CHAPTER SIX

When consciousness returned to Conor, it brought with it blinding pain, layer upon layer. He ground his teeth, his mind too consumed by agony to remember where he was or how he had gotten there. It felt as though he were dying slowly, the life dragged from him with every breath, every heartbeat.

“Stay still,” came a quiet, oddly accented voice in his ear. “Drink this.”

Something cool and smooth —an earthenware cup —pressed against his lips, and cold water trickled into his mouth. He swallowed automatically. The liquid seared a path down his parched throat.

Despite his sticky, swollen eyes, Conor could see shafts of light cutting into the darkness all around him. Where was he?

Immediately, the answer came to him. The beach. The brief questioning. A Sofarende camp.

Aine.

Her image sprang up before his eyes, bringing with it a crushing blow of grief. Surely she was dead. She could not have survived the angry sea. She had been on the verge of going under when he had struggled through the waves toward her.

Oh, my love. Not you. I can’t . . . His thoughts dissolved into a meaningless jumble, an ache far worse than his physical pain. Aine was dead, and he would not leave this camp alive. The fact he was still here seemed like a cruel joke.

The cup pressed against his lips again, but Conor turned his head away. He was injured and ill from exposure. If he didn’t eat or drink, he would just slip away in his sleep. It would be better this way. There was nothing left for him if she was gone.

But Conor underestimated his body’s determination and the persistence of his unknown caretaker. When he awoke later, trembling with fever, he gulped down the water gratefully. Something cool and damp lay across his forehead, chasing away some of the fever, and his shaking gradually subsided.

Just let me die, he begged, but again and again he drank the water that was offered to him before lapsing into unconsciousness.

Then one day, Conor became aware of the soft drip-drip of water somewhere above him. He opened his eyes, surprised they obeyed his bidding. He focused on the small space of gray that indicated a gap in the thatched roof and followed the drip to where it fell on his bare chest.

He didn’t feel it land.

Panic surged through his veins as he commanded his body to move, but it remained heavy and unresponsive. He cast about with his eyes, the only part of him that seemed to obey his bidding. He was in a goat pen, lying naked on a bed of hay. Had they simply cast him here to die?

Then a blurry face surfaced in his vision. He blinked until it resolved into a clear image: angular and fine-boned, light eyes, dark hair. A scruffy beard covered the bottom half of the man’s face.

“Calm yourself.” Conor recognized the man’s peculiar accent as belonging to the slave who had translated his words when he was captured. The man pressed a cup to Conor’s lips, and cool liquid slid over his tongue.

“Why can’t I move?” Conor whispered, hating the tremor in his voice.

“Don’t worry. It’s just the all-heal. You were thrashing so much while you were unconscious, I thought you might puncture your lung. Your ribs are broken, I think.”

The man spoke with knowledge and authority, but Conor still stared. “Who are you?”

“My name is Talfryn. I’m a prisoner here, like you.”

Talfryn. The man was Gwynn. That explained the accent. Conor closed his eyes. “You should have let me die.”

“I couldn’t. Haldor’s orders.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. You should be dead already. It wasn’t as if they didn’t try.”

Conor turned his head away, determined not to take any more food or water. What was the point of living when he would only languish in a Sofarende prison? What was the point of enduring any more suffering when the only person who mattered to him was gone?

To his chagrin, sleep eluded him, even though he couldn’t move from his position on the floor. Guards retrieved Talfryn at midday, leaving Conor alone in the shed with nothing to do but stare. His Fíréin training had not deserted him: his heart said he wanted to die, but his mind still surveyed his surroundings, considering avenues of escape.

The structure itself was not a problem. From the breeze and the movement of animals in and out, he guessed that one entire side was open. But the scuff of feet and occasional low voices outside told him he was being guarded. It hardly mattered when the all-heal kept him immobilized on the filthy ground.

Then one morning, he reached up to scratch his neck and froze. He flexed his hand and then wiggled his toes, triumph rushing through him. Apparently Talfryn had backed off the herbs. Conor pushed himself upright on his elbows and then just as quickly collapsed back onto the hay.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. Who would have known broken ribs could hurt so much? Gingerly he palpated his body, looking for other injuries. Bruises covered him from head to toe, and the cuts in his scalp still felt swollen and raw, but the ribs seemed to be the worst of his injuries.

