Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  “You’ve clearly been through some trials, young lady.” Riordan smiled and pulled out a chair for her. She sank onto it and tried to control her erratic emotions. He reached for her hand, but pulled it back before he could touch her.

  “What happened?”

  “Burned. Better than the alternative. I was only a few seconds away from being taken by the druid’s sorcery.”

  Aine took his hands in her own, handling the raw skin as little as possible, but he still winced. It was bad, worse than anything she’d seen before. “This must be excruciating. How are you enduring the pain?”

  “Our healers are skilled. Ointment and painkillers. It’s bearable now.”

  Just barely, though. “Did Conor or Eoghan tell you that I’m a healer as well?”

  “Aye. Your skills are well known. But I’m afraid I’m beyond help. At least I’ll maintain use of my hands, even if I’ll never grip a sword again.”

  She released his hand and folded her own in her lap. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Sometimes things that are destroyed can be rebuilt stronger than ever.”

  “You speak of Ard Dhaimhin.”

  She nodded.

  “The age of the brotherhood is over.”

  “But the High King is still to come. You know that. And you suspect Conor is that king.”

  Riordan’s eyebrows lifted. “How do you know such things? Very few know our suspicions, only myself and Eoghan.”

  Aine blushed. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make.” She told him about her ability and how it had only become stronger as time passed, though she left out the event that had precipitated it.

  Riordan stared. “You and Liam share the same gifts, then. But it took him years to develop his. You must be stronger than he was at twice your age.”

  “That is not all,” she said softly. “Look.”

  He followed her gaze downward and leapt out of his seat. His burned hands, raw and ruined, were covered with new pink skin. He flexed his hands as if he’d never seen them before.

  “You did this?”

  She nodded.

  He seated himself again and grabbed her hand, determination glowing in his blue eyes.

  “My lady, we have much to discuss.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

  At Riordan’s voice, Eoghan turned away from where he was watching Aine help several women plant seeds in one of the many small vegetable plots that were springing up around the city. Riordan smiled at him sympathetically.

  “She’s my friend’s wife and your daughter,” Eoghan said, a little too sharply. He couldn’t deny that Aine had caught his attention by the way she’d handled herself after Conor had rescued her from Glenmallaig. But he’d written that off as his inexperience with women and how little she was like those in the stories the men liked to tell. The time he’d spent in her presence the past few weeks had only strengthened his understanding of why Conor had fallen in love with her. She was truly a remarkable woman—a remarkable woman who was completely off-limits.

  At least he wasn’t the only one who thought so. Half the men in the city seemed to feel the same way. She had healed most of the wounded in her first days, and everyone knew she was responsible for the life that had been infused into the shell of the High City.

  Two little girls ran by in a game of chase, squealing with laughter. That was one of the hardest things to get used to: the families. After Eoghan and Aine spent days cloistered in Riordan’s office with the Conclave, it had been decided that if the brotherhood no longer functioned as it had for the last several centuries, it was pointless to allow only men. The first families to arrive were related to brothers who had decided to stay. As word got out that Ard Dhaimhin was a safe refuge, the trickle of newcomers widened to a flood.

  There were still barracks for the unattached men, but the far side of the city saw an explosion of tiny cottages for families, several often sharing one space. Aine and the other women had established a garden behind each structure to help ease the burden of the burnt crops, though they would harvest little but winter greens until warmer weather in spring.

  “I almost can’t believe it.” Eoghan shook his head.

  “I can,” Riordan said. “Ard Dhaimhin was once the High King’s city. I imagine it looked like this when he was building the palace.”

  “Aye. But he had the wards to protect it.”

  Riordan sobered then. Until they found a way to reinstate the wards, they would always be at risk for Niall’s wrath. The druid had not attacked them again because it did not serve him to lose more men without gaining the artifacts he desired. But they could expect another strike someday. And now they had women and children to protect as well.

  “Come.” Riordan nudged him with his elbow. “Let’s find something useful to do.”

  “They look like they could use a hand with that garden plot.”

  Riordan winked at him. “I thought more like a quick bout. Don’t want you to become more comfortable with a shovel than a sword.”

  “That sounds like a challenge.” Eoghan grinned. “I accept.”

  Just as they turned away, an alarm rippled back to them, a trill of birdsong. The forest might be gone, but the signals were still familiar.

  Someone was arriving.

  “Don’t bury it so deep, sweeting. It only needs dirt up to your fingertip.” Aine showed the little girl how much soil was necessary to cover the lettuce seed. The child smiled and brushed away the little mound she’d made. Aine patted her on the shoulder as she pushed herself to her feet and moved on to the next child working in the plot.

  She was exhausted. But she was also the happiest she could remember being. The influx of families from the surrounding countryside had infused new life into Ard Dhaimhin, even though some of the warriors were taking to the idea of women and children better than others. If she judged correctly, they would see a rash of weddings come winter and spring. She smiled, taking pleasure in the idea even though it came with her own pain.

  Conor was coming, she was sure of it. She had just been sure of it for the last month without any sign of him. Instead, she toiled away at Ard Dhaimhin, healing, planting, and counseling. Had she misunderstood her gift? Was it not as reliable as she thought?

