Beneath the Forsaken City (16 page)

Conor escaped the settlement without difficulty, staying close to the walls and concealing himself in the shadows. The front gate lay open, splintered, evidence of the battering ram used to break in. This was no hasty raid, but it wasn’t a full-scale assault either. Only a few of the Gwynn horsemen remained, fighting their way out, not in. Surely that meant they had accomplished their goal. Had they come to rescue Talfryn? Who was he to justify an attack on the Sofarende settlement?

Conor kept his eyes peeled for any signs of him, but the man had disappeared as quickly and quietly as Conor. Did the Gwynn have powers of concealment beyond changing his appearance, ones that Conor’s perception couldn’t penetrate?

The man
 
—and the horsemen who had created the diversion
 
—were surely his greatest chance for safety. The full moon illuminated the churned earth, scarred from the horse’s hooves. He followed the tracks northeast around the village and up a nearby
rise, still concentrating on remaining unseen. He propped the flat of the heavy Norin blade against his shoulder. His arms, shoulders, and back ached as they had his first days at Ard Dhaimhin, and as his breathing became increasingly labored, pain stabbed through his ribs. He gave a mental prayer of thanks when he reached the top and slumped forward to catch his breath.

Warning prickled the back of his neck. He barely managed to raise the sword in time to block the oncoming strike.

“Halt! I’m a friend!” Conor circled to meet a second blow from the cloaked figure.

“Enough.”

A voice, laden with authority, cut through the fight, and his attacker disengaged. Conor glanced up to where several dozen horsemen waited. A man cloaked in a fur mantle moved toward him. Talfryn.

Conor didn’t lower his sword until the other warrior sheathed his weapon. Talfryn nodded to the man, who gave a deep bow before backing away. “My lord.”

Talfryn’s entire demeanor had changed. No longer was he the cringing, unassuming man pretending to be a house slave. He stood now with an air of command, armed with a sword that even in the dim light, Conor could see was inlaid with gold and precious gems.

“You escaped after all,” Talfryn said. “What changed your mind?”

“My lord,” one of the warriors called. “Forgive me, but we must be away to Cwmmaen before the Norin decide to give pursuit.”

Cwmmaen? Conor sifted the half-forgotten details of Gwynn genealogy in his mind. King Llewellyn had three sons, the second of which was
 
—

“Prince Talfryn?”

A smile stretched Talfryn’s face. “Indeed, I am. I’m impressed,
Seareann. Where does a common warrior learn the details of foreign succession? Unless you are not as common as you pretend. Didn’t King Galbraith have a son named Conor who was killed tragically young?”

Conor grinned. “Aye, he did. But you shouldn’t believe every report you hear.”

“Then, Conor with no clan name, let us be away. You ride?”

Conor followed Talfryn to where two riderless mounts waited. A man offered him the reins. “This was planned? I don’t understand.”

“I will explain. But not now.”

Conor looked down at the leather saddle with its hanging loops. Apparently Gwynn did not ride bareback like Seareanns. He thrust his foot into the loop and swung his leg over the gelding’s back. Convenient. This was a custom he wouldn’t mind bringing back to Seare.

He settled the reins in one hand and rested the sword against his shoulder once more.

“Can you use that thing?”

Conor glanced at Talfryn. “Aye. Though I’m better with a short sword.”

“Good. Because as soon as my wife learns you’re the reason for my captivity, she’ll likely try to separate your head from your shoulders.”

“I’m the reason for your captivity? You were there before I was!”

“Comdiu sent me to wait for you.” Talfryn grinned at Conor. “I suppose it could be worse. Hyledd will forgive me since the mission was successful. If I came back without you, I would never hear the end of it.”

The men remained vigilant as they rode north
from the Sofarende encampment, but best they could tell, they had not been pursued. Perhaps Haldor had decided it wasn’t worth risking his men to recover a pair of slaves.

After a few minutes, their escort split into several detachments and took off in different directions, leaving only a handful of warriors behind to accompany them. Conor took that to mean they were nearing Cwmmaen, but the sky had begun to lighten to a steely gray before they descended into a low valley.

Talfryn gestured for Conor to ride up beside him. “I take it you do not wish anyone to know your real identity?”

“It doesn’t serve me to be known as a Mac Nir,” he said. “Not considering all that has been done in Seare.”

“You don’t wish any mention of the Fíréin either?”

Conor shook his head. Men typically took that bit of information as a threat or a challenge. The last thing he needed was the scrutiny of the warriors in the prince’s household. As it was, anyone who knew Talfryn’s true reason for being in the enemy camp would have a reason to dislike him.

They descended into the valley and then back up the next
rise, where a sprawling fortress came into view. Its inner walls, earth and stone, protected a structure more elegant than most palaces he’d seen in Seare. Circular walls rose to meet a peaked timber roof, the carved eaves displaying elaborately entwined mythological creatures. Several outbuildings, their slanted tops barely visible over the high walls, flanked the main keep. Two of their party rode ahead, and the great gates cranked open on their approach.