He waited until his breathing steadied and then gathered all his energy to push himself into a sitting position against the wall. Another bolt of pain ripped through him. This time he welcomed it. Didn’t he deserve this, for his failure? He’d had one task: to protect Aine and take her to safety in Aron, and he hadn’t even managed to do that right. All the lives taken, all the bloodshed, for naught.

Conor leaned his head back against the wall. How had he come to this? He’d wanted to be a musician, not a warrior. Even Aine had once told him there was enough fighting in this world without him contributing to it. Yet everything he had done was for her.

Without her, there had been no point to any of it.

Was that what this was all about? Was Comdiu punishing him? He’d been so sure he was meant to rescue Aine, but accompanying her to Forrais —marrying her —had been pure selfishness. Perhaps now he was paying for his disobedience with his life, and hers as well. If that was the case, why should he resist? He should just break for the entrance and die cleanly by one of the guards’ swords.

A too-deep breath banished that fantasy. He almost laughed, but the pain reduced it to a grimace. No. He lacked the strength even to die properly. That would have to wait, unless the Sofarende leader did it for him. Instead, Conor watched the goats come and go, counting them, naming them in his head, looking for patterns in their behavior as a way to pass the time and distract himself from his aching body.

The thud of footsteps came shortly after sundown. He turned his head, expecting Talfryn. Instead, a guard entered, scanning the dim space until his eyes lit on Conor.

“You. Eat.” He tossed him a heel of bread, but Conor couldn’t move quickly enough to catch it. It thudded to the ground several feet away. He didn’t consider what had been on the floor before he snatched it up. His stomach tossed as the first bite of bread hit it, but he still forced the food down, piece by tiny piece until he was sure his body would retain it. The stale crumbs stuck in his throat, and his eyes settled on a trough filled with murky water.

He inched across the dirt pen until he could kneel beside the trough. A slimy film lay over the top of the water, but he dipped his hands in anyway and lifted them to his mouth. The taste nearly gagged him, but at least his mouth no longer felt as if it were stuffed with dust. Then he crept back to his bed of hay and stretched out to relieve the pressure of his swollen midsection on his lungs.

Only then did he recognize the truth: for all his brave thoughts about dying a clean, honorable death, of accepting Comdiu’s punishment for his sins, he wanted to live. As long as there was the slimmest chance Aine could still be alive, he owed it to her to endure.

Which meant he had to convince this Haldor to keep him alive, no matter the cost.

Conor awoke the next morning to a nudge in the ribs that felt more like a kick. His breath hissed from between his teeth as his eyes snapped open. The light from the doorway outlined a man’s form beside him.

“Get up.” The guard pitched Conor his confiscated trousers. “Put these on. Haldor wants to see you.”

Conor struggled to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath at the stab in his side, and swayed for a moment. It took him seconds more to pick up the trousers and what felt like a year to put them on. The warrior took out a length of rope, slipped the loop over Conor’s head, and nudged him toward the doorway.

Conor squinted in the bright light, sensing more than seeing a second guard join them. The point of a weapon prodded him forward. Amusement surfaced through his pain. He was so weak from injuries and lack of food that he could barely put one foot in front of another, and they somehow thought he was dangerous enough to require two guards?

“Where are we going?” he asked in Norin. They didn’t answer.

As Conor’s eyes adjusted to the light, he took in the details of his surroundings he had neglected earlier. It was not a warrior camp but a village, the main boulevard lined with timber and crowded with long, rectangular cottages. Metal clanged —a blacksmith. The putrid smells of salt, sulfur, and animal skin drifted to him —a tannery. A woman gave him a curious look as she passed with a large basket in her arms, but she moved on without comment.

These were not raiders come to strip the land bare and return back home. These were settlers with women and children. In time, these foreigners would come to regard Gwydden as home, and then they would be impossible to beat from the land. Men fought far more fiercely to defend their homes than for plunder.

