“With me,” he murmured and then nodded toward the opening of the indentation.
With Larkin at his back, Conor crept into the pass. The waxing moon shed a little light from behind the thin layers of clouds overhead, but it only served to cast ordinary objects—trees, rocks, their horses—in hair-raising shadows. Still, his instincts told him there was something out there waiting, watching.
From the corner of his eye, he sensed movement. Every nerve ending sprang to alertness, but he worked to keep his stance easy and unconcerned. “Nothing out here,” he said, turning back as if to return to the fire. Instead, as soon as he reached another pool of darkness, he faded into the background. Larkin quickly discerned his intentions and did the same.
Slowly, the shadows around them morphed from pools of darkness into the figures of men. Conor clenched his jaw and held down his apprehension. For all their mysterious appearance, the glint of moon and firelight on weapons told them they were dealing with men, not spirits. He replaced his Gwynn sword in its sheath, grateful for the sheepskin lining that dampened the sound of the blade, and eased his dagger out instead. Soundlessly, he crept up behind the nearest man.
The man sensed Conor’s presence and spun, his sword at the ready, but not fast enough. Conor swept his legs out from beneath him and twisted the man’s sword arm back until the weapon clattered to the ground. He then pressed his knife to the artery in his opponent’s neck. Instantly, the scene erupted into activity as the Fíréin realized the threat and jumped to meet it, swords ready.
“Tell them to stand down or you die,” Conor said in a low voice.
His prisoner stared up at him, unafraid. “Why should I? We have you outnumbered.”
“That’s what you think.” Conor took in the men facing off against his warriors: tattered clothing draped in furs, long hair and beards. Clanless, the very group they were attempting to impersonate. Now that he saw them up close, Conor realized that their own disguise would never stand up to close scrutiny. These men looked far more like Sofarende than Seareanns, with their furs and beads and numerous baubles. Plus, every one of the men was simultaneously brawny and covered with a prodigious layer of fat, about as opposite from the whip-lean Fíréin as one could get.
“What do you want from us?” Conor demanded.
“I would ask you the same question. You pass through our lands, armed and pretending to be one of us.” The more he talked, the more clearly Conor picked up a peculiar cadence and pronunciation that didn’t quite fit into any of the Seareann accents to which he had become accustomed.
“You’re Clanless. By definition, that means you have no land.”
“And you’re Fíréin. By definition, that means you should not be here at all.”
Conor couldn’t catch the surprised laugh that burst out of him. “Perhaps we’re both right, then. Will you agree to a truce until we sort this matter out?”
“Aye, you have it. Men, stand down.”
Conor signaled his men, and they lowered weapons. He rocked back on his heels and withdrew the blade, though he didn’t sheath it. He offered his other hand to the Clanless warrior and hauled him to his feet.
“You’re the leader,” the man said, looking Conor over curiously. “You’re young. Was the battle so fierce that it took all your experienced men from you?”
“Not so fierce. Are all Clanless so fat? Looking at you now, I think perhaps the stories of scarcity in the mountain have just been tales.”
The man let out a booming laugh and clapped his hands to the paunch of his belly. “No, the tales are true. We simply eat what we kill, and there’s no better hunter than Old Oenghus.”
“Then come. I can’t offer you much food, but there is still tea.”
“Ah. That we have not had in some time. I’d thank you for it.”
They ordered themselves around the fire, Oenghus taking a seat beside Conor, two of their men joining them. The rest of the warriors stood uneasily around them, hands on weapons, ready for any sign of aggression. Conor poured tea into a tin cup and handed it to his guest. Oenghus said nothing, just sat and sipped the hot liquid.
Finally, when he had drained the cup, he turned to Conor and asked, “Why did you leave Ard Dhaimhin? And what do you want in Sliebhan?”
Conor refilled Oenghus’s cup, suddenly wishing that Aine had come with them. It would be helpful to know what Oenghus was thinking and how far they could trust him before he answered that question. “I suppose my answer depends on why you want to know.”
“We’re not spies for Keondric or any of his ilk, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re simply attempting to decide if you’re any threat to us and if we will let you live.”
“I respect that. Unfortunately, regardless of the answer, I’m afraid we won’t let you kill us today.”
“That confident in your skills, are you? Want to put the Fíréin’s reputation to the test?”
“Not particularly. I’d rather be on our way as quickly as possible, and bodies left behind raise questions.”
Oenghus stared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows for a long moment. Conor held his gaze, unmoving. Then the big man started to laugh again. “I believe you. The fact is, there’s only one reason you’d be coming through this pass, and that’s because of the fortress at the end of it.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption.”
“Not when I consider the young woman who passed this way not two months ago, headed from the fortress to Ard Dhaimhin. Seemed to be in a right hurry, too. Makes one think she might have had information of importance to pass along.”
Morrigan had come into contact with these men? Why hadn’t she said anything? “If it’s the same woman, that was my sister.”
“Sister, eh? You look nothing alike.”
“We don’t share blood, if that’s what you are asking.”
