The Sword and the Song (6 page)

“We are going to have to make a move on the kingdoms, whether it’s Ard Bealach or another target,” Conor said.

Riordan gave a single nod. “You’ve said it yourself. We’re cut off from outside sources of food, and we can no longer support the needs of the city. For all Eoghan urges caution, he has known that for a while. He’s far more strategic than he lets on.”

“As a good king should be.” The words fell with finality between them.

“Liam was so sure it was you,” Riordan said. “Right up until the end, when he came across Daimhin’s journal saying the High King should hear the voice of Comdiu.”

“You don’t have to spare my feelings. I never wanted to be
king. I never wanted to lead at all. If Eoghan is to rule, what has been the point of all of this?”

Riordan arched an eyebrow. “Are you forgetting how you reinstated the wards around the city? How you’re meant to recall the men with Daimhin’s sword? Eoghan cannot win this war without you, Conor; that I know. Sometimes I wonder if Liam acted as he did to bind you two together, give you a common enemy.”

“Liam wasn’t an enemy.”

“An obstacle to overcome, then.”

Conor sighed and raked his hands through his hair. “And now we two are here, leading a starving kingdom on the brink of war.”

Riordan’s brow furrowed. “I don’t believe this is just concern about Ard Dhaimhin’s future. What exactly is troubling you?”

His father always was too perceptive. No harm in telling him. He’d find out soon enough anyway. “Aine is pregnant.”

Riordan merely smiled.

“You knew? How?”

“I’d noticed something different about her magic when she arrived, but I thought perhaps it was related to her multiple gifts. Since then, it’s grown. Changed.”

“You’re not saying our child is gifted? You can tell that already?”

“Enormously so, if I can sense its magic in the womb.”

Conor flopped back against the chair, stunned. Somehow it just made the whole situation that much more real. He was going to be a father to a child whose gifts would likely surpass his own. A spike of fear shot straight through his heart and into his stomach. He was only one and twenty years old. True, Riordan hadn’t been much older when he’d sired Conor, but that hadn’t turned out so well, had it?

“I will be here for this baby,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I know what it’s like to grow up without a real father.”

Riordan flinched. Too late, Conor realized it must have sounded like criticism. “I just meant
 
—”

“No, you’re right. I wasn’t there for you. Galbraith hated the fact he had to pretend my son was his, and as good a man as Labhrás was, he had his own agenda. But, Conor, you understand now why it had to be done. There are some things greater than just a single person’s happiness. Or a single person’s safety. If we fail here, if we divert from our course even for the best reasons, we could be dooming the world to a darkness it has never known. Could you live with that sacrifice?”

Conor didn’t answer. He rose and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, a silent gesture of gratitude, and then slipped out the door.

Riordan was right. He couldn’t let personal concerns sway him from his duty. If they were going to take on the full thrust of Niall’s might and magic, they needed help.

Eoghan might finally have seen the need to leave Ard Dhaimhin’s protections, but Conor’s task was at least as daunting. With or without Meallachán’s help, he had to figure out the secret of Daimhin’s sword.

“Aine.
”

Her eyes snapped open in the dim morning light. She reached for Conor beside her, but her fingertips touched only the cold bedcovering. He was long gone, probably to morning devotions in the amphitheater below. But, then, what had woken her?

Aine pushed back the covers and pulled her dress from the hook beside the bed. Dreams, she decided. Scarcely a night passed undisturbed by memories and fears, all tangled together in a jumble that left a lingering sense of dread long after the recollections faded. Or maybe she simply dreaded her conversation with Eoghan. How could she justify letting him drown in his infatuation when she could have ended it with a word? Put that way, it was unforgivable.

She had laced up her dress and thrust her feet into her boots before she noticed the stack of books on the chair beside the bed. Flipping open the cover of one, she smiled. Conor had somehow noticed that she had moved on to Shanna’s journals and brought up the remaining stack from the Hall of
Prophecies. If she didn’t know better, she would say he was the one with mind-reading abilities.

The sooner she found Eoghan and made her promised trip to Morrigan’s chamber, the sooner she could get back to her reading and see if Shanna’s writings actually contained anything that could help them. But Eoghan wasn’t in his chamber, the Ceannaire’s office, or the hall. She stretched out her awareness through the city, searching for Eoghan’s thoughts. She finally found him below in the private practice yard used by the Conclave
 
—with Conor. Even from a distance, the mood seemed easier than it had the night before, a good sign. Dare she hope that with this matter settled they could come to an understanding about command in the city?

