The Sword and the Song (21 page)

No, nothing. The day has been never-ending. I’m ready to sleep. Do you have news?

Aine pushed away her pang of hurt and filled him in about Niall’s movements.

That’s interesting. He’s besieging fortresses of the old clan lords.

Aine frowned at the specificity of the comment.
How do you know that?

You forget that my education was littered with what I thought were useless facts. Not so useless, after all, apparently.

Tell me.

The fortresses in questions are all ring forts. The dry-stacked stone ones, as well as those carved out of mountains, were built in Daimhin’s time or later for the principal clan chiefs and later the four kings of Seare. But the older earthen ring forts predate the coming of Daimhin or Balianism to the isle.

So those sites had some significance to the druids. That’s why they chose to hide the runes there?

I don’t know much about that. Remember that the druids once followed Comdiu before the coming of Balus. The runes predate the coming of Balus, so there has to be some significance there; I just don’t know what it is.

Perhaps Murchadh would know. I’ll ask him.
Aine wavered on the edge of her question.
Conor, is everything okay?

Everything is fine, Aine.

He was lying to her now as surely as she had lied to Eoghan about there being nothing wrong. For a heartbeat, she was tempted to push her way into his mind and find out the truth, but at the last minute, she pulled back. Their physical distance made it harder to pick up stray thoughts; it took conscious effort to find them. That would be an invasion of his privacy he wouldn’t forgive.

I just want to help you.

Some things are beyond your help, Aine. Give me time.

Stung, Aine pulled back and broke the connection between their minds. He was rarely so severe with her, but after what he’d been through, she couldn’t criticize him too harshly.

Then several minutes later, his voice reached out to her.
Aine.

Aye, Conor?

I’m sorry. I love you. Don’t give up on me.

She let out a relieved breath.
I will love you always, no matter what.

It was true. She might sometimes doubt the timing that had led them to marry and conceive a child only to be repeatedly separated and put in danger, but she knew they were meant to be together, that their love was somehow ordained. She had to trust that, even as he pulled further away from her each day, even as the image of another woman lingered in the back of her mind.

A brother arrived with her supper, just a bowl of soup and
a large piece of bread with honey. She lifted the first spoonful to her lips and realized that it was filled with chunks of meat. Hadn’t that been one of things they talked about at the meeting, the scarcity of game and their dwindling supplies? She knew for certain there were no more active hives; this had to be the last of the honey.

She lowered the spoon back to the bowl. This was Eoghan’s doing, whether it be from his own initiative or Conor’s charge that he take care of her while he was gone. The pregnant women below, although they continued to receive full rations while the men got half, were not being served food like this. She couldn’t reject the gift, but it didn’t come without guilt.

Yet what kind of mother would she be if she didn’t do whatever it took to ensure the health of her baby?

She finished the food and set the tray aside, then climbed under the blankets with the last volume of Shanna’s journals. She could tell herself that she was killing time until she could reach Keondric, while Niall’s consciousness was sleeping, but in truth she was scared
 
—frightened of making a mistake, of tipping off the druid, of what he might do if he found out the truth.

Comdiu, give me strength for this
, she prayed, burying her face in her hands.
This is more than I can handle. This is more than I am capable of.

It didn’t take long for the answering truth to fill her: it might be too much for her to handle, but nothing was too great to accomplish with Comdiu’s help.

Before her fear could convince her to change her mind, she reached out and began searching for a mind that felt like Keondric’s. She didn’t dare call out to him lest she draw too much attention. And then, as unlikely as finding a sewing needle in a straw bale, she caught the thread of a thought that felt familiar.

Keondric, can you hear me? Keondric! Fight to the surface!

My lady? Is that you?

Aye, it’s me. Listen to me very carefully. Do you know where you are?

No, I don’t understand.

Keondric, your body was seized by the druid, but somehow your spirit did not flee. You must gain control. If you do it now, I know you can do it more frequently.

Very impressive, my lady. It’s too bad you don’t understand your gift more thoroughly.

Chills traced her skin, and her stomach dropped to her feet. Niall. She knew that voice, more by its arrogance and oiliness than by any resemblance to the voices he’d controlled while she’d known him. What had he done with Keondric? Had he heard what she’d said to him?

Oh, aye, my lady. I heard every word. Just as I hear every word you’re thinking now.

Impossible. You’re surely guessing.

