Beneath the Forsaken City (17 page)

Conor awoke to yellow light
sifting through the small, high window. A few hours past midday, perhaps. He pushed himself off the bed and made a face at the wrinkled mess he’d made of his borrowed silk tunic. He should have at least had the grace to take it off before he collapsed.

Not that sleep had righted anything. His body ached from the luxury of a soft bed after nearly a month sleeping on hard ground, his mouth felt dry, and his stomach seemed shriveled to the size of a walnut. No wonder he’d had such difficulty with the heavy Norin sword. His muscles shook from bearing his own weight, let alone a dozen pounds of iron.

Someone
 
—probably the same disdainful servant
 
—had come in and placed a ewer and a basin on the small table next to the bed, along with a clean, folded cloth. Conor splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth, then combed his hair back from his face. The abrupt end of the motion took him by surprise. He had forgotten he had hacked it off rather than suffer through the process of dematting his braid.

He grinned ruefully at his own vanity. Aine would make fun
of him. Or would she be disappointed? He had clear memories of her burying her hands in his hair on their wedding night. . . .

He sighed. He couldn’t think of those things now. Though it did bring to mind what he was supposed to broach with Talfryn: would the prince be willing to use his resources to find Aine?

When he reached the hall, however, it was empty. A servant passing by in one of the corridors paused. “Sir? May I bring you something?”

“No, thank you.” Conor detoured down the corridor that led to the side door and stepped into the glaring afternoon sunlight.

The clack of wood on wood and the good-natured shouts of men drew him to the far corner of the large courtyard, where at least a dozen warriors gathered around the prince. Talfryn faced four of his men, stripped to the waist with sword in hand.

“Ah, you can do better than that!” he taunted. “Afraid to bruise your prince?”

His opponents grinned and redoubled their efforts
 
—with practice swords, Conor saw
 
—but the prince held them off at every turn. He’d been right in his earlier assessment of Talfryn’s ability: the man was every bit as skilled as his warriors. Watching the match made Conor itch for the feel of a weapon in his own hand.

“You feel naked.”

He jerked his head around. Briallu smiled at him, a hint of mischief glinting in her eyes. “Without a sword, I mean.”

Conor cleared his throat. “How do you know I’m a fighter?”

She threw her head back and laughed, a lilting sound that wormed its way into his chest. “Surely you jest. I have brothers. I was raised among men. Fair hand with a sword and bow I am myself. And you ask me how I recognize a warrior.” She winked at him and gestured with her head for him to follow. Against his better judgment, he obeyed.

“Where are we going? Won’t your father be upset about you being alone with a stranger?”

“You hardly qualify as a stranger. But even if you did, I have my father wrapped around my finger. He won’t object. Not when he knows what I’m up to.”

An odd sense of foreboding slid over Conor, and his steps slowed. Briallu glanced back at him, her expression reproving. “Come, now. Afraid I’m going to lure you away and steal your virtue? What kind of woman do you think I am?”

Conor’s flush began at the tips of his ears and spread across his face. “Forgive me, my lady. I am a married man. I attempt to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

“Well, you are a proper one, aren’t you? Fear not, Lord Conor
 
—aye, you are as clearly noble as you are a warrior
 
—I will not give your wife any cause for complaint today. But you will regret it if you do not follow me.”

Terrible idea
, Conor told himself. But he followed.

She led him to a small stone structure beyond the barracks and pushed open the iron-bound door. “Come. See.”

Conor stepped inside the dark space, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. He propped the door open with his foot to let in more light. “The armory.”

“Aye, the armory. I suspect my father would understand you’re in need of a sword. After all, it’s unseemly for a nobleman to be without a weapon, is it not?”

Conor met her eyes, for the first time feeling more kinship than wariness. “It is. And since you seem to know your way around, I’ll let you point out the obvious choices.”

She smiled and sized him up with uncomfortable thoroughness. “Short sword and dagger, aye?”

“Aye. Good guess.”

“I mean no offense, Conor, but it’s hardly a guess.” She went
to a rack that held at least a dozen plain swords, all with well-made steel blades, brass pommels and leather-wrapped wooden grips. Soldiers’ swords, almost Ciraean in design. “One of these, I’d think.”

