The Sword and the Song (33 page)

The older brother followed close behind, an arrow nocked as he scanned the area below for threats. Eoghan’s unease grew with every step. So far, he saw only Fíréin and kingdom men locked in small-scale skirmishes.

And then he lifted his eyes to the dark horizon and saw them: a shadowy expanse on the edge of the tree line, their numbers punctuated by torches. Hundreds of brothers fought them back, struggling to keep the attacking forces from breaking into the village proper.

The trembling began in Eoghan’s knees and spread through his entire body. He might be the leader of the city, the future High King, but he was untried in battle. How was he to even begin to fight off a horde that made his thousands look like specks of sand on a beach? He wasn’t prepared for this. The last time Ard Dhaimhin had seen battle, he’d cowered in the Hall of Prophecies until the danger was past.

The last time Ard Dhaimhin had seen battle. There was something important in that phrase.

The last time, the druid had burned the forests.

The forests. When had they grown back? How could he not have noticed that?

Eoghan focused on the tree line and blinked away the odd shimmer in his vision rising from the ground like steam. For an instant, the image wavered and he caught a glimpse of the trees’ black carapaces stretching skeletal fingers to the sky. And then the green forests melted away, taking the men with it.

“It’s all a glamour!” He shuddered, realizing for the first time that his shivering was due to the cold and not cowardice. He gripped Riordan and shook him hard. “It’s not real. Look.”

Riordan blinked too, and the fear fell away from his expression. “We need the shield rune,” he said. “And then we need Aine.”

Eoghan turned to meet a sword thrust coming his direction. Dread struck deep as he saw the flood of men headed their way. The sidhe had noticed their presence, and now the spirits were determined they wouldn’t make it out alive.

Aine walked her chamber from end to end,
gripped by the simultaneous urges to block out everything that was happening down below and the desperate need to contact Conor. Neither were advisable. She needed to be aware of any danger, and she couldn’t afford to interrupt Conor while he was planning his entry to Dún Eavan, which left her nothing to do but pace, pray, and worry.

Comdiu, protect us. Comdiu, watch over us.

She started into the old prayer without thinking, felt a bit of her anxiety ease, both a result of her confidence in Comdiu’s power and the prayer’s effect on the sidhe that now surrounded the fortress. Why they hadn’t yet attacked her directly, she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was simply a function of Comdiu’s providence. Whatever it was, she was not about to complain.

She winced as another pain tightened her stomach. She should be lying down, but that only made her feel as though she were suffocating. She glanced at the pot of tea steeping next to the brazier. She’d brewed it a little stronger than usual, even though she was sure this was false labor like the rest. Stress and
dehydration were simply making her body irritable. The herbs would soothe it.

A knock sounded at the door. “Lady Aine? You have a visitor.”

Iomhar’s voice. She lifted the door’s heavy bar, then undid the metal latch before opening the door to her guard. He stood with two other warriors, Morrigan in the middle.

“It’s all right, Iomhar. Let her in.” Aine stood aside and waited for Conor’s sister to enter, even though her senses screamed warning. Morrigan’s face was completely placid, but anxiety seeped from every pore.

“What’s wrong?” Aine asked, shutting the door behind them.

Morrigan immediately went over to the window and peered out. “It’s time to go, my lady. Now, while you still can.”

“Go?” Aine’s pulse jolted into action. There was something disturbingly familiar about this situation. “Go where?”

“Out of Ard Dhaimhin. If you take the rune now, he won’t be able to locate you. But we haven’t much time.”

Aine stared dumbly. “Who?”

“Niall.”

The name turned the blood in her veins to ice. Aine sank down onto the bed, stunned, even though they’d known it was a possibility. “How do you know?”

Morrigan gave her a reproving look. “Come now, my lady. I don’t believe you’re that stupid. How do you think?”

“You’ve been working for him all along,” Aine whispered. Somehow she hadn’t expected being proven right to be so painful.

“Aye, but you knew that.” Morrigan sighed, and her expression softened. “I can see why my brother is so taken with you. You really are impossibly good, which is why I don’t want to see you and your baby in Niall’s grasp. I may have agreed to help him get the Rune Throne, but I never agreed to this.” She straightened, her manner growing hard. “Now, come here.
This is going to hurt, but a lot less than what Niall will do if he gets you.”

Morrigan removed a knife from her boot. With a wash of horror, Aine realized that she meant to carve the rune into her skin. She recoiled. “No. I can’t.” If she gave up her healing gift and her baby came early, she would have condemned it to death. That was something she couldn’t live with.