Not impossible, clearly. You are a clever girl to have figured it out, though. And to try to use it against me, though obviously that will fail.

Why obviously?

Because I knew that Keondric was attempting to contact you all along. I wanted to speak to you.

Then why the charade? You knew where I was; you could have called to me.

Ah, but I did. It was only the familiarity of Keondric’s voice that broke through the noise of all the other thoughts. That must be most inconvenient for you, my dear.

She bristled at the use of the endearment, at his attempt to establish rapport. He laughed, picking up on her feelings.

I suppose it would be a complete waste of time to convince you to come join me, wouldn’t it?

You supposed correctly. I would never
 
—

No need for theatrics, my lady. A no suffices. Of course, it would be helpful for you to fully understand the nature of your child’s gifts.

Aine went cold. He couldn’t have flattened her more thoroughly if he’d tried.
How do you
 
—?

Know about your child? You give me too little credit. Now, how I felt your child’s gift, that is more impressive
 
—just not as impressive as his gift. Do you really believe that your powers just spontaneously grew? You owe much to that tiny little spark of a life in you. It would be a shame to see it snuffed out.

Now the chill changed to a flush of fury.
You dare threaten my child? You underestimate
me
if you think that I would ever allow you
 
—

Calm yourself, little one. It was not a threat. Merely an observation of what happens to expecting women when they’re under great deals of stress. You know that firsthand, don’t you?

Aine gasped and slammed the door shut on her mind, closing him out before she could think through the action. He knew about her problems. He claimed to recognize her child’s gifts, implied that her baby possessed abilities even greater than his own. Was it all manipulation, or was it truly meant as a warning?

Dizziness washed over her when she realized the depth of her mistake. This had nothing to do with her or Keondric. It was her baby he’d wanted to assess all along.

And she had just given him everything he needed to know.

In two weeks, Eoghan had managed to undo all the safety that Ard Dhaimhin had enjoyed.

He paced the Ceannaire’s office, his hands clasped behind his head, trying to think of a way around his failures, but there was none
 
—at least none that wasn’t worse than the very thing he was
trying to fix. Aine had tried to warn him of the risks of contacting Keondric, and he’d thought they were more intelligent, safe enough to take the risk. And then exactly what she’d warned them of had happened.

“Aine herself said that he already knew of the existence of Keondric’s soul.” Riordan watched him from a chair, as calm as he’d been since Aine had notified them of what had happened.

“But now he knows about her child and its gifts. That’s a concern.” Eoghan stopped pacing when the door to the chamber opened, and he waved in the newcomer. “Iomhar, come, sit.”

The young man looked surprised, but he obeyed and perched on the edge of the chair as if he were expecting a reprimand. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“No. Well, aye, but not with you. I’m reassigning you.”

“Is there something wrong with my work, sir? My céad is operating as efficiently as ever.”

“We’ve become aware of a threat to Lady Aine, and I’m assigning you to her as her guard. During daylight hours, you are not to leave her side, unless she’s in her chamber, at which point you will stand watch outside. I have already assigned a night guard to her. Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir. It’s an honor, sir.”

“Good. Now get some sleep. You’re expected at Carraigmór at dawn tomorrow.”

Iomhar stood and bowed before exiting the room. Eoghan wiped a hand over his face. At least that was taken care of. He’d feel slightly better with Iomhar by her side.

“A bit of overkill, don’t you think?”

Eoghan stopped and looked at Riordan. “She’s your daughter by marriage. I’d think you would be as concerned as I am.”

“I am concerned. But Iomhar is needed as a céad leader in the city. Taking him now puts his men at risk.”

“And Aine is one of the greatest advantages we have. The men will fight under whomever we put in command. But she cannot come to any harm.”

Riordan arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s what this is about?”

For a moment, shame and anger at Riordan’s opinion of him welled up inside, but he stuffed the feelings back down where they belonged. “It doesn’t matter what you think my motivations are. What is important is that I’m right.”

Riordan stood and gave him an abbreviated bow. “Aye, sir, understood. Conor will be back in a fortnight, though. You might want to give some thought to how you’re going to explain why his wife is Niall’s newest target.”

Eoghan watched the older man go, both baffled by and worried about his reaction. Did Riordan disagree with his actions? Or was he merely worried that Eoghan’s concern for Aine was more than strictly tactical? Either way, his actions would be the same. She was an asset, his best friend’s wife, and someone important to him. He would make sure she was protected.