Conor took one after another from the rack, testing the feel in his hand, the distribution of weight. He’d been trained to fight with whatever he was given or whatever he could pick up on the battlefield, but the first two felt wrong. The third reminded him of the weapons to which he had been accustomed at Ard Dhaimhin. It was the most worn of the bunch, its handle and crossguard scarred, but it was balanced and the blade was true. “This one.”

She nodded toward another wall where an array of fleece-lined sheaths with their leather harnesses and baldrics hung side by side. He chose the first that fit the blade and tested the draw to make sure the sword would not stick or slide out.

“Now for the dagger.” Briallu moved to a large bench upon which was displayed an array of short blades. Conor reached out, but she raised a hand.

“A man chooses his own sword, but a woman must choose the dagger.” She gave him a smile once again tinged with amusement. “It is usually the wife’s responsibility, but since you are inconveniently without yours, I will have to do.”

“I’m not familiar with that custom.”

“Does it not make sense? If a man loses his sword and must use his dagger, he no longer battles for honor or glory. He fights to return home to his loved ones. His wife’s heart goes with him and gives him strength.”

It was the kind of superstition Conor had been taught to cast aside by his Balian instructors. But he remembered his relief when he had woken up after the ambush in Siomar and found
they had forgotten to take his dagger. Aye, he had been fighting for his loved one then.

Briallu moved to the table, closed her eyes, and hovered a hand over the weapons.

Conor couldn’t help himself. “This is your selection method?”

“Shhh.” She didn’t open her eyes. “I am never wrong. Don’t distract me.”

After a few moments of wordless “searching,” she closed her hand around one and lifted it in triumph. “This one is meant for you.” She turned to him and presented it, hilt first.

It had absolutely nothing to commend it above a dozen other similar daggers, but the moment he grasped it, the hilt warmed in his palm. His eyes widened.

“I told you. I’m never wrong.”

About what?
Surely, he’d just imagined the sensation, based on the power of her suggestion.

She retrieved the leather baldric he’d chosen, slid on the sheathed sword, and gestured to him. “Let’s fit this.”

He obeyed, far too taken aback by the radiating dagger to do anything else. He dipped his head so she could slip the harness over his shoulder and beneath his left arm. Then she reached around him to buckle the belt at his waist, her hands brisk, businesslike. Even so, he found himself holding his breath at her nearness.

“In Gwydden, only long swords are worn on the back. Short swords go at the hip.” Her hands went to the buckle at his chest to take up the slack in the strap.

“I feel like one of your horses with all this tack.”

She chuckled. “You will become used to it with time, I’m sure.”

With time. He sobered. It had been a month since he had lost Aine, and he was no closer to finding her than before. He
shifted the unfamiliar baldric on his shoulder and gave Briallu a sober nod. “Thank you.”

Her smile faded, a hint of hurt surfacing in her expression. “You’re welcome.”

Outside, Talfryn was standing by, watching the other men practice. He glanced up when he saw them approach, his eyes lighting on Conor’s weaponry. “I see my daughter already got to you.”

She winked at Conor. “It’s shameful that a warrior should be without his weapons, Father. Someone needs to see to the important details around here.”

“I know you do. Just don’t tell your mother I said that.” Talfryn chuckled and bestowed a doting smile on Briallu, leaving Conor to again wonder about the informality of this family.

“My lord”
 
—Conor grimaced at Talfryn’s reproving look, but he continued
 
—“might I speak with you in private when you have a moment?”

“We do have things to discuss, don’t we? Come.” Talfryn headed toward the side door near the barracks. Conor followed him down one corridor and into another one, where he pushed open a chamber door. A library, it seemed from the books, or perhaps the prince just enjoyed having his study filled with reading material. He gestured for Conor to take a seat at the long table and sat down across from him.

“You have questions about how I came to be in the Norin camp.”

“Aye. You said Comdiu told you to find me.”

Talfryn leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t expect you to believe this. I almost don’t believe it myself. I am a follower of Lord Balus, Conor, but I always thought that visions were reserved for prophets or priests. Men more devout than me.

