Beneath the Forsaken City (12 page)

“You should know that Lord Riagain fully intended to take me back to Brightwater as a hostage. Had it not been for the help of some passing travelers, I would be in the hands of your enemy now.” Macha probably wouldn’t care if Aine were captured by Riagain, but she would take offense at the sheer audacity of the assault on her clan.

“It sounds as if you composed yourself in a manner befitting your Tamhais blood,” Aenghus said. Not for the first time, Aine wondered why such a kind-seeming man had married her aunt. “Or do you claim Nir as your clan now?”

Even Conor didn’t claim Nir as his clan, but they didn’t need
to know that. “We handfasted, Uncle, as you and Lady Macha did. It seemed wisest given the circumstances.”

“You couldn’t have possibly had a legal handfasting in a few days and on the open sea, no less,” Macha said. “I’m tempted to believe this is all a fabrication. Will we learn in a few months that you’re carrying a bastard child?”

Aine recoiled at the venom in her aunt’s words. “I hope that I’m fortunate enough to be carrying my
husband’s
child now. And considering we were married by a former Fíréin brother and the captain of our ship, I’d say that makes it at least as legitimate as your own. My lady.”

“Except my husband is here to attest that the marriage actually happened.” Malice glimmered in Macha’s eyes, and her lips lifted in a satisfied smile. “But there’s no need to publicize that matter. Especially since the man you claimed to have married died almost four years ago.”

Aine swayed in her seat, her heart lodging somewhere in her throat as she realized how neatly she’d been set up. Macha knew all about her life in Seare, about Conor’s supposed disappearance. But she couldn’t possibly know that reports of his death had been intended to divert from the fact that he was training with Fíréin brotherhood. Without any proof, everyone would believe whatever Macha said about her, particularly if she turned up pregnant.

Aine’s hand drifted to her flat stomach and then dropped into her lap before Macha could note the gesture. She and Conor had had only two days together, little enough time to conceive a child. It would be easier if she had not: much of the speculation would fall away in several months. But if Conor were truly lost to her, could she be blamed for wanting some piece of him?

Macha went back to her food, apparently satisfied she’d put her
upstart niece in her place. Aine ground her back teeth together. She couldn’t let Macha see how much she’d been rattled, how badly she’d been beaten. Her only hope of survival at Forrais was to find some way to force her aunt’s respect. Otherwise, she’d be marginalized, pushed to the side, ignored if not outright scorned.

Aine stayed at the table only as long as necessary to avoid looking as though she were storming out of the hall. Curious gazes followed her from the room, none more intent than that belonging to Lord Uallas.

She waited until she cleared the attention of the hall before she let her dignified walk break into a run. Hot tears stung the back of her eyes. It was all a lie, not just to Macha but to herself. Conor was probably dead. To think otherwise would only bring greater heartbreak.

She managed to throw herself through the doorway of her chamber and bolt the latch behind her before the first tear spilled over. Her fingers fumbled for the ivory charm beneath her dress and she pressed it between her hands.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just give me a sign, some indication you’re still alive. You can’t be gone. You just can’t be.”

But however much she willed the warmth to flare in the charm, it remained as still and cold as ever.

Riordan had never been able to sense the wards,
but even he felt the difference as he moved through the forest. The wrongness beyond Ard Dhaimhin’s borders was palpable, like a snowstorm in the middle of summer. Never before had the margin between the High City and the kingdoms been so clear, and it made his task that much less appealing.

As he broke free of the tree line, he couldn’t hold back a shiver. Dark clouds roiled on the horizon, an ominous sign. Legend held that in the rule of a good and noble king, the sun would shine and the crops would thrive, while in the rule of an evil king, darkness would cover the land. He’d never believed it, thinking it one of Seare’s pagan superstitions, but now he wondered if there weren’t some truth to the stories.

Just as he now questioned the brotherhood’s policy of separation. There had been good reasons for it once, but was tradition an adequate justification now that they saw the darkness their inaction had wrought? The brotherhood was descended from the loyal palace guard who had protected Queen Shanna from the wrath of her sons after they murdered her husband, and
their only purpose for five hundred years had been to hold the High City for the return of the king. But what good was holding the throne and the fortress if the people the High King was meant to serve were suffering under the rule of an evil man?

His uneasiness built, but he shook off the feeling as he shouldered his staff and trudged into the open meadow. It had to be the sidhe. The spirits had done enough damage while they were bound. It seemed that they were bound no more.

