Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  “Tell me, then. What am I doing so wrong?”

  “I have no idea.” Ial raised a shoulder in a helpless gesture. “Your technique is fine. Not exceptional, but not bad. You could be smoother on the draw. But, frankly, none of that explains just how . . .”

  “Terrible I am?”

  Ial nodded. “Maybe you’re just not suited to the bow. Or maybe you’ve just convinced yourself that you’re not.”

  Somehow Conor had assumed Ial would have an answer to the problem. Not that it was much of a problem. He had enough facility with his other weapons to protect himself and leave long-range attacks to those more skilled than he. Still, the fact that this challenge eluded him rankled.

  He raised the bow and nocked another arrow, aware of Ial doing the same beside him. The other man’s arrows flew true and struck the target squarely in the center, while Conor’s still barely caught the lower edge.

  It didn’t make sense. Maybe it was all in his mind. After all, didn’t his ability with the sword verge on the preternatural? There was clearly more at work there, not to mention the gift with the harp. Maybe he really was sabotaging his own abilities.

  Conor nocked another arrow. What would happen if he truly believed he could hit the target? He imagined the arrow embedded in the center as he released the string.

  It struck the bottom-left edge of the straw mat.

  He frowned, thinking. Maybe just believing he could do it wasn’t enough. Maybe it was about will. After all, when he’d fought Liam for his release from Ard Dhaimhin, he’d been determined to return to Aine at all costs.

  This time, when he drew the bow, he thought not of the end result but of the flight of the arrow, straight to the center of the target. When he released the string, time seemed to expand as if everything moved in slow motion. He poured his will into the arrow, insisting that it strike the target true.

  Then time sped up again and he was staring at the projectile embedded down to its fletching in the center ring.

  “What did you do?” Ial asked, his eyes wide.

  “I’m not entirely sure.” Had he discovered a new gift, or merely an extension of his old one?

  And, more important, if he could call on it at will for fighting, what else could he do with it?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Aine waited for a sign that word of Uallas’s healing had gotten out, but both the lord and the guards were true to their promises—not even a murmur hinted about what had happened in the woods that day.

  Lord Uallas no longer attempted to conceal his intentions toward her. Even if she delayed her entrance to the hall, he was there to escort her to her seat. Gifts appeared in her work room without explanation—costly items like prepared myrrh and fine steel needles, of which Guaire insisted he had no knowledge. And when she began to see a trickle of patients from among the keep’s staff, Uallas always seemed to find a reason to check on her. Soon the rumors of their impending betrothal whispered through Forrais’s cold stone hallways. He might have insisted he would not speak words of love, but he was doing his utmost to convince her of his devotion.

  “You must stop, my lord,” she whispered when he slipped up behind her to take her hand just before she entered the hall for supper.

  “Not until you tell me what I wish to hear.” He closed his hand around hers briefly before releasing it into the more proper formal clasp. “I want you for my wife.”

  “And you know why I cannot.” She swallowed down her unease and pasted a vague smile onto her face as they entered the half-filled hall. She had to stop getting cornered by Lord Uallas. Not because she worried he would take liberties with her but because it was getting more difficult to put him off politely. At least in front of others, he wasn’t inclined to make a scene. Uallas escorted her to the table, but instead of releasing her to her seat, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a lingering kiss across the backs of her fingers. Then he swept a deep bow, much deeper than was proper, before he backed away.

  Aine’s heart plummeted into her stomach as voices hummed through the hall. She barely restrained the impulse to glare at his back before she sat in the chair a servant held for her.

  “My, my, niece,” Lady Macha murmured. “Made short work of him, have you? I’ll admit he’s one of your better options. I just didn’t think you’d come around to the reality of your situation so quickly.”

  “And what situation is that?”

  “Legitimizing your bastard child, of course.” Macha paused while a servant placed several slices of roast boar on her plate.