“But I had a dream that very clearly showed me I was to ride
up to the Norin encampment west of Cwmmaen and get myself captured. I was not to resist, but simply wait for a foreign warrior. And then we were to escape on the first full moon after his arrival.”

Conor studied the prince, fascinated. “And you just accepted that as a vision?”

“Of course not! I dismissed it as a dream. But the next night, I had the same dream. And the next. And the night after that. Never varying, always the same down to the smallest detail. Except the last time, I saw the arrival of a message from my brother, Prince Neryn. When I awoke the next morning to a messenger from Gwingardd, I knew I was being told to obey. What do you make of that?”

“I am grateful you obeyed,” Conor said with a grin.

“I am sure you are. But now it is my turn.” Talfryn folded his hands on the table, his brown eyes glinting. “I have been wondering this whole time: why you?”

Conor shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well.” Talfryn flopped back in his chair. “Here I thought you would give me some elaborate explanation of your calling, your charge for Comdiu.”

Conor flushed. In his capture and his fear for his wife, he had nearly forgotten the task he was supposed to accomplish. “I may be the only person left alive who can retake Seare from my uncle and his sorcerer.”

“And you forgot to mention that?”

“I don’t know if it can be done. I don’t know if I am the one to do it. I certainly don’t know why Comdiu tasked you of all people with this job. But I’m afraid I must ask for your help one more time.”

“You want me to inquire after your wife.”

“Please. I cannot return to Seare without finding her. My hope
is that she’s safe in Aron by now, but she could have fallen into the hands of one of the Lowland clans.”

“I will make inquiries,” Talfryn said. “We have no quarrel with the Aronans in the north, so I would expect a quick answer from them. But the southern clans have been feuding with Gwydden over borders for almost as long as they’ve been quarreling with the Highlanders. Do not expect much from that quarter.”

Conor let out his breath. It was not the news for which he had hoped, but he could ask for no more. “Thank you, Talfryn. You have been asked to do more on my behalf than most men would bear. Please know that I am truly grateful.”

Talfryn nodded and rose. “You will find paper and ink in the drawers on the far wall. Write your missives, and I will have them sent under my personal seal. We shall find your wife one way or another.”

Eoghan rapped on the heavy wood door,
his heart in his throat. Ever since Riordan’s startling revelation the week before, he hadn’t been able to shake the sense of foreboding, the vague awareness of a coming storm. Worse yet, Comdiu had been mostly silent, responding to his worried questions with one word:
obey
. Now Liam had called Eoghan to his office, and he couldn’t help feeling that the storm had arrived.

Liam called his permission to enter, and Eoghan pushed the door open. The Ceannaire sat in his chair, a wax tablet in front of him, staring at it as if it contained some desperately interesting puzzle, when in reality it was probably just the tallies of their grain storage. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Liam looked up and pushed the tablet aside. “Come, I want to show you something.”

Eoghan frowned, but he followed Liam back out the door and down the stairs, making a turn into a short corridor that ended in solid rock.

“It’s time you learn some of the Ceannaire’s secrets.” Liam spoke a single word
 
—or maybe it was a handful of words
 
—and
a hidden door disengaged from its jamb, springing a fraction of an inch outward. Eoghan blinked. How could that be? He would have sworn it was simply a hallway. He tried to keep the password in his mind, but every time he thought he grasped it, it slipped away, like water flowing through his fingers.

As if he knew Eoghan’s thoughts, Liam smiled. “The password is passed down from one Ceannaire to the next, and no one who does not have the right to speak it can recall it.”

“How is that possible?”

“There is magic here at Carraigmór, magic that is more powerful than anything we can currently perform. Perhaps no one but Daimhin himself ever knew it. We simply don’t know. The password was passed to me when I accepted leadership from my master.”

Gooseflesh pricked Eoghan’s arms as he stepped through the door into a cramped tunnel. There were no torches, yet a dim glow illuminated the staircase. When the door whispered shut behind them, he had the sensation of being sealed into a tomb. Could someone get trapped in here if they didn’t know the password to get out? That wasn’t an encouraging thought.

Liam led him down the long, narrow stairway, only the sound of their shoes scuffing stone to break the silence. The walls of the corridor pressed so close he had to force himself to breathe normally. He’d never been afraid of enclosed spaces, but something about this tunnel set his heart rattling in his chest like an animal caught in a trap.

