Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

Briallu kept her distance, which might also have had something to do with the men’s acceptance. Perhaps she had realized there was no hope for them, or perhaps she was annoyed that Conor was on friendly terms with the guards. Either way, it was a relief. Even her presence at one of their morning practices had been enough to make him distracted and uneasy.

  Word began to filter back in response to Talfryn’s missives regarding Aine’s whereabouts, all negative. Those who recognized her name informed him that she had been killed in Seare, while the others claimed to have no knowledge of her or anyone by her description.

  Talfryn didn’t seem concerned when he delivered the most recent news at supper. “We still haven’t heard from Forrais. And that is the most likely place she would have gone, is it not?”

  “I’m sure it is.” Conor absently rubbed his thumbnail in the crack of the wooden tabletop. “It’s just . . . what if I don’t find her? What if she’s gone? What do I do then?”

  Talfryn looked back down the table at his own wife, who was laughing with Briallu. “You don’t forget; you endure. You continue on with the path Comdiu has set you.”

  “Aye.” Hadn’t he always? It was no different than the time he had spent at Ard Dhaimhin, moving forward though he had missed Aine desperately. But then he had known she was safe. She had been his reason for continuing. Always working harder, always striving to get back to her. Without her . . .

  No, he couldn’t follow that thought. He didn’t know for sure she was gone. And even if she was, he could not turn his back on Seare. Other families—fathers, sons, wives, daughters—suffered under the reign of an evil man, and Conor might be the only one who could intervene.

  Except that back in Seare, he would face another fruitless search for Meallachán’s harp through enemy territory. How long would that take him? How many years until he even got a hint of its location?

  The overwhelming nature of his task erased his enthusiasm for the evening. He stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire early tonight.”

  “Oh, but you mustn’t!” Briallu rushed to his side. “We’ve a bard with us tonight, just arrived. You must stay for the music.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was hear a merry tune or tales of valor. “I don’t think so.”

  “Please do,” Hyledd said. “If you’re really to be leaving us soon, do not deprive us of your company now.”

  Pretty words from a woman who still seemed to dislike him. It must be for her daughter’s sake. Had Briallu changed her mind about pursuing him, or had he just misinterpreted the whole situation? He looked down at Briallu’s pleading expression and sighed. He gave a single nod.

  “Oh, I’m so pleased. Master Glyn is known all over Amanta for his skill with the harp.”

  A harpist. Wonderful. Conor steeled himself for the emotions that music normally stirred and settled in for a difficult night.

  The bard, like Meallachán, was an unassuming-looking man, with nothing to hint he was a master of his craft. Conor hadn’t even noticed him at the end of the table during dinner. The bard rose as one of the servants brought his harp case from the corner and found a seat at the head of the prince’s table, cradling the plain but beautiful instrument in his lap.

  Instead of asking Talfryn what he wished to hear, he started immediately into a haunting piece. Conor stiffened when he recognized the tune, previously one of his favorites: a ballad about a man pining over his lost love. He stared at the far wall, commanding his eyes not to well with tears, demanding his body not to show any of his turmoil. Was it just a coincidence—some cruel twist of fate—that led the man to choose that very song?

  Briallu reached over and covered his hand with her own. “I’m sorry. If I had known . . .”

  He shook his head sharply and withdrew his hand from hers.

  When the song was over, Conor applauded with the others, then stood and strode out of the room. His feet carried him through the familiar hallway to his chamber. The servants had not yet stoked his fire, and the cold night air crept through the stones. He sank down onto the edge of the mattress, where he could just see the cold white light of the moon through one of the windows. Waxing three-quarters. That meant he had been here almost a month. Nearly two months total since he had lost Aine at sea.

  Where are you, love? Are you alive? Or are you with Comdiu, waiting for me?

  A light knock sounded at the door before it creaked open. “Conor?”

  He twisted. Briallu stood in the doorway. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I was worried about you.” She glided nearer and peered into his face, the candlelight casting her features in a relief of shadow and light.

