Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  “That’s enough for today, my lady.”

  “No.” Aine sniffed and dried her face with her sleeve. “It’s better that I stay busy.”

  The captain cast a look over his shoulder, and his expression changed. “It looks like you have a visitor.”

  Aine followed Diocail’s gaze. Lord Uallas stood a respectful distance off, a bow and quiver over his shoulder and a curious smile on his face.

  “What does he want?” Aine muttered.

  “Probably wants to compliment you on your . . . skills.” Diocail’s sour tone made him sound like a father faced with his daughter’s unwanted suitor.

  “Well, he can wait until I’m done.” Aine marched toward the targets and yanked her arrows out of the straw target. Lord Uallas must have somehow taken this as an invitation, because he ambled to where she had been standing. She struggled not to stomp back toward him. The last thing she wanted to do was banter with a young lord who wanted something she could not give.

  But she was still a lady, so she put on a noncommittal smile and gave him a nod. “Lord Uallas.”

  “Lady Aine.” He bowed deeply and found her gaze with his own when he rose. “I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.”

  “Recovered?”

  “Lady Macha said that you were indisposed. But I’m guessing that was just an excuse. Forgive me for bringing up subjects best left alone.”

  “It’s fine, Lord Uallas.” She gave him the best smile she could manage and planted the arrows back in the earth, save one. That she fitted to the bow and aimed.

  The arrow bounced off the target onto the grass below. She sighed. The island lord’s presence wasn’t exactly helping her concentration.

  “May I?” He gestured to the target.

  She glanced back at Diocail, who simply scowled. Aine sighed and braced herself for some sort of “lesson,” but Uallas merely took one of the arrows, nocked it, and fired at the target. It struck low and to the left. Rather than make excuses, he took another and tried again.

  So he wasn’t going to force conversation. Aine let out her held breath and retrieved another arrow. Without the tension, she hit her mark, dead center.

  “Impressive,” Uallas murmured.

  “Thank you.”

  After a few more minutes of shooting in silence, they exhausted the arrows, and Uallas went to retrieve them. When he returned, he stuck them into the ground. His eyes once more sought Aine’s face.

  “You don’t like Forrais much.”

  “I grew up here.” Aine’s heart throbbed in her throat. Had Macha sent him to get some information out of her? Or to convince her to leave?

  “I don’t much care for it either.” Uallas plucked an arrow from the ground.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Obligation. It is tradition that the lord of Eilean Buidhe bring tribute to his clan lord every five years.”

  “And this is the fifth year.”

  “Actually, it’s the sixth.” He turned away and raised the bow again. “My wife died last year. Even Lady Macha would not go against the traditions of mourning.”

  Despite herself, a pang of sympathy struck Aine. “I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”

  “It was. We had been married only three years.”

  “Children?”

  “One. A son.” He gave a bare smile. “At least she lived to see him draw his first breath. But not long after.”

  “I’m sorry.” Aine had attended enough births to know that even with a skilled midwife or physician, things sometimes went wrong. One never knew when a loved one would be snatched away. Aine’s vision went blurry before she realized the tears were back.

  Uallas lowered his weapon. “I hope your husband is alive, Lady Aine. I will pray to Comdiu for it.”

  He bowed, just as deep but more sober. Without another word, he took his quiver and walked back across the yard toward the keep.

  “What did he want?” Diocail stepped up beside her, the edge still present in his voice.

  Aine followed the red-haired lord with her eyes. “I don’t know.” She turned to the captain. “But I’m glad you’re still here. There’s a favor I wish to ask of you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After days of confinement to Carraigmór, Eoghan wondered if perhaps his flogging had only been an excuse for his real punishment. It wasn’t that he minded scrubbing floors and fetching water and beating the dust from tapestries. He had been raised taking his turn in service at Carraigmór. It was being banned from the practice yard that rankled, not being allowed to take anything more dangerous than a mop in hand.