They finally came to the end of the corridor, a dead end, and Eoghan waited for Liam to open another magically hidden door. Instead, he just turned sharply into an angled passage that was little more than a split in the rock. Eoghan inhaled deeply and followed him into a chamber.

More soft, unidentifiable light illuminated the cavern, which
was several arm spans wide and twice as deep. Wooden compartments lined the walls, each space holding a book, scroll, or folio. The smell of old paper and animal skin added to the musty, crypt-like atmosphere.

“This chamber is Carraigmór’s greatest secret and its greatest treasure,” Liam said reverently. “It’s called the Hall of Prophecies, but it’s much more than that. This room not only contains all the prophecies that have been gathered over the last five hundred years, it also preserves the history and the rolls of the brotherhood. Where we came from, where we are going. All that you will someday need to know. All that you must swear to protect, with your life if necessary.”

Something in Liam’s voice made Eoghan think the Ceannaire was not telling all, but he didn’t push. This was too much to take in at once. Instead, he asked, “What would happen if Keondric managed to access this chamber?”

“Disaster. You understand why I show this to you now.”

“Because I may have to protect it,” Eoghan said. “If the druid was once the Ceannaire, he knows it’s here.”

“And he knows what’s inside. Even I don’t know all that’s here. It would take a man more than a lifetime to read it all. Comdiu has guided me to what I needed to lead justly and to do His work.”

Eoghan walked slowly around the room, peering at the various writings on the shelves but afraid to touch. There were scrolls in every known language, some so old they looked as though they would crumble if they were handled. Parchments ancient enough to have the hair of the animal still attached to the back. Scraped birch bark that looked like it might disintegrate at a breath. Most of the characters he didn’t even recognize. Conor might, but Eoghan didn’t have his friend’s extensive education.

For the first time, the enormity of his undertaking hit him. Liam was to have been a king. His education, even up to his
tenth birthday, was more comprehensive than most people received their entire lives
 
—far more extensive than any of the brothers’ studies at Ard Dhaimhin. How on earth was Eoghan to be trusted with the knowledge in this room when he couldn’t even read half of it?

“I’ve debated whether to show this to you, but it’s time. It’s
past
time.”

Eoghan turned and saw Liam holding a folded square of uneven vellum. “What’s that?”

Liam pulled up two stools from the corner of the room and settled himself on one. “What do you remember of your parents?”

“Nothing,” Eoghan said. “My first memories are of Ard Dhaimhin.”

“I don’t believe that. Close your eyes and think hard. What do you remember?”

Eoghan sank onto the stool across from Master Liam and shut his eyes. This was a ridiculous exercise. He had come here at three years old, abandoned by his parents in the forest. He didn’t remember anything but the scent of lavender, attached to a woman: dark-haired, laughing sometimes, but more often worried.

“You remember,” Liam said quietly. “You remember your parents.”

“My mother. But I can’t see her face.” Eoghan opened his eyes. “Why bring this up now? What purpose does it serve?”

Liam toyed with the parchment, worrying the rough edge with his thumb. “I have not been completely honest with you, Eoghan. I have debated for years when to discuss the matter, if at all. And I’m afraid we are long past the time when you deserved to hear it. Do you know why you came to Ard Dhaimhin?”

Because my parents thought I was insane.
Out loud he said, “They didn’t want me. Or maybe they just couldn’t care for me.”

“No. They were afraid for you, Eoghan. And because you told them that you must come here.”

Eoghan stared at his master. Impossible. He had been only three years old.

“They did not just abandon you within our borders. Quite the opposite, in fact. Your mother took you into the forest and waited for a tracker to find you. She said you were destined for the brotherhood and she was following Comdiu’s will by giving you up.”

Eoghan shook his head. “How could you possibly know that’s true?”

“Because I was the tracker.”

Eoghan opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. When the words finally did come, they weren’t what he intended. “What was her name?”

“Fionnuala. I don’t know your father’s clan, but she claimed to be a Fearghail.”

