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box or flint, so there would be no fire to warm her tonight. She didn’t even have a blanket beyond the oversized cloak, nor a knife with which to defend herself.
    She had never been so completely dependent on Comdiu’s mercy for her survival.
    Perhaps that’s the point.
    The thought stunned her. Could Comdiu have allowed her isolation as a lesson in trust? She had embarked on her tasks in Faolán with the faith He would keep her from harm through her loyal guards. But her trust had still been a step removed. It was all too easy to give credit to human hands.
    Aine hugged her arms around herself. The temperature was falling steadily, warning of a cold night to come. She forcedherself to eat a few bites of bread and cheese and drank from the water skin she had refilled earlier in the day. It took far too little time, and the long, lonely night stretched ahead of her.
    She’d never really been alone. The fearless woman who had surveyed wards on the battlefield and led men into Fíréin territory seemed far away now. It had been borrowed courage, born from her reliance on those men’s capability. How little had she valued them when they were alive?
    She hugged her arms to herself, staggered by the unexpected, crushing weight of loss. It took her a full minute to catch her breath and even longer for her swimming vision to clear. Dear Lord , she began, but she couldn’t put the prayer into words. The grief was too raw, too close. She curled up at the base of the tree, her head pillowed on her arm, the cloak wrapped around her. Tears pricked her eyes. The ache in her heart only intensified when she tried not to think of Conor. Had Comdiu allowed them to be separated to make her realize how much she depended on her earthly support?
    The night stretched on endlessly. The normal sounds of the dark countryside   —animals scrabbling for food, the chirp of crickets, the muffled flap of an owl’s wings   —took on an ominous cast, awakening her after short snatches of sleep. Toward dawn, she rolled over and murmured something to Conor before she remembered only cold ground lay beside her. That brought on another wave of tears that didn’t subside until the sun crested the horizon.

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 havesurvived 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,