  Eoghan lifted four buckets on a wooden yoke. Today’s task was changing the soiled water in the guest chambers’ tubs and replacing it with fresh. Normally this would have been an easy task, but the war had sent an influx of young boys and men into the forest. Two more had arrived this morning, their eyes filled with knowledge far too heavy for such a tender age. Personally, he couldn’t blame them for seeking refuge at Ard Dhaimhin. If these young men would be called upon to fight, wasn’t it better to send them to the Fíréin, where they would be properly trained and cared for and raised in the ways of Comdiu?

  Eoghan might have hinted to Conor that he wished for a different sort of life, but the brotherhood was all he knew—the grueling training, the strict obedience. That obedience was being tested with each new task Master Liam and the Conclave found for him at the fortress. To a man who’d had a sword in hand since childhood, the restrictions on his practice felt like having a limb amputated.

  Eoghan rolled his shoulders experimentally, feeling the tug of healing skin on his back as his muscles flexed. At least the enforced “rest” combined with the healer’s effective poultices had reduced the weals to faint marks, even if he would bear them for the rest of his life. That hardly bothered him. It was an honor to be punished for doing Comdiu’s will, and the scars were a reminder of how much trouble he could get himself into when he didn’t act in faith.

  So you’re willing to endure a lashing for My will, but you’re not willing to endure some scrubbing?

  Eoghan could swear he felt a hint of amusement in Comdiu’s words.

  He nudged open the chamber door with his foot and headed down the corridor to the garderobe sewer. “It’s not the scrubbing that I mind; it’s the time away from my training.”

  Comdiu didn’t need to say anything for him to know He was less than impressed by the excuse.

  And that was another reason Eoghan did not tell anyone of his gift. More often than not, Comdiu spoke to him like a doting father to a beloved child, with no small measure of amusement. To some, portraying their great and powerful God in such a way would be blasphemy. This was the Creator of the heavens and earth, the judge of the wicked and defender of the righteous. Why would He bother Himself with the activities of one insignificant man scrubbing tubs and stone floors in the far corner of the known world? And why would He bother to speak directly to such a man?

  It sounded, even to Eoghan, like madness.

  “Then what do You wish me to do, if it’s not to wield a sword?” Talking aloud made him feel less insane, though it probably looked the opposite.

  Obey.

  Very well. He would obey, even if Comdiu didn’t give any more direction on whom he was meant to obey.

  He was heading back to the other empty chamber to perform the same service when Brother Daigh approached in his usual measured stride. The elder brother’s expression did not reflect that he had recently delivered an extreme punishment to the Ceannaire’s successor.

  “You’re wanted in the hall, Brother Eoghan. The Conclave has been called.”

  Eoghan’s stomach did an acrobatic twist. He had never been included in a meeting of the Conclave. Either it was a sign his punishment was going to be lifted, or it was a sign of changing things to come. He left the buckets and yoke in the chamber—no doubt he’d have to go straight back to this task—and followed the stern brother through the winding co
rridors into the great hall.

  Rather than the semicircular arrangement of chairs used when a brother or apprentice requested an audience, today they were placed down both sides of a long table in the center of the hall. An extra chair had been pulled up on the end.

  “Brother Riordan! You’re back!” The words escaped before he could restrain them.

  Riordan didn’t smile. The layer of dust upon his cloak said he had not even spared the time to bathe and change before he convened a meeting of Ard Dhaimhin’s leadership. What could be so urgent?

  The other Conclave members filed in and took their seats. Eoghan folded his hands atop the table so he wouldn’t fidget. He was a grown man, but this gathering of elders still made him feel like a young boy waiting for chastisement. At last, Liam appeared from the direction of his private chamber and took a seat on the far end, facing the Rune Throne.

  “Brother Riordan has brought us some disturbing news,” Liam said. “You all must hear it. We have decisions to make.”

  Riordan cleared his throat and launched into an account of what he had seen in Faolán. Eoghan just stared. Fergus dead, the druid gone, and Mac Eirhinin claiming the throne? He would have been less surprised to find that the sorcerer had sprouted wings.

