Beneath the Forsaken City (5 page)

Cass yanked his boot off. The swelling in his ankle was completely gone. He probed the flesh experimentally, but the expected twinge never came.

Impossible. Just this afternoon he was cursing his gout and limping around deck. And now . . .

He thought back through the day’s events. A slow smile spread across his face. The girl. When she had touched him, a jolt of energy had flashed through him, so quickly he’d written it off as imagination. Oh, this just kept getting better.

“What are you looking so pleased about?”

Cass’s grin widened. “Miach, my friend, the gods have smiled on us today.” Perhaps that comfortable retirement was not as far out of reach as he’d thought.

Aine sat up in the berth
and rubbed her swollen eyes. It must be morning, though she couldn’t tell from the windowless cabin’s unchanging light. It took several moments to register the change in the ship’s motion from the rocking of waves at anchor to the forward momentum of the oars. They were going ashore.

Her stomach backflipped at the idea. Would she hear that the
Resolute
had been among the storm’s casualties? Or would there be no word at all? Dún Caomaugh was far from Fermaigh. Wreckage would be washing up on the Aronan coast for weeks, and if Conor had perished at sea, she might never learn what had happened to him.

Aine splashed water from the basin onto her face and neck. She couldn’t lose hope until she knew something for certain.

A sharp rap on the door made her dry her face quickly and straighten her borrowed clothing. The captain poked in his head, his eyes averted. “Lady Aine. May I enter?”

“Of course, Captain. It’s your cabin.”

“We’ve docked,” he said, and Aine realized that the motion
had indeed stopped. He held out a cloak. “We will be going ashore soon. You should put this on.”

An unexpected spike of fear skewered her as she took the garment. She clutched it to her chest as if it could offer her some protection against the unknown.

Minutes later, Aine disembarked from the
Beacon
, accompanied by the captain and several crewmen. She surveyed the teeming dock quarter from the safety of the cloak’s voluminous hood. Thickly muscled men secured the vessels to the docks with heavy ropes; fishermen unloaded their catches; merchants transported chests and casks to and from their ships in oxcarts. Farther in, hawkers’ carts displayed their wares, from fish and produce to leather goods and cloth.

At last, they stopped before a tiny inn, little more than a large thatched-roof cottage at the quiet end of a market street. Tantalizing scents wafted from a nearby bakery, and the soft whicker of horses came from a stable down the way. They were comforting details, familiar.

Aine followed Mac Onaghan into the structure, where a balding man, about five-and-thirty, greeted them. “Cass, the room’s ready as you asked. Come with me.”

“The room is for my young friend,” Cass told the innkeeper as they passed through the common room to the back corridor. “See that she isn’t disturbed. She’s had a difficult few days and could use the quiet.”

The innkeeper glanced back at Aine. “She’ll take her meals in her room, then?”

“Aye, thank you. And could Ingrid find her some clothing? I think she’s your daughter’s size.”

“Sure thing, Cass. Will you be back later to check on her, or should I
 
—?”

“I’ll be back at sundown.”

Cass ushered her into the room and then quickly shut the door behind them. Aine dropped back her hood, taking her first easy breath since setting foot on shore. “You seem to be on good terms with the innkeeper.”

“Alan is my nephew. You’ll be safe here alone, and nobody will disturb you. His wife, Ingrid, will see to your needs while I’m gone. I’ll check on you before I go back to the ship for the night. Will you be all right?”

“Aye, I’ll be fine. Will you ask after the
Resolute
while you’re here?”

“I will. Don’t get your hopes up, though. If you were bound for Fermaigh, no one here would have any reason to hear of it.” Cass opened the door and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Rest. I’ll be back later.”

Only after the captain left and she latched the door behind him did she realize she was still wearing his cloak. Quickly, she unlocked the door again and poked her head into the empty corridor. Muted voices coaxed her toward the common room.

“I need this message to go to Lord Riagain with all haste,” a man said in a low tone.

Aine’s heart rose into her throat when she recognized the captain’s voice. Surely it wasn’t what it sounded like. He’d promised.

