Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  Conor stared at Eoghan. His friend had always insisted that he had no knowledge of languages or magic, yet now he spoke with absolute certainty. Conor didn’t argue, though. He just put the pin on the end of the harp opposite the wheel.

  Language or not, this was more like constructing a building than a sentence: bracket a span of notes with Comdiu’s protection, fill it in with magic. It made sense in a symbolic sort of way.

  “What about the rest?”

  Eoghan touched each in turn. “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Conor spread each of the other six pins at even intervals along the harp. Once he had tuned each of the notes, he ran his fingers along the strings. Magic hummed on his skin.

  He glanced at Eoghan and Aine. “Shall we give it another try?”

  “Shouldn’t we get the others first?” Aine asked.

  Eoghan shook his head slightly. Conor agreed with him. As confident as he felt, this still might not work. It was like trying to speak a language of which you had only the most rudimentary knowledge. The message had the potential to get garbled in the delivery. And with only eight of the twenty-eight pins . . .

  “All right, let’s give it a try, then.” He forced a confidence he didn’t feel into his tone.

  The first note sent a shiver through his body as he began to play. This time he didn’t control the music. It almost wasn’t even a song. It was a breath, a prayer, a plea to Comdiu—an acknowledgement that while his skills were too meager to accomplish something this vast, he served a God who was greater and more powerful than that which they battled against.

  Perhaps that was the reason for the magic embedded in the runes: a reminder that there was something bigger and more mysterious at work than what they could accomplish by their own abilities.

  And then the music changed again to that golden light, spilling out like liquid metal and seeping into the city’s foundation like rain. It was not a shield as he had first conceived but rather the touch of hallowed ground. A benediction. A blessing. It sped along the earth like a flood, burning away invisible shreds of mist it met along the way. And somewhere in his heart, Conor understood.

  Ard Dhaimhin was not meant to be protected and shielded from the kingdom; it was to be its heart, its shield, its sword. What they built here would endure not because of any attempt to make it safe but because they were courageous enough to stand against the evil that threatened it.

  When the last note died, Conor didn’t need Aine to tell him it was successful. The wards tickled his skin like the crackle of an impending lightning strike. It was as if the music had become part of the city, the foundation upon which it stood.

  “You did it,” Aine whispered. “It’s different . . . strong. It’s not what it once was, but it’s what we need now.”

  “Comdiu did it.” It was no coincidence that of the twenty-eight pins Eoghan could have found, these eight accomplished something so vast. And once more, Comdiu chose to humble him by showing him the limitations of his own knowledge, the graciousness of their Lord’s protection.

  “It’s done, then,” Eoghan said quietly. “Let’s tell the others.”

  Word of what Conor had done spread through Ard Dhaimhin almost as quickly as the magic itself, helped in part by the fact that more than a few people could feel it.

  “So we’re protected,” Riordan said when Conor, Eoghan, and Aine met with the Conclave in the hall. “Against what?”

  Aine answered. “I’m fairly certain that anyone possessing sorcery cannot set foot within Ard Dhaimhin’s borders. It’s become part of the foundation of the city.”

  “And the sidhe?” Daigh said. “Can they pass?”

  “They will be able to pass as they did with the other wards,” Conor said, “but their power will be limited to affecting individuals. I don’t think one could weave a full-scale illusion, not with the magic as the foundation of the city.” His experiences at Cwmmaen had taught him that much.

  “So you couldn’t do the same thing to drive the sidhe from Seare,” Gradaigh said, disappointment in his tone.

  “Not on such a large scale,” Conor said. “At least not yet. We have some other ideas that could be explored.”

  Aine jumped in. “Conor and I would like to spend some time with the texts in Master Liam’s study and the Hall of Prophecies and see if there’s anything of use there.”

  “Seems wise.” Riordan paused. “There’s something else we must discuss, though.”

