“Trying a new weapon, perhaps?” The idea that the druid might have other unknown resources chilled her.
“We don’t think so,” Eoghan said. “Used a simple battering ram to take down the doors.”
“Then why am I here? I have no particular strategic insight.”
“I beg to differ,” Eoghan said quietly. “You asked the exact same questions as Riordan and I did. But we called you here for another reason. Since word has circulated that the fortress fell and Niall killed the villagers, Ard Dhaimhin has seen an influx of refugees. Some of them came from Bánduran itself.”
“And you need me to heal them?”
Riordan shook his head. “By all means, heal those who cannot be healed by mere medicine, but that’s not why we called you. We need you to read them. We need to know exactly what was said, what the druid might have revealed of his plans.”
“You want me to mine their memories.” What they were asking was far more difficult than merely picking thoughts from someone’s mind. It required her to dig around, search for trauma they might have already purposely buried to protect themselves. She’d never used her gift in such a deliberate way before. She wasn’t even sure it was possible. She did know from experience that it would take far more focus than she typically had available in the midst of the crowd.
Eoghan reached out and took her hand, looking into her eyes, before he realized what he was doing. He released her as if he had been scalded. “My lady, I know this will be both taxing and unpleasant. But if we are to be able to do anything about it, we need to know as much of what they observed as we can. We need to see through their eyes. And you are the only one who has that ability.”
Will you do anything? she wanted to ask, but she kept the challenge to herself. The teacup in her hand was a useful diversion while she considered her answer, even if she didn’t notice the hot liquid scalding her lips and tongue until it was too late. “Very well. I’ll do it. But not in the village, and not more than one or two a day. If you find the most reliable witnesses and bring them to Carraigmór, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Aine,” Eoghan murmured. “We know what we ask of you.”
“I don’t think you do.” She set her cup firmly on the table and left the study without further comment. Once she reached the corridor, however, she paused on the steps and let silent tears slide down her cheeks. Maybe it was just the new life growing inside her that made her so much more sensitive to the slaughter of innocents. Maybe it was just how out of control her emotions were, between the child’s effect on her body and the fact that her husband was away on a dangerous mission.
Or maybe you just feel Comdiu’s pain at seeing His people persecuted and killed for their beliefs.
She pressed a hand against her abdomen and tried to get control of her shaky breathing. She would do what they asked. But she knew one thing: once she saw what the refugees had endured and what awaited the rest of her land, she would not be able to stay silent and do nothing.
“I’m concerned,” Riordan said when they were once again alone.
Eoghan poured his own cup of tea and drank half of it in one gulp. It seared his tongue and most of his throat on the way down. “About Aine? She’s the only chance we have to discover the druid’s plan early enough to do something about it.”
“I’m not talking about Aine. I’m talking about you.”
Eoghan jerked his gaze to the older man’s face. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t lie to me, Eoghan. I know you have feelings for her. It’s written all over your face anytime you’re within five steps of her. You’re in love with her.”
“Doesn’t matter if I am or not. She’s another man’s wife.”
“It matters because you’re the king and you have the potential to hurt many people with your decisions.”
“You think I would do something immoral? That I would pressure her?” He’d known Riordan his whole life, and the man dared to question his integrity?
Riordan cut him off with a laugh. “Son, you know very little about women if you think you can make them do anything they don’t want to do, especially where matters of the heart are concerned. Aine loves Conor. But your feelings toward her, and your guilt over it, will lead you to make bad decisions. Have you even stopped to think about what it will be like for her to bear the memories of those refugees, many times over? Do you have any idea how hard she has to work to control her gift in a city of four thousand people?”
Guilt washed over him immediately, but he steeled himself against it. “What other choice do we have? No, I do not want to cause her any pain. But if I’m to be the leader this city—this country—deserves, shouldn’t I be able to put aside my own feelings? Shouldn’t I be able to weigh what’s best for Seare against what’s best for one person?”
“I don’t know the full answer to that, Eoghan. But I do know that you have to weigh the cost of using your resources for small things when you might need them for larger acts later.”
“You’re saying I shouldn’t push Aine now because she will be needed later.”
Riordan rose, but his expression didn’t waver. “I’m saying that if you ask her to do this for us, you’d better be ready to make hard choices.”
Eoghan nodded, but inside he felt sick. He understood the subtext of what Riordan was saying, no matter how much he cringed at the idea of calling Aine an asset. If he were going to put her through enough trauma that it put her sanity and health at risk, he needed to be ready to act on that information.
He needed to be ready to take Ard Dhaimhin to war.
The first refugee was brought up from the village the following day and situated in the hall with a pot of tea and oatcakes, a luxury considering their dwindling resources. But Aine’s initial surprise at the spread was quickly replaced by shock when she saw the witness they had brought her.
“He’s little more than a child!” she whispered to Eoghan near the edge of the hall. “This was your most reliable witness?”
Eoghan merely shook his head. “Listen to his story and then make your decision.”
