The Sword and the Song (12 page)

Conor nodded.

The man seemed to straighten then. “As a representative of the High King, you will have our help. And we will trust that you will remember your friends when the time comes.”

“I need something to do.
”

At the first strains of a feminine voice, Eoghan looked up from the tallies he was reviewing. Morrigan stood in the doorway in her borrowed gown, her demure posture at odds with the irritation in her voice. He nodded to the two guards behind her, who promptly stepped outside and closed the door.

“I’m sorry that you’re finding our hospitality lacking,” Eoghan said, careful to keep any hint of sarcasm from his tone. “I’m afraid we don’t have many things of interest to the feminine mind. Perhaps one of the launderers would send up their mending.”

“You know very well that’s not what I mean.” Morrigan circled the chair opposite him and plopped herself down without waiting for an invitation. “And feminine pursuits were hardly what I had in mind.”

“You must forgive my confusion. After all, you seem determined to convince us that you are a lady and no threat. And don’t ladies like such things as embroidery and music?”

He waited for a caustic comeback, knowing that he was
intentionally baiting her, but she just stared at him unblinkingly. Then her manner changed. “Very well. What do you want from me?”

“The truth.”

“I’ve already given you the truth.”

“Only bits of it, and only the parts you want us to know. Which I’m afraid still leaves your intentions suspect.”

“If Conor were here
 
—”

“Who do you think ordered you kept in your chambers having minimal contact with others? If Conor, who you seem to think knows you so well, thinks you’re a threat, then so do I.”

“What do you need from me to convince you that I’m telling the truth?”

“Let Aine read you.”

“Are we past pretending she’s merely the wife of my foster brother, then?”

Eoghan simply stared at her.

Morrigan shrugged. “She’s already tried. Unsuccessfully it seems, given your dismay over my supposedly nefarious intentions. What makes you think that she’d have any better luck this time around?”

“I think you know exactly why she can’t read you, and I think you can let her around whatever that protection is.”

“I would if I could,” Morrigan said. “But I’m afraid I’m not conscious of doing anything.”

Even urging himself caution, Eoghan found himself stretching to believe her. She was an appallingly good liar. Every single thing she said so far had been true. Aine had tried reading her, unsuccessfully. And everything in him believed her when she said she was not consciously doing anything to block Aine’s ability.

Which meant that she was using some sort of object, spell, or passive trick to prevent them from gaining access to the truth.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said finally. “I’ll have a book of devotional readings sent to your room for entertainment. Brothers?”

“Wait.” Morrigan thrust her hand out to stop him just as the door opened. Eoghan gave a slight shake of the head and they retreated again. “If I tell you the truth about why she can’t read my thoughts, you must promise me that you won’t try to strip me of it.”

“Why would I promise that?”

She chewed her bottom lip, a gesture he was sure she used to convey vulnerability even when she felt quite the opposite. “Because the thing that prevents Aine from reading me also prevents Keondric from locating me.”

The air in Eoghan’s lungs momentarily turned to mortar; he couldn’t relax his muscles enough to draw a breath. When he finally did regain full function, he couldn’t figure out which question to ask first. Inquire what could block Keondric’s notice of her, or ask why the druid would be looking for her in the first place? He finally settled for an order. “Tell me.”

“I am not spying for him. I told you the truth about that. But I know enough about his movements, his interest in Ard Bealach, for him to take an interest in my whereabouts once it’s reported that I’m missing. Do you think that even behind Ard Dhaimhin’s wards he couldn’t locate me?”

“What is this thing of which you speak? An object? An amulet?”

She met his eyes. “A rune.”

“A rune,” he repeated faintly. “Where? How? Show me.”

“Are you sure? It requires a more intimate view than I would normally offer.” At his confused look, she explained, “It was placed over my heart.”

“Oh? Oh.” He called for the guards again. “Bring Lady Aine, please. She’s needed immediately.”

Morrigan looked amused by his cautiousness, so he swiftly changed the subject. “Where did you learn about this rune? Meallachán?”

“I cannot say. I made a vow to keep that a secret, and it must remain so. But if this is the price of trust, then I will show you
 
—or Aine
 
—and you can do with the knowledge as you will.”

She threw the offer out so casually, much as she had with Meallachán’s whereabouts, that he was tempted to believe her. But he also knew this was probably just a strategy. Give them the information that seemed most important but was easiest for them to learn on their own. Hold back the details for her own purposes, all the while seeming as if she were cooperating. Maybe he was giving her too much credit, but he didn’t think so. Every instinct told him not to underestimate her.