  “I think we may be getting ahead of ourselves, Aunt. Conor—”

  “Trust me,” Macha continued as if Aine hadn’t spoken. “You may not think this betrothal is assured, but I know the look of a man smitten when I see one. And Lord Uallas will not rest until you are his wife.”

  Clearly Macha just wanted Aine out of the way of her family’s control of the clan’s assets. A trickle of apprehension crawled over her. She’d already wondered if Macha had been behind the attack by the river. If it had not been for Uallas, Aine would be dead.

  And if not for her healing gift, Uallas would be dead as well. If her aunt was really behind the attack, she knew about Aine’s ability to heal.

  Her heart beat so hard in her chest she was sure Macha could see it from the outside. But she tried to keep her face pleasant while she choked down slices of wild boar and honeyed parsnips. As soon as she could make a graceful exit, she excused herself and made her way from the hall.

  Taran had warned her that Macha was dangerous, but somehow Aine had not thought her this subtle—pushing her into Uallas’s arms as if marrying her off was the endgame, all the while trying to have her murdered. Or had she merely changed tactics when she realized Uallas’s protectiveness of her?

  She was so intent on the possibilities that she didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right behind her. She sighed and turned, determined to lecture the island lord on the impropriety of following her to her chamber.

  It was not Uallas.

  She fixed on the dark eyes beneath the hooded cloak when she should have focused on the dagger in his hand. A spark of recognition lit in the back of her mind, only to be obliterated by terror when he lunged for her. She darted aside, but the edge of the blade caught her arm. Pain seared through her.

  She drew the dagger from her belt, but the man grabbed her hand and slammed it against the wall once, then again, until the weapon fell from her numb fingers to clatter on the stones at her feet.

  Hard hands grabbed her shoulders while his knee rammed into her midsection. She doubled over, the wind knocked out of her, and collapsed onto the ground with a pathetic wheeze.

  Comdiu, help me! she cried silently as her vision faded. Her attacker raised the blade to finish the job.

  And then the dagger stopped halfway through its downward arc. The assassin jerked backward as if pulled by an invisible rope. Had Comdiu answered her prayers?

  Aye, but not in the way she thought. She caught a glimpse of red hair and a familiar russet tunic as Uallas downed the man with a well-aimed punch. Then, before she could catch her breath, he drew his own dagger and slit the attacker’s throat.

  Aine stared, stunned, for the space of two breaths. Only then did she realize she was breathing again and the ache in her midsection was subsiding.

  In an instant, Uallas was kneeling on the ground beside her. “Are you all right?” He finally registered her bloodstained sleeve. “Guards! Help! We need a physician!”

  Aine pushed herself to a sitting position. “I’m fine. It’s only a flesh wound.” One that burned like fire, but she could tell without looking that the bleeding was not serious.

  “A flesh wound?” Uallas barked an amazed laugh. “‘Only a flesh wound,’ she says. Truly a woman who has seen the battlefield.”

  Aine focused on the man lying in a slowly spreading pool of blood. “You killed him?”

  “Aye, I killed him. He was trying to murder you!”<
br />
  “But now we don’t know who hired him. We could have questioned him.” She struggled to her feet with Uallas’s assistance and walked to the assassin’s side. “Push back the hood.”

  Uallas obeyed, though reluctantly. She gasped.

  “What is it? Do you know him?”

  She closed her eyes. “Aye. I thought he was a friend.” She opened them again, hoping for a different picture, but no—it was him. The eyes that had once looked on her with warmth now stared, glassy and distant.

  Pepin.

  Despite the fact the wound was as shallow as she had guessed, Aine found herself under the care of one of Macha’s physicians while Diocail, Guaire, and half a dozen of the keep’s guards crowded around her. Uallas leaned against the wall, seemingly no more affected by slitting a man’s throat than he would have been by slaughtering an animal.

  “So you knew this man.” Diocail’s expression was dark, even if his tone was gentle. “What reason would he have to want you dead?”