  Conor turned his eyes back to the window. “Now is not the time, Briallu. I haven’t the energy to spar with you.”

  “I know. Do you think she’s still out there somewhere?”

  “I have to believe she is.”

  “And if she’s not? What are you going to do?”

  “Go back to Seare. Finish my task.”

  “Which is?”

  “Something I do not wish to discuss tonight.” Conor stood and edged past her, intending to show her to the door before anyone realized she was in his chamber, but Briallu stepped in his way.

  “Conor, come here.” He stared at her suspiciously, and she heaved a sigh. “Men.” She walked past him to the pitcher of water on his nightstand and poured it into the basin. Frowning, he moved to look over her shoulder.

  She braced her hands on either side of the bowl and peered intently into the surface of the water. Conor’s heart rose into his throat when he realized what she intended. “I told you—”

  “Conor.” She turned and put her hands on either side of his face, her green-gold eyes intent. A tingle shot down his spine. “You want to know where she is. You need to know. Why do you insist on sending messages all over Amanta when I could show you in an instant?”

  “It’s forbidden,” he managed to choke out.

  She dropped her hands. “I won’t do it if you’re not willing. But if she’s in danger, wouldn’t you rather know while something can still be done?”

  He stood there, locked in her gaze, every fiber of his being screaming for him to resist. There was a reason this magic was forbidden. It was dark, unreliable . . .

  “Two months, Conor. By now she must think you’re dead. A highborn lady has a responsibility to her clan to marry, you know.”

  It was clear manipulation, but it still struck to the heart. He nodded.

  She smiled and turned back to the bowl. Conor watched the glassy surface of the water, now reflecting the candlelight and the timber roof. It wasn’t working. Perhaps that was a sign they really shouldn’t be dabbling in this magic.

  And then the image in the water changed. Conor drew in his breath, and Briallu thrust out a hand in warning. The image shimmered and then revealed a stone room not unlike the one in which they stood now. In the middle of it was Aine.

  His heart squeezed in his chest. It was really her. She was alive. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and forced air into his lungs.

  Then he noticed the other person in the room, a red-haired man dressed in court attire. The man took both of Aine’s hands, his expression intent. “Marry me. I promise you, I will care for you. I will protect you. I will give you a home, children . . .

  “Love?”

  “Love. Of course. You would be my wife.”

  Briallu jerked upright and the image vanished in an instant. Conor stared at the surface of the bowl, even though it once again reflected his chamber. Surely he hadn’t understood. Two months and his wife was already considering marrying another man? She had waited three years for him, and in the course of two months . . .

  Briallu touched his arm. “Conor, I’m sorry. I never thought . . . I just assumed . . .”

  He shook his head, not trusting his voice. He’d thought he’d understood what the bards meant when they sang about heartbreak. When he had believed Aine was dead, that had
been loss, grief. This was betrayal—and a physical pain so deep he thought he might never take an easy breath again.

  “The images are real, but they’re open to interpretation.”

  “That seemed pretty clear to me.” He pulled out of her reach. If Aine hadn’t been receptive to this man, whoever he was, she wouldn’t have allowed him into what was obviously her bedchamber.

  “Conor, look at me.” Briallu circled around so he had no choice but to face her. “You don’t know what that’s about. I’d wager that’s Forrais. If you left now—”

  “I could be a guest at my wife’s wedding?” His vision blurred and he swiped at his eyes. He would not cry in front of Briallu. He would not let her see his whole world crumbling around him.

  “Ah, love,” she whispered, her arms going around him. He tensed, but she just rested against his chest while her hands stroked his back. “I’m so sorry. I want to say you were lucky to have loved so deeply, but that makes the pain that much sharper, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want a great destiny, some great responsibility. I just wanted her.”

  “I know. It’s too much to expect of one man. Why can you not simply live a normal life? Marry, have children . . .” She pulled back from him enough to look him in the face, her hands sliding to his waist.