Conor hung back with the other men while Talfryn rode up front. A host of servants appeared before them to take the horses’ reins. He dismounted, suddenly conscious of his appearance. Even without a mirror, he knew his hair was matted, his skin and clothing filthy. It was a small comfort that the prince looked and smelled no better than he.

The massive carved wooden doors opened, and a beautiful woman in an embroidered dress came out. Intricate braids bound her blonde hair atop her head, and gold and jewels covered her throat and hands. She strode straight for Talfryn, gripping handfuls of her skirt before her, and then drew back her hand and slapped him soundly across the cheek.

Conor held his breath, muscles tensed while he waited for Talfryn’s response. But the prince just rubbed his cheek ruefully. “Could you be less predictable, darling?” Then he yanked her to him and kissed her. The men around them laughed.

“Ugh. You reek.” She struggled away from him, though the press of her lips suggested she was not as irritated as she pretended. She turned to a tall, thin man beside her. “My lord husband will bathe in the barracks. Our guest as well.”

Her gaze had slid so quickly over Conor that he’d thought she hadn’t noticed his presence. Talfryn nudged him with his elbow as she spun on her heel and went back inside. “This is to be my punishment, I see. Is your wife so demanding?”

“I wouldn’t know.” The ache crept into Conor’s chest again. “We were separated only a few days after we were married.”

Talfryn sobered. “I’m sorry
 
—”

“Think nothing of it, my lord.”

“Oh, not you as well.” Talfryn shook his head and clapped a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “No ‘my lord this’ or ‘my lord that.’ Men who have been in captivity together have no use for such formality.”

“If you say so, my l
 
—Talfryn.”

The steward stepped between them. “My lord, your bath awaits you.”

Talfryn chuckled and shrugged, then gestured for Conor to follow him.

The barracks were as well appointed as Conor’s rooms at Glenmallaig. Talfryn and Conor were shown to separate bathing rooms with stone tubs set into the ground and drains in the bottom. Conor gaped openly at the hot water flooding from piping into the bath.

“Ciraen design, sir. This fortress was left behind when the armies withdrew almost a century ago. We benefit from their ingenuity. Hot springs, you see.”

Conor nodded, though he really didn’t see. The bathhouse at Ard Dhaimhin made use of the hot springs beneath, but those were just natural pools around which a structure had been erected. This was a marvel of engineering, water routed through piping that could be turned on and off at will.

“Do you need assistance, sir?”

“No, thank you. I can manage on my own.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll be back with clean clothes.”

Conor nodded. Once he was alone, he stripped off his stinking, filthy garments. Thank Comdiu the Gwynn were as fanatical as Seareanns about bathing. His tutor had told him that on the
continent, bathing was thought to cause the plague and other diseases. He shuddered at the thought of what a hall full of continental courtiers must smell like. At least the smell in the slaves’ quarters had been an honest stink, not layered with perfume and incense.

When Conor had scrubbed every inch of his body with strong lye soap and the bath water had turned an alarming shade of gray, he climbed out and wrapped the clean cloth around his waist. The steward had placed a comb, a single-edged blade meant for shaving, and a hand mirror on a tray atop a low table. Conor attempted to draw the comb through the ends of his matted hair for only a moment before he set it down in exasperation and eyed the razor.

What did it matter? His long hair was just another bit of vanity
 
—the symbol of a warrior from a homeland that had fallen and a brotherhood he had abandoned. He hesitated for a moment before he raised the razor to the nape of his neck and sawed through his braid.

When the steward returned minutes later, he looked twice at Conor before nodding approvingly. He handed a folded stack of clothing to him. “Your meal awaits you in the hall, sir. Prince Talfryn has ordered
 
—requested
 
—that you dine with him and his family.”

Conor fingered the garments, finely woven silk and linen heavy with embroidery. They looked to be straight from the prince’s own wardrobe. Why was a Gwynn prince, a stranger, taking such an interest in him? He had said Comdiu sent him. Surely he just meant he saw a greater purpose in his captivity. He couldn’t mean it literally.

Then again, stranger things had happened. And Talfryn had the resources and the contacts to make inquiries about Aine.
Even the fiercely independent Highland clans wouldn’t ignore a missive from a prince of Gwydden.

Conor brightened at the thought and dressed quickly, his stomach rumbling. It had been weeks
 
—no, months
 
—since he’d had the benefit of a proper meal. He combed his newly shorn hair away from his face in an attempt to make himself presentable, straightened his silk tunic, and stepped outside to find the prince waiting for him.

“Ready to face the wolves?” Talfryn asked with a cheery smile.

“Wolves? Are your lords at court?”

The prince chuckled. “No. I meant my wife and daughter. Prepare yourself, Seareann. You are bound to be plied with questions.”

With that cryptic comment, Talfryn settled his fur mantle around his shoulders and headed into the courtyard. His men called welcomes to him, and he paused to clasp arms or exchange a few words with each. Conor followed, watching and waiting. Appraising glances slid over him, the men no doubt wondering what was so important about him that their lord would have risked his life for him. Perhaps they resented the fact that his existence put their prince in danger.