Just when the silence began to stretch to awkwardness, the door opened again and Aine walked into the room. She stopped short when she saw Morrigan. “You called for me?”

“Morrigan has shared a very important piece of information with me. She’s in possession of something that might be of particular interest to you.”

“My lord?”

“A rune.”

Aine’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? In what form?”

“That’s what I’ve called you here to determine. Since it is positioned in a rather delicate location . . .” He crossed his arms and deliberately turned his back.

From the rustle of fabric, he assumed Aine was helping her unlace her dress, a bit of knowledge he would rather not have at the moment. Maybe he should have stepped out of the room. Then Aine stifled a cry, and he spun automatically, his hand on his dagger.

Morrigan clutched her bodice, but not before he caught sight
of the angry red marks emblazoned at the top of her breast. “You were branded?” The words spilled out before he realized he was still staring. Blood rushed to his face in a humiliated flush, and he turned his back to her once more. “You said we had to promise not to take it from you? If it’s burned into your skin, how do you think we’d manage that?”

“The usual way, my lord. Knives and fire.” Morrigan kept her tone wry, but he sensed the tremor beneath it. Did she actually believe they would torture her for the sake of the information she might carry?

Aye, he decided, especially considering she’d spent years among men who wouldn’t hesitate to do that very thing.

“You should let me find you some salve for that,” Aine murmured. He sensed movement, assumed she was helping Morrigan back into the dress. “It’s healing, but it could still become infected. This was done very recently.”

“Aye, it was.”

“There are easier ways to do such a thing with ink.”

“Runes are very particular. They must be done quickly and accurately. Drawing it on makes it potentially ineffective, and tattooing takes too long.”

“So instead you mutilated yourself,” Eoghan said.

“I’m so sorry,
my lord
, that you don’t approve of my choices. Once you’ve experienced life outside of your precious High City, perhaps then you’ll have earned the right to comment on what I have found it necessary to do.”

Eoghan spun to face Morrigan, who looked angry enough to spit fire, but he couldn’t voice his irritated reply. He deflated. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It was a difficult choice, I’m sure.”

“Why, my lord? Because I’ll never find a husband now that I’m branded like a common whore?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Because you will bear it for the rest of
your life, whether you want it or not. You may find it needful to be without it someday, and that can’t happen. Now, tell us what it means.”

“I don’t know, exactly. It was given to me to make me invisible to magic. That’s how it was explained.”

“Any magic?”

“If Aine can’t read me and she possesses what I assume is a gift of Balus and the sorcerer can’t use his ability on me, then aye, I would assume any magic.”

Eoghan’s mind reeled with the possibilities. This might be exactly what they were looking for. “Aine, can you reproduce it so I can see it?”

“Aye.” She moved to his table and found a blank wax tablet and stylus, then carefully sketched the mark: a circle with several intersecting and oblique lines. Instantly, a word came to mind.

“Shield.”

“What?” Aine and Morrigan asked simultaneously.

“The rune means ‘shield.’ That’s why it blocks magic. You’ve essentially made yourself immune to magic.” He shook his head while he tried to work through the implications. “That’s incredible. Do you have any gifts yourself? I wonder if it would block
you
using magic as well.”

“I don’t think so. None of my blood has ever shown any inclination toward Balus’s gifts.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner, Morrigan?” Aine asked.

“I find it’s better to give out one’s information sparingly,” Morrigan replied. “Especially not knowing what you suspected about runic magic.”

“I must understand where you learned this,” Eoghan said. “The questions that could be answered . . .”

“No. I promised I would not tell anyone, and I keep my promises.” She focused a hard look on Eoghan. “Do you?”

It was a clear challenge, a test. Did he want information on the runes enough to break his word? Somehow he felt there was no good answer: be thought untrustworthy or weak; break her confidence or reveal his vulnerabilities.

“Aye. I keep my promises. All of them.” He seated himself behind the desk again. “That’s also why I’m not going to promise you can leave your chamber. I told you I expected the complete truth from you, and what you’ve told us is only what you have seen fit to share. But I’m true to my word. We won’t force you.”

Despite the fact she had to be angry with his decision, she bowed her head graciously. “I appreciate knowing that you are a man of your word at least.”

Eoghan gave her a crisp nod. “You may leave. Your guards will take you back. Lady Aine, a word?” He waited until Morrigan left the room and counted to ten to make sure they could not be overheard. “Your impressions.”

“Not very helpful, I’m afraid. She’s either skilled at lying or skilled at telling her way around the truth so she doesn’t look as though she’s lying. And this rune . . . With some study, this could prove to be very useful indeed. I don’t understand why she would have given up something this important without earning anything in return.”