“Are you sure about this, uncle?” Alan asked. “You know very well
 
—”

“It isn’t as if we have a choice, and you know it. Just look after the girl until his men arrive. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere. And don’t use the regular courier. Go to the Piper’s Gate. Their messengers ask fewer questions.”

“I don’t like it, Cass. But I don’t want to anger Lord Riagain any more than you do.”

Blood pounded in Aine’s ears. She backed slowly away from
the doorway until she bumped into something solid behind her. A hand clapped over her mouth before she could scream.

“Not a sound, or we’re both in trouble,” a heavily accented female voice said in her ear.

Aine froze and then nodded. When the hand went away, she turned to find a tall blonde woman standing behind her.

“Back to your room,” the woman whispered. “Quickly.”

She dragged Aine down the corridor and then shoved her inside her room, shutting the door behind them. “You must leave now.”

Aine stared at her. “Who are you?”

“Ingrid. Alan’s wife. As soon as they send that message, Lord Riagain’s men will come for you. And if they take you to Brightwater, you will not leave.”

For the second time in a handful of minutes, Aine felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. “How long do I have?”

“If you’re smart, you’ll get as far as you can before Cass knows you’re gone. Get dressed. I’ll put together some food.” Ingrid shoved a neatly folded stack of clothing at her and disappeared out the door.

Aine took the clothing numbly, her hands trembling too hard to undress. She squeezed them together and took deep breaths while she willed calm into her nerves.

“Pull yourself together, Aine. You can do this. You’ve faced down much worse than a little walking by yourself.”

She rode that conviction long enough to strip off the boy’s clothing and pull on the items Ingrid had brought her: a long-sleeved linen shift and a dusky pink sleeveless gown. They fit as if they had been made for her, though the style was clearly meant for a younger girl. She clasped the captain’s cloak around her neck. No one would be looking for her until later, and with
the garment to conceal her, she should be able to safely travel the main road without anyone guessing her identity.

That thought made her insides quiver, so she spent the next several minutes concentrating on the breath moving in and out of her lungs. By the time Ingrid returned with a canvas pack and a water skin, Aine had almost convinced herself she was calm.

“There’s enough food for two days if you’re careful,” Ingrid said. “You’ll have to refill the skin as you go. I couldn’t spare any coin; Alan would notice. If you can travel with other women and children, do. Otherwise you’re safest alone.” She helped Aine put on the pack before draping the cloak over her again.

“Why are you doing this?” Aine asked.

Ingrid didn’t meet her eyes. “I’ve spent more time in captivity than I care to remember. I won’t condemn you to that fate. If you strike out due east from the inn, you’ll hit the road north.” She gave Aine a long, regretful look, as if she knew the immensity of the undertaking. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

Aine nodded and then impulsively threw her arms around Ingrid. “Thank you. I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.”

“Oh, I can cause enough trouble for myself without your help. Don’t waste your worry on me. Be safe and go with Comdiu.”

Somehow, Aine found herself on the street.
Due east
. She got her bearings and struck out down the road at a steady pace. She felt as if she must have a sign announcing her intentions tacked to her back, but no one gave her a second look.

Once she reached the North Road, stark fear propelled her forward and she had soon cleared the boundaries of Dún Caomaugh. The city was small after all. Too bad. It wouldn’t take them long to determine she wasn’t hiding in town. Riagain’s men would send riders down all the main roads, and unless she left them in favor of open country, they would soon catch up to her.

Please, Lord. I know you provided this escape for me. How else
can I explain Ingrid’s help? I have to trust that You won’t allow me to be captured. I don’t know how You will do it, but I trust that You will.

Her energy wore away quickly, reminding her that less than a day ago, she had been fished out of the ocean, unconscious. She didn’t even know how long she had been there, since she kept forgetting to ask what day it was. The road stretched endlessly before her, but still she continued steadily, her head bowed and her eyes down. From time to time, horses and carts passed in each direction, but no one seemed to notice her.

By the time the sun set, Aine’s legs and feet ached, blisters burning inside her ruined boots. She had no idea how many miles she had covered, but it couldn’t be more than seven or eight. Forrais still lay hundreds of miles away. It was a depressing thought.