Perhaps it was defiance,
or perhaps it was just the knowledge that there were preparations to be made before the city was hit with another wave of refugees, but Aine refused to hide in her chamber as Eoghan and Riordan seemed to believe she should. She rose early, washed and dressed, and opened the door of her chamber
 
—only to nearly collide into a wall of solid muscle.

“My lady.” The man standing outside her chamber gave her a short bow. “I’m Brother Iomhar.”

“I know who you are, Iomhar.” She recognized the young swordsman immediately. He was reputed to be one of Ard Dhaimhin’s best fighters and commanded a céad of his own.

“Master Eoghan assigned me to you today.”

Of course he had. She should have expected as much. “That’s not necessary.”

“He thought you’d say that.” Iomhar’s expression cracked into a good-natured smile. “But I suspect I’ll be facing a flogging should I let you out of my sight.”

Aine just shook her head, unsurprised. Eoghan was almost as bad as Conor. “Then breakfast first. I’m starving. Are you hungry?”

“No, my lady. We eat before sunrise.”

Right. Even with the influx of kingdom citizens, those Fíréin-raised men stuck to the same rigid schedule they always had. When they reached the cookhouse, it was only women and children with a smattering of men in line. The Fíréin and the more able-bodied of the kingdom’s men were already at their assignments for the day. Aine slammed down the boundaries of her mind before the hum of voices could grow into a head-splitting cacophony. The instinct had become automatic shortly after she’d arrived at Ard Dhaimhin, but having to keep herself open to both Conor and Keondric in the late hours had made it less and less natural.

Aine accepted a bowl of thin soup and a hunk of bread, then moved off to eat it away from the others, aware of Iomhar following two paces behind.

“I’m sorry you drew this duty,” she said as she settled on a patch of reasonably dry grass.

“It’s my honor.”

She tilted her head to study him. “Why?”

“You don’t remember?” When Aine shook her head, he pulled down the neck of his tunic to show a thick white scar. “You healed this when you first came. I’d suffered it in the attack on the city. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it wouldn’t heal properly. I could barely raise a sword.”

She vaguely remembered the incident, but those early days in which she had been overwhelmed by both her gift and the sheer volume of work were just a blur in her memory.

“Is that why Eoghan chose you?”

Iomhar chuckled. “Eoghan chose me because next to him and your husband, I’m the best sword in the city. Besides, you’d be hard-pressed to find a man you haven’t helped in some way, my lady.”

Aine smiled. She liked this man. Confident but not cocky. Good-humored. And quick. “What do you think about all of this?”

Iomhar sobered. “About the danger you face, or about Ard Dhaimhin in general?”

“In general.”

He thought for a long moment. “This is all temporary. Right now we’re doing the best that we can with what we have. But the real fight is still to come.”

Aine nodded slightly, sobered by his assessment. She wasn’t the only one who felt they were just holding on. In order for them to have any hope of rebuilding Seare, they needed to stop with the small, stopgap measures and end the war once and for all. But as she looked around at the men, women, and children
 
—fighters and non-fighters alike
 
—she wondered what price they would pay to accomplish it.

Iomhar chatted with her while he walked her to the healers’ cottages, so different from taciturn Ruarc and fierce Lorcan. She had been so taken in by the illusory safety of the city that she had forgotten the security she drew from a warrior’s constant presence. Iomhar was pleasant, intelligent, and kind in his demeanor, but he was also ever watchful, his eyes assessing possible threats even as he told her stories about growing up in Ard Dhaimhin. She got a glimpse of the mischievous little boy, gradually shaped and molded into a man of duty and conscience. How easily he and others like him accepted that duty, how willing they were to die to discharge it. How could she think her life was worth the constant risk to theirs? Love, she understood. But this steadfast devotion to an idea . . .

Why do you think those two things are in opposition?

The thought pierced through her own, clearly from Comdiu. She nearly stumbled from the clarity of it.

Why do you fight for people you don’t know, if not for love? Love of country, love of justice. Your knowledge that I love them and know each one. Do you not risk all for an idea?

“Lady Aine?”

Aine realized she’d stopped and shot Iomhar an embarrassed smile. “Just thinking too deeply, I suppose. I’m fine.”

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been entrusted with something important, something precious. Perhaps it was simply an insight into the heart of Comdiu.

Or perhaps it was encouragement to persevere in the face of the danger to come.

