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.