No point in interrupting their newfound peace with unpleasant news, then. She made her usual trek down to the cookhouse for a bowl of porridge and then stopped by the laundry on her way back to Morrigan’s borrowed chamber.

“Lady Aine.” The guards at the door gave her a deferential bow, which she returned with a polite nod.

“Has she left at all since she arrived?”

“We took over the post at sunrise,” one of the men said. “She hasn’t so much as opened the door.”

Probably because there was no point. She would accomplish nothing while they suspected her. Aine shifted her burden. “Knock, please,” she instructed the guards.

Moments later, the door opened. Morrigan’s wary expression changed to one of puzzlement. “My lady?”

“I brought breakfast.” Aine indicated the bowls in her hands. “The men said you hadn’t ventured out this morning.”

“Considering my reception last night, it didn’t seem prudent.” Morrigan stood aside for her to pass. One of the guards attempted to follow her in, but Aine stopped him with a sharp look.

“I think I’m safe enough, thank you. I will call if I need you.”

Aine set the bowls on the table and shifted the bundle of cloth from beneath her arm to her hands. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I am Aine Nic Tamhais, Conor’s wife.”

Surprise flickered on the other woman’s face. “King Calhoun’s sister?”

Aine dipped her head in acknowledgment. “The same.” She offered the bundle in her hands. “This is for you in case you want to change clothes.”

Morrigan shook out the dress, her brow furrowing. “I don’t understand.”

“I thought you might like to appear in front of the Conclave in something other than bloodstained trousers.” Aine took a seat at the small table across from Morrigan’s breakfast tray and gestured. “But first let’s eat. I’m famished.”

“I expect you would be, in your condition.” Morrigan sat across from Aine and pulled her bowl toward herself.

A smile twitched on Aine’s lips, but she suppressed it. So the game had begun. “My condition?”

“Naturally. The men might be too blind to notice, but you’re clearly with child. I would guess four or five months. Am I right?”

“Very good. You’re correct.”

“Does my brother know?”

“Aye, he knows. Please eat. I suspect times have been lean, and you’ll need your strength.”

Now it was Morrigan’s turn to smile. “Does Conor know how skilled you are at this?”

At least that proved Morrigan wouldn’t be manipulated. She’d get further playing it straight. “Of course he does. That’s why he sent me.”

Morrigan broke into a full-fledged smile. “Then tell me, my lady: what do you want from me? We both know the plan
to coax out my secrets woman to woman was doomed from the start.”

“Tell me about Ard Bealach.”

A flash of disquiet crossed Morrigan’s face and disappeared just as swiftly. “Compared to Lisdara or Carraigmór, it’s a relatively small fortress, but it’s deep. Three stories of stone with catacombs and passages beneath. Meallachán was imprisoned in the cells on the lowest level, though they’re really more like bolt-holes with grates across them. Not even enough room to stand.”

Aine studied Morrigan closely as she spoke. There was no hesitation, no wavering, no shifting of her eyes that would indicate she was fabricating this story. “So given that the fortress is so small and isolated, how did you escape? Why didn’t Somhairle send men after you?”

Morrigan stared, a tinge of sickness coloring her skin, a sign that she hadn’t expected that question from Aine. Then it was gone behind her cool, controlled facade.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Lady Aine. Surely you’ve discovered the advantage that gives you. You were alone in Aron, as I understand it. It must have been useful.”

Aine recoiled a bit, the comment hitting too close for comfort, even if Morrigan couldn’t know her current turmoil. “Aye. But you were a prisoner.”

Morrigan studied her for a moment. “You really are an innocent, aren’t you? I wouldn’t have thought that still possible.” Her tone gentled, almost as if she didn’t wish to shock her. “All men have their price, my lady. And all women have their weapons. You’d be surprised what you can accomplish when you’re willing to use them.”

Innocent as Morrigan believed she was, Aine received the message clearly. Rather than shocking her, it set a deep pity in
her chest. That could have been her situation, had she not been born with her gifts.

“I think you’ve told me everything I need to know for now, Lady Morrigan. You’ll wish to dress for the Conclave. I imagine the summons will come shortly.” Aine pushed herself up from her chair and then swayed on her feet as if dizzy. Morrigan’s hand shot out, and she clamped her own over it.

In that instant, she thrust out her awareness into the other woman, searching for anything that would indicate a spell, a gift,
something
to explain why she had not been able to pick up a single thought from her the entire time they had been speaking. Morrigan’s eyes widened, and she let go of her hand abruptly.

“Lady Aine,” she said shakily, “I do believe that you are far less innocent than you let on.”

