Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  Shame washed over him. Even knowing the sidhe thrived on the baser instincts of men and exploited them, he’d betrayed Aine. Was that why Briallu had been determined to sway Conor and stir up dissent with the guardsmen—to make herself strong enough that they’d never break free?

  One look at the courtyard explained the disappearance of the other guardsmen. Their rotting corpses lay where they had fallen, crawling with insect life. Conor covered his mouth and nose with his hand in a futile barrier against the stench. The only signs of life outside the hall were the two stunned grooms with a handful of horses.

  Conor pushed down his distaste and bent to pluck an arrow from the nearest body. He ran his fingers over the fletching, noting its construction. “Do you recognize this? It’s not Gwynn, nor Aronan. Certainly not Seareann.”

  Talfryn took the arrow from him with surprisingly steady hands. The prince was taking the revelation better than Conor would have expected. “I saw similar ones in the Sofarende camp. It must be Norin.” Then he looked at Conor with shocked, empty eyes. “How did this happen? What happened?”

  Conor turned away from the horror before them. “If I had to guess, I would say the Sofarende attacked while you and Lady Hyledd were away, and the sidhe placed a glamour over the place so no one would notice anything amiss when your lady wife returned.”

  “And now I understand why Comdiu insisted I await you in the Norin encampment. Without you, we might have wasted away beneath the glamour.”

  “Comdiu had far more than that in mind. I know what I must do when I return to Seare.”

  “You’ll be leaving, then?”

  “I’ll help you see to the cleanup first, but aye, I must go.”

  “What about Aine?”

  Conor closed his eyes and pushed down his anguish over the memory of what Briallu had scried. He had no way of knowing whether that had been real or just part of Briallu’s attempt to keep him here. But if she felt the need to show him such a small shred of the scene before cutting it off, he could only trust that Aine still loved him.

  “I can’t wait. Something is calling me back. She is in Comdiu’s hands, and I must trust Him to watch over her. If you find her, or you have word, please tell her where I have gone and help her get to her clan in Aron. Let her know that I will come back for her when I can.”

  “I will do all that is within my power. You have my word.”

  “Let’s go back inside, then. We should try to get some sleep before we have to deal with this in the light of day.”

  But neither of them made any effort to return to their chambers, except to retrieve blankets to stave off the chill seeping through the broken-down walls. Instead, they sat huddled around a single table, drinking strong mulled wine until the first glimmer of light chased away the night’s shadows.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “So it’s true.”

  “As far as I can tell, my lady.” Guaire shot Aine a sympathetic glance as he wandered around her work room, looking at the collection of tonics and salves she’d amassed on the shelving. “Several men have said Lord Uallas has referred to financial difficulties at Eilean Buidhe.”

  Then that was the reason Uallas was so keen on marrying her. It was hard to be angry. After all, hadn’t her mother done the same thing in marrying Lord Alsandair to secure Calhoun’s throne? It was how the highborn remained in power. Marrying for love was not usually an option.

  “Macha has said nothing about the fact I refused Uallas.”

  “She probably doesn’t know. It’s not a detail a man would put about freely.”

  Still, the silence made her nervous. Macha had been distant and cordial the few times Aine had supped in the hall, which in itself was disturbing. The chieftain had to be biding her time, waiting for something damning so she could . . . do what? Banish her? Seize her holdings? Worse?

  “I need to leave the keep,” Aine said. “I’m going mad.”

  “And Lachaidh or Oisean would haul you back over their shoulders before they let you be exposed again.”

  It shouldn’t surprise her that the men Diocail assigned to keep watch over her were two who already knew—and had kept—her secret.

  As if he knew her thoughts, a rap sounded on the door and Oisean poked his head in. “My lady, Rós is here to see you.”

  “Send her in.”

  Even though Rós was a young milkmaid who worked at the keep, the guard trailed her in, his hand on his sword.

  “Thank you, Oisean, but I’m safe enough.”

