HOLDER OF LIGHTNING

  THE CLOUDMAGES #1


    S. L. FARRELL
Contents
PART ONE: The Sky's Stone

(Map: Talamh an Ghlas)

(Map: Ballintubber)
Chapter 1: A Fire in the Sky

Chapter 2: A Visitor
Chapter 3: A Song at the Inn

Chapter 4: The Fire Returns

Chapter 5: Attack on the Village

Chapter 6: Bog And Forest

Chapter 7: Seancoim's Cavern
Chapter 8: The Cairn of Riata

Chapter 9: Through the Forest

Chapter 10: The Taisteal
Chapter 11: Two Encounters

Chapter 12: The Lady of the Falls
Chapter 13: Smoke and Ruin

Chapter 14: Áth Iseal
Chapter 15: Niall's Tale
PART TWO: Filleadh

(Map: Lár Bhaile)
Chapter 16: Lár Bhaile
Chapter 17: The Ri's Supper

Chapter 18: Secrets

Chapter 19: An Assassin's Fate
Chapter 20: Love and Weapons

Chapter 21: A Familiar Face
Chapter 22: Proposals
Chapter 23: Answers

Chapter 24: The Traitor
Chapter 25: Preparations

Chapter 26: A World Changed

Chapter 27: Bridges Burned
Chapter 28: A Return

Chapter 29: Awakening

Chapter 30: Release
PART THREE: The Mad Holder

(Map: Inish Thuaidh)

Chapter 31: Taking Leave
Chapter 32: Ballintubber Changed

Chapter 33: A Battle of Stones

Chapter 34: The Gifting
Chapter 35: O'Deoradháin's Tale

Chapter 36: Ambush and Offer

Chapter 37: The White Keep

Chapter 38: The Vision of Tadhg
Chapter 39: Training
Chapter 40: The Ri's Request

Chapter 41: Cloch Storm
Chapter 42: Dún Kiil
Chapter 43: The Dream of Thall Coill

Chapter 44: Juggling Possibilities

Chapter 45: Torn Apart
PART FOUR: The Shadow Rí

(Map: Dún Kiil)

Chapter 46: Decisions
Chapter 47: Voices

Chapter 48: Glenn Aill
   Chapter 49: Leave-taking

   Chapter 50: Roads Taken
   Chapter 51: The Tale of All-Heart

   Chapter 52: The Protector

   Chapter 53: Bethiochnead
   Chapter 54: Fire and Water

   Chapter 55: A Return

   Chapter 56: Covenant
   Chapter 57: The Battle of Dún Kill

   Chapter 58: Retreat

   Chapter 59: Death on the Field
   Chapter 60: The Gift of Death

   PART FIVE: Reunion

   Chapter 61: The Banrion
   APPENDICES

   Characters

   Places

   Terms
   Saimhoir Terms
   The Daoine Calendar

   History
   The Holders of Lámh Shábála
   The Known Clochs Mór, Their Current Manifestations & Holders

   COPYRIGHT

   ACKNOWLEDGMENTS




         This one's for Devon
   who made me write a "real" fantasy

And for Denise, who is part of all that I do.
             PART ONE: The Sky's Stone


                 (Map: Talamh an Ghlas)

                   (Map: Ballintubber)




             Chapter 1: A Fire in the Sky



  THE stone was a gift of the glowing sky. Jenna
wasn't certain exactly when the first shifting curtain
of green and gold shimmered into existence among
the stars, for her attention wasn't on the vista above
her. She shouldn't have been out this late in the first
place-she should have been bringing the sheep into
their pen even as the last light of the sun touched
the hills. But Old Stubborn, their ancient and
cantankerous ram, had insisted on getting himself
stuck on a rocky ledge on Knobtop's high pasture,
and Jenna had spent far too long pushing and
prodding him down while trying to avoid being
butted by his curled horns. As she shoved the ram's
wooly bottom back down toward the winter scrub
grass where the rest of the flock was grazing, her
dog Kesh barking and growling to keep Old
Stubborn moving, Jenna noticed that the silver light
of the stars and crescent moon had shifted, that the
landscape around her had been brushed by gold.
  She looked up, and saw the sky alight with cold
fire.

  Jenna gaped, her mouth half open and her breath
steaming, staring in wonder at the glowing dance:
great sheets and folds of light swaying gracefully
above like her mother's dress when she danced with
Halden at the Corn Feast last month. The lights
throbbed in a strange silence, filling the sky high
above her and seeming to wrap around Knobtop.
Jenna thought there should have been sound:
wailing pipes, or a crackling bon-fire roar. There
was power there; she could feel it, filling the air
around her as if a thunderstorm were about to
break.

  And it did break. The light above flared suddenly,
a gold-shattered flash that dazzled her eyes,
snatching away her breath and sending her
stagger-ing backward with her hands before her
face. Her heel caught a rock. She went down hard,
the air going out of her in a rush and a cry, her arms
flailing out on either side in a vain attempt to break
her fall. The rocky, half-frozen ground slammed
against her. For a moment, she closed her eyes in
pain and surprise. When she opened them again, the
sky above her was dark once more, dusted with
stars. The strange lights were gone, and Kesh was
whining alongside her, prodding her with his
black-and-white muzzle. "I'm all right, boy," she
told him. "At least I think so."
  Jenna sat up cautiously, grimacing. Kesh bounded
away, reassured. One of the rocks had bruised her
left hip through her woolen coat and skirts, and her
neck was stiff. She'd be limping back down to
Ballintubber, and Mam would be scolding her not
only for getting the sheep back so late, but also for
getting her clothes so dirty. "It's your fault, you
stupid hard-head," she told Old Stubborn, whose
black eyes were gazing at her placidly from a few
strides away.
  She pushed angrily at the rock that had bruised
her. It rolled an arm's length downhill. In the black
earth alongside where it had lain, something shone.
Jenna scraped at the dirt with a curious forefinger,
then sat back, stunned.
  Even in the moonlight she could see a gleam: as
pure a green as the summer grass in the fields
below Knobtop; as bright as if the glowing sky had
been captured in a stone. Jenna pulled the pebble
free. It was no larger than two joints of her finger,
rounded and smooth. She rubbed it between fingers
and thumb, scrubbing away the dirt and holding it
up to the moonlight. With the touch, for just that
second, another vision over-laid the landscape: she
saw a man with long red hair, stooped over and
peering at the ground, as if searching for something
he'd lost. The man halted and looked toward her-he
was no one she recognized, and yet . . . She felt as if
she should know him.
  But even as she stared and the man seemed to be
about to speak, the vision faded as did the glow
from the pebble. Maybe, she thought, none of it had
ever been there at all; the vision and the brilliance
had simply been the afterimage of the lights in the
sky and her fall. Now, in her hand, the stone seemed
almost ordinary, dull and small, with no glow or
spark at all, though it was difficult to tell under the
dim moon. Jenna shrugged, thinking that she would
look more closely at the rock later, in the morn-ing.
She put the pebble in the pocket of her coat and
whistled to Kesh.

  "Let's get 'em home, boy," she said. Kesh yipped
once and circled the flock, nipping at their heels to
get them moving. The sheep protested, kicking at
Kesh and baaing in irritation, then started to move,
following Old Stubborn down Knobtop toward the
scent of peat and home.
  By the time they came down the slope and crossed
the ridge between the bogs and saw the thatched
roofs of Ballintubber, Jenna had forgotten about the
stone entirely, though the dancing, glowing
draperies of light remained bright in her mind.

  The expected scolding didn't come. Her mam,
Maeve, rushed out from the cottage when she heard
the dull clunking of the tin bells around Old
Stubborn's neck. Kesh went running to her, barking
and racing a great circle around all of them.
  "Jenna!" Maeve said, her voice full of relief. She
brushed black hair away from her forehead.
"Thanks the gods! I was worried, you were so late
getting back. Did you see the lights?"

  Jenna nodded, her eyes wide with the
remembrance. "Aye, I did. Great and beautiful, and
so bright. What were they, Mam?"
  Maeve didn't answer right away. Instead, she
threw her shawl over her shoulders and shivered.
"Get the sheep in, then clean yourself up while I
feed Kesh, and we'll go up to Tara's. Everyone's
there, I'm sure. Go on, now!"

  A while later, with the flock settled, her clothing
changed and the worst of the mud brushed away
from her coat and from her hands, and Kesh (and
herself) fed, they walked down the lane to the High
Road, then north a bit to Tara's, the dirt cold
enough to crunch under their boots, the moon
frosted silver above. The tavern's windows were
beckoning rec-tangles of yellow, and the air inside
was warm with the fire and the heat of bodies. On
any given night, Tara's was busy, with Tara herself,
gray-haired and large, behind the bar and pulling
the taps for stout and ale. Often enough, Coelin
would be there, playing his fiddle or giotár and
singing, and maybe another musician or two would
join him and later someone would start dancing, or
everyone would sing along and the sound would
echo down the single lane of the village and out into
the night air.
  Jenna liked to listen to Coelin, who was three
years older. Coelin had apprenticed under
Songmaster Curragh, dead of a bloody cough during
the bad winter three years ago. Jenna thought
Coelin handsome, with his shock of unruly brown
hair, his easy smile that touched every muscle in his
face, and those large hands that spidered easily over
his instrument land which, aye, she sometimes
imagined running over her body). She thought
Coelin liked her, as well. His green eyes often found
her when he was singing, and he would smile.
"You're too young for him," Mam had said one night
when she noticed Jenna smiling back. "The boy's
twenty. Look at the young women around him, girl,
smiling and preening and laughing. Half of them
have already lifted their skirts for him, I'll wager,
and one day soon one of them will miss her bleeding
and pop up big and there'll be a wedding. You'd be a
piece of blackberry pie to him, Jenna, sweet and
luscious, devoured in one sitting and as quickly
forgotten. Look if you want, and dream, but that's
all you should do."
  Tonight, Coelin wasn't playing, though Jenna
thought that half of Ballintubber must be pressed
inside the tavern. Coelin sat in his usual corner, his
instruments still in their cases. Aldwoman Pearce
stood up alongside the huge fireplace across from
the bar, a mug of brown stout close at hand, and
everyone staring at her furrowed, apple-shaped
face. "... in the Before, the sky would be alive with
mage-lights, four nights out of the seven," she was
saying in her trembling voice that always reminded
Jenna of the sound of a rasp against wood. When
Jenna and Maeve walked in, she stopped, watching
them as they sidled along the back of the crowd.
Cataract-whitened eyes glittered under
overhanging, gray-hedged brows, and she took a
long sip of the stout's brown foam. Aldwoman
Pearce was Ald-the Eldest-in Ballintubber, over
nine double-hands of years old. "I've buried
everyone born before me and many after," she
often said. "And I'll bury more before I go. I'm too
old and mean and tough for the black haunts to eat
my soul." Aldwoman Pearce knew all the tales, and
if she changed them from time to time as suited the
occasion, no one dared to contradict her.

  Aldwoman Pearce set the glass down on the
mantel again with a sharp clack that made half the
people jump up, startled. The noise also narrowed
Tara's eyes where she stood behind the bar-mugs
were expensive and chipped ones were already too
common. Aldwoman Pearce didn't notice Tara's
unspoken admonition; her gaze was still on Maeve
and Jenna.

  "In the Before, when the bones of the land were
still alive, mage-lights often filled the sky,"
Aldwoman Pearce declared, looking back at the
oth-ers. "They were brighter and more colorful
than those we saw tonight, and the cloudmages
would call down the power in them and use it to war
against each other. In the Before, magic lived in the
sky, and when the sky became dark again, as it has
stayed ever since for hands upon hands of
generations, the cloudmages all died and their arts
were lost."

  "We've all heard that story a thousand times
before," someone called out. The voice sounded like
Thomas the Miller, who lived at the north end of the
village, but Jenna, craning her head to see over the
crowd, couldn't be sure. "Then what was that we
saw tonight? I saw my shadow, near as sharp as in
the sun. I could have read a book by it."

  "Aye, that you could, if you owned a book and if
you could read at all," One Hand Bailey called out,
and everyone laughed. Jenna's mam had a book, a
fine old thing with thick pages of yellow paper and
gray-black printing that looked more perfect than
any hand could have written. Thomas claimed he
could read and Jenna's mam had shown him their
book once, but he claimed it must have been written
in some other lan-guage, because he couldn't read it
all. Sometimes Thomas read stories from the book
bound in green leather that Erin the Healer owned,
but Jenna wasn't alone in wondering whether
Thomas simply made up the things he supposedly
read.

  "Tonight we saw the signs of the Filleadh,"
Aldwoman Pearce declared. "The first whisper that
the bones of the land have stirred and will walk
again, that what was Before will be Now. A hint,
perhaps-" She stopped and glanced at Jenna's mam
again; a few of the others craning their necks to look
back as well. "-that things that were hidden will be
found again."

 Some of the people muttered and nodded, but
Thomas guffawed. "That's nonsense, Aldwoman.
The Before is Before, and the bones of the land are
dead forever."
   "The things I know aren't written in any of your
books, Thomas Miller," the Ald sneered, tearing her
hard gaze away from Maeve. "I know because my
great-mam and great-da told me, and their parents
told them, and so on back to the Before. I know
because I hold history in my gray head, and because
I listened. I know because my old bones feel it, and
if you had a lick of sense in your head, you'd know it,
too."
 Thomas snorted, but said nothing. Aldwoman
Pearce looked around the room, turning slowly, and
again she fixed on Maeve. "What do you say, Maeve
Aoire?"

  Jenna felt more than saw her mam shrug. "I'm
sure I don't know," she answered.
  The Ald sniffed. "This is a portent, I tell you," she
said ominously. "And if they saw the lights all the
way in Dún Laoghaire, the Riocha will be like a nest
of hornets hit with a stick, and will be buzzing all
around the whole of Talamh an Ghlas. The Rí
Gabair will be sending his emissaries here soon,
because we all saw that the lights were close and
within his lands." With that, Aldwoman Pearce
drained her stout in one long swallow and called for
more, and everyone began talking at once.

  By the time Tara's clock-candle had burned down
another stripe, Jenna was certain that no one in the
tavern really knew what the lights had been at all,
though it certainly made for a profitable evening for
Tara-talking is thirsty work, as the old saying goes,
and everyone wanted to give their impression of
what they'd seen. Jenna slipped outside to escape
the heat and the increasingly wild speculation,
though Maeve was listening in-tently. Jenna shook
her head as the closing door softened the din of a
dozen conversations. She leaned against the
drystone wall of the tavern, looking up at the
crescent moon and the stars, gleaming and
twinkling as if their stately transit of the sky had
never been disturbed.

  She smelled the odor of the pipe a moment before
she heard the voice and saw the glowing red circle
at the corner of the tavern. "They'll be going for
another stripe, at least."
  "Aye," Jenna answered, "and they'll all be
complaining of it in the morning."

  Laughter followed that remark, and Coelin
stepped out from the side of the tavern, his form
outlined in the glow from the tavern's window. He
took a puff on the pipe, exhaling a cloud of fragrant
smoke. "You saw it, too?"

  She nodded. "I was up on Knobtop, still, when the
lights came. With our sheep."
  "Then you saw it well, since it looked as if the
lights were flaring all around old Knobtop. So what
do you think it was?"

  "I think it was a gift from the Mother to allow
Tara to sell more ale," Jenna answered, and Coelin
laughed again, with a full and rich amuse-ment as
musical as his singing voice. "Whatever it was, I also
think that there's nothing I can do about it."
  "That," he said, "is the only intelligent answer I've
heard tonight." He tapped the pipe out against the
heel of his boot, and sparks fell and ex-pired on the
ground. Coelin blew through the stem and tapped it
again, then stuffed the pipe in the pocket of his coat.
"They'll be calling for me to play soon, wanting to
hear all the old songs tonight, not the new ones."
  "I like the old songs," Jenna said. "It's like hearing
the voices of my ancestors. I close my eyes and
imagine I'm one of them: Maghera, maybe, or even
that sad spirit on Sliabh Collain, always calling for
her lover killed by the cloudmage."
  "You have a fine imagination, then," Coelin
laughed.

  "Your voice has a magic, that's all," Jenna said,
then felt herself blush-ing. She could imagine her
mam listening, and telling her: You sound just like
one of them. . . . Jenna was grateful for the dark.
She looked away, to where Knobtop loomed above
the trees, a blackness in the sky where no stars
shone.
 "Ah, 'tis you who has the magic, Jenna," Coelin
said. "When you're there listening, I find myself
always looking at you."

  Jenna felt her cheeks cool, and she stopped the
laugh that wanted to escape. "Is that the kind of
sweet lie you tell all of them, so they'll come
sneaking out to you afterward, Coelin Singer? It
won't work with me."
  His eyes glittered in the light from the window,
and the smile remained. "'Tis the truth, even if you
won't believe it. And you can tell your mam that the
rumors about me are greatly exaggerated. I've not
slept with all the young women hereabouts."

 "But with some?"

  He might have shrugged, but the grin widened.
"Rumors are like songs," he said. He took a step
toward her. "There always has to be a bit of truth in
them, or they won't have any power."
  "You should make up a song about tonight. About
the lights."

 "I might do that," he answered. "About the lights,
and a beautiful young woman they illuminated-"

  The door to the tavern opened, throwing light
over Jenna and Coelin and silhouetting the figure of
Ellia, one of Tara's daughters and Coelin's current
favorite. "Coelin! Put out that pipe of yours and ..."
A sudden frost chilled Ellia's voice. "Oh," she said. "I
didn't expect to see you out here, Jenna. Coelin,
Mam says to get your arse inside; they want
music." The door shut again, more vehemently than
necessary.
  "Ellia sounds . . ." Jenna hesitated, tilting her head
at Coelin. "Upset," she finished.

 "It's been a busy night, that's all," Coelin
answered.
 "I'm sure."

 "I'd better get in."
 "Ellia would like that, I'm certain."

  The door opened again. This time Jenna's mam
stood there. Coelin shrugged at Jenna. "I should go
tune up," he said.
 "Aye, you should."
  Coelin smiled at her, winked, and walked past her
to the door. "'Evenin', Widow Aoire," he said as
Jenna's mam stepped aside.

  "Coelin." She let the door shut behind him, and
crossed her arms.
 "We were talking, Mam," Jenna said. "That's all."

  Maeve sniffed. Frown lines creased her forehead.
"From what I saw, your eyes were saying different
things than your mouth."

 "And neither my eyes nor my mouth made any
promises, Mam."
  Inside the tavern, a rosined bow scraped against
strings. Maeve shook her head, revealing the silvery
gray that touched her temples. "I don't trust the
young man. You know that. He'd be no good for you,
Jenna- wouldn't know a ewe from a ram, a bull from
a milch cow, or potato from turnip. Songmaster
Curragh got him from the Taisteal; the boy himself
doesn't know who his parents are or where he came
from. All he knows is his singing, and he'll get tired
of Ballintubber soon enough and want to find a
bigger place with more people to listen to him and
brighter coins to toss in his hat. He'd leave you, or
you'd be tagging along keeping the pretty young
things away from him, all the while with children
tugging at your skirts."

  "So you've already got me married and your
grandchildren born. What are their names, so I'll
know?" Jenna smiled at her mam, hands on her
hips. Slowly, the frown lines smoothed out, and
Maeve smiled back, her brown-gold eyes an echo of
Jenna's own.
 "You want to go in and listen, darling?"

  "I'll go in if you're going, Mam. Otherwise, I'll go
home with you. I've had enough excitement for a
night. Coelin's voice might be too much for me."

  Maeve laughed. "Come on. We'll listen for a while,
then go home." She opened the door as Coelin's
baritone lifted in the first notes of a song. "Besides,"
Maeve whispered as Jenna slipped past her, "it'll be
fun to watch Ellia's face when she sees Coelin
looking at you."
                 Chapter 2: A Visitor



  IN the morning, it was easy to believe that
nothing magical had hap-pened at all. There were
the morning chores: settling the sheep in the back
pasture, cleaning out the barn, feeding the chicks
and gathering the eggs, going over to Matron Kelly's
to trade a half dozen eggs for a jug of milk from her
cows, doing the same with Thomas the Miller for a
sack of flour for bread. By the time Jenna finished,
with the sun now peering over the summit of
Knobtop, it seemed that life had lurched back into
its familiar ruts, never to be dislodged again. In the
daylight, it was difficult to imagine curtains of light
flowing through the sky.

  Jenna could smell Maeve frying bacon over the
cook fire inside their cottage, and her stomach
rumbled. Kesh was barking at her feet. She opened
the door, ducking her head under the low,
roughly-carved lintel, and into the warm air scented
with the smell of burning peat. The cottage was
divided into two rooms-the larger space crowded
with a single table and chairs and the kitchen area,
and a small bedroom in the rear where Jenna and
her mam slept. Maeve had helped Jenna's
father-Niall-build the wattle and daub house, but
that was before Jenna had been born. She often
wondered what he looked like, her da. Maeve had
told her that Niall's hair was red, not coal black like
Jenna's and Maeve's, and his eyes were as blue as
the deep waters of Lough Lar, and that his smile
could light up a dark night. She knew little about
him, only that he wasn't from Ballintubber, but
Inish Thuaidh, the fog-wrapped and cold island to
the north and west. Jenna tried to imagine that face,
and sometimes it looked like one person and
sometimes another, and sometimes even an older
Coelin. She wished she could see the memories that
her mam saw, when she rocked in the chair and
talked about him, her eyes closed and smiling.
Jenna had no memory of Niall at all. "He was killed,
my love," Maeve had told her years ago when Jenna
had asked, curious as to why she didn't have a da
when others did, "slain by bandits on his way to
Bácathair. He was going there to see if he could gain
a berth on one of the fishing ships, and maybe move
you and me there. He always loved the sea, your
da."
  When Jenna grew older, she heard the other
rumors as well, from the older children. "Your da
was fey and strange, and he just left you and your
mam," Chamis Redface told her once, after he
pushed her into a thicket of bramble. "That's what
my da says: your da was a crazy In-ishlander, and
everyone's glad he's gone. You go to Bácathair, and
you'll find him, sitting in the tavern and drinking,
probably married to someone else and talking
nonsense." Jenna had flown at Chamis in a rage,
bloody-ing his nose before he threw her off and
Matron Kelly came by to pull them apart. When
Maeve asked Jenna why she'd been fighting with
Chamis, she just sniffed. "He tells lies," she said, and
would say nothing else.

  But she wondered about what Chamis had said.
There were times when she imagined herself going
to Bácathair and looking for him, and in those
fantasies, sometimes, she found him. But when she
did, invariably, she woke up before she could talk
with him.
  The man you thought you saw, after you jell ... He
had red hair, and his eyes, they might have been
blue . . . Jenna tried to shake the thought away, but
she couldn't. She saw his face again and found
herself smiling.

  "I'm glad to see you're so pleased with yourself,"
her mam said as she came into the tiny house.
"Here's your breakfast. Give me the milk and the
flour, and sit yourself down." Maeve slid the wooden
plate in front of Jenna, along with one of the four
worn and bent forks they owned: eggs sizzling
brown with bacon grease, a slab of brown bread
with a pat of butter, a mug of tea and milk. "This
afternoon I have to give Rafea two of the hens for
the bolt of cloth she gave me last week."
 "Give her the brown one and the white neck,"
Jenna said. "They're both fat enough, and neither
one lays well." Jenna slid her fork under a piece of
bacon. "Mam, I think I'll take the flock back up to
Knobtop this afternoon."

  Maeve's back was to her as she cut a slice of bread
for herself. "Up to Knobtop?" she asked. Her voice
sounded strained. "After last night?"

  "It's a nice day, the grass was good up there
yesterday, and this time I'll be sure I'm back
earlier. Besides, Mam, in all the old stories, the
mage-lights only come at night never during the
day."
   Her mam hadn't moved. The knife was still in her
hand, the bread half cut "I thought you might help
me with the hens." When Jenna didn't answer, she
heard Maeve sigh. "All right. I suppose I shouldn't
be sur-prised. Aldwoman Pearce'll be talking about
it, though."

 "Why should Aldwoman Pearce care if I go to
Knobtop? Because I was there last night?"
  "Aye," Maeve said. She set the knife down and
turned, brushing at the front of her skirt. "Because
of that, and . . ." She stopped. "Ah, it doesn't matter.
Go on with you. Take Kesh, and keep Old Stubborn
out of trouble this time. I'll expect you back before
sundown. Do you understand?"

  "I understand, Mam." Jenna hastily finished her
breakfast, gave Kesh the plate on the floor while she
put her coat and gloves back on, and took the half
loaf of brown bread her mother gave her, stuffing it
into a pocket of the coat. "Come on, Kesh. Let's get
the sheep ..." With a kiss for her mam, she was
gone.

  By the time they reached the green-brown flanks
of Knobtop, the sun had warmed Jenna and her coat
was open. The sky was deep blue over-head and
dotted with clouds, sailing in a stately fleet across
the zenith. The sheep moved along with Kesh
circling and nipping at their heels, their black-faced
heads lowering to nibble at the heather. As they
rose higher, Jenna could look back north and west
and see the thatched roofs of Ballintubber in its
clearing beyond the trees lining the path of the Mill
Creek, and looking eastward, glimpse the bright
thread of the River Duán winding its way through
the rolling landscape toward Lough Lar. By noon,
they were in the field where Jenna had seen the
lights.
  She didn't know what she had expected to see, but
she found herself disappointed. There was no sign
that anything unusual had happened here at all.
Kesh herded the sheep into the largest grassy slope,
and the flock set themselves to grazing-they paid no
more attention to the area than they did to the
pastures down in the valley.
  Jenna found a large, mossy boulder and sat down
to rest from the climb. "Kesh! Keep them here, and
don't let Old Stubborn get away this time." She
pulled her mam's brown bread from her pocket; as
she did so, the pebble she'd picked up the previous
night fell out onto the ground. She leaned down to
pick it up.

  The touch of it on her fingers was so cold that she
dropped the stone in surprise, then picked it up
carefully, as if she were holding a chunk of ice. In
the sunlight, there was the echo of the emerald
brilliance the rock had seemed to possess when
she'd first found it. She'd never seen a rock this
color before: a lush, saturated green, crenellated
with veins of pure, searing white that made her
pupils contract when the sun dazzled from them.
The stone looked as if it had been polished and
buffed with jewel-er's rouge.
  And so cold . . . Jenna closed her right hand
around the stone, thinking it would warm as she
held it, but the cold grew so intense that it felt as if
she'd taken hold of a burning ember. As it had last
night, another vision settled over her eyes like a
mist, as if she were seeing two worlds at once. The
red-haired man was there again, still stooped over
as he paced the slope of Knobtop, and again he
turned to look at her. "I lost it . . ." he said, and then
he faded. Other, stronger voices came to her: a
dozen of them, two dozen, more; all of them
shouting at her at once, the din clam-oring in her
ears though she could make out none of the words
in the chaos.

   Jenna cried out (Kesh barking in alarm at her
voice) and tried to release the stone, but her fingers
wouldn't open. They remained stubbornly clamped
around the pebble, and the icy burning was climbing
quickly from her hand to her wrist, onto her
forearm, past the elbow . . . "No!" This time the
words were a scream, as Jenna scrabbled frantically
at her fisted hand, trying to pry the fingers open
with her other hand as the cold filled her chest,
pounding like a foaming, crashing sea wave up
toward her head, crashing down into her abdomen.
The voices screamed. The cold fire filled her, and
Jenna screamed again in panic. She could feel a
surging power pressing against her, each fiber of her
body taut and hum-ming with wild energy. She
lifted her hand, concentrating her will, imag-ining
her fingers opening around the stone. Her fingers
trembled as if she had a palsy, then sprang open.
Coruscating light, brighter than the sun, flared
outward, arcing in a jagged lightning bolt that struck
ground a dozen strides away.
  The stone fell from her hand. A peal of thunder
dinned in her ears and echoed from the hills around
Knobtop. Breathless, Jenna sank to her knees in the
grass.

  Whimpering, Kesh came up and licked her face
while she tried to catch her breath, as the world
settled into normalcy around her. Old Stubborn
baaed nearby. Jenna blinked hard. Everything was
normal, except . . .
  Where the lightning bolt had struck, there was a
blackened hole in the turf, an arm deep and a stride
across. The dirt there steamed in the air.

  Jenna's intake of breath shuddered in amazement.
"By the Mother, Kesh, did 1 ... ?"

  The stone lay a hand's breadth from her knee.
Cradled in winter-browned heather, it seemed
pretty and harmless. She reached out with a
trembling forefinger and prodded it once. The
surface seemed like any other stone and she felt
nothing. She touched it again, longer this time: it
was still chilled, but not horribly so. She picked it
up, careful not to close her hand around it again.
"What do you think, Kesh?"
 The dog whimpered again, and barked once at
her.

 Gingerly, she placed the stone back in her pocket.

  "Is everything all right?" Maeve asked as Jenna
brought the flock back to Ballintubber. "Thomas
said he saw a bright flash up on Knobtop, and we all
heard thunder even though the sky was clear." The
worry made her mam's face look old and drawn.
"Jenna, I was worried. After last night. . ."

  All the way down from the high pasture, Jenna
had debated with her-self over what she'd tell her
mam. She'd thought at first that she'd tell her
everything, how she'd found the stone after the
lights, how it had seemed to glow, how the cold fury
had consumed her until released. She wanted to
describe the man she'd seen in the misty vision, and
ask her: Could it be Da? But looking at Maeve now,
seeing the anxiety and concern that filled her eyes,
Jenna found that the carefully rehearsed words
dissolved inside her. The fright she'd felt had faded
and she seemed unhurt by the experience-why
bother Mam with that now? Besides, she wasn't
sure she could explain it: Mam might think she was
making up tales, or wonder if Jenna had gone insane
like Matron Kelly's son Sean, whose brain had been
burned up by a high fever when he was a baby.
Sean talked as poorly as a three-year-old and
babbled constantly to creatures only he could see.
No, better to say nothing.

  Jenna plunged her hand into her coat pocket,
letting her fingertips roam over the pebble there.
The stone felt perfectly normal now, like any
   other stone, not even a hint of the coldness. Jenna
smiled at her mam.
  "I'm fine," she said. "A flash? Thunder? I really
didn't notice anything." Jenna wasn't used to lying
to her mam-at least no more than any adoles-cent
might be-and she was surprised at how easily the
words came, at how casual and natural they
sounded. "I didn't see anything, Mam. I thought I
might, after last night, but everything was just . . ."
She shrugged, and brought her hand out of her
pocket. ". . . normal."
  Maeve's head was cocked slightly to one side, and
her eyes were nar-rowed. But she nodded. "Then
get the sheep in, and come inside. I have some
stirabout ready to eat." She continued to regard
Jenna for a long breath, then turned and entered
the cottage.

  That was all Jenna heard on the subject. She took
the stone out of her Pocket that night after her
Mam was asleep, hiding it in a chink in the wall next
to her side of the bed and covering it with mud. It
was dangerous, she told herself, and shouldn't be
handled. But every morning, when she woke up, she
looked at the spot, brushing her fingers over the
dried mud. She found the touch comforting.

  That night, she dreamed of the red-haired man, so
real that it seemed she could touch him. "Who are
you?" she asked him, but instead of an-swering her,
he shook his head and wandered off toward
Knobtop. She followed, calling to him, but she was
caught in the slow motion of a dream and could
never catch up. When she woke, she found that she
couldn't remember his features at all; they were
simply a blur, unreal.

  She looked at the mud-covered spot where the
stone lay, and that, too, seemed unreal. She could
almost believe there was nothing there. Nothing
there at all.
 Over the next few days, the excitement in
Ballintubber about the lights over Knobtop
gradually died, even though the stories about that
night grew with each telling, until someone listening
might have thought that entire armies of magical
creatures had been seen swirling in the air above
the mount, wailing and crying. A good quarter of the
 village of Ballintub-ber had been up on Knobtop
that night, too, if the tales that were told in Tara's
were to be believed. But though the tales grew more
elaborate, the night sky over Knobtop remained
dark for the next three nights, and life returned to
normal.
 Until the fourth day.

  The day was gloomy and overcast, with the
lowering clouds dropping a persistent cold rain that
permeated through clothing and settled into sinew
and bone. The world was swathed in gray and fog,
with Knobtop lost in the haze. Ballintubber's single
cobbled lane was a morass of pud-dles and mud
with occasional islands of wet stone. The smoke of
turf fires rose from the chimneys of Ballintubber,
gray smoke fading into gray skies, and the rain
pattered from the edges of thatch into brown pools.

  Rain couldn't alter the pace of life in Ballintubber,
nor in fact anywhere in Talamh an Ghlas. It rained
three or four days out of seven, after all, the year
around. Rain in its infinite variety kept the land lush
and green: startlingly bright and refreshing drizzles
in the midst of sunshine; foggy rains where the
clouds seemed to sink into the very earth and the
air was simply wet; soaking, hard spring downpours
that awakened the seeds in the ground; summer
rains as warm and soft as bathwater; rare winter
storms of snow and sleet to blanket the world in
white and vanish in the next day's sun; howling and
shrieking hurricanes from off the sea that lashed
and whipped the land. Rain was simply a fact of life.
If it rained, you got wet; if the sun was out or it was
cloudy, you didn't-that was all. The chores still
needed to be done, the work still went on. A little
rain couldn't bring the activity in Ballintubber to a
halt.

 But the appearance of the rider did.

  Through the open doors of the small barn behind
Tara's Tavern, Jenna saw Eliath, Tara's son and
youngest at twelve years of age, currying down the
steaming body of a huge brown stallion. Jenna was
pushing a barrow of new-cut turf toward home; she
detoured to see the horse, which looked far too large
and healthy to be one of the local work animals.
"Hey, Eli," she said, setting down the barrow just
inside the door where it was out of the rain.

  Eli glanced up from his work. The horse turned his
great neck to glance at Jenna and nickered. She
went over and rubbed his long muzzle. Eli grinned.
"Hey, Jenna. That's some animal, isn't it?"
 "It certainly is," she said. "Who does it belong to?"

  "A man from the east, that's all I know. He rode in
a while ago, stopped at the tavern, and asked Mam
to send me to get the Ald. I think he's Riocha; at
least he's dressed like a tiarna-fine leather boots
and gloves, a jacket of velvet and silk, and under
that a leine shirt as white as new snow, and a clóca
over it all that's as thick as your finger and
embroidered all around the edges with gold-the
colors of the clóca are green and brown, so he's of
Tuath Gabair." Eli plucked at his own bedraggled
woolen coat and unbleached muslin shirt. He
plunged a hand into a pocket and pulled out a large
coin. "Gave me this, too, for getting Aldwoman
Pearce and taking care of the horse."

 "Where is he now?"
  "Inside. Lots of other people there now, too. You
can go in if you want."
Jenna glanced at the tavern, where yellow light
shone through the streaks of gray rain. "I might.
Can I leave the barrow here?"
 "Sure."
  There were at least a dozen people in the dim,
smoky interior of the tavern, unusual in
mid-afternoon. The stranger sat at a table near the
rear, talking with Aldwoman Pearce. Jenna caught
sight of a narrow face with a long nose, brown eyes
dark enough to be nearly black, and a well-trimmed
beard, a slight body clad in rich clothing, a delicate
hand wrapped around a mug of stout. His hair was
long and oiled, and the line of a scar interrupted the
beard halfway to the left ear. Jenna could hear his
voice as he spoke with Aldwoman Pearce, and it was
as smooth and polished as his clothing, bright with
the accent of the upper class and permeated with a
faint haughtiness. The others in the tavern were
pretending not to watch the stranger's table, which
made it all the more obvious that they were.

 Coelin was there, also, sitting at the bar with a
mug of tea and a plate of scones in front of him,
talking with Ellia. Tara was in the rear of the tavern,
hanging the pot over the cook fire. Jenna went over
and stood next to Coelin, ignoring the barbed glance
from Ellia, behind the bar.

 "Who is he?" Jenna asked.
 Coelin shrugged. "Riocha. A tiarna from Lár
Bhaile, if he's to be be-lieved. The Tiarna Padraic
Mac Ard, he says."

 "What's he talking to Aldwoman Pearce about?"
  Coelin shrugged, but Ellia leaned forward. "Mam
says he asked about the lights-didn't Aldwoman
Pearce foretell that the other night? Says he saw
them in Lár Bhaile from across the lough. When
Mam told him how they were flickering around
Knobtop, he asked to speak to the Ald."

 "Maybe he'll want to speak with you, Jenna,"
Coelin said. "You were up there that night."
  Jenna shivered, remembering, and shook her
head vigorously. She thought of those dark eyes on
her, of those thin lips asking questions. She thought
of the stone in its hole in the wall of her cottage.
"No. I didn't see anything that you didn't see here.
Let him talk to the Ald. Or some of the others here
who say they saw all sorts of things with the lights."

  Coelin snorted through his nose at that. "They saw
things with the ale and whiskey they drank that
night and their own imaginations. I doubt Tiarna
Mac Ard will be much interested in that."
  "Why's he interested at all?" Jenna asked,
glancing over at him again. "They were lights, that's
all, and gone now." Mac Ard's eyes glittered in the
lamplight, never at rest. For a moment, their gazes
met. The contact was almost a physical shock,
making Jenna take a step back. She looked away
hurriedly. "I should go," she said to Coelin and Ellia.

 "Ah, ''tis a shame," Ellia said, though her voice was
devoid of any sor-row at all.
 "Come back tonight, Jenna," Coelin said. "I made
up a song about the lights, like you suggested."
  Despite her desire to be away from Mac Ard and
the tavern, Jenna could not keep the smile from her
lips, though the pleased look on Ellia's face
dissolved. "Did you now?"
  Coelin tilted his head and smiled back at her. "I
did. And I won't sing it unless you're there to hear
the verses first. So will you come?"

  "We'll see," Jenna said. Mac Ard was still looking
at her, and Aldwoman Pearce turned in her chair to
glance back also. "I really need to go now."
  As Jenna rushed out, she heard Ellia talking to
Coelin-- "Keep your eyes in your head and the rest
of you in your pants, Coelin Singer. She's still just a
gawky lamb, and not a very pretty one at that ..."
-then the door closed behind her. The cold rain
struck her face, and she pulled the cowl of her coat
over her head as she ran through the puddles to the
barn and retrieved her barrow of peat.

 She hurried back to the cottage through the rain
and the fog.




             Chapter 3: A Song at the Inn



  JENNA had just lit the candles on the shelves to
either side of the fire-place. The sun was down or
lowering-the rain persisted, and the sky slipped
from the color of wet smoke to slate to coal as the
interior of their house slowly darkened. Maeve was
peeling potatoes; Jenna was carding wool. They
both heard the sound of slowly moving hooves
through the drumming of rain, and Kesh lifted his
head from the floor and growled. Leather creaked,
and there were footsteps on the flags outside the
door. Someone knocked at the door and Kesh
barked. Maeve looked at Jenna.

 "Mam, I forgot to tell you. There's a tiarna who
was at Tara's . . ." Maeve set down her paring knife
and went to the door, brushing at her apron. She
opened the door. Mac Ard stood there, a darkness
against the wet night.

  "I'm looking for Maeve Aoire and her daughter,"
Mac Ard said. His voice was deep and gruff. "I was
told this was their home."

  "Aye, 'tis," Maeve answered, and Jenna heard a
strange, awed tone in her mam's voice. "I'm Maeve
Aoire, sir. Come in out of the wet, won't you?"
Maeve stood aside as the man ducked his head and
entered. Kesh growled once, then slunk away
toward the fire. "Jenna, put your coat on and take
the tiarna's horse out to the barn. At least it'll be
dry there. Go on with you, now."

  By the time Jenna got back, Mac Ard was sitting
at the table with a plate of boiled potatoes, mutton,
and bread, and a mug of tea in front of him. Kesh sat
at his feet, waiting for dropped crumbs. His boots
and clóca were drying near the fire. Maeve sat
across from him, but she wasn't eating. Her face was
pale, as if she might be frightened, and her hands
were fisted on the table, fingers curled into palms.
She glanced up as Jenna came through the door,
shaking water from her hood and sleeves. "It's not
raining as hard as it was," she said, wanting to break
the silence. "I think it'll stop soon."
  Her mam simply nodded, as if she'd only half
heard. Mac Ard had turned in his chair, the legs
scraping across the floorboards. "Sit down, Jenna,"
he said. "I'd like to talk with you."

  Jenna glanced at her mam, who gave her a slight
nod. Jenna didn't sit, but went over to Maeve,
standing behind her, and resting her hands on her
Mam's shoulders even as Maeve reached up to pat
Jenna's hand reas-suringly. One corner of Mac
Ard's mouth lifted slightly under the beard, as if he
found the sight amusing.
  "I didn't expect to hear the surname Aoire, so
many miles from the north," he commented. He
stabbed a potato with a fork, brought it to his
mouth, and chewed. "It's an uncommon name
hereabouts, to be certain. Inishlander in origin."

 "My husband was from the north," Maeve
answered. "From Inish Thuaidh."

 "Husband?"
 "He's dead almost seventeen years, Tiarna Mac
Ard. Killed by bandits on the road."

  Mac Ard nodded. He blinked, and the dark eyes
seemed softer than they had a moment before. "I'm
sorry for your loss," he said, and Jenna thought she
heard genuine sympathy in his voice. "For a woman
as well-spoken and comely as yourself, he must
have been an exceptional person for you to never
have remarried. This is his daughter?"
  Maeve touched Jenna's hands. "Aye. She was still
a babe in arms when Niall was murdered."

  Another nod. "Niall Aoire. Interesting. Niall's not
an Inish name, though. In fact, my great-uncle was
named Niall, though he was a Mac Ard." The tiarna
sipped at the tea, leaning back in his chair. He
seemed to be waiting, then took a long breath
before continuing. "Four nights ago, I was standing
on the tower of the Ri's Keep in Lár Bhaile, when I
saw colors flickering on the black waters of the
lough. I looked up, and I could see the glow in the
sky as well, to the north and west beyond the hills.
They were nothing I'd ever seen before, but I'd
heard them described, in all the old folktales.
Mage-lights."
  He drummed the table with his fingers. "A dozen
or more generations ago, I'm told, my own
ancestors were among the last of the cloudmages as
the mage-lights in the sky weakened. Then the
lights vanished entirely, and with them the power to
perform spells. If you listen to the old tales, with the
lights also went other magics as well: that of
mythical creatures and of hidden, ancient places.
Now half the people think of those tales as myth and
legend, no more than stories. At times, I've thought
that, too. But looking at the lights, I felt . . ." He
tapped his chest, leaning forward, his voice dropping
to a hoarse whisper. "I felt them calling me, here. I
went running down from the tower, and dragged
the town's Ald back up so that I could show him. 'By
the Mother-Creator, those are mage-lights, Tiarna,'
he said. They can't be anything else. After so long ...'
I thought the poor old man might cry, he was so
moved by the sight of them. So I asked the Ri's
leave to come here, because they called me, because
I wanted to see where they'd chosen to return." His
eyes found Jenna, and again she felt the shock of
that contact, as if his gaze could actually bruise her.
"I'm told that you were up there that night, on
Knobtop."

 She wanted to shout denial, but couldn't, not with
her mam there. "Aye," she started to say, but the
admission was more squeak than word. She cleared
her throat. "I was there."
 "And what did you see?"

 "Lights, Tiarna Mac Ard. Beautiful lights, rippling
and swaying." She could not stop the awe the
memory placed in her voice.
 "And nothing more?"

   "They flashed at the end, brighter than anything
I'd ever seen. Then they were . . ." Her shoulder
lifted. "Gone," she finished. "I told Kesh to bring the
sheep along, and we came back here."
  Mac Ard ruffled Kesh's head and fed him a piece of
the mutton. "Strange," he said. "And nothing else
happened? Nothing else . . . un-usual?" His eyes
held her. Jenna found herself thinking of the stone
hid-den in the wall in their bedroom, not six strides
away from Mac Ard, and of the cold lightning that
flared from it and the red-haired man. She could
feel her cheeks getting hot, and her mouth opened
as if she wanted to speak, but she forced herself to
remain silent as Mac Ard continued to stare. She
thought that he could see through her, could sense
the lie of omission that lay in her gut, burning, all
the worse because now she was lying to a Riocha,
one of the nobility of the land. Mac Ard's nostrils
flared on his thin nose and he almost seemed to nod.
Then he blinked and looked away, and the terror in
her heart receded.

 "How odd," Mac Ard said, "that the mage-lights
would choose to reap-pear here."

  "I'm sure neither of us know why, Tiarna," Maeve
told him.

 He pursed his lips. He glanced back once at Jenna
before turning his attention to her mam. "I'm sure
you don't. Tell me this, Widow Aoire, did you know
your husband's family well?"
  Maeve shook her head. "I was born and raised
here. The truth, Tiarna, is that I know very little
about them, and never at all met any of them. The
farthest I've ever been from Ballintubber is
Bácathair, a few months after my husband's death. I
went there to see if the gardai could help me find
out more about how he died, and who the
murderers were."
 "And did the gardai help you?"

  Jenna saw Maeve's head move softly from side to
side. "No. They had nothing more to tell me than I
already knew, nor did they care much about the
death of 'some Inishlander.'"

  Mac Ard nodded slowly, contemplatively. "I've
taken enough of your time and hospitality," he said.
"Let me repay you. I understand that there's a
young man with an excellent voice who sings at the
inn where I'm staying tonight. Come back there
with me; be my guests for the evening, both of you.
We can talk more there, about whatever you'd like."

  Jenna had to stop herself from grinning, both from
relief that the tiar-na's interrogation seemed to be
over, and at the suggestion to go to Tara's. Coelin
had promised her a song, and she hadn't wanted to
ask, with the awful weather. But if the tiarna
insisted . . .

 "Oh, no, Tiarna," Maeve started to say
automatically, then glanced back at Jenna. He
smiled at her and nodded, as if they shared a secret.

  "Your daughter wants you to accept," Mac Ard
said. "And I would be honored."
  "I don't-" Maeve began. Jenna tightened her arms
around her moth-er's shoulders, and felt her sigh. "I
suppose we'd also be honored," she said.

  The rain had subsided to a bare, cold drizzle. Mac
Ard brought his stallion out from the barn. "You
want to ride him?" he asked Jenna. She nodded,
mutely. He picked her up, hands around her waist,
and placed her side-ways astride the saddle,
handing her the reins. He patted the muscular neck,
glossy and as rich a brown as new-turned earth.
"Behave yourself, Conhal," he told the horse, who
snorted and shook his head, bridle jin-gling. "That's
a special young woman you hold."

  For a moment, Jenna wondered at that, but then
Mac Ard clucked once at Conhal, and the horse
started walking, startling Jenna. They moved up
the lane to Tara's, Mac Ard and Maeve walking
alongside. The tiarna seemed to be paying most of
his attention to Maeve, Jenna noticed. His head
inclined toward her, and they talked in soft voices
that Jenna couldn't quite overhear, and he smiled
and, once, he touched Maeve's arm. Her mam
smiled in return and laughed, but Jenna noticed
that Maeve also moved slightly away from the
tiarna after the touch.

  Jenna frowned. Her mam had never paid much
attention to the other men in Ballintubber, though
enough of them had certainly indicated their
interest. She'd always rebuffed them-some gently,
some not, but all of them firmly. But this dark man,
this Mac Ard ... He seemed to like Maeve, and he
was Riocha, after all. Maeve had always told her
how Niall, her da, was strong and protective and
loving, and she could imagine that this Mac Ard
might be the same way. . . .

  The conversation inside Tara's stopped dead when
Tiarna Mac Ard pushed open the door of the tavern
so that Maeve and Jenna could enter, then, as
quickly, the chatter resumed again as everyone
pretended not to notice that the tiarna had brought
company with him. Tara came out from behind the
bar, and shooed away old man Buckles from one of
the tables. "What will you have, Tiarna Mac Ard?"
she asked with an eyebrows-raised glance at
Maeve. Mac Ard tilted his head toward Jenna's
mam.

 "What do you recommend?" he asked.

  " Tara's brown ale is excellent," Maeve said. She
was smiling at Mac Ard, and if she remained a
careful step away from him, she also kept her gaze
on him.

  "The brown ale, then," Mac Ard said. Tara nodded
her head and bus-tled off. Maeve sat across the
table from Mac Ard; Jenna went over to where
Coelin was tuning his giotár. Ellia was there also, her
arm around Coelin. He glanced up, smiling, as Jenna
approached; Ellia just stared.

  "So the tiarna found you, eh?" he said. "He came
up right after you left and asked where you lived."
Coelin glanced over at the table, where Mac Ard's
dark head inclined toward Maeve. Coelin lifted an
eyebrow at Jenna. "Seems he likes what he found."
Ellia grinned at that, and Jenna frowned.
 "I don't find that funny, Coelin Singer," she said.
She lifted her chin and turned to walk away.

  Coelin strummed a minor chord. "Jenna," he said
to her back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend
you." She looked over her shoulder at him, and he
continued. "So what did he ask you? 'She's the one
who was up there,' he said to me. 'I know this. I can
feel it.' That's what he told me, before he even knew
who you were."

 "What did the tiarna mean by that?" Jenna asked.
  Coelin shrugged. "I'm sure I wouldn't know. What
did he say to you? What did he ask?"

  "He only asked whether I saw the lights, that's all.
I told him that I had, and described them for him."
   "We all saw them," Ellia said. "That's nothing
special. I could describe the lights for him just as
easily, if that's all he wants to know." She tight-ened
her arm around Coelin. Jenna looked at her, at
Coelin. She tried to find a hint in his bright,
grass-green eyes that he wanted her to stay, that
her presence was special to him. Maybe if he'd
spoken then, maybe if he'd moved away from Ellia,
if he'd given her any small sign. . . .

  But he didn't. He sat there, looking as handsome
and charming as ever, with his long hair and his
dancing eyes and his agile, long-fingered hands.
Content. He smiled, but he smiled at Ellia, too. And
he'd let either of us lift our skirts for him, too, with
that same smile, that same contentment. The
thought struck her with the force of truth, the way
Aldwoman Pearce's proclamations sometimes did
when she scattered the prophecy bones from the
bag she'd made from the skin of a bog body. There
was the same sense of finality that Jenna heard in
the rattling of the ivory twigs. You're no more to
him than any other comely young thing. His interest
in you is mostly for the reflection he sees of himself
in your eyes. He flirts with you because it is what he
does. It means no more than that.
 "I'll be going back to my table," she said.

 "Stay," he said. "I'll be singing in a minute."
 "And I'll hear you just as fine from there," Jenna
answered. "Besides, you have Ellia to listen to you."

  A trace of irritation deepened the fine lines around
his eyes for a breath, then they smoothed again. His
fingers flicked over the strings of his giotár
discordantly. Ellia pulled him back toward her, and
he laughed, turning his head away from Jenna.
  She went back to the table. Mac Ard was leaning
toward Maeve, his arms on the table, his hands
curled around a mug of the ale, and her mam was
talking. ". . . Niall would go walking on Knobtop or
the hills just to the east, or follow the Duán down to
Lough Lar, or go wandering in the forests between
here and Keelballi. But he always came back, was
never away for more than a week, maybe two at the
most. There was a wander-lust in him. Some people
never seem satisfied where they are, and he was
one. I never worried about it, or thought he was
traipsing off with some lass. Once or twice a year,
I'd find him filling a sack with bread and a few
potatoes, and I'd know he would be going. Jenna,"
Maeve glanced up as Jenna approached, and she
smiled softly, "-she has some of that restless-ness in
her blood. Always wanting to go farther, see more. I
don't know what Niall was searching for, nor
whether he ever found it. I doubt it, for he was
wandering up to the end."

  Mac Ard took a sip of the ale. "Did you ever ask
him?"
  Maeve nodded. "That I did. Once. He told me . . ."
She looked away, as if she could see Jenna's da
through the haze of pipe and peat smoke in the
tavern. Jenna wondered what face she was seeing.
"He told me that he came here because a voice had
told him that his life's dream might be here."
Meave's eyes shimmered in the candlelight, and she
blinked hard. "He said it must have been my voice
he heard."
  Coelin's giotár sounded, a clear, high chord that
cut through the low murmur of conversation in the
bar. He'd moved over near the fire, Ellia sitting close
to him and a mug of stout within reach. "What
would you hear first?" he called out to the patrons.

  On any other night, half a dozen voices might have
answered Coelin, but tonight there was silence. No
one actually glanced back to Tiarna Mat Ard, but
everyone waited to see if he would speak first.

  Mac Ard had turned in his chair to watch Coelin,
and Jenna could see something akin to disgust, or
maybe it was simply irritation, flicker across his
face. Then he called out to Coelin. "I'm told your
teacher was a Song-master. He must have given
you the 'Song of Máel Armagh.'"
  "Aye, he did, Tiarna," Coelin answered. "But it's a
long tale and sad, and I've not sung it since
Songmaster Curragh was alive."
  "All the more reason to sing it now, before you
lose it."

   There was some laughter at that. Coelin gave a
shrug and a sigh. "Give me a moment, then, to bring
it back to mind . . ." Coelin closed his eyes. His
fingers moved soundlessly over the strings for a few
moments; his mouth moved with unheard words.
Then he opened his eyes and exhaled loudly. "Here
we go then," he said, and began to sing.
 Coelin's strong baritone filled the room, sweet and
melodious, a voice as smooth and rich as
new-churned butter. Coelin had a true gift, Jenna
knew-the gods had lent him their own tongue.
Songmaster Curragh had heard the gift, unpolished
and raw, in the scared boy he'd purchased from the
Taisteal; now, honed and sharpened, the young
man's talent was apparent to all. Mac Ard, after
hearing the first few notes, sat back in his chair with
an audible cough of surprise and admiration,
shaking his head and stroking his beard. "No
wonder the boy has half the lasses here in his
thrall," Jenna heard him whisper to Maeve. "His
throat must be lined with gold. Too bad he's all too
well aware of it."

  Coelin sang, his voice taking them into a misty
past where fierce Máel Armagh, king of Tuath
Infochla four hundred years before, drove his ships
of war from Falcarragh to Inish Thuaidh, where the
mage-lights had first shone in the Eldest Time and
where they glowed brightest. The verses of the
ancient lay told how the cloudmages of the island
called up the wild storms of the Ice Sea, threatening
to smash the invading fleet on the is-land's high
cliffs; Máel Armagh screaming defiance and finally
landing safely; the sun gleaming from the armor and
weapons of Máel Armagh's army as they swarmed
ashore; the Battle of Dún Kill, where Máel Armagh
won his first and only victory; Sage Roshia's
prophecy that the king would die "not from Inish
hands" if he pursued the fleeing Inishlanders to seal
his victory. Yet Máel Armagh ordered the pursuit
into the mountain fast-nesses of the island and
there met his fate, his armies scattered and
trapped, the Inishlanders surrounding him on all
sides and the mage-lights flickering in the dark sky
above. The last verses were filled with the folly, the
courage, and the sorrow of the Battle of Sliabh
Míchinniúint: the Inish cloudmages raining fire
down on the huddled troops; the futile, suicidal
charge by Máel Armagh in an attempt to win
through the pass to the Lowlands; the death of the
doomed king at the hands of his own men, who
presented Máel Armagh's body to Severii
O'Coulghan, the Inishland-er's chief cloudmage, to
buy their safe passage back to their ships. And the
final verse, as Máel Armagh's ship Cinniúint, now
his funeral pyre, sailed away from the island to the
south never to be seen again, the flames of the pyre
painting the bottom of the gray clouds with angry
red.

  The clock-candle on Tara's bar had burned down a
stripe before Coelin finished the song, and Mac
Ard's hands started the applause afterward as
Coelin eased his parched throat with long swallows
of stout. "Excellent," Mac Ard said. "I've not heard
better. You should come to Lár Bhaile, and sing for
us there. I'll wager that in another year, you would
be at the court in Dún Laoghaire, singing to the Rí
Ard himself."

  Coelin's face flushed visibly as he grinned, and
Jenna saw Ellia's eyes first widen, then narrow, as if
she were already seeing Coelin leaving
Bal-lintubber. "I'll do that, Tiarna. Maybe I'll follow
you back."

 "Do that," Mac Ard answered, "and I'll make sure
you have a roof over your head, and you'll pay for
your keep with songs."

  The patrons laughed and applauded (all but Ellia,
Jenna noticed), and someone called out for another
song, and Coelin started a reel: "The Cow Who
Married the Pig," everyone clapping along and
laughing at the non-sensical lyrics. Mac Ard inclined
his head to Maeve, nodding once in Jenna's
direction. "Those were her ancestors the boy sang
of," he said. And your husband's. A fierce and proud
people, the Inishlanders. They never bowed to any
king but their own, and they still don't." He sat
back, then leaned forward again. "They also knew
the mage-lights. Knew how to draw them down,
knew how to store their power. Even then, in the
last days of the Before, in the final flickering of the
power and the cloud-^ages. They say it's in their
blood. They say that if the mage-lights come again,
when it's time for the Filleadh, the mage-lights will
first appear to someone of Inish Thuaidh."
  Jenna saw Maeve glance toward her. She
wondered if her mam had felt the same shiver that
had just crept down her spine. "And are you
thinking that my daughter and I had anything to do
with this, Tiarna Mac Ard?" Maeve asked him.
  Mac Ard shrugged. "I don't even know for certain
that what we saw were mage-lights. They may have
just been some accident of the sky, the moon
reflecting from ice in the clouds, perhaps. But . . ."
He paused, listening to Coelin's singing before
turning back to Maeve and Jenna. "I told you that
when I saw them, I wanted to come here. And I ... I
have a touch of the Inish blood in me."
             Chapter 4: The Fire Returns



  JENNA left before the clock-candle reached the
next stripe: as Coelin sang a reel, then a love song;
as Mac Ard related to Maeve the long story of his
great-great-mam from Inish Thuaidh (who, Jenna
learned, fell in love with a tiarna from Dathuil in
Tuath Airgialla, who would become Mac Ard's
great-great-da. There was more, but Jenna became
lost in the blizzard of names.) Maeve seemed
strangely interested in the intricacies of the Mac
Ard genealogy and asked several questions, but
Jenna was bored. "I'm going back home, Mam," she
said. "You stay if you like. I'll check on Kesh and the
sheep."

  Her mam looked concerned for a moment, then
she glanced at Ellia, who was leaning as close to
Coelin as she could without actually touching him.
She smiled gently at Jenna. "Go on, then," she told
Jenna. "I'll be along soon."

  It was no longer raining at all, and the clouds had
mostly cleared away, though the ground was still
wet and muddy. Her boots were caked and heavy
by the time she reached the cottage. Kesh came
barking up to her as she approached. Jenna took off
her boots, picked up a few cuttings of peat from the
bucket inside the door, and coaxed the banked fire
back into life until the chill left the room. Kesh
padded after her as she went from the main room to
their tiny bedroom and sat on the edge of the
straw-filled mattress. She stared at the
mud-daubed hole where the stone lay hidden.
"They say it's in their blood," Tiarna Mac Ard had
said. "When I saw them, I wanted to go there ..."
  Jenna dropped to her knees in front of the hole.
She picked at the dried mud with her fingernails
until she could see the stone. Carefully, she pried it
loose and held it in her open palm. So oddly plain, it
was, yet ...

  It was cold again. As cold as the night she'd held it
in her hand on Knobtop. Jenna gasped, thrust the
stone into the pocket of her skirt, and left the
bedroom.

  She sat in front of the peat fire for a few minutes,
her arms around herself. Kesh lay at her feet,
looking up at her quizzically from time to time, as if
he sensed that Jenna's thoughts were in turmoil.
She wondered whether she should go back to Tara's
and show the stone to Mac Ard, tell him everything
that had happened on Knobtop. It would feel good
to tell the truth-she knew that; she could feel the lie
boiling inside, festering and begging for the lance of
her words. Mam certainly seemed to trust the
tiarna, and Jenna liked the way he spoke to her
mam, and the way he treated the two of them. She
could trust him, she felt. And yet ...
  He might be angry to find that she'd lied. So might
her mam. Jenna swore-an oath she'd once heard
Thomas the Miller utter when he'd dropped a sack
of flour on his foot.

  The ram, in the outbuilding, bleated a call of
alarm. A few of the ewes also gave voice as Kesh's
ears went up and he ran barking to the door. Jenna
followed, pulling the muddy boots back over her
feet, guessing that a wolf or a pack of the wild pigs
was prowling nearby, or that Old Stub-born had
simply got himself stuck somewhere again. "What's
the matter with-" she began as she walked toward
the pens.
 She stopped, looking toward Knobtop.

   Something sparked in the air above the peak: a
flicker, a whisper of light. Then it was gone. But
she'd seen true. She could still see the ghost of the
light on the back of her eyes.
 "Kesh, come on," she said.

  She started toward Knobtop, her boots sloshing
through the muck.
  By the time she started walking up the mountain's
steep flanks, the sky flickered again with flowing
streams and billows of colors, tossing multi-ple
shadows behind her over the heather and rocks.
Kesh barked at the mage-lights, lifting his snout up
to the sky. They were brightening now, fuller and
even more dazzling than they'd been the last time.
By now, Jenna knew, someone in Ballintubber
would have seen them. They'd be tumbling out of
Tara's, all of them, gawking. And Tiarna Mac Ard . .
.

  She imagined him, running to the stable behind
Tara's, leaping on his brown steed and riding hard
toward Knobtop . . . She frowned. Now that the
lights had appeared again, she didn't want to share
them with him. They were hers. They had given her
the stone; they had shown her the red-haired man.

  The stone . . . She could feel its smooth weight
now, cold and pulsing in the woolen pocket. She
pulled the stone out: the pebble glowed,
shim-mering with an echo of the sky above, the
colors tinting her fingers as she held it. The
mage-lights seemed to bend in the atmosphere
directly above her, swirling like water, as if they
sensed her presence below. Jenna lifted her hand,
and the mage-lights coalesced, forming a funnel of
sparkling hues above that danced and wriggled,
lengthening and elongating. Jenna started to pull
her hand away, but the funnel of mage-light had
wrapped itself around her hand now, like a thread
attached to the maelstrom in the sky above her. As
she moved her hand, it stretched and swayed, a ball
of glowing light attached to her wrist. She could feel
the mage-lights, not hot but very, very cold, the
chill creeping from wrist to elbow, to shoulder.
Jenna tried to pull away, desperately this time, but
they held her like another hand, gripping her
shoulders, the cold seeping into her chest and
covering her head.
  She swam in light. She closed her eyes, screaming
in the bright silence, and she could still see the
colors, melding and shifting.

 Ethereal voices called to her.
 A flash.

 A deafening peal of thunder.
 Blackness.
 Kesh was licking her face.

  Jenna rolled her head away, and the movement
sent pain coursing through her neck and temples.
Kesh whined as she shoved him away. "Get off," she
told him. "I'm fine." She sat up, grimacing. "I hope
so, anyway."

  She was still on Knobtop, but the sky above was
simply the sky, starlit between shreds of clouds
slowly moving from the west. She looked down; she
was holding the stone, and it throbbed like the blood
in her head, pulsing cold but no longer shining. She
was suddenly afraid of the pebble, and she started
to throw it away, drawing her hand back.
 Stopping.
 The mage-lights came to you. They came to you,
and the stone . . .

 She brought her hand back down to her lap.
   Kesh whined again, coming up to rub against her,
then his head lifted, the ears going straight, his tail
lifting and a low growl coming from his throat.
"What is it?" Jenna asked, then she heard it herself:
the sound of shod hooves striking rock within the
copse of elm and oak trees down the slope of
Knobtop. Jenna stood. Whoever it was, she didn't
want to be seen here. She put the stone in her
pocket and lifted the hem of her skirts. "Come,
Kesh," she whispered, and ran. There was a small
stand of trees fifty strides away, and she made for
the darkness there. She stopped once she was
under their shade, looking back through the tree
trunks to the field. She saw the horse and rider
emerge from under the trees: Tiarna Mac Ard,
astride Conhal. The tiarna made his way slowly up
the hillside, looking at the ground, glancing up at the
sky. Kesh started to run out to them, and Jenna
held the dog back. "Hush," she whispered. Mac Ard
wouldn't be finding the mage-lights tonight, and she
didn't want him to find her, either, or to have to
explain why she was here.

  "Come," she said to Kesh, and slipped deeper into
the shelter of the woods, making her way down the
slope toward home.
  Her mam looked up from the fire as Jenna opened
the door. "Your boots are muddy," she said.

 "I know," Jenna said. Sitting on the stool at the
door, she took them off.
 "I was worried when you weren't here."
 "I went walking with Kesh."

 "On Knobtop." The way Maeve said it, Jenna
understood it was not a question. She nodded.

 "Aye, Mam. On Knobtop."
  Maeve nodded, worry crinkling her forehead and
the corners of her eyes. "That's where he said you'd
be." She didn't need to mention who "he" was; they
both knew. "You look cold and pale," Maeve
continued. "There's tea in the kettle over the fire.
Why don't you pour yourself a mug?"

 Wondering at her mam's strange calmness, Jenna
poured herself tea sweetened with honey. Maeve
said nothing more, though Jenna could feel her
mam's gaze on her back. By the time she'd finished,
Kesh barked and they heard the sound of Mac Ard's
horse approaching. The tiarna knocked, then
opened the door, standing there in his clóca of green
and brown. Maeve nodded to the man, as if
answering an unspoken question, and he turned to
Jenna. He seemed too big and too dark in the
cottage, and she could not decipher the expression
on his face. He stroked his beard with one hand.

  "You saw them," he said. "You were there." When
she didn't answer, he glanced again at Maeve. "I
saw your boot prints, and the dog's. I know you
were there." His voice was gentle-not an accusation,
just a sympa-thetic statement of fact.
 "Aye, Tiarna," Jenna answered quietly.
 "You saw the lights?"

  A nod. Jenna hung her head, not daring to look at
his face.
  Mac Ard let out a long sigh. "By the
Mother-Creator, Jenna, I'm not going to eat you. I
just want to know. I want to help if I can. Did you
see the lights first, or did you go there and call
them?"

  Jenna shook her head, slowly at first then more
vigorously. "I didn't call them," she said hurriedly.
"I was here, and I heard Old Stubborn making a
commotion and went outside to check and ... I
thought I saw something. So I went. Then, after I
was there, they came." She stopped. Mac Ard let
the silence linger, and Jenna forced herself to stay
quiet, though she could see him waiting for her to
elaborate. "Did you see them, Tiarna?" she asked
finally.
  "From the tavern, aye, and as I was riding toward
the hill. They went out by the time I reached the
road and started up Knobtop. I saw the flash and
heard the thunder when the lights vanished." He
held his right arm straight out, and ran his left hand
over it. "I could feel my hair standing on end: here,
and on the back of my neck. I rode up to where the
flash seemed to have come from. That's where I
saw the marks of your boots." He let his hand drop.
His clóca rustled. His voice was as soft and warm as
the blanket on her bed. "Tell me the truth, Jenna. I
swear I mean you and your mam no harm. I swear
it."

 He waited, looking at Jenna, and she could feel her
hand trembling around the wooden mug. She set it
down on the table, staring down at the steaming
brew without really seeing it. She was trembling,
her hands shaking as they rested on the rough
oaken table top.
  "I was there," she said to the mug. "The lights,
they were so ... bright and the colors were so deep,
all around me . . ." She lifted her head, looking from
Mac Ard to her mam, shimmering in the salt water
that suddenly filled her eyes. "I don't understand
why this is happening," she said, sniffing and trying
to keep back the tears. "I don't know why it keeps
happening to me. I don't want it, didn't ask for it. I
don't know anything." The stone burned cold
against her thigh through the woolen fabric. "I. . ."
She started to tell them the rest, how the
mage-lights had glowed in the stone, how the power
had arced from it, how the pebble had seemed to
draw the mage-lights tonight, all of it. But she saw
the eagerness in Mac Ard's face, the way he leaned
forward intently as she spoke of the lights, and she
stopped herself. You don't know him, not really. The
stone was your gift, not his. The voice in her head
almost seemed to be someone else's.
  "There isn't anything else to tell you, Tiarna," she
said, sniffing. "I'm sorry."
  Disappointment etched itself in the set of his
mouth, and she realized that the man was genuinely
puzzled. He shook his head. "Then we wait, and we
watch," he said. He turned to Maeve. "I'll stay at
Tara's for another day, at least, and we'll see. The
mage-lights may come again tomorrow night. If
they do, if they call Jenna, I'll go up there with her.
If that's acceptable to you, Widow Aoire."

 Maeve lifted her chin. "She's my daughter. I'll be
with her, too, Tiarna Mac Ard."
 He might have smiled. Maeve might have smiled
back.

 Mac Ard brushed at his clóca, adjusting the silver
brooch at the right shoulder. "Good night to you
both, then," he said. He gave a swift bow to Maeve,
and left.
           Chapter 5: Attack on the Village



 THE night sky stayed dark the next night. Tiarna
Mac Ard remained at Tara's, coming to Jenna's
house that evening and escorting the two of them
back to the tavern, where they listened to Coelin
with an eye on the window that showed Knobtop
above the trees.

 But it remained simply night outside. Nothing
more.

  The next day broke with a heavy mist rolling in
from the west, a gray wall that hid sun and sky and
laid a sheen of moisture over the village. The mist
beaded on the wool of the sheep as Jenna and Kesh
herded them to the field behind the cottage. Kesh
was acting strangely; he kept lifting his head and
barking at something unseen, but finally they got
the last straggler through. Jenna walked the field
perimeter once, checking the stone fence her father
had built, then calling Kesh-still barking at
noth-ing-and closing the gate.
  She smelled it then in the air, over the distinctive
tang of smoldering peat from their own fire and
those in the village: the odor of wood smoke and
burning thatch. Jenna frowned, surveying the
landscape. There was a smear of darker gray
beyond the trees lining the field, and under it, a
tinge of glowing red. "Mam!" she called. "I think
there's a fire in the village."
  Maeve came from the cottage, wrapping a shawl
over her head. "Look," Jenna said, pointing. Her
mam squinted into the damp air, into the gray, dim
distance.
 "Come on," she said. "They may need help . . ."

  They didn't get as far as the High Road. They
heard the sound of a galloping horse racing toward
them down the rutted dirt lane, and Tiarna Mac
Ard came hurtling around the bend, his hair blowing
and his clóca billowing behind him. He pulled Conhal
to a mud-tossing halt in front of them, dismounting
in a sudden leap.
 "Tiarna Mac Ard-" Maeve began, but then the
man cut off her words with a slash of his arm. "No
time," he said. "We need to get you and your
daughter out of here. Into the bogs, maybe, or
over-" He stopped, whirling around at the sound of
pounding hooves, as Kesh ran barking and snarling
toward the quartet of on-rushing horses.

  White fog blew from the nostrils of the steeds and
the mouths of the riders.
  "Kesh, no!" Jenna shouted at the dog. Kesh
stopped, looked back at Jenna.

  They could have gone around him. There was
easily room.

  They ran the dog down. Jenna screamed as she
saw the hooves of the lead horse strike Kesh. He
yelped and rolled and tried to escape, but the
horse's muscular rear legs struck his side and Kesh
went down under the three behind, lost in the blur
of motion and clods of flying dirt. "Kesh!" Jenna
screamed again, starting to run toward the bloody,
still form in the dirt, but Maeve's arms went around
her as Mac Ard stepped between them and the
horsemen. "Kesh!"
  The lead rider pulled his party to a stop before
Mac Ard. The man threw his clóca back, and Jenna,
sobbing for Kesh, saw a sword on his belt. "Where's
your blue and gold, Fiacra De Derga?" Mac Ard
called to the rider. "Or are those of Connachta too
cowardly to show their colors when they go
plundering in Gabair?"
  The rider smiled. His hair was flaming red-a
deeper red than that of Ard, what a surprise. I
haven't seen you since our cousin's wedding feast a
year ago last summer." Pale eyes swept over Maeve
and Jenna. Jenna wanted to leap at the man, but
Maeve's arms held her tightly, and Jenna clutched
at her skirts in frustration and anger. In the folds
caught in her left fist, she felt a small, cold hardness
beneath the wool. "And what inter-esting company
you keep. Is this the Aoire family the village Ald
told me about before she died, the Inishlander's wife
and daughter?"
 "These people are formally under Rí Mallaghan of
Tuath Gabair's pro-tection. That's all you need to
know."

  De Derga smiled. He lifted himself in his saddle
with a creak of leather and looked about
ostentatiously. "And where is Rí Mallaghan? I don't
seem to see him at the moment, or any royal decree
in your hand." His gaze came back to Mac Ard. "I
only see you, Padraic. If I'd known that, I'd have left
my companions with the rest of my men." The
three men behind De Derga laughed as he tsked.
"One lone tiarna is all Rí Gabair sends when
mage-lights fill the sky? I find that incredibly
foolish. When word came to Rí Connachta that
people on our eastern borders had seen
mage-lights, he sent out over two dozen to follow
them. And last night . . . well, you saw them better
than us, didn't you, up on that hilltop?"

  Jenna let her hand slip into the pocket of her skirt.
The stone pulsed against her fingertips, as frigid as
glacial ice.
  "You would always rather talk a man to death
than use your sword, Fiacra."
  De Derga spread his hands. "It's my gift. Now,
step aside, as I'll be taking the women back to
Thiar."

  Mac Ard unsheathed his sword, the iron ringing.
Jenna heard her mam's intake of breath. "Be
careful, Tiarna," she said, one hand extended to
Mac Ard, the other still around Jenna's shoulders.
Jenna slipped from her mam's grasp, a step away;
she took her hand from her pocket, her hand fisted.
De Derga laughed.

  '"Be careful,'" he repeated, mocking Maeve's tone.
He shook his head at Mac Ard. "Your taste was
always common, Padraic."
 "Get off your horse, Fiacra, so I can separate your
babbling head from your shoulders."
  De Derga sat easily as his mount stamped a foot
and shook its head at the smell of the weapon. "No.
I think not."

  "You have no honor, De Derga. And I'm shamed
that you'd let your men see that."

 (Throbbing against her skin . . . Searing cold rising
up her arm, filling her . . .)
  "My men have seen me fight often enough, cousin,
and they know that I could take you as easily as this
woman you're shielding. They also know that I
won't be goaded into doing something foolish when
the battle's already won." De Derga waved a hand,
and Jenna noticed that the trio behind had drawn
bows. "So, Padraic, the choice is yours: sheathe that
weapon and return to Lár Bhaile, or we'll simply cut
you down where you stand."

  This time it was Mac Ard who laughed. "Let's not
lie to each other, Fiacra. You can't let me go back
and tell my Rí that you were here in his land."
  A muscle twitched in De Derga's mouth. "No," he
said. "I suppose I can t." He waved a hand to his
men as Mac Ard let out a scream of rage and
charged toward De Derga, his sword swinging in a
great arc. Bow-strings sang death.

 "No!" Jenna screamed, and the fury seemed to
burst through her skin, ripping and tearing through
her soul, spilling from her open mouth.

 She lifted her hand.
  In one blinding instant, arrows flared and went to
ash in mid-flight. The horses screamed and reared,
and four jagged bolts of pure white erupted from
Jenna's hand, the lightnings snapping and crackling
as they impaled the riders, striking them from their
saddles and arcing as they slammed the bodies to
the ground. The discharge from the stone was
blinding, overloading Jenna's eyes even as she saw
the riders fall; the sound deafened her, a sinister
crackling like the snapping of dry bones. Someone
screamed in agony and terror, and Jenna screamed
in sympathy, her voice lost in the chaos, her mind
awhirl with the cold power until, swirling, it bore her
down into oblivion and silence.
              Chapter 6: Bog And Forest



 SHE awoke with a start and a cry, and Maeve's
hand brushed her fore-head soothingly. "Hush,
darling," she said, but her eyes were full of worry.

  "Where are we?" Jenna asked. She sat up-they
were sitting in the midst of bracken, and Tiarna
Mac Ard was crouched a few feet away, his back to
them. Jenna could smell the earthy, wet musk of
bog, and water trickled brightly somewhere nearby.
Two saddle packs were on the ground near them,
and a bow with arrows fletched like those of the
men who had attacked them. The memory came
back to her then, awful and fierce: Kesh lying dead
on the ground, the men from Connachta
threaten-ing them, the cold, terrible lightning from
the stone. "The riders . . ." she breathed with a sob.
"The man you called De Derga, your cousin . . ."

   "Dead." Mac Ard said the word gruffly, his voice
low. "All dead. And by now their companions know
it as well, and are hunting us." He glanced back at
Jenna, and his expression was guarded. "They'll also
know that it wasn't a sword that cut them down."

  "I ..."Jenna gulped. Her stomach lurched and she
bent over, vomiting acid bile on the ground. She
could feel her mam stroking her back as the spasms
shook her, as her stomach heaved. When the
sickness had passed, Jenna wiped her mouth with
the sleeve of her coat. "I'm sorry," she said.
They're-" She couldn't say the word. Mac Ard
nodded, watching her as she leaned into the
comforting arms of Maeve, as if she were a little
child again.

  "Jenna, the first time someone fell to my sword, I
did the same thing you just did," he said. "I've seen
men hacked to death during a battle, or crushed
under their horses. Eventually, it bothers you less."
He leaned over, as if he were going to stroke her
hair as Maeve did, but pulled his hand back. He
pursed his lips under the dark beard. "I'd be more
worried about you if it didn't bother you. But I have
to tell you that what you did . . . I've never seen the
like."
 The stone, cold in her hand... Jenna felt in her
skirt pocket, then glanced frantically around her on
the damp ground.

   "Would you be looking for this?" The stone
glistened between Mac Ard's forefinger and thumb.
He turned it carefully in front of them. "Not much to
look at it, is it? Something you might miss entirely,
if it was just lying there."
 "That's mine," Jenna said loudly. "I found it."

 "Jenna-" Maeve began, but Mac Ard snorted as if
amused.

  "A clock na thintrí, it's called," he said. "A lightning
stone. And you had it all along. When I asked you
about the mage-lights, you must have forgotten to
tell me about the cloch you found." He could have
sounded angry. He didn't; he seemed more
disappointed.
 Jenna looked at the ground rather than at him.

  "Your da would have known the term," Mac Ard
continued. "I'll wager he brought the stone here
himself, or knew that this one lay there on Knobtop,
waiting for the mage-lights to return. And, aye,
Jenna, now it's yours." He stretched out his hand,
and dropped it in Jenna's palm. It was warm, an
ordinary stone. "Keep it," he said. "It gave itself to
you, not to me."
  Jenna put it back in her skirt, feeling Mac Ard's
eyes on her. "How . . . ?" she started to say, but Mac
Ard lifted a finger to his lips. "Later, you'll know all
you want to know, and more."

 Jenna stared at the tiarna, trying to see past his
dark gaze. He seemed calm enough, and not angry
with her. After a few breaths, she looked away.
"Mam, where are we?" she asked once more.

 "In the bog on the other side of the bridge,"
Maeve said. "Tiarna Mac Ard carried you here
when you collapsed, after-" Her mam stopped.
  "Mam, what's happened? Why did those men
come here?"

  It was Mac Ard who answered. "They came for
the same reason I came-because they saw the
mage-lights. I didn't think Rí Connachta would be so
foolhardy as to send his people here. I was the one
who told Rí Mallaghan of Gabair that we didn't need
to concern ourselves with the other Tuatha." He
scoffed angrily. "I was a damned fool, and damned
lucky to be alive. Tara's son Eliath came running
into the tavern this morning, said that the Ald's
cottage was afire and that there were a dozen men
on horseback there. I left the tavern then, and rode
for your home. De Darga saw me as I brought
Conhal out of the stable, and followed. The rest you
know."

 "Where's Conhal?"
  "With three of us, we couldn't outrun the others
with one horse, so I turned him loose. Hopefully he'll
find his own way home. As for the others, they're
scouring the countryside now, looking for us. We've
seen them twice while we were here; once a pair of
riders, then four more who crossed the bridge and
went up on Knobtop. Look . . ." He stopped, pulling
brush aside so that Jenna could see the bog. They
were on one of the grassy, overgrown hummocks
that dotted the marsh. She could see the
peat-stained open water of the Mill Creek a little bit
away, and beyond the creek was the rise of the
northern bank and the low hills that con-cealed
their house. Beyond the hills, she could see a column
of black smoke smeared across the sky. She knew
what it was even as her mam spoke.
 "They burned the cottage," Maeve said. Her voice
was strangely calm. "Everything we had ..."

 "The Rí Gabair will give you all and more, once we
get to Lár Bhaile. I promise you that."
  Maeve's eyes flashed, and Jenna heard the
mingled anger and sorrow in her voice. "Will the Rí
give me back the scarf that Niall gave me the night
he first came to me? Will he give me the cups and
plates that Niall made with his own hands, or the
pot with blue glaze I fired for him? Will I see the
first linen shirt I made for Jenna, when she was just
a babe? The Rí can give me money and build a new
cottage, but he can't give me a tithe of what's been
destroyed."

  "I know that," Mac Ard replied softly. "I wish it
were different, Maeve- may I call you that?"
Jenna's mam nodded. "Good. And please call me
Padraic. I wish I could undo my words to Rí
Mallaghan and that I had come here with my own
squad of gardai, as he wished. Maybe then none of
this would have happened. But I can't unsay the
words, and I can't ease your loss. All I can do now is
try to keep us alive."
 "How?" Maeve asked. She looked at Jenna. "You
don't want her to-"

  "No," Mac Ard said quickly. "She doesn't need
more blood on her hands, nor do I think she knows
how to control the stone or whether she could
repeat what she did. I certainly don't know the
answer to that. The Connachtans will expect us to
make for Lár Bhaile, so they'll be watching the High
Road and the River Duán. They can't stay here long,
however- they know word will eventually reach the
Rí's ears about this raid and he'll send soldiers after
them."
 "So what do we do?"

 "We find a place to hide for a few days."

  Maeve shook her head, hugging Jenna. "Where? I
don't know of such a place. They would find us here,
eventually."
 "I agree," Mac Ard answered. "So we'll go into
Doire Coill."

  Jenna cried out at that and Maeve shook her
head. "Have you gone mad, Tiarna Mac Ard? You
take us from one death to another."

 "I take us from sure death to a hope for life," he
answered. "They'll be searching the bogs soon
enough, Maeve. We can't stay here. We need to go,
and we need to go now while we can."

  Maeve was still shaking her head, but Jenna felt
her mam's arms relax around her and knew that
she'd made a decision, staring at the smoke rising
from the ruin of their lives. Everything they'd
known was gone; their only ally was Mac Ard. Jenna
leaned toward Maeve. "We have to trust him,
Mam," she whispered. "We have to."

  She could see the lines at the corners of her mam's
eyes relax as she made the decision. "All right," she
said finally. "We'll follow you. Padraic."
  Jenna knew that most of the tales were simply
that-stories to frighten the children. The residents
of Ballintubber had a thousand tales and leg-ends
and stories about the half-wild land that surrounded
them. The Rí Mallaghan might proclaim himself
king over Tuath Gabair, but in truth, his rule only
extended to the small towns, the villages, and the
occasional squares of farmed land: tamed patches of
a landscape that had seen vast, misty centuries
when legends walked alive.

   Legends still walked, if the stories were to be
believed, in those hidden places where humankind
came infrequently, or not at all. Doire Coill was one
of those places, a lingering remnant of a greater oak
forest that had once stretched from Lough Lár to
the Westering Sea, and north and south for leagues,
a wall of trees shading meandering bogs and hidden
valleys, where giant elk and ferocious knifefangs
had roamed. Most of the forest was gone now,
eroded by axes, time, and changing climate. Yet
portions of it yet existed, here and there through
the peninsula of Talamh an Ghlas. Doire Coill was
not the largest of these or the most well known, but
it loomed large in the stories Jenna had heard. One
Hand Bailey, in his cups at Tara's, had often spoken
of the time he'd lost his hand.
  "Oh, I'd heard the tales, aye," Jenna could
remember his drunken voice saying, low and
slurred with alcohol. "Rubbish, I thinks, because I
was young an' stupid. So I takes me old horse and
cart down the High Road past Knobtop, thinking
that Doire Coill weren't likely to miss one of those
nasty old black oaks, and wouldn't that make a
great pile of lumber for the selling. That's what I
thought, and every day of my life since I've
regretted it. Me an' Daragh O'Rheallagh started
a'sawing at the closest trunk to the road with a two
man blade, and at first it went fine, though I
thought I heard the trees rustling angrily at the
sight of the metal, and a cold wind came out from
underneath the trees like the forest was breathin', a
foul breath of dead and molderin' leaves. Didn't see
any ani-mals, which was strange: not a squirrel, not
a bird, not a deer; like they'd all gone, knowing what
we were doing and afraid of it. We kept at our
sawin', wantin' to get out of there as quick as we
could-the noise dead in the stillness, the tree sittin'
there hating us, the sawdust piling at our feet. Then,
all a' sudden, it fell, before it had any right to do so,
like it chose to fall. Crushed poor Daragh under it
before he could move, and the saw blade snapped
with an awful noise an' whipped out, an' it sliced me
hand right off me arm. I thought I'd die there
meself, but I managed to tie a scrap a' cloth around
me arm quick to stop the bleedin'. Wasn't no such
luck for Daragh; he was already dead, his head
smashed and his brains dashed out on the ground. I
came back here quick as I could, and six men and
the new Widow O'Rheallagh went back to get
Daragh's body out from under the tree. When they
got there, it was gone. Not a trace of 'im was left. I
swear it-ask Widow O'Rheallagh herself, or Tom
Mullin over there, who went with 'em. Doire Coill's
an evil place, I say. I already gave it me hand, and
that's all a' me it's to get. I won't go in there again,
and them that do are nothin' but fools."

  Bailey's words resonated in Jenna's head as they
left the hummock in the bog and started heading
south, moving parallel to the rough line of the High
Road and taking care to stay hidden from possible
watchers on the rising flanks of Knobtop. It was
getting near dark, with all of them tired and soggy
nearly to the waist, when Jenna noticed that the
ground underneath their feet was firmer, and that
the trees around them were twisted, thick-trunked
oaks hung with parasitic mistletoe, huddled
to-gether in a dark mass.
  They were within the indistinct edges of Doire
Coill, west and south of Ballintubber. Somewhere to
their left, the High Road to Lár Bhaile (and beyond
to Dún Laoghaire) passed within a stone's throw of
the forest's leaves before turning sharply east to
meet and cross River Duán at the village of Áth
Iseal, a good full day's journey from Ballintubber on
horse-back. Between Áth Iseal and Ballintubber,
there were few human habita-tions-and in the
empty space between no one gave allegiance to Rí
Gabair or any king.

  "How long do we need to stay here?" Maeve
asked. Jenna looked at the deep green shadows
under the trees. She let the pack she carried fall to
the ground. Contrary to what One Hand Bailey had
said, she saw life enough: black squirrels bounding
through the tangled limbs above them, starlings and
finches flitting from branch to branch. The trees
here were ancient: they had seen the first
movement of humankind through this land, and
Jenna sensed that they remembered and were not
pleased. Mac Ard's boots crunched on a thick carpet
of old leaves and acorn caps.
 "Two days, maybe a few more," he said. "The
Connachtans can't stay longer without risking open
war, and I don't think they want that. Two days,
and we can chance the High Road again."

 "Two days," Jenna repeated. "Here in Doire Coill."

 "It's a forest, that's all," Mac Ard told her. "Don't
worry yourself over silly tales. I've been out here
before, at the edge of the Doire, and slept under its
branches. I had strange dreams that night, but
that's all."

  "We'll need a fire," Maeve said. "So we don't
freeze during the night."
  "There's a tinderbox in one of the packs. A fire will
be safe enough after the sun goes down and they
can't see the smoke, I suppose," Mac Ard said.
"We're far enough off the High Road. If we go a bit
farther in, the trees will shield the light ..." Maeve
looked at Jenna as Mac Ard started to rummage in
the packs.

  "He knows what he's doing, Mam. And if he hadn't
come to help us, we might be dead."

  Maeve nodded. She went to Mac Ard and began
helping him. An hour later, they were huddled in a
tiny clearing with a small fire of dead wood that
they'd gathered. The warmth of the fire was
welcome, but to Jenna, the flickering light only
seemed to intensify the darkness around them,
encasing them in a globe of bright air while
blackness pressed in around them. They'd eaten a
loaf of hard bread and a few slivers of cheese from
the pack, with water that still tasted of the bog from
a nearby stream. Maeve and Mac Ard sat close to
each other, closer than Jenna had ever seen her
mam sit to another man. She was pleased at that,
huddled in her cloak across the fire. She watched
them through the flame, talking softly together,
with a brief smile once touching her mam's lips.
Jenna smiled herself at that. Maeve had rebuffed
the advances of every man in Ballin-tubber, from
what Jenna had heard and seen, but this Mac Ard
was differ-ent. Jenna wondered, for a moment, how
her own da might have reacted to what happened,
and that brought back to her the events of the day,
and she wanted to cry, wanted to weep for Kesh and
the soldiers she'd killed and the lives that she'd left
destroyed behind her, but there were no tears
inside her.

 She was dry, cold, and simply exhausted.

  Wings fluttered somewhere above and behind her,
startling Jenna. The rustling came again, loud and
closer, and a huge black crow swooped low across
the fire and lifted to land in a branch near Mac Ard.
It cawed once, a grotesque, hoarse cough of a sound.
Its bright eyes regarded them, the glossy head
turning in quick, abrupt moves. "Nasty thing,"
Maeve said, glaring at the bird. "They're thieves,
those birds, and scavengers. Look at it staring at us,
like it's waiting for us to die."

  Mac Ard picked up the bow and nocked an arrow.
"It won't stare long," he said. He drew the
bowstring back, the braided leather creaking under
the strain.
 "Hold!"

  The voice came from the darkness, and a form
stepped from the night shadows into the light of the
fire: a man, old and hunched over, attired in ragged
leather and fur and supporting himself with a
gnarled oaken staff. The crow cawed again, flapped
its wings, and flew to the man, perching itself on his
left shoulder. "Who are you?" Mac Ard asked, the
bow still drawn and the arrow now pointed at the
chest of the stranger.
  "No one worth killing," the man answered. His
words were under-standable, but thick with an odd
accent. He seemed to be staring some-where
slightly to the side and above Mac Ard, and in the
gleam of the firelight, Jenna saw the man's eyes:
unbroken, milky white pupils.
 "He's blind, Tiarna," she said.

  The man laughed at that, and at the same time
the crow lifted its head and cackled with him, the
two sounds eerily similar. "This body's blind, aye,"
he said, "but I can see." The man lifted his right
hand and stroked the crow's belly. "Denmark here
is my eyes. What he sees, I see. And what I see now
is two village folk and a tiarna, who know so little
they would light fires under these trees."
  "This is not your land," Mac Ard answered. "This
forest is within Tuath Gabair, and belongs to the Rí.
And you've still not given us your name."

  The old man's amusement was loud, echoed by
the crow. "My name? Call me Seancoim," he
answered. "And Rí Gabair can claim whatever he
likes: his cities and villages, his bogs and fields. But
the old places like this forest belong to themselves,
and even Rí Gabair knows that." He grinned at
them, gap-toothed, and gestured. "Now, follow me.
I'll take you where you'll be safe."

 "We're safe enough here," Mac Ard said.
 "Are you?" Seancoim asked. "Do you think your
young woman's sky-magic can protect you here?"
He glanced up with his dead eyes. A strong wind
stirred the tops of the trees, and Jenna could hear
their limbs groaning and stirring. At the edges of the
firelight, branches writhed and stretched like
wooden, grasping arms, and the sound of the wind
through the trees was like a sobbing voice,
mournful. The hair raised on Jenna's forearms and
the light of the fire shuddered, making the shadows
move all around them. "Mam?" Jenna called out.

  "Stop!" Mac Ard commanded Seancoim, and he
brought his bow back to full draw. The crow stirred,
wings fluttering, and at the same moment the arrow
snapped in half like a twig even as Mac Ard released
the bow-string. The crow settled again on
Seancoim's shoulder; the wind in the trees died to a
breeze, the leaves rustling. "Put out your fire and
follow me," Seancoim repeated. "The tiarna can
keep his sword in his hand, if it makes him feel
better. But it won't do him any good here, and the
trees hate the smell of iron."
  With that, the old man turned, shuffling slowly
into the darkness, his staff tapping the ground
before him.
             Chapter 7: Seancoim's Cavern



  JENNA wrinkled her nose at the smell: musty
earth, and a strange, spicy odor that could only be
Seancoim himself. A draft wafted from the entrance
of the cavern, the mouth of which was a narrow slit
in a rocky, bare rise another stripe's walk deeper
into the forest. Yellow light beck-oned beyond,
outlining the stone arch, and she smelled burning
peat as the wind changed.
  "It's warm inside," Seancoim said, gesturing to
them as he ducked into the passage. Denmark
cawed and leaped from his shoulder, disappearing
into the cave. "And light. There's food as well,
enough for all. Come." He vanished inside, and
Jenna saw her mam glance at Mac Ard. "We've
fol-lowed him this far," she said.

 "I'll go first," Mac Ard answered. He drew his
sword and, turning side-ways, followed the old man.
Maeve waited a moment, then went into the
opening with Jenna close behind.

  Beyond the narrow passage, the cavern widened
significantly, the roof rising to follow the slope of the
hill, the sides opening up quickly left and right. The
passage led slightly downward a dozen strides, and
Jenna found herself in a large room. A central
fireplace ringed with stones sent smoke curling
upward toward the roof, lost in darkness above. The
low flames from the peat sent wan light to the stone
walls, and Jenna could dimly see another
passageway leading deeper into the hill. Along the
wall were sev-eral querns, small stone mills used for
grinding corn and other grains. Hung everywhere
around the cavern were racks with drying herbs
and various plants laid over the wooden rods. Some
of them Jenna recognized: parsley, thyme, lemon
grass, mint; others were entirely unfamiliar. The
smell of the herbs was almost overpowering, a
barrage of odors.

  Denmark had roosted on a rocky shelf nearby.
Beyond the drying racks and querns, there was
almost no furniture in the room. If it was a home, it
was a bare one. Jenna could see a straw pallet laid
out near the fire, a bucket of water, and a long
wooden box that Seancoim eased him-self down on.
He leaned his staff against the box, but it fell to the
stones and the sound echoed harshly.

  "It's not pretty," he said. He leaned down and
placed the staff within reach. "But it's dry, and
warm enough, and not susceptible to enemies
burning it down." He glanced at Maeve as he said
that, and Jenna heard her mam's intake of breath.
Mac Ard scowled, walking around the perime-ter of
the cavern, his sword sheathed now but his hand on
the hilt.
 "This is where you live?" Jenna asked, and
Seancoim laughed.

  "Here, and other places," he answered. "I have a
dozen homes in the forest, and a dozen more I've
forgotten about over the decades."

 Jenna nodded. "You live alone?"
  Seancoim shook his head. "No. There are others
like me here, a few, and I see them from time to
time. And there are more of my people, though not
many, in the old forests that are left, or in the high
mountains, or the deepest bogs. We were the first
ones to find Talamh an Ghlas."

  "You're Bunús Muintir," Jenna said. The word was
like breathing a legend. The oldest poems and songs
spoke of the Bunús Muintir, of the battles that had
raged between the Bunús and Jenna's people, the
Daoine. In the poems, the Bunús were always evil
and horrific, fierce and cruel warriors who had allied
with spirits, wights, and demonic creatures.
  "Aye, I am the blood of Bunús Muintir, and I know
your Daoine songs." Seancoim said. "I've heard
them, and like all history, they're half true. We were
here when your ancestors came into this place, and
we fought them and sometimes even bred with
them, but Daoine blood and Daoine swords proved
stronger, until finally those of the pure lineage
sought the hidden places. There were no final
battles, no decisive victory or defeat, despite what
the songs tell you. True endings come slowly.
Sometimes they come not at all, or just fade into the
new tales." Groaning, Seancoim stood again.
"There's bread there, on the ledge near Denmark,
baked two days ago now, I'm afraid. There's still
some of the last blackberries of the season, and
smoked meat. That's all I have to offer and it's not
fancy, but it will fill your bellies. Go on and help
yourselves."
  The bread was hard, the berries mushy with age
and the meat tough, but Jenna thought it strangely
delicious after the day's exertions. She fin-ished her
portion quickly, then broke off a hunk of bread and
went outside. The clouds had parted, and a crescent
moon turned the clouds to silver white. She was
above the trees, looking down on their swaying
crowns. She could see Knobtop, rising up against the
stars to the north, farther away than she'd ever
seen it before.

  The wind lifted her hair and brushed the forest
with an invisible hand. She thought she could hear
voices, singing not far away: a low, susurrant chant
that rose and fell, the long notes holding words that
lingered just on the edge of understanding. Jenna
leaned into the night, listening, caught in the chant,
wanting to get closer and hear what they were
singing . . .
 . . . aye, to get closer . . .

 . . . to hear them, to touch their gnarled trunks . . .

 . . . to be with them . . .
  Beating wings boomed in her ears: Denmark
touched her shoulder with his clawed feet and flew
off again, startling her. Jenna blinked, realiz-ing that
she stood under the gloom of the trees at the
bottom of the slope, a hundred strides or more from
the cavern, and she had no idea how she'd come to
be there. She whirled around, suddenly frightened
at the realization that she hadn't even realized that
she was walking away. The last few minutes, now
that she tried to recall them, were hazy and
indis-tinct in her mind.
  Small with distance, Seancoim beckoned at the
cavern entrance, and Jenna ran back up the hill
toward him, as if a hell hound were at her heels.
   "So you do hear them," he called to her, as the
crow swept around her again before settling back on
the old man's shoulder. "Some don't, or think it's
only the wind moving the trees. But they sing, the
oldest trees, the ones that were planted by the
Seed-Daughter after the Mother-Creator breathed
life into the bones of the land. They remember, and
they still call to the old gods. It's dangerous for
those who hear: the enchantment in their old voices
can hypnotize, and you'll find yourself lost in the
deepest, most dangerous parts of the wood. Most
who go to listen don't return."
 Jenna looked over the forest, listening to the eerie,
breathy sound. "Should we leave?" she asked.

  The old man shrugged. "The unwary should be
careful, or those whose will isn't strong enough.
That last, at least, doesn't describe you, now that
I've told you the danger."
 "You don't know me."

 "Oh, I know you well enough," he chuckled.

  Jenna shook her head. The wind shifted and the
tree-song came to them louder than before, the
chant rising in pitch. "What is it they're singing? It
sounds so sad and lonely."
  Seancoim leaned heavily on his staff, as if he were
peering into the dark. "Who knows? I certainly
don't. They speak a language older than any of ours,
and their concerns aren't those of humans." He
turned, and his blind eyes stared at her. "There are
other magics than the sky-magic you can capture in
a cloch na thintrí," he told her. He extended his
hand toward Jenna. "Let me hold it," he said to her.

  Jenna took a step back, clutching at the stone
hidden in her skirt. "I know you have the stone,"
Seancoim said. "I saw the lights over the hill there,
through Dúnmharú's eyes." Seancoim pointed at
Knobtop. "I could feel the power crackling in the
sky, as it has not in many lifetimes, and I feel it now
close to me. You can't hide a cloch na thintrí from
me, or from any of the Bunús Muintir. I can feel the
stone. All I ask is to hold it, not to keep it. I promise
that."
  Jenna hesitated, then brought the stone out and
laid it on Seancoim's lined palm. He closed his
fingers around it with a sigh. He clasped it to his
breast, holding it there for several long breaths,
then holding out his hand again, his fingers
unfolding. "Take it," he said. "Such a small stone ..."

  "I'm sure it's not powerful, like the ones the
cloudmages in the songs had," Jenna said, and
Seancoim laughed.

  "Is that how you imagined them, with stones the
size of their fists hung on chains around their necks,
the way the songs and tales tell it?" The crow
cackled with him. "Is that the source of your
knowledge?"
 Jenna nodded. "You must know how to use the
cloch," she said. "You have magic, too: using the
crow for your eyes, the way you broke the tiarna's
arrow or how you knew I had the stone ..."

  "I gave you the answer just a moment ago, but
evidently I need to repeat it: there are other magics
than that of the sky." He stared upward, as if
looking at a scene only his blind eyes could glimpse.
"Once my people knew them all: the slow,
unyielding power of earth; the shimmer-ing, soft
gifts of water. Some of them we know still. Others
aren't for us humans at all, but belong to others, like
the oldest of the oaks here in Doire Coill, or other
creatures who are sleeping for the moment." His
chin tilted down once more, and he seemed to laugh
at himself. "But you asked if I know how to use your
cloch na thintrí, didn't you? The answer to that is
'No.' Each stone teaches its owner in its own way;
yours has already begun to teach you."
 "You talk as if the stone were alive."

  "Do you know that it's not?" Seancoim answered.
He smiled, a darkness where teeth once had been,
the few teeth left him leaning like yellow
gravestones in his gums. The wind died, and the
tree-song faded to a hush, a whisper, then was gone.
"There, they've finished. We should go inside-it's
late, and there are things walking out here that you
don't want to meet. Your tiarna will want to leave
with the morning, and you need sleep after this
day."
  Jenna could feel exhaustion rise within her with
Seancoim's words. She yawned and nodded,
following the man through the cavern's entrance.
Seancoim continued on into the darkness past the
fire, but Jenna stopped. Her mam and Mac Ard
were asleep, next to each other even though on
different pallets. Her mam's hand had trailed out
from underneath her blanket, and it rested near
Mac Ard's hand, as if she were reaching for him. She
could sense Seancoim's attention on her as she
stared, her breath caught in her throat. She wanted
to smile, happy that her mam wasn't ignoring Mac
Ard as she had the others, and yet afraid at the
same time, wondering what it might mean for her.

  "She is a woman and he a man, and both of them
handsome and strong," Seancoim whispered, his
voice echoing hoarsely from the stones. "I can tell
that your mam is attracted to the tiarna, even if she
resists the feeling. That's natural enough. It's been a
long time for her, hasn't it, to feel that way about a
man?"

  Jenna swallowed hard. "Aye," she said. "A long
time. I just wonder . . . Does he feel the same? After
all, he's Riocha, and we're . . . nothing."
  Seancoim took a step forward. Bending close, he
seemed to peer at the sleeping Mac Ard with his
blind eyes before rising with a groan. "I think he
does, as much as he can. He's a hidden man, this
tiarna, but there's room in him for love, and if he's
Riocha, he's perhaps less prejudiced than many with
his lineage. But-" he stopped.

 "But?"

 Seancoim shrugged. "He's also a man with his own
ambitions."
 "How can you know all that? You can't see ... I
mean, is that magic, too?"
 "Perhaps." Seancoim grinned at her. "Isn't it what
you want to hear?"

 "I want my mam to be happy. That's all."
 "What about yourself?" he asked.

  Jenna could feel heat rising from her neck to her
throat, her cheeks burning. Her mam stirred on the
pallet, turning, her hand sliding away from Mac Ard.
Jenna let go of the breath she was holding. Twin
tears tracked down her face.
  "Too much has changed for you today," Seancoim
said. Somehow, he was standing next to her again.
"Too much changed in the space of one sun." His
hand went around her shoulder. She started to pull
back, then allowed herself to sink against him, the
tears spilling out. His chest smelled of herbs and
leather and sweat. She clung to Seancoim, weeping;
still holding her, he went to the box next to his
pallet. "Wait a moment," he said, and lifted the lid. A
sweet, spice-filled aroma filled the air with the
movement. Inside were several small leather bags,
and Seancoim shuffled through them, muttering,
before snatching one up with a cry and handing it to
Jenna.

  "Here," he said. "One day, you will need
this."

 "What is it?" Jenna asked, sniffing.
 "Brew it as a tea, and drink it, and you will forget
what is most painful to you," Seancoim told her.
"There are some things that no one should
remember, be it in song or tale or memory. When
that time comes for you, you'll know."

  Jenna glanced again at her mam and Mac Ard. "I
don't think I want to remember today," she said,
and the tears started again. Seancoim let the lid of
the box close, sat on it, then drew her to him again.
They sat, and Jenna stayed with him, crying for
Kesh and her home, for her innocence and for her
mam, letting Seancoim rock her until sleep finally
came.
  In the morning, Jenna found herself curled up on a
pile of straw and old cloth close to the fire, which
had dwindled to glowing coals. Seancoim's small
leather bag was still clutched in her hand. No one
else was in the cavern, and pale light filtered in
through the entrance. Jenna got up, put the bag in
her skirt with the stone, wrapped her coat around
her, and padded outside.

  Below her, the forest was wrapped in white mist
and fog, the sun a hazy brightness just at the
horizon. Seancoim was nowhere to be seen, but Mac
Ard and Maeve were standing a few feet down the
slope, talking with their heads close together. She
started to go back inside, not wanting to interrupt
them, but the rock under her foot tilted and fell
back with a stony clunk. Maeve turned. "Jenna!
Good morning, darling."
 '"Morning, Mam. Where's Seancoim?"

  "We're not certain," Maeve answered. "He was
gone when we woke. He refilled the water bucket,
though, and left some fresh berries on the shelf."
  We're not certain . . . Jenna nodded and found
herself smiling a bit, hearing the plural. Mac Ard
was smiling at her as well, teeth flashing behind the
black beard, the smile slightly crooked on his face.
She wanted to know what he was thinking, wanted
to know that her mam would be safe with him,
wanted to know that they could, perhaps, be a
family.
  But she knew there could be no answer to those
questions. Her bladder ached in her belly. Jenna
shrugged, turned, and left them. Later, having
relieved herself behind a convenient screen of
boulders, she came back to find that Seancoim had
returned with Denmark on his shoulder.
  ". . . riders on the High Road," he was saying to
Mac Ard and Maeve. "They were tiarna-had to be,
with those great war steeds, the heavy swords at
their sides, and that fine clothing-but they weren't
showing colors on their clóca."

 "Which way were they riding?" Mac Ard asked.
  "That way," Seancoim answered, pointing south,
away from where Knobtop would have been, had
they been able to see it through the fog.

 Mac Ard nodded, the lines of his face deepening
and a scowl touching his lips. Jenna saw his right
hand tighten around the hilt of his sword. "The
Connachtans are looking for us well away from
Ballintubber, then, and the High Road's not safe. I'd
hoped . . ." His voice trailed off.

 "There are other ways," Seancoim said.
 "Other ways?"

  Seancoim shrugged. The crow flapped its wings to
keep its balance. "The forest you call Doire Coill
goes away east and south from here, until it meets
the tip of Lough Lar. A loop of the High Road passes
close by again, as well, and it's not far from there to
Áth Iseal and the ford of the Dúan-a few miles. No
more. I can lead you there in a day and a half."

 "You would do that for us?" Maeve asked.

  "I would do it for her" Seancoim answered. He
pointed to Jenna, his blank white eyes looking in her
direction.
 "Why me?" Jenna asked.
  Seancoim gave Jenna his broken smile. "Because
the Bunús Muintir have our songs and tales also."

 "What is that supposed to mean?" Mac Ard said.

  "It means what it means," Seancoim answered.
The smile vanished as he looked at Mac Ard.
"That's all."
  "I'm suspicious of those who hide their intentions
in riddles," Mac Ard retorted. "I'm especially
suspicious when that person's a Bunús Muintir."

 Seancoim snorted. "If I wanted you dead, Tiarna
Mac Ard, you would already be dead."
 Mac Ard scowled. "Are you threatening us?"
 "It's no threat at all. Only the truth. All I had to do
was leave you where you were in the forest-that
would have been enough on a night when the trees
were singing. If I wanted to be more certain, I could
have led
             Chapter 8: The Cairn of Riata



  EVEN by day, the forest was dim. They moved
through valleys of fog-shrouded trees, pacing
alongside fast-moving brooks whose foam made the
dark water seem almost black by contrast. They
caught rare glimpses of sky, blue now that the high
mist had burned off, and every so often walked
through columns of gold-green light, their boots
crushing a thousand tiny images of the sun on the
forest floor.
  Jenna had often walked through the woods near
Ballintubber, but they felt different: lighter, airier,
with the trees spaced farther apart and well-worn
paths meandering among them. They were old, too,
those woods, but Jenna had never felt that the
forest itself watched her, judging her and deciding
whether it would allow her to stay.