Once the sun dipped completely below the horizon, Aine gave up the pretense that she was capable of continuing. She chose a small stand of ash trees several paces from the road to make her camp, aware of how helpless and unprepared she was. She had no tinder box or flint, so there would be no fire to warm her tonight. She didn’t even have a blanket beyond the oversized cloak, nor a knife with which to defend herself.

She had never been so completely dependent on Comdiu’s mercy for her survival.

Perhaps that’s the point.

The thought stunned her. Could Comdiu have allowed her isolation as a lesson in trust? She had embarked on her tasks in Faolán with the faith He would keep her from harm through her loyal guards. But her trust had still been a step removed. It was all too easy to give credit to human hands.

Aine hugged her arms around herself. The temperature was falling steadily, warning of a cold night to come. She forced
herself to eat a few bites of bread and cheese and drank from the water skin she had refilled earlier in the day. It took far too little time, and the long, lonely night stretched ahead of her.

She’d never really been alone. The fearless woman who had surveyed wards on the battlefield and led men into Fíréin territory seemed far away now. It had been borrowed courage, born from her reliance on those men’s capability. How little had she valued them when they were alive?

She hugged her arms to herself, staggered by the unexpected, crushing weight of loss. It took her a full minute to catch her breath and even longer for her swimming vision to clear.
Dear Lord
, she began, but she couldn’t put the prayer into words. The grief was too raw, too close. She curled up at the base of the tree, her head pillowed on her arm, the cloak wrapped around her. Tears pricked her eyes. The ache in her heart only intensified when she tried not to think of Conor. Had Comdiu allowed them to be separated to make her realize how much she depended on her earthly support?

The night stretched on endlessly. The normal sounds of the dark countryside
 
—animals scrabbling for food, the chirp of crickets, the muffled flap of an owl’s wings
 
—took on an ominous cast, awakening her after short snatches of sleep. Toward dawn, she rolled over and murmured something to Conor before she remembered only cold ground lay beside her. That brought on another wave of tears that didn’t subside until the sun crested the horizon.

When consciousness returned to Conor,
it brought with it blinding pain, layer upon layer. He ground his teeth, his mind too consumed by agony to remember where he was or how he had gotten there. It felt as though he were dying slowly, the life dragged from him with every breath, every heartbeat.

“Stay still,” came a quiet, oddly accented voice in his ear. “Drink this.”

Something cool and smooth
 
—an earthenware cup
 
—pressed against his lips, and cold water trickled into his mouth. He swallowed automatically. The liquid seared a path down his parched throat.

Despite his sticky, swollen eyes, Conor could see shafts of light cutting into the darkness all around him. Where was he?

Immediately, the answer came to him. The beach. The brief questioning. A Sofarende camp.

Aine.

Her image sprang up before his eyes, bringing with it a crushing blow of grief. Surely she was dead. She could not have
survived the angry sea. She had been on the verge of going under when he had struggled through the waves toward her.

Oh, my love. Not you. I can’t . . .
His thoughts dissolved into a meaningless jumble, an ache far worse than his physical pain. Aine was dead, and he would not leave this camp alive. The fact he was still here seemed like a cruel joke.

The cup pressed against his lips again, but Conor turned his head away. He was injured and ill from exposure. If he didn’t eat or drink, he would just slip away in his sleep. It would be better this way. There was nothing left for him if she was gone.

But Conor underestimated his body’s determination and the persistence of his unknown caretaker. When he awoke later, trembling with fever, he gulped down the water gratefully. Something cool and damp lay across his forehead, chasing away some of the fever, and his shaking gradually subsided.

Just let me die
, he begged, but again and again he drank the water that was offered to him before lapsing into unconsciousness.

Then one day, Conor became aware of the soft drip-drip of water somewhere above him. He opened his eyes, surprised they obeyed his bidding. He focused on the small space of gray that indicated a gap in the thatched roof and followed the drip to where it fell on his bare chest.

He didn’t feel it land.

Panic surged through his veins as he commanded his body to move, but it remained heavy and unresponsive. He cast about with his eyes, the only part of him that seemed to obey his bidding. He was in a goat pen, lying naked on a bed of hay. Had they simply cast him here to die?

