Beneath the Forsaken City (20 page)

They might have been young,
but Eoghan’s boys attacked their training with enthusiasm. Perhaps it was because he had trained Conor, who was already something of a legend among the younger brothers, a symbol of what hard work could accomplish. Or maybe it was because Eoghan treated them like men. Whatever the reason, they obeyed him unquestioningly, no matter how hard he pushed them.

The same sort of urgency he’d felt with Conor crept into the teaching of his céad, just magnified a hundredfold. He sought every edge he could give them over the enemy, bringing in some of the older brothers to give them a taste of a real fight. He dispensed with the open battlefield tactics as soon as he was sure they were reasonably proficient, teaching them instead how to use their smaller size and speed to their advantage. He taught strikes to disable their opponents: tendons, major arteries. He attempted to teach them ways to minimize exposure to their enemies’ infected blood, but how did one fight with swords without getting bloodied?

That brought him to the discussion he dreaded, even though
it was essential. Talk had been rippling through the city ever since Liam had announced that the Fíréin must ready themselves for battle.

Eoghan gathered his céad together in the stone amphitheater. A hundred pairs of earnest eyes stared back at him, but it was Breann’s, too old and wise for his age, that made him look away.

“You’ve no doubt heard the rumors about what we face. Lord Keondric has turned his eye toward Ard Dhaimhin, and he commands more than eight thousand men.”

“One Fíréin warrior is worth five of the kingdom’s,” one of the older boys called, his newly deepening voice laced with bravado.

Eoghan smiled. “That is certainly true. Yet they have a more dangerous weapon at their disposal. Keondric controls his men by sorcery, a dark magic that lives in the blood.”

“So their blood is a threat to us?” Breann asked quietly. “How do we avoid it?”

“The best you can.” Eoghan hesitated. “You must understand: no matter how well we fight, we may still lose men to the sorcery. Some may be strong enough to resist it; some may not.”

Breann looked at him. “And if we aren’t?”

He knew. The boy was prompting Eoghan along, trying to make it easier. How had an eleven-year-old gotten so wise?

“If you are infected, and you will know if you are”
 
—Eoghan hoped so, at least
 
—“the honorable thing to do is turn your blade on yourself before you can betray your brothers or infect those around you.”

Not a whisper moved through the group. Some looked at him aghast. Others had tears in their eyes, though they held them back for fear of looking weak. He didn’t blame them. It was one thing to die in battle. It was another to be defeated by a foe against which you couldn’t defend, to die by your own sword.

“And if they won’t do what needs to be done?” The older boy asked, the bravado gone. “What then?”

“If they act as an enemy, they must be treated as an enemy.”

Eoghan delivered the words quietly, but they still jolted through the gathering like a shout. The boys looked at one another, wondering if they would be called upon to kill someone with whom they had lived and trained for years.

“Archers,” Breann said.

All heads snapped around, and Breann looked startled. “Doesn’t it stand to reason we’d be best using our archers, keep them at a distance? We’ve some good bowmen in this céad.”

Eoghan nodded. The same idea had been discussed by the Conclave. The sentries and trackers would eliminate as many as they could when the druid’s army breached the borders, relying on their fading ability and stealth. Archers would attempt to decimate their numbers before they broke free of the trees into the city itself. Perhaps an obvious plan, but he was impressed by the young boy’s strategic ability. He certainly hadn’t been that aware at Breann’s age.

“You will be assigned to guard the storehouses. If he’s smart, Lord Keondric will target the things we require to live separately and independently.” Eoghan was sharing far more than he should, but if he was asking them to lay down their lives in service to the brotherhood, they deserved to understand why. “Our crops, our granaries, our animals. The flax we grow for our clothing. These things keep us from dependence on the outside world. It is more important than ever that we maintain our livelihood.”

“We will not let the enemy destroy them, sir,” one of the boys called from the back. “Will we?”

A chorus of agreement went up. Even though his heart was heavy, Eoghan smiled. “Good lads. Now take the session off to
rest and I will see you at archery. I expect a good showing from you lot.”

The boys exchanged smiles as they dispersed, far more enthusiastic about the discipline than usual. It was a solid plan, but considering the numbers they would face, it would almost certainly come down to close combat.

That night at supper, Riordan slid onto the bench across from Eoghan and folded his arms on top of the table. “What do you think of your céad?”

Eoghan looked toward his boys, scattered among the tables near the cookhouse, and his stomach clenched once more.

“I think we have a fair bit of work ahead of us. Is this what it’s like to be a parent? This queasy feeling of responsibility?”

Riordan chuckled. “In a sense. They’ve got potential, you think?”

“Aye. Some talented swordsmen in the group. I wish I could be assured they’ll live to reach that potential.”

“If anyone can see them through, it’s you. What you did with Conor
 
—”

“Has far more to do with Conor than me. Comdiu had plans for him.” Eoghan glanced up at Riordan. “What are the chances any of us will live through this? That there will be an Ard Dhaimhin left if we do?”

Riordan placed a hand on his shoulder and then disappeared back into the crowd. Eoghan looked back at his boys. The brother’s silence said enough.

A knock rattled Aine’s workshop door
a split second before it opened.