  “My lady—”

  She fixed him with a stern look. “Some things should not be discussed before men.”

  “In that case, I’ll excuse myself as well.” Guaire gave her an encouraging smile and slipped out the door, taking Oisean with him.

  Aine reached for her gloves and slid them on with a heavy heart. How had everything gotten so complicated so fast? Enemies within, unwanted suitors. She couldn’t even heal properly for fear her gifts would be found out and put her in danger, hence the gloves. Every time she touched someone, she was taking her life into her own hands.

  And now she had to fear the likes of a milkmaid?

  Oisean’s scowl confirmed her thoughts when she emerged from her work room. “My lady, I can’t protect you if you don’t take my advice.”

  “I hardly think Rós is a threat.”

  “Don’t be so certain. Trained assassins have already failed. If I wanted you dead, I would find someone both naive and desperate enough to slip a knife between your ribs while you treated her or to put poison in your food.”

  Aine stopped. Why hadn’t she considered that the next move against her would be subtle? She was so used to dealing with overt threats that she had forgotten to consider the stealthy ones.

  “I need a taster now?”

  “That or eat only from the chief’s platter,” Oisean murmured as he delivered her to her chamber. “Perhaps I should test food brought directly to you.”

  Tightness coiled in her chest. His devotion was sincere. But she couldn’t ask him to take such risks when she knew full well he was only acting under the influence of whatever ability she possessed.

  “Oisean, your devotion is admirable. And appreciated. But I’m afraid you’re being swayed by something outside your own will.”

  “This gift of yours? The one about which you spoke to Lord Uallas?”

  Aine stared. “How did you know? Did he tell you?”

  “No, my lady. Voices carry on the wind. I overheard.”

  “Then why did you agree to this duty?”

  He lowered his voice. “Your father was an honorable man. We served him with devotion. You, my lady, would be a chieftain worth serving. And I am not the only one who feels this way.”

  Oisean gave her a precise bow and gestured for her to enter her chamber. She stepped inside and bolted the door behind her with shaky hands.

  If Lady Macha hadn’t had a legitimate reason to want her dead before, she most certainly did now.

  As Aine went about her daily duties, she was unable to shake the feeling of unease that had dogged her since Oisean’s words. She avoided meals in the hall, afraid to look her aunt in the eye, lest Macha see what Aine knew.

  Aine had never intended to try to supplant her aunt, but it seemed that the idea had occurred to more than one member of Macha’s household.

  The following night, Aine walked the perimeter of her room, worrying the button at her cuff. Lia watched her from where she mended a pair of leggings in the corner.

  “My lady, you’ll wear yourself out. Please lie down and rest.”

  “I can’t.” Aine couldn’t explain the restlessness that had grown steadily more intense all day. She should return to her work room, but she wouldn’t be able to concentrate any more there than in her own chamber.

  When the heavy knock at the door came, she realized she had been waiting for it.

  “Lady Aine, open the door. It’s urgent.”

  Lord Uallas. Aine nodded, and
the maid rose to unbolt the door.

  Uallas rushed in, followed closely by Oisean, and bolted the door behind him. “We haven’t much time, my lady. We must go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Lady Macha has summoned the brithem. Diocail is gathering information, but she is going to call for your arrest. We have only minutes before she sends her men for you.”

  “I don’t understand. Arrest for what?”

  The bleak look on Uallas’s face chilled her. “For witchcraft, my lady.”

  Witchcraft. She didn’t even need to ask what the penalty was. She already knew.

  Death.

  Oisean hurried to her side and escorted her to the chair before she could collapse, muttering under his breath. Uallas knelt before her and took both her hands.

  “I can protect you, my lady, if you’ll allow me. Once we escape Forrais, my men will throw them off our trail. We’ll be safe on Eilean Buidhe. No one can touch us there. Even Macha will find herself powerless.”

  “Explain yourself, Uallas,” Oisean demanded.