Aine circled the room and approached the young man slowly, aware that she was treating him much like a skittish foal—which, she supposed, was an apt comparison. He had the gangly look of a boy who had just started growing upward but had not yet filled out, perhaps a dozen years old. She instantly recognized that beneath his look of defiance lay fear.
“May I join you?” Aine asked.
He dragged his eyes away from the untouched plate of oatcakes and then shrugged. Aine pulled up the chair next to him. “My name is Aine. What is yours?”
For a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said sullenly, “Roark.”
Unexpected tears blinded her, but she managed to keep her voice calm. “I like that name. Someone very special to me had a similar name.”
“What happened to him?” the boy asked. “Did he die?”
Aine swallowed. “Aye. Only a few months ago, killed by Lord Keondric. I’m not sure I’ve spoken his name aloud since.”
“I was named after my grandfather,” Roark said. “He was killed by Lord Keondric too.”
Aine breathed a prayer heavenward for guidance. It wasn’t hard to read the layers of grief and shock beneath his words, the conflicting desire to keep the pain close and to share it with her. She might know his thoughts, but she also knew she had to tread carefully lest he withdraw back behind his sullen shell. “I’m sorry, Roark. I’ve lost too much of my family so far in this war. I’d like to see it end as quickly as possible.”
“They said you wanted to ask me questions. I guess you can ask.”
She wasn’t going to waste Roark’s approval, but she didn’t rush him. Instead she poured a cup of tea and pushed the plate of oatcakes toward him. “Eat first. Questions will wait, but that growling in your stomach will not. I could scarce hear your answers over that noise anyhow.”
He flashed her a surprised smile that made him look at
once younger and more vulnerable. The expression tugged at her heart. She could already read from his unguarded thoughts that he had lost not only his grandfather but also both his parents and his younger siblings. He had escaped with an uncle only by the slightest thread of fortune, the breath of Comdiu’s providence. Aine poured herself a cup of tea and waited while the boy wolfed down the plateful of oatcakes with scarcely a breath in between each bite.
In the meantime, she gathered the loose threads of thoughts, the scattered images that flitted through his mind: having to share a single slice of bread with his brothers and sisters because food had become so scarce; cold nights huddled together when the firewood ran out; hushed, worried voices in the hall, the words indistinguishable but the meaning understood all the same. This was no great fortress that had fallen to the druid; this was a village full of poor crofters with no food, no weapons, little defense against the might of Niall’s army. There was no reason for him to have attacked if the location held no strategic purpose. So why had he?
Finally, Roark drained his cup and turned a much friendlier face in Aine’s direction. “What do you wish to know, my lady?”
“What happened when Lord Keondric laid siege to the fortress?”
“It was no siege, my lady. No terms for surrender sent in. They just came to the gates and battered them down with a ram. He gathered all the people together in the courtyard and said who he was. Said he was there to take our fortress, and if we wished to live, we would denounce our Balian ways. Everyone refused.” Roark swallowed hard, his chin quivering, but he continued bravely. “I don’t know if they didn’t think he would really do it or if they were truly that devoted. But when they refused, he killed them all in a rush of blue fire. One moment they were standing there, and the next, they were a pile of ash on the stones.”
Aine nodded calmly, though inwardly she was sickened by the description. Niall had used sorcery to kill them, rather than using some horrifying, bloody display to force their conversion. That meant the people were irrelevant to his plan. He wanted the fortress—or something inside the fortress.
“And how did you escape?”
“My uncle and I had been spreading rushes in the hall. We climbed into the cart and pulled them over top of us. I thought for sure they knew we were there, but they walked right by us.”
“This is very important, Roark. Did N—Lord Keondric say anything when he entered? Did he give any clue as to why he was there?”
Roark shook his head. “I was too scared. I couldn’t make much out. I would swear he said something about standing on stone. Only the hall of Bánduran is stone. The upstairs corridors are all wood.”
Aine reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You did well, Roark. Thank you. I’ll have one of the brothers take you back to your uncle.”
“Did that help?”
“Very much so.”
“I’m glad. Are there any more oatcakes?”
Aine chuckled. Even tragedy didn’t take a growing boy’s focus off food, especially after the scarcity he had experienced. What she told him was only partially true. He had helped, but she was still no closer to understanding what Niall was doing at Bánduran. When she related her findings to Eoghan and Riordan, they looked as perplexed as she felt.
“So they didn’t even try to conscript them?” Eoghan asked. “Simply killed them? I’m surprised.”
“Clearly he didn’t want anyone knowing what he was doing there. He eliminated the witnesses. Perhaps the conversion would have given him a foothold to be able to spell them into compliance.”
“Perhaps,” Eoghan said, but he sounded unconvinced.
That night, she contacted Conor at the designated hour and related the day’s events to him. He sounded as puzzled as she felt.
He killed everyone and took a fortress with no apparent strategic advantage? That’s unlike Niall. He has no conscience, but he doesn’t seem to kill for fun, either.