“Perhaps so, Lady Morrigan.” Aine nodded politely and turned toward the door. “I do have one last question. How did you know I had spent time in Aron?”

“I think you’re far better known that you realize, my lady. Have a care you don’t reveal too much.”

It felt like a warning, an acknowledgment that Aine had tipped her hand. But at least she had found out something very important in return.

Morrigan was indeed spelled.

Somehow, in the course of half a day, everything had changed.

When Eoghan passed through the hall on his way to the practice yard for his morning workout with Conor, Gradaigh and Dal stopped their conversation to stare at him. So Conor had been right. Rumors of the way he had seized control from Conor had gotten out, and now they were waiting for him to make an official statement.

Was this what you had in mind, Comdiu? Was this Your plan all along?

But that implied that Comdiu had tricked Eoghan into doing something he didn’t want to do. Like it or not, he had taken command of the situation voluntarily. The weight of responsibility fell on him suddenly. Heavy. Suffocating. Aye, he had been trained for this, but trained to take over the brotherhood, not this blend of kingdom men and Fíréin that the city had become.

Yet when faced with the potential threat that their newcomer posed, he’d been absolutely convinced of his path. That could only be due to Comdiu’s guidance.

Aine had said she would seek Meallachán’s presence to confirm Morrigan’s story, and she was probably preparing to visit Morrigan at this very moment. If anyone could get to the truth, it would be her. He somehow didn’t think she would need her mind powers to determine whether Morrigan was being honest or not.

Unfortunately, that thought brought with it warm feelings that were better left unexplored. No wonder Conor was angry with him. Not only had he just usurped Conor’s role in the city
 
—one that Eoghan had insisted he didn’t want
 
—he also had feelings for his wife, never mind the fact that he would never steal her away, could not even if he tried. It was just a miracle that Aine wasn’t perpetually angry with him too.

When he reached the private practice yard, Conor was waiting. For a change, he didn’t greet him with a scowl, just tossed him a practice sword and began his own warm-ups. Perhaps it was the easing up of their animosity, or perhaps it was a result of the late night, but they both held back their usual aggression as they started into the bout. Eoghan knew Conor well enough to see he was testing his own weaknesses, looking for flaws in his technique, probably trying to figure out how he had lost the last time.

Finally, Conor stepped back and swiped a sleeve across his forehead. “You’re right. I’m just slow. And lazy.”

Eoghan felt a pang of guilt over his earlier taunt. “No. Not lazy.” The fact was Eoghan had put more time into his sword work this fall than ever before. If he were honest, he’d needed to prove to himself that there was one area in which Conor couldn’t overshadow him.

Now it seemed their roles were reversed.

He put up his sword. “Conor, I’m sorry.”

“For what? For telling the truth?”

“For what’s happened here. We are friends. Brothers. We shouldn’t be at each other’s throats.”

“It’s not your fault,” Conor muttered, but he didn’t elaborate. “Shall we go up and see if Aine has any news for us?”

Eoghan nodded and gathered the practice weapons, puzzled by Conor’s sudden change of attitude. “We need to bring Lady Morrigan and this matter before the Conclave as soon as Aine can give us some more insight into the situation. I think you should be the one to call the meeting.”

“Oh? You’ve clearly taken command here.”

“You are still the Ceannaire, and the Conclave are technically your advisors. I have yet to make a formal announcement.”

“But you will.”

“Aye, I will.”

Conor still didn’t look convinced, but it wasn’t as if Eoghan had any choice in the matter. No doubt word had already spread through the brotherhood that he was taking leadership as the High King, and that’s what he must do no matter how ill the title fit.

When they reached the Ceannaire’s office, Aine already waited for them, perched on a chair while she perused a book spread open on the Ceannaire’s desk. She rose when they entered.

“Did you speak with her?” Conor asked immediately. “Did you learn anything?”

Aine gestured for them to take seats, giving Eoghan the impression they were about to get lectured for their impatience. He barely repressed a laugh at the thought, but his mirth faded with the first words.

“Morrigan is spelled.”

Conor spoke first, his voice heavy. “So she’s a spy.”

Aine hesitated. “I don’t know what to think. Between the spell and the fact she mentioned Lisdara as though she’d been there, it’s very suspicious. Yet the spell feels odd. Like it’s . . . inert, for lack of a better word.”

“How is that possible?” Conor asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe the city’s wards are interfering with it? Either way, her story about Meallachán rings true. I still can’t read her, but after I left, I was able to locate him where she said he would be.”

“Is he alive?” Eoghan asked immediately. “Were you able to contact him?”

“Aye, alive. But I wasn’t able to speak to him. I think he was unconscious.”