  “We don’t have time—”

  “Lady Aine is not going anywhere with you until you do.”

  Uallas shot Oisean a hard look. When his eyes returned to Aine’s face, they glittered with something cold and calculating she’d never seen before. It put a hitch in her breath. How could he have seemed so kind and sad to her before and now look so dangerous?

  “This is all you need know. I’m neither as naive nor as destitute as everyone believes. I pay tribute to Lady Macha, as I do to every other clan chief between here and the island. Primarily Lord Riagain.”

  Aine stared. “Why?”

  A smile appeared on Uallas’s lips, but it was not a pleasant expression. “If one of them decided to attack my island, what do you think the other chiefs who believe they have claim would do?”

  A cold admiration hung in Oisean’s voice. “Very clever, my lord. They would be too busy fighting over their claim to get far in their attack. Especially when it concerns a Highlander with an island demesne.”

  “Indeed. A man who is beholden to all is in reality beholden to none. As long as I fill their coffers, they care little about how many men or ships I have at my disposal or where my wealth comes from.”

  Aine felt sick. On one hand, Uallas was certainly clever. On the other, this calculating side frightened her. No wonder he had presented marriage as a business proposal. In the absence of love, she was just a means to his own end.

  “If anyone could keep you safe, it’s Uallas,” Oisean said.

  Aine looked between the two of them, ready to say aye, ready to flee to Eilean Buidhe. But the words wouldn’t come. In that moment, she knew she couldn’t betray Conor. How could she break her vows before Comdiu? How could she ask her God to bless a marriage that, while legal, was a betrayal of a sacrament?

  She lifted her eyes to Uallas’s. “I cannot marry you. I’m sorry.”

  Oisean let out something that could have been a sigh or a curse. He paced away from them, his knuckles going white on the hilt of his sword.

  The door shuddered under another round of pounding. Uallas gripped Aine’s hand. “They’re coming, my lady. This is your last chance. My offer still stands. But you must decide now.”

  He was confident in his ability to do what he promised. If she went with him, she would live. But the calculated edge in his voice still chilled her. “I cannot. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” Uallas yanked her up, whipped her around so her back was against his chest, and laid the edge of his dagger against her throat.

  Oisean took a lurching step forward, but the lord fixed him with a chilly look. “Stay right there. I don’t intend to harm her unless I must. Don’t make that necessary.”

  Her guard stopped.

  “Lay down your sword.”

  Slowly Oisean obeyed.

  “Now open the door.”

  “No.”

  “Now.” Uallas pressed the edge of the blade harder to Aine’s neck, and she gasped. Oisean turned pained eyes to Aine, his sense of failure written on his face.

  “Do it,” Aine said.

  While Oisean reluctantly moved to the door, Aine whispered, “Why?”

  Regret colored Uallas’s voice. “If you won’t go with me, I must have a plausible excuse for being here. The people of my island depend on me. For generations, Eilean Buidhe has changed hands, plundered by one chief or the next. When I took leadership, I vowed to end it. Can you understand that?”

  There it was, the sadness beneath the steel. In that respect, he reminded her of Keondric, convinced to do wrong things for love of his clan. Somehow, though, she knew he would not be as easily persuaded as Keondric had been.

  “I can understand that,” she whispered.

  The pressure relented on her throat just as the door opened and men spilled into the room, weapons bared.

  “Easy, lads. I’ve got her,” Uallas said.

  Two men immediately surrounded Oisean, relieving him of his knife and holding him aside. Diocail made his way to the front and gave Uallas a slight nod. The dagger was withdrawn and Uallas released her completely.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” the captain said. “It gives me no pleasure to serve this warrant from Lady Macha. You are under arrest, charged with witchcraft.”

  Even though she was prepared for the pronouncement, her knees still went weak. Uallas and Diocail reached out simultaneously to steady her.

  What about your ability? her sense of self-preservation screamed. You could bend them to your will.

