A slight widening of the eyes. Confirmation. Conor had guessed right. “Now I’m going to ask you a question. For every truth you tell, you get to answer another question. For every lie . . . well, you’ll see.” Conor removed his knives from his belt and set them on the table beside him, placing each one with a deliberate click. “You should probably know that you’re not the only one to benefit from Lord Keondric’s tutelage. By the time he’s done, he could make a man say day is night and believe it too. Isn’t that right?”
The fear emanating from the captive was so powerful that Conor could practically taste it. Another right guess. Somhairle knew exactly how the blood had stained the table and floor in this room, exactly how the bodies piled in the other storeroom had gotten there. The recollection should have sapped Conor’s will to continue, but instead he felt only a cold void around him. He needed answers, and Somhairle was the only one capable of giving them.
“Ready to begin? Good.” Conor pulled the rag from Somhairle’s mouth. “First question: how long ago was Lord Keondric here?”
Somhairle stared at Conor. So he was going to attempt to resist? Brave for a mercenary. He moved to Somhairle’s feet and sliced the laces from one of his boots, then pulled it off. He rested the cold flat of the blade against his leg, a hint. The man’s muscle twitched involuntarily. Conor waited.
“One month. A little more, perhaps.”
“Was that before or after Lady Morrigan escaped?”
“After.”
“Good. Next question: what was he doing here?”
The prisoner didn’t answer again, but it took only the scrape of the edge against the sole of Somhairle’s foot to compel words, even if Conor did let the blade slip enough to bring up a tiny bright line of red. “Experiments.”
“What kind of experiments?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand how his magic works.”
Conor didn’t completely believe him, but the details didn’t matter. The sidhe had already let the secret slip when they used Niall’s experiments for the basis of the glamour. Still, he couldn’t let him get away with an evasion without penalty. He pressed the top of the knife into the joint of the prisoner’s toe, hard enough to draw a trickle of blood, and left it there.
“All right! He was trying to see what the marks would do to someone under the influence of sorcery.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you can guess.”
“So can you,” Somhairle choked out. “I’d think he was trying to enter Ard Dhaimhin.”
“And what happened to the men when they took the mark?”
“They all died screaming. Just like when the harp was played.”
Conor nodded and exchanged a look with Larkin. It was what they had already expected, since in the early battles the ensorcelled warriors had died on the wards made by Meallachán’s harp. Niall was indeed trying to find a way to shield himself from the city’s magic without destroying himself.
“What about you? Why do you have the rune? Why did he allow you to keep it?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Then where did you learn it?”
Somhairle averted his eyes. His voice was low, gravelly. Had Conor not known better, he would say it held shame. “The prisoner.”
“Meallachán?”
A long hesitation, then a nod.
“So you’re telling me that you gave him a knife, and rather than kill you with it, he protected you from Keondric’s powers. And in the end, you still killed him.”
Somhairle swallowed and nodded again, his muscles tensed. Then Conor realized what the mercenary felt was not remorse but fear of retribution. He wiped a hand over his own face, pushing down the rising feel of sickness, the slow burn of anger. He would be completely within his rights to kill the man for his crimes. No one would blame him; no one would question it. In fact, given that he bore the rune, he was too dangerous to be left alive.
Conor tested the edge of the blade with his thumb, considering. Somhairle’s eyes followed the movement, resigned to his fate, his thoughts tracking with Conor’s own.
Abruptly, he shoved the rag in Somhairle’s mouth and strode from the room, leaving him tied to the table. Larkin followed, questions in his eyes, but Conor silenced him with a look. He didn’t want to explain why he’d made the choice he had.
Because for a split second, in the mercenary’s coldness and resignation, he had seen himself.
“My lady.”
Aine groaned into her pillow and pulled the coverlet over her head. Surely it couldn’t be morning already. That meant this was simply another dream in a series of awful ones.
“My lady, you need to wake up and eat something. It’s nearly supper.”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t bring to mind a name for the speaker. She squinted in the dim light that spilled through the window. “It’s early yet. The sun is not even up.”
“The sun is about to go down, my lady.”
Morrigan stood at the edge of the bed, looking even more uncomfortable about her presence than Aine felt. “Master Eoghan has sent me up to check on you several times, but he insists you eat. If not for you, for your child.”
Eoghan. Of course he would be checking on her. The fact that he sent Morrigan seemed to imply other intentions, though. She pushed herself up on one elbow and shoved her hair out of her eyes. “I’ve slept all day?”
“Aye, my lady.”
She must have been more exhausted from last night’s ordeal than she’d thought. Last night’s ordeal. The siege on Ard Bealach. How could she have fallen asleep? Why hadn’t Conor contacted her? She sat straight up, her heart leaping into action. “What news? Is it done? Have we heard?”
Morrigan’s smile broke through her worried expression. “Aye, my lady. It’s over. We won. The bird arrived a few hours ago.”
Aine’s relief whistled out with her sigh. “Thank Comdiu. Casualties? Conor?”
“Conor is fine, my lady. Only one man lost, none wounded. An answer to prayers.”
