The Sword and the Song (34 page)

“You look shocked to see me, my dear.
I’m disappointed. I thought you’d have figured this out much earlier.”

Morrigan pushed Aine forward and forced her into a chair. She sat willingly, her hands clasped in her lap. “Figured what out? We knew you would come eventually. I just don’t understand why.”

“Don’t you? I would have thought that was obvious.” Niall moved forward and pulled a chair out across the table from Aine. He looked exactly like Keondric, but there was a wrongness there she would have recognized instantly. The mannerisms old-fashioned, the expressions calculated.

“You’re here for the runes.”

“Aye, I’m here for the runes. And for you.”

“Then why did you try to have me killed?”

“That was a bit shortsighted, I admit. But that was before I realized the full extent of what your child could do. I assume Conor is the father, hmmm?”

She recoiled at the mention of the baby, unsure whether to be insulted that he questioned its parentage or fearful about what he was implying. “I don’t understand.”

He cocked his head, another mannerism that didn’t quite fit Keondric’s body. “You really don’t know? All this knowledge, all these so-called scholars around you, and you still can’t see the truth?”

Her heart knocked loudly in her chest, her breath coming too quickly. What was he talking about? What truth?

Niall flashed a calculated little smile and rounded the table to kneel beside her. His hand hovered over her belly, not touching her, but she was sickened all the same. “Do you not wonder why your abilities were so far amplified, my dear? Oh, aye, I know all about those. Your ability to heal in Aron, the miraculous works you did there. The fact that you recalled all the brothers here, in fact
compelled
them to come back? You didn’t think I could hear you, did you? But I, too, swore an oath on that sword. I knew about your abilities, and I could still barely resist returning to you. Of course, in a way, I suppose I did.” He leaned forward to murmur in her ear, his breath brushing her neck. “Your baby is gifted.”

She pulled away from him with a dismissive laugh that she didn’t feel. “That’s your big secret? That my baby is gifted? Of course he is. He
 
—or she
 
—is a product of two gifted parents.”

“Aye. But his power is not in his own abilities. It’s in his ability to amplify the gifts in others.”

Aine’s eyes widened. Even Riordan had said he’d noticed something strange about her magic. Could what Niall said be true? Did her child have an intrinsic ability to amplify the gifts in others?

“Of course what makes him so very special and valuable is what makes him so dangerous. If I don’t control him, I can’t leave him alive for anyone else to do so. After all, with him by your side, you alone could rule the world. It’s almost a pity that you won’t ever do such a thing.” He waved a hand. “So
you understand now, there are only two ways that this can end. Either you swear to serve me or I kill you.”

Aine’s thoughts spun, searching for holes in his logic, searching for ways out. “What do you want?”

“It is very simple, my lady. First I am going to copy the runes from the throne, and then you and I are going to walk out of here. Together.”

“It will never work. There are hundreds of men outside who would die to stop that.”

Niall gave her a nasty little smile. “I think they’re otherwise occupied. And in case you’re thinking about being heroic, just remember the child is the one I want. I have no compunction about cutting it out of you.” Niall pulled a knife from his belt and ran the flat along the curve of her belly to emphasize his threat.

The words turned her stomach, made her vision go soft around the edges as she tried to catch her breath. She had to choose between letting the druid have the runes and her child, or dying and losing them both anyway? If it were just her, it would be an easy decision. She would turn the blade on herself. But now . . .

She grasped at whatever straw was within reach. “You can’t kill me, and you can’t take my child if I’m dead.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because without me, it will never survive. It will be born six weeks early, too weak. But I can heal it when it’s born. So you see, if you lose me, you lose us both.”

Niall stared at her as if he were trying to decide if she were being truthful. Then he smiled. “I never seem to account for the depth of a mother’s love. Or a sister’s, in Morrigan’s case. Very well, my lady. If you want to ensure your child’s survival, then I suggest you do nothing to jeopardize my decision to keep you
alive. In fact, since Morrigan tells me you can read the runes, I’ll let you copy them for me.”

Aine bowed her head in acknowledgment, though her heart still thudded frantically. If she didn’t think he would verify her work, she would draw them incorrectly. For now, agreeing to his demands was merely a stall tactic while she decided what to do next.

One of Niall’s men brought forward parchment and ink. Aine knelt before the throne with the writing supplies. No matter what, he could not be allowed to leave with the runes.

“You’re making the right decision,” Morrigan whispered from her post beside her.

“Am I?” Aine shot back. “I’m not so sure.” But she dipped the quill into the ink and forced herself to focus on one of the ever-shifting runes.

“What’s taking so long?” Niall demanded. “Begin.”

“It’s complicated. There’s some sort of protection on the throne. It’s hard to focus on a particular rune.” The lines and squiggles seemed to squirm before her eyes.

Niall looked surprised, and only then did she understand he had enlisted her because he was having the same difficulty. He probably thought it was a function of the shield rune he bore.

The shield rune. She almost laughed out loud. Of course. That’s why he was making these threats. Because inside Ard Dhaimhin with the rune, he was simply an ordinary man. And she could exploit that.

She winced and clutched her belly as a labor pain hit her. It was mild, but she played it up. “It’s even harder to concentrate when these keep coming. I need my tea.”

Niall looked suspicious, but he nodded to Morrigan, who immediately turned and left the hall. Aine took advantage of the situation by slumping forward over her rounded belly. Inwardly,
she was casting her mind beyond Ard Dhaimhin’s walls. There were hundreds
 
—thousands
 
—of men out there who would respond to her call.

