CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Only seconds after his reunion with Aine, Conor found himself surrounded, and dozens more people rushed toward him. Apparently word traveled as quickly as ever in Ard Dhaimhin. Riordan crushed him into a strong embrace. “Welcome home, son.”

“Thank you,” Conor said, overwhelmed by the welcome. He barely recognized the faces around him, conscious of Aine getting farther and farther away.

“The Conclave will want to speak with you. Eoghan was here a moment ago . . .”

Conor didn’t hear the rest of the words as he pushed back through the crowd to Aine and seized her hand. “You didn’t think you’d be rid of me that easily, did you?”

Mischief glinted in her eyes. “Don’t think you’ll use me as an excuse to escape from the Conclave. If I had to sit through their meetings, so do you.”

Things had changed even more than he had thought. Obviously the city had been opened. He’d thought it a result of the burned forest, but as they fell in alongside Riordan and headed for Carraigmór, he realized it probably had something to do with his wife. Everyone knew her, and even more surprising, they didn’t come across anyone whose name she didn’t know in return.

“You have a lot to tell me,” he said.

“As do you. For example, what have you been doing in Gwydden these past months?”

He looked at her in shock, but she just wore a satisfied little smile. “How do you know that?”

“Same way I know you’re contemplating slipping out of the hall before the Conclave can pin you down.”

It was indeed what he’d been thinking, though he doubted she knew —

“Oh, aye. I know that, too.” She squeezed his hand, and a tinge of pink reached her cheeks.

“Then you know I’m not likely to be dissuaded.”

It was Aine’s turn to laugh. “Husband, do your duty and tell your story to the Conclave. There are things you must know.” Her amusement faded. “Much has changed.”

He nodded. There was plenty he needed to tell them, but he didn’t want to waste this joyful reunion with Aine. Just releasing her hand to start the upward climb to Carraigmór filled him with loss.

Once they reached the hall, Riordan paused. “I’ll assemble the Conclave. They’ll want to speak with you right away.”

“I’d like to wash and change first. And something to eat would be appreciated. I’ve been traveling on foot and sleeping rough for weeks.”

Riordan looked startled, but he bent his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll have supper brought to the hall. Aine can show you to her —your —chamber. Someone will come fetch you when the Conclave is assembled.”

Conor gave a short bow and then turned to Aine. He could sense his father’s disappointment. But what had he expected? Conor was no longer Fíréin, if that designation still meant anything. Did Riordan think his return to Ard Dhaimhin could overshadow seeing his wife again?

Aine led him upward to one of Carraigmór’s guest chambers, sending him a sympathetic glance. “It will take time. You’re his son, and his former student. He’s not used to seeing you as a man, and one with other responsibilities, at that.”

“How exactly are you doing that?” At first Conor had thought perhaps she’d had a vision of him in Gwydden, but this was more specific, more precise.

“A new gift,” she murmured.

“You can read minds?” Conor grinned at her. “That could be fun.”

Aine made a face and smacked him on the arm. “Stop that. You’re supposed to be washing for supper, not contemplating other things.” But her reproof was halfhearted at best.

She stopped before a door and pushed it open to reveal a sparse chamber. Apparently the opening of the city hadn’t changed the brotherhood’s ideas about living requirements. As Conor wandered the room, though, he saw evidence of his wife’s presence: an ivory comb and a hair ribbon on a low table, a gown hanging on a hook. Aine went to a basin and poured water from a pitcher and then set a folded cloth by it, her movements precise and measured.

“If you’d waited, you could have had warm water,” she said.

“And I’d have to smell like the road for the rest of the night.” Conor dumped his pack out on the bed and began to remove his weapons. Aine was there before he could get very far, unbuckling his baldric with nimble fingers.

“Gwynn?” she guessed, assessing the sword before she put it aside on the bed.

“Aye.” He pulled his stained tunic over his head and paused as Aine removed an embroidered garment from his pack.

“What happened, Conor? Where have you been? This is thread of gold.”

How could he sum up all that had happened since leaving Seare? “I just came from Cwmmaen, Prince Talfryn’s household. The rest . . . can you forgive me if I only want to tell it once?”

She looked at him then —really looked, her eyes lingering on the new scars he’d acquired —and her jaw tightened. Before she could say anything, he tugged her to him and kissed her.

