Conor found Abban in the command pavilion and emotionlessly outlined his plan. He would take four accomplished riders and swordsmen, a party small enough to slip unnoticed past the enemy. He would form his plan to get inside Cill Rhí once they could survey its defenses. From there, his success would be in Comdiu’s hands. Abban’s expression turned grim, but he simply nodded.
Mac Eirhinin found him as he left Abban’s tent and walked silently beside him for several breaths before he spoke. “I don’t like it.”
Conor shot him a sidelong glance. “Like what?”
“Aine should go to Dún Eavan now. Our intelligence is at least a week old. By the time a group this large reaches Lisdara, there is no telling where the enemy might be. She’s better off with a small, fast party of riders that can slip around Fergus’s forces.”
“Do you not think she’d be safer in the company of several hundred warriors? A small party is fast, but indefensible.”
“Not with men like Ruarc and Lorcan.”
Conor stopped and faced Mac Eirhinin, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe this is merely concern for the king’s sister.”
Mac Eirhinin could not meet his eye. “Come now. Half the men in camp are in love with her, especially those of us who have had the benefit of her care.”
“I hadn’t realized you knew her so well.”
“I’ve had cause to admire her for some time.”
Conor sighed. Aine somehow drew people to her. He could hardly blame Mac Eirhinin for his admiration. “Then what do you recommend?”
“Send her usual escort. Those men have put their lives in danger at her command more than once. Riding hard, they could reach Dún Eavan in five days. She’ll be safe at the fortress before we ever engage the enemy.”
Everything Mac Eirhinin said was perfectly sensible, and yet the idea unsettled Conor. The other man must have sensed his ambivalence, because he said quietly, “No one would blame you if you chose to escort her there yourself. You could be at Cill Rhí in two weeks. Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be done fighting by then.”
The idea, so appealing when Aine had begged him, sounded even more sensible from Mac Eirhinin’s mouth. He could concentrate on his task if he knew she was safe in Dún Eavan.
No, two weeks was too long. “I can’t. But I’ll speak with Abban and get his opinion.”
Abban thought the chieftain’s advice to be sensible, and Ruarc agreed. In addition to four men who had escorted Aine to Abban’s camp, Ruarc selected six more from the mapping party. The warriors went to make their preparations, and Conor stood alone with Aine outside her tent for what could be the last time.
“I don’t want to leave you again,” he whispered in her ear.
“All will be as it should.” She smiled. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Conor reached for a smile. It felt as false as hers looked. “I have a good reason to come back, don’t I?”
He kissed her, but it was a bittersweet farewell, coming so soon after their reunion. When she stepped away, tears pooled in her eyes. “They’re ready for me. I have to go.”
Conor walked her to her horse and lifted her onto it, his hands lingering on her waist. She caught one of them as he drew away. “Promise me you’ll come back.”
“I’ll do everything within my power.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I love you, Aine.”
“And I love you. Go with Comdiu.”
Ruarc caught Conor’s eye and nodded, a wordless assurance she would be as safe as he could make her. The group moved forward, the men closed around her, and then she was gone from his sight.
Conor didn’t expect the crushing sense of loss. He walked amidst the camp in various stages of dismantle and forced down his feelings with each step. He couldn’t afford any distractions from his goal now.
When he reached the site where Abban’s command tent had once stood, the commander spoke with four men. Abban waved Conor over.
“These are your men. Gair, Darragh, Bram, and Eoin. They’ll see you there safely.”
Gair and Eoin were the older of the quartet, perhaps five-and-thirty, with the self-assured air of professional warriors. Darragh and Bram weren’t much older than Conor, but he had watched them drill and knew they were beyond competent.
“I’m glad to have you,” he said. “Has Lord Abban told you the mission?” When they nodded, Conor continued, “We’ll travel fast with remounts. Bring only weapons and enough food to get there and back. Rest up, because we’ll be moving fast, and if we’re successful, we’ll be leaving with warriors on our heels.”