  He caught his breath, his heart suddenly pounding. “Briallu, you should go. This isn’t proper.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t move away. “Conor, I know that nothing I say or do will erase this betrayal, but you shouldn’t have to endure it alone. I just want to be a friend to you, a comfort to you. Won’t you accept that from me?” Her tone was soft, silky, and it crept into him with the same soft warmth of a melody. She said friend, comfort, but she offered so much more than that.

  “I am still married, no matter what she might do.” His voice felt thick and clumsy.

  “Most men lack your faithfulness. I admire that about you. But she does not deserve your devotion.” She sighed and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’ll leave you now.”

  The warmth of Briallu’s lips seared his skin and spread through his body, weakening his resolve. She was right. Aine had thrown their love away. She couldn’t even wait two months before finding a new husband. Had she set her sights on this stranger while he was languishing in a Sofarende prison?

  His hand shot out and grabbed Briallu’s arm as if it were controlled by someone else. “Don’t go.”

  She turned those remarkable green-gold eyes on him. Her voice came out breathless. “I won’t. I won’t ever leave you unless you ask me to.”

  Without any conscious decision, his lips were on hers, hard and demanding. She responded with the same urgency until he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He was drowning, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. She pushed him back until his knees hit the bed and he was forced to sit. The part of his mind that screamed this was wrong—that part of him that still cared about things like right and wrong—got stifled when her gown slipped farther off her shoulders. He pulled her close enough to kiss her again.

  Cold washed over him as if he had been plunged into the sea, bringing with it rapid flashes of images.

  Shadows moved through the remnants of a ruined fortress. Mist blanketed the ground as thickly as snow, fingers of white reaching out and crawling around their legs. The beautiful woman whose arms wrapped around him dissolved into sinuous, inky smoke, carrying the smell of decay.

  Conor broke the kiss and pushed Briallu away, staring in horror. Her lovely face was a mask of dismay, and her bare shoulders displayed angry red marks he didn’t remember leaving. No shadows. No death. Just a young woman who had been rejected by a man she fancied.

  He shivered with cold that could not be explained merely by the fall night. He remembered the touch of that unnatural cold. When she reached out to him, he jerked away.

  “Conor, what’s wrong?”

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  In a flash, the pout melted into a glare, and then the tears began to fall. She ran from the room, sobbing.

  Understanding filled the once-murky corners of his mind, bringing with it a wash of dread. He’d been manipulated, so deftly he’d not seen the bigger game, the snare in which they’d all been caught—him, Talfryn, Ial, all of them. The harp music in the hall broke off, followed by a man’s angry voice.

  “Comdiu, help me.” He knew what he had to do, and he had to do it before Briallu convinced Talfryn to kill him on sight.

  He raced to the hall and skidded to a stop just before he ran into Ial’s bared sword. The guard’s expression was murderous.

  Or so he thought until he laid eyes on Talfryn. The Gwynn prince strode toward him, his face crimson. “You dare to take advantage of my daughter in my own palace?” He pulled his dagger and jabbed it beneath Conor’s chin, hard enough to draw blood. “Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?

  Conor remained as still as stone as he sized up the situation. Briallu sobbed in her mother’s arms, her gown now torn and exposing far more skin than he’d seen in his chamber. Ial looked one short step from running him through, and Talfryn trembled with rage. Delicate did not even begin to describe the situation. Once more Briallu controlled the scene with the deftness of a master puppeteer.

  “I can explain, my lord, but I need the harp to do it.”

  “You are accused of violating my daughter, and you want to play the harp?”

  “Clearly I have nowhere to go. You’re going to kill me regardless of what I say. So what have you to lose?”

  Talfryn’s expression didn’t change, but he nodded to Ial, who withdrew his sword. Conor sighed in relief. “Master Glyn?”

  “Father, you can’t be serious!” Briallu cried. “He forced himself on me!”

  Talfryn’s jaw pulsed, but he only gestured for Conor to proceed.

