The days before Aine’s departure for Lisdara passed far too quickly. Conor stole any moment he could to hold her and reassure himself he was not merely dreaming her presence, but those moments were few and far between. She darted around the camp, ensuring her patients would be cared for in the short time between her departure and the arrival of the king’s physician. Gainor continued to worsen despite her tireless efforts, and Conor saw how the possibility of losing him pained her.
“I know what’s killing him; I just can’t stay ahead of the infection.” Aine wrapped her arms around Conor’s waist and pressed her head against his chest, as if he was all that stood between her and disaster. “What use is my gift when I know what must be done, but I can’t do it fast enough?”
Conor kissed the top of her head, but inwardly, her words mirrored his own thoughts. The messengers that would bring vital intelligence on the enemy’s movements were late, and with each passing day, his opportunity to find Meallachán’s harp waned.
To distract himself, he joined sword drills with the other men. He sensed them sizing him up, and he knew he did not fall short in the comparison. He had spent more time with a sword in the last two years than many of the younger men had in their entire lives. Still, he knew they were far more comfortable with the idea of taking lives than he. He wasn’t yet sure if that was good or bad.
Treasach waited for him after one such drill. Conor had known the priest was in camp, but their paths hadn’t yet crossed.
“The warrior-bard,” Treasach said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “I never thought to see you as comfortable handling a sword as a harp.”
“That makes two of us. Your kind does their work well.”
The priest didn’t try to deny it. “Our kind, you mean. Still, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
Conor struggled with words for a long moment. “I couldn’t kill.”
“You see that as a weakness?”
“I see it as a liability. What if I can’t do what needs to be done?”
“You should thank Comdiu you had the choice. Taking a man’s life when it is justified and necessary is nothing to be ashamed of, but it is not to be celebrated. When it is time, you will do what needs to be done. Just know there is a cost.”
Conor nodded. So far, he’d been able to avoid being directly responsible for anyone’s death, but he couldn’t fool himself into thinking that would last forever, especially if he were to go after the harp.
The morning of Aine’s scheduled departure, while he pretended to sleep under a gray, lowering sky, the long-awaited messenger galloped into camp. Conor jumped from his bedroll and raced toward the command tent, shrugging on his sword as he ran. His heart rose into his throat at the standard: not the simple green banner of a Faolanaigh messenger, but Calhoun’s crowned wolf.
Aine, Ruarc, and Abban had already arrived, weary but alert. Aine moved to Conor’s side, her expression controlled, implacable. But when her hand found his, concealed by the folds of her skirt, he felt a tremor ripple through her.
The messenger handed over a sealed parchment and collapsed into a chair while the commander read the message.
Abban lowered the parchment slowly. “Lisdara’s under siege.”
Aine sagged against Conor, the brave front slipping. He put a steadying arm around her shoulders and asked, “How is that possible? The wards around the keep still hold.”
“The warriors that landed on the eastern coast were not ensorcelled. Calhoun managed to send the message before the attack.”
“Gainor predicted this,” Aine said. “Fergus made us rely on the wards for protection and then struck once we felt secure. Why didn’t Calhoun escape to Dún Eavan while he could?”
“The king wouldn’t leave his men, my lady,” the messenger said. “Lady Niamh begged him to come with her.”
“Niamh’s at Dún Eavan?” Aine asked.
“Which is where you are going,” Ruarc said. “If it wasn’t safe for you before, it’s even more dangerous now.”
Abban addressed the messenger. “Take some food and rest, young man. We’ll find you if we need you.”
The messenger departed, and Abban tossed the letter on the table. He sank into the recently vacated chair. “Seaghan can guard the southern front while we move our remaining céads north to Lisdara.” He gestured to a servant. “Find Mac Eirhinin.”
“I’m here.” Mac Eirhinin strode into the tent, holding another message. “This just came.”
Abban took the parchment. “The messenger?”
“Dead. Took an arrow as he fled the battlefield. It’s a miracle he even reached us. What does it say?”
Abban’s scowl deepened as he scanned the message. “The force on the Timhaigh border has been attacked.”
“And this time they were ensorcelled,” Aine guessed. “There aren’t any wards there.”
Abban swore sharply. “Fliann’s men will be no help now. We’ll be lucky if we don’t end up fighting them ourselves. All right, Mac Eirhinin. Spread the news. We break camp and move north.”
Conor had the eerie sensation of control slipping from their grasp. He couldn’t wait for a messenger from the south that might never come, and yet he could hardly run off without direction. He enfolded Aine in his arms and absently brushed away the stray hairs that escaped her braid. As his fingers touched her silver necklace, he realized what he had overlooked. He took her hand and drew her outside the tent.