Darragh and Bram exchanged a grin, just a little too enthusiastic about the scenario.
Lord, preserve us, Conor thought.
Abban and his men left that afternoon, leaving behind only scarred earth as a testament to the camp’s existence. Now a mere five warriors crowded around a small fire. Conor tested the edge of his sword and drew a whetstone down its length a few times before he turned his attention to the binding on his staff sling.
“Can you really do what Abban says?” Darragh asked.
Conor looked up at the warrior’s skeptical tone. “I hope so. Until I have the harp, I can’t know for sure.”
“Then we get the harp,” Bram said.
Conor met Gair’s knowing gaze. It would not likely be that easy.
When morning came, they broke camp silently and efficiently, dousing the embers and packing their few supplies onto the horses. Their planned route would take them along the edge of Rós Dorcha until they broke southeast toward the abbey. Fortunately, his four companions proved to be as good riders as they were swordsmen. Abban had chosen well.
Still, Conor’s anxiety increased with each mile. It was not just the knowledge of what awaited them, but the nagging sense he had missed something important. He slept restlessly on the hard ground that first night, chased by half-formed nightmares, until a dream transported him back to Abban’s camp.
Aine clung to his arm, her fingers biting into his flesh. “You mustn’t go to Cill Rhí. You’re in danger.”
“You know why I must go. It’s our only chance.”
Wordlessly, Aine pointed to Mac Eirhinin, standing with Eoin, Bram, and Darragh.
“I don’t understand.”
“Think,” Aine said. “You have felt it from the beginning.”
Conor searched his memory, willing the thought that had nagged him all day to materialize.
No one would blame you if you chose to escort her there yourself. You could be at Cill Rhí in two weeks.
Conor’s stomach clenched as understanding stole into him. He had never spoken to Mac Eirhinin of his destination, and Abban had agreed to hold back the details from all but his four companions. How else could he have known?
It had been Mac Eirhinin’s idea to separate Aine from Abban’s forces and send her on to Dún Eavan.
“You know then.” Aine shivered, her teeth chattering. “It’s time to wake up now.”
“But you could be in danger—”
“You mustn’t worry about me. Your task is too important. It’s time to wake up.”
Now, shudders wracked her whole body. Conor grabbed her arms, panic building in his chest. “Aine—”
“Now, Conor. Wake up!”
Wake up!
Conor knocked aside the downward thrust of a blade before he realized his sword was in hand. He rolled to his feet. Blood rushed through his veins, scattering the last remnants of sleep. In the moonlight, his four companions faced him, their weapons in hand.
“Don’t do this,” Conor said, desperation in his voice. “You’re not traitors. You’re being manipulated.”
“Calhoun is going to lose this war,” Darragh said. “We choose the winning side.”
The man lunged, expecting to catch him off guard, but Conor parried the thrust and countered with his own. The blade slid into Darragh’s midsection with sickening ease. Ten seconds ago, Conor had trusted this man with his life, and now he had killed hi
m.
Eoin came next. Conor knew not to underestimate his skills. Experienced and well-trained, Eoin feinted skillfully, trying to lure him into doing something foolish. Conor kept his breathing measured, his awareness tuned, and when the attack came, he was ready. A short exchange of swordplay, and the warrior lay lifelessly at his feet.
That left him facing Bram. Too late, he realized he had lost track of Gair in the dark. The back of his neck prickled in warning, but before he could act, something slammed into his head. Conor dropped to the ground, and his world slid sideways into blackness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Aine awoke with a pounding heart. The dream had possessed the same clarity as her other visions, but she couldn’t make sense of it until she felt the burn of the wheel charm against her skin.
“Conor,” she whispered.
Ruarc’s eyes snapped open. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I think Conor’s in trouble. I had the strangest dream.”
You could be in danger, he had said. He had worked something out Aine still didn’t understand.