  She felt a Presence here. Here, there were musty
vapors rising from the ground, and red-crowned,
sinister mushrooms peering from between piles of
decaying leaves decades old, screens of mistletoe
and bramble that tugged at her with thorny fingers,
vine-wrapped hollows between close-set oaks in
which night nestled eternal. There were trails that
Seancoim followed: thin, narrow paths that might
have been made by deer or other animals, twisting
through the underbrush and vanishing suddenly.
Doire Coill was a maze where they found
themselves walking the bottom of a hollow with
sides too steep to climb, all white fog ahead and
behind, so that they moved between walls of brown
and green until Seancoim turned into a hidden
break that Jenna knew she would have missed, a
narrow pass through to another fold of land bending
in a slightly different direc-tion, all of them leading
to some unseen destination. And if she had found
herself suddenly alone and lost, it would do no good
to cry for help. The forest swallowed sound,
muffling it, making words indistinct and small.
Jenna was certain that she would call only whatever
fey creatures Doire Coill held within its confines.
  By the time the sun had reached its height and
started to decline, Jenna knew that if Seancoim
were to vanish into the fog around them, they would
never find their way back. She said nothing, but the
scowl that lurked on Mac Ard's face and the frown
twisting Maeve's lips told her that the other two
realized it as well.

  As evening approached, the hillsides spread out
slightly to either side of them before curving back in
to each other, so that they walked in the center of a
bowl several hundred strides across, the trees all
around them with open sky directly above. In the
center of the bowl, gray with the persistent fog, a
dolmen loomed, a pair of massive, carved standing
stones two people high with another block laid over
the top, large enough that several people could walk
between them abreast as if through a door. Arrayed
around the central stones in a circle were six cairns
covered with earth and grass, the narrow entrances
of the passage graves arranged so that each looked
out onto the central stones. Seancoim continued to
walk between the graves toward the dolmen as
Denmark flew away to land on the capstone, but the
others stopped at the entrance to the valley of
tombs. Jenna stared at the dolmen, at the notches
carved in them that were Bunús Muintir writing,
wondering what was inscribed there.

  "Who is buried in this place?" Mac Ard asked.
"These must be the graves of kings and heroes, yet
I've never heard anyone speak of this valley."
  "You're not supposed to know it," Seancoim
answered, "though a few Daoines have been here
and seen the graves. We've kept it hidden, in our
own ways, because the last chieftains of the Bunús
Muintir rest here." He nodded in the direction of
one of the mounds. "Maybe you would know this
one. In there is Ruaidhri, who fought the Daoine at
Lough Dubh and was wounded, and died weeks
later."
  Died from the wounds from Crenél Dahgnon's
sword," Mac Ard said. To Jenna, the name seemed
to draw echoes from the hills around them, like
clouds running before a storm, and she thought she
heard the angry whispers from the mouths of the
passage graves, or perhaps it was only the wind
blowing across the entrances.

  Seancoim shook his head, while Denmark flapped
his black wings
 angrily. "That's not a name one should speak here,
but aye, that's the

 Daoine Rí whose blows shattered Ruaidhri's shield
and killed him, and
  Hugh Dubh would be the last time any of the
Bunús Muintir chieftains would put an army on the
field." Seancoim pointed to the largest grave,
aligned directly with the dolmen at the far end of
the valley. "There is Riata. Do you know of him?"

   Jenna shook her head, as did Maeve, but Mac Ard
took in a breath that caused Seancoim to laugh.
"Ah," he said, "so you have listened to some of our
old tales. Riata-he was the last, and perhaps the
most powerful, of the Bunús cloudmages. The
mage-lights vanished for us a scant three
generations before you Daoine came. If they hadn't,
if we had our mages wielding the clochs na thintrí
when the Daoine came, then perhaps all that would
be left of your people would be a few haunted
barrows. Or perhaps if we hadn't become so
dependent on that magic, we would not have been
so easily displaced when you came." He lifted his
hands and let them fall again like wounded birds.
"Only the gods can see down those paths."
  "Do we have to stay here?" Jenna asked. "It's
getting late." The entire valley was in deep shadow
now, and Jenna felt cold, though the sky above was
still bright.

  "It's late," Seancoim agreed, "and it's not safe to
travel here at night. We'll stay there." Seancoim
pointed to the ridge beyond the valley.
  Mac Ard grimaced. "That's a long climb, and close
to this place."

  "They say restless ghosts walk here, and Ruaidhri
is among them," Seancoim answered. He cocked his
head at Mac Ard. "If I were Daoine, I might be
afraid of that."
  "I'm not afraid of a spirit," Mac Ard said, scowling.
"Fine, old man. We'll stay here."
  "Aye, we will," Seancoim told him, "unless you
want to go back on your own." He turned away,
calling Denmark back to him, then walking on
through the dolmen. After a moment, Jenna and the
others followed, though Jenna walked carefully
around the dolmen rather than going under its
capstone, and didn't look into the cold archways of
the barrow graves at all.

  Jenna had thought that it would be impossible to
sleep that night, unpro-tected under the oaks and
so near the Bunús tombs. Exhaustion proved
stronger than fear, and she was asleep not long after
she lay down near their tiny fire, only to be
awakened sometime later by a persistent
throb-bing near her leg and in her head. She opened
her eyes, disoriented. The fire had died to embers.
Her mam and Mac Ard were asleep, sleeping close
to each other and not far from her; Seancoim and
Denmark were nowhere to be seen. Jenna blinked,
closing her eyes against the throbbing and touching
her leg-as she did so, her hand closed on the stone
under the cloth. It was pulsing in time with the pain
in her temples. As she lay there, she thought she
heard her name called: a soft, breathy whisper
wending its way between the trunks of the trees.
"Jenna ..." it came, then again: "Jenna ..."

 Jenna sat up in her blankets.
  There was light shifting through the leaves: a
rippling, dancing, familiar shining high in the sky
and very near. She thought of calling to her mam,
then stopped, knowing Mac Ard would awaken with
Maeve. Part of her didn't want Mac Ard to see the
lights, didn't want his interference. Jenna rose to
her feet and followed the elusive glimmering.

  A few minutes later, she stood at the rim of the
valley of Bunús tombs, looking out down the steep,
treeless slope to the circles of graves and the
dolmen at its center. She could see them very
clearly, for directly above the valley the mage-lights
were shimmering. Their golden light washed over
the mounds of earth and rock in waves, as if she
were watching the surface of a restless,
wind-touched lake. The valley was alive with the
light.

  "Jenna ..." She heard the call again, more
distinctly this time, still airy but now laden with
deeper undertones: a man's voice. It came from
below.

 "No," she whispered back to it, afraid, clutching
her hands together tightly. The stone pulsed against
her hip, cold fire.
 'Jenna, come to me . . ."

  "No," she said again, but a branch from the
nearest tree touched her on the back as if blown by
a sudden wind, pushing her a step forward. She
stopped, planting her feet.
 'Jenna..."
  The lights flared above, sparks bursting like a log
thrown on a bonfire, and a tree limb crashed to the
ground just behind her. Jenna jumped at the sound,
and her foot slid from under her. She took another
step, trying to recover her balance, only now the
ground was tilted sharply down, and she half ran,
half fell down the long, grassy slope to the valley
floor, land-ing on her knees and hands an arm's
length from the rear of one of the barrows.

 "Come to me . . ."
 The mage-lights splashed bright light on the
dolmen, sending black

 shadows from the standing stones twisting wildly
over the mounds. Jenna

 could feel the stone throbbing madly in response,
and she took it in her
 and. The pebble glowed with interior illumination,
bright enough that

  she could see the radiance between her fingers as
she held the stone in her fist. Having the stone in
her hand seemed to lend her courage, and she
walked slowly between the graves toward the
dolmen, though she could feel every muscle in her
body twitching with a readiness to flee.

 As she stepped into the open circle around the
dolmen, she saw the apparition.

  It stood before the barrow of Riata: a man's shape,
long-haired and stocky, clad in a flowing clóca of a
strange design which left one shoulder bare. The
form shifted, wavering, as if it were formed of clear
crystal and it was only the reflection of the
mage-lights on its polished surface that rendered it
visible. But it moved, for one hand lifted as Jenna
recoiled a step, her back pressed up against the
carved surface of the standing stone. There were
eyes watching her in the spectral face. It spoke, and
its voice was the one that had called to her. The
words sounded in her head, as if the voice was
inside her.

  "You hold the cloch na thintrí," it said, and there
was a wistful yearning in its voice. Its face lifted and
looked up at the mage-lights, and she could see the
glow playing over the transparent features. "They
have returned," it said, its voice mournful and
pleased all at once. "I wondered if I would see them
again. So beautiful, so cold and powerful, so
tempting . . ." The face regarded Jenna again. "You
are not of my people," it said. "You are too fair, too
tall."

 "My people are called the Daoine," Jenna
answered. "And how is it you know our language?"
   "The dead do not use words. We lack mouth and
tongue and lungs to move the air. I speak with you
mind to mind, taking from you the form of the
words I use. But I feel the strangeness of your
language. Daoine ..." It said the word slowly, rolling
the syllables. "I knew no Daoines when I was alive .
. . There were other tribes, we knew, in other lands,
but here there were only the Bunús Muintir. My
people."

  "You're Riata?" Jenna asked. She was intrigued
now. The ghost, if that's what it was, had made no
threatening moves toward her, and she leaned
forward, trying to see it more clearly. The ghosts
and spirits of the tales she'd heard in Ballintubber
were always bloody, decaying corpses or white
vapors, and they cursed and terrified the living.
This, though . . . the play of light over its shifting,
elusive form was almost beautiful, and its voice held
no threat.

  "I was called that once," the specter said, sounding
pleased and sad at the same time. "So that name is
still known? I'm not forgotten in the time of the
Daoine?"

  "No, not forgotten," Jenna answered, thinking that
it might be best to mollify the spirit. After all,
Tiarna Mac Ard had known of him.
   "Ahh . . ." it sighed. A hand stretched out toward
Jenna, and she forced herself to stand still. She
could feel the chill of its touch, like ice on her
forehead and cheek, then the hand cupped hers and
Jenna let her fingers relax. In her palm, the stone
shot light back to the glowing sky. "So young you
are, to be holding a cloch na thintrí, especially this
one. But I was young, as well, the first time I held it
. . ."
 "This one?" Jenna asked. "How . . . ?"

  "Follow me," it said. Its hand beckoned, and from
fingertips to elbow the arm seemed to reflect the
intricate curls and flourishes of the lights above, as if
the patterns had been carved into the limb. The
phantom glided backward into Riata's tomb, its cold
touch fading.

  "I can't," Jenna responded, holding back from the
yawning mouth of the barrow. She glanced up at the
lights playing over the valley, at the stone in her
hand.
 "You must," Riata replied. "The mage-lights will
wait for you." Then the presence was gone, and
nothing stood in front of the passage. "Come . . ."
whispered the voice faintly, from nowhere and
everywhere.

  Jenna took a step toward the barrow, then
another. She put her hand on the stone lintels of the
opening: they were carved with swirls and eddies
not unlike the display in the sky above and on
Riata's arm, along with lozenges and circles and
other carved symbols. She traced them with her
fingers, then walked into the passage itself.
Darkness surrounded her immediately and Jenna
almost fled back outside, but as her eyes slowly
adjusted, she could see in the illumination of the
mage-lights and the answering glow from the cloch
na thintrí that the walls were drystone, covered
with plaster that was now broken and shattered,
the stones piled to just above the height of her head
and capped with flat rocks. The passage into the
burial chamber was short but claustrophobic. The
walls leaned in, so that while two people could have
knelt side by side at the bottom, only one standing
person could walk down the corridor at a time.
Once, the walls must have been decorated-there
were flecks of colored pigment clinging to the
plaster and her touch caused more of the ancient
paintings to crumble and fall away. Here and there
were larger patches where she could see traces of
what, centuries ago, must have been a mural. Jenna
was glad to finally reach the relative spaciousness of
the burial chamber. She glanced back: through the
passage, she could see the dolmen awash in the
brilliant fireworks of the mage-lights.
  The burial chamber itself had been constructed
with five huge stones, forming the sides and roof.
The air was musty and stale, and the room dim,
touched only by the reflections of the lights, the
cloch na thintrí's illumination. At the center of the
room was a large, chiseled block of granite, and set
there was a pottery urn, glazed with the same swirls
and curved lines carved on the lintel stones. Around
the urn were beads and pieces of jewelry, torcs of
gold and braided silver that glistened in the moving
radiance. Clothing had once lain here as well; she
could see mouldering scraps of brightly-dyed cloth.
These had been funeral gifts, obvi-ously, and the
urn undoubtedly held the ashes and bones of Riata.
But his specter had vanished.

 "Hello?" she called.
  Air moved, her hair lifting, and she felt a touch on
her shoulder. Jenna cried out, frightened, and the
sound rang in the chamber, reverberating. She
dropped the cloch na thintrí, and as she started to
reach for it, the pebble rose from the floor, picked
up by a hand that was barely visible in the stone's
glow.

  "Aye," Riata's voice said in her head, full of
satisfaction, the tones dark and low. "Tis true. This
was once mine." Pale light stroked the lines of his
spectral face, sparking in the deep hollows where
the eyes should have been. His voice seemed more
ominous, touched with hostility. "Or more
truthfully, I once belonged to it. Until it was stolen
from me and found its way to another."

  "I didn't steal it," Jenna protested, shrinking back
against the wall as the shadowy form of Riata
seemed to loom larger in front of her. "I found it on
the hill near my home, the first time the
mage-lights came. I didn't know it was yours; I
never even knew of you. Besides, it's only a little
stone. It can't be very powerful."

  Cold laughter rippled the dead air of the tomb, and
the stench of death wafted over Jenna, making her
wrinkle her nose and turn her face away. "I don't
accuse you of stealing it," Riata's voice boomed.
"This cloch na thintrí has owned many in its time
and will own many more. Dávali had it before me,
and Óengus before him, and so on, back into the
eldest times. And it may be little, but of all the
clochs na thintrí, it is the most powerful."

  "It can't be," Jenna protested. "Tiarna Mac Ard ...
he would have said . . ." Or he didn't know, she
suddenly realized. She wondered if he would have
handed it back to her, if he had.
  "Then this tiarna knows nothing. This cloch even
has a name it calls itself: Lámh Shábhála, the
Safekeeping. The cloch was placed here when I died,
on the offering stone you see in front of you. And it
was taken over a thousand long years ago-I felt its
loss even in death, though I didn't have strength
then to rise. For hands upon hands upon hands of
years I slumbered. Once, centuries ago, the lights
came again to wake me and I could feel that Lámh
Shábhála was alive with the mage-lights once more.

  I called out to Lámh Shábhála and its holder, but
no one answered or they were too far away to hear
me. With the mage-light's strength, I was able to
rise and walk here among the tombs when the
mage-lights filled the sky, but few came to this
place, and though they were Bunús Muintir, they
appeared to be poor and savage, and seemed
frightened of me. None of them knew the magic of
the sky. I realized then that my people had declined
and no longer ruled this land. But someone held
Lámh Shábhála, or the lights could not have
returned. For unending years I called, every night
the lights shone. Then, as they have before, the
mage-lights died again, and I slept once more." The
shape that was Riata drew itself close to her. "Until
now," he said. "When the mage-lights have
awakened again."
 "Then take the stone," Jenna said. "It's yours.
Keep it. I don't want it."

  Riata laughed again at that. "Lámh Shábhála isn't
mine, nor yours. Lámh Shábhála is its own. I knew
it wanted me to pass it on as it had been passed to
me. I could feel its desire even though the
mage-lights had stopped coming a dozen years
before I became sick with my last illness, but I held
onto it. There were no more cloudmages left, only
people with dead stones around their necks and
empty skies above. I believed my cloch to be as
dead as theirs; in fact, I prayed that it was so. I
should have known it wasn't. Lámh Shábhála is
First and Last." The voice was nearly a hiss. "And a
curse to its Holder, as 1 know too well, especially the
one who is to be First."
  The stone hung in the air in front of Jenna, held in
invisible fingers. "Take Lámh Shábhála," Riata said.
"I pass it to you, Jenna of the Daoine, as I should
have passed it long ago. You are the new First
Holder."

  Jenna shook her head, now more afraid of the
stone than of the ghost. Yet her hand reached out,
unbidden, and took the cloch from the air. She fisted
her hand around the cold smoothness as Riata's
laughter echoed in her head.

 "Aye, you see? You shake your head, but the
desire is there, whether you admit it or not. It's
already claimed you."

  Jenna was near to crying. She could feel the tears
starting in her eyes, the fear hammering at her
heart. The cloch burned like fiery ice in her hand.
"You called it a curse to its holder. What do you
mean?"
  "The power of the land is eternal, as is the power
of the water. Their magics and spells, for those who
know how to tap and use them, are slower and less
energetic than that of the air, but more stable. They
are always there, caught in the bones of the land
itself, or in the depths of the water. The power
within the sky ebbs and flows: slowly, over
generations and generations of mortal lives. It has
done so since before my people walked from Thall
Mór-roinn to this land and found Lámh Shábhála
here.
  No one knows how often the slow, centuries-long
cycle has repeated itself. There were no people here
when we Bunús Muintir came to Talamh an Ghlas,
but there were the standing stones and graves of
other tribes who had once lived here, and we
Holders could hear the voices in the stone, one tribe
after another, back and back into a past none of us
can see. The mage-lights vanished for the Bunús
Muintir four times, the last time while I was still
alive. The sky-power returned once for you Daoine,
then van-ished again. Now the mage-lights want to
return again."
  Jenna glanced down the passage of the tomb.
Multicolored light still touched the dolmen,
brightening the valley. "The mage-lights have
already returned," Jenna said, but Riata's denial
boomed before she could finish.

  "No!" he seemed to shout. "This is but the
slightest hint of them, the first stirrings of Lámh
Shábhála, the gathering of enough power within the
stone to open the gates so that all the clochs na
thintrí may awaken and the mage-lights appear
everywhere. For now, the lights follow Lámh
Shábhála-and that is the danger. Those who know
the true lore of the mage-lights also know that fact.
They know that where the lights appear, Lámh
Shábhála is also there. And they will follow, because
they want to hold Lámh Shábhála themselves."

  Jenna continued to shake her head, half
understanding, half not want-ing to understand.
"But why hold the stone if it's a curse?"
  A bitter laugh. "The one who holds Lámh
Shábhála gains power for their pain. Some believe
that's more than a fair barter-those who have never
held the cloch itself. It's the First who suffers the
most, not those who come after, and you are the
First, the one who will open the way. So watch,
Jenna of the Daoine. Watch for those who follow the
mage-lights, for they aren't likely to be your
friends."

  Jenna thought of the riders from Connachta, and
she also thought of Mac Ard. But before she could
say more, Riata's shape stirred. "The mage-lights
beckon," he said. "They call the stone. Do you feel
it?"
  She did. The cloch was throbbing in her hand. "Go
to them," Riata said. His shape was fading, as was
his voice, now no more than a whisper. "Go . . ." he
said again, and the apparition was gone. She could
feel its absence, could sense that the air of the tomb
was now dead and empty. She called to
him-"Riata!"-and only her own voice answered,
mocking. The mage-lights sent waves of pure red
and aching blue-white shimmer-ing down the
passage, and Jenna felt the stone's need, like a
hunger deep within herself. She walked down the
passage and out into cold fresh air again. The
mage-lights wove their bright net above her, a
spider's web of color that stretched and bent down
toward her, swirling. She raised her hand, opening
her fingers, and the light shot down, surrounding
her, enveloping her in its flowing folds. The
whirlwind grabbed her hand in its frigid gasp, and
she screamed with the pain of it: as the brilliance
rose, a sun caught in her fingers, consuming her.
  Hues of brilliance pulled at her. Knives of color cut
into her flesh. She tried to pull away and could not,
and she screamed again in terror and agony.
 A flash blinded her. Thunder filled her ears.

  Jenna screamed a final time, as the cold fire
seemed to penetrate to her very core, her entire
body quivering with torment, every nerve alive and
quivering.

 Then she was released, and she fell into blessed
darkness.
           Chapter 9: Through the Forest

 "JENNA?"

   The smell was familiar-a warm breath laden with
spice. Jenna opened her eyes to see Seancoim
crouching alongside her. The dolmen towered gray
above her, rising toward a sky touched with the
salmon hues of early morning, and Denmark peered
down at her from a perch on the capstone. Jenna
blinked, then sat up abruptly, turning to look at the
tomb behind her. *Riata," she said, her voice a mere
hoarse croak. Her throat felt as if it had been
scraped raw, and her right arm ached as if someone
had tried to tear it loose from its socket. She could
feel the cloch na thintrí: cold, still clutched in her
fist, and she slipped it back into the pocket of her
skirt, grimacing with the effort. Something was
wrong with her right hand-it felt wooden and
clumsy, and the pain in her arm seemed to emanate
from there.
  "You saw him?" Seancoim asked, and Jenna
nodded. Seancoim didn't seem surprised. "He walks
here at times, restless. I've glimpsed him once or
twice, or I think I might have."

  "He . . ."Jenna tried to clear her throat, but the
effort only made it hurt worse. She wanted to take
her hand out from where it was hidden in the
woolen skirt, but she was afraid. ". . . called me.
Spoke to me."
  Seancoim's blind eyes narrowed, but he said
nothing. He opened the leather bag at his side and
rummaged inside, pulling out a smaller leather
container capped with horn. "Here. Drink this."
Jenna reached out. Stopped. The skin of her right
hand was mottled, the flesh a swirling pattern of
pale gray and white, and the intricate tendrils of
whitened flesh ached and burned. Her fingers were
stiff, every joint on fire, and the damaged skin
throbbed with every beat of her heart. She must
have cried out, for Denmark flew down from the
capstone to Seancoim's shoulder. The Bunús
Muintir took her hand, examining it, pushing back
the sleeve of her blouse. The injured area extended
just past her wrist.

  "Your skin is dead where it's gray. I've seen it
before, in people who were caught in a blizzard and
exposed to bitter cold," Seancoim said. Jenna felt
tears start in her eyes, and Seancoim touched her
cheek. "It will heal in time," he said. "If you don't
injure it further."

  "Jenna!" The call came from the ridge above
them. Maeve and Mac Ard stood there, her mam
waving an arm and scrambling down the slope into
the valley, Mac Ard following more carefully after
her. Maeve came run-ning up to them, glancing
harshly at Seancoim. "Jenna, are you all right? We
woke up and saw the lights, and you were gone-"
She noticed Jen-na's hand then, and her own hand
went to her mouth. "Oh, Jenna . . ."
  Jenna turned the hand slowly in front of her face,
a contortion of pain moving across her features as
she flexed her fingers slowly. The swirling pattern
on her hand echoed the carved lines of the dolmen.
Her mam took her wrist gently. "What happened,
darling?" she asked, but Jenna saw Mac Ard
approaching, and she only shook her head. He had
the cloch in his hand, and he gave it back to me . . .
Mac Ard came up behind Maeve, putting his hands
on her shoulders as she examined Jenna's injury.
Jenna saw Mac Ard's gaze move from her hand to
the carvings on the dolmen, then back again. For a
moment, their eyes locked gazes, and she tried to
keep her emotions from showing on her face. Watch
for those who follow the mage-lights, Riata had said.
She wondered how much Mac Ard knew or guessed,
and if he had, did he regret not keeping the stone
when he had it.
  "I'm fine, Mam," she said to Maeve. "The pain's
easing already." It was a lie, but Jenna forced a
small smile to her face, pulling her hand gently away
from her mam.
  "I'll make a poultice that will take away the sting
and speed the heal-ing," Seancoim said. "There are
andúilleaf flowers still in bloom in the thicket near
the camp." His staff tapping the ground ahead of
him, he shuffled away between the barrows.

  "Jenna," Mac Ard said. "We saw the lights. Did the
stone . . . ?"

  "I hold the stone," she answered, far more sharply
than she intended. Belatedly, she added: "Tiarna."
 His eyes flashed, narrowing, and his hands
dropped from Maeve's shoulders. "Jenna!" her
mam said. "After all the tiarna's risked for us . . ."
  "I know, but we've risked our own lives as well,"
Jenna told her, watch the wood. The last time I
passed by the valley of the tombs, with a bright
moon above, I saw him walking restlessly outside
near the dolmen, look-ing up at the night sky. When
you came, I realized that it might be that the Last
Holder needed to meet the new First, so I made
certain our path went by the tombs."

  "You know about this cloch, then," she said. "He
called it Lámh Shábhála. Can you tell me-what will
it do to me? What does it mean to be the First?"
   Seancoim shrugged under his furs. "I know the
magic of the earth, not the sky, and they're very
different. Jenna, it's been four centuries since the
mage-lights last came, and you Daoine had Lámh
Shábhála then. For the Bunús Muintir . . . well, the
last time we possessed the cloch you hold was not
long after you Daoine came here, an entire age ago.
and all the tales have been so twisted and distorted
in the tellings and retellings that much of the lore
can't be trusted, or is so wrapped with untruths that
it's difficult to separate the two. Each time, the
cloudmages must learn anew. I can tell you very
little that I know with a certainty is true."

 "I'm scared, Seancoim," Jenna said, her voice
husky and broken.

 He stopped. He took her injured hand in his
gnarled, wrinkled fingers. "Then you're wiser than
anyone else who is searching for Lámh Shábhála,"
he said.

  The land flattened out into a plain, and Jenna
noticed that the trees were no longer so closely
huddled together. The oaks were now less
numerous than maples, elms, and tall firs, and the
ground less boggy than the wide valley where
Ballintubber sat. The woods grew lighter, with the
sky visible between the treetops, and Jenna became
aware of the bright singing of birds in the trees
above them, a sound that she realized had been
missing in Doire Coill. Ahead, they could see where
the trees ended at the verge of a large grassy field,
which ran slightly downhill to a wide, brown strip of
bare earth bordered on either side by a stone fence.

  "There is the High Road coming up from Thiar in
the west and Bácathair to the south," Seancoim said.
He pointed to the left. "That way, the road runs
north to cross the Duán at Áth Iseal. Beyond the
line of trees on the other side of the road is Lough
Lar, and the High Road runs along-side it. This is
the eastern border of Doire Coill, and here I leave
you."

  "Thank you, Seancoim of the Bunús Muintir," Mac
Ard said. "I promise you that I'll tell Rí Gabair of
your help. Is there some way I can have him
reward you for bringing us here safely?"
  "Tell Rí Gabair to leave Doire Coill alone,"
Seancoim answered. "That will be reward enough
for the few Bunús Muintir who are left."

  Mac Ard nodded. Jenna went to Seancoim and
hugged him, then stroked Dúnmharú’s back.
"Thank you," she said.

   "Take care of yourself," Seancoim whispered into
her ear. "Be sparing with the andúilleaf; do not use
it unless you must, or you'll find it difficult to stop. I
also think you should be careful about showing the
power of the cloch you hold. Do you understand?"
  Jenna nodded. She hugged Seancoim again,
inhaling his scent of herbs. "I'll miss you."

  "I am always here," he told her. "Just come into
Doire Coill and call my name, and I'll hear it." He let
her go, and turned his blind eyes toward Maeve.
"Take care of your daughter," he said. "She'll need
your help with the burden she bears."
 Maeve nodded. "I know. I thank you also,
Seancoim. When I first met you, I didn't trust you,
but you've kept your word to us and more."

  "Remember that when you look on others," he
answered. He gave a short bow to the three of
them. "May the Mother-Creator watch your path.
Denmark, come-we have our own business to the
south." He turned his back to them and walked off
into the forest. Jenna watched until his form was
swallowed in shadow, and the three of them made
their way to the High Road.




                Chapter 10: The Taisteal



 THE High Road, between the waist-high stone
walls that bordered its path, was rough and muddy,
with a scraggly growth of grass and weeds in the
center between ruts carved by the wheels of carts
and car-riages. Mac Ard bent down to look closely
at the road. "All the hoof marks are old. No riders
have passed this way in a few days," he said. "That
makes me feel a bit easier." He stood up, scanning
the landscape. "I've come up on this side of Lough
Lár a few times. Áth Iseal is no more than ten miles
to the north, but there aren't many inns or villages
along this side of the lake, so near to Doire Coill. It's
too late for us to reach the town today, but we can
camp along the lake's shore if we don't come across
an inn. Tomorrow morning it should be an easy
walk to the ford of the Dúan, and once across to Áth
Iseal I can hire a carriage to take us to Lár Bhaile."
He smiled at Maeve, at Jenna. "We're almost
home," he said.

  Not our home, Jenna wanted to answer. That's
gone forever. She clamped her lips together to stop
the words and nodded encouragingly.
  They walked through the afternoon. The High
Road followed the line of Lough Lar, sometimes
verging close enough that they could see the blue
waters of the lake just to their right. At other times,
the road turned aside for a bit to climb the low,
wooded hills that held the lake in their cupped
hands. As they approached the narrow end of the
lake, the dark woods of Doire Coill turned westward
and gave way to large squares of farmed and grazed
land, defined with tidy stone fences. Occasionally,
they would pass a gate in the fence that bordered
the High Road, with a lane leading far back to a
hidden farmhouse set a mile or more from the road.
Jenna, used to the small homesteads and farms of
Ballintubber, was amazed by the size of some of the
fields. They saw workers in those fields, and once
had to stand aside as a hay wagon drawn by a pair
of tired, old horses squealed and creaked its way
past them. The driver looked at them curiously, and
said little to Mac Ard's hail. They passed no one at
all on the road going in their direction.

  Toward evening, they came to an empty field on
the lough side of the road. The flickering lights of
cook fires glistened there among several tents and
four wagons. They could hear the nickering of
horses and the occasional laughter of people. There
was a sign hanging on one of the wagons, written in
high black letters that were still visible in the dusk.
 "What does the sign say?"
 "You can't read?"

  Jenna shook her head. "Neither of us know our
letters," Maeve said, "but Niall could read. He said
he'd teach me, but . . ." Remembered sorrow
touched her face, and Jenna hugged her mam.
  "No matter," Mac Ard said. "Once we're in Lár
Bhaile, we can find teachers for you. Reading can be
a useful art, though it's probably best that the
common folk don't learn the skill. The sign says
'Clan Sheehan. Pots mended, goods sold.'" Mac Ard
seemed to hesitate. "These are Tais-teal camped for
the night. They're coming down from the north, so
per-haps they've heard something. If nothing else,
we can probably buy shelter for the night here."

  "Can you trust them?" Maeve asked nervously.
"Some of the Taisteal who have come through
Ballintubber were thieves and cheats, and often the
goods you buy from them are damaged or poorly
made. The last ones through fixed a leaking pot of
Matron Kelly's and it began to leak again not two
days after they were gone."

  Mac Ard shrugged. "If I were buying something
from them, I'd inspect it well, but I doubt they're
any more prone to be criminals than any other
people. They roam, and so they're convenient to
blame."
 "Coelin came from the Taisteal," Jenna reminded
her mam.

 "I know," Maeve answered, but she did try to
smile. "That's why I worry."
  Mac Ard laughed at that. "We can't go farther
today in any case," he said. "I'd rather spend the
night among a group than alone, especially if the
Connachtans are still out searching for us. Let's
keep our eyes open and be cautious, but I don't
think the Taisteal would risk assaulting a tiarna on
the High Road so close to Áth Iseal."
  They followed Mac Ard through a break in the
High Road wall and kept the rest back: the worry
she had that it might have been the same cloch she
carried that he'd been searching for, that if he knew
she had it his attitude might change.
  "Thank you, Jenna," Maeve said. "That means a
lot to me. None of this changes anything between
us, darling. No matter what, you and I won't
change."
  Jenna remained silent. She could see in her mam's
face that she knew that wasn't necessarily true, that
neither one of them totally believed the words yet
neither wanted to admit it. If you go to him, it may
change every-thing, Mam. It means that it's more
likely you'll take his side against mine. It means that
you'd be feeling things we can't share anymore. And
it means that once we reach the city, I might lose
you, and that scares me most of all. Butt Jenna only
nodded. "He makes you happy?"

  Maeve smiled. "Aye, child. He does. That's
something you'll under-stand soon enough for
yourself, I'm sure."
 "I hope so," Jenna said. "I hope so."

  "You will. I know it," Maeve answered. "I can
smell the stew. Clannhri Sheehan said that we
should come and join them when we're ready. I'll be
right back with Padraic. You're sure you're all
right?"

  "Go on, Mam. I'm fine. I think I'll go out and see
the camp."
  Maeve nodded and left. Jenna lay on the pile of
sheepskins that served as a bed, fingering the
smooth surface of the stone.

   The Taisteal clan were all gathered around the
largest fire, crackling in the center of the ring of
tents and wagons. When Jenna came out of the tent,
she could feel that everyone was watching her, even
if they didn't look directly at her. She felt suddenly
out of place and a little frightened. In Ballintubber,
she would have had a name for every face. For the
first time in her life, she was surrounded by total
strangers. These were people to whom Ballintubber
was just another village like a hundred others they'd
seen, who had traveled from the cliffs bordering the
Ice Sea to the south-ern tip of Talamh an Ghlas.
Jenna suddenly felt provincial and lost.

  She saw Clannhri Sheehan standing to one side,
smoking a pipe and talking with one of the men. He
saw her, said something to the man, and came over
to her. "Ah, m'lady!" He glanced up and down at her
as if inspecting a side of ham. "Now, doesn't that feel
more comfortable? Here, let me get you some of the
stew. Hilde ..." Jenna started to protest, to say that
she'd wait until her mam and Mac Ard came out,
but Sheehan took her arm and ushered her forward.
  She could feel the eyes of the clan on her as she
came to the fire. She smiled, tentatively, and
received a few smiles in return. They seemed to be
several families: men and women as well as
children, plainly dressed. She heard someone
whisper in a voice that carried over the murmur of
conversation: "She's the one with the tiarna ..." No
one spoke to her-that was also unlike Ballintubber,
where strangers would have been immedi-ately
engaged in conversation and bombarded with a
dozen questions about where they came from,
where they were going, what their names might be
and who they might be related to hereabouts.
Instead, these people seemed content to stare and
keep their speculations private. Most of the faces
were friendly enough, and she supposed that she
could have spoken to them and been answered
kindly, but a few stared hard at her, with guarded
faces and expressions. Hilde hurried to her with a
bowl filled with fragrant stew, a small loaf of bread,
and a wooden spoon. Shee-han took it from her and
handed it to Jenna. "There, Ban tiarna. Sit, sit and
be comfortable." He sat next to her, speaking too
loudly for her com-fort. "It's not much, but the best
we can offer. Don't often have Riocha staying with
us, 'tis the truth, not with the Taisteal."

  "Thank you, Clannhri," she said. "You're very
kind." She started eating the stew, hoping he would
leave her alone, but he didn't seem inclined to move
or to be quiet.

  "Aye," he said. "I knew him to be a tiarna as soon
as I clapped eyes on him, I did, even through the
mud and scratches. We Taisteal have the gift of
that, you know, and Clan Sheehan best of all-we can
see worth where someone else sees nothing. You've
had a time of it, I could see, and I said to myself
'Sheehan, you need to treat these people well, who
have had a bit of difficulty on the road.' What with
all the trouble just to the north, and the lights in the
sky, who knows what one might encounter? Some
are already saying that this is the Filleadh, the time
of magic come again, and creatures that have lain
hidden for the last age will walk again. There are
people out already hunting for the clochs na thintrí
in the old places, as if a spell-stone like they talk
about in the tales of the Before could be found
strewn about for the taking."

 Jenna tried to smile at that and almost succeeded.
The stone hidden in her clothes seemed to burn
with the mention, so that Jenna was surprised
Sheehan couldn't see it. She placed her hand over
the stone, as if to hide it. "I don't know about
clochs," she said. "What about this trouble?"

  Sheehan's face collapsed into a frown with a sad
shaking of his head. He brushed what little hair he
had left back with a thick-knuckled hand. Ah, 'twas
awful," he said. "Raiders came and burned one
village, is what
  I hear, and killed several. Then they went riding
all over the country, looking for someone from
there. Word is they came as far east as the Duán
before they turned back. Even came south on the
High Road a bit, not more than a few miles from
here."

   Jenna shivered with remembered fear. The
response must have been noticeable, for Sheehan
lifted his hands as if to calm her. "Ah, there's no
danger now, Bantiarna. But there's no doubt but
that strange things are afoot. In fact, we've heard all
manner of odd tales from people coming up the road
recently: a party who says they saw a naked boy
sunning himself on a rock at the north end of the
Lough Dubh, and as soon as the boy saw them, he
changed into a black seal and dove into the water.
Just a hand of days ago, I was talking with a man
who said he was attacked by a pack of huge dire
wolves, which haven't been seen in this land since
my grandfather's time, and another who was
pursued by a troop of wee folk, no bigger than his
knee and all armed with sharp little swords. Hilde
herself saw a dog as large as a pony, with red,
glowing eyes and mouth foaming, and the dog
spoke, it did, spoke as plain as--"
 "Did the dog talk as well as you, Clannhri, I
wonder?" Mac Ard's voice interrupted the
monologue, and Sheehan nearly fell, turning his
head around to glance up at the tiarna. He stood and
gave a quick bow to Mac Ard and Meave, who was
on the tiarna's arm.

  "Tiarna Mac Ard," Sheehan said. "I was just
telling the young Bantiarna about how strange the
times have become, even for the poor Taisteal.
Why, one might
think-"

  Mac Ard lifted his hand, and the man's voice cut
off as if severed with a knife. "No doubt you have
thought that we would like some of that fine stew,
and something to drink if you have it," Mac Ard
said, and Sheehan gave a nod of his head. He
scurried off as Mac Ard helped Maeve to the ground
and then sat alongside her himself. The gathering
around the fire had gone entirely silent. Mac Ard
glanced around, and faces looked quickly away.
Conversations started up again, the noise level
rising.

  "Tiarna," Jenna said, keeping her voice low. "He
said that Ballintubber was burned, and they've seen
the mage-lights."
   "Aye," Mac Ard said. "No doubt the rumors are
everywhere now,         maybe even in Dún Laoghaire
itself by now. But I doubt that the Connachtans are
still in the area, or that they burned Ballintubber to
the ground. Rumors grow larger the farther they
travel, and the Connachtans are likely to have
scurried home by now." He glanced around the
encampment. "But it wouldn't surprise me if they've
left a spy or two behind, either some of their own or
someone who is willing to send word to them for a
few mórceints. There are faces here I don't like, and
Sheehan talks more than is good for him. I don't
think I'll sleep well tonight. I won't feel safe until
we're back in Lár Bhaile."
  Sheehan came back with stew for Mac Ard and
Jenna, more bread, and cups of water. This time he
said very little, glancing at Mac Ard with the
expression of a scolded dog and hurrying off again.
Mac Ard and Maeve talked, but Jenna only
half-listened, leaning back on her arms and
watch-ing the fire. She wished someone would sing
some of the Taisteal songs, and that thought made
her think of Coelin, and she wondered how he was, if
he'd been hurt by the Connachtans, or if Tara's even
still stood and wasn't a burned-out hulk next to the
road. She didn't want to go forward; she wanted to
go back. She wanted to see Ballintubber again and
Knobtop and all the familiar places. If it were within
her power, she would erase the events of the past
several days and happily go back to her old,
predict-able life.
  She felt tears starting in her eyes, and she
brushed at them almost angrily. "I'm tired," she
told her mam. "I'm going up to the tent."
  Maeve glanced at her with concern, but she kissed
Jenna. "We'll do the same as soon as we eat," she
said. "I'll check on you. Good night, darling."

 "Good night, Mam, Tiarna." Jenna nodded to Mac
Ard. She brushed at her skirts and walked away
from the fire toward her tent.

  She didn't notice that one of the men to her left
excused himself from his companions and rose,
following a few moments later.




               Chapter 11: Two Encounters



     "BANTIARNA, a moment. .
."

    The voice came from behind Jenna, low and
gravelly. Startled, Jenna turned. The man was
brown-haired with a longish beard, and she found
his age difficult to discern-he could have been as
young as Coelin or nearer to thirty. His face was
drawn and thin, his skin brown from the sun; his
strangely light green eyes nested deep under his
brows, glinting in the light of the fire. His clothing
was plain, but more like that of a freelander than
the Taisteal, and Jenna saw a bone-handled knife in
its scabbard at his belt. His appearance was that of
someone used to a life of labor, his body toughened
and scarred by what it had experienced. He stopped
a few feet away from her, as if he realized that she
would shout for Mac Ard if he came closer. She
moved a few steps toward the ring of light from the
campfire.

     "What do you want?" Jenna asked coldly.
  "Nothing that will trouble you," he said. "A
minute's conversation, that's all." When Jenna
remained silent, he continued. "My name is Ennis
O'Deoradháin. I'm not with the Taisteal; I have land
nearby and happened to come here to see if the
Taisteal had anything interesting to sell-my father
was born here and also died here, several years ago.
But in his youth, he wandered, and went to the west
as a fisherman and came to the north. He married a
woman there, and brought her back to Lough Lar."

     "What has that to do with me?"
  "My mam-may the Mother-Creator keep her soul
safe-was an Inishlander. They say I'm more like her
than my father. In some ways, I think that's true.
They say one Inishlander knows another. Maybe
that's true as well or maybe the mage-lights have
just sparked something in me that was dormant all
this time." He stopped, staring at her.

  "I'm from ..." Ballintubber, she started to say,
then realized that might not be something to admit
either. ". . . Lár Bhaile," she said. "Not Inish
 Thuaidh."

  O'Deoradháin nodded, though his eyes seemed
unconvinced. "Mam always said that I had a
weirding in me. She also told me that one of our
ancestors was a cloudmage, and wielded a cloch na
thintrí under Severii O'Coulghan in the Battle of
Sliabh Míchinniúint. Of course, one never knows
about family history that far back and to tell the
truth it's a rare Inishlander family that doesn't
claim a cloudmage or three among their ancestors,
true or not. If all the stories are to be believed, the
land must have been ankle-deep in clochs na
thintrí."

  With the mention of the mage-stones, Jenna's
hand went to her waist, where her own stone was
hidden. She immediately let her hand drop back to
her side, but the man's eyes had followed her
involuntary gesture. He almost seemed to smile.
  "Your arm-you've hurt it." He nodded at the
bandages wrapped around her arm; it seemed to
throb in response.
 "It's nothing," she said. "A cut, that's all."
  "Ah." He nodded again. He glanced over his
shoulder, as if making certain no one was close
enough to overhear them. "One wonders,"
O'Deoradháin mused, "where Lámh Shábhála will
be found if the Filleadh has really come, since the
eldest cloch was taken from the Order of Inishfeirm
and could be anywhere in Talamh an Ghlas by now.
But then, you probably realize that already, since
Clannhri Sheehan tells me that you're a Mac Ard.
After all, your ancestors were once cloudmages
themselves. I 'm not surprised to see a Mac Ard on
the road where the mage-lights have been seen. Not
at all."

  Jenna wanted to be away from the man, wanted
to be alone, wanted to take the cloch out and hold it,
wanted to throw it away and never see it again.
She'd understood little of what he'd said-all that
prattling about "Inishfeirm" and some Order, but
he spoke of "Lámh Shábhála," the same name Riata
had used . . . "You've had your minute, Ennis
O'Deoradháin, and I'm tired."

   True, I've had the minute, and more, and I've
spoken honestly about things that I probably
shouldn't, out here in the open." The man's left and
moved close to the hilt of his knife, and Jenna
wondered how quickly someone would get to her if
she screamed. Not soon enough, she feared, if
O'Deoradháin was skilled with his weapon. Her
bandaged hand went again to the stone; she could
feel its chill under the cloth, and her heart was
pounding in her chest. If she brought the cloch out,
if she could use it as she had with the men from
Connachta ...
  But O'Deoradháin only smiled, gave a short bow,
and turned to walk back toward the fire. For a
moment, Jenna wondered whether she should
follow and tell Mac Ard and her mam what had just
happened. But she couldn't make herself go that
way, not after what the man had said to her.

  Instead, she went to her tent, half-running. Her
arm throbbed and burned, and she boiled water
over the tiny cook fire inside and made herself
another cup of the andúilleaf tea.

  The next morning, it was easy to forget the
encounter. Maeve was there in the tent, sleeping
alongside Jenna-she had wondered, after their
con-versation, if Maeve might stay in the tiarna's
tent that night. Jenna's arm still ached, and she
heated another cup of the brew to take away the
hurt before her mam rewrapped the arm with fresh
bandages. Outside, a warm, late autumn sun was
shining, O'Deoradháin was nowhere to be seen, and
they found that Mac Ard had haggled with Clannhri
Sheehan for the purchase of three of the Taisteal's
horses. They looked old and slow, but a better
prospect than walking the rest of the way to Áth
Iseal. By the time the sun was well up in the sky,
the Taisteal had packed away the tents into the
wagons and were jangling and plodding south along
the road while Jenna, Maeve, and Mac Ard rode
north toward the ford of the Dúan.

  They moved through a landscape of green:
farmland mostly, with occa-sional patches of wood.
The High Road meandered, following the line of
Lough Lár closely. Not long after they'd left, as they
rounded a bend in the road, they heard hooves and
the nickering of a horse coming up from an
intersecting lane; a moment later, a rider came into
view between a line of beech trees, a man wearing a
plain clóca over pants and shirt. The hood of the
clóca was up; the face in shadow. The man waved at
them, then kicked his horse into a trot to meet
them.

   "Greetings, Tiarna Mac Ard, Bantiamas. A
beautiful morning. We seem to be going in the same
direction, if Áth Iseal is your destination. May I join
you? With brigands on the road, four is safer than
one." He pushed back the hood, and Jenna saw that
it was Ennis O'Deoradháin. His eyes glittered as he
glanced toward her, but he kept his attention on
Mac Ard, who
frowned.


  "It isn't brigands I particularly fear," he answered.
"You have the advan-tage of me, since you seem to
know me but your face isn't familiar."

  "My name is Ennis O'Deoradháin." He gestured to
the fields on either side of him. "This is my family's
land. Not much, but enough to keep us fed. We're
three generations freelanded, loyal to the Rí Gabair,
and the name O'Deoradháin is well known around
the west of the lough. And I know you because I
was at the Taisteal's camp last night seeing if they
had anything useful, and Clannhri Sheehan has a
mouth large enough to swallow all of Lough Lár
itself." He smiled and laughed at his own jest, and
the harsh lines of his face relaxed in his amusement.
"And if it allays your fears, I'm hardly a threat to
you, Tiarna. I doubt my knife is a match for your
sword." O'Deoradháin swept his clóca aside, showing
them that the only weapon he wore was the knife
Jenna had seen the night before.
  "In my experience, a knife kills as easily as any
weapon," Mac Ard told the man, but his voice was
easier. "But a freelanded man loyal to the Rí
shouldn't be left alone to brigands, and the High
Road's open to all, if you'd like to ride with us."

  Jenna could have spoken. She saw O'Deoradháin's
gaze flick toward her again, and she set her mouth
in a firm, thin line of disapproval. Yet she held back.
O'Deoradháin flicked the reins, and his horse moved
out onto the road. For a time, he rode alongside Mac
Ard, and Maeve, and they conversed in low voices.
Then O'Deoradháin dropped back to where Jenna
trailed behind. "And how are you today?" he asked.
"Is the arm better?"
  "It's fine," Jenna answered shortly. She didn't look
at him, keeping her gaze forward to the road
winding along the lakeshore. Lough Lár was
narrowing, now no more than a few hundred strides
across as they neared the falls of the Dúan.

  "So it seems you didn't mention our encounter last
night to the tiarna."
  "I didn't think it that important. I'd forgotten it
myself until I saw you this morning." She answered
him with the haughtiness she thought a Riocha
would display. Now she did look over at him, and
found him watching her with a strange smile on his
lips. "Interesting that you'd hap-pen to be going to
Áth Iseal today, and at the same time."

 "What would you think if I told you that wasn't
entirely coincidence?"
  "I'd wonder if I should make up for my error last
night and tell Tiarna Mac Ard."
  '"Tiarna Mac Ard?' An awfully formal way to refer
to your father," O'Deoradháin commented. Her face
must have shown something at that, for he lifted his
eyebrows. "Ah ... I see I've been mistaken.
Evidently Clannhri Sheehan didn't know as much as
he pretended he did. You never can trust the
Taisteal. I thought ..."

 "I don't care what you thought."
  "This does shed a different light on things, though,
I must say," O'Deoradháin persisted. "What is your
name, then?"

  She remembered that Mac Ard had commented
on their name being :Inish, and that O'Deoradháin
had suggested that he thought her an Inishlander as
well. She considered giving him a false name, but it
didn't seem to matter now. Her mam would
probably tell him, if he asked, or Mac Ard. "Aoire,"
she said. "Jenna Aoire."

  The startled look on his face surprised her with its
severity. For a moment, his eyes widened, and he
seemed almost to rise up in his saddle. Then he
caught himself, his features masked in deliberate
neutrality. "Aoire. That's an Inish name, 'tis. So my
guess wasn't so wrong after all."
  "Aye," she admitted. "My father's parents were
from the island, or so he claimed, though Mam says
that they left the island when they were
young."


  O'Deoradháin's head nodded reflectively. "No
doubt," he said. "No doubt." He shifted in the
saddle, adjusted his clóca. "We should be in Áth
Iseal by midafternoon," he said. "We'll be passing
the falls in a bit; they're not as pretty this time of
year without all the green, but they'll be
impres-sive enough if you've never seen them
before." It was obvious that he intended to change
the subject, and Jenna was content to allow that to
happen.
  They heard the falls long before they saw them.
Here, the High Road lifted in short, winding rises up
a low series of hills, until they stood well above the
level of Lough Lar. Away to the south stretched the
dark waters of the lough; to the north, the road was
hidden behind yet another set of low hills.
Westward stretched checkered patches of farmland,
meadow, and woods, and beyond that, like a green
wall, was the forest of Doire Coill, lurking on the
horizon.
  A trail ran away from the High Road to a ledge
overlooking the falls, and Mac Ard turned his horse
in. "We've made good time this morning, and there's
not a better day to see the falls," he said. "We'll eat
here." As Mac Ard rummaged in the saddlebags for
the food, Jenna and her mam walked to the end of
the ledge, where the land fell off steeply toward the
lough, so that they were looking down at the tops of
the trees below. Ahead and to their left, the River
Duán splashed and roared as it spilled down a deep
cleft in the green hills, cascading white and foaming
to the lake below while a white mist rose around the
waters. The sunlight sparked rainbows in the mist
that wavered, gleamed, and disappeared again. "Ah,
Mam, 'tis beautiful," Jenna breathed. The wind sent
a tendril of mist across her face, and she laughed in
shock and surprise. "And wet."
  "And dangerous, if you get too near the edge."
O'Deoradháin spoke, coming up next to them. He
pointed down toward the lake. "Not two months
ago, they brought up a man from Áth Iseal who
slipped over the edge and went tumbling down to
his death. He was looking at the falls and not his
feet, unfortunately."
 Both Jenna and Maeve took a step back. "The
mist has a way of en-chanting, they say,"
O'Deoradháin continued. "The Duán weeps in
sorrow here."

 "Why in sorrow?" Jenna asked, interested despite
herself.
  " 'Twas here, they say, well back in the Before,
that an army out of Inish Thuaidh met with the
forces of the Rí of what was then the kingdom of
Bhaile; Rí Aodhfin, I think his name was. The river
ran red with blood that day, the stain washing pink
on the shores of the lough itself, and the skies above
were bright with the lightnings of the clochs na
thintrí. Lámh Shábhála itself was here, held by an
Inishlander cloudmage whose name is lost to the
people around here."

  The name of the cloch made Jenna narrow her
eyes in suspicion, and she thought she felt the
hidden stone pulse in response. Aye . . . The voice, a
whisper, sounded in Jenna's head. Eilís, I was . . .
"Eilís," Jenna said, speaking the name. "That was
the Holder's name. Eilís."

  O'Deoradháin raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps. It's as
good a name as any, I suppose. You know this story,
then?"
  "No," Jenna answered, then shook her head. The
voice was gone, and Jenna wondered whether she'd
actually heard it, or if she imagined it in the sound of
the falls. Maeve was looking at her curiously, as
well. "Maybe I heard it at Tara's one night. One of
Coelin's songs-he was always sing-ing about battles
and romances from other times."

   O'Deoradháin shrugged. "Whatever the name,
Aodhfin wrested Lámh Shábhála away from the
Inishlander cloudmage during the midst of battle;
then, for two hundred and fifty years, Lámh
Shábhála was held here in Talamh an Ghlas. They
say that the mist of the falls is the tears of the
cloudmage who lost Lámh Shábhála, and that's why
it's dangerous. He, or she," he added with a glance
at Jenna, who was watching the water spilling down
the ravine, "still seeks revenge for the loss."
 "That's a pretty tale," Maeve said. "And an old
one."

  This is an old place," O'Deoradháin answered. He
gestured straight out from the ledge. "They say that
back when the first people came here to the lough,
the falls were out here. But the river's hungry, and
it eats away a few feet of the cliffs every year and so
the lough keeps growing at this end. One day,
thousands and thousands of years from now, the
falls will be all the way back to Áth Iseal. We look at
the land, and from our perspective, it all seems
eternal: the mountains, the rivers, the lakes-they
are there at our birth, and there looking the same at
our death. But the stones themselves see that
everything is always changing, and barely see us or
our battles and legends at all. We're just ghosts and
wisps of fog to them."

 "Ah, you have a poet in you," Maeve said. "Tis
well said."
  O'Deoradháin touched his forehead, smiling at
Maeve. "Thank you, Bantiarna. It's my mam's gift.
She had a wonderful way with tales, espe-cially
those from the north. She was from Inish Thuaidh,
as I told your daughter."
  Jenna refused to look back at him. "An
Inishlander?" Maeve said. "So was my late
husband-or his parents were from there, anyway.
But he wasn't one for stories, I'm afraid. He didn't
speak much about his family or the island. I don't
think he'd ever been there himself."

  "Perhaps not, but I've heard the name Aoire
before, in some of the tales my mam used to tell
me." He seemed as though he were about to say
more and Jenna looked away from the falls toward
him, but Mac Ard came striding up, and
O'Deoradháin went silent at the tiarna's approach.

  "I have our lunch unpacked," Mac Ard said. "We
could bring it out here, and eat while watching the
scenery."
 "That sounds lovely," Maeve said. "Excuse me.
We'll go help Padraic. Jenna?"
  "Coming, Mam." She turned away from the falls,
catching O'Deoradháin's gaze as she did so. "What is
it you want?" she asked him, as her mam walked
away.

  O'Deoradháin shrugged. "Probably the same thing
you want. Maybe the same thing you've already
found." He nodded to her and smiled.

 She grimaced sourly in return, and followed her
mother.
          Chapter 12: The Lady of the Falls



  THEY finished their lunch, and lay in the soft
grass under a surprisingly warm sun. Jenna's arm
was starting to throb again with pain, and she stood
up. "I'll be right back," she said. "I'd like to take a
walk."

  "I'll go with you," O'Deoradháin offered, and Jenna
shook her head.
 "No," she said firmly. "I'd prefer to go alone. Mam,
do you mind?"

 "Go on," Maeve told her. "Don't be long."

  "I won't be." Jenna walked away north, around
the curve of the cliffs toward the falls. As she
approached, the clamor of the cascading water grew
steadily louder, until it drowned any other sound in
white noise. Greenery hung over the edge of the
ravine so that it was difficult to tell where the
ground ended, and the mist dusted Jenna's hair and
clothes with sparkling droplets. She moved as close
to the edge as she dared. Foaming water rushed
past below her, spilling down to the lough. With the
touch of the mist, she thought she heard faint
voices, as if hidden in the roar of the falls was a
distant, whispering conversation.
  At the same time, her right arm began to feel cold
and heavy under the bandages, and the cloch na
thintrí snuggled next to her skin flared into bitter
ice. Jenna stopped, rubbing at her arm and flexing
her suddenly stiff fingers, moaning slightly at the
renewed pain. She started to turn back, thinking
that she would fix herself more of the nasty-tasting
andúilleaf, but stopped, blinking against the mist.
There, just ahead of her, was a break in the
greenery, a narrow trail leading down toward the
Duán right where it plunged over the cliff edge. She
wondered how she could have missed seeing it
before.
 Follow. . . . she thought she heard the
water-voices say. Follow ...

 She took a tentative step forward, steadying
herself against the bushes to either side. The path
was steep and ill-defined, the grass underfoot slick
and only slightly shorter than anywhere else, as if
the trail were nearly forgotten. Once she slipped
and fell several feet before she could stop herself.
She almost turned back then, but just below, the
path seemed to level out, curving enticingly behind
a screen of scrub hawthorns. Follow . . . The voices
were louder now, almost audible.

 She followed.
  Around the hawthorns, she found herself on a
ledge below the lip of the falls. Water thundered in
front of her, foaming and snarling as it thrashed its
way over black, mossy rocks. The ledge continued
around, cutting underneath the overhanging rocks
at the top of the waterfall and disappearing into
darkness behind the water.

  Follow . . . Her arm ached, the stone burned her
skin with cold. Her hair and clothes, soaked by the
mists, clung to her face and body. She should go
back, she knew. This was insanity-one slip, and her
body would be broken on the rocks a hundred feet
below.

 Follow. . .
  But there were handholds along the cliff wall,
looking as if they'd been deliberately cut, and
though the ledge was crumbling at the edges, the
flags appeared to have once been laid by someone's
hands. She took a step, then another, clinging to the
dripping wall as the water pounded a few feet in
front of her.
  Then she was behind the falls, and the ledge
opened up. Jenna gasped in wonder. She was
looking through the shimmering veil of water, and
the falls caught the sunlight and shattered it,
sending light dancing all around her. The air was
cool and refreshing; the sound of the falls was
muffled here, a constant low grumbling that seemed
to emanate from the earth itself. The rock
underfoot trembled with the sound. As her eyes
grew accustomed to the twilight behind the falling
water, Jenna saw that the ledge on which she stood
opened up behind her, sloping down and into the
cliff wall: a small, hidden cave. Something gleamed
well back in the recess, and Jenna moved toward it,
squinting into the dimness.
  And she stopped, holding her breath. In a stony
niche carved from the living rock of the cliff, a
skeleton lay, its empty-socketed eyes staring at
Jenna. The body had once been richly dressed-a
woman, adorned with the remnants of brocaded
green silk, with glistening threads of silver and gold
embroidered along the edging. The arms were laid
carefully along her sides, and under her head was a
pillow, the stuffing spilling out from rotting blue
cloth, a few strands of golden hair curling below the
skull.

  Rings hung loose on the bones of her fingers;
jeweled earrings had fallen to the stone alongside
the skull.
  You look on the remains of Ellis MacGairbhith of
Inish Thuaidh, and I was once the Holder of Lámh
Shábhála, as you are now. . . .

  The voice was as liquid as the falls, and it sounded
inside her head. Jenna stepped back, her hands to
her mouth, until she felt the roar of the water at her
back. "No," she said aloud. "Be quiet. I don't hear
you."

  A laugh answered her. The skeleton stared. Take
one of my rings, the voice said. Place it on your own
finger . . .
 "No. I can't."

  You must . . . The voice was a bare whisper, fading
into wind and the falls' louder voice. For a moment,
Jenna thought it had gone entirely, then it returned,
a husk. . . . please . . . one of the rings. . .
  Her hand trembling, Jenna stepped toward the
body again and reached out to the hands crossed
over the breast. She touched the nearest ring,
gasping, then pulled back as the golden band
wobbled on the bones. Taking a breath, she reached
out again, and this time pulled the ring from the
unresisting hand. She held it in her fingers, turning
it: the ring was heavy gold, inset with small emerald
stones, filigreed and decorated with knotted rope
patterns-an uncommon piece of jewelry, crafted by
a mas-ter. The ring of someone who was once
wealthy or well-rewarded.

 She put the ring on her own finger.

  At first nothing changed. Then Jenna realized that
the hollow seemed brighter, that she could see as if
it were full day. A bright fog filled the recess and the
sound of the falls receded and died to nothing.
 A woman, clad in the green silk that the skeleton
had worn, stepped through the mist toward Jenna.

  Her hair was long and golden-red like bright,
burnished copper, and her skin was fair. Her eyes
were summer blue, and she smiled as she came
forward, her hands held out to Jenna. The sleeves
left her arms bare, and Jenna saw that her right
hand was scarred and marked to the elbow with
swirling patterns, patterns that matched those on
Jenna's own hand and arm.
 On one of her fingers sat the same ring Jenna
wore.

  "Eilís," Jenna breathed, and the woman laughed.
Aye," she said. "That was once my name. So you're
the new Holder, and so young to be a First. That's a
pity." Her hand touched Jenna's, and with the
touch, Jenna felt a touch in her head as well, as if
somehow Eilís were prowling in her thoughts. "Ah . .
. Jenna, is it? And you've met Riata."

 Jenna nodded. "How . . . ?" she began.
  "You are the Holder," Eilís said again. "This is just
one of the gifts and dangers that Lámh Shábhála
bestows: the Holders before you-we who held Lámh
Shábhála while it was awake and perhaps even
some of those who held it while it slept-live within
the stone also." Jenna remembered the red-haired
man she'd glimpsed when she first picked up the
stone. Had he been a Holder, once? "At least," Eilís
continued, "some shade of us does. Come to where a
Holder's body rests, or touch something that was
once theirs, and they can speak with you if you will
it. They will also know what is in your mind, if you
allow it to be open. Tell me, when you met Riata, did
he give you a token?"
 Jenna shook her head. "No. He only spoke to me."
  Eilís nodded at that, as if it were the answer she
expected. "I met him, too. Riata prefers to be left
alone in death. He knows that should you need him
again, you can find him in the stone or go to where
he rests. I went there once, myself. That's how I
came to know him-a wise man, wiser than most of
us Daoine believed possible of a Bunús Muintir.
We're an arrogant people . . ." She seemed to sigh,
then, and looked past Jenna as if into some hazy
distance. "He told me I would die, if I followed my
heart. I didn't believe him." Another sigh, and her
attention came back to Jenna. "You will meet the
shades of other Holders, inevitably, especially if you
go to Lár Bhaile as you intend. And I'll warn you;
some you will not like and they will not like you.
Some will smile and seem fair, but their advice will
be as rotten as their hearts. The dead, you see, are
not always sane." She smiled as she said that, a
strange expression on her face. "Be careful."

  "Why didn't Riata tell me this?" Jenna asked.
"There's so much I need to know."
 "If he told you all, you would have despaired,"
Eilís answered. "You're new to Lámh Shábhála, and
you are a First besides." She shuddered. "I wouldn't
have wanted to be a First."

  "Riata ... he said that the stone was a curse,
especially for the First."

 "He was right."
  Jenna shuddered. "That scares me, the way you
say the words."

 Her gaze was calm. "Then you're wise."

 "Is the cloch evil, then?"
  Eilís laughed, a sound like trickling water. "Lámh
Shábhála-or any of the clochs na thintrí, for that
matter-don't know good or evil, child. They simply
are. They give power, and power can be put to
whatever use a Holder wishes. Lámh Shábhála is
First and Last, and so the power it can lend is also
greatest. As to evil . . ."A smile. "You bring to the
stone what you have inside you, that's all. In any
case, evil depends on which side you stand-what
one person calls evil, another calls justice. Let me
see it " she said. "Let me see Lámh Shábhála again."
  Jenna felt reluctant. She shook her head, the
barest motion, and Eilís frowned, taking a step
forward. "I mean you no harm, Jenna," she said.
"Let me see the cloch I once wielded myself."
  Jenna felt for the stone, closing her fingers around
it through the cloth that hid it. "If Lámh Shábhála
has the greatest power of all the clochs, how was it
taken from you?"

  Eilís' laugh was bitter now. "I said its power was
greatest, but even the strongest can be
overpowered by numbers or make a fatal mistake.
Lámh Shábhála is chief among the Clochs Mór, the
major clochs, but there are others that are nearly as
powerful. Three of the Clochs Mór were arrayed
against me, and I was isolated. Betrayed by . . ." She
scowled, her face harsh. ". . . my own stupidity. By
listening to my heart, as Riata said it would be. And
so I died. He laid me here, the new Holder, the one
who had betrayed me: Aodhfin O Liathain. My
lover. He placed me here after he killed me and took
Lámh Shábhála for himself. He kissed my cold lips
with tears in his eyes. If you should happen to meet
him through the cloch, tell him that I still curse his
name and the night I first gave myself to him."
Another step, and Eilís' hand reached out toward
Jenna. "My cloch. Let me see it once more."

  Shaking her head, Jenna backed up again. She
wasn't certain why she felt this reluctance-perhaps
the harsh eagerness in Eilís' features, or the way she
had referred to the stone as hers. But Jenna felt a
compulsion to keep the stone hidden-too many
people had asked to see it already. Eilís took
another step closer, and again Jenna retreated.
There was a strange yet familiar roaring behind her.
She glanced quickly over her shoulder, but there
was nothing there, only the white-lit, ethereal fog.
She could feel Eilís touching her memories again,
and she tried to close her mind to the intrusion. The
ghost laughed at her effort. "You're indeed young
and unpracticed," she said. "So much to learn . . ."
Her voice was honey and perfume. "I know your
mind. You showed Riata the stone, didn't you? And
Seancoim and that tiarna with you. Why not me?"

 Jenna, reluctantly, reached beneath her clothing
and pulled out the stone. "Here," she said to Eilís.
"Here it is."
  Eilís stared at the cloch, a hand at her breast as if
she were having difficulty breathing. "Aye," she
whispered. "That is Lámh Shábhála. And you don't
know yet how to use it."
 Jenna shook her head. "No. Can you tell me?"

  "I can't," she answered, but then her eyes
narrowed. "Or perhaps I can. Let me hold it. Give it
to me . . ." She stretched her arm out.

  "No." Jenna closed her fingers around the cloch,
fisting it in her right hand.
  "Give it to me . . ." Eilís said again. Her hand came
closer, and Jenna took a final step backward.

 Cold water hammered at Jenna's head and
shoulders, driving her back-ward. The falls tore her
away from the ledge and bore her under even as
she screamed. She felt herself flung downward with
the water, and she knew she was dead.

  In that instant, the cloch burned in her hand, and
she felt it open to her, as if she became part of the
stone itself, her mind whirling with the patterns on
her hand, with the identical patterns of the cloch,
with the energy locked within it borrowed from the
mage-lights. This was different than when she had
unleashed lightning on Knobtop or when she had
killed the soldiers. Then, there had been no
conscious thought involved. This time, she felt
herself will the cloch to release its energy, and it
an-swered. The water of the Duán still pounded at
her, unrelenting and mer-ciless, but she was no
longer falling . . .
 Now you know . . . Eilís' voice whispered in her
head.

 Now you know . . .

  Somehow, impossibly, Jenna was standing on the
grass above the falls, in the sunlight. The cloch was
no longer in her hand. There was no ring on her
ringer. She felt at the waist of her skirt: there it
was, the familiar lump of cloch, and circular
hardness alongside it: Eilís' ring.

  Someone was crying, weeping in pain, and she
realized it was her.
  "Jenna! There you are! We've been calling ... By
the Mother-Creator, girl, you're soaked through!
What's the matter?" Maeve came running up to her.
Jenna sank into her embrace.
  "My arm . . ." she cried. "It hurts so much, Mam."
Sharp, red agony stabbed at her, radiating from her
hand downward and into her chest. She shivered
with cold, the wind biting at her drenched clothing.
Her vision was colored with it, like a veil over her
eyes. With Jenna leaning against her mother, they
moved down away from the falls. As they turned,
Jenna glanced down.

  The falls flared white as the water cascaded over
the edge of the ravine, and the mist touched her
face like tears.
             Chapter 13: Smoke and Ruin



  A STRIPE later, new wrappings with Seancoim's
poultice slathered on the cloth and a mug of the
andúilleaf brew had dulled the pain enough so that
Jenna could ride. The wan fall sun had dried her
clothes somewhat. She told the others that she'd
slipped and fallen on the arm- the story appeared to
satisfy them, and if she seemed wetter than the
mist alone could have managed, no one mentioned
the fact.

  It was nearing midafternoon when they returned
to the High Road. "A long lunch," Mac Ard said
worriedly when they finally were riding north again.
"It will be dark before we reach the ford at this rate.
We still may not reach Áth Iseal tonight."

  Jenna was silent on the ride. Again Mac Ard and
Maeve rode together, and O'Deoradháin remained
behind with Jenna, but his attempts to draw her
into conversation failed. In truth, she barely heard
him or saw the landscape as they approached the
ford of the Dúan. She held the reins of the horse
loosely in her left hand, trusting the mare to keep to
the road, and stared down at her bandaged arm,
letting the fingers stretch and close, stretch and
close. She traced the patterns of the scars with her
gaze, feeling them even though they were hidden
under folds of cotton.
  Her thoughts were on Lámh Shábhála. The other
times she had tapped the stone's power, she had felt
no control of the process. But now . . . Even without
holding the stone, she could touch it with her mind,
as if she and the cloch were linked. She could place
her thoughts there and imagine herself sinking into
the unguessed depths of the cloch. She could see
power flaring between the crystalline structures
within the stone, and she could direct that force: she
could send it flaring outward and control where it
went, what it touched, what it did.

  And she could see, at the center of the stone, a
hidden well of another power, one that was as yet
half-filled, and when she looked there with her
mind, she could feel gossamer, invisible threads
running away from Lámh Shábhála into the world.
At the end of those threads, she knew, lay the other
clochs na thintrí, the stones of lightning, waiting for
Lámh Shábhála to restore their power.
  She could not imagine how she would handle that
huge reservoir, if the energy that already ran
through Lámh Shábhála hurt her so much already.
At the same time, she knew that she could not
throw the stone away or give it to someone else.
Lámh Shábhála wouldn't allow that. She would not
allow it. Even contemplating that action made her
arm throb through the veil of andúilleaf. She had
opened the stone, but Lámh Shábhála had also
opened her.

  She could no more easily abandon the cloch now
than she could dis-card her heart.
  "I don't know how Tiarna Mac Ard feels," she
heard O'Deoradháin saying though her musings,
"but I don't like this. There's been no one on the
road with us all day. The west isn't as well traveled
as the east side of the lough, but still we should have
seen a few others by now. Actually, I was surprised
no other travelers stopped at the falls in all the time
we were there."

  Jenna nodded. She might have glanced at him, but
Lámh Shábhála overlaid the sight. He may have
continued to talk, but she was lost inside the stone,
peering at its secrets.

  By evening, with the sun sending long shadows
eastward as it touched the treetops, they
approached a crossroads where the lough road met
with the High Road traveling up to Ballintubber and
crossing over to the Dúan. On either side of the
road, oak trees overhung the stone fences; to the
west, the outskirts of Doire Coill huddled close by
across an overgrown field. Mac Ard suddenly pulled
back on his reins to bring his horse to a halt,
standing up in the stirrups and peering around
them. "Can you smell that?" he asked.

  The question brought Jenna out of her reverie.
She sniffed, and the smell brought with it
unpleasant memories. "Woodsmoke," she said, then
frowned. "And something more."

  "Too much wood smoke," Mac Ard commented.
"And an awful reek within it. I was past here a
dozen days ago, on my way to Ballintubber. Where
the roads meet there was a tiny village: a tavern
and three or four houses." His face was touched
with worry as he looked back over his shoulder.
"And I share your concern about the quiet on the
road, O'Deoradháin. I think we should ride carefully
and slowly, and keep an eye about us. Jenna-"
 Jenna started at the sound of her name. "Aye,
Tiarna?"

 "You should be most careful of all." His dark gaze
held her, moving from her face to her arm. "I think
you understand my meaning."
 She closed her fingers around the hidden cloch. "I
do, Tiarna."

 A nod. "O'Deoradháin, you and I should ride
ahead, I think."

  They rode on, Mac Ard and O'Deoradháin several
feet ahead of them. ; Jenna noticed that the tiarna
swept his clóca back away from the hilt of his sword
and that she could also see the leather-wrapped hilt
of . O'Deoradháin's knife. Alert now, they
approached the crossing. The aroma of smoke hung
in the air, and the odd scent underlying it grew
stronger. The walls on either side of the road spread
out suddenly, and in the clear space ahead of them,
she could see a cluster of buildings. In the twilight,
they seemed wrapped in a strange, dark fog, then
she realized that the structures were roofless, the
windows and doors gaping open like dead mouths,
and that the fog was tendrils of smoke from
still-smoldering timbers.
  The scene was eerily deserted. No people moved
in the midst of the rubble, no birds, no dogs.
Nothing.
  She also knew, then, what the other odor must be,
and she swallowed hard. "The fires were set a day
ago or more, by the look," Mac Ard said, almost
whispering. His face was grim. None of them wanted
to speak ; loudly here; it seemed disrespectful.
"That worries me-I didn't think the Connachtans
would stay this long, or be so bold as to strike this
close to Áth Iseal with its garrison. Those who lived
here no doubt fled, the ones who weren't killed, but
why they haven't returned by now is what worries
me more."
  "Tuath Connachta, was it?" O'Deoradháin asked.
"You speak as if you've met them, Tiarna. Are the
Tuatha at war?"

   Mac Ard glanced back at O'Deoradháin but didn't
answer. "Let's see what we can learn here. Carefully
. . ."
 They moved closer to the ruins. Jenna could see
now that all that was left of the houses were the
tumbled down stone walls, blacked with smoke. A
few fire-blistered timbers leaned forlornly, with
wisps of gray smoke lifting from them. The ground
was littered with broken crockery and scraps of
cloth, as if the village had been torn apart before the
fires were set. As if, Jenna realized, the attackers
had been looking for someone or something. There
were no signs of the residents of this place, though
Jenna saw dark shapes within walls of the houses
that made her look away.

  Mac Ard reined up his horse before the ruins of
the largest building- the inn, Jenna decided. He
walked carefully over the stones and timbers, his
boots crunching through the wreckage and sending
plumes of ash up with each step. Once, he stopped
and bent down, then came back out.
  "There are two dead in there," he said. "Maybe a
few more that I can't see. Some, perhaps most, I
hope, ran before the fire and are still alive." He
looked around. "There's nothing we can do here. I'll
feel safer once we reach Áth Iseal."

  "If it hasn't been attacked as well," O'Deoradháin
replied but Mac Ard shook his head.

 "There weren't that many here, by the signs. A
dozen, perhaps a few more. This is the work of
marauders, not an army."

  As Mac Ard spoke, Jenna closed her eyes for a
moment. The cloch burned in the darkness behind
her eyes, and she could see the webs of connection
to the other clochs na thintrí. One of those
connections, she suddenly realized, snaked over to
Mac Ard, and another . . .
  She opened her eyes. Against the ruddy western
sky, on a bare knife -edged ridge half a mile away,
she could see a rider. "Tiarna," she said, pointing,
and as Mac Ard turned to look, the rider turned his
horse and vanished. A faint voice called in the
distance, and others answered. Mac Ard muttered a
curse and mounted.
  "Ride!" he cried. "And let's hope that the crossing
is still open."

  They urged their horses into a gallop in the
growing dark, moving quickly while they could still
somewhat see the road ahead of them. At the
juncture of the roads, they turned east toward the
river, a few miles ahead. Jenna kept looking back
over her shoulder at the road behind, expecting to
see riders coming hard after them, but for the
moment the lane remained empty. As they left the
village, the walls closed in again to border the road,
and they moved into a wooded area. There, night
already lurked under the trees, and they had to
slow the horses to a trot or risk being thrown by an
unseen root or hole. By the time they'd emerged
from the trees, the sun had failed entirely, the first
stars emerging in the east. The waxing moon-now
nearly at a quarter-lifted high above the west and
painted the road as it swept down in a great curve
over low, flat lands. Far ahead, a row of trees ran
nearly north to south across their way, marking the
line of the river, which sparkled just beyond. Across
the Dúan, the road lifted again; on the banks of the
hills beyond, yellow light gleamed in the windows at
Áth Iseal.

  And between the four of them and the river stood
three horsemen, moonlight glinting from ring mail
leathers laced over their tunics. They didn't appear
to see Jenna and the others yet, against the cover of
the trees. Behind, from the direction of the village,
Jenna could hear hooves pounding and men calling.
  Mac Ard pulled his horse up "Trapped," he said,
"and it's no good cutting across the field when the
ford is ahead. Jenna?" Mac Ard looked back at her.
"Can you . . . ?" He didn't finish the question, but
Jenna understood. Wanly, she shook her head. Her
arm already hung cold and heavy; she could not
imagine what it would feel like to use the cloch again
so soon. "These are the same people who killed the
people in your village, who killed people you know,
who burned your house and ran down your dog,"
Mac Ard reminded her, and Jenna lifted her head.
  "If I must," she said wearily. She reached for the
cloch, but Mac Ard stopped her hand.
   "Not yet. If we can cut the odds down somewhat,
we may not need to reveal what we have.
O'Deoradháin, it's time to see how useful that knife
of yours is. Maeve, Jenna, as soon as we have them
engaged, ride on past. Go off the road around them
if you need to. We'll follow as soon as we can. Now,
let's see what we can do before they realize we're
here."

  He reached back and pulled the bow from the
pack slung behind his saddle. Hooking a leg over one
end of the weapon, he bent the bow and strung it,
then nocked an arrow in the string. "I'm not much
of a bowman but a rider's a large target."

  He drew the bowstring back and let the arrow fly.
Jenna tried to follow its flight but lost it in the
darkness. But there was a cry from the riders,
though no one fell. She could see them looking
around, then one of them pointed toward the group
and they came charging up the road toward them.
Mac Ard nocked another arrow, letting them
approach as he held the bow at full tension. Jenna
could see muscles trembling in his arm. Then he let
it fly, and one of the horses screamed and went
down, the rider tumbling to the ground as the other
two rushed past. "Now!" Mac Ard shouted, tossing
the bow aside and drawing his sword. He kicked his
horse into a gallop. "Ride for the ford!"
  Maeve and Jenna both urged their horses to
follow, but as Jenna kicked the mare's sides,
O'Deoradháin's hand reached out and grabbed her
reins. Mac Ard was already flying down the road
with sword raised and a loud cry that they must
have heard in Áth Iseal. Maeve's horse was close
be-hind. "Let me go!" Jenna cried. Her horse
reared, but O'Deoradháin held last. Jenna tried to
wrench the reins away from him, and reached for
the stone, a fury rising in her.

 "Wait!" he said. "It's important-"

  "Let go!" she shouted again. Maeve had realized
that Jenna hadn't fol-lowed and was stopped in the
middle of the road between Jenna and Mac Ard.
Jenna heard the clash of steel as Mac Ard and the
riders met. O'Deoradháin continued to hold her.
Jenna's fist closed around the cloch.

  Her arm was ice and flame. Lámh Shábhála
seemed to roar in her ears with anger as she
brought it out. "Get away!" she screamed at
O'Deoradháin, and at the same time, she opened the
cloch in her mind, releasing just a trickle of its
power. Light flared from between the closed fingers
of her right hand, and a jagged beam shot from her
hand to smash against O'Deoradháin, lifting him out
of his saddle and throwing him against the fieldstone
wall. He slumped down, but Jenna didn't stop to see
what had happened to him. She was free, and Lámh
Shábhála threw shimmering brilliance over her, as if
she were enveloped in daylight. "Ride!" she called to
her mam, and kicked her own horse forward.

  Ahead, Mac Ard fought, but he was in desperate
trouble without O'Deoradháin, the two horsemen
flanking him. Jenna saw him take a blow to his
sword arm, and his weapon went clattering to the
ground. She clenched Lámh Shábhála tighter, lifting
her hand. "No!" she screamed as swords were
raised against Mac Ard, now weaponless and
injured.

  She imagined lightning striking the two riders. She
visualized savage light darting from cloch to riders.
 It happened.

  Twin lightnings flared in searing lines from her
fisted hand, slicing around Maeve and Mac Ard
without touching them. The riders' swords
shattered, molten shards exploding in bright arcs as
hilts were torn from gloved hands and flung away.
The lightning curled around the riders, lifting them
in a snarling coil of blue-white and hurling them a
hundred feet into the fields as their horses
screamed and fled.

  Behind them, there were shouts of alarm. Jenna
turned. Four more riders had come from under the
trees. Jenna waved her hand, and the earth
exploded at their feet, a line of bright fireworks
erupting before them as horses reared and bucked.
The riders turned and fled back the way they'd
come. Jenna saw O'Deoradháin, back on his horse,
riding wildly south across the fields and away.

  She let him go. The angry glare faded in her hand,
and Jenna screamed, this time with her own pain, as
every muscle in her right arm seemed to - lock and
twist. She bent over in her saddle, fighting to stay
conscious. You can do it. Breathe. Keep breathing.
You can't stop the pain, no, but put it to one side . . .
The voice inside didn't seem be hers. Riata? She
fought the inner night that threatened to close
around her, pushed it away, and forced herself to sit
up in the saddle. She rode to her mother. "Mam, are
you all right?"

   Maeve nodded, mute. Her eyes were wide and
almost timid as she stared at her daughter. "Jenna .
. ." she breathed, but Jenna shook her head.
Cradling her right arm in her lap, she flicked the
reins with her left hand, going to Mac Ard. He was
standing, his sword now held in his left hand, the
point dragging on the ground, a spreading pool of
dark wetness soaking his clóca at the right arm.
Another cut spread a fan of blood across his
forehead.
 "You look awful," she said to him. "Padraic."

  A fleeting smile touched his lips and vanished.
"You haven't seen your-self, Jenna. I can ride,
though. And we need to do that before those other
riders decide to come back. Where's that bastard
O'Deoradháin?"
  Jenna pointed away south, where a distant rider
pounded away across the moonlit fields. Mac Ard
spat once in the man's direction. Maeve came riding
up, holding the reins to the tiarna's horse. She
dismounted and went to Mac Ard. "We're binding
this first," she said. "Riders or not, you're losing too
much blood, Padraic. Jenna can watch for the
attackers."

  She looked up at Jenna, who nodded. "I'm . . . fine
for now, Mam," she said, hoping it was true. The
edges of her vision had gone dark, and her arm
radiated agony as if the very bones had been
shattered. She took deep, slow breaths of the cold
night air-keep the pain to one side-and forced
herself to sit upright. If the riders returned, she
wasn't sure she could use the cloch again. She
thought of the andúilleaf in the pack: As soon as we
get to the town, you can have some, and that will
keep the pain away . . . "Go on. But you need to
hurry, Mam . . ."

  Maeve tore strips from her skirt hem, bandaging
Mac Ard's arm and strapping the arm to his chest.
"That will need to be stitched when we reach town,
but it will do for now. Can you mount, Padraic?"

  In answer, Mac Ard grasped the saddle with his
left hand, put his foot in the stirrup and pulled
himself up with a grimace. Astride, he looked
around them: the empty-saddled horses now
standing a hundred yards down the road, the
bladeless hilts on the road, the broken bodies of the
two men sprawled in the awkward poses of the dead
in the field, the black furrow torn in the ground up
the slope from them.

 "So much for keeping this a secret," he said.




                 Chapter 14: Áth Iseal
  JENNA could not imagine a city larger than Áth
Iseal. To her eyes, which had seen only
Ballintubber, the town was vast, noisy, and
impos-sibly crowded, though she knew that Lár
Bhaile, to the south on the east side of Lough Lar,
was the size of several Áth Iseals put together.

  They ran into a squadron of men in green and
brown, hurrying across the ford and up the road,
having seen the lightnings and heard the fight-ing.
On meeting Tiarna Mac Ard, three of the soldiers
accompanied them across the ford, while the rest of
the small force rode west in pursuit of the
Connachtans. Tiarna Mac Ard, Maeve, and Jenna
were taken to the Ri's House-lodgings reserved for
the Rí Gabair should he come to Áth Iseal-and
healers were sent for. Servants brought food and
drink, and baths were prepared.
  Jenna slept more soundly that night than she had
since they'd left Bal-lintubber: only six days ago
now, though it seemed far longer to her. When she
awoke the next day, the sun was already high in the
sky, masked by scudding gray rain clouds. She
stood at the window, a blanket wrapped around her,
shivering and yet delighting in the sharp cold and
the fresh smell of the rain. The Ri's House had been
built on top of the river bluff, and from her window,
Jenna looked down on the clustered town. She'd
never seen so many buildings in one place, all
crowded to-gether as if desperately seeking each
other's company, the streets between ' them busy
with people moving from place to place. A market
square was just off to her left and down, packed
with street vendors and buyers, bright with the
awnings of the stalls. The sound of vendors' calls
and high-pitched bartering came to her on the air.
  For a moment, looking at the untroubled life
below, she could almost forget the events of the past
fortnight. But a twinge of pain from her arm
brought back the memories, and she stepped away
from the window again. She must have cried out, for
someone knocked at the door to the room. "Young
miss, are you awake? May I come in?"
 "Aye," Jenna answered. "Come in."

  The door opened, and a young woman no older
than Jenna entered, bearing a tray with a steaming
pot, a cup, and tea. A tentative smile was on her
plain face, but there was also caution in her eyes as
she set the tray down on the bedside table and
bustled about the room, pulling clothing from a
chest at the foot of the bed. She kept looking at
Jenna as if Jenna" were some sort of mythical beast,
or as if she were afraid that Jenna might suddenly
order her head lopped off.

  "Here, Bantiarna. This will be good; see how the
brown matches your eyes? The tiarna's already
been to breakfast, and the other bartiarna, too-she's
your mam, isn't she? I think she's very lovely, not
at all like my own mam-but they asked that you
come to them when you wake. The healer will be
back here in just a bit to look at your arm again; I'll
make sure someone runs to find him as soon as I
leave you. That arm of yours must hurt, the way it's
wrapped. Did it give you problems sleeping? You've
evidently been through a terrible fight, from what
I've heard. Goodness, the rumors that have been
flying around here all morning . . ."
  As the woman spoke, all seemingly in one gigantic
breath, Jenna felt her arm cramp and tighten, her
hand clenching involuntarily into a fist. She felt for
the cloch-it was still there, hidden, and the feel of it
caused her hand to relax, though the pain still
radiated through her shoulder and into her chest.
The servant was looking at her strangely, her
mouth open though the words had stopped spilling
out for the moment.

 "Leave me," Jenna said abruptly before the young
woman could take another breath and begin
another monologue. "Those clothes are fine; I won't
need your help."
  The servant blanched, her face going white.
"Young miss, if I've of-fended-"

 Jenna waved her good hand to stop her. "You
haven't. I just ... I'd prefer to dress alone. Tell my
mam and the tiarna that I'll be down shortly." She
opened the door. "Please," she said, gesturing.

  With a nod and bow, the servant left. Jenna closed
the door behind her. She went to her pack, sitting at
the side of the bed, and rummaged through it until
she found the pouch of andúilleaf. She crumbled a
bit of the herb and set it steeping in the teapot, then
sank down on the bed. The bittersweet scent of
andúilleaf wafted through the room, and that alone
seemed to ease the pain a bit. For long minutes, she
simply lay there, eyes closed, feeling the pain slowly
lessen until she found she could move the fingers of
her right hand again, then she went and poured
her-self a cup of the brew. As she drank, she pulled
Eilís' ring from the pocket, looking at it and turning
it in her hand. She needed to know more, but she
didn't place the ring on her finger, uncertain. The
specter of the an-cient Holder had seemed so bitter,
so fey. Not someone Jenna would vol-untarily
choose as an adviser. Come to where a Holder's
body rests, or touch something that was once theirs,
and they can speak with you, if you will it. With the
memory of Eilís' words, Jenna sat up. She finished
the andúilleaf tea, dressed quickly, and left her
room.

  She found her mam and Mac Ard in a parlor room
leading out into an interior garden court, though
when Jenna-directed by another servant- passed
through it to get to the tiarna's room, she found
most of the plants were now brown and dead. The
doors were shut, and a fire was roaring in the
hearth. Mac Ard was standing near the fire, one
arm still bound to his body and another bandage
over his forehead. Maeve was sitting near him.
They had evidently been conversing, but both went
silent as Jenna entered.
 Food was laid out on a table near them, and Mac
Ard waved at it with his good hand as Jenna
entered. "Have you eaten?"

  "I'm not hungry," she answered. "What word is
there on the Connach-tans or O'Deoradháin?"
  Mac Ard shrugged with one shoulder. "None.
Three of the Connach-tans are dead-I know their
faces, and the Rí Connachta won't be pleased, as two
of them are his cousins-and the others fled west,
evidently leaving the High Road when it turned
north. I sent men to the farm where we met
O'Deoradháin-it wasn't his land at all, it seems.
There's been no sign of him, and no freelander in
the area knows him at all. I had someone find the
Taisteal and speak with Clannhri Sheehan, who said
that O'Deoradháin had come into the camp only a
few hours before us. He was proba-bly a
Connachtan as well."

   Three are dead, and two of them you killed. . . .
Jenna swallowed hard, trying to keep her face from
showing anything of her feelings. "There's talk all
through Áth Iseal about mage-lights, clochs, and the
Filleadh," Mac Ard continued. "The sooner we get to
Lár Bhaile, the better. I'd like to set out tomorrow,
if you're able."
 The thought of more travel made Jenna grimace,
but she nodded. "Whatever you think best.
Whatever keeps us safe."

  "You'll be safe now," Mac Ard told her. "From
here, I can promise that. The Connachtans won't
dare come this far east. I never offered you my
gratitude, Jenna," Mac Ard said. "But I do now.
That's the second time you've saved my life. It's a
debt I'll do my best to repay."
  "There's no debt," Jenna answered. "The first
time, what happened was out of my control, an
accident. This time . . ." She took a long breath. "I
did it to save myself and my mam."

 "And me?"

  "Aye, and you. Because-" Jenna stopped, looking
at her mam. Mac Ard's followed the gaze, his dark
eyes glinting in the firelight. He nodded, as if he saw
something in her face that he expected to see, and
pushed himself away from the mantle.
 "The cloch of yours," he said, his voice carefully
neutral. "I thought it was a clochmion, one of the
minor clochs, one of the least. I think we both know
better now. I think I could name the cloch you're
holding."

 Jenna hurried to answer. "I didn't know, Tiarna
Mac Ard. I just found it, that's all. I didn't know
what it was."
 "If you had, would you have given it to me? Would
you give it to me now?"

  Jenna didn't answer. She took a step back from
him.
  "You don't have to say anything," he said. "I can
see the answer in your face." His eyes held hers for
a few breaths longer before he looked away. "I have
a dozen things to attend to if we're leaving
tomorrow. Jenna, I'm glad you're feeling somewhat
better. If you'll excuse me, Maeve . . ."
  He left the room, passing close by Jenna. She
could feel the breeze of his passage.

  "Come here, darling," Maeve said as he left the
room. She opened her arms, and Jenna sank into
the embrace as if she were a small child again. As
Maeve stroked her hair, tears came, surprising
Jenna with their sudden-ness. She sobbed against
her mother's breast as she hadn't done in years, and
Maeve crooned soft words to her, kissing the top of
her head. Finally, Jenna sniffed back the tears and
pulled away, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.
"How are you feeling this morning?" Maeve asked
softly. Her eyes, concerned, glanced at the bandages
around Jenna's arm. "You used andúilleaf again,"
Maeve said.

 "I had to," Jenna answered. "It hurt too much."
 Maeve nodded. "You should know, Jenna. Padraic
and I-"

  "You don't need to say anything," Jenna told her.
"I understand, and if this is what you want, then I'm
happy for you. Just don't let him hurt you, Mam."

  "He won't," Maeve answered emphatically.
Certainty tightened her face. "We talked for a long
time. I know what he can do and what he can't do,
and I'm comfortable with that. I understand his
position; he understands mine. We're . . ." Maeve
stopped and Jenna saw a broad smile spread across
her face, twinned with a blush. "We're well suited
for each other."
  Jenna hugged her again, and Maeve stroked her
hair. "Padraic is wor-ried about you, Jenna," she
said.

  "Padraic doesn't need to worry." Jenna used his
first name scornfully, as if she hated the taste of its
familiarity. "This seems to be my problem, not his."
  "He'd take the cloch and its burden from you, if he
could."

  Jenna's eyes flashed at that, and she stood
abruptly, taking a step away from her mam. In the
hearth behind her, a log crashed in a whirling
cascade of sparks. "He can't have it. It's mine."

  She pushed away from Meave, who let her go.
"That's what he said you'd say, that you wouldn't,
that you couldn't, willingly give it up now, even
though it hurts you." Maeve smiled sadly. "I wish
you could. I would do anything to stop you from
being in pain, Jenna. I wish . . ." She looked away to
the fire, then back to Jenna. "I wish you'd never
found the stone. I wish Niall, your father . . ." She
stopped.
 "What about my da?" Jenna asked.

 Maeve shook her head. "Nothing. He said nothing
of this to me, but in looking back on how it was, I
think he was always waiting for that cloch himself. I
wonder now if he didn't bring it to Ballintubber
himself, from Inish Thuaidh or wherever he came
from before. If he'd lived, it would have been him
who was up on Knobtop that night, not you."

 "And then Tiarna Mac Ard would have come."
  Her mam gave Jenna a knowing smile. "I loved
your da, Jenna. But it's possible to be in love more
than once in your life. It's even possible to be in love
with two people at once, even if it's dangerous and
even though you know that those feelings will
inevitably cause everyone pain. One day you'll
realize that. I'll always love your da, and always
cherish my time with him. After all, he gave me
you."

  "And I'm all that's left. All the rest that we had is
gone. I have nothing." Her voice was wistful and
sad.

  "Most of it is gone, aye, except for a few things of
his I took before we left. Wait here a moment."
Maeve rose from her chair and left the room for a
few minutes, returning with a small wooden carving
in her hand. "Remember this?" she asked, holding it
out to Jenna: a block of pine fitting easily into her
palm and poorly carved into a representation of a
'seal and painted a bright blue, though wood showed
through at several places where it had been
scratched.

  "Aye," Jenna said. "The seal I used to play with
when I was a baby." She looked at Maeve. "Why
that?"
  "Your father carved it, before he left for Bácathair.
When you lost inter-est in it, I kept it because it was
his last gift to you. I'd forgotten I still had it until I
was trying to find a few things to take when we fled.
Here ... it isn't much, but you should have it back
now."
  Jenna held it in her left hand as memories surged
back: sitting on her mam's lap at the table and
laughing with her mam as the seal bobbed in a pan
of water; tossing it angrily across the room one
night because she was hungry and tired, chipping a
crockery bowl in the process-she'd never told her
mam that, letting her think the bowl had been
chipped some other time. "Da made this? I never
knew."

 Maeve nodded.

  . . . touch something that was once theirs, and they
can speak with you, if you will it...

 "Mam, may I keep this?"
  Maeve smiled at her. "It's yours, Jenna. It was
always yours."

  She did nothing until after the evening meal, when
she was alone again in her room.
  The sun had sunk behind the hills. The night was
dark, the moon and stars hidden behind a screen of
clouds. The air seemed heavy and cold. Jenna had
dismissed the servant for the night and sat in a
chair near the fire, feeding it peat until the blue
flames rose high and the light touched the far wall of
the bedroom. She took the carving of the seal from
the stand by her bed and set it in her lap, staring at
the fire for a time. Then she took it in her right
hand.

  She stared at the carving, at the marks her da's
knife had made shaping the wood, and seeing in her
mind's eyes the shavings curling away under the
blade. She could almost hear the sound of the dry
scraping of sharp iron against soft wood. . . .

 No. She could hear it.
  She turned. Near the window, a man sat in a plain
chair, holding a block of wood in one hand and a
knife in the other. Shavings were piled in his lap.
She could see the wall behind through the ghostly
image. His face . . . Jenna gasped, realizing that the
man who sat there, hair the color of fire, was the
same she'd glimpsed when she'd found the stone.
"Da?" she whispered.

  He looked up. "Who . . . ?" he asked. He seemed
confused, looking around. "Where am I? Everything
looks so pale . . . Maeve, is that you? You're dressed
so strangely, like a Riocha."
  Jenna walked toward him, holding the battered,
chipped seal out so he could see it. "I'm Jenna, Da.
Your daughter. Seventeen years old now." He shook
his head, wonder and fear and confusion all mingled
in his gaze. His reaction was so different from that of
Eilís, but then Eilís had held Lámh Shábhála when it
was active and knew that the cloch contained its old
Holders. When her da possessed Lámh Shábhála, it
had been dead, just an ordinary stone wrapped in
legend. Her da would have had no experience of the
cloch's abilities.

  "Wait," Jenna said. She imagined her memories
opening to him, as if they were gifts that she could
hand him, letting him see within her as Eilís had,
only this time she directed the sharing, choosing
what she allowed him to know. She could feel his
gentle touch on her memories, and as he
comprehended them he gasped, the knife and seal
falling from his grasp. They made no sound,
vanishing before they reached the floor.
 "I'm dead. A ghost."

  "Aye," she told him softly. "Or neither dead nor
ghost, only a moment caught forever, like a
painting. I don't really know, Da. But Eilís, the lady
in the falls, told me that Lámh Shábhála carries its
Holders. Which means you were one, too, even
though the mage-lights weren't there for you. Here,
do you remember?" She took the cloch out and held
it so he could see the stone. He started to reach for
it, then let his hand drop back.
  "I remember, aye. I carried it with me,
everywhere. Then, on Knobtop one day, I lost it. I
was never sure how that happened. I go up there
and look for it, all the time, still. Did I . . . ?"

  "No, Da. You never found it, but I did, the night
the mage-lights came."

  The wraith of Niall nodded. "So the stone truly
was Lámh Shábhála. I never knew for certain; for
all I knew, it was just a colorful pebble, though I'd
always been told it was a cloch, and supposedly the
cloch, the Safe-keeping. But it was dead-or waiting
for the mage-lights-when I had it." He sighed. He
looked at her for a long time, a slow smile touching
his mouth. "You look like her. You have Maeve's
eyes, and her hair."
  "She always says I have your nose, and the shape
of your face."
  He laughed. "I remember her saying that, not long
after you were born." He was silent for long
moments after that, his face somber. "Why did you
call me here, Jenna? If I'm dead, why did you rouse
me? Why didn't you leave me to rest?"

  "I wanted . . ." Jenna stopped. Now that she had
called him, she wasn't sure what she wanted. There
was so much. "I need to know what you know about
the cloch. I need you to help me."
   He stood and came toward her, reaching out his
hand. She extended her own hand for his touch. She
expected to feel his skin, or perhaps a waft of chill
air. She felt nothing. Her fingers went through his as
if they were mist. Is that what would have
happened with Eilís? She seemed so real, so whole,
but she was trying to scare me. ... Jenna felt
disappointment, and the figure of her da drew back,
sighing. "You're a dream. Not real."
  Jenna shook her head. "No. I'm real. It's you who
aren't."

  He may have believed her. He made no protest.
"If this is death, why is it so ... ordinary? Why don't
I remember dying? Why do I seem to be still in our
house, and you standing before me like a ghost?"
  "I don't know," Jenna answered. She looked at the
carving in her hand. "Though this wasn't with you
when you died, and it's all I have of yours. Maybe
that's the reason. There's so much I don't know, Da.
The stone was yours for a while-tell me why. Tell
me how you came to have it. Tell me everything.
Help me as you would have helped me if you were
still alive."
   He clasped his hands together, staring at them as
if marveling at their solidity. "If I were still alive, I
would have Lámh Shábhála," he answered. "Not
you. I would have been on Knobtop that night."
 "But I have it now, Da. Your daughter."

  He looked at her. "My daughter," he said. "I never
expected to have the gift of a daughter. For that
matter, I never expected to fall in love at all..."




                 Chapter 15: Niall's Tale
  MY mam, your great-mam, was the one who took
the cloch. No, that's not quite true. Actually, it was
your great-da who stole it from where it rested . . .
  "No, let me begin again. It's easier to start farther
back. Let me tell you the story as my mam used to
tell it to me. ...

  "She was born on Imshfeirm, an island just off
Inish Thuaidh. Inish-feirm's best known for the
Order of Inishfeirm, with their white stone buildings
set high on the peak. From what my mam said,
there weren't many residents of Inishfeirm outside
the Order; of those few, most were fisherfolk, her
family included. They knew the Bráthairs of the
Order, though. Couldn't help it, since the Order
dominated what social life there was on the island.
They'd meet them in the streets or in the market,
buying fish for their table or some of the greens that
came over from the big island.

  "My mam's name was Kerys Aoire. The Aoires
weren't Riocha, just plain folk, but well enough off
and one of the main families on the island, from
what Mam told me. They were often invited by the
Maister to dine at the Order Hall on the feast days.
The Order was a contemplative one, devoted to the
Mother-Creator. In the last decades of the Before,
the Order was known for its cloudmages, but when
the mage-lights failed, so did their prominence. By
the time my mam was born, they were a curiosity
from another age, a place to visit and hear the old
tales, to see the spectac-ular scenery of Inishfeirm,
with its buildings clinging like lichens to the steep
cliff walls of the mountain peak that formed the isle,
with the bright parapets of the Order, built five
centuries before, standing proud at the summit.
Once, the cells of the Bráthairs were crowded; now,
half of them were empty, though the Order still
attracted occasional acolytes from Inish Thuaidh,
young men sent to serve by wealthy families,
mostly, and even a few from among the mainland
Riocha, primarily from Falcarragh in Tuath
Infochla.

  "One of the acolytes, a boy of eighteen summers
named Niall, caught my mam's eye. Aye, that's my
name as well, and I'm sure that tells you some of
what happened next. I don't know much about my
da. Mam always claimed that she wouldn't tell me
his family name because she wanted to protect him,
but I'm not certain she ever knew it. I suppose it
doesn't matter. They fell in love, or at least lust. My
mam was probably your age, sixteen or seventeen,
and naive. It wasn't the first time a Bráthair of the
Order and a local girl had become lovers; I'm sure it
wasn't the last, either, though afterward I'll bet the
Máister watched things more closely than before.

  "One of the treasures of the Order of Inishfeirm
was its collection of clochs na thintrí. Once, the
Order's founders had even held Lámh Shábhála,
and three of the other Clochs Mór had been theirs,
as well as several of the minor stones. But when the
mage-lights failed, Lámh Shábhála was given away
or lost, though they retained the other clochs. Over
the centu-ries, they had accumulated more stones
reputed to be clochs na thintrí, though of course no
one could know for certain with the mage-lights long
dead. Some of the clochs had been handed down
through families for generations; others were
purchased or found, and as to their lineage and the
truth of the claims made for them . . . well, no one
knew.
  "Some two hundred years before my mam's birth,
the Order acquired a stone that was reputed to be
the long-lost Lámh Shábhála. I don't think anyone
actually believed that tale. Mam said that she'd seen
the collection a few times when the Moister would
order it brought out for the admira-tion of his
guests, and some of the clochs were gorgeous
stones: gleaming, transparent jewels of bright ruby,
midnight blue, or deepest green, faceted and
polished, some of them as big as your fist. The one
called Lámh Shábhála looked puny and insignificant
alongside them, at that time wrapped in a cage of
silver wire as a necklace. Even the necklace was
plain: simple black strands of cotton. The Moister
seemed somewhat skep-tical about the claims. You
know how tales grow and change with each telling,
and by that time it had been four centuries and
more since the clochs were alive with power, so it's
no wonder that no one knew for certain what Lámh
Shábhála had looked like.

  "The Bráthairs were contracted by their families
for life to the Order.
  Marriage was forbidden to them. When Mam
twice missed her monthly bleeding, she told Niall.
She was afraid that he would go to the Moister,
confess, and be forbidden to see Mam again, and
Mam would be left to the shame of a bastard child.
Certainly that had happened before, and there were
women on Inishfeirm who were pointed out as local
scandals. Now Mam thought she would be one of
them, a cautionary tale to Inish-feirm girls who
looked with love on one of the Bráthairs.

  "But Niall was true to her. He promised Kerys
that he would go away with her, that he would take
her to one of the Tuatha where they might be
married. And to prove that his promise was in
earnest, he gave her a token of his love and also of
his rejection of the Order. He stole what he
perceived as one of the least of the clochs, and gave
it to my mam.
 "Aye, the very cloch you hold now.

  "They managed to steal away at night, taking a
small currach that be-longed to my mam's family.
Though the moon was out when they started, my
mam said, they chose the wrong night, for a quick
storm came thun-dering out of the west and south
after they passed the last island and were nearly
across to Tuath Infochla. A currach is fine in a calm
sea; in the storm, in the huge wind-driven waves,
only a very lucky and very experi-enced sailor
could have kept the tiny craft afloat and neither
Niall nor Kerys were experienced or lucky. The
currach foundered just off the coast. Both Niall and
Kerys went over-Mam, at least, could swim well,
and she knew to rid herself of her wet clothes before
they dragged her down. She said she never knew
what happened to Niall. She heard him call once, but
in the storm and night, she never saw him again.
She called for him, called many times, but only the
thunder and the hissing of rain answered her. She
was certain she would die, too.
  "But she did not. When Mam told the tale, she
always said that a pair of large blue seals came to
her, and kept her above water, her arms around
their bodies as they swam toward shore. I don't
know if that's true at all; in the midst of the storm
and the terror, who knows if what you remember is
true. What is true is that, gasping and choking on
the cold salt water, she found herself on the rocky
shore, naked and shivering.

 "Around her neck, somehow, the necklace Niall
had given her was still there.

  "Mam saw a light high on the hill behind her, and
she walked to a cabin. The shepherd family there
took her in, set her by the fire, and gave her
clothing and blankets. If the storm hadn't thrown
Kerys ashore at that place, where there was a
sparse shingle of beach and a house close by, she
would have died anyway, of cold and exposure. She
always wondered whether some faint power still
lurked in the stone, that it brought the seals and
found the beach and saved her so it would not be
lost. Again, I don't know if that's true or not.
Certainly the stone never did anything else for her
... or for me. But I get ahead of my tale.

  "The next day, the shepherd, his wife, their two
children, and my mam went back down to the
beach. They found shattered pieces of the currach,
but nothing else. Niall's body wasn't ever found; he
drowned, most likely, and his body was dragged to
the bottom by the weight of what he wore, or tossed
to the shore at the foot of one of the wild cliffs
nearby and never seen.
  "Kerys stayed with the shepherd family, whose
name was Hagan, and I was born that winter. I
don't know what tale she gave the Hagans
regard-ing that night-for all I know, it may have
been simply the truth. The Hagans kept to
themselves, rarely going into the nearest village,
and Mam said they told the villagers that she was a
cousin who had come to stay with them. When the
shepherd's wife died the next spring in childbirth,
my mam remained, and eventually married Conn
Hagan, my stepfather. They had two other children
of their own. I can say little but good about Conn
Hagan-he treated me as well as he treated his own
children. If it was a hard life, it was no harder for
me than for his own.

  "There's not much more to tell. When I was
sixteen, I felt the need to see more of Talamh an
Ghlas than the few acres of our farm. When I left,
Mam gave me the cloch and told me the tale about
her and Niall. I set off north and came to
Falcarragh, and sailed from there over to Inish
Thu-aidh, and lived on the island for a few years. I
even visited Inishfeirm, though I didn't tell anyone
who I was. I visited the Order, and they told me
about the Before and the clochs na thintrí and Lámh
Shábhála, the Stone of Safekeeping.