“Indeed,” she murmured, though she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for whoever the lost man was. She had known much of the party only by sight, but they were still part of the city—still part of the brotherhood—and knowing Conor, he would feel responsible for that life.
“Brothers Eoghan and Riordan wish you to dine with them if you feel well enough. Should I tell them you’ll join them, or will you take your supper here?” Morrigan’s voice was perfectly polite and measured, but there was something underlying it that said she resented being sent to fetch and carry.
“Why are you here? There are a number of women they could have asked.”
“I suspect this is Master Eoghan’s way of giving me something to do while he still keeps an eye on me. And perhaps reminding me that I’m at your mercy.”
“If you want to leave your chamber, aye, I suspect that’s right.” Aine nodded her head toward the table holding her toiletries. “I’ll eat with them. While you’re here, will you help me with my hair?”
“Aye, my lady.” She didn’t seem perturbed or insulted by the question, merely retrieved the brush and gestured for Aine to move to the chair. Morrigan drew the brush through her hair with surprising gentleness, but she didn’t say anything.
“Tell me one thing, Morrigan. Why did you not warn the men about the sidhe?”
Morrigan’s movements faltered. “The sidhe?”
“Aye. Surely you knew about them. You must have realized the influence they had at Ard Bealach and how the rune rendered them powerless. Why did you let Conor and the rest of the men go in without knowing what they would face?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t lie to me, Morrigan. You have been holding back, if not telling complete fibs, and it almost cost Conor his life.” She twisted around to stare into Morrigan’s eyes, to impress on her the seriousness of her intentions. “If I tell Eoghan that you�
�re a threat, you will be put in the dungeons. However soft you may think me, I will make it so you never see the light of day. So tell me the truth, and Comdiu help you if you lie to me.”
“I do not think of you as soft, my lady,” Morrigan said. She put down the brush and moved to the edge of the bed. “Anything but, in fact. Anyone can see—”
“And now you are attempting to manipulate me.”
Morrigan’s expression closed. “The truth doesn’t help you, Lady Aine. The truth is, I have no idea how much of what happened there was real and how much was an illusion.”
“So Meallachán might not even be there? That could have all been a fabrication of the sidhe?”
“It’s possible, but not likely. Their glamour is one that steals your worst fears and amplifies them. At least that’s what I believe now. What I endured at Somhairle’s hands—I think that was real. But I have no way of knowing for sure.”
Despite the fact Morrigan had not been completely honest since she arrived, Aine wanted to believe she was finally telling the truth. “Why not just admit it? Why not just be honest from the start?”
Morrigan trembled—with anger, Aine thought. “Because what happened to me took something from me. My pride. My free will. It doesn’t matter if my body experienced it. My mind still remembers.”
She couldn’t have said anything that would strike deeper to the heart. Aine had tried to tell herself that Conor would be okay, that because what he’d experienced had happened only in his mind, he’d be able to forget it. But the depth of the mental torture he’d experienced, so intense he had been on the brink of death—that could be something from which he might never fully recover. Even worse was the realization that he had lived out his greatest fears—and memories. How much of that had he actually experienced at the hands of the Sofarende? How much had he kept hidden from her?
Like the woman you saw in his mind?
She pulled that thought out ruthlessly, even though it had planted itself in the back of her mind like a weed. She had no way of knowing if that were real. Perhaps he only feared that weakness. She owed him the opportunity to tell her the truth in person.
Aine cleared her throat. “Finish my hair, if you would, please.”
“Of course, my lady.” Morrigan straightened herself quickly and picked up the brush before going back to work on a simple braid. When she was finished, she tied it with a ribbon and smoothed down the back of Aine’s dress. “There. Neat and simple.”
“Thank you for your help, Morrigan. And your honesty. I wish it had come sooner.”
Morrigan just bowed her head to accept the chastisement. But when Aine rose to leave, her hand shot out and clamped around Aine’s wrist. “My lady, just beware. You may think they have your best interests in mind, but they will use you until you are no more help to them. And then they will discard you.”
Aine just stared, shocked by the vehemence of Morrigan’s words. In contrast to her usual strategic, calculated speech, she sensed sincerity in the warning. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s what men do.”
Aine swallowed, unable to put together a response. Instead, she just nodded and continued past Morrigan’s guards to the great hall to meet with Eoghan and Riordan.
But when she arrived, the entire Conclave waited. Gradaigh stood when he saw her. “Lady Aine, the heroine of the moment.”
She looked around at the men’s earnest expressions. “I don’t understand.”
“You broke the glamour, my lady,” Eoghan said. “We owe you our success at Ard Bealach.”
He pulled out the chair between him and Riordan, and she sat, still bewildered. “I broke nothing. I merely convinced Conor that what he was seeing was not real.”
“Well, the service that you did for him is a service to us all.” Gradaigh gave her a smile that made her vaguely uncomfortable, and she focused instead on serving herself a portion of the hot stew that sat on the table before her. “Have you heard anything from him yet?”
“No. And I wouldn’t expect to until later tonight.” She stared at her stew silently, willing him to leave her alone. She couldn’t relive what had happened last night. Those memories would haunt her without giving them voice. But she could see that the men were disappointed she wouldn’t tell them more.