At last they came to a larger longhouse down another wood-planked road. The guards pushed him through the door. The man holding his leash dragged a bench into the center of the room next to a stone hearth, and the other man shoved him down onto it. He bound Conor’s arms behind his back, looping the rope around the chair legs, and then did the same with his ankles.

“Don’t move,” one of the men said. “Haldor has given us permission to kill you if you try to escape.”

Conor studied the man. He was lying. The leader wanted him alive.

That certainly worked in his favor. He just needed to discover what the commander wanted from him. He looked around the rectangular cottage, hoping for some sort of insight into the warrior they called Haldor, but the room gave him very little. A raised wooden platform ran around the outside edges of the structure, several wooden benches and chests spaced along it. A thick straw mattress covered in woolens and furs indicated a bed, and a meager collection of cookware sat by the square wooden hearth. Haldor had no woman or children with him here. That was telling. Either he didn’t plan on staying permanently or their settlement was too tenuous to bring his family from Norin.

The door opened once more, and Conor turned his head toward it. A man stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the sides of the frame, his head brushing the lintel above. Blond hair, naturally pale rather than bleached yellow like that of the other warriors, barely reached his shoulders, brushing a blue wool cloak fastened with an intricately wrought silver pin. The pommel of a sword peeked from beneath the cloak.

The man jerked his head to the warriors in dismissal and watched Conor until the door shut behind them.

“You heal fast,” he said in Norin. “A few days ago, you would not have been able to make the journey here.”

Conor said nothing. Unlike the other Sofarende he had come across, this man was completely unafraid of him. The commander retrieved a bench from the platform and set it near Conor. His massive frame made it look as if it were sized for a child. He leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees.

“My name is Haldor the Brave. To distinguish me from my father, Haldor the Fierce.”

Still Conor said nothing. He met the man’s gaze, determined to show neither fear nor curiosity.

“I could attempt to coax information from you, but you have already shown you can endure pain. So I find myself in a quandary. You are plainly a warrior. Warriors are of no use to me. I give you a tool, you try to kill your guards. Yet you intrigue me.”

Conor noted the carefully chosen wording, the soft intonation. Haldor was no barbarian. He was an educated man, a thinking man. He would not fall prey to fear and superstition like his warriors.

“Have you nothing to say?”

Conor stared at him blankly.

“Very well. Just listen then. I understand you were asking about a woman.”

Conor couldn’t keep the flicker of alarm from his expression. He couldn’t recall having mentioned Aine, but who knew what he had uttered while in the throes of fever?

“Ah, I see I have gotten your attention. In answer to the question you will not ask me, I do not have her. But I could find out if another settlement does.”

Conor moistened his cracked lips, contemplating his answer. “In return for what?”

“I want to learn of your people. Your language, your religion, your magic.”

“I know nothing of magic.”

“I do not believe you. But let us assume I do. My Gwynn slave tells me the Fíréin are something of legend. I take a particular interest in legend.”

He only wants to know what kind of threat he might face should he invade Seare. To come out and deny him would only earn Conor a quick death. He tried to turn the conversation another way.

“Why the interest in magic? Your men seem to fear it. Is that why you want to know? To instill the respect that your men lack?”

Haldor merely cocked his head. “What makes you say that?”

“They disobeyed your orders by trying to kill me.”

The Sofarende leader let out a booming laugh. “Do not think because you understand our language that you understand our ways. I was not telling them to unhand you. You killed two of my best men. I needed to know if your life was worth two of theirs.”

“Is it?”

The amusement left Haldor’s expression, and his eyes turned hard. “We will see.” He stood and called to the guards, “Eluf, Ove!” The door opened immediately, and the guards stepped inside. “Take him back now. We’re finished.”

The guards untied the rope from the bench and jerked Conor to his feet, but they kept his hands bound behind his back. He complied, his face impassive.

“I will give you until this time tomorrow to consider my offer. If you still refuse, you will be executed.”