  "I played the stranger with them, saying that I'd
heard the Lámh Shábhála was also there at the
cloisters, but they said 'no.' Many years ago, they
told me, a cloch had been stolen from the cloisters,
and though some had claimed that the stone was
Lámh Shábhála, the Moister was unconcerned
about the loss because the claims regarding the
cloch were almost cer-tainly false. If the stone was a
cloch na thintrí at all (and the Moister doubted it) it
had been no more than a clochmion, a minor stone.
No one knew where Lámh Shábhála was, they told
me. That cloch was lost.

  "But I learned a lot about the clochs na thintrí
from the Order of Inish-feirm and from other
places, and I always wondered. Many of those I
talked to spoke of the Return, the Filleadh, for they
believed that the mage-lights would return soon,
maybe within my lifetime. I thought that if this
cloch was truly Lámh Shábhála, then I would be the
First Holder. I would hold the renewed stone. I
wandered more, leaving Inish Thuaidh and
traveling the High Road south until I came to
Ballintubber.

 "And I found a new and more enduring type of
enchantment in Maeve, and I stayed. ..."

  "What happened to the cloch, Da?" Jenna asked.
"How did you lose it on Knobtop?" The phantom of
her father glanced up from his chair, where he
seemed to have fallen into a reverie after his tale.
He shrugged.

  "I lost it, or it lost me," he said. "I don't know
which. I wore the necklace all the time. I walked
often on Knobtop while in Ballintubber-I seemed to
be drawn to the mountain, or perhaps it was the
cloch that drew me there. After I married your
mam, I'd take the flock up there nearly every day.
One night, not a month after we married, I returned
from grazing them there, and when I took off my
shirt that night, I saw that the silver cage that had
held the stone was empty. The wires holding the
stone had moved apart enough for it to fall through.
I looked for the stone for the next year, almost
every day, combing the ground while the sheep
grazed. I never found it. But I know if I'd seen the
mage-lights over Knobtop, I'd have come running.
But from what you've said, it seems I never had the
chance." He seemed distraught and upset. "I
wonder," he said finally. "I wonder if the cloch did it
all: brought itself to Knobtop because it knew that
the mage-lights would come there, pulled itself
away from me so it could stay there. Or maybe that
was just all coincidence. Maybe the mage-lights
would have found the cloch wherever it was. I don't
know."
 As her da talked, Jenna became aware of light
moving against the walls, colorful, swirling bands.
She glanced at the balcony door; outside, the night
sky was alive with the mage-lights, sheets of
brilliance flowing as if in some unseen wind, dancing
above her. "Da!" she cried. "There! Can you see
them? Da?" She looked behind; he was gone. The
wraith had vanished.

  The cloch called to her, still in her hand from when
she had shown it to her father's spirit. Jenna went
out onto the balcony, into the chill night, into the
blazing shower of hues and shades. She lifted the
cloch to the sky, and the mage-lights coalesced like
iron filings drawn by a lodestone. She could hear
people in the streets below, shouting and calling and
pointing to the sky and to the tower on which she
stood, and behind her, her mam and Mac Ard
hurried into her room.
 "Jenna!" Maeve called, but Jenna didn't turn.

  The first whirling tendril of the mage-lights had
closed around her hand and the cloch, and the
freezing touch seeped into the patterns etched in
the flesh of her arm: as Maeve and Mac Ard rushed
toward her and stopped at the balcony doors; as the
people below exclaimed and gestured toward her;
as the mage-lights enveloped her, encased her in
color as energy poured from the sky into Lámh
Shábhála; as Jenna screamed with pain but also
with a sense of relief and satisfaction, as if the filling
of the cloch's reservoirs of power also fulfilled a need
in herself she hadn't known existed. She clenched
her fist tight around the stone while billows of light
fell from the sky and swept through and into her, as
she and Lámh Shábhála shouted affirmation back to
them.
  Then, abruptly, it was over. The sky went dark;
Jenna fell to her knees, gasping, holding the stone
against her breast. Lámh Shábhála was open in her
mind, a sparkling matrix of lattices, the reservoir of
power at its core stronger now, though not yet
nearly full. That would come, she knew. Soon. Very
soon.

  "Jenna!" Her mam sank to the balcony floor in
front of her, hands clutching Jenna's shoulders.
"Jenna, are you all right?" Jenna looked up, seeing
her through the matrix of the stone. She shook her
head, trying to clear her vision. She blinked, and
Lámh Shábhála receded in her sight. The full agony
of the mage-lights was beginning now, but she
would not lose consciousness this time.
 She was stronger. She could bear this.
  "Help me up," she said, and felt Maeve and Mac
Ard lift her to her feet. She stood, cradling her right
arm to her. She shrugged the hands away, and took
a few wobbling steps back into her room, with the
tiarna and her mam close beside her. She sat on the
edge of her bed, as her mam bustled about, shouting
to the servant to bring boiling water and the
andúilleaf paste. Mac Ard knelt in front of her,
reaching out as if to touch her arm. Jenna drew
back, scowling.

 "It wanted me, not you," she told him. "It's mine
now, and I won't let you have it. I won't ever let you
have it."
  She wasn't sure what she saw in his eyes then.
"I'm sorry, Padraic," she said. "I didn't mean that.
It's just the pain."

  He stared at her for long seconds, then he nodded.
"I'm not a danger to you, Jenna," he said, his voice
low enough so that only Jenna could hear him. "But
there are others who will be. You'll find that out
soon enough." He stood then.

  "I leave her to you, Maeve," he said, more loudly.
"I'll send for the healer. But I doubt that he has
anything that will help her now."



                 PART TWO: Filleadh


                    (Map: Lár Bhaile)




                Chapter 16: Lár Bhaile



  IF Áth Iseal felt large and crowded to Jenna, Lár
Bhaile was immense beyond comprehension. The
city spread along the southeastern arm of Lough
Lar, filling the hollows of the hills and rising on the
green flanks of Goat Fell, a large, steep-sloped
mountain that marked the end of the lough. Along
the summit of Goat Fell ran the stone ramparts of
the Ri's Keep, twin walls a hundred yards apart,
opening into a wide courtyard where the keep itself
stood, towering high above the city. Behind those
walls lived Rí Gabair, whose birth name was Torin
Mallaghan, in his court with the Riocha of Tuath
Gabair gathered around him.

  Jenna could well imagine how Tiarna Mac Ard
could have seen the mage-lights over Ballintubber
from those heights, flickering off the night-clad
waters of the lough.
  She looked up those heights now from the market
in what was called Low Town along the lake's shore,
and they seemed impossibly high, a distant aerie of
cut granite and limestone. Jenna judged that it had
taken her at least a candle stripe and a half to ride
down from the heights in Tiarna Mac Ard's carriage;
it would take two or more to wend their way back
up the narrow road that wound over the face of
Goat Fell.

 But that was for later. Now was the time for
business.

  Jenna glanced at the trio of burly soldiers who
accompanied her. Nei-ther the Rí nor Tiarna Mac
Ard would allow her to leave the keep alone. At
first, she hadn't minded, not after the escape from
Ballintubber. But in the intervening two months, the
initial feeling of safety had been replaced by a sense
of stifling confinement. She was never alone, not
even in the rooms the Rí had arranged for her at the
keep-there were always gardai stationed outside
the door and servants waiting just out of sight for a
summons. The cage in which she found herself was
jeweled and golden, plush and comfortable, but it
was nonetheless a cage.
 "For your own safety," they told her. "For your
protection."

  But she knew it wasn't for her protection. It was
for the protection of the cloch.
  Since she'd been in Lár Bhaile, the mage-lights
had appeared here a dozen times. Each time, they
had called her; each time, she had answered the call,
letting their power fill the cloch she carried, now
encased in a silver cage necklace around her neck,
as it had been once for her da. Soon, she knew, the
well within Lámh Shábhála would be filled to
overflowing and the stone would open the way to
the mage-lights for the other clochs. Everyone else
knew it, also, for she saw that the Riocha were
gathering here in Lár Bhaile, and many of them
wore stones that had been in their families for
generations, stones that were reputed to be clochs
na thintrí. They waited. They smiled at her the way
a wolf might smile at an injured doe.

  The Alds had been consulted, old records pored
over, tales and legends recalled. They knew now
that Jenna held Lámh Shábhála, and they also knew
the pain the First Holder must endure when Lámh
Shábhála opened the rest of the clochs na thintrí to
the mage-lights. They seemed content to let Jenna
be the First Holder.
  She thought most of them also imagined
themselves the Second Holder, though at least
Padraic Mac Ard didn't seem to be among them.
Wherever she went, there were eyes watching, and
she knew that the gardai whis-pered back to the
Riocha.
  Jenna could sense that the gardai didn't like where
she'd brought them. They scowled, and kept their
hands close to the hilts of their swords. The four of
them were at the end of the market square; the
stalls were small and dingy and the crowds thin.
Just beyond, a narrow lane moved south: Cat's
Alley, where the houses seemed to lean toward each
other in a drunken embrace, leaving the cobbled
lane in perpetual twilight. The central gutter was
foul with black pools of stagnant water edged with
filthy ice, and a frozen reek of decay and filth welled
out into the square from the open mouth of the lane.
Jenna grimaced: this was where Aoife, the servant
she trusted most, had told her that she would find a
man named du Val, who kept potions.
  "Back in Ballintubber," she'd told Aoife, "we had a
woman who gathered herbs and knew the old ways.
You know, plants that can cure headaches, or can
keep a young woman from getting pregnant, things
like that. Where would I find someone like that
here?"

  Aoife had smiled knowingly at Jenna. "1 do know,
mistress," she said. "Down in Cat's Alley, no more
than fifty strides from where it meets Low Town
Market. You'll see the sign on your right.

  Jenna counted the steps, trying to avoid the worst
of the muck on the ground. Before she reached
forty, she saw the weathered board with faded
letters: Du Val, Apothecary & Herbalist. She
couldn't read the words, but the tutors Tiarna Mac
Ard had assigned to her had taught her the letters
and she could compare then with the note Aoife had
given her. "Stay here," she told her escorts.

 "Mistress, our orders . . ."
  She'd learned quickly how to deal with the
objections of gardai. "Stay here, or I'll tell the Rí
that you lost me in the market. Would you rather
deal with that? I'll be careful. You can stay at the
door and watch me, if you'd like." Her words
emerged in puffs of white vapor; she wrapped her
clóca tightly around her. "The sooner I'm done here,
the sooner we can get back to the keep and some
warmth."

  They glanced at each other, then shrugged. Jenna
pushed open the door. A bell jingled above. In the
wedge of pale light that came in through the open
door, she saw a small, windowless room. The walls
were lined with shelves, all of them stuffed with
vials of glass and crockery. Ahead of her was a desk
piled high with more jars, and beyond into dim
shadows were cabinets and cubbyholes. There was
a fireplace to the right, but the ashes looked cold
and dead. "Hello?" Jenna called, shivering.

  Shadows moved in the darkness, and Jenna heard
the sound of slow footsteps descending a staircase
behind a jumble of boxes and crates. A short dwarf
of a man peered out toward her, squinting, a hand
over his eyebrows. "Shut the door," he barked. "Are
you trying to blind me?"

 "Shut it," Jenna told the garda, then when he
hesitated, added more sharply, "do it!"
  The door closed behind her, and as Jenna's eyes
adjusted, she saw that some light filtered in through
cracks in the doors and shutters, and that candles
were lit here and there along the shelves. The little
man shuffled forward to the desk with an odd,
rolling gait. He was dressed in a dingy, shapeless
woolen tunic and pants, held together with a simple
rope. His face reminded her a bit of Seancoim's-the
same bony ridge along the eyebrows, the flattened
face. She wondered if there wasn't Bunús Muintir
heritage in him somewhere. He glanced up and
down at her appraisingly. "What can I do for you,
Bantiarna?" he asked.
 "Are you du Val?" He sniffed. Jenna took that for
an affirmative answer.
 "I'm looking for a certain herb that none of the
healers in the keep seem to know," she told him. "I
was told that you might have it."

  "The healers know shite," du Val spat. "They
forget the lore their ances-tors knew. What are you
looking for?"
 "Andúilleaf."

  Du Val said nothing. He came from behind the
desk and stood in front of her. He was no taller than
her chest. He stared up at her face, then let his gaze
travel over her body. He saw the cloth wrapped
carefully around her right arm and took her arm in
his hands. Jenna didn't protest as he unknotted the
cloth strip and rolled it back. When her hand was
exposed past the wrist, he turned it over and back,
examining the skin with its mottled, scarred
patterns. Then, with stubby hands that were
surprisingly graceful, he wrapped the arm again.

  "So you're the one? The one who calls the
mage-lights?" Jenna didn't answer. Du Val sniffed.
"You don't have to tell me; I can look at your arm
and see it. I've seen the mage-lights swirling around
the keep and heard about the young figure that
stands on the keep's summit at their bidding and
swallows them. I've heard the name Lámh Shábhála
bandied about. I've heard the rumors, little ones
and big ones, and I know more about the truth of
them than some of the Riocha up in the keep. I've
seen the Riocha come to Lár Bhaile all of a sudden
with bright stones around their necks, and I know
that the eye of the Rí Ard in Dún Laoghaire looks
this way as well, and he's also very interested in
what's going on. And the goons outside-I suppose
they're here to protect you and stop me from taking
the cloch from you."
  Jenna felt a shiver not born of cold run through
her. "They're fast and strong, well-armed and
mean, and they will kill you if you so much as
scratch me," she told du Val. He seemed
unimpressed. He scratched his side.

 "Vermin," he said. "You can't get rid of them. Not
here in their natural habitat: the city. How long
have you been taking the leaf?"

 "Almost two months now."
 "Regularly?"

 "Almost every day." In truth, it was every day.
Sometimes twice. On the really bad days, the days
after the mage-lights, even more. Du Val stroked
his chin.

 "You know that andúilleaf's addictive?"
 Jenna shrugged. "It takes away the pain."

  "So it does, so it does-though your healers would
tell you that the leaf has no known pharmacological
properties, if they recognize the herb at all. They
wouldn't know where to find it, wouldn't notice it
growing.

  That knowledge's lost to them. The Old Ones
knew, the Bunús Muintir. The few of them who are
still around know, too. They also know how careful
you have to be with the leaf, if you don't want to end
up needing it forever."
  "If you're planning to talk me to death, I'll go
elsewhere," Jenna told him speaking to him in the
tone she'd heard the bartiarnas use with their
servants. "I have another source." She turned to go,
hoping the bluff would work. She could feel tears
welling up behind her eyes and knew that she
couldn't hold them back once she closed the door
behind her, no matter what the gardai might think.
She was scared: lost in the need for the relief from
pain the herb brought, lost in a level of society she
didn't understand. There was no "other source"-she
had no idea how she could find Seancoim again, or
how she would find her way to Doire Coill with-out
having to explain it to the Rí and Mac Ard.
  "All right," du Val grunted behind her, and she
wiped surreptitiously at her eyes before turning
back to him. "I have the leaf. 'Tis expensive." He
almost seemed to laugh. "But considering who you
are, that's probably not a consideration, is it? Who
else knows you're dependent on it?" When she
didn't answer, he did laugh, a snorting amusement
that twisted his swarthy, broad face. "If you're
afraid that I'll use the information to black-mail you,
forget it. You have worse worries than that."
  He went to the back of the room, rummaging
around in the shadowy recesses of a leaning, bowed
case of shelving. He returned with a glass jar
half-filled with brown leaves. "This is all I have," he
said. "'Tis old, but still potent." Jenna reached for
the jar, and du Val pulled it back to his chest,
scowling up at her. "First, it's two mórceints."
  "Two mórceints?" Jenna couldn't keep the shock
from her voice. Two mórceints was more than a
good craftsman made in a year. Back in
Ballintubber, that might have been more money
than the entire village together saw in the same
time.

  'Two mórceints," he repeated. "And don't be
complaining. There's few enough of us who would
even know how and where to find this, and it grows
in only one place anywhere near here."
 "Doire Coill," Jenna said.

  If du Val was surprised by her knowledge, he
didn't show it. "Aye," he said. "The dark forest
itself, and only in special places there. Two
mórceints," he repeated, "or you can check your
'other source.'" He smiled at her, with black holes
where several teeth should have been.
  All right," she said. She fumbled in the pouch she
carried. At least Tiarna Mac Ard wasn't stingy with
his money; she had the two mórceints and more.
She counted out the coins into du Val's grimy,
callused palm, then reached again for the jar. He
wouldn't release it.
  "Does someone know you're taking this?" he
asked again.

   "Aye," she answered. "My mam." It was a lie. The
truth was that no one knew, unless Aoife suspected
it.
  He nodded. "Then tell your mam this: take the
leaf no more than once a day, and for no longer than
a month. Start with four leaves in the brew; cut the
dosage by one leaf every week, or you'll be back
here again in another month, and the price will be
four mórceints. Do you understand that?"

 "Aye," Jenna answered.

  With the word, du Val released the jar and closed
his fingers around the coins. He jingled them
appreciatively. "A pleasure doing business with you,
Holder."
 "I'm certain it was."

 He snorted laughter again. "I'll see you again in a
month."
 "I don't think so."
  "The magic you're trying to hold is powerful, but
also full of pain. There's no cure for it. You can look
for ways, like the leaf, to dull it, or you learn to bear
what it gives you. Either way, it will always be
there. Better to accept the pain as it is, if you can."

 "Do you charge for your platitudes, also?"
 Du Val grinned. "For you, I can afford to give the
advice for nothing."

  "And that's exactly what it's worth," Jenna
retorted. "I won't be back."

  She immediately hated the way the words
sounded, hated the intention to hurt that rode in
them: she sounded too much like some of the Riocha
at the keep, the ones she despised for their
haughtiness. If du Val had shown that her words
stung, she would have felt immediate remorse. She
would have apologized. But the dwarf shrugged and
moved away behind the desk. He puttered with the
flasks and vials there, ignoring Jenna. Finally, she
turned and went to the door. When her hand
touched the rope loop that served as a handle, du
Val's voice came from behind her.
 "I'm sorry for you, Holder. I truly am."

  She took a breath. She opened the door, nodded to
the relieved glances of the gardai, and closed the
door behind her again.
   She spent another candle stripe or so in Low Town
Market, desultorily pretending to shop as an excuse
for the trip. The wind began to rise from off the
lake, and she could see storm clouds rising dark in
the west beyond the roofs of the houses, and finally
told the gardai to fetch the carriage for the ride
back. The carriage moved slowly through the
twisting maze of narrow lanes, heading always up
toward the stone shoulders of Goat Fell and the
keep high above. Jenna lay back on the seat, eyes
closed, listening to the sounds of vibrant, crowded
life around her: the strident, musical calls of the
vendors; shouts and calls from the windows of the
houses she passed; the laughter from the pubs,
seemingly on every corner; the sound of a fine
baritone voice lifted in song . . . "Stop!" Jenna called
to the driver.

  The carriage jolted to a halt, and she got out, the
gardai hurriedly following her. She could still hear
the voice, coming from the open door of a tavern
just down the street. She strode down the lane to
the pub, squinting into a hazy darkness fragrant
with the smell of ale and pipe.

 So over the sea they sped
 From Falcarragh where the mountains loom

 From home and bed

 To Inish and their doom . . .
  She knew the tune: the Song of Máel Armagh. She
had heard it once before she left Ballintubber. And
she knew the voice as well.

 "Coelin!"

   The song cut off in mid-verse, and a familiar head
lifted. "By the Mother-Creator . . . Jenna, is that
you, girl?"
 "Aye. 'Tis me, indeed."

 Laughing, he set down his giotár and ran to her.
He took her in his arms and spun her around, nearly
knocking over a few pints. He set her down again,
holding her at arm's length.

 He kissed her.
  "I thought you were dead, Jenna. That's what
everyone was saying. The damned Connachtans
killed the Ald, and Tom Mullin, too, when he tried to
stop them. Then there were the killings down by
your old house, and the fires ..." Coelin was shaking
his head; Jenna's finger still touched her lips. Now
she placed the finger on Coelin's lips.
  "Shh," she said. "Quietly. Please." That, at least,
she'd learned from the Riocha: you never knew who
might be listening to your words.
  Coelin looked puzzled, but he lowered his voice so
that only she could easily hear him against the
murmuring conversations of the pub. "Any-way,
the Connachtans went off in a fury, and we heard
they were looking for you and your mam, and that
tiarna-what was his name? Mac Ard?- but
everyone figured you'd either been burned up in
your cottage, or lost in the bogs." He stopped,
looking at her closely, and glancing behind her at the
trio of soldiers who watched carefully from the
doorway. Coelin's eyes narrowed a bit, seeing them.
"All the rumors were wrong, obviously, and by the
looks of you, you're hobnobbing with the Riocha.
And your arm-you have it all wrapped up. You owe
me a tale, girl."

  He was smiling, and she could still feel the touch of
his lips on hers. "What about you, Coelin?" she
asked. "How did you come to be here? And softly ..."
  He shrugged, grinning, but he kept his voice low.
"If you remember, that tiarna of yours said I was
good, that I should be singing to larger audiences
than poor little Ballintubber could give me, so after
things set-tled down, I thought I'd take his advice."
He touched her cheek, though his gaze went quickly
to the gardai. "After all, you were gone. Ballintubber
just didn't seem to be where I wanted to be
anymore."

 "You still have the gift of words, Coelin Singer,"
Jenna told him, but she was smiling back. "Pretty
and beguiling and too charming."
 "But not false," he answered. "Not false at all."
 "Hah!"

  His face fell in mock alarm. "You don't believe me,
then? I am hurt." He laughed again, and gestured at
the corner where his giotár rested, a few copper
coins in the hat placed near it. "Can you stay and
listen? Maybe we can talk more? I wasn't joking
when I said that you owe me the tale of your
adventures."
  Jenna started to shake her head, then stopped. "I
have a better idea," she said. "Come with me. I'm on
my way back to the keep. You can sing for the
Riocha there, and we can talk. Tiarna Mac Ard will
remember you." She gestured at the hat with its
coins. "And the pay's likely to be better."

 "To the keep? Really?"

  "Aye. Mam would love to see you again. We knew
some of what hap-pened in Ballintubber, but the Rí
didn't want it known that we were here, not after
what happened, and so it's been kept quiet. Mam
will ask you a hundred questions, or more likely a
thousand. Will you come?"
  He smiled. "I could never refuse anything you
asked, Jenna," he said.
              Chapter 17: The Ri's Supper



 "COELIN!"
  Maeve sounded nearly as glad to see him as
Jenna had. She clasped the young man to her, then
held him out at arm's length. "When did you leave
Ballintubber?"

  Coelin's gaze wouldn't stay with Maeve. It kept
wandering past her to the rich embroidered
tapestries on the walls of their apartment within the
Ri's Keep; to the expensive, dark furniture; to the
glittering trinkets set on the polished surfaces. "Two
hands of days ago," he said. "By the
Mother-Creator, I've never seen-"
  "You have to tell me everything," Maeve said,
pulling him toward a chair near the fire. Jenna
laughed softly, watching Coelin marvel at the
surroundings. "Start with the day the Connachtans
attacked . . ."
  Coelin told her, spinning the tale with his usual
adroitness, and-Jenna suspected- a certain amount
of dramatic license. ". . . so you can see," he finished,
"I barely escaped with my life myself."

  That may still be the case," a voice said from the
doorway. Tiarna Mac Ard stood there, frowning at
the trio gathered near the fire. His dark beard and
mustache were frosted with ice, and the furs over
his clóca were flecked with rapidly melting snow.
 "Tiarna," Coelin began. "I'm-"

  I know who you are," Mac Ard interrupted. "What
I don't know is why you're here." He took off the
furs, tossing them carelessly on a chair. As he did so,
he grimaced-the wound he'd taken on the road to
Áth Iseal hadn't completely healed yet, and his right
arm, Jenna knew, was still stiff and sore, its range of
motion limited. He was dressed in riding leathers,
and a short sword hung heavily from his belt. His
left hand rested casually on the silver pommel of the
hilt.

  "I brought him here, Tiarna," Jenna said. "I
happened to see him in the city, and we started
talking, and I knew Mam would want to hear about
Ballintubber, so . . ." She stopped, her eyes
widening. "Did I do wrong?"

  "Aye," Mac Ard answered, though his voice
sounded more sad than angry. "I'm afraid that you
did, Jenna."
  "The boy isn't to blame, Padraic," Maeve said. "Or
Jenna. She only did what I would have done, had I
seen him."

  "That may be," Mac Ard answered. "The deed's
done, in any case. What we do now depends." He
stopped.

 "Depends on what?" Jenna asked.
  "On whether Coelin Singer knows how to keep his
mouth shut about certain things." Mac Ard strode
up to the boy. He stood in front of Coelin, staring at
the young man's face. "For various reasons, we've
been careful to make certain that it's not common
knowledge in the city that a certain two people from
Ballintubber are here, or to know the circumstances
under which they left the village. If I suddenly start
hearing those rumors, I'd know where to place the
blame and how to deal with the source. Am I
understood?"

  Coelin's lighter eyes held the man's burning gaze,
though he had to clear his throat to get his voice to
work. "I can keep secrets, Tiarna. I know that
certain songs should never be sung, or only in the
right circum-stances."
  Mac Ard took a long breath. He rubbed at his
beard, melting ice falling away. "We'll see," he said.
"It's a hellish evening out there," he added. "Cold,
and full of sleet and snow. A fine end to the year.
But a song or two performed well might be
welcomed at the Ri's dinner tonight. Are you
prepared to sing for a Rí, Coelin?"

 Coelin's face broke into a helpless grin. "Aye," he
nearly shouted. "For the Rí? Truly?"

  Mac Ard seemed to smile back. "Truly," he
answered. "Though you'll need to look better than
you do now. Where's that girl? Aoife!" he called, and
a young woman came out from one of the doors,
curtsying to Mac Ard.
 "Tiarna?"

  "Take this lad and get him proper clothes for the
supper tonight with the Rí. He'll be singing for us.
Go on, then, Coelin, and practice until you're called
for."

  Coelin grinned again. "Thank you, Tiarna," he
said. His gaze strayed to lenna, and he winked once
at her. She smiled back at him.
  "You can repay me by keeping quiet," Mac Ard
told him. "Because if you don't, I will make certain
you never talk to anyone else again. I trust that's
clear enough for you."

 The grin had fallen from Coelin's face like a leaf in
an autumn wind. "Aye, Tiarna" he said to Mac Ard,
and his voice was now somber. "It's very clear."

 "Good." Mac Ard glanced from Coelin, to Jenna,
and back again. "I would not forget my place and
my task, if I were you, Coelin Singer."
  Coelin nodded. He left the room with Aoife, and
did not look again at Jenna.

  The Ri's suppers were in the great Common Hall
of the keep, a loud and noisy chamber with stone
walls and a high, dim ceiling. A trestle table was set
down the length of the hall. Torin Mallaghan, the Rí
Gabair, sat with his wife Cianna, the Banrion, at the
head of the table, jeweled torcs of beaten gold
around both of their necks.

  Arrayed down either side of the table before the
royal couple were the Riocha in residence at the
keep.

  Not surprisingly, there was a delicate etiquette
involved in the seating. Immediately to the Ri's left
was Nevan O Liathain, the first son of Kiernan 0
Liathain, the Rí Ard-the High King in Dún
Laoghaire. Nevan's title was "Tanaise Rig," Heir
Apparent to the Rí Ard. He had come to Lár Bhaile
at his father's request, as soon as the rumors of the
mage-lights had reached the Rí Ard's ears.

  Padraic Mac Ard sat at the Ri's right hand next to
Cianna, a sign of his current favor, and Maeve and
Jenna were seated after him. There were Riocha
from most of the tuatha present as well, and many
of them wore prominent necklaces with stones that
were reputedly cloch na thintrí, though none of
them knew for certain. Jenna knew, however. She
could open her mind to the cloch she held, and see
the web of connection from her cloch to theirs. A
good number of the stones were simply pretty
stones, and those who owned them would be
disappointed when the Filleadh came. But some . . .
some possessed true clochs na thintrí. One of them
was Mac Ard, even though the cloch he held was
never visible.

  Farther down, below the salt, were the céili
giallnai-the minor Riocha -then the Ri's clients and a
few prominent freepersons of Lár Bhaile.
   Jenna hated these suppers, and usually pleaded
illness to avoid them.

  She hated the false smiling conversations; hated
the undercurrents and hidden messages that ran
through every word; hated the way Rí Mal-laghan
sat in his chair like a fat, contented toad
contemplating a plate of flies before him; hated
when his eyes, half-hidden in folds of pale flesh,
regarded her with an appraising stare, as if she
were a possession of his whose value was still in
question. She wanted to dislike Cianna, the Ri's
ailing wife, whose eyes were always hollow and
sunken, ringed with dark flesh, but she couldn't,
more out of pity than anything else. Cianna was as
thin as the Rí Gabair was corpulent yet she wheezed
constantly, as if the exertion of moving her frail
body about was nearly too much for her. Cianna,
unfortunately, seemed to have fastened on Jenna as
a fellow suf-ferer and talked to her often, though
she treated Jenna like an addled child, always
explaining things to her in a breath scented with the
mingled odors of cinammon and sickness. She
leaned toward her now, bending in front of Mac Ard
and Maeve, the torc around her neck swinging
forward, glinting in the torchlight. Her dark,
haunted eyes fastened on Jenna's. "How are you
feeling today, dear? Did that healer I sent to you
from Dubh Bhaile help you?"
   "Aye, Highness," Jenna answered. "The arm feels
a bit better today." Actually, Jenna had endured the
man's prodding and poking, and had thrown away
the potion he offered, taking instead some of the
andúilleaf she'd bought that morning. She could feel
it easing the pain in her arm.

  Cianna looked pleased. "Good," she said. "He's
certainly done much for me, though I still can feel
the pain in my back."

  Jenna nodded. The Banrion had gone through
three new healers in the two months they'd been at
the keep; each time the Banrion seemed to get a
little better, but then she inevitably slumped back
into illness and the current healer was dismissed
and another summoned. If her back was hurting
now, this healer would be leaving before another
fortnight. The Rí himself never seemed to
notice-he'd perhaps seen too many healers already,
and no longer inquired after his wife's health. She'd
borne him a son and a daughter early in their
marriage; both were away in fosterage- the son to
Tuath Infochla, the daughter to Tuath Éoganacht.
The Banrion Cianna had performed her duty and
could keep her title. As to the rest . . . well, the Rí
had other lovers, as Jenna already knew from keep
gossip. For that reason, she was careful when the Rí
smiled at her-two of the Ri's current lovers were as
young as Jenna.

  The Tanaise Rig, Nevan O Liathain, had evidently
been listening to Cianna's conversation with Jenna.
He looked across to her as the servants set the meat
trays on the table. "Perhaps the pain will lessen
when the other clochs are opened, Holder," he said.
"Or perhaps there is another way to use the
mage-lights that wouldn't cause a Holder so much . .
. agony." Jenna could hear the words underneath
what he said: Perhaps you are too stupid and too
common to be the First. Perhaps someone of the
right background would be better able to use it ... O
Liathain smiled; he was handsome, with hair black
as Seancoim's crow Denmark, and eyes of glacial
blue. Thirty, with a body hardened by training and
an easy grace, his wife dead two years now leaving
him still childless, he turned the heads of most of
the available women in the keep, even without the
added attraction of his title. He knew it, also, and
smiled back at them indul-gently.

  But not at Jenna. Not at Maeve. Jenna had
overheard him talking to the Rí one night, a few
days after his arrival. "Why do you keep them?" he
asked the Rí, laughing. "Listen to them. Their
accents betray their commonness, and their
manners are, well, nonexistent. 1 can't believe Mac
Ard would be consort-ing with that stupid cow
mother of the Holder-if I were going to take one of
them to my bed, as disgusting a thought as that is, I
would have chosen the girl, who's at least trainable.
Better to have left them back scrabbling in the dirt,
which is all they're suited for. One of us should take
the cloch from this Jenna now, before she truly
learns to control it, and be done with the charade ..."

 She hadn't heard the Ri's answer. She'd slipped
away, steeling herself to fight for the possession of
the cloch that night if she had to, trying to stay
awake lest the Ri's gardai enter her bedroom, but
eventually exhaus-tion claimed her and she drifted
off to sleep, awakening the next morning with a
start. But the cloch was still with her, and the Rí
Gabair, if anything, seemed almost conciliatory
toward her when she saw him later that morning.

  She smiled at O Liathain now across the table, but
her smile was as artificial and false as his own. "Each
cloch tells its Holder the way to best use it, as the
Tanaise Rig might learn one day should he actually
have a cloch of his own." Her smile widened on its
own; O Liathain wore what he thought was a cloch
na thintrí around his neck; while it was certainly an
expensive jewel worthy of a Rí, it pleased Jenna to
know that it was simply that, not a cloch na thintrí.
  O Liathain frowned and fingered the polished
facets of his stone on its heavy gilded chain. He
looked as if he were about to retort, but the Rí
guffawed at the exchange. "You see, Nevan," he said
to O Liathain. "The Holder is more than she appears
to be. She has an edge on her tongue."

  "Indeed, she does," O Liathain replied. He inclined
his head to her. 'My pardon." There was a distinct
pause before the next word. "Holder," he finished.

  Mac Ard speared a piece of mutton with his knife
and set it on his plate. "The Tanaise Rig is gracious
with his apology," he said, but Jenna and everyone
else who heard it knew the tone of his voice and the
hard stare he gave O Liathain added another thing
entirely: and it was necessary if you didn't want me
to take offense. Maeve touched Mac Ard's arm and
smiled at him. Mac Ard, at least, seemed protective
of them, though Jenna noted that while he might
spend the night with Maeve, he also hadn't offered
to legitimize the relationship.

  Mac Ard was playing his own game. They were all
playing their own games. She had already learned
that words and actions here were carefully
considered, and often held more than one meaning.
Jenna was already weary of ferreting out those
meanings, especially since she seemed to be the
prize at the end of the contest. She wanted
straightforward talk again, the easy conversations
she'd had back in Ballintubber with her mam or
Aldwoman Pearce or the other villagers, words that
were simply gentle and kind speech.
 Mac Ard smiled at O Liathain; O Liathain smiled
back. Neither one of them meant the gesture. Jenna
would have made an excuse, as she often did, that
her arm troubled her and she needed to retire. But
Maeve leaned toward her. "Patience," she
whispered. "Coelin will be singing in a few minutes."

  Jenna brightened at that. She endured the barbed
conversations around her until the doors at the end
of the hall opened and Coelin walked through with
his giotár. Mac Ard cleared his throat and leaned
toward the Banrion and Rí. "I heard this young man
in the village where the mage-lights first appeared,
and he recently came to the city. He trained with
the Songmaster Curragh, who came here now and
again, if you remember. He really has an
extraordinary voice, Highnesses. I thought you
would enjoy hearing him."
  'Well, then, let's hear him," the Rí said. He
gestured to Coelin, and pointed. "Stand there, and
give us this voice of yours."

  Coelin bowed low, his eyes catching Jenna's as he
did so. "Is there a song your Highnesses would like
to hear?" he asked. "A story that Song-master
Curragh used to sing, perhaps?"

 The Rí seemed amused by that. "Are you saying
your voice is the equal of your Songmaster's, young
man?"

  Coelin shook his head but the charming grin
remained on his face. "Oh, no, my Rí. Songmaster
Curragh always said my voice was the better."
  There was a moment of silence before the Rí
laughed, the rest of the table following his lead a
moment later. "He seems to have a healthy ego, at
least, Padraic. I suppose that's good. But we'll be the
judge of his talent. Give me The Lay of Rowan
Beirne, young man."
  Mac Ard sniffed, as if the choice surprised him,
and Jenna glanced at him curiously. Coelin
strummed a chord on his giotár, his eyes regarding
the ceiling of the hall as if the words to the song
were written there. "A fine choice, Rí Mallaghan.
Songmaster Curragh taught me that one, not long
before he died. Let me think a moment, and bring
back the verses Aye ..." Coelin's gaze came back
down and he nodded his head to the Rí. "I have it
now," he said. His gaze caught Jenna's again, and he
winked. He began to sing.
 On the cusp of summer Rowan came forth

  Bright armor on his chest, around his neck the
stone
 He saw the army on Sliabh Bacaghorth,

  The banners of the Inish waving as Rowan stood
alone . . .

 "Have you heard this song before?" Cianna
whispered, leaning toward Jenna. Jenna shook her
head.
 "I don't believe so, Banrion," she answered. She
wanted to add . . . and 1 still won't have heard it, if
you talk to me, but held her tongue.

 Cianna glanced at Mac Ard, next to her. "He
knows it," she said. "Don't you, Padraic?"
 "I do, Banrion," Mac Ard answered, his voice gruff
and low.
 "And do you enjoy it?"

   "I think 'enjoy' is too strong a word, Banrion. I find
it ... illuminating. And an interesting choice for the
Rí."

  "Indeed." Cianna leaned back then. Jenna puzzled
over the exchange for a moment, but then Coelin's
rich voice drew her back, and she re-turned her
attention to him, smiling as she watched him
perform.

  Jenna had indeed heard portions of the tale once
or twice, though greatly altered and changed in the
retellings. She had heard folktales of the hero
Rowan, who had a magic stone-though she hadn't
realized until now that the stone was supposedly the
one she held now, or that Rowan was anything other
than a mythological figure. What Coelin sang now,
though, gave the full background of the tales, and it
was a history Jenna had never suspected. Rowan
Beirne had been a Holder of Lámh Shábhála more
than five centuries before, and the last Holder from
Talamh an Ghlas. From the opening stanza on the
eve of Rowan's last day of life, the lay moved
backward in time to the hero's youth, to his first
triumphs on the field of battle, to the unsurprising
extolling of his skill with the sword and his prowess
in battle, and to his consolidation of the smaller
tuatha that were numerous around Tuath Infochla
at the time.
  But that wasn't what startled Jenna. Early in the
lay, the verses gave the lineage of Rowan, and it was
then that Jenna sat back in her chair, stunned, no
longer even hearing Coelin's voice. Rowan's mam
was a woman named Bryth, and she held Lámh
Shábhála before Rowan. Bryth's surname, before
she married Tiarna Anrai Beirne of Tuath Infochla,
was Mac Ard.

  A Mac Ard once held Lámh Shábhála. . . . Jenna
barely heard the rest of the song: how Rowan
foolishly allowed himself to be drawn north out of
Falcarragh to a supposed parley with the
Inishlanders, where he was ambushed and
murdered by assassins in the employ of the Inish
cloud-mage Garad Mhullien; and how Lámh
Shábhála was taken from Rowan's body and
brought to Inish Thuaidh. She barely reacted when
Coelin fin-ished the song to the applause of the
table, or when the Rí handed Coelin a small sack of
coins and told him to return again four nights hence
to entertain his guests at the Solstice Feast.
  She sat clutching at the stone on its chain around
her neck. She couldn't look at Mac Ard, and she fled
the table as soon as she could make an excuse.




                 Chapter 18: Secrets



 "WHY didn't you tell us that your ancestors once
held the cloch, Padraic? I don't understand ..."

  Maeve's voice trembled, and Jenna could tell that
her mam was on the verge of tears. Mac Ard,
standing near the fireplace of their chambers, made
as if to move toward her, but she lifted her head and
he stopped with a shrug.
  "Maeve, would you have trusted me if I had?" he
answered. "Or would you have thought that I'd
come only to take it from Jenna?" He glanced at
Jenna, seated next to her mam and still clutching
the stone.
  "I don't know what I would have thought," Maeve
answered. "Because you never gave us the chance
to know. Why would you have come at all, if you
didn't want the stone?"
  "I did want it," Mac Ard answered. "I won't deny
that. Had I found the cloch on that damned hilltop,
aye, I would have kept it for myself. I wanted to be
the Holder of Lámh Shábhála. I thought . . ." He
took a breath and let it out in a nasal snort. "When I
saw the mage-lights-here, so close to me-I thought
that it was a sign that it was my destiny to bring the
cloch back to my family. But Jenna already had it,
though I didn't know it. And when I did . . ." He
raised his hands, let them fall. "If you remember, I
did hold it once, after Jenna killed the riders, and I
gave it back. Maeve, have I done anything,
anything, to make you feel threatened, or to cause
you to feel that I'm a threat to your daughter?"

 Jenna watched her mam shake her head slowly.
  "Have I made any attempt to take the stone from
Jenna, even though I had the opportunity, even
though I once actually held it in my hands, before
she knew how to use it?"

 "No," Maeve admitted. She touched Jenna's
bandaged arm. "Though sometimes I wish you
had."

  "Then forgive me for not telling you all of the
history I knew, but believe me when I say it was
because I was afraid that you wouldn't trust me,
and because I was afraid that you would think that I
lied when I told you I loved you."

  "Padraic," Maeve began, but the tiarna
interrupted.
  "No, let me tell you all now, so there aren't any
more secrets. There isn't much to tell." He pulled a
chair close to the two of them and took Maeve's
hands. His attention was on her; he glanced quickly
at Jenna and looked away again before returning his
gaze to her mam. "All this took place five centuries
ago, so I-don't know what's true and what's been
changed in all the telling and retellings over the
years. That's too much time, and details change
every time the story gets told. So I'm simply going
to give you the bare, dry genealogy without any
embellishment: Sinna Hannroia-a Riocha from a
small fiefdom-once held Lámh Shábhála, and she fell
in love with the Rí of another small fiefdom named
Teador Mac Ard, my several times great-da, and
married him. The two of them had a daughter
named Bryth and a son named Slevin. Sinna passed
Lámh Shábhála to Bryth before her death, and as
you know from Coelin's song tonight, Bryth later
married Anrai Beirne-a purely political alliance,
from what our family history tells us-and eventually
became the mother of Rowan Beirne, who lost the
cloch to the Inishlanders. In any case, I'm not of
Bryth's direct line, which is dead now: Bryth had
only Rowan, and Rowan left no children that anyone
knows about. The Mac Ards of today, like myself,
trace our lineage back to Bryth's younger brother
Slevin. So, aye, once someone of my blood and my
name was the Holder of Lámh Shábhála, but it was
long, long centuries ago in the Before. I have hand
upon hand of cousins with the Mac Ard name who
can say the same. There are many tiarna, as well as
people of more common blood, who can say the
same because there have been numerous Holders
over the years. If you're going to be afraid of all of
those who share the same surnames, you're going to
be fearful of half the Riocha. You can't blame me for
history, nor hold me accountable for it." He kissed
the back of her hands, lifting them to his lips.
"That's the extent of it, Maeve. Don't be afraid of
my name. Don't be afraid of me."

  He smiled at her, and Jenna watched her mam
smile in return. Then Mac Ard leaned forward and
kissed Maeve. "I need to see the Rí," he said. "The
Rí rarely does anything without a reason, and I
wonder why he ailed for that song tonight. I think
he and I should have a conversation. If you'll pardon
me ..."

  "Go on, Padraic," Maeve told him. She continued
to hold his hands as he stood. "And thank you. I do
understand."
  He kissed her hands again. "I'll see you later, then.
Jenna, I hope you also understand," he added, and
left the room. As he did so, Maeve placed her hands
over her abdomen, pressing gently. Jenna's eyes
narrowed, and she must have made a sound, for
Maeve glanced back over her shoulder and Jenna
saw that she noticed where her daughter's gaze lay.
Maeve looked down at her hands herself, then back
to Jenna, shifting in her chair so she faced her
daughter.
 "Aye," she told Jenna.

 "You're certain?"

  "I've not bled for two moons, and I've been ill the
last several mornings. But it's far too early to feel
the quickening and know for certain." Jenna saw a
slow satisfaction move over her mam's face. "But it
will come. I know it."

 "Have you told the tiarna?"
   "No. Not yet. I'll wait until I can feel the life. Then
I'll tell him." She paused. "You're supposed to ask if
I'm happy," she said.

  She went to her mam and hugged her fiercely.
"Are you happy?" she whispered, burying her head
in her mam's scented hair.

  "Aye," Meave answered. "I'm happy. I want you
to be happy, too."
 For a time, the two held each other, saying
nothing. Finally, Jenna pulled away with a kiss to
Maeve's forehead. "Will Padraic give the child his
name, and you also, do you think?"

  For a moment, Jenna saw uncertainty in her
mam's eyes. "I don't know, . Jenna. I don't know
how the Riocha do things. I don't know all that
Padraic can do and what he can't. It doesn't matter,
though, as long he doesn't change the way he feels
toward me."

   "But it does, Mam," Jenna replied earnestly.
"Everyone will know it's Padraic's child, and if he
won't acknowledge it, they'll laugh at you, Mam.
They'll give you their meaningless smiles and then
snicker at you behind their hands. You know they
will. It won't be Mac Ard who'll have to bear all that;
it'll be you." Jenna knelt in front of Maeve, her
hands in Maeve's lap.

  She knew she shouldn't say it even as she spoke
the words. "Mam, if this isn't what you want, well,
Aoife knows an herbalist in Low Town. He'll have
potions, like Aldwoman Pearce ..."

 "Jenna!" Maeve said loudly, and Jenna stopped. "I
don't need your herb-alist," her mam continued,
more softly. "I don't want the herbalist."
   "I know, Mam, but if after you tell him, what if he
. . ."

 "Jenna-"
  . . . what if he isn't as he seems? What if he's
angry, or if he abandons you, or you find that the
love he says he feels is just another Riocha word?
She couldn't finish it. She didn't want to finish it. She
didn't want to believe it herself.
  Instead she forced herself to smile, to lift up and
give her mam another kiss and place her own hands
on Maeve's stomach. Inside, there is life. A brother,
or a sister . . .

 "I trust him, Jenna," Maeve said. "I love him."
 Her face was so peaceful and content that Jenna
nodded. "I know," she said.

  Jenna didn't see Coelin after his singing. She heard
through Aoife that he'd left the keep late that
evening, and that he had asked after her. She
thought he might send word the next day; he didn't.
The mage-lights came again that night, and after
taking in their power, she was too ex-hausted to
care about anything but fixing a brew of the
andúilleaf to blunt the pain. At least, that was what
she told herself.
  More Riocha were arriving at the Keep each day
as word spread that Lámh Shábhála had a Holder
and that she was in Lár Bhaile. Most of them wore
the green and brown of Tuath Gabair, though there
were a few with the red and white of Tuath
Airgialla, or the blue and black of Tuath Locha Lein.
None wore Tuath Connachta's blue and gold. They
were men, mostly, and a few women, with rich
clothes and rich accents and bright jewels around
their necks, and some of those jewels, aye, were
clochs na thintrí. She was introduced to them and as
quickly forgot their names and titles, though she
could feel them watching her as she wandered about
the keep, staring at her, whispering about her, and
pointing at her band-aged arm.

  Waiting. Waiting for Jenna to give them the power
they wanted.
 "Jenna ..."
  She heard Cianna's voice as she walked along one
of the deserted upper hallways, trying to avoid the
eyes. Jenna stopped and turned: the Banrion stood
at the end of the hall, with two of her ladies. Jenna
curtsied and dropped her gaze as she'd seen the
Riocha do in the woman's presence. "Banrion," she
said. "Good morning."

 "Please, no courtesies here. Not between us. Is it a
good morning for you, or are you simply being
polite?" Cianna asked. She cleared her throat, a
phlegm-rattled sound. "None of them seem good to
me lately. I think the new healer's a fraud, like all
the rest."

 "I'm sorry to hear that, Banrion."
   Cianna laughed, a sound that ended in a series of
coughs. "It's what I expected, my dear. I'm not
quite as stupid and self-involved as some would
have you believe. I know that I'm deluding myself-I
don't think any healer can cure what's inside me.
But I feel I have to try. Maybe, maybe one of them
..." The Banrion's eyes glittered with sudden
mois-ture, and she caught her lower lip between her
teeth. She sniffed and shook her head, and the mood
seemed to pass. She waved her hand at her
attendants.

  "Leave me," she told them. They scurried away,
glancing at Jenna. "They're supposed to be here to
help me, but they're really just the Ri's eyes,"
Cianna said to Jenna, her voice dropping to a husky
whisper. "They tell him everything they see. Come
with me for a few moments, before they rush back
to tell me that the Rí insisted they return. We
should speak somewhere where no eyes watch or
ears listen."

  Cianna took Jenna's arm. The Banrion seemed to
weigh nothing; her hand looked that of a skeleton,
poking from under the lace of her leine. She led
Jenna along the hall and down a corridor, through a
door and up a small flight of stairs. Taking a torch
from one the sconces, she opened the door at the
top of the stair, which led into a musty-smelling
gallery. There were shelves along the gallery, and
on them were items, most cov-ered in gray layers of
dust. Their feet left marks in the film of it covering
the floor, and cloudlets rose wherever they stepped.
Jenna sneezed. "Ban-rion, this can't be good for
your lungs."

  "Hush," Cianna answered, tempering the word
with a smile. "Do you know where we are?" Jenna
shook her head. "This is the Hall of Memo-ries,"
Cianna continued. "These are artifacts from the long
history of Lár Bhaile. Not many come here-my
husband isn't one for sentiment and history. He
dismissed the Warden of the Hall, whose task it was
to pre-serve these things and clean them, and since
then the hall hasn't been opened in years. Previous
Rís, though, were rather proud of it and brought
visitors here so they could view the artifacts."

 "Remembering the past is important." She said it
politely, wondering why Cianna had brought her
here.

  "Is that something you believe?" Cianna asked.
"Is it true, Holder, that you can bring the dead
Holders of that cloch back to life and speak with
them? That's what Tiarna Mac Ard tells me. He said
he thought you had done it once, with an old Bunús
Muintir Holder."
  "Aye, that's true, Banrion," she told Cianna. She'd
never told Mac Ard or her mam about the others:
the Lady of the Falls and her own da. She still had
Eilís' ring and Niall's carved seal back in her room.
She'd never tried to bring Eilís back again, but she
had talked to her da several times. It had been
disappointing, for he stared at her as if he'd never
seen her before, and she had to explain all over
again who she was. The dead, it seemed, did not
retain the memory of being dragged back into this
exis-tence by Lámh Shábhála. "If I'm near to where
a Holder rests, or if I touch something that was once
theirs I can speak with their shade. At least that's
what I've been told."

  "Then come here ..." Cianna gestured at one of the
shelves. On it was a torc, the hammered gold incised
with swirling lines that made Jenna glance at her
bandaged arm. "Do you know why my husband
chose to have that singer give the Lay of Rowan two
nights ago?" Jenna shook her head. Cianna started
to speak, then coughed a few times, patting at her
mouth with a lace handkerchief. Jenna could see
spots of blood on the ivory cloth. "This cough ... it
gets worse. Damn that healer. This is the way it is
for us, Jenna. They let us suffer, me because I've
already given the Rí what he wanted and now he no
longer cares; you because they think you're weak
and they can take what they want from you later,
when it's less dangerous" She coughed again, nearly
doubling over with the racking spasms.
 "Maybe we should leave this room, Banrion,"
Jenna suggested, but Ci-anna drew herself up, her
haunted, umber-circled eyes widening.

  "No. Listen to me, Jenna. There is talk. I hear it,
though they think I don't listen or care. But I do.
They want you for one thing, Jenna, and one thing
only: to open the other clochs to the mage-lights.
They know that the First Holder always suffers
more than the Holders who follow- they're content
to let you take that pain for now, even though some
of them intend to take the cloch you hold, once
you've opened the others."
 "Who?" Jenna asked. "Who wants it?"

  "Some I know for certain," the Banrion answered.
"Nevan O Liathain, the Rí Ard's son, covets Lámh
Shábhála-he's made no secret of that. My husband
does, as well; he's more ambitious than you might
think. Galen Aheron, the tiarna from Infochla who
arrived a few days ago, has said things that make
me suspect he would try for it as well. And even
Padraic Mac Ard ..."
  "You've heard him talking?" Jenna asked, her
eyes narrowing. "Tiarna Mac Ard?"

  Cianna shook her head. "No, in truth, though I
think that's why the Rí called for the song, because
he knew that Mac Ard had said nothing to you
regarding his ancestors' history with Lámh
Shábhála. The Rí is always careful with Mac Ard,
because he knows that a Mac Ard was once Rí and
that Padraic could contend for the throne of Tuath
Gabair. My husband and Padraic aren't enemies,
but they also aren't entirely allies. Mac Ard's said
nothing against you that I've heard, but when he
rode away from the keep weeks ago, when the
mage-lights first came, I know he was eager to find
the cloch. And if you were . . ." Cianna paused.
Coughed. ". . . no longer the Holder, aye, I believe he
would try for the cloch himself."

  Jenna's right hand, the fingers stiff and painful to
move, closed around Lámh Shábhála on its necklace.
Cianna noticed the gesture, and her fin-gers
touched Jenna's. "Your skin there is so cold and so
hard, like the scales of a snake." She touched her
cheek. "And so warm and smooth here." The
Banrion smiled gently. "You're so young to carry
such a bur-den, Jenna. But I was a cycle and more
younger when I was sent to marry the Rí and was a
mam by the time I was your age. Women often
carry their burdens early." She smiled again. "And
long."

  Cianna picked up the torc from the shelf, brushing
away the dust with a hand and pursing her lips to
blow away the rest, though the effort cost her
another fit of coughing. She held out the golden
artifact to Jenna, though Jenna only looked at it,
puzzled. "We have nothing of Rowan's or of Bryth's,
but this torc was Sinna Mac Ard's, great-mam of
Rowan Beirne. I don't know if she could give you
answers to the questions you might have, but you
may try. Take it, use it if you can."
 "Banrion, I can't . . ."

  "If anyone asks why you have it, tell them to come
to me. That's all you need say. Keep it." She
gestured around her, at the gray-covered shelves,
at the dim recesses filled with hundreds of unseen
items. "You can see how much the past is revered
here." She reached out and touched the cloch where
it rested between Jenna's breasts. "But they will
grab for what they see as the future," she said. "And
some of them are quite willing to kill anyone who
would get in their way."




            Chapter 19: An Assassin's Fate



  SHE could feel the strong tingling of a presence
when she held the torc, and she knew that Cianna
had spoken true-this had once 'been a Holder's
beloved possession. But even though she found
herself alone in the apartment when she returned,
Jenna didn't let the cloch call the pres-ence forth.
The experience with Riata had been frightening at
first yet ultimately rewarding, but the ghost of Eilís
had scared and nearly killed her and as for her da ...
seeing him hurt too much and left her unsatisfied
and feeling more alone than ever.
  She doubted that Sinna's specter could help her at
all.

  She placed the torc among her clothes where Aoife
was unlikely to find it, thinking that she might use it
that evening. But the mage-lights came again and
she went to them, and afterward Jenna was in too
much pain for anything but andúilleaf and bed.
After Maeve had fussed over her for a bit (with Mac
Ard hanging in the background at the door of the
room, staring at her, Jenna thought, strangely), she
lay in her bed, holding the cloch in her hand and
staring into the darkness of the ceiling, seeing not
the room but Lámh Shábhála. She gazed into the
crystalline matrix of the cloch, seeing the nodes
gleaming and sparking with the stored power of the
mage-lights, flickering tongues of blue-white
lightning arcing between the facets. She let herself
drop deeper into Lámh Shábhála's depths toward
the seething well at its heart, and she seemed to
stand on a precipice, looking down into a maelstrom,
a thunderstorm so bright that it nearly blinded her.
The well was nearly full now-no more than three or
four more nights, and it would overflow, filling the
cloch . . .then . . .

  She knew what was supposed to happen, knew
that Lámh Shábhála was to "open the other clochs
na thintrí." But she didn't know how, didn't know
what that would do to her, how it might feel or how
it might hurt her or what it would be like afterward.
She wondered if Tiarna Mac Ard might know, but
she couldn't-or wouldn't-ask him. She was grateful
to him for what he'd done to save her and her mam,
and she knew that Maeve loved the man and
seemed to be loved in return, yet she found herself
holding back when she might speak to him. There
was no one she trusted enough to ask that question
who would know the answer.
  There were the dead Holders, of course. Riata she
might ask, but she had nothing of his to bring him
back; Eilís was too fey. Her da she'd already asked,
but he had never held Lámh Shábhála while it was
alive-he knew less than she did.

  She trembled, looking down into the depths, at the
raging energy trapped there. She ached to know,
she needed to know, if only to steel herself for the
ordeal.
  She let go of the cloch, and the image of it faded in
her mind, leaving only the darkness of her room.
She threw aside the bedclothes, shivering in the
cold, and went quickly to the chest holding her
clothing, pulling out the tore Cianna had given her.
Her hands tingled with the feeling of the presence
within it, and she thought she heard her name
called, a yearning summons. They feel you just as
you feel them . . .

  She went back to her bed, wrapping the quilts
around her and snug-gling her toes under the
heated plate of cotton-wrapped iron Aoife had
placed beneath the covers to warm the bed. She
placed the torc around her own neck, grimacing as
the cold, burnished metal touched her skin.

 Sinna . . . ?
 Torchlight swam in the darkness.

 Sinna, come to me. . . .
  Jenna trembled, tugging the blankets tightly
around her. She was in her room, but the portion in
front of her was overlaid with a hazy image of
another time. There, the fireplace was roaring;
torches were set in their sconces along the walls,
and embroidered hangings covered stone walls no
longer plastered and painted. In the shadows,
someone moved, a woman with plaited, long gray
hair, wearing a leine of yellow under a long clóca of
green. Around her neck was the torc Jenna wore
and from Under the gold a fine chain held Lámh
Shábhála. She stepped forward into the firelight,
and Jenna saw that her movements were slow, her
pos-ture stooped, her face lined with the furrows of
age. Her right arm was marked to the elbow with
swirling curves of scars, in the pattern Jenna knew
all too well.

   "Ahh," the specter said, looking around. "I
remember this room, though it's much changed. So
it's happening to me, now-new Holders are calling
me back." The smile was bittersweet. "I'm to be
used as I once used others." Jenna felt the touch of
the woman's mind on her own, and at the same time
Jenna reached into her. "You're Jenna . . . and a
First."
 "Aye. And you're Sinna."

  The woman nodded. "Aye. And long dead, it would
seem. Nothing more than dust and a memory. Have
you called me back before?"
  Jenna shook her head, and the apparition sighed.
"Good," she said. "At least I'm not replaying an old
scene. I always hated that, myself, having to explain
again who I was and what I knew. No wonder the
dead are often so angry and dangerous. You've
already learned to keep most of your mind closed
off, so I assume at least one of us has given you a
nasty fright before. And the cacophony of voices
within the cloch ..." She shivered and yawned. "It's
summer here, and I'm still cold, and every joint in
my body is aching. Being old is worse than being
dead ..." She shook herself out of her reverie and
peered at Jenna again. "You're young, though-have
they married you off yet, Jenna? Is that why you're
here in Lár Bhaile's Keep?"

  "No," Jenna answered. "And they won't marry me
against my will. I won't allow it."

 Sinna laughed at that, her voice husky. "Then you
do live in a different age. In my time, you were
fortunate if you married for love. I was lucky
enough to have loved once: my dear, poor Ailen,
who gave me this." She lifted the cloch, and at the
same time, Jenna felt Lámh Shábhála pulse on her
own chest, as if the cloch remembered the touch.
"But the second time . . . Well, a Holder is a political
prize, and Teador Mac Ard was Rí."

  It gave Jenna a strange satisfaction to learn that
Sinna hadn't fallen in love with Teador, as Padraic
had told them, that it had only been a mar-riage of
convenience. "You were the Holder of Lámh
Shábhála. How could they make you marry him?"
  Sinna shrugged. "I suppose they couldn't, not if I
utterly refused. But a Holder who is a woman must
also know how to play the game, if she wishes to
stay the Holder. A Banrion is a powerful thing, too,
and to be both Holder and Banrion . . ." Sinna
smiled. "Teador and I found love elsewhere, but we
were well suited to be Rí and Banrion. What we had
wasn't love, but we understood each other well
enough, and for the most part we both wanted the
same things. That was enough. And when my
daughter was old enough, we used her to strengthen
an alliance." She sighed and smiled inwardly, then
her gaze focused on Jenna, who saw hat one eye was
cloudy and white with a cataract. "Why did you call
me back First Holder? What is it you wanted to ask
me? Ask, and let this ghost go back to sleep."

   Jenna flipped away the bed quilts. Suppressing a
shiver as the cold air touched her, she swung her
legs over the side of the bed and walked to where
the old woman stood. "I'm First, as you said. And
the other cloch na thintrí aren't yet opened. I want
... I want to know what will happen when Lámh
Shábhála is full and wakes the other stones."
 "No one has told you?"

  "They hint, but they don't say. Or perhaps they
truly don't know," Jenna answered. "I've even
talked to the Ald here. He says he doesn't know-it's
been so long since the mage-lights came that the
knowledge is lost."

  Sinna sighed. Her hand lifted as if she were about
to touch Jenna, then dropped back. "So they do use
you," she said. Her voice was soft. "Your time isn't
so much different, then. I wasn't a First, Daughter.
When I held Lámh Shábhála, the clochs had been
active for generations and genera-tions, nearly all
the way back to when the first Daoine came to this
land. I can't help you with that ..." She stopped,
turning slightly from Jenna and holding her hands
out to the image of the fire, as if warming them.
"Tell me, did I give the cloch to Bryth, or did
someone else take it?"

 "No," Jenna answered. "Bryth was the next
Holder, and her son after that, your grandson."
  Sinna nodded, firelight reflecting on her wrinkled
skin and over the coarse gray hair. "That's good to
know," she said. "It's a comfort, even though I'll
forget as soon as you release me. I'm going to Tuath
Infochla in a fortnight to meet her, and I intend to
pass it to her then. So it seems I manage to do so."

  "Another Mac Ard would like to hold Lámh
Shábhála now," Jenna said, and with that Sinna
turned back to her. "Ahh . . ." she breathed. "So the
line continues."
 'Not Bryth's," Jenna told her. "Your son's. Slevin."
  Her face changed with that, as if she'd tasted sour
fruit. "Slevin," she said, and the word sounded
harsh and bitter. "Strange how distant we can
become from our own children . . ." She stopped.
"Jenna, do you feel that?"

 "What?"

  Sinna turned, her half-blind eyes peering toward
the south window of the room. "Perhaps I can teach
you something after all. See with the cloch, Jenna.
Imagine . . . imagine that your skin is alive with its
power, that it's like a shell around you, expanding,
and you can feel everything that it touches, can see
the shape of it as the power within you wraps
around it. Can you do that?"

 "Aye . . ." Jenna breathed. "I can." Perhaps it was
because Lámh Shábhála remembered Sinna's touch,
perhaps it was because Sinna's mind and hers were
open to each other, but Jenna could feel her
presence expand, filling the room so that in her
mind she could see everything in it as clearly as if it
were day. She let it expand farther, moving her
awareness outward.

 And stopped with a gasp.
  "Aye," Sinna said. "Even the dead can feel that
threat."

 Outside, on the wall, a dark form crept upward in
the night, hands already on the balcony and death
lurking in his heart. The intruder pulled himself
silently over the rail-with her eyes, Jenna saw
nothing but the closed doors leading to the balcony,
shut against the night and the cold air. But with the
cloch, she saw the man crouch, then stand, and she
saw the small crossbow in his hand and the quarrel
smeared with brown poison.

  "You see," Sinna said softly. "Lámh Shábhála can
do more than throw lightnings. Watch; let me use
the cloch . . ."
  One of the balcony doors swung open, and a
night-wrapped form slipped in with a breath of cold
wind. At the same time, Jenna felt the stone around
her neck respond as the ghost of Sinna moved
forward, her body changing as Lámh Shábhála’s
energy surged through her, her shape suddenly that
of Jenna herself, young and brown-haired, the torc
gleam-ing around her neck. "You!" Sinna shouted,
and the intruder turned, firing the crossbow in the
same motion. The quarrel went through Sinna's
chest, burying itself in the plaster behind her. Sinna
laughed, and she was herself again, an old woman.
Behind the dark wrapping of the assassin's head, his
eyes were wide, and he looked from the ghost of
Sinna to Jenna, standing near the bed. A knife
flashed in his hand, but before he could move, Jenna
felt Sinna's mind close over her own and-like a
skilled teacher's hand guiding a student's-she let
energy burst forward from the cloch, shaping the
force as it flew, and the assassin was picked up as if
in a giant's hand and slammed against the wall,
grunting in pain and shock. A wisp of the cloch's
power ripped the cloth from his head, so that Jenna
could see his face.
 "Do you recognize him?" Sinna asked.
  Jenna shook her head-his features were those of a
stranger.

  "Then he was hired, and he has a name to tell
you." The man was struggling, trying to push away
from the wall and move, but Jenna held him easily.
"There, you have him," Sinna said, and Jenna felt
Sinna's mind leave hers.

  'I'll tell you nothing," the man grated out, writhing
in the grip of the cloch. His gaze kept slipping from
Jenna to the ghostly image of Sinna.
 "No?" Sinna said. "Tighten the power around him,
Jenna. Go on. Squeeze him, Jenna. Make him feel
you."

  Jenna did as Sinna instructed, imagining the
tendrils of Lámh Shábhála’s energy snaking around
him, pulling tight like a noose. The man gri-maced,
the lines around his eyes and forehead deepening,
and he spat defiantly.
  "Good. I like defiance," Sinna said. "It increases
the pleasure when he finally gasps out the name we
want. I wonder if he's ever felt his ribs crack inside
him, snapping like a dry branch into a dozen knives
of bone. I wonder if he'll whimper like a kicked dog
when the eyes pop from his skull, or scream as his
ballocks are crushed and ruined."

  Sinna/Jenna yanked at the cords of energy,
pulling them tighter still. The man moaned, and
Jenna glanced at Sinna. "I can't-" she began,
appalled, but with the shift of attention, the assassin
momentarily pulled away from his invisible bonds.
Before Jenna could respond, the knife still in his
hand moved. With a cry, he plunged it into his own
chest. Blood welled around the wound, and flecks of
red foamed at his lips. He wailed, his eyes rolled
upward.

  He fell. The wind from the balcony brought the
fetid smell of piss and bowels.

  Sinna sniffed. "Not a common assassin, then, but a
loyal and devoted retainer, to kill himself rather
than talk," she said. Her voice sounded eerily
emotionless. "I would guess that someone's
becoming impatient."
  Jenna gaped in horror at the foul corpse on the
floor. "Would you have done that, what you told him
you would do?"
  Sinna laughed. "If he had come to me, in my time,
rather than to you? Aye, I would have done that
and more to stay alive. I have done it. And so will
you, Daughter, if you want to remain the Holder."

  "No, I won't," Jenna said, the denial automatic.
Sinna only smiled.

  "Jenna!" Maeve's voice called from outside the
room, and she heard footsteps pounding toward her.
Jenna pulled the torc from her neck, and Sinna
vanished as Maeve and Mac Ard rushed in, Mac
Ard with his sword drawn. He stopped at the
doorway, gazing at the crumpled body of the
assassin. He hurried over to the man as Maeve
went to Jenna. He prodded the assassin's body with
the tip of his sword, then knelt and pressed his
fingertips against the neck just under the jaw,
grimacing at the smell. She saw him glance at the
small crossbow on the floor near him. "Dead," he
said, rising again. "And by his own hand, it would
seem. Jenna, are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," she answered, trying to keep her voice
from trembling. Her arm ached, burning cold, and
there was ice in the pit of her stomach, making her
want to vomit, but she forced it down, forced herself
to stand erect and pretend that she was calm. Later,
she could allow herself to cry at the remembered
fear and the death. Later, she could run to the
andúilleaf and its relief. But not now . . .
 "What happened here?"
  Jenna pointed to the open door to the balcony,
then to the quarrel embedded in the wall. "He
climbed up from outside and shot that at me, but ..."
She paused, considering her words. She pulled away
from her mam's embrace. "I knew he was coming,"
she said, more strongly, "and I swept the bolt aside
with the cloch, then held him. He killed himself
rather than be captured; if I'd suspected he would
do that, I would have stopped him, but I was too
late. No doubt he didn't want me to know who hired
him." She watched Mac Ard's face carefully as she
spoke- certainly it wasn't Padraic, not after all he's
done. He's had a hundred better opportunities if he
wanted them . . . Yet she watched. Mac Ard was
frowning and serious, but she had seen him
speaking with the Rí and knew that he could keep
his thoughts hidden from his face. She couldn't stop
the para-noia from creeping back into her mind. He
could easily tell an assassin where and when to find
me.
  "You 'knew he was coming'?" he said, his head
tilted, one eyebrow raised.

  "Lámh Shábhála can do more than throw
lightnings," she stated: Sinna's words . . . His eyes
narrowed at that; his mouth tightened under the
dark beard and he turned away from her. He went
to the quarrel and pulled it from the wall, sniffing at
the substance daubed over the point. "Aye, 'tis
poisoned," Jenna told him.

 There was anger and fury in Mac Ard's face, but
Jenna didn't know if it was at the attempt, or at the
failure of it. "The garrison will comb the grounds,
and those on watch tonight will be punished for
allowing this to happen," he said. "I'm sorry, Jenna.
I will have gardai sent here immedi-ately. This
won't happen again."

 How convenient that would be ... to have his own
people around me all the time. "Thank you, Tiarna,
but I don't need gardai," Jenna said firmly.
 "Jenna-" Maeve began, but Jenna shook her head.

  "No, Mam, Tiarna," she insisted. "Get rid of ...
that." She pointed at the body. "Call the servants in
to clean up the mess. But no gardai. I don't need
them." She lifted Lámh Shábhála. "Not while I hold
this."
           Chapter 20: Love and Weapons



  "SO far," Jenna said, "they tell me that they think
the assassin was sent from Connachta."
  "Jenna . . ." Coelin's arm went around her
shoulders at that. For a moment, Jenna tensed,
then she relaxed into the embrace, moving closer to
him as they walked slowly along the garden path.
The planted array in the keep's outer courtyard
rustled dry and dead in the winter cold, and a chill
wind blew in off the lough, tossing gray clouds
quickly across the sky and shaking occasional
spatters of rain from them.

  Coelin had arrived early for the feast celebrating
the winter solstice, the Festival of Lafuacht, to be
held that night. Aoife had come running into Jenna's
apartment, bursting with the news that the
"handsome harper" was in the keep and asking
about her, and Jenna had sent Aoife to fetch him.
Jenna could feel the warmth of Coelin's body along
her side, and it felt comfortable and right. She knew
there were eyes watching them, and that tongues
would be clucking about the Holder and a lowly
entertainer (and no doubt saying how "common
blood will tell"), but she didn't care. You sound as if
you don't believe them," Coelin said.
  "I don't," Jenna said firmly. "What good would it
do for Connachta to have me killed here, where
someone else would simply become the Holder?
That makes no sense unless the assassin himself
was to be the I Holder, yet he wasn't from the
Riocha families."

  But how else could someone from Tuath
Connachta get the stone? You said none of the
Riocha from Tuath Connachta are here. If that
assassin was so loyal that he'd kill himself rather
than be caught alive, he might be loyal enough to
take the cloch to his employer without keeping it
himself."

 "Maybe. That's what Tiarna Mac Ard said, too."
Jenna shivered as the wind shook water from the
bare branches of the trees. "I don't think so. I think
he was hired by someone here."
 "Who?" Coelin asked.
 "I don't know. But I'll find out."

 "Finding out could be dangerous."
   "Not finding out is more dangerous, Coelin." She
stopped, moving so that they stood face to face, his
arm still encircling her shoulder. His face seemed
bewildered and innocent with all she had told him,
and she knew that she would have looked the same
a few months ago, thrown without warning into this
situation where agendas were veiled and hidden,
and the stakes of the game so high. Looking at him,
she saw reflected back just how much she had
changed in the intervening months. He is a harper,
and nothing more-right now singing is enough for
him and all that he thinks about. If he has ambition,
'tis to be a Songmaster like Curragh, who plucked
him away from a life of servitude.

  "Jenna, you should leave the investigation to
Tiarna Mac Ard and the
others."

  "One of the others may have sent the man in the
first place." She hesi-tated, not wanting to say the
rest. "I can't even rule out Tiarna Mac Ard."
  His eyebrows lifted, widening his sea-foam eyes.
"I thought he and your mam-"

  "They're lovers, aye," Jenna said. "But I'm not my
mam, I'm not his blood, and I hold what he was
searching for when he came to Ballintub-ber.
Wouldn't it have been convenient, for him to be the
first to find my body? He could have plucked the
cloch from around my neck before anyone could
have stopped him."
   "You don't know that, Jenna, and I don't believe
it."

 "You're right, 1 don't know that and honestly, 1
don't believe it's true, either," she answered. "But I
don't know. I don't know."

  He was looking somewhere above and beyond her,
as if he could find an answer written on the stones of
the keep. He shook his head as if to some inner
conversation. "Jenna . . ." he began. "This is so . . ."
  Jenna reached up, twining the fingers of her left
hand in the curls at the back of his head. She gently
pulled him down to her. The kiss was first soft and
tentative, then more urgent, her mouth opening to
his as he pulled her against him. When at last it
ended, she cradled her head on his chest. He
stroked her hair. "Jenna," he said. "How can I help
you?"

   "I don't know yet," she answered. "But I will. And
I'll ask when the time comes."
  "And I'll be there for you," Coelin answered. He
brought his head down hers again, and she opened
her mouth to his soft lips and his hot, sweet breath
and when his hands slid up to cup her breasts, she
did not stop him.

  "I can tell you this much about the assassin,
Holder," the Rí Mallaghan told her, his trebled chins
shaking as his mouth moved. Nevan O Liathain
stood at the Ri's right shoulder, frowning
appraisingly at her as the Rí spoke and stroking his
thin beard. "He was not a Riocha that anyone here
recognizes. I have people who would know such
making inquiries in Low Town to see if he's a local,
but I don't think so. We may never know who he
was. I know that's of no comfort to you, but I assure
you that the gardai here will be more ..." He paused,
and a smile prowled his face for just a moment. ". . .
vigilant from now on," he finished.

  Jenna knew that the gardai on watch that night
had been imprisoned, and the sentry assigned to the
north side of the keep nearest Jenna's room had
been executed in front of the others as an example.
The punishment had been exacted before she could
protest and without her consent. She suspected that
it never occurred to the Rí to inquire about her
feelings-it was his domain, and he did as he wished.
  It's also true that dead men don't talk, if they'd
been told to look the other way and their knowledge
of who gave them the order was now a danger. The
Rí Gabair has the money and the knowledge and the
desire, as much as anyone here.

 She smiled blandly back at the Rí. "I appreciate
your efforts, Rí Mal-laghan. Your concern for my
well-being is gratifying."
  The Rí laughed at that, his body shaking under the
fine clothing. There, you see, Nevan-as fine a
response as any Riocha could have fashioned.
Tiarna Mac Ard has taught the girl well."
  Jenna gave the Rí the expected smile, resisting
the impulse to retort. Tiarna Mac Ard may have
helped, but I taught myself more by listening to the
lies I hear around me every day, she wanted to say.
But she curtsied instead, as a Riocha would, and
continued to smile.

  "The Rí Ard is also concerned with your
well-being," O Liathain said before Jenna could
escape. "I have put the Rí Ard's garrison here in Lár
Bhaile at Rí Mallaghan's disposal."
  "That is kind of you, Tanaise Rig," Jenna
answered. "Some good has come of this incident,
though. I've discovered that the stone I hold has
greater and more varied powers than I'd thought. I
may be able to dis-cover who my enemies are on
my own." She touched Lámh Shábhála with the
scarred, patterned flesh of her right hand, looking
from O Liathain to Rí Mallaghan. "And I'm certain
the Rí and the Rí Ard would allow me to exact my
own retribution. Wouldn't that be interesting?"
 The smile on O Liathain's face wavered and for a
moment Jenna won-dered if she'd gone too far, but
Rí Mallaghan also frowned. "The laws are the laws,"
Rí Mallaghan intoned. "An accusation would need
proof-and proof that I as Rí can see."

 Jenna inclined her head. "I've heard that the Rí
Mallaghan has excellent methods for obtaining proof
when it's needed," she responded.
  The Rí snorted. "Taught well, indeed," he
commented to O Liathain. Cianna drifted over to
them before he could say more, with Tiarna Galen
Aheron of Tuath Infochla accompanying her. Cianna
touched Jenna's shoulder and nodded to O
Liathain's abbreviated bow.
  "The servants tell me we should begin moving
toward the table soon, my husband," she said, her
voice too fast and colored with a slight wheeze. "Let
me take the Holder for a few minutes before we sit.
Here, Tiarna Aheron wishes to speak with you."
  "Certainly," the Rí answered. "Holder, I will speak
with you later." Jenna curtsied to the Rí and O
Liathain again, and let Cianna guide her away. O
Liathain's head moved toward the Ri's ear before
they were a step away, as Galen Aheron bowed to
the Rí..

  "What did you say to the Tanaise Rig?" Cianna
asked quietly as they moved through the crowd.
"Poor Nevan looked as if he'd swallowed a fish
bone."
  "I simply suggested to him that Lámh Shábhála
might have ways of uncovering treachery," Jenna
said. Cianna laughed at that, the laughter trailing
away in a cough. She stopped, drawing Jenna into a
corner of the hall.

  "I would be careful with what you claim, Jenna,"
she said. "It's not good to put an enemy on alert
with a bluff."
 "I don't know who my enemies are, Banrion,"
Jenna answered. "I thought that I might find
out-and I wasn't entirely bluffing."

  "Ah," Cianna said thoughtfully, nodding. She
gestured at the room. "They're all your enemies,
every one of them here," she said. "Even me, Jenna.
Any of us would take the cloch and become the
Holder, if we thought it would gain us power."
 "I think I can trust you, Banrion. Or you wouldn't
have said what you just said."
  Cianna smiled. "Thank you, Jenna. But look at
them. There are more plots there than leaves in the
forest, and many of them concern you. In the last
cycle, my husband was nearly killed himself when
one of the ceil giallnai decided that he might
increase his standing by allying with one of the
Connachtan families. He managed to actually draw
his blade at the table before he was cut down, not
five feet from the Rí. Trust is a rare commodity
here, Jenna. Don't take it lightly, and don't believe
that it's eternal, either. Allegiances shift, friendships
fade, love is ephemeral. Be careful."
  Jenna glanced worriedly at the throng, at the faces
overlaid with smiles and politeness. "How do you
stand it, Banrion?" she asked. "Doesn't it drive you
mad?" The crowd parted momentarily, and through
the silken rift, Jenna saw Tiarna Mac Ard across the
room, with her mam at his side and a quartet of the
Riocha women also surrounding him. Maeve looked
uneasy in the midst of the other women, her smile
lopsided as her atten-tion went from one to another
of them, all of them obviously much more at ease
and more skilled at the game of flirtation. Maeve's
hand cradled her abdomen more than once. Jenna
felt Cianna's gaze shift, following her eyes.
  "There are rules even in this, Jenna. You've
already learned some of them; if you want to keep
the stone and also stay alive, you must continue to
learn. You think Padraic Mac Ard doesn't
understand how our society works? He does, all too
well. That's why he doesn't marry your mam-
because marriage to him is another weapon, one
that often can be used only once, so he won't
unsheathe it lightly."

 "He uses my mam, then," Jenna said heatedly.
  Cianna coughed, though it might have been a
laugh. "I don't doubt that Padraic also loves her, or
he wouldn't be so openly with her-he knows that his
relationship with your mam dulls the blade of the
marriage weapon, because it says that his true
affection is elsewhere. He does love your mam, and
that may have saved you as well, Jenna."

 You said to trust no one, and I wondered ... I
wondered if Tiarna Mac Ard sent the assassin."

  Jenna felt more than saw Cianna shake her head.
"Mac Ard would take Lámh Shábhála if he could, I
agree. But I know him well, and his person-ality is
more suited to the frontal attack. He can be subtle
when he needs to be, but when action must be
taken, he prefers to do it himself and openly. I
wouldn't entirely trust him, if I were you, but I also
doubt that the assassin was his man."
  Jenna wasn't certain she was convinced, but she
nodded her head in the direction of the Rí, still in
conversation with O Liathain. "The Tanaise Rig,
then," Jenna said, and watched Cianna purse her
lips.
  "Possibly," she said. "Hiring someone to do his
killing for him is more his style, certainly-he
wouldn't want to bloody his own hands. And
through the Rí Ard, he has the money and
connections; the assassin could have come from the
east rather than the west. The Rí Ard used an
assassin himself to kill his predecessor-or at least
that's the rumor-and Nevan is more ambitious than
even his father. Holding Lámh Shábhála and being
Rí Ard: that would place him in a very powerful
position indeed."
 "You think it was him, then?"

  Cianna shrugged. "Possibly," she repeated.
"Maybe even probably. But there are other
contenders here: my husband is certainly one;
Tiarna Ah-eron, whose uncle is Rí of Infochla and
who has been snatching any re-puted clochs he can
find, buy, or steal, is another. Jenna, any of the
Riocha here could be the one."

  Jenna's head whirled. She'd taken andúilleaf a few
hours ago; the effects were already starting to fade,
and her arm throbbed with a promise of pain to
come. She looked out at the crowd and saw
skeletons and ghouls underneath the fine clothing
and polite speech.
  A gong rang. "There, we're being called to table,"
Cianna said. "Come, walk with me. You will sit next
to me tonight-we'll let Padraic move a seat farther
down."

 "Banrion?"

  Cianna smiled. "Just a little object lesson, Jenna.
Everyone will notice your elevation, though no one
will say anything until afterward when they're
alone. Even Mac Ard will gracefully make the shift,
but he'll also see the message in it: that the Holder
is now more important than the one who found her,
and that what happens to you will be of intense
concern to me." She coughed, and cleared phlegm
from her voice. "That also means no one will
question too much what you do, even if you should
decide to consort with a simple harper."
 Jenna felt her cheeks flush. "Banrion, I ..."

  "Oh, he's handsome enough, I'll grant you, and has
talent for what he does. A little dalliance with him
won't hurt you as long as you take the proper
precautions-I'll make sure the healer sends a packet
of the right herbs to you. But he can't help you,
Jenna, not in this. Tell me, is it true you knew this
Coelin in Ballintubber?"
 "Aye, Banrion."

  Cianna nodded. "Convenient that he should arrive
here in Lár Bhaile just at this moment, don't you
think?" she asked, but she gave Jenna no chance to
ponder that question or to try to answer. "Come. All
the tiarna are seated by now. Time to give them
something to contemplate ..."

 "You were wonderful. The Rí and the Banrion
were rapt-did you notice?"
  Jenna could see the grin tugging at the corners of
Coelin's mouth as she complimented his
performance. "Aye," he said. "I did. I thought I
might forget some of the words, but they came back
to me in time. The captain said that I might be
asked to sing again at an entertainment for the
Tanaise Rig in five days, and he gave me a gold
mórceint for the evening. That's more than I saw
for months in Ballintubber." The grin spread, and
Jenna impulsively reached up and kissed him. She
started to pull away, but his arms went around her
and he brought her close, cup-ping his hand around
the back of her head. The kiss was long and deep,
and Jenna wanted more, but it was late and the
carriages were already waiting at the gates of the
keep to take the extra servers and entertainers
back down into the town. "Jenna, when can I see
you again?"

  Stay, she wanted to say, but she remembered
Banrion Cianna's admoni-tions, and there would be
her mam's questions, and the pain in her arm was
getting worse . . . "The day after tomorrow," she
said. "You know the market in Low Town? I'll meet
you there, when they ring the bells after morning
services at the Mother-Creator's temple."

  "I'll be there," he promised. He kissed her again,
quickly this time, and held her hand-her left hand.
He didn't touch the right. His fingers pressed
against her. "The day after tomorrow will seem like
forever before it comes," he said, and walked
quickly away toward the gates across the courtyard.
Jenna watched until he reached the gates and the
gardai there pushed the inner door open. He went
through, and she could hear that he was whistling.
She smiled.

  As she turned to go back into the keep, she saw
movement at one of the windows: a shutter
swinging closed. She glimpsed a face in the win-dow
just before the shutters pulled tight, shadowed in
the dim light of the moon and the torches around
the courtyard.
 Tiarna Mac Ard's face.




            Chapter 21: A Familiar Face



  "YOU will stay here with the carriage," she told
the quartet of gardai Tiarna Mac Ard had sent with
her. The protest was predictable, but when she
invoked the Banrion's name, they went sullenly
silent. You see, she wanted to tell Cianna. You
taught me well. I can play this game, too.

   Low Town Market was crowded today. Wagons
had come in from the surrounding farms. There was
little produce-the fields had long ago been
harvested, but there were horses for sale, sheep
brought in for slaughter, milk and eggs, pickled
vegetables, dried herbs. A spice vendor in from the
port at Dún Laoghaire had set up a display, and
exotic aromas from the distant lands of Céile Mhór
and Thall Mór-roinn wafted through the chill air.
The sun beat down, driving away the worst of the
chill. There was little breeze, and the respite from
the cold had brought out most of the townsfolk.
Jenna was surrounded by the movement and noise,
the color and odors. Some of the tiarna from Upper
Town were here as well, and they nodded to her as
they passed, no doubt wondering why the Holder
was walking unescorted through the city.
  Jenna moved through the market, looking among
the crowds for Coe-lin. The temple bells had rung as
the carriage arrived at the market, but it would be
easy to miss someone. She was beginning to wonder
whether Coelin had forgotten her, and she closed
her right hand around the cloch, remembering how
Sinna had helped her. She let her awareness drift
out-ward with the stone's energy, seeing the crowd
with the power and look-ing for the spark that
would be Coelin. She could sense him, close by, and
started to turn even as she heard his voice.
 "Jenna!"
  She turned to see him hurrying toward her. With
a grin, he swept her and spun her around once,
kissing her as she laughed. "I'll bet you thought I'd
forgotten," he said, wagging a finger in front of her
face. She pretended to bite at it.

  "I did not," she answered. "I had perfect
confidence in you."
  He snorted. "Hah! I saw your face when you
turned." He glanced around. "I'm surprised they let
you come here alone. I expected to see your mam,
or servants at least. Armed and surly gardai, most
likely, after what happened in your bedroom."
  "Armed gardai I had," she answered. "But I sent
them away." No, they're following . . . The energy
she'd released before was fading slowly, but within
the expanded shell of awareness she could feel one
of them. She turned her head, and saw a garda
ducking quickly behind the spice ven-dor's stall.
"Though they don't obey well. Don't look yet, but
near the spice vendor's stall ..."

  "Here, let's look at this cloth . . ." Coelin took her
arm and guided her over to the nearest stall,
pretending to show her the dyed wool there. "Ah,
aye. I see. You have a shadow, but not a very good
one. Ring mail and leathers makes one conspicuous.
Do you really want to lose him?"
  Jenna nodded, and Coelin took her left arm.
"Come on, then," he said.

  With Coelin leading, they moved behind the stalls
and into one of the alleys. Jenna could sense the
garda's sudden consternation and feel him start to
move through the crowd toward the stall where
they'd been, but Coelin was running through a space
between two houses, across a narrow courtyard,
and on into another street. He paused, looking up
and down the street and behind them.

 "You've lost him," she said to him.
 "How do you know?"

 "I know," she answered.

 He didn't question that. He simply smiled at her
and kissed her again.

  We're alone, then." He glanced around at the
people moving along the cobbled lane, most of
whom were staring openly at Jenna, too well-
dressed to be an occupant of one of these small,
shabby dwellings. Away from the market square,
the city had turned drab and dirty and crowded.
The central gutter was choked with refuse, rotting
garbage and excrement, and the fetid smell
wrinkled Jenna's nose. The people were as shabby
as their surroundings, dressed in rags and scraps of
clothing. A child stared her from a nearby door, her
feet wrapped in muddy rags, her hair matted and
wild, though her eyes were dark and clear. She
smiled tentatively at Jenna, who had to force herself
to return the gesture. "Well, at least we're not
where anyone knows you," Coelin finished. He gave
a mock, sweeping bow. "And now where would you
have me take you?"
 "Somewhere other than here."
   Coelin glanced around, and she realized that he
saw nothing unusual: these were the streets where
he lived, too, and he didn't see the contrast, because
he hadn't lived as she had for the last few months.
Jenna could feel herself recoiling in instinctive
disgust and revulsion. She could not imagine having
to live here-she would rather call on the power of
the cloch and destroy it, to cleanse the earth in fire
and storm. And she won-dered: Is this the way
Tiarna Mac Ard felt, when he first walked into our
little cottage back in Ballintubber? "There's an
apothecary I need to see," she told him. "Du Val, in
Cat's Alley."

 He glanced at her curiously, then shrugged. "Let's
go this way, then, to avoid the market."
  They approached du Val's establishment from
below the market. Jenna half expected to see one of
the gardai standing outside the tiny shop, but none
of these men had accompanied her on her first visit.
A few dozen strides from the sign, she saw a man,
dressed as a freelander, come out the doorway and
turn away from her toward the market.

 She stopped, her hand on Coelin's arm. "What?"
he asked.

  "That man ..." She knew him. Without seeing his
face, she recognized the walk, the posture, the feel
of him: Ennis O'Deoradháin, whom she'd last seen
fleeing through the fields just across the River Duán
near Áth Iseal. Jenna held her breath, wanting to
duck into shadows and suddenly wishing that she
hadn't dismissed the gardai. Her hand went around
Lámh Shábhála; if the man had turned, if he'd seen
her and started toward her, she would have used
the cloch and struck him down.

 But he didn't turn, didn't seem to notice her at all.
 "What about him?" Coelin asked. "Who is he?"
  Jenna shook her head. O'Deoradháin was hurrying
away, already at the end of the lane where it opened
into the Low Town Market. "When …after we left
Ballintubber, we met that man. I think he was part
of the group of Connachtans who were pursuing us."
And if he's here in Lár Bhaile, if he's snooping
around after me, then chances are he's the one who
sent the assassin. . . .

  "Well, let's go after him, then," Coelin said,
starting to pursue O'Deoradháin, but Jenna held
him back.

 "No " she told him. "He's already too far away, and
he may have friends with him. Let's talk to du Val."
  The shop was as pungent and dark as before, but
du Val was in the front bent over one of his tables
with a mortar and pestle, grinding a small pinch of
plant material into a powder. The dwarfish man
glanced up as Jenna and Coelin entered, and
grunted.

 "It's not even been a month," he called out
without preamble. "Well, this time the price is four
mórceints, as I told you. And six the next time."

  Jenna was glad for the dimness of the shop, so
that Coelin could not see the flush that crept up her
neck. "I hear you," she said. "Just get it."
  Du Val sniffed. He set the pestle on the table with
a loud clunk. His ugly, craggy face seemed to leer at
her for a moment, then he turned and went back
into the recesses of the shop. Jenna wondered what
Coelin was thinking, seeing her spend four
mórceints without a thought when he had been
ecstatic to have received one the other night. She
didn't dare look at him while they waited. Du Val
returned in a few minutes with a pouch, which he
extended to Jenna, palm up. When she reached to
take it, he pulled his hand back. "Five mórceints,"
he said.
 "You told me four."
  One robed shoulder lifted and fell. "1 changed my
mind between then and now. Maybe the price will
make you change yours about taking this, but if not,
I might as well line my pockets with your
foolishness."

  Jenna felt the words like a slap, her cheeks
reddening. "All I have to do is whisper to the Rí or
Banrion, and they will have you in irons before the
evening bells ring."

  Du Val snorted and tossed the pouch of andúilleaf
into the air and caught it again. "And if you do that,
what happens when this is gone?" He gave her a
lopsided leer. His glance went to Coelin. "I notice
that you don't have your usual escort with you, only
someone who makes his living singing for coppers
and ale. Seems to me that you're being careful not
to let anyone know you've come to see me, so I
think I'm fairly safe from your threats, Holder."
  'Jenna," Coelin said behind her. "Let's just leave.
This man is a thief. I've seen the type of people who
come in here."

  No," Jenna answered. She turned back to du Val.
"Fine, I'll give you the five mórceints, but you'll also
tell me something in return. There was
  a man who came from this shop just before we
arrived. What did he want?"

  Du Val sniffed. "I'm not in the habit of talking
about my customers," he answered. "I'd also think
that's something you'd be pleased to hear, Holder."

 "His name is Ennis O'Deoradháin."
 Du Val's lips pursed and he waggled his head. "So
you do know him. Interesting."

  "Why was he here?" When du Val didn't answer,
Jenna's hand went to the cloch, with du Val's black
gaze watching the movement. "The man's a danger
to me, du Val. I'll do what I need to do to protect
myself, even if means killing someone."

   Du Val blinked, then cleared his throat and spat on
the floor. "Brave words, Holder. I love the way you
lift your chin and look down at me when you say
that. It's so haughty and practiced-you've obviously
been watching the Riocha around you. I also believe
that's another bluff. I don't think you're capable of
striking a man down without provocation. Not yet,
anyway. Tell me, Holder, how did it feel, when you
killed the as-sassin?"

  "I didn't kill him. He killed-" Jenna stopped. "How
did you know that?"
  "I hear the things that run through the underbelly
of this city. That's one of the reasons people come to
me."
 "Like O'Deoradháin."

 Du Val just stared at her.

 "He sent the assassin, didn't he?"
  The dwarf shook his head, like a parent
disappointed in a child. "Holder, you have no
concept of who your real enemies are. Or your real
friends. That makes me wonder if you will be
holding Lámh Shábhála for much longer." He held
out his left hand palm up and waggled his fingers.
"Four mórceints," he said. "I'm giving you a
discount for not talking about O'Deoradháin."

  Jenna untied a pouch from under her clóca and
counted out the coins into du Val's hand. He gave
her the pouch of andúilleaf, but held onto it for a
moment as her fingers closed around it. "Holder,"
he said, his voice gravelly and low. "Please. You
can't continue this. The leaf will consume you. It will
change you. It's already begun."
  Jenna snatched the bag away. "I won't be back,"
she told du Val. "If I need to, I'll find another
source."

 "You'll need to," du Val said somberly.

  As they left the shop, Coelin stroked her hair and
she stopped, leaning against him. "Coelin . . ." she
whispered. She lifted her face to him, unable to stop
the tears now that she was outside. She wasn't sure
why she was crying: fear, or du Val's harsh words,
or simply the confusion that whirled in her mind.
Coelin's thumb gently blotted the tears, and he
kissed her eyelids, then her mouth.
 "What's the matter, Jenna?" "Everything," she
answered. "And nothing."

 "Is it this O'Deoradháin? Are you scared of what
he might do?"

 She nodded. It was as good an answer as any.

  "Then I'll find him," Coelin said. "I have my
sources, too. If he's down here in Low Town, I can
uncover him. I'll find out where he lives, find out
what he's asking. And you can send the Ri's gardai
after him." He smiled down at her. "See?" he said.
"You do have friends you can trust." He kissed her
once more, his hand moving across the mound of
her breast, and she felt herself yearn for more.
"Come with me now, Jenna," he whispered. "Let me
love you."

 "I want to, Coelin. I want to so much."
 "But . . . ?"

  She opened her mind to the cloch, feeling the city
around her with its power: her gardai were moving
through the square, searching for her. One was
close by, moving toward Cat's Alley. "I've been
away too long already. I have to go back."

 "Ah." The word held a bitterness in its tone. He
looked away.

 "Coelin, it's not that," she protested. "I do want
you. I miss you every day."
 "Then when, Jenna? When will we be together?"

  "When you come to sing next. Afterward. I'll make
arrangements."

  He smiled at her and kissed her again. She pulled
him close, not want-ing to let go yet forcing herself
to push him away. She nodded toward the far end of
the lane. "They're coming for me now," she said.
"Go that way."
 "Jenna . . ."

 "Hush," she said. "Don't say anymore. Go. Find
O'Deoradháin for me. We'll be together soon. I
promise."
  He took a step backward, still looking at her, then
turned. She watched him go, then turned herself
and walked toward Low Town Market Square.




                 Chapter 22: Proposals



  THE mage-lights came that night and Jenna
caught their power, crying out in mingled longing
and agony. Afterward, the andúilleaf dulled only the
worst of the pain, and, following a troubled sleep,
she took it again early in the morning. The arm was
still throbbing, a steady pulsing mirrored by a
nauseous headache as she and Aoife moved toward
her apartment from the common room, where she'd
breakfasted with the Ban-rion.
 "Holder, if you have a moment. . . ?"

  Nevan O Liathain called to Jenna as she passed
the door of his apart-ments. She stopped, closing
her eyes before glancing inside as a wave of pain
swept over her: the Rí Ard's son was standing near
the fireplace. Rich, dark hangings adorned the walls,
gleaming with bright colors; a woven carpet
softened the varnished wood of the floor; the tables
and chair were carved and expensive, unlike
anything she'd seen in the keep. She suspected that
most of the furnishings had traveled with O Liathain
from Dún Laoghaire. O Liathain looked as rich and
as handsome as his surroundings, his raven-black
hair oiled, those strange, light blue eyes regarding
her.

  Jenna saw no way to politely decline. She nodded
to Aoife and went to the doorway. "Good morning,
Tanaise Rig. Of what service can I be to you?"
  O Liathain glanced significantly at Aoife, and
Jenna waved to the ser-vant. "Wait in the hall for
me," she said. "I won't be but a few minutes." She
hoped that was true; she didn't know how much
longer she could hear the headache, and she longed
for another cup of the leaf. Aoife curtsied and
continued down the hall; Jenna took a step inside
the apartment.

  "The door, please, Holder," O Liathain said. "Too
many ears and eyes " Jenna pulled the door to, and
O Liathain took a few steps toward her stopping an
arm's reach away. He moved with the ease of a
dancer or a well-trained fighter. "This is most
improper, I know," he said. "Yet I would speak with
you privately, without curious ears listening."
Another step She could see his lips twist upward in
a momentary smile. "I would like to suggest
something to you that would be to our mutual
advantage."

 "And what would that be, Tanaise Rig?"
  Another vanishing smile, gone like frost under a
spring's sun. "I will forgo delicacy here, Holder," he
answered. "Let me be blunt. It's come to my
attention that your mam is carrying Tiarna Mac
Ard's child. No, you needn't protest or try to deny
it-we both know it's true. I also know that for the
moment Padraic is unlikely to legitimize the child or
his relation-ship with your mam. Yet if he did so, if
he took your mam to wife, and acknowledged you as
his own daughter as well . . . well, then that would
make you a Riocha, wouldn't it?"

 Jenna sniffed. "I am evidently not quite so awed
by that possibility as you, Tanaise Rig. While I
would like to see the Tiarna Mac Ard acknowl-edge
my mam and his child by her, if that's the case, I
have no interest in being named his daughter."

  A nod. An appraising, sidewise glance. "I believe
you miss the implica-tions, Holder," he continued.
"If you are Riocha, then you are a peer to anyone
here. And if, let us say, the Holder of Lámh
Shábhála were to marry, especially someone with
power himself, why, that would be an alliance to be
reckoned with." O Liathain spread his hands wide.
"I hope I make my intentions clear enough for you."

  He did. Jenna could feel a fist grasping her
stomach and twisting as he watched her, and for a
moment the edges of her vision went dark with the
pounding in her temples and her right arm. She
struggled to show nothing on her face. She lifted her
hand to the cloch around her neck, and he stared at
the patterns of scars on her flesh with a flat gaze. He
wants the power you hold. He will take it any way
he can, through marriage if he can. He will try this,
but if it doesn't work, he will try another way. He
may have already tried another way. Jenna knew
what Cianna would tell her, that this was part of the
game, and she must play the card as well and as
long as she could. What she must not say was "no."
It would not be good Politics to have the heir to the
Rí Ard's throne as an open enemy.
  Holder?" he asked, tilting his head. The
gold-threaded patterns on his gray clóca shimmered
as he took another step toward her. His hand
reached out and took hers. He looked at Lámh
Shábhála, cupped in her palm, the chain taut around
her neck. "So small, this stone. And yet so many lust
for it." His finger moved over the smooth surface,
trapped in its silver cage, but his blue eyes held
hers. "I understand that feeling."
  He let the stone drop back to her chest. "Listen to
me, Holder," he said. "I can apply enough pressure
to Mac Ard to make him do as I say with your mam.
I'm a reasonable person, Holder, and, I'm told, not
unhand-some for a man of my age. I believe it is
possible we could come to love each other in time,
but if not . . ." He shrugged. "I would not expect
fidelity of you any more than you would expect it of
me, and as long as tongues aren't wagging
throughout the tuatha, I would not care who you
see."
  Jenna could feel that her eyes were wide, that she
must be showing the sick fright she felt inside. O
Liathain nodded, as if what he saw on her face was
what he expected. "I don't ask for an answer now,
Holder. But soon I must. I would have you
remember that there are ... other ways. You may
have thwarted the first attempts, but others might
come, more difficult to prevent. Or perhaps a more
efficient tactic would be not to attack you, but
rather those you love."

 "Tanaise Rig, are you threatening me?"
  O Liathain put his hand to his throat in theatrical
horror. His eyes widened almost comically. "Me?
Certainly not." Then his hand dropped, and his
handsome face went serious. "I'm simply pointing
out your vul-nerabilities to you, Holder. And
offering you a solution to effectively ne-gate them.
Think about my offer." The fleeting smile returned.
"I leave to return to Dún Laoghaire in three days. It
would be best to have an answer by then, so I might
speak to my da, the Rí Ard. I assume you know not
to speak of this to anyone."

  He brushed past her then, going to the door. His
hand closed around the brass handle. "You'll be at
the fete the Rí and Banrion are giving for me in two
nights?"

 Jenna nodded, silent.

  "I will look forward to seeing you then, and
perhaps speaking privately at that time." He swung
the door open, and gestured toward the corridor.
"Have a good morning, Holder."
  She managed to hold her stomach in check until
she and Aoife had turned down the corridor toward
her apartment.
  Jenna spoke to no one, though the encounter with
O Liathain troubled her all day and most of the
next. She remained in her rooms, letting Aoife bring
her meals with the excuse that she was too tired
and in too much pain to dine with others. Cianna
sent word that she would like to see her at dinner
that night, and Jenna told Aoife to let the Banrion
know that she would be there.
  She could not hide forever, and perhaps Cianna
would be a confidante. Her mam had already gone
down to the common room with Mac Ard when the
bells rang the sunset and Jenna left her room, Aoife
accompany-ing her as she had her own duties in the
kitchen. They were nearing the stairs when she
heard her name called.
 "Holder!"

 "Tanaise Rig." She gave him a perfunctory curtsy;
Aoife dropping nearly to the floor with hers, as was
proper. O Liathain was accompanied by a tiarna
she'd seen at the table, well down from her. His
clóca was a somber gray, the color of Dún Laoghaire,
and he remained back as O Liathain approached
her.

  "Are you on your way to supper? Good. We will
walk with you, then." 0 Liathain extended his arm
to her; Jenna hesitated, but there seemed no
graceful way to refuse. She placed her left hand in
the crook of his elbow, and he smiled at her. "Come
then," he said.

 They walked on, the other tiarna and Aoife a few
paces behind.

 "Have you thought of what we spoke about
yesterday?" he asked.
 "Truthfully, I've thought of little else."

 "Has an answer come to you?"

 "No, Tanaise Rig. Not as yet."

 His lips pursed, pushing out from the chiseled,
perfect lines of his face. "Ah, I suppose that's what I
would say in your place. But, as I said, I expect to
hear from you before I leave Lár Bhaile to return
home."

  His face inclined toward her, he smiled, but the
gesture never touched the rest of his face. The eyes
were as cold as the waves of the Ice Sea as they
approached the stairs leading down to the hall. "I ...
I shall have an answer-"
  A cry-"Stop!"-and an answering wail cut off her
words. O Liathain pushed Jenna to one side of the
corridor and with the same motion, drew the sword
girded at his side. Jenna moved back again, trying
to see past the man and reaching instinctively for
Lámh Shábhála. Her awareness went streaming out
with the cloch's energy, and she felt someone die: a
spark guttering out in the web.

  "Aoife!" Jenna cried. She pushed past O Liathain's
sheltering body and stopped. "No . . ."

  Aoife lay sprawled on the flags of the corridor,
bright blood streaming from a gash torn in her side.
Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in her dying
wail. O Liathain's tiarna was standing over her, his
short blade held back at the end of the killing
stroke, the honed edges dripping thick blood. "What
have you done, Baird?" O Liathain roared at the
man, his sword now pointing at his companion.
Jenna could hear footsteps pound-ing up the stairs
toward them, shouts of alarm, and the ringing of
un-sheathed metal.

  Baird lowered his sword. "She intended to attack
the Holder," he said. A booted foot prodded Aoife's
limp arm. "Look-the dagger's still in her hand. She
started to rush at your backs; I called, then I cut
her down before she could reach you."
 "No!" Jenna cried again. She went to Aoife, sinking
down on her knees beside the body. She looked at
Baird in fury, her right hand tight around the cloch,
and the man backed away from her, his eyes
widening in fear.

 "Holder, no! I swear-"

  "Jenna!" Mac Ard's voice snapped her head
around. Padraic was stand-ing, sword in hand, at
the top of the stairs. Half a dozen other people
crowded the landing behind him, Jenna's mam
among them. Mac Ard pushed through them and
came up to Jenna. "Do nothing with the cloch," he
said to her. "Not here."
  Jenna pointed at Baird. "He killed Aoife," she
shouted. "How dare you tell me to do nothing!"
Baird dropped his sword; the blade clanged
discor-dantly on the stones.

  "Tiarna Mac Ard," the man wailed, "Don't let her
kill me."
  O Liathain stepped forward. He had sheathed his
own sword, and went to Mac Ard, placing a hand on
the smaller man's shoulder. "Baird did as he had to,"
he said. "The girl tried to kill the Holder, and
perhaps me as well."

 "That's not true!" Jenna shouted. "Aoife wouldn't
do that!"

 "See for yourself, Tiarna," O Liathain told Mac
Ard. "My man is blame-less in this."
  Mac Ard gave O Liathain a dark look, then
stepped forward and went to one knee alongside
Jenna. She was trembling, her hand quivering
around the stone, and she could barely hold back
the power, wanting to unleash it at someone,
anyone. "Calm yourself, Jenna," Mac Ard
whis-pered to her as he knelt. "We both need to be
very careful here." He leaned over, taking the
dagger from Aoife's hand and turning it before his
face. The blade was long, the leather-wrapped hilt
ending in a knob of yellowed whalebone carved as a
twisted knot. "This was made in Con-nachta," he
said, loudly enough so everyone could hear. "I know
the hilt design-it's one they use in the ironworks of
Valleylair."

   "Then our cousins in Tuath Connachta have much
to answer for," O Liathain said. "I'll give this news
to my father, and tell him how they threatened my
life and the Holder's."
  "No doubt the Rí Ard will send a strong letter
scolding the Rí Connachta in Thiar," Mac Ard
responded, getting to his feet. He put Aoife's dagger
in his belt; O Liathain watched, but didn't ask for
the weapon. His face remained somber, but Jenna
saw his eyebrows lower as he stared at Mac Ard.
  "The Rí Ard will do what is within his power," O
Liathain said. "This was a cowardly act; we can't
condone it."

  "Indeed," Mac Ard answered. He held his hand
out to Jenna, still kneel-ing alongside Aoife's body.
Jenna ignored the offer. Instead, she reached out
and closed Aoife's eyes, then got to her feet by
herself. She strode to 0 Liathain and stood before
him, staring into his face. He returned the stare
placidly, unblinking.

  "I'm going back to my rooms," Jenna said: to O
Liathain, to Mac Ard, to her mam and the others
watching. "If anyone follows me, I will use the cloch.
I, too, can do what I need to do." She spun on her
toes and stalked down the corridor away from the
carnage.
 Baird shrank away to the wall as she passed.
Behind her, there was only silence.
  The Banrion first sent her handmaiden, who was
visibly trembling when Jenna opened the door,
holding a mug of andúilleaf brew. "The Banrion asks
permission to visit the Holder in her chambers," the
woman said. Her eyes flicked upward once to
Jenna's face; otherwise, her gaze remained fixed on
the floor, as if fascinated by the parquet pattern
there. Jenna sighed.