Eoghan recognized the clan name from history lessons, though he couldn’t recall exactly why. “She was Sliebhanaigh. I’m Sliebhanaigh.”

“Indeed. Nobility of some sort. I suspect she was afraid to name your father’s clan for that reason. They were also Balians.”

Understanding dawned. “At a time when the Balian faith was punishable by death.”

“Aye. Despite their best efforts to conceal their beliefs, they always feared they would be punished and you would be taken from them.” Liam hesitated. “Then there were your particular gifts.”

“Gifts?”

“From your first words, you would have conversations with yourself. At first they thought you were mad. Then they realized that some of what you said came true. One day, you told
them very clearly, ‘Men will be coming for me. I must go to the forsaken city.’ It was that wording, so unusual for a child, that convinced them you had access to something the rest of us are denied. Interaction with the Companions, perhaps Comdiu Himself.

“It didn’t take them long to figure out what the ‘forsaken city’ meant. I told Lady Fionnuala I would look after you and give you a good life at Ard Dhaimhin. I have done my best to keep that vow.”

Words wouldn’t come. All these years believing he had been abandoned, unwanted, when really he had been left for his own safety, at his own request. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Liam bowed his head and studied his clasped hands. “I don’t know. Selfishness, perhaps. I never had a family of my own, and you were as close to a son as I would ever get. Perhaps I thought if you knew your family was still out there, you would want to look for them.”

Eoghan would have, in his younger years. Now it was a wound so old and calloused that to reopen it would cause everyone unnecessary pain. “You should have told me.”

Liam raised his head, pain flashing through his expression. “I know. Eoghan, I have made many mistakes in this life. Taking you as my apprentice and my successor was not one of them. I have fumbled along, trying to follow my imperfect understanding of Comdiu’s will. Sometimes I have done good. Sometimes I have not. But you, Eoghan
 
—I have always known that you would be a different person, a different leader. Maybe it’s the product of your particular gifts, or maybe you are just a better man than I. Don’t repeat my mistakes. Seek the counsel of Comdiu. Follow His instruction.”

Eoghan sat silent for a moment. “Conor told me the same thing once.”

“Conor was another of my mistakes. I didn’t understand until it was too late . . . Ah, but that doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You had the right to know you were not abandoned because of a lack of love but because your family loved you too much to do otherwise.”

It was too much to take in at once. Eoghan’s gaze fell on the piece of vellum in Liam’s hand. “What’s that?”

“A letter to you from your mother.” He held it out.

Slowly, Eoghan unfolded it. Elegant script traveled across it in neat rows.

My dearest son,

I am sorry we had to give you up. We tried to hide you and your gifts, but you insisted you would be caught. You seem to believe I will come with you to Ard Dhaimhin. I am sorry that I cannot. Know that your father and I love you very much. We will always love you. We wish you the life that you deserve.

Your mother,

Fionnuala

Eoghan flipped it over. That was it? She was sorry? No more explanation than what Liam had already given? Aye, it was good to know they had loved him, that they regretted having to leave him with strangers. But there was nothing more about them, not even his father’s name. Had it not been for Liam’s memory, he would not even know his mother’s clan.

Eoghan handed the vellum back to his master, his heart heavy. He had longed for this moment his entire life, and now that it was here, it made no difference. He had still been raised among men in a life he did not choose for himself. He had still been a pawn in others’ games. He hadn’t the opportunity to
know his family, to court a girl, to be married and have his own children someday, all because they had trusted a word of a three-year-old over their desire to protect him themselves.

And how is that any different than the boys coming to Ard Dhaimhin to escape Keondric’s army? You said you didn’t blame them. You said you would have done the same thing.

That was different.

Because it’s you. Because you want to believe you were wronged. Because you do not want to acknowledge that perhaps it was My plans that Liam carried out and not his own.

Eoghan rose, convicted by the sharp words in his mind. “I need some time to think.”

Liam returned the stools to their place in the corner. “Come to my study when you’re ready to continue. There is more we have to discuss, and our time is growing short.”

Eoghan nodded, barely hearing the words. He pushed through the door and strode down the hall.

So perhaps it hadn’t been Liam’s decision at all. That just left a single, uncomfortable realization.

Comdiu was the one he should have been angry with all along.