Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  Aine struggled for breath and pressed her hands against her suddenly flushed face. “Why are you doing this? Why are you so determined to marry me?”

  Lord Uallas closed the space between them and took her hand. “Aine, I fear for you. I want to protect you. I also have a young son who needs me, who needs a mother. And if what Lady Macha says is true, if you are indeed carrying a child, that child will need a father. Would you have him branded a bastard?”

  Aine flinched at the moniker and looked away. Had she not feared that very thing? Not for her sake, but for the child’s?

  Uallas seemed to take that as affirmation. He brought her hand to his chest, spreading her fingers over his heart. It beat steadily, if a little too fast. Her own heart sped to match it as his warmth crept into her palm. “I will not speak words of love, but I believe that will come in time, my lady. I offer you safety. Security. A home. If you carry a child now, I will gladly give him a name and an inheritance.”

  Everything he said made sense. It was perfectly respectable, perfectly obvious. Then why couldn’t she breathe? Why did the light seem just a little too bright? On the edge of panic, her question came out too harshly. “And what do you expect in return, my lord?”

  “That you treat my son as your own. That, Comdiu willing, we have more children. And that you use your gift on behalf of the people of Eilean Buidhe.”

  Her eyes found his immediately. “My lord?”

  “Unlike Lady Macha, I do not see that as a fault. Life is hard on the islands, harder than the Highlands at times. It eases my mind to know that perhaps we will not have to bury our own children before their time. Do you not want that same thing?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Uallas lifted her hand where it still rested on his chest and brought it to his lips. “I truly believe we will grow to love each other. But in the meantime, a marriage based on respect and mutual need is not a sin. Consider my offer, Aine. Will you at least do that?”

  Her thoughts were spinning too fast to make sense of his question. Mutely, she nodded again. He let her fingers slip from his and gave her a deep bow. “I’ll let you get back to work, then. But consider quickly, my lady. I must leave in a fortnight or I won’t make it back before the autumn snows begin.”

  Uallas let himself out of the work room. As soon as the door closed, Aine sank onto her stool.

  What was she going to do? Everything Uallas said sounded right. She was not foolish enough to believe she would be safe at Forrais for much longer, nor that she could escape marrying indefinitely. The lord of Eilean Buidhe would make a fine husband. He was handsome, kind, protective. He made her smile. He did not seem upset at the idea she might be carrying another man’s child. And he saw her healing ability not as witchcraft but as a gift to the people of his clan. What more could a woman ask for in a match?

  Would you abandon your love for Conor that quickly? What if he’s coming to you? It would take months to make his way north on foot. Would you have him arrive to find out that you’d married another man in his absence? Could you survive knowing he still lived and you couldn’t be together? Could he survive?

  Aine’s fingers went to the charm at her neck. She lifted the ivory to her lips, willing it to warm as it once had when she thought of him. She remembered how she had promised to keep it for him until he returned.

  No. She could do nothing if there were the faintest possibility he still lived. She would wait.

  Now it was just a question of who would reach her first: Conor or the person who wanted her dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  At Cwmmaen, Conor slowly regained his strength, doing little besides eating and sleeping. Talfryn seemed not to be suffering any ill effects from his captivity; most mornings when Conor arrived in the hall, the prince was already gone. Instead, Briallu kept him company at the table, entertaining him with stories that she deemed particularly Gwynn. Despite the fact she never did anything that could be construed as improper, there was something about her manner that made him uncomfortable, something that signaled she looked on him as far more than just her father’s guest.

  “You haven’t yet left the fortress,” she said one morning. “You must be in need of fresh air. Come ride with me.”

  Conor smiled gently. “Thank you, Briallu. You know that I cannot.”

  She cocked her head. “Perhaps customs are different in Seare. It’s improper for a woman to be escorted alone by an unmarried man, but a married man is considered a suitable chaperone.”

  “Customs are different in Seare. Even married men are not considered immune from temptation.”

  “So I’m a temptation?” Briallu gave him a flirtatious smile. “I’m flattered, my lord.”

  Conor shook his head. If she flirted as shamelessly with the other men in the fortress, she was asking for trouble. The way she smiled at him made him think she was offering more than just a pleasant morning ride.

  Her smile faded. “Surely your wife had a guardsman. Were you concerned he had designs on her?”

  That idea was ridiculous. Aine had inherited Ruarc’s service from her mother, and he had looked on her like a father, not a potential suitor. Ruarc had loved her, though, enough to die defending her.

  “You see I’m right,” Briallu said. “My father will not allow me to leave the fortress without an escort, but his warriors are either so afraid I’ll be hurt under their watch that they won’t let me ride faster than a crawl or they’re trying to better their position by wooing me. The fact you’re already married is a relief. You see, Conor, unlike most women of my position, I have no interest in being married myself. What sort of man do you think would give me free rein in the armory once I was his wife?” The mischievous glint returned to her expression.

  His better judgment warred with his desire for a change of scenery. “If you promise not to get yourself killed under my watch. And if we’re back in plenty of time for supper. I don’t want to anger your father or all those warriors who think they might win your hand.”