  Conor sat in the chair and put his hands to the strings. No power hummed through this instrument, as with Meallachán’s harp. But he didn’t need it. He began to play, heedless of the tune, instead pouring every bit of his will into the music, shaping its intention, its meaning with his thoughts.

  Illuminate. Reveal. Strip the illusion of light and show the shadows for what they are.

  The magic unleashed by the music shimmered in slow motion, hanging in the air. Conor closed his eyes and saw with his mind’s eye instead, the light cloaking the room, pouring down around it like a waterfall. Washing away the illusion, revealing their surroundings.

  Conor, stop! Briallu’s voice came from far away, dampened by the music. Then she screamed, a piercing, otherworldly sound that couldn’t have come from a human throat—so unsettling he almost stopped playing.

  Only instinct and the knowledge that what he had seen in his mind was real made him continue. The tune didn’t matter, only the intention, the will to call forth the light to battle the darkness. At last, the cold hand on his heart eased its grip, and the chill subsided. He let the notes fade into a deathly silence.

  And then he opened his eyes.

  Even his brief vision did not prepare him for the sight that awaited him. The great hall, only moments ago illuminated with light and gaiety, stood dim and silent around him. The shredded tapestries hung in shards upon the ruined walls, fluttering in the breeze from the gaps in the stone. The ornate carvings that had so impressed him were ruined, hacked to pieces, timbers split.

  “What have you done?” Talfryn stared like a man waking from years of slumber, unable to remember how he had gotten there.

  “Revealed what Cwmmaen has truly become.” Conor looked around the devastated hall and then across to Hyledd.

  Gone was the beautiful woman to whom he’d been introduced. Her hair hung lank and unkempt around her sallow face, dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her dirty garments sagged from her rail-thin frame. The sumptuous feast before them had been reduced to slop not even fit for the pigs, old meat and bread covered in mold. Conor’s gorge rose at th
e realization they had been eating the rotten food.

  “My daughter,” Hyledd whispered. “Briallu.”

  Talfryn reached for his wife. “Hyledd, darling, we have no daughter. Only sons, remember?”

  She shook her head. “That’s impossible. She was just here.”

  Talfryn looked to Conor for help.

  “She was a spirit. In Seare, we call them the sidhe. We have been enwrapped in her glamour, unable to distinguish the illusion from reality.”

  “I—I can’t remember,” Lady Hyledd said. “Everything feels so distant.”

  “I remember everything up to the point I arrived here,” the bard offered. “How could that be?”

  “You have been under the influence of the illusion for far less time. The longer you spend believing the lie, the harder it is to see the truth. You have been here only a day. Me, less than a month. I can only guess it happened sometime after Talfryn left, so he wasn’t as deeply ensnared. Lady Hyledd, what is the last thing you remember?”

  “I don’t know.” She moved closer to her husband, and Talfryn put a comforting arm around her. “I remember leaving for Penafon as planned and the few days we spent there, but when we returned, all was as it should be. How?”

  “Perhaps Briallu put the glamour in place so you wouldn’t notice anything amiss when you returned, my lady. I take it Ial was with you?”

  “Aye. And six other warriors.”

  “But that was nearly two months ago!” Talfryn said. “We’ve been under this illusion—this glamour, you called it—for this entire time?”

  “It seems so,” Conor said. “We should take a look at the grounds.”

  Hyledd rose from her chair and swayed for a moment. “I won’t be left behind. Not here.”

  “Wife, remain here until we know all is safe. Ial, Aeron, stay with her, please.” Talfryn scanned the room. “Where are my other men?”

  Conor watched them process the revelation. If he’d not already witnessed the sidhe’s power, he wouldn’t believe it either. At last, he understood all the strange feelings he had experienced since he arrived: the wildly varying moods of the household, which seemed to echo Briallu’s; the fact Conor had had so little direct interaction with the guardsmen; how easily he’d been swayed from his most deeply held principles.