Alarm flashed over Ruarc’s face. He drew his sword and leapt to his feet as dozens of men flooded into the camp. The other warriors grasped the danger just a moment later, springing awake to engage the attackers.
Aine scrambled back on the turf, her heart thudding too hard to loose a scream. So many. Her party was fighting valiantly, but they were outnumbered three to one. Two of her guardsmen fell in front of her, one after another.
In the moonlit darkness, she could barely make out individual figures, but the sounds told her all she needed to know: the clash of steel on steel, the whinnies of terrified horses, the cries of dying men.
They were losing.
And she would be taken. Or worse.
Ahead of her, Ruarc was still fighting, still standing. He felled an opponent with a single slash and spun, seeking her.
Their eyes met. “Aine, behind you!” he yelled. He took a step toward her, then jerked to a halt. She followed his gaze down to his chest. The tip of a sword protruded from between the plates in his armor. He found Aine’s face one last time, more startled than pained, then crumpled to the ground.
“Ruarc!” Aine screamed, struggling to her feet. Before she could run to him, a strong arm wrapped around her, pinning her in place.
“Don’t call out, or I’ll kill you.”
The cold bite of a blade against her throat stilled her struggle, as did the steel in her attacker’s voice. She fought to think through the wave of grief, her eyes still fixed on Ruarc’s lifeless body. Then she realized she knew the man’s voice.
Comdiu, help me.
Instantly, a steady presence calmed her nerves. She forced her muscles to relax.
“It’s not too late, Keondric,” she said beneath the sounds of fighting. “You can still turn from this path.”
“You knew me.” Keondric’s voice held surprising warmth. He swiveled her to face him. “I’m impressed. It’s a shame I couldn’t steal you away from the Mac Nir boy without having to actually steal you.”
Aine dared a glance back toward the skirmish, hoping someone would notice the exchange.
Keondric smiled. “They won’t see us. Your intended is not the only one with gifts, you know. I should have gone to Ard Dhaimhin myself, but my father wouldn’t hear of it.” He held up a length of rope. “Do I need to tie your hands, or will you come peaceably?”
Her mind clicked through the possibilities, even as fear surged through her veins. Keondric seemed to have some real affection for her, however twisted. She could work with that. It was their only chance of survival. She barely stifled her sob. “I’ll go with you. Please, just call them off. If it’s me you want, my men don’t need to die.”
Keondric glanced back at the turmoil, then shrugged. “Casualties of war, my dear. You of all people should understand that.”
You monster! The words rose in a silent scream in her mind, tears again pricking her eyes, but she forced herself to nod. She followed him meekly to a waiting horse. He lifted her atop it and mounted behind her, clamping one arm around her waist. She resisted the urge to squirm away. Behind them, the fighting still raged, proof that what had seemed like forever had really been only a few seconds. He kicked the horse into a gallop, and Aine squeezed her eyes shut against tears.
She needed time. Time to figure out the pieces of this puzzle, time to discover a way out. Which meant she had to keep him from killing her, no matter what that required.
The sun had already crested the horizon when Keondric reined in the horse beside a small stream. He slid off first and helped her down, his manner solicitous, as if he were courting her and not kidnapping her. He walked the horse to the water’s edge to drink and filled his skin before handing it to her.
Aine cast a sideways glance at the proffered water bag. “You first, my lord.” When he hesitated, she tried to smile, as if her concern were for his welfare. “I insist.”
“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.” Keondric took a long drink as proof. “It’ll be a faster and more pleasant trip if you’re conscious.”
Aine cautiously sipped from the water skin and handed it back to him. His manner puzzled her. Sometimes, her spirit recoiled from him, as if recognizing something dangerous lurking inside. Other times, like now, he seemed normal. Was he being controlled by the druid or the sidhe? Or was he just mad?
“Why are you doing this?”
