The Sword and the Song

by C. E. Laureano

  Is everything all right?

  Aye, you simply startled me. Who’s there with you?

  Eoghan and Riordan. Conor, you’re frightening me.

  He couldn’t figure out what she had to be frightened about, so he brushed off the comment. Niall was here after Morrigan left, experimenting on ensorcelled men. With runes.

  How do you know?

  Conor got the sense this was a question from one of the men. We captured Somhairle and I . . . questioned him.

  What does that mean?

  That question was all from Aine, once more tinged with fear. He ignored it. Niall knows about the shield rune. I’m not clear if he learned it from Meallachán or vice versa. Either way, I think he’s trying to figure out a way to negate the wards around Ard Dhaimhin. So far he hasn’t had any luck because sorcery added to runic magic always ends badly.

  This isn’t good, Aine replied after a few moments. But as long as he still has the sorcery in his blood, he can’t use it on himself.

  Aine, with the sorcery in his blood, he shouldn’t be able to use it at all.

  A long pause. I’ll contact you tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to converse with Eoghan and Riordan. I love you, Conor.

  Good. At least he didn’t have to be part of the discussion that would ensue at Ard Dhaimhin. He could barely put two coherent sentences together at this point, let alone try to anticipate what Niall would do next. He looked down at the smear of blood on his hands and tunic and shoved his cut finger back into his mouth as he returned to working the lock.

  Blood flooded his mouth.

  The blade slipped and scored the surface of the wooden box.

  He screamed in agony as the druid began to pry another of his teeth loose.

  Blood smeared the surface of the wooden box, making it hard to see what he was doing, making it hard to work the knife.

  This wasn’t about the magic anymore. Niall wanted to break him, to see if it was his will that was blocking the sorcery or if it was the rune itself.

  Conor threw down the box and backed away in horror as he saw the cuts on his hands, the gouges on the wood he didn’t remember making. It’s not real. Comdiu, please. It wasn’t real. It was an illusion. It wasn’t real.

  He poured water into the basin and washed the wounds, but his blood staining the water pink and smearing the earthenware pitcher started a trembling that he couldn’t stop.

  No. He had to stop thinking about it. He had to stop remembering.

  His eyes traveled to the wooden box on the floor. The lid had broken off the hinges on its impact with the stone, spilling out its contents. He ripped the face cloth by the basin in half and wrapped the pieces around each hand and then knelt beside the box.

  He’d been hoping for something helpful to his cause: a map, letters, something rune-etched. Instead, there was a tiny bubbled glass vial, sealed with paraffin, no larger than his thumb. He turned it over in his hand. Why would Somhairle keep something like this locked away? It had the feeling of a secret. A contingency plan.

  Poison.

  He stared at it for a long moment, fascinated. If Aine were here, she might be able to identify it by color or odor or consistency. She’d be able to tell him its effects. If Somhairle had been saving it for murder—to use against the druid, for example—Conor would bet on slow and painful. If he’d been saving it for himself, it would likely be far less traumatic. Either way, Conor had the suspicion it would get the job done.

  He replaced the broken box on the table, intending to replace the vial as well. It wasn’t until he went to remove his weapons that he realized his hand seemed to have taken on a will of its own and slipped the poison into his belt pouch.

  He wavered for a moment, then left it where it lay.

  “I’m concerned about Conor.” Aine twisted handfuls of wool cloth before she realized she was mangling her only skirt and dropped it abruptly.

  Riordan leaned back against the table in the Ceannaire’s office. “What makes you say that?”

  She hesitated. How could she explain what she had felt from Conor without raising too much concern? His thoughts had a recklessness to them, a desperation, a confusion—all completely reasonable reactions considering what he’d experienced. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t actually happened in the flesh. “I think he’s coping the best he can, but you need to send Daigh’s replacement immediately.”

  “Do you question his judgment?” Eoghan asked quietly from his post against the wall.