Conor struggled not to show the thrill of fear the words sent through him. If the choice was between betraying his homeland or his own death, he knew which one he should choose. But it was not only his life at stake here. Eluf shoved him toward the door. Before he could step through it, Haldor called after him, “Not all Sofarende are as enlightened as I am, Conor. Before you make your decision, you might ask Eluf what the others would do with a female captive.”

Conor jerked his eyes to his guard, who grinned suggestively. Haldor nodded, his point made. “Tomorrow. I hope for the sake of your woman you make the right decision.”

The walk back to Conor’s prison went more easily, perhaps because his mind was fixed on Haldor’s ultimatum and not the trembling in his legs. He barely noticed the shoves Eluf aimed at his back to unbalance him as he calculated the likelihood of Aine’s survival. If she were alive and in Sofarende custody, he would do anything to spare her. After all, it wasn’t as if there were much left of Seare to save. Would it be so bad if Fergus had to focus his attention on a Sofarende invasion?

He didn’t immediately notice that Eluf was not taking him back to the goat pen but instead toward the opposite side of the village. Conor slowed. “Where are you taking me?”

Eluf responded with a shove. Conor resisted for a brief moment before he gave in to his guard’s prodding.

Eluf stopped before a smaller hut, its roof thatched but its walls poorly insulated. The guard yanked open the door and shoved Conor inside. He stumbled and caught himself on his hands and knees. Thin straw pallets covered in stained linen lined the hard ground, and a bucket stood in the corner. From the smell, he assumed it to be a makeshift chamber pot. He suddenly wished for the goat pen.

“You will stay here until you are called again. If you try to escape, you die. Haldor’s orders.”

Before Conor could respond, Eluf stepped out and shut the door. Conor found a spot away from the bucket and lowered his aching body to the ground, the squalor around him a stark reminder that should he live, he would be a slave.

Warriors are of no use to me. I give you a tool, you try to kill your guards.

Haldor was no fool.

Right now, though, Conor could barely walk, let alone fight, which meant that Haldor’s offer was the only way out.

That evening, a guard came in with another scrap of bread and a bowl of thin soup. Conor ate slowly, his stomach still uneasy after days of mostly liquid. There had to be other men quartered here, but they must eat someplace else. Someone had ordered the guard to make the extra effort of bringing him food.

Why? Was Haldor that sure Conor would accept his offer? Why waste food on a prisoner who would be executed?

He finished the meal and inched himself back against the wall, where he sat, breathing carefully lest he disturb his injuries, until the door opened again. A line of men filed in, each one just this side of malnourished and cloaked in the aura of defeat that only those who had given up hope could possess. All except one.

Conor studied him for a long moment. Talfryn. The man kept his head down and his movements controlled, but he still possessed a quality that unmistakably screamed warrior. How was it that they let him move so freely among them?

The Gwynn sat against the wall a few feet from Conor and shot him a sidelong glance. “So Haldor decided not to kill you after all?”

“Not until tomorrow at least. It depends.”

“On what?”

Conor studied him for a long moment. “On you.”

“How’s that?”

“Haldor says he never keeps fighting men alive. So how’s it that you’re still here?”

“Me?” Talfryn’s eyes widened in surprise, and a man beside them guffawed. “What gave you that idea?”

Conor frowned. Talfryn’s build, his mannerisms —Conor knew instinctively that this man was comfortable with a sword. “I’m rarely wrong about these things. I pegged you for a warrior. Likely a good one.”

Talfryn’s expression changed. “Interesting.”

“I don’t . . .”

The other man shook his head. “I’ll explain later. You said it all depends on me. What did you mean by that?”

Even though Conor was clearly missing part of the story, his instincts told him he could trust Talfryn, especially after the man had nursed him back to some semblance of health. “He gave me a choice. If I teach him about Seare, he will inquire after my wife in the other settlements. If I don’t, he’ll execute me.”

“Haldor’s an intelligent man,” Talfryn said. “He knows you wouldn’t betray your country to save your own life, but for someone you love . . .”

“You told him.”

“It was necessary. What are you going to do?”

“What did you do? You must have made some sort of deal to keep yourself alive.”

“I didn’t.” Talfryn moved closer and lowered his voice. “You are the only one who has been able to perceive me as a warrior. Everyone else believes I’m a eunuch. A house slave.”