They will use you until you are no more help to them.
No. She wouldn’t let Morrigan’s twisted outlook poison her mind.
When she looked up again, Eoghan was watching her with an uncomfortably piercing expression. Then he gave her a little nod and addressed the rest of the table. “We have a decision to make, brothers. The fortress needs a commander now that Daigh is gone, and Conor is needed back at Ard Dhaimhin right away.”
“It was Daigh who died?” she blurted. “How?”
“He never woke from the glamour,” Eoghan explained. “The fortress was deserted, so there were no other casualties.”
She really needed to speak with Conor now. Why were the sidhe protecting an unmanned fortress? Where were all the men? And had Conor been even closer to death than she had thought?
She made it through the rest of supper without being pressed for information. After a lengthy debate, the Conclave selected a man Aine didn’t know to take command of the fortress and then excused themselves. Aine lingered behind and Eoghan remained seated beside her. “Is there something wrong, my lady?”
That was a question she couldn’t begin to answer. There was nothing right about this whole situation. “Lady Morrigan says she knew about the sidhe.”
He let out a little sigh. “I was afraid of that. I trusted that you would understand why I sent her to you. Did she say anything else?”
“She’s angry. Whether what she experienced at Ard Bealach was real or imagined, she holds all men responsible.”
“I suppose I can’t entirely blame her for that,” Eoghan said. “Do you think you can get her to open up?”
“I don’t know. I think she sees me as her jailer, in a way. And that makes me the enemy. Worse yet, a collaborator.”
“Noted. I wish there were something we could do, but I simply don’t trust her enough to give her access to the rest of Ard Dhaimhin, which is what I suspect she wants most of all. Especially now that she’s proven herself to be holding back important information.” He hesitated. “Lady Aine, I know you don’t want to talk about what happened last night. But is there anything else we need to know? Did Conor tell you anything you haven’t mentioned to us?”
That he wanted to die? That he loved her? That he feared she would turn to Eoghan in his absence? No, she would never betray Conor’s confidence by giving away what he had thought in pain and despair and weakness.
“Nothing,” she said finally.
“Let us know when he contacts you tonight. We’ll wait up in the Ceannaire’s office. And if you need anything . . .”
“Aye. Thank you.” She rose and then paused. “Eoghan?”
“Aye, my lady?” His expression was completely open, guileless, but the eagerness in his expression was almost painful to see.
“Nothing. I’ll let you know what I learn.”
She fled to her room, praying as she went. For wisdom, for favor, for Conor’s swift return.
And that he would still be the person she remembered when he came back.
Conor ordered Somhairle placed in a small, dank cell in the newly emptied dungeons with only the rats for company while he decided what to do with him. He had given up his secrets so freely that Conor didn’t trust him not to have a bigger game in mind. He couldn’t risk his attempting to sway or deceive the Fíréin should they be allowed to have contact with him.
After securing the fortress, the next order of business was to give Daigh and Meallachán the proper funeral rites in the fortress’s courtyard. Conor had never liked the Conclave member, but his short eulogy reflected the respect he had come to bear him. What it didn’t convey was his guilt. Had he worked faster on the rune, had he decided to play t
he wards into place first, Daigh might still be alive.
Meallachán was more difficult. He had been Conor’s mentor once, the one who had helped him discover his musical gift. Yet there were indications that he had worked with the enemy to break the wards, an action that cost them the war in the kingdoms. What could Conor say about one of their own who may or may not have been a traitor?
In the end, he spoke noncommittal words of sorrow and regret and commended the old bard’s spirit to its Maker, as he had with Daigh. They witnessed the bodies turned to ash and the fire burned to coals, numbness on Conor’s part standing in for solemnity. When it was done at last, he retreated to an upper chamber overlooking the courtyard and sank onto the edge of the shelf bed.
By all accounts, the mission had been a success. They’d taken the fortress bloodlessly, with only one loss of their own. The wards he had erected around Ard Bealach would protect men from both the sidhe and the druid’s ensorcelled men. Tomorrow they would assess the defenses and supplies and determine how many warriors to request from Ard Dhaimhin.
Tonight, though, he had to tell those back at Carraigmór that the druid had the shield rune and was looking for a way to use it to enter Ard Dhaimhin.
Aine, are you there?
Nearly immediately, her voice came back in his head. I’m here. I was waiting. Is everything all right? Settled?
For the time being.
Conor, what’s wrong? He felt a tremor in her question.
Nothing’s wrong. No, that’s not true. Is Eoghan or my father with you?
No, I’m alone.
You might want to get them. I’ll wait.
Minutes passed. Conor took the opportunity to explore his temporary chamber. He realized when he rummaged through the wardrobe that this must be Somhairle’s chamber. Could there be anything useful here? His eye fell on a small, polished box of burled wood, secured with a brass lock. He took the dagger from his boot and worked the long, thin blade into the lock.
Conor?
The blade slipped from the metal and jabbed into a finger of his opposite hand. He shoved it into his mouth. What?
The Sword and the Song Page 17