  Conor’s stomach sank. He could guess what was coming. “I don’t think—”

  “No, hear me out. Eoghan was Liam’s choice for Ceannaire, but he had other duties, and now I think we know why. I fell into leadership in their absence. But it seems Carraigmór’s own magic has chosen you. I think we make a grave mistake if we don’t listen.”

  “I never wanted to lead the brotherhood,” Conor said.

  “Neither did Liam. But he was chosen, as I believe you are.” Riordan glanced around at the members of the Conclave. “Perhaps for more. Only time will tell.”

  The implication of Riordan’s words made him ill. “You can’t possibly mean . . .”

  “There’s a prophecy.” The hard set of Eoghan’s jaw and the intense look in his eyes were at odds with his quiet tone. “It speaks of the one who will stand against the Kinslayer with ‘the sword and the song.’ Master Liam showed me.”

  Conor looked at Aine. She gave him a little nod, though he couldn’t tell if it was meant to be encouragement or verification of the truth of Eoghan’s words.

  “Prophecy or no prophecy, the brotherhood is over,” Conor said finally. “There is no Ceannaire because there is no Fíréin anymore.”

  Riordan looked around the table and voiced the question on all their minds: “What are we, then?”

  “You did well.” Aine’s soft voice snapped Conor out of his thoughts as he stared out the window in Liam’s study. She slid her arms around his waist from behind and leaned her head against his back. Just that small show of support warmed him and eased a little of the tension in his body.

  “Can you tell me what they’re thinking?” he asked.

  “You know I shouldn’t have—”

  “But you did. I need to know.” He turned and pulled her closer, but for once he wasn’t tempted off topic. “Please.”

  “They all believe you are meant to take leadership of the city in Liam’s stead.”

  “And . . .”

  She sighed. “A few of them—Riordan, Daigh, Eoghan—believe you are the one prophesied in the writings.”

  “The High King.”

  “Aye.”

  He heaved another sigh. He couldn’t explain it, but what he felt was more than just fear. It was like the nudge on his spirit in the Sofarende camp, the one that prompted him to stay even though common sense—and Talfryn—told him to flee. He felt tied to Ard Dhaimhin, true, and the sword called to him. But kingship? That felt completely wrong.

  “You would make a wonderful king.”

  “Would I?” So far he’d made a mess of things by acting on his own desires and out of his own fears. A king must make decisions for the good of his people, no matter the personal consequence. And somehow he knew if given the hard choice, he’d always choose Aine. He could sooner sacrifice himself than allow harm to come to her when it was in his power to save her.

  “We just don’t have all the information yet. They don’t have all the information.” He gestured to the piles of books spread across Liam’s desk. “I still feel as if the answer is here somewhere.”

  “Then we read. We pray.” Aine stretched to kiss him and then grinned. “And probably read some more.”

  Conor chuckled. “You don’t need to sound so enthusiastic about that.”

  “And you don’t need to sound so morose. I’ll just send you anything in an obscure language and you can awe me with your linguistic prowess.”

  Conor grinned and stole one more kiss, which elicited another smile from Aine. Then he g
rew serious and linked his arms around her waist. “I love you, Aine. You amaze me. You make me feel like I can do anything.”

  “I think that’s what marriage is for.” She pointed to the folios and books piled high. “We should get started. If you believe there are answers here, there are probably answers.”

  Conor hoped so, because lately it seemed as though every answer came with another set of questions.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  It had actually been easy, Eoghan thought.

  The failed first attempt aside, it seemed that Conor possessed the skills and knowledge necessary to protect the city. Carraigmór’s magic had somehow chosen him to be their leader.

  The only thing left to do was convince Conor that he was meant to be High King. Riordan and Daigh certainly thought so or they wouldn’t have ceded him power so easily. The rest of the Conclave could be convinced. Conor might refuse the title of Ceannaire, but he was already making decisions on their behalf. Eoghan’s role in the High City was over, just as he’d always intended.

  So why did he feel so bereft?