  When he finished, no one spoke. Finally Eoghan asked the question that filled the room like a silent specter. “Where is the druid?”

  Riordan looked at him. “He’s there. I can feel him.”

  “In hiding?”

  “In a sense.”

  “He’s taken another body,” Liam said.

  All attention shifted to the Ceannaire, and Liam sighed. “Thus far, I have not shared all I know. This druid is neither young nor a stranger. You know that part of the reason the wards were established was to limit the activities of the sorcerers, particularly the ones known as the Red Druids. Ceannaires relied upon the wards for centuries. But what the brotherhood did not anticipate was the potential for corruption from within.”

  Eoghan’s heart beat harder. This information was something no one, outside of the Ceannaire himself, had likely ever known.

  “One of my predecessors was a man by the name of Niall. At least, that’s the name recorded in the rolls of the brotherhood, though we have no way of knowing whether that was the name to which he was born. He was extraordinarily gifted. He could sense magic in others and instantly identify the type. He could fade in front of someone looking directly at him. But he was not satisfied with the power Comdiu gave him, nor with the small realm he led at Ard Dhaimhin. He called on the darker arts of our forefathers, communed with the sidhe, and gained unimaginable power. When his Conclave suspected he was dabbling in forbidden magic, they attempted to remove him. Instead, through dark magic, he killed his old body and took a new one, that of a young apprentice. Through the years, he has cheated death, changing bodies at will when the old one no longer serves him.”

  “And you believe Keondric is simply Diarmuid or Niall or whatever you wish to call him, in a new body,” Eoghan said.

  Liam glanced at Riordan. “I do. There is no other explanation of how Keondric commands Fergus’s and Diarmuid’s loyal men.”

  “That explains why Conor thought they had killed the druid but Beagan still sensed a sorcerer at Glenmallaig.” Eoghan should have known it. Keondric was the man who had kidnapped Aine and taken her to Glenmallaig as bait for Conor. If he’d already been under the druid’s control, it would have been that much easier to take his body.

  “What happened to the real Keondric, then?”

  “Gone, most likely,” Liam said. “Two souls cannot reside in one body. The druid, through magic, would have forced his soul to flee and then taken over the space it left behind.”

  “I would not have thought it possible,” Gradaigh said quietly. One of the younger members of the Conclave, he’d only recently become a dominant voice on the council. “This is the work of faerie stories, not reality.”

  “Where do you think faerie stories come from?” Liam asked. “The world is an ancient place, and there is evil beyond these walls that you cannot even imagine. What Niall—or Keondric—controls is only the smallest fraction of the dark power the Adversary has at his disposal.”

  A chill raced over Eoghan’s skin. “How does this affect us?”

  “He wants to eliminate all who might stand against him,” Riordan said. “First the Balians in the kingdoms. Next will be Ard Dhaimhin. We must prepare to defend Carraigmór.”

  Dal let out a scornful laugh, drawing attention to where he sat at the end of the table. He was another Conclave member emboldened by the changes in Ard Dhaimhin, and if Eoghan were completely honest, he didn’t care for him. “No army can defeat the brotherhood. Even with sorcery, those men are no match for the Fíréin. He will never take the Rune Throne.”

  “He does not come to rule,” Liam said. “And it is not the throne that he desires.”

  A sick, sinking feeling crept into Eoghan’s middle. Somewhere deep down, he knew what Liam would say before he said it.

  “He wants to wipe every last trace of Comdiu’s gifts from the earth.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You’re moving better.”

  Talfryn lowered himself to the ground beside Conor, where he ate his morning porridge. This time the extras were a few mushy bits of stone fruit, probably too overripe to be eaten by the settlement. Conor didn’t care. It was food—extra energy—and at least it gave flavor to the otherwise tasteless gruel.