You should not have come here. Your place is at Ard Dhaimhin, not here in the world. Go back to your comfortable prison.

The pang of foreboding nearly doubled him over. He paused, breathing deeply. “You cannot harm me,” he said quietly. “I walk in the light of Balus.”

The oppression eased somewhat, and he moved forward, taking his heading from the position of what little sun peeked through the clouds. He’d meant to make for Clogheen, a market village that stood at the intersection of the road from the port of Ballaghbán and the shippers’ road that led from Siomar toward Lisdara. Its constant influx of travelers offered both anonymity and the promise of fresh news. But now he wondered if he’d chosen wrong. Walking in that direction was like trudging through molasses. His feet were moving, but it took an extraordinary effort to continue. Was it just an overall malaise brought on by the sidhe, or was he being specifically targeted?

“Be gone in the name of Comdiu and his son, Balus,” Riordan commanded, and the presence fled. He drew in another deep breath. Whatever he would learn in Clogheen, the sidhe did not want him to know.

It was bad enough that they had been released. Even worse that they now seemed to have purpose. Riordan struck out southeast, traveling overland so he wouldn’t meet up with the road until he came to Clogheen. A fine mist wet his skin, growing increasingly
thicker and more persistent the closer he came to the town. Of course. The sidhe fed off human passions and delighted in creating mischief. A market town with its cross sections of travelers, some of whom had never heard of Balus, was the perfect place in which to gorge themselves.

No sooner did Riordan reach the boundaries of the town than the oppressive stench of misery and fear fell over him. He shuddered, sending up a silent prayer for protection. The town was small by any standards other than Seareann, a scattering of huts and thatched-roof cottages. Pony- and ox- and handcarts displayed all sorts of wares. He squinted through the mist and brushed moisture from his skin as he walked slowly down the main street, the usual market sounds dampened by the fog.

A shout caught his attention, followed by a clatter as a produce cart tipped over and late-summer vegetables spilled onto the road. Riordan jumped out of the way just as two men crashed into the street, grappling in the dirt and shouting vile names Riordan hadn’t heard in years. The one on the bottom
 
—the customer, Riordan thought
 
—seemed to be getting in his fair share of licks, punching and kneeing the man on top, who groaned as each strike met flesh. Then, without warning, the merchant pulled a knife from his belt and plunged it into the other man’s chest.

The murderer stood and wiped his blade on his own tunic, then met Riordan’s eyes. Riordan shuddered again. There was something empty and hopeless, vacant, about those eyes. The sidhe had found another victim. Beneath his cloak, Riordan curled his hand around the hilt of his own dagger, but the man just turned and walked back to his toppled cart, leaving the body alone in the street.

Not for long, though. A pack of urchins scrambled into the road, rifling through the dead man’s possessions. His shoes went
first, followed by his cloak. One girl howled in fury when his coin pouch turned out to be empty
 
—probably the reason for the fight in the first place.

Riordan turned away, sickened. The children always turned feral first. They were too susceptible to the lies of the Adversary’s minions, too desperate to survive at any cost. Most of them would die on this street before they ever reached adulthood, and there was nothing Riordan could do about it.

Comdiu, help me. Protect me from this evil. Do not let me fall prey to this darkness.

The grip on his heart eased again, and he drew a long breath before continuing on down the street. There was an alehouse here somewhere, no doubt the most dangerous spot in the entire town, but ale tended to loosen lips and free tales. And tales were what he was after.

He found it at last, housed in one of the town’s few timbered buildings and topped with a real slate-shingled roof. Naturally it would be the most prosperous business in town. Riordan pushed through the door, trying to make himself inconspicuous, but the combination of his height, his weapons, and the old-fashioned cut of his clothing made that impossible. A dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him.

He ignored the scrutiny and found an empty table in the corner, a feat much more difficult than it should have been, given the morning hour. A hollow-eyed, weary-looking lass barely older than his son approached immediately. “What can I get you, traveler?”

“Mead. Brown bread and butter if you have it.”

“No one’s got butter the last few weeks. Not a cow within a hundred miles of here whose milk’s not soured. We’ve got the last of the honey, though.”

“That’s fine, thank you.” Riordan nodded and gave her a
slight smile. She faltered as if the expression were unfamiliar and then turned and headed back to the kitchen.