  “He’s a mercenary,” Aine said. “I assume someone paid him a large sum of money.”

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant. I don’t know who would want me dead. I’m just a girl. I have few enemies. Who would benefit from my death?”

  Over the heads of the others, Uallas arched an eyebrow at her, clearly recognizing the question for what it was. The island lord might have been many things, but he was no fool.

  The door opened, and every head turned toward the new arrival.

  “You’re alive,” Macha said. “When I heard there had been an assassin, no one had any information.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lady.” Had Macha actually been concerned, it wouldn’t have taken a full hour to traverse the handful of steps from the hall.

  “Don’t be daft, girl. What I want to know is how did an assassin get into my keep?”

  Diocail stepped forward. “We are still investigating that, my lady.”

  “He specialized in high walls,” Aine said. “If he managed the assassination of a Ciraen senator, your fortress is hardly a challenge, my lady.”

  “So you do know him.” Macha’s voice turned frosty. “Just how intimately?”

  Until now, Aine had felt numb, weary. But at the suggestion in Macha’s tone, something snapped. She stood, brushing aside the physician’s attempts to bandage her arm, and met Macha’s stare with one equally hard. “As in, did I invite him into the keep to share my bed, after which he decided to disguise himself and kill me in full view of anyone wandering the corridor? Come, now. Ignoring the insult to my honor—which I only do because it’s been a trying day—that makes very little sense.”

  The room went silent, waiting for Macha’s response. She returned the stare for an uncomfortably long stretch and then turned to Diocail. “Find out why and how. Anyone found shirking their duty will be severely punished.” She gave Aine a cool smile. “If something had happened to my dear niece, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

  Aine had pushed as far as she dared in one night. She bowed her head. “Thank you, Aunt.”

  Macha’s departure seemed to be the opportunity for which the others were waiting, and slowly the room drained of all but Uallas, Guaire, Diocail, and Lia. Uallas stepped to her side and whispered urgently, “May I speak with you, my lady?”

  Aine glanced at the others. “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?” They murmured their assent, but as Guaire was about to slip out, she called, “Leave the door ajar, please.”

  A trace of amusement passed over the steward’s face, and he left a full foot’s gap in the entry.

  Uallas grimaced. “I thought you’d learned by now you could trust me.”

  “I only fear for my reputation, after your gallant behavior both in the hall and outside of it.”

  He grabbed her uninjured arm. “This is no jest, Aine. Assassins in the open are one thing, but in Forrais’s own halls! You must leave here. We’ve been fortunate so far, but I’d rather rely on distance and my own men to keep you safe.”

  His expression softened and he took both her hands. “Marry me. I promise you, I will care for you. I will protect you. I will give you a home, children . . .”

  “Love?”

  Uallas appeared startled. “Love. Of course. You would be my wife—”

  “And now I am not the one you are trying to convince.” Aine took her hands from his. “You are a good man—an honorable man—but I cannot marry you. Just as you still love your wife, I love Conor. But unlike your wife, my husband may still be alive. If there were a chance she could return to you, would you be asking me this?”

  “She’s not coming back.”

  “But Conor might.”

  He held her gaze. Then he nodded. “I leave in five days. I still hope you will come with me. But I will not ask again.”

  “I understand. I owe you a rather great debt, Lord Uallas.”

  “After you pulled an arrow out of me, I’d say we’re even.” Uallas gave her a crooked smile. “Sleep well, my lady. Try to stay out of harm’s way.”

  “I shall do my best. Good night, my lord.”

  As soon as Uallas left the room, the others slipped in. Diocail shut the door.

  “You refused him,” Guaire said. “Why?”

  “My husband may still be alive.” Then she added more quietly, “And I don’t trust him.”

  “What makes you say that?” The steward’s eyes narrowed.

  Aine sighed and plopped into the chair. “I may be no great beauty, but I’ve had my share of admirers. I’ve known love, seen infatuation. Whatever he wants, it has nothing to do with me.”