In the dull gray morning, he tugged the charm on its chain from beneath her bodice. “Can you do something for me?”
Understanding dawned on her face. “You want me to find Meallachán.”
Ruarc joined them on their way to Aine’s tent and took up a position just inside the entrance. She sank onto her cot and curled her fingers around the charm. Conor clasped her free hand in both of his.
Aine closed her eyes, and Conor waited for sign of a vision. Minutes passed. He had just begun to relinquish hope when her hand tightened on his, and her forehead creased. A tear trickled down her cheek.
“I saw him. He’s been tortured.” She opened her eyes. “I think he’s in a church or a monastery. It had a big stained-glass window of a saint, a man holding a scale and an olive branch. Does that help?”
“Saint Simeon,” Conor said immediately. “It has to be the abbey at Cill Rhí. It’s a few miles outside of Beancaiseal.”
“How do you know?”
“I studied architecture, too.” He sent her a sheepish smile. “It’s built in the Ciraen style, the only one of its type. I’m sure of it.”
Aine didn’t return the smile. Her throat worked, and she gripped his hand harder. “I don’t want you to go. Please, come with me to Dún Eavan.”
Ruarc quietly excused himself, and Conor took Aine’s other hand as well. “Did you see something else? Something you’re not telling me?”
“No, it’s just . . . what if this is it? What if we never see each other again?”
Conor pulled her close, wishing he had some way to reassure her, but he couldn’t banish the feeling of dread that had come with the first messenger. If Lisdara fell, Fergus and Diarmuid succeeded. Only Faolán stood between them and total control of the four kingdoms. “We must trust Comdiu will not abandon us, Aine. It’s all we have left.”
She swiped at her eyes. “If everyone is leaving, I need to see my supplies from the infirmary are properly packed.” She touched her forehead to his, as if drawing resolve from his closeness, and then stood. “I’ll find you later.”
Conor dropped his head into his hands. Lord, guide me. Help me complete this task set before me. Protect Aine. Let me survive to marry her. He didn’t know what else to say. Their needs were both simple and overwhelming.
Conor found Abban in the command pavilion and emotionlessly outlined his plan. He would take four accomplished riders and swordsmen, a party small enough to slip unnoticed past the enemy. He would form his plan to get inside Cill Rhí once they could survey its defenses. From there, his success would be in Comdiu’s hands. Abban’s expression turned grim, but he simply nodded.
Mac Eirhinin found him as he left Abban’s tent and walked silently beside him for several breaths before he spoke. “I don’t like it.”
Conor shot him a sidelong glance. “Like what?”
“Aine should go to Dún Eavan now. Our intelligence is at least a week old. By the time a group this large reaches Lisdara, there is no telling where the enemy might be. She’s better off with a small, fast party of riders that can slip around Fergus’s forces.”
“Do you not think she’d be safer in the company of several hundred warriors? A small party is fast, but indefensible.”
“Not with men like Ruarc and Lorcan.”
Conor stopped and faced Mac Eirhinin, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe this is merely concern for the king’s sister.”
Mac Eirhinin could not meet his eye. “Come now. Half the men in camp are in love with her, especially those of us who have had the benefit of her care.”
“I hadn’t realized you knew her so well.”
“I’ve had cause to admire her for some time.”
Conor sighed. Aine somehow drew people to her. He could hardly blame Mac Eirhinin for his admiration. “Then what do you recommend?”
“Send her usual escort. Those men have put their lives in danger at her command more than once. Riding hard, they could reach Dún Eavan in five days. She’ll be safe at the fortress before we ever engage the enemy.”
Everything Mac Eirhinin said was perfectly sensible, and yet the idea unsettled Conor. The other man must have sensed his ambivalence, because he said quietly, “No one would blame you if you chose to escort her there yourself. You could be at Cill Rhí in two weeks. Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be done fighting by then.”
The idea, so appealing when Aine had begged him, sounded even more sensible from Mac Eirhinin’s mouth. He could concentrate on his task if he knew she was safe in Dún Eavan.
No, two weeks was too long. “I can’t. But I’ll speak with Abban and get his opinion.”
Abban thought the chieftain’s advice to be sensible, and Ruarc agreed. In addition to four men who had escorted Aine to Abban’s camp, Ruarc selected six more from the mapping party. The warriors went to make their preparations, and Conor stood alone with Aine outside her tent for what could be the last time.
“I don’t want to leave you again,” he whispered in her ear.
“All will be as it should.” She smiled. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Conor reached for a smile. It felt as false as hers looked. “I have a good reason to come back, don’t I?”
He kissed her, but it was a bittersweet farewell, coming so soon after their reunion. When she stepped away, tears pooled in her eyes. “They’re ready for me. I have to go.”