She eased the barriers in her mind slowly, at first letting in only a handful, then dozens, then a few hundred. Her brain buzzed with all the fear and distress, but she managed to hold on anyway.

What you are doing now, the images that you’re seeing, the fighting
 
—this is all an illusion. This is all the sidhe’s doing to distract you. Lord Keondric has infiltrated the city and captured me. Find Eoghan! Defend Carraigmór and the Rune Throne!

Another pain squeezed her entire abdomen, and this time she didn’t need to feign a groan. She opened her eyes. “It’s difficult to concentrate.”

Niall’s eyes were cold. “You’re stalling, Lady Aine.”

Morrigan arrived with the teapot and poured a cup, which Aine took gratefully, even cold. She pretended to sigh in relief and bent over the throne again, feigning that she was studying the markings. But this time she cast for Conor’s thoughts. Somewhere inside her, call it instinct or Comdiu’s leading, she knew he needed her. Whatever he was doing was important enough to risk Niall’s wrath.

Conor, where are you? I’m here.

Dozens of bodies stretched out on the hall’s earthen floor, laid lifelessly on pallets in neat rows, their hands folded on their chests as if they were about to be prepared for burial. Conor stared for several moments, paralyzed by the morbid sight. Yet the horror that should be there was not because there were no signs of death and decay upon them. Had they been somehow spelled to keep them frozen in death?

“They’re alive,” Blair whispered. “Look.”

Conor focused on where Blair pointed. There it was, the barely perceptible rise and fall of the nearest man’s chest. Were these souls locked in the sidhe’s glamour? How long had they been here? And why?

“Conor.” Ailill’s warning whisper drew his attention to movement on the opposite side of the fortress. Conor raised his sword automatically, anticipating a threat. Instead, he saw an old couple sitting in chairs against the wall, their sightless eyes staring uncomprehending at the group.

“They’re ensorcelled,” Conor said. “They probably don’t see us as a threat because they haven’t been told to guard against this kind of threat.”

“They’re just here to tend to the bodies?” Blair said, Conor’s repulsion reflected in his voice. “Like . . . gardeners?”

Conor shuddered at the analogy, but that was exactly what it seemed like. “I don’t understand. Why go to the trouble? For what purpose?”

He put up his sword. The caretakers would not resist them, and even if they did, they posed no threat. Slowly, Conor walked between the rows of motionless bodies, looking for a clue, some common trait that would give a hint as to why they were there. A young boy and an old woman. Two men who looked like farmers. A woman whose ripped and dirty clothes still suggested nobility, back when that meant something.

And then as he stepped between two girls, his heart nearly stopped. It couldn’t be. Surely his imagination was playing tricks on him. But as he knelt to brush aside a lock of dirty hair from the younger girl, he could not mistake the round scar on her collarbone. A burning brand from the fireplace had flown up and gotten trapped in her dress. He remembered it as if it were yesterday, how he’d fished the wood out, burning his fingertips in
the process. His foster sister Liadan. That meant that the dirty, slightly battered form of the girl beside him had to be another of his foster sisters, Etaoin.

He just stared at their senseless forms, wondering what the sidhe were showing them and sickened by the possibilities. How long had they been trapped here? If Morrigan knew . . .

And then all the pieces fell into place: the reason for the sidhe, the motley collection of people without a connection. They weren’t here because of their importance to Niall; they were here because of their importance to someone Niall wanted to control. They were hostages in the truest sense of the word, blackmail to ensure the compliance of his spies.

Conor, where are you? I’m here.

Aine’s voice jolted him out of his dazed state.
Aine, Niall has imprisoned my sisters Liadan and Etaoin at Dún Eavan. I think Morrigan
 
—

Searing pain pierced him, squeezing every last thought from his mind. He fell to his knees with a cry, clawing at his head as if he could make it stop. And then he was back in the chamber in Ard Bealach, strapped to a table, wriggling and screaming beneath the slow, agonizing sweep of a knife.

No, that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be back in Ard Bealach. He was at Dún Eavan. He was in the great hall, amidst the druid’s collection of bodies. None of this was real.

None of this is real, Conor. Fight it. You must fight.

He realized then that the thoughts were not his own but Aine’s. He grasped onto that voice, used it as a lifeline to pull himself out of the illusion that had taken him so quickly, even with the charm around his neck. Dún Eavan’s hall appeared around him. The hardpacked earthen floor, the bodies. “Comdiu, stand between us and the harm of this world and banish the darkness with the light of Your Son, Balus.” He picked
up the prayer where he had left off, repeating it over and over as he pushed himself back to his feet. And then he saw that he was not the only one who had been attacked. His men were on the ground as well, moaning, screaming within whatever horrific illusion they had found themselves in. He looked around for a way to release them. His harp. No, the harp was back on shore. He knew too well from Daigh’s example what could happen if he waited until he could retrieve it.

The rune. Of course. He pulled the ink from his scabbard and unwrapped the cloth. The brush was wet, but the lake water hadn’t made it into the stoppered jar. It would have to do. Murmuring the prayer to himself the whole time, he knelt by Ailill first. The man fought and screamed the moment Conor touched him. That would make the task difficult. He had to brace one knee on his neck and the other on his chest to keep Ailill still enough to open his shirt. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth and, after wiping the wet brush on his trousers, dipped the bristles. Even pinning him down, Conor had to stop and start half a dozen times before he managed to draw the last line. And then abruptly, Ailill’s movements stilled.