“Lady Aine, we must talk.”

She didn’t pause in her work, though the voice caused a ripple of disquiet through her body. “Lord Uallas, you should not be here alone.
We
should not be here alone.”

“In this case, my lady, I disagree.”

Aine sighed and set the pestle into the mortar before she turned. Lord Uallas stood by the door, dressed once more in his court attire, his bearing erect, even regal. Nothing to hint that he had taken an arrow meant for her only two weeks before.

“How is the wound, my lord? Any more pain?”

He took a step toward her. “As if it never happened. Which, for our purposes, I supposed it never did. Though it was difficult to convince my manservant of five years he’d simply missed two scars.”

Aine grimaced. “Does he suspect anything?”

“He suspects that perhaps I’ve been dueling without his knowledge. But does he suspect what actually happened? No.”

She sank back against her workbench. “Thank you, my lord. These matters are not easy to keep secret.”

“No. They’re not. That’s why I’m concerned for your safety. By your own insistence, we cannot investigate the ambush without admitting what happened afterward. But there is at least one person at Forrais who wants you dead, and that person saw me fall with an arrow to the chest. Yet, here I am, walking about with no indication of injury. If you think that doesn’t raise questions . . .”

She had known it would. She’d thought of little else in the two weeks since the incident. “What do you propose we do about that, my lord?”

“You must leave Forrais.”

“I’ve just received Macha’s permission to begin seeing patients. You don’t think it would be suspicious if I suddenly felt the urge to leave Forrais?”

“Not if you were to marry me.”

Aine lifted a hand to her forehead, feeling dizzy. “I am a married woman already, my lord.”

“Not by the laws of Aron. I took the liberty of consulting your aunt’s lawyers. Handfasted marriages are legal only when performed by a member of the clergy and witnessed by another of equal status.”

“And in Seare, members of the Fíréin brotherhood are granted the rights of clergy, which makes my marriage perfectly legal.”

“In Seare only.” Uallas bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lady. I do not mean to argue that your marriage was not valid before Comdiu. I do not ask you to forget your husband. But surely you can understand that your aunt wishes to see you married, and there is no legal impediment to doing so.”

Aine struggled for breath and pressed her hands against her
suddenly flushed face. “Why are you doing this? Why are you so determined to marry me?”

Lord Uallas closed the space between them and took her hand. “Aine, I fear for you. I want to protect you. I also have a young son who needs me, who needs a mother. And if what Lady Macha says is true, if you are indeed carrying a child, that child will need a father. Would you have him branded a bastard?”

Aine flinched at the moniker and looked away. Had she not feared that very thing? Not for her sake, but for the child’s?

Uallas seemed to take that as affirmation. He brought her hand to his chest, spreading her fingers over his heart. It beat steadily, if a little too fast. Her own heart sped to match it as his warmth crept into her palm. “I will not speak words of love, but I believe that will come in time, my lady. I offer you safety. Security. A home. If you carry a child now, I will gladly give him a name and an inheritance.”

Everything he said made sense. It was perfectly respectable, perfectly obvious. Then why couldn’t she breathe? Why did the light seem just a little too bright? On the edge of panic, her question came out too harshly. “And what do you expect in return, my lord?”

“That you treat my son as your own. That, Comdiu willing, we have more children. And that you use your gift on behalf of the people of Eilean Buidhe.”

Her eyes found his immediately. “My lord?”

“Unlike Lady Macha, I do not see that as a fault. Life is hard on the islands, harder than the Highlands at times. It eases my mind to know that perhaps we will not have to bury our own children before their time. Do you not want that same thing?”

“Of course I do.”

Uallas lifted her hand where it still rested on his chest and brought it to his lips. “I truly believe we will grow to love each
other. But in the meantime, a marriage based on respect and mutual need is not a sin. Consider my offer, Aine. Will you at least do that?”

Her thoughts were spinning too fast to make sense of his question. Mutely, she nodded again. He let her fingers slip from his and gave her a deep bow. “I’ll let you get back to work, then. But consider quickly, my lady. I must leave in a fortnight or I won’t make it back before the autumn snows begin.”

Uallas let himself out of the work room. As soon as the door closed, Aine sank onto her stool.

What was she going to do? Everything Uallas said sounded right. She was not foolish enough to believe she would be safe at Forrais for much longer, nor that she could escape marrying indefinitely. The lord of Eilean Buidhe would make a fine husband. He was handsome, kind, protective. He made her smile. He did not seem upset at the idea she might be carrying another man’s child. And he saw her healing ability not as witchcraft but as a gift to the people of his clan. What more could a woman ask for in a match?

Would you abandon your love for Conor that quickly? What if he’s coming to you? It would take months to make his way north on foot. Would you have him arrive to find out that you’d married another man in his absence? Could you survive knowing he still lived and you couldn’t be together? Could
he
survive?

Aine’s fingers went to the charm at her neck. She lifted the ivory to her lips, willing it to warm as it once had when she thought of him. She remembered how she had promised to keep it for him until he returned.

No. She could do nothing if there were the faintest possibility he still lived. She would wait.

Now it was just a question of who would reach her first: Conor or the person who wanted her dead.