Conor’s eyebrows flew up. Talfryn could alter others’ perceptions of him? That was a gift he’d never heard of. “Then you’re Balian.”

“You don’t seem surprised by my ability.”

“I’ve seen things a lot more unbelievable than this.” It explained plenty, though —why he’d recognized the Gwynn’s voice but not his face. “You were the one translating the day I was captured.”

“I’m the only one who speaks both Norin and the common tongue.”

“And how did you learn Norin? As a slave?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Talfryn threw him a smile. “But those are stories for another day. After you’ve made your decision.”

Talfryn was right. Conor stretched out on a filthy pallet and stared at the dimly illuminated thatching while he pondered his options. Aine was probably dead. Acknowledging the thought seemed to suck the air from the room. The honorable thing to do would be to refuse Haldor’s offer and accept his execution. But what if there were even the slightest chance Aine could be alive and in Sofarende control?

The surge of hope surprised him. He and Aine had a connection before. Did he have some sort of awareness that she lived? Or was it just wishful thinking?

What would You have me do, Lord? Do I betray my homeland? Is it even a betrayal? What harm could come from teaching Haldor to speak Seareann?

Then, Is Aine alive? I want to believe that You saved her once more. I don’t want to fail this test.

He waited for a sign, some deep certainty about his path. It didn’t come. In fact, when the guard came for him the next morning, he still had no idea what answer he would give.

Once more, the guards lashed his wrists and ankles to the bench and waited nearby. As the minutes passed and Haldor still did not arrive, Conor’s pulse accelerated. He imagined himself remaining tight-lipped, accepting a pronouncement of death rather than betraying his homeland’s secrets. But it was not his own execution that sprang to mind.

Haldor chose that moment to appear, and Conor couldn’t help but think the delay had been calculated to make him nervous. He stiffened on the bench, preparing himself, but the big warrior simply regarded him expectantly. “What have you decided?”

Inspiration struck. “I will accept your offer. On one condition.”

“What makes you think I’m interested in your condition?”

“Because you want what I can offer more than you want to execute me.”

“What is it, then?”

“Send word to the other settlements about my wife immediately, and if they have her, ensure her release. I don’t want her spending any more time imprisoned than necessary.”

“You think more of my influence than you should. I have no control over what the other settlements do.”

Conor studied Haldor. The brooch that held his cloak on one shoulder was silver, studded with precious gems. The hilt of his sword was elaborately carved ivory. Taken with his educated speech, Haldor must have been an important man back in Klasjvic. Besides, his men had thought Conor was a spy. That meant Haldor had enemies, and men only had enemies when they had influence.

“No. You’re someone important. I would stake my life on it.”

“Easy to say when your life is already in my hands. How do I know you will still tell me what I want to know once she’s safe?”

“How do I know you will ensure her release?” Conor countered. “Are we men of our word? If not, you might as well kill me now.”

Haldor considered and then gave him a single nod. He looked to the guard. “Unbind him.”

The guard reluctantly unknotted the ropes. Conor flexed his hands but otherwise didn’t move. Gaining Haldor’s trust was the key to getting what he wanted.

“Leave us,” Haldor said to the guard. The man obeyed wordlessly.

“Tell me, Conor with no clan name, why did you make this decision?”

Conor remembered the last thing he had said to his wife. You are my world, Aine. Never forget that.

“Because I value my wife’s safety above my own,” he said finally. “Besides, Seare is under the control of a despicable man. I wouldn’t mind him being occupied with you instead of my countrymen for a while.”

Haldor laughed. “I like you, Conor. You keep your end of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine. I’ll send my messengers today. Come tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

Talfryn looked unsurprised to see Conor that night in the prison hut. “You made your decision, then.”

“You don’t approve?”

“I think anything that saves your life and buys you time is a sound decision. I just hope you have a plan. When Haldor gets what he wants, he’ll have no more reason to keep you around.”

Conor nodded solemnly. He had bargained for Haldor’s help in finding Aine. His own life hadn’t much entered into the decision.