  A ripple of birdsong reached her ears, all the more striking because most of the animals had abandoned the forest. She had become accustomed to the signals of the sentries, even if she couldn’t always distinguish their meaning. This one, though, announced that someone was arriving.

  She stood, a wave of anticipation assailing her. Her heart leapt into her throat. Could it be? Could she have missed his approach?

  Aine brushed her dirty hands on her apron and rushed out onto the main thoroughfare, heart beating so hard in her chest that she swayed in time with every thud. Please. Let it be him. Let it not be a mistake.

  A lone figure on foot descended the switchback into the city, too distant to let her distinguish features. She could barely keep herself from running toward him, but he was still at least a mile away. So she forced herself to wait, her hands twisting her apron into knots. Riordan appeared beside her, followed by Eoghan.

  “Is it him?” Eoghan asked. “I can’t tell from this distance.”

  Aine couldn’t answer, afraid that speaking aloud might reveal the sight to be a hallucination. Her eyes never wavered from the man, but when he at last came within shouting distance, her knees nearly buckled. It was Conor, looking weary and haggard, his long hair shorn short, his foreign clothing streaked with dirt. She had never seen anyone more beautiful in her life.

  “Go to him,” Riordan murmured, steadying her with a hand on her elbow.

  Aine staggered forward, drawing her husband’s gaze. His eyes widened, and in a flash he was striding toward her with an intensity that almost took her knees out from beneath her again. In an instant, she was in his arms, pressed to him so tightly she could barely breathe. He shuddered and buried his face i
n her hair.

  “You’re alive,” he whispered. “Comdiu be praised, you’re alive.”

  He pulled back far enough to take her face in his hands and lean his forehead against hers, an expression close to pain on his face. “Please tell me I’m not imagining you. Let this not be another illusion.” His words had the sound of a prayer.

  “It’s me,” she whispered, seeking his eyes again. “Don’t ever leave me again, promise me.”

  “They will have to drag me away.” Then he was kissing her, pouring every last ounce of passion and grief and fear into the embrace. She didn’t realize she was weeping until he pulled back enough to wipe away her tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, my love?”

  She shook her head. How could she put into words the depth of her fear and concern the last several months, the relief that she felt at finding him alive and whole before her?

  She reached up and laced her fingers with his. “We’ve got an audience.”

  He kissed her again. “I don’t care.”

  Neither do I, she thought, getting lost in the sensation of being in his arms again. She loved this man. Needed him like breath. But self-consciousness got the better of her and she backed away. “Plenty of time to . . . catch up. Your friends and your father will want to see you.”

  She could almost see the relief rush into him. “They’re all right? Eoghan? My father? Master Liam?” Apparently he read the spark of grief in her eyes because he gripped her hand tighter. “Who?”

  “Liam. Your father is in charge of the warriors now. But things have changed.”

  He took in his surroundings. “I can see that.” Then he looked back at her and smiled. “Time enough for explanations. For now, we celebrate.”

  Impulsively, Aine pulled down his head and kissed him again, not wanting to let him go. She laced her fingers with his and turned to face the watchers. Riordan strode toward them, beaming, but when she sought Eoghan in the crowd, he was gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Only seconds after his reunion with Aine, Conor found himself surrounded, and dozens more people rushed toward him. Apparently word traveled as quickly as ever in Ard Dhaimhin. Riordan crushed him into a strong embrace. “Welcome home, son.”

  “Thank you,” Conor said, overwhelmed by the welcome. He barely recognized the faces around him, conscious of Aine getting farther and farther away.

  “The Conclave will want to speak with you. Eoghan was here a moment ago . . .”

  Conor didn’t hear the rest of the words as he pushed back through the crowd to Aine and seized her hand. “You didn’t think you’d be rid of me that easily, did you?”

  Mischief glinted in her eyes. “Don’t think you’ll use me as an excuse to escape from the Conclave. If I had to sit through their meetings, so do you.”

  Things had changed even more than he had thought. Obviously the city had been opened. He’d thought it a result of the burned forest, but as they fell in alongside Riordan and headed for Carraigmór, he realized it probably had something to do with his wife. Everyone knew her, and even more surprising, they didn’t come across anyone whose name she didn’t know in return.

  “You have a lot to tell me,” he said.

  “As do you. For example, what have you been doing in Gwydden these past months?”

  He looked at her in shock, but she just wore a satisfied little smile. “How do you know that?”

  “Same way I know you’re contemplating slipping out of the hall before the Conclave can pin you down.”

  It was indeed what he’d been thinking, though he doubted she knew—

  “Oh, aye. I know that, too.” She squeezed his hand, and a tinge of pink reached her cheeks.

  “Then you know I’m not likely to be dissuaded.”

  It was Aine’s turn to laugh. “Husband, do your duty and tell your story to the Conclave. There are things you must know.” Her amusement faded. “Much has changed.”

  He nodded. There was plenty he needed to tell them, but he didn’t want to waste this joyful reunion with Aine. Just releasing her hand to start the upward climb to Carraigmór filled him with loss.