  “No, I question his safety.” And that of the prisoner at Ard Bealach. She hadn’t missed how he’d glossed over the method of questioning Somhairle, even if she didn’t get the feeling he’d done anything particularly terrible to him. But the anger she sensed beneath the surface was altogether out of character.

  “Why did I not go with them?” she murmured.

  “For this very reason,” Eoghan said firmly. “You are our only connection to Conor and Ard Bealach. What if you were compromised and we didn’t know it? The damage you could do . . .”

  Eoghan was right. Eoghan was always right, because he never let emotion cloud his judgment.

  “Do you think what he said about the runes is accurate?”

  “If Somhairle is truthful, aye. Conor is not lying. He would not lie about that.”

  “No one is implying that he would.” Riordan placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. He studied her and then said, “You should rest, my lady. Conor isn’t the only one who experienced something terrible.”

  “We still haven’t decided a course of action,” she said.

  “And we won’t tonight.” Eoghan gentled his voice. “Sleep first. It will all be clearer after some rest and prayer.”

  She bowed her head in acknowledgement and exited the study, though with the way her mind was spinning, she doubted she could rest. Once more, they were at a disadvantage. If they were to win this fight, they needed to be a step ahead of Niall, not two steps behind. And they needed Conor to be clearheaded and stable.

  Usually Aine made a conscious effort to block out the minds of those around her while she slept. Only those to whom she was closest—like Conor—ever managed to breach that barrier. But Conor was hundreds of miles away in a mountain fortress. She might not hear him if he called out for her, assuming he overcame his stubbornness. Even though she knew the risk, tonight she left those doors to her mind open.

  She dozed more than slept that night, tossed in a relentless sea of other people’s dreams until a single voice snapped her to attention.

  Aine.

  She sat straight up in bed, sleep fleeing. Moonlight still shone through the window.

  Who’s there? It was a futile effort, a thought cast into darkness, considering she had no idea whom she was addressing.

  Aine, please help me. I don’t understand what happened. I don’t know where I am. Can you even hear me?

  Gooseflesh broke out over her arms. It couldn’t be. And yet somehow, she knew that voice. No, more than that, she recognized that soul.

  Keondric.

  Not Niall in Keondric’s body, that unsettling mismatch of soul and flesh, but the man who had sacrificed himself to let Conor and Aine escape when she was being held captive at Glenmallaig.

  Except that was impossible. No body could contain two souls. The druid had displaced Keondric when he took control. This had to be some trauma-induced hallucination.

  If it’s you, answer this question. The first day I saw you at Abban’s camp, what was I doing? Whom was I healing?

  The pause stretched so long Aine thought sure she had proved this was an imposter, perhaps the druid himself, trying to trap her. And then a slightly puzzled reply came back.

  You healed no one that I saw, my lady. You had returned from Fíréin territory. I conveyed my respect for your bravery.

  Aine sucked in a breath so quickly it stung her lungs. They had been in a warded camp, supposedly immune from magical eavesdropping. No one else could have been able to answer
that question so specifically.

  Keondric was still alive—or, rather, he was still present in some way. Did that mean he was still in his own body, alongside the druid’s soul? How had he known to reach out to her in the first place?

  Tell me where you are now. Do you know?

  She waited, holding her breath for the answer. If he knew where he was, they would know where the druid was. She cast about her consciousness for Keondric’s presence, but she could grasp nothing. It was as if he had ceased to exist.

  But that couldn’t be true either. Niall had to be suppressing his soul, his consciousness, so that he could control his body. If Keondric had contacted her once, he could do it again. In fact, now she felt sure this had not been his first attempt.

  Aine jumped out of bed and darted from her room, grabbing her shawl as she went. Her feet seemed to carry her without conscious thought to Eoghan’s chamber, where she pounded hard enough to wake the entire keep.

  The door flung open. Eoghan stood there, wild-eyed and dressed in only a knee-length shirt, a bared sword in hand. He froze when he saw Aine. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I need to speak with you.” Aine averted her eyes from his half-dressed state.

  “Just stay there. I’ll be—just don’t go anywhere.”