  “If you don’t trust him, what makes you trust us?” Diocail asked.

  Aine spread her hands and shrugged. “I have no choice. I can only go by my intuition, and you are as close to allies as I have in this place.”

  “Now you sound like a daughter of your clan.” Guaire’s eyes sparkled. “What do you need, my lady?”

  “From you? Information. Find what you can about Lord Uallas.” She looked to Diocail next. “From you, I need a guard. Someone I can trust with my life, who can’t be bought. Even better if he should despise my aunt.”

  Diocail made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Aye. I can do that, my lady. I’ll post a guard on your chamber in case this man was not alone.”

  “Thank you, both of you.” Aine smiled at them in turn, even though weariness threatened to overwhelm her.

  Diocail bowed and exited the room, Guaire following close behind.

  The steward paused just inside the door, his expression thoughtful. “Mark my words, my lady. Someday bards will write songs about you.”

  Aine stared as he shut the door behind him, her hand going to her mouth. Then the trembling began. She made it to the bed before her knees gave way.

  “My lady?” Lia approached her hesitantly.

  “I’m all right.” Aine repeated her earlier words, but this time, she didn’t feel so certain. She’d nearly been killed tonight by a man whom she’d naively trusted, and once more saved by a man who wanted to marry her. Uallas had put his life at stake for her more than once, yet all she could see were her suspicions: who might be using her, who was working against her. What was Forrais doing to her?

  “Would you just unlace me, Lia? I’d like some time alone to think.”

  “Aye, my lady.” The girl unlaced the back of the dress and retrieved a clean shift while Aine removed the bloodstained one. “At least let me comb your hair.”

  Lia’s pleading tone spoke to her feeling of helplessness. Aine nodded and moved to the chair by the brazier, chilled despite the warmth of the room. She winced as she sat, only then remembering the blow that had taken her to the ground. He could have killed her then, but instead he’d tried to cripple her.

  Or kill the child she could be carrying.

  Her hands went to her stomach. She didn’t know if she were actually pregnant, but if the attack had somehow cause
d her to lose the baby . . .

  Tears pricked her eyes, opening an ache in her heart she’d done her best to ignore.

  Conor, I miss you so much. Where are you? We may have a child. Or we might have before tonight. Did you ever consider that possibility? Have you hoped for it? Do you dream of me?

  Somehow, pouring out her fears to her husband in the silence of her mind eased her burdened heart. Was that a sin? Wasn’t that a bit like praying to an idol, someone other than Comdiu?

  She hugged her arms to herself, closing her eyes while Lia combed her hair in long, slow strokes. Then the maid’s hands slowed, and Aine could feel the hesitation in her movements. “What is it, Lia?”

  “I shouldn’t gossip, my lady. It’s just that . . .”

  Aine twisted in the chair. “Is there something I need to know?”

  The maid chewed her lip, obviously conflicted. “You said you thought Lord Uallas wanted something from you. I overheard two of Macha’s lords speaking about him in the corridor. But men don’t always speak truth—”

  “I understand that, Lia. But if it may help, I must know.”

  “They said Lord Uallas is nearly penniless and hard-pressed to defend Eilean Buidhe against the Sofarende. They said of all the women he could court, you are the wealthiest.”

  Aine swallowed and nodded. It only confirmed what she had suspected.

  Then why did it sting so much?

  “My lady, I’m sure he cares for you.”

  Aine waved a hand in dismissal. “Just my pride wounded, not my heart. You did well to tell me.”

  At least now she knew what Uallas wanted from her. The bigger question was, what would he do to get it?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  After Conor’s victory over Ial, he enjoyed a certain level of respect from the other men. They still weren’t entirely pleased with his presence, but they accepted him with only minor grumbling. He began joining the morning drills with sword and bow, rebuilding the strength he had lost through inactivity, though he still had to take care with his injuries.