“My lady, I know you’re frightened. But it’s the only way. He won’t be able to ever find you, and even if he does, you’ll be useless to him.” Morrigan’s eyes pleaded for her to understand. “If he controls you, you will never be free.”

Aine recognized the truth of those words, just as she recognized the familiarity of the situation. Once before, in Forrais, she’d used magic to save herself from what seemed certain death, and that choice had killed someone loyal to her. She was being given a chance to show if she had learned anything about trusting Comdiu.

She raised her head and looked Morrigan straight in the eye. “No. I won’t do it.”

Horror and distress flashed over Morrigan’s face before settling into resignation. She didn’t put the knife away. “Then you’re coming with me.”

Aine swallowed and nodded, only her convictions keeping the strength in her trembling limbs.
I throw myself on your mercy, my Lord. Protect me.
She focused on the other woman. “Just tell me why.”

Morrigan paused. “The fact that I’m here at all should tell you I’m not completely heartless. I simply had to . . . prioritize. I know you can understand that. The lives of my sisters are worth more to me than anything else on this island, and I made a vow to protect them with my life. I will not break that vow.”

Morrigan’s expression hardened, and she clamped a hand
around Aine’s arm. She was far stronger than she looked. Even her demeanor had changed. She’d played the demure lady and projected the bravado of a woman unsure of her place in the world, but now she exuded only cold, calculated determination.

“Make it look friendlier,” Aine murmured. “I don’t want my guards dying on my behalf.”

Morrigan looked surprised, but she adjusted her grip so it appeared she was helping Aine rather than compelling her.

As soon as they emerged into the corridor, Iomhar’s hand went to his sword. Aine shook her head. “We’re just taking a walk. Stay here. That’s an order.”

Iomhar looked as though he would protest, but Aine spoke to his mind before the words left his lips.
Play along. Find Eoghan and the others. Let them know the druid is at Ard Dhaimhin. And above all, stay alive. I will need you.

Iomhar bowed his head, as if responding to her verbal order. “Aye, my lady. As you command.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Morrigan said, “That was nicely done, my lady. You just saved their lives.”

“What’s going to be done to me?”

Morrigan faltered. “If you cooperate, probably nothing. I would urge you to cooperate, my lady. The penalties for resistance . . .”

“Your sisters are his hostages,” Aine said, finally putting all the pieces together. She should have known. That part of Morrigan’s story
 
—the indignities she’d suffered
 
—had always rung true. They’d already known that Niall was a master of using loved ones against people.

Did that mean Conor was leverage for her, or vice versa? Or even worse, was it her baby he intended to use against her?

As soon as they reached the bottom floor, she realized that her hopes of having Iomhar reach Eoghan were futile. The bodies of Fíréin brothers littered the corridor, evidence that the
fighting had reached Carraigmór already. She refused to look at their faces, couldn’t, lest it weaken her resolve and unleash the panic hiding just below the surface.

But as Morrigan propelled her into the hall, there was no way to suppress the wave of terror that welled up inside her, especially when the man standing by the Rune Throne turned and smiled at her. “Good evening, Lady Aine.”

Niall was already here.

Almost immediately, Eoghan put up his sword. These men were not his enemies, even if they were attacking him. He swiveled to meet an oncoming sword with his staff, disarmed the man, and dropped him to the ground with a blow to the solar plexus. He wouldn’t die, even if for a minute or two he would think he would. But the men just kept coming, driven by fear and the illusion. He caught Riordan out of the corner of his eye, saw Dal and Gradaigh had joined them. They’d resorted to nonlethal means as well, attempting not to kill the men who rushed piecemeal into the melee.

This wasn’t even a proper siege. It was just . . .

. . . a distraction.

Eoghan cast a gaze toward Carraigmór in the distance and the truth of the matter seeped into him. Comdiu’s voice echoed in his head.
Go.

He took off at a run, dodging oncoming men the best he could, but he still got caught up in the tangle of bodies, the sheer numbers of men fighting. He found himself being less careful, striking too hard, in his desperation to get to the fortress, but if he didn’t get there soon, it wouldn’t matter. Niall could not be allowed to take the Rune Throne.

And he could not be allowed to take Aine.

Conor and his men stayed at their posts as night fell,
the temperature plummeting with it. They’d watched for hours from every angle, but they’d seen no indication of warriors or watchmen on the crannog, nothing but the cold structure of earth and stone that made up the old keep. Had Niall perhaps prepared the location for a fallback position or designated it for some other use? Or were they missing something important?