Then a blurry face surfaced in his vision. He blinked until it resolved into a clear image: angular and fine-boned, light eyes, dark hair. A scruffy beard covered the bottom half of the man’s face.

“Calm yourself.” Conor recognized the man’s peculiar accent as belonging to the slave who had translated his words when he was captured. The man pressed a cup to Conor’s lips, and cool liquid slid over his tongue.

“Why can’t I move?” Conor whispered, hating the tremor in his voice.

“Don’t worry. It’s just the all-heal. You were thrashing so much while you were unconscious, I thought you might puncture your lung. Your ribs are broken, I think.”

The man spoke with knowledge and authority, but Conor still stared. “Who are you?”

“My name is Talfryn. I’m a prisoner here, like you.”

Talfryn. The man was Gwynn. That explained the accent. Conor closed his eyes. “You should have let me die.”

“I couldn’t. Haldor’s orders.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. You should be dead already. It wasn’t as if they didn’t try.”

Conor turned his head away, determined not to take any more food or water. What was the point of living when he would only languish in a Sofarende prison? What was the point of enduring any more suffering when the only person who mattered to him was gone?

To his chagrin, sleep eluded him, even though he couldn’t move from his position on the floor. Guards retrieved Talfryn at midday, leaving Conor alone in the shed with nothing to do but stare. His Fíréin training had not deserted him: his heart said he wanted to die, but his mind still surveyed his surroundings, considering avenues of escape.

The structure itself was not a problem. From the breeze and the movement of animals in and out, he guessed that one entire side was open. But the scuff of feet and occasional low voices
outside told him he was being guarded. It hardly mattered when the all-heal kept him immobilized on the filthy ground.

Then one morning, he reached up to scratch his neck and froze. He flexed his hand and then wiggled his toes, triumph rushing through him. Apparently Talfryn had backed off the herbs. Conor pushed himself upright on his elbows and then just as quickly collapsed back onto the hay.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. Who would have known broken ribs could hurt so much? Gingerly he palpated his body, looking for other injuries. Bruises covered him from head to toe, and the cuts in his scalp still felt swollen and raw, but the ribs seemed to be the worst of his injuries.

He waited until his breathing steadied and then gathered all his energy to push himself into a sitting position against the wall. Another bolt of pain ripped through him. This time he welcomed it. Didn’t he deserve this, for his failure? He’d had one task: to protect Aine and take her to safety in Aron, and he hadn’t even managed to do that right. All the lives taken, all the bloodshed, for naught.

Conor leaned his head back against the wall. How had he come to this? He’d wanted to be a musician, not a warrior. Even Aine had once told him there was enough fighting in this world without him contributing to it. Yet everything he had done was for her.

Without her, there had been no point to any of it.

Was that what this was all about? Was Comdiu punishing him? He’d been so sure he was meant to rescue Aine, but accompanying her to Forrais
 
—marrying her
 
—had been pure selfishness. Perhaps now he was paying for his disobedience with his life, and hers as well. If that was the case, why should he resist? He should just break for the entrance and die cleanly by one of the guards’ swords.

A too-deep breath banished that fantasy. He almost laughed, but the pain reduced it to a grimace. No. He lacked the strength even to die properly. That would have to wait, unless the Sofarende leader did it for him. Instead, Conor watched the goats come and go, counting them, naming them in his head, looking for patterns in their behavior as a way to pass the time and distract himself from his aching body.

The thud of footsteps came shortly after sundown. He turned his head, expecting Talfryn. Instead, a guard entered, scanning the dim space until his eyes lit on Conor.

“You. Eat.” He tossed him a heel of bread, but Conor couldn’t move quickly enough to catch it. It thudded to the ground several feet away. He didn’t consider what had been on the floor before he snatched it up. His stomach tossed as the first bite of bread hit it, but he still forced the food down, piece by tiny piece until he was sure his body would retain it. The stale crumbs stuck in his throat, and his eyes settled on a trough filled with murky water.