  Pride, he decided, as he made his way toward the training yards. He’d always known that Conor possessed abilities and education that were vast even by Fíréin standards. It was time to stop moping and make the most of what he was meant to do. Just because the brotherhood had effectively been dissolved didn’t mean there weren’t still men to be trained, captains to be developed. He was good with a sword, and he was good at teaching others to be good with a sword.

  He paused at the edge of one yard to watch two young men, perhaps six-and-ten, bouting with wooden weapons. Eoghan recognized one as Fíréin by his fluid style. The other was kingdom trained but no less talented—a recent refugee, probably, escaping the druid’s conscripted army.

  “Halt,” Eoghan called, and the two boys backed off in surprise. The Fíréin apprentice bowed immediately, but the other one just stared at him.

  “What are your names?” Eoghan asked.

  “Colm, sir,” the first boy said.

  Apparently the opponent figured Eoghan was someone of note because he sketched a hasty bow. “Anraí, sir.”

  “You’ve got good form, Anraí. But I want you to watch me and tell me what I’m doing that you’re not.” He took the sword and faced Colm. “Your attack.”

  Colm came at him with a series of flawless offensive strikes. The boy was going to be good someday. Eoghan easily deflected the blows without countering, trusting Anraí to pick up the nuances of his technique.

  Then he stepped back and addressed the new student. “What did you note?”

  The boy stared, puzzled. Then understanding dawned on his face. “Your weight. It’s centered. I’m reaching.”

  “You’re reaching,” Eoghan repeated with a nod. He handed the boy his weapon and then watched as the two resumed their match. When he was satisfied that Anraí had made the correction, Eoghan moved on.

  After stopping and working with half a dozen groups, a calm settled over him. Perhaps Conor’s return was an answer to his prayers. He’d always known he belonged at Ard Dhaimhin, even as he chafed at the restrictions placed on him. He loved teaching, fighting, the rhythm of life in the city. Even as he mourned Master Liam’s passing, he could admit that without the pressure of living up to expectations as the Ceannaire’s successor, he could be happy here.

  What did it matter if Conor received the acclaim? Even though Eoghan had given his entire life to Ard Dhaimhin . . .

  I see all men equally, though I may call them to different tasks.

  It was both chastisement and encouragement. Eoghan bowed his head beneath the weight of Comdiu’s words. I will serve in whatever task You set before me. Forgive me.

  I still have plans for you.

  Aye. Eoghan would do what Comdiu asked him, even if that meant he would never again see the world outside Ard Dhaimhin’s borders, never find a woman who looked at him with the same love Aine had for Conor. If Comdiu called him to fight, he would fight. If He told him to follow, he would follow.

  And if I call you to lead?

  Lord?

  There was no answer. Eoghan shook his head and went back to his rounds. Maybe Comdiu was just making the point that it was not his place to dictate what he would or would not do. He needed only to offer his will to obey and stand ready to respond when he was called.

  He forgot about the somewhat one-sided conversation as the days passed, pushing aside the twinge of jealousy he felt as Conor stepped into the space Liam had left vacant.

  He was hardly surprised, then, when one of the younger boys serving in the fortress told him he’d been summoned to the Ceannaire’s office. His friend hadn’t wasted any time in assuming the prerogatives of the station. And why should he? Conor was the son of a king, born to leadership. He’d already shown that he had his own path to follow, the rules and goals of the brotherhood aside.

  Eoghan shoved down those thoughts and raised a silent prayer of apology to Comdiu for their bitter tone. He’d never thought of himself as being uncharitable, but then again, he’d always enjoyed a certain status within the brotherhood. How uncomfortable to realize that his humility had been just a sham.

  He climbed the stairs to Carraigmór slowly, wondering what Conor could have to say to him. But when he arrived at the Ceannaire’s office, it was not simply his friend waiting. Riordan and Aine were with him.

  “There’s something you should see,” Conor said. “Sit down.”

  Eoghan lifted an eyebrow at the command, but he sat. A stack of scrolls on the desk drew his attention.

  Aine spoke first. “I found the message from your mother, Eoghan. You said that she was a Fearghail?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  Aine turned a book toward him, a heavy leather-bound tome that took up half the table. “This is a genealogy of Sliebhan. Fearghail is a noble clan.”

