Beneath the Forsaken City (13 page)

It didn’t take long for Conor to lose track
of the days he spent in the settlement. Each day was the same, stretches of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with hours of intense concentration while he taught Haldor the common language of Seare and Amanta and answered his questions. The warrior had not asked about the magic that had ostensibly saved Conor’s life. Perhaps he sensed he would not yet receive an honest answer. Or perhaps he was waiting for it to occur to Conor that he would die here.

“When faced with their own mortality, there are two kinds of men,” Talfryn said one night. “Those who decide that honor means nothing, and those to whom honor comes to mean everything. He’s waiting to discover which one you are.”

Half the nights Conor woke from terrifying nightmares, either experiencing his worst imaginings about Aine or reliving the bloody fighting that had preceded their escape from Seare. The other nights, he slept not at all, his churning thoughts covering the same ground in much greater detail. He could not escape his worry. He knew he should pray, lay his worries before his Maker, but his troubled heart would not make the words.

Some days, he was sure Aine was dead. In those dark moments, he again considered the fastest way to get himself killed. Yet he still visited Haldor, his words and actions measured, calculated. Not all of the settlements had replied. As long as he fulfilled his bargain, it was as if he kept Aine alive.

Foolish thoughts. But in those moments of hope, when his spirits lifted, he imagined he heard her.

I’m alive, love
, he heard once.
Are you out there somewhere?

And another time:
You can’t be gone. You just can’t be.

But it was always too quiet, too distant, to know if the voice were real or if it were just his own wishful thinking.

Comdiu, keep her safe, wherever she is. Let her be alive.

Haldor made rapid progress in his studies, and even though it seemed tantamount to a betrayal, Conor felt a spark of pride in his student. They did not speak of personal matters in the leader’s longhouse. Haldor remained focused while they worked, and his sharp mind picked up the language far quicker than Conor had expected. In less than a month, the Sofarende warrior had acquired a solid-enough grasp of syntax and vocabulary to move on to more difficult passages.

The only passages Conor knew by heart were Scripture. He wrote out the first ones that came to mind while he waited for Haldor to arrive one morning. He’d wanted to know more about their culture. Balianism was
 
—or at least had been
 
—a large part of that.

Conor had neatly etched several verses onto the tablets when Haldor entered and put aside his sword on the bench.

“What is this?”

“You’re ready to move on to something more difficult. Take your time reading it. We will work through the unfamiliar words.”

Slowly, Haldor read, “‘For Comdiu did not wish eternal
punishment for man, the creation whom He loved. So He sent His son, Balus, Lord of heaven, clothed in flesh to die for men. That through His blood mankind might be saved.’” He stumbled over a few of the words they hadn’t studied yet. “What does this mean, Lord of heaven who died for men? You follow the dying god? Like our Lelle?”

Conor wracked his brain for some recollection of the Norin myths he had learned from his tutor. “I don’t know your Lelle, I’m afraid.”

“He died of a poisoned arrow shot by his brother. Our people believe he will come back to a new world someday.”

“I see,” Conor said. “No, our Lord Balus is different. He knew He would die, but He came to earth anyway. The people didn’t believe He could be the one prophesied in the old writings, and they tortured Him on the wheel.”

“This god must not be very strong if he could not fight mere men.”

“He could have saved Himself with a word. He could have called His Companions to come down and slay all those who persecuted Him. But He did not, because only by His death could all mankind live.”

Haldor shook his head, clearly unimpressed. “You are a warrior. You should not follow a weak god who would let himself be slain.”

“So you would not allow yourself to be killed?”

Haldor looked offended. “Of course not.”

“What if it meant saving every person in this village? Every person in Norin? Every person in the world?”

“Most of the world is my enemy,” Haldor said, but consideration flickered behind his eyes.

“That is the difference between us and Lord Balus. We are His enemies, yet He died for us anyway.”

Haldor stood with a snort of derision. “I would not die for my enemy.”

Conor said nothing. His purpose was not to try to convert Haldor to his beliefs. If anything, he had just given the Sofarende the wrong impression of Balians: that they were weak, that they would not fight. Fine. Let him believe that Seare would be easy to conquer. He moved on to a verse about the creation of the world and focused on Haldor’s pronunciation rather than the words’ meaning.

Still, Conor could not shake the feeling that he had somehow failed. It felt uncomfortably like the nudging of Comdiu.

What would You have me do, Lord? I cannot force him to adopt my beliefs. I am merely a prisoner. I am here only because I love Aine more than my freedom.

But the pressure didn’t relent. It only grew stronger.

“What’s wrong?” Talfryn asked him one night while they waited in line for their food.

Conor shook his head. He couldn’t explain it even if he were inclined to try.

Talfryn dropped the subject, instead looking him over surreptitiously. “You’re healing.”

Conor nodded. It still hurt to fully expand his lungs, but the bruises were fading and his dizziness was gone. Now the ache in his muscles was due to inactivity rather than injury. Had he been back at Ard Dhaimhin, he would be longing to join sword drills or even one of the work details in the far fields. He flexed his hands, wondering how much strength he’d lost in the past few weeks.

Talfryn followed the movement. “Be careful. While you’re still injured, you’re invisible.”

Invisible was just another word for useless. Conor had been invisible for most of his life.

Movement on the other side of the circle caught his eye. Once more, as happened several times a week, Dyllan took the boy’s bowl from him. And once more the guard turned a blind eye.

“Don’t,” Talfryn said.

Conor ignored him. He addressed the guard in Norin. “Are you going to do something?”

The guard only smirked at him.

“Don’t,” Talfryn repeated.

