Aine huddled in the corner of the cottage, shivering with cold and fatigue. She could scarcely process what had happened. Whether it was her manipulation or his own conscience, Keondric had sacrificed himself for them. He had kept his vow after all.
He was not the only one. Ruarc. Lorcan. Even now, Calhoun held off the dark forces that threatened Lisdara. Tears slid down her cheeks as she considered all the people she loved now in danger, perhaps already dead.
Then there was Conor. Even the Fíréin’s renown had not hinted at the extent of his abilities. She had always sensed he was capable of far more than even he suspected, but the brotherhood had honed his raw talent and determination into something remarkable.
He would come back to her. He had to. He could not live through all that just to die now.
Please, Lord, just bring him back safely.
The answering certainty that washed over her gave her strength and purpose. She forced herself to rise, pushing away the bone-deep weariness that gripped her limbs. When he came back, they would probably not linger long. She rifled through the contents of the cottage, silently thanking Comdiu that He had turned these poor people’s misfortune into a blessing.
A single dress hung on a peg with a linen shift. She discarded her wet underdress and slipped into the borrowed clothing. She had to overlap the eyelets of the dress’s lacing and cut off excess fabric at the hem, but at least it was warm and dry. Her shivering slowly subsided. She set aside a few pieces of men’s clothing for Conor, then continued to search the cottage. Anything edible had already been carried off by rats, but she did find a sharp bone needle, some gut thread, and a few tallow candle stubs.
Time crawled, minutes turning into an hour, then two. The sick feeling seeped back in. Conor should be back by now. Had something happened to him?
Still, she made herself wait. Blundering around in the dark would only worsen the situation. If he returned and she wasn’t there, they could end up wandering around the forest all night or worse.
Just when she could bear the wait no longer, the door burst open. A large man filled the doorway, Conor’s body slung over his shoulder like a life-sized rag doll. She backed away, clutching the dagger in the folds of her skirt.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Lady Aine. He’s hurt.”
Aine surveyed the dark-haired man uneasily. He looked to be carved from rock, all muscle and sinew, and he moved with a particular grace she had unconsciously come to associate with Conor. Fíréin. She nodded jerkily and gestured to the bed, though she still gripped the knife.
“Who are you?”
“Brother Eoghan, my lady. I’m a friend of Conor’s. I’m told you have. . . certain gifts?”
She just nodded again. Eoghan laid Conor gently on the bed and stepped back. Her insides twisted. He looked so pale that had it not been for the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, she would have thought he was dead. And the blood . . . the left side of his tunic was soaked, his hands smeared with it. Which was worse? That it was all his? Or that it wasn’t?
She sat down beside Conor and placed her hand against his cheek. Sensations instantly flooded her mind, and she exhaled in relief. “He’s exhausted, and he’s lost blood, but he’ll recover. He just needs rest.”
“Something neither of you will get much of,” Eoghan said. “Can you fix his arm?”
Aine nodded. The man’s posture said he was far more concerned for Conor than his calm tone suggested. She retrieved the needle and thread and said hopefully, “I don’t suppose there’s fresh water nearby?”
Eoghan passed her the water skin slung over his shoulder. She unbuckled Conor’s belt and sword baldric and set them aside, then slit his tunic from cuff to hem. “Help me get this off him.”
Eoghan lifted him while she gingerly removed the garment. Purple bruises mottled Conor’s torso, but he otherwise seemed whole. Aine washed the sword wound and surveyed the damage. The gash was deep, and it bled as she manipulated it, but at least it was a clean cut from a sharp blade. She threaded the needle clumsily in the candlelight and began her delicate work, aware of Eoghan’s scrutiny as she made a row of even, tiny stitches. Conor stirred in his sleep, but he did not wake.
When she finished, she bound his arm with linen scraps left over from her hasty alterations and turned to cleaning the rest of the blood and grime from his body.
“You’ve done this more than once, I can see,” Eoghan said.
Aine brushed a piece of damp hair from Conor’s eyes. “I spent two years on the Siomaigh front. There were plenty of opportunities for practice.” She glanced back at Eoghan. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but what are you doing here? I thought the Fíréin stayed out of this sort of thing. He’s no longer one of you.”
“Conor has won the respect of a number of brothers. When I heard what he was planning, I thought he could use some help.”
“We’re indebted to you,” Aine said softly.
Eoghan looked embarrassed. “Not at all, my lady. For now, sleep. I’ll keep watch outside.”
“Thank you.”
Eoghan bowed and stepped out the door.
Aine stretched out on the mattress beside Conor and pulled the blanket over them. After a moment’s hesitation, she laid her head on his uninjured shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, as if she could force strength back into his body through sheer will. She managed a few incoherent words of prayer, and then she succumbed to her exhaustion.