Of his nine companions, only seven could swim. That left two men on the shore as lookouts to alert them of approaching enemy with the Fíréin’s birdcall signals. Conor was all too aware of how vulnerable they would be on the approach, precisely the point of the fortress’s design. Less vulnerable, of course, than had the boat still been attached to the pulley between the two docks. Someone must have decided that offered far too much access. Another indication there was something inside worth protecting.

Conor wrapped the ink and brush inside a square of waxed canvas and tucked it into the top edge of his sword’s sheath, hoping it was enough to keep the ink dry. So far they had experienced little from the sidhe but a vague sense of unrest, which
could have just as easily come from their own worries. Ideally, Conor would simply play the shield around the fortress, but when stealth was their only advantage, he couldn’t afford to give up their position that easily. They would instead have to face their opponent blind. The harp was too delicate to risk getting wet and far too heavy to hold over his head as he swam. If the boat that belonged to the pulley system had been stored somewhere on the crannog as he hoped, he could send it back across and have the remaining two members of the party bring his harp with them.

“Ready?” Conor pitched his voice low and waited for the answering nods from the other seven. Concentrating on fading into the surroundings, he led the party at a swift run across the open space to the edge of the loch.

He’d chosen the back edge of the lake for the crossing. It had the least amount of open space and the most amount of concealment from the probable watchpoints on the island. Still, he imagined he felt archers sighting him down arrows as he darted across the field in the dim sliver of moonlight overhead. As he reached the edge of the lake, he pulled the sword harness over his head and plunged into the water.

The lake water
 
—colder than it should be even at this time of year
 
—slid over his skin and immediately started an unpleasant numbness in his limbs. He ignored it and trudged deeper into the water, the mud at the shoreline sticking around his boots and hampering his forward motion. Finally, he was deep enough to push off into a slow, one-armed breaststroke, keeping his weapon just barely above water.

Only the faint sounds of movement around him said his companions were making the same slow progress across the lake to the crannog. He tried to breathe evenly, measuring each inhalation and exhalation so he didn’t fatigue, but by the time
his feet hit solid ground a handful of yards from the shoreline, his breath was coming in gasps. He emerged from the water just enough to slide his sword back on and free his hands, then climbed the bank in a crouch.

Despite his fears, no shout of alarm came. In fact, there was no indication anyone had noticed their presence.

The air had felt cold before, but soaked to the skin, it felt downright arctic. The uncontrollable shivering began, so much worse than Conor had expected. Maybe the fortress didn’t have watchmen. If the temperature kept falling, anyone who crossed with this method would die of exposure within an hour.

Water sloshed behind him as the rest of his men emerged from the lake. He signaled for them to fan out as they’d planned, dividing into four pairs to check each corner of the seemingly deserted fortress. Ailill took up his assigned position to his left. Conor drew his own blade and led the way forward directly to the fort itself.

The sensation of cold subsided a little as they moved through the open space, senses tuned to the signs of impending battle. And yet none came. In fact, there was no sign of life anywhere on the island. No torches, no glimmer of light from the arrow slits in the fort. No guards on battlements, at doors, or on the dock. Nothing to indicate there was anything here but silent stone.

Except the sidhe. The first wave of dread hit him, so overwhelmingly repellant even with the charm that he could barely stay on his feet. Why were they even here? They would die here. That’s why there were no guards. They needed no guards. If they didn’t leave now
 
—

No. That was the sidhe’s influence. He had to resist it.

“Comdiu, protect us,” he murmured, his words barely audible. “Comdiu, watch over us.”

The sidhe’s oppression eased a bit, though he still had to
brace himself against the emotions their presence dredged up. The urge to stop and draw the rune on his skin was nearly irresistible, but that would take more time than he had, not to mention the fact he was still dripping wet from the swim. He’d planned to enter with the softening rune through one of the side chambers Aine had told him about, but because there didn’t seem to be anyone watching, that would be more dangerous than simply going through the front door.

He signaled to Ailill before fading into the shadows by the wall. Four other men joined them, the remaining two taking up watch positions on the edge of the crannog. His partner moved forward, his hand on the latch, shoulder to the door. Conor expected Ailill’s shove to be useless
 
—surely it was locked. Instead, the door swung inward, letting out a dim red light, like the low glow of coals.

Ambush
, his mind screamed in warning,
turn back now
!
That might or might not have been the sidhe, but he was once again aware of his exposed position as they flowed through the door, weapons ready. But the only thing that greeted them was silence.

Only then did Conor understand the reason for the quiet, the lack of warriors. What remained at Dún Eavan needed no guard.

Bodies.