Conor walked her to her horse and lifted her onto it, his hands lingering on her waist. She caught one of them as he drew away. “Promise me you’ll come back.”
“I’ll do everything within my power.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I love you, Aine.”
“And I love you. Go with Comdiu.”
Ruarc caught Conor’s eye and nodded, a wordless assurance she would be as safe as he could make her. The group moved forward, the men closed around her, and then she was gone from his sight.
Conor didn’t expect the crushing sense of loss. He walked amidst the camp in various stages of dismantle and forced down his feelings with each step. He couldn’t afford any distractions from his goal now.
When he reached the site where Abban’s command tent had once stood, the commander spoke with four men. Abban waved Conor over.
“These are your men. Gair, Darragh, Bram, and Eoin. They’ll see you there safely.”
Gair and Eoin were the older of the quartet, perhaps five-and-thirty, with the self-assured air of professional warriors. Darragh and Bram weren’t much older than Conor, but he had watched them drill and knew they were beyond competent.
“I’m glad to have you,” he said. “Has Lord Abban told you the mission?” When they nodded, Conor continued, “We’ll travel fast with remounts. Bring only weapons and enough food to get there and back. Rest up, because we’ll be moving fast, and if we’re successful, we’ll be leaving with warriors on our heels.”
Darragh and Bram exchanged a grin, just a little too enthusiastic about the scenario.
Lord, preserve us, Conor thought.
Abban and his men left that afternoon, leaving behind only scarred earth as a testament to the camp’s existence. Now a mere five warriors crowded around a small fire. Conor tested the edge of his sword and drew a whetstone down its length a few times before he turned his attention to the binding on his staff sling.
“Can you really do what Abban says?” Darragh asked.
Conor looked up at the warrior’s skeptical tone. “I hope so. Until I have the harp, I can’t know for sure.”
“Then we get the harp,” Bram said.
Conor met Gair’s knowing gaze. It would not likely be that easy.
When morning came, they broke camp silently and efficiently, dousing the embers and packing their few supplies onto the horses. Their planned route would take them along the edge of Rós Dorcha until they broke southeast toward the abbey. Fortunately, his four companions proved to be as good riders as they were swordsmen. Abban had chosen well.
Still, Conor’s anxiety increased with each mile. It was not just the knowledge of what awaited them, but the nagging sense he had missed something important. He slept restlessly on the hard ground that first night, chased by half-formed nightmares, until a dream transported him back to Abban’s camp.
Aine clung to his arm, her fingers biting into his flesh. “You mustn’t go to Cill Rhí. You’re in danger.”
“You know why I must go. It’s our only chance.”
Wordlessly, Aine pointed to Mac Eirhinin, standing with Eoin, Bram, and Darragh.
“I don’t understand.”
“Think,” Aine said. “You have felt it from the beginning.”
Conor searched his memory, willing the thought that had nagged him all day to materialize.
No one would blame you if you chose to escort her there yourself. You could be at Cill Rhí in two weeks.
Conor’s stomach clenched as understanding stole into him. He had never spoken to Mac Eirhinin of his destination, and Abban had agreed to hold back the details from all but his four companions. How else could he have known?
It had been Mac Eirhinin’s idea to separate Aine from Abban’s forces and send her on to Dún Eavan.
“You know then.” Aine shivered, her teeth chattering. “It’s time to wake up now.”
“But you could be in danger—”
“You mustn’t worry about me. Your task is too important. It’s time to wake up.”
Now, shudders wracked her whole body. Conor grabbed her arms, panic building in his chest. “Aine—”
“Now, Conor. Wake up!”
Wake up!
Conor knocked aside the downward thrust of a blade before he realized his sword was in hand. He rolled to his feet. Blood rushed through his veins, scattering the last remnants of sleep. In the moonlight, his four companions faced him, their weapons in hand.
“Don’t do this,” Conor said, desperation in his voice. “You’re not traitors. You’re being manipulated.”
“Calhoun is going to lose this war,” Darragh said. “We choose the winning side.”
The man lunged, expecting to catch him off guard, but Conor parried the thrust and countered with his own. The blade slid into Darragh’s midsection with sickening ease. Ten seconds ago, Conor had trusted this man with his life, and now he had killed him.
Eoin came next. Conor knew not to underestimate his skills. Experienced and well-trained, Eoin feinted skillfully, trying to lure him into doing something foolish. Conor kept his breathing measured, his awareness tuned, and when the attack came, he was ready. A short exchange of swordplay, and the warrior lay lifelessly at his feet.
That left him facing Bram. Too late, he realized he had lost track of Gair in the dark. The back of his neck prickled in warning, but before he could act, something slammed into his head. Conor dropped to the ground, and his world slid sideways into blackness.