“What was that for?” she asked breathlessly.

“You have to ask?” He lifted his eyebrows, trying for a teasing tone, but it fell flat. He sighed. “Can you blame me if I want to pretend for a few moments that we live an ordinary life?”

“No. I can’t blame you. I want nothing more myself. But, Conor, we’re at war.”

He released her. “I know. The sidhe have overtaken the kingdoms, and in some way, my clan is responsible. Which means I have the obligation to make it right.”

“That’s too much responsibility for anyone to take on, even you.”

He turned away and plunged the rag into the water, then ran it over his face and neck. “Someone has to redeem the Mac Nir name, Aine. Else what do I have to offer you?”

“You.” She positioned herself between him and the basin. “That’s all I’ve ever needed. Now wash up before they send someone for us. I want to hear your story. It’s taking all my restraint not to pull it from your mind piece by piece.”

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “I love you, Aine. You have no idea what it was like for me, not knowing.”

“I do.” She stole a kiss and then slipped away before he could make good on his thoughts of a true distraction. The half smile she wore said she knew exactly what she was doing.

When Conor and Aine arrived in Carraigmór’s hall, the Conclave members were just sitting down to the table set with bowls of stew, fruit, and several loaves of bread with honey. Two large pitchers of mead sat in the center with a stack of cups. Conor suspected that however much the city had changed, this spread was just as unusual now as it had been under Liam’s command.

Those things would shift, though. Conor didn’t need Aine’s mind-reading gift to know that the city would someday be the seat of a monarchy —that eventually the kingdom’s customs, those the Fíréin had so carefully kept away, would start creeping in. He wasn’t yet sure if that were good or bad.

Eoghan entered the hall at the last possible moment. Conor stilled, his hand on the chair back, sensing the tension in his friend’s posture. Then Eoghan pressed him into a hug, thumping his back hard enough to knock the wind from him, just as he had done when Conor was a novice.

“Brother,” Eoghan said, as if all he needed to express was contained in that one word.

“I told you we’d see each other again,” Conor said. “I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

Riordan stood and gestured to them. “Conor, Eoghan, sit.”

Eoghan circled to an empty seat next to Riordan, leaving the two chairs opposite them for Conor and Aine. Conor reached for the mead and poured a cup for himself and his wife before he spoke.

“Tell me what happened here.”

Riordan launched into a lengthy explanation of the attack on Ard Dhaimhin, his account punctuated by other members of the Conclave. Conor merely nodded, even though his stomach sank with each new detail. So many casualties. Those men commanded by the druid —Keondric now, it seemed —were just as much victims as his fallen brothers.

When Riordan got to Aine’s role in the reopening of the city, the first real smile touched Conor’s lips. He squeezed her hand under the table. “Somehow I knew you’d be at the center of it.”

He looked around the table. “What are our numbers now?”

“Two and a half thousand Fíréin remain. The rest chose to return to the kingdoms to protect their families. A few hundred warriors have joined us as well as another thousand men, women, and children. Were it not for the burnt fields, we’d have no difficulty feeding everyone, but our resources are stretched thin. We’ll need this year to be our best harvest ever in order not to starve.”

Conor’s hopes plummeted at the new reality of Ard Dhaimhin. So many had come to the city, looking for sanctuary. Would they avoid the war and violence outside only to die of starvation here? For that matter, how long could the Fíréin hope to keep another battle from their doorstep?

“Ard Dhaimhin is vulnerable,” Conor said quietly. “We must reinstate the wards.

“The harp is gone,” Eoghan said. “Smashed, burned. I saw it with my own eyes.” He fished a tuning pin from his pouch and slid it across the table.

Conor handled the ivory pin thoughtfully. He felt nothing —no power, no indication that this was from Meallachán’s exceptional harp but for its fine craftsmanship. He pushed it back to Eoghan. “I may not need it. But I’ll have to experiment with Master Liam’s harp before I know for sure. Brother Gillian might have some ideas.”

The table remained quiet, and once more his stomach pitched. “When?”

“Not long after the siege,” Riordan said. “As far as we can tell, he went peacefully.”

Conor wiped a weary hand over his face. He had been relying on Gillian’s knowledge to figure the wards out. Now that he was gone, it would make his task that much more difficult.