Conor met their eyes squarely and nodded in greeting, not holding their gazes long enough to be taken as a challenge. Instead, he stayed several steps behind Talfryn, his hands clasped behind his back.

The prince entered by a small door that led into a narrow corridor and then emptied into a hall larger than Carraigmór’s and Lisdara’s put together. More of the carving adorned the upper reaches of the hall and the massive ceiling beams, and elaborate tapestries decorated the stone walls.

For all its magnificence, Conor expected the space to be packed with courtiers, yet it lay open and empty, two long tables
set in the middle of the room like islands in a sea of stone. Several men in plain garments sat at the far table. Warriors, clearly, but not only that, if they had a place in the hall.

Lady Hyledd met them halfway to the main table, holding her hand out to Talfryn. “Husband. Much better.”

Talfryn held back a smile. “Hyledd, may I introduce our guest, Conor?”

“Conor . . .”

He gave her a deep bow. “Just Conor, my lady. I am grateful for your hospitality.”

Hyledd gave Conor a practiced smile and inclined her head politely. “You are most welcome, sir. Please, join us for an early meal, and then you and my husband can rest.” The look Hyledd shot Talfryn said he shouldn’t expect any rest until she told him exactly what she thought about his absence.

Hyledd stepped aside then and gestured to the beautiful young woman behind her. “Conor, may I also introduce our daughter, Briallu.”

Conor blinked at the girl standing before him. Where had she come from? She was fair-haired and slender like her mother, with eyes the most peculiar shade of green-gold. She glided forward and gave him a curtsy. “Welcome, Conor. It’s my honor to meet you.”

She held out her hand, and he bowed over it. A bolt of energy shot up his arm, making his breath seize in his throat. It was not so different from his reaction the first time he had seen Aine, but this sensation was not altogether pleasant.

He dropped her hand and took a step back while he tried to find his voice. “And you, my lady.”

Talfryn smiled at them. “Food. After a month of Norin cooking, I’m anxious for some Gwynn delicacies.”

“Your own fault,” Hyledd muttered as she walked with her daughter to the table.

Conor followed Talfryn and took the seat beside him. Within moments, servants placed trenchers of hot porridge
 
—far superior to the thin gruel they had been served at the Sofarende camp
 
—along with roasted partridge, blood sausages, and pots of steaming tea. He tried to make himself eat slowly, knowing his body would not likely tolerate the food, but he couldn’t prevent himself from shoveling in the porridge like a starving man. His stomach cramped immediately, and he set the spoon aside with a wince. Instead, he surveyed the rest of the table, only to have his gaze collide with the piercing green eyes of Lady Briallu. She didn’t bother to veil her interest.

Conor looked away. He would have to make it clear he was married. Talfryn knew as much, though it was hardly his host’s fault that Conor had been taken off guard by the presence of his beautiful daughter. He’d just never felt any sort of connection with a woman other than Aine.

Until now.

That thought drove him to his feet, garnering surprised looks from his Companions. “Forgive me. Apparently my exhaustion is greater than my hunger. Might someone direct me to my quarters?”

Talfryn raised his hand, and a male servant stepped forward. “Follow me, sir. Your quarters are on the other side of the fortress.”

Conor bowed slightly to the table. “Thank you again for your hospitality. It is greatly appreciated.” He caught Talfryn’s eye, and the man nodded. There would be time to talk after they rested.

The corridors that led away from the hall, unlike the one that delivered them to it, were plain, unadorned stone without any sign of the scrollwork carving that decorated the rest of the
fortress. Conor barely managed to duck through a low doorway without cracking his forehead.

“This is the old Ciraen section,” the servant explained.

“You’re not leading me to the dungeons, are you?”

The servant looked back at him with a thin smile. “If you think our prince would risk his life for you just to throw you in the dungeons, I question his decision to retrieve you in the first place.”

Conor took the reprimand evenly. So everyone knew the prince’s business, and no matter how polite or well-trained the servants might be, they would look at Conor as the man who had put their prince at risk. Briallu, however, didn’t seem to have any such prejudice. That was odd, wasn’t it? Unless she had so little regard for her father that she didn’t care about the threat to his life.

But that didn’t make sense either. Clearly Talfryn doted on her. If he recalled, the prince had several grown sons. Briallu was probably the only girl child, favored, protected, and spoiled
 
—the type who had never experienced any hardship and so could not imagine that tragedy could strike her personally.

Aye, it was easier to write her off as a petulant, spoiled noblewoman, even though his instincts told him she was nothing of the sort. Those same instincts just gave him little else by which to judge her.

“Sir, your chamber.” The servant opened a door on the left and stepped aside for Conor.

The chamber was comfortably appointed, much like his chamber back at Lisdara
 
—not overly lavish, but with every requirement a guest could need. Conor took a single glance around the space, yanked off his boots, and fell asleep facedown on the bed.