Conor set down his bowl and walked slowly to Dyllan. The guard didn’t stop him. Apparently the prospect of entertainment trumped enforcing his orders.

“He needs to eat, same as you,” Conor said quietly.

Dyllan laughed. “What are you going to do about it?”

Conor stared, unflinching.

Dyllan arched his eyebrows and set the bowl down. The boy snatched it up and backed away while the attention was off him. That was something at least.

Conor topped the man’s height by several inches, but he was still injured and bound. The Gwynn smiled right before he lunged. Conor ducked out of the way before the punch could connect. Instead, he hooked his heel around the other man’s foot, tangling the rope around it, and yanked. As they fell together, Conor looped the rope binding his hands around Dyllan’s neck and pulled back. The man thrashed and clawed at the rope, not experienced enough to strike at Conor’s injured ribs, instead letting panic consume him. Conor waited for that moment of slackening that would indicate unconsciousness. It was a fine line from there, a short step to death.

Before that could happen, the Sofarende guard sprang for them and aimed a kick at Conor’s side. Conor groaned, but before the guard could drag him away, he put his mouth near Dyllan’s ear and said, “Leave the boy alone.”

Conor braced himself for the guard’s punishment, but the blows never came. He didn’t resist, simply let himself be dragged back to the prison hut. Why didn’t the guard beat him? Why didn’t he make an example of him?

Then Conor understood. Prisoner or not, he was under Haldor’s protection. How much could he get away with without inciting the guards’ retaliation if they were so obedient to their commander?

“That was unwise,” Talfryn growled when the rest of the prisoners returned. He lowered himself onto the mat. “Now they’ll be watching your every move.”

“Maybe I’m tired of seeing Dyllan get away with it.” But it was more than that. He’d once had a purpose. If he had the power to help but did nothing, what did it matter if he lived or died?

“This will not go unaddressed, you realize.”

Conor followed Talfryn’s gaze. Dyllan stared at him with unveiled hatred. He’d made an enemy today, but hopefully he’d also made a point. If he’d diverted the bully’s attention from the boy, it would be worth the renewed ache in his ribs.

That night, the prickle of danger startled Conor awake fractions of a second before a foot collided with his side.

Conor raised his hands and knees to protect himself, trying to roll to his feet, but the blows that rained down on him gave him no opportunity. A weight fell on his chest, followed by a fist to his face. The room spun, and he tasted blood.

“Where’s your courage now, boy?” Dyllan leaned close, enveloping him in foul breath. “Do you see? Not one of these prisoners you think you can help will come to your aid.”

Conor blinked through the throb of pain in his face, the stab to his reinjured midsection. Even now, he knew he could get free, gain the upper position. Dyllan would be at his mercy. Yet the quiet nudge inside restrained him.

“What do you say? Was it worth making an enemy of me, knowing you can never sleep without wondering if I’ll kill you?”

He locked on the Gwynn prisoner’s face, any number of defiant retorts flashing through his mind. When he opened his mouth, the words that came out surprised even him. “Leave the boy alone.”

Dyllan’s brows knit together, and then his weight lifted from Conor. He gave him one last halfhearted kick and returned to his pallet.

Conor let out a long shuddering breath and took stock of his injuries. Nothing felt broken, though his lip was already swelling and his ribs complained when he took a deep breath. Why hadn’t he fought back? Why had he frozen when he could have gotten the better of the man?

“You all right?” Talfryn’s whispered question came from his right.

Conor rolled to his side and stifled a groan. “No thanks to you.”

“You know why I couldn’t intervene.”

“Aye. I do.” He winced as he tried to find a comfortable position and closed his eyes. The Gwynn had been right about one thing: he could not expect help from any quarter.

No one spoke of Conor’s injuries the next morning, though from the tightness in his face, he knew they must be ugly. When he caught sight of his reflection in a trough, he almost didn’t recognize himself: cheek and lip double their normal size, blue ringing one eye from a blow he didn’t remember. Not even the Sofarende’s punishment had taken such a toll on his face.

Even Haldor’s eyes widened when he met Conor that afternoon. Without pausing to lay aside his weapon, the commander pulled up a bench in front of him.

“If that is what you look like when you win a fight, I would not want to see you when you lose.”

“This was my punishment for winning the fight.”

“And yet the Gwynn works today without a mark on him.”

Conor just stared back. Haldor looked away while he considered his next words. It may have been the first time Conor had ever seen the warrior uncomfortable. “Why did you not fight back? You cannot tell me you do not have the skill, even injured.”

“It would have served no purpose but to make more of an enemy of him.” What else could he say? That Comdiu had reached down and convinced him not to fight?

“Ulaf tells me that even though he insults your woman every day, you do not try to fight him. Why?”

Conor raised his head, surprised. “Because I gave you my word. I will stay here and teach you, and you will send word after Aine.”

“I am already your enemy. And still you are determined to keep your word?”

Conor nodded and said nothing.

Haldor stood and paced before him. “I do not understand you. You are a warrior. You fight your fellow prisoner but not your enemy. My men insult your honor, your woman, force you to act as a slave, and you allow them. Is it because you follow this dying god?”

This was not just an idle question. Conor sent up a prayer for guidance. He could be facing his end. Or he could have an ally.

“In a sense,” he said finally. “We consider oaths to be solemn before Comdiu. If we break an oath, we break our word to Comdiu, not just man.”

“What if I say I plan to kill you?”

“Will you keep your word to have Aine released, even if I am dead?”

Haldor shook his head in wonder. “You sacrifice yourself for a woman. We value women in my land, it is true. What Ulaf says about your wife is just words, unless she is sold as a concubine. But a woman is not worth a warrior.”