  Conor ran his fingers over his healing ribs. His short altercation with Dyllan had reminded him how far he had to go before he was fully healed, but at least it no longer hurt to breathe or walk.

  “A few more weeks,” he said as he shoved the last of his breakfast into his mouth with his fingers.

  “You may not have a few weeks. I don’t like the way the guards look at you. They know the last messages asking after your wife have come back, and now they know you’re well enough to fight. They’re waiting for you to make your move.”

  “Then they will continue waiting. My work is not done here yet.”

  Talfryn looked at their guard to see if their conversation had been noticed. “You owe them nothing. You owe Haldor nothing. Are you prepared to die here as a matter of honor?”

  Talfryn was right, but Conor couldn’t bring himself to betray Haldor’s trust. He had asked a few more questions about Conor’s beliefs—not anything significant—but it was obvious the Sofarende leader was trying to reconcile Conor’s actions with his own expectations. He seemed to think, like Talfryn, that Conor was going to make his move any minute.

  And if you’re smart, you will. Aine could still be out there somewhere. If she’s alive, she could be alone. Or she could be waiting for you in Aron. Are you going to languish in a Sofarende prison until Haldor tires of you?

  Yet something in his spirit told him to stay.

  “You must make a decision, Conor. Time is growing short.”

  “Time for what?”

  Talfryn just shook his head. “Be ready. Soon.”

  Conor rose and took his bowl to the trough, where he rinsed it under close supervision and placed it in the bucket beside it, his mind spinning. Did Talfryn plan on making his escape and taking Conor with him? What could he possibly be planning? His chances alone were no better than Conor’s. Even if they overcame their guards, they’d be captured before they could ever breach the wall. The defenses the Sofarende had built against the Gwynn just as effectively kept the prisoners in.

  Except Conor knew from his sleepless nights that there was a point when the guard changed and only one man stood watch over their hut. The walls were wicker and clay. It would be easy enough to break out, kill the single guard, and take his weapon before fading into the compound’s shadows. They would have perhaps ten minutes before the body was discovered—ten minutes to find a way out through the heavily guarded gate.

  Conor shook his head, drawing a suspicious glance from the guard. It would never
work. He was hardly at his best. He had no weapons. If he were caught, he would certainly be killed. What would Haldor make of an escape attempt after all the talk about honor and oaths before Comdiu?

  Did you really mean it? Or were you just buying time?

  The bonds seemed to chafe more than usual as a different guard walked him to Haldor’s longhouse and let him inside. Conor prepared the tablets distractedly, etching several verses without thinking about what he was writing.

  Hear me, O Lord, defender of the meek.

  I am beset by my enemies.

  Raise Your sword in my defense,

  And protect Your sons who are defenseless.

  Conor stared at the verse he had just written. It was barely familiar, as if he had read it long ago but forgotten it until this minute. Why had he chosen those lines? Was he trying to justify his own conflicted thoughts? Or was this a direct message from Comdiu?

  “It is hard, doing nothing, is it not?”

  Haldor startled him from his thoughts. Conor set the tablet aside and tried to make his expression blank. “Pardon me?”

  “You are accustomed to being useful, not hobbled like a horse in a pasture.” Haldor jerked his head toward Conor’s bonds. He hadn’t even noticed that the guard had forgotten to take them off, he’d become so accustomed to them. He shuddered at the significance.

  “Men are not allowed to be idle at Ard Dhaimhin, no matter their role in the brotherhood. Our elders scrub floors and carry water, the same as the novices. Since Comdiu sees men as equals, so does the brotherhood.”

  “These thoughts of yours are very strange. You say all men are equals, yet you have kings.”

  Conor thought back to what Riordan had said to him when he first came to Ard Dhaimhin. “Leadership is a privilege and a responsibility, not a right. Those who are trusted with much are expected to do much.”

  “As I said, strange.” But Haldor smiled. “I do not wish to practice your language today. Tell me about your brotherhood.”

  So now they came down to it. “What do you wish to know?”