When they arrived at the healers’ cottage, Iomhar took up his post outside the door. Inside, Murchadh was already hard at work. He glanced up and nodded in her direction. “You’re looking well today, Lady Aine. Had a good night’s rest, I hope?”

Hardly
, she thought, but she just smiled. At least that was proof they’d been successful in keeping Aine’s activities quiet. She perused the freshly washed roots laid out on the table before him. “Are you making tinctures today?”

“Dandelion.” He produced a heavy-bladed knife and began to chop them into tiny, precise pieces. He nodded toward the bucket of rendered lard in the corner. “If you want, we could use a new batch of salve.”

Aine retrieved the bucket and hefted it onto the bench. They went through this salve most quickly of all their preparations. It was as good for treating blisters and skin ulcers as it was for cuts and bruises. She selected a jar of marshmallow root oil from the shelf and then added bottles of marigold and arnica extract to her apron to bring over to the bench. She quickly lost herself in the careful measurements of the recipe Mistress Bearrach had taught her during her apprenticeship at
Lisdara, stirring the oils into the fat until her arms ached from the effort of plying the wooden spoon. Then she started the painstaking process of spooning it into jars to be distributed to the other healers.

When the last of the salve was in the jars, she carried them two by two to the wooden shelving opposite the bench. “I think I’m done here. I’m going to go walk the garden and make sure the rain didn’t disturb the mulch before I go back to the fortress.”

“I thought to do the same,” he said. “I’ll accompany you.”

She looked askance at the healer. Ever since she had compelled him to tell his story to the Conclave, he’d been friendly but businesslike with her. He certainly hadn’t shown any interest in her personal plantings before or in spending any time with her beyond the tasks that he set her in the cottage.

Still, she smiled at him. “I’ll welcome the company.”

The older man removed his apron and followed her out of the cottage silently. He lifted an eyebrow at Iomhar’s presence, then frowned when the young man followed them into the garden. “Acquired a new shadow?”

“You know Eoghan,” she said with a smile, hoping he’d leave it at that. But Murchadh seemed content to just walk beside her. Sure enough, the mulch that she’d mounded around the trimmed stalks of her chamomile plants had slid away in the overnight rain. She picked her way through the rows, brushing the mulch up where it belonged, pressing down earth that had begun to crumble from the hills.

“Your monk’s collar is looking sickly,” Murchadh said, moving to a row of bushy plants. He used his knife to dig down beside the roots of one of them. “See here?”

Aine knelt beside him. “A little pale perhaps, but it’s late in
the season. Were there a real problem in the soil, we’d see evidence on the
 
—”

Before she could finish the thought, the healer’s body slammed into her, his thin frame crashing her back into the dirt of her garden. She froze in shock as his knife hovered above her, too stunned to fight back. And then all of a sudden, his weight was gone and he was flying back to the turf. Iomhar straddled him on the ground, striking the weapon from his hand, and then flipped him onto his stomach in an armlock that made the old man cry out in pain.

“Are you hurt, my lady?” Iomhar’s tone carried concern but not panic.

“I
 
—I
 
—what just happened? He tried to kill me!”

“My lady, are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”

Aine looked down at herself and saw the smear of blood on the front of her dress, then traced it to her palm. “I’m fine. I think I just sliced it open on one of the plant’s canes. He didn’t strike me.”

“Good.” Iomhar looked around, then raised his voice and shouted, “Rafer! Come here!”

A short, muscular brother caught Iomhar’s eye and trotted to their side immediately. Concern passed through his expression when he took in the scene. “How may I be of service, sir?”

“Escort Lady Aine to Master Eoghan. Don’t let anyone get within three feet of her. There’s been an assassination attempt.”

Another flash of unease surfaced on Rafer’s face, but he bowed in acknowledgment. “Aye, sir. Lady Aine, if you would come with me.”

“Go,” Iomhar said. “Rafer will see you safely to the fortress. I’ll be right behind you.”

Numbly, she let the brother draw her to her feet, only now noticing that he had his sword free from his sheath. “Murchadh tried to kill me.”

“Aye, my lady, it would seem so,” Rafer said in a quiet voice. “Let us get you someplace more defensible, shall we?”

Iomhar gave her a reassuring nod before he hauled Murchadh to his feet. She expected to see hatred or fury in the healer’s face, but it was only as placid as it ever was.