Keondric lowered himself to the ground and gestured for Aine to join him. “I thought you would have guessed.” He gave her a long look, and for a moment his gaze grew heavy with meaning. She suppressed a shiver, and he looked away, his tone businesslike. “You’re bait.”
“For Conor? I don’t understand—”
“Call it a contingency plan. I can’t be sure his escort will kill him. From what I’ve seen, I’d say it’s unlikely. When he realizes I have you, he’ll have to choose between you and the harp. Which will he choose, do you think?”
“The harp,” Aine said, though it was only an attempt to stall while she worked out the situation. If Keondric was working for Fergus and the druid, it was of his own accord, not because of infection. He would not have been able to move across wards otherwise.
Somehow that was even worse. She could excuse weakness. But this treachery was pure evil. Conor’s escort must work for them as well. But why attack so obliquely?
They feared him, she decided, and not just his sword. They thought he was the one with the gift of sight. Keondric had no idea Conor was acting on Aine’s visions.
“You’d better hope he chooses you. Otherwise, you’re of no more use to us. Strategically, that is.” Keondric smiled, and while it was a pleasant smile, it hinted at darker things beneath.
Aine forced herself to maintain a calm exterior. As long as Keondric believed she did not fear him—as long as he believed he could win her—he would refrain from violence. “Why would you betray us? You’re the wealthiest man in Faolán besides Calhoun. Your clan has advised the king for generations.”
“How long do you think that will last once Faolán falls?” At Aine’s shocked expression, Keondric’s tone softened. “I know it sounds cold, but given the choice between being an ensorcelled slave and maintaining peace and prosperity for my clan, what else could I do? I cannot condemn them to death.”
Aine sighed. She could understand his position, however distasteful. But would Fergus and Diarmuid uphold their end of the bargain once they got what they wanted?
“What’s to happen to me, then?”
“That’s entirely up to you. I’m taking you to Glenmallaig. As long as you cooperate, you’ll be safe. I swear no one will harm you while you’re under my protection.”
And if she chose to leave his protection by refusing to do what he wanted. . . . Aine heard the warning as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud.
After they ate a bit of cheese and bread, they mounted up again. This time he did not hold her s
o tightly. Grateful he had allowed her to keep her cloak, she surreptitiously closed her fingers around the wheel charm. She closed her eyes and tried to see Conor, but minutes passed without result. She tried again, hoping to glimpse Lorcan and the rest of her party, but she was no more successful the second time.
She tucked the charm back into her dress and tried not to let despair overwhelm her. Ruarc—her faithful guard, her trusted friend—was already dead. What made her think the rest weren’t as well? Maybe that was why she couldn’t see them. She stifled tears before they could rise again.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” she snapped. “You’re trying to destroy everything I care about in the world. I am definitely not all right.”
Keondric had the grace to stay quiet and leave her to her brooding.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Conor’s first conscious sensation was searing pain, followed by wild, animal panic. He scrambled in the dark for a weapon to defend himself, but the movement sent waves of agony through him. He doubled over and retched into the grass.
Only when the pain and nausea subsided to a bearable level did he realize he was alone, and the panic did not belong to him.
Mac Eirhinin had betrayed them. He tried to have Conor killed. He separated Aine from Abban’s men.
Aine.
Conor jerked upright, only to fall back again, his head spinning. When he regained control of his limbs, he touched his throbbing head. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He gritted his teeth and probed the wound, relieved to find that, though his scalp had been split, his skull was intact. A hand stone, probably. It must have just grazed him. At that range, he was lucky to be alive.
No, not lucky. An experienced fighter would not miss at that distance. He was alive only because Gair hadn’t wanted to kill him.
That meant Conor could still complete his mission. With him supposedly dead, the enemy would believe Meallachán and his harp were secure. Unless Mac Eirhinin had sent a warning to Cill Rhí, in which case the messenger would have had a full day’s lead on him. But surely his escort would have reported their success? If they were no longer expecting him, he could still slip in unnoticed and retrieve the harp.
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