 "When?" she asked. "My mistress waits just
outside."
 Tell the Banrion that I'm only a guest here and
these are after all her rooms, not mine. She may
come in if she wishes."

  Jenna drained the mug of its bitter contents; the
handmaiden curtsied and fled. A few moments later,
the door opened again and Cianna entered in a
rustle of her ornate, silken clóca, her torc gleaming
golden around her neck. As Jenna watched, she took
a seat near the fire. She said nothing, only watched
Jenna as she paced back and forth across the rug.
   He had her killed," Jenna said at last. "He didn't
care that he was killing a person. She was just ... an
illustration to me of what he could do- A warning."

  Cianna continued to sit quietly. Jenna plopped into
the chair across from the Banrion, not caring about
the lack of etiquette. Cianna raised an eyebrow, but
otherwise didn't move. "I don't know what to do
now," Jenna said.
  "We are talking about the Tanaise Rig?" Cianna
asked, stirring finally. Jenna nodded. "I thought so.
He departs in a few more days, and he grows
impatient. Do you know why he leaves?"
  Now it was Jenna who sat silent. She moved her
head slowly from side to side, trying to keep back
the headache that threatened to engulf her, starting
to feel the brew send its welcome warmth through
her body.
"Tuath Connachta is gathering an army on its
borders," she said. "They have demanded
erratic-blood payment-for the death of Fiacra De
Derga. Padraic tells me you may not remember that
name, but he was the tiarna you killed in
Ballintubber when the power of Lámh Shábhála first
came to you. The erratic is the excuse for their
aggression, and my husband has already sent back
word that they may wait for their payment forever.
Of course, what they really want is you . . ." Cianna
stopped. She seemed to sigh. "Or more precisely,
what you hold. We may be at war very soon, and
the Rí Ard doesn't want his son and heir caught up
in that collision. The Rí Ard knows he must stay
above feuds between the tuatha if he wants to
remain on his throne."

  "The Tanaise Rig wants me to marry him," Jenna
said.
  Cianna held her hands out to the low flames of the
peat fire, rubbing them softly together. She didn't
look at Jenna. "Does that surprise you? If I were
Tanaise Rig, I would have made that suggestion to
you, too--just as soon as I had decided that it was
too dangerous to take the stone from you myself."

  "He threatened to do this. He hinted that to make
me accept the offer he'd attack the people I loved.
Aoife was to let me know that he meant it. That
wasn't her dagger-I'm sure of that. That man
probably handed it to her, then immediately killed
her. I wasn't watching; she was behind me, both of
them were." Jenna couldn't speak. The tears choked
her throat and blurred her vision, the headache
threatened to overwhelm her. If Cianna had opened
her arms then, if the Banrion had called to her,
Jenna would have sunk into her embrace like a child
searching for the comfort of her mam. But the
Banrion only watched, wheezing slightly as she
breathed and hugging herself as if cold.
 "You could do much worse than the Tanaise Rig,"
Cianna said. "I told you before, marriage is a
weapon. Now I'll tell you that once it's in your
hands, you'll find the edge can cut for you as well as
O Liathain."

  That brought Jenna's head up and dried the tears.
"You can't be se-rious."

 "I am. Very much so.
 "He killed Aoife."

 "You killed Mac Ard's cousin De Derga and those
with him. You killed two Connachtans more near
Áth Iseal, I was told. And there was the assassin."
  "All of that was different," Jenna protested. "With
De Derga, I literally didn't know what I was doing.
And the men near Áth Iseal-that was pure
self-defense. They would have killed us had I not
acted. The assassin was suicide; I was only trying to
capture him."

  "So he could be tortured and tell us what he knew,
and then be killed." Cianna gave Jenna a wan smile.
"I blame you for none of that, Jenna. You did what
you felt was necessary, and you didn't worry that
you were killing someone's son or brother or father
or friend. That's as it should be, to protect yourself.
But I would argue that's also what the Tanaise Rig
did, if he was responsible for Aoife's death."

 "I didn't threaten the Tanaise Rig. He wasn't in
danger from me."
   "The Tanaise Rig, the Rí Ard, as well as Rí Gabair
or Rí Connachta or most of the Riocha for that
matter, always feel threatened by a perceived
stronger power. That's what you represent with
Lámh Shábhála around your neck. If you aren't
their ally, then you're their enemy. That's the way
they see the world, in cold black and white. You are
on their side or you are against them. There is no
middle ground." Cianna lifted a finger against
Jenna's burgeoning protest. "And your saying that
it's not so doesn't change that perception. I know
that's not your vision of the world. It's not mine,
either. But it is theirs."

 "I don't love him. I never could."
  "What does love have to do with marriage? Do you
think I love my husband?" Cianna gave a bitter,
short laugh that ended in a barking cough. For a
moment, she spasmed, leaning over as a series of
coughs racked her body. Then she sat up again,
wiping her mouth with a lace handkerchief, blotting
away the blood on her lips. "Or that he loves me?"
she finished. "It is enough that the two of you work
together, with what he can do as Tanaise Rig and
eventually Rí Ard, and you with Lámh Shábhála."

 'To do what?" Jenna asked.

  Whatever you can." Cianna closed her eyes, as if in
pain. When they opened again, she smiled at Jenna.
"You can't say 'no' to him. Not yet. But if it's not
what you want, you can also delay, and see what
tomorrow brings."

  Jenna pounced on that, like a drowning person
grabbing a stick ex-tended from the bank. "How?
How can I delay?"
  "The Tanaise Rig must leave, but you can tell him
that you are in too much pain to travel-that much at
least is close to the truth, and he knows it. You can
tell him that once Lámh Shábhála has opened the
way for the other clochs to feed on the mage-lights
and you no longer have that burden on you, then
you'll come to him in Dún Laoghaire and be his wife.
Until then, you will stay here under Rí Gabair's
protection. That's a reasonable compromise, and he
won't be able to refuse it." Her shoulders lifted
under her clóca. "And who knows what might
happen in that time."

  Relief flooded into Jenna, the tension slowly
receding. She went to the Banrion and knelt before
her chair, taking the woman's hand in hers. "Thank
you, Banrion. You are a friend where I did not
expect to find one."

  Cianna's face gentled, and with her free hand, she
stroked Jenna's hair. "I'm pleased you feel that
way," she said. "It's what I would want."
                 Chapter 23: Answers
  JENNA was escorted to the fete by Mac Ard and
her mam. As Maeve walked down the stairs, her
clóca moved against her body, and Jenna could see
the slight swell of her abdomen. She wondered if
others saw it as well; she wondered most if Mac Ard
had noticed, and what his thoughts might be.

  The Banrion had sent Jenna one of her own clóca
to wear, trimmed in gold thread and in the colors of
Tuath Gabair. The clóca left her arms bare to the
elbow, and Jenna had not let her mam bandage the
right arm. "Let them see it," she'd told her. "Let
them see what Lámh Shábhála does to its Holder."
The stone itself she also let show, bright against the
darker cloth. As a gem, it was plainer than any of
the gems at the throats of the tiarna below, but its
very plainness spoke of its power.

  She'd taken a large draught of the andúilleaf
before they left. The herb roiled in her stomach as
they descended the staircase in the Great Hall
toward the sound of pipes, bodhran, and flute, all
eyes on them. Most of the Riocha were already
there, the ceil giallnai in their finest, the
higher-ranking Riocha already talking in polite
circles, watching the stairway for the Rí and Banrion
who would enter with O Liathain, their entrances as
carefully choreographed as the seating
arrangements.
  Halfway down the stair and looking at the faces
upturned to them, Jenna spotted Coelin, standing
with his giotár near the other musicians at the end
of the hall. He had a broad grin on his face, and she
smiled back at him. Maeve noticed the exchange,
for she saw her mam's focus shift for a moment and
a brief frown cross her face. "Jenna," her mam
whispered, leaning toward her. "Coelin has no
importance here. Don't make a fool of yourself."

  "You needn't worry. I'm not with child by him,"
Jenna answered. Her mam's hiss of hurt and
irritation made Jenna immediately regret her
words, but she made no apology. It's the pain
talking, Mam, not me ... They walked down the rest
of the stairs in silence. They were immediately
engulfed, several of the tiarna surrounding them,
smiling and nodding. Jenna found herself torn away
from her mam, who remained with Padraic as
several of the unmarried women came up to him.
Tiarna Galen Aheron of Tuath Infochla, resplendent
in his clóca of green and gold, with a leine of fine
white cloth underneath, was suddenly next to her.
He was a burly man, muscular now in his prime, but
Jenna suspected that the burliness would turn to fat
soon enough, leaving the tiarna huge and slow. She
also remembered that Cianna had named him as
one of those who coveted Lámh Shábhála himself.
She could easily imagine those thick fingers
drop-ping a purse of gold mórceints into the palm of
a paid assassin.

  "Good evening, Holder," he said, his breath
scented with mint. "A fine party for the Tanaise Rig,
don't you think? A shame he'll be leaving. Have you
ever given any thought of going to Dún Laoghaire
yourself?" He asked the question with a slight
incline of his head, and with enough emphasis that
Jenna wondered if he might not know or at least
suspect, what O Liathain had asked of her. If it
hadn't surprised the Banrion, then others of the
Riocha would certainly have suspected it as well.

  "I would like to see Dún Laoghaire sometime," she
answered, trying to return the smile. "Perhaps I
shall, one day."

  "Soon, possibly? After all, I would think-" Aheron
paused as the mu-sicians suddenly stopped playing
and gave a loud, ornate flourish, his gaze going past
Jenna's shoulder and up. "Ah, here comes the guest
of honor now ..."

  The Riocha gathered in the Great Hall turned as
one, applauding po-litely. Jenna turned to see the Rí
and Banrion at the top of the stair, with Cianna
holding to both the Ri's and O Liathain's arms. O
Liathain's eyes caught Jenna's for a moment; she
looked down and away as Aheron glanced
appraisingly at her. When the trio reached the foot
of the stair, the Riocha closed around them,
everyone talking at once. Jenna held back; she
looked over her shoulder at the far end of the hall to
where Coelin stood. He nodded to her. He seemed
nervous and excited, his eyes wide, and she realized
that he saw none of the underlying complexity-he
was awed simply to be here. His naiveté almost
made her smile.

 "Good evening to you, Holder."
  Jenna turned back quickly. O Liathain was
standing before her, a cadre of tiarna behind him.
He smiled at her, his gaze wandering past her for a
moment to where she'd just been looking. She
lowered her head, but he stopped her automatic
curtsy by picking up her right hand. He held it,
looking at the pattern of scars mottling her skin.
"No bandages tonight," he said. "That's as it should
be. A warrior should be proud of the scars of battle.
There's no shame in them." He kissed her scarred
hand. She tried to smile, feeling everyone watching,
listening. "By the way, I was thinking of asking that
young singer-the one from your village-to come to
Dún Laoghaire and entertain us there. He has an
excellent voice."
 "Aye," Jenna answered, keeping her eyes
downcast. "That he does."

  "I wonder," O Liathain continued, "if you would
have a moment to speak with me later this evening?
More . . . privately." Jenna looked up; his blue eyes
pierced her, demanding.
 "As the Tanaise Rig wishes, of course," she
answered.
   "Good." The corners of his mouth lifted. "I will
look forward to that. In the meantime, I must speak
to these good people I must leave behind tomorrow
morning. Until later, then ..." He kissed her hand
once more, then released it, turning to the other
Riocha. Jenna heard laughter, and O Liathain's rich
voice starting another conversation. Someone spoke
to her, and she smiled back politely, but she paid
little attention to the words. She could feel the touch
of O Liathain's lips on the back of her hand, and she
was afraid to touch the stone around her neck.
  The fete seemed interminable. Jenna wandered
from conversation to con-versation, occasionally
finding her mam, Mac Ard, or Banrion Cianna, but
without a chance to speak with any of them. The
musicians began playing again, and she was asked to
dance by the Rí-a request she could not
decline-then afterward by Tiarna Aheron. Coelin
seemed to have van-ished; she could not find him in
the crush of people. A stripe and a half later by the
clock-candle near the stairs, the cold of the Great
Hall was seeping into her bones despite the fires and
the crowd and the dancing, and she could feel the
old pain tingling in the fingertips and joints of her
right hand. Jenna knew that she'd need to return to
her room for more andúilleaf before the end, and
she wondered how she could manage to leave
without being noticed.
 "Holder?"

  Baird, O Liathain's man, was standing before her.
Jenna could feel her face tightening as she glared at
the man who had murdered Aoife. Her voice was
frost and ice. "What do you want?"
 "The Tanaise Rig asks if you would come with me.
He said to remind you that you promised him an
answer and that he awaits you in a side chamber to
hear it."

  Jenna's stomach turned over and she could feel
the acid burning in her throat. Baird had already
turned to go. "This way, Holder . . ." She fol-lowed
him down a side aisle of the hall. He knocked on a
door near the south end.
  "Enter," a muffled, familiar voice answered. Baird
opened the door and gestured to Jenna to go
through, closing it behind her and remaining
outside.

  O Liathain was seated on a chair, his legs propped
up on the stone flags of the fireplace, his boots off.
He gestured to a chair next to him. "Please," he
said. His voice was oddly gentle, almost tired. "It's
weary, standing and dancing all night, and I'm sure
your feet are as sore as mine."

  "Thank you, Tanaise Rig." Jenna settled into the
chair, feeling the wel-come warmth of the fire wash
over her. Neither of them spoke for several
minutes. Jenna was content to have it that way,
trying to think of what she might say to the man.
When he finally did speak, his voice made her start.
  "Have you reflected on our previous
conversation?"
 "I've thought of little else, Tanaise Rig," Jenna
answered truthfully. "After all, you . . . emphasized
with Aoife just how important my answer was to
you."
  A look almost of pain played over his face in the
firelight. "You are blunt, Holder. That can be an
asset, if you use it in the right circum-stances. But
at the wrong time . . ." He let his voice trail off.

 "And which is this-the right time or the wrong?"

  He sat up in his chair, turning so that he faced her.
"Here, we can speak openly, since there are just the
two of us and my man holds the door."
  "Aye. He seems to be a man who would kill
someone if you ask him to do so, even if that person
was entirely innocent of wrongdoing."

 The right side of O Liathain's mouth twitched as if
with some inner amusement. "Innocent? Let me
speak frankly now, Holder. Did I order the girl
killed? Aye, I did. Was the-well, shall we call it a
lesson?-intended for you? Only partially. There was
another who was even more distressed by the
incident and it was mostly for that person's, ah,
benefit, that I told Baird to do as he did. The girl
was hardly innocent, Jenna. She may have been
your servant, but she was doing the bidding of
another. I happen to know that Aoife told that
person's assassin where and when he could find
you."
 Jenna knew the shock of that statement showed
on her face. "I don't . that. Aoife wouldn't have
betrayed me that way." "It's true, nonetheless."

  "Show me the proof. Tell me who this 'other
person' is." O Liathain took a long, slow breath. He
put his feet back on the hearth, slouching again in
his chair. "I will. In time. When I know you and I
are of one mind. Until then, you will have to trust
me and trust my intentions. Did I order Aoife killed.
Aye, I did. Did I do it only to demon-strate to you
how far I would go to have you as my wife?" His lips
pursed, his hands lifted palms up from his lap and
fell again. "That was, I'll admit, a secondary
consideration. But only secondary. I had Aoife killed
to tell those who would harm you that you are
under my protection, to show them that I knew
more than they believed and that Dún Laoghaire
has long arms." He looked over to her, the blue eyes
reflecting fire. "What is your answer to me, Holder?
Aye, or nay?"

  "I ..." Jenna's throat convulsed. She remembered
Cianna's advice; it was all she had. She could not
look at him and say no-he would kill her mam or
Coelin. "You made another promise to me-that Mac
Ard would also marry my mam and make her
Riocha."
  O Liathain nodded. "That he will do, when I put
pressure on him. The Tanaise Rig will not marry a
commoner."
 "Then your answer is aye," she said finally. "But
Tanaise Rig, I can't go with you yet."
  His burgeoning smile transformed to a frown,
darkly. "Why not?" "You don't know how Lámh
Shábhála hurts," she told him. The truth of that
statement made it easier to say the lie she had been
constructing for the last few days. "Lámh Shábhála
will open the other clochs na thintrí soon-no more
than four or five appearances of the mage-lights
from now. I need to stay here until that happens-I
/eel that. Lámh Shábhála tells me this. The
mage-lights would not follow me as far as Dún
Laoghaire, and the cloch tells me to remain here,
near the center of Talamh an Ghlas. I must stay
here until Lámh Shábhála opens the other stones.
When that happens, then I will come to you in Dún
Laoghaire. I promise that it will be no more than a
month from now, when you will be holding a cloch
yourself."
  He was fingering the stone around his own neck,
the stone Jenna knew Was only a jewel, no more.
"How do I know you tell the truth?" he scowled.
"Once I'm gone, you may decide that it's safe to
change your mind." we are to be 'of one mind' as
you say, then you must learn to trust what I tell you
also," Jenna answered. "And didn't you just tell me
that the arm of Dún Laoghaire is long?"

  "Indeed it is." He said nothing for a time. The fire
crackled and hissed in the fireplace, sending a
column of whirling sparks upward. Jenna moved
her right arm so that the fire's radiance fell on the
perpetually cold flesh, the welcome heat easing the
growing discomfort somewhat. "Are you aware that
Tuath Connachta is gathering an army and that
they may attack Tuath Gabair?"

 Jenna nodded. "The Banrion gave me the news."

  "Did she also tell you that the Rí no doubt hopes
for Lámh Shábhála to be part of that battle, if it
comes to that, that he would love to see the
lightnings of your cloch smash the enemy and send
them fleeing for their lives back to the Westering
Sea? No, you needn't answer; I can see by your face
that she didn't. I can also see that the thought
appalls you."

 "I won't be used that way," she said. "As a
weapon. To kill."
  O Liathain vented a quick, unamused laugh.
"Since we're being blunt, then let me say that you
have no choice," he told her. "Lámh Shábhála is a
weapon. It has always been a weapon. If you don't
wield it in war against the enemies of those who
protect you or if you're unwilling to protect yourself
with its power, then someone will take it from you,
someone who is willing to use it. I don't say that as a
threat or to attempt to frighten • you, Jenna. I say
that simply because it's the bare truth, and if you
don't accept it as such, your life will be a short one."

  "I don't-" Jenna started to protest, then closed
her mouth. It is true. You know it. The blood is
already on your hands, and there will be more . .
 She could feel twin tears course down her face. O
Liathain made no move to comfort her. He watched,
fingers prowling in his dark, gray-spattered beard.

  "Here is what we will do," O Liathain said. "We
will go back into the hall, together, with you on my
arm. You will stay on my arm for a time and
everyone will notice. Let them talk. That's exactly
what we want. We will also go to the Rí and the
Banrion, and we will tell them of our plans. That
way, my-let's deem it an 'investment'-in you is
protected by their knowledge, and they will
understand that you must be kept safe or the Rí
Ard and I will be most upset."

 Jenna sniffed, rubbing angrily at her eyes. "And
Mac Ard and my mam?"
  "Mac Ard will notice the two of us together; he will
see us chatting with the Rí and Banrion. He will
know what that means; when I speak with him
later, I guarantee he won't be surprised." O Liathain
reached down and picked up his boots, pulling them
over his stockings. He rose his chair and extended
his hand to Jenna. "Let us make our en-trance," he
said.
  Jenna licked dry lips and rubbed again at her
eyes. She lifted her left hand to O Liathain and he
shook his head. "No, it should be the hand of power
I hold," he said. "That, I think, will send the
message best."

  His own hand felt cool and smooth under the stiff,
unyielding flesh of her right hand. He placed her
fingers on his forearm, on the soft fabric of his leine.
  With her hand on O Liathain's arm, they left the
room and went into the hall again.
 He kept her with him for a candle's stripe.
  O Liathain was correct: they were noticed. Jenna
could see the eyes on them, the heads that turned
to nearby companions for quick, whispered
comments. The Rí and Banrion accepted the news
with nods and smiles and Cianna nodded once to
Jenna when the Rí and the Tanaise Rig were
engaged in conversation. Her mam saw, too. Maeve
was shadowing Mac Ard, never on the tiarna's arm
since their arrival but always near him. She lifted
her hand and seemed to smile, but O Liathain
moved then and Jenna had no chance to speak with
her.

  Coelin sang, and O Liathain moved to stand
directly in front of the young man, his hand gently
covering Jenna's. Coelin faltered once, seeing them,
and for the rest of his performance his gaze always
skittered past her, sliding over her face with an
uncertain smile. When Coelin finished and left the
hall to applause, O Liathain and Jenna moved from
group to group for a time, until Jenna pressed O
Liathain's arm.

 "Tired, Holder?"
  "Aye. Exhausted. And my arm ... I need to retire
for a bit."

 Certainly," O Liathain said. "These events are
wearisome, aren't they? But I need to remain for a
while longer. Baird will escort you back to your
apartment."

  I don't need . . ." Jenna began. "That will be fine,"
she finished.
 Baird left her at the door to her rooms, bowing to
her as she left him.

  A girl no older than herself came scurrying out
from the servants' quarters as she closed the door:
Aoife's replacement, whose name Jenna didn't now
yet. She was plain, her hair dull and close-cropped,
and yet her eyes glittered with intelligence.

 "Mistress, let me help you . . ."
   Jenna waved her away. She'll be someone's spy . .
. "I don't want help."

 'But, Mistress, I'm-"
  "Go now," Jenna answered sharply. "Leave me."
The girl's eyes wid-ened, then she made a hurried
curtsy and fled the room. Jenna heard her voice
whispering to the other servants as she closed the
door behind her. Jenna went through the outer
parlor to her bedroom. There, she removed the
clóca the Banrion had lent her. She went to the
chest at the foot of her bed and rummaged beneath
the clothing there until she felt the packet of
andúilleaf. She set a pot of water to boil over the fire
and prepared some of the powdered leaf in a mug.
She was sipping the pungent liquid when she heard
the scrape of a footstep at the door. She whirled
around, nearly spilling the potion, her right hand
going instinctively to the cloch.

 "Coelin . . ."

  He smiled at her. "I thought you were about to
strike me dead with that damned stone."
 "How did you get in here?"
  He grinned. "I have my ways. Do you want me to
leave?"

  "By the Mother, no," she answered. She set the
mug down and went to him, her arms going around
him and her face lifting for his kiss. The embrace
was long and urgent, and she pulled him to the bed,
enjoying the feel of his hands on her body and the
heat of his response. He pulled away from her once,
looking down at her with a question in his eyes, and
she nodded to him. "Aye," she whispered.
 Then they said nothing at all for a time.

  Afterward, Jenna drew her leine over herself.
There was blood between her thighs and on the
bedsheets. She rolled away from him and took the
cup of cold andúilleaf, sipping it as she sat on the
side of the bed.
  It was supposed to be different. While they were
together in the few minutes of passion, she had lost
herself and forgot everything to simply be with him,
but when it was over . . . The insistent throbbing of
her arm, the dead coldness of the scarred flesh
called her back, and suddenly the andúilleaf was
more important than being with Coelin. She sought
solace in the sour milkiness of the brew, not with
the man to whom she'd just given herself. She felt
dead inside when she should have been feeling joy
and release.

 Did you do this because you wanted Coelin that
much, or just so 0 Liathain couldn't be the first? She
wanted to cry, but there were no tears inside her.
  She felt Coelin move behind her, and his hand
trailed from her head down her spine. She shivered
and his arms went around her, cupping her breasts.
She let herself lean back against him. "Are those the
herbs you bought from du Val?" he asked. He kissed
the side of her neck. "That potion smells awful."
 "And tastes worse. But it helps."

  "Mmm." He nuzzled the other side of her neck.
His fingers started to drift lower, and she stopped
them. "Jenna . . ."

 "Hush," she told him. "It was wonderful. It was
what I wanted."
 She could feel his smile. "I thought, when I saw
you with the Tanaise Rig tonight ..."
  "I was doing what I had to do, Coelin. Nothing
else. There's no love there. There never will be."
That, at least, was only the truth. She turned her
head, kissing him softly; Coelin grinned at her, then
returned the kiss more passionately. When he tried
to lay her down again, she shook her head. "No, not
now, Coelin. My mam and Mac Ard will be returning
soon, and I'm ... sore. Later. There will be time. But
for now, you'd better go." She stopped, looked into
his green, soft eyes, and for a moment felt a surge of
the old affection. "My love."

  "My love," he answered, and kissed her again.
With a sigh, he left the bed. "I nearly forgot," he
said as he drew his tunic back over his head. "That
man-Ennis O'Deoradháin. I found him. I know
where he's living."
  Jenna sat up, her eyes narrowing as remembered
anger made her jaw clench. If he sent the assassin,
then he is also ultimately responsible for Aoife's
death. . . . "Where?" she asked.

  "On Cooper Street. He has a room in a widow's
house. Her name is Murrin. I've seen him a couple
times now. Do you want me to do some-thing with
him? There are people I know in Low Town ..."

 "No," Jenna answered. "I will take care of
O'Deoradháin myself."

  Coelin's head went back at the ferocity of her
words. "You're certain? He could be dangerous, and
I-"
 "I will take care of the man," Jenna said
decisively. "Don't worry about him."

  Coelin nodded reluctantly. "I should go, then," he
said. He looked uncertain, an odd, strained smile on
his lips, and he shifted his weight from one leg to the
other, as if he wanted to say more. "I've been asked
to play for the Rí again, next week. And the Tanaise
Rig said he would talk to his father about me."

  The mention of O Liathain's title brought the
coldness back, and Jenna reached for the mug of
brew, taking a long swallow and grimacing. "That's
… good," she told Coelin. "When you come here
again, we'll make plans."
 He nodded. Turned.

 Coelin," she said. She could not keep the
desperation from her voice. Tell me that you love
me."

 He smiled, looking back over his shoulder. "I love
you, Jenna. I always have."
 And he left.
               Chapter 24: The Traitor



  THE Banrion seemed concerned when Jenna came
to her requesting half a dozen trusted gardai, but to
her credit, Cianna did not ask Jenna why but only
nodded in agreement. "Certainly, Holder. Let me
call for Labras; he's a good man, and he can choose
five others ..."

 Jenna lifted her hand. "No, Banrion. Not today.
After the Tanaise Rig leaves. Tomorrow morning. I
need to go into Low Town then."

  "Ah," Cianna had said. Just the one sound, then
silence. "I'll make arrangements for them to be at
Keep Gate at first bell tomorrow, then."

  The Banrion started to move away, as if in
dismissal, but Jenna cleared her throat. "Banrion, I
would like to tell you why. It needs to be a secret
between the two of us, though. You're the only
person who has given me help, unasked for. Now I
would ask it."

  Cianna smiled softly. "Jenna, I will know anyway,
whether you tell me now or not. The gardai will
inform me where you take them, and why. The ones
I would send with you aren't as blindly stupid as
those you've borrowed before from my husband or
Mac Ard. They won't let the Holder roam
unaccompanied through Low Town, no matter what
she says."
  Jenna laughed with the Banrion. "I know. And
that's why I came to you."
  She told the Banrion about O'Deoradháin, how he
had lied to them about himself on their way to Áth
Iseal, how he had reacted during the attack by the
Connachtans, that she'd glimpsed him in Low Town
(though she said nothing about du Val), and how she
now suspected the man had been responsible for
the assassin.
  Gianna's face was grim when Jenna finished. "Tell
me where this man • and I will have him fetched
here for you," she said. "There's no need for you to
expose yourself to danger, Jenna-and the Tanaise
Rig will be upset if you are injured while you remain
with us."

 Jenna shook her head. "Banrion, I will have Lámh
Shábhála to protect me Your gardai will be there
only as a precaution. I want to do this myself- I
want to see his face and hear his voice."
 "Jenna-"

  "Please, Banrion. I don't know any longer who I
can trust. I can only trust myself."

  Jenna saw Cianna gather herself for another
argument, but the Banrion finally dropped her
shoulders. She coughed softly a few times, rising
from her chair. Servants appeared as if summoned
by the rustling of fabric, and the Banrion waved
them away. "Come, then," she said. "We should give
our farewell to your future husband, and pretend
that none of us is plot-ting anything."
   "I need four to stay out here and make certain
that no one leaves until I'm finished." Jenna
gestured to Labras, a tall, burly man with hair so
red it almost seemed to burn and eyes as gray as
storm clouds. She wasn't sure she liked the man at
all; he seemed to radiate violence, and the abundant
scars on his face spoke to his familiarity with it. Yet
if the Banrion trusted him ... or maybe her reaction
to him was only the haze of the andúilleaf. She'd
taken two mugs of the brew before they'd left the
Keep, knowing she might well be using the cloch,
and the herb was like a fog over her mind that
wouldn't quite clear. "Labras, bring someone with
you and follow me."
  She touched Lámh Shábhála once as the three of
them strode toward the door of the small, two-story
house. She could feel O'Deoradháin, could feel the
pattern of his energy motionless on the second floor.
She could sense no fear or apprehension in him.
 She decided that would soon change.

  An elderly woman came scurrying from the
kitchen as they opened the door, stopping suddenly
and gaping with an open, toothless mouth at Jenna
and the armed men behind her. There were two
elderly men in the front parlor, huddled over a
ficheall board and staring with frightened yes at the
intruders: Labras with a drawn sword, his
companion holding a nocked and ready crossbow.
"You have nothing to fear if you stay where you
are," Jenna told them. "Widow Murrin, you have a
man here named Ennis O'Deoradháin."

  "First door to the left at the top of the stairs," the
woman said hurriedly pointing, then hopping back
as Jenna and the gardai pushed past her and up the
stairs. Jenna heard the click of a door shutting as
she reached the landing; in the expanded awareness
of the cloch, she could feel O'Deoradháin's presence:
still and quiet, even though she knew he must have
heard the commotion below, the pounding of feet on
the stairs and the jingling of the mail over the
gardai's tunics. She could sense no danger in him,
though, as she had with the assassin. He seemed to
be waiting, calm. She started toward the door, but
Labras shook his head. "He may have a bow or
sword, ready to strike the first person through," he
whis-pered. "Let me go in first." He seemed almost
eager to do so.
 "You needn't worry," Jenna said firmly. "He has a
dagger, and it is in its sheath."

  "How-?" Labras began, then saw her
white-patterned hand touch the stone around her
neck. An eyebrow interrupted by the pale line of a
scar lifted and fell again. "So he has a dagger. You
can see with that?"
  "Aye," she told him. She pushed the door open.
O'Deoradháin was leaning against a table on the far
side of the room, arms folded across his chest.

  "I was wondering how long it would take you to
find me," he said. His gaze went past Jenna to the
two gardai crowding the doorway. "You don't need
them."

  "No?" Jenna answered. "Strange. I expected you
to be running like a frightened rabbit again, as you
did the last time I saw you."
  "If I were a 'frightened rabbit,' I wouldn't have
come to Lár Bhaile at all," O'Deoradháin responded
easily. "I wouldn't have made certain you saw me at
du Val's. I wouldn't have made it so easy for that
handsome, stupid boy with the golden throat to
track me down."

 His remark caused anger to flare in Jenna. She
grasped Lámh Shábhála, opening it slightly with her
mind so that the cold, blue-white power filled her
hand. "You knew where I was," she spat. "If you
wanted to speak to me, you didn't need this
charade."

  O'Deoradháin snorted. He took a step toward her,
his hands down at his sides. She saw the well-worn
leather of the scabbard there, and heard the gardai
shift uneasily behind her. But the man stopped two
strides from her. "Oh, aye. I could have walked
right up to the gate-and Mac Ard would have had
me killed immediately, or the Rí Gabair would have
bound me in irons to be tortured until I gave them
the answers they wanted, or the Tanaise Rig might
have had me dragged behind his carriage as he left
for Dún Laoghaire, just for the pleasure it would
give him. But I could never have gotten to you,
Jenna Aoire. They might call me their enemy and
be right, but I'm not your enemy."
  Aye That's why you sent the assassin, she wanted
to tell him, mockingly. But she saw him through the
eyes of Lámh Shábhála, not just her own, and
though she could sense that he desired the power
she held, there was no malice in him toward her,
only jealousy and envy and sadness. The certainty
in her failed. "Who's your master, then?" she asked.
"Who sends you? The Rí Connachta?"

  He laughed and glanced at the gardai. He gestured
at Labras with his chin his hands not moving. "I
would rather not talk here. In front of them."
  "You'll talk here, or you'll talk back at the keep. I'll
ask you again, and I'll know the truth of what you
say: are you with Tuath Connachta?"

  Again, a laugh. "I gave you the truth when we
met. I'm of Inish blood. As to who sent me ... I'm a
Bráthair of the Order of Inishfeirm and the Moister
there gave me this task."

  Despite herself, Jenna found her interest suddenly
piqued at the men-tion of Inishfeirm and the Order.
She remembered her da Mall's tale, and her
great-mam's and great-da's escape from that island.
"And what task was that?"
  "To bring you back to Inishfeirm so you could be
taught the ways of the cloudmage."

 Jenna bristled. The andúilleaf rang in her ears,
Lámh Shábhála pulsed in her grasp. "What makes
you think that I need your instruc-" In the fog of
the andúilleaf, she nearly missed it: a sudden sense
of danger, of attack-not from the man in front of
her, but from behind . . .

 "Jenna!" O'Deoradháin shouted at the same time.
He flung himself for-ward as Jenna turned to look.
  She caught a glimpse of Labras, no longer holding
a sword but with a long dagger in his hand, his gray
eyes not on O'Deoradháin but on Jenna and the
dagger already beginning to make a sweeping cut
that would have found her neck. O'Deoradháin hit
Jenna in that same instant; as she fell she glimpsed
O'Deoradháin parrying Labras' attack with his own
weapon, the clash of blade against blade loud. Then
she saw nothing as she struck the floor with a grunt
and a cry, trying to roll away. As she tumbled, she
heard a shout and a horrible, wet strangling sound:
Jenna, on her knees, saw Labras fall, a new, second
mouth on his neck gaping wide and frothing blood.
The crossbow twanged, the bolt hissing, and
O'Deoradháin staggered backward. The remaining
gardai tossed the now useless crossbow aside and
drew his sword. He moved-toward Jenna, not the
wounded O'Deoradháin.

  A shout of rage, the tendons standing out like
ropes in her neck: Jenna let the power surge from
the cloch. A torrent of agony rushed from the cloch,
through her arm and into her body, and she threw
that torment outward with a scream as light flared
from her hand. The searing bolt lifted the garda
from his feet and slammed him backward into the
wall, lightning crackling madly about his frame. The
wood cracked and shat-tered beneath the force of
the blow, mingling with the cracking of bones; the
body dropped to the floor like a rag doll, neck and
spine broken, the wall blackened and smoldering
behind him.
  The echo of thunder rumbled in Jenna's ears and
faded. In the sudden quiet, she could hear
O'Deoradháin groan as he pushed himself to his feet.
Jenna was breathing heavily, her body shaking. She
stared at the garda's mangled body. The eyes were
still open; they gazed at her as if in accusation. "I'm
sorry ..." she whispered to the corpse.

  " That is what makes me think you still need to
learn how to use your cloch, Holder," O'Deoradháin
said. That near-contempt in his voice snapped her
head around. His left arm dangled uselessly, the
quarrel from the crossbow protruding from his
shoulder and dark blood staining the arm. His right
hand still held his dagger, dripping red. He went to
the corpse of Labras and wiped the blade on the
garda's clothing. He turned to Jenna, sheathing the
dagger. "Your other men are coming," he
contin-ued, "and I don't have time to talk." He was
right; she could feel them rushing toward the house
from their stations. "I'm not your enemy. They may
be."

  Jenna shook her head; she could feel nothing in
the others but concern and fear for their own
well-being if she'd been hurt. She wished she'd
taken the same precaution with Labras and his
friend. "No," she told him. "They're loyal."
 "To you, perhaps. Me, they'll kill."

  "Stay, O'Deoradháin. You're right. We need to
talk."
  They could hear the first of the gardai rush into
the house. O'Deoradháin went to the window and
glanced down. He put a leg over the sill. "Then come
with me."
 There were footsteps pounding the stairs.
"O'Deoradháin!" Jenna called. "Wait."

  His shook his head. "Meet me below Ri's Market
at Deer Creek-third bell, two days from now." She
could have stopped him. She could have reached out
with Lámh Shábhála and held him with the cloch's
energy-or crushed him like you did the garda . . .
Jenna lifted her hand but rather than reaching out
with the power, she pushed it back, closing Lámh
Shábhála. O'Deoradháin slid over the windowsill,
grimacing as he tried to maneuver with one hand.
He lowered himself slowly down, until all Jenna
could see was his right hand, holding the sill. Then
he let go, and she heard him land on the soft ground
outside, the sound followed by his running footsteps.
   "Holder!" someone shouted, and Jenna turned
from the window to see the gardai, swords out,
staring horrified at the carnage in front of them. She
could feel the fear in them as they glanced toward
her, untouched in the midst of the butchery. And
perhaps because she could sense that dread,
perhaps because she needed to convince herself
that she had only done what she'd needed to do, she
lifted her chin and glared back at them.

 "This is what happens to those who betray me,"
she said.

 In her voice, she heard an imperious tone that had
never been there before, and she wondered at it.
               Chapter 25: Preparations



  JENNA had wondered whether Cianna would
believe her. She shouldn't have worried. The
Banrion uttered a gasp of horror when Jenna
started to relate how Labras had attacked her, and
she immediately sent away the servants, going to
the door of her chamber and closing it firmly. "My
child," she said, enfolding Jenna in her arms. Then
she released her, a quivering hand going to the torc
about her neck, gold braided with bright silver. "I
can hardly breathe," she said.

  "Let me call the healer," Jenna said, but Cianna
shook her head.
  "No." Cianna took a long, wheezing breath. "No. It
will pass. I put you in terrible danger, however
unintentional. I was certain Labras was one of those
I could trust, but ..." She bit at her lip. ". . . he was
evidently in someone else's pay. How can you ever
forgive me for making such a mis-take? Had you
been hurt, or the cloch taken from you . . . Jenna, I
put you in such danger."

  Jenna hurried to reassure the distraught woman.
"You couldn't have known, Banrion."
  A flush burned high on Cianna's cheeks. "No,
Jenna. I absolutely should have known. For my own
survival, as well as yours. Now I have to wonder
who else around me is in the employ of another,
who of those others I trust implicitly ..." Cianna
turned away, hunching over as a fit of cough-ing
took her. "Damn this sickness in my lungs, and
damn the healer for his own lies." Slowly, she
straightened again, still turned away from Jenna.
"What about the man you went to capture? Was he
part of this, too?"

 "He escaped, Banrion. When I used the cloch."

  Cianna turned, touching a handkerchief to her
mouth. There were clumps of clotted blood on the
cloth. "My guess is that Labras was being paid in
this O'Deoradháin's coin. To think that I was an
unwitting accomplice -- oh, this would have played
so well for him-had you not been alert, Lámh
Shábhála would have been his."
 Jenna didn't bother to correct Cianna' s
perception. It would be a good lie for the time being,
until she learned whose hand was actually behind
the scenes. And she would find out.

 The anger burned in her, alloyed with fear.
  "I will have the rest of the gardai who went with
you interrogated to see if there are others whose
loyalty has been turned, but now I don't know if I
can trust the results I would hear," Cianna
continued. "I can't discount the possibility that my
husband arranged for this, or the Tanaise Rig, or
even Padraic Mac Ard or one of the other tiarna
here-maybe Aheron from Infochla; he seemed
awfully fond of you the other night." She stopped,
and touched Jenna's cheek. "You can trust no one,
Jenna." A bitter smile creased her face. "Evidently
not even me."

  Jenna put her own hand, stiff and marked with
the curling scars of the cloch, on top of Cianna's. She
took the Banrion's hand and kissed it once. "It
wasn't your fault, Banrion," she told the woman.
"We both need to be more careful, that's all. And
I've learned something from this: I can use Lámh
Shábhála to look inside a person and see what's in
their heart." Jenna frowned. "I won't be surprised
this way again," she declared.

 Cianna, pale and grim, nodded.
  The Holder Aoire," the page announced, and
closed the door behind Jenna. The three men in the
room were huddled together over a table, and they
turned to look at her as one: Rí Mallaghan, Tiarna
Mac Ard; and a man whom Jenna didn't recognize.
She lowered her head and gave them a brief curtsy.
  Ah, Jenna," the Rí said. He was smiling, but there
was a grimness in his smile. "Thank you for coming
so quickly. Here, you should see this..." He
beckoned to her, and she came over to the table.
She nodded Mac Ard, then glanced curiously at the
other man. "Ah, you've yet to be introduced to our
Field Commander," the Rí said, noting the direction
of her gaze. "Holder, this is Tiarna Damhlaic
Gairbith, who has been away to the west watching
the Connachtans."
  The man inclined his head to her. He wore his
clóca uncomfortably, as if he were unused to the
long folds of fabric. His face was hardened and
fissured from exposure to wind and sun, his cheeks
and forehead marred with the white lines of scars,
his gray-flecked beard thin over patches of mottled
flesh. His hands were on the table, holding down a
large piece of unrolled parchment; Jenna saw that
the left hand had but two fingers and a thumb.

  Through Lámh Shábhála, Tiarna Gairbith radiated
violence. This was a man at whose hands hundreds
had died and who would most likely be responsible
for the death of hundreds more if he lived. There
was no visceral enjoyment of death in him, though
Jenna sensed a deep satisfac-tion within him at the
results of his campaigns, and he carried no remorse
or guilt at all in his soul. She knew that if the Rí
ordered it, he would slay her with the same
pragmatic lack of passion. But she could sense no
direct threat in him at all: to him, she was simply a
piece in the game and he would use her or not as the
strategies of the game dictated.
  The emotional matrix around Mac Ard and the Rí
were more compli-cated. There were strange colors
and hues in their shapes, nothing that was overtly
threatening, but she knew both of them wanted
what she held and would take it if the opportunity
arose. With Mac Ard especially there were tendrils
of black secrets that snaked outward toward Jenna,
vestiges of hidden plots that involved her. She
wondered-more strongly this time-if Mac Ard were
at the heart of the attacks against her, if his
involvement with her mam weren't simply a
subterfuge to allow him ac-cess to her and Lámh
Shábhála.

  The Ri's emotions were simpler and yet more
deeply hidden. He was wrapped in plottings and
deceptions. Under it all was the burning orange-red
of ambition: the Rí Gabair would be Rí Ard, if he had
the chance . . . and it took little imagination on
Jenna's part to believe that the Rí might feel Lámh
Shábhála would give him that chance.
  The Rí moved aside to let Jenna stand next to the
table. Lines were drawn on the parchment, and
placed atop it were small triangular flags, some
green and brown, others blue and gold. "This is
Tuath Gabair," the Rí explained to Jenna. "There,
see that blue area? That's Lough Lar. Here-" his
stubby index finger stabbed at the map. "That is
Lar Bhaile, where we are now. Up here-" his finger
moved up past Lough Lar to where a line of blue
meandered, occasionally met by other, smaller
branches. "That's the River Duán and the Mill
Creek feeding into it, and Knobtop and
Ballintubber." His finger touched the map again and
again in concert with his words. Jenna nodded, but
in truth the map meant little to her. How could
marks on paper be Ballintubber or Knobtop?

  "The flags," the Rí continued, "are where our
troops and the troops of Tuath Connachta are
currently located. Do you see here, southwest of
Ballintubber, where the Connachta flags have
bunched? That's where their main army is camped,
right on the border. That's where they'll make the
first push toward us."
  As the Rí spoke, images came to Jenna. It was as if
she were a bird, hovering far above Tuath Gabair
and looking down. There was the lough, and just
past it ... "Doire Coill is in their way," Jenna said.
"They can't go through that forest with troops."

  Tiarna Gairbith snorted through his long nostrils:
a laugh. "I thought you said the Holder knew
nothing of war, my Rí," he said. The fingers
remaining on his mutilated left hand traced one arc
on the map, then another. "They will split their
forces as soon as they reach the border of Doire
Coill," he said. "One arm, the larger and slower, will
go north to secure the ford of the Duán at Áth Iseal,
then attack Lár Bhaile from the north. The other,
smaller and swifter, will cross the Duán at the
southern ford and come up to Lár Bhaile from the
south. 'The Horns of the Bull,' they call it; the
Connachtans have used the tactic more than once.
They hope to split our forces to deal with the twin
attacks; if one horn fails, the other might still impale
us."
  "But your troops won't let that happen," Jenna
said, looking at the men. "If you know where they'll
strike, you will have made plans against that. You
have the advantage of knowing the land and
deciding where to make your battle where you can
use the ground to your benefit."

  Again, the laugh. "I like this Holder," Gairbith said
to the Rí. "No talk from her of negotiation, of
somehow avoiding the conflict. Instead, she sees
that the battle will come and prepares to meet it."
He bowed to Jenna, approvingly, and she wondered
whether the smile was genuine or if the man was
simply mocking her. "Aye, we will do just as the
Holder sug-gests," Gairbith answered, "but many
will die doing that, and after we push them back to
their own borders, we will be too weak to do more
than watch them leave. Unless ..." His voice trailed
off. He looked at Mac Ard, who stood with arms
crossed, lips in a tight frown, his eyes almost angry.
  Unless what?" Jenna asked, and Nevan O
Liathain's words echoed in her memory: ". . . the Rí
no doubt hopes for Lámh Shábhála to be part of that
battle . . . he would love to see the lightnings of the
cloch smash the enemy and send them fleeing for
their lives . . ."

  Rí Mallaghan saw the realization on her face.
"Lámh Shábhála has been countless battles over the
centuries, Jenna," he said, "many of them here in
what is now Tuath Gabair. And while Lámh
Shábhála is the only cloch na thintrí that is awake . .
."He spread his hands wide. "There is only one
reason the Connachta are mounting their armies:
they know
   Lámh Shábhála is here and they think to strike
before you learn to wield the cloch as the
cloudmages have in the past and my army comes to
invade their land-because if they had the cloch, they
would use it to strike us. They believe the only
reason we haven't yet struck is because the cloch or
the Holder is still weak. But you've learned so much
already Jenna. I ask you, how many lives will it cost
if Lámh Shábhála does not enter the battlefield? All
we request of you is that you help us defend you as
the Holder."

  The Ri's words were spoken in a voice like sweet
butter, thick and freighted with an unconscious
arrogance that spoke of his expectation that he
would be heard and obeyed. His eyes, behind their
enclosing folds of pale flesh, stared at her
unblinking. When Jenna opened her mouth to begin
a protest, she saw those eyes narrow. Through the
cloch, she felt a sudden surge of malice directed
toward her from the Rí, and she knew that if she
refused, he would use that answer to justify other
actions against her. As Cianna had told her with O
Liathain, "no" was not an answer she could give
him.
  Is he the one, then? Has the Rí been stepping
carefully only because the Tanaise Rig was here
also?

  "Jenna hasn't fully learned to use Lámh Shábhála,
my Rí," Mac Ard interjected before Jenna could
decide what to say. "Not in the way of the legends of
the Before. Not in the way the cloudmages of song
used them. Your majesty knows the pain involved
for Jenna when the mage-lights come. You also
know that Lámh Shábhála’s task right now is to
unlock the other clochs na thintrí and that is what
Lámh Shábhála has been teaching the First
Holder-not the art of war. You ask too much of her
too soon and place her in danger. You must
remember, my Rí, that the Tanaise Rig has
expressed an interest in Jenna. He would not want
her injured. Worse, what if the Connachtans should
win the battle when Lámh Shábhála is involved?
What if Rí Connachta were suddenly to pos-sess the
cloch? Do you think the Rí Ard or any of the other
Tuatha would come to your aid, or would they sit
and watch and wait and let the Con-nachtan
vultures feed on the bodies of Lár Bhaile?"

  Through Mac Ard's speech, the Ri's face had
grown progressively more ruddy. "So it's Tiarna
Mac Ard's counsel that I throw my armies against
Connachta and ignore the weapon that could easily
turn the battle? You would take the sword from my
hand and have me do battle with a butter knife."
  "I say better a duel with butter knives than risk
giving your enemy your sword, that's all," Mac Ard
answered.

  "I have no plans to give the enemy this particular
sword," Tiarna Gairhith interjected. "I will cleave
the enemy's head from its shoulders with it and I
will keep Lámh Shábhála safe-that's my pledge."

 The Rí laughed at that. "There, you see, Padraic?
My Commander has made his promise."

  "I think," Jenna said loudly, and all three men
turned their heads to her "that everyone is talking
as if I were incapable of making a decision for
myself." Mac Ard glowered, Gairbith gave a quick,
shocked laugh, and the Rí sucked his breath in with
an audible hiss. For a moment, Jenna thought she'd
gone too far, but then the Rí applauded her, three
slow claps of his hands. His eyes were still narrowed
and dangerous, but his voice was soft.

  "The Holder seems to have no lack of courage in
speaking her mind," he said. "That is good-a ruler
should know the true feelings of those under him. I
assume the Holder realizes that when the Rí asks
for an opinion, she may give it. And when he issues
a command, she will obey it. Without any question
at all."
 The malice she felt in him increased, a dark arm
swirling around her in cloch-vision. She knew he
wanted submission now. He wanted her to drop her
head, perhaps even to fall to her knees to beg
forgiveness for her audacity in questioning him.
Instead, she touched Lámh Shábhála, letting a trace
of its cold energy seep into her to fill her voice. "Is
the Rí giving me a command, then?" she asked, and
the words were edged like a blade, filled with a
warning and menace. "Does he believe the Holder to
be like a ficheall piece that he can move about the
board? If so, I would remind him that the Holder is
the most powerful of all his pieces and that it might
even strike the hand that tries to move it to the
wrong square."

  Jenna could see the Rí scowl at the words, saw
him blink and take a step backward while the fury
brought color to his cheeks. Tiarna Gairbith put a
hand to the hilt of his sword; she knew that if the Rí
ordered it, that blade would flash out toward her.
Mac Ard's hand was also on his weapon and in the
cloch-vision his own emotions were chaotic and
ambivalent: Jenna couldn't tell what he might do.
Jenna clutched Lámh Shábhála, and all three men
watched her fingers close around the brightening
stone.
  Mac Ard stepped out between Jenna and the Rí.
"Jenna, the Rí is an excellent ficheall master, both in
the game and in war. You need to trust his hand, for
he wouldn't put a piece as important as you in
needless jeopardy. Believe me in this. I have been
with him all my life and my Parents served him
also. He won't ask more of you than you can give. All
We are doing here is looking at the alternatives
available to us for this threat. Nothing more. Rí
Connachta has yet to make an irrevocable move.
There is still some hope they will not."
  Behind the Rí, Gairbith laughed again at that
assessment.
  In the cloch-vision, the Rí was a thunderhead
ready to spew lightning and wind and hail. Jenna
knew that she had just pushed the man as far as he
could be pushed-the Rí was accustomed to
obedience and defer-ence, at least on the surface.
He had known nothing else; he would toler-ate
nothing else. Whether she would do his bidding or
not when the time came, she couldn't defy him now
without using the cloch. And afterward . . . even if
she walked out of this room still the Holder, what
then? She would be a fugitive, a dangerous animal
to be hunted down and killed.

 Jenna's fingers loosened around the stone. They
watched her hand drop back to her waist, watched
her cradle the stiff, aching flesh to her abdomen.
"I'm sorry, my Rí," she said, lowering her gaze so
that she stared at the man's fat, sandal-clad feet
below his clóca and hoping that her words sounded
sufficiently apologetic. "I spoke too harshly. I ... I'm
still frightened by what happened yesterday, the
attack by the Banrion's gardai."

  "Ah, that. . ." The Rí nodded; his stance relaxed
and his voice was now gentle. "An unfortunate
occurrence, to be certain, but one that shows me
that you are learning to use the cloch, eh?"
 She nodded. "Aye, my Rí."

  "Good," he said. She thought that he might pat her
with a fatherly hand. The malice in her cloch-vision
hadn't diminished, though; this was a man who
would take her without a thought if he believed it to
be to his advantage. There was no affection for her
in his tone; only the satisfaction that came from
watching her submit to his will. "Then we'll make
our plans appropriately. Tiarna Gairbith will be in
contact with you regarding the plans and I know
Tiarna Mac Ard-" the Ri's gaze flicked over to
Padraic and at the same time, Jenna saw the two of
them in the cloch-vision, entangled in mutual webs
of ambition and deceit "-will be help-ing us as well. I
hope you understand, Holder Jenna, that we hold
you in the highest esteem, and that everything we
do here is for your benefit."
 He said the words with compassion gleaming in his
voice and decep-tion in his heart.

 Jenna smiled at him and nodded.
  The mage-lights swirled in the night sky over the
keep, and Jenna went to them. The bright
communion was at once painful and joyous, and
afterward Jenna staggered back into her room from
the balcony, clutching her arm to herself, and
half-fell into Maeve's arms. Her mam helped her
back to her bed, where she sat, eyes closed, feeling
only the power surging through her. "Andúilleaf,"
she managed to croak out. "Quickly."
  The water was already boiling, the leaf already
crushed in the bottom of the mug. Jenna heard her
mam pour the water and smelled the aroma of the
leaf wafting through the cold air. "Here," Maeve
said, and Jenna felt a warmth pressed against her
left hand. She took the mug and lifted it to her lips,
sipping noisily against the heat of the brew.
 "How many times more, Jenna?" There was a
weary concern in her mam's voice.

  "Is that what he wanted you to ask me?" Jenna
answered. "Is he getting impatient to be a cloch
Holder himself? You can tell him that it will be soon:
two more appearances. Three, at most."
  Maeve ignored Jenna's scornful tone. "And what
then?"

  "I don't know" Jenna answered heatedly. "If I did,
I'd tell everyone so they'd stop asking these stupid
questions of me."

  She glanced up to see her mam bite her lower lip,
looking away with hurt in her eyes. "I ask because 1
hate to see you in pain, Jenna," Maeve answered,
her voice trembling with the sob she held back.
"I've been hoping that once the other clochs were
open, you wouldn't be ... in so much . . ." Maeve
couldn't finish. She covered her mouth with a hand,
tears spilling over her eyes. Jenna wanted to go to
her, to comfort her mam as she had comforted
Jenna a thousand times over the years, but she
couldn't make herself move. She hid herself behind
the mug of leaf-brew, sipping and inhaling the
steam as she watched her mam sniff and blot her
tears with the sleeve of her leine.
 Jenna could see the swelling curve of her mam's
belly. She could feel the life inside, glowing like a
banked fire in a hearth.
 "Maybe," Maeve said, "Padraic should be the
Holder." She wouldn't look at Jenna. "Maybe that's
what should have happened."
  "Is that what Da would have wanted?" Jenna
retorted. "Or have you already forgotten him and
the fact that Lámh Shábhála was once his?"

  Maeve turned, her clóca flaring outward with the
sharp motion. "I will "ever forget Niall. Never. And
I can't believe that you'd be cruel enough to even
suggest that."

  Guilt made Jenna momentarily forget the
throbbing coldness in her arm. "Mam, I'm sorry ..."
  There was a tentative knock at the door and one
of the servants stuck her head in. "Pardon, m'ladies,
but Coelin Singer is here asking to see the Holder."

 Maeve was still glaring at Jenna. "Tell him he may
come in," Jenna said. "In here, Holder?" the servant
asked.
  "Do you not have ears?" Jenna snapped. "Aye,
here. If the Tanaise Rig doesn't like it, then he
should have left his own people to stand guard."

  The servant looked at Maeve, who shrugged. "The
Holder obviously doesn't care to have anyone else
suggest what she should do or question her
commands."
 The servant fled.

  "Mam-" Jenna began, but then the door opened
again and Coelin entered. His face was full of
concern and question, but he seemed startled when
he saw Maeve.

  "Oh, Widow Aoire," he said, nodding to Maeve and
glancing once at Jenna questioningly. "I don't mean
to disturb ..." He gestured at the door. "I can wait in
the outer room."
  "Stay. Maybe you can talk some sense into the
girl," Maeve said to Coelin. "I obviously can't tell my
daughter anything. She would rather learn from her
own mistakes, I suppose. Just see that you're not
another one, Coelin Singer." Maeve didn't turn back
to look at Jenna, but walked out of the room. The
sound of the door closing was loud in the apartment.

  "What was that about?" Coelin asked. "Jenna? I
saw the lights, and thought that you might-"
   Jenna shook her head. "Don't talk," she said. "Just
. . . come here. Please. Hold me."

  Coelin, with a glance back at the door, went to the
bed in two long strides. He took Jenna up in his
arms.
  "Kiss me," she said. "Make me forget about all this
for a little bit. . ."
 And, for a time, she did.
            Chapter 26: A World Changed

  DEER Creek ran at the bottom of a steep ravine.
Above, to the north, was the city of Lár Bhaile;
south rose the steep and stony flanks of Goat Fell
with the Ri's Keep perched on top. Not far beyond
the bridge that linked Low Town to Goat Fell and
the ramparts of the keep, the creek widened and
fanned out into a marsh-clogged mouth before
flowing into Lough Lar. To Jenna's mind, Deer
Creek was more river than creek, nearly twice as
wide as the Mill Creek that ran past Ballintubber,
deeper and faster.

  And Deer Creek had seals; one, at least: on a flat
slab thrusting out of the rushing water, a dark,
shiny-furred head watched as Jenna made her way
down the path from the Ri's Market Square. Getting
away from the keep had been easier than Jenna had
expected. After the incident with the gardai, no one
voiced an objection when she left the keep
unescorted except by two chambermaids. Jenna
noticed that another carriage de-parted the keep
immediately after they left, and that the square
seemed particularly well-populated with gardai.
Jenna had opened the cloch slightly, letting its
energy spread out over the square-there were at
least a half dozen tendrils of attention leading to her,
none of them overtly dangerous but all watching.
 And down in the hawthorn-choked ravine,
another: O'Deoradháin.
  The chambermaids were easy: she gave each of
them a mórceint and told them to go buy whatever
they liked. It took time to lose the gardai, but she
eventually managed to lose all the watchers and
sneak away to the wooden stairs leading down to
Deer Creek and a small patch of meadow there
where a few people sat fishing despite the cold.
Jenna . stayed under the trees, moving east along
the creek and away from the meadow, where
someone glancing down from the market above
wouldn't easily spot her. She saw movement out in
the creek-the seal rose from the cold water and
clambered onto one of the flat rocks in the middle of
the stream.
  She could sense O'Deoradháin in the tangle of
woods huddled against the steep bank. Jenna
shivered and wrapped herself tighter in her clóca,
one hand grasping the stone on its chain, ready to
open it fully and strike the man down at need. "You
could have at least picked a warm place to meet,"
she called out to where he hid.

  There was a rustle of dry brush and leaves, and
O'Deoradháin stepped out. One arm was in a sling,
but there was a knife at his belt, and Jenna watched
his free hand carefully, knowing how quickly he
could move with that weapon. She stayed ready to
strike if his fingers strayed near the hilt. "If it were
summer, the midges would be out. Would you
rather be cold or bitten to death?"
  The seal out in the water gave a coughing roar,
and Jenna glanced again at the creature. It was a
large bull, its head up and alert and staring back at
them. Its coat was coal-black, yet deep blue
highlights gleamed within it, like sparks struck from
a flint and steel. O'Deoradháin looked toward the
seal as well. "There aren't usually seals in Lough
Lar," he said. "Some-times in Lough Dubh, aye, but
they don't usually come up the Duán this far."

 "For an Inishlander, you know a lot about Tuath
Gabair."

  "I've been here a long time now," O'Deoradháin
answered, turning away from the seal and looking
back at Jenna. "Ever since the Order decided that
Lámh Shábhála might be in Gabair. Almost two
years now."

 Jenna cocked her head at that. "And how did you
know that Lámh Shábhála was here before the
mage-lights came?"
  O'Deoradháin shrugged, grimacing as his
bandaged shoulder moved. "Some in the Order
know the magics of earth and water, the slow
eternal spells. I know a bit of them myself.
Ordinarily, that means little, but as the Filleadh
approached and the mage-lights started to
strengthen even though none of us could see them
yet, those with the skill could feel the resonance
through their own spells. They knew and they
started to search, and they realized that Lámh
Shábhála had once been on Inishfeirm and that they
had lost the cloch. It wasn't hard, then, to know who
had taken it-your great-da. What took time was
discovering where he had gone and what had
happened to him."
  "So they sent you? Alone?" Jenna scoffed. "Why
didn't they send every-one? Why isn't Gabair filled
with people from the Order?"
  O'Deoradháin gazed back placidly into her
mocking stance. "If all of Inishfeirm suddenly came
here, then everyone would suspect why and
everyone would have been searching for the cloch.
And there are only a few who are capable of being
the Holder of Lámh Shábhála."

  The way he said it lifted the hairs on Jenna's arms
with a sudden chill that was not the cold air. "A few
like you?" she asked.
  O'Deoradháin nodded. "That's what I was trained
to do." Jenna took a step back from him. "Jenna,"
he said. "Use the stone. Look at me. I'm not a threat
to you. I'd take the stone from you if you gave it to
me, aye. If you'd died the other day in my room, I'd
have taken it then, too. But I won't harm you to
become the Holder."

 That might have been true; she could feel no
danger to herself emanat-ing from him. Yet... "I
don't know that," she said. "Even with the cloch."

  O'Deoradháin smiled, which softened his rugged
face. "You're right. You don't know that, and I'll tell
you that there are ways to hide yourself from a
cloch na thintrí, even Lámh Shábhála."
 "And you know them."

 "I do."
 "Then I can't trust you."

  "Perhaps not," he answered. "But you can't
survive alone. Not for long, and not with what you
hold."
  "I have those I can trust," Jenna replied with
some heat, and- strangely-O'Deoradháin chuckled
at that.
  "Who? Mac Ard? The Rí and Banrion? That
self-centered boy from your old village?"

  "He's not-" Jenna began heatedly, then stopped,
clenching her jaw as O'Deoradháin studied her, as
the seal out in the river gave another moan-ing wail
as if calling for a mate. "What did you want of me,
O'Deoradháin?"

  "Only what I told you: to bring you to Inishfeirm,
so you can learn to use the power you hold."
  "I have learned," she retorted. "I wouldn't be
talking to you now if I hadn't. Three times someone
has tried to kill me and three times I've killed them
instead. I can see with the cloch, see what people
are feeling toward me. I can tell whether a person
holds a true cloch or a worthless stone. I can draw
the mage-lights down to me and fill the stone with
their energy."

  "And did you need to kill them or even want to?
Do you know that you see truth through the cloch?
Do you know all Lámh Shábhála wants to do with
that power or all it can do? Do you know how to deal
with the pain Jenna?" She must have shown
something in her face, unwillingly, for he nodded.
"Aye, that we can help you learn. But you must
come with me back to Inishfeirm."
 "I don't trust you," Jenna said again.

 "I know you don't. But you're trusting the wrong
people now."
 "You don't know that."
  "Unfortunately, I do," he answered calmly. "But I
also know that you must learn things yourself to
believe them. Let me start you on that path. I've
done some investigation myself. Go to Night Mist
Alley, just off Cal-laghan Street. Walk down to the
third door on the left, the red one, and knock. And
after you've been there and returned to the keep,
use the cloch. Look at the ones you haven't
bothered to examine yet because you trust them.
And when you're done, if you think you might begin
to believe me, then come to du Val again. He can tell
you where to find me."

  O'Deoradháin started to walk away; as if startled
by his movement, the seal out in the river roared a
last time and dove into the water with a soft splash.
"O'Deoradháin, wait."
  "No, Holder. There's nothing more to say. Go and
see things for your-self and ask the questions you
need to ask. When you need me again, I'll find you."
He smiled at her. "I wanted to be the Holder, aye,"
he said. "But I think Lámh Shábhála has chosen
wisely on its own." With a wave, he slid back into
the undergrowth again, and she heard the sound of
his retreat.
  Out in the water, a dark shape slid away toward
the lough.

  Night Mist Alley was a dirt lane in the Low Town
area. Even in the sun-light, it was dim, with the
houses staring at each other across a muddy strip
down which two people could barely walk abreast.
Children were screeching and chasing each other
through the puddles, filthy and snot-faced, and the
adults Jenna saw stared at the sight of an obvious
Riocha and her two chambermaids out where the
royalty rarely walked.

  The third door on the left was indeed red though
the paint was scratched and peeling, and the door
itself appeared to have been kicked, the lower panel
cracked and bowed in. Jenna motioned to the maids
to remain in the alley as she went to the door and
knocked. There was no immediate answer. She
knocked again. "Just a moment . . ."a woman's voice
answered, and a few seconds later, the door opened.
A woman blinked into the sunlight. "By the
Mother-Jenna?"
  Ellia Tara's daughter, stood there. Jenna nearly
didn't recognize her. She was heavy with child, one
hand under the rounded bulk of her belly, face and
fingers swollen. After her initial surprise, she smiled
at Jenna.

  "By the Mother-Creator, look at you," she said.
"Don't you look wonderful! Oh Jenna, it's so good to
see you! Everyone thought you'd died when those
horrible soldiers came. And to think you came here,
like us."
  "Us?" A feeling of dread was filling Jenna. She
wanted to rage, wanted to take Lámh Shábhála and
bring a storm of lightning down on this house and
this town and leave everything in flames.

  "Aye." A possessive, triumphant smile lifted Ellia's
lips. She turned slightly to call back into the
darkness of the room. "Darling, come and see who's
come to visit us. You're not going to believe this."
  A sleepy grunt came from the interior. Jenna
heard the sound of shuf-fling feet, then a man's
form showed behind Ellia as she opened the door
wider. The man took a step into the light. She knew
who it was before she saw him, knew from the
leaden stone that filled her stomach, knew because
of the blackness that threatened to take her vision.
Her world was suddenly shattered, crashing in
crystalline shards around her.
 Coelin.

 Ellia's arm snaked possessively around Coelin's
waist as he gaped at Jenna. "Look, love-it's Jenna!
Back from the dead! Jenna, did you know that
Coelin has sung for the Rí himself . . . ?"

  Ellia must have continued to speak, but Jenna
heard none of it. She stared at Coelin. He stared
back, slack-jawed, rubbing at his eyes as if trying to
rid them of a sudden nightmare. "Jenna, I ..." he
stammered, but Jenna shouted back at him in fury.
  "You bastard! You damned lying bastard!" Jenna
turned and ran from the alleyway, her maids
hurrying after her with wide-eyed glances behind.

  "Jenna!" she heard Coelin shouting behind her,
and Ellia's now-shrill voice asking him what was
happening. Jenna fled, helpless tears hot on her
cheeks, unheeding of the people around her, staring.
She only wanted to be away before the temptation
to use the cloch grew too strong, before she gave in
to the temptation to get revenge for this awful
deception. It's your own fault! she railed inside.
You're so stupid. So naive and stupid . . .

  “Jenna!" A hand touched her shoulder and she
whirled around with a cry, her right hand going to
the stone around her neck, the radiance of Lámh
Shábhála between her fingers already brighter than
the sun. Coelin, Panting, took a step backward from
Jenna, his eyes wide. He was shoeless and
half-dressed, his feet muddy, his legs bare under his
tunic. His breath was a white cloud around him in
the cold air. He spread his hands wide, as if to ward
off a blow. "Jenna, listen to me . . ."

  Her chambermaids flanking her, Jenna chopped at
the air with her left hand. "You have nothing to say
to me!" she shouted back at him. "Nothing! You
disgust me, Coelin Singer. And I'm ashamed of
myself for letting you . . ." She couldn't say the
words. Fury obliterated them.

 "Jenna, let me explain!"
  "Explain what? Is that your child Ellia's carrying?
Tell me now-is it?" Coelin started to shake his head,
started to speak, and Jenna lifted the cloch. "Don't
you dare lie to me again, Coelin, or I swear it's the
last words you'll ever speak."

  Coelin gulped and hung his head. "Aye," he said,
his voice a whisper. "Tis mine." Then his head came
up, and his green eyes gazed at her imploringly.
"But, Jenna, I love you . . ."
  "Shut up!" Jenna screamed at him. Light flared
from her fisted hand, and shadows moved over the
buildings around them. Someone shouted in alarm,
and the curious crowd that had begun to gather
around the encounter suddenly vanished. "No!
Don't you dare say it. Who arranged this, Coelin?
None of this was an accident, was it? Who made
certain I'd find you, who told you to seduce me?"
When Coelin said nothing, Jenna stamped her foot,
the light flaring yet brighter. "Tell me!"

  "Tiarna Mac Ard," Coelin sputtered. "He ... he
sent word that I should come here, said that you
needed someone familiar, that I could help him help
you . . ." He stopped. His hands lifted toward Jenna,
then went to his sides. "Jenna, I didn't mean . . ."
  She wanted to kill him. She wanted to hear Coelin
scream in agony as the lightnings tore him apart.
She wanted him to feel the pain and hurt that was
coursing through her now. Her hand trembled
around Lámh Shábhála but she held back the
energy that wanted to surge outward. "Did you
marry her?" she asked.

 A nod. "Aye. When Tara realized that Ellia was
with child, she came to me. What else was I to do,
Jenna? At that time, I thought you were dead, and
your mam and Tiarna Mac Ard, too."

  "Do you tell Ellia you love her, too? Did you come
to her after you'd been with me and snuggle down
alongside her and give her the same words you give
me?"
 "Jenna-"

  She spat at his feet. "I never want to see you
again," she told him. "If I do, I swear to you that I'll
use Lámh Shábhála to strike you down. Stand
before me again, and I will leave Ellia a widow and
your child fatherless. Go, Coelin. Go and find some
way to tell Ellia about this. Maybe she'll keep you;
maybe she'll even find the love in her to forgive
you." She lifted her chin, her eyes narrowing. "But I
won't," she told him. "I never will, and I am your
enemy from this moment. Do you understand me,
Coelin?"

  He nodded, mute. He looked as if he were about to
speak again, but Jenna tightened her fist around the
cloch, and-wide-eyed-he turned and fled, walking
then running back the way he'd come. Her breath
fast and painful in her chest, Jenna relaxed her grip
on Lámh Shábhála, and the stone's brilliance faded.

  The street around them was empty and silent
except for the ragged sound of her breath. "Come,"
she told the maids. "It's time we returned to the
keep." They started down the lane toward where
the carriage waited. As they walked, a man stepped
out from between two houses and stood in the
narrow street, barring their way. One of the
chambermaids screamed at the sudden
confrontation, but the man ignored her. One arm
was in a sling, and he no longer seemed quite as
dangerous. He looked at Jenna.
 "Now you know," he said. "I'm sorry, Jenna."

 "You could have told me, O'Deoradháin. Or did
you get a perverse pleasure out of knowing I'd be
humiliated?"
  His head moved slowly in denial. "I took no
pleasure in it, Holder. I would have preferred to tell
you myself, but you wouldn't have believed me," he
answered. "You know that, if you look inside."
  She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a
response. Her head was pounding, her arm ached,
and there was a fury inside burning to be unleashed.
"Fine. Now get out of my way. I'm going back to the
keep."

  "Holder . . ." He held out his hands, as if in
supplication. "This isn't the way. You're angry, and
you have reason to be. But you don't know the cloch
well enough yet. There are too many people there,
too many to confront."
 Jenna coughed a single, bitter chuckle. "I thought
you told me to go back and use the cloch."

  "Not the way you're thinking of using it right
now." He gestured to the tower of the keep, which
could be seen rising above the rooftops. "I wanted
you to know that the Riocha up there can't be
trusted, that's all. I wanted you to use the cloch to
see the truth in them."

 "And you can teach me how to do that."
 Aye." He said it firmly. "1 can. Come with me.
Come with me now."

  Her pulse pounded against the sides of her skull
like a hammer; her arm seemed to be sculpted from
ice. She couldn't think. She needed to get home.
Needed to get andúilleaf. Needed to think. Needed
to find a way to vent this rage before it consumed
her entirely.

 Get out of my way, O'Deoradháin." Jenna started
walking toward him.
  She intended to push him out of the way, not
caring about his size or the knife at his belt, ready to
blast him dead with the cloch if she needed to do so.
But as she reached him, he stood aside and let her
pass, the two maids scrambling quickly after her.

  "Holder, this is madness!" he called after her.
"Please don't do this. Jenna, I can be your ally in
this if you'll let me."

 She didn't answer.



             Chapter 27: Bridges Burned



  HER fury had gone cold and flintlike before the
carriage reached the keep. Through the headache,
through the agony in her hand and arm, the events
of the last few months kept roiling in her mind and
she could make no sense of it. They were all trying
to use her; they were all lying to her: the Rí Gabair,
the Tainise Rig, Mac Ard, the Connachtans, Tiarna
Aheron, even O'Deoradháin by his own admission.

  They all had their agendas. She could understand
that, yet it left unan-swered the question of who
was actively trying to kill her. Why would Mac Ard
try to assassinate her and at the same time send
Coelin to her? In any case, he could have taken the
cloch easily before she knew what she possessed.
What would the Tanaise Rig gain by her death when
he believed he could have Lámh Shábhála for his
use by marrying her? Would Rí Gabair be willing to
risk the enmity of the Rí Ard and those of the other
tuatha by killing her?
  I'd take the stone from you if you gave it to me,
aye. If you'd died the other day in my room, I'd
have taken it then, too. In that, certainly,
O'Deoradháin was no different. Mac Ard might not
strike against her, but Jenna had no doubt that her
mam's lover would race to pluck Lámh Shábhála
from her neck if she fell. Or the Rí or the Tanaise
Rig or Aheron or any of the tiarna.
  Yet both assassination attempts required that
someone know the keep, that they know the details
of the society behind the massive walls, that they
know Jenna's movements. Who had known her and
the keep that well? Who would have had the
connections and the money to hire an assassin, to
buy the loyalty of the gardai?
  Jenna's next breath was a gasp as the carriage
wheels struck the cobbled surface of Deer Creek
Bridge. A suspicion started to grow, one that left her
feeling breathless and sick. By the time Jenna
stepped down at the High Gates with an admonition
to her chambermaids (that she knew would be
useless) to say nothing about what they had
witnessed, she had already made a decision. And
after you've been there and returned to the keep,
use the cloch, O'Deoradháin had told her.
  She would do that, then. She would do exactly
that.

 She hurried to her rooms.

  "Jenna, what's the mat-" her mam asked as she
rushed into the apart-ment, but Jenna hurried to
her bedroom and slammed the door shut. She
locked it, then went to the door leading to the
servants' hall and locked that one as well.

  Her mam knocked and called, but Jenna ignored
her. She set water to boiling for the andúilleaf and
dug under the clothes in her chest until she found
the torc of Sinna. She placed it around her neck and
let Lámh Shábhála open ...

  . . . and there Sinna was again, the old woman with
the plait of gray hair, dressed in her leine and clóca,
the fireplace blazing with a remem-bered fire, the
walls of the room overlaid with its older structure.
Sinna turned as if surprised and Jenna opened her
mind to her, letting her see what Jenna wished her
to see. "Ah, Jenna," Sinna said, her voice quavering
with age, "so I've met you before." A sad smile. "But
of course I don't remember. I'm just a ghost."

 "I need your help," Jenna told the old woman.
  "Of course you do. Isn't that why we Holders
always call back our predecessors? The dead can't
rest when the living desire an answer." She sighed.
"But your time will come, when your spirit won't be
allowed its peace, either. How can I help you, Jenna
First Holder?"

  "I have been told that Lámh Shábhála can see the
truth in someone. Can that be done?"
  Sinna's gray head nodded. "Aye. With Lámh
Shábhála that's possible, though not with the other
clochs na thintrí. If you know how to listen through
the cloch, you can hear truth, though a person who
holds another cloch can still hide truth from you. It's
better if you learn to trust your own judgments.
There are all sorts of truths, and not all of them are
worth knowing."

 "Show me."
   Sinna smiled sadly. "Listen to me first. Sometimes
it's not good to see the truth, Jenna. I can see anger
and hurt and confusion in you already Your thinking
is clouded by that and by the potions you're taking.
Jenna, sometimes you will find that you'd rather not
know all the things that could be revealed to you."
She gave a mocking, self-deprecating laugh. "1
discovered that, too late." "Show me," Jenna
insisted.

  "And what do you do when you discover the truth,
Jenna?" "If you want peace, if you want me to let
you rest, you'll show me." Another nod,
accompanied by a sigh. "All right, then," she said.
"This

 is how I was taught to truth-see ..."
 "Banrion!"

  Cianna turned as Jenna strode through the door to
her chamber, two of the Banrion's attendants
skittering nervously alongside her. Cianna waved
the maids away. "Jenna," she said soothingly. "I'm
glad to see you. There are rumors simply darting
through the keep right now."
  Jenna ignored that. The andúilleaf made her want
to sleep and the walls around her seemed slightly
hazy, as if she walked in a mist. Her hand closed
around the cloch, the sleeve of her leine falling down
to show the scars of her arm. She forced herself to
focus. "I need to ask you this, Banrion-do you know
who sent the first assassin?" she asked. "Do you
know who told Labras that he was to kill me?"

  Cianna coughed. Her eyes widened as if she were
shocked by the ques-tions, and her gaze was on
Jenna's hand. "Of course not, Jenna. If I'd
discovered that, I would have told you."

  The words sounded sincere and almost sad. But
even through the andúilleaf fog, Jenna could hear
the broken, hidden tones, the umber notes that
Sinna had shown her to be the signature of a lie.
Jenna struggled to control her own face, to keep her
voice calm even though she wanted to cry out her
anger. She hadn't wanted her suspicions confirmed;
she'd continued to hope that the certainty that had
settled in the pit of her stomach since she'd spoken
with O'Deoradháin was a sham-for if it was not,
then she could no longer trust her own judgment.
"Why would you ask, Jenna?" the Banrion
continued. "You know that I would keep nothing
like that from you. Who have you been talking with
that filled your head with such notions?"

  Jenna shrugged. Focus ... "I overheard a most
distressing conversation between two tiarna, and
one of them was insisting that you were the one who
hired the assassin."
  Jenna watched the Banrion's face carefully as she
gave her the fabrication. Cianna's face took on an
expression of shocked disbelief. Her hand went to
the torc around her neck and she coughed in quick
spasms. "Surely you don't believe that, Jenna," she
gasped. "I would never have . . . No, my dear, that's
simply not true."
 Yet it was. Jenna could hear it. She knew it.

 It was Cianna who would kill her to hold Lámh
Shábhála.
 "Who are these tiarna? I will have them brought
here this instant to answer to me," Cianna fumed.
She rose from her chair, steadying herself as
another coughing fit took her.

 "No, you won't," Jenna told her.
  For a moment, Cianna glared at Jenna. "You
cannot take that tone with me-" she began, then
seemed to catch herself. She smiled. "Jenna, I can
see that you're upset. Let me call for some
refreshments ..." She lifted her hand, reaching for
the bell rope near her chair.

  "No," Jenna said again as she took Lámh Shábhála
in her hand, allow-ing more of its energy to surge
forth. Cianna started to cry out in alarm, but Jenna
squeezed her right hand around the cloch, imagining
the cloch's energy closing itself around Cianna's
throat at the same time. The Banrion gave a
choking gasp, her hands going to her neck as if to
tear away invisi-ble fingers. Her face went dark red,
her mouth opened as she tried to draw in air.
"There can be no more lies between us, Banrion,"
Jenna told her. "Lámh Shábhála can hear the truth,
and I know who sent* the first assassin-when you
knew that I would be in my room, when you
thought I might be weak or distracted by trying to
speak with the ghost of Sinna. After that attempt
failed, after you came so close to being discovered,
you were too frightened to try again until I stupidly
played right into your hands by asking for your
gardai. I can imagine you thought that incredibly
convenient-kill me, kill O'Deoradháin, then blame
my death on him while Labras brings you back your
prize before anyone else has the chance to claim it. I
can't believe that I was so naive as to believe you
afterward."

  Cianna's face had gone purple. Through the anger
and the haze of andúilleaf, Jenna realized that the
woman was near unconsciousness and death. She
relaxed her grip on the stone, and Cianna took a
deep, rattling gasp of a breath. "Why did you want
the cloch so badly, Banrion?" Jenna asked. "What
made it so valuable to you that it was worth my life?
Answer me, and I might let you live."
  "Kill me," Cianna managed to grate out, her voice
a harsh croak. "Go ahead. You're no better than any
of the rest of them. I've heard them, all along. 'Poor
Cianna. Such a weak, pathetic creature. She's given
the Rí all she could, and now she's useless. It's a
shame she doesn't die, so he could _ marry again.'
And you-do you think I couldn't see the pity and
disgust in your face? 'Poor Cianna . . .' Well, with the
cloch, no one would be saying that."

 "I never-" Jenna began.
  "You want more of this truth, Holder?" Cianna
spat out, interrupting. "Well here's more: The Rí
and Damhlaic Gairbith have planned more than just
the defense of Gabair. When the Connachtans
attack, the Rí will take you with him, let you use the
cloch, then-when you're weak and hurt and
exhausted and the cloch is empty of power-you will
be unfor-tunately 'killed in the battle.' You'll receive
all the plaudits and honors you desire, but you'll be
dead and the Rí will be wearing Lámh Shábhála.
You see, he's no different than me. And as to Nevan
O Liathain, do you really think the Tanaise Rig
would have an interest in someone as common and
plain as you if you weren't the Holder? Do you
honestly believe he doesn't have his own plans to
take Lámh Shábhála from you? You're a stupid,
common child, and you don't deserve what you
possess."

  The rage was flooding Jenna's mind, a foaming,
wild flood that swept away reason before it. She
shouted back at Cianna, a wordless, guttural scream
lost in the din of the fury. She lifted the cloch on its
chain, her hand a trembling fist, and Cianna began a
cry that suddenly choked into silence. Jenna's fist
tightened. There was a sense of unreality to her
action, as if it were someone else moving her hand,
and it was not only Cianna's image that she
choked-she imagined doing the same to Coelin, Mac
Ard, the Rí Gabair, and the Tanaise Rig and Tiarna
Aheron and everyone who stared at her and
whispered against her.

 But they were not here. Cianna was.
  Jenna felt something break inside the woman. A
bloody froth bubbled on the Banrion's lips and she
fell as Jenna turned away, stalking out of the room.
The maids shrank back against the wall as the doors
slammed against their stops with Jenna's thrust,
and she strode across the anteroom and out into the
corridors of the Keep.
 Behind her there was a scream and a cry of alarm.

 Jenna paid it no attention. She stalked through the
wing toward her own rooms, pushing open the
doors. "Jenna!" Maeve called as she en-tered.
"What's happened?"
  Silent, Jenna pushed past her into her bedroom.
She grabbed the pouch of andúilleaf, placed the torc
of Sinna Mac Ard around her neck. She pulled her
traveling pack from its shelf, and stuffed some
clothing in it.
 She put on her old coat, the one she'd worn in
Ballintubber. She turned to leave.
  Her mam was standing in the doorway, one hand
at her swelling belly, the other on the thick, polished
wood of the doorframe. There were tears in her
eyes. "Jenna, talk to me," she said. "Darling, you
look so . . ." She stopped.

  "Get out of my way, Mam," Jenna said. "I'm
leaving."

 "You can't."
 "I have to. I just murdered the Banrion."

  Maeve gave a cry that was half-sob. She swayed,
the hand on the door-frame going to her chest and
Jenna pushed past her. As she started across the
parlor, the door opened and Mac Ard entered, his
dark face grim. He saw Jenna and his hand went to
his sword. For a moment, Jenna blinked, seeing
him.

  "Don't do it," Jenna told him. It sounded like
someone else's voice. "Show me a hint of steel, and
I'll kill you where you stand, even if you are the
father of my mam's child."
 "Jenna," he said. "Listen to yourself. Look at
yourself. If Lámh Shábhála or the andúilleaf has
driven you mad-"

  "Then you'll gladly take the cloch," Jenna finished
for him. "So kind of you, Tiarna. Why don't you tell
my mam all of your kindness, like the way you
arranged for Coelin to come here to be my lover
when you knew he was married to Ellia and she was
with child. Tell her about that. Now move out of the
way."
 "I can't let you go, Jenna. I can't. I love you as my
own daughter, but I also have my duty and my
word."
  "Move!" Jenna shouted at the man. The word tore
at her vocal cords, a shriek.

 "I can't," Mac Ard repeated.

  Jenna screamed again. Her vision had gone dim, a
red haze over every-thing, and she could see only
what stood in front of her: Mac Ard. She lifted Lámh
Shábhála, and it flared in her hand as her mam
shouted be-hind her. Lightning crackled, wrapping
around Mac Ard and lifting him. Jenna gestured and
the man was flung across the room, his body
slam-ming against the wall. He collapsed with a
groan. Maeve ran to him, crouching down alongside
him and cradling his head in her lap. He was
moaning as blood poured from a cut along his
forehead. Maeve wept, tears sliding down her face.
"Jenna! Stop this . . . Please, darling, you must!"

  Jenna spoke with a strange calmness in the midst
of the red fury. "I can't stop it, Mam. I can't. It's too
late for that. I'm sorry . . ." She tore her gaze away
from Maeve, went to the door, and left the room.
She could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. She
sent lightning crack-down the long hall toward the
sound and flames sprang up where bright fingers
touched. She ran the other way, to the back stairs
the keep's help used. She ran down winding stone
steps, scattering the few servants who were on
them, and emerged into the courtyard. A tiarna was
nearby, dismounting from his horse as two stable
hands held the beast.

  "Holder     " he started to say in greeting. Jenna
gave him no chance to go further        she let a pulse
of energy flow from the cloch, smashing him in the
chest. The horse reared and Jenna snatched the
reins from the boy who was holding them, his face a
frozen mask of terror.
  She leaped onto the horse, not caring that her
clóca rode up leaving her legs bare to the cold.
"Holder, stop!" the boy shouted, but she kicked the
horse into motion. Gardai were pouring out from
the keep and an arrow hissed past her ear. Jenna
crouched low on her steed's back, urging him into a
gallop toward the gates.

  There were men there, she saw, and the gates
were closed. She reined up the horse, lifting Lámh
Shábhála as the squad of men hesitated. She cried
aloud, her hand alight with the power, the scars on
her arm glowing. The squad scattered; brighter
than the sun, a fist like that of a god arced out from
the cloch and smashed into the gate. Metal
screeched and wailed; stone cracked and fell.
"Now!" Jenna shouted to the horse, kicking him
again with her heels. She moved him carefully
through the rubble and dust as more arrows
shattered on the stones around her, then she was
through onto the winding path leading down the
steep slope of Goat Fell toward the town. Over the
pounding of her mount's hooves, she could hear the
commotion behind her. As she traversed the first of
the switch-back turns, she glanced back at the keep.
Black smoke was pouring from the windows of the
main tower, and a cloud of dust hung over the main
gates, but a dozen mailed gardai on warhorses were
already in pursuit.
  Jenna kicked the horse again, and the stallion's
nostrils snorted twin white clouds into the cold air
as his hooves tossed clods of half-frozen mud in the
air. She would make the bridge, she knew, but
already her head threatened to explode and her
arm felt as if it was made of frozen granite. Her
vision had contracted so that she could see only
what was directly in front of her, and that poorly.
She clutched the horse's reins with her left hand,
the right hanging limp, her knees trying desperately
to keep a grip on the saddle. She heard more than
saw the horse reach the bridge and begin to gallop
across, the hooves loud on the wooden planking. She
halted the stallion on the other side, pulling him
around so that she faced the bridge. Wearily, she
reached for Lámh Shábhála with a hand that felt as
heavy as the stones that formed the bridge's arches.
She could barely see. She squinted into her dimming
sight, trying to see her pursuers, ready to open
Lámh Shábhála again and take them and the bridge
down. She swayed in the saddle, and forced herself
erect again.

     "Holder!"
  Jenna grimaced, her fingers fumbling around the
cloch. She could hear the riders approaching, but
couldn't see them in the dusk of her sight.

  "Holder! Jenna!" the voice shouted again, behind
her and to the left, it sounded familiar, and she
turned her head slowly, her eyes narrowing.

  "O'Deoradháin . . . You bastard ..." She lifted Lámh
Shábhála, ready to strike the man down. He ran
toward her awkwardly, hampered by his
sling-bound arm, as she wobbled in the saddle,
nearly falling.
  "Can you ride?" He seemed to be shouting in her
ear. "Holder, listen to me! Can you ride?"

     She nodded. It took all the effort she had.

 "Then ride. Go to du Val's. The Apothecary. Go,
and I'll meet you there."

     "The men . . ."Jenna muttered. "From the keep . .
."
     "I will deal with them. Go!"
  "It's too late," Jenna said. Her voice sounded
nonchalant, almost amused. Strangely, she wanted
to laugh. She couldn't lift her hand to point, but
nodded toward the bridge. The riders from the keep
were gal-loping around the final bend in the
mountain road. Sighting Jenna on the other side of
the bridge, they shouted and urged their horses
forward. Jenna reached for the cloch again,
wondering if she could open it in time, wondering if
she had the strength to stay conscious if she did.

  Something moved in front of her: O'Deoradháin,
stepping to the end of the bridge as if he were about
to hold back the on-rushing gardai him-self,
one-handed. As Jenna watched, the man bent down
and took a stone from the ground in his free hand.
He held it in front of him, as if he were offering it to
the riders. She heard his voice call aloud: "Obair don
dean-nach!" He threw the stone to the ground, and
it seemed to shatter and dissolve. The gardai's
horses pounded onto the bridge, and at the same
time, the bridge groaned like a live thing, a wail of
wood and stone. The bridge decking writhed as if a
giant had struck it from below as the tall stone
arches to either side collapsed and fell away. Blocks
of carved stone rained; support timbers bent and
cracked like saplings in a storm.

  The bridge fell, with the first of the riders on it.
Horses and men screamed as they pinwheeled in air
to the bottom of the ravine and crashed against the
stones of Deer Creek.
  There was a stunning silence. A gout of dust rose
from the deep cleft-a gaped. The gardai trapped on
the far side stared down at the broken bodies of
their companions.
  O'Deoradháin alone was free of the stasis. Jenna
saw him move, heard groan with effort and pain as
he pulled himself with his one good m onto her
horse, even as Jenna swayed and nearly fell. His
arms went round her, taking the reins. He slapped
them against the stallion's neck, kicked at its
massive chest. "Go!" he shouted, wheeling the horse
around.

  Even as the first arrows arced toward them from
across the ravine, they were galloping away toward
the town, the onlookers staring in terror and fright.
They fled.




                Chapter 28: A Return



  JENNA remembered little of the flight from
Lár Bhaile, where O'Deoradháin took her or how
they came to leave. There were flashes of images:

  . . . du Val, his face peering down at her
concernedly. His mouth moved, but she heard
nothing of what he said. There was another face
behind the ugly dwarf's-O'Deoradháin?-and Jenna
tried to struggle up, but hands held her firmly . . .
 . . . the pain as she was lifted. She could see
nothing, but she could feel herself moving. There
were voices: "We can't stay here. They'll be
scouring the town in an hour. Not only the keep's
gardai, but the Rí Ard's garrison as well" Another
voice spoke. "A carriage, then? She can't ride,
certainly." The first voice answered. "No, they'll be
watching the High Road. If we could get across the
lough ..."

  ... a gentle rocking motion, the creaking of wood,
the splashing of water and the smell of damp and
fish. She looked up and saw stars above her,
swaying softly ...
  There were still stars, and the smell of the lough
and the sound of canvas rippling in a wind. Jenna
sat up. She was in a small boat, a single small sail
billowing in the cold night breeze. She was wrapped
in blankets and she hugged them around her against
the frigid air. O'Deoradháin was seated in the stern
of the boat, the tiller in his hand, his left arm still
bandaged tightly against his chest. Ahead, the shore
was no more than a quarter mile distant. "Where?"
was all she could manage to say. Her throat was raw
and burning; the headache still pounded with every
beat of her heart, and she wasn't certain she could
move her right arm; it seemed dead- She touched
her neck with her other hand: Lámh Shábhála was
still there on its chain-that, at least, gave
momentary relief. O'Deoradháin hadn't taken it
from her.

  "Nearly on the western shore of Lough Lar,"
O'Deoradháin answered. "And a bit north of Lár
Bhaile as well. I've been looking for a good, low
shingle where we can land."
 "Andúilleaf ... I need it ..."
 O'Deoradháin shook his head. "Don't have it. Du
Val took it."

  Jenna shivered at that. Anger burned, and she
started to lift her hand to the cloch, but weariness
overcame her. She sank back. "I'll die," she
whispered. "I hurt so much."
  "You might wish you died, but you won't. Not
from the pain of Lámh Shábhála or withdrawal from
the leaf. Perhaps from the Ri's soldiers, if they find
us."
  She remembered, suddenly, O'Deoradháin
standing before the bridge, and it falling . . . "The
bridge," she said. "You said you knew other magics,
but you also said they were slow and weaker. That
was neither slow nor weak."

  If Jenna's praise pleased him, he didn't show it.
His face was grim and sad. "Aye, much slower and
weaker they are. But that spell was set earlier,
before we met in the ravine and once the keystones
were gone on the arches, the bridge itself did the
rest. I thought that if we were to need to flee from
the keep, that we would also need a way to slow up
the pursuit. The spell took several at least a candle
stripe or two of preparation, but then it was already
done and set-all I had to do was speak the words."
  He lifted his head to scan the shore, turning the
tiller and adjusting the sail. "There, that's as good a
spot as we're likely to find." A few minutes later, the
keel grated on a tiny, pebbled beach along a small
cove. Starlight dappled the tops of the trees on the
shore while they held impenetrable darkness
underneath, but across the lough and to the south,
Jenna could see the yellow light of Lár Bhaile.
O'Deoradháin leaped from the boat into the shallow
water. Extending his good hand, he helped Jenna
from the craft.

 "I can't walk far," she told him.

  "I know, but come dawn we'd be all too visible on
the lough's shore." 'They'll see the boat anyway and
know where we landed." O'Deoradháin shook his
head. "No," he said simply. He helped her up the
bank to dew-wet grass. Then he went back down to
the beach and shoved the prow of the boat away
from shore. Jenna heard the bottom of the craft
grinding against the bed of the lough, yet the boat
continued to move outward. She saw two dark
forms, blacker than the night, break the water's
surface alongside the hull. Blue light shimmered
from their bodies Water splashed, the foam white,
and the boat moved out into deeper water, floating
free. The bow turned and faced south and east and
it began to move away from them. O'Deoradháin
came back to her and stood watching until they
could no longer see the boat past the bend of the
shore. He said nothing; Jenna decided she would
not, either, though she wondered: Were those seals?
O'Deoradháin held out his hand to her. "We need to
go as far as we can tonight," he said. "They'll find
the boat tomor-row just south of Lár Bhaile, on the
eastern side. If the Mother-Creator smiles on us, it
will be a few days before they start looking on the
western shore."
 "And where are we going?"

 O'Deoradháin shrugged. "North. To Inish
Thuaidh."
 "No," Jenna said.

  "No?" In the darkness, it was difficult to see his
face, but Jenna could hear his scowl and sigh of
exasperation. "Holder, in the morning, all of Gabair
will be out looking for you. When word reaches Dún
Laoghaire, the Rí Ard will have his troops sent
searching as well, and Tuath Con-nachta might very
well consider this a wonderful opportunity to come
look for you themselves. The other tuatha may do
the same. Your only safety is to be gone from here
as quickly as we can, and Inish Thuaidh is where
you can best learn to use the power you have."
  "No," Jenna repeated. She looked up, to where the
wind tousled the heads of the trees. She could see
nothing but the night sky and stars above them, but
she could feel the first shy touch of mage-lights at
the zenith. She knew that they would appear soon,
no more than two stripes from now, and she was
tired. So tired. No! she wanted to scream to them.
Not tonight. I can't. . .

  She struggled to her feet, staring into the
darkness of the trees. She remembered other trees,
the dark twisted oaks that stretched close to the
shore of the lough, Seancoim's tenderness and aid ...
"I'm going to Doire Coill."

  O'Deoradháin loosed a scoffing breath. "I didn't
snatch you from the Ri's gardai to have you die
under the haunted oaks."
  Jenna shrugged. She took a halting step-it took
more effort than she thought. "I've been through
those oaks once before. I think I'm safer there than
on the road. If you don't want to come with me,
then I'll thank you for your rescue, Ennis
O'Deoradháin, and may the path to your home be
easy." Another step. She forced herself to stay
upright. She turned toward the trees and forced
her legs to keep moving. Suddenly she felt
O'Deoradháin beside her, his hand under her arm,
supporting her. When she glanced at him, he was
shaking his head.
 "Is it true, what they say of Doire Coill?" he asked.

 Jenna nodded. "Aye. And yet no. The forest is old
and alive in a way that other woods are not, and
things live there that are dangerous. But Doire Coill
is also beautiful, and none of the tales that I heard
ever spoke of that. I have a friend there ..." She
closed her eyes, the weariness coming over her
again. She looked back across the lake to the town,
as if she could see the commotion and upset there.
She had thought she had a friend there as well and
she had left behind the one person whom she knew
loved her unconditionally. Mam, I'm so sorry. 1
hope I will see you again . . . "At least I think he's a
friend," she finished.

  O'Deoradháin took a long breath. Let it out again.
"Then I suppose it would be a shame for me to miss
seeing the forest while I'm so close."
  Two stripes and more passed while they walked to
the west at as fast a pace as Jenna could manage.
They crossed the High Road a half mile from the
lough, moving across the stone fences into a field
dotted with small trees that must have once been
farmland but was now long abandoned. A line of
darkness loomed at the ridge of the hills just beyond
the field, and as they approached, they saw the
twisted, tall forms of oaks against the starlit sky.
"Doire Coill?" O'Deoradháin asked, and Jenna
nodded.

 "Seancoim said it came close to the lough at places.
We're lucky."
  "Or not." O'Deoradháin scowled at the forest. "It
feels like the trees are watching us."

  "They are," Jenna answered. She glanced at the
sky and thought she could see wisps of color curling
above. "Hurry," she said. "I won't be able to go
much farther." O'Deoradháin glanced at the sky
also, though he said nothing. His arm went around
her waist, and he helped her forward over the rough
ground.

  The hill was steeper and taller than it had
appeared from the High Road. As they climbed,
resting often, the two could look back over the
ground they'd covered and see Lough Lár
glimmering beyond the trees and, faintly on the
horizon, the hills where the city lay. There were
trees now as they neared the ridge, still widely
spaced but undeniably the off-spring of the ancient
oaks of Doire Coill. As they started down into the
valley beyond, the trees came suddenly closer
together, and they had to walk carefully to avoid
tripping over roots or being smacked in the head by
low-hanging branches. At the bottom of the hill,
they came across a small stream meandering
through the wood, and Jenna sank to the ground.
"No more," she said. "I'm too tired."

  "Jenna, we're two miles from the lough. Maybe
less. We should move on."
  Jenna shook her head. "It doesn't matter. They'll
know where I am soon enough." She pointed to the
sky overhead through the winter-dry leaves and
netted branches. Light burned there, brightening
even as they watched. As the mage-lights grew,
Jenna felt the desire in her to take their energy
grow as well, overwhelming the exhaustion. She
struggled to her feet again and took the cloch's chain
from around her neck. She placed the stone in her
right hand, forcing the fingers to close around it.

  The mage-lights seemed to feel Lámh
Shábhála’s presence; they swelled, flashing like
blue and green lightnings directly above her. She 1
heard O'Deoradháin gasp. The power of the
mage-lights crackled and hissed in her ears, and it
seemed she could almost hear words in the din,
speaking a language so old that it awakened
ancestral memories in her blood. The scars on her
arm seemed to glow, echoing the patterns in the sky
above, and she lifted her hand, watching the colors
converge and fuse over her. A funnel, a tongue
slipped down from the display, bending and 1
twisting until it touched her hand, engulfing it.
Jenna cried out in mingled ] pain and relief as the
power of the mage-lights poured into Lámh
Shábhála. She didn't know how long the connection
lasted: forever, or a stripe of the candle, or only a
few breaths. She could see the force or the magic,
brilliant as it surged into the niches within the cloch,
as it filled the well inside the stone nearly to
overflowing.
 Once more . . . Jenna realized. The next time the
mage-lights come, Lámh Shábhála will be able to
hold no more. . . .

  But Jenna could hold no more herself. The
primordial cold of the mage-lights burned her, and
she could no longer bear it. She cried out, as the
mage-lights danced above and waves of tints and
hues fluttered in the sky. She pulled her hand away
from the grasp of the lights, and there was a pulse of
fury and thunder.
 As Jenna fell away into darkness, she thought she
heard the rustle of wings and the caw of a crow.




                Chapter 29: Awakening



  SOMEONE'S head swam in her vision, and she
could smell a scent of spices. Jenna blinked,
squinting to make the features come into focus. She
seemed to be in a cave. Torches guttered against
the walls, and she lay on a bed of straw matting.
The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of a
peat fire. If O'Deoradháin was there, she couldn't
see him. "Seancoim," she whispered. "Is that you?"

 "Aye," a familiar voice answered. "I'm here."
 "Lámh Shábhála," Jenna said, suddenly panicked.
She remembered holding it, her fingers opening . . .

  "It's around your neck," Seancoim answered. She
felt his fingers take her left hand and guide it to her
throat. She felt the familiar shape of the cloch in its
silver cage. The relief lasted only a moment.

 "Andúilleaf," she croaked. "I need ... the leaf
potion. You must have some. Give it to me."

 "No," he answered, his voice gentle yet firm.
  'Please . . ." She was crying now: from the pain,
from the refusal. Seancoim, it hurts . . . You don't
know how it hurts . . ."
  His blind eyes seemed to stare at her. Callused
fingers brushed her cheek. On his shoulder, she
could see Denmark, the bird's black eyes giving
back twin, tiny reflections of her face. "Jenna,
what's hurting you most right now is the lack of the
andúilleaf and not the sky-magic. should never have
given the herb to you in the first place. Some people
I can t stop once they take it, and eventually the
craving becomes so intense that it drives you mad.
You will have to get through this without it."

  "I can't," she wept. She huddled in a fetal position,
cradling her right arm against herself, but nothing
would warm its cold flesh. Nothing would ever make
it normal again. The chill seemed to have crept all
the way to her shoulder, and she shivered. She
couldn't see Seancoim any-more; her vision was
narrowing again, as it had in the keep, all her
periph-eral vision gone until there was nothing
there but what was directly in front of her. The
headache raged in her skull, and she was afraid that
if she moved, her head would burst. "Seancoim . . ."
she wailed.

  "I'm here," his voice answered, and she heard his
staff clattering against stone as he moved. "I'll stay
with you. Here, drink this."
  He pressed a bowl to her lips. She sipped the
warm liquid, hoping irrationally that despite his
words it was andúilleaf. It was not: sweet mint tea,
with a hint of something else. She swallowed, more
eagerly than she expected, for the taste made her
realize how hungry and thirsty she was. He gently
laid her head back again. "Seancoim, just this once.
The mage-lights ... it hurts ..."
   "I know it does," he told her. "But you can bear
it."

  "I can't" she answered, but the words were hard
to speak. She was sleepy; she could feel the
weariness spreading through her, radiating out from
her belly. "Where's O'Deoradháin?" she asked.
"He'll tell you what's happened ..."
  "He's here. Just outside." Seancoim's face was
receding, as if she were falling away from him. "And
he's told me everything."
 "It hurts," Jenna said again.
  "I know," he answered, but his face was so tiny
and his voice so soft and it was easier to close her
eyes and give in to the urge to sleep.

 "Seancoim?"
  A hand brushed lank hair away from her face.
"No, it's Ennis," O'Deoradháin's voice answered.
"Seancoim's gone for a bit. Should I go look for
him?"
  Her head felt huge and heavy, and the headache
still pounded. Her right arm was a log of ice cradled
against her stomach. She tried to lift it and couldn't.
She couldn't feel her fingers at all. Her body was
trembling and despite the chill air, she could feel
sweat breaking out on her fore-head. A soft cloth
brushed it away. Jenna licked dry, cracked lips.
"Thank you," she husked.
 "Feeling better?"

  Her left hand felt for the cloch around her neck.
When she felt the she clasped it with a sigh. "Worse,
I think. I'm not sure." "Here then. He left this; said
to have you drink it when you woke up." The bowl
touched her lips again and she drank the sweet
brew. Afterward, she lay back. O'Deoradháin
looked down at her worriedly. There was a across
his forehead: a line of dried blood with black thread
sewn through it to hold the gaping edges shut, and
both his eyes were swollen nearly closed and
blackened.
  "What happened to you?" Jenna asked. "Did the
Ri's gardai . . . ?" O'Deoradháin shook his head. He
touched the wound, his mouth twisting ruefully.
"No. After you took in the mage-lights, you
collapsed, and this crow came flying past me and an
ancient Bunús Muintir appeared right behind me. I
thought he was about to attack or cast a spell. I
drew my dagger, and all of a sudden the old bastard
cracked me on the head with his damned staff, a lot
faster and harder than an old blind man had any
right to move . . ."

  Despite the pain, Jenna found herself chuckling at
the image of Seancoim rapping O'Deoradháin over
the head with his staff. O'Deoradháin frowned at
first, then finally smiled back at her. "I'm glad you
find that funny. I assure you I didn't at the time."
   "If you wouldn't go pointing your weapon at
people, it wouldn't have happened at all,"
Seancoim's voice answered from behind
O'Deoradháin. A moment later, Denmark fluttered
past O'Deoradháin to land at Jenna's left side. She
lifted her hand to stroke the glossy black feathers,
and the crow cawed back at her. "He was rather
insistent about protecting you," Seancoim told her.
"Even when he'd been knocked on the skull. Doesn't
listen well, either. I had to hit him twice more. I
nearly left him there, but I decided that if he
brought you this far, he deserved better." Seancoim
shooed O'Deoradháin aside. He crouched down next
to Jenna's pallet. His gray-bearded, flat face was
solemn. The cataract-whitened eyes gleamed in a
nest of wrinkled brown flesh. "It's time to get up,"
he told her. Jenna shook her head. "No. Let me lie
here. I couldn't . . ." His gnarled, thick-knuckled
hand reached down and took her arm. His grip
surprised her with its strength as he pulled her up
to a sitting position. Her head whirled with the
movement, and for a moment she thought she
would be sick. "Breathe," he told her. "Slow breaths,
in through the nose, out through the mouth. That's
it."

  She could feel his hand on one side, O'Deoradháin's
on the other, lifting and she shook her head again.
"It hurts. I don't want to . . ."
  "You will," Seancoim answered. "You are stronger
than you think. And there is something you must
see." Suddenly she was standing on weak, wobbly
legs. The room, she saw for the first time, was less a
cave than deep, sheltered hollow below an
overhanging limestone cliff. Ahead of her down a
grassy embankment was a creek, and beyond that
the dark tangle of oaks and brush of the forest.
They helped her walk down the embankment and
out past the vine-fringed cliff wall into sunshine.
Jenna squinted, but the heat on her shoulders felt
good. The day was warm for the season; she could
not even see her breath before her. "Sit here,"
Seancoim said, and Jenna was happy to do so,
sinking down into the blanket of grass. "Look . . .
Straight across the stream, near the tallest oak."

  Jenna saw it then, in a shifting of shadows as it
moved. At first she thought it was simply a stag
deer, but then it came out from under the trees, and
Jenna gasped as she realized that the animal was
huge, taller than O'Deoradháin at the shoulders,
with a rack of massive antlers that echoed the great
branches of the oaks. Its coat was a brilliant russet
with a white, powerful breast, and the black,
gleaming hooves were larger than Jenna's hands.
The creature was magnificent, almost regal, as it
walked slowly down to the stream's edge and
lowered its crowned head to drink for a moment.
Then the head lifted again to gaze across the river
to the three people with eyes that seemed calm and
intelligent.
 "That's a fia stoirm," Seancoim said quietly,
answering Jenna's unasked question. "The storm
deer. In the Bunús Muintir histories, they speak of
herds of them, their hooves so loud pounding
against the earth that it sounded like thunder.
When the sky-magic died, so did they."