Soured milk? That was another faerie story from Seare’s past that Riordan had dismissed as mere fancy. Perhaps the stories of Daimhin bringing the light to Seare were not just metaphor. He’d always wondered how the mercenary king had managed to gain the fealty of the clans so quickly and bloodlessly. If this were the way things had been before Daimhin had come with his magic, maybe it wasn’t so hard to understand after all.

The girl came back a few minutes later with a wooden mug of mead and several thick slices of brown bread spread with honey. Riordan pushed a coin across the table to her and curled his fingers around her wrist when she reached for it. “What’s your name?”

She jerked her hand away, fire flashing in her eyes. She still managed to snag the coin off the table, though. “Take your interest elsewhere. I only serve food, you understand me?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m not looking for a woman. Can you sit for a minute?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re the only person in Clogheen with a spark of life behind her eyes. I want to know what’s happened here.”

“Everyone knows what happened here. You a foreigner?”

“Something like that.” Ard Dhaimhin felt farther away by the minute. “If you’ll spare the time, I’ll make it worth your while.” Riordan reached into his pouch for another coin and placed it on the table with a click. Avarice lit her eyes while she considered.

Finally she pocketed the coin and slid into the seat across from him. Her posture remained wary. “Old Enda’s in his cups. He won’t notice a minute or two. What do you want to know?”

“Your name, for starters.”

She relaxed a degree, and a fleeting smile passed her lips. “Bryn.”

“A ladylike name. Do you know the story of Queen Bryn of Faolán?”

“Who are you?” The suspicion crept back into her expression. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. You paid for a copper of my time and it’s slipping away. Ask your questions.”

“What happened here?”

She snorted a laugh. “You are from a far-off land. The Mac Cuillinn fell. The family was slaughtered. The ‘High King’ sits at Lisdara while the unholy mist destroys us from the inside.”

“You’re a Balian, then,” Riordan said softly.

She looked away, confirmation enough. “Balians are killed in the worst ways imaginable. No one is a Balian anymore.”

“I am.”

“Then I should not be talking to you.” She stood, but Riordan reached for her hand again.

“Please. Stay. Do you know about the Fíréin?”

Recognition lit her face and she slid back into the chair. “You’re one of them? You’re from Ard Dhaimhin?”

“Aye.”

“They say that’s the only place free of Lord Keondric’s reach. But everyone says you’ll be killed if you venture into the forest. Is it true?”

“Unless you have a good reason to be there, it’s true. But wait a moment. You said Keondric. What happened to Fergus and his druid?”

His admission seemed to ease her doubts about him. “No one has ever seen the druid, only whispers. But he must still be alive because there are stories about men losing their will and bowing to the new king. Strong men. Men who had vowed to fight ’til their last breath.”

Riordan nodded slowly. “And Fergus?”

“Dead. Killed by Keondric himself, they say.”

“How is that possible?”

“I wouldn’t know. But his head is mounted upon Lisdara’s gate as a warning. All Fergus’s men have sworn loyalty to Mac Eirhinin, and more join him every day. Even those who come back, come back . . . changed. Is it true that Ard Dhaimhin is beyond the druid’s reach?”

Riordan blinked at the change in subject, but he owed her honesty in return for her risk. “I don’t know about that, Bryn. But you’re probably right that it’s the safest place in Seare.”

She rose and pushed the copper back across the table. “Keep your coin. I want to show you something. Will you meet me out back when you’re finished?”

Riordan nodded. He drank his mead and ate his bread, troubled by Bryn’s revelations. There was only one possible explanation, and it was not comforting. He rose from his chair, checked his weapons out of habit, and made his way out the front door. From there he circled around to the back of the alehouse, where Bryn waited for him.

“Just a moment.” She ducked through the back door and returned with a boy. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old, rail thin with a mop of dark hair, a canvas sack slung across his back. “Please. You must take him with you to Ard Dhaimhin.”

Riordan’s heart sank. “I cannot. I have more stops in my travels. It would not be safe.”

“You call this town safe?”

“What of his father?”

Bryn stared him in the eye. “Lost to us. He became one of
them
. And if my Treabhar does not leave here, he’ll do the same. They are conscripting them younger and younger, my lord.”

Riordan wavered. Bryn grabbed Riordan’s hand and pressed it to her heart. “I know you probably can’t understand this, but I would do anything to keep my son safe. Even if it means giving him up.”

Riordan turned to the boy, who stared at him with such a mixture of fear and hope, it hurt to look at him.

“I understand better than you know.”