Eoghan pulled the conversation back on track. “Tell us why you don’t need the harp.”

Conor detailed his last two months to rapt attention, giving only the most abbreviated version. He didn’t go into how he had nearly died in a goat pen, how he had debated giving up Ard Dhaimhin’s secrets to save Aine. He certainly didn’t mention Briallu. Aine’s hand tightened on his beneath the table with every new detail.

“What did you learn that might be useful to us here?” Daigh asked.

“I suspect the sidhe’s influence is more widespread than we thought. They’re present in Gwydden. Certain things Haldor said made me wonder if they haven’t been encroaching on the Lakelands as well.”

“Lord Balus warned me as much,” Aine said softly. “Seare is only the beginning. If they are not stopped here, now, there is no hope for the rest of the world.”

Conor slumped back in his chair. She was right. She’d told him of Balus’s words to her, about the evil that would sweep across mankind. This was simply the first battleground. Finally he said, “The wards will only discourage the sidhe from influencing the city, assuming I can rebuild them. We need to find a permanent solution. If they’re allowed to continue their dominion, there will be no Seare left to liberate.”

“I’ve seen that firsthand,” Aine murmured, exchanging a significant glance with Eoghan.

Conor frowned. Since when did his wife and his friend share thoughts?

“Comdiu sent me to retrieve Aine from Ballaghbán,” Eoghan explained. “The sidhe’s influence is particularly strong there. It affected her badly.”

A tinge of pink touched Aine’s cheeks, and Conor’s frown deepened. What on earth was that about? Riordan must have caught the shift in mood because he said, “We should let you rest. You and Aine will want to talk, and you’ve been traveling for a long while.”

Conor should have been relieved —after all, some time alone with his wife was all he’d wanted in the first place —but he couldn’t help but feel that something was being kept from him. He mumbled a polite farewell to the group and offered Aine his arm to escort her from the hall.

After several seconds, he murmured, “What aren’t you telling me?”

She looked genuinely surprised. “About my arrival? About Aron? I’ll tell you everything. I just don’t think either of us is ready to discuss it all tonight.”

“That’s not what I meant. I saw the way Eoghan looked at you.”

Aine stiffened. So he hadn’t been wrong.

“My best friend. Did he . . . ? Has he —?”

“Heavens no, Conor! He loves you. He would never . . . I shouldn’t even tell you this. I wouldn’t know if it weren’t for my gift.”

Aine’s steps sped up, and Conor increased his own to keep pace with her. “If my friend has made some sort of advance toward my wife, I’d like to know.”

“He can’t help it,” she said, a sigh in her voice. “It irritates him. It’s uncomfortable for me. But you have to understand, for the men who were raised here in the brotherhood, it’s a big change to have women around. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot of weddings this winter.”

She was right, of course. But the idea that his best friend might have feelings for his wife —how could Conor ever look at him the same way again, even if Eoghan never acted on those feelings?

They arrived at their chamber, and Aine pushed through the door without waiting for him. “I shouldn’t have told you. It would have been better for you not to know.”

A horrifying thought occurred to him. He shut the door behind them while he worked up the courage to ask. “You don’t . . . return those feelings, do you?”

She spun, eyes flashing. “How could you ask that? I’m your wife. I love you.”

“Still, things change.” His voice came out choked. What if it were true? She hadn’t wanted to be alone with him. She’d instead encouraged him to do his duty to Ard Dhaimhin —

“Conor.”

His eyes snapped to hers mid-thought. She knew what he was thinking.

“Don’t be an idiot.” She stepped close to him and looked into his face. “I love you and you alone.” She rose on tiptoes and brushed his lips with a kiss that held as much promise as her words.

He ran his hands down her shoulders and bent for another kiss, wishing he hadn’t had the doubt planted in his mind. He should still be careful with her, woo her, win her. It wasn’t as if they’d had a proper courtship. Perhaps Aine just needed to be reminded of the connection they had always shared. He could be patient.

“You don’t need to win me, Conor,” she murmured. “I am already yours.”

Then she was pulling his head down and kissing him hungrily. Her hands roamed his back, then moved to the hem of his tunic and tugged it off over his head.

“Aine,” he whispered, but she silenced him with a long, eloquent kiss.

“I know,” she murmured. “Me too.”

Apparently words were no longer necessary.