  She paced little circles in the corridor until the door opened again. Eoghan stepped out, now unarmed and stuffing his shirt into the waistband of his trousers, though like Aine he hadn’t bothered with shoes. “What is it, my lady? Is it Conor?”

  “No, nothing like that.” She lowered her voice. “Keondric’s alive.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Keondric Mac Eirhinin, the man whose body Niall took. His soul. It’s still here. It’s still in his body.”

  Eoghan stared at her as though she’d come unhinged. “That’s impossible.”

  “Aye, impossible, but true. Don’t you see? If his soul is still there, that’s why Niall can use the runes. Keondric was—is—a Balian. He was gifted. He had abilities similar to the Fíréin.”

  “But Balians can’t be possessed.”

  Aine huffed in frustration. “I know that. But this is different somehow. Don’t ask me how it happened. Keondric is still there, and he managed to take control long enough to contact me. More than once, I think. Maybe he’s getting stronger.”

  “If he is, perhaps he could push the druid down.” Eoghan grabbed her shoulders, his face alight with excitement. “Do you have any idea what this means? If we—you—can get to him, we could end this completely. Let’s find Riordan and wake the others.”

  “Wait.” She didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm, but he hadn’t thought this through. “There’s another possibility. I don’t think the druid knows that Keondric is still present. I don’t think he realizes why he can use the runes or the extent of what he can do while he’s sharing the body with a Balian soul.”

  A horrified look crossed Eoghan’s face. “What are you saying?”

  “If he learns he can use the runes because of Keondric, he’ll realize he can take the shield rune without risking death. And there will be nothing stopping him from just walking into Ard Dhaimhin.”

  “What you are saying shouldn’t be possible.” Riordan’s words were disbelieving, but they held more wonder than skepticism.

  “I understand that. But I verified that it was him. He knew things that even Niall couldn’t know.” Aine looked around the table to see how the others were taking the news. For the second time in a handful of hours, she found herself surrounded by the entire Conclave, though this time she didn’t mind being the focus of attention.

  “Surely this doesn’t change anything,” Fechin said. “He is still infected with the sorcery. That alone would keep him from crossing the city’s wards.”

  “Except the presence of Keondric’s soul has already proven to be a buffer between sorcery and the runes. That’s why he’s been able to use them on others. Add the shield rune and he would be impervious to any magic, including the city’s wards.”

  “Here’s what we know,” Eoghan said. “Niall has been experimenting with the shield rune on ensorcelled men to see if he could move them into Ard Dhaimhin, but they died in the process. He won’t be anxious to try it on himself. As long as he doesn’t know of Keondric’s presence, he won’t take the risk. But he can use the runes individually, which is why he’s attempting to collect them from the old fortresses.”

  “So Keondric is the key,” Gradaigh said.

  Eoghan nodded. “The way I see it, we can use this information in two ways. We can try to prevent him from getting the runes and assume he won’t attempt to enter the city. But that’s a temporary plan at best. Or we can have Aine contact Keondric and try to seize control of his body from Niall. But if he’s unsuccessful, we risk hastening the very scenario we are trying to prevent.”

  “Realistically, what is the danger he could do if he himself could enter Ard Dhaimhin?” Dal asked.

  “He was once the Ceannaire. He could conceivably still be able to open the Hall of Prophecies. And once he did, he would have access to everything, including the Oath-Binding Sword.” Eoghan dragged his hands through his hair, loosening strands from his braid without noticing. “Remember, the runic magic is dangerous enough that it’s been removed from our grasp twice in the last thousand years. What could a man with truly evil intent accomplish with that knowledge?”

  They fell silent, mulling the possibilities. Each way involved its own risks, and not just to them. For the first time, Aine truly understood why Balus had said that the storm of darkness must be stopped in Seare before it spread over the face of the earth. The runic magic was nearly limitless. Niall could become the emperor of the known world with a combination of magic, sorcery, and the sidhe to enforce his unholy will.

  He could usher in a true age of darkness.