I’m going to interview the uncle tomorrow. Perhaps he can shed more light on what actually happened.
But the next morning, Aine waited at the table in the hall as the minutes slipped by. Finally, Riordan entered the room, his expression hinting at the bad news that was coming.
“He refused, didn’t he.” She’d feared as much. If the boy had gone back and told his uncle her line of questioning, the man might have decided it was something better left unspoken. Adults had the tendency to push painful memories down and try to move on as if they hadn’t happened.
“Worse, I’m afraid. They’re gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“No one knows. They must have left in the night, because the other men in the barracks don’t recall having seen them today at all. Their few belongings are gone.”
Aine just sat, stunned, trying to think through the implications. Had they gone because they were afraid of what she would find out? Or afraid they knew something that put them in danger?
No. I’m not going to let them go without a fight. She had connected with the boy’s mind. They couldn’t be far away. If she could find him, maybe they could learn why they had fled in the first place.
But when she cast her awareness through Ard Dhaimhin and beyond its borders, she could find nothing. Roark was gone as thoroughly as if he had never existed.
Conor sensed the exact moment he stepped across the borders of Ard Dhaimhin’s wards. He had spent so much time in that protective enclosure of magic that its absence momentarily felt as though the air had been sucked out of a room. Was it because it was somehow tied to him, because it had come from the music of his harp? Or had he just become so attuned to the feeling of the runic magic that it had become a part of him?
“Remember what I said,” he reminded the men, and they nodded soberly. They were not to discuss the arrangements outside of the protective magical enclosure; they couldn’t take the chance that the sidhe would use that knowledge to their advantage. Still, he felt they were plunging blindly into the unknown, relying on the most rudimentary of protections against the greatest of threats.
They had barely begun their second day into the pass when the first fight broke out. It started as an argument between two men at the rear of the group, following the pack ponies. Blair and Larkin didn’t particularly like one another, but they’d never shown an inclination to drop discipline to explore that dislike.
When shouts went up, Conor pushed back through the column to find the two men wrestling on the rocky ground. Blood already seeped from one’s nose, and the other had a cut over his eyebrow. Thankfully, they’d relied on their fists and not their weapons. Two other men were already intervening, Ferus hauling the aggressor off while Tomey lifted the supine brother to his feet.
“What’s this about?” Conor asked. The two men just glared at each other. He sighed and looked to the witnesses. “What started it?”
“I have no idea,” Ferus said. “They weren’t even speaking to each other when Larkin just attacked Blair. No warning, no argument.”
Conor furrowed his brow while he considered the two men, then rubbed his arms against a sudden chill. It was autumn in the mountains, but this felt more like winter on the highest peaks. There could be no doubt that this was the doing of the sidhe. He couldn’t even exact discipline for this breach, because he knew well that it was out of their control.
“Larkin, up front with me. Blair, remain at the back with Ferus. Men, now would be a good time for a recitation.”
Uncertainty rippled through the group, though they were no strangers to liturgy, given the way the brotherhood structured their worship. Even Conor felt a little odd doing it while trudging through a pass to a fortress they planned to infiltrate, but once he began, the other men slowly joined with him.
Slowly, the pressure of the sidhe’s presence eased and the unnatural chill faded. The Holy Canon stated that Comdiu was present when they prayed and that no evil could stand before His presence. This seemed to bear out the truth of that statement. Just because t
hey’d been prepared for this eventuality didn’t make it any less disturbing, though. It had scarcely taken a day for them to be targeted and, Conor assumed, to be marked as a threat.
Even more disturbing was if the spirits had identified them, did that mean the druid knew they were coming?
They continued their slow progress through the pass, Conor mentally marking off the map’s landmarks as they crept by. The terrain here was similar to that surrounding Ard Dhaimhin: craggy mountains covered in a combination of evergreens and deciduous trees interspersed with outcroppings of granite so rugged that only the tenacious scrub clung to their sides. In some places, the trail ran through the mountains so deep that the sun never touched them. At other times, they found themselves at the highest point for miles. The sidhe didn’t try to attack again, but Conor had no doubt they were merely biding their time.
That night, the Fíréin camped beneath an outcropping of rock tucked back from the main pass, a small fire crackling beneath the overhang. The men had been even more restrained since their short encounter with the sidhe, so very little conversation circulated while they ate provisions from their packs. Once more, Conor was grateful for the Fíréin’s unrelenting training. Knowing that their will could be compromised by the dark spirits would send less-disciplined men running for home. Instead, the experience stoked their determination to reach their destination quickly.
An autumn breeze rustled the trees outside and sent the turning leaves skittering across the hills. Chills rose on Conor’s skin, for which he quickly chided himself. The temperature drop simply indicated the changing season, nothing unnerving or otherworldly. Still, when the horses shuffled uneasily outside, he found himself on his feet, his sword drawn.
“Sir—uh, Conor?” Larkin asked quietly, crouching by the fire, his hand on his own weapon.
The Sword and the Song Page 10