“I’m not asking anything, merely observing.” Oenghus stroked his beard for a moment. “Looked pretty beat-up, she did. I’ve seen enough of the men at Ard Bealach to know that they’re cowardly enough to abuse women and steal food from the mouths of babes. A fair number of new arrivals we’ve had since they took command there.”
“You mean there are more of you?” Conor rethought the question the moment it left his mouth. Of course there were more of them. It was preposterous to think otherwise. “I mean, you have some sort of organization?”
Oenghus said nothing for another long stretch, savoring his tea this time. “I imagine if you were headed to the fortress—not that you are, mind—you would probably already know that the gates are unbreachable.”
“Aye, I imagine I would know that.”
“So I would assume that you have another way in.”
“Aye, that would be reasonable.”
“Then I imagine you would want to know that there are sentries posted in the mountains above and around for miles. A rather impressive perimeter, as a matter of fact.”
Conor felt a slight smile start to form. “For someone who planned on heading to Ard Bealach, aye, that would be helpful information. As would current counts of the men inside. If one was to be heading that way, that is.”
“Hmmm.” Oenghus stroked his beard again. “That would require the help of other parties who would be keeping an eye on such things.”
Now they got to the heart of the matter. “How would an interested party acquire the help of such individuals?”
“Such individuals are fond of hard-to-come-by items like tea.” Oenghus’s eyes glittered avariciously. “And gold.”
“Tea is easy. Gold is more difficult.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Let’s speak plainly, then. Aye, I have some gold. I have more tea. Both can be yours. But you will guide us through the passes. You will send men back to our other party to help them as well. And you will find out the numbers of men in the fortress and the positions of the sentries.”
Oenghus took so long to consider the proposal that Conor began to fear the answer.
“Aye,” he said finally. “We have an agreement. On one condition: when you have taken the region, you will find a permanent place for us. Ours by right, without claim by any clan.”
Conor certainly couldn’t blame the man for seizing every advantage he could. He would do the same. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I do not take the fortress under my name or under my own authority.”
“Then in whose name do you take it? We will petition him directly.”
“In the name of the rightful High King of Seare.”
Oenghus’s eyes widened, and his voice lowered to a whisper. “He has returned? Truly?”
Conor nodded.
The man seemed to straighten then. “As a representative of the High King, you will have our help. And we will trust that you will remember your friends when the time comes.”
“I need something to do.”
At the first strains of a feminine voice, Eoghan looked up from the tallies he was reviewing. Morrigan stood in the doorway in her borrowed gown, her demure posture at odds with the irritation in her voice. He nodded to the two guards behind her, who promptly stepped outside and closed the door.
“I’m sorry that you’re finding our hospitality lacking,” Eoghan said, careful to keep any hint of sarcasm from his tone. “I’m afraid we don’t have many things of interest to the feminine mind. Perhaps one of the launderers would send up their mending.”
“You know very well that’s not what I mean.” Morrigan circled the chair opposite him and plopped herself down without waiting for an invitation. “And feminine pursuits were hardly what I had in mind.”
“You must forgive my confusion. After all, you seem determined to convince us that you are a lady and no threat. And don’t ladies like such things as embroidery and music?”
He waited for a caustic comeback, knowing that he was intentionally baiting her, but she just stared at him unblinkingly. Then her manner changed. “Very well. What do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
“I’ve already given you the truth.”
“Only bits of it, and only the parts you want us to know. Which I’m afraid still leaves your intentions suspect.”
“If Conor were here—”
“Who do you think ordered you kept in your chambers having minimal contact with others? If Conor, who you seem to think knows you so well, thinks you’re a threat, then so do I.”
“What do you need from me to convince you that I’m telling the truth?”
“Let Aine read you.”
“Are we past pretending she’s merely the wife of my foster brother, then?”
Eoghan simply stared at her.
Morrigan shrugged. “She’s already tried. Unsuccessfully it seems, given your dismay over my supposedly nefarious intentions. What makes you think that she’d have any better luck this time around?”
“I think you know exactly why she can’t read you, and I think you can let her around whatever that protection is.”
“I would if I could,” Morrigan said. “But I’m afraid I’m not conscious of doing anything.”
Even urging himself caution, Eoghan found himself stretching to believe her. She was an appallingly good liar. Every single thing she said so far had been true. Aine had tried reading her, unsuccessfully. And everything in him believed her when she said she was not consciously doing anything to block Aine’s ability.
Which meant that she was using some sort of object, spell, or passive trick to prevent them from gaining access to the truth.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said finally. “I’ll have a book of devotional readings sent to your room for entertainment. Brothers?”
“Wait.” Morrigan thrust her hand out to stop him just as the door opened. Eoghan gave a slight shake of the head and they retreated again. “If I tell you the truth about why she can’t read my thoughts, you must promise me that you won’t try to strip me of it.”
“Why would I promise that?”
She chewed her bottom lip, a gesture he was sure she used to convey vulnerability even when she felt quite the opposite. “Because the thing that prevents Aine from reading me also prevents Keondric from locating me.”