  “There is one possibility we’re not considering,” Aine said. “Keondric should not still be here. He should have moved on to his eternal rest. Without his presence, the druid has nothing.”

  “You’re suggesting we figure out how to get Keondric’s soul out of his body and give it completely over to Niall?” Gradaigh asked incredulously.

  “No, I’m suggesting we let him know he can enter Ard Dhaimhin’s wards and then we help Keondric’s soul go to its eternal rest. And then let the wards do what the wards will do.”

  The men’s faces showed their doubt, but Riordan and Eoghan wore expressions of admiration. Eoghan began to smile. “It’s bold, Lady Aine, I’ll give you that.”

  “It’s a last resort,” she said. “But one we can’t afford to ignore.”

  “Conor won’t be happy with the idea of Aine’s putting herself at risk,” Riordan said.

  Aine shook her head. “Conor can’t know—at least not yet. I won’t have him distracted from his other tasks when we aren’t even certain it’s necessary or possible.”

  “Aine’s right,” Eoghan said. “I’d like to know if she can get through to Keondric at all. If Niall becomes aware of what she’s doing, then we move on to . . . the desperate options.”

  “You realize that if we fail, if the druid wins, we all die.” Fechin looked around the table seriously. “Seare will be gone and a good portion of the world with us.”

  “That’s always been the case,” Eoghan murmured. “But now we finally have a plan to stop it.”

  Eoghan remained behind, staring into the shadowy recesses of Carraigmór’s great hall, after the others returned to their chambers. As many times as he was awakened or surprised from sleep, he should simply make his bed in the hall and save himself some time. Not that he’d be sleeping anytime soon. The new revelations, problems, and challenges pouring in every day ensured that every minute of his sleep was plagued with concern or guilt.

  They’d thought the fact Niall was mounting an army was the worst part, but the collection of the runes was far more dangerous. The fact he’d slaughtered dozens of his own men experimentin
g with the runes only highlighted how brutal and ruthless he would be were he ever to get the opportunity to rule. And Eoghan was asking the people he loved most in the world to face this man, while he stayed safe and protected inside. He had no family, no one to miss him if he died. It should be him out there risking his life.

  Do you see My plan so clearly that you can make that statement? Do you presume to be the Creator so that you can decide who should live or die?

  Why is it terrible to want to save my friends from harm? Is it not Lord Balus’s teaching to risk one’s life for one’s friends?

  You act not out of love but out of pride. You would sacrifice to be seen sacrificing. You wish to be the savior. But sometimes to lead is to sacrifice glory.

  Comdiu was rarely so blunt with him. He bowed his head and took the weight of the correction. What do I do, then?

  Obey. Act when you must act, and wait when you must wait. Comdiu’s tone softened. Have faith that you were chosen for this task at this moment for a purpose.

  Eoghan propped his head in his hands. Comdiu could not have been any clearer. Eoghan was to rule, whether that meant coordinating mundane tasks or making decisions about the lives of his men.

  Except he knew what else needed to be done, and he didn’t want to do it.

  He pushed himself away from the table and walked to the Rune Throne, cast in shadow in the dim light. Even now, he had a hard time focusing on all the runes at once. They swam together, joining and separating in his vision. Here and there he could pick out the ones he knew: the three-spoked wheel, the symbol of Comdiu; the sword, which translated to “protection”; the softening rune, which could crumble rock and yet somehow did not affect the Rune Throne. Clearly, there was much they didn’t understand about this magic. There was so much out there, littered across Seare, that had the potential to cause harm.

  There was no question what had to be done. And as much as Aine would hate him for the decision, there was no question who had to do it.

  Sleep did not come. Or rather, Conor fled from it each time his eyes closed and the memories crowded back in. Instead, he spent the night pacing, working sword forms, examining every item in the room. He thought perhaps he could learn something about Somhairle from his possessions, but they were straightforward and nonspecific. Seareann-style clothing. A straight razor and shaving bowl with a tiny brass mirror. A leather saddlebag. In fact, the only thing of interest was the poison.