  She popped up from the bench with a brilliant smile. “I promise. Go have the stable hands ready our mounts, and I’ll change into something more suitable.”

  This may not have been my best decision.

  Conor drained the bitter remainder of his tea, stopped by his chamber to retrieve his weapons, and headed to the stables, where the prince’s collection of fine horseflesh was displayed.

  “Lady Briallu wishes a ride,” he told the stable boy.

  The boy grinned at him. “I hope you are a good rider, sir.”

  “I am.” Inwardly, though, he again wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Perhaps there was a reason Talfryn’s warriors insisted she ride at a sedate, ladylike pace.

  Briallu arrived moments later, dressed in a wool and silk gown. Unlike her other dresses, which tended to show off most of her neck and shoulders, this one was modest and covered every last inch of skin. Or so he thought until she mounted. It was not a gown after all but a skirt split front and back, worn over a pair of leggings that showed off every contour of her shapely legs.

  She arranged the pieces so it appeared to be a dress again and fixed a challenging look on him. “Lord Conor, I do believe you’re staring. That is hardly proper for a married man.”

  Conor jerked his eyes away and mounted his horse without a word. Now he knew he had made a mistake.

  Despite his earlier concerns, Briallu kept her mount to a sedate walk through the gates and out into the surrounding countryside. The Gwynn landscape was not unlike his native Seare: forest interspersed with meadow. The promise of fall lingered in the breeze, and a layer of dew sparkled on the grasses in the morning sun. Conor forced himself to relax and filled his lungs full of the sweet smells of nature.

  “I knew you needed to escape the fortress,” Briallu said. “I get restless within stone walls. How can anyone stay inside when there is all this beauty to be revealed?”

  “Your father wishes you to be safe. You can’t fault him. In a
family of sons, naturally he would dote on his only daughter.”

  “And yet he raised me as a man,” she shot back. “I trained with the boys in the yard until I came of marriageable age and it was deemed unseemly. If you ask me, it is far more seemly and necessary for a woman of marriageable age to be able to defend her honor with a blade.”

  “Indeed.” Conor couldn’t keep his mind from drifting to Aine again. She was by no means weak, but even on the battlefield she had been protected.

  “You worry about her. Your wife, I mean.”

  He nodded.

  “You know, we women are stronger than you think. Resourceful. We find a way to survive. As long as we are women, we have weapons.”

  “That doesn’t reassure me. I don’t want her to just survive. I want her to survive unharmed.”

  “And what if she’s been forced to do things in order to survive? What then?”

  Conor swallowed hard. He didn’t want to think about what she suggested. He would not. Aine would never sacrifice her principles to live.

  As if Briallu knew his thoughts, she said, “The will to live is surprisingly strong, Conor. It’s something you must think about. If you can’t reconcile her instinct for survival with her desire to be yours and yours alone, then you don’t deserve her.”

  A sick feeling crept into Conor’s center. “Perhaps this was a mistake. I should take you back.”

  Briallu reined in abruptly. Her chin dropped to her chest, and her eyes closed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just . . . you haven’t been there to protect her. There is a reason why my father will not let me leave without an escort, you know. It’s not simply a matter of propriety. You want to find her alive, but you may not find her the same woman you left.”

  Please, Comdiu, spare her that at least. Let her be alive, and unharmed. I couldn’t bear . . .

  Bear what? For her to be hurt? Or to know she had been hurt in such a way?

  “Forgive me,” Briallu said. “I say what I think. I am told it’s my greatest fault. I just wanted you to be prepared. If you find her, she will need you more than ever.”

  “When I find her,” he corrected.

  “Aye, of course. When you find her. Now look ahead. Do you see those trees up there?”

  “What about them?”

  “I bet I can get there before you can!” With that, she dug her heels into her horse, and her mount charged ahead several lengths before Conor figured out he had been tricked and gave chase. He leaned forward and urged more speed from his mount, but Briallu was a good rider and managed to beat him to the trees. When he pulled up beside her, she was out of breath and laughing.

  “You cheat!” he said.

  “It’s not my fault if you don’t have my reflexes. Some warrior.”

  “So now you insult me?”

  Briallu grinned and dismounted, drawing attention once more to her legs beneath the split skirt. He looked away. “Call it a friendly challenge. Now tie the horses and follow me.”

  “Aye, my lady.” A wry note crept into Conor’s voice. It was not just her father she was used to wrapping around her finger.

  He tied the horses’ reins to a low-hanging branch and followed her into the cluster of trees. The stony stream bank slowed his progress, but Briallu scrambled over the rocks without a care for the shifting foundation beneath. At last she stopped at a spot where a fallen log had created a pool, just barely fed by the trickle of water from the main stream. Its glassy surface reflected them side by side, lit by the dappled sunlight that seeped through the trees overhead.

  “This is my favorite spot,” Briallu said. “There’s been something I’ve been wanting to try, but I didn’t have a good reason to attempt it. Do you believe in magic, Conor?”

  He nodded. He had seen too much, experienced too much, done too much himself not to. But something told him they were not talking about the same sort of magic.