   "Our stories are the same," O'Deoradháin said.
"From the Before, cen-turies ago. But if they all died
..."

  "Not all," Seancoim answered. "A few survived,
hiding in the oldest places. When I was young, I
once glimpsed a storm deer deep in Doire Coill. But
in the past year, I have seen dozens, and not in the
depths of the forest but here near the edge. I have
seen other things, too, that were once legend and
are not as beautiful and gentle as these: dire wolves,
who have a language of their own; boars with long
tusks as sharp as knives, and whose bristles are
gold; snakes with white scales and red eyes, as long
as any of us are tall. From my brothers to the west,
I have learned that a dragon's scream was heard on
one of the islands in the Duán Mouth. And from
another, that blue seals were gathering along the
northern coast. Jenna remembered the seals she'd
seen in Lough Lar, the way their satin fur had
gleamed. She glanced at O'Deoradháin, but he would
not look at her. "The myths are awakening again,"
Seancoim continued. "Things walk the land that
have not been seen in many generations. Even the
trees of Doire Coill are more awake now than I have
ever felt them."
 Almost as if in response to Seancoim's words, the
wind rose slightly and shook the branches of the
oaks. The stag's nostrils widened as it sniffed the
breeze. The creature took a last look at them before
bounding away, its great hooves thudding audibly
on the ground as it departed.
  "This is what you are caught in, Jenna," Seancoim
said. "Part great beauty, part great danger. As the
mage-lights are awakening the old crea-tures, so
you are ready to awaken the other clochs na thintrí.
You will make a new world."
  "I can't," Jenna said. The pain inside her,
forgotten for a moment with the sighting of the
storm deer, returned. "I don't know how. I'm
scared, Seancoim. I'm so . . ." She couldn't finish the
sentence. The tears came again in racking, terrified
sobs, and she wanted more than anything else for
her mam to be here, to comfort her as she had so
many times. She had thought of herself as a woman
now, an adult and self-sufficient, but she suddenly
felt like a child again.
  It was O'Deoradháin who came to her. "I can help
you, Jenna," he told her, crouching down in front of
her. "I can't do it for you because Lámh Shábhála
has chosen you, but I can help you. If you'll let me."

  His arms went around her, and for a breath she
stiffened, ready to pull away. He started to release
her, to back away, but she laid her head on his
shoulder. She let herself fall into the embrace,
allowing herself to believe that she was safe in her
mam's arms again, imagining that she was home
again and that none of this had ever happened.

 But it wasn't an illusion that could last.
  "There's another who will help you as well," she
heard Seancoim say. "Or at least, I hope so. We'll go
to him tomorrow."




                 Chapter 30: Release



  SHE remembered the valley. The sight of the
central dolmen, carved with the pattern of the scars
on her arm and surrounded by the passage graves
of the Bunús Muintir chieftains, still made her
shiver. The day was gray and sullen with rain
misting from lowering clouds, the water dripping
heavily from the cap-stone of the dolmen as they
stood under it. Only Denmark seemed un-bothered
by the rain-the crow was perched above the
entrance to Riata's grave, mouth open to the sky
and occasionally shaking droplets from his feathers.
   Jenna's mood matched the weather. Her stomach
roiled and she'd thrown up nearly everything that
Seancoim had put into her. The head-ache refused
to leave, so that at times she could barely walk, and
her right arm hung useless at her side. She'd leaned
heavily on O'Deoradháin as they'd made the
two-day journey to the valley. She remembered
little of the time: it was a blur of pain and fatigue.
She'd begged Seancoim for andúilleaf off and on,
sometimes weeping, sometimes in a fury, once with
a threat to use the cloch; he refused each time,
though never with anger.
  Jenna sank down with her back against one of the
standing stones, not caring that the ground was
soaked and muddy. "Now what?" she asked.

 "We wait," Seancoim answered.
 "Here?" Jenna spat.

 "Here, or in Riata's cairn."
  "Here," O'Deoradháin said. He cast a look at the
blackness beyond the stones where Denmark
roosted, and shivered. "Graves aren't for the living."

 "Riata isn't quite dead," Seancoim told him.
 "Then that's even worse."

  "Can we at least have a fire?" Jenna asked. "I'm
cold through."

  O'Deoradháin gathered together what kindling he
could find and pulled his tinderbox from his pack,
but the spark wouldn't catch despite repeated
efforts. "It's too damp," he said finally. Jenna
nodded miserably, and Seancoim hunkered down in
front of the nest of kindling O'Deoradháin had built.
He rubbed his hands together several times,
chanting words that Jenna could not understand. He
picked up O'Deoradháin's flint and struck it. A blue
flame shot out, startling Jenna, and the kindling
began to crackle. O'Deoradháin chuckled. "I'm
beginning to think that I was lucky you only hit me
on the head," he said to Seancoim.
  Seancoim's grizzled, ancient face grinned back at
him as he warmed his hands over the flames. "That
you were, young man."

  They stayed there under the dolmen as the sun
lowered itself beyond the lip of the valley and the
valley grew darker under the overcast sky. The rain
stopped before sunset; as night fell they began to
glimpse stars between the thinning clouds.
Seancoim and O'Deoradháin talked as they waited,
but Jenna said little, sitting on the ground with her
knees drawn up and her right arm cradled against
her. She stroked Lámh Shábhála from time to time.
The cloch seemed almost restless, its image
throbbing in her head, filling her vision with bright
sparks. There was a tension in the air itself like the
drone of some sepulchral pipe, so low that she
couldn't quite hear it but only feel the sound,
rumbling just below the threshold of perception.
  A finger of light appeared above them, blue
outlined in gold, wavering and brightening so that
they saw the shadow of the dolmen sway on the
ground in response. Jenna rose to her feet.

 "So it is to be tonight..."

  The voice spoke in her head, not in her ears: a
resonant, warm baritone. The others looked up as
well, as if they'd also heard. "Riata?" Jenna glanced
toward the entrance to his tomb. There was a
wavering in the dimness, a mist that formed itself
into a man's shape as she watched. "Do you
remember me?"

  She felt the now-familiar touch of another Holder's
mind on her own, this one more powerful than most,
strong enough so that she could not shut him out as
he prowled her thoughts and her memories. The
spectral figure of the ancient Bunús Holder drifted
toward her. Jenna was vaguely aware of the others
watching, Seancoim placidly silent, O'Deoradháin
with shocked apprehension. "Ahh," Riata sighed.
"Jenna. You are the First who came to me once
before." More mage-lights had appeared in the sky,
brighter and more brilliantly colored than Jenna
had seen in previous displays. The largest
manifestation was directly overhead, but the
mage-lights flickered all the way to the horizon. The
entire valley was illumi-nated, as if a thousand fires
burned above. Riata's indistinct face glanced up to
them. "Aye," he said. "Tonight."
  Jenna clutched the cloch na thintrí. The fingers of
her right hand, as if warmed by the glare of the
mage-lights, moved easily now and closed around
the stone. Lámh Shábhála was frigid in her palm,
glowing in re-sponse to the swaying, dancing power
above it. Jenna could sense the cloch yearning like a
live thing, wanting her to open it, to fill it. The
feeling was so urgent and compulsive that it
frightened Jenna.

  "Lámh Shábhála craves the power as you crave
the andúilleaf," Riata murmured in her head. "You
must control Lámh Shábhála as you must control
yourself, or it will destroy you utterly when it
consumes the mage-lights this night and sets free
the other clochs na thintrí."
  Riata's words filled Jenna with dread. Her breath
came fast and shallow; she could feel her heart
racing. "I can't do it," she gasped.

 "You can. I will help you."

  "As will I," O'Deoradháin said. He was beside her
now. His hand touched Jenna's shoulder, and she
shrugged it away.
 "You want me to fail," she spat at him. "Then
you'll take Lámh Shábhála."

  "Aye, I would if that happened," he told her. His
pale emerald eyes regarded her calmly. "But your
failure isn't what I want. Not any longer. You can
believe me or not, Jenna, but I will help you. I can
help you. This is what I was trained to do."

  "Listen to him," Riata husked. "Use the cloch. See
the truth even if you want to deny it."
  "You swear that?" Jenna asked O'Deoradháin, and
she let the barest hint of the cloch's strength waft
outward. Shaping it to her task was like holding one
of the piglets back in their farm in Ballintubber: it
wriggled, it squirmed to be away, and she could
control it only with difficulty.

  "I do swear it," O'Deoradháin answered, and the
truth in the words reverberated like the sound of a
bronze bell.

 "Then what do I do?" Jenna asked.
  "Start as you always have. Open the cloch to the
lights."
   Jenna let the image of Lámh Shábhála fill her
mind: the crystalline interstices; the jeweled valleys
and hills; the interior landscape of spar-kling
energy. Above, the sky responded, a surge of pure
white light that was born directly above Jenna and
rippled outward in bright spectral rings. The
mage-lights flamed, the clouds were driven away as
if by hurri-cane winds.

  Lámh Shábhála pulled at the sky-magic, sucking
in the power like a ravenous beast. "No!"
O'Deoradháin and Riata shouted as one. "You must
direct the cloch this time, Jenna," O'Deoradháin
continued, his voice shouting in her ear but almost
lost in the internal din of the mage-lights as they
crackled and seethed around her. "You must go up
to the mage-lights, not let Lámh Shábhála bring
them down to you."

  "How?" Jenna raged at him. "Do you think I can
fly?" This was nothing she had experienced before
with the cloch. She seemed to be in the mid-dle of a
coruscating storm, flailing and trying to hold her
ground, nearly blind and deaf in its brilliance and
roar. Riata's voice answered her, calm and soft as
always, cutting through the bedlam.

 "Think it," he said, "and it will be."
  Her arm burned, the scars as bright as lightning.
She lifted the cloch toward the sky and imagined
rising into the maelstrom above. Her per-ception
shifted: she was outside herself. She could see her
body on the ground, arm lifted, and yet she was also
above with the mage-lights run-ning through and
around and with her, the land spread like a tapestry
below. She was Lámh Shábhála; she was the power
within it. Voices and shapes surrounded her in the
dazzling space and she knew them: all the ones who
had held an active Lámh Shábhála before her:
Severii O'Coulghan, who like Riata had been Last
Holder; Tadhg O'Coulghan, his father who had held
it before Severii; Rowan Beirne, Bryth and Sinna
Mac Ard; Eilís MacGairbhith, the Lady of the Falls,
and Aodhfin O Liathain, the lover who had betrayed
and killed her to take the cloch; Caenneth Mac Noll,
also a First, and the first Daoine to hold an active
Lámh Shábhála. The Bunús Muintir Holders were
there too-Riata, Dávali, Óengus. There were
hundreds of them: Daoine, Bunús Muintir, and
peoples unknown to her, stretching back thousands
of years. And they spoke, a babble of voices that
rivaled the sound of the mage-lights.
 " . . So young, this one."
  '… She's too young. Too weak. Lámh Shábhála will
consume her."

  "... I was a First and I died the night I opened the
clochs, as will she . . ."

  "… let her undergo the Scrúdú, too. Now, before
this happens, and if she lives. . .

  'Now is not the time for the Scrúdú. She must wait
for that test until later, as I did. Lámh Shábhála
chose her, and sent her to me." That was Riata,
calm. "There is a reason it was her ..." "What must I
do?" Jenna asked them. Her voice was
phosphorescence and glow. A hundred voices
answered, a jumble of contradiction. Some were
amused, some were hostile, some were
sympathetic.

 ". . . die!"
 ". . . give up the clock while you can ..."

 ". . . hold onto yourself..."

  She ignored them and listened for Riata's voice.
"Feel the presence of the other clocks..."
  "I do." She could sense them all, scattered over
the land yet tied to Lámh Shábhála with streamers
of green-white energy. The channels led to the well
within the cloch.
 "Fill the cloch now," Riata told her, though other
voices wailed laughter or warning. "Open it. . ."

 "You are the cloch," said another voice, fainter and
paler: O'Deoradháin.
  She imagined Lámh Shábhála transparent and
without boundaries. Nothing happened. She drifted
above the valley, snared in lambent splen-dor, but
there was no change. She looked at her arm, saw
light reflecting from it. A beam curled around her,
and she willed it to enter her. Blue-green rays
crawled the whorls of scars, and she gasped as the
radiance entered in her and through her, surging
into the cloch she held. Like a dam bursting under
the pressure of a flood, the mage-lights suddenly
whirled about her, following the path she had made,
more and more of the energy filling her as she
screamed in ecstasy and fear. Unrelenting, it poured
inward. Lámh Shábhála was utterly full, too bright
to gaze upon, shuddering and quivering in her hand
as if it might break apart. And the pain came with
the power: white, stabbing needles of it, driving
deep into her flesh and her soul, a torment beyond
anything she'd endured before.

  The mage-lights were a thunderous cacophony
into which she shouted uselessly. In a moment, she
would be lost, swept away in currents that she could
not control. She ached to release it, to simply let it
pass through her, to end this.
  "Hold onto the magic, Jenna!" The voice was
Riata's or O'Deoradháin's or both. "You must hold
onto it!" they shouted again, and she screamed back
at them.

 "I can't!"
  "Jenna, Lámh Shábhála will open the way for the
other clocks through you. It is too late now for
anything else. The only choice to be made is
whether you will use Lámh Shábhála or it you."
 ". . . too young . . . too weak . . . she will die . . ."

 ". . . you see, even if she did this task, she would
never have passed the Scrúdú later. Best she die
now ..."

  She couldn't hold the energy. No one could hold it.
It clawed at her mind with talons of lightning, it
roared and flailed and smashed against her. It
bellowed and shrilled to be loosed. a moment
longer..."
  Her hand wanted to open and she knew that if she
let go of the stone the force would fly outward with
the motion, uncontrolled and explosive. Lámh
Shábhála burned in her palm; she could feel its cold
fury flaying the skin from muscles, the muscles
from bone. It would tear her hand from her arm.
She closed her left hand around the right.

 ". . . Good! Turn it inward. Inward ..."
 Jenna squeezed the cloch tighter, screaming
against the resistance and the torture. She closed
her eyes, crushing fingers together and shouting a
wordless cry.

 The sky went dark. The mage-lights vanished.
For a moment, Jenna gaped upward, back in her
body again. Light flooded around her cupped, raised
hands as if she were grasping the sun itself.
  "Now," O'Deoradháin said, his voice loud in the
sudden silence. "Let it
 Jenna opened her hands.

  A fountain of multicolored light erupted: from the
cloch, from the scarred flesh of her arm, from her
open mouth and eyes. It blossomed high above the
valley, gathering like an impossible star for several
breaths. Then it shattered, bursting apart into
meteors that jetted outward along the energy lines
of the other clochs na thintrí, the star fading as the
mete-ors flared and faded themselves, arcing into
the distance and away.
  There was the sound of peal upon peal of thunder,
then their echoes rebounded from the hills and died
in silence.

  The valley was dark under a starlit sky, and the
sparks lifting from their fire under the dolmen stone
seemed pallid and cold. Jenna lifted the cloch that
had fallen back around her neck-it burned cold, but
it was dark. She marveled at her hands, that they
were somehow whole and unblood-ied. The pain hit
her then. She fell to her knees, crying out, and
O'Deoradháin and Seancoim laid her down gently.
"Riata?" she called out.

  'He's gone," O'Deoradháin told her. "At least I
think so."
 "It hurts," Jenna said simply.

 I know. I'm sorry. But it's done. It's done, Jenna.
You've opened the way for the Filleadh."

  She nodded. Her right arm was stiffening now, the
fingers curling into a useless fist, sharp twinges like
tiny knives cutting through her chest. She cried,
lying there, and let O'Deoradháin place his arm
around her for the little comfort it brought her. A
familiar smell cut through the smell of wood smoke:
Seancoim crouched down by her, a bowl in his hand.
 "Andúilleaf," he said. "This one time."

  Jenna started to reach for it. Her fingers grazed
the edge of the bowl and then stopped. She shook
her head. "No," she told the old man. "I can bear
this."

  What might have been a smile touched his lips
beneath the tangle of gray beard. His blind eyes
were flecked with firelight; Denmark flapped in
from the night and landed on his shoulder. Seancoim
dumped the contents of the bowl on the ground and
scuffed at the dirt with his feet.
 "You have indeed grown tonight, Jenna," he said.
           PART THREE: The Mad Holder


                  (Map: Inish Thuaidh)




              Chapter 31: Taking Leave



  A DIRE wolf howled its worship to the moon
goddess from the next hill. A white owl with a
wingspan as wide as a person's outstretched arms
swooped down from a nearby branch and lifted
again with a rabbit clutched in its talons. The wind
brought the enchanting song of the trees at the
heart of the forest. Mage-lights snarled the stars.

 "I have to go," Jenna said.

  Seancoim nodded. Denmark ruffled his wings on
the old man's shoulder as Seancoim's pale eyes
plucked moonlight from the air. "I know," he said.
 "Do you know why?"

  He sniffed, almost a laugh. "Well, let me see if I
can fathom it ... Because Lámh Shábhála aches to be
used. Because Jenna herself is tired of hiding and
sitting. Because you know that to the north are the
people who are your father's fathers, and there also
lies the knowledge that you lack as Holder. Because
even though I tell you you're wrong, you're afraid
that if you hide here too long, your enemies will
come in too great a force for even Doire Coill to
resist and you don't want harm to come to me or
  the forest. Because the winter's chill is gone and
the land calls you. Be-cause you see the magic at
work here and want to see what it's done elsewhere.
Because a blind old man is poor company for a
young woman. Are those your reasons?"
  Jenna laughed. "All but the last, aye. And more."
And you'll be traveling with Ennis O'Deoradháin." It
was more statement than question, and he was still
smiling. "So that's the way it is, 'tis it? You've come
to like the man."
 "No!" The denial came quickly and automatically.
"Not at all. But he's Inish, and knows some of the
cloudmage ways and will help me get to the island.
Do I trust him? I suppose I do to a point-he could
have taken Lámh Shábhála from me easily when we
were in Lár Bhaile and he didn't but the man still
has his own agenda and if I get in the way of that ..."
She shrugged. "And I don't like the man, Seancoim.
Not that way." And after Coelin's betrayal, I'm not
sure I'll ever love anyone again that way, she
wanted to add, but pressed her lips shut.

  Jenna and O'Deoradháin had wintered in Doire
Coill. Seancoim had scoffed at Jenna's concerns that
Rí Gabair and Tiarna Mac Ard-or the Rí Ard and
Tanaise Rig themselves-might try to invade the
forest. "The forest will take care of itself, as I told
Tiarna Mac Ard when you first came here," he
answered. "Now the magic is unleashed again, and
the forest is more awake than ever. They bring
their own death if they wander here."
  And yet they had come. The mage-lights of the
Filleadh had told those in Lár Bhaile where Jenna
had gone after she fled the city. In the days
immediately following her escape, troops were
dispatched to search for her on the west side of
Lough Lár and some even ventured into Doire Coill.
As Seancoim had predicted, few of those who
entered the oak forest returned. But strangely,
after the initial fortnight, no one came searching at
all.

  Jenna had wondered about that at first. Then she
realized . . .
  Nearly every night now, the mage-lights flickered
in the sky, no longer only above the locus of Lámh
Shábhála but from horizon to horizon, and the
newly-released clochs na thintrí fed on them. The
Riocha were scrambling for possession of the
stones-and learning to control them- which created
such turmoil and contention that finding Lámh
Shábhála and Jenna was temporarily a secondary
concern. The night of the Filleadh, Jenna had
opened three double hands of the major clochs (the
Clochs Mór, O'Deoradháin had said they were
called) and a hand of the minor stones-or
clochmions-for each of the Clochs Mór: almost two
hundred clochs na thintrí all told were now active.
  Nearly every night, too, Jenna yearned for the
andúilleaf and the solace it would bring against the
continuing pain of holding Lámh Shábhála. But
Seancoim would not offer it to her again, and she
remembered too well the fog it had cast over her
mind.

  Little news reached Doire Coill from outside, but
O'Deoradháin would sometimes go to search out a
traveler alone on the High Road. He would bring
back their tales to Jenna and Seancoim. Twice
during their stay, other Bunús Muintir came to visit
Seancoim-from Foraois Coill in Tuath Infochla, and
the great island of Inishcoill off Tuath Airgialla-and
they brought news of their own. Jenna knew from
those contacts that word had been sent from Dún
Laoghaire to all the tuatha that the Holder of Lámh
Shábhála had been driven insane, that she had
murdered a score of Riocha in Lár Bhaile including
the Banrion Cianna herself. A hefty blood rice had
been placed on her head, and it appeared that the
Tanaise Rig no longer had any interest in his
marriage proposal.

  Jenna was now the Mad Holder, to be killed upon
sight.

  Two months ago, near the time of the Festival of
Fomhar, the three of them had watched from the
western fringes of Doire Coill as an army
approached from the west and another marched out
from Lár Bhaille to meet it. They had seen in the
distance the smoke and dust of battle, and Jenna
felt the surge of power from several clochs na thintrí
wielded as terrible weapons. From the travelers,
they learned that other armies had been seen
battling south and east, as well.
  The tuatha were fighting among themselves, and
the clochs na thintrí were among their implements
of war.

  Eventually, Jenna knew, someone would come
searching for Lámh Shábhála, someone with an
army or a few of the Clochs Mór or both at their
backs, and they would stop at nothing to find her.
Jenna had learned much about handling the cloch in
the last months, but she didn't want to see Doire
Coill at the center of a battle, even a victorious one.
 And Seancoim was right. She was tired of hiding.

 "When do you go?" Seancoim asked, his voice
bringing her out of reverie. She shivered, then
smiled at him.

 "Tomorrow."
 "Then 1 will enjoy tonight." Seancoim turned
solemn, twirling a finger in his beard before he
spoke. "You must realize that I'm not the only one
who can guess which way Lámh Shábhála would
travel."

 "I know that. We'll be careful."
 "Careful may not be enough."

  She smiled at him and kissed his forehead. "Then
come with us. I'd like that. Have you ever seen the
Westering Sea, Seancoim? O'Deoradháin says that
you look out, and see nothing but water and sky, all
the way to the end of the world."
 He shook his head sadly. "No. But this is where
my destiny and my home are. I'm an old man, and I
have my apprentice to train."

  "Apprentice? Since when do you have an
apprentice?" You've not met her. She stays on her
own most of the time inside the forest. She's learned
most of what I have to teach her but not all. No,
Jenna, thanks for your offer, but I'll stay here and
make certain that you have a place to which you can
return one day."

  They were standing at the northern edge of Doire
Coill, near where Mac Ard, her mam, and she had
first entered the forest-less than a year ago, though
it seemed that everything had changed in that time.
The High Road was less than a quarter mile away,
turning here in a great sweeping curve to the north,
where a day's walk away waited Knobtop and
Ballintubber. Jenna wondered about her home,
wondered what they said about her and her mam
when they gathered in Tara 's Tavern of an evening.
Perhaps there were already tales of the Mad
Holder, and One Hand Bailey or Chamis Redface
regaled anyone who would listen with fanciful tales
of Jenna as a child.
  "Even back then it was obvious that she was fey
and dangerous. Why, once Matron Kelly scolded
her, and Jenna made a motion like this, and Matron
Kelly's cows gave no milk for an entire week. Tom
Mullin once caught her stealing apples from his
orchard and chased her off his land, and the very
next day as he rode to Aldwoman Pearce's house,
may the Mother-Creator rest her soul, his horse
threw him for no reason at all and he broke his leg.
He's walked with a limp since that day. I tell you, we
were all careful what we said and did around the
Aoires..."
  "You don't get to choose how you're
remembered," Seancoim said, as if he sensed what
she were thinking. "That's up to those who are left
behind." He touched her right arm. "Come with
me," he said.

  He turned and walked back into the forest,
Denmark flapping heavily ahead of them. He turned
away from the faint path they'd followed, slip-ping
into the darkness under the trees. "I can't see,"
Jenna said, hesitating.
 "Then take my arm . . ."

  Holding onto the elbow of a blind man, she moved
into the night landscape of the forest. They walked
for nearly a stripe, it seemed, Jenna stumbling and
occasionally pushing away a stray branch, while
Seancoim was sure-footed and easy with
Dúnmharú’s guidance.
  They skirted a fen, and Jenna realized that the
sound of the forest had changed at some point. She
could no longer hear the animals: the grunt of the
deer, the occasional howl of a wolf, the rustlings and
chirps of the night birds. Here, there were other
sounds: leafy rustlings, the groan of shifting wood,
the sibilant breath of leaves that sounded almost
like words. The moon came out from behind a cloud,
and she could see that she and Seancoim were
surrounded by gigantic old oaks with gnarled,
twisted branches and great trunks that it would
take three men to encircle. They loomed over the
two, and Denmark stayed on Seancoim's shoulder
rather than roosting in any of these branches.

  The trees spoke to each other. Jenna could hear
them, could feel them. They were aware; they knew
she was there. Branches moved and swayed though
there was no wind, one limb sweeping down to wrap
about Jenna's right arm. She resisted the
temptation to brush away the woody fin-gers, the
leafy touch, and a few moments later it uncurled
and swept away. "Can you talk to them, Seancoim?"
she asked, her voice a hushed whisper. It seemed
sacrilegious to speak loudly here.

  "No," he answered, his voice as quiet as hers.
"They're the Seanóir, the Eldest, and their language
is older than even the Bunús Muintir, nor do they
experience life as we do. But this place is one of the
many hearts of Doire Coill. These trees were
planted by the Seed-Daughter herself when she
gave life to the land, and they have been here since
the beginning, thousands and thousands of years.
Here, feel . . ." Seancoim took Jenna's hand and
placed it on the veined, craggy surface of the
nearest trunk. She felt nothing for a moment, then
there was a throb like the pulsing of blood; a few
breaths later, another followed. "That's the
heartbeat of the land itself," Seancoim said. "Slow
and mighty and eternal, moving through their
limbs."

  Jenna kept her hand there, feeling the long,
unhurried beats, her own breath slowing and
calming with the touch. "Seancoim, I never . . ." She
wanted to stay here forever, feeling this. There was
a sorcery to the trees, an insistent lethargy, and she
remembered. "When I was here before . . ."
  "Aye, it was their call you heard," Seancoim told
her. "And if the Old Ones here wished it, you would
remain snared in their spell until your body died of
thirst and hunger. Look around you, Jenna. Look
around you with your eyes open."

  "My eyes are open ..." she started to say, then
blinked. For the first time, she noticed that there
were gleams of moonlit white in the grassy earth of
the grove. She bent down to look and straightened
with a stifled cry: a skull leered back at her, stalks
of grass climbing through vacant eye sockets, the
jaw detached and nearly lost alongside. There were
dozens of skeletons in and around the tree trunks,
she saw now: some human, some animal.
   "The sun feeds their leaves, the rain slakes their
thirst, and those who come here and are trapped by
their songs nourish the earth in which their roots
dig," Seancoim said. "This is where, when it's time,
I'll come, too, on my own and by my own choice."
Jenna continued to stare. She could smell the death
now: the ripe pungency of rotting flesh. Some of the
bodies were new, and the clothes they wore were
dyed green and brown.

   She should have been horrified. But she felt the
throbbing of the trees and the earth and realized
that this was as it should be, that the Seanóir fed on
life in the same way Jenna fed on life. She ate the
meat of animals that had once been alive, and
soaked up their juices with bread from the wheat
that had waved in fields under the sun a month
before. This was simply another part of the greater
cycle in which they were all caught There was no
horror here. No malevolence, no evil. The trees
simply did as their nature demanded. If they killed,
it was not out of hatred, but because their view of
the world was far longer and broader than that of
the races whose lives were impossibly fleeting.

  A branch came down; it lifted the cloch at Jenna's
neck and let it drop again. "They know Lámh
Shábhála," Seancoim said. "It is nearly as old as
they are. They know it lives again." He went up to
the largest of the trees and lifted his hand. A branch
above wriggled, and a large acorn dropped into his
palm. "Here," he told Jenna. He folded the nut in
her left hand, closing her fingers around the acorn
and putting his own leathery hands over hers. "For
the Seanóir, the mage-lights signal a time of
growing. Even the seasons themselves are too fast
for them. The lights are the manifesta-tion of a
burgeoning centuries-long spring and summer for
them, and this is their seed. Take this with you
when you go, and plant this where you find your
new home. Then you will always have part of Doire
Coill with you. Make a new place for them."
  Moonlight shimmered through moving branches,
and the leaves spoke their words. Jenna nodded to
the Seanóir, the ancient oaks of Doire Coill.

 "I will," she said. "And I'll always remember."

  They left that morning before the sun rose, their
faces toward the constel-lation of the Badger, whose
snout always points north. They said little besides
idle talk of the weather, and if O'Deoradháin noticed
that Jenna paralleled the High Road and that
Knobtop crept slowly closer to them as the sun rose
behind a wall of gray clouds, he said nothing. By
evening, they were close to Ballintubber, with
Knobtop rising high on their right hand, its bare
stony summit still in sunlight even though the
marshes on either side of the road were wrapped in
shadow. As they approached the Bog Bridge,
O'Deoradháin placed his hand on Jenna's arm. "Are
you sure?" he asked.
 "I need to see this."

 He looked as if he were about to argue, but he
swallowed the words and shrugged. "Then let's
hurry, before we're walking in the dark."

  A few hundred strides beyond the bridge, they
came to the lane which led to Jenna's home. The
lane was overgrown, the grass high where once the
sheep had kept it cropped close and the hay wagon
had worn ruts in the earth. Jenna turned into the
lane, hurrying now down the familiar path around
the bend she recalled so well. She wasn't certain
what she expected to see: perhaps the house as it
had once been, with her mam at the door and Kesh
barking as he ran out toward her, and smoke curling
from the chimney.

  Instead, there was ruin. The house had mostly
returned to earth. Only a roofless corner remained,
overgrown with vines and brush. Where the barn
had been there was only a mound. She walked
forward with a stum-bling gait: there was the door
stone, worn down in the center from boots and rain,
but it sat in the midst of weeds, the door itself only a
few blackened boards half-buried in sod and grass.
The chimney had col-lapsed, but the hearth was still
there, blackened from the fire that had destroyed
the house, and her mam's cooking pot, rusted and
broken, lay on its side nearby.
  Here was where she had slept and laughed and
lived, but it was only a ghost now. The bones of a
dead existence. The silence here was the silence of a
grave.

  "I'm sorry," O'Deoradháin said. Jenna started at
the sound of his voice; lost in reverie, she hadn't
heard his approach. "I can imagine it looked
beautiful, once."

  She nodded. "Mam always had flowers on the
windowsill, red and blue and yellow, and I knew
every stone and crack in the walls . . ."A sob shook
her shoulders, and she felt O'Deoradháin's arms go
around her. His touch dried the tears, searing them
with anger. She shrugged his embrace away, her
hands flailing. "Get off me!" she shouted at him, and
he backed away, hands wide and open.

 "I'm sorry, Holder," he said.
   Jenna's right hand went automatically to Lámh
Shábhála, touching the stone. A faint glimmer of
light shone between her fingers, turning them
blood-red. "You don't ever touch me. Do you
understand?"
  He nodded. His face was solemn, but there was
something in his pale green eyes she could not read,
a wounding caused by her words. He turned away
and dropped his pack from his shoulders as Jenna
slowly relaxed.

 She let go of the cloch and its light faded. Her arm
ached, as if in memory of how Lámh Shábhála had
awakened here, and she wished
again-fleetingly-that Seancoim had put andúilleaf in
her pack. "We might as well camp here tonight," she
said, trying to sound as if the confrontation had
never happened and knowing she fooled neither of
them. "It's obvious no one's come here since ..." She
stopped, and genuine wonder filled her voice. "Shh!
What's that?"

  What?" O'Deoradháin glanced in the direction
Jenna was pointing.
  Well off in the field where Old Stubborn and his
herd used to graze, there was movement: pairs of
pale green lights gleaming in the twilight, like
glowing eyes. There seemed to be hundreds of
them, just above the level of the tall grass, shifting
and moving about, blinking occasionally. And they
spoke like a crowd of people gathered together: a
low, murmuring conversation that raised goose
bumps on Jenna's arms. There were words in their
discussion, she was certain, then-distinctly-a horn
blew a shrill glissando. The lights went out as one,
and a wind rose from the field and swept past them
and up the lane. In the twilight, Jenna could glimpse
half-seen shapes and feel ghostly hands brushing
against her. The horn sounded again: fainter and
more distant, heading in the direction of Knob top.
The wind died as a few glowing eyes stared back at
them from near the bend in the lane and
disappeared again.
 The horde had passed.
  "Wind sprites," O'Deoradháin said. His voice was
hushed and awed, as if he were standing in one of
the Mother-Creator's chapels. Jenna looked at him
in puzzlement. "My great-mam used to tell me tales
at night, and she spoke of eyes in the dark, and
horns, and the wind as they rushed by in their
hunts. I thought the stories she told me were all
legends and myths."

 He shook his head. "Now I think the legends were
only sleeping."
          Chapter 32: Ballintubber Changed



  THE next morning, they walked up the High Road
to the village. The morning was a drizzle of mist and
fog that beaded on their clócas and hair, and the
spring's warmth seemed to have fled. As they
approached, Jenna began to sense that something
was wrong. It was the silence that bothered her. A
Ballintubber morning should have been alive with
sound: the lowing of milch cows in their barns; the
steely clatter of a hammer on hot iron or bronze
from the smithy; the creak and rumble of produce
carts going out to the fields; the shouts and hollers
of children; laughter, conversations, greetings . . .

   There was nothing. She could see the buildings up
the rise, but no sound wafted down from them to
challenge the birdcalls or their footsteps on the
muddy road. O'Deoradháin noticed it as well; he
swept back his clóca and placed his hand on the hilt
of his knife. "Perhaps they all de-cided to sleep late
this morning," he said, and gave a bitter laugh at his
own jest.

  Not likely," Jenna answered. Grimacing, she
placed her right hand around the cloch. She opened
the stone and let its energy flow outward, her own
awareness drifting with it. O'Deoradháin had offered
to teach her some of the craft of the cloudmage
during their months in Doire Coill, and she
had-grudgingly-accepted his tutelage. She wasn't
sure how good a pupil she'd been, suspicious of her
teacher's intentions and instruction, but she had
learned a few skills. She could sense life in the way
the power flowed, and that told her there were
people nearby, though only a few.
  And there was something else, at the edge of what
she could detect: a pull and bending in her
consciousness, as if another cloch were out there as
well. She brought up the walls that O'Deoradháin
had taught her to create around the cloch, but at
that moment, the hint of another presence
vanished. She put her attention there, to the south
and east, but it was gone. Perhaps it had never been
there at all.

 She opened her hand and her eyes. A shiver of
discomfort traveled from wrist to shoulder, and she
groaned. "Jenna?"

  "I'm fine," she told O'Deoradháin sharply. "Come
on; there's no one there we need to be concerned
with." She began walking rapidly toward the cluster
of buildings.
  Things had changed. The High Road was marked
with stone flags through the village, but grass grew
high between the flat rocks. Dogs would usually
have come running to greet newcomers, but the
only dog Jenna glimpsed-black and white and
painfully reminiscent of Kesh- was bedraggled and
thin, skulking away with lowered tail and ears as
soon as it caught a glimpse of them. The Mullin
house, near the outskirts of the village, hadn't been
whitewashed this spring as Tom and his sons
usually did, and the thatch roof sagged badly just
over the doorway. The door hung on one hinge,
half-opened and leading into a dark interior. "Hello,"
Jenna called as they passed, but no one came out.

 "Not the place you remember, is it?"
O'Deoradháin ventured. "You're certain there are
people here?"

  "Aye," Jenna answered grimly. "Near the tavern,
I think."
 "I'd be drinking if I lived here."

  Jenna gave him an irritated glance; he stared
blandly back at her. Turn-ing her back on the man,
she walked quickly to Tara's Tavern. The village
square was overgrown and shabby, but peat smoke
curled from the chim-ney of the inn and she could
smell bacon frying. The stone steps leading up to
the door were achingly familiar, and she pushed
open the door and entered.
  "By the Mother-Jenna?" Tara's voice cut through
the dimness inside, and the woman set down a tray
of glasses with a clatter and a crash, and she came
running from behind the bar. She stopped an arm's
length away from Jenna and looked her up and
down, her mouth open. "Would you look at you-all
dressed up in a Riocha's clothes, and that silver
chain around your neck." Tara's gaze snagged on
Tara's scarred right arm, and the mouth closed.
Behind her, O'Deoradháin entered, and Tara took a
step back. "You've . . . you've not changed a bit,"
Tara finished, and Jenna smiled wanly at the
obvious lie. "Sit down, sit down. You and your . ..
companion take that table over there, or any you
want. It's not like we're going to have a crowd,
though once people hear that you've come back, I
expect we'll see as good a one as I've had all year. I
have bacon going in the pan, and good eggs, and
biscuits I just made this morning. I'll get me tea for
you ... Sit .. ." Tara turned and scurried into the
kitchen;

 Jenna shrugged at O'Deoradháin.
  "It's a better breakfast than we're likely to have
for a while," she told him. "If it's not our last."

 Jenna sniffed. "I know these people,
O'Deoradháin. They're my friends."
  "They were once, aye. But friendship can be as
hard to hold onto as a salmon in a stream." He didn't
say more, but slid behind the table nearest the door.
She noticed that O'Deoradháin sat with his back to
the wall where he could see both the door and the
rest of the room, and his hand stayed on the hilt of
his dagger. She took a chair across from him.

  They weren't alone. There were two other tables
occupied, one by Erin the Healer, who lived to the
north of the village. He nodded to Jenna as if seeing
her was no more unusual than seeing any of the rest
of Ballintubber's residents. At the other table were
two men she didn't recognize; travelers, evidently,
since they had packs sitting next to their chairs. A
head poked out from the kitchen: Tara's son Eliath.
He was a few inches taller than Jenna remembered,
and a new, puckered scar meandered from his
forehead to the base of his jaw. "Hey Jenna! Mam
said you were out here."
 "Eliath! It's good to see you . . ."
  He grinned and came over to the table. He glanced
at O'Deoradháin, and the grin faded to a careful
smile before he turned back to Jenna. 'Good to see
you, too. Everyone thought you and your mam were
dead, when the Troubles started. Is your mam . . .
?"
 "She's fine. She's in Lár Bhaile."

  The grin returned. "Lar Bhaile? That's where Ellia
went. She married Coelin Singer, did you know
that?"
  "I know," Jenna said, forcing a smile. "I saw her,
big with child."
  Tara had come up with a tray loaded with
steaming mugs of tea and platters of food. She set
them down on the table. "You saw my Ellia?" she
asked. "Did she look well? Did she ask after us? We
didn't . . ." Tara blushed. "I'm afraid we didn't part
on the best of terms, and I haven't heard from her
since."
  She looked lovely and wonderful and happy, and
they're living in a fine house in the town," Jenna
responded, giving them the lie she knew Tara
wanted desperately to hear. "She'll be a mam soon,
probably already is by now, since I saw her last a
few months ago. Coelin's even sung for the Rí, and
for the Tanaise Rig when he visited there. She told
me to give you her love when I came back to
Ballintubber and to say that she missed you."

  "Truly?" Tara sighed. "I should go there," she
said. "The Mother-Creator knows there's not much
here. Not since the Troubles and all the death. I
should go and see her and the babe. And your mam,
too. Maybe this summer, once the spring rains have
stopped."

  She wouldn't go, Jenna knew. Like the rest of
them, she would never leave Ballintubber. "I'm
certain they'd love that. Both of them."
 Tara nodded. "You know, Jenna, I thought you
were sweet on that Coelin yourself. The boy had
half the young women of the village hanging on him,
and my Ellia no different."

 "I didn't have a chance with him," Jenna
answered. The smile was difficult to maintain. "Not
with Ellia."
  Another sigh. Then Tara stirred. "But here I am
prattling on about things and your food's getting
cold. Eat, and drink that tea before it turns to
ice-it's a cold day for the season, 'tis." Despite the
words, Tara seemed content to stay there, standing
before the table. "Are you back home? Will you be
building a new place on your mam's land?" she
asked, and her gaze drifted significantly to
O'Deoradháin.

 "No," Jenna said. "This is Ennis O'Deoradháin,
Tara-he's a friend, a traveling companion. We're
going north-"

  O'Deoradháin cleared his throat. When she
glanced at him, he smiled, though his eyes glittered
warningly. "-and east," she finished. "Along the
High Road up to Ballymote, then on to Glenkille and
maybe even across the Finger to Céile Mhor."

  Tara 's eyebrows raised at the names. "So far?
Child, I haven't been farther than a stone's throw
from Ballintubber all my life, and you're going all the
way to Céile Mhor? It's not safe traveling. Not any
more. Not with the fighting and the lights in the sky,
and the strange creatures that have been seen.
Why, only the other night, Matron Kelly saw wolves
with red eyes and as tall as horses on the hill near
her house. A pair of them, howling and snarling and
frightening her so that she was afraid to go out of
her house for days. Killed four of her sheep-tore
their throats out and picked them up in their
mouths as if they weighed nothing at all. No, I
wouldn't be traveling. Not me."
  The two strangers had risen from their chairs.
They passed by the table as they left without a
word. Jenna saw O'Deoradháin's gaze following
them as they opened the door and went out.

  "I see you still have people stopping at the inn,"
Jenna said to Tara, nodding toward the door.

  "Them? They're the first in a week. Came up from
the south, they say, from Áth Iseal. The High Road's
not as well traveled these days. And not
  much business of a night, either." She shook her
head, wiping her hands nervously on her apron.
"Not since . . . well, you know. That was a bad time
when those Connachtans came raiding. Killed
Aldwoman Pearce, and cut down Tom Mullins and
all four of his sons not a dozen steps from here when
they tried to help. And poor Eli; one of them opened
up my boy's face just because he didn't move fast
enough when they told him to curry their horses. It
was awful. They burned half the houses, and some
of the women they ..." Her voice trailed off.
Remembered horrors drained the color from her
face.

 "Aye. I understand," Jenna told her.

  "We thought you and your mam and that tiarna
were all dead, too. We saw your house burning like
the rest, and those that went to look said there was
no one there alive, though there were dead
Connachtans and your poor dog. We thought you'd
been burned with the house."
  Jenna shook her head. She found she didn't want
to talk about it. The days when the Connachtans
had swept through in pursuit of the mage-lights and
Lámh Shábhála had damaged Ballintubber but not
truly changed the place. Ballintubber remained
sleepy and forgotten; if it was lucky, it might stay
so. For the first time, Jenna saw just how much
she'd been altered by the events of the last several
months. She was no longer the person who had lived
here. This was no longer "home."

  "We managed to sneak away, my mam and I and
the tiarna," she told Tara. "It didn't seem safe to go
back."

  "So you went to Lár Bhaile," Tara finished for her.
From the expression on her face, she seemed to find
it alternately amusing and unbelievable that
someone from Ballintubber would have made that
choice. "And now you're . . . traveling." She said the
word as if it were something mildly distasteful.

  And we'll be needing horses," O'Deoradháin broke
in, leaning for-ward. "Would you have two good
steeds in your stable, or can someone in the village
sell us the mounts? We'll pay in hard coin."
  Tara shrugged, but Eli spoke up. "We have one,
sir-a roan mare that's a good twelve hands high and
strong," he said. "And One Hand Bailey has another
he's been talking of selling, a big brown gelding, past
its prime but still healthy. He was asking half a
mórceint, and not getting it. He'd take less now, I'd
wager."

  "He can have his half a mórceint," O'Deoradháin
told him. "And a mórceint to you and your mam for
the roan and livery for the two.
  Here . . ." O'Deoradháin opened his purse and took
out two of the coins, flipping them to Eli. "Go fetch
the gelding and get them both ready for us, and you
can have the other half mórceint yourself." Eli
grinned; Tara's eyebrows went up again.

  "Aye!" Eli almost shouted. "Give me a stripe; no,
half a stripe," he said and he was gone, running.
Tara, after a few more minutes of conversation
excused herself to go back into the kitchen. Erin the
Healer left with another silent nod to Jenna.
O'Deoradháin sipped his tea and leaned back in his
chair. He whistled tunelessly.

 "Horses?" Jenna asked.
  "I didn't like the way those two strangers stared
at us, like they were memorizing our faces,"
O'Deoradháin answered. "I didn't like the fact that
they came up the High Road from the south, either.
If they've been travel-ing through Gabair, then who
knows what they've heard and what they realize? I
want to get as far away from here as fast as
possible."

  "So you're the little Rí here, eh?" She lowered her
head in mocking subservience, then glared at him.
"And I must follow your orders."
  "I would point out that you made the decision to
come here. I'm just making the decision as to how to
leave. That seems fair enough." He gave her that
strange, lopsided smile of his. "You know, I get the
sense that you still don't like or trust me much."

  "I don't," she told him. "Either one. I want to go to
Inish Thuaidh; you do also. Our paths just happen
to lie together at the moment."

 "And when they don't?"
 "When that happens, or if I decide I can't trust
you, then we part."

 O'Deoradháin nodded. He took a hunk of bread
and gnawed it thoughtfully. "That seems fair
enough, too," he said.




            Chapter 33: A Battle of Stones



  THEY were three days out of Ballintubber, and it
still seemed strange to both of them that they'd
encountered very few people. Though the land at
the northern borders of Tuath Gabair was sparsely
populated and they were traveling overland rather
than on the road, the area seemed oddly empty.
Fields that should have been plowed by now were
fallow, with weeds and grass growing up among the
straggling clumps of wheat and barley. The day
before, they'd passed near one village, and though
they heard the sounds of children playing and saw
several women work-ing the fields nearby, the only
men they noticed were the old. O'Deoradháin
turned grim at the sight.
  "They've been sweeping the land, then, and
pressing men into service. The Rís are
strengthening their armies," he'd said, and Jenna
hadn't wanted to believe him.

 Now the proof lay before her.
  They were walking through a wooded valley
between two tall ridge lines. The trees thinned, and
they came out into an open field where the hills
swept wide apart in great curving arms.

  A mound of raw new earth cut across their path,
and the banner of Tuath Gabair flapped on a pole
planted in the dirt. Jenna glanced at O'Deoradháin;
his face was grim, and he pulled on the reins of his
horse to Pass to the left of the mound.

  He quickly brought his horse to a stop. "By the
Mother," he breathed. Jenna came up alongside
him. "Gods," she said. Her stomach jumped, and she
tasted bile in her mouth.
   They were on a slight rise. The full expanse of the
field lay spread out before them: trampled, torn,
and bloodied. Black flocks of carrion crows fought
and scrabbled over the bodies of soldiers; feral dogs
lifted their heads from gory feasts to glare
suspiciously at them. Flies buzzed and whined
through the air. The bodies, Jenna noted, all wore
the blue and gold of Tuath Connachta. There were
two more mounds on the field, and on each Gabair's
banner flew.
   A few heads had been mounted on broken lances
as a warning. O'Deoradháin rode his horse up to one
of the trophies, the horse shying away from the
smell of rotting meat and the crow-emptied eye
sockets, and a cloud of flies rising from the face as
O'Deoradháin leaned over from his saddle to peer at
it. The jaw hung upon, the head gaping in eternal
amaze-ment. "A boy," he said. "No more than
fifteen, I'll wager, and a pressman in his Ri's army.
I'll bet he told his mam he'd be back a hero."
  Jenna's stomach turned again, and she leaned
over, vomiting quickly. She hung onto the horse.
The wind shifted slightly, and the smell came to
them: rotting, ripe flesh. The sweet sickly smell of
death.

 "Victory," O'Deoradháin said mockingly. " Tis a
wonderful sight, don't you think?"
 Jenna wiped her mouth and nudged her horse
carefully forward. The horse nickered, its eyes wide
and nervous. She looked down at a body to her
right. The soldier sprawled awkwardly on his back,
a broken sword still clutched in his hand. The rings
of bronze and iron sewn on his boiled leather vest
were ripped and broken over his abdomen, and a
horrible wound had nearly split him in two.
Scavengers had been at the body-the eyes and
tongue were gone, his entrails pulled out and
scattered, the flesh gnawed upon. White maggots
crawled in and around his open mouth, in the
sockets of his eyes. Jenna's stomach lurched again,
and she forced the gorge back down.

  O'Deoradháin was riding slowly around the field,
occasionally looking down at the earth. Jenna stayed
where she was, not wanting to go out into the
carnage. "What was left of the Connachtan force
retreated west," he said when he returned. "They
weren't pursued-from the looks of the mounds, the
Gabairan troops lost a good many men also, and
their com-mander decided to stay here and bury
their dead. They moved off to the east, through that
pass there." He glanced down at the body of the
soldier by Jenna. "The battle took place no more
than two days ago, from the signs." Jenna nodded;
she was still staring at the body. "Jenna?"
  She wondered how young he'd been, how he'd
looked in life, whether he'd had a wife and family.
She imagined the body alive again, as if she could
turn back time.
 "Jenna?"
  She lifted her head to find O'Deoradháin staring at
her. "There were lochs here, too," he said. "There
are several places where the earth is scorched as if
by lightning strikes. Boulders were flung about that
had crushed men underneath, and trees ripped
whole from the ground and tossed. Since the Clochs
Mór, unlike Lámh Shábhála, have only one ability
each, I would guess there were two or possibly
three of the stones here."

  Jenna touched Lámh Shábhála. She could feel
nothing here now, but a sense of dread hung over
her that she had not felt since they'd left Doire Coill.
For the first time, she realized just how much the
Filleadh had changed the world. You caused this,
she thought, her gaze on the field of destruction
ahead of her. This is all because of the cloch you
hold, and there will be more of it. Much more.
 "It's my fault," Jenna said.

  O'Deoradháin nudged his horse alongside Jenna's,
though he didn't touch her. "No," he said firmly,
though quietly. "This isn't your fault. This is the
fault of greed and callousness and stupidity. You
didn't force any of the Rithe into conflict; they were
just waiting for the opportunity, and Lámh Shábhála
provided a convenient excuse."
 The corpse leered up at her, a mockery in the
bright spring grass. "All these people dead . . ."

 "Aye," O'Deoradháin said, "and yet more will die.
That I can guarantee. But their souls won't come
wailing to you when they cry out for justice."

  She still stared down, realizing that beyond this
body another one lay, and another and another. ...
"I can hear them now," she told him. "They already
call to me ..." She was trembling, unable to stop the
movement of her hands.
  "Jenna, you've seen a dead body before." His
mouth snapped shut, and she could imagine the rest
of what he might have said: You were responsible
for their deaths, too.

   She looked at O'Deoradháin, her head shaking
violently from side to side. "Not this many," she
said. "Not like this, just . . ." She had to stop 'or a
moment, her breath gone. Her heart was pounding
in her chest…. just scattered everywhere. Torn
apart, half-eaten, discarded and unmourned " She
tasted vomit at the back of her throat again, and
swal-lowed hard. This is your legacy. This is your
fate, too. Some day it will be you sprawled lifelessly
there . . . The land was starting to whirl around her,
at the center the grotesque face of the dead soldier .
..
  Jenna." O'Deoradháin brought her back as she
was about to fall. Harsh and unsympathetic, his
voice struck like a slap. She took a breath, and the
world settled again. "This isn't the last you'll see of
this. You'll see more and worse, because you'll be
part of it. You don't have a choice, not unless you
want to give up Lámh Shábhála."

   "Lámh Shábhála is mine," Jenna answered
heatedly. Her hand went to the cloch, closing around
it.
 "Then look around you and get used to the sight,
because you'll need to have a clear head and mind
when a battle's raging around you, or someone will
be taking Lámh Shábhála from your corpse." Then
his voice softened; he started to reach for her, then
let his hand drop back to his side. "The dead can't
hurt you, Jenna. Only the living can do that. We
can't stay here, and we can't go back. The war will
follow us-my bet is that the Rí Ard is already
stepping in to end these battles between the tuatha.
They'll unite to find Lámh Shábhála; we can only
hope to stay ahead of them, and maybe, maybe on
Inish Thuaidh we can leave them behind. But we
have to go now, before someone finds us. And
before night falls, because this place will be
haunted." He tilted his head toward her inquiringly.
"Holder? Are you listening to me?"

  "I thought you said that the dead couldn't hurt
you." His grin was sheepish. "They can't. That
doesn't mean they won't try." She said nothing to
that. Instead, she flicked the reins of her horse and
touched her heels to the mare's sides, urging the
horse forward-not around the field of battle, but
through it. She would not look down, but she saw
the bodies as they passed, and each of them seemed
to call to her accusingly.
   O'Deoradháin slept under his blankets on the
other side of the fire. The flickering yellow light
illuminated the undersides of the leaves above them
and plucked the white trunks of the sycamores from
the night in a circle about them. She could hear him
snoring softly, the loudest sound in the stillness.
  Jenna reached into her pack and laid the relics out
in front of her: the wooden seal her da had carved;
the ring of Eilís MacGairbhith, the Lady of the Falls;
the golden torc of Sinna Mac Ard. Of Riata she had
nothing; the ghost of the ancient Holder had made it
clear to her that he did not want to be awakened
again unless she returned to Doire Coill and the
valley of cairns.

  She stared at them, a fingertip brushing each and
feeling the spark within. Da? But he had never held
the active Lámh Shábhála, and the times she had
called him up, he had seemed more frightened and
con-fused than she was, and she had ended by
comforting him. Eilís? Jenna had called the Lady of
the Falls only one other time after that day in her
burial chamber behind the Doan’s waters, and the
ghost had been as angry and fey as during their first
encounter; though Jenna knew that the ghost
couldn't touch or harm her, she would call that
Holder forth only in great need.
   Jenna picked up Sinna's torc. She started to place
it around her neck . ..

  "You'll just have to explain to her again who you
are because she won't remember you. She's not
your friend. She doesn't care about you-to her,
you're as much a ghost as she is to you."
  Across the fire, O'Deoradháin was watching from
his blankets, up on one elbow. "Her time wasn't like
our time, and she isn't like you. At all. You need to
find your own path, not tread along someone else's,"
he finished.

  "Which is the path you want me to take, no
doubt." She hated the disdain in her voice. She
thought of offering an apology-He's done noth-ing
but help you, and yet you keep pushing him
away-but then it seemed that she'd waited too long.
The muscles along his jaw clenched, and he blinked.
She pretended to look away from him, to be
absorbed in the torc.

  "I'm not forcing you to go anywhere, Holder," he
said. "Remember when I said earlier today that the
dead can't hurt you? Well, they also can't help you."
 '"Only the living can do that.' Is that how that
ends? Meaning I'm supposed to trust you?"

  O'Deoradháin took a long breath. His eyes held
hers, and she saw the hurt in them. "You do what
you think you need to do, Holder, and believe what
you must." He lay back down and snapped the
blankets around him, turning his back to the fire
and her.
  Jenna held the torc in her hands for several
minutes, watching the fire shimmering in its
burnished surface. Finally, she placed it back in her
pack. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the night, not
sure to whom she was speaking.

  The spring sun beat down on the bright carpet of
silverweed, primrose, and heather in which Lough
Crithlaigh rested; the sky was cloudless and deep.
Yellow siskins, song thrushes, and warblers darted
among the wild-flowers. Mountains lifted
gorse-feathered heads to the west beyond the hills,
and they could see deer grazing near a foaming rill
winding toward the lough. The day was pastoral;
even their horses seemed affected, neigh-ing and
lowering their heads as if they wanted to linger here
forever.
  "Those are storm deer, not the normal red,"
O'Deoradháin commented then glanced back at
Jenna. "You're frowning."

  Jenna turned in her saddle. She tried to give the
man a smile and failed. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's
just . . ." She stopped; he lifted an eyebrow. "... a
feeling."
  O'Deoradháin pulled back the reins of his mount,
his gaze searching the terrain.

  They'd debated whether they should go through
this expansive but open valley, or take the much
longer and difficult path through the hills. She
wondered now if they'd made a mistake. She
touched the cloch, let-ting tendrils of energy spread
outward. In that invisible cloud, there was a twin
disturbance. She could sense it in the pattern of
Lámh Shábhála’s sphere, like a wave disturbed by
the presence of unseen rocks just below the surface.
"There are two other clochs na thintrí close By,"
Jenna said. She could feel a cold apprehension
spreading out from her stomach. "Powerful ones:
Clochs Mór. I can feel them."

 O'Deoradháin rose up in his saddle again.
"Where?" he asked. "In what direction?"

  "I'm not certain," Jenna said. "To the south, I
think. They're trying to keep themselves hidden,
but one of the Holders isn't particularly good at
keeping his wall up and so I can sense them both."

  "By the Mother-Creator," O'Deoradháin cursed.
His hands clenched into fists around the reins, the
knuckles going white with pressure. "I was afraid
this would happen. Well, we don't have a choice. All
we can do is ride on, and see if they show
themselves."
  "O'Deoradháin, what should I do? What happens if
they attack with the clochs, or if they're part of the
army the Rí has raised . . . ?" Jenna remembered
the battlefield and saw herself as one of the corpses.
Her breath was coming fast, and panic roared in her
ears.

  "You'll do what you can," O'Deoradháin told her.
"I will do what I can, also, but if the clochs enter the
battle, you must deal with them." Then his voice
gentled, and his eyes held hers. "You're the Holder
of Lámh Shábhála, and it's stronger than the other
clochs na thintrí. Remember that."
   She did. She also remembered the words of the
Lady of the Falls: ". . . even the strongest can be
overpowered by numbers, or make a fatal mistake
..." "I don't know what to do."

  "You will, if it comes to that," O'Deoradháin told
her. "And if we're lucky, they won't see us. If we can
reach the hills beyond the lough . . .'
  They moved through the field toward the lough,
the land sloping gently downhill to the water. There
were beeches and sycamores lining the banks, and
without speaking both of them urged their horses
into a gallop to head for their cover. The storm deer
glanced up; the dominant tag of the herd lifted an
antlered head and gave a ululating cry, and the herd
moved off at a canter to the east, their hooves
trembling the ground with a low rumble. Jenna and
O'Deoradháin reached the line of trees and moved
just inside, then pulled up their mounts and turned.
"Can you still feel them?" O'Deoradháin asked.

  Jenna closed her eyes, touching the cloch with stiff
and cold fingers. "Aye," she said. She looked at him,
worried. "Closer now. There." She pointed up the
slope they'd just traveled to the low ridge lined with
trees.

  A few breaths later, a half dozen riders appeared,
emerging slowly from under the trees, perhaps half
a mile away. All were dressed in green and brown,
mail glinting under their colors. One of the group,
even from that distance, seemed familiar to Jenna.

 Jenna's heart jumped. "The man in front-with no
helm. That's Mac Ard, I think."
  O'Deoradháin cursed again. "Aye. You could be
right." As they watched, a rider dismounted and
walked carefully along the ridge. He stopped and
pointed-it seemed to Jenna that his finger was
aimed di-rectly at her. "Damn, they've seen our
trail," O'Deoradháin spat. "There's nothing for it,
Jenna. They'll track us now, and once we leave the
cover of the trees, they'll see us." Jenna only stared
at him, as if by her gaze she could change his words.
"There are six of them, Jenna. I can't deal with that
many, even without the clochs na thintrí they
have."
 She knew what he was saying, though her head
was shaking in denial. "I can't..."

 It was eventually going to come to this, Jenna, no
matter what. We both knew it. You can either use
the cloch now, while they're not certain now close
they are to us, or later when they know who we are
and where. Strike first, and you have the
advantage."

 "I don't know how to fight cloch against cloch."
  And probably neither do they, yet," O'Deoradháin
persisted. "I suspect Lámh Shábhála will show you
the way."

  He was right; she knew it, could feel it in the very
marrow of her bones and yet she resisted. The
riders gathered again as the scout remounted, and
they started down the slope toward where they
were hidden, following the unmistakable path their
horses had made through the tall grass.

  She watched the tall rider with the dark hair,
certain that it was Mac Ard even though she
couldn't see his face clearly. He will have one of the
clochs, It will be him you strike against, your mam's
lover . . .
  She brought her right hand up, looking at the
mottled skin. She opened her fingers with an effort,
then closed them again around Lámh Shábhála

 She opened her mind fully to the cloch.

  Lámh Shábhála was full with the power of the
mage-lights, its crystal-line interstices crackling and
surging with the energy. The vision of it seemed to
expand and spread out before her, rushing like a
tidal wave over the land; when it struck the riders,
the force broke and shattered on twin rocks,
shimmering white. Jenna saw the world in doubled
vision now: through her eyes and through Lámh
Shábhála. With her eyes, she saw Mac Ard and one
of the other riders suddenly pull up and stop while
the other four continued on; through the cloch, two
presences suddenly appeared, one as ruddy as
heated coals, the other more the color of a cold sea,
both throbbing and pulsing inside the horizon of
Lámh Shábhála.

  She knew what she had to do and yet she
hesitated-in that hesitation, she could feel the other
two clochs searching for her in the landscape of
Lámh Shábhála. There was no doubt as to their
intentions; she could feel the hostility, especially
from the sea-colored stone. For the moment,
though, she ignored them. She looked instead for
the four riders and she released more of the stored
energy within her cloch, gathering it in her mind
and shaping it, then releasing it with a savage
mental thrust.

  With her eyes, she saw lightnings arc from her
scarred right arm, flash-ing outward in jagged
white-hot streaks toward the riders. Two of the
riders were torn from their saddles and their
mounts killed as bolts shot through them: shredding
flesh, shattering bones, and boiling their blood.
Thunder boomed and crackled. Jenna heard the
screams of both men and horses, short and cut off
as the force of the cloch ripped the life from them.
She felt them die.
  But in that same instant, the remaining two bolts
were turned aside before they struck their targets:
one meeting a similar bolt from the red cloch; the
other shoved aside as if by an invisible hand from
the other stone. The two colliding bolts exploded in
a ball of blinding fireworks between the two groups;
the one shoved aside gouged a crater from the earth
just to the left of its intended target, whose horse
reared and bucked. She saw O'Deoradháin break
from cover with a cry, kicking his horse into a gallop
and charging back up the slope toward the
remaining riders. The one who had nearly been
struck broke and fled; the other pulled his sword
from its sheath and came for O'Deoradháin.

  The two cloch Holders ignored O'Deoradháin and
instead turned their attention to Jenna and Lámh
Shábhála. Their clochs were now open; in mental
view, she could see them, twin expanding ripples in
the white of Lámh Shábhála. The sea-foam color of
one moved more rapidly, urging for the center that
was Jenna. "Don't let it reach you. Go toward " The
voice spoke in her head: Riata, she realized, come to
her on his own. The other voices were there as well,
the voices of all the Holders, a babble of
contradictory advice: one telling her to flee, another
to make the first strike now, yet another insisting
that it was too late already . . . She ignored them
and found Riata's voice again. She moved toward it,
not physi-cally but with the cloch ..." She let her
awareness slide forward . . .
  The impact nearly stunned her. She was
surrounded by howling winds and a hand that
seemed to grasp at her, squeezing the very breath
from her lungs. Jenna gasped and struggled. She
could feel more and more energy pouring from the
attacking cloch, then-in support-lightning arced
from its partner. Jenna screamed with the pain, the
electricity arcing through her, her body convulsing
as all her muscles contracted and the burning spear
coursed through her. The aqua light continued to
pummel her like a gigantic fist as she felt the other
cloch gathering itself again.

  Yet she could also sense that with each attack, the
clochs, including Lámh Shábhála, grew weaker, that
there was less force left for them to use. "You are
stronger . . . You can hold more of the mage-light's
power than they can ..." She thrust back at the
blue-green constriction that had wrapped about
her, unwrapping it like a sticky rope laced around
her body. She could feel energy draining from Lámh
Shábhála as she fought back, but the crushing
pressure was easing. She pushed, and the cloch fell
back. She lifted an ethereal arm and slammed it
down; waves of pain and alarm radiated from the
center of the cloch's influence. The red cloch
released another bolt of lightning; shifting her
attention, she sent her own to intercept it and a
momentary sun flared between them. The aqua
cloch was pushing back now, the two of them
grappling mentally like wrestlers searching for a
hold. The ruddy one held back, and Jenna realized
that Mac Ard was waiting, deliberately allowing the
other cloch to drain as much of Lámh Shábhála’s
power as it could.
   He s planning to wait until I weaken myself
dealing with the other cloch, then strike ... I wonder
. . . She sent her awareness racing to the center of
the other cloch: she could see a face, strained and
hurting as it fought her: Damhlaic Gairbith, the Rís
commander. He tried to push her away; she would
not let him. She shouted at him, feeling her throat
go raw with the near-scream. "Mac Ard's using you,
Gairbith! He intends to let you die fighting
 Gairbith didn't reply-couldn't reply, she knew, for
handling the cloch was taking all his concentration.
But his eyes went wide with fear and suspicion, and
he looked away toward where the other cloch
pulsed blood red, watching and waiting.
  The truth was enough. Jenna felt Gairbith's focus
shift and with that the defenses he'd set around
himself weakened. Jenna cried out, releasing a new
flood of energy from Lámh Shábhála. It raged
forward, overwhelm-ing Gairbith. The mental
connection between himself and his cloch snapped.
Through her true eyes, she saw one of the men
sway in his saddle and fall. In the middle of the field,
O'Deoradháin and another man were fighting, steel
clashing as a sword rang against the Inishlander's
long dagger.

  Jenna nearly fell with Gairbith. The sudden
release of pressure made her gasp and Lámh
Shábhála was nearly drained. Weary, she turned
her attention to Mac Ard.
 "We don't have to do this, Jenna." She heard Mac
Ard's voice as if he whispered in her ear. "I don't
want to hurt you. Give up the cloch. Let me take it
and I'll let you go or take you back to your mam.
Whatever you want. I swear it."

  The thought of losing the cloch was worse than
contemplating death. "No," she answered. "Lámh
Shábhála is mine. It stays mine."

 She heard no more words, but she felt his sadness.
   Jenna could feel Mac Ard's cloch opening and
knew he was readying a strike. She didn't wait for
it; she grasped at the dregs of power within Lámh
Shábhála and flung them at him. The energy
shattered against his cloch, absorbing the lightning
he hurled toward her. As it crackled around him,
she could feel Lámh Shábhála sucking the rest of the
life from his cloch until there was nothing left. She
saw Mac Ard's face go suddenly wide-eyed with
fear.

  Mac Ard's horse reared up as he yanked at the
reins. Faintly, she heard his cry of pain and
frustration as he fled, galloping into the trees and
over the rise. Within Lámh Shábhála, there was still
power left, enough that she could feel Mac Ard's
cloch moving away until she could no longer sense it
at all.
  She let go of the cloch. It was a mistake, she
realized immediately, for it was only the residual
energy within Lámh Shábhála that was keeping her
upright. With the release of contact, a doubled wave
of severe pain and exhaustion swept over her. She
could still see O'Deoradháin fighting close by, but
the edges of her vision had gone black, the scene
before her shrinking and condensing until it was
only a pinpoint. Thunder roared in her ears, and the
drumbeat of her blood. Her right arm felt as if it
were on fire. She tried to lift it, tried to call out, but
the darkness closed in around her and she felt
herself falling.
She didn't feel the impact of the ground at all.
               Chapter 34: The Gifting



  "YOU see, she's weak and stupid. She doesn't
deserve to be Holder ..." I "You can't be seriously
thinking she could survive the Scrúdú ..."
  "Next time they come after her, she'll die. The
only thing that saved her was the inexperience of
the others, and they'll learn ..."

 "She doesn't have the discipline ..."

 "Lámh Shábhála has chosen poorly this time ..."
  "Be quiet, all of you. She will learn, she may take
the Scrúdú in time, and she is stronger than you
think ..."
  "Riata?" With the word, the voices faded. She
could see nothing. Her eyes refused to focus though
there was a whiteness all around her, and she was
being jostled. She tried to move her hands or her
legs and could not-something held her. She
remembered the last thing she'd seen:
O'Deoradháin and the other man fighting. If
O'Deoradháin had lost . . . had she been captured?
Had Lámh Shábhála been taken from her? She
closed her eyes, gathering her strength.
  This time, she could see. The whiteness was a
cloth draped over a wooden framework above her
face, the sun shining through it. She could lift her
head, and saw that she was reclining on a crude
carrier-canvas stretched and tied between two
saplings. She could hear the slow clopping of two
horses' hooves and smell their ripeness-the carrier
she was in was being dragged along behind one of
the animals, the saplings evidently tied to the
saddle, and the jostling was the device bumping and
lurching over the broken ground. Someone had tied
her into the frame as well.

  Her body felt as if it had been bruised and
battered and she could easily have slipped back into
unconsciousness. Her right arm throbbed as if
someone were rhythmically pounding it with a
hammer of ice. She wanted to scream for someone
to bring her andúilleaf, the old yearning for the drug
rising from the suffering. She gritted her teeth to
stop from crying out, forcing herself to take long,
slow breaths, sending her aware-ness deeper. She
did cry out then, in relief rather than pain.

  Lámh Shábhála was still around her neck. She
could feel the cloch, as drained as she was, but alive
and with her. It will always be part of you now . . .
The last of the voices whispered to her. ... to lose
your cloch is like losing your child. You can't imagine
that pain . . . "O'Deoradháin?" she called. Her throat
felt as if someone had scrubbed it with a steel file.
  The horse came to a sudden halt. She heard
someone dismount, then footsteps. The cloth was
pulled away from the frame, and Jenna was blinking
up into a bright sky as a dark face eclipsed the sun.

 "You're finally awake." The voice was familiar and
deep.

 "Finally?"
 "It's been nearly two days," he told her.
 "Two days?" She repeated the words
wonderingly. "So long?"

  "You learn to bear using the cloch against others
as it happens more. At least that's what I was
taught. We can hope that Tiarna Mac Ard suf-fered
the same fate, though I suspect he's had more
practice than you." He crouched down in front of
her. "Can you stand? Here, let me loosen these
ropes ..." He unlashed her, and helped her out of the
contraption. Her knees were wobbly but they
supported her; O'Deoradháin, after help-ing her to
rise, let her go as she took a few tentative steps. She
recognized none of the landscape around her: tall,
grassy peaks with steep rocky outcroppings, and
limestone-boned ground underfoot. There was an
odor in the air that she couldn't identify, a fresh,
briny scent. "Where are we?"

  "In Tuath Connachta above Keelballi, near the
northern border with Tuath Infochla. We're
perhaps five or six miles from the sea. I'm hoping to
reach a fishing village where we can find someone
who'll take us to Inish."

 "Mac Ard? The others?"
  "I don't know what happened to Mac Ard or the
other one who fled. The rest ... are dead."

  Jenna touched the cloch. O'Deoradháin's eyes
followed the gesture. "The cloch Gairbith had . . . ?"
  "Was that the man's name?" O'Deoradháin
shrugged, then reached into a pocket under his
clóca. "Here . . . It's yours now." He took her left
hand, turning it palm up and placing in it a gold
chain. At the end of the chain was a turquoise gem,
faceted and gleaming and far larger than Lámh
Shábhála. "There's his cloch na thintrí. I took it from
the body after . . ." He stopped.

  Memory of the battle was coming back now. Jenna
remembered Gair-bith's cloch going silent, and the
man falling from his horse. "He wasn't dead " she
said. "The cloch was drained, but Gairbith wasn't
dead."
 "He is now." O'Deoradháin's lips pressed together.

  She stared at him; his eyes, nearly the color of the
gem in her hand, returned the gaze, as if daring her
to object. "You could have let him go," she said.
"Taken the cloch from him, aye, and his horse-"

 "Jenna ..."
  ". . . but you didn't have to kill him. Without the
cloch, he wasn't-"

  "Jenna!" he said sharply, and Jenna blinked
angrily, closing her mouth. "I don't expect the
person who murdered the Banrion to lecture me
about the choices 1 made. We aren't children
playing a game, Holder. What do you think this
Gairbith would have done with you, had the
positions been reversed? Do you believe the
Banrion's assassin was only going to threaten you?
Do you think the Connachtans who came to
Ballintubber would have left you alive after they
plucked Lámh Shábhála from your neck? Frankly,
from what I've been taught, a cloudmage would
prefer to be killed rather than have his or her cloch
taken."
  He snorted derisively, his hand slashing air in
front of her. "You did the right thing with the
Banrion, because if you'd left her alive she might
have been the one to kill you later, or more likely, to
have ordered your death. Now she can't. And as for
Gairbith-he doesn't have to bear the pain of having
his Cloch Mór ripped away from him, and he won't
be able to seek revenge."

 Jenna looked at the gold links pooled in her hand.
She closed her fist around them. "I'm sorry for you,
O'Deoradháin. I'm sorry that you live in such a
harsh, self-centered world. There is a time for
mercy."

  "I've learned that mercy and forgiveness will
usually get you killed, Holder. I notice that you
'murdered' the riders with Mac Ard without
worrying overmuch about that action."
  The lightning striking them down ... "I did what I
had to do. The differ-ence is that I regret that
action, even if it was necessary."

  "I also do what's necessary to keep me-and
you-alive, and I don't regret that. I don't intend to
die because I was too busy worrying about whether
I should defend myself."

  Jenna lifted her head. "We all die, O'Deoradháin,
when the gods say it's our time." Gairbith's cloch na
thintrí was heavy in her hand. She looked down at
the stone: beautiful and clear all the way down into
its emerald depths, captured in a finely-wrought
cage of silver and gold.
 Unlike Lámh Shábhála, this gem would be
precious even if it couldn't draw the power of the
mage-lights from the sky. She looked back at
O'Deoradháin. "Why did you give me this?"

 "It's yours. I didn't win that battle. You did."

 Her fingers closed around it again. "Can I ... can I
use it?"

  "No," he told her. "A Holder can use only one
stone, and you have Lámh Shábhála-why would you
take a lesser stone? But while you keep this one, no
one else can use it against you. It's one of the Cloch
Mór; better you have it than your enemies."
  Her gaze went back to him, and she suddenly felt
ashamed of her doubt and suspicion of the man.
He's done nothing but tell you the truth: about
Coelin, about Mac Ard, about everything. He helped
you even when it put him in danger, and he could
have taken Lámh Shábhála from you several times
now. He could have taken this cloch na thintrí just
as easily, and yet he hands it to you . . .
"O'Deoradháin, I'm sorry if it seems I don't trust
you. I certainly-"
  He wouldn't let her finish, shaking his head into
her words. "You should be careful with your trust,
Holder. You haven't exactly made good choices in
the past."
  "Give me your hand," she told him. His eyes
narrowed and his lips tightened again. He held out
his right hand, and she took it in her own. She
placed Gairbith's cloch in his palm and closed his
fingers around it. "Tonight when the mage-lights
come," she told him, "take this and fill it as I fill
Lámh Shábhála. Become its Holder."

  Her hand stayed on his, and he didn't move it
away. His gaze searched her face, and she felt
herself blushing under the scrutiny. You like this
man more than you want to admit, and the
realization brought more heat to her cheeks. What
she felt wasn't what she had once felt for Coelin; the
heat inside her was different. With Coelin, the
attraction had come from his flattery of her and his
handsome face, and she knew now how false and
shallow that had been. What she was feeling now
came at her from all directions, and she found
herself looking at O'Deoradháin with new eyes, and
wondering if he were feeling what she was.
  "This isn't the cloch I want to possess," he said
gruffly. "You know that."

  "Aye," she answered. "I know. I also know that if
you take the one you want, it will be because I can
no longer use it. And I also know that will be due to
some other person's deed, not yours." She pressed
his fingers more tightly around the stone, and
smiled at him. "I think I'm making a good choice,
this time."
 Slowly, he nodded. His hand slid from her grasp
and he put the cloch a thintrí’s chain around his
neck. The jewel gleamed on his chest for a moment
before he placed it under his tunic.

  "If you can ride," he said, "we should be moving.
I'd like to make the coast by tomorrow evening. He
won't let us rest." O'Deoradháin didn't need to tell
Jenna who "he" was-she knew. "He'll follow us, as
soon as he's able, and the next time he attacks he'll
be more careful."

  "I know he will," she agreed. "But we'll be
stronger."




           Chapter 35: O'Deoradháin's Tale
  THEY stopped to eat and rest near a narrow and
long lough cradled between close green hills. The
sun was high and peeked out occasion-ally between
the clouds sweeping across the sky. Cloud shadows
raced over the slopes, and the smell of the sea was
in the wind from the west. Well out toward the
western end of the lake, two fishing boats bobbed on
the waves where the lough curved north and away
toward the endless water of the ocean. Dark fingers
of smoke smeared across the sky around the hills
behind them, and underneath was a cluster of white
dots.

 "People," Jenna said. "I'm not sure I remember
how to react around them anymore."

  "If we're lucky, we won't meet too many of them,"
O'Deoradháin an-swered. "We'll make for that
village. Maybe there's an inn where we can stay and
clean up, and if we're lucky, find someone to take us
up the coast. But they'll be asking questions of
strangers." He nodded at Jenna's right arm and the
swirl of scars. "You'll need to cover that arm of
yours, and we'll need to devise a story to give them.
And we can't show the clochs. Ever. Not here."

  "I agree. But let's rest here for a bit. Tis beautiful,
this."
  "Aye. If you'd like to look about, go on. I'll take
care of the horses and our food."

  Jenna walked down to the shore of the lough as
O'Deoradháin hobbled the horses. The lough's
waters were fairly clear, not peat-stained like the
waters of Lough Lar, and the water shifted from
green to deep blue as the bottom fell away quickly.
She sat on a rock that protruded out a bit into the
water, taking off her boots and leggings and letting
her feet splash in the cold water. She stroked the
smooth surface of Lámh Shábhála: she had renewed
its reservoirs with the mage-lights the night before,
and O'Deoradháin had done the same with his cloch.
She opened Lámh Shábhála slightly, letting its aura
spread out over the lough, feeling for the presence
of other clochs na thintrí. She could sense
O'Deoradháin close by and feel the powerful
emanations of his cloch even through the wall he
had tried to erect around it; she could perceive the
fisherfolk in their boats, their thoughts altering the
pattern of faint energy she placed around them; and
at the very edge of Lámh Shábhála’s range, the
clustering of many people in the village. But there
was no one else. No one with inten-tions toward her.

 Except . . .
 There was something. Rising toward her, drawn to
her, its attention steady on her.

 Rising from below . . .

  Fingers gripped Jenna's ankles, still dangling in
the water. They pulled, hard and sudden.
  Jenna had no time to cry out. Instinctively, she
turned her body, trying to cling to the rock even as
she was dragged down into the lough. Frigid water
hammered at her lungs; she took a gulping breath
as her head went under, her hands still scrabbling
for purchase. Invisible, frigid hands pulled at her
legs, her waist, her breasts, and finally closed
around the chain of Lámh Shábhála. Her desperate
fingers found a knob of rock, and she pulled herself
up even as the hands tried to hold her down and rip
away the cloch from around her neck. Gasping,
Jenna's head broke the surface as she flailed for a
higher handhold, pulling herself up. She screamed,
letting go with her left hand and striking at her
assailant.

  She saw her attacker now, and shock nearly stole
the breath from her. The creature's torso had risen
from the water with her, its arms around her-the
face nearly featureless, its body the blue-black of
the depths as if it were made of the water itself. A
finned row of spines ran from its smooth-featured
crown down the back of its sinuous body, and the
hands that encircled Jenna and snagged the cloch's
chain were webbed, long-hungered, and wide. The
eyes were dead black and shining-emotionless, cold
shark eyes-and thin fanged teeth glistened in a
gaping round mouth. Jenna tried to scream once
more but the creature folded its arms around her
and with a powerful wriggle of its body and a splash,
yanked her away from the rock and back under the
water. Lámh Shábhála’s chain broke and tore away;
she grabbed for the cloch, but it vanished, drifting
down.
  Eyes open in terror, Jenna struggled, trying to
strike at the creature though the water softened
and slowed her blows. She pulled at the thing's
hands, and felt it bite at her shoulder and neck. It
bore her down to the bottom, turning her under its
body. She felt rocks and mud on her back and she
knew that she had only seconds, that the first
breath she took would be her last. She saw another
dark form speed toward them, churn-ing white
foam on the dappled surface, and she despaired. Yet
at the same moment she was about to give up and
take the breath that would mean her death, the
form above dove and struck her assailant hard. The
creature shrilled in pain, releasing Jenna to respond
to this new attack. Jenna pushed herself up from
the rocky bottom, surging toward the rippling
promise of sunlight above. Her head broke the
surface and she took a desperate breath, her arms
slapping at the waves. She could feel herself going
under again, the weight of her clothing dragging her
down. She gulped water . . .

  A hand caught hers and pulled her up:
O'Deoradháin. She choked and gasped, bleeding and
coughing up water, as he helped her onto the shore.
"Lámh Shábhála," she managed to say. "They took
it . . ." She started to plunge back into the lough, but
he held her back, grasping her from behind. She
struggled in his arms now, trying to get loose,
screaming and crying as she fought to dive back in
and find the cloch, but he was too strong.
  "Jenna, you can't go back in there . . ." he was
saying to her, his lips close to her ear as he hugged
her to him. "You can't . . ."

  She continued to try to break free, but exhaustion
took hold and she hung limp in his arms, struggling
to catch her breath. The surface of the lough
showed nothing, then a silken head surged up
through the small wind-driven waves several yards
out: a seal. It roared at them once and dove again,
surfacing closer to the shore. Bright blue highlights
glinted in its ebon fur where the sunlight touched it.
Metal glinted in the animal's mouth and Jenna cried
out wordlessly. She pushed out of O'Deoradháin's
grasp and floundered into the water toward the
seal. It waited for her; wading in waist-deep, Jenna
snatched at the broken chain with the silver-caged
stone. Her hand closed around Lámh Shábhála; the
seal opened its mouth and released the necklace at
the same moment. Sobbing, Jenna clutched the
stone in her hand. The seal stared at her with its
bulbous chocolate eyes, its whiskered snout
wriggling as if it were sniffing the air. "Thank you,"
Jenna told the seal, tightening her right hand
around the cloch.
 She would have sworn that the seal nodded. Its
head lifted, the mouth opening, and a series of wails
and coughs emerged: like words but in no language
Jenna understood. Then, with a flash of shimmering
lapis, the seal turned and dove back into the water.

 "It said that the Holder should be more careful,
and warned you that not only humans want to
possess a cloch na thintrí, especially Lámh
Shábhála."
  Jenna turned. O'Deoradháin stood on the bank, his
hand extended to her. "Come out of the water," he
said. "I'll start a fire, and we can get you warm and
dry."

 She didn't move. Waves lapped at her waist. "You
understood it?"

  "Her, not it. And aye, I understood her." He
stretched out his hand again. "Trust me, Holder. I
will explain."
  She ignored the hand. "I thought I knew you," she
said.

  His mouth twitched under the beard. "Not all.
Come out of the water, Holder; I don't know if that
creature will be back."

  She took a breath, shivering. Then she reached for
his hand. "Then tell me," she said as he helped her
from the lough. "Tell me why the seals come to
you."

 He nodded.
  I was perhaps four or five when I realized that my
mam was . . . strange. I woke up one night in the
bed I shared with my younger brother. I don't know
what it was that woke me-maybe the sound of a
footstep or the creaking of the door. I managed to
get out of the bed without waking my brother. Our
house was small: my sister-the youngest of us at
the time-slept in her crib in the same room, beside
my parents' bed. I could hear my da snoring. The
moon was out and the sky was clear; in the silver
light, I could see that where my ma should have
been, the blankets were flung back. I called out for
her softly so I wouldn't wake the others, but she
didn't answer. I went out into the other room, but
she wasn't there, either. The door to our cottage,
though, was ajar.
  My da was a fisherman, and we lived just above a
rocky shingle of beach on the southern coast of Inish
Thuaidh not far from the island of Inishfeirm where
your family lived, in the townland of Maoil na
nDreas. Sometimes, when the day was clear, we
could even see Inishfeirm like a gray hump on the
horizon to the south. But that has nothing to do with
this story . . .

  I walked out of the cottage. I could see my father's
boat pulled up on the beach and hear the waves
pounding against the shore. I thought I heard
another sound as well, and I padded down toward
the water. The wind was brisk, and the breakers
were shattering on the walls of our little cove,
splashing high on the cliff walls that rose out like
arms on either side. In the bright moonlight, I could
see seals out there on the rocks several big ones,
and they were calling loudly to each other,
occasionally diving awkwardly into the surf and
pulling themselves back up with their flippers.
These seals, I noticed, were different than the small
harbor seals that I usually saw. They shimmered in
the moonlight, their fur sparkling with blue
highlights. I watched them for a while, listening to
what sounded like a loud conversation. One of the
bulls noticed me, for I saw him turn his snout
toward the beach and bellow. A few of the other
seals looked toward me too, then, and one lurched
from the rock into the sea and I lost sight of it. I
watched the others, though, especially that old bull,
who kept roaring and staring at me.
  "Ennis . . . ?" 1 heard my mam call my name, and
she came from around da's boat to where I was
sitting on the beach. She was soaking wet and
naked, and water dripped from her hair as she
crouched down by me, smiling. Her eyes were as
dark and bright as a seal's. "What are you doing out
here, young man?"
  "I woke up and you weren't there, Mam," I told
her. "And I came out and saw the seals and I was
watching them." I pointed at the old bull and the
seals gathered around him on the rock. I laughed.
"They sound like they're talking to each other,
Mam."
  "They are talking," she said, laughing with me.
She had a voice like purest crystal, and she seemed
entirely comfortable in her nudity, which made me
comfortable with it also. "You just have to know
their language."

 "Do you know the language?" I asked her
wonderingly, and she nod-ded, laughing again.
 "I do. Would you like me to teach you sometime?"

 "Aye, Mam, I would," I told her, wide-eyed.
  "Then I will. Now, let's get you inside and back
into bed. It's cold out here." She lifted me up, but I
struggled to stay.

  "I'm not cold at all. Mam, what were you doing out
here?" I asked her, staring up at her face, her hair
all stringy and still dripping water from the ends, a
bit of seaweed stuck near her ear. "Aren't you
cold?"

 "No, Ennis. I was . . . swimming."
 "With the seals?"

  She nodded. "With the seals. Maybe, someday,
you can swim with them, too, if . . ." She stopped
then, and a smile curled her lip. She rubbed my
hair. "Come now. Back to bed." She led me back to
the cottage door and stopped there. "Go on in," she
said. "I'm going to swim a bit more . . ."

  She kept her promise. She taught me how to
understand the language of the blue seals. And, once
or twice a year, she would leave our house late at
night to "go swimming with the seals." I don't think
my siblings ever noticed, but I did. I would see her
slip out of bed and follow her. I think she probably
knew that I was watching her, but she didn't seem
to care and never paid any attention to me at all.
She would stand at the water's edge and take off her
night robe, standing naked under the moon with the
seals all wailing and moaning and calling to her.
She'd run toward the water, diving into the surf.
Somehow, though I looked, I never saw my mam
after that-she would vanish among the bodies of the
seals and emerge hours later as light began to touch
the sky, dripping wet but some-how not cold. If I
were still there asleep on the beach, she would wake
me and take me back to the cottage with her.

  I asked her, the first time, why I never could see
her after she went into the water and she told me I
might understand one day. She also told me about
the blue seals-that there was but one small group of
them left in all the world here at Inish Thuaidh, but
that soon a time would come when they would
return in greater numbers, and that she hoped I
would be part of those days ...
 Aye, my da knew. He seemed troubled by his
wife's occasional forays into the ocean, but did
nothing about them, or perhaps it was just that he'd
learned over the years that this was simply part of
her-he didn't speak to her about the seals, or her
'swimming' at night, or mention any of it to us.
"Your mam must do what she must," was all he
would say the one time I dared to bring up the
subject with him. "And if you're lucky, you won't
share her curse and find yourself out there
swimming in the moonlight." Then he turned his
back to me as he mended his fishing net.

  I didn't think of my mam as cursed, though. I saw
the joy in her face as she came from the water. I
saw the cavorting of the seals and the way they flew
through the water and thought that it must be
wonderful to be able to do that. I listened to their
talk and sometimes tried to speak with them,
though our throats aren't made to speak their
words, and they would laugh at my poor attempts
and answer.
  And, one day after my body had started to grow
hair and my voice had gone deeper, I did swim with
them ...

  You're...?" Jenna breathed, and O'Deoradháin
nodded solemnly. "I thought ... I mean I've heard of
changelings and such, but I'd always believed they
were only tales."

  "Not only tales. And not only me. Wasn't your
grandmother mysteriously rescued by seals?-or
maybe she unconsciously, under the stress of nearly
drowning, tapped a part of herself she didn't know
was there."

  The fire O'Deoradháin had built while he told his
tale crackled, and Jenna snuggled close to the
flames, letting the welcome heat sink into her
still-damp clothes. She glanced back at the waters of
the lough half-expecting to see the seal again, but it
was gone. "Are all the blue seals . . . ?"

  O'Deoradháin shrugged. "Some of them are
changelings, aye, but not all and almost none can
change at will. Most of those who can change are
water-snared, nearly always a seal but changing for
a few short hours a year into human shape.
Somewhere, back in my family's past, a many times
great-mam must have met a bull in his human form
and loved him, and that blood manifested itself in
my mam-she said that her sisters and brothers
weren't that way, just as my siblings also weren't
affected. But the blood occasionally shows to create
the few Earth-snared ones like me or my mam, who
feel the call of the water-part of us only rarely."

  Jenna didn't know what to say. She looked up the
sloping bank of the lough to where the horses stood,
to the pack on her mare where her father's carved
seal was hidden, and she remembered the blue
paint he'd used to paint it and she wondered.
  "They've followed me, as well as they can, since I
left Inish," O'Deoradháin was saying. "They haven't
told me why, just that 'the Water-Mother's voice
tells them that they must.' The WaterMother is
their god, like our Mother-Creator. The 'voice,' I
think, is a euphemism, a feeling they have or
perhaps part of an old song-tale-all their history is
passed down in songs since they don't write at all,
and there are thousands of them. Their-I suppose I
should say 'our'-memories are very good, and they
pass the songs down generation to generation. I
don't know them all yet, only a few hundred."

  Jenna remembered the seal who watched them
when they talked at Deer Creek, and the shapes in
the water that had pushed their boat away after
they'd crossed Lough Lár . . . "What was the thing
that attacked me?

  O'Deoradháin shrugged again. He took a stick
from the ground and pushed at the logs in the fire;
sparks and smoke went whirling upward. "I don't
know. Garrentha-that's the name of the seal who
came to your rescue-didn't either. There are things
that live in hidden places that we don't know, and
more and more of them are waking as the
mage-lights grow stronger. It's not only humans
who want to hold the magic." He rose to his feet. "If
you're dry and warm enough, we should go. I think
we be safer in the village at night than out here."
  Jenna glanced back at the lough. She nodded. "Are
there other secrets you're keeping from me,
O'Deoradháin? You ought to trot them out now,
before we go farther."
 He grinned at that, but the expression turned
oddly serious when his dark eyes found hers. "I only
have one," he answered. "I suspect you already
know what it is."

  She found herself blushing under his gaze, and she
turned away rather than say more.




           Chapter 36: Ambush and Offer



  THE folk of the village of Banshaigh had a name
for the creature: "Uisce Taibhse," it was: the water
ghost. "No one fishes at the eastern end of Lough
Glas now," one grizzled old man told Jenna and
O'Deoradháin. "At least not if you care about coming
back. Too many boats have been mysteriously sunk
there-in broad daylight and calm water-and many
of those aboard lost. The Uisce Taibhse is an evil
creature-or creatures, since there is more than one
of them, and they don't like us. We've caught one
ourselves, snagged in our nets; it died out of the
water like a fish, but it fought like a mad, cornered
dog to its last breath. Why, if I had one of those
clochs na thintrí the Riocha are wearing now, I'd just
kill them all . . ."

  As would have happened in Tara's tavern back in
Ballintubber, the newcomers to The Green Waters,
Banshaigh's only inn, were greeted with curious
looks and many questions. Jenna and O'Deoradháin
agreed on their cover story before entering the
village: they were cousins uprooted from their
homes in Tuath Gabair by the recent troubles and
hoping to return to the home of their uncle in Inish
Thuaidh. Banshaigh wasn’t much larger than
Ballintubber and though the villagers were aware of
the hostilities between Connachta and Gabair, they
were far enough removed from the larger towns
and the Riocha that they were more sympathetic
than hostile to the unfortunate travelers, especially
since O'Deoradháin seemed to know as much about
fishing as any of the locals.

  Lough Glas, the green lake, was fed by springs,
brooks, and rills run-ning from the high hills around
it, and fed from its western end into a
mountain-flanked and marshy tidal basin and the
sea. Aye, the village fisherfolk sometimes ventured
out into the open ocean. Aye, there was one
fisherman in the village who would doubtless be
willing to sail them to Inish Thuaidh for a fair
price-Flynn Meagher had a large enough boat and
often sailed the coast, if never that far north.
 They went to see Flynn Meagher the next
morning near dawn, in a windy downpour.

  Meagher was a burly, nontalkative man, who
grunted as O'Deoradháin explained what they
wanted. "Maybe six days out, six back, fewer if the
wind is good," Meagher said finally. "Need to take
another person to help me sail and I won't be able to
do any fishing. A half-mórceint a day is what I'll
need." His face showed that he expected the
bedraggled strangers to turn and leave with that.
When O'Deoradháin showed him three golden coins
and placed one of them in Meagher's palm, he
seemed aston-ished.

  "A quarter-mórceint a day is twice as much as you
should get, but we're in a hurry," O'Deoradháin
countered. "I'll give you one mórceint now so you
can hire your crew member and provision the boat.
You'll get the other two when we get there."

  Meagher stared at the money in his hand. Slowly,
his fingers curled around the coin, then opened
again. He seemed to be thinking. "Can't leave today.
Tomorrow. Better weather, better tide."
  "We'll be here tomorrow morning, then. Same
time."
  A nod. His hand closed around the money and
disappeared under the oiled leather coat.

 "He could take us a day's sail out, kill us while
we're sleeping, steal the money and dump our
bodies overboard for the fish," Jenna said as they
walked back to the inn.

 "Aye, he could," O'Deoradháin admitted. "We'll
need to be careful. But we also have defenses he
doesn't know we have, and I could sail that boat
myself with your help if we needed to. Do you have
a better plan?"

 She didn't. But she didn't feel easy about the
decision.
  The next day they sold their horses to the
proprietor of The Green Waters and went to meet
Meagher at his boat near the end of the docks. The
day Promised to be a fine one, as Meagher had
suggested, but despite the yellow glow on the
horizon and the deep, nearly cloudless azure above,
Jenna felt more and more uneasy as they
approached their rendezvous. She opened Lámh
Shábhála slightly, examining the space around them
with the cloch's vision. There were several other
people in the dock area which was to be expected,
but if there were other clochs nearby, they were
well-shielded. They walked toward the small
wooden shack on the shore where Meagher stored
his nets and other equipment.
  Jenna put her hand on O'Deoradháin's arm.
"Wait," she said. She could feel several people in the
immediate area, yet the only one she could see was
Meagher, on his boat and waving at them. "There
are too many-"

  It was as far as she got. The door to Meagher's
shack opened. Tiarna Mac Ard stood there, and she
suddenly felt the concealing shields go down around
the rubied jewel already grasped in his hand.

  "No!" Mac Ard shouted as both Jenna and
O'Deoradháin reached for their own clochs. "Don't
move!" Several men now appeared around the dock
area, at least a half dozen with arrows nocked in
bows already pulled back at full draw. They wore no
colors, but they were obviously gardai. "Those
arrows are aimed at your friend, Jenna," Mac Ard
continued. "I've seen what you can do, but I doubt
that he's had enough practice yet to know how to
use that cloch well. If they see him touch poor
Gairbith's stone, though, they will fire."

  Both of their hands went back to their sides and a
grim smile came over Mac Ard's face. He took a few
steps toward them, though he stopped several
yards away. "Your mam sends you her love and
concern, Jenna. When I saw her last, a month ago,
she was big with your half brother-at least the
midwife tells us she thinks it's a boy."
 "Have you married her, or will this son be a
bastard?" Jenna spat out, and Mac Ard's smile
faltered.

 "Marriage is ... a tool," he answered slowly. "You
know that, even if you don't like it. In my position,
one should only use it at need."
 "What about my mam's needs?"

  "My heart is with Maeve, Jenna," he answered.
"It will always be, whether I marry another woman
or not. I don't know if you can believe that, but it's
true and your mam knows it. And I know that my
love is returned. She understands why I don't
marry her; she also knows that I will always take
care of her, as I'll take care of your brother when
he's born. Despite what you might want to believe,
I'm not a monster." He spread his hands wide as if
he were about to embrace her, the cloch glinting in
his right palm. "Give me Lámh Shábhála, freely, and
I will also give you my promise that I will use the
tool of marriage in a way that would please you.
Your mam and my son, your half brother, would
share my name. I would make her Bantiarna Mac
Ard."

  Jenna didn't answer but glanced at O'Deoradháin,
and Mac Ard's gaze followed hers. "You're more
resourceful than I'd thought, Inishlander," he said
to O'Deoradháin. "I've underestimated you twice
now. It won't hap-again. I also see the way she looks
at you. Poor Coelin would be jealous, I think, though
I doubt his wife lets the young man out of her sight
any more."

  His regard came back to Jenna. "I'll let you and
O'Deoradháin take this man's ship back to Inish
Thuaidh," he told her, gesturing at Meagher's boat.
"But Lámh Shábhála and Gairbith's cloch must be
given to me. Mow." He waited; Jenna only
breathed, her mind whirling. "I need an answer,
Jenna. You're not going to get a better offer. It's
difficult, holding back bowstrings this long. I can see
their fingers trembling. I'd hate to have one of them
slip."

 "You'll just kill us anyway," she said. "You would
have killed me a few days ago."
  Mac Ard shook his head. "Only if I'd had to. That
time, I was defending myself from your attack and I
seem to recall that it was you who struck first." He
shrugged, and a faint smile appeared in the curl of
his lips. "Aye, I'd kill you if it means saving myself. I
don't apologize for that, either. If I wanted you
dead, Jenna, I wouldn't be standing here talking
with you. I'd have struck before you ever saw us."

 "You can't leave us alive and go back to Tuath
Gabair and the Rí, not with all these witnesses."
  Mac Ard's empty hand gestured to the men
surrounding them. "These are my personal gardai,
loyal to me and not Rí Gabair," he responded. "They
will see what I tell them to see. I don't have many
options here, however. I can't take you back to Lár
Bhaile with me-not after what you've done. For the
Banrion's death alone your life is forfeit, and there
are the gardai you killed afterward at the bridge
and the death of Gairbith and his men. And there
were those we sent into Doire Coill to look for you
who never came back." He sighed, shaking his head.
"All that would await you in Lár Bhaile is torture
and an eventual execution; I couldn't stand the
torment and sorrow that would bring to Maeve. But
I can take Lámh Shábhála back and tell the Rí that I
killed you and O'Deoradháin in battle, and no one
will challenge that tale. Then you and the
Inishlander can go to your island, once I have your
vow that you'll stay there and never return here at
all." His scarred head cocked toward her
questioningly. "Well, Jenna? I offer you your life
and your friend's as well as your mam's future, all in
return for the clochs na thintrí you have. Is that not
a fair enough trade?"

  For a moment, Jenna considered the offer. She
thought of how it would feel to take Lámh Shábhála
from around her neck and give it to Mac Ard, never
hold it again, to never drink the addictive power of
the mage-lights, to never see with its ferocious
vision. To lose Lámh Shábhála for-ever. Jenna
glanced again at O'Deoradháin and knew that he
saw the answer in her eyes. She looked back at Mac
Ard.
 "No," she said.

 And with the word, everything happened at once.

  . . . Bowstrings sang as Jenna reached for Lámh
Shábhála and opened it with a mental wrench. The
arrows arcing toward O'Deoradháin burst into
flame, the wooden shafts seared to quick ash, the
barbed heads clat-tering on the stone flags.
Lightnings crackled from Jenna's hands and she
heard the screams from the gardai around her . . .
 . . . O'Deoradháin opened his own cloch with a
shout and sent a burst of hurricane wind toward
Mac Ard even as the tiarna attacked with his own
cloch. Their energy met in a thunderous maelstrom
between them, but Mac Ard was stronger and
O'Deoradháin was enveloped in snarling, flickering
fury. He shouted once, a voice full of hurt and failure
...

  . . . Jenna saw O'Deoradháin fall to his knees and
she struck with Lámh Shábhála as Mac Ard turned
toward her. In the cloch-vision, she saw their two
stones collide, like two giants formed of bright
lightning wrestling with each other and grasping for
holds. For several seconds, the tableau held, the
power draining from their clochs with each moment.
But slowly, slowly, Mac Ard's attack weakened
under Lámh Shábhála’s greater strength and
endurance, giving way so suddenly that Jenna
nearly stum-bled herself. She could feel all the
power spill from his cloch, and with her true eyes,
she saw the tiarna fall. . . .
  That quickly, it was over. Jenna released Lámh
Shábhála, and the shock sent her to the ground,
sitting abruptly on the stones. She fought to retain
consciousness, not daring to fall into night as she
had the last time. Dark-ness threatened to take her,
her vision shrinking and the world seeming to
recede as she fought to hold onto it, bringing
consciousness back slowly: Meagher and his
crewman cowering behind the single mast of his
boat; the moans of Mac Ard's gardai; O'Deoradháin
and Mac Ard both sprawled on the ground; the echo
of thunder rumbling in the hills.
  Jenna took a long, slow breath and pushed herself
back up. She went to O'Deoradháin; he was
breathing but unconscious. "O'Deoradháin?" she
said, shaking him slightly, but he didn't wake. She
took the long dagger from its scabbard at his waist,
the keen edge ringing as it was unsheathed. "Come
help me with him," she shouted to Meagher and the
other man. When they didn't move, she lifted the
cloch around her neck.
  "Now!" she commanded, and they scrambled over
the ship's side to her. "Put him aboard," she told the
wide-eyed and terrified fishermen. "You'll be taking
us to Inish Thuaidh, and be glad that I don't strike
you down right now for telling them we were here."
A quick intake of breath told her that she was right.
"How much did Tiarna Mac Ard pay you, Flynn
Meagher? Tell me," she barked into his frightened
eyes.
  "Four mórceints, mistress," he finally mumbled,
his head down.

  "Then you've been paid in full and more. Take my
companion to the ship" Meagher and the other man
didn't move, their heads still down as if they
awaited an executioner's stroke. "Do it now!" she
ordered, "And gently."
  "Aye, mistress." Meagher and the other man lifted
O'Deoradháin care-fully As they placed him on the
boat, Jenna went to Mac Ard. She crouched beside
him. He was barely conscious; his eyes fluttered,
and he seemed to almost smile. His hand still
clutched at his cloch. "It seems I've underestimated
you as well, Jenna," he said. His eyes moved to the
dagger in her hand. He tried to lift his hand, but it
fell back to his chest. "At least make it quick."

  She pressed the keen edge against the side of his
neck and blood drooled as Mac Ard inhaled and
closed his eyes. But she only held it there, and his
eyes slowly opened again. "Were you lying to me?
Would you have let us go?" she asked him. She
showed him Lámh Shábhála. "You know I can hear
the truth, if I wish."

 "It wasn't a lie," he answered. "I believe you're an
abomination and a great danger, but I would do
nothing that would hurt Maeve so much unless I
had no other choice."

  She stared at his face, remembering the way he
had looked at her mam, remembering the softness
when she'd seen him sleeping with Maeve in his
arms, back in Seancoim's caves. She pulled the
dagger back and put it in her belt. Then she reached
down and wrapped the fingers of her left hand
around the chain of his cloch, pushing his feeble
hand away from the stone. "No," he moaned. His
lips were flecked with blood. "Ah, Jenna, don't do
this. Don't take the cloch. Think of how Lámh
Shábhála is part of you, how it would be like tearing
away part of yourself to lose it. Don't..."

  She could see genuine fright in his eyes now,
surprising her. Would I feel this way, if it were me
laying on the ground and Lámh Shábhála about to
be taken from me? With the thought, a spear
seemed to penetrate her heart, and she gasped with
imagined terror. Aye, you would feel as he does, and
worse ...
 You knew I couldn't just give you Lámh Shábhála.
You knew I wouldn't be able to do that."

  "I suspected it." His eyes went to her hand, still
clutching the chain of his cloch. "Now I know it." His
gaze searched her face. "I'm sorry, Jenna.
  “I'm sorry you have to bear the burden. I'm sorry
I could not be your da for you."

  "My da?" Jenna shouted in rage. "You could never
be my da!" Anger twisted her hand tight around the
chain, and with the rising fury she tore the cloch
from around his neck, the silver links parting as
they ripped open his skin.

  He screamed, a sound that held loss and terror, a
wail of grief and a shivering denial. His hands
grasped for the cloch, his eyes wide. "No.. !" He was
panting, and his eyes were wild. "I'll kill you for this.
I swear it!"
  She stared down at him. "The next time we
meet," she told him, clutch-ing his stone in her
hand, "one of us will die." The words came to her
with a sense of truth, as if she'd been given a
glimpse of the future.

 He moaned and shrieked, his eyes not on her but
on the cloch na thintrí she'd taken. Jenna turned
and went to the boat, trying not to listen to the
mingled threats and pleas he hurled at her back.
  "Cast off," she told Meagher, and went to sit next
to O'Deoradháin, staring back at the village as the
wind snapped at the sail and bore them away.




             Chapter 37: The White Keep



  HE expected him to be angry. He wasn't. "You
know it was a mistake to leave him alive," was all he
said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But you should
know that in some ways, that was more cruel. He'll
always feel the loss. Forever."
 "They'll give him another Cloch Mór. Or he'll find
one," Jenna an-swered.

 O'Deoradháin nodded. "Aye, I agree. He will. And
he will come after you with it, because you have
wounded him-on the inside, where it will never
heal."

  She only nodded, her hand at her throat, and he
smiled sadly at her. 'You made the choice. You can't
unmake it. And I'm not surprised that you couldn't
find it in yourself to kill a helpless man." It was the
last time he mentioned the incident.
  The first night out, with the headland of the bay
still to be rounded, the mage-lights began to glow.
Meagher and his friend were watching, their gazes
on the two and the mage-lights that were beginning
to swirl above them. "You saw what the clochs can
do at the village," Jenna told Meagher. She cradled
her right arm, letting them see the patterns the
lights had carved into her skin. "I'm telling you now
that we can sense your intentions, also, while we're
calling the mage-lights or even when we're sleeping.
I will use the cloch if I feel threatened. Do you
understand?"

  They nodded silently, meek and terrified. Neither
looked inclined to test the truth of Jenna's small lie.
The mage-lights strengthened, their glow touching
the waves with color.

 "Jenna," O'Deoradháin said as Jenna steeled
herself for the ordeal of filling Lámh Shábhála once
again. "If you're willing, I'd like you to give me Mac
Ard's cloch." She glanced at him, more quizzical than
anything "I'll give you Gairbith's in return," he
added.

 Jenna hesitated. "Why? They're both Clochs
Mór."
 "Because he'll come looking for that one,"
O'Deoradháin answered "And I want him to come to
me, not to someone who may not understand or
may not be expecting him."
 "Are you sure it's not just because he hurt you
with it?"

 O'Deoradháin shrugged. "And that, too."