“I agree.” Eoghan tented his fingers against his lips. “Something tells me she’s playing a long game, and this was a sacrifice she had planned all along.”

“Every piece down to her last one,” Aine murmured. “Conor warned me she was strategic.”

“What else did he warn you about?”

“That she was arrogant enough to believe she could always win.”

Eoghan stared at the door Morrigan had just walked through. Considering how well she had been playing them all this time, Conor just might be right.

Oenghus and the men stayed the night
in their camp, and after everyone was adequately assured the Clanless wouldn’t slaughter them in their sleep, they were glad for the extra numbers.

The next morning, however, Oenghus issued several quiet orders, and half the party disappeared back into the canyon. “Spreading the word,” he said. Conor could only hope the message was to stand down attacks on his and Daigh’s parties.

But Oenghus seemed to be sincere in his promise to help. “You don’t look like our people, and no one will be fooled by those disguises. Here.” He pulled the fur mantle from his shoulders and swapped it for Conor’s cloak, taking the fine piece of wool for himself.

“Are you sure you don’t just want my cloak?” Conor asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh, aye, I want your cloak. But that doesn’t negate the fact that it shows you as Fíréin as surely as your weaponry does.”

“You’re not going to try to take those, I’d assume.”

“No, your weapons you keep. We’re generous in that way.”

“So very generous,” Conor replied with a snort. “You also aren’t confident you could actually accomplish it.”

“That as well.”

The sparkle in Oenghus’s eyes made Conor think he simply enjoyed his bluster. Despite his doubts, he found himself liking the man. When they started back down the canyon, he waited for the Clanless party’s leader to fall in beside him.

“Most people think the Clanless are merely bedtime stories to scare children into obeying. ‘If you don’t behave, you’ll be thrown out of the keep, and you’ll have to go live with the Clanless.’”

“Aye, and they say we eat children with our pointed monster’s teeth as well.” Oenghus grinned. “Either way, the rumors are good for us. Those who believe are too frightened to come look for us, and the rest don’t bother us.”

“Like the Fíréin.”

“Like the Fíréin.” He looked Conor over appraisingly. “But those rumors are mostly true, now, aren’t they?”

“Mostly. But you, Oenghus, you can’t tell me you are not an educated man. So how did you come to be Clanless in the first place?”

“Like most of us do, I suppose. Anyone who challenges his clan, particularly in Sliebhan, finds himself cast off. For me, I wouldn’t bow to the old gods. Our mam raised us to believe in Balus and the One True God Comdiu, but our da was loyal to the warrior gods until the day he died. He made it so I couldn’t inherit his title, couldn’t marry, couldn’t find a profession. So I left. Wandered a bit. Fell in with the Clanless here in the mountains.”

“How many of you are there?”

Oenghus cast another appraising look at Conor. “More than you probably think.”

Fair enough. The man didn’t want to reveal too much, and Conor couldn’t blame him. He probably believed that the Fíréin
would think of them as threats, even though Conor was really feeling out whether or not they could be potential allies.

“What about the sidhe?” Conor asked finally. “If you dwell in these passes, surely they are attracted to your presence. Don’t you have problems with them causing disturbances among your people?”

“The Fíréin know of the sidhe?”

“Firsthand.”

“Then you know there are ways to block their influence.”

Conor thought of the charm beneath his tunic. “Aye, I do.”

“So do we.”

So the sharing would go only so far. That, too, he could understand. But Conor didn’t see any evidence that the Clanless warriors were wearing amulets of any sort. Were there other ways to defend against the spirits?

Conor thought they had seen the last of the party that had split off that morning, but when they made camp around a small fire again after nightfall, one of the men
 
—Oscar, Conor thought
 
—reappeared with a brace of rabbits over his shoulder. He tossed them to Conor, who passed them off to Larkin and Ferus to skin.

“You’re our guests,” Oenghus explained. “We show hospitality to our guests.”

“And if we attempted to hunt in
your
territory?”

Oenghus just shrugged, but Conor had the feeling these Clanless men were every bit as territorial as the Fíréin when it came to their livelihood.

They were just finishing the last greasy pieces of rabbit meat cooked over a spit and sharing around the last bit of tea when a familiar voice broke into Conor’s consciousness. He excused himself and stepped into the shadows.

Aine? I’m here.

Thank Comdiu.

Why, is something wrong?

Her long pause made his heart stutter.
No, not wrong
, she said at last.
Just puzzling. Morrigan is branded. With a rune.