  Briallu settled herself onto a mossy rock at the edge of the pool and dipped her finger in. Concentric circles spread across the surface. “What is your wife’s name?”

  “Aine.”

  “Aine. Good. Now you must be quiet.” Briallu closed her eyes and put her hands in her lap.

  “What are you—”

  “Shhh, don’t disturb me.”

  Conor shut his mouth. Seconds passed, then minutes, as Briallu sat silently at the edge of the pool. Then, abruptly, the reflection shimmered as if disturbed by wind, even though the day was still. The ripples moved to the outer edges of the pool, revealing a still image once more.

  Except it wasn’t a reflection of their faces and sun-dappled trees.

  The pond showed a late-summer landscape, patchy heather clinging to rocky hills beneath a deep gray sky. It was an unfamiliar scene that was neither Seare nor Gwydden.

  Foreboding shuddered through Conor. “No!” He picked up a rock and heaved it into the center of the pond. The image vanished in a splash.

  Briallu scrambled upright. “Why did you do that?”

  “You . . . you can’t . . .” Words failed him, and he strode from the trees.

  She had been scrying. It was magic, all right, but the dark kind, forbidden. Men were led astray by such magic, driven to despair or false hope. There was a reason the Balians preached against it.

  Conor stood by his horse, his head pressed against the mare’s withers while his heart returned to normal. A light hand pressed against his back. He flinched.

  “Forgive me,” Briallu said. “I only meant to do you a kindness.”

  She looked appropriately contrite, her expression pleading. He relaxed. What had she really done? Aye, she was dabbling in forbidden magic, but perhaps she had fallen into it innocently. After all, she had been trying to show him Aine.

  “Is she alive?” Conor asked, not daring more than a whisper.

  “I don’t know. You saw the same thing I did. If I tried again—”

  “No!” He grabbed both her hands. “Briallu, you must not do that again. Not for me, not for anybody. It is forbidden to Balians in Seare for a reason. It may seem innocent now, but it will lead you places you do not wish to go. I know this as surely as I know anything.”

  Briallu looked down at their joined hands, then up into his face. A spark flared between them, that same flash of wildfire he had felt on their first meeting. He dropped her hands and turned away. “We should be going back now.”

  He expected her to walk away, but instead she put her hand on his arm. “Conor, I would not have tried that if I wanted you for myself. I know your heart belongs to another.”

  He couldn’t look at her. He gave a terse nod and waited for her to remove her hand, then levered himself atop his mount.

  They didn’t speak on the way back, and he glanced her way only to ensure she was following. His gut twisted, guilt seeping into him, even though he hadn’t done anything worth feeling guilty about. He had not asked for her attention. He was not pursuing it.

  Yet you rode out with her, knowing full well the way she looks at you, knowing what you feel when you look at her.

  He loved his wife. And he was a fool. Those two facts were not in question. He needed to find Aine and go back to Seare before his common sense deserted him completely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The sound of horns jolted Eoghan from a deep sleep. For a moment, he lay still, trying to reconcile the sound of the city’s wake-up call with the darkness still visible through the hole in the clochan’s roof. Then he realized it was not the sounding horn at all but rather the carnyx, which was used to signal only one thing.

  War.

  Eoghan swung his legs from the shelf bed and lit the torch. The fire whooshed to life, scattering its orange light over the boys, most of whom were blinking sleepily, confused by the early rousing.

  “Up and in your clothes, lads.” Eoghan kept his voice steady, though his heart was knocking against his ribs. “Quickly now.”

  “It’s time, then?” Breann asked. He’d
come to be the unofficial spokesman for the céad.

  “It’s time.” Eoghan went to the chest that held his personal belongings. His sword went on his back, dagger and hand stones at his belt, another knife in the sheath strapped to his calf. The boys would receive their swords and knives at the armory. The older céads had been assigned weapons long ago, but his group had been deemed too young.

  The irony grated on him. Too young to be trusted with unsecured weapons, but old enough to die with them in hand.

  He shook off the black thought as the boys finished dressing and formed a line in the large open area of the clochan. “Bhris, take the lead.”

  One of the older boys stepped to the front and led the line up the steps that emptied out of the beehive-shaped dwelling. Eoghan brought up the rear, the unaccustomed tang of fear on his tongue. Not for himself—after all, he would be safe at Carraigmór behind a magically sealed door—but for these boys he’d come to care about.

  As they joined the other céads moving in a steady flow toward the armory, Iomhar fell in beside Eoghan. He was one of Ard Dhaimhin’s younger brothers and one of its best swordsmen. “I’ve been ordered to take command of your céad. Master Liam summons you to the fortress.”

  Eoghan nodded as if it were a surprise. Liam had insisted that no one but they know his location during the battle, but the idea still chafed. What had he trained for if he ran and hid at the first sign of danger? He had enough confidence to believe he would come out of battle alive.

  He does not fear your death but your corruption.

  That thought, clearly from Comdiu, made him stumble. When the céad halted in formation near the armory, he moved to their front.

  “The Ceannaire has called me to the fortress. I will return when I can. Iomhar is to command you in my absence. Show him how you have made me proud. Look to one another’s safety. And do not give up.”