The air in Eoghan’s lungs momentarily turned to mortar; he couldn’t relax his muscles enough to draw a breath. When he finally did regain full function, he couldn’t figure out which question to ask first. Inquire what could block Keondric’s notice of her, or ask why the druid would be looking for her in the first place? He finally settled for an order. “Tell me.”
“I am not spying for him. I told you the truth about that. But I know enough about his movements, his interest in Ard Bealach, for him to take an interest in my whereabouts once it’s reported that I’m missing. Do you think that even behind Ard Dhaimhin’s wards he couldn’t locate me?”
“What is this thing of which you speak? An object? An amulet?”
She met his eyes. “A rune.”
“A rune,” he repeated faintly. “Where? How? Show me.”
“Are you sure? It requires a more intimate view than I would normally offer.” At his confused look, she explained, “It was placed over my heart.”
“Oh? Oh.” He called for the guards again. “Bring Lady Aine, please. She’s needed immediately.”
Morrigan looked amused by his cautiousness, so he swiftly changed the subject. “Where did you learn about this rune? Meallachán?”
“I cannot say. I made a vow to keep that a secret, and it must remain so. But if this is the price of trust, then I will show you—or Aine—and you can do with the knowledge as you will.”
She threw the offer out so casually, much as she had with Meallachán’s whereabouts, that he was tempted to believe her. But he also knew this was probably just a strategy. Give them the information that seemed most important but was easiest for them to learn on their own. Hold back the details for her own purposes, all the while seeming as if she were cooperating. Maybe he was giving her too much credit, but he didn’t think so. Every instinct told him not to underestimate her.
Just when the silence began to stretch to awkwardness, the door opened again and Aine walked into the room. She stopped short when she saw Morrigan. “You called for me?”
“Morrigan has shared a very important piece of information with me. She’s in possession of something that might be of particular interest to you.”
“My lord?”
“A rune.”
Aine’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? In what form?”
“That’s what I’ve called you here to determine. Since it is positioned in a rather delicate location . . .” He crossed his arms and deliberately turned his back.
From the rustle of fabric, he assumed Aine was helping her unlace her dress, a bit of knowledge he would rather not have at the moment. Maybe he should have stepped out of the room. Then Aine stifled a cry, and he spun automatically, his hand on his dagger.
Morrigan clutched her bodice, but not before he caught sight of the angry red marks emblazoned at the top of her breast. “You were branded?” The words spilled out before he realized he was still staring. Blood rushed to his face in a humiliated flush, and he turned his back to her once more. “You said we had to promise not to take it from you? If it’s burned into your skin, how do you think we’d manage that?”
“The usual way, my lord. Knives and fire.” Morrigan kept her tone wry, but he sensed the tremor beneath it. Did she actually believe they would torture her for the sake of the information she might carry?
Aye, he decided, especially considering she’d spent years among men who wouldn’t hesitate to do that very thing.
“You should let me find you some salve for that,” Aine murmured. He sensed movement, assumed she was helping Morrigan back into the dress. “It’s healing, but it could still become infected. This was done very recently.”
“Aye, it was.”
“There are easier ways to do such a thing with ink.”
“Runes are very particular. They mus
t be done quickly and accurately. Drawing it on makes it potentially ineffective, and tattooing takes too long.”
“So instead you mutilated yourself,” Eoghan said.
“I’m so sorry, my lord, that you don’t approve of my choices. Once you’ve experienced life outside of your precious High City, perhaps then you’ll have earned the right to comment on what I have found it necessary to do.”
Eoghan spun to face Morrigan, who looked angry enough to spit fire, but he couldn’t voice his irritated reply. He deflated. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was a difficult choice, I’m sure.”
“Why, my lord? Because I’ll never find a husband now that I’m branded like a common whore?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Because you will bear it for the rest of your life, whether you want it or not. You may find it needful to be without it someday, and that can’t happen. Now, tell us what it means.”
“I don’t know, exactly. It was given to me to make me invisible to magic. That’s how it was explained.”
“Any magic?”
“If Aine can’t read me and she possesses what I assume is a gift of Balus and the sorcerer can’t use his ability on me, then aye, I would assume any magic.”
Eoghan’s mind reeled with the possibilities. This might be exactly what they were looking for. “Aine, can you reproduce it so I can see it?”
“Aye.” She moved to his table and found a blank wax tablet and stylus, then carefully sketched the mark: a circle with several intersecting and oblique lines. Instantly, a word came to mind.
“Shield.”
“What?” Aine and Morrigan asked simultaneously.
“The rune means ‘shield.’ That’s why it blocks magic. You’ve essentially made yourself immune to magic.” He shook his head while he tried to work through the implications. “That’s incredible. Do you have any gifts yourself? I wonder if it would block you using magic as well.”
“I don’t think so. None of my blood has ever shown any inclination toward Balus’s gifts.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner, Morrigan?” Aine asked.
“I find it’s better to give out one’s information sparingly,” Morrigan replied. “Especially not knowing what you suspected about runic magic.”
The Sword and the Song Page 11