  Once they reached the hall, Riordan paused. “I’ll assemble the Conclave. They’ll want to speak with you right away.”

  “I’d like to wash and change first. And something to eat would be appreciated. I’ve been traveling on foot and sleeping rough for weeks.”

  Riordan looked startled, but he bent his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll have supper brought to the hall. Aine can show you to her—your—chamber. Someone will come fetch you when the Conclave is assembled.”

  Conor gave a short bow and then turned to Aine. He could sense his father’s disappointment. But what had he expected? Conor was no longer Fíréin, if that designation still meant anything. Did Riordan think his return to Ard Dhaimhin could overshadow seeing his wife again?

  Aine led him upward to one of Carraigmór’s guest chambers, sending him a sympathetic glance. “It will take time. You’re his son, and his former student. He’s not used to seeing you as a man, and one with other responsibilities, at that.”

  “How exactly are you doing that?” At first Conor had thought perhaps she’d had a vision of him in Gwydden, but this was more specific, more precise.

  “A new gift,” she murmured.

  “You can read minds?” Conor grinned at her. “That could be fun.”

  Aine made a face and smacked him on the arm. “Stop that. You’re supposed to be washing for supper, not contemplating other things.” But her reproof was halfhearted at best.

  She stopped before a door and pushed it open to reveal a sparse chamber. Apparently the opening of the city hadn’t changed the brotherhood’s ideas about living requirements. As Conor wandered the room, though, he saw evidence of his wife’s presence: an ivory comb and a hair ribbon on a low table, a gown hanging on a hook. Aine went to a basin and poured water from a pitcher and then set a folded cloth by it, her movements precise and measured.

  “If you’d waited, you could have had warm water,” she said.

  “And I’d have to smell like the road for the rest of the night.” Conor dumped his pack out on the bed and began to remove his weapons. Aine was there before he could get very far, unbuckling his baldric with nimble fingers.

  “Gwynn?” she guessed, assessing the sword before she put it aside on the bed.

  “Aye.” He pulled his stained tunic over his head and paused as Aine removed an embroidered garment from his pack.

  “What happened, Conor? Where have you been? This is thread of gold.”

  How could he sum up all that had happened since leaving Seare? “I just came from Cwmmaen, Prince Talfryn’s household. The rest . . . can you forgive me if I only want to tell it once?”

  She looked at him then—really looked, her eyes lingering on the new scars he’d acquired—and her jaw tightened. Before she could say anything, he tugged her to him and kissed her.

  “What was that for?” she asked breathlessly.

  “You have to ask?” He lifted his eyebrows, trying for a teasing tone, but it fell flat. He sighed. “Can you blame me if I want to pretend for a few moments that we live an ordinary life?”

  “No. I can’t blame you. I want nothing more myself. But, Conor, we’re at war.”

  He released her. “I know. The sidhe have overtaken the kingdoms, and in some way, my clan is responsible. Which means I have the obligation to make it right.”

  “That’s too much responsibility for anyone to take on, even you.”

  He turned away and plunged the rag into the water, then ran it over his face and neck. “Someone has to redeem the Mac Nir name, Aine. Else what do I have to offer you?”

  “You.” She positioned herself between him and the basin. “That’s all I’ve ever needed. Now wash up before they send someone for us. I want to hear your story. It’s taking all my restraint not to pull it from your mind piece by piece.”

  He reached for her hand and brought it
to his lips. “I love you, Aine. You have no idea what it was like for me, not knowing.”

  “I do.” She stole a kiss and then slipped away before he could make good on his thoughts of a true distraction. The half smile she wore said she knew exactly what she was doing.

  When Conor and Aine arrived in Carraigmór’s hall, the Conclave members were just sitting down to the table set with bowls of stew, fruit, and several loaves of bread with honey. Two large pitchers of mead sat in the center with a stack of cups. Conor suspected that however much the city had changed, this spread was just as unusual now as it had been under Liam’s command.

  Those things would shift, though. Conor didn’t need Aine’s mind-reading gift to know that the city would someday be the seat of a monarchy—that eventually the kingdom’s customs, those the Fíréin had so carefully kept away, would start creeping in. He wasn’t yet sure if that were good or bad.

  Eoghan entered the hall at the last possible moment. Conor stilled, his hand on the chair back, sensing the tension in his friend’s posture. Then Eoghan pressed him into a hug, thumping his back hard enough to knock the wind from him, just as he had done when Conor was a novice.

  “Brother,” Eoghan said, as if all he needed to express was contained in that one word.

  “I told you we’d see each other again,” Conor said. “I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

  Riordan stood and gestured to them. “Conor, Eoghan, sit.”

  Eoghan circled to an empty seat next to Riordan, leaving the two chairs opposite them for Conor and Aine. Conor reached for the mead and poured a cup for himself and his wife before he spoke.

  “Tell me what happened here.”

  Riordan launched into a lengthy explanation of the attack on Ard Dhaimhin, his account punctuated by other members of the Conclave. Conor merely nodded, even though his stomach sank with each new detail. So many casualties. Those men commanded by the druid—Keondric now, it seemed—were just as much victims as his fallen brothers.