CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Conor awoke to yellow light sifting through the small, high window. A few hours past midday, perhaps. He pushed himself off the bed and made a face at the wrinkled mess he’d made of his borrowed silk tunic. He should have at least had the grace to take it off before he collapsed.
Not that sleep had righted anything. His body ached from the luxury of a soft bed after nearly a month sleeping on hard ground, his mouth felt dry, and his stomach seemed shriveled to the size of a walnut. No wonder he’d had such difficulty with the heavy Norin sword. His muscles shook from bearing his own weight, let alone a dozen pounds of iron.
Someone —probably the same disdainful servant —had come in and placed a ewer and a basin on the small table next to the bed, along with a clean, folded cloth. Conor splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth, then combed his hair back from his face. The abrupt end of the motion took him by surprise. He had forgotten he had hacked it off rather than suffer through the process of dematting his braid.
He grinned ruefully at his own vanity. Aine would make fun of him. Or would she be disappointed? He had clear memories of her burying her hands in his hair on their wedding night. . . .
He sighed. He couldn’t think of those things now. Though it did bring to mind what he was supposed to broach with Talfryn: would the prince be willing to use his resources to find Aine?
When he reached the hall, however, it was empty. A servant passing by in one of the corridors paused. “Sir? May I bring you something?”
“No, thank you.” Conor detoured down the corridor that led to the side door and stepped into the glaring afternoon sunlight.
The clack of wood on wood and the good-natured shouts of men drew him to the far corner of the large courtyard, where at least a dozen warriors gathered around the prince. Talfryn faced four of his men, stripped to the waist with sword in hand.
“Ah, you can do better than that!” he taunted. “Afraid to bruise your prince?”
His opponents grinned and redoubled their efforts —with practice swords, Conor saw —but the prince held them off at every turn. He’d been right in his earlier assessment of Talfryn’s ability: the man was every bit as skilled as his warriors. Watching the match made Conor itch for the feel of a weapon in his own hand.
“You feel naked.”
He jerked his head around. Briallu smiled at him, a hint of mischief glinting in her eyes. “Without a sword, I mean.”
Conor cleared his throat. “How do you know I’m a fighter?”
She threw her head back and laughed, a lilting sound that wormed its way into his chest. “Surely you jest. I have brothers. I was raised among men. Fair hand with a sword and bow I am myself. And you ask me how I recognize a warrior.” She winked at him and gestured with her head for him to follow. Against his better judgment, he obeyed.
“Where are we going? Won’t your father be upset about you being alone with a stranger?”
“You hardly qualify as a stranger. But even if you did, I have my father wrapped around my finger. He won’t object. Not when he knows what I’m up to.”
An odd sense of foreboding slid over Conor, and his steps slowed. Briallu glanced back at him, her expression reproving. “Come, now. Afraid I’m going to lure you away and steal your virtue? What kind of woman do you think I am?”
Conor’s flush began at the tips of his ears and spread across his face. “Forgive me, my lady. I am a married man. I attempt to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”
“Well, you are a proper one, aren’t you? Fear not, Lord Conor —aye, you are as clearly noble as you are a warrior —I will not give your wife any cause for complaint today. But you will regret it if you do not follow me.”
Terrible idea, Conor told himself. But he followed.
She led him to a small stone structure beyond the barracks and pushed open the iron-bound door. “Come. See.”
Conor stepped inside the dark space, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. He propped the door open with his foot to let in more light. “The armory.”
“Aye, the armory. I suspect my father would understand you’re in need of a sword. After all, it’s unseemly for a nobleman to be without a weapon, is it not?”
Conor met her eyes, for the first time feeling more kinship than wariness. “It is. And since you seem to know your way around, I’ll let you point out the obvious choices.”
She smiled and sized him up with uncomfortable thoroughness. “Short sword and dagger, aye?”
“Aye. Good guess.”
“I mean no offense, Conor, but it’s hardly a guess.” She went to a rack that held at least a dozen plain swords, all with well-made steel blades, brass pommels and leather-wrapped wooden grips. Soldiers’ swords, almost Ciraean in design. “One of these, I’d think.”
Conor took one after another from the rack, testing the feel in his hand, the distribution of weight. He’d been trained to fight with whatever he was given or whatever he could pick up on the battlefield, but the first two felt wrong. The third reminded him of the weapons to which he had been accustomed at Ard Dhaimhin. It was the most worn of the bunch, its handle and crossguard scarred, but it was balanced and the blade was true. “This one.”
She nodded toward another wall where an array of fleece-lined sheaths with their leather harnesses and baldrics hung side by side. He chose the first that fit the blade and tested the draw to make sure the sword would not stick or slide out.
“Now for the dagger.” Briallu moved to a large bench upon which was displayed an array of short blades. Conor reached out, but she raised a hand.
“A man chooses his own sword, but a woman must choose the dagger.” She gave him a smile once again tinged with amusement. “It is usually the wife’s responsibility, but since you are inconveniently without yours, I will have to do.”
“I’m not familiar with that custom.”
“Does it not make sense? If a man loses his sword and must use his dagger, he no longer battles for honor or glory. He fights to return home to his loved ones. His wife’s heart goes with him and gives him strength.”
