verbs,” Conor said, pulling a new tablet toward him. “Simple actions.”

  Haldor stared at him as if trying to peer into his thoughts.

  Conor repeated the Seareann words with their Norin counterparts and waited expectantly.

  Abruptly, Haldor stood and strode across the room to his chest, where he retrieved a scrap of parchment. He returned to Conor and handed it to him.

  “Can you read it?”

  Conor’s heart leapt as he unfolded it. Angular Norin lettering stretched from right to left across the page. He read silently, translating in his head.

  “This settlement doesn’t have her?”

  “No. But that is the nearest settlement. It will be days until a message returns from the others.”

  Conor nodded, not sure whether he was more relieved or disappointed. Perhaps Aine had escaped the hands of the Norin raiders after all. Or perhaps she had not drifted this far south.

  Or perhaps she is dead.

  “Thank you.” Conor rerolled the message and handed it back to Haldor. “Shall we continue? ‘I go. He goes. She goes.’”

  Surprise crossed Haldor’s face. He sat beside Conor, ignoring the tablet. “Tell me about this woman of yours.”

  Conor jerked his head up. What could he say about Aine? He hardly wanted to rave about her beauty, lest it inspire Haldor to seek her himself. Nor could he say anything about her unusual gifts.

  Finally, he said, “I loved her from the first moment I saw her and every single minute we were apart. She is better and braver than I could ever hope to be.”

  Something glimmered in the depths of the Norin warrior’s pale eyes. Was that pain he saw?

  Before Conor could be sure, Haldor turned away. “Leave now. We will continue tomorrow.”

  Conor obeyed, confused, and went to the door, where Ulaf stood waiting for him. He put his hands out to submit to the bonds, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting to the hilt of Ulaf’s sword, within reach just beneath the man’s left arm. He raised his gaze and smiled.

  The Sofarende warrior yanked the ropes around his wrists, so tight his fingers instantly went numb. Foolish. He should be trying to lull them into complacency, not reminding them of the Fíréin’s reputation to soothe his own ego. That little bit of folly could end up getting him killed.

  Conor flexed his hands in a futile effort to get blood moving back into his fingers while Ulaf nudged him forward. He walked meekly back toward the prisoners’ hut.

  “You think they will let your woman go?” Ulaf sneered. “Haldor may send the letters, but they do not have to listen.”

  Conor’s steps faltered, but he kept moving forward.

  “I think you would not be so concerned if she were not beautiful. Do you know what happens to a beautiful slave?”

  Ulaf proceeded to detail his vilest imaginings while Conor struggled to keep his fury in check. The warrior was just trying to goad him into making a move, giving him an excuse to beat or kill him.

  “And then when she’s used and broken, they will kill her slowly and feed her to the dogs.”

  Conor spun so quickly that Ulaf jumped back and had his sword half free of its sheath before he realized he wasn’t under attack.

  “I am here because of her. If you convince me she is dead, do you think that makes me less dangerous or more?”

  Ulaf blinked. Conor turned slowly and began walking again, not caring whether the Sofarende followed.

  That night, in line for a bowl of watery soup, Talfryn nudged him with his elbow. “You look troubled. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Your moment is coming. Be ready.”

  Hope surged inside Conor and was just as quickly squelched by reality. If he ran, Aine was as good as dead.

  If she wasn’t already.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After all she had been through, Aine had thought she knew the depths to which humans could sink: their propensity to be fooled by lies, how easily they could be seduced by darkness. Even on the battlefield, her life had been easily divided into black and white, right and wrong, friend and foe. Now, riding north to the fortification of a family member who would be far happier if Aine had turned up dead, protected by mercenaries who fought and killed for money rather than honor, she wondered if she hadn’t gotten it all wrong.

  Seare had once seemed hopelessly backward, rough. Aron, despite its clan organization only loosely governed by a king, had always seemed very civilized and modern. Even its dislike of magic, while inconvenient, meant that few people fell prey to the superstitions of the less-enlightened world. But when the mere existence of Aine’s gifts put her life in danger, she had to wonder if her homeland weren’t the one clinging to its outdated superstitions.

  “What are my options?” Aine asked Taran on her second day with the mercenaries.

  “I was wondering when you might ask that.” He reined his horse beside her, his eyes still scanning his surroundings. “I’m not sure you have any, besides returning to Forrais. Should you fall into another clan’s hands, they will use you against your clan as bait, bargain, or punishment. As long as Macha does not learn about your gift, you have the strength of clan law and your extensive holdings to protect you in Forrais.”

  “What do you know of those holdings? And why didn’t they revert to Lady Macha when she took clan leadership?”

  “Those that belonged to the clan did. But your father was a wealthy man in his own right. You would have to speak to Macha’s exchequer to learn the full extent of his estates.”

  “You’re well informed for the lord of a midland clan. Maolain has shifted allegiances a dozen times in the last two hundred years, hasn’t it?”

  Taran chuckled. “Your father was one of the few men I truly respected in the north, Lady Aine. I might have even liked him, as much as you can like a man such as him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Taran shifted his position on the horse’s back, the upward cast of his eyes telling her he was considering his words. “He was hard. Unyielding. Expected things to be done his way without question. Yet he was also fair and honorable, and he put his tenants’ well-being before his own. Not many lords would be roused in the middle of the night to help fight a barn fire or arrange subsistence for a family who had lost the head of their household. The people on his land both feared and respected him. I daresay some might have even loved him.”

  It was no less than she’d ever expected from Alsandair Mac Tamhais, but it was the first time she had
heard it from the mouth of someone with nothing to gain. “And Lady Macha?”

  “She is your father’s sister, but I fear she lacks his more altruistic qualities. Lady Aine, you must be prepared that she will not take your reclaiming your birthright well. She has benefited from the rents and taxes on your lands. That means thousands of tenanted acres of farm and pastureland, not to mention the livestock and the hives.”

  “What would you do?”

  “What I would do and what you should do are two entirely different things. Your best hope is to rely on clan law. Give Macha a chance to do the proper thing. She will not want to risk losing the support of the clansmen by taking your rightful inheritance. But she might take some convincing.”

  “And exactly whose sort of convincing would that be?” Aine asked with an arch of her eyebrow.

  Pepin laughed behind them. “My dear, as much as I would love to serve you, our sort of convincing would cause more problems than it would solve.”

  Aine smiled. She’d come to like these men, especially Pepin with his lilting accent and flirtatious charm. His endearment aside, he seemed to look on Aine with the distant affection of an uncle or older cousin. She couldn’t help thinking they were good men, despite their chosen profession.

  “We should be reaching Forrais tomorrow,” Taran continued. “Prepare yourself. You may not be welcomed as warmly as your position demands. Concentrate on making allies among the household. Spread word of your return as quickly as possible. The more who know of your existence, the safer you are. You do have status as your father’s daughter, and as Macha’s heir.”

  “Macha’s heir? What do you mean? I have two uncles still.”

  Now it was Taran’s turn to look surprised. “You didn’t know? They died of the summer fever last year. Did no one send word to Seare?”

  “They may have, but I’ve been on the battlefield for the past two years. The message must not have been passed along to me. Or perhaps we were so consumed with war that no one thought to convey the information.” What exactly did this mean for her? By the law of Aronan succession, she was next in line for clan leadership after Macha. Which left . . .