  Jenna handed the rubied stone to him. His mouth
tightened as he bowed his head to take Gairbith's
cloch from around his neck, and she heard him gasp
as if stung when the chain was removed. "It's only
Mac Ard's cloch in my other hand that lets me do
this," he* said as he handed the green stone to her.
He was sweating, the lines of his face carved deep.
"Even this hurts, though I held Gairbith's cloch for
just a few days and have another cloch to
immediately replace it. Take it from me, Jenna; I
can't ... I can't let it go."

   Jenna reached over and pried his fingers from the
stone until it dropped into her hand. O'Deoradháin
took a long, shuddering breath, clutching Mac Ard's
cloch to him. After a few minutes, he lifted his head
again and shook it. Jenna could see tears in his eyes.
"They told me during the training that no one could
give up his cloch willingly. I always thought that was
an exaggeration, but that was harder than I
believed. I couldn't ever do that again," he said
softly. "Never. If I'd kept the other cloch any longer,
if I'd used it more ..."
  "Then fill Mac Ard's cloch now," Jenna told him.
"Fill it and make it yours."
   The mage-lights danced seductively, calling Jenna,
and Lámh Shábhála’s need tugged at her. She
turned away from O'Deoradháin and looked up,
lifting the cup of the cloch to the mage-lights to be
filled.

  The voyage took five days, hopping across the
chain of small islands be-tween Talamh an Glas and
Inish Thuaidh. "There," O'Deoradháin said
finally, pointing ahead across the choppy gray
waves. "That's Inishfeim. That's where we're
going."

  Jenna could see a gleam of brilliant white atop the
blue-gray hump the island, a white that shimmered
in the pale sunlight filtered through thin gray
clouds. As they approached the island, the patch
resolved into stone towers perched precariously on
the island's steep cliffs. A road wound back and
forth from a village clustered around the sheltering
arms of a bay up to the ornate and imposing
structure on the heights. "The town of Inishfeirm,
where your great-mam once lived," O'Deoradháin
told her. The "town" looked small, larger than
Ballintubber, certainly, but not as imposing as even
Áth Iseal. "And the Order of Inishfeirm,"
O'Deoradháin continued, pointing to the high
towers, "where I spent far too many years." He
laughed at the memory. "Moister Cléurach will be
surprised. It's been two years now I've been away,
and I don't think he ever expected to see me again."
He chuckled again, pointing. "There, see that dark
speck making its way down the road? That's one of
the Order's carriages- they've seen our ship and
know it's not one of the island's, and have sent
someone down to meet us."

  A few stripes later, they pulled the ship up at the
harbor, Meagher tossing a line to the crowd that
had gathered to watch the strangers dock. Jenna
thought their faces held suspicion and she saw
O'Deoradháin glance up a few times at the buildings
of the Order and frown, as if he spied something
there that troubled him. But as they stepped onto
the dock, the crowd suddenly parted and a
blond-haired, dark-bearded man dressed in a clóca
of pure white linen came striding toward them. He
stopped, his face registering amazement and
disbelief. "Ennis? Is that really you?"
  "Mundy! By all the gods, you're as ugly as ever."
The two men, laugh-ing, met in the middle of the
dock, hugging each other fiercely, kissing each
other's cheeks. "So you're still here!"
  "I am. I doubt you're going to believe this, but I'm
now in charge of the acolytes-who'd have thought
that someone as difficult as I was would end up
having to herd the young ones and trying to keep
them out of trouble."

  "Who better? You know all the tricks, having done
them yourself," O'Deoradháin laughed. "How's
Moister Cléurach faring these days? And why aren't
you holding one of the clochs by now?"

  Mundy's expression turned somber at that.
"Moister Cléurach's as well as can be expected, I
suppose. These aren't good times for the Order."
  "What do you mean? Is that why everyone is
looking at us like we're tax collectors? With the
mage-lights coming every night to the clochs now,
I'd have thought-"
  Mundy shook his head warningly, raising his hand.
"This isn't anything to discuss here. I must ask you
for some patience. In the meantime, you haven't
introduced me." He glanced significantly at Jenna.

  This is Jenna Aoire," O'Deoradháin told him, and
Jenna stepped for-ward. "Jenna, this is Mundy
Kirwan, a Bráthair of the Order." O'Deoradháin
leaned toward Mundy, speaking softly so that only
Jenna and Mundy could hear him. "She is the First,
Mundy. She holds Lámh Shábhála; she brought the
Filleadh."
 Mundy's expression was simultaneously shocked
and awed. "First Holder, I am honored. And Aoire . .
." He glanced again at O'Deoradháin with lifted
eyebrows. "That's a name that's not unfamiliar
here."

  "I was told that my family was from here," Jenna
told him. "A few generations ago."
 Mundy nodded. "The Moister will undoubtedly
want to meet with you immediately. Do you have
belongings?"

  O'Deoradháin lifted the pack he carried. "This is
all."

  "Then follow me. I'll take you up to the mountain,
and we can get you
rooms there ..."
  Mundy escorted them to the carriage, little more
than a flat cart with wooden seats attached, open to
the weather without even the cover of an awning. A
young boy in the same white attire waited there
with the two horses, though the leine underneath
his clóca was red, not white. Jenna looked out
curiously as they ascended the narrow, winding
switchback road up the steep hillside, more and
more of the panorama spreading out below them as
they rose. The sea was a rippling, shining carpet,
dotted with a few nearby tiny islands; well out to
the north, stony cliffs blue with distance rose on the
horizon, the white line of distant breakers
under-neath. "The shore of Inish Thuaidh," Mundy
told her, noticing her gaze. "Those are the Bird
Cliffs. Thousands and thousands of seabirds nest
there."
 "I'd like to see that sometime."
  "Perhaps you will." Mundy was sitting across from
Jenna and O'Deoradháin, his seat facing them. He
turned back from the scenery. "Aoire," he said,
almost musingly, but with an undertone that made
Jenna's eyes narrow. "An acolyte once stole a
supposed cloch from the cloister and ran away with
a local girl. In at least one version I heard, her
family name was supposed to be Aoire."

 Jenna glanced at O'Deoradháin. "We agreed that
we wouldn't try to hide anything from Moister
Cléurach," he told her. "And I trust Mundy'

  The cart lurched in the ruts as they navigated one
of the tight hairpin turns of the road. Jenna felt a
momentary surge of irritation that O'Deoradháin
would speak so openly, but she forced it down,
knowing that it was mostly because she was uneasy
about revealing the truth of how she'd come to
acquire the cloch. "Then maybe that version's the
correct one, Jenna told Mundy. "Her name was
Kerys Aoire and she was my great-mam- And the
cloch they took was this." She pulled the stone out
from under her tunic. "This," she said, "is Lámh
Shábhála."

  "Lámh Shábhála . . ." Mundy breathed the word,
leaning forward to peer closely at the cloch. "So
plain, compared to the other ones. No won-der no
one believed that it was a true cloch na thintrí, or at
best only a minor one. So we did hold it for a time."
An ironic smile touched his face. "Moister Cléurach
won't be pleased to hear that. Not after what's
hap-pened here."
  "What has happened?" O'Deoradháin asked.
"There are marks on the walls of the central tower
where it looks like fires have burned, and our
reception was definitely cold."

  "I'll let the Moister give you that news," Mundy
responded. "It's nothing any of us like to talk
about."

  Moister Cléurach was a short, balding man with a
fringe of snow-white hair that didn't seem to have
been combed in days. He came bustling toward
Jenna and O'Deoradháin between the desks of his
two clerks. "Ennis!" There may have been pleasure
in his shout, but Jenna couldn't see it in his face. The
folds of his face settled comfortably in the lines of
his frown. "By the Mother-Creator, I was certain
we'd lost you. The last letter was a year ago ..."

  O'Deoradháin shrugged at the mild rebuke. "I
wrote six months ago, and again three months ago
as well, Moister. But the tuatha are unsettled, and
who knows where those letters have gone."

  "Aye, we know the tuatha are at war, and we
know why." Moister Cléurach seemed to glare at
O'Deoradháin as if he were the cause of it, and then
the old man went to one of the arched, open
windows of the cloister, staring back south and east
over the waves.
  "Moister Cléurach," O'Deoradháin said, "Mundy
hinted that things aren't well here, and I saw marks
on the walls. What's happened? Why aren't Mundy
and you and some of the others holding clochs? The
Order was founded to make cloudmages ..."

  The old man turned back into the room, blinking
as if the pale light outside had blinded him. "Five
months ago," he said slowly, "not long after the
Solstice and just before the mage-lights heralded
the Filleadh, ships carrying gardai came here out of
Falcarragh. When we realized that this was more
than an unexpected visit, it was too late. The gardai
wore the colors of both Tuath Infochla and Tuath
Gabair. We closed the gates to the White Keep,
thinking we could hold them in siege until help came
from Rí Thuaidh, but we had acolytes who were
from Infochla and Gabair and some of them
betrayed us, opening one of the gates. The gardai
came storming in, and though we defended the
cloister as well as we could we're not trained to
fight. The betrayal of our acolytes went
deeper-these gardai also knew where the clochs na
thintrí were kept." The Moister sighed, his rheumy
gray eyes flared. "They took them all, Ennis. All."
 "Moister . . ." O'Deoradháin breathed. "I didn't
know . . ."

  Moister Cléurach grunted, interrupting him. "The
clochs na thintrí were all they were after. They fled
as soon as they had them, returned to their ships
and sailed away. When our Rí finally sent men and
ships-too few of both, and far too late-they were a
fortnight gone. Then the mage-lights began to
appear everywhere in the sky, heralding the
Filleadh, and we knew all hope to recover them was
lost. The Order may have the knowledge to teach
cloudmages, but now we have no clochs to give
them." The Máister's sour face regarded Jenna
briefly, then returned to rest on O'Deoradháin.
"And what do you bring us, Ennis, you who we sent
out to find Lámh Shábhála? More tales of failure, no
doubt."
 "I bring you Jenna Aoire," O'Deoradháin
answered. "The tale is hers."

  "Aoire . . ." The word was a hissing intake of
breath. The clerks looked up from their work and
Moister Cléurach’s gaze returned to Jenna. He
stared at her face. "Aye, I see it now. The shape of
your face, your eyes . . . You could be an Aoire-a
family whose fortunes, I must tell you, have
declined greatly in my time."

 "My great-mam was Kerys Aoire," Jenna told the
Moister, "and my great-da was an acolyte here
named Niall, though I don't know his sur-name."

  Moister Cléurach visibly trembled as Jenna spoke,
his hands clenching together at his breast. "I know
that tale and those names, and I know Niall's
surname," he answered. "I know because I was sent
here as an acolyte the following year, and the gossip
about Niall Mac Ard was fresh and new among the
acolytes and Bráthairs, since they'd known him."
  "Mac Ard?" Jenna couldn't stop the words, which
stabbed her so that she could hardly breathe. "Niall
was a Mac Ard?"

  Moister Cléurach glared at her as if she were a
dim-witted student. "Aye. That was his name. A
well-known Riocha name in Tuath Infochla, and
Gabair, too, where a Mac Ard was once Rí long ago.
Most of our acolytes are Riocha. You would hear
many famous names among them.
  Jenna felt dizzy and nauseous. My great-da was a
Mac Ard . . Did Padraic Mac Ard know that? She
glared at O'Deoradháin angrily. "You knew!" she
said to him. "You knew and you didn't tell me."
  He was shaking his head, and the confusion in his
face seemed genuine

  "No, Jenna. I swear I didn't. I knew the story, aye,
but not the acolyte's surname ... All that happened
forty years before I came here as a boy. It was just
an old cautionary tale given to the acolytes and
Mall's last name was never mentioned. None of us
were old enough to have known them, and the elder
Bráthairs who might have been here then wouldn't
talk about it."
  "They were told not to talk about it," Moister
Cléurach interrupted. "It was a foolish deed done by
a naive young man that cost him his life, and what
was important was that it not happen again, or we
might lose one of the stones we knew were true
clochs. What Niall stole was probably just a pebble
and not a true cloch, and almost certainly not the
cloch it was reputed to be."

 "Moister," O'Deoradháin said, "Jenna is the First.
The Holder of Lámh Shábhála."

  The Máister’s eyes widened in sudden realization
and he frowned at her so harshly that Jenna took an
involuntary step backward, her hand going to the
cloch under her tunic. Her sleeve fell away, exposing
the scars, and Moister Cléurach huffed once. He
glanced back-the clerks were staring also, and he
waved a hand at them. They scattered, leaving the
room by the rear door as Moister Cléurach turned
back to Jenna and O'Deoradháin. "Then . . ."

 "Aye, Moister," O'Deoradháin told him. "The cloch
Niall took was what it had been said to be."
   "No ..." Moister Cléurach protested, then his
mouth snapped shut and his eyes narrowed. He
seemed filled with a cold anger as he regarded
Jenna again. "If you hold the cloch Niall Mac Ard
stole from us, then Lámh Shábhála is not yours, but
the Order of Inishfeirm's." He held out his hand, as
if he expected her to place the stone there.

  Jenna returned his glare. Her arm throbbed as
she pulled the cloch out and forced the fingers of her
right hand to close around it. She shut her eyes
momentarily: no, there were no other clochs na
thintrí here other than the ones she and
O'Deoradháin carried. "Lámh Shábhála is its own,"
she told Moister Cléurach, "and it has chosen me."

  His eyes stared greedily at the stone. "That is the
cloch na thintrí I have had described to me. There is
a record of it here: we have paintings and drawings
of all the clochs na thintrí that were in our collection,
and I recognize this-there was no other like it. So ...
plain."

  "And your Moister at the time thought the stories
about the cloch being Lámh Shábhála were false, or
that it was at best a minor stone," Jenna retorted.
"That's what my great-mam believed; that was
what Niall had told her."
  "Indeed, that was Moister Dahlga's belief,"
Moister Cléurach responded "He wasn't the most
intelligent man and I heard him say that myself, but
what else was he going to claim but that bit of
wishful thinking? We thought the stone lost at
sea-Mall's body was found a few days later on the
coast of Tuath Infochla and brought back here; we
believed your great-mam had suffered the same
fate until two years ago, when we learned that she'd
actually lived, and that her son-Mall's child-had left
Tuath Infochla and traveled south. By then we also
knew that mage-lights would return soon, and so we
sent out some of the Bráthairs to look for this
offspring of Niall Mac Ard in case he still had the
cloch that might be-" He stopped. His lips pressed
together. "-that was Lámh Shábhála."
  "You're mistaken if you believe you have any
claim to Lámh Shábhála," Jenna told him. "Not after
what my family's gone through. Not after what I've
gone through." She looked at O'Deoradháin. "And I
made a mistake coming here." She turned on the
balls of her feet, ready to leave.

 "Wait!" The note of panic in Moister Cléurach’s
voice halted Jenna in midstep. "Why did you bring
Lámh Shábhála back here?"
  O'Deoradháin answered. "She came to learn,
Moister. She came because I told her that you
would teach her to be a cloudmage, a Siúr of the
Order. She came because this was her family's
home and I told her that the Order would help her.
If all that's wrong, and I've unintentionally lied to
Jenna, then you can have my resignation. I'm
leaving with her."
   O'Deoradháin's rebuke put color in Moister
Cléurach’s cheeks. His chest expanded as if he were
about to shout something in return, then he let the
breath out with a sigh. "I'm sorry," he said simply.
His hands opened in a gesture of apology, then fell
to his sides. He sat on the edge of one of the desks,
slumping. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It's just that
it's all gone, everything Moister after Moister
worked for over the centuries. He knows-" Moister
Cléurach pointed to O'Deoradháin-"but do you? Do
you know why the Order of Inishfeirm came to be?"
 Jenna shook her head, silent, still half-turned
away.

  "Come with me, then," he said. He started to walk
toward the door through which his clerks had gone,
then stopped at the door when he realized that
Jenna wasn't following. "It will be easier if you see,"
he told her. "I promise you that it's not a trap." He
held the door open.

  Reluctantly, with another glance at O'Deoradháin,
she went through.
           Chapter 38: The Vision of Tadhg



  THEY walked down a corridor of marble flags.
Twin rutted hollows were worn in the hard stone,
unpolished and stained: the marks of countless
sandaled feet over countless years. Jenna realized
then just how old the White Keep was. The halls of
the Order were quiet; the conversa-tions that
drifted from the open doors they passed were
whispered and hushed. Even the laughter she heard
once had the sense of being muffled and held back.
The occasional acolytes and Bráthairs-no females,
Jenna noticed-they met in their walk gave a quick
bow of obeisance to the Moister, but Jenna felt their
eyes on her, curious and wondering.
  They came finally to a set of ornate, twin doors of
bronze, the metal cast with curling flourishes and
spirals that Jenna knew all too well: the same lines
that marked her arm. Moister Cléurach pushed the
doors open and beckoned to her to enter.

  The room was large, with columns of polished
marble in two rows down either side. At the end of
the hall was a huge statue, easily twenty feet high,
larger than any carving Jenna had ever seen: the
figure of a man, elderly yet still vital. He was a
seeming giant, his clóca white and flowing as if in
some unseen breeze, his skin tanned, the eyes a
startling blue under grayish, thin hair. He seemed to
look directly at them, his expression solemn yet
pleasant. His right arm was raised, the fingers
curled into a fist as if he held something, and on the
dome above him were painted the hues of the
mage-lights, dancing in a black sky dotted with
stars. For a moment, Jenna couldn't breathe,
staring at the colossus. "Go on," Moister Cléurach
told her. "Look closer . . ."
  Jenna walked down the wide corridor between the
columns, her foot steps echoing loudly. The gaze of
the statue seemed to follow her, watching her as she
approached. It was only when she reached the
railing set a few yards before the statue that its
regard left her. "Go up to him," Moister Cléurach
said. "Touch him." She could hear Moister Cléurach
and O'Deoradháin following behind. She went to the
statue, her head reaching only halfway to his knee.
She spread her left hand on the leg, expecting to feel
cold, painted marble.
  The leg was warm, and the flesh seemed to yield
under her touch. She drew her hand back with a
gasp, half-expecting the giant to be looking down at
her with a sardonic grin. "That is the founder of our
order and its first Moister-Tadhg O'Coulghan,
Holder of Lámh Shábhála and the da of Severii
O'Coulghan, who would be the Last Holder." Jenna
could hear amusement in Moister Cléurach’s voice.
"And no sculptor carved this image of him, No, the
chisel was Lámh Shábhála, the marble the stuff of
the mage-lights, and the artist Severii. He made this
image of his da with the dying power of the cloch in
the last days of the mage-lights." Moister Cléurach
gave a soft laugh. "It startles all the acolytes in the
same way, the first time they touch it. The statue
has remained warm and soft and lifelike for over
seven centuries now."

 "I've never seen anything to equal it," Jenna said.
She touched the statue again, wonderingly. The
detail was exquisite: the pores of the skin, the fine
hair of the legs. She almost expected to feel the
pulse of blood under her hand.
  "Tadhg saw that the clochs na thintrí were being
used primarily as weapons, that the possession and
holding of them was the cause of dissent and war
and death." Moister Cléurach continued, his voice
reverberating from the dome above them. "He
believed that they should be used not as weapons,
but as tools. He and a few followers built the White
Keep, using the powers of their clochs to create the
buildings, erecting in a few years the work it would
have taken hundred of laborers and artisans a
dozen years or more to create. Yet as the Holder of
Lámh Shábhála, he also could sense that the
mage-lights were beginning to weaken, that the
time was approaching when they would die
completely and the power in the clochs would
vanish with them. He was right, for that would
happen in his son Severii's holding. Tadhg felt that
there must be a repository, a place where
knowledge of the clochs and how to use them could
be kept alive over the long centuries of their
sleeping. That was the public task of the Order-to
keep safe the old knowledge, to be the place where
the Riocha and others would come to learn the ways
of the cloudmage."

 "The Order's public task," Jenna said,
emphasizing the word, and Moister Cléurach
nodded as if pleased.
 "Aye, and as you suggest, there was also a private
task. Tadhg envi-sioned the Order gathering to it
most of the clochs na thintrí after their magic was
gone and forgotten. That, he knew, would be
impossible at first, but as the years and decades
passed and the clochs were given to sons and
daughters, and then given to their sons and
daughters, they would become pretty jewels, their
power forgotten or dismissed. Then, Tadhg
believed, they could be bought or acquired in other
ways-when a tiarna sent his son or daughter here to
be an acolyte of the Order, one condition was that
the child be given the family's Cloch Mór, should
they possess one. And if that acolyte took the vows
of the Order, then the cloch would be passed on not
within the family but into the Order. As Tadhg
perceived it, long centuries later when the Filleadh
came, it would be those of the Order who held the
majority of the Clochs Mór. It would be the Order
that created the cloudmages. It would be the Order
that en-sured that the wars and strife and fighting
didn't happen again. It would be the Order that put
together a better world, one where the clochs na
thintrí were used not for death and fighting, but for
life."

  Jenna glanced up again at the statue, at the face of
Tadhg, imagining him saying those words. It was
easy to visualize that kindly face speaking. The
words awakened an echo inside her. Yet . . . "That's
an admirable goal," she said. "But not an easy one.
And 'better' for whom? The Riocha? That's who
holds the clochs, that's who send their children to
the Order, so even if the clochs hadn't been stolen,
you'd have been making cloud-mages of Riocha, and
war is exactly what they've always used them for."

 Moister Cléurach took a long breath yet didn't
answer. "This way," he said. "There's more to see."
  They went out from Tadhg's Hall and back to the
corridor. Moister Cléurach stopped before another
door, this one simple, thick wood. "Try to open it,"
he said.
  Jenna glanced at him, but went to the bronze
handle of the door and Pushed, then pulled. The
door rattled in its frame but wouldn't open. "It's
tacked," she said.

 "Keep trying."

 Moister," O'Deoradháin interjected, but Moister
Cléurach raised his hand, ringer to lips.
 "It's nothing you didn't try, Ennis. Let her."

  Jenna looked at O'Deoradháin; he shrugged. Jenna
pushed and pulled again at the door, then again. The
third time, there was a snap and sudden pain like
quick sharp knives ran up her arm. "Owl" she
exclaimed, step ping back and shaking her hand,
which still tingled.
  Moister Cléurach’s expression was solemn, but
she thought she saw amusement in his eyes. "Most
acolytes try the door at one time or an-other," he
said. "The truly persistent and curious are the ones
who feel it is that not so, Ennis?"

 "Aye, Moister," O'Deoradháin answered. "Tis."

  Moister Cléurach placed his hand on the door.
Jenna heard him start
to speak, then he stopped and removed his hand.
"You know the word
don't you, Ennis?"                              %
 O'Deoradháin took a step back, his eyes a bit wide.
"No, Moister. How would I . . . ?"

  Moister Cléurach snorted derisively. "Don't treat
me like a fool, Ennis O'Deoradháin. I'm not as blind
as some of you Bráthairs might think."

  With a glance at the old man, O'Deoradháin put his
hand against the wooden planks and spoke a soft
word that Jenna could not hear. A violet light
glimmered around his fingers. The door swung
silently open. "The ward was placed on the door by
Tadhg himself," Moister Cléurach said. "And 'tis no
less strong now than when I was shocked by it,
many years ago." He nodded toward O'Deoradháin.
"The opening word is at best an open secret. Only
the Moister, the Librarian, and the Keeper are
supposed to know it, but acolytes and Bráthairs
have sharp ears, and some elders aren't as careful
as they might have been. Eh, Ennis?"

 O'Deoradháin blushed and said nothing.

  The room they entered was a library, Jenna
realized, far bigger than the small chamber in the
keep at Lár Bhaile, the interior airy with light from
windows in the east and west walls, and filled with
three rows of long tables. The smell of musty
parchment filled the air, and scrolls sat in wooden
notches along the south wall, while the north wall
held leather-bound flat volumes. Also along the
north wall was a large wooden cabinet. Its doors
hung askew, torn from their hinges. An elderly
Bráthair sat at a desk at the front of the room, a
parchment spread out in front of him. As they
entered, he bowed to the Moister and left the room,
his right leg dragging the floor as if he could not
bend the knee or move the limb easily.

  "This room is where the knowledge of the Order is
written down and kept," Moister Cléurach told
Jenna. He walked over to the ruined
cabinet-Shoving aside the broken doors, he pulled
out one of several trays. She could see that the tray
was lined with black velvet and separated into
several compartments, all of them empty. Jenna
heard O'Deoradháin suck in a breath as the Moister
displayed the tray to them. "And here . . Here was
where our clochs na thintrí were stored: behind the
locked and warded Library door, and the doors of
this cabinet were warded with slow magics as well."
  Moister Cléurach dropped the tray onto one of the
tables. The sound was loud and startling. "Tadhg
O'Coulghan's vision was a long one and correct," he
continued. "We did acquire many of the Clochs Mór
over the centuries, and we kept the knowledge and
we held to his dream." His fist slammed against the
table. "And it was all taken away. Stolen just before
Tadhg's future came to fruition." He glanced at
them, his voice bitter, his mouth twisted. "The same
acolytes who betrayed us let the invaders into this
room, knowing the word as you did, Ennis. Librarian
Maher was badly injured resisting the gardai; you
noticed that he still hasn't fully recovered. Keeper
Scanlan died of his wounds that night. The acolytes
and Bráthairs resisted as well as they could with
sword and slow magics, and twelve of them died in
the hall outside. The raiders took the clochs, all of
them. I suppose I should be grateful that they left
the books and scrolls or that they didn't set fire to
the library as they fled. But this . . . this was enough.
You've seen the consequences."

  "I wondered," O'Deoradháin said. "I wondered
why there seemed to be so many Clochs Mór with
the tuatha. Now I know why. Tiarna Mac Ard and
the Rí Gabair, or perhaps the Tanaise Rig-they
must have planned this not long after the
mage-lights appeared in Tuath Gabair."
  "Aye," the Moister nodded. "The clochs are again
in the hands of the Riocha, and again they are used
for war."

 Moister Cléurach shook himself from reverie,
standing again and rub-bing fingers through the
fringe of unruly white hair. For the first time, the
frown lifted from his face, though he did not smile.
"I will teach you, Jenna Aoire," he said. "I will teach
you to be the cloudmage who holds Lámh
Shábhála."

  "You'd teach a woman?" she asked, remembering
the acolytes she'd seen.
  "In Tadhg's time and Severii's, when the clochs na
thintrí were still active, we had female acolytes
here, and Siúrs of the Order. Not many, true, but
some of the Holders were women-for Lámh
Shábhála as well as other clochs, as you must know.
Aye, we would teach them. It was only after, when
the mage-lights had stopped, that we also stopped
accepting women into the Order. So few were sent
us then and so few came here on their own . . ."
Moister Cléurach shrugged. "Eventually habit or
circum-stance becomes the rule, and rule tradition.
But tradition broken is also soon forgotten."

  His hands seemed old and tired as he picked up
the empty tray and slid it back into its place in the
cabinet. He pushed the broken doors together. "At
least they didn't get Lámh Shábhála," he said. "Stay,
and I will teach you what is in the books here. You
will become a Siúr of the Order."

 "And Lámh Shábhála?" Jenna asked. "The cloch
my great-da stole?"

  "You're its Holder and the cloch is yours," Moister
Cléurach replied. "I would be pleased to have the
First Holder also be a cloudmage of the Order." He
gave her a rueful smile. "It seems you'll be the only
one."
 Jenna looked at O'Deoradháin, knowing what she
wanted to do and wondering if he knew as well. He
nodded to her. "Not the only one," Jenna told the
Moister. "Ennis . . . ?"
  O'Deoradháin pulled his cloch from under his
clóca. The ruby facets gleamed in the light
streaming into the library from the windows facing
west and the lowering sun. "This isn't the cloch you
sent me to find, Moister," he said. "But I hold the
Cloch Mór that was once held by the Mac Ards of
Tuath Gabair."

 "And this . . ." Jenna reached into the pouch at her
belt, bringing out the sea-foam green jewel that
Tiarna Gairbith had once possessed. "This is
another Cloch Mór, though I don't know its long
history. " She placed it on the table in front of
Moister Cléurach. "1 give it to the Order to do with
as you will. Consider it payment for my tuition, and
a small compensation for what my great-da took."




                 Chapter 39: Training



  IT was harder than Jenna imagined. "Moister
Cléurach is an excellent mentor," O'Deoradháin told
her the first day. "I/you can stand him." That
wasn't an exaggeration. The Moister had an
encyclopedic knowledge of the lore of the clochs na
thintrí and was seemingly able to call up in his mind
the pages of the entire library of the Order, but he
was also sometimes impatient with Jenna, who
be-came his only student. He was initially
exasperated by the fact that Jenna could neither
read nor write. At first he refused to go further until
she learned her letters, then a few minutes later
reversed himself after finding that Jenna's memory
was quick, facile, and reliable.

  "I suppose the Holder of Lámh Shábhála deserves
different treatment than a common acolyte," he said
grudgingly. "If you weren't halfway intel-ligent,
you'd already be dead." It was as close to a
compliment as she was to receive for the next
several weeks.
  The first day, looking at a scroll filled with the
bright, painted images of clochs na thintrí, she let
the scroll roll itself up once more and she held up
her own cloch to his eyes. "Why didn't you know for
certain that this was Lámh Shábhála, since the first
two Máisters of the Order both had held this cloch
themselves? For that matter, why didn't Lámh
Shábhála get passed on to each of the Misters in
turn? I don't understand."

  "You need patience," he replied. "The answers will
come in time, when they will make the most sense
to you."
 "I want the answers now," she persisted.
 "I'm the teacher, you're the student. I will
determine when you're ready, what you'll learn, and
when."

  "Aye, I'm the student. And it's my duty to tell you
when I don't under-stand something so that you can
explain. Don't put me off with platitudes and pleas
for patience. When I ask questions, tell me what you
know or tell me that you don't know."
 "You're an arrogant young lady."

  "And you're a crotchety old man who is used to
easily cowing the boys who are sent to you because
you look sour and mean. Your appearance and
reputation aren't going to frighten me, Moister
Cléurach. A year ago I might have been as terrified
as any of them, but not now. Here's one thing I've
learned in that time: when someone refuses to
answer me, they either don't know the answer to
my question or they're deliberately with-holding it
for reasons of their own. Which is it for you,
Moister?"

  They glared at each other for a few breaths, then
Moister Cléurach snorted. "The Holders of Lámh
Shábhála evidently have their obstinate streak in
common," he said. "As well, evidently, as a tendency
to view the world in dualities. One thing I hope you
learn here is that things are more complicated than
that. You're seeing conspiracies when the truth is
more innocent and banal."

  He shook his head, rapping his fingernails on the
table a few times before continuing. "Here's your
answer: Severii O'Coulghan was not Tadhg. Though
he did serve as Moister here, which was his da's
dying wish, the truth is that he didn't share Tadhg's
sweeping vision for the Order. The clochs went dead
late in his Holding, and Lámh Shábhála finally died a
year or two afterward. Had Tadhg been the Holder
then, he would certainly have given Lámh Shábhála
to the Order as the ultimate prize of its collection.
Then, when the mage-lights returned, we would
have seen them shining here over Inishfeirm and
known that the time of the Filleadh was
approaching. We would have had Lámh Shábhála to
protect us if raiders came to plunder the clochs.
Severii had the cloch, though, not Tadhg. Rather
than treasuring the cloch for the Order, he gave
Lámh Shábhála as a gift to his lover." Moister
Cléurach gave a sniff of derision. "Lámh Shábhála is
not the most beautiful or most striking of jewels, as
you know," he continued. "If anything, it's rather
plain. And love, as you may also know, is an emotion
that can fade and die like the mage-lights. Severii's
lover one day abruptly left the island never to be
seen again. With him went Lámh Shábhála."

 Jenna's face must have shown confusion. "Him?"
  Moister Cléurach shrugged. "Life is complicated,"
he replied simply and continued his tale. "No doubt
Lámh Shábhála was eventually given away or lost
or misplaced as something not particularly valuable.
When Severii was asked by the librarian for a
description of Lámh Shábhála, so that it could be
painted and written down in our books . . ." Moister
Cléurach went to one of the shelves and pulled down
one of the bound volumes.

  "The Book of Lámh Shábhála," he said, placing it
before Jenna. He opened the stiff leather cover, the
smell of dust and old paper wafting over Jenna. His
bony forefinger pointed to an illustration on the first
page: a cloch held in someone's hand: caged in silver
wire; whorled with emerald-green and mottled
gold; the size of a duck's egg and glinting as if
transparent and full of hidden depths. Jenna could
see hints of the actual stone in the representation,
but this was Lámh Shábhála magnified and made
far more jewel like than the reality.

  "Obviously, that's not Lámh Shábhála," Moister
Cléurach said. "Perhaps Severii deliberately lied to
the artisan-wanting to make the loss of the cloch
and his lover all the more poignant. Or it's possible
that the artisan, knowing that this was Lámh
Shábhála, the greatest of the clochs, could not see it
as ... well . . . plain, and Severii obviously never
contradicted that image. So when a rather
ordinary-looking stone reputed to be Lámh
Shábhála did come back to the Order, you can
understand why my prede-cessors doubted the
identification when they looked here. That's also
why, when your great-da stole it, Moister Dahlga
could believe that it was a false cloch that had been
lost, not Lámh Shábhála."

 "1 do understand," Jenna said. "And is what's
written in this book also false?"

  "In this book is written all that Tadhg and Severii
told us of Lámh Shábhála, and all that we have
learned since. Some of it is undoubtedly untrue or
exaggerated or rumor; other portions are certainly
true. You'll help us revise this at the same time
you're learning from it."
  "I have another question," Jenna said, and
Moister Cléurach sighed audibly, though he said
nothing, waiting. "Sometimes, when I've used Lámh
Shábhála, I've heard the voices of all of its Holders.
Some of them have spoken of a test, 'Scrúdú,' they
call it. What is that?"

 Moister Cléurach sighed. His fingers brushed the
parchment where the false image of Lámh Shábhála
was painted. "The Scrúdú ..." he breathed. "Not all
Holders need to know that."
 "That's not an answer, Moister."

  He glared at her, but continued. "Right now, Lámh
Shábhála is like a Cloch Mór, more powerful and
with more abilities than any of those, aye, but still a
Cloch Mór. Many Holders have been content with
that, and spent their years with the cloch that way.
No one will think less of you if you do the same."
 'Finish your answer, Moister. Please."
  He snorted in irritation. "A few, a few Holders
have found the full depths of Lámh Shábhála’s
power. To do so, they must first pass the trial they
call the Scrúdú. I will tell you this, Holder Aoire:
most who try fail"

 "And if they fail?"

  "If they're lucky, they die," Moister Cléurach
replied. His stare was unblinking and cold. "If you
believe that to be overdramatic, I assure you it's
not."

 "Is this Scrúdú in your book?"
  "It's mentioned, but neither Tadhg or Severii ever
risked the challenge. But the process, the way to
begin and what happens then . . ." He shrugged.
"They-the voices in the stone-will tell you later if
you're foolish enough to make the attempt. I would
advise you to first learn something about being a
cloudmage."
  Jenna started to speak, but Moister Cléurach
closed the book sharply, surprising her so much that
her mouth snapped shut again. Dust rose from the
pages, so heavy that Jenna had to turn her head
and sneeze. "You've used up your quota of
questions for a month, Holder Aoire. If you have no
interest in the lore we have to give you, you're
welcome to leave. If not, then henceforth you'll
learn when I'm ready to teach and not before. Is
that quite clear?"

  He glared at her, his head turned sideways,
looking so stern that Jenna suddenly felt compelled
to laugh. "Aye," she told him, as his face softened
slightly in response to her laughter. "I suppose I can
work on my pa-tience."
  Moister Cléurach might be old, but he was hardly
decrepit. If anything, his stamina was greater than
Jenna's. The schedule over the next weeks quickly
fell into routine: every morning, O'Deoradháin
would wake her by knocking on the door of her
small cell, located near Moister Cléurach’s own
rooms. She broke her fast with O'Deoradháin in the
same dining hall as the other acolytes and Bráthairs.
O'Deoradháin then escorted her to the library,
where she and Moister Cléurach worked until
sundown.
   Moister Cléurach had given over his other duties
and students; Jenna's instruction was now his only
task. She learned about the clochs na thintrí. their
history, their behavior, their quirks, how previous
Holders had dealt with handling their power. She
was shown meditations that helped her deal with
the pain of her interaction with the mage-lights, she
was guided through the bright landscape she saw
when she looked at the world through Lámh
Shábhála’s eyes. She and Moister Cléurach pored
over the texts left by previous Holders of Lámh
Shábhála, and Jenna realized that I had only
touched on the surface of the cloch's abilities. As
Moister Cléurach had said, some of what was stated
in the book was false, but much more of it
illuminated pathways within the cloch that Jenna
had not even guessed at. The Moister pushed her
and prodded her, never letting her rest, taking her
past what she thought were her physical and mental
limits, never accepting less than her best effort.
  "Was he this way with you?" she asked
O'Deoradháin after a particu-larly grueling day.
"After all, he expected you to hold Lámh Shábhála
had you found it. Did he drive you like this?" They
were standing on a balcony of one of the White
Keep's towers, overlooking the crags and cliffs atop
which the cloister perched. The houses and
buildings of the village were a collection of dots far
below already in deepening shadow. Only the upper
rim of the sun was still visible, the clouds above
burning molten gold and rose, the waves of the sea
tipped with shimmering orange. A sparkling column
of wind sprites lifted from the cliffs halfway down
the mountain, and several seals had hauled out of
the sea, roaring and honk-ing where the waves
crashed foaming onto black rocks.

 "Consider it a good sign," O'Deoradháin grinned.
"He's hardest on the ones he feels have the most
potential. The time to worry is when he's easy on
you."
  "You still haven't answered my question. Was he
this hard on you?"

 O'Deoradháin smiled again. "That would be telling,
wouldn't it?" Jenna laughed and his smile grew
broader. "I knew you could do that," he said.

 "Do what?"
 "Laugh. Enjoy yourself."

  Jenna felt herself blushing, and she glanced down
toward the village so that she wouldn't have to look
at him. Her flight from Lár Bhaile now seemed ages
ago, and over the intervening months her feelings
toward O'Deoradháin had been slowly changing:
from suspicion and caution to grudging admiration,
to friendship, to ... she didn't know how to term
what she felt now. Or perhaps you're simply afraid
to give it a name, for all manner of reasons . . .
Below, the seals were leaping into the waves, one
after another, dozens of them. "Are those blue
seals?" Jenna asked to shift the subject, but
O'Deoradháin moved closer to her to peer over the
balco-ny's stone railing. She could feel the heat of
his body against her side.
  “I don't think so," he said. "Just the normal harbor
seals. There's a family of blues here, but they're
usually on the other side of the island."

 "Are they . . . ?"

  "The ones I first swam with?" he finished for her
softly. "No. That was on Inish Thuaidh itself. But
I've been with this group, when I felt the need.
They know me, and Garrentha, who saved you at
Lough Glas is one of the Inishfeirm family." His
hand touched hers on the railing – her right hand.
She didn't move away this time. His fingers
interlaced with hers, pressing gently. Though the
fingers of that hand, as always, moved only stiffly
and with some pain, she pressed back. "Jenna . . ."
he began but his voice trailed off. The throng of
wind sprites rose in the darkening air, chattering in
their high voices as they swarmed past Jenna and
O'Deoradháin before darting around the bulge of the
tower.

  "What were you going to say, Ennis?" Jenna
asked, and O'Deoradháin chuckled. "What?" she
said into his laughter.
 "I think that may be the first time you've called
me by my given name."

  She smiled back at him. "Is that wrong? Is that
too familiar for you?"

 "No," he answered, still smiling. "I like the way
you make it sound."
  They were still holding hands. "Ennis . . ." she
began, and this time the
tone was different.

 "I know. You don't have to say it."
 Her eyes searched his. "What do you know?"
  "I'm a bit too old for you. A bit too strange. A bit . .
." He shrugged. He let her hand fall away from his
grasp. "I understand all that. Truly. But I hope you
know that I will always be your ally. When you need
my cloch to stand with you against the other Clochs
Mór-and I don't think that can be avoided-I will be
there."

  He started to turn away. She reached out with her
left hand and touched his arm. "Wait, Ennis."
  His head tilted, his gaze questioned. Jenna
reached up for him, slowly, wondering at the
gesture even as she made it. She brought his head
down to hers. The kiss, when it came, was softer
and sweeter than she expected, and longer. There
wasn't the bruising urgency there'd been with
Coelin; there also wasn't the awkwardness. This was
deeper and stronger.

 It was more frightening.

  The fright overwhelmed her. She turned her head,
breaking off the kiss. His breath was warm at her
ear. She heard him swallow.
 "I'm sorry, Jenna," he said. "I shouldn't have . . ."

 "Tell me that you have no more secrets, Ennis."

 A quiet, tentative laugh. "None that I know of."
 "Then tell me that you won't hurt me the way
Coelin did."

   His arms closed tight around her, pressing her
close. "Not the way he did, no. I can't promise that
I'll never hurt you, Jenna. But I'll promise that I'll
love you, for as long as you want me."
  "Ennis ..." She didn't know how to say it, to tell
him how scared she was of this, how confused. How
she didn't--couldn't-trust her own feelings, not after
Coelin's betrayal. That the things he had told her
about himself did matter, even if she said they
didn't. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if
shaking the cage of its confinement; her pulse
throbbed in her temples, and the pain of her arm
came again, making her close her eyes. She shook
her head. "I'm not ready ... I don't know . . ."

 He nodded. She could see the hurt in his eyes. His
hands left her. "Ah," he said. He tried to smile. "I
understand," he said. "I do."

 She wanted to explain it all to him, but she had no
words.
  The seals called plaintively below them, and the
sun's disk slipped below the line of the sea.
            Chapter 40: The Ri's Request



 "JENNA?"
   The knock on the door was tentative, and the
husky whisper was that of Ennis. Jenna blinked
sleepily. It was dark in the room, though dawn was
just beginning to paint the sky. Jenna reluctantly
put the covers aside and drew her night robe closer
around her in the cold air as she sat up.

  After their conversation a few days before, she'd
hoped he might come to her, that he might begin
the conversation again, that he might kiss her and
she would let herself open to him. She'd also feared
the same thing, not knowing what she wanted.
There was an awkwardness now when they were
together, when their arms accidentally brushed. She
wanted to be next to him; she was frightened to get
too near. Not now. Not this way . . . she thought as
she moved to the door. No! Let him in. You want
the feel of his body on yours, his mouth . . . another
part of her shouted. She opened the grille in the
center of the door and peered through, and all the
voices inside died as she saw his face.

 "Ennis? What's the matter?"

  Ennis' face, candlelit, filled the opening on the
other side of the grille, serious and unsmiling.
"Moister Cléurach would like to see us in his rooms
immediately."
 "What's wrong?"
  His lips twitched under the beard. "Nothing's
wrong. We have . .. a visitor. A Riocha from Inish
Thuaidh, from the Ri's court in Dún Kill- He's on his
way up from the village; a runner was sent ahead to
alert us.

 Jenna felt her stomach lurch. You can't escape the
politics, even here . . . "I'll be there as soon as I'm
dressed."

  Her stomach settled, and the voices returned. She
could do it; she could unlatch the door, let him slip
inside . . . But Ennis gave her no chance to act on the
impulse.
 "Good. I'll tell Moister Cléurach that you're on
your way. Quickly!" With that, Ennis turned, and
she saw the yellow glow of his candle mov-ing off
down the corridor.

  Moister Cléurach glanced up from his desk as they
entered. One of the acolytes was already there with
a tray of tea and scones, placing it on a table to one
side of the room. He bowed out as Moister Cléurach
waved toward the tray, taking a sip from his own
cup. If Moister Cléurach knew about the attraction
between Ennis and Jenna, he gave no indication,
though he looked at them strangely, standing close
but not too close to each other. "Have some tea. Get
yourselves warm and awake."
 "Who'd they send, Moister?" Ennis asked.

  A single shoulder lifted. "The runner didn't know.
All he said was that it was a tiarna who claimed to
be here at the Ri's request. And who was anxious
enough to get here that he crossed the water at
night. He'll be here soon; I've been told the carriage
is already at the main gate."

 Jenna cupped her right hand around the welcome
warmth of the steaming mug. "What does he want?"
  "There are still other allegiances among the
Bráthairs and acolytes," Moister Cléurach
answered. "We haven't been able to eradicate all the
spies among us. I'm certain that rumors have left
the White Keep and gone to Inish Thuaidh as well as
the mainland, saying that the Holder of Lámh
Shábhála was here. At least our visitor's from
Thuaidh and not another troopship from one of the
tuatha. I'd hoped to have another few weeks to
prepare before this started, but it would seem-"
  There was a knock at the door. Moister Cléurach
sighed. "Would you let him in, Ennis?"
  There were a quartet of people in the corridor:
three gardai in blue and white, and one other who
stepped in through the open door, leaving the gardai
behind.

 It wasn't a him. It was a woman.

  She was tall, with long white-blonde tresses
trailing from underneath a hood the color of spring
grass, and Jenna decided that the woman was older
than Maeve by several years. Her large eyes were
the same deep green as her overcloak, dominating a
round face networked with fin wrinkles. She
shrugged out of the overcloak and tossed it
uncaringly over the nearest chair. Her clóca was a
lighter shade of green and finely embroidered; the
leine underneath snowy white. An ornate, thick torc
of beaten gold hung around her neck, and rings
adorned her fingers. Moister Cléurach came
hurrying from behind his desk to greet her, and to
Jenna's surprise, bowed low as he approached.
"Banrion," he said. "I would not have thought that
Rí MacBrádaigh would send you on this errand."

  "I insisted, Moister Cléurach," the woman said.
"Or do you think that the return of the Holder of
Lámh Shábhála to Inish Thuaidh isn't impor-tant
enough for me?" Her voice was pleasant and low
with a hint of amusement just below the surface.
But there was a careful posturing to her tone and
stance, as if she kept her emotions well concealed
and in-tended them to remain so. She glanced at
Jenna and Ennis, and Moister Cléurach coughed.
  "My pardon, Banrion. This is Holder Jenna Aoire
and Ennis O'Deoradháin, both cloudmages of the
Order." Jenna, startled at the title given her, looked
quickly at Moister Cléurach, but his eyes told her to
say nothing. He nodded at the woman. "And this is
Banrion Aithne MacBrádaigh, wife of the Rí
Thuaidh, Ionhar MacBrádaigh."

  The woman's verdant gaze rested on Ennis for a
breath, then went to Jenna, cool and appraising.
Jenna, unlike Ennis, didn't politely lower her head,
meeting the woman's eyes. "Ah," the Banrion said
with a slight twist of her lips. "So very young. I
expected someone older and more . . ." she paused,
as if considering the next word, ". . . sinister in
appearance," she finished. "For being the Mad
Holder who gleefully murders Banrions, you look
innocent enough."
  Jenna flushed, taken aback. For a moment, she
could not speak at all though her mouth opened in
protest as Banrion MacBrádaigh continued to stare
at her. "That wasn't my intention. Truly. Banrion
Cianna was ill and weaker than I thought. I wish it
hadn't happened."

  The Banrion gave a slight nod at Jenna's protest.
"Then the rumors of the destruction of the bridge to
Rí Gabair's Keep and the death of twenty or so
gardai are, no doubt, exaggerated as well. Or were
also not in-tended."

 "There is some exaggeration there, aye, Banrion."
Jenna blinked. "But won't deny there was also
intention-it was my life or theirs. 1 chose mine."

  Again the lips curled in a slight smile. "A choice
most of us would make, I think. So you are more
complicated than you appear." The heat Jenna's
face increased as the Banrion's gaze dropped to
Jenna's right arm "The marks of the Holder . . . May
I see Lámh Shábhála?"
  Her tone held the expectation of obedience.
Reluctantly, Jenna pulled the cloch out from under
her leine. The Banrion took a step toward her and
leaned closer to examine it, but made no move to
touch the stone. After a few moments, she stepped
back again. "It's plainer than I would have thought."

 "That's an oversight others have made," Jenna
answered, "mistaking an ordinary appearance for
weakness."
  The Banrion laughed aloud, clapping her hands
twice, the sound loud in the cold morning. "And you
have a bite to your words as well. Excel-lent. I can
understand how that fool Torin Mallaghan managed
to under-estimate and lose you. He may be Rí
Gabair, but he holds his title mostly for his name,
not his ability. And that woman he married. My
niece's blood was more her mam's than that of my
brother." The Banrion laughed again at the
expression on Jenna's face. "Aye, Cianna was my
niece. Rí Mallaghan thought that perhaps it might
be a good alliance; as usual, he was mistaken. You
needn't worry, Holder. I had no love for her
conniving, scheming soul. But you might be advised
to avoid my brother; a da's love for his daughter is
less objective, I'm afraid."

  She turned from Jenna back to Moister Cléurach.
"The Rí requests that you and your cloudmages
appear at the court. There are ... implications that
must be discussed. The Comhairle of Tiarna will be
meeting in Dún Kiil in a fortnight, and they are
anxious to meet the First Holder. As you might
expect, there are complications to Holder Aoire
being here in Inish Thuaidh, and we've already
received open threats from Tuatha Gabair, Infochla,
and Connachta, insisting that she be returned to
them for vari-ous crimes committed in their
territories." Aithne smiled thinly. "I don't think any
of us are fooled as to the actual reason they'd like to
have the Holder. It's the prize she wears, not her
that they want."
 This time Moister Cléurach lifted his head. "The
Order is not subject to the Ri's commands," he told
the Banrion. "That's clear in Severii's Char-ter, as
I'm certain the Banrion is aware."

  "I'm aware of the charter, Moister," Aithne
answered calmly, "even if a charter seven centuries
and more old is hardly relevant to today's situation ,
and I suspect the signatures at that time were made
more under duress than by actual agreement with
Severii's desires. I said it was a request, not a
command, yet the importance of this can't be
denied. After all, I was sent, not some anonymous
messenger, and the Comhairle has been summoned.
The Order may have its independence, but
Inishfeirm is the Rís land and the Order but a small
part of the island. Nor do I see an army here to
protect you should the Tuatha decide to attack."
  "The Rí should have thought of that a few months
ago."
  Jenna saw the folds around the Banrion's eyes
tighten at the remark but Aithne still smiled grimly.
"That was an unforeseen and a terrible mistake on
all of our parts-I'd remind you that your request for
help was rather after the fact. Perhaps my husband
would have stationed a garrison here if there had
been a suggestion from the Moister that the Order's
clochs na thintrí were so vulnerable." Her hand
waved, dismissing their words. "None of that can be
undone now. It would be more terrible to make a
second mistake, now that we realize the import of
the clochs."
  "I agree, Banrion. But I must still consider this.
Will you stay with us? I could have one of the
acolytes take you to the guest cells, and you're
welcome to break your fast at our table . . . ?"

  Aithne's lips tightened slightly. She glanced at the
tray with its tea and few scones. "No," she said. "I'll
return to my lodgings at the Black Gull. I think that
may be slightly more comfortable. But only
slightly." She picked up her overcloak and wrapped
it around herself. She strode toward the door, and
Ennis barely managed to open it before she reached
it. Jenna wondered if she would have bothered to
open it herself. Jenna heard a conversation
suddenly go silent as the gardai outside
straightened and fell in to flank the Banrion. Aithne
turned back and nodded to Moister Cléurach,
Jenna, and Ennis. "Holder Aoire, it was good to
meet you. Moister, I'll expect to hear your answer
this afternoon before my ship departs. I trust it will
be one that the Rí and the Comhairle hope to hear,
and we'll take ship together."

  The footsteps of the Banrion and her entourage
echoed loudly in the marbled halls.
  "We only have one answer, you realize," Moister
Cléurach told them as they stood on the balcony
watching the Banrion's carriage wind away down
the long road to the village. "Making her wait for it
is just so much pettiness. But it feels good,
nonetheless."

  Jenna almost laughed. "She's frightening. Those
eyes, the way she stands, the tone in her voice."

  "You haven't met Rí MacBrádaigh, Jenna," Ennis
told her. "Behind his back, they call him the Shadow
Rí. It's Banrion Aithne who is the true power in
Inish Thuaidh. She's the one the Comhairle of
Tiarna listen to. The Banrion didn't come here
because the Rí requested it; she came be-cause
that's what she wanted to do."
  "And she knows we'd realize that," Moister
Cléurach finished. He took in a long breath as the
Banrion's carriage vanished behind the trees at the
first switchback, and let it out again loudly. The
cloud that emerged from his mouth echoed the mist
that cloaked the base of Inishfeirm and hid the sea.
They seemed to be standing on an island floating in
fog. "The Banrion has her faults, but she's fair and
what she does, she does with all of Inish Thuaidh in
mind, not just herself. I might not entirely like her,
but 1 do respect her. Most dangerous of all would be
to underestimate her."
  "I don't think that will happen, Moister," Jenna
answered. I did that once before, with Cianna. . . .
Jenna felt the hair at the base of her neck rise with
the memory, and a twinge of pain sliced up her right
arm.
  "Go prepare yourselves to leave," Moister
Cléurach told them. "I'll send a messenger to her
after the noon meal and tell her that if she will wait
until tomorrow morning, we'll accompany her." The
elderly man snorted. "She'll likely bite the head off
the poor acolyte I send, but it will do the Banrion
good to spend a night here in the Black Gull's beds,
don't you think?"

 "I doubt the innkeeper will ever forgive you,
Moister," Ennis com-mented.
A fleeting smile was the only answer.
               Chapter 41: Cloch Storm



   THERE were seals at the harbor quay. Jenna was
disappointed to see that they were the common
brown harbor seals and a few grays. Jenna
wandered down to see them as she and Ennis
waited for the Banrion's entourage and Moister
Cléurach to arrive. The Banrion's ship, the name
Uaigneas-Loneliness-emblazoned across its prow,
cast a long shadow over the harbor front, and Jenna
glanced at the ship as she walked along the beach
with Ennis. Uaigneas dwarfed any craft Jenna had
seen before, with a sparred central mast that
seemed to prick the lowering clouds and six oars per
side for use when the wind died. She could see
several sailors on the deck and more swarming near
it where it was docked alongside a long wharf
extending out into the bay. The sides of the ship
were painted in the blue-and-white colors of Inish
Thuaidh in sweeping curves that were reminiscent
of the long swells of the ocean.
  "She's magnificent, isn't she?" Ennis said. Jenna
nodded, silent. His hands touched her shoulder;
before he could move away again, she leaned back
against him, luxuriating in the feel of his closeness.
But though he remained where he was, he wouldn't
put his arm around her and his voice was carefully
neutral. "We Inishlanders know how to build ships.
Infochla may claim to have rule of the Westering
and Ice Seas, but though they have more ships, ours
are the better. The Banrion's ship is one of the best,
which is why her captain was unafraid to sail at
night. Inishlanders understand and respect the sea
because it surrounds us. Even in the mid-dle of
Inish Thuaidh, the ocean's but a day's ride away and
its whims and its moods touch the entire land."

  A hoarse roar punctuated the end of Ennis'
sentence, and they both turned to look. A quartet of
blue seals was hauling out on the rocky beach,
Jenna glanced at Ennis; he nodded to her. "Go on,"
he said and for the first time that morning, a smile
touched his lips. "They've come to see you, not me."
  She approached the group: a bull, two cows, and a
pup. They watched as she and Ennis walked closer,
their utterly black eyes glistening, their glossy fur
rippling with sapphire highlights. The bull hung
back, but the pup waddled awkwardly forward;
when Jenna crouched down in front of the animal, it
nuzzled the hand she held out. The pup's breath was
warm, its fur damp velvet. The larger of the two
females came forward also. Up close, the seal
smelled of brine, an odor Jenna found strangely
pleasant. As the female came closer, Jenna took in a
breath of wonder: the cow's fur was mottled in
color: dark gray swirls and curlicues interrupted the
blue-black and the fur there was stiff and wiry, as if
the animal had been injured.

  The pattern in the cow's fur was the same as the
scars on Jenna's right hand.
  The cow spoke, uttering a long string of moans
and gargles and Jenna glanced back at Ennis. "She
offers welcome to their land-cousin, the Holder," he
said.

 "Land-cousin?"
  Ennis lifted a shoulder. "The blood of the
Saimhóir-that's their name for themselves-is mixed
with many Inish families. They say the Saimhóir
can sense when a human has but a touch of their
blood in their ancestry. She's saying that you're one
of them." The seal spoke again, a bark and a braying
cough. "She also says that I'm a poor translator and
you should use the cloch."
  "The cloch . . . ?" Jenna touched it. Curiously, she
opened it slightly until she saw the seals in both her
own vision and that of the cloch's energy. She closed
her eyes, then opened them again, startled, when
she heard the seal's voice.
  "Land-cousin, can't you taste the salt in your
blood? Thraisha is my name and Garrentha, who
fought the darkbeast that attacked you, was of my
milk." The words came overlaid with the sound of
the seal's own language and came not from her ears
but through Lámh Shábhála. Around Thraisha,
there was a strange radiance in the cloch's vision,
something Jenna had never experienced before.
  Jenna laughed in wonder, glancing back at Ennis
with wide eyes. Thraisha, you can understand me
now when I speak?" Jenna asked, and she knew the
answer immediately: her voice came back to her
altered in the moans and calls of a seal.

 "The language of Saimhóir is part of your blood,
and Lámh Shábhála allows you to tap that part of
yourself," Thraisha responded. "And I have chased
and swallowed Bradán an Chumhacht, the first
bright salmon of the mage-lights, which has come
back to us. I am like you and I bear the marks. Aye,
I understand you through Bradán an Chumhacht as
you understand me through Lámh Shábhála."

  Jenna blinked. "You've eaten a fish that gave you
the ability to tap the mage lights?"
  Thraisha gave a series of pants that translated as
laughter to Jenna's ear. "And you have a stone that
gives you power?" she said, mimicking Jenna's tone
of astonishment. "Why, the land is full of stones."
She laughed again. "The sea has changed as the land
has changed, and things swim under the waves that
have not been glimpsed since the last change of
currents. Did you think that you humans were the
only ones who could tap the power above or who
could use the slow magics? The gods made us all;
why should they gift only you?" The seal lifted her
gray, bristled muzzle. "I am First for the Saimhóir
as you are First for your kind. I understand your
pain; I have endured it also."

   With the words, a foaming, cresting wave of force
rose from within Thraisha and enveloped Jenna.
For a moment, as the false surf swept over her,
Jenna felt the memory of the Filleadh, the agony
she'd felt as she'd opened all the clochs na thintrí to
the mage-lights . . . and at the same time she saw
herself as Thraisha, undergoing the same brutal
trial under-neath the sea and nearly dying as the
energies tore at her. It had been worse for
Thraisha, Jenna realized-she had nearly
succumbed, saved only by her bull mate who had
lifted her to the surface and held her above the
water for long hours as Thraisha lay senseless.
Jenna cried out, a wail of her own remembered
torment all mingled with Thraisha's suffering as she
sank to her knees in front of the seal, not caring that
the rocks were wet or that the spray from the slow
breakers washed over her legs and clóca. Her arm
ached and throbbed, the fingers of her right hand
knotting as muscles cramped and protested.
Thraisha lurched forward and Jenna cradled the
seal's head against her breast as she might a child,
her breath choked with a sob. She heard Ennis start
forward behind her, then stop as the bull roared
once at him in warning.
  "We are closer than sisters of the milk," Thraisha
said softly. "We know, you and I. We know . . ."
Thraisha's head pulled away and Jenna reluctantly
let her go. "Bradán an Chumhacht isn't Lámh
Shábhála; what it gives me is not what the stone
gives you," the seal said to her. "One gift it brings to
me is a small foretelling, a glimpse of possibilities. I
am seer and this is what I've seen: our fates our
linked together, my sister-kin. That's why I wanted
to meet you."

 "What do you mean? How are we linked?"
  Thraisha moved her head from side to side with a
gurgling wail. "That I don't know. I can't see it. But I
know we will be together again, and in one vision of
those possible futures, we die together. I've seen
Bradán an Chumhacht swim from my dying mouth
and Lámh Shábhála fall to the ground from your
hand."

  The bull roared loudly behind them and Thraisha
gave a snort. "Your people are coming and I must
go now. We'll talk again." With a lurch and a roll, the
seal turned to leave. The bull waited, but the other
female and the pup had already slipped back into
the water, calling to Thraisha.

 "Wait!" Jenna cried. She stumbled to her feet,
Ennis running forward to help her up. "I want to
know more."
  "You will," Thraisha called. "We both will, when
it's time." Thraisha was at the water's edge; she
half-fell, half-dove into the water. The bull
lumbered after her. A moment later, her sleek head
reappeared. "Beware the storm," Thraisha called to
her. "It doesn't follow you; it travels with you."
 "Thraisha . . . !"
  The blue seals dove as one. She could see their
muscular bodies just below the surface, seeming to
fly in the water, as graceful in their element as they
were clumsy on the land.

 "Mages!"

  The voice came from the wharf. Jenna and Ennis
turned as one, Jenna releasing her hold on the cloch
at the same time. As the cloch-vision left her, the
brilliance seemed to wash out of the world, leaving
the colors muted and gray. The Banrion was
standing there looking down toward them. Moister
Cléurach stood next to her; behind, their luggage
was being loaded into Uaigneas. "Consorting with
seals isn't something I expected of the First
Holder," Aithne commented. "I especially didn't
expect to hear you growling and wailing like one of
them. Will we find you chirping at gulls, as well?"
She didn't wait for an answer. "The captain says we
should sail now, while the tide is running out. We're
boarding."

  The Banrion gestured to them and strode
purposefully toward the ship, the gardai falling into
place alongside her. Moister Cléurach stared a
mo-ment longer, then followed her.
  "Jenna . . . ?" She glanced back to the water, its
rolling surface now Unbroken. Thraisha and her
companions had vanished. Ennis' hand stroked her
right arm, trailing down the stiff flesh and falling
away again "We need to go." She nodded.

  Inishfeirm lay only five miles off the coast of Inish
Thuaidh, but they were making for the harbor of
Maddygalla, twenty miles eastward around a
cliff-walled headland-a full day's journey. Jenna had
to admit that the Uaigneas was far more
comfortable than the small fishing boat in which she
and Ennis had made the crossing from Talamh an
Ghlas. The ship rode the waves easily with a gentle
rocking motion, the sail billowing on the mast above
them, spray curling from the bow as it cut the
gray-green water. Jenna stood with Ennis at the
starboard rail; the Banrion and Moister Cléurach
were talking near the stern. Jenna watched the
water, won-dering if she might see the shapes of the
seals pacing the boat, but there was nothing but the
occasional gull or cormorant diving for a fish.
Behind, Inishfeirm slowly receded, the White Keep
glinted atop the summit as the sun moved in and
out of clouds.
  "What are you thinking?" Ennis asked. He was
standing next to her, a careful arm's length away.
She leaned toward him, enjoying his closeness and
attention, imagining that she could feel the warmth
of his body against the chill sea breeze.

  "I'm thinking that we're walking into another
snake's nest like the Ri's Keep in Lár Bhaile. I'm
thinking that there are still too many things I don't
know. I'm wondering if I have a baby brother by
now or if I'll ever see my mam again. I'm wishing
that I had the courage to say ..." She stopped
herself. ... to say to you all the things I want to say.
She sighed, and gave him a wan smile. "I'm
wondering about Thraisha's words. Did you know
about her, Ennis?"
 "Aye, a bit. I knew the tales the Saimhóir told
about the mage-lights and Bradán an Chumhacht,
and I knew from Garrentha that her milk-mother
had eaten the salmon." His hand was near hers on
the railing. It she moved, she could touch him. "I
figured that she'd come looking for you."

  The sun cloaked itself again though its light still
danced on the waves well out from them. Jenna
shivered. "Are there more? Other things like the
cloch na thintrí held by other creatures?"
 "Probably. The books in the library talk of eagles
and wolves having their own magic and they hint of
dragons with the same. There may others."

   She glanced up at his shadowed face. "When did
you last see dragon?" He smiled back at her for a
moment, the expression lightening his face, and she
started to laugh with him. Jenna lifted her hand, put
it on top of his He looked down at their intertwined
fingers as he spoke. "Never. Moister Cléurach says
he doubts they exist at all. But I hope he's wrong,
Now that would be a sight. . ."He suddenly dropped
his hand away from the railing, his gaze moving past
her shoulder. "Banrion," he said. "Moister. Good
morning."

  That earned Ennis a grunt from Moister Cléurach
and a flick of the Banrion's eyes before her gaze
went to Jenna. "We hardly need to make polite
small talk here. Let me be blunt. You don't seem to
like me, First Holder," Aithne said.

  "Banrion-" Jenna began, but the woman raised
her hand. "You don't need to either acknowledge
that or try to smooth it over. I simply state the fact.
The truth is, Holder Aoire, I don't much care if you
like me or not. All that matters to me is that I
understand where your loyalties lie, so that I know
how we can work together. Your mam, I
understand from Moister Cléurach, is the consort of
Tiarna Mac Ard of Gabair and is carrying his child."

  Her tone made it clear that she felt the word
"consort" was closely related to "whore," and the
quick shift of her gaze to Ennis indicated that she
might feel that Jenna was little more than that
herself. Jenna's eyes narrowed as if she'd been
slapped, and it was difficult to keep her voice civil.
"Aye, Banrion, that's true, if she hasn't already
delivered the baby." The wind freshened slightly,
and Jenna felt a drop of rain touch her cheek. But as
to my loyalty ..." Deliberately, she put her arm
through Ennis', who nearly jumped before his
mouth spread into a grin. "This man helped me
where no other would. And the Order and Moister
Cléurach have taken me in and I owe them for their
kindness. Past that, I am loyal only to Lámh
Shábhála. My enemies are those who would try to
take it from me." Jenna started to remove her arm
from Ennis's, but he brought his arm in to his body
to hold her.

  That's well said," the Banrion answered. The wind
tossed her light hair lifting the glossy strands from
her shoulders as it turned around to blow from the
northwest. A splatter of rain drummed over the
wooden deck and Jenna glanced up to see the clouds
gray and lowering over the oat, though well out in
the channel she could still see sunshine, and the
White Keep shone far behind. "You'll find that most
of the Riocha here share your attitude. Inish
Thuaidh isn't Tuath Gabair, where the Ri's word is
law. Ask Moister Cléurach how difficult it is to get
the Comhairle agree on an action, even if the Rí
wishes it."
  Above them, canvas snapped angrily, and
Uaigneas heeled over abruptly, causing all of them
to reach for ropes and railing to keep the balance as
a wave crashed white and gray over the side of the
shin drenching them. Thunder grumbled
somewhere close by, and the day had gone as dark
as twilight, though sunlight played on the horizon all
around. Sailors scurried across the deck as the
captain came over to them
"You told me this would be a fair day for sailing,"
the Banrion shouted at him over the rising wind
  The captain had a hand in the pocket of his oiled
overcoat, as if the shifting deck were solid ground
and he were out for a stroll. "That is what all my
experience said, Banrion," he answered. "But blows
like this can come suddenly and without warning.
You and your guests should go below-it's becoming
dangerous up here."
  Another wave pounded the ship, the prow lifting
high then falling, sending Moister Cléurach
sprawling. Ennis reluctantly let go of Jenna and
helped him back to his feet as the rain began to fall
in earnest, cold and stinging. The captain alone
seemed unperturbed by the ship's motion, one hand
still casually in his pocket. Jenna could see nothing
past the rippling gray curtains: Inishfeirm had
vanished, as had the chalk cliffs of Inish Thuaidh.
The captain shouted to his men to reef the sail
which was threat-ening to tear apart in the gale,
and to man the ship's oars. "Banrion, please," he
said. "I can't be responsible if you stay on deck."

   The ship lurched, turning as the captain shouted
directions to the man at the tiller. Jenna followed
Aithne to the small deckhouse and down the short
flight of stairs into a cabin barely large enough to
hold the four of them and the trio of gardai. The
wind howled and cold seawater poured in through
the hatch before Ennis and one of the gardai
managed to push it shut. Uaigneas rolled again,
more sharply this time, and they heard an ominous
cracking and splintering above, accompanied by a
scream. Then the ship seemed to shake off the
waves and finally right itself, lifting first bow, then
stern. "The captain's turned her to run before the
wind," Ennis said. "We're going where the storm
wants to take us."
  A garda abruptly and noisily threw up. Jenna
fought not to be sick herself from the smell and the
seawater and the ship's wild careening, For an
interminable time, like the others, she huddled in a
corner of the cabin , leaning against Ennis with eyes
closed as she tried to sleep, her hands out to brace
herself. She must have managed to actually doze for
bit, but a sharp roll of the ship brought her awake
again.

  "Beware the storm ..." Thraisha had said that
before she left, and Jenna wondered if she'd
glimpsed this. She'd said more, as well. Jenna took a
breath trying to remember as the ship seemed to
rise, hesitate a moment, hen plummet back into the
sea. "It doesn't follow you; it travels with you."
  Jenna remembered the sunlight, playing on the
horizon and the peak of Inishfeirm. The storm
hadn't come streaking from across the sea toward
them; it had developed rapidly above them.

 ". . . it travels with you ..."

  She fumbled under her soaked clothing for the
chain that held Lámh Shábhála. She let her mind
touch the cloch as she forced stiff fingers to wrap
around the stone; her awareness drifted outward
with the cloch's energy.
 Aye. There . . .

  Another cloch na thintrí was aboard, its bright
energy spraying out-ward and upward, and she
could sense the mind wielding it: one that knew the
waters of the channel, knew the ship and how much
wind and heavy seas it could handle. Driving us east
and south with the storm, toward Talamh an Ghlas .
..

  Jenna pushed herself to her feet, trying to
maintain her balance on the rolling, wet planking
and still hold onto Lámh Shábhála. "Open the door!"
she shouted above the shrieking wind and the
drumming of the rain. "Ennis! I need you!"
  Ennis noticed Jenna's hand on her cloch, and he
immediately clenched his own. The Banrion noticed
as well. "Open it!" she ordered the nearest garda.
"Go with the Holder."

  The garda pushed open the door; water and
sheets of sleeting rain poured in as the garda, then
Jenna and Ennis, forced their way up the stairs to
the deck. "Can you feel it, Ennis?" Jenna shouted to
him, blinking against the assault of rain and wind.
The crew was at the oar seats, drenched and
grim-faced with the task of keeping the ship from
being swamped in the heavy seas.

  "Aye!" Ennis pointed to the bow of the ship, near
the tiller. The captain was there, his gaze turned up
toward the sky. One hand remained in the Pocket of
his overcoat.
  "I'll hold him," Jenna shouted to him. "You and
the gardai take him."
 Ennis nodded. Jenna let herself fall into Lámh
Shábhála’s worldview.
  There, the captain's Cloch Mór was a maelstrom of
gray and black, swirling and rotating and as yet
unaware of her. Psychic winds howled and
screeched around it, and Jenna knew those could be
directed at her as easily as they now pushed at the
ship. She opened Lámh Shábhála fully, letting its
radiance swell outward until it touched the cloudy
black; as it did, she felt the captain's awareness
shift, sensing the attack even as she brought her
cloch's energy down on and around the interior
storm It battered her, the winds tearing at Lámh
Shábhála’s hold like a furious animal. The cloch's
strength surprised Jenna, and for a moment the
maelstrom nearly slipped through as doubt entered
her mind. A gust of wind slammed into Jenna,
sending her staggering backward. She went to her
knees, gasping and taking in water from the rain
and the waves, but she held onto the stone, pushing
back again at the other cloch's dark energy

  She had no choice. She could feel the power
draining from Lámh Shábhála with every passing
second, but she knew that the same was happening
to the captain's stone. Lámh Shábhála burned in her
hand searing her flesh with ice, and she forced
herself to hold tightly to it knowing she would pay
afterward.
  A bolt of lightning cleaved the inner vision, and
from the deck there was a cry of pain and alarm.
The maelstrom faltered; Jenna pressed in against it
and it collapsed completely. Jenna could see Ennis
and the gardai rush the captain, taking him down.

  Ennis' hand reached down, pulling the cloch from
the captain. There was a scream, a wail of wild
distress and loss. The wind slowly died; the rain fell
to a drizzle. The waves fell.
  "Well done, Holder." The Banrion was standing at
the entrance to the cabin, and Moister Cléurach
emerged behind her. The crew, appearing dazed,
were gazing about them in bewilderment as Ennis
and the gardai dragged the captain forward. The
man was weeping, and he stared at Ennis, struggling
to be released. "Give it back!" he cried. "I have to
have it. You must give it back!" In Ennis' hand was
a large crystalline stone, which he gave to Moister
Cléurach. The older man held up the gem: a mottled
smoky-gray like an approaching thunderhead.

  "It's named Stormbringer," Moister Cléurach said,
his face grim. "I know it-it's one of the clochs na
thintrí stolen from the Order." He walked up to the
captain, now moaning in the hands of the gardai,
and abruptly slapped him across the face. "Thief!"
he spat. "And worse you're a traitor." Moister
Cléurach pointed eastward.
  Under the clearing sky, they could all see four
ships well away to the east. Three of them flew
green-and-gold banners from their masts, and one
green and earth-brown: Tuath Infochla's colors, and
Tuath Gabair's. Jenna was still holding Lámh
Shábhála, not daring to let it go because she was still
borrowing the cloch's strength to hold off the pain
that would come. She could feel faintly, at the outer
edge of the cloch's vision, the presence of two more
Clochs Mór out where the ships lurked. "You were
sending us to them. You were to hand over the
Banrion and the First Holder."
 The man's head hung down. He didn't dare to look
up at them. "My cloch," he whispered. "Please ..."

  "You, First Mate!" Banrion Aithne called out to
one of the crewmen, who hurried forward. "You are
now Captain. Bring us around and take us back to
Inish Thuaidh." The man bowed, and began
shouting to the crew. They hurried up the mast and
started to unfurl the sail. Aithne turned back to the
former captain as the Uaigneas started a slow turn
back north and west, putting its stern to the waiting
ships. "Your life is forfeit," she told the weeping
man. "Kill him and toss the body overboard," she
told the garda holding the man. "His friends may
want to recover the body before the sharks find it,
but I doubt it. That will end his pain." The garda's
hand closed around the long knife at his belt and the
captain blanched, closing his eyes. The Banrion held
out her hand to Moister Cléurach. "And the Cloch
Mór 1 claim for the Rí."
  "No!" Jenna shouted. The garda stopped his
thrust in mid-motion; Aithne's head swiveled to
regard Jenna with eyes of green ice.

  "No?" she asked, her eyebrows raised. "I remind
you, First Holder, that you are on a ship I
command."

  "And you and your ship would have been in their
hands and your husband paying your ransom if I
hadn't been here," Jenna answered. "The cloch was
stolen from the Order of Inishfeirm and cloudmages
of the Order have won it back again."

  Aithne sniffed. Jenna could see her considering
her next words. "I sup-pose that's a fair statement,"
she said finally, though Jenna knew that did not
reflect her true feelings. "And what would you do
with the traitor, First Holder?"
   Jenna didn't answer the Banrion directly. Instead,
she turned to the former captain. "Look at me," she
said, and he lifted his head slowly. "I hold Lámh
Shábhála, and it can hear truth," she told the
ashen-faced man, though it pleased her to see a
flicker of uncertainty also cross the Banrion's face.
"Tell me a lie and I'll let the Banrion's order stand.
Tell me the truth and you might manage to live.
How did you come to hold Stormbringer?"
  "I'm sorry, Holder, Banrion," he said. "I didn't
want this . . ." He stopped, his face stricken. "My
son ... he was in fosterage to my cousin, a tiarna in
Infochla. Two weeks ago, a man came to me with
the cloch. He offered me . . ." The man gulped. "He
seemed to know that this would happen. He told me
what the cloch could do and said he would show me
how to use it. He promised that if I brought you and
the Banrion to them, I would be made Riocha
myself and could remain as the Holder of
Stormbringer. And if I failed. ... He made no direct
threats, but I under-stood that my son was a
blood-hostage, and he would pay for my failure.

  Holder, my son is all I have. My wife is dead, there
are no other children ..."
  He sagged in Ennis' arms, his face to the deck.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I betrayed you and the
Banrion. I'm sorry that my weakness will almost
certainly mean my son's death." His head came up
again. "Kill me," he said to Jenna. "I've lost my son;
I've lost the cloch. It hurts too much. Kill me and let
me rest. At least my son and I can be together in
the womb of the Mother-Creator."

  He closed his eyes, as if awaiting the dagger's
thrust. The garda looked at Jenna, then at the
Banrion, who shrugged. "Leave this judgment to the
Holder," she said.

  They were all staring at her. Jenna took a long
breath, not certain what to do. There were no good
decisions here, she realized. She felt sorry for the
man; he'd been well-trapped by Infochla. Now, his
livelihood was lost and he'd be forever branded a
traitor, his son likely dead. Jenna closed her eyes,
her fingers still around Lámh Shábhála, her arm
beginning to throb with the pain of using it. In the
cloch's vision, she could feel each of the people on
the ship, and in the water, nearby . . .

  "Throw him over the side," she said to the garda.
"Toss him in the water."

  Ennis started to protest, and the Banrion
chuckled. "You surprise me, Holder. A slow
drowning rather than a quick death ..."
  "Do it!" she told the garda, with a look of warning
to Ennis. Ennis let go of the man and the garda
pushed him toward the railing. He glanced back at
Jenna as the captain stared down at the cold water
rushing by. "Go on," Jenna told him.

  The garda pushed hard at the captain's back. He
tumbled over the side. The Banrion took a step to
the rail and glanced down. Already the man was
behind the boat, thrashing at the waves, gasping as
the frigid water leeched the strength from his body.
"Well, that's done," she said. "Holder, Moister ..."
She moved away, gesturing to the new captain.

  Jenna stood with eyes half-closed, watching and
listening through the cloch. A trio of Saimhóir were
close by: Thraisha was not with them, but
Garrentha was. Go to him, she whispered in the
voice of the stone, know-ing the seal would hear
her. Keep him alive and take him to the other ships.
  In her head, there was a warble of
acknowledgment from Garrentha.

  She released Lámh Shábhála, gasping as the pain
came to her fully, forcing herself to take slow, deep
breaths. Moister Cléurach looked at her, hefting
Stormbringer in his hand. Ennis gave her a
concerned frown, and nodded.

  "This will be the last Cloch Mór we take alone,"
she told them. "They’ll know now that one Cloch
Mór isn't enough against Lámh Shábhála, and they
won't make that mistake again." For a moment, she
felt she could glimpse the future, and it was dark
and bloody. She watched the sails behind them and
felt the touch of dread. Jenna rubbed at her dead,
cold arm as if she could scrub away the marks
there. The pain ripped from hand to shoulder and
into her chest. Her body trembled with it; she
closed her eyes and clenched her jaw to keep from
crying out. Ennis rushed over and took her in his
arms and she let herself relax into his grasp,
allowing him hold her up. When the worst of the
spasms passed, she pulled away from his embrace
and looked at the ships of the tuatha again, growing
smaller in the distance.

  "I don't know that we can survive when they all
come," she said.




                 Chapter 42: Dún Kiil



 LAR Bhaile and the Rís Keep were more
magnificent. Áth Iseal was larger. Ballintubber
seemed more inviting.

  At first glance, Dún Kiil was a gray town on a gray
mountainside be-yond gray water. Jenna knew the
impression was unfair-the weather had gone to
drizzle by the time they reached the seat of Inish
Thuaidh and the clouds were a landscape of
unbroken, featureless slate overhead. The bright
colors of the doors and the flowery window boxes
were muted, and most of the people in the streets
were intent on getting to their desti-nations and out
of the weather.
  The keep dripped. Jenna could hear the rhythmic,
echoing splat of water striking the stone flags, as if
the gods were keeping time to the Ri's welcoming
speech.

  Rí Ionhar MacBrádaigh of Inish Thuaidh was not
an impressive speaker or an impressive man. His
complexion was pallid, his voice mild, his physique
potbellied and flabby. Jenna could understand why
they called him the Shadow Rí behind his back;
already it had been made clear to her that the true
negotiations would take place with the Banrion and
the Comhairle of Tiarna. It was also clear to her that
the alliance of the Inishlander Riocha was a fragile
thing that might-and often did--break apart at any
moment. Already, half a dozen of the tiarna and
bantiarna to whom she'd been introduced had
leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially to
her that they wished to speak with her in private,
intimating that they were the true power behind
the throne. There was Kyle Mac-Eagan of Be an
Mhuilinn, short of stature and wide of girth, but
whose eyes blazed with a sharp intelligence and
piercing awareness; Bantiarna Kianna Cíomhsóg of
An Cnocan, a dark-haired woman whose beauty and
grace was still untouched in her third decade, and
who, Ennis whispered in Jenna's ear, was the match
of any of the men with a sword.
  There was also Árón Ó Dochartaigh of Rubha na
Scarbh, whose cheeks were as flaming red as his
hair and who towered a full head above Ennis. He
was also Banrion Aithne's brother, and the da of
Banrion Cianna. He glared at Jenna with
undisguised animosity, and she knew that she
already had at least one open enemy in the court.

 There were other rulers of other townlands
among the thirteen chief-tains of the Comhairle
whose names had already slipped Jenna's memory.
They stood before the throne, watching her as the
Rí spoke and the rain dripped through the roof of
Dún Kiil Keep. Behind the Comhairle stood the
minor Riocha and the ceil giallnai-a hundred or
more people gath-ered under the cold, seeping
stone vaults of the keep.

  After the first day, Jenna was already weary of
the politics and begin-ning to despair of the chances
of the Inishlanders' ability to hold off a concerted
attack. Moister Cléurach must have sensed her
thoughts, for he inclined his head toward her
through the Ri's droning speech. "We Inishlanders
come together quick enough against a common foe,
First Holder," he said. "And when there's no outside
foe, we make do with ourselves."
  "... and so we bid welcome to the First Holder, who
has brought Lámh Shábhála back to Inish Thuaidh,
where it belongs." The Rí finished with a nodding
bow to Jenna, and there was polite applause from
the gathered Riocha. Árón Ó Dochartaigh made no
pretense at all: he simply glowered.

  The Rí stepped down from the steps of the throne
as servants began to circulate through the room
with trays of drinks and appetizers. The sound of
conversation obliterated the softer tink of falling
droplets. The Rí ap-proached Jenna, Ennis, and
Moister Cléurach, and Jenna curtsied. "No, no,"
Ionhar clucked, lifting her back up. He smiled, and
Jenna had a sense that this was a gentle man,
someone who would be more comfortable with a
book or a goblet of wine in his hand than a sword.
His hands were soft and uncallused; the hands of a
scholar, nor a warrior. Under the rich cloth of his
clóca and leine, the muscles of his arm sagged.
   'I should be bowing to you, Holder, since it's
through you that the Banrion was returned to me.
Such awful treachery, and from someone I trusted."
He shook his oiled and well-coifed head. "This is an
ill omen, I'm afraid. I would like to speak with you
at length, Holder. Your tale, what I've heard of it, is
a strange one, and I thought-"

  "You thought that you would keep the Holder
from her well-deserved rest, my dear?" Banrion
Aithne came up behind Ionhar in a rustle of silk
"This has been a long and difficult day for her. The
tale should wait for another time, I think. Besides, I
wanted to steal Lady Aoire away for a bit and thank
her myself. I have a gift for her."
 Aithne, smiling, detached Jenna from the Ri's
attention, leaving Ennis and Moister Cléurach still
talking with the man. Ennis' gaze followed her as she
moved away, her arm through the Banrion's as the
older woman escorted her through the throng in the
Hall. It wasn't only Ennis who watched; Jenna could
feel the gathered nobility's appraising eyes on them.
The Banrion maneuvered them to a small door
hidden in an alcove. A garda stood there; silent, he
opened the door for them, closing it again behind
them. Jenna found herself in a smaller, comfortable
chamber, the air warm with a blazing fire in the
hearth and bright tapestries covering the walls with
golds, reds, and browns.

  In the room, also, were Kyle MacEagan and
Kianna Cíomhsóg. The two flanked the fireplace.
MacEagan nodded his head to Jenna; Bantiarna
Kianna simply lifted her glass goblet. "Would you
like some wine, Banti-arna Aoire?" the woman
asked.
  "That title doesn't fit a common sheepherder from
Ballintubber," Jenna said. "I'm not Riocha, Lady.
Please call me Jenna, or Holder, if you prefer."

  The woman simply smiled. "That's simple enough
to remedy. I don't think we'd allow the First Holder
to remain common. Do you, Banrion?"

 Aithne smiled at Jenna. "Hardly." She gestured to
one of the chairs before the fire. "Please sit, Holder."

  She brushed her fingers against Lámh Shábhála,
hoping none of them would notice the quick grimace
of pain as she let the cloch's energy drift quickly out.
She immediately felt two holes in the field where
Banrion Aithne and Kyle MacEagan stood: attempts
at shields. The hole around Banrion Aithne was
strong; the one about MacEagan much smaller.
Tiarna MacEagan has a clochmion and the Banrion
has a Cloch Mór that she didn’t t have on the ship.
Where did she get it? Jenna wished now that she'd
used Lámh Shábhála in the main hall to see how
many more of the clochs na thintrí were gathered
here. Does Árón Ó Dochartaigh also possess a clock,
like his sister?

  Jenna smiled, letting her hand drop away, and
took the offered chair, the Banrion took her seat
opposite her, though the other two remained
standing where they were. "I said I had a gift for
you. I do. Here . . ." She reached under her chair
and brought up a small packet wrapped in paper
and secured with a ribbon. Jenna untied the ribbon
and unwrapped the paper. A familiar smell wafted
out as she did so, and she stared down at the pile of
dried, brown leaves there. "On the ship, I saw the
cost of using

   Lámh Shábhála, so I asked my healer what the
ancient Holders used to ease their pain. He said
some of them used this, an herb that the Bunús
Muintir knew. You grind the leaves and make a tea
..."
  "I know," Jenna said, perhaps a bit too harshly.
"Andúilleaf. Thank you. I've . . used it in the past."
It would be pleasant to use it, just once again, to fed
all the pain and cold leave your body for a time . . .
She set the packet on a table next to her chair.
You'll leave it there. You won't pick it up. You won't
use it again ... At the thought, pain shot up her arm
again, and she grimaced. They watched her,
reminding her of crows standing on a tree limb
watching a dying rabbit. They'd take Lámh
Shábhála from you in an instant, if they thought
they could ... "I assume there's another reason I'm
here, Banrion."

  Aithne smiled; the other two chuckled as if sharing
a secret joke. "Evi-dently Moister Cléurach has
already told you that while my husband may have
the title, the Comhairle actually reigns. And we
three ... we hold the Comhairle. Four more tiarna
and bantiarna on the Comhairle have pledged their
votes to us when needed. The Rí will sign what I
place before him. So what we decide here-" her
hands spread wide-"becomes law." Aithne glanced
at MacEagan, and Jenna saw a look pass between
them, an affection that made Jenna wonder
whether there was more be-tween the two than
simple concern for their land or friendship.
  But Kianna stirred and drew Jenna's attention
away from them. "You realize that the Rí Ard won't
leave you alone here. The Rithe of the Tuatha are
afraid of Lámh Shábhála, if not of you. They'll come
here, and they'll bring an army of thousands,
supported by all the Clochs Mór they can muster."

 Jenna thought of Mac Ard and the Rí Mallaghan of
Gabair. She thought of Nevan O Liathain and what
he would advise his father, the Rí Ard. "I know," she
answered.

  "We remember the last time a Tuathian army
came here. It's been en-graved in the tales we tell
our children, in the history the sages keep, in the
very bones of the land. We remember the battles
and the destruction," Kianna continued. Her
finely-chiseled face frowned, placing lines around
her mouth and eyes. "We remember the deaths of
our ancestors: men, Women, and children alike. We
remember the smell of corruption and smoke when
Dún Kiil was sacked and burned. We remember the
flare of the clochs na thintrí as they tore at the very
land and changed it forever." Her eyes held Jenna's.
"We remember, and we wonder how we can
pre-Vent that from happening now. To us. To our
children. To our towns and lands."

 Jenna couldn't speak, held in Kianna's stern,
unblinking gaze. She had no answer, didn't know
what the woman wanted her to say. She opened her
mouth, then closed it again.
  "You frighten the Holder, Kianna," the Banrion
said, her voice holding a soft amusement, and the
spell was broken. "She's such a young thing . . ."
Kianna took a step back, though the frown didn't
leave her face

  "Young or no," she said, "she has to understand
the cost of her being here-the cost to all of us."

 "I'm sure she does," the Banrion purred. "Don't
you, Jenna?"
  "I do." Jenna put her spine against the chair's
back, rubbing at her arm She could smell the
andúilleaf, seductive and enticing. "I know they'll
come. I don't want that, but I can't stop them. As
long as Lámh Shábhála is here, they'll come."
  '"As long as Lámh Shábhála is here . . .'" MacEagan
commented. The brogue of Inish Thuaidh sat firmly
in his tenor voice. "Aye, that's the crux, is it not?"
  "Would you have me leave, Tiarna?" Jenna asked
him. She sighed. "Then give me a boat and I will sail
for Céile Mhor, perhaps, or-" She stopped as the
man laughed.

  "You misunderstand, Holder," he said. "If you
leave, then the likelihood is that Lámh Shábhála will
fall into the hands of the tuatha. If that hap-pens,
then Inish Thuaidh will inevitably fall to the Rí Ard.
We'd fight and resist, we'd run to the hills and hide,
coming out to kill them when they least expect it.
We would die to the last rather than submit but
eventually we would be conquered, because we
couldn't stand against the massed power of the
clochs and the army the Rí Ard can raise. But while
Lámh Shábhála is here, we might yet prevail." He
moved across the room to the window, pushing the
stained glass panels open. "Holder, I'd like you to
see this."

  Jenna rose, going to where the tiarna stood.
Looking out, she could see the ramparts of the keep,
built into a mountainside overlooking the har-bor.
Everything was cloaked in mist from the rain, but
Jenna imagined that on a clear day the view would
be breathtaking: the blue deep water, the curving
strips of white sand, the houses set in the lush green
foliage that cloaked the mountainside, the sheer
black rock of the cliff on which the keep perched.
  "They call this Croc a Scroilm, the Hill of
Screaming. When Máel Armagh of Infochla brought
his ships of war to Inish Thuaidh, when his
cloudmages brought him safely through the storms
our mages called up to stop him, it was here his fleet
landed, and here that the first battle was fought.
Then, there was no keep, only the flat top of the
mountain. The pregnant women, the young mothers
and their children, the elderly and infirm of Dun Kiil
fled here when the Infochla fleet sailed into the
harbor and they watched the battle from above. We
had no army waiting for them since it was thought
he would come first to attack Inishfeirm, where
Severii O'Coulghan, the Holder of Lámh Shábhála,
waited. Here there were only a few hundred gardai
and maybe a thousand pressmen, and only a single
cloudmage with her Cloch Mór. It was a slaughter,
and quickly over. Those Inishlanders Rí Armagh
captured-men and women both, for many of the
women fought alongside their men-he brought
bound and hobbled to the base of the mountain
below these cliffs where those gathered above could
see. With a wave of his hand, he had his archers fire
into the helpless captives, while those above wailed
in sorrow and terror and helpless disbelief. Then,
Armagh ordered his soldiers to climb the mountain;
when they reached the mourning crowds, his
sol-diers raped the women and their daughters and
killed the sons and old men, throwing their violated
bodies over the side of the mountain to join the
bleeding corpses of their slaughtered loved ones.
Some, according to the tale, jumped over the cliff on
their own rather than submit. They fell, all of them,
screaming ..."

  Jenna's hand had gone to her throat as MacEagan
spoke, imagining the horror of that scene. "We
remember," MacEagan finished. "We will always
remember. It was Severii who began the
construction of this keep after the Battle of Sliabh
Míchinniúint, where Rí Armagh met his fate. They
say it's the tears of those who died here that drip
inside the keep when it rains. I don't know if that's
true. I do know that the roof's been repaired and
rebuilt and redesigned a dozen or more times over
the centuries, and still the tears fall. I think they
remember, too."

  Jenna turned away from the window, MacEagan
closing it behind her. She saw that the stained glass
depicted the scene he'd just described: a woman,
her mouth open in a silent cry, tumbled over black,
jagged rocks. "What is it you're asking of me?" she
asked the trio.
  Banrion Aithne answered. "Some of the tiarna
advise us to wait, to prepare our armies for the
inevitable. That's the advice my husband listens to,
because it means he can sit in comfort and do
nothing. But while we sit, the tuatha make their own
preparations. We've learned that the Rí Ard has
ended the conflict between Tuath Connachta and
Tuath Gabair, and that he is actively working to
have the tuatha join together. If they all come, fully
prepared and allied, we can't stand."

 "What does your brother say?" Jenna asked.
  Aithne almost laughed. "So you've felt the knives
in his glare? Árón will be against anything that
involves you, I'm afraid. I'll deal with that when the
time comes. But . . ." She paused. "We here in this
room believe the time must be soon."

 The bright shattering of glass tore Jenna's gaze
away from Aithne__
 Kianna tossed her wineglass into the fireplace.
  "The Banrion is right," she said. "We must strike
first. Before the Tuatha are ready."

   The mage-lights came, and Jenna wearily pulled
herself front the bed to answer their call. As she
lifted Lámh Shábhála to their glowing strands of
energy, she could feel Ennis doing the same
somewhere nearby, and also Moister Cléurach
opening Stormbringer, which he had taken for
himself after having given Gairbith's cloch to
Bráthair Mundy Kirwan. The mage-lights seethed
and roiled above her, and Lámh Shábhála sucked
greedily at them, filling itself. Afterward, her arm
throbbed and ached, and it trem-bled as she
released the cloch, the pain shooting deep into her
joints.

 She went to the small chest of drawers beside the
bed. She pulled out the packet of fine, soft paper.
  "I must consider this," she'd told them. "1 need to
speak to Moister Cléurach and Ennis, for what
you're asking also concerns them. 1 need to think ..."

  The Banrion had nodded and given her that small,
cold smile. "Then we'll talk tomorrow evening," she
said. "But there is only one answer, Holder. I think
you already know that."

  Jenna had said nothing. She'd walked quickly from
the room, but on the way, without conscious
thought, she'd taken the packet Banrion Aithne had
given her . . .
  She put water over the hearth fire to boil, holding
the packet on her lap and watching the steam start
to curl from the small iron pot. When she heard the
first chatter of the boil, she took two of the leaves,
crushed them in her left hand, and sprinkled them
into the pot. The bitter smell of andúilleaf filled the
room and she sniffed it gratefully, already feeling
the pain easing in her arm and shoulder. She poured
some of the thicken-ing tea into a mug.

  For a long time, she sat there, just holding it and
inhaling the aroma. She could almost taste it. She
felt her body yearning for the brew, her hands
trembling around the mug, and yet she waited. She
could hear the voices in her mind, the voices of all
the old Holders.
 ... go ahead. I was a First Holder and it's what I
needed, too . . .

  . . . aye, and you were mad with it a mere five
years later, Caenneth-homicidal, fey, and insane,
and hated by those around you . . . I could take it or
not. I was never in thrall to it. . . . that's what you
wanted to believe . . . that's not what they said after
you were dead . . . it was all that kept me from going
crazy with the pain . . .

  The arguments echoed in her head, contradictory.
Her arm throbbed and sent stabbing flashes
through her shoulder and chest. Finally, she started
to lifted the mug to her lips.
 There was a harsh knock on her door. "Jenna!
Please open the door. I need to talk with you."

 "Go away, Ennis."
  "Jenna, open the door. I'm not going away." Again,
the knocking came. With a sigh, Jenna set the mug
down and opened the door. Ennis walked in. His
right arm was bare to the elbow, and she could see
the markings of the mage-lights beginning to scar
his flesh as it had hers-not as deep, not as defined,
but they were there. Seeing her gaze, he rubbed at
the arm.

  "It aches and throbs when I use the cloch or call
the mage-lights to me," he said. "But it's bearable. I
don't hold Lámh Shábhála. I didn't have to open the
clochs na thintrí to the lights. I don't have to bear
the power you wield." He glanced at the mug
steaming on the table. "Is that what you need?" he
asked softly.

  "I don't know." She bit her lower lip. Her right
hand was shaking, and she pressed it against her
stomach. "I'm afraid, Ennis," she said. "It hurts so
much, and the leaf . . . the leaf keeps the pain away,
at least for a little while, but I wonder ... I wonder if
I hadn't been taking it... the Banrion ... I was so
confused, so angry . .." She stopped. Her breath was
coming in short gasps, her chest tight. The room
swam in unshed tears.

  He was close to her, but he wouldn't touch her.
"You can't change what happened, Jenna. You didn't
have a choice then."
  "But I did." Her voice was nearly a whisper. "And
I have a choice now."
 "About the andúilleaf?"

 She shook her head. "No."

 "The Comhairle, then?"
 A nod. "I told Moister Cléurach . . ."

 "I know. And he told me. What do you think?"

  Jenna lifted her head. "I think they're right. There
will be war, no matter what we do, and if we strike
first, we have the best chance of prevailing. I also I
think it would be horrible and I don't want to be
part of it. The clochs na thintrí shouldn't be weapons
of war, Ennis, but that seems to be all they're ever
used for-to gain power."

 "Then tell the Banrion and the Comhairle that
your answer's 'no.'"
 "And there's even more death as a result. Right
here. For good or ill this is my home. This is where
my ancestors came from, and Ballintubber's lost to
me now. The Rí Ard and Tanaise Rig both stand
against me There's nowhere I can go in Talamh an
Ghlas. This is my home, the only one I have.
Shouldn't I defend it?"

  "You're arguing against yourself, Jenna, and that's
an argument you can't win." A gentle, sympathetic
smile touched the corners of his mouth creasing his
cheeks. His hand lifted, brushed her cheek, and fell
away. "Listen to your heart. What does it say?"

 Jenna gave a bitter laugh. "I don't know. I can't
hear it through all the confusion." She picked up the
mug of andúilleaf.
 "Will that help you hear it, or just cloud your mind
more?"

 A shrug. "Right now, I need something to lean on.
To help. This is what I have."

 "You have
me."

  Jenna started to speak. Blood pounded at her
temples. She took a breath. "Ennis . . ."
  His hand closed around hers on the mug, so tightly
that she gasped. "If you need this, then fine. I trust
your decision and won't stop you. But I'll be here,
too. I'll give you what I can, whatever you want to
take from me. I'll stand with you in whatever
decision you make. I'll . . ." He stopped. He was very
close, his green eyes not letting her look away.
 "Let go of the mug, Ennis," she told him. For a
moment, he continued to stare. Then he took a step
back, letting go of her hand.

  She looked down at the milky brew inside the cup,
at the promise it held. Very softly, she set the mug
down again. She walked over to Ennis, put her left
hand around his neck and pulled his head down.

 She pressed her mouth to his. He tasted sweet,
and she opened her mouth to him, an urgency and
need rising in her. His arms went around her,
drawing her close, his hands tangling in her hair.
Her lips clung to his, moist and soft, as he lifted his
head.

 "Jenna . . . ?" he husked.
  "Aye," she whispered back to his question. "This is
what my heart says. And for right now, anyway,
this is what I want."




         Chapter 43: The Dream of Thall Coill



 SHE was there, in the upheaval and the blood . . .
  Sliabh Míchinniúint, the Mountain of Ill Fate,
burned as if it were an ancient, slumbering volcano
come to vile life, spewing rivers of molten lava down
on its blackened and broken slopes, the earth
steaming with gray-white mists under the assault.
Only this was no natural fury; this was the terror of
a battle of cloudmages. Beneath black clouds the
armies clashed, and she was one of them: an Inish
clanswoman roaring her defi-ance at the armored
troops of Rí Máel Armagh, shouting her hatred of
the banners of green and gold gathered in a writhing
island of steel and flesh in the valley below. She
rushed down on them from the slopes among the
hundreds of her fellow clansmen, her throat raw
with the battle cry they called "caointeoireacht na
cogadh," the massed sound of it like the
thou-sand-throated scream of an angry god.
Overhead, the cloudmages called down lightning
and fire as great explosions clawed at the
mountainside with shrieking hurricane winds and
twisting black funnels. She and her fellow clansfolk
slammed into the Infochla troops with an audible
clash of iron on iron, bronze on bronze, the impact
stunning. Her first slash hewed off the sword arm of
a young Infochla soldier. The soldier-no doubt a
pressman boy of no more than fourteen, his face still
pimpled- screamed a thin shriek of terror and
shock, the arm pinwheeling to the ground still
clutching the sword, blood spraying wildly over both
of them. A blow struck her from the side, the bronze
shoulder plates of her leathers dimpling under the
impact. She went down on her knees, crying out as
she swung her own weapon, blinking away the blood
and seeing the edge of her sword slice through the
thin mail of her attacker and cut deep in his
abdomen. She struggled to her feet, knowing she
was screaming feeling the sound ripping her throat
but hearing none of it in the ferocious din of the
battle. There was blood everywhere and no way to
know if n was hers or her enemy's. She saw a flash
of green and gold; she slashed at it blindly. All
around her, Infochla soldiers fell, and still the
Inishlanders pushed forward, trampling the dead
into the mud underfoot. Above and around them,
the clochs raged, illuminating the battlefield with
their bright, awful lightnings. Something struck the
ground near her with a deafening ka-RUMPH: she
saw searing, yellow light and a dozen and more
soldiers, Infochla and Inishlander alike, screamed as
the fire consumed them in an awful moment,
leaving behind nothing but blackened skele-tons
that stood in an eerie imitation of their last poses for
a few seconds before dropping to the ground like
broken dolls.

  This was chaos. This was
slaughter.
  "This was how it was, Holder. This is how it would
be . . ." The voice seemed familiar, one of those who
spoke to her when she used the cloch. "Severii?" she
asked, knowing that he'd been there at the battle,
but she was now somewhere else, standing at the
edge of a high cliff in a small open space surrounded
by the dark, brooding presence of ancient oak trees.
Nearby there seemed to be a presence, but she
could not see it. It was as if there was a blank spot
in her vision where the presence lurked, so that it
vanished whenever she tried to look directly at it. Is
this Doire Coill? she wondered, and someone
answered as if she'd spoken aloud, a woman's voice
this time.

  "No, this is Thall Coill. This is the source and the
place of Scrúdú . . ." Jenna turned around-there was
nobody with her. And yet ... there was. She saw
them: a couple-a woman and a man, perhaps in
their early twenties, both of them leaning against
the trees at the edge of the clearing as if impossibly
weary. They panted, their breath steaming about
them in clouds although Jenna herself felt warm.
Around the woman's neck, out-side the soiled,
ragged clóca, was Lámh Shábhála. Jenna's hand
went to her own breast: no, Lámh Shábhála was still
there, on its chain, and yet ... "Hello?" she called to
the two, but though the woman's eyes were
searching the cliff top, she didn't seem to see Jenna
standing there or to hear her voice. She took a step
forward, staggering to where Jenna sensed the
presence, and fell to her knees. The man started to
come forward and she raised a hand to hold him
back.

  "No, Tadhg, I have to do this myself. Stay back.
Please . . ."
  Tadhg . . . The name hit Jenna with a shock-could
this be Tadhg O'Coulghan, the Founder of the
Order? Jenna could see the conflict in the plan's
face, the love and concern for the woman.

  "Peria, come back. You don't need to try the
Scrúdú. You hold enough power with Lámh
Shábhála the way it is now. We can go back, be
content with ourselves. Think of Severii if you won't
think of me; the boy will never know his mam ..."

  Jenna had the sense that this was an old
argument, one that both of them had been going
over and over for many days now, the protest and
responses so automatic that they weren't even
heard. The woman was shaking her head into
Tadhg's argument, pushing herself up from the
muddy ground. "I may be the Last Holder, Tadhg,"
she told him. "I've told you what the voices say-it's
the first few Holders or the last few who have Lámh
Shábhála when it's the strongest. By undergoing the
Scrúdú, the Firsts can create the path for the others
to follow; the Lasts can forge a legacy to last until
the mage-lights come again. I have to try."

  "Almost all who try, fail. You told me that's what
all the old Holders said, Peria."
 "I won't fail."
 "You don't know that. You can't."

  Tadhg started forward again, and again she lifted
her hand. He stayed, but Jenna could see him
trembling with fear.

  Taking a long breath, Peria moved to stand near
the edge of the cliff and then turned her back to the
sea, standing within an arm's reach of Jenna yet not
reacting to her at all. Again, she looked all around
her, her gaze passing through Jenna as if she
weren't there. She stared at the place that was dark
and blank in Jenna's sight.
  The woman took Lámh Shábhála in her right
hand, the loose sleeve of her leine falling back, and
Jenna saw the familiar scarred flesh mirroring her
own damaged arm. Grimacing with pain, Peria
closed her stiff fingers around the cloch, her eyes
closing as she opened it to her mind. Above the
meadow there was a sudden burst of brilliance, a
showering of stars that sent black shadows racing
away into the forest. Peria's face lifted, the radiance
forcing her to squint as she looked up. The
mage-lights, brighter and more colorful than Jenna
had ever seen them, twisted and writhed above her,
their forms bending toward her, dancing downward
...

 . . . touching . . .
  Peria screamed, a long, drawn-out ululating cry, a
wail of despair and desperation. Peria's eyes were
wide open now, staring fixedly into the glare of the
mage-lights. Jenna didn't know what Peria saw in
her mind through the cloch-vision, but it obviously
terrified her. Her mouth was working, pleading
silently with something or someone that only she
could see or hear, and Jenna saw her hand clench
tighter around the cloch as if she were forcing
herself to hold onto it when every instinct was
telling her to let go, to release the power and save
herself. Tadhg evidently saw the internal struggle
also, for he surged forward with a cry. With his first
step toward her, the mage-lights flared, an arc of
blue fury lashing out to strike the man, hurling him
backward. He got to his feet and tried once more;
again, the mage-lights threw him back. This time,
he didn't rise.
  Peria didn't notice Tadhg's defeat. She'd sunk to
her knees, as if beaten down by the power above
her, though her face still stared at the mage-lights
in stricken, helpless horror. "No!" Jenna saw her
mouthing the word her free hand raised as if in
supplication. The mage-lights flayed the sky, so
powerful that Jenna could hear them, shrieking like
a raging hurricane. "No!" Peria said again, this time
an audible shriek nearly lost in the raging storm of
the lights. "I can't!”
  As if in answer, the mage-lights pulsed in one
gigantic flash. They slammed down to earth,
engulfing Peria. She screamed as if she were caught
in the midst of an inferno, her body contorted in
agony. As Jenna shouted with her, Peria was
smashed into the ground. The crack of bones and
spine was horrible to hear, a dry, awful snapping
like a handful of dry twigs. Her flesh tore; vertebrae
ripping from her back, a femur erupting bloody and
white.

 The mage-lights vanished.
 Jenna stood, stunned, in the sudden silence and
dark.

   "Peria!" The cry shattered the stasis. "Oh, Gods,
no\" Tadhg had risen to his feet; now he ran to the
broken body at the cliff's jagged extremity. He sank
down beside her, pulling her to him. Horrified,
Jenna saw Peria's head lolling, attached only by
flesh and muscle, blood pouring from her mouth,
nose, and eyes. Tadhg cradled her body, rocking
back and forth, sobbing and wailing as Peria's
lifeblood stained his clothes, calling her name over
and over again.
  This was worse than the battle, this was worse
than anything Jenna had ever seen. Jenna could feel
tears flooding her eyes in sympathy.
  "That is how my mam died," the voice came again
as Jenna watched Tadhg lay Peria's shattered body
on the ground, as she saw him take the cloch's chain
from around her neck and put it over his own. "That
is how my da came to hold the cloch ..."

 "But what was that?" Jenna asked the voice.
"What was she doing?"
  "Something only fools or the very strong should
attempt," came the answer, but it was another
voice, a familiar one.