He inched across the dirt pen until he could kneel beside the trough. A slimy film lay over the top of the water, but he dipped his hands in anyway and lifted them to his mouth. The taste nearly gagged him, but at least his mouth no longer felt as if it were stuffed with dust. Then he crept back to his bed of hay and stretched out to relieve the pressure of his swollen midsection on his lungs.

Only then did he recognize the truth: for all his brave thoughts about dying a clean, honorable death, of accepting Comdiu’s punishment for his sins, he wanted to live. As long as there was the slimmest chance Aine could still be alive, he owed it to her to endure.

Which meant he had to convince this Haldor to keep him alive, no matter the cost.

Conor awoke the next morning to a nudge in the ribs that felt more like a kick. His breath hissed from between his teeth as his eyes snapped open. The light from the doorway outlined a man’s form beside him.

“Get up.” The guard pitched Conor his confiscated trousers. “Put these on. Haldor wants to see you.”

Conor struggled to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath at the stab in his side, and swayed for a moment. It took him seconds more to pick up the trousers and what felt like a year to put them on. The warrior took out a length of rope, slipped the loop over Conor’s head, and nudged him toward the doorway.

Conor squinted in the bright light, sensing more than seeing a second guard join them. The point of a weapon prodded him forward. Amusement surfaced through his pain. He was so weak from injuries and lack of food that he could barely put one foot in front of another, and they somehow thought he was dangerous enough to require two guards?

“Where are we going?” he asked in Norin. They didn’t answer.

As Conor’s eyes adjusted to the light, he took in the details of his surroundings he had neglected earlier. It was not a warrior camp but a village, the main boulevard lined with timber and crowded with long, rectangular cottages. Metal clanged
 
—a blacksmith. The putrid smells of salt, sulfur, and animal skin drifted to him
 
—a tannery. A woman gave him a curious look as she passed with a large basket in her arms, but she moved on without comment.

These were not raiders come to strip the land bare and return back home. These were settlers with women and children. In time, these foreigners would come to regard Gwydden as home,
and then they would be impossible to beat from the land. Men fought far more fiercely to defend their homes than for plunder.

At last they came to a larger longhouse down another wood-planked road. The guards pushed him through the door. The man holding his leash dragged a bench into the center of the room next to a stone hearth, and the other man shoved him down onto it. He bound Conor’s arms behind his back, looping the rope around the chair legs, and then did the same with his ankles.

“Don’t move,” one of the men said. “Haldor has given us permission to kill you if you try to escape.”

Conor studied the man. He was lying. The leader wanted him alive.

That certainly worked in his favor. He just needed to discover what the commander wanted from him. He looked around the rectangular cottage, hoping for some sort of insight into the warrior they called Haldor, but the room gave him very little. A raised wooden platform ran around the outside edges of the structure, several wooden benches and chests spaced along it. A thick straw mattress covered in woolens and furs indicated a bed, and a meager collection of cookware sat by the square wooden hearth. Haldor had no woman or children with him here. That was telling. Either he didn’t plan on staying permanently or their settlement was too tenuous to bring his family from Norin.

The door opened once more, and Conor turned his head toward it. A man stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the sides of the frame, his head brushing the lintel above. Blond hair, naturally pale rather than bleached yellow like that of the other warriors, barely reached his shoulders, brushing a blue wool cloak fastened with an intricately wrought silver pin. The pommel of a sword peeked from beneath the cloak.

The man jerked his head to the warriors in dismissal and watched Conor until the door shut behind them.

“You heal fast,” he said in Norin. “A few days ago, you would not have been able to make the journey here.”

Conor said nothing. Unlike the other Sofarende he had come across, this man was completely unafraid of him. The commander retrieved a bench from the platform and set it near Conor. His massive frame made it look as if it were sized for a child. He leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees.

“My name is Haldor the Brave. To distinguish me from my father, Haldor the Fierce.”

Still Conor said nothing. He met the man’s gaze, determined to show neither fear nor curiosity.

“I could attempt to coax information from you, but you have already shown you can endure pain. So I find myself in a quandary. You are plainly a warrior. Warriors are of no use to me. I give you a tool, you try to kill your guards. Yet you intrigue me.”