  Eoghan looked between Aine and the book. “So? It’s not as if they had any contact with me after I was given up.”

  Aine pointed to an entry near the bottom of the page. “This right here? Fionnuala Nic Fearghail? I think that’s your mother. It shows she married a Beollain about five-and-twenty years ago.”

  When Eoghan looked at her blankly, Conor said, “Beollain is the minor royal branch in Sliebhan. Just like Laighid is to Nir, or Eirhinin is to Cuillinn.”

  “What are you saying? That I have claim to the throne of Sliebhan?” Eoghan laughed. “Maybe that meant something before, but Sliebhan has fallen. Royal blood hardly matters now.”

  “Eoghan,” Aine said more gently, “have you ever heard the story of how the Great Kingdom split?”

  He frowned. Everyone knew the story. “Daimhin was disappointed his sons hadn’t held true to their faith or their gifts. He named a successor who was not of his direct line, and rather than lose what they felt was their birthright, his sons killed him.”

  Aine nodded. “There’s more, though. We found one of Daimhin’s journals in the Ceannaire’s study. I can only guess Liam already suspected he may have been wrong about the prophecy.”

  Eoghan looked at the three others in the room. They stared at him, as if willing him to read the direction of their thoughts.

  “Daimhin spoke of a boy who possessed the same gift he did,” Conor said.

  “Music,” Eoghan guessed.

  “No,” Conor said. “Comdiu spoke to Daimhin. Directly. As I believe Comdiu speaks to you. He wanted the High King of Seare to be guided not by his own thoughts and prejudices but directly by Comdiu himself. That is why Daimhin’s sons rebelled against him: because they did not hear Comdiu’s voice.”

  The breath left him like flame snuffed from a candle. “You can’t possibly mean . . .”

  “We do,” Riordan said. “If we reread the prophecy in this light, it’s altogether possible.”

  “But the sword and the song—Conor has wielded both already to restore Ard Dhaimhin. In a sense, he’s already fulfilled that prophecy.”

  Cono
r shook his head. “I believe the prophecy does refer to me. But I won’t wield the sword and the song. I believe I am the sword and the song, a tool in the hand of the one who will deliver our island from this evil.”

  Something unsettlingly hard glimmered in Conor’s gaze as he stepped around the desk, something Eoghan couldn’t reconcile with the young man he knew. But even the books had not prepared him for Conor’s next words.

  “I am not destined to be High King, Eoghan. You are.”

  Discussion Questions

  When the sidhe are unleashed, they take control of the kingdom’s citizens through their emotions. Do you think emotions can be trusted? Contrast how Eoghan and Conor deal with misleading emotions.

  Comdiu speaks differently to each of the characters. He communicates with Eoghan directly, He sends Companions to Aine, and He uses humans for Conor. What does that say about how God relates to us as individuals?

  The characters attempt to rely on Comdiu, but when they use their own wisdom, they get themselves into trouble. Sometimes they escape without having to take responsibility, and other times they have to bear the harsh consequences of their actions. What application do you see for your own life?

  Conor struggles with the question of whether he did the right thing by saving Aine and bringing her home to Aron. What do you think?

  Liam sacrificed himself in order to (he thinks) save the future of the brotherhood and Ard Dhaimhin. Do you think he was right or wrong in that action? Why?

  Both Conor and Liam are incredibly gifted but too confident in their own abilities. How are Liam and Conor similar to Niall? How are they different?

  All the characters deviate from Comdiu’s plan for them, thinking they are doing the right thing. Liam wants to protect his city, Eoghan wants to obey Comdiu, Conor wants to save Aine—all of which are noble goals. When does the “right thing” become the wrong thing?

  Aine, Conor, and Eoghan all undergo challenges and trials throughout the book, but they emerge understanding more about themselves and Comdiu’s will for them. How does God use trials and difficulty to teach you and prepare you for your service to Him?