  That would be wrong, came another voice—perhaps her conscience, her fear.

  But she would live.

  “Help me,” she whispered to Diocail, pouring every ounce of conviction she possessed into the plea. She willed him to feel her terror, the injustice of the situation. She could see the moment when her gift took him, a hardening of his expression, a hand straying toward his sword. “But do not kill Uallas. Wait for my word.”

  She met Oisean’s eyes across the room, saw he already understood what she meant to do. She moved willingly toward the door, her arm in Diocail’s grip as if he were carrying out his orders. As soon as they passed the doorway, she turned back to the men who had accompanied them, met each of their eyes in turn. “Please, I beg you. Do not let them take me.”

  “Seize Lord Uallas,” Diocail ordered. “But do not kill him.”

  Uallas’s expression changed as he realized what she had done, that he was in danger. The men descended on him, disarming him in seconds, forcing him down to the stone floor. She didn’t wait to see what happened after that. Diocail grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall at a run.

  “Quickly. We must reach the stables before Lady Macha learns what has happened.”

  They fled down the lower hallway into the rear courtyard. It was pitch-black, and Aine stumbled on an uneven section of the ground before she could process that it was too dark. Where were the torches? “Something’s wr—”

  The unmistakable swish of an arrow cut off her words, followed by a muffled cry as Diocail hit the ground beside her.

  “Stop right there.” Macha’s cold voice rang out in the dark.

  Aine stumbled to a halt, instantly surrounded by a dozen guards with swords and spears. Someone jerked her hands behind her back roughly. “Please, don’t let her—”

  Something hard thudded into her head before she could finish the plea.

  When she came to again, she was lying on her side on a stone floor, her hands bound in front of her and a rag stuffed in her mouth. The orange glare of torchlight burned on the other side of her eyelids. Someone slapped her face, and her eyes popped open.

  “She’s awake, my lady,” came a deep voice beside her. Uallas.

  Hands hauled her upright and into a chair. She struggled to resolve her surroundings for a moment and then realized she was in Forrais’s great hall. Macha stood on the dais like a queen presiding over her vassals. The keep’s residents and
guests crowded the room, the nobles seated at the tables, the servants packed around the edges.

  Aine’s heart did a little flip at the sight of the man standing beside her aunt. He was dressed like every other noble but for the sash draped over his shoulders, a symbol of office and authority. She knew the brithem who had presided over cases at Forrais for the last two decades, a fair-minded man who could be swayed by neither threats nor bribes.

  This man was a stranger.

  If Macha had gone to the trouble of summoning a different traveling judge, one who would presumably be more amenable to her wishes—and untainted by Aine’s abilities—she had been planning this all along. No wonder she had been cordial. She hadn’t wanted to take the chance Aine would flee and rob her of the pleasure of seeing her executed.

  “Aine Nic Tamhais,” the judge intoned, “you have been accused of the crime of witchcraft, which is punishable by death in Aron. What say you?”

  Uallas removed the gag from her mouth, but before she could say anything, his knife went back to her throat.

  “Nothing but the answer to his question,” he murmured. “I’ve been instructed to kill you if you try to sway the men to your side again.”

  Aine swallowed, mortal fear coursing through her.

  “Answer the question,” the brithem said sternly.

  Aine clenched her hands together. “I am no witch.”

  “We have witnesses who swear you have used magic to heal on more than one occasion.” He raised a hand, and several people filed in front of the dais: Uallas’s manservant, Oisean, Roidh, Lia. She swallowed down the sudden lump at the maid’s miserable expression. Tears rolled down the girl’s cheek and fell to the stone floor. What kind of threats had Macha made to ensure her compliance?

  “Do you deny this?” the brithem asked.

  Help, Lord. I have made a mess of this. What do I do? What do I say?

  Immediately a presence filled her, like air in a bellows, wind in a sail. She lifted her head and looked the brithem straight in the eye. “No, I do not deny it.”