It was the kind of superstition Conor had been taught to cast aside by his Balian instructors. But he remembered his relief when he had woken up after the ambush in Siomar and found they had forgotten to take his dagger. Aye, he had been fighting for his loved one then.
Briallu moved to the table, closed her eyes, and hovered a hand over the weapons.
Conor couldn’t help himself. “This is your selection method?”
“Shhh.” She didn’t open her eyes. “I am never wrong. Don’t distract me.”
After a few moments of wordless “searching,” she closed her hand around one and lifted it in triumph. “This one is meant for you.” She turned to him and presented it, hilt first.
It had absolutely nothing to commend it above a dozen other similar daggers, but the moment he grasped it, the hilt warmed in his palm. His eyes widened.
“I told you. I’m never wrong.”
About what? Surely, he’d just imagined the sensation, based on the power of her suggestion.
She retrieved the leather baldric he’d chosen, slid on the sheathed sword, and gestured to him. “Let’s fit this.”
He obeyed, far too taken aback by the radiating dagger to do anything else. He dipped his head so she could slip the harness over his shoulder and beneath his left arm. Then she reached around him to buckle the belt at his waist, her hands brisk, businesslike. Even so, he found himself holding his breath at her nearness.
“In Gwydden, only long swords are worn on the back. Short swords go at the hip.” Her hands went to the buckle at his chest to take up the slack in the strap.
“I feel like one of your horses with all this tack.”
She chuckled. “You will become used to it with time, I’m sure.”
With time. He sobered. It had been a month since he had lost Aine, and he was no closer to finding her than before. He shifted the unfamiliar baldric on his shoulder and gave Briallu a sober nod. “Thank you.”
Her smile faded, a hint of hurt surfacing in her expression. “You’re welcome.”
Outside, Talfryn was standing by, watching the other men practice. He glanced up when he saw them approach, his eyes lighting on Conor’s weaponry. “I see my daughter already got to you.”
She winked at Conor. “It’s shameful that a warrior should be without his weapons, Father. Someone needs to see to the important details around here.”
“I know you do. Just don’t tell your mother I said that.” Talfryn chuckled and bestowed a doting smile on Briallu, leaving Conor to again wonder about the informality of this family.
“My lord” —Conor grimaced at Talfryn’s reproving look, but he continued —“might I speak with you in private when you have a moment?”
“We do have things to discuss, don’t we? Come.” Talfryn headed toward the side door near the barracks. Conor followed him down one corridor and into another one, where he pushed open a chamber door. A library, it seemed from the books, or perhaps the prince just enjoyed having his study filled with reading material. He gestured for Conor to take a seat at the long table and sat down across from him.
“You have questions about how I came to be in the Norin camp.”
“Aye. You said Comdiu told you to find me.”
Talfryn leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t expect you to believe this. I almost don’t believe it myself. I am a follower of Lord Balus, Conor, but I always thought that visions were reserved for prophets or priests. Men more devout than me.
“But I had a dream that very clearly showed me I was to ride up to the Norin encampment west of Cwmmaen and get myself captured. I was not to resist, but simply wait for a foreign warrior. And then we were to escape on the first full moon after his arrival.”
Conor studied the prince, fascinated. “And you just accepted that as a vision?”
“Of course not! I dismissed it as a dream. But the next night, I had the same dream. And the next. And the night after that. Never varying, always the same down to the smallest detail. Except the last time, I saw the arrival of a message from my brother, Prince Neryn. When I awoke the next morning to a messenger from Gwingardd, I knew I was being told to obey. What do you make of that?”
“I am grateful you obeyed,” Conor said with a grin.
“I am sure you are. But now it is my turn.” Talfryn folded his hands on the table, his brown eyes glinting. “I have been wondering this whole time: why you?”
Conor shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Well.” Talfryn flopped back in his chair. “Here I thought you would give me some elaborate explanation of your calling, your charge for Comdiu.”
Conor flushed. In his capture and his fear for his wife, he had nearly forgotten the task he was supposed to accomplish. “I may be the only person left alive who can retake Seare from my uncle and his sorcerer.”
“And you forgot to mention that?”
“I don’t know if it can be done. I don’t know if I am the one to do it. I certainly don’t know why Comdiu tasked you of all people with this job. But I’m afraid I must ask for your help one more time.”
“You want me to inquire after your wife.”
“Please. I cannot return to Seare without finding her. My hope is that she’s safe in Aron by now, but she could have fallen into the hands of one of the Lowland clans.”
“I will make inquiries,” Talfryn said. “We have no quarrel with the Aronans in the north, so I would expect a quick answer from them. But the southern clans have been feuding with Gwydden over borders for almost as long as they’ve been quarreling with the Highlanders. Do not expect much from that quarter.”
Conor let out his breath. It was not the news for which he had hoped, but he could ask for no more. “Thank you, Talfryn. You have been asked to do more on my behalf than most men would bear. Please know that I am truly grateful.”
Talfryn nodded and rose. “You will find paper and ink in the drawers on the far wall. Write your missives, and I will have them sent under my personal seal. We shall find your wife one way or another.”