Conor frowned into the darkness. If anyone were watching him, they’d likely think him insane.
I don’t understand. What kind of rune?

One that means “shield.” Once she showed it to us, Eoghan identified it. This is why I haven’t been able to read her. This rune blocks magic completely.

Where did she get it?

She wouldn’t tell us. Said she had made a solemn vow not to reveal its source.

Aine, how recent is the brand?

Weeks, perhaps. It’s still not healed. Why?

What he was thinking was completely impossible and yet the only logical explanation. He looked back at Oenghus and his four men. Could they have been the ones who gave her the rune? And how would they have come across such a thing?

We’ve made contact with the Clanless
, Conor said.
They seem to have some way to keep the sidhe from affecting them. Perhaps they branded her.

The Clanless? How is that possible?

I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Tomorrow night I’ll tell you what I’ve learned. And, Aine?

Aye?

Be careful. Just because she shared that fact with you doesn’t make her less dangerous.

Aye, I know. I love you, Conor.

And I love you.
He felt it the moment she disconnected from his mind, registered the loss. It wasn’t like being physically present with her, but after so many separations, the fact they could
speak in their minds was a comfort. It was also a concern. He could feel her worry and her wariness through her words, even if she didn’t realize she was transmitting it. He returned to the fire and lowered himself to his spot atop his bedroll.

“Everything all right?” Larkin asked in a low voice.

“Aye, it’s fine.” He directed his attention to Oenghus, sitting across the fire. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The rune.”

When Oenghus simply stared at him, Conor sighed. “The one you branded my sister with. The one you use to keep the sidhe from affecting your people.”

For a moment, Conor thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Oenghus smiled. “So you figured it out, did you? Took you long enough. Aye, I gave her the rune.”

“Why?”

“Because she was afraid she would be tracked. And anyone coming from Ard Bealach would not want to be tracked.”

“So you do know something about the fortress. Tell me.”

“There have been whispers. People who have heard screaming. Rumors of experiments.”

“What kind of experiments?”

“The kind that people think if they don’t talk about never really happened.”

Conor heaved a sigh. So things were as bad as they thought. “Tell me this, then. She was afraid she would be tracked. Does that mean that Lord Keondric has been here with the druid?”

Oenghus smiled. “Aye, both of them. And you know why.”

So he knew that Keondric
was
the druid. How did someone supposedly out of touch with the matters of the kingdoms know so much? It sounded as though the Clanless kept a better eye on the situation than the Fíréin. “Show me this rune.”

Oenghus nodded toward Oscar, who immediately unlaced his shirt and pulled down the neckline to show a pale white scar directly over his heart. Conor studied it for a moment. It was old and puckered, a sign that this was not a recent discovery.

“Where did you learn it?”

The Clanless men exchanged a glance and remained silent.

“This is a magic that no one has known for half a millennium, and you’re wearing it casually on your body. I want to know where you learned it.”

“The Fíréin do not have an exclusive right to magic,” Oenghus said. “Nor do they have a right to make demands in my territory. We have answered your questions out of courtesy. Don’t mistake our willingness for cowardice.”

Conor bowed his head slightly and tempered his tone. “Forgive me. But you must understand, this is an old magic, one that we believe predates even Balus’s gifts in Seare. It may be our best chance of stopping the druid and once more binding the sidhe. It’s important that we learn all we can about it.”

“That may be, but you will not learn it from us. You have your secrets; we have ours.”

But they had shared this secret, and it was one they could use. He picked up a stick and sketched the rune in the dirt at his feet. “What effect does it have on a person? Does it work only if it’s branded?”

Oenghus and the other Clanless stared at him openmouthed.

“What?” Conor asked.

“You can remember it.”

“Of course I can remember it.”

The other men exchanged a glance. So this rune was like the throne, not universally recognized for what it was. Perhaps to many people, it looked like a scar or a tribal marking. “What would happen if I drew it on?”

“The rune depends on its precision,” Oenghus finally answered. “You could draw the marking, but if it became blurred, there is no telling what could happen. It could kill the wearer. It could simply stop working. We don’t know enough about it to risk the impermanence.”

“Hence the brand.”

“Aye.”

Conor stared silently into the fire as he considered. This could be a solution to the problem of the sidhe, but it was also risky. He couldn’t ask his men to take the chance that a smudged marking would kill them, and he wasn’t about to have them brand it permanently into their skin until he understood exactly how it worked.

Now their mission at Ard Bealach
 
—to retrieve the bard Meallachán alive and whole
 
—was more important than ever.