 "Riata?"
  There was no answer or rather there were many,
a babble in which she could distinguish no one
person. The cliffside meadow and forest van-ished,
and Jenna was standing in a white, cold fog, and the
voices came m her from the air around her.
 ". . . do this ..."

 ". . . no, you must not! It will be your death as it
was mine ..."

  ". . . you have the chance where those who come
after you may not. . ."
  ". . . Lámh Shábhála will always be primarily an
instrument of war ..."
 ". . . it needn't be that way ..."

 ". . . she can't change it. She hasn't the will for the
Scrúdú ..."
 ". . . she's weak ..."

 ". . . let her die . . ."

 Then Riata's voice came again. "She will make her
own choice, in her own time, as I did."
 "Riata! Please, I need to know more ..."

  The fog dissolved in an unseen wind. She was in a
room, her room, the room where she had lived in
Lár Bhaile, and in the bed Maeve groaned, her hair
damp with perspiration, knees up and legs open and
the sheet wet and bloodied under her. A midwife
bent over Maeve, her hands be-tween Maeve's
thighs as another woman stood ready with a blanket
and knife. "Push now, love; the babe's nearly out. I
have the head-curls as red as the sunset. All we
need are the shoulders. Bear down, and push!"

  As Jenna walked to the bedside to stand near her
mam's head, Maeve groaned again, her face
tightening, her hand fisted in the blankets and body
trembling. Then she gasped in sudden relief, and
the midwife laughed. "There!" A thin cry sounded.
The midwife's assistant hurried forward with knife
and thread. Jenna glimpsed the squalling infant as
the midwife toweled him clean and swaddled him.
"Tell the tiarna he has a son," the midwife said to
her assistant. "He's waiting in the other room."
Then she turned back to Maeve, tucking the baby
carefully in the crook of her arm. Maeve touched
the newborn's pudgy, purple-red cheeks. "He's a
beauty. Do you have a name for him?"

 "Aye," Maeve answered. "His name is Doyle . . ."

  "He's beautiful, Mam," Jenna whispered, standing
alongside the bed. Maeve's head lifted almost as if
she heard Jenna, and Jenna leaned over, reaching
out to stroke her mam's sweat-damp hair . . .
  "Jenna?" A new voice intruded, and she ignored it,
but then her mam and her old room were gone and
she was reaching out to nothingness. 'Jenna?" the
voice called again.

 "Jenna?"
 She came awake with a start, realizing that her
fingers were clutching Lámh Shábhála, and that
Ennis' arm was around her. The moon threw silver
shadows over their bed. The sky was dark, the
mage-lights having long ago died away. "You were
turning and calling out," Ennis said sleepily. "I
thought you were having a nightmare."

 Jenna released the cloch, cuddling into Ennis'
embrace. "I'm . . fine -> she said. "If you'd just hold
me for awhile."
 His lips touched the back of her neck. His breath
was warm down her spine. "I'll do that," he said.

   They were in Moister Cléurach’s chambers in the
keep. He'd stared at the two of them when they'd
first arrived, their hands clasped together defi-antly
and openly. "I knew this could be a problem," he
said. "I expected better of you," he snapped at
Ennis, then glared at Jenna. "I'd tell you that you're
too young, but youths never understand that until
it's too late and the mistake can't be undone."

  That had started the conversation. It had gone
downhill since then, with Jenna relating her dreams
of the night before as servants brought in their
breakfast.
  "Thall Coill?" Jenna saw Moister Cléurach’s frail
form shudder at the name. "What insanity have you
been listening to, girl? You mustn't go there."

   His words were like a slap in the face. He's
treating you like you're his misbehaving daughter . .
. "So the dream was real? There is such a place?
There is a test called Scrúdú?"
 "There is, and that's all you need to know."

 "It's not your decision," she told him angrily.
 "It certainly is," he retorted. "I'm Moister of the
Order, and if I'm to teach you, then you'll damned
well listen to me."
  "You're a frightened old man," she retorted. "Why
should I listen to you?"

 Ennis put his hand on Jenna's shoulder. "Jenna-"
he began, but she shrugged him away.

  "Don't, Ennis," she told him. "I know how you feel
about him and the Order, but I don't. I don't." She
pushed away the plate of sausages and bread in
front of her. "I don't know enough about anything,"
she finished more softly.

  "That you don't know enough is something that
we can all agree on, Moister Cléurach answered.
The argument didn't seem to have affected his
appetite. He gestured at Jenna with a fork full of
sausage. "Limn Shábhála holds a shadow of all its
old Holders, as it will hold a wisp of you after you
die-an image of your personality, though not your
true soul. Well, not all of the Holders were good
people or entirely sane at the end of the Holding,
and a lot of those Holder-shadows would laugh to
see you fail because it would mean that you're no
better than they were, and any advice they give is
poisoned with that attitude. As for Thall Coill none
of the Daoine Holders-none of them, girl, not a
single one- ever lived through Scrúdú, if it is truly a
test and not just some old Bunús Muintir fable. If
you could read-" Moister Cléurach paused for
emphasis, "then you might have seen what Tadhg
wrote after Peria's death. He thought that this
'Scrúdú' was nothing but a rumor circulated by the
Bunús Muintir to gain some small revenge on the
Daoines. There's no test and no reward; opening
Lámh Shábhála at Thall Coill, the center of the
mage-lights, kills the Holder. That's what he
believed." He shoved the sausage into his mouth,
talking as he chewed. "You can't trust the Bunús.
Those who do so are fools."
 Ennis' eyes widened, and he started to protest,
"Urn, Moister . . ." But Jenna had already pushed
her chair back from the table, the legs screech-ing
angrily. She stalked toward the door.
 It opened before she reached it.
  "Good morning, Holder. I trust you broke your
fast satisfactorily." Banrion Aithne stood in the
corridor. Next to her was a red-haired giant: her
brother. The sight of Árón Ó Dochartaigh's surly
glower made Jenna's throat close. She took a step
back as the Banrion nodded to her attendants to
remain outside, then swept past Jenna into the
room. The tiarna en-tered behind her, and Jenna
stood well aside. As casually as she could, she
mentally opened the cloch at her throat. The wash
of emerald energy spread out like a rushing tide and
immediately broke on another cloch's presence,
sparkling and foaming.

  Árón held a Cloch Mór. He'd also made no attempt
to shield the stone from her cloch-vision. It gleamed
in Lámh Shábhála’s vision under his leine.
  'Moister Cléurach, Ennis, would you leave us for a
moment, please?" the Banrion asked. Moister
Cléurach bowed to the Banrion and left quickly;
Ennis hesitated until Jenna shook her head slightly
to him, then walked over to Jenna and embraced
her.

  “I’ll be just outside," he told her and kissed her,
the Banrion watching with an amused expression as
Ennis and Árón exchanged stares. After the door
closed behind them, she sat in Moister Cléurach’s
chair at the table.
 “I don't believe you actually had a chance to meet
Árón, Holder Jenna,"

 He said. "I know he was very interested in seeing
you."

  Jenna let her hand drop from Lámh Shábhála, and
the doubled vision of the cloch vanished, leaving the
world momentarily washed-out and colorless. She
could see hints of Cianna's features in her da's face:
he was hearty and full where Banrion Cianna had
been sickly and thin, but the sharp, straight nose,
the high cheekbones, the set of his mouth echoed
that of his daughter, and now that she knew to look
for it, she could see it in Aithne as well.
  Árón glared, towering over Jenna. His hands were
clenched in fists cords of muscle standing out under
the sleeves of his tunic. He didn't extend his hand;
she would have been afraid to take it. She saw his
gaze travel from her face to her right arm. "Did it
make the Firs? Holder feel powerful," he asked, "to
have Lámh Shábhála crush the life from someone as
frail and ill as my daughter?"
  The words brought a searing flush to Jenna's face,
and for a moment, tears blurred her vision. She
blinked angrily. "No," she answered. "It did not. But
let me ask, Tiarna, does it make you feel proud to
know that Cianna pretended to be my friend while
she twice sent others to kill me?"
  Now it was Árón whose face burned red. The
hatred radiated from him, palpable, and Jenna
realized that she'd made a mistake: this was a man
who loved his daughter, as blindly and
unconditionally as any parent. He would not-he
could not-see any evil in her. He would have
protected Cianna in life without thought; he would
do the same in death. Jenna would forever and
always be the cruel murderer who had stolen that
love from him.

 And he faced her now.
  The Banrion's tsk was a torrent of cold water into
the heat. Jenna and Árón both turned to her to find
her shaking her head. "This won't do," she said.
"The Rí Ard would be laughing himself silly, seeing
the Inishlanders at each other's throats as usual.
This is exactly what he wants. It's time to set aside
your grief, Brother. Are you planning to demand
eraic of the First Holder? Well, she has no blood
payment to give you and we need her as an ally."

  "I don't need her at all, Sister," the man retorted,
swinging around to her angrily. "It's you and the
fools on the Comhairle who think that. We don't
need her. The Rí Ard also knows his history and will
recall that every army the Tuatha have sent here
has been broken by the Inish. It-and, unlike you, I
think it's no certainty, Aithne-the Rí Ard manages
to get the tuatha to work as one and come against
us, we will break them again-without Lámh
Shábhála." His gaze flicked toward Jenna. "And
don't trust the Order, which has already failed Inish
Thuaidh by losing their clochs to the Tuatha. In fact,
Sister, I find it interesting to note that it was within
a few weeks after the clochs na thintrí were stolen
from the Order that the First Holder chose to open
them."
  "I knew nothing about that, Tiarna," Jenna told
him. "And I didn't choose the timing of the
Filleadh."

  A sniff. The huge man pulled himself up to his full,
towering height. "So you say, Holder. Yet if I were
the Rí Ard . . . how convenient for me that the First
Holder would show herself to be a threat to the
Riocha; that she would dare to kill a Banrion and
destroy a keep; that she would then flee to Inish
Thuaidh. Curious, too, that along the way the
person sent to pursue her would be the very tiarna
who shares a bed with her mam-and she just
happens to defeat him publicly in her flight.
Wouldn't it be tragic if during the battle Lámh
Shábhála suddenly turned against us, as it was
intended to do all along."

  "This is insane," Jenna protested. "You're
concocting a conspiracy where none exists."
 Árón ignored Jenna, his voice riding over hers.
"Why, if I wanted to create an outside threat to pull
the Tuatha together just when they were starting to
war among themselves, I could ask for nothing
better. What does it cost, after all? Only the death
of a sickly woman who would proba-bly die soon
anyway of the consumption in her lungs, and whose
husband already has the children which were all he
ever wanted from her."

  "Árón! "The rebuke was sharp. Aithne pushed
herself up, the chair scraping back as she confronted
him. "This is not why we came here. We were in
agreement, we were going to put together a plan ..."
  Árón towered over his sister: a mountain standing
before a wisp of cloud. "I listened to you once
before, Sister, when you told me that it would be
good for Inish Thuaidh and for Cianna to have her
marry Rí Mallaghan. But I do agree with you that
there's a threat to Inish Thuaidh looming." He
pointed at Jenna. "The threat stands there. I know
that now. I came with you because I wanted to see
her. I wanted to listen to her voice. I wanted to look
into the eyes of the person who killed my child
before I made my final judgment. Well, I've looked,
and I'm not im-pressed. I see no remorse or sorrow
in her gaze, and I tell you, Aithne, that if you go into
battle expecting her aid, you will find yourself
crushed between the cloudmages of the Tuatha in
the front and Lámh Shábhála at your unprotected
back-because that's exactly what they plan for you
to do."

  Tiarna," Jenna said, her hands wide, "I'm sorry
for what I did. Truly. I wish I could undo it, but-"
  Árón spat, deliberately and loudly. The globule
pooled on the wooden floor a scant fingertip from
her feet. "I have no more to say to you, First
Holder," he told Jenna. "I'll give you the warning
you were too cowardly to give poor Cianna. From
this day forward, I am your enemy. Remember
that" The door shivered and trembled on its hinges
as it slammed shut be-hind the man. The sound
rang in Jenna's ears for long seconds.




           Chapter 44: Juggling Possibilities
 THAT evening, Rí MacBrádaigh declared that the
Feast of First Fruits would take place in three days.

 "What," Jenna asked Ennis, "is the Feast of the
First Fruits?"
   He kissed her throat before replying, and Jenna
lifted her chin with a trembling gasp at the touch.
His mouth traveled from throat to chin to mouth,
and then he pulled slightly away from her, smiling
down as he rested on one elbow on the bed, his
other hand at the loose collar of her night robe,
undoing the satin ribbon tied there. "The Feast of
First Fruits . . . Have you seen the blackberry vines
on the columns of the Temple of the
Mother-Creator?" When Jenna shrugged, he
continued, his fingers slipping under the cloth of her
gown. "Traditionally, the Feast takes place close to
the Great Festival of Meitha, when the Draíodóiri
who keep the temple first see that the vines show
ripened berries. In truth, though, the Draíodóiri are
sometimes told by the Comhairle that now would be
a good time to proclaim the feast, regardless of the
state of the vines-a few green berries can easily be
dyed to provide justification."

  The memory of Árón's declaration in Moister
Cléurach’s chambers was a distraction to the
pleasure of Ennis' roving hand. "And because of
what happened today with the Banrion, her brother,
and me, this is one of those times."
  Ennis nodded. "I would think so, given the timing.
I'd wager that this was the Banrion's doing to try to
dissolve some of the tension." His thumb grazed her
nipple; his hands cupped her breast. She closed her
eyes, tak-ing a breath, and he laughed softly. His
mouth came down again, brushing her lips. "Do you
want to talk about this now?"

 "No," she answered. "Not now."

  "Then what do you want?" His lips touched hers
once more, moist and warm, more insistent this
time. She opened her eyes as he drew away loving
the way he watched her.
 "I just want to be with you."

 "That's all I want, too," he told her. His hand had
moved lower. "I would like that forever."

 "Is that a proposal of marriage, Ennis
O'Deoradháin?"
  "It's quite possible," he answered, almost
teasingly. "But I also know it's not what the Banrion
or Moister Cléurach or probably even your mam
would advise. They would tell you that the Holder of
Lámh Shábhála should use marriage as a tool and
use it when it's most advantageous."

  His voice had gone serious. His hand was still. "Do
you think*I care what the Banrion or Moister
Cléurach would advise?" Jenna asked him. "Do you
think I need their approval? And my mam . . . She
would tell me that I should do what my heart says.
And my heart says that I love you, Ennis."
  She sat up abruptly, on her knees on the bed as
she pulled the night robe over her head.
Underneath, she was naked except for the chain
hold-ing Lámh Shábhála. "All I want is what is best
for the two of us," she told him. "Is that what you
want?"
 He gazed at her. "Aye," he said huskily.

 "Then you are overclothed," she said.



 The Feast of First Fruits:

  Street vendors appeared as if by summoned by
magic. Booths were hastily erected around the main
square of Dún Kiil, selling everything from hand
crafts to potions. Street musicians, jugglers, and
sleight-of-hand magicians stood on every corner.
Bright banners were hung around the square and
from the tessellated walls of the Keep high above.
Carts groaning under the weight of apples, early
corn, freshly slaughtered pigs-and new-brewed ale
rumbled into town from the outlying farmlands. A
sense of desperate gaiety infected the population;
there was talk of little else. The Comhairle
suspended their meetings (though Jenna suspected
that the Banrion, Tiarna MacEagan and Bantiarna
Cíomhsóg still gathered to talk), and the lesser
Riocha and ceil giallnai came in from the nearby
townships, filling the inns and the taverns and
swelling the population o Dún Kiil.

  Jenna and Ennis moved through the laughing,
shouting throngs in the street. As they walked from
between the pair of standing stones that marked
the entrance to the square, Ennis stopped Jenna
and pointed. To their right, a juggler with a hatchet,
flaming torch, and dagger wove bright, dangerous
patterns in the air. As they moved closer to watch,
despite her determination to keep this a day strictly
for merrymaking, the sight of the juggler made
Jenna think of the choices she was juggling herself:
to side with the Banrion and attack the Tuatha now;
to go back to the Order and learn more from
Moister Cléurach, knowing that the Tuatha would
almost certainly invade the island; to seek the path
of Thall Coill and the Scrúdú, wherever that might
lead. Perilous choices all, with their own keen edges
ready to cut, and she wondered how long she could
keep them all in the air before she had to choose
one.

  "He's good, isn't he?" Ennis said. Jenna started,
then smiled at him.
  "Aye," she answered. "He is." She dropped a
mórceint in the juggler's hat; the boy grinned at her
and tossed the torch high, letting it spin several
times as he struck the ax head deep into a small log
standing end up to his right, jabbed the dagger point
first into the wood alongside the quiver-ing ax, then
caught the torch before it hit the ground and blew it
out. He bowed extravagantly. Jenna and Ennis
applauded, as did the small crowd that had gathered
around to watch.

  "You make that look easy. What's the hardest
thing about juggling?" Ennis asked the juggler as he
laid the smoking torch atop the log.
  The boy chuckled and reached down into a large
cloth bag behind him. He brought out three leather
balls, juggling them high and slowly so that they
could easily see the pattern. "There's just one ball in
the air and two in your hands," he said as he
juggled. "It's that simple." He stopped and handed
the balls to Ennis. "Try it," he said with a grin.
"Start with two in your right hand and toss one of
them high over to your left hand."

  Ennis shook his head and started to hand the balls
back, but Jenna laughed. "No, no, no," she told him.
"You asked the question. Now you have to try."

  Ennis grimaced. Standing spread-legged, he
tossed the balls up in the air-right, left, right-and
they all plopped immediately to the ground. Jenna
and several of the people watching applauded
laughingly. The juggler grinned. "You just have to
remember that the ground always wins, Tiarna,
Bantiarna." He reached down, flipped the torch up
and caught it. The Mother-Creator designed our
world so that when you toss some-thing up, it
comes back down. That makes juggling possible, but
it also Cleans that no matter how good you are,
eventually you'll make a mis-take.". He pulled ax,
dagger, and unlit torch from the log and started the
cascade again: ax, dagger, torch, ax, dagger, torch,
ax-but this time they saw the dagger spin a little
faster, so that it turned over one and half time
starting to come down into the juggler's hand blade
first. With a comic' expression of horror, he
snatched his hand back at the last instant. The
dagger clattered on the cobblestones of the street.
"You just have to know when something's about to
cut you and remember to let it go," he said

  The boy adroitly slipped his toes under the blade
near the hilt and kicked the dagger back into the
air-and suddenly he was juggling again Jenna and
Ennis applauded once more, watching for a bit
before tossing another coin in the boy's hat and
walking on. "I think you missed a career as a street
performer," Jenna told Ennis.
 "I think you just enjoy seeing me make a fool of
myself."

  Jenna laughed and pulled him close, hugging him.
"I love being with you," she said. "I enjoy not having
to think about anything for a few hours." She felt
Ennis' muscles tense under her hand. "What?" she
asked.
  They stopped. Ennis pretended to look at the cloth
hung at a weaver's stall. "I can tell you want to say
something," Jenna said. "What?"

 "I spoke to Moister Cléurach this morning, before
we left."
 "And?"
  "He feels very strongly that you should come back
to Inishfeirm. He believes that the more of the
cloudmage discipline you can learn before the
invasion comes-and we all know it's coming-the
better chance we'll all have."

 "And what does he think of the Banrion's plan?"

  A shoulder lifted his clóca. "He understands her
position but doesn't agree. No army's ever come to
Inish Thuaidh and conquered it. And no Inish army
has ever left here to invade the Tuatha."
 "No army's ever had this many Cloch Mór with
them," Jenna answered. "And no Rí Ard has ever
put together an alliance of all the Tuatha, and if this
one has ..."

 Another shrug. They moved away from the
weaver's stall to the next, a potter's booth, bright
with glazed mugs and bowls. Ennis picked up a
bowl: golden brown swirled with blue. "So you agree
with the Banrion. strike first before they strike us."
  Jenna sighed. "I don't know who I agree with," she
said.

 "Attack first, or wait. You don't have any other
options. At least none that I can see."

  There's Thall Coill ... she thought, but didn't voice
it, forcing the thought away. The day was bright and
warm, and the festival atmosphere filled Dún Kiil,
and she wanted nothing more than to forget for a
few stripes the decision ahead of her and just enjoy
herself. Her hand brushed Ennis', and she tangled
her fingers in his. "Shut up," she said.
  He looked at her, startled, and saw her smile
gentle the words. "We don't have to talk about this
now," she said. "Tomorrow is soon enough."

  "gut-" he began, then stopped himself. He took
her hand and put it behind his back, pulling her
close and kissing her. Jenna leaned into him,
reveling in his presence, in the affection that
radiated from him. He had, all unexpected, become
her sanity in this. When she was with him, she felt
complete, as if he been designed to sustain a part of
her, as Lámh Shábhála had fulfilled another part.
  It was never like this with Coelin. Never. This is
what my mam must have felt for my da . . . With
that thought came its corollary: And what she feels
now for Mac Ard, also. She recalled her last sight of
Mac Ard, screaming with the pain of his loss as they
left Banshaigh and Lough Glas. Jenna's fingers
convulsed around Ennis'. He returned the press of
fingers, his other hand trailing down Jenna's spine
as he held her, and she let the memory go.

  "Let's not talk about anything but ourselves
today," she whispered to him. "Let's just enjoy this."

  He grinned at her. "That sounds wonderful to
me," he answered. He took a long, appreciative sniff
of the air. "Smell that?" he said. "Someone's making
milarán."
 "Milarán?"

 Ennis grinned. "You don't know what a milarán is?
Well, it's time you found out."
  Jenna would find that a milarán was a griddle cake
made with honeyed batter and drizzled with
molasses and spices. It was both sticky and
deli-cious, and part of the fun of eating one was to
lick the clinging syrup from each other's fingers and
mouth. They watched a street magician make
scarves appear from empty boxes and coins vanish
and reappear seem-ingly at will. They laughed and
shouted encouragement to a pair of dwarves
fighting a mock battle with wooden swords and
groaned with feigned disappointment as their
chosen champion fell. They listened to the start of a
storyteller's tale and helped fill his bowl with coins
so he'd finish the story. They ate a midday meal at
an inn near the waterfront, and in the afternoon
went walking along the harbor way.

  "Look!" Jenna said. "Aren't those Saimhóir?" She
pointed to a trio of dark shapes in the water, moving
steadily toward the shore. The glint of blue
highlights shimmered in their black fur. Jenna
brushed Lámh Shábhála with her right hand and
laughed. "Thraisha!" she called happily, then tugged
at Ennis' hand. "Come on!"

  They ran down the wharf to where the harbor
ended in a jumble of dark rocks. The seals were just
hauling out of the water as they arrived, and
Thraisha gave a warble and huff of greeting. Jenna
held Lámh Shábhála in her hand, opening the cloch
so that the cloch-vision overlaid her own and
Thraisha's words came to her. Thraisha glowed
brightly in the flow of the mage-lights' energy.

  "May the currents bring you fish, sister-kin,"
Thraisha called. "A fore-telling came to me that you
would be walking here today. I came to tell you first
that the stone-walker you gave to Garrentha was
saved. The stone-walkers in their
islands-of-dead-wood-that-move . . . what is the
word you use for them?" Jenna felt the touch of
Thraisha's mind on her own, and she allowed the
intrusion, let the seal rummage through her
thoughts. "Ah. 'Ship'-that's it. Garrentha kept the
stone-walker afloat until the ships came. The
stone-walkers in those ships pulled the
stone-walker from the water, then the ships moved
away from Nesting "Land to Winter Home."
  Jenna nodded. "Good," Jenna told her. "Tell them
that I thank Garren-tha for doing that." She glanced
at Ennis. "And perhaps the captain was reunited
with his son. I would like to believe that."

 Ennis shrugged, and she saw that he held no such
hope.
  Thraisha turned to the other seals, moaning and
panting in their own tongue for a few moments.
Then she turned her head back toward Jenna, the
blue-white pulse of Bradán an Chumhacht rising
within the seal. "I came also to tell you another
foretelling. I dreamed last night, and in that dream I
saw several ships coming from Winter Home to
Nesting Land." Thraisha lowered her head, her
black eyes looking mournful and sad. "These ships
were full of stone-walkers in hard shells that
gleamed in the sunlight, and they had sticks of
bright stone in their hands. They came to Nesting
Land at this very place and hauled out onto the
rocks and the stone-walkers who lived here
swarmed from the dry hills to meet them. I saw
smoke and fire. I smelled the scent of stone-walker
blood. I heard cries of pain and screams of rage. And
I saw you, sister-kin."

  Thraisha paused before she continued, as if she
didn't want to say more. "I could feel something
incomplete inside you, as if you'd failed to do
something you were expected to do. I could feel it
like a hollowness in the fire of your soul. You stood
there alone and called lightning down from the skies
with Lámh Shábhála, but other sky-stones were
there also, held by the hard-shelled ones, and they
gathered against you. I was here, too, but I was too
far away and others clochs were set again me and
couldn't reach you. You looked for help but even
though those with you held sky-stones of their own,
they were beset themselves and none came to your
aid. I saw you fall."
  She stopped, and Ennis shook his head. "Your
dream is wrong, water-cousin," he told her. "My
cloch will stand with Jenna as will any others held
by the Order."

  Thraisha gave a coughing pant. "I did not see you
in my dream, land-cousin," she said. "I'll admit that
surprised me. I know you would be there, if you
could."

  "Then the dream is wrong," Ennis insisted. "It was
a dream and nothing else."
  The seal wriggled in what Jenna decided was the
equivalent of a shrug. "That may be," she said. "I
only tell you what came to me. But it had the feeling
of a foretelling."

  "Do you see what will be, or only what might be?"
Jenna asked.
  "I see what I see," Thraisha answered. "I don't
know more than that." Another cough: "I'm sorry,
Holder. When I came, I could see joy in your face
and I have destroyed that with my words. I wish I
could give it back to you."

  Jenna glanced back at the town. They could hear
the sound of laughter and see the tops of the
banners fluttering from the roofs of Market Square,
just past the warehouses and fisheries that flanked
the harbor front. The gaiety struck a false note now,
like a song sung just off-key. Jenna could look at the
harbor and imagine it filled with the warships of the
tuatha, could practically see the smoke of burning
houses while below the streets of Dún Kiil were
chaotic with battle. As she stared, her right arm
throbbed, her fist convulsing with the pain as if she
were already there, the power of Lámh Shábhála
arcing through her and breaking against the massed
might of the Cloch Mór.

  "It's only a possible future you see," Jenna said.
"It must be. The Water-Mother sent you a vision in
warning. After all, Thraisha, if what you see must
happen, then what use is there in telling me? If it's
destiny, then there's nothing I could do to change it.
Any action I take would still inevitably lead to the
same point."

  Thraisha wriggled again. "I don't know the way of
gods, yours or mine. I see what I see," she repeated.
"If it's destiny, then I know I'll soon be here with
you again. I saw more, sister-kin. When you fell, the
clochs turned to me and I could not swim against
that current. Their magic drowned me and Bradán
an Chumhacht swam from my mouth. So if it's
destiny, then it's not only your death. It's also
mine."

  "It's a glimpse of maybe," Jenna insisted. "That's
all. A warning."
  "I hope you're right, Holder," Thraisha answered.
Her companions were chattering loudly behind, and
she turned her head toward them, her tar glistening
with the movement as she listened and then looked
back to Jenna. "The sweetfish have started their
evening run, and it's time for us to feed," she told
Jenna. "I will see you again, sister-kin, and I will
help you any way I can." Her gaze went to Ennis.
"And you, land-cousin, I bid you farewell."

 Thraisha waddled toward the water, moving
awkwardly over the rocks and dropping into the
water. One by one, her companions slipped into the
water with her. Their heads regarded Jenna and
Ennis for a moment then they ducked under the
next swell and were gone.




                Chapter 45: Torn Apart



   THEY walked back to the square. Though Jenna
tried to pretend that nothing had changed, the joy
had been drained from the day. The gaiety and
laughter around them only served as a contrast,
making darker the shadows that wrapped around
Jenna with Thraisha's words. She real-ized now that
there would be no escape from the burden of Lámh
Shábhála, not until it was taken from her (and with
the thought, a bolt of agony shot up her right arm as
if it had been torn loose from its socket) or she was
dead.
  She could not escape the world: not with love, not
with festivals, not by turning her back on it and
secluding herself. She must be the First Holder.

  "Come on," she told Ennis, taking his hand. She
pulled him toward the square and for the next few
stripes, she went from one vendor's booth to
another, watched all the performers, examined all
the wares with a fierceness and energy that
surprised Ennis. She plunged into the fair as if she
could obliterate herself in its bright celebration. By
the time torches Were lit along the square and the
bonfires roared on the three hilltops around the
city, Jenna was exhausted and certain that she
knew what she must do.

  They took supper in one of the inns just off the
square, and afterward strolled out toward the
crowd gathering around a temporary stage at the
north end for a performance by a group of
mummers. They were stopped °y a page from the
keep, who came running up to them. "Mages! There
you are! I've been looking for you for over a stripe
now ..."

 Ennis laughed at the boy, panting, his hands on
knees as he tried catch his breath. "What is it,
Aidan? Is Moister Cléurach wondering where we
got to?"
  "Not Moister Cléurach," Aidan answered, gulping
air. "It's the Rí. The procession to the square is
ready to start and he wishes the two of you to be at
his side when he enters." He nodded toward one of
the side streets leading away from the square.
"Follow me," he told them. "I was told to take you
this way."

   They followed after him down the narrow lane.
Jenna could nearly touch the houses on either side
and little light made its way here from the square,
only the milky light of the moon providing
illumination. There were few people here, all of
whom pressed back to let the three well-dressed
Riocha pass. Aidan was well ahead of Jenna and
Ennis, stopping near an intersection and waving.
"This way! Hurry!"

  They heard the horns announcing the Rí from the
square behind them. Ennis stopped, a hand on
Jenna's arm. The page was looking back toward the
square with a puzzled expression. "I thought-"
Ennis began.

  The page collapsed to his knees, his eyes widening
as if startled. His mouth opened but no words came.
He fell face-down into the mud of the lane. Three
arrows protruded from his back.
  "Jenna!" Ennis yelled. He pushed her into a
doorway across the street as more arrows suddenly
hissed past them. Ennis grunted, and Jenna saw a
wooden shaft blossom in red at his shoulder. He
staggered backward against the wall across the lane
from her. His eyes on her, he shook his head as she
started to run across to him. His hand closed around
his cloch.
  A moment later, she did the same, ripping open
Lámh Shábhála so that its power roared out like a
rogue wave.

  She could sense Ennis and his cloch, along with a
trio of Cloch Mór lurking just down the lane. Several
dozen people were moving toward them from the
front as well as behind. She had no chance to
identify any of the ambushers or judge their
intentions: the three Cloch Mórs arrayed against
her struck.

  They concentrated on Jenna. As she crouched in
the doorway, a rush of heavy wings beat the air
above her. She looked up to see a demonic horror
above: twice as tall as herself, skin burnished like
bronze over massive muscles, clawed fingers and
feet, and a brick-red face scowling with anger under
folds and horns. Leathery wings sprang from the
crea-ture's back. Looking at the thing dredged an
elemental feeling of revulsion and horror from her,
as if this were a creature formed of ancient racial
fears or memory. Jenna wondered at first if it was
simply an illusion, the apparition slammed into the
structure above her, its claws ripping deep into
mortar and plaster. The mage-demon was real and
physical enough. The house shuddered at the
impact, and Jenna had to use part of Lámh
Shábhála’s power to shield herself from falling stone
and beams. The creature howled, roaring words in
no tongue that she had ever heard before as it
started to fall toward her, but she pushed it away. It
snarled and spat, slamming again into the second
story of the house as its great wings flailed the air.
In frustration, it ripped away at the house, pulling it
apart as if it were made of paper and throwing
pieces of the ruin down toward her.

  Dust made her blink her eyes, but she kept the
shield in place above her, pushing the splintered,
hard rain away from her.
  She could do little more than fend off the
mage-demon. In her cloch-vision, she saw a stream
of pure energy-a blue so brilliant it was nearly
white-come snarling toward her. She threw up a
wall of her own power barely in time, and the color
broke against it, sizzling and burning.
  Fire erupted in the street in front of her, molten
gobs splattering against Lámh Shábhála’s wall. In
the dust, Jenna saw a figure standing nearby,
seemingly formed of lava and flame, glowing
orange-red and covered with scabs of black, visible
both to her eyes and the cloch-vision. The
lava-creature lifted its hands and a glowing boulder
erupted from them, arcing toward her. Jenna
pushed back at the new assault, sending a blast of
furious wind from Lámh Shábhála. The boulder
went black and fell, shat-tering ten feet away in a
gout of fury. Jenna could feel the heat, searing and
intense. The building was aflame above her.

  The cloch-beast continued to tear at the structure,
and she could sense the house starting to collapse
around her. The roiling clouds of dust and smoke
were so thick that she could see nothing as she flung
herself back into the lane. Bowstrings sang from
somewhere above and arrows arced toward her;
with a flick of energy, she sent them to streaks of
fire and ash. But some of them got through, hissing
past or ricocheting from the door-way in which she
now crouched.
 I can't keep this up ... I can't. . .

  A strobe of lightning illuminated the dust clouds as
it streaked away: Ennis attacking. Down the lane,
there was a cry of distress and the massive
lava-creature grunted and shifted its attack to
Ennis, though the blue-white beam still pounded at
the defensive wall Jenna had erected. "Jenna! Back
to the square!" she heard Ennis shout in the
confusion. She thought she saw a glimpse of his
figure, then the dust closed in again as the second
story of the house fell in with a splintering, long
crash. Someone screamed in the rubble. The
mage-demon attacked directly once more, hovering
above her with an audible whoomp-whoomp of
wings before it plummeted down; Jenna formed the
energy of Lámh Shábhála into hands and reached
for it. The beast reared back as the hands caught
and held it, fiery arcs of drool flying from its mouth
and its wings flapping desperately, clawing at the
unseen fingers that held it. Jenna could feel the
claws, as if they were ripping into her own skin, and
she screamed.
  Jenna forced herself to focus, to fend off the beast
and still hold back the others. She knew now how
Lámh Shábhála had been beaten in the past-she
could not put her attention anywhere long enough
to counter-attack; inevitably someone would get
through. She could sense that the other Cloch Mór
Holders in the city were now aware of the battle:
Moister Cléurach, the Banrion . . . She could only
hope that they would enter the fray soon. She gave
way, the mage-demon following, backing down the
lane and hoping Ennis was doing the same. She
could feel him struggling against the fire cloch.

  She heard his voice, calling out, "Jen-" and then
cut off. She screamed her own pain and fear as the
lava-creature stomped back toward her. Hold them.
They have to be weakening . . . Already the
cloch-beast's struggles were failing, though the
other two clochs continued their assault. For an
instant, she let down the wall, shouting against the
pain as the energy stream burned her, as the
clinging fire of the lava-creature struck her clothing.
She channeled the flow of Lámh Shábhála toward
the hands holding the mage-demon, imagining them
crushing the life from the thing: the beast gibbered
in panic, limbs flailing now in desperation. She heard
bones cracking, and the soft, ugly sound of the body
rupturing.

  The cloch-beast vanished in a wail as down the
lane she heard an echoing cry from its Holder.
Jenna threw the wall back up again, pushing away
the other two clochs' assault. She'd fallen without
knowing it, nearly losing hold of Lámh Shábhála.
Her clóca was scorched, her skin burned
underneath. She forced herself to stand again,
readied herself to release the wall now and
counterattack.
  Raging chaos shifted abruptly into silence and
dark. In her cloch-vision, the other two clochs
vanished. She could sense them still, but they were
dim and inactive. The Holders were moving away,
quickly, as if on horse-back. She flung furious
lightning bolts toward them, but it was already too
late. They were gone.

  "Ennis!" She called his name, coughing in the dust,
trying desperately to see either with her eyes or
through Lámh Shábhála. "Ennis!"
  He wasn't there. The dust was settling; she could
see the street and the rubble strewn across it, but
there was no sign of Ennis, and she could not feel
him or his cloch with Lámh Shábhála.



 He was gone. Taken.
  "Ennis!" she called again, knowing in her heart it
was useless. Footsteps were running toward her
from the direction of the square. Jenna whirled, her
hand on Lámh Shábhála, ready to strike.

  "Holder!" One of the Ri's gardai-a sergeant by the
insignia on his shoulder-came to an abrupt halt,
staring in disbelief at the destruction around him
and Jenna's battered appearance as half a dozen
soldiers came hurrying behind. "Are you hurt?"
  "I'm fine," she said. "Mage O'Deoradháin has been
captured." Jenna waved her arm. "Quickly! We
have to find him!"

  The sergeant barked orders and his men
scattered, but Jenna knew it was too late.
 Too late.
            PART FOUR: The Shadow Rí


                    (Map: Dún Kiil)




                Chapter 46: Decisions



  "IT was my brother," the Banrion said. "Or at
least I have to make that I assumption. He's gone,
along with all his retainers."
  Jenna had been carried to her chambers in the
keep and the healer sent for. Moister Cléurach had
come rushing in as well, refusing to leave in case he
might need to defend her with his cloch. Guards
were set outside the doors and in the hallways, and
trackers were sent in pursuit of Árón 0 Dochartaigh.

  Now, several hours later, Jenna lay bandaged in
her bed, the cuts, scrapes, and burns on her body
salved and wrapped, her right arm and chest
throbbing with fiery needles each time she breathed
or moved. She kept finding her gaze snagged on the
set of drawers across the room where the bag of
andúilleaf sat. The only thing that kept her from
telling them to bring her the leaf was knowing how
disappointed Ennis would be if she started using it
again.

 She wasn't sure how long that would mean
anything. She was afraid that Ennis might never
have the chance to know.
  The Banrion Aithne sat alongside the bed, at her
left hand, and for the first time Jenna seemed to see
genuine anguish on her face. Her haughti-ness and
stiff certainty were gone. "I've sent word that the
Comhairle will meet tomorrow, and we'll send an
edict to the Rí that Árón and those with him are to
be proclaimed traitors, with the price of death on
their heads ! Holder O'Deoradháin is harmed." A
trace of her old confidence returned to her. "The Rí
will sign the warrant, of course."
  "Where has your brother gone?" Jenna asked. Her
throat was raw; it hurt to talk. It hurt to move. It
hurt simply to lie there.

  "If I know him, he's riding hard for the mountains
of Rubha na Scarbh That's where we both grew up,
and he knows the paths and hidden places as well as
anyone. There are caverns and lost valleys there
where he can hide for years, and an army would not
be able to dig him out. The people there are like
him: grim and solitary folks, fiercely loyal to their
clan-kin-they won't care about the proclamation.
They'll hide him and protect him."
 "So you're telling me that the warrant means
nothing."

  Aithne shrugged. "If we can find him before he
reaches Rubha na Scarbh, it means everything. It's
a long ride over hard country, and there are several
townlands to cross with people who will wonder why
a tiarna and his people are passing through so
quickly. But once he's there, in his own land ..." She
shook her head. "I won't lie to you, Holder* In his
land, he is the only genuine Rí, even though he
doesn't claim that title. Inish Thuaidh isn't like the
Tuatha of Talamh an Ghlas. We may fight, clan
against clan, but we'd resist together if the Rí
MacBrádaigh tried to use the power given him by
the Comhairle to take out one of us-because we
would fear we'd be the next. The warrant may
cause someone to betray Árón; we can hope for
that. There will be people there who consider
themselves more loyal to me than to him. And we
can send a few troops in to look for him, though not
an army."
  Moister Cléurach stirred from the chair in which
he'd been sitting all evening. "The Banrion tells you
the truth, Jenna. We Inishlanders covet our little
independences. We take oath first to clan, then to
townland, and last to Dún Kiil."

  "If they . . ." Kill, Jenna started to say, but she
wouldn't utter the word. "Speak ill and you make it
true" was an old saying, one she'd heard her
Aldwoman Pearce or her own mam utter many
times. "... hurt Ennis at all, I swear by the
Mother-Creator Herself that I will kill him. I don't
care if he's your brother, Banrion. I don't care about
anything. I will kill him.

 The Banrion smiled thinly. "You're an Inishlander,
Holder. I would ex-pect nothing else."
 "There were two other Cloch Mór Mages with
him. Who were they?

 "We don't know."
  "You hold a Cloch Mór yourself, even if you hide it
from everyone. Show it to me."

  Aithne started, sitting back in the chair and
glancing at Moister Cléurach. But she didn't deny
the accusation. Her hands went to her neck, and she
slowly lifted a fine, silver chain there. From under
her leine, a blue stone emerged, a finger's length
long and cut with intricate facets.

  "Do you recognize it?" Jenna asked Moister
Cléurach, who leaned forward to look closely at the
gem, then shook his head.
 "No. It's not a stone that the Order held."

  "I wasn't a party to the Inishfeirm raid and I
wasn't with my brother tonight, if that was your
suspicion, Holder," Aithne said. "I can under-stand
why you'd be cautious. But I was with the Rí. You
can ask any of the Riocha or half the townspeople. I
had nothing to do with this. Or you can use Lámh
Shábhála and judge the truth of what I say."

  Jenna held Aithne's gaze for a long breath, then
closed her eyes. "Put the cloch away," she told her.
"You're probably wise not to let others see it."

  The Banrion tucked the gem back under her leine
and leaned over to hold Jenna's hand. "I promise
you that all that can be done is being done. Get
yourself well again-that's the best you can do for
him right now." With that, the Banrion left the room
in a rustle of linen and a whiff of musk oil.
  "She'll do as she promises," Moister Cléurach said.
"I know that much."
  "I hope you're right." Jenna pulled herself up on
the bed, grimacing as freshly-closed wounds pulled.
"I should have been able to stop it. I should have
been stronger."

  Moister Cléurach sniffed. "There were three
Clochs Mór set against you. I think you did as well
as anyone could have. I could read you the histories,
or you could listen to the Holders' voices inside
Lámh Shábhála. There have been Holders who have
fallen against two clochs, or even one that surprised
and overwhelmed them before they could react.
You fought three, and you might have beaten them
had they stayed to play it out. But I don't think they
truly expected to defeat Lámh Shábhála. They
would have taken that gift if it had happened, but I
wonder if all along the real target wasn't you, but
Ennis."

 "Why? Why would Árón want Ennis?"
 "Do you love Ennis?"

  The question made Jenna blink. "Aye," she
answered, feeling the truth in the gaping wound
inside her, one that no Healer could cure. "I do."

 Moister Cléurach’s mouth tightened; his eyes
narrowed. "And Árón Ó Dochartaigh loved his
daughter," he said.
  She knew he was right, knew it even as she shook
her head in reflexive disagreement. The tiarna
wanted to hurt Jenna as she had hurt him, and that
realization was a sword blade in her gut, ripping and
tearing at her soul. "No . . ." she whispered, and the
word was not so much a denial as a plea.

  The light shifted in the room, a wavering
brightness that dimmed for a moment the yellow
glow of the candles. Outside, the mage-lights
touched the sky, wrapping around the moon and
calling to her. Jenna flung aside the covers.

  "You can't," Moister Cléurach said. He rose, as if
to guide her back down. "You're too weak and it will
hurt too much. The lights will come again tomorrow
or the next day."

  Jenna pushed his hands away. "So might the next
attack or the chance to help Ennis. I need Lámh
Shábhála full. Lámh Shábhála wants to be full."
Biting her lips to keep from crying out, she swung
her legs over the edge of the bed. Moister Cléurach,
without saying anything, brought a woolen shawl
and draped it over her shoulders. He helped her up,
held her as she walked across the room and pushed
open the doors to the balcony. The cold night air bit
into her and she shivered. The snage-lights crawled
and sparked from horizon to horizon between the
shreds of clouds. Everywhere, she knew, the
cloudmages were lifting their clochs to sky. That's
what Árón would be doing, she was certain, and the
other two who had been with him.

  She took Lámh Shábhála in her right hand. The
mage-lights curled and swayed above her in
response. She lifted it to the tendrils of light snaking
down from above, closing her eyes as the icy touch
burned along her hand and wrist and arm and Lámh
Shábhála greedily sucked in the power.

  She had drained the cloch nearly dry. When it was
full again, when the mage-lights reluctantly drew
away from her, she would have fallen if Moister
Cléurach had not been there to catch her. "Get the
Holder a solution of kala bark for the pain," he
snapped at the healer as they came back into the
chamber. He helped her onto the bed and patted
her forehead with a warm, wet towel. He took her
cold right hand between his gnarled fingers and
rubbed life back into it. "Come back with me to
Inishfeirm, Jenna. There are still things I need to
teach you. There's nothing you can do about Ennis
now-it's out of your hands. You can help him most
by being as strong as you can."
 She shook her head.
  "Why not? You can't be seriously thinking of doing
what the Banrion has suggested. Jenna, you-" He
stopped, and she saw suspicion widen his gray, sad
eyes. "You intend to go to Thall Coill." He invoked
the name as if it were a curse.

  She grimaced as pain rippled through her arm, her
hand tightening into a fist. "You said it best,
Moister," she told him. "I can help Ennis most by
being as strong as I can possibly be the Comhdáil
Comhairle, the Conference of the Comhairle, was as
bois-terous and loud as Jenna had been led to
believe it would be. Rí MacBrádaigh sat in his chair
at the head, his pallid face propped on a hand as he
listened, his eyes so close-lidded that Jenna
wondered if he wasn't dozing. The Comhairle was
arrayed down either side of the massive oaken
table, much scarred and discolored from years of
use. There were six chairs down the right side,
seven down the left. One chair on the left side-Árón
0 Dochartaigh's chair-sat vacant. Jenna and Moister
Cléurach were seated at the far end of the table,
facing the Rí and the tiarna. This after-noon, the
hall was also crowded with the minor tiarna and the
ceil giallnai, standing behind Jenna.

  Even though the sun shone beyond the great, tall
stained glass win-dows behind the Rí, the keep still
dripped, a sullen plop-plop-plop that could be heard
whenever the Comhdáil Comhairle lapsed into
silence.
 That was not often. It seemed that everyone
wanted their chance to speak. Jenna decided that
the falling water was less the tears of those
slaughtered on Croc a Scroilm and more the gods
weeping for the waste of words. Most of the tiarna
railed against Árón Ó Dochartaigh's audacity in
ruining the Feast of First Fruits, the destruction and
loss of life-over a dozen bodies had been pulled from
the burning, charred rubble of the lane-and the
temerity in taking Cloudmage Ennis as a hostage.
But as the Banrion had predicted, once the
indictment had been made, they all stopped short of
calling for concerted action against him. Despite the
loud and brave talk, they were content with the
verbal condemnation of Árón, and no one wanted to
pursue him once he was in his own land.

  ". . .we know that a tiarna's land is his own, and if
Tiarna Ó Dochartaigh is back in Rubha na Scarbh,
there will be no pulling him out." That was Kyle
MacEagan, looking sour and irritated as he glanced
up and down the table. "The Rí should issue a
warrant, but then we must wait. Tiarna
0 Dochartaigh will send word, and soon, as to his
intentions. Do you not
agree, Banrion? You know Árón better than any of
us."
  Banrion Aithne rose, nodding to MacEagan and
her husband, the Rí. "I do know Árón," she said,
"and even though we share the same blood, I agree
with those who say that we must condemn this
action with the strongest terms possible. And I also
agree with Tiarna MacEagan: though
  I speak in the Comhairle for my husband's
townland of Dún Kiil, Rubha na Scarbh was my
home, and I know it and its clans well. Árón won't
be found if he doesn't wish to be found. I believe-"
  There was a crash as the doors to the hall were
thrown open. Everyone turned, and even the Rí
looked up sleepily. A bedraggled garda entered,
looking travel-stained and tired. He held up a
leather pouch toward the Comhairle. "For the First
Holder," he said. The Banrion gestured for the man
to come forward; a moment later, the Rí did the
same. He moved through the press of tiarna, who
stepped aside, and placed the package in front of
Jenna. "We followed Tiarna Ó Dochartaigh's path
from Dún Kiil," he said. "He had a dozen riders with
him, at least. They stopped at Néalmhar Ford to
water their horses. We found this hanging on a tree
branch at the crossing, with a note that it was to go
to you, Holder." He gestured at the bag. "I rode
here as quickly as I could. None of us opened it." He
said that last sentence quickly, as if he feared that
Jenna would
strike him down with Lámh Shábhála.

  "Thank you," she told him, as gently as she could.
The Comhairle was staring at the pouch, knotted
shut with a leather cord. Jenna untied the cord and
opened the flap. She turned the pouch and a
necklace slid out along with a sheet of parchment on
which she could see the black scrawl of words. The
necklace was silver and a cage of fine silver wire
hung from one end. The cage was empty, but Jenna
knew what had once sat there: Ennis' cloch, the one
she had taken from Mac Ard.
  "Oh, Ennis . . ." she breathed, hand over her
mouth to stop the cry that wanted to wail and
shriek its way forth. "Don't," Mac Ard had pleaded
when she took the cloch from him. "It would be like
tearing away part of yourself to lose it. Don't ..."
Now it was Ennis who had had his cloch na thintrí
ripped from him, it was Ennis who must have cried
out in pain and loss, suffering more than if Árón had
cut him open with his sword and left him to bleed to
death. "Ennis . . ." Tears dripped onto the paper, the
sepia ink running where the water touched, and
Jenna blinked furi-ously, grasping the necklace in
her hand, wishing she could read the words and also
glad that she could not. She handed the note to
Moister Cléurach. "Moister, what does the note
say?"
 He read it slowly, aloud:
 "To the First Holder Aoire-

  "I send you this token as proof that I hold Holder
O'Deoradhdin as hostage against the blood payment
you owe for my daughter's murder. The eraic I
demand is this: you will give me Lámh Shábhála, for
you have shown that you are not fit to hold it. You
will send the cloch to me via my sister, the Banrion,
who will bring it to Rubha na Scarbh. Once I have
the cloch in my possession, I will release my
hostage. If I do not have Lámh Shábhála by the
Festival of Meitha, I will send back your lover's
body for you to mourn as 1 mourned my daughter."

  Moister Cléurach laid the paper down on the table
as if with great weariness. "It is signed," he said, "by
Tiarna Árón Ó Dochartaigh."
 They were all staring at Jenna. She could feel their
gazes, hot against the aching cold dread that had
seeped deep into her with each word. "The Festival
of Meitha is in ten days," the Rí said, the first words
he had spoken all morning, and it brought
everyone's attention to him. The Rí shrugged as if
surprised. "We have a lot to do before then," he
said. "All the preparation for the festival . . ." He
lapsed into silence, his mouth shutting abruptly. He
waved a hand indulgently. "But go on. Go on."

 Banrion Aithne audibly sighed.
  Tiarna Kianna Cíomhsóg rose and pointed to the
parchment in front of Jenna. "This changes
everything," she said. "Árón has made the affair not
treason but eraic, a personal matter of honor
between himself and the First Holder in which the
Comhairle needn't involve itself." Several of the
other tiarna around the table muttered in
agreement. Jenna saw annoy-ance flit over the
Banrion's face; Aithne nodded to MacEagan, who
imme-diately interjected.

  "He may have tried to do so. But it remains that
Tiarna Ó Dochartaigh disrupted the holiday,
destroyed the Ri's property, and killed several of his
subjects. That isn't eraic; that is lawlessness and a
breaking of the oaths of fealty and peace we've all
sworn to the Comhairle and the Rí. The Comhairle
should still recommend that the Rí issue the
warrant against him."
  Banrion Aithne rose then, nodding to MacEagan.
"And I, sadly, must agree with Tiarna MacEagan."
Her voice was tinged with soft regret. "Even though
Árón is my brother, he has violated the peace of the
Rí and de-serves to pay for that . . ."

  Jenna wondered why Aithne would argue against
Árón, but Moister Cléurach leaned toward her and
whispered. "Oh, she'll make him pay-by bleeding
his personal estate dry to come up with the
honor-price against the warrant and replacing him
in the Comhairle with another tiarna whose
gratitude will give her his vote. Leave it to the
Banrion to turn her brother's rash judgment to her
own advantage."

  The Banrion continued to speak. "... but Tiarna
Cíomhsóg is also correct in that the hostage taking is
now eraic, and neither the Comhairle or the Rí can
interfere in that." Aithne looked directly at Jenna,
and though the sorrow still throbbed in her voice,
her gaze was as hard as "int. "I wish it were
different, First Holder. I wish the decision weren't
so painful and difficult for you, or that I had wise
counsel to give you. I don't. You must make your
own decision as to how to respond to the eráic's
demands. I can only offer myself as your servant to
carry Lámh Shábhála to my brother, if that is what
you decide."




                   Chapter 47: Voices



  SHE wished she could speak with Seancoim. She
wished she could sink into her mam's arms and
simply sob. She wished Ennis were there, warming
the other side of her bed.

 But the night was cold and empty, and there was
no one but Jenna herself and the voices inside Lámh
Shábhála. She stroked the stone, listening . . .

  ". . . give it up! Aye, it will hurt and may even kill
you, but holding the clock will end up being more
pain for you than this, and death is a final release.
Save the man you love ..."

 ". . . give up Lámh Shábhála, and you'll die
unhappy and young. You'll hate him for having
made you lose the cloch, that wonderful love of
yours will turn sour and bitter and you'll end up
with nothing. Nothing at all ..."
  ". . . go there yourself and attack the man. If you
lose, at least you've fought..."
 ". . . only a stupid fool would give up Lámh
Shábhála for a lover ..."

  ". . . only an utterly selfish one would keep it at the
cost of a lovers death ..."

  "Riata, talk to me," Jenna said, but if his voice was
there in the babble, she couldn't distinguish it from
the dozens of others. Jenna rolled from the bed,
grimacing as the healing wounds and burns pulled
and com-plained, and went over to a chest at the
foot. Under the clothing were nestled the tore of
Sinna Mac Ard and the carved blue seal her father
had made. She picked up the seal, caressing it and
holding it against Lámh Shábhála. A moment later,
the moonlight streaming in from the windows
shimmered, and she was looking at the interior of
her cottage in Ballintubber, and her da glanced up in
surprise. "Who are you?" he asked, as he had every
time.

  And as she had every time, she told him, and
watched his disbelief slowly turn to acceptance. She
told him about Mac Ard and Maeve, about Ennis. "I
don't know what to do, Da," she said finally, unable
to stop the tears. "1 don't know . . ."
  Niall put down the block of wood he was carving.
He walked toward her and a hand went out to touch
her in comfort, but it moved through her as if Jenna
were no more substantial than air. He looked at his
hand as if it had somehow betrayed him. "What if it
were you, Da?" Jenna continued as Niall stared at
the offending fingers. "What if holding the cloch
meant that you lost Mam?"

  "I never held a cloch na thintrí when it was alive,"
he answered. "It's not hard to give up something
that had little value to you. I would give away a
thousand stones like that to keep Maeve." He put
his knife to the wood and a brown shaving curled
away. "I'm sorry, Jenna. Truly I am. But I can't
help you; I can't imagine needing to make the choice
or the choice being that important." His sad, lost
eyes gazed at her, and she was struck by the
softness of his face and his hands. He wouldn't have
been strong enough to hold Lámh Shábhála. It
would have destroyed him. The thought was so like
the cold, judgmental voices she'd heard in her head
that she gasped, knowing it was her own voice she
heard. She opened her hand and the carving fell to
the floor. "Da, I'm sorry . . ." she whispered as Niall
and the cottage vanished, leaving her alone in the
room.
  She left the carving where it fell, picking up a
shawl and leaving her chambers. The guards posted
outside started to follow her, but she ges-tured to
them to stay. She hurried down the stairs and
corridors of the keep and outside to the courtyard.
"I need to go down to the town," she told one of the
pages on duty there, and he scurried off to wake the
stable master and bring a carriage. Half a stripe
later, she left the carriage at one end of the wharf.
"Stay here," she said to the driver. "I'll be back
soon."

 In the darkness, the harbor area was quiet,
though she could hear laughter and singing from the
tavern facing the docks, and the waves lapped the
piers as mooring ropes groaned and hulls knocked
gently against pilings. Jenna strode quickly to the
end of the wharf where she and Ennis had gone the
night of the Feast of First Fruits. She walked from
the planks onto the wet, dark boulders there and
sat, staring out over the water. She touched Lámh
Shábhála, her attention drifting with its energy over
the sea, calling.

  There was an answer. Several minutes later, as
she sat shivering in the cold night breeze, a head
appeared in the waves, the waves splashing white
and phosphorescent around it. A grunting warble:
"Sister-kin." The Saimhóir hauled itself awkwardly
out of the water and onto the pebbled beach.
  "You knew," Jenna said. It was not so much an
accusation as a state-ment, nor did Thraisha deny
it. "When we left, you told him 'Farewell'”

 “You knew."

  The black eyes glinted in moonlight. Blue light
shimmered in the satin fur, mottled with the
pattern of the mage-lights. She smelled of brine and
fish. "I knew that my land-cousin wasn't with you in
my foretelling, and I had the sense that I wouldn't
see him again."

  Tears filled Jenna's eyes with that, and Thraisha
waddled over until she could put her head in Jenna's
lap. Jenna stroked the silken fur, crying. A drop fell
near Thraisha, and she lapped at the water, tasting
it. "Why do you give the salt water?" Thraisha
asked. "Is it an offering to your gods?"
 "No," Jenna answered, sniffing. "I'm crying
because I know that I could change your vision. All I
have to do is give up Lámh Shábhála."
  "You can't do that." It was not a warning or a
caution, only a statement of fact.

  "Why not?" Jenna railed. "Why shouldn't I?
What's Lámh Shábhála brought me that's so
wonderful I can't bear to let it go? I've lost my
mam, lost my home. I've had to endure more pain
than I thought possible; I've killed people and had
them try to kill me." She yanked the stone from
around her neck, holding it in her hand, the chain
dangling. "Why not give it up?" she shouted. She
took her arm back, bringing it forward with a sharp,
throwing motion.

 But there was no answering splash out in the
water. Her hand remained closed and when she
opened it, the stone was still there, glinting in her
palm.
  "Jenna, stroke my back." Jenna placed Lámh
Shábhála around her neck again, and reached down
to Thraisha, her fingertips grazing wet fur:
"No-harder, so you can feel beneath," Thraisha told
her. Jenna rubbed the patterned fur, and
underneath the skin of her back and sides, she could
feel the lines of hard ridges. "Those are scars and
wounds that are still healing," Thraisha said. "Not
from harpoons or the teeth of the seal-biter. These
are from my own kind, because they wanted what I
have and tried to take it from me. Because they
think that I'm wrong in what I do.
  Her front flippers slapped rock as she moved, and
Jenna saw that the left one was torn, as was her tail.
"So it's no different for you."

  "No, sister-kin." In the cloch-hearing, Thraisha
gave a bitter laugh, as Jenna's own ears heard a soft
warbling. "Stone-walkers and Saimhóir both came
from the loins of the Miondia, and those lesser gods
are all brothers and sisters from the womb of the
same deity, even if we give Her different names-
We are cousins and share more traits than we like
to admit. There are a few who believe as I do, but
only a few."

 "What is it that you believe?"
  Thraisha looked up at Jenna. "That we're to do
more with the gifts we've been given than use them
as weapons. That we who come First can mark this
time and shape it so that it will be different and
better than all the times the mage-lights have come
in the past. That your fate and your choices-yours,
sister-kin-are important to the Saimhóir because
you hold Lámh Shábhála, who opened the way for
all and who might still guide us." She huffed, her
nostrils flaring at the end of the dark muzzle. "But
there aren't many who agree with me. Most believe
that Saimhóir and stone-walkers should stay apart,
that our changeling land-cousins are abominations,
and that the Bradán an Chumhacht should be used
only for the needs of the Saimhóir. 'The
stone-walkers live on the dry stones and their
concerns aren't ours. We only meet them at the
water's edge, and that's not enough. Use your gift
for your own kind.' That's what they tell me."

  "I hear the voices of all the old Holders," Jenna
said. "I've never heard any of them speak much of
the Saimhóir."
 Again the laugh. "Then perhaps it's time one did."

 "I didn't want this," she said. "I didn't ask for it."

   "I know," Thraisha answered. "I didn't either. But
it's ours, and the question is what will we do with it."
  "You've already seen it in your foretelling. You've
seen my death and yours. You've seen it all fail."

   A cough, a moan. "Perhaps. Or, as you said,
maybe that was only a vision of what could be, not
what must be." Her head lay back on Jenna's lap, as
if she were tired. "What do you think Ennis would
tell you?"
 "He would tell me not to worry about him and to
do what I felt was right." She stroked Thraisha's
head. "It should have been Ennis with Lámh
Shábhála. Not me. It would have been better that
way."
  "It wasn't what Lámh Shábhála wanted," Thraisha
answered. "It chose you, and there was a reason for
that."

 "Then it should tell me what it is."
 "I think it has," Thraisha answered. "You just
haven't listened. You need to listen now-to your
head, not your heart."

 "But Ennis ..."
  "Ennis is lost," Thraisha said. "I think you know
that."
 "No!" Jenna shouted the denial, screamed the
word as if she could burn away the void inside her
with the fury as she scrambled to her feet, pushing
Thraisha away. In the tavern, the singing stopped,
and someone opened the door, spilling yellow light
over the dock and silhouetting a man's figure. "I
won't let him be lost!"

 "Hello out there!" the figure called. A few other
heads appeared behind it. "Is everything all right?"

 "I'm . . . fine," Jenna said, turning to wave at the
people in the tavern door. "Sorry. I just . . . slipped."
  The door closed. After a moment, the singing
started up again.

 When Jenna turned back, Thraisha was gone. The
waves lapped the stones silently.




                Chapter 48: Glenn Aill



  THE party that left Dún Kiil on horseback was
tiny: Jenna, Moister Cléurach, the Banrion Aithne
and a quartet of gardai along with six attendants.
They were escorted for the first day by the Rí and
several tiarna and bantiarna of the Comhairle and
their followers, but the others turned back when
they came within sight of Sliabh Míchinniúint,
where long ago Máel Armagh had been defeated by
Severii O'Coulghan. The group traveled on alone:
beyond the townland of Dún Kiil into Maoil na
nDreas and Ingean na nUan, and finally past the
leaning, gray stone marker of the Ó Dochartaigh
clan.

  Jenna could well believe that Rubha na Scarbh
could effectively hide Árón Ó Dochartaigh or a
thousand others. The landscape was violent and
wild, with sudden cliffs, great mountains of
greenery-hung granite; boulder-clogged lowlands
and hummock-strewn bogs. Mist and clouds draped
the slopes and thunder rumbled in the valleys. They
followed wandering sheep and goat trails or no path
at all, coming upon "villages" of three or four houses
where suspicious, grimy faces peered at them from
shuttered windows. For every mile they traveled
northwest, it seemed they traveled four up and
down, or had to detour for half a day around an
escarpment that flung itself across their path.

  They saw a herd of storm deer, their hooves
striking sparks from the rocks, the noise of their
passage obliterating the storm. The next night, wind
sprites lit the air around them in the mist and fog.
From the pine wrests bristling on the mountains
came the howls of wolves that sounded 'like sibilant,
long chants. Red, glowing eyes watched them from
the darkness, and once there was a call that none of
them could identify at all-chilling long moan that
raised the hair on the back of their necks, then was
answered from across the valley.

  "The land is changing," Moister Cléurach said.
"The Old Ones are slowly waking from their long
sleep. You woke them, Jenna."
  A rider had come up to their party that morning,
as they moved deeper into Ó Dochartaigh's land. A
white banner fluttered from his spear, and his
scabbard was empty of its sword. He'd glanced at
Jenna, Moister Cléurach and their escorts, then
handed the Banrion a note. "I wasn't told the Holder
would be coming, or the Inishfeirm Moister," the
man said. "The tiarna ..."

  "Is my brother so defenseless that a dozen riders
are a threat to him?" the Banrion asked, and the
man flushed.
 "The Holder-"
  "-wishes to see that the hostage is delivered into
her hands as was promised," the Banrion snapped.
"Nothing more. Tell Árón that she is here to give
him the eraic he demanded. Or if he prefers, we can
ride back to Dún Kiil and he can be content with
nothing."

  Jenna had remained silent, staring back as the
rider's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened.
Then, with an arrogant sniff, he wheeled around and
galloped away. The Banrion had unrolled the
parchment. "He'll meet us at Glenn Aill," she said.
Her eyebrows raised as she glanced at Jenna. "This
is what you want, isn't it, First Holder?"
  Jenna felt a flush rise in her cheeks. "I don't know
of any other way to get Ennis back." Moister
Cléurach came up to them, listening. Jenna couldn't
look at him, afraid of what Aithne might see if she
did.

  The Banrion seemed mostly amused by Jenna's
statement. "Love is a phantom, Holder. It lives but
a few years, then withers away and leaves you
wondering how you could have ever thought you
liked this sad per-son sharing your bed." She
paused, her head tilting slightly as she re-garded
Jenna. "I think we're more alike than you want to
believe, Jenna, and I certainly wouldn't give up
what you have for that."
 "I suppose I don't have your cynicism, Banrion."
  Moister Cléurach, grunted but said nothing.
Aithne smiled at Jenna. would call it realism,
Holder. Besides, your sacrifice leaves my brother as
the Holder of Lámh Shábhála."

 "I would have thought that was something you
might prefer."
   "Love is a phantom," Aithne repeated, "whether
'tis between lovers o between siblings. I hold no
illusions as to whether Árón would allow any
lingering affection for me to stand in the way of
what he wants."

 "And that is ... ?"

  "He would like to see a true Rí sitting on the
throne at Dún Kiil, one who wouldn't need or want
the Comhairle. With Lámh Shábhála, he could well
have that." Her gaze lingered on Jenna, and Aithne
seemed to sigh. "I wish you trusted me more,
Holder. I think we both actually want the same
thing." She kicked heels into her horse's side.
  "Does she know?" Moister Cléurach asked softly
as the Banrion moved up the trail. Jenna shook her
head.

 "I don't think so."

 "We may have made a mistake in not telling her."

 "If so, it's already made," Jenna answered. "We've
gone too far to take the chance now."
  The Banrion stopped, looking back at the two of
them. She waved her arm. "We go this way," she
said.
 They were in their second day of storm.

  " Tis no worse than others I've seen," Moister
Cléurach said. "The sea is a fey mistress and we're
no more than a speck in her hand-there's no
escaping her whims, not in Inish Thuaidh."

  Jenna huddled sullen and miserable on her horse.
The reedcoat she wore flapped in the gale force
winds that shredded the gray-black clouds above
and pushed them firmly across the sky. The
persistent and steady rain, blown nearly horizontal,
had penetrated every fold and gap in the reedcoat
and plastered her hair to her skull under the hood
she held over her face. Her mount plodded through
the deluge, great clumps of mud clinging to her
hoofs and fetlocks, her mane dripping and the
leather saddle and reins sodden. The clouds ran
aground on the tops of the steep mountains to
either side of them, a thousand dancing and
splashing rills and streams plummeting down their
sides toward the river whose banks they followed.

  It helped, a little, that the others in their small
party were suffering with her. Moister Cléurach
sniffled and coughed, the gardai and retainers
grumbled and muttered. Only the Banrion Aithne
seemed unaffected by the weather, sitting
uncomplaining on her black mare as she peered
around her.
  "Another few hours," she said. "We're nearly
there."

  Glenn Aill emerged from the storm and haze like
an apparition: a curving half-moon rampart of
native stone thirty or forty feet high, its horns 'acing
outward toward them. Huddled high on a steep
mountainside and adorned with draperies of vine
and moss, the fortification could have been part of
the landscape. Dour, small windows peered out from
two towers at either end of the structure; a single
massive oaken door at the center led out into a
cramped, winding path through fifty yards of
chevaux de frise: pointed, tall rocks set like
thousands of teeth bristling in the gums of the
earth, through which an army would have trouble
advancing at any speed. The rocks gave way to a
long, sloping meadow separated by stone fences into
dozens of small fields planted with various crops or
grazed by sheep, all running down to a narrow black
lough that filled the valley in front of them. A
stone-walled bridge with wooden planks arched
over the water. No more than two riders could have
ridden across it*abreast. "Glenn Aill was built over
two hundred years ago and has never been taken
by force of arms, though there have been
attempts," the Banrion said. "Beyond the walls is
the keep, also built of stone. Even if the outer wall
and keep were overrun, there are corridors leading
back into caverns in the mountain where you could
hide forever, or come out far from here."
 "You lived here?" Jenna asked. Aithne nodded,
her gaze on the fortifi-cations looming above.

  "Now and again, when there was need," she
answered. "Normally, there are only a few families
of attendants here to keep the place ready. Our
parents retreated here once, when the chieftain of
Carraig an Ghaill attacked us over a dispute about
grazing lands. I remember watching the battle-they
never got farther than the bridge before they
turned and retreated again. And my family would
come here every so often, just to visit."

  Jenna glanced at the forbidding scene, and
Moister Cléurach shifted in his saddle. "Such a
lovely holiday spot," he muttered, droplets falling
from his white beard as he spoke. The Banrion only
smiled.
  "I think that right now Árón feels it's quite lovely,"
she said.

  They rode over the bridge. The workers in the
field stopped to look at them, and up on the
mountainside, the great door in the wall opened.
Several riders emerged, making their way through
the chevaux de frise. "We should wait here," the
Banrion said. "Out of any archer's range."

  They pulled up their horses. The rain pummeled
them as the riders made their way down the long
slope. "This is your last chance, Holder, Aithne said
to Jenna. "We could still turn and leave." Jenna only
shook her head.
  The riders stopped a few hundred yards from
them. Árón was at their head. He reined in his horse
and lifted a hand. "I expected no one but my sister,"
he said, his voice sounding distant and muffled in
the storm.
 "I need to see Ennis," Jenna called back to him. "I
need to know that he's still alive."
  Árón made a gesture, and two horsemen from the
rear came forward. On one steed was Ennis, his
hands bound together in front of him. The other was
one of Árón’s men, with one hand on Ennis' arm and
a long dagger placed firmly against his throat.

  "Ennis . . ." Jenna nearly sobbed the word. He
sagged in his saddle as if desperately weary, and his
green eyes were clouded with pain. His hair was
disheveled and plastered to his skull with the rain;
his skin was pallid and drawn. He stared at Jenna,
pleadingly, and shook his head, water splattering on
his face so that he blinked. He looked beaten.
Defeated. Jenna nearly despaired, seeing him.

  "Jenna," he husked. "Don't-" He stopped with a
gasping intake of breath as the man holding him
jabbed the blade against his throat.
 "Be quiet," Árón warned him. "You are to say
nothing."

  She wanted desperately to go to Ennis, to rip the
bonds from his hands and kiss him, to hold him in
her arms again. And yet ... he gazed at her like a lost
thing, with no hope or joy in his eyes at all. Is this
the way Mac Ard was after I took the cloch from
him? Is this what I would look like once Lámh
Shábhála is gone-or worse, since it's woven itself so
deeply into me . . . ? She started to urge her horse
forward, but Árón lifted his hand and the man
holding Ennis pressed the dagger tight. "Move this
way, Holder, and he dies. You know what I want.
Give it to my sister. Now!"
  Jenna let her hood fall back, uncaring of the rain.
She brought her hands up and touched the chain
around her neck. Muscles jumped in her face; she
tightened her mouth, closing her eyes.
   She lifted the chain from around her neck, the
stone swinging in its silver cage, and handed it into
Aithne's waiting hands. She bowed her head,
clutching herself around the waist and cradling her
right arm to herself as she gave a sobbing cry.
Aithne glanced at the stone in her hand. Her lips
lifted slightly, and Jenna quickly dropped her gaze
away from the Banrion's face.

  Árón’s laughter came from up the hill. "Well, you
are stronger than I thought possible, Holder. You
should have heard your lover scream when I
plucked the cloch from his hands," he called down to
them. "Aithne, you may come forward now."

 Moister Cléurach, alongside Jenna, leaned toward
her. "She knows," he whispered.
  "Maybe. It doesn't matter. Árón takes the stone,
sends Ennis to us, and We g°>" Jenna replied.
 "And after that?"

 "We ride hard and fight if we must."

  Jenna heard the Banrion slap her horse's neck
with the reins, heard the animal take a few steps
forward through the mud. Then she stopped
halfway between the two groups. "It's not much of a
jewel, Árón," she said. "But I wonder . . . how it
would look on me?"
 "Aithne!" He shouted the name, a call of fury.
Moister Cléurach hissed in irritation. Jenna glanced
up to see Árón’s horse rear in alarm, and nocked
crossbows appeared from under the cloaks of his
companions "Don't be a fool, Sister. You'll wear that
cloch for no longer than a breath The moment you
take it in your hand and try to claim it will be your
last."
  4

 Aithne laughed. "Such glorious threats. What will
you do with it, Brother? Use it to promote yourself?
Such a banal and selfish "purpose."
  "Aithne, I warn you. The blood we share won't
stop me from giving the order."

  "Oh, I know it won't." Jenna watched Aithne heft
the stone in her palm, as if in thought. "In truth, I
gave this almost no thought until just now, when I
took it into my hand ..." She lifted her head up. "The
truth is, Árón, that I trust the Holder Jenna more
than I trust you. But . . ." She clucked at the horse,
urging it forward again. As she came alongside Árón,
she nodded her head to Ennis.

  "Let him go now," Jenna heard her say. "That was
the agreement."
 "Give me Lámh Shábhála." He held his hand out,
palm up.

 "Let O'Deoradháin go," Aithne repeated.
 "When I have Lámh Shábhála in my hand. Not
before."

  Aithne glanced over her shoulder toward Jenna,
then placed the neck-lace in his hand. He stared at
it, then his eyes lifted to find Jenna's gaze and he
raised his voice to her. "I'm sorry," he said. "This is
still not suffi-cient payment for my poor Cianna."
He nodded to the man holding Ennis.

  The knife moved, slashing deep, and blood
fountained even as Jenna's hand belatedly closed
around the true cloch, hidden in a small pocket in
her clóca. "Ennis!" she screamed. "Ennis!"
 He was already falling, his eyes open and
unseeing, a froth of red foam on his lips.

  Jenna was sobbing as she ripped open Lámh
Shábhála with her mind. Unthinking, she threw its
power, wild and raw, toward Árón. He was still
holding the necklace in his hand, not yet realizing
that it was a false stone. He was defenseless, his
own cloch still resting untouched at his breast. She
wanted to see him crushed and smashed, wanted
the lightnings of the cloch to snap and burn around
his screaming, broken body. She saw the lightning
flash and crackle, arcing toward him, then . . .

  Just before the fury struck Árón, Jenna saw
another lightning strike her own, and the two
exploded in a white fireball and thunder. Another
bolt followed, and Jenna was forced to shove it
aside.
  That is Ennis' clock, she realized. They've given it
to someone.

  Chaos erupted. Her senses lost in the cloch's,
Jenna was vaguely aware of shouts and curses. She
tried to follow the cloch's energy back, to see who
possessed it, to kill him because he had what should
have been Ennis'.
 ". . . Lámh Shábhála! Use it!"
 ". . . she still has it!"

  Jenna was vaguely aware of what was happening
around her. Moister Cléurach’s hand convulsed
around the stone about his neck; immediately the
storm howled a thousand fold with Stormbringer's
energy. A hurricane wind tossed men from their
saddles and pounded against the walls of Glenn Aill.
She saw Árón’s fist close around the false Lámh
Shábhála, then his face convulsed with a curse as he
tossed it aside. Aithne had turned her horse,
galloping back toward them as Árón lifted his own
cloch.
   Jenna, though, kept her attention on the person
using Ennis' cloch. You bastard . . . I'm almost there
... I can feel you . . .

  A stream of energy-sapphire and white streams
hissed and snarled, reminding Jenna all too well of
the ambush in Dún Kiil-flared from the Keep and
struck Aithne, hurling the woman backward from
her horse.

  . . . there! I can almost see your face . . . The
winged demon appeared in the air above them,
shouting rage; the lava-creature spewed orange
flame as the other two Clochs Mór that had
attacked Jenna and Ennis in Dún Kiil now opened.
 • . . by the Mother-Creator!
  Jenna saw the figure holding Ennis' cloch, standing
at one of the win-dows of the towers on the wall.
She saw his face and she nearly released Lámh
Shábhála with the shock.

  She knew now why the cloch was handled so well
and easily. She knew now who had helped Ó
Dochartaigh plan the ambush. She knew now that
there was another reason Ennis had been taken.
 The new Holder was also its old one: Padraic Mac
Ard.

  In the cloch-vision, it was as if they faced one
another in the same room though a quarter mile or
more separated them. His mouth moved, his eyes
almost sad. "Jenna . . ." The word was loud in her
hearing, even through the clamor. She recoiled
backward, the vision of Mac Ard receding as if she
were falling away from him impossibly fast. She
found herself back in her body, the roar of the battle
around her.

  "Jenna!" Moister Cléurach shouted. His face was
grim and strained, his Nesh pale as he lashed out
with Stormbringer against the other clochs. He
pointed at Aithne, but even the gesture allowed an
opening, and the lava beast threw globules of fire
that the winds of Stormbringer hurled aside only
barely in time. The field workers were running
away in panic; the rows of wheat nearest Jenna and
the others were now ablaze. The Dún Kiil gardai had
gone to Aithne, swords drawn uselessly. One went
down
with a crossbow quarrel in his breast.

  The mage-demon flapped its dragon wings above
Aithne, claws out as it stooped like a hawk and
plummeted. At the same moment, blue light-ning
erupted again from Árón’s hand. Jenna imagined a
wall above the Banrion and she felt Lámh Shábhála
shudder in her hand as the demon struck it, as the
searing energy from Árón’s cloch battered at-the
shielding force. The demon, growling in frustration,
tore at the shield; Jenna could feel it as if the claws
were gouging at her own flesh. Aithne rose groggily,
and she touched her own cloch.

 A new demon appeared, the twin of the first. It
hurled itself at the other and they came together
with a roar.
  Mac Ard sent lightning that tore at the earth
directly in front of Jenna. Her horse reared, sending
her falling to the ground. Her right elbow struck a
rock in the mud, and her arm went numb. She was
no longer holding Lámh Shábhála. The world
snapped back into drab confusion, the power of the
Clochs Mór now just half-glimpsed whirlings in the
air, the shrill howling of wind, and the flickering of
pale light. One of the stone fences exploded, shards
of rock flying everywhere. A fragment sliced across
Jenna's left arm, leaving a long cut that gaped white
for an instant before blood welled up. Jenna cried in
pain and frustration. Her right arm throbbed with
the pain of wielding the cloch as she scrabbled in the
mud. There-she saw the cloch, an arm's length
away, and flung herself at it. Her hand closed about
it ...

 . . . and the fury rose again: around her. Inside
her.
  "Mac Ard!" She screamed his name. She reached
deep into the well of energy within her cloch,
grasping it all, holding the power with her mind and
shaping it. She could see him, could feel the lightning
that writhed like snakes in his hands. She hurled the
whole force of Lámh Shábhála s energy at him. He
sensed the attack and pushed back at it. Árón, too,
felt it, and his Cloch Mór turned to aid Mac Ard. For
a moment they both held, then, with a cry, she
broke through. Árón swayed in his saddle' senseless.
Mac Ard, in his tower room, crumpled.

 Jenna herself sagged, suddenly weary. She took a
breath, ready now to finish it, to kill them . . .
  There were cries and shouts around her-she saw
one of Ó Dochartaigh's riders pluck the tiarna's
unconscious body from his horse and turn t0 gallop
back up the hill. The others followed, retreating as
the other two Clochs Mór pushed back Moister
Cléurach and the Banrion's renewed attacks. Jenna
flung the cloch's rage at them, and one of the Mages
gave a cry and fell as the lava-beast wailed and
vanished. The door to Glenn Aill opened to let the
remaining riders in, then shut.

  She could feel the remaining Clochs Mór close also,
their Holders re-leasing the stones, though Moister
Cléurach continued to hurl Storm-bringer's energy
toward the walls and towers.

 "Moister, it's over," Jenna heard Aithne say
wearily. "They've gone. They'll be in the caverns
and gone before we can get to them."
  The old man lifted his hand. With a curse, he
released the cloch. The storm was simply a cold,
soaking rain once more. All but one of their gardai
were dead; the Banrion's attendants seemed to
have fled. Three of the Ó Dochartaigh retinue lay on
the ground, and . . .

  "Ennis!" Jenna ran to him, ignoring the pain and
fatigue of her body. "By the Mother ..." She sank
into the mud beside him, pulling him into her lap.
His eyes were open, and the long gaping wound
across the side of his neck no longer pulsed, but
seeped thick and red. The ground below him and his
leine were soaked with it, and the blood covered
Jenna's rain-slick hands as she cradled him.
  "Ennis . . . Oh, Mother-Creator, no . . ." His name
was a wail, a keening of grief. The rain splattered on
his still face, on his unseeing eyes, and she rocked
back and forth in the muck and grass, willing him to
stir, to take a gasping breath, to speak, to live. She
cried, praying to the Mother-Creator, to the
Seed-Daughter from whom the Miondia, the lesser
gods, had sprung, to Darkness in His own realm, to
any god that might bring him back. She touched
Ennis' face, still warm in the cold rain, and stroked
his hair.

 "He's gone, Jenna." Moister Cléurach’s voice, at
her shoulder. "Jenna, I'm so sorry ..."
  He's not gone!, she wanted to rail at him. I won't
let him be gone. There has to be something, some
way to change this . . . But no words came out. She
looked up at Moister Cléurach, stricken dumb, her
mouth open as she shook her head.

  She took Lámh Shábhála in her hand. She held the
cloch, opening the small store of energy still left
within it. She held the energy, not knowing how to
shape it or change it so that she could bring his soul
back from where it had fled. The brilliance of the
mage-lights shimmered around her, and it meant
nothing. She let go of the cloch and fell over Ennis'
body, .weeping.

 She lay there for long minutes until gentle hands
pulled her away.
              Chapter 49: Leave-taking



  THE attendants, returning now that the battle
was over, argued that with the rain it was
impossible to cremate the body, but Jenna insisted
that a pyre be built in the nearest field. Jenna
watched as they sullenly constructed the pyre in the
downpour, sitting by Ennis' body and refusing to
move whenever Moister Cléurach or Aithne came to
join her, though she didn't resist when they tended
to her injuries. The tears came and went on some
internal tidal rhythm; the grief filled her like a cold
moon-less sea, heavy and deep. The sun sank below
the mountains beyond Glenn Aill; the rain subsided
to drizzle as mist and a few stars emerged between
ragged clouds.

  "The pyre's ready," Aithne said. Jenna felt the
Banrion's hand on her shoulder. The woman had
said little since the battle. She crouched down
alongside Jenna and took her hands, still clutching
Ennis' stiffening body. "They need to take him
now," she whispered, nodding to her attendants.
They came forward silently and took the body as
Aithne helped Jenna to her feet. She stood
unsteadily, her legs weak with exhaustion and hours
of sitting.

  They placed the body atop the framework of logs
and branches, and placed the bodies of the gardai
who had died to either side of him. One of the
retainers came forward with a burning torch and
touched it to the base of the pyre. A pale blue flame
flickered then went out. "The wood is soaked,
Banrion," he called. "We used what little oil we had,
but . .. There was a hint of pleasure in his words, the
ghost of an unspoken reprimand.
   "I'll do it," Jenna said. She shrugged away the
Banrion's hands, drawing a breath as she found
Lámh Shábhála’s chain, recovered from where it
had fallen and around her neck once more. She
lifted the cloch, closing her eyes and coaxing the
remaining essence from deep within the well of the
stone.
  She imagined fire: a flame of elemental force,
burning purer and hotter than a smelter's furnace.
She placed the image under the pyre and released
it. With an audible whump, the pyre burst into
flame. White smoke bil-lowed as the moisture in the
wood went immediately to steam and evapo-rated.
The pyre hissed and grumbled, but it burned so
aggressively that the attendants all moved well
back. Shadows lurched and swayed behind them as
the flames leaped up to envelop the bodies, the light
from it touching even the walls of Glenn Aill. Jenna
poured the last dregs from Lámh Shábhála into the
pyre; the flames roared in response, sending a
whirling column of furious sparks pinwheeling into
the night sky.

  She watched as the flames devoured the corpses.
She imagined Ennis' soul soaring free, dancing in the
glowing ash toward the sky and the
Seed-Daughter's welcome to the afterlife. She
watched until the pyre collapsed in a tornado of
sparks; until it was no more than glowing embers;
until she saw above them the mage-lights snarling
the sky and felt the yearning, seductive pull of
Lámh Shábhála toward them.
  "I know you're exhausted and hurting, Holder, but
you need to renew your cloch," Aithne said softly,
startling Jenna. "Árón and the others will be doing
the same, and it's a long and possibly dangerous ride
home."

   Moister Cléurach, off to one side, had already
opened his cloch to the lights. Aithne stood near
Jenna, her face gentle and sympathetic. The
Banrion looked battered and sore: a bruise
discolored her cheek and puffed one side of her
mouth. Her clóca and leine were scorched, torn, and
filthy, and blood had soaked through along one arm
where a long cut trailed down nearly to her wrist.
She'd been burned on the other arm-Jenna could
see the blisters that glistened on the woman's left
hand, running up beyond the sleeve of her leine.
  Jenna nodded. "Banrion, I'm sorry . . ." she began,
then faltered. So much had happened that
demanded an apology: that she hadn't told the
Banrion about the false Lámh Shábhála she and
Moister Cléurach had Prepared; that she hadn't
trusted Aithne; that Aithne had been injured
Protecting her ... "I wish I'd told you before what
the Moister and I had done."

  "I wish you had also," Aithne said and the
agreement cut deeper than any of the wounds. "But
I knew, or at least suspected. And I understand
why you kept your own counsel and didn't tell me."

 "Árón was your brother, and I didn't know how
you'd react. I thought it might work, and it was the
only way I could think of to get Ennis b u and . . ."A
deep sob racked her from the center of her being, a
grief ' huge and terrible that for a moment she
thought she couldn't bear ' Aithne put her arms
around Jenna, pulling her close. Jenna wept on the
Banrion's shoulder, letting the lamentation rise
within her and give voice to her bereavement as
Aithne stroked her hair and kissed the top of her
head as her mam might have done.

 Her mam . . .
  Jenna gently pulled away from Aithne, pushing
the grief back down within herself. "Banrion, during
the battle, Lámh Shábhála showed me the face of
one of your brother's allies. It was Tiarna Padraic
Mac Ard, of Tuath Gabair, holding the cloch they'd
taken from Ennis. And the other clochs . . . Moister
Cléurach is certain that at least one of the other
Clochs Mór was among those stolen from
Inishfeirm."

  Aithne's face went grim. "That's a strong
accusation," she responded. "Árón is stubborn and
foolish. He thinks mostly of himself. But you call him
a traitor to Inish Thuaidh now. And that is
something I find hard to believe."

  "I know what I saw," Jenna answered. She
gestured at the sullen orange embers of the pyre.
"I'm also realizing, now, how the loss of someone
you love can mark and change you. And your
brother's right: I was responsible for that. I bear
the blame."

  Aithne said nothing. Her gaze went from Jenna to
the pyre. Finally, she placed her hand over her
Cloch Mór. "I've been told the name of this cloch is
Scail," she said. "'Reflection,' because it steals the
power from another Cloch Mór and uses that force
to defeat the attack. Árón gave the cloch to me,
after I returned from meeting you at Inishfeirm. He
said that it had been in our clan for centuries, but
though he was eldest and it belonged rightfully to
him, he had another. I used the cloch with Árón so
that I could learn to understand how it worked. In
those few minutes when our clochs were linked and
struggling against each other, I also saw Árón’s
mind mirrored in my own." She paused, taking a
slow breath an looking away from Jenna. "I saw the
rot in his soul," she continued, don't think you made
him that way, Jenna. I think Cianna's death on
exposed that vein within him and gave him an
excuse to turn to it mo and more. If the Rí Ard
promised Árón that he would be made Rí in Dún
Kiil, then my brother might well listen and betray
kin, clan, and oath. I still hope not. I still hope that
there's some other reason why he would tolerate
Mac Ard's presence here."

  Aithne sighed. She glanced up at the sky, then
down at her cloch have much time, Holder," she
said. "And whatever my brother is or whatever he
plans, you will need Lámh Shábhála. Let's use the
mage-lights while we can, and worry afterward."
  The day dawned surprisingly clear and warm. The
field workers came out from Glenn Aill, staying well
away from the encampment over which flew the
banner of Dún Kiil and Rí MacBrádaigh. Of Árón Ó
Dochartaigh and his people, there was no sign.
Jenna let Lámh Shábhála open slightly; in the wave
of cloch-vision she felt no other Clochs Mór aside
from those with the Banrion and Moister Cléurach.
If Árón and Mac Ard were still lurking in the area,
they weren't where they could immediately attack.

  Ennis' pyre still smoldered in the field, wispy
tendrils of smoke rising from the ash. "Holder?"

  Jenna turned to see Aithne and Moister Cléurach
already mounted on their horses. The attendants
were packing the last of the supplies onto the pack
animals and the Banrion held the reins of Jenna's
horse. "It's time to go back to Dún Kiil," Aithne said.
"We need to make plans. I'll make certain that the
Comhairle puts a watch on our coast immediately,
but I don't have much hope that we'll catch Mac Ard
before he returns to Talamh an Ghlas and tells the
Rí Ard what's happened here. If you're right and my
brother has allied himself with the Rí Ard and the
Tuatha, then we can expect them to attack soon.
Possibly before the Festival of Gheimhri and winter.
I've been talking with Moister Cléurach; he wants
you to go back to Inishfeirm at least through the
month of Softwood to continue your study with
Lámh Shábhála."

   Jenna walked over to them and took the reins.
She swung herself up on the horse, tucking the long
clóca between her legs. She stared at the Pyre, then
lifted her gaze away from Glenn Aill to the north
and east where mountains lifted stony heads in the
sunshine. … You can determine the shape of this age
..." … It doesn't have to be this way ..." I don't think
my path leads to Inishfeirm or Dún Kiil," she said.
 Moister Cléurach followed the direction of her
gaze, and his mouth tightened under his beard.
"You can't be thinking of Thall Coill. Jenna, don't be
stupid-"

  He stopped as Jenna's head snapped around and
she glared at him. "If you think that I'm at all
concerned about the possibility of dying, you're
mistaken, Moister."
  He sniffed and frowned. "I didn't think that at all,
First Holder. In fact, it doesn't surprise me at all
that you'd choose a suicidal course So f your recent
choices haven't proved to be particularly wise."

  The words stung, her face reddening as if he'd
slapped her across the cheek. "The difference
between us is that I don't judge wisdom by ho little
the action might cost me."

  Aithne gave a short laugh, but Moister Cléurach’s
eyebrows lowered like white thunderheads over the
sea. "Jenna," he said, his placating tone at odds with
his face, "at Inishfeirm, I can show you what the
other Hold-ers of Lámh Shábhála have said about
Thall Coill and the Scrúdú. Why neither Tadhg or
Severii O'Coulghan would attempt that, not after
Tadhg witnessed Peria's death, and Tadhg was one
of the most accomplished cloudmages."
  "So you believe that because Tadhg was afraid of
the Scrúdú, I should be also. No doubt that's more
of what you call wisdom."
  "Tadhg watched the woman he loved die there,"
Moister Cléurach an-swered, all the softness gone
from his voice. It was steel and bone. "You of all
people should appreciate that. Don't push away
those who are only trying to help you, Holder. You
need us more than you can imagine."
 "Don't try to impose your will where it doesn't
belong. I am the First Holder, not you."

  The two glared at each other. The Banrion rode up
between them, so that their horses shifted and the
eye contact was broken. "I think the Holder is fully
aware of your feelings, Moister Cléurach," she said.
"Jenna, I won't presume to tell you what course to
follow. I only ask you to consider this: if you go to
Thall Coill and fail, then you leave Inish Thuaidh
open to the Rí Ard."

  "If I don't, then probably Inish Thuaidh falls
anyway. And right now, Banrion, I have to say that
I find I don't really care. Inish Thuaidh was my
great-mam's home and I love this land, too, but
ultimately the land will remain, no matter who is
called Rí in Dún Kiil. Will the lives of these people
change?" She gestured at the field workers. "They'll
just switch one master for another, that's all. No
matter who rules, the crops will have to be planted,
tended, and harvested, and the stock will have to be
fed an watered. I know. I was once one of them and
I cared nothing for the Riocha in their keeps and
estates. When you say Inish Thuaidh will fall , you
mean yourself."

  If Aithne felt the lash of Jenna's words, she
showed none of it. "Then perhaps you made a
mistake not handing over Lámh Shábhála to y
brother yesterday," she answered with a gentle
reproof. "The Rí &r interest in Inish Thuaidh is
mostly because you're here, after all. If you’ve given
him Lámh Shábhála, it might be that no army would
come here at all."
  Jenna’s hand had gone protectively to her breast,
where the cloch was hidden under her leine.
"Jenna," the Banrion continued, "there are times
we're drawn into something all unwillingly. No
matter what you do, the Rí Ard considers you now
to be part of Inish Thuaidh. You're their enemy;
nothing you say or do will change that, not until you
no longer hold Lámh Shábhála." Aithne stopped
then, her gaze sliding to Jenna's right hand and past
to the white ashes of the pyre. "You had something
I've never had, however short the time," she said.
"I envy you that, Jenna. What do you think he
would tell you? Can you hear Ennis' voice?"
  "Aye," Jenna answered immediately. "I listened
all night for it, asking him the same question. I
heard the answer."
  "This is nonsense," Moister Cléurach said.
"Banrion, we have no time to waste here."

  "Should I tie the First Holder to her horse and
drag her back to Dún Kill?" Aithne answered. "Is
that something you want to try, Moister?"

 Moister Cléurach glowered but said nothing.
 The Banrion gave Jenna a soft smile. The tore
about her neck glinted with the movement. "Your
Ennis spoke to you, truly?"

  Jenna nodded. "I hear him here," she said,
touching her breast.
  "Surely you're not thinking of telling her to go,"
Moister Cléurach said. "That would be a tragedy for
all of us, including Jenna."

  Aithne sighed. "It's not a decision any of us need
to make yet. Jenna, the High Road to the townland
of Ingean na nUan is still two days' ride from here,
and that's the road you'd need to travel to An Ceann
Ramhar and eventually Thall Coill. We'll ride
together at least that far, then we'll see." She looked
at Moister Cléurach warningly. "And we'll speak of
this no more today. A few days of thinking might do
us all some good."




               Chapter 50: Roads Taken



  THERE were barrows where their path met the
High Road, which was little more than an unmarked
trail heading vaguely northeast down from the hills.
In the storm and rain, Jenna had noticed neither
the High Road nor the barrows when they'd passed
before. The mounds were over-grown, appearing as
stony, weed-infested hillocks in the field alongside
the path, the low sun draping long shadows behind
them.
  "They're old Bunús Muintir graves," Banrion
Aithne said, noticing Jenna's attention. "There are a
few barrows here in Rubha na Scarbh, and more in
the northern townlands. As children, we were told
they were haunted. We were warned to stay away
from them or the wights would rise from their
slumber and come for us. No more than tales, I'm
sure. I know that I was shooed away from them
more than once, and Árón as well. They say there
are still Bunús living in the hills and people still saw
them occasionally, though I never did." She inclined
her head to Jenna. "There's only another hour or
two of light. There's an inn we could reach in that
time and stay in dry and warm rooms."

 "On the road to Dún Kill?"

 A nod.
 "I'm staying here tonight," Jenna said. Moister
Cléurach groaned au-dibly.
  "I don't care to sleep another night with rocks
digging into my back, he said. "I'm an old man and
I've been too many days away."

  "Then go on," Jenna told him. "Leave me here.
I'm going no farther today."
 Moister Cléurach looked at the Banrion. "Rocks,"
he said. "In her head,

 too."

  "If we stay out here, anyone can see our fire from
the hills around us," the Banrion said to Jenna. "I
know those with my brother will have eyes out
there, reporting to him where we are. I doubt he
would dare attack after the last time, but I don't
know that for certain. He'd be less likely to do so if
we're in a village, where others might be more
inclined to side with the Rí in Dún Kill."
  Jenna said nothing, sitting on her horse and
staring down to where the High Road led off
through the heather. She felt more than heard the
Banrion's sigh.

 "We'll stay here," Aithne told the attendants.
"Make the camp ready."

  The mage-lights that night were faint and weak,
soft filaments that glowed fitfully and vanished.
Jenna watched them while sitting between the
bar-rows, away from the encampment and the fire,
a blanket around her shoulders. Both the Banrion
and Moister Cléurach had come to her
ear-lier-Moister Cléurach demanding and gruff,
Aithne soothing and under-standing, but both
attempting to convince her to return to Dún Kiil. To
both of them she gave the same reply: "I'll decide
by morning."

  She didn't know what she expected to happen
during the night to ease the conflict within herself.
The thoughts chased themselves, ephemeral and
changing, impossible to hold or examine. She felt the
conflict deep in her soul; when she tried to muddle
through the choices in front of her, Ennis' face rose
before her and the grief welled up again,
overcoming her.

  Once, she opened Lámh Shábhála, but there was
only more confusion and contradiction in the voices
of the old Holders and she closed it again quickly,
returning to the near-silence of the night.
 In the darkness there was the rustling of dark
wings. A form appeared on the barrow to her left, a
particle of night with black eyes that stared at her.
A yellow beak opened. The creature cawed once.

  "Denmark?" At the name, the crow cawed again
and spread wide wings, gliding down to land in the
grass in front of her. Its head cocked inquiringly at
her. "Denmark, is that really you?"
  The crow cawed once more as she reached out
toward it. It didn't move, but let her touch the soft,
black feathers of its head and back. She glanced
about her. "Seancoim, is he here, too?"

  Denmark hopped backward, then flapped away
again to the barrow, alighting there and cawing
again. When Jenna got to her feet, the crow flew up
again and landed just past the end of the grave,
moving away from the fire and the encampment.
Another caw. Jenna glanced back to where the
Banrion and Moister Cléurach were sleeping, then
followed after the bird. Fly several feet and wait; fly
several feet and wait . . The pattern went on for
some time, until Jenna was well away from the
camp moving steadily down and east into a wooded
valley. Denmark led her along the bed of a stream
tinkling merrily as it descended the slopes until it
finally merged with a river wending southward
through a stand of sycamores. Denmark cawed
again, loudly this time, and flew off with a great
flapping of wings, circling high and disappearing into
the leaves of the trees.
 "Jenna!"

  The call was soft in the darkness, the voice
familiar. She saw a flickering gleam of white beard
in the shadows, and Seancoim stepped out toward
her, leaning on his staff of oak.
  "Seancoim!" She rushed to him, enveloping him in
her arms and taking in the familiar smell of spices
and herbs that exuded from his body and clothing.
"I can't believe you're here. How did you know, how
did you get here . . . ?"
  The old Bunús Muintir seemed to gaze past her
with his cataract-white eyes, his hand holding hers.
Denmark came flapping down from the branches
above to land on his shoulder in a flurry. "You still
overlook the slow magics," he told her. "It was
always the fault with most of you Daoine. You'll
likely ignore them entirely now, with the power you
wield with the clochs na thintrí." He took a long,
slow breath and let it out again. "I saw, I heard," he
said. "Once this was Bunús Muintir land, and some
of us still live here, hidden." His blind eyes looked
aside, but Denmark regarded her with steady,
bright eyes. "I came as quickly as I could. But it
seems I've come late. I saw the pyre two nights ago,
and I felt your anguish. I'm sorry, Jenna. I knew
that there was to be love between the two of you.
Even when you denied it back in Doire Coill, I knew.
I m sorry."

  The tears came again then, sudden and hot,
pushing from deep within her. She'd thought that
she cried away all the pain, but it returned now,
redoubled, and she realized how much she'd been
holding away, hiding it from Aithne and Moister
Cléurach and herself.
  "You'll always feel this pain," Seancoim murmured
in her ear as he held her. "It will always be with
you. You'll hear a sound or smell something, and it
will remind you of him and you'll feel the loss all
over again. But 1 will stop hurting you so much.
You'll get used to carrying the grief, as you're
starting to carry the pain of Lámh Shábhála without
thinking about it."

 "I was there. I saw them kill him and I couldn't do
anything to stop it."
  "I know. And that's not your fault. You need to
mourn, but you also need to move past the grief.
You're still here, Jenna, and while you are, you can't
forget this world. If you're going to Thall Coill, I
knew I should be with you."

 "Thall Coill . . ." She repeated the name, sniffing
and wiping at her eyes. "That's what some of the
Holders told me. Riata . . ."
  "I know. I saw his spirit, wandering restless from
his grave and looking north. Come with me; we have
a long way to travel and night is the best time." He
hugged her again, then started to move away into
the trees. Jenna began to follow, then glanced back
up into the hills, where the campfire glimmered like
a yellow-orange star. "You can choose only one
path, Jenna," Seancoim said.
  "How do I know which is the right one?" Jenna
asked him.

 "You don't," he answered. "And you never will
know. Not until the Seed-Daughter calls your soul
back to Her and whispers the tale of your life in
your ear. But you need to choose now. Go with
them, or with me."

  "I'll go with you," Jenna answered, and with the
words she could feel the doubt dissolve within her.
She gave a final glance back at the campfire,
wondering whether the Banrion or Moister Cléurach
realized yet that she was gone. Soon they would, but
Jenna felt certain that she knew what the Banrion's
decision would be: We can't waste time searching
for the Holder. She's made me a promise, and she'll
keep it if she can. We return to Dim Kiil. . .
  Jenna turned to Seancoim, and followed his
shuffling steps into the deep shadows of the
sycamores, Denmark flitting ahead above them.

  As Seancoim had indicated, they moved by night
and rested by day, slip-ping through the landscape
while the people in the villages and farms slept.
They met other Bunús Muintir: they crossed the
River Teann in a currach oared by a Bunús they
met on the shore, apparently waiting for them.
Seancoim and the other man spoke in their own
language briefly, the Bunús occasionally glancing at
Jenna, but he either didn't speak the Daoine
language or had nothing he wanted to say to her.
When she thanked him for his help, he merely
grunted and pushed his boat away from the shore,
paddling back the way they'd come. Jenna
remembered the maps she'd seen in Inishfeirm and
Dún Kiil.
  Though she couldn't read the markings on them,
both Ennis and Moister Cléurach had pointed out to
her the townlands and geography of Inish Thuaidh.
Ingean na nUan, through which they walked now,
was a lush land of rolling hills, punctuated here and
there by the wide, checkered expanse of farmed
lands, with small villages that reminded Jenna
achingly of Ballintubber, tied together with the
narrow ribbons of rutted dirt roads They avoided
the settled areas, keeping to the forest that wound
in and around the farmland. As the nights passed,
they moved steadily eastward and the land started
to rise again. With each dawn, as they settled in to
rest, Jenna could see the mountains ahead of them
less blue with distance, looming higher until their
path started to lift toward them and they were
walking in green, narrow valleys where rills and
brooks rushed frantically down steep slopes toward
them, half-hidden in bracken and thickets. They
turned northward now, and when they were forced
to climb up to one of the ridgelines, Jenna could
glimpse off to the east the shore of Lough Áthas;
then, a few days later, to the north, the endless
expanse of the Westering Sea, its waves touched
with the milk of moonlight. Jenna wondered if,
somewhere out there, Thraisha or her kind swam.
But they never came close enough to the shore for
Jenna to call for the Saimhóir with the cloch.
Seancoim now turned north and east, roughly
following the coastline but staying with the spine of
mountains, steep hills, and drumlins bulwarking the
island from the winds and storms that the sea often
flung at it, and passing into the townland of An
Ceann Ramhar.

  This townland was sparsely settled, and the
villages grew even smaller and farther apart as they
continued north. They began seeing large herds of
storm deer, their hooves striking thunder from the
land. Wind sprites wafted in clouds through the
branches of trees, and the red, glaring eyes of dire
wolves could be glimpsed watching them as they
passed, though none attacked. There were other
sounds and calls in the dark, and glimpses of
creatures Jenna couldn't identify. Even the more
normal crea-tures seemed strange. She saw eagles
flying high overhead with wingspans wider than she
was tall, and they called to each other with voices
that sounded almost human; there were enigmatic
ripples in the dark lakes, odd footprints in the earth.

  "The land has almost fully awakened here,"
Seancoim said one morning as they settled into an
overhanging hollow in a hillside to sleep. He lit a
small fire with dead branches, striking the tinder
into reluctant flame with flint and steel. Denmark
flapped over to roost on a nearby branch, his head
down on his breast. "It spreads slowly, but soon all
places will be like this. When the mage-lights last
faded, hundreds of years ago, these creatures faded,
too, remembered only in the tales of the old people.
In a few generations, they were nothing more than
myths and legends, and those who claimed to see
them were ridiculed and laughed at. Now the
mage-lights bring them back from the hidden, lost
places where they rested."

  "All the fables are real?" Jenna remembered the
tales she'd heard back in Tara's Tavern: from
Aldwoman Pearce or Tom Mullin or in the songs
Coelin sang.
 "Not all. But most are based on some truth, no
matter how twisted and distorted they've become
over time. In another twenty or thirty turns of the
seasons, everyone will have seen the real meaning
of the Filleadh." Seancoim groaned as he settled
back against the rocks. He rummaged in his pack for
an earthenware pot, filled it with water from one of
the skins, and set it at the edge of the fire. He
unrolled a packet of dried fruit and meat and passed
it over to Jenna. "In Thall Coill, the awakening is
nearly complete."

  "Tell me about Thall Coill," Jenna said, breaking
off a bite of the smoked meat. "Tell me about the
Scrúdú. 1 asked En-" She started to say the name,
and her throat closed. She forced back the sudden
tears, swallowing. ". . . Ennis," she continued, "but
he didn't know much about it, and Moister Cléurach
simply wouldn't talk about it at all."
  Seancoim shook his head, his white, featureless
eyes seeming to stare at the fire. "I won't, either,"
he said. "Not until it's time."

   "Moister Cléurach believes that it's not real, that
it's a Bunús Muintir trick to kill the Daoine Holders."

 "Is that what you think?"
 "I don't believe you would do that to me."

  Seancoim didn't answer, only nodded sleepily. The
eastern sky was lightening, though the sun was still
behind the hills. The clouds were painted with rose
and gold. "If I fail at Thall Coill," Jenna said, "I want
you to take Lámh Shábhála."
  Seancoim laughed at that. "Me? An old, blind
man? A Bunús Muintir?" He laughed again, setting
his pack behind his head as a pillow. "No," he
answered. "It's not a burden I want. Not now. If you
fall, I'm certain that Lámh Shábhála will find itself
another Holder, all on its own-one that it wants." He
turned on his side, facing the fire. "And if you don't
let me rest these old bones, we'll never get there
and you won't have to worry about it at all."

  The mountains curved away east to their end at
the long bay that jutted deep into Inish Thuaidh.
Here, they were taller and stonier than their
green-cloaked brothers and sisters to the south,
thrusting jagged peak
into a steel-gray sky, piercing the clouds so that
they bled rain and oozed a mist that cloaked the
summits and sometimes fell heavily into the valleys
below. This was wild land, and if there were Daoine
here at all, Jenna saw no sign of them. "The only
towns of your people are well off to the south in the
farmlands away from the coast," Seancoim told her,
Denmark' sitting on his shoulder. He pointed away
with his walking stick to the hazy triple lines of
ridges, one atop another, receding into the mist, and
gestured to the ramparts yet to the north of them, a
wall of stone. "Past there is the peninsula of Thall
Coill."

 "Do you know the way through? Have you been
here before?"
 "No," Seancoim answered. "But we'll be shown the
way, I'm sure."

 "What do you mean?"

 "Be patient," he told her.
   They rested there that day, and Seancoim roused
Jenna before sunset. They broke camp and trudged
northward, toiling steadily upward be-tween walls
of gray rock spotted with lichens and garlanded with
slick green mosses. To Jenna, it seemed that
Seancoim wandered, moving left or right at random,
their progress erratic. He said nothing, but seemed
to be waiting. As they trudged on, walking in
deepening twilight while the peaks above them
were still touched with the last rays of the sun,
Jenna had the sense of being watched, though she
saw nothing and no one. The feeling persisted; it
was so strong that she touched Lámh Shábhála and
opened it slightly, letting the cloch's energy be her
vision. She could sense life around them, but she
recognized none of the patterns it made in the
cloch-vision. Somewhere, near the edge of the
cloch's sight, though, there were pinpricks of
radiance less bright than a Cloch Mór: some of the
clochmion, the minor stones. She started to mention
it to Seancoim, but he simply grunted and shook his
head at her, and she subsided into si-lence.

  They walked on, and the feeling of being watched
persisted and strengthened as the sun vanished and
the sky above darkened to ultrama-rine, then black.
The crescent moon had yet to rise, but the
constellation of the Oxcart wheeled ahead of them.
The birds had settled into their roosts and Denmark
was nearly unseen as he moved from rock to rock
ahead of them.
 Suddenly Denmark gave a caw of alarm and
hopped quickly into the air. The mound of rocks on
which he perched seemed to shiver and lift and
change, until . . .

  ... the mound shifted like molten glass and
solidified again, taking on the shape of a bulky,
humanlike form standing shorter than Jenna o
  Seancoim, nearly as wide as it was tall. It raised its
arms, then cracked them together again with a
sound like two boulders smashing. A few seconds
later, there was an echoing clamor to their right,
and two other rock piles began to move, flowing
slowly into similar forms. In the dark-ness, their
exact shape was difficult to see, but there was a
scraping sound as they walked forward with a
rolling, side to side gait. They wore no clothing, their
bodies a light brown-gray color like slate yet with a
glossy sheen like fired pottery, their limbs thick and
muscular. They stopped a few yards from Jenna
and Seancoim as Jenna reached for Lámh Shábhála,
ready to use the cloch at need. Thick eye ridges
curled downward on the lead creature's face; its
rough-hewn features frowned. Again, it clashed
hands together, and this time Jenna saw sparks
jump as the hands came together.

  Seancoim answered with a like gesture, the sound
of his handclap al-most comically soft in contrast.
The creature uttered a low, warbling tone and
seemed to nod, its head inclining slowly first to
Seancoim then Jenna. It stretched a thick-fingered
hand out to Jenna, beckoning once.
 "Seancoim?"

  "They are Créneach," he answered. "Have you
never heard of them?" Jenna shook her head. "If
you'd been brought up here, you would have," he
continued. "They belong to yet another one of the
old tales: the Clay People who live in their mountain
fastnesses. The Hewers of Rock, the Eaters of
Stone, the Dwellers In Darkness, the Boulder-folk.
There were a dozen names for them in my
childhood."

  Jenna touched the cloch as the Créneach gestured
again to her, its voice a liquid sibilance almost like a
bird's call. As she did so, she felt that same presence
of a clochmion, focused in all of the Créneach before
her-not hung about them like jewelry, the way she
carried Lámh Shábhála, but inside. A part of their
being.
  Glancing back once at Seancoim, she went forward
slowly, stopping an arm's length from the creature.
Now that she was close, she could see umber eyes
that reflected light back at her as it stared up
toward her, as a cat's eyes might. The skin was
unnaturally smooth, flecked with color like polished
granite, and muscles bulged in arms, the torso, and
legs. The unclothed being in front of her seemed to
possess no gender at all; like its two companions,
there was only a smoothness where she would have
expected to see genitalia. The Créneach had no
nose; instead, twin fissures ran between the eyes,
each curling outward and under the deep eye
sock-ets. The nasal openings flexed as the creature
inhaled deeply in Jenna's direction, still venting its
warbling noises. It leaned closer to Jenna, its head
level with the cloch hanging on its chain. It snuffled
and a trill of musical notes came from its mouth. A
long tongue flicked out, a flash purple. Before Jenna
could react, the creature licked at Lámh Shábhála
the long, thin tip snaking between the silver wire of
its cage before retracting. The creature smacked its
lips, its eyes half closed as if considering the taste as
Jenna's hand went belatedly to the cloch. She closed
her hand around it, stepping back. The Créneach
gave a final smack and turned to its companions;
they conversed loudly in their own language for a
moment.

  Jenna opened Lámh Shábhála, and in the
cloch-hearing, words mingled with the warbling
voice as the Créneach swiveled to face her again.
"Soft-flesh bears the All-Heart. She returns to us.
Soft-flesh will follow." It beck-oned as the trio
turned and started to waddle away between the
rocks.

 "Wait!" Jenna called to it, wondering if it could
understand her through the clochmion inside it as
Thraisha had understood her. "Who are you? What
do you want?"

  It looked at her. "You may call me Treoraí, for
I've come to escort you," it said, then continued to
walk away.
  Jenna glanced at Seancoim. He was already
shuffling to follow them, his staff clattering against
the rocks. She released the cloch, not wanting the
Créneach to overhear her. "You're going to follow
them?" she asked. "Seancoim, we don't know them
or what they might intend to do."

 "They seem to know where they're going," he
answered. "And I don't. Have you a better idea?"

  He smiled at her. Denmark cackled on his
shoulder.
 Jenna grimaced, but she followed.
           Chapter 51: The Tale of All-Heart



  TREORAÍ and its companions led them on a
winding, upward path between two peaks. After a
long climb, Terrain turned abruptly, de-scending by
a set of steep and narrow stone steps into a
barely-visible cleft. They followed the stairs down,
then walked another mile or so be-fore again
turning through a jagged fissure into a short passage
and out into a small valley. The moon had risen by
then, and Jenna could see a few other Créneach
there as well as the black openings of caverns set in
the overhanging, furrowed cliffs that lined the
hidden spot. There were no more than fifteen of the
creatures; in the cloch-vision, Jenna could sense
that each of them held within it a clochmion . . . and
that there was one spot of greater brightness: a
Cloch Mór.
  She had stopped at the entrance, though Seancoim
continued on. Terrain gestured for her to come
forward. "Soft-flesh, bring the All-Heart," it said,
the words sounding in her head while her ears
heard the musical trill of its voice. Jenna hesitated,
but Seancoim was standing there also, with the
Créneach around him and seemingly unconcerned.
Denmark flew over to Jenna, circled her once with a
harsh caw, then flew back to Seancoim. She took a
hesitant step forward as the Créneach gathered
around her like a crowd of strangely-sculpted
children. They sniffed and their tongues flicked out
to touch her right hand, curled protectively around
Lámh Shábhála. The touch of them was strange:
cool and smooth, yet strangely hard-like fired and
glazed pottery that was impossibly pli-able. She
could hear the whispers as they huddled close, their
voices crowding inside her head.

 ". . . the All-Heart. . ."
 ". . . ahh, the taste . . ."

 "... it comes back to us ..."

 "... bring the Littlest to see ..."
  Jenna saw one of the Créneach push forward as
the others made way It carried a small form in its
arms: an infant Créneach, the tiny body smooth and
marbled with color, its arms waving as each
Créneach they passed touched it with its tongue.
There was a brilliance in the cloch-vision: the Cloch
Mór was within the child.

  "This is our Littlest," Terrain said. "Given to us in
the return of the First-Lights. It carries a
Great-Heart within it, so we know that the
All-Heart is pleased with us and our long wait."
Terrain took the infant from the other Créneach,
cradling it close. "It will have life while the
First-Lights stay, and when the lights return to
their search, it will go with them."
 "I don't understand," Jenna said, shaking her
head. "The All-Heart, the lights ... I don't know
what you mean."

  "Then listen," Terrain answered. Its tongue ran
along the child's face, like a caress, and the infant
mewled in soft contentment. "You bear the
All-Heart, so you should know ..."
   Back when there was only stone in the world and
the First-Lights gleamed, before the coming of the
soft-flesh things, there was Anchead, the First
Thought. Anchead wanted a companion, and so took
a pebble from Itself and let the First-Lights wrap
around it. The First-Lights gave the pebble of
Anchead life and awareness, and from this piece
grew the god we call Céile. Within Céile, Anchead's
pebble grew, always pulling the First-Lights toward
it. For a long time, Anchead and Céile dwelled
together, but Cíele found that Anchead still
sometimes yearned for Its solitude and would often
go wandering by itself, leaving Céile alone for years
at a time. So Céile also became lonely, and like
Anchead, broke away a pebble from Itself and held
it out to the First-Lights, and they came and gave it
life and shape also, though the fire of its life did not
burn as deeply as Céile's. Each time that Anchead
went wandering, Céile would break off another part
of Itself, until there were a dozen or more children
of Céile. Sometimes her children even broke oil
fragments of themselves and made their own
children, but their hearts were even weaker than
their own and shone only dimly.

  The children and grandchildren of Céile were the
first of the Créneach.

  One day, though, Anchead went wandering and
never returned, and Céile sorrowed though the
Créneach tried to give It comfort. The First-Lights
felt the grief and loss of Céile, and in sympathy they
left and went to search for Anchead. As they faded,
so did Céile's life and those of the Créneach. When
the First-Lights had gone completely, Céile and Its
chil-dren and grandchildren fell down lifeless, and
the wind and rain wore away the form of their
bodies until all that was left were their gleaming
hearts.

  The soft-flesh things came, and they took away
many of the hearts they found for themselves, for
they loved the way the hearts looked-Céile's heart
was one of those that was taken.
  And so it was until finally the First-Lights
returned again from their unsuccessful search for
the lost Anchead. The First-Lights found Céile's
heart and they went to it, filling it once more. But
the soft-flesh things held the heart now and the
First-Lights could not bring Céile back, nor any of
Its children or grandchildren who had also been
taken. But the All-Heart that had been within Céile
was able to stir and waken the hearts of all Its
children and grandchildren: those hearts the
soft-flesh things pos-sessed could hold the power of
the First-Lights, but only the few who had not been
touched by the soft-flesh things could revive and
have form and shape again as Créneach.

   Without Céile, though, none of the Créneach could
take of themselves and make children. The
First-Lights saw that and sorrowed, and so they
gave a gift to the Créneach: they found a pebble
that was like the heart of the Créneach and gave it
life and form, and that one was the Littlest, and its
light shone as bright as the first children of Céile.
  That is the way it has been ever since: the
First-Lights go to search now and again for Anchead
and we Créneach die. Our bodies crack and
crum-ble to pebbles and dust, and the hearts within
us fall away. Those hearts the soft-flesh things find
and take will never live again as Créneach. When
the First-Lights return from their search, they go
first to the All-Heart and awaken it once more, and
the All-Heart in turn awakens all of Its children and
grandchildren. Then the First-Lights find the hearts
that have not yet been touched and bring us back.

 And they also wake a new Littlest or two . . .

  Jenna found herself staring at Lámh Shábhála as
Terrain finished the tale, still cradling the infant in
its arms. She tried to imagine her cloch burning with
the mage-lights energy inside the god Céile, only to
be found after the long, slow erosion of her body.
She thought of all the clochs na thintrí

  Cloch Mór or clochmion-having first been born in
the Créneach . .
  Truth or fable . . . There was no way to know. All
she knew was that the Créneach believed it, as
Jenna believed in the Mother-Creator and
Seed-Daughter, as Seancoim believed in the god he
called Greatness, as Thraisha believed in her
WaterMother. Perhaps they were all mingled, all
shades of the same truth. Jenna looked around her
at the Créneach, and inside each of them burned an
undeniable cloch na thintrí: that, at least, was truth.

  "I hold the All-Heart that was inside Céile," she
said, and Terrain nod-ded with slow precision.

  "I am Eldest here," it said. "This is my twelfth
Awakening. I've seen the quick growth of soft-flesh
things like you, who can change the very land. I
have felt the All-Heart close by twice before: when I
was Littlest, and also at the end of my last life."
Jenna could hear the awe enter its voice, then, and
its eyes were on the stone in her hand. "But this is
the first time any of us here have actually seen it. It
is a great gift for all of us, and for the Littlest."
  ". . . my twelfth Awakening ..." The import of that
staggered Jenna-if true, the Créneach before her
was unimaginably old. From Riata's time to her own
was thirteen centuries or more, and that would
have encom-passed only a portion of two of
Treoraí's "awakenings." Most of the voices within
Lámh Shábhála were the more recent Holders; of
the Bunús Muintir Holders, only Riata's voice was
easily heard, and he had been the last active Bunús
Holder. There must be older, fainter voices buried
deep within the cloch, going back and back to the
dim mist of legend and myth.
 And here, one of the legends walked.
  Jenna glanced at Seancoim, who was leaning
placidly on his staff, and then she bent down,
looking at the smooth, shiny face of the Littlest in
Treoraí’s arms. She could feel the Cloch Mór shining
in the chest of the infant, a jewel with a radiance
stronger than the moon. She dangled Lámh
Shábhála over it, as she might have with a child. It
didn't reach for the cloch, but its tongue darted from
its mouth, sliding over the stone in its silver cage
and withdrawing. The Littlest chirped then,
birdlike, as if in satisfaction.
  "It will remember," Terrain said. "We will all
remember the taste of the All-Heart. Soon enough,
when the Littlest has grown, we will leave here,
each on our own, to search for Anchead while the
First-Lights still glow in this land, but we will
remember."

  Terrain handed the Littlest to one of the other
Créneach, and clapped his hands together again.
"But I forget that the soft-flesh things are always in
a hurry, for your lives are short. We could stay here
for several darknesses, remembering all the old
tales of the All-Heart and our long search, but you
would grow old in that time, so-" Terrain stopped,
abruptly. He turned away from her, as if he'd
forgotten she was there, and lifted his gaze toward
the sky.
  The first wisps of the mage-lights glimmered into
existence, a feathery curtain dancing in the sky, and
the Créneach responded, clapping their hands
together once in unison. The resulting boom was
deafening, and both Jenna and Seancoim put hands
to ears as the Créneach clapped again, the explosion
of sound repeating from the nearby peaks, each
time fainter and more distant. The Créneach lifted
their hands toward the sky and the brightening
mage-lights, as Jenna felt the insistent pull of Lámh
Shábhála and mirrored the gesture with her own
right hand. The mage-lights curled and fused above
the valley, lowering until their slow light-ning
flowed around them in multicolored streamers. One
stream wrapped itself around Lámh Shábhála, filling
it eagerly; around her, Jenna saw the Créneach
standing surrounded by the glow, their mouths
open and the mage-lights swirling in as if they were
swallowing them. The Créneach crooned, a
twittering, musical sound almost like chimes stirring
in a wind.
   Lámh Shábhála filled quickly, and Jenna released
it with a gasp of min-gled pleasure and pain. The
Créneach paid no attention to them at all, their
attention all on the bath of light in which they were
immersed. Seancoim came up to her, his arm
supporting Jenna as she slowly let the cloch-vision
recede.
 "We'll stay here tonight," he said. "Go on and rest,
and I'll watch . . ."
              Chapter 52: The Protector



  SHE was more exhausted than she'd thought. She
fell asleep quickly and when she woke, it was dim
morning, the sun lurking behind a thin smear of
charcoal-gray cloud. The valley, in the daylight little
more than a narrow canyon, was empty. Seancoim
was poking at a tin pot boiling on a small campfire
while Denmark pecked halfheartedly at the ground.
Jenna's right arm ached and throbbed. She
grimaced as she sat up, rubbing at the scarred flesh.
 "Where are the Créneach?" Jenna asked.

  Seancoim pulled the pot from the fire with a stick.
He sprinkled herbs from a pouch into the boiling
water and Jenna caught the scent of mint. He set
the tea aside to steep. "Still here," he answered. He
pointed with the stick in the direction of a rock pile
against the cavern wall. "That is Terrain, I think."

  Jenna went over to the pile: undistinguished
broken granite, glinting here and there with flecks
of quartz-she would have walked past it
un-knowingly a hundred times. The rocks were
loose and in no semblance of any shape: ordinary,
plain and common, as if they had tumbled from the
cliff walls years ago and been sitting there since.
The only hint that this might be something out of
the ordinary was a lack of weeds or grass growing
up in the cracks between the boulders. She started
to reach toward it with her right arm, but a flash of
pain ran through her with the movement, and she
cradled the arm to herself, stifling a moan. When
the spasm had passed, she touched one of the larger
boulders with her le hand: it was rough and broken,
not at all like the skin of the Créneach had been.
"You're certain?"

  "Aye," Seancoim answered. "When the sun rose,
they all sat. As the light came, they seemed to just
melt into what you see now. Before they went to
sleep, though, Terrain told me that we would find
the path to Thall Coill through the other end of the
valley. It also said to tell you that the Créneach will
always honor the All-Heart, and even the Littlest
will always remember." Seancoim poured the tea
out into two chipped-rim bowls and handed one to
Jenna. "Here. You'll need this: it's kala bark."
 "Not andúilleaf?"

  He didn't answer |hat, simply gave her a grimace
of his weathered face. "We have a long walk today."
  Jenna nodded, sipping her tea and staring at the
rock pile as if it might reassemble itself again into
Terrain. "We did see them, didn't we, Sean-coim?"

  The old man smiled briefly, the beard lifting on his
flat, leathery face. "Aye," he told her. "We did."

  "And is it true, what they told me-that each of the
clochs na thintrí is the heart of a dead Créneach?"
  Seancoim shrugged. "It's what they said." He took
a long draught of his tea, and tossed the dregs aside.
He wiped the bowl and placed it back in his pack.
"We should go. These mountains are best passed
through in daylight."
  They packed quickly, then set off again. The path
led upward toward a saddle between two peaks.
Eagles soared above them, huge and regal, and
Denmark stayed on Seancoim's shoulder, not daring
to challenge them. Their pace was slow as they
made their way through broken, trackless ground,
sometimes needing to detour around cliffs and
slopes too steep to climb. They reached the ridge by
midday, and finally looked down over a long,
curving arm of forested land spread out into the
distance before them. Fogs and vapors curled from
the treetops, indicating hidden streams and rivers
and bogs below the leafy crowns. The sea pounded
white against the rocky coastline, until it all merged
into indistinct haze. It was cold in the heights, as if
summer had never reached here, and Jenna
shivered in her clóca.
   Thall Coill," Seancoim said, though he appeared to
be looking well °out into the distance. "And there-on
the coast-can you see the open rise where the cliffs
lift from the sea? I can see it with Dúnmharú’s eyes,
but. . ."

  Jenna squinted into the distance, where there was
a speck of brown and gray against the green. "I
think so. Is that where . . . where 1 must go?"

  'Aye." He exhaled, his breath white. "That place is
called Bethiochnead, and it's our destination. But we
won't get there standing here. Come o at least it will
be warmer farther down."
 They took the rest of the day to toil downward
over the intervening ridges, through fields of
bracken and hawthorn into glades dotted with firs,
and finally into the shadow of Thall Coill's
oak-dominated fastness There was no sharp
demarcation, no boundary they that they crossed
but they could sense the ancient years lying in the
shadows, the long centuries that these trees had
witnessed, unmoving and untouched. By evening
clouds of wind sprites were flowing between the
trunks of the oaks like sparkling, floating rivulets,
and a herd of storm deer swept over the last stretch
of open field, their hooves drumming the earth.

  Jenna felt as she had in Doire Coill. This was a land
alive in a way that she could not understand. There
were places here older even than the ancient forest
near the lough. As if guessing at her thoughts,
Seancoim halted next to her. "We'll have no fire
here tonight," he said. "I don't think the forest
would like it, and I don't know what it can do. And
beware the songs you might hear. Thall Coill is said
to have a stronger, more compel-ling voice than the
Doire. These trees were here when we Bunús came
to Inish Thuaidh; they will still be here after you
Daoine are as scarce as we are now. Thall Coill
doesn't care about us-only about itself."
  Jenna shuddered, feeling the truth of the
statement. "We can't get to that place you saw
tonight," she said. "I think we should stay here and
not go any deeper into the forest tonight."

  "I think there may be a better place to stay."
Seancoim plunged the end of his staff into the loamy
earth. He took a long breath, and called out into the
gathering dark as Jenna watched him curiously.
There was move-ment in the shadows, and from
under the trees, two Bunús Muintir emerged.
  They were both male, one nearly as old as
Seancoim; the other much younger. Like Seancoim,
they were dressed in skins, their feet wrapped in
leather. They had the wide, flattened faces of the
Bunús, their skin the color of dried earth. The young
one, with a matted and tangled beard, was armed
with a bow and a bronze bladed sword; the older,
his chin stubbled with patchy gray, had only a knife
and an oaken staff. The expressions on their faces
were suspicious and decidedly unfriendly. ^e old
one held out his staff and spoke a few words in their
guttural lan-guage. Jenna understood none of the
words but the intent was clear: they were not
welcome here.
  Seancoim replied in the same language, and Jenna
belatedly reached for Lámh Shábhála, so she could
understand what was being said, gesture drew the
attention of the younger man; he pointed to Jenna s
a as he spoke to his companion, evidently noticing
the scars there. He nocked an arrow and started to
pull back the string of his bow. Jenna's fingers
closed around the cloch, ready to defend herself and
Seancoim, but the older one grunted and gestured
to his companion. The younger Bunús slowly
released the tension on the bow, though he kept the
arrow fitted to the string.

  The old one spoke in the Daoine language, his
voice even more heavily accented than Seancoim's,
his words slow and full of effort as he tried to find
the words. "Go back,'* he said. "You should never
have been brought here." He glared at Seancoim.
 "She holds Lámh Shábhála, Protector Lomán,"
Seancoim told him.

  "I know what she holds, and I know who you are,
too-Seancoim Crow-Eye. A Protector should stay
with the forest he has been given to guard."

 "My pledge-daughter Keira watches in my place,"
Seancoim answered. "I'm old, and Denmark is
ancient for his kind. Soon I'll be blind again. The
Greatness has given me another task. Doire Coill is
Keira's, now."

  Lomán scoffed. "So Seancoim has abandoned his
charge . . ." He nod-ded to his companion. "You see,
Toryn, this is what comes of being too close to the
Daoine. You fail in your duty and give it over to
someone who's not yet ready, who is still learning
the slow magics. Doire Coill will fail, like so many of
the other old places." He lifted his grizzled chin. "But
not Thall Coill."
 "You underestimate Keira," Seancoim answered
quietly. "You always did. She's been away from me
and doing the work of the Protector for over two
hands of years now. I see you still don't trust Toryn
and keep him close so you can correct his mistakes."
  Toryn visibly flushed at that, and the bow came
up once more. Sean-coim lifted his staff even as
Jenna started to open Lámh Shábhála. "Do you
really want to match our skills, Toryn?" Seancoim
asked. "It would be a shame. Lomán's getting too
old to begin with a new pledge-child."
  Toryn glared; Lomán spat on the ground. "Put
your bow away, boy," Lomán said. "Don't let him
goad you into foolishness. It's not Crow-Eye you
have to worry about; it's the Holder. Slow magic
can't stand against Lámh Shábhála, even when it's
wielded by a girl-child." I m not a child," Jenna
snapped back angrily.

  Lomán didn't answer directly, but his eyes showed
his contempt. "You misunderstand if you think I'm
being anything but kind to you, Holder. I’d love
nothing better than to see you fail here-with none of
your own People around you. It's been a thousand
years and more since a Bunús uintir held Lámh
Shábhála. I wonder . . . what would a Bunús Holder
be able to accomplish? Perhaps the Daoine could be
made to regret why your ancestors did to us, eh?"
  "What would happen to Lámh Shábhála after I'm
gone isn't my concern, "Jenna answered. "If I fail, I
fail."

 "Then you have a death wish."

  "I'm not afraid of death," Jenna answered. "I've
seen too much of it"
  Lomán's eyes narrowed at that. "Maybe not such
a child, now " he muttered. "But you've chosen a
poor adviser if you're listening to Seancoim." His
gaze went back to Seancoim. "You think she can
survive Scrúdú, Crow-Eye? You can look at this
stripling and believe that?"
 "Riata believes it," Seancoim answered.
  Lomán made a sound like a kettle too long on the
fire. "Riata's long dead."

 "His body, aye, but his spirit is still restless and he
has spoken to Jenna. He seems . . . impressed by
her."

  Lomán snorted again. "The Daoine are a weak
race. They conquered us only because they were so
many and we were so few. They conquered us
because their swords were iron and ours were
bronze. But even with steel and numbers, they still
wouldn't have won had our clochs na thintrí not
been decades asleep when they came." One
shoulder rose and fell. "We would have pushed the
Daoine back to Céile Mhór and beyond if the clochs
had been awake. But go ahead, Crow-Eye. Let her
try. I think Toryn would be a good Holder,
afterward."
  The youth grinned at that, cocking his head
appraisingly toward Jenna. "It's about time that
Lámh Shábhála came home to Thall Coill," he said.
His voice was thick and low, blurred with the Bunús
Muintir accent, a voice of confidence and certainty.
"I'll be happy to escort the two of you to
Bethiochnead, and afterward . . ." He grinned again,
showing his teeth. "Lámh Shábhála will come back
to us, and perhaps we can obtain a few of the Cloch
Mór, then who knows? It may be that the Bunús
Muintir win emerge from our forests and hills and
take back what was once ours, an age ago." Dreams
flashed in his eyes, widening his smile.

  "Come with me, Holder," he said. "Let me show
you Thall Coill.
  It was Toryn who led Jenna and Seancoim
through the trackless forest, Lomán refusing to
accompany them. "I've no interest in watching J°
Daoine die," he told Seancoim. "That's your task,
since you brought here. And I'm too old to want
Lámh Shábhála." The forest ...

  A spine-backed form slunk away through the
snarl of seedlings to their right. A patch of moonlight
struck blue highlights from a whorled shell taller
than Jenna, glimpsed in a meadow bordering the
shoulder of a black stream. The smell of sulfur and
rotting meat wafted from a fissure bound in vines.
Air colder than winter or the heights of the
mountains spread from a pond whose glowing water
was the color of buttermilk fresh from a churn. Calls
and hoots and shrill cries erupted from the darkness
around them.
  And the tree-song . . . Jenna heard the call of the
ancient oaks, the green life in the most ancient and
lost hollows of Thall Coill, a compelling whisper that
rustled the leaves above them, that caused the oaks
to bend down with many-limbed branches, that
hushed the call of the mage-lights nearly invisible
under the canopy of the forest. Thall Coill had a
stronger, more insistent voice than Doire Coill, a call
that echoed down in the very fibers of Jenna's
being. The voice of the forest awoke primitive
echoes, as if pulling at impossibly ancient ties
between the trees and her most distant ancestors.
More than once, Jenna found herself straying from
the path, wandering away as Seancoim and Toryn
continued on. The first time it happened, Seancoim
called to her, breaking the spell, and Toryn laughed.
"She's weak," he told Seancoim. "The Old Ones
would snare her, and we'd find her bones years
later, sitting against their trunks."

  Jenna flushed, embarrassed that she could
succumb to the trees' sing-ing, but she noticed as
Toryn turned away that there were tufts of moss in
his ears, and that Toryn pushed them in deeper as
he strode away.
  You're not the only one . . . Seancoim nodded to
her, with a quick smile; he had noticed as well.
"Everything beautiful is also dangerous," he said to
her before turning to stump along after Toryn.

  As Jenna followed along behind them, she tried to
see the forest with Seancoim's eyes. It was beautiful
in its way, she had to admit. The oaks, their massive
trunks wound with vines of mistletoe, with girths so
wide that two people could not have encircled them
with their hands, were survivors from when Thall
Coill, Doire Coill, and the few other old growth
forests had dominated all of Talamh An Ghlas,
penetrating far into Céile Mhór and even to the
great continent of Thall Mór-roinn. The Daoine
were still in their homelands then; the Bunús
Muintir were nothing but a series of family-based
clans scratching out a subsistence exis-tence under
the trees, their culture just starting to coalesce.

  Walking here, Jenna felt as the first peoples must
have felt: insignificant arid small in the midst of this
ancient life. The forest was a single creature, a vast
and intricate organism in whose bowels she walked,
and within its body was mystery, danger, and, aye,
great beauty. If the forest desired, it could crush
her with its sheer weight. It tolerated her because
she was small to do it any real harm.

  She understood for the first time why the Bunús
Muintir could worship a goddess whose earthly
form was an oak tree.
  They walked for hours, Toryn (deliberately, Jenna
was certain) keeping a quick pace that made it
difficult for Seancoim to stay with him. Jenna
remained at Seancoim's side; Toryn would at times
be so far ahead of them that he was barely visible in
the moonlight filtering down through the trees. Each
time, Seancoim sent Denmark angrily flying to the
young man, screeching at him from a nearby branch
until he stopped to wait hands on hips, while they
caught up with him again. And each time, as they
approached, he would start off once more without a
word.
  Jenna had decided she despised the man by the
time false dawn tinted the horizon with rose and
ocher.

  The call of the Old Ones had faded; Jenna could
hear the rhythmic pulse of the sea crashing against
rock. The land was rising steeply under them, the
trees thinning quickly until they gave way entirely
to a grassy swath. Here, the bones of the land
showed through the dirt: furrowed lines of bare
gray limestone, the cracks sprouting a few weeds
clinging to the thin film of earth at the bottom. At
the top of the rise, the land simply stopped at a
sheer cliff while-nearly a hundred feet below-waves
gnawed at the feet of the island. The wind blew in
steadily, cold and misty. And there . . . where in her
dream of Peria and Tadhg had been only the sense
of a presence that would not allow itself to be seen . .
.
  It might have been a huge cat or, perhaps, a
dragon. The statue stood a few strides from the cliff
edge, gazing out to sea as if it were protecting the
forest or the island from unseen invaders. The
statue was carved of jet-black stone, glassy and
volcanic in appearance and unlike any rock Jenna
had seen in the area. The head was perched thirty
feet above them on a massive four-legged body,
sitting down on its haunches with its tail wrapping
around its left side and curling away to end abruptly
at the cliff edge. Along the sloping back, there were
two ridges where wings might once have been,
though there was no evidence of them having
tumbled to the ground around them. The
monument's features were blurred by the weight of
centuries, polished by wind and sand, eroded by
rain until all that remained was the obscured outline
of what the creature had once been.
  "Bethiochnead," Seancoim said as Jenna gazed up
at the creature, t was here when we Bunús Muintir
came. No one knows who erected this or exactly
what it is."
  "The Greatness Herself put Bethiochnead here for
the Bunús Muintir t0 find," Toryn said from the
side of the statue. "It still holds Her power."

  Seancoim shrugged. "That's what some believe,
aye," he told Jenna. He glanced at Toryn. "But not
all. There may have been other races here before
the Bunús and Daoine, and they may have made
this. Some think it was the Créneach who sculpted
it, that this is a representation of one of their gods.
Others think it may be a Créneach, solidified by
some magic, or else a mythical creature snared by a
spell, or . . ." He stopped, tapping his staff on the
rocks as if testing their stability. "Its origin doesn't
matter. It only matters that it's here. This is the
center. This is where the mage-lights are
strongest."

  "What do I do?" Jenna asked. She clutched her
right arm to herself. It felt colder and more lifeless
than ever, though there was no pain. She could only
move the fingers with great effort. The scars on her
flesh were pure white, as if etched with new snow.
  "You rest," Seancoim told her. "And sleep if you
can. When you're ready, I'll tell you all I know."




               Chapter 53: Bethiochnead



  SHE hadn't thought she could sleep, but she did.
In her dream, she was with Ennis in Ballintubber,
entering Tara's Tavern. Coelin was there inside, and
Ellia with several small children around her, all of
whom looked like miniature Coelins. Everyone was
singing and dancing, and Ennis and Jenna joined in
with them. In the midst of the dancing, without
warning, the door opened with a sudden crash like
thunder. A form stood there in darkness, cloaked in
black with its face hidden and sending a surge of
unreasoning fear through Jenna. She grabbed Ennis
by the hand and they ran-that agonizing,
skin-crawling slow run of dreams where the legs
refuse to cooperate no matter how hard you try.
Somehow, she and Ennis retreated into the fireplace
and through another door at the back of the
chimney, which led them outside again. It was
raining, and Kesh was barking and running circles
around her. Mac Ard was shouting something from
inside the cottage (for when Jenna looked about,
they were back at the old house), only when she
glanced up it was her father Niall whose face she
saw at the window. Her mam was outside with
Jenna, and Jenna felt a stab of jealousy because
Ennis was so close to Maeve, his arm around her
waist . . .
  Jenna woke up, feeling a sense of incredible loss
sitting heavy on her chest as the remnants of the
dream faded quickly in the light of reality-It was
late afternoon, and the clouds had cleared. The
statue cast a long shadow that reached the cliff edge
and disappeared. She seemed to alone, though
Seancoim's pack was next to hers. She sat up, the
blanket around her shoulders, and saw Denmark
come flapping out of the woods. The crow circled the
statue once but didn't land on it, coming instead to
rest on a nearby boulder. The bird cocked its head
at her; a moment later, she saw Seancoim and
Toryn walking up the slope from under the emerald
cave of the oaks. She stood, shivering a bit despite
the warm sun, as they approached. Toryn was
staring at her; she ignored him. Seancoim handed
her an apple. "Here, you should eat something. Did
you sleep?"

  Jenna took a bite of the apple, letting its tart
sweetness awaken her, and shrugged. "A bit." She
glanced at the statue. "What do we do now?" she
asked.
  "That depends on you. You're still resolved to try?
You realize that only a few times has anyone gone
through the Scrúdú and survived?"

 "And none of those were Daoine," Toryn added.
When she glanced at him, he smiled.
  "I don't care about me," she told them. "If I die, I
can be with Ennis. If I don't, then maybe his death
will mean . . . will . . ." She stopped. The heaviness
returned to her chest, not allowing the words out.
Seancoim nodded as Denmark hopped up into the
air and, with a flap of black wings, landed on the old
man's shoulder.

  "All right," he said. He came over to her and
hugged her. She let herself fall into his herb-scented
embrace, her arms going around him. "You can do
this," he whispered to her. "You can."

  He released her, his blind gaze looking past her
out to the sea. "Stand in front of Bethiochnead,
Jenna," he said. "Take Lámh Shábhála in your hand,
and open the cloch. That's all you need to do. The
rest . . ." He patted her cheek, smiling gap-toothed
at her. "You'll have to tell us, after-ward."
  He walked with Jenna around to the front of the
statue. She could hear the waves roaring against the
rocks; she could feel the wind tousling her hair and
the sun warming her face; she could smell the salt
breeze mixed with mint and loam. The colors of the
landscape seemed impossibly satu-rated, the green
of the grass like glowing emerald, the limestone ribs
of the land speckled with white and red and soft
pink. She wondered if she would ever see them
again. She wondered how much it would hurt.

  Her hand closed around Lámh Shábhála. She
willed the cloch na thintrí to open, and felt the
power go surging forth. one was still standing near
the cliffside, but the land now ended several 'feet
farther out. And the statue . . .
  It was no longer ruined and half missing. The legs
and chest rippled with carved tendons; the feet
were cat-clawed, seeming to tear into the rock on
which the creature sat. The body was scaled,
feathered and brightly painted: the red of
new-shed blood and the blue of a child's eyes the
simmering yellow of the yolk of a hen's egg. The
expanse of wines spread majestically from its back,
ribbed and fingered like some gigantic bat's, with
black, leathery skin pouched like sails between the
ribs. The tail was complete, with a barbed, bulging
tip at its end.

  The head had a long muzzle, the mouth partially
open to reveal twin rows of daggered white teeth.
The ears were like a cat's also, though be-tween
them were scales like staggered rows of painted
shields; its eye-brows were two fans of spines,
meeting above the muzzle and running back over
the middle of the skull. The eyes were frighteningly
human; the large, expressive eyes of a child, and as
Jenna gazed at the statue, the eyes blinked and
opened. Though the mouth didn't move, a low,
stentorian voice purred.
 "So. Another one comes after all these years."

  Jenna could feel the power flooding from the
statue; above, the mage-lights curled, visible even
in the bright sunlight. The trees of the forest
beyond writhed and swayed as if they, too, were
alive and capable of pulling roots from ground and
capering about. "Who are you?" Jenna asked. Her
voice sounded thin and weak in this charged
atmosphere.

  The eyes blinked once more. A shimmering
change rippled through the body from spiny crest to
curled-claw feet and when it passed, the thing was
no longer painted stone but living flesh. It stretched
like a cat waking from a nap, the wings snapping
and sending a rush of wind past Jenna. "I am An
Phionós," it said. "I am the First, and you are now in
my world."

 Its voice was Ennis'.
  "Stop that!" Jenna shouted at the creature, and it
reared its great head, the mouth curling in a
near-laugh, the eyes flashing.

  "Ah, my dear Jenna. Do you think you're so strong
that you can com-mand my obedience?" it asked
with seeming mirth, still with Ennis in-flection and
tone. Then the mocking amusement left, along with
the memory of Ennis' voice. An Phionós hissed,
steam venting from its nos-trils. Mage-lights
flickered around it in a bright storm. "Are you
stronger than me, Jenna? Do you remember Peria's
fate? Do you remember how she screamed as I
crushed the life from her? I give you this boon:
release Lámh Shábhála now, before it's too late."

  Jenna's fisted hand trembled around the cloch.
She could feel An Phionós bending its will to her,
insinuating itself into her muscles and prying at her
fingers, loosening them. Yet with the intrusion she
also caught a glimmer of the entity's mind, and she
realized that, despite its fury and insolence, An
Phionós didn't actively seek her death. It had no
choice as to how it must act. "Why do you do this?"
she asked, gasping as she fought to keep hold of the
cloch.

  An Phionós laughed, a bitter and wild sound. "One
should never offend a god," it answered. "Their
revenge is swift and eternal, and that's why I sit
here forever waiting. You, at least, have a choice-let
go of the cloch and live, Jenna, or continue to hold it
and die."
 "And if I hold it and don't die?"
  "That won't happen. But if you do ... there are
depths within Lámh Shábhála that you have only
glimpsed, and the shaping of this entire age could be
yours." Again the laugh. "I hope you don't think
that's a gift. It would be the greatest burden of all."
An Phionós bent down close to her. The scent of
rotting meat drifted from its mouth. "Release the
cloch, Jenna. I have nothing for you but pain." An
Phionós' hold on her hand vanished; it sat back on
its haunches again. "Make your choice now."
  Jenna glanced wildly about her and An Phionós
snorted. "Your friend can't help you. Look . . ." The
air shimmered, and for a moment Jenna caught a
glimpse of Seancoim, his mouth open in a shout,
trying to push forward toward her as the
mage-lights threw him back. Then he was gone
again. "He doesn't see what you see. He sees only
your struggle, not me." An Phionós' front paws
kneaded the earth, tearing at the limestone. His
voice was Ennis' again, and now Ennis' eyes gazed
down at her from An Phionós' face, a single tear
rising and sliding down a scaled cheek to splash on
the rocks. "I don't want you to die, my love. Don't
do this."

   "Stop.'" Jenna screamed again. She raised the
cloch, pulling the chain from around her neck and
lifting it high. Her fist tightened around it. "Here!
Here's your answer."
  An Phionós bared its teeth. The wings spread
wide; the claws gouged new furrows in the stone.
Mage-lights snapped and shattered around it. Then
we begin," it said. It drew in a great breath, pulling
in the mage-lights as if they were smoke. Its neck
arced, the head reared back and it exhaled in a roar,
blinding light rushing from its mouth. Jenna
reflexively interposed a wall with Lámh Shábhála;
the mage-lights crashed upon it like a furious tidal
wave. Jenna stumbled back against the assault, the
Pressure of it driving her to her knees as An
Phionós vomited forth an lending stream of raw
power. Jenna's hand tightened around Lámh
Shábhála, wrenching the cloch fully open. She
imagined the wall growing, expanding, pushing
back: slowly, she stood. She thought of the wall as a
Mirror-smooth lake, reflecting back what came to it
as the Banrion's cloch had done. The wall shifted
with the thought and she found herself wielding a
weapon as the shield gathered in the energy thrown
at her hurled it back at An Phionós. The beast
staggered back at the first impact, roaring in
wordless pain.

  Then it nodded to her, as if in satisfaction. "So it
won't be simple. Good. You would have
disappointed me if it had, Holder. After so many
years, to be awakened only for a moment . . ."
  It was pacing now, the scale-armored body
striding back and forth before the hoary, vine-laden
oaks: fifty feet long without the enormous barbed
tail, half again as high to the crown of the head, the
wings folded against its back. Then the wings
opened, and a hurricane wind lashed Jenna as it
took to the air, rising high above. The mage-lights
encircled it like arms, burning like a second sun so
that An Phionós was silhouetted against the glare.

  Jenna waited for the inevitable attack: fireballs;
thunderbolts of bright power; burning thickets of
spears and swords; blasts of winds; demons or
giants or a flight of angry dragons. None of it came.
  The silver bands holding Lámh Shábhála dug into
her palm. The land-scape shifted around her again:
she floated in a featureless void with An Phionós.
The forest, the cliff, the sound of the seas, even the
mage-lights-all of them were gone, though she could
feel their energy support-ing her. An Phionós swept
its wings leisurely, circling slowly around her, and
she waved her arms to follow its movement as if
swimming in the emptiness.
   "It's just the two of us, Jenna," it said, still circling.
"That's all it's ever been. The shape of the energy
doesn't matter. Each cloch na thintrí bonds to its
Holder in a different manner, in the form that a long
sequence of Holders has worn into it like grooves in
a road. Most Holders follow that same path because
it's easiest to see and hold to, and that's why the
clochs na thintrí tend to be used in the same way
each time a new cloudmage uses them. Very few
have the strength to shape the power of their cloch
na thintrí in a new way, to give it a new form that
might suit them better. It's no different with Lámh
Shábhála."
  "Are you intending to talk me to death?" Jenna
asked.

  An Phionós laughed. It stopped, hovering in front
of her with slow beats of its leathery wings.
"Perhaps. Do you die that easily?"
  "No," Jenna answered. "I don't plan on dying at
all."
  The teeth bared again. "No? Even to be with
him?"

  Now Ennis stood before her. He smiled, almost
shyly, holding out hand. "Jenna," he said. "I wish . .
. There was so much I wanted to you, just to say
one last time that I loved you . . ."

  She wanted to take that hand, wanted desperately
to take him in her arms, to bruise her lips with his
kisses. She started to lift her left hand, then forced
it back to her side. She looked at An Phionós, not
Ennis. "You can't seduce me with false images," she
told it.

  The huge, scaled head lifted. "Not false," it said.
"That is Ennis, or the spirit that was once him. I
brought him here. He awaits you, Jenna, on the
other side of death."
  "It didn't hurt," Ennis said to her, his familiar
voice awakening a deep longing in her. "You should
know that. I felt the knife move and the heat of my
blood pouring out, then ... I don't know. It was as if I
were outside myself. There was no pain, just a slow
fading and a feeling of regret, and

  I was gone. I watched you cry over the body,
Jenna, and I tried to touch
you and comfort you. I tried to tell you that I was
still with you, but I
couldn't. I am with you, Jenna, each day. And we'll
be together again."

  She listened to him, shaking her head in denial and
disbelief, and Ennis glanced over at An Phionós.
"Death doesn't hurt, Jenna. All you have to do is
accept it."
  "I will make it easy and quick," An Phionós told
her. A forepaw lifted, the scythes of its claws
scissoring in the air. "One stroke. One quick flash ..."

  "Ennis . . ." The word was a sigh, a plea. Jenna
closed her eyes, letting Lámh Shábhála’s force flow
out to him. Where it touched the body, she felt
strings leading back to An Phionós. She could feel
An Phionós trying to push her away with its own
power, but she concentrated, letting more power
flow from the cloch. She formed the energy into
hands and ripped away the strands of connection
even as An Phionós tried to stop her. Ennis wailed,
his body went pinwheeling away like a rag in a
storm, finally vanishing in a point of white light that
made Jenna squint and throw her hand in front of
her face. A wave of intense cold flew past her.
 "It's just us," Jenna told An Phionós. "No ghosts.
No lies. No tricks."

 "There's no trick in what I said," it told her. "I can
make this painless and fast for you. You simply
have to allow it."
 "No."
  She could hear the shrug in its voice. "Then it will
be the other way." Muscles bunched and wings
flexed. An Phionós stooped like a hawk about to
swoop down on a helpless field mouse. The wings
folded in and the apparition fell in a rush,
plummeting toward her. Jenna raised her cloch,
concentrating its force on the onrushing creature,
pushing back at

  II Jenna grunted with the impact as An Phionós
seemed to dissolve, slipping through the web of
force like water through a sieve. Jenna searched for
it with the eyes of the cloch: there! She hurled
lightning at the m glow that was An Phionós, but it
swept the bolts aside.
  Frantically, she created a creature like An
Phionós, molding it from mage-stuff and launching it
at the creature. They collided in a snarl f talons
and wings and teeth, and Jenna felt the concussion
as if it were her own body that smashed into her
opponent. She was flung backward , her eyes rolling
back in her head, a red-shot blackness threat-ening
to drown her-and she fought to hold onto
consciousness. Her own fingers curled and slashed
as she gouged at An Phionós, and for a mo-ment,
the creature retreated. Jenna breathed, gulping and
tasting blood

  "This is good," it said. "Usually the Daoine are so
weak." An Phionós looked at her, and it seemed to
Jenna that its eyes saw past the surface of her skin
and deep into her being. "But you're not just Daoine,
are you? Part of you is also Saimhóir, and much
farther back, there is also Bunús Muintir. Ah, that
surprises you, does it? You're a mongrel, and
mongrels are often the strongest."
  Then An Phionós came again with a roar; Jenna
fought back in the form of the mage-creature, but
An Phionós was immensely strong, far more
powerful than any of the clochs she had
encountered. In the space of a few breaths, her
mage-creature was shredded and fading like smoke.

  Lámh Shábhála was nearly empty; there was
nothing left but the dregs of power. Jenna was no
longer floating in nothingness. The hard gray rocks
of Bethiochnead pressed into her back, and she lay
looking up at a storm-lashed sky.

 An Phionós hovered over her. "Now," it
whispered, "even the mongrel falls."
   Jenna threw a final bolt at the creature. The
attack was weak and slow; An Phionós pushed the
flickering brilliance aside contemptuously. "You re
an empty vessel, Jenna," it told her. "Do you
remember Peria? Do you remember how I crushed
her? Do you remember the sound of bones cracking
and splitting and ripping through flesh? That's what
will happen to you now."

  An Phionós descended. It picked up Jenna in its
talons as she beat futilely at the beast with her fists,
the scales scraping the flesh from her knuckles. She
felt the knife-edge points digging into her flesh. Its
head came down; its too-human eyes regarded her
almost sadly. "You came close," it said. "Closer than
you know. Perhaps . . ."
  Its claws closed around her, She felt them begin to
tighten, felt her n^ crack. An Phionós was inside her
head now, its awareness flooding _ She was still
holding Lámh Shábhála. Mage-energy crackled
inside with An Phionós' intrusion. "Now," it said
gently. "You'll be with him again. I promise you that
much ..."

  The pressure against her body increased. Jenna
screamed in terror and pain. The mage-energy
burned her. She tried to push back with Lámh
Shábhála, but there was nothing there. She took her
awareness deep into the cloch, deeper, to the utter
bottom of the well, and there . . .
 A glimpse ... A hope . . .

 "No!"
  The pressure was suddenly released. An Phionós
dropped her, and Jenna gasped in pain and surprise
as she fell back to the ground, strug-gling up to a
sitting position with her legs folded underneath her.
The beast coiled above her, the wings and body
blocking the sky. "Why did you come here?" it
raged at her. "I can take your life if you give it to
me, but I can't take a life that doesn't come here
willingly- She whose servant I am won't allow that.
Why would you do this?"
  It glared at her, mouth gaping dangerously, then
the eyes and its voice softened. "You don't know, do
you?" it asked.

 Jenna shook her head. "I don't understand. No."
 "Look," An Phionós answered. "Look within
yourself."
  An Phionós gestured, and Jenna saw herself as the
creature saw her: a form of energy and light, her
heart beating like a candle fluttering in the wind,
and in her belly, a tiny flame burned.

 "Mother-Creator . . ." Jenna breathed. She cupped
her abdomen, as if she could warm her hands in that
small radiance.
 "Aye," An Phionós answered. "You're with child.
You didn't know?"

  Jenna could only shake her head mutely. An
Phionós snorted. It came to earth, resting again as
she had first seen it: sitting on its haunches, the
wings down against its body, the tail wrapped
around one side, staring down at her as she lay in
front of it. "There can be no finish to this Scrúdú," it
said. There was a note almost of triumph in its
voice. "I let you live."
  "But I found the path," Jenna told the creature,
still cradling herself and staring in wonder at the
sparkle of life in her womb. She raised her head as
the cloch-vision faded. "I saw the way to defeat
you."
  An Phionós shook its head. "Perhaps," it said.
"And perhaps not. You'll never know now."

  Why not?" Jenna asked. "I could come back, after
the child is born . . ." ^he stopped, realizing that
what An Phionós had said was the truth.
  Aye," it said. "You nearly died this time, with no
certainty that what you found would have helped
you. Could you undergo this again, knowing that you
might leave your child motherless and abandoned?
The child will bind you here, Jenna. This time, you
fought without caring that y0 might die; the next
time, your focus will be divided." Its voice was sad
"There's but one time in your life to test yourself
this way, Jenna. Now you must leave the Scrúdú to
some other. Perhaps to the child inside "

  Its voice became less heard than sensed, the years
and decades and centuries seeming to pass as she
watched An Phionós became simply a statue once
more, its features eroding and fading. "You saw
inside Lámh Shábhála. You glimpsed the
possibilities. But you'll always wonder if you'd really
found the way, Jenna," its dying voice husked. "And
so will I ..."
 The fog around them cleared. She was back in
Thall Coill, kneeling on the cold ground with
Seancoim hurrying toward her, and she let herself
fall.
             Chapter 54: Fire and Water
 "JENNA!"

  Through half-opened eyes, she could see
Seancoim hurrying to her, and Denmark cawing in
alarm at her side as she rolled and pushed herself
up on one side with her left arm. Scrapes and cuts
oozed blood along her body; the smell of ozone hung
in the air like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. She
was still clutching Lámh Shábhála, but the cloch was
empty and drained. Her world swayed around her
and she steadied her-self, trying to keep from falling
back into unconsciousness. Her head pulsed with a
ferocious headache; her right arm, now that she
released Lámh Shábhála, fell dead and useless at
her side.

  She felt as if her body had been placed on the anvil
of the gods and pounded.

  The spice of Seancoim's presence was at her side.
His hands cradled her. "Jenna . . . You're alive! I
thought . . ."
 "So did I," Jenna answered. The rocks dug into
her side, her legs, her elbow. "Help me up,
Seancoim."

 "Can you stand?"
 "I think so. Probably." Toryn had come over to
her as well, and she felt both of them lifting her.

  'You passed the Scrúdú," Toryn said, his voice
awed. "You met the beast and defeated it. We saw
the mage-lights, we heard your cries, saw you
fighting with something unseen ..."
  Jenna shook her head. The movement sent the
world dancing again and she would have fallen if not
for the hands holding her. "No," she said when the
land settled once more. She glanced at the ruined
visage of An Phionós. "No," she repeated. "I didn't
win."

 "But you're alive," Seancoim protested. "The
Scrúdú kills those who fail."
  "Aye," Jenna answered. "But not me." She
touched her abdomen. "Not us."
 "Us?" Seancoim asked, but Toryn interrupted
before Jenna could ex-plain.
 "But you've found the full power of Lámh
Shábhála," he said. "You wrestled with the beast
and were given that gift."

  Again, Jenna shook her head. "No. I used every
bit of energy within Lámh Shábhála. And I thought,
for a moment . . ." She tried to lift her right hand to
the cloch and couldn't. "Mother-Creator, it hurts. It
hurts so much ..."
  "Jenna, here. Sit." Seancoim lowered her to one of
the rocks. "I'll start a fire, mix some andúilleaf..."

 He hurried away. Toryn stayed with her, his gaze
appraising and cold. "Lámh Shábhála is drained?
The struggle must have been awful."

  Jenna shuddered at the memory. "Aye," she
answered. Toryn nodded. Seancoim had gone
downhill a bit to the edge of the forest. They could
see him gathering deadwood, Denmark fluttering
around him.
  "Let me help you," Toryn called. He walked down
toward the old man, stooping to gather up branches.
"Go on," Jenna heard Toryn say finally. "There's a
few more branches here. I'll be right behind you."

  Seancoim started up the hill, one arm around a
bundle of dry sticks, the other around his staff.
Toryn turned as if to follow. Jenna saw the intention
in the younger man too late. "Sean-.'" she began as
Toryn swung the heavy oaken limb he held. Jenna
saw Seancoim fall an instant before the dull,
sickening sound of the impact came to her.
Denmark screeched, diving at Toryn as Jenna tried
to stand. She forced her right hand to move as
Denmark raked its talons over Toryn's cheek;
Toryn swung the crude club at the bird and missed.
Jenna's hand closed around Lámh Shábhála and she
tried to open the cloch (the crow rising again in a
fury of black wings, coming back to attack once
more), but there was nothing there, no glittering
store of mage-energy. Nothing.
  The club swung again, striking Denmark down to
earth in a heap of ebon feathers. Toryn lifted it
again and pounded it back down on the small
mound. As Jenna cried out, Toryn flung the club
aside. He spread his hands: fire erupted between
them.

 He gestured toward the unmoving Seancoim.
 "No!"
  Small, tiny blue flames erupted over Seancoim's
figure; thin tendrils of white smoke rose and began
wafting away toward the forest. Jenna screamed
again and started running toward Seancoim, even as
the flames thickened and went to orange and
yellow, as the smoke began to billow in earnest.
Seancoim didn't move. Jenna could hear the flames
crackling, burning as if Seancoim were made of
paper and tinder. In the space of her first two
limping strides, he was engulfed in an inferno. The
impossible heat washed over her, and she knew no
one could survive that. Toryn, already running up
the hill, caught her before she could move again.

  Jenna battered at Toryn with her fists, first trying
to push past him to get to Seancoim, then tearing
herself from his grasp and backing away from him.
"Sometimes slow magic is quite effective," he said,
grinning as she struggled. "Crow-Eye was a useless
old man anyway, but he did make you quite a nice
fire, don't you think?" She was still holding Lámh
Shábhála in her hand, and she saw his gaze on it.
 "No," she said in a voice that trembled. "It's
mine."

  His smile was lopsided. "I won't ask you to give it
to me. I know that's something Holders can't do. But
I will take it from you. It took me a full day to
create the spells to hold the slow magic so I could
use it at will, but I made two of them. Seancoim
could have deflected the spell if he'd been
awake-even old and decrepit, he was strong in the
slow magic. But you don't have the slow magic, do
you? All you have is a cloch na thintrí that's been
exhausted. I don't think a bit of fire will hurt Lámh
Shábhála."
  Jenna continued to back away. She was alongside
the statue as Toryn glanced back at Seancoim. The
fire was already dying. Jenna could glimpse a
blackened, withered skeleton through the smoke.
"At least he was unconscious when it happened,"
Toryn remarked. "Can you imagine what it would
feel like to be consumed while alive and awake?
Your flesh crackling and turning black like bacon too
long in the fire; the fat of your body hissing and
sputtering as it boils, the flames feeding on your
face. Flesh gone, muscle and tissue seared and
crisped as you scream and shriek in agony . . ."
Jenna continued to back away; Toryn stalking her,
step for step. She could sense the air at her back,
could hear the crumbling edge of the cliff under her
feet. Toryn stopped. "Are you sure you don't want
to give me the cloch?" he asked, his hand held out to
her.

  "No," Jenna answered. She touched her stomach.
"I'm sorry," she said.
  Toryn seemed to shrug. He lifted his hands again,
speaking a phrase in his own language. She saw the
flames appear before him.

 Jenna turned away. The cliff edge was two steps
away. She ran toward it, and leaped.
 She expected death.
  The wind rushed past her, roaring. And she felt
her body changing altering as she plummeted
toward the water. Her clóca and leine slipped away,
torn from her new, sleek shape by the rushing of
air, and she fell naked to the waves.

  She had almost no time to contemplate the
alteration of her body.
  Jenna hit the water with a stunning impact that
ripped the breath from her lungs. She expected to
feel the shock of the frigid ocean, but somehow the
water felt impossibly warm and pleasant. Still, the
shock of striking the surface nearly made her lose
consciousness; she was disoriented, her sense of
direction lost underwater. Her body, already sore
and battered, screamed with abuse; her vision
seemed sharper yet somehow distorted. She could
see the wavering light of the waves well above her
and her lungs yearned for air. She reached out with
her arms and kicked with her legs to stroke for the
surface. They responded though the feel was
strange, and she could not see hands or arms even
though the light came quickly closer. She broke the
surface with a gasp, swallowing spray along with the
wonderful cold air. She almost immediately went
under again.
 Something, someone was under her, lifting her . . .

  She emerged into the air once more, coughing and
spitting water, and she was held up as she retched
and spluttered and finally took another shuddering
breath. A head emerged from the waves.
  Jenna started to speak in surprise and
relief-"Thraisha!"-but what emerged was a croak
and moan. She looked back along the length of her
own body.
  The chain of Lámh Shábhála gleamed against
black fur touched with blue highlights, the caged
stone still with her. Jenna barked in surprise;
Thraisha's eyes gleamed; she almost seemed to
laugh. High above them, at the cliff edge, Jenna saw
Toryn staring down, his face pale. Thraisha followed
the direction of Jenna's gaze, her body rolling easily
in the white surf. She spoke, but with the emptiness
within Lámh Shábhála Jenna understood none of it.
Thraisha started swimming, pushing Jenna's body
in front of her, moving away from the rocks and
outward. Toryn shouted something, his voice faint
against the roar of wind and waves. Jenna
tenta-tively tried to help Thraisha and swim on her
own-the body ached and complained, but she
managed a few strokes. They swam out beyond
where the waves broke, and Jenna realized that
Thraisha was making for the blue-gray hint of
coastline to the south, where a tongue of land
curved outward.

  She could not swim long and had to stop,
exhausted. Thraisha stayed with her, patiently
keeping Jenna afloat on the waves. Swim and rest;
swim and rest.
  The journey took hours. The sun was nearly
setting when they came to a table of low, wet rocks
and could crawl out of the water.
  "You threw yourself from the cliff a stone-walker
and landed a Saimhóir." Thraisha seemed amused
by what she'd seen. "Welcome to the sea,
land-cousin."

  The mage-lights had come; Jenna had been able
to renew Lámh Shábhála, and with the cloch she'd
regained her ability to speak with Thraisha. She was
still in seal form-far more comfortable than any
human one in this environment. She marveled at
the new feel of the world around her and her
heightened senses. She had never known that the
taste of the ocean was so complex, that she could
sense where the mouth of a river shed fresh water,
or whether the bottom below was sandy or rocky,
or where the kelp beds lay. Swimming unbounded
by gravity was a luxuriant pleasure, the feel of the
water against her fur like the stroke of a lover's
hand. Underneath the water, she could hear the
sounds of the ocean: the distant, mournful calls of
whales, the splash of brown seals feeding nearby,
the flutter of a school of fish turning as one, the
grunts and chirps and clicks of a thousand
unidentified animals.

  Yet her new body retained marks of the old: her
right flipper was scarred and balky, the fur marked
all the way to her spine with the shapes of the
mage-lights. She still ached, every movement
sending a reminder of the punishment she'd
endured.

 "How long can I stay this way?" she asked
Thraisha after she'd re-counted to the Saimhóir
what had happened since they'd last talked. "Ennis,
he said that most changelings were either
Water-snared or Earth-snared, able to change for
only a few hours."

  Thraisha grunted agreement. "He was right. But
your blood runs strong with the Saimhóir strain and
with the power of the mage-lights. You can stay this
way until you will yourself to return to your birth
form. But there's danger in that, as well. The longer
you remain Saimhóir, the more difficult it will be to
make the change back. And I would believe that the
longer you stay Saimhóir, the more likely it is you
will lose the ability to use the cloch na thintrí. Lámh
Shábhála is a servant of the stone-walkers, not of
the Saimhóir."
  In the radiance of the cloch, Jenna could sense the
faint stirring of the life inside her. She wondered
what would happen to the child if she remained
Saimhóir. "I need to go back. To Inishfeirm,
perhaps." She looked at the cliffs of the headland, a
hundred yards away from the rocks on which they
lay. They were lower here than at Thall
Coill-looming like a blue-green line of thunderclouds
on the horizon at the end of the curving shore of the
island-but still high. And beyond them, she knew all
too well, were trackless miles of steep hills and
drumlins.

  She would be naked. With no resources but Lámh
Shábhála. Without Seancoim . . . The thought stirred
the deep sorrow in her. You've lost the two people
who cared most for you. You're alone. Alone . . .
 Jenna found that while a Saimhóir could feel
anguish and grief, they could not cry.

  Thraisha stirred. "We could swim there, faster
than you could walk. I would stay with you."
  "I can't ask that of you. You told me: the interests
of the Saimhóir aren't those of my people."
  "You are both," Thraisha answered. "And we're
linked, you and I." She coughed, and the heads of
two more blue seals broke the water near them.
They hauled out of the water alongside Thraisha.

  "It's a long swim around the Nesting Land,"
Thraisha said. "Rest today, and feed yourself while
the sweetfish are running. Then we'll begin."
                 Chapter 55: A Return



  OWAINE often went down to the shoreline in the
mornings. He'd help his da and his older brothers
push the boat off the half-moon shingle where it was
beached and tied every night, even though he knew
that it was the burly arms and legs of his brothers
and not his tiny form that was sliding the tarred and
weathered wood along the wet sand. When the
waves finally lapped at the prow, his da would ruffle
his hair. "That's good enough, little one. We'll take it
from here. Watch your mam for us until we get
back." Then they would push the boat out into the
swells, his da leaping into the boat last as his
brothers rowed out a bit. He'd see his da readying
the nets as the boat cleared the surf and headed out
to the deeper water past the headland.
  Ówaine would watch until he could no longer see
the boat-that would not be long, since his eyes were
shortsighted and everything quickly became a
blur-then he'd go exploring before his mam called
him back to the cottage up the hill. Usually, he
scrambled around the clear tidal pools that collected
between the black rocks, trying to catch the small
bait fish that were sometimes trapped as the tide
went out, or poking at the mussels and clams.
Sometimes he'd come across odd pres-ents the sea
had tossed up on the shore for him to find: a boot
lost by some fisherman; a battered wooden float
from a fishing net; strange, whorled shells with
enameled, sunset-pink interiors; driftwood polished
by the waves and twisted into wondrous shapes.
  Today Dwaine walked to the north side of their
small beach, to where the waves broke against the
rocky feet of the Inishfeirm. The wind was cold; the
salt spray wet his hair and made him blink. Mam
wouldn't let him stay out long today; he knew she'd
be calling him back to help her and his two sisters:
there was butter to be churned and the chickens to
be fed. He half-slid, half-crawled along the rocky
shoreline, wet to his thighs He thought he heard the
call of seals just beyond a screen of boulders and he
clambered over to them to see. Once his brothers
had said they'd seen a family of blue seals on the
shore, but Swain hadn't been there that day. Blue
seals occasionally visited the island, he knew, and it
would be exciting to glimpse them, since they were
so rare. Bragging about it after-ward to his brothers
would be best, though . . . Maybe he could make it
sound even more exciting than it was.

  Dwaine pulled himself up the surf-slick face of the
last boulder. Beyond was another tiny rocky beach.
He caught a blurred glimpse of black fur sparkled
with blue fire, but then movement at his end of the
beach caught his eye. He gasped and nearly fell
from his perch.
  A young woman was standing there, walking out
of the water. She was naked, her black hair hanging
in wet, dripping strings, her body sheened with
water. She seemed exhausted and her right arm
appeared to be in-jured, scarred and hanging limp
at her side. She wore a silver chain around her neck,
with a pendant swinging between small breasts. To
Dwaine, she seemed to be perhaps a little older than
his sisters.

 A naked lady on the beach was going to be a far
better tale than blue seals, but he wondered if
anyone was going to believe him.

  He must have made a noise, for her head turned
and she looked at him. "Don't be frightened," she
said, the words accompanied by a soft smile. Her
voice sounded hoarse, as if she hadn't used it for a
long time. She made no attempt to cover herself;
she didn't seem to notice her nudity at all. She
cleared her throat. "This is Inishfeirm, isn't it?"

 He nodded, wide-eyed.
  "Good. I wasn't certain, since I couldn't see the
White Keep from this side, but that's what they said
it was. Do you have a cottage near here?"
 They? Dwaine wondered who she might mean but
decided not to ask. Instead, he nodded solemnly.

 "What's your name?"

  "Dwaine." He blinked as the apparition took a few
steps toward him. He crouched, ready to jump down
from the boulder and run. The woman walked
gingerly, the way Dwaine did when he sat too long
with his legs under him and they were all tingly and
heavy. He decided he could stay where he was.
"Dwaine Geraghty. Who are you?"
 "My name's Jenna. I need to go to the White
Keep. Do you know it Moister Cléurach has
returned there yet?"

  Dwaine shook his head. He'd heard that name, of
course-everyone on Inishfeirm knew it-but his
family had little to do with the White Keep and the
cloudmages. He'd seen a few of the acolytes, even
talked to them a bit when they bought the fish his
da brought to the market, but he'd never seen the
old Moister, who-his brothers and sisters all told
him-was a cross and nasty man who sometimes
liked to beat the acolytes with willow branches, just
for fun. They told him other more imaginative and
awful things about the keep and the Bráthairs and
their Moister and what happened to the acolytes
there, but Dwaine wasn't sure how much to believe
since, after all, none of his siblings had ever actually
been to the White Keep. Still, some of it might be
true and Dwaine couldn't imag-ine why anyone
would want to meet Moister Cléurach, who seemed
to be part monster.
  Of course, this woman could be a monster herself,
which might explain her appearance . . . But the
woman smiled again, and she didn't seem dangerous
at all. "Don't worry, it's all right," she said. "How
about you-do you have a home near here? Is your
mam there?"

  "She's back there in the cottage." Dwaine pointed
to the whitewashed walls just visible high up in the
green hills.
  "Will you take me to her?" She seemed to have
realized her state for the first time, one hand
covering her breasts, her scarred and stiff-looking
right hand over the dark fleece at the joining of her
legs. "I suppose I need some clothes ..."

  Being in the White Keep reminded Jenna achingly
of Ennis. She almost sobbed, seeing her own tiny
room again. But Moister Cléurach arrived not a
minute after the wide-eyed acolyte closed the door
behind himself.

  "I didn't think I would see you again, frankly," he
said without pre-amble.
 "I'm pleased to see you again, too, Moister."

  He sniffed at that. He stared at her, his eyes dark
under the white-haired line of his brows. "The
rumors are flying through the keep that you've
returned from Thall Coill, that you appeared naked
on the shore in a blaze of sorcerous light, that you
passed the Scrúdú and now under-stand the
deepest places within Lámh Shábhála."

  One corner of her mouth lifted. "I've returned
from Thall Coill. The rest . . ." She shrugged. ". . .
are just rumors."
 "What happened?"

  She wasn't certain that she wanted to tell him. But
once she started, she found that there was a
catharsis in telling him all that had happened since
they'd parted ways after Glenn Aill. Moister
Cléurach let her talk occasionally interjecting a
question to clarify some point. An acolyte came in
with a lunch of bread, fruit, and water, then left. She
told him every-thing except the fact that she was
pregnant.

   She didn't know why she kept that back, only that
it felt right to do so
 Moister Cléurach listened, then grunted. "I still
don't understand," he said. "Why did this An
Phionós not kill you as it did Peria?"

 She'd prepared a lie for that, knowing the question
would come. "We fought to a draw," she said. "I
wasn't able to defeat An Phionós, but nei-ther did it
have the power left to kill me."

  "Hmm ..." Moister Cléurach ran fingers along his
bearded jaw. "And you have the changeling blood,
too. Like Ennis."

 The mention of the name made her blink. "Aye,"
Jenna answered. "Or I wouldn't be here and Lámh
Shábhála would be lost in the ocean."
  "I doubt it." He plucked a slice of apple from the
tray and chewed it thoughtfully. "Lámh Shábhála
has a way of finding its own path to a Holder. By
now, someone else would have found it washed up
on a shore, or in the gullet of someone's fish dinner."
He swallowed. "I've already sent word to Dún Kiil
that you've returned."
 Jenna nodded. "I thought you would. So the
Banrion's back there? Is she well? Is there word
about the Rí Ard and the Tuatha? Mac Ard?"

 "Nothing about Mac Ard," he answered, "but we
hear that the Rí Ard and his son have gone to
Tuatha Gabair, Airgialla, Connachta, and Infochla,
and sent messages to Locha Léin and Éoganacht as
well. Mundy Kirwan-you remember him; Ennis'
friend-is strong with the slow mag-ics, and he has
felt Clochs Mór gathering near Falcarragh. I think
the war comes soon; the Comhairle agrees with me.
And that makes me wonder. Why did you come
back here, Jenna?"

   "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I thought
... I thought it was the only place I belonged right
now."
 "Then you'll fight with Inish Thuaidh."

  The memory of Thraisha's foretelling came to
Jenna again, as it had an too often over the last
days. . . . You stood there alone, and you called
lightning down from the skies with Lámh Shábhála,
but other sky-stones were there also, held by the
hard-shelled ones, and they gathered against you. I
was there, too, but I was too jar away and others'
clochs were set against me and couldn't reach you.
You looked for help, but even though those with you
held sky-stones of their own, they were beset
themselves, and none came to your aid. 1 saw you
fall. . .

  "This is my home. This was Ennis' home. And I
know that my presence is the reason for the war if it
comes." Jenna shrugged. "I didn't choose this path,
Moister. But it seems to be the one I have to walk."

  Moister Cléurach grunted again. "Then I'll do my
best to make you ready for it," he told her. "We can
start today."
  She hadn't been certain what she wanted, but
Moister Cléurach certainly had no such doubts. He
immediately resumed his role as Jenna's mentor in
her studies of the cloudmage art. Most of that time
was spent in the library, as Moister Cléurach set
Bráthair Maher to pulling out dusty and
half-crumbling rolls of ancient parchment. There
were exercises and med-itations; reading and
history lessons; the beginning of her study in the
slow magics of earth and water.
  Jenna fell into the routine almost gratefully. It
allowed her no time to think, the work kept her
mind occupied and held the grief and worry at arm's
length, at least during the days. The nights were a
different matter. She didn't sleep well, despite the
exhaustion of the days and the mage-lights' nightly
call. Then the ghosts threatened to overwhelm her
as she cried with her head buried in her pillow,
seeing Ennis' face or Seancoim's. She clutched her
stomach where the first flutterings of life quickened.
She listened to the calls of the seals far down the
jagged cliffs of Inishfeirm, and wondered whether
Thraisha was out there somewhere, even though
she couldn't feel her with Lámh Shábhála.

 But the days . . . The days she could tolerate.
  ". . . and as you see, Severii claims that even when
Lámh Shábhála seems to be devoid of energy, there
is still a reservoir of power within it, one that he was
unable to tap. Which is what he thought was the
place that would be opened through the Scrúdú-"

  Moister Cléurach stopped, causing Jenna-seated
next to him looking at the mostly undecipherable
marks on the yellowed roll of parch-ment-to glance
up. An acolyte cleared his throat from the doorway
of the library; behind him, another figure lurked.
"Moister," the acolyte began, but Moister Cléurach
was already on his feet.

 "Banrion," he said. "This is a surprise."
  Aithne gave a cough of laughter. "Then you don't
know me well at all, Moister. Holder Jenna, it's good
to see you again. I wanted to give you my
condolences on the death of your friend Seancoim.
It must have been terrible, losing two people so
close to you in such a short space of time." The
sadness in her voice seemed genuine, as did the
sympathy on her face. "And I also wanted to
welcome you back." She held her hand out to
 Jenna, who took it. Aithne's fingers pressed
against hers. "I was afraid I would never see you
again," Aithne said. "I knew when we woke that
morning and found you gone that you'd taken the
path to Thall Coill Come, walk with me a bit and tell
me about it. Moister Cléurach’s dry reports are fine,
but I'd like to hear your own words. Moister, if you
don't mind ..."
  Jenna didn't particularly want to relive any of it
again, but she could think of no way to politely
refuse. Leaving Moister Cléurach and the li-brary,
the Banrion walked with Jenna along the stone
corridors of the White Keep, her two gardai
accompanying them just out of earshot.

 They walked for a few minutes, hand in hand,
Aithne telling Jenna about their own trek back from
Glenn Aill and the response of the Comhairle to the
news of Árón’s treachery. ". . . My own best guess is
that my brother, Tiarna Mac Ard, and the others
with them have left Inish Thuaidh and slipped the
net of ships we placed around the island. They're
proba-bly in Falcarragh with the Rí Ard by now."

  They'd come to the bronze doors cast in the
shapes of the mage-lights: the Temple of the
Founder. Aithne pushed the doors open and they
en-tered. Six acolytes were there with a Bráthair of
the Order, who bowed to the Banrion and Jenna and
quickly escorted his charges out of the room. The
Banrion and Jenna walked down between the twin
rows of marble columns as they exited, approaching
the immense statue of Tadhg O'Coulghan. He
seemed to watch them advance, his right hand
raised as if he were about to cast the power of Lámh
Shábhála down at them from the mage-lights
swirling in the painted dome above him. They
stopped just under the dome, with Tadhg looming
above them.
 "How long has it been?" Aithne asked.

 Jenna's brows wrinkled, puzzled. "Banrion?"

  Aithne pressed her fingertips against Jenna's
abdomen, gently. Jenna flushed, and the Banrion
smiled. "Sometime dry reports have buried
nug-gets. You came here with nothing, and among
the documents Moister Cléurach sent was a list of
everything you'd been given, a quite detailed list.
What was interesting to me was what wasn't there:
no sponges, no cloths. A surprising omission for a
young woman who should be expect-ing her
monthly bleeding. I wasn't certain, though, until I
saw you." The Banrion chuckled softly. The sound
reverberated from the dome. "How long?"

  "Two months, Banrion. Nearly three." Jenna
sighed-with the admis-sion, a surprising sense of
relief washed through her; she hadn't realize how
much it had pained her to have no one in whom to
confide.

 "Is Ennis the da?"
 Jenna nodded. "So Moister Cléurach knows as
well?"

  "Actually, I doubt it. He didn't mention anything
in the reports, I didn't speak to him about my
suspicions, and he's not ... as observant about these
things. I didn't know until I saw you, and even then
I wasn't certain. Your condition isn't really visible
yet, but I see a slight curve to your stomach where
there was none before, and I doubt that the Order
is feeding you that well." She smiled. "Combined
with the rest . . . The question now is what to do
about it. My healer has potions that can start your
bleeding again even at this point, if that is what you
want."

  Jenna was shaking her head before the Banrion
finished. "No," she answered. "This is all I have left
of Ennis. I ... can't."
  Aithne nodded. "I thought that would be your
answer. Do you remem-ber Tiarna Kyle MacEagan
of the Comhairle?" Jenna nodded, recalling the
short, stocky man who with the Banrion and Kianna
Cíomhsóg controlled the Comhairle. "He and I have
been good friends for many years," Aithne
continued. "I like the man-he's a good person, wise
and quick-witted. He knows when to speak and
when to hold back what he knows. He's also . . .
unmarried."

  Jenna started to protest, realizing what Aithne
intended to suggest, but the Banrion held up a hand.
"Let me finish," she said. "Tiarna MacEagan . . .
well, let us simply say that he doesn't have any
interest in our gender beyond friendship. A
marriage between the two of you would legitimize
both you and your son or daughter. He would be a
good father as well as a guide and companion for
you. You would have as much leverage over him as
he would have with you: he wouldn't care if, in time,
you have other lovers as long as you gave him the
same freedom. And he would acknowledge as his
own any children that came as a result."
  Twin knots of tension burned in the corners of
Jenna's jaws, clamped tight as Aithne spoke. The
gardai stood near the door of the room, talking
softly among themselves and carefully looking
away. No! she wanted to shout. No! This is not what
I want. But she pressed her lips shut, taking a
breath and glaring at the face of Tadhg high above.
"And you, Banrion," Jenna asked. "What do you get
out of this?"

  Aithne nodded as if in satisfaction. "You learn well,
Holder. Aye, I'll benefit from this arrangement, also.
It keeps the Holder of Lámh Shábhála bound to Dún
Kiil and Inish Thuaidh. It means that Tiarna
MacEagan, Bantiarna Cíomhsóg and I will have an
even stronger hold on the Com-hairle. It means that
you will fight with us against the Rí Ard, because
that time's coming very soon. I wanted to strike
first, as you recall. I still believe that would have
been the best strategy, but that time's past. The
invasion will come well before the Festival of
Gheimhri. There isn't much time." She looked
meaningfully at Jenna's clóca. "There isn't much
time for you to make your decision, either, Holder.
Soon enough your secret will be ... obvious and then
Tiarna MacEagan would no longer be able to make
the offer."

 "You've already broached this with Tiarna
MacEagan?"
  "No. But I'm confident his thinking will be the
same as mine." The Banrion reached out and
touched Jenna's hair, stroking it gently. "He's truly
a good person, Jenna," she said. "If you allow it, he
could be a loyal friend even though you never share
a bed. I made certain that Moister Cléurach gave
him the Cloch Mór of the fire-creature you
destroyed at Glenn Aill, and he is learning to use it.
He could be an excellent ally if you have political
desires. I know that you say you don't, but that may
change in time. You could do far, far worse for a
husband Do this now in the next few weeks, and no
one will question that the child is his-it will simply
come early, as some children do. But if you wait . . ."
Aithne shrugged.

  Ennis . . . Jenna's thoughts whirled, confused. I
miss you so much . . . What do I do? Jenna started
to speak, then stopped. She backed away from the
Banrion, pacing around the base of the statue. "I
can't give you an answer," she said. "Not here. Not
right now."
  "You already have," Aithne answered. "You
haven't said 'no.' Think about this conversation,
Jenna. I will be here for another day, perhaps two.
I've come to tell Moister Cléurach that he must
bring the Bráthairs of the Order to Dún Kiil along
with the few clochs na thintrí they hold so that we
can prepare for the Rí Ard's invasion. We could go
back together, meet with Tiarna MacEagan, and
make the announcement to the Comhairle." Aithne
sighed, her face soft with sympathy. "This is a lot to
put on your shoulders, which have already borne
more than their share of pain. I know that, Jenna. I
don't mean this to sound as cold as it will, but Ennis
is gone forever. We can't bring him back. I think he
would understand this and approve, because it's
best for you." She gestured at Lámh Shábhála. "I
know that you can hear the old Holders. Listen to
them. How many of them have done the same thing
I'm asking you to consider?"

  Jenna remembered Banrion Cianna's words to her
back in Lár Bhaile that seemed so long ago now,
though it had been less than year-regarding Tiarna
Mac Ard's reluctance to marry Maeve: ". . .
marriage to him is another weapon ..." Even Ennis
had said it once: ". . . They would tell you that the
Holder of Lámh Shábhála should use marriage as a
tool, to be utilized when it's most advantageous."
She suspected that Ennis would have understood,
all too well.
  Jenna stared at the Banrion, her face stricken, her
head shaking from side to side not so much in denial
as in confusion. Aithne gathered Jenna to her,
hugging her close. "Go, and think about this," she
whispered in Jenna's ear. "I'll keep Moister
Cléurach away from you until tomorrow. Then come
and give me your answer." Her lips brushed Jenna's
hair. "In the end it must be your decision, Jenna,"
she said. "Not mine."




                Chapter 56: Covenant



  AN attendant, a younger man, opened the door for
Jenna and Aithne and motioned them in.

   The room was the same one in which she'd first
met Tiarna MacEagan. The sun streamed through
the stained glass window depicting the horror of
Croc a Scroilm, sending bright hues shimmering on
the walls. Mac-Eagan sat in one of the chairs near
the fire, sipping an amber liquid in a cut-crystal
goblet. Bantiarna Kianna Cíomhsóg sat across from
him. Jenna brushed her cloch with her finger and let
it open slightly: MacEagan wore the Cloch Mór she
remembered all too well from Glenn Aill and the
attack during the Feast of First Fruits. Kianna, who
had no cloch at all the last time they'd met, now had
a clochmion, perhaps the one that had been
MacEagan's.
 MacEagan set down his glass and rose as Jenna
and Aithne entered, going immediately to Jenna
after a quick glance at the Banrion. She found
herself searching his face, looking at his body. The
crown of his head was but a few finger's width
higher than her own, and streaks of pale scalp
showed through the dark strands at his temple.
Still, the lines around his eyes crinkled deep when
he gave her a wry smile, and his eyes were kind and
lingered easily on her face.

 "Holder," he said. "This is awkward for both of
us."
  "Aye," Jenna answered, not allowing herself to
respond to the smile-"Tis that."

  "Banrion Aithne has told me about her, umm,
proposal. I want you to know-it would be acceptable
to me. It would, in fact, be good for me. And I hope
for you as well."
  Jenna lifted up a shoulder under her clóca. She
remained silent and MacEagan looked again at
Aithne. "I'll leave the two of you to discuss this," the
Banrion said. "Bantiarna Kianna, why don't we walk
and plan the defense of Dún Kill?" Kianna pushed
herself from her chair; she and the Banrion linked
arms and left. The attendant remained, gazing with
a strange intensity at MacEagan, who nodded to
him.
  "You may go, too, Alby," he said. "I'll call for you
later."
 "Tiarna-"
  "Go on. Please." Alby bowed stiffly and left. The
door closed loudly behind him. Jenna cocked her
head toward MacEagan, raising an eye-brow. "Aye,"
the man said. "Alby is more to me than simply my
squire. I tell you that so there won't be any secrets
between us. There can't be, not if this is to work."
He gestured toward one of the chairs and Jenna sat,
watching as MacEagan seated himself across from
her. The odd smile was still on his face, and he
folded his hands quietly on his knee.

 "I'll never love you," Jenna said flatly.

  He seemed to take no offense, his face unchanging.
"Perhaps not. And certainly not love in the way you
loved Ennis O'Deoradháin. I wouldn't expect or
want that of you. But I hope that you could come to
like and respect me, at least. I think we can be
friends, Holder Aoire, and I would say that I have
love for my friends."
  Another shrug. More silence. Finally, MacEagan
rose and went to the window. He pushed open the
stained glass panels, sending colors shifting across
the room. He stood there limned in sunlight before
turning back. "I know the Banrion has outlined what
I can offer you, Holder, and I won't go over that
again, only tell you that I would endeavor to be as a
father to your child. I would offer your child
everything I would offer a child of my own."

  "And what is it you intend to gain from our . . .
arrangement?" Jenna asked him. "In your words,
not the Banrion's."
  He brought steepled hands up to his mouth,
bowing his head for a moment in thought. "I get to
use your reflected power," he answered finally.
"Bluntly, that's what I receive. We know-Aithne,
Bantiarna Cíomhsóg, and I-that Rí MacBrádaigh
won't live much longer. When he dies, a tiarna of the
Comhairle will be elected Rí in his place. A tiarna
married to the Holder of Lámh Shábhála would be a
powerful figure, don't you think? Maybe even
enough to be more than a Shadow Rí-and we control
enough votes in the Comhairle to guarantee the
outcome. And you . . . you would be Banrion and
would take my place on the Comhairle."

 "What of Banrion Aithne?"

  "She would have her ancestral lands in Rubha na
Scarbh to rule, especially daily now that her brother
has proved to be a traitor. She would still h among
the Comhairle, representing her townland, and the
Comhairm is the real power in Inish Thuaidh, not
the Rí. And she would also know secrets, which
would ensure that her voice was adequately heard
She loses nothing but a husband she doesn't love,
like, or respect and a tit] she won't mourn."

  "Because hers was a political marriage," Jenna
spat. "Like the one we're discussing."

 "Aithne went into her marriage knowing it would
be no more than it is," MacEagan responded. "I
have higher expectations."
 "You shouldn't."

  "But 1 do," he persisted. "Oh, not for physical
love-neither one of us want that of the other. But I
do admire you, Holder Aoire. Your youth, your
background-there aren't many like you who could
have gone through what you have and survived,
much less flourished. You're stronger than most
believe, including, I think, yourself."

 "I don't need false flattery, Tiarna MacEagan."
  He went back to the chair, sat, and took the glass
in his hand again, swirling the liquid before taking a
small, appreciative sip. "I've said noth-ing false,
Holder. And my given name is Kyle. I would be
pleased to have you use it."

 "I still haven't made a decision," Jenna answered.
She paused, took a breath. "Tiarna," she finished.

  MacEagan gave a sniff that might have been a
chuckle. "How can I help you make that decision,
then? Tell me what you need."
  "There's nothing you can give me. It's something I
have to feel. Back in Ballintubber . . . My marriage
would never have been arranged; I wasn't
important enough for that. It's the poor who can
most easily marry for love, and I always expected
that, if I married, it would be that way. I expected
that we would have little more than the land we
worked, that it would be hard, but it would be all
right because we would care for each other. This-"
Jenna swept a hand through the air.

  "You can still have love," MacEagan said. "I don't
intend to keep you from that."
  "But it would always have to be a secret love. You
might know, and perhaps Aithne, but it would have
to be hidden from everyone else.

  "Aye," MacEagan responded. He blinked. "As
mine is. Now." He too another sip of the whiskey
and set the glass down once more. "I've already y
given you my trust, Holder. I've already made
myself vulnerable to you s^ that you would feel
safe. I can't force you into this marriage, and
wouldn’t even if I could. But I do think it could be
advantageous to us both. I will give you one other
promise-if one day you find a love that you can't
bear to keep hidden from the rest of the world, then
I will go with you to the Draíodóir and sign the
dissolution. All you have to do is ask."

 "You say that now."
 "I'll put it in writing, if you wish."

 Jenna could feel her hands trembling. She placed
her right hand over her left, trying to conceal the
nervousness. In the three days since the Banrion
had made the suggestion back in Inishfeirm, she
had agonized over this. The night the Banrion had
come, she'd gone to the harbor and called Thraisha,
but no matter how wide she cast the vision of Lámh
Shábhála, she couldn't find her. The Holders within
the cloch na thintrí had been useless, yammering
contradictory advice. She had found Riata in the
babble and spoken with him, but he had only sighed.
"The Daoine way isn't ours," he said, more than
once, and didn't seem to be able to comprehend the
implications, so foreign to his culture. She'd called
her da from the carving of the blue seal, and he had
listened sympathetically, but in the end all he could
tell her was to do what she thought best. She wished
more than once that she could talk with her mam
again-she wondered what Maeve's advice might be,
caught up as she was in the same snare-but her
mam was with Mac Ard. She closed her eyes every
night and called to Ennis' spirit, trying to bring him
to her to tell her what to do ... but the only answer
had been the wind and the steady, relentless sound
of the surf against the rocks.

  "You are the only one who can make the decision,"
Riata had said finally. "You are the one who has to
live it."
 "Write it, then," Jenna said. "And we will marry,
Kyle MacEagan."

  "Please leave us, Keira," MacEagan said to Jenna's
attendant. The young woman-no older than Jenna
herself-lowered her gaze, curtsied quickly, and
vanished, closing the door to the bedchamber
behind her. MacEagan smiled at Jenna, sitting on
the edge of the bed and pulling her night robe
tightly around her neck. He held a bottle of wine
and two goblets.
  "I thought I would come and say good night,
Jenna," he said. He re-mained standing at the door.
He nodded toward the polished wood be-hind him.
"You can trust her. Keira's been with me since she
was twelve; she knows how to keep her mouth shut
and eyes averted when they need to be. Or if you
have someone else you feel you can trust more . . .
?"

  Jenna shook her head, mute. MacEagan-my
husband, she thought. I Wonder if I will ever stop
shivering when I hear that-continued to smile.
 " 'Bantiarna Jenna MacEagan of Be an Mhuilinn,
Holder of Lámh Shábhála.' I imagine that will sound
strange to you for a while."

 "I think it may always sound strange," Jenna
answered.
  "If asked, Keira will swear that I spent our
wedding night here in the chamber," MacEagan
said. "But Alby has put together a room for me m
across the hall. I thought. . ." He lifted the wine and
gold-rimmed goblets "We should at least share a
drink together first. I would like that, if you're
willing. It's been a long and tiring day for both of
us."

  That was certainly true enough. Banrion Aithne
had given Jenna a clóca of finest white silk that had
come all the way from Thall Mór-roinn. Jenna had
let Keira and the other attendants dress her, feeling
numb and some-how detached, as if she were
watching this happen to someone else. The wedding
had been in the Great Hall of Dún Kiil Keep; she
entered the hall to find the Rí and Banrion, the
entire Comhairle, Moister Cléurach and several of
the Bráthairs of the Order, and many of the minor
Riocha of the city in attendance. The dripping of the
stones punctuated the droning voice of the
Draíodóir brought from the Mother-Creator's
temple to con-duct the ceremony. Jenna stood next
to MacEagan, not truly hearing the words, and
when the Draíodóir handed her the traditional
oaken branch to break, symbolizing her departure
from her previous family, the dry crack of the stick
had sounded impossibly loud and she had dropped
the half she was to give to MacEagan, startled. The
party afterward had been interminable. A singer
had begun the Song of Máel Armagh, his baritone
voice so much like Coelin's that Jenna felt her
breath go shallow for a moment. The food in front of
her seemed to taste of ashes and paper. A
seemingly eternal line of well-wishers passed their
table. Jenna had won-dered what they were
thinking behind their carefully smiling faces, their
choreographed movements, their polite and empty
words. . . .
  MacEagan poured the wine and handed one of the
goblets to Jenna. She took it, but stared down into
the well of purple liquid without drink-ing. She felt
as if she wanted to cry, but her eyes were almost
painfully dry. "I don't feel much like celebrating,"
she said.

 "I'm sorry you feel that way, Jenna. Truthfully."
She glanced up; there was genuine empathy in his
face, a distress that carved deeper the lines around
his eyes. "I realize I can't ever fill the void Ennis left
in you, perhaps one day someone will. But I do
promise that in the meantime won't make the
emptiness larger."

 "What does that mean?"
  He sat on the bed near her, leaving a hand's width
between them-When she moved away, he remained
where he was. "It means that stand with you even if
others won't. The truth is, when the time comes
finally choose sides-and it's coming sooner than
anyone except perhaps Aithne, Kianna, and I
believe-neither you nor I know where the final lines
will be drawn and who will stand where. People do
strange things when they think it's to their
advantage, or when it seems to be the only course
they can take."
 "Like marrying someone they barely know."

   The corner of his lips twitched; it might have been
a smile. "That's one example, aye. You began a new
age when you woke the clochs na thintrí, Jenna. We
still don't know the rules of it yet, or how it will
change us. We only know that it will change us." He
lifted his goblet. "So would you drink with me? To
the future beyond the Filleadh."

  Jenna felt the infant stir within her, a fluttering
deep in her stomach. She wondered what kind of
world the child would be coming into. Not one I
thought a child of mine would have a year ago, nor
one I would have chosen . . .
 "To the future," she said.
  The clink of the goblets touching gilded rims
seemed as loud as the crash of a closing door.
          Chapter 57: The Battle of Dún Kill



  "I'M so scared," she'd admitted to MacEagan that
morning. "1 don't know if we can stop them." She
didn't mention Thraisha's dream, which had
haunted her more and more in the last few weeks:
the images of death and loss. She hadn't mentioned
that to anyone, but she felt the certainty of it, more
firmly each day. She felt as if she were walking a
path that was already set for her, unable to turn
aside or change it. Part of her, at least, was already
reconciled to the inevitability of failure.
  The first signs of the coming battle were the white
sails on the horizon beyond the arms of the Inner
Harbor, well out in Dún Kiil Bay.
  They knew the armada was coming from
Falcarragh-their own fast scout ships had come
scurrying back as soon as the fleet had been sighted.
The first battle of the war had already been fought
and lost: the much smaller fleet of Inish Thuaidh
had engaged the enemy as soon as it rounded
Falcarragh Head and turned west toward the island.
The tattered remnants of the Inish fleet-five ships
of twelve oars, one of twenty: their rams broken,
their single sails torn, the hulls dark with smoke and
blood-had landed at the end of An Ceann Caol a
week ago; an exhausted courier had staggered into
the keep with the news two nights afterward.
  And now the sails could be seen in the morning
light.

  Jenna stood in the golden dawn with MacEagan,
Aithne, Kianna Cíomhsóg, and Rí MacBrádaigh.
They gathered on the south tower, gazing out over
the town, the bay, and the sea. The wind was laden
with the scent o salt and fish. Soon, Jenna
suspected, the primary smell would be the cop-pery
odor of death.
  The sails . . . Jenna could count at least twenty of
them; more seemed to appear every few minutes.
"Forty oars, at least two hundred troops on each,"
MacEagan said, answering the unasked question.
"Perhaps a few less than they started out with, if
our ships were at all successful in ram-ming and
sinking theirs. But I imagine that we're looking at a
force of up to ten thousand men."
  Ten thousand ... It seemed an inconceivable
number. It seemed even more inconceivable to
imagine such a horde in battle.

  Everyone glanced down from the ramparts to Dún
Kiil itself. The town bristled with troops and
weapons. Officers shouted orders to trained gardai
as well as conscripts from the surrounding lands.
The town steamed with the smokes of the forges,
the smithies hammering out weapons even as the
invaders approached. Catapults sat on the harbor
front and out on the headlands, ready to hurl fiery
boulders at the Rí Ard's ships as they approached.

  But there were not ten thousand here. There was
less than half that.

 "How many Clochs Mór do they have?" Kianna
Cíomhsóg asked. The bantiarna's sword was already
unsheathed, clenched in a muscular hand. Her
bright red hair hung braided and long, shimmering
against the dull leather armor around her torso.
Aithne shrugged.

  "The runner said that the captains claimed there
were at least three single hands of them used during
the sea battle. But that could be an exaggeration."
  Or an undercount . . . None of them would say it.
Jenna remembered the night of the Filleadh and the
power she had unleashed. Three double hands of
Cloch Mórs were opened then . . . MacEagan had
one, as did Aithne, Moister Cléurach, Ennis' friend
Mundy and one other Bráthair of the Order. One
single hand. The Rí Ard could have two double
hands and more.

  One of them, she was certain, would be Árón Ó
Dochartaigh. He would be out there, as would Mac
Ard and the Tanaise Rig, Nevan O Liathain .. .
Ironic, isn't it, how firmly you turned the little
bastard down when he offered you marriage. Won't
he be amused to find you married here, when you
could have been the Tanaise Banrion, to one day be
Banrion Ard . . .

  So much would have been different, if she'd
accepted. She might never have met Ennis again,
but he would be alive. She would never have gone to
Thall Coill, and Seancoim would still be walking in
Doire Coill with Denmark on his shoulder. Maybe
that would be better.
  You can't go back and change any of it. That's not
within even Lámh Shábhála's power.
  "We should retreat now," Rí MacBrádaigh
muttered, staring down at his troops. The Ri's eyes
were wide as he turned to look back at the others
gathered with him, and his dry white hair was wild
in the wind "w could leave a small force here to hold
them back and give us time to rejoin the families
we've already sent back to the mountains." He
looked from one to another of them, as if searching
their faces for some agreement Jenna turned away
so she didn't have to see him. "Doesn't that make
sense?" he asked. "We could carry them from the
mountains, cut them down bit by bit when it was
safe, maybe find a better place to make a stand,
maybe even Sliabh Míchinniúint again ..."

  "Which we'll do if it becomes necessary," Aithne
told him, speaking to him like a stern parent to a
misbehaving child. "Not all of them will land here.
And none of their Holders are trained cloudmages,
nor do they have Lámh Shábhála." Jenna felt
everyone look to her with that pronounce-ment.
She could think of nothing to say. I'm not your
salvation, she wanted to say. Don't look at me as if I
were. She felt ill, nauseous. She placed her hand on
her stomach, pressing it tightly.
  "We'll meet them as they land," Kianna said. "I
need to go speak with those who will be fighting
with steel. Banrion, I leave the strategies for the
cloudmages to you. Rí MacBrádaigh, will you go with
me? Our people would like to see their leader."

  "I ... I don't know what to tell them," the Rí
stammered, looking frightened, and Kianna
exchanged glances with Aithne.

  "I'll tell you what to say," she told the man. "All
you'll need to do is keep a brave face on." She
gestured toward the keep; the Rí, with a final look
back at the sails on the horizon, shuffled slowly
toward the archway to the balcony, with Kianna
following.
  Banrion Aithne sighed. "We shouldn't stay here,
that's for certain," she said. "The keep will be an
obvious target for the clochs. Better that they not
know where we are. Jenna, where do you want to
make a stand?'

  "Down at the harbor," Jenna answered. "We'll
need to be close as they come in so they're within
range of our clochs; if we must, we can retreat back
up toward the keep and the mountains with the rest
of the troops.
  Aithne, Jenna knew, could have blamed her for
this. Maybe she was right, all along. Perhaps if I'd
listened to her, if we'd made the attack on
Falcarragh first before the Rí Ard was ready as she
and the Comhairle wanted …She could say that it's
my fault, that the Rí Ard wouldn't come here at all
except for me ... But there was no accusation in
Aithne's voice or face, only a solemn acceptance of
their task. "Then that's where I'll stand as well. I'll
tell Moister Cléurach to meet us there." With that,
she swept away toward the keep, leaving Jenna and
MacEagan alone.

  "We'll get through this," MacEagan told her. "The
tuatha have never been able to conquer Inish
Thuaidh. The Rí Ard will suffer the same fate as the
rest, and fifty years from now, the bards will be
singing the Song of Kiernan 0 Liathain the way they
sing of Máel Armagh now, and laughing at the man's
foolishness."
 "I hope you're right."

  "I am. We might lose this battle, but we'll prevail.
Inish Thuaidh is a hard land, and the Tuathians are
soft. They will break here, as they always have." He
stopped. His hand lifted as if he were about to touch
her shoul-der, then dropped back to his side. "You'll
live, Jenna," he said. "And so will your child."

  Jenna nodded. On a pole on the keep's tower, the
blue-and-white flag of Inish Thuaidh snapped in the
wind. Far out to sea, she could see the banners
fluttering above the sails: the colors of the Tuatha:
green and brown, blue and gold, green and gold. She
could see the oars churning the water as the sun
glinted on mail and steel.
 "They'll be here soon," she said. "Then we'll
know."

 The battle for Dún Kiil began with a single sound:
the k-thunk as the arm of a catapult was released
out on Harbor Head and a flaming ball went hurtling
across the late afternoon sky. It splashed into the
water in an eruption of water and steam a dozen
yards short of the lead boat just entering between
the inner bay's arms. Four more fireballs followed;
two of them struck the ship and burning oil and
grease splattered over the deck. Faint screams
could be heard from the crew, and the oars
splintered and fell as those on the ship leaped into
the water, some of them aflame. Jenna, standing
next to MacEagan near the end of the dock, heard a
rag-ged cheer go up from the troops assembled
close by.

  The cheer nearly immediately went silent. The
catapult nearest the fleet erupted in a gout of black
smoke, pieces of shattered timber flying through
the air. There were more screams, but this time it
came from the Inishlanders manning the catapult.
 The Clochs Mór had entered the battle.

  The sky near the entrance to the inner bay
darkened and swirled with storm clouds as a gale
force wind blew out to sea, howling and shrieking
and laden with blinding curtains of rain:
Stormbringer awakened. Jenna could see the ships
gathered near the harbor entrance and already
trying to avoid the flaming hulk of the lead craft,
suddenly heel over. Sails went down-cut or torn,
she didn't know-and oars lashed the water, pushing
the boats forward against the tempest. Two more
catapults fired, and an- other ship was bathed in a
gushing inferno; a moment later, fireball hissed
away from the incoming ship, and both catapults
exploded The ships pushed on.
  The Inner Harbor had been closed off with chains
and nets hung just under the water between Little
Head and Harbor Head. The first few ships hit the
barriers and were stopped, but only for minutes
before they were cleared. The first ships moved into
the Inner Harbor

  Smoke was beginning to drift over Dún Kiil, laden
with the scent of charred wood and the burning oil;
curtains of driving rain obscured the bay. A
constant roar dinned in her ears, the wordless cry of
the massed thousands. Kianna Cíomhsóg raised her
sword a hundred yards away, her mouth opened as
she shouted something to the troops; Rí
MacBrádaigh was with her, a sword clutched in his
hand also, though its point dragged the ground at
his side.

  "Jenna, it's time." MacEagan's hand closed around
his Cloch Mór. He nodded to her. "I'll be with you."
 Jenna took Lámh Shábhála in her right hand.

 She sent her mind into the cloch.

  The world faded about her for a moment, then the
doubled vision of the cloch-world came to her,
brilliant and saturated. Jenna gasped in won-der
and terror-so many clochs, so many points of
brilliance set like burning suns about her: at least
twenty of the Clochs Mór, and dozen upon dozens of
the clochmion as well, faint pinpricks against the
glory of their powerful cousins.
  Some of them she knew, their colors and shapes
familiar: Ennis' cloch wielded by Mac Ard; Árón Ó
Dochartaigh, the nameless tiarna with the Cloch of
the mage-demon. Nevan O Liathain was out there,
and other tiarna she had met at Lár Bhaile. They
were out there, and they were aware of her as
well-she could feel their minds turn as the greater
sun of Lámh Shábhála rose.

  They saw her. The first attack came before she
could draw breath.

  A wave seemed to tower in front of her, a surging
surf of green whose crest glowed white. It loomed
high, ready to fall like an immense tower down on
her. She could feel the inexperience of the Holder
behind the cloch's attack-there were holes in the
wall of energy before her. With near contempt,
Jenna shaped Lámh Shábhála’s power, gathered up
the wave, and threw it back to its source. The
emerald wave crashed over one of the ships just
entering the Inner Harbor; a thin, single scream cut
through the noise of the rising battle. The Mage had
squandered all the energy in the cloch in one flurry,
and Lámh Shábhála greedily sucked it out,
emptying the cloch utterly and spitting it back over
the ship. More screams came, this time from the
people around the Holder; the lumines-cence that
had marked the cloch's position vanished like a
snuffed candle.

 One. . .

  The Clochs Mór of Inish Thuaidh were alive now,
attacking on their own, and Jenna realized that no
matter how much she might have disliked Moister
Cléurach’s tutelage, the quality of the Order's
teaching showed. The Inishlander cloudmages were
superior to any of the Tuathian Mages-she saw
Mundy Kirwan's cloch open and tendrils of
blue-green death streak outward across the water,
thrusting aside the defenses of two Clochs Mór and
smashing into one of the ships, its touch setting the
hull afire as the boat capsized. Most of the Tuathian
Mages were inexperienced, their handling of the
mage-light's power awkward and tentative. For the
first time, Jenna began to have some hope.

  Sudden flights of arrows arced from the bay, a
thousand barbs streaking down through the smoke,
surprising Jenna with their suddenness, and Jenna
barely managed to throw a shadow of Lámh
Shábhála’s power toward them. The arrows closest
to her burst into flame and went to drifting ash, but
those to either side did not and soldiers fell,
screaming in pain or silent in death. The assault
brought back to Jenna the realization that it would
not be the clochs only that won this battle. Even
Lámh Shábhála couldn't stand alone against an
army.
 And not all the clochs had entered the fray.

  A shout went up from the western end of the
harbor-the first of the Tuathian ships had landed,
the soldiers on it swarming out to be met by Kianna
Cíomhsóg and her vanguard. The caointeoireacht na
cogadh-the war-keening-burst from their throats as
they charged. Jenna heard the first clash of steel on
steel as men rushed past her, moving toward the
battle. Another ship landed; a second mass of
arrows was launched hiss-ing through the air; again,
Jenna spent a tithe of Lámh Shábhála’s energy to
destroy those raining down toward her.
  "Jenna!" she heard MacEagan call. "Fall back!
Keep yourself behind our troops." She felt
MacEagan's arm on hers, and she allowed him to
pull her back through the press of soldiers until they
stood in the shadow of the tavern. His face was
drawn, his hand white around the cloch. His eyes
closed and he groaned, staggering, and in her
cloch-vision, Jenna saw the fire-creature recoil as a
thicket of glowing spears thrust into its torso.

  Through the smoke at the edge of the harbor
front, Jenna saw a banner °f green and brown
appear, waving above a troop of mailed knights not
thirty yards away. Then the smoke obscured them
as a squadron of Inishlander troops rushed past
Jenna toward them.
  The mage-demon appeared in the air over the
harbor front, tendrils of smoke writhing about it like
a mad cloak. It shrieked, its head seeming search
the city, then it folded its wings and fell toward
Jenna.

  From there, what little vestige of order remained
disintegrated into chaos, and Jenna was too busy to
see what happened anywhere but in front of her.
  The demon fell upon them, claws and horrible
mouth open in fury Jenna sent a pulse of energy
toward it, nearly too late: a taloned hand slashed air
so close to her face that she felt the wind of its
passage. The creature slammed into the wall of the
tavern, timbers cracking and stone walls tumbling
in. Splintered wood and sharp fragments of
shattered stone splattered over Jenna; she ducked
instinctively, raising her left hand to protect her
face.
  The mage-creature howled in rage and pain,
leather wings lashing as part of the roof collapsed
and dust rose in a gray pall. It stalked out of the
ruin, thrusting aside shattered roof beams, as Jenna
stood again. She sent her mind into the well of the
cloch, sending arcing bolts of energy toward the
beast. It howled and screamed as they struck and
went down to its knees. Jenna prepared a second
strike, knowing that alone the creature couldn't
survive against Lámh Shábhála. But it was not
alone, suddenly.
  Behind you . . . ! She could hear the scream of a
chorus of ancient Holders in her head.

  Light flared in her cloch-vision, slashing toward
her from two direc-tions within the Inner Harbor:
firebolts accompanied by streaks of azure lighting,
both of them all too familiar to Jenna: Mac Ard and
Árón Ó Dochartaigh. Cursing, Jenna brought the
energy she'd gathered to bear on the new attack:
mage-power exploded so near her that she was
thrown back, landing on the paving stones with a
grunt, her clóca torn and skin scraped away on her
left arm and side. Almost, she lost her grip on Lámh
Shábhála; the cloch-vision shuddered, blinked, then
returned. The demon pulled itself erect again . . .

  ... but a form of molten rock hurtled past in front
of Jenna, colliding with the demon with a screech of
rage; MacEagan, somewhere close by, shouted in
unison with the creature. A fury surged through
her, overlaid with the memory of Árón’s murder of
Ennis. She reached out with Lámh Shábhála,
rushing back along the lines radiating from Árón’s
cloch with the full force of her own cloch. But two
additional clochs had joined in the attack; Jenna felt
an unseen force drape around her; where it touched
, it clung like a stinging spider's web. The net
constricted, pulling tighter, and she had to divert
some of the force of Lámh Shábhála to push it back
and allow herself to breathe. At the same moment,
she felt the touch of cloch on her mind. There was
disconcerting sense of invasion, then it went away . .
.

  . . and Ennis was standing before her, smiling, his
hands out. "Ennis . . ." Jenna breathed. Ennis, still
smiling, raised a sword that ap-peared impossibly in
his hands and slashed at her. She fell back, raising
her left hand, and the blade cut deep in her forearm,
opening a long wound through which bone shone
white for a moment before blood poured from the
gaping cut. The blade finished its diagonal slice at
her hip, opening a shallower wound along her right
side. The strike intended for Árón Ó Dochartaigh
went wild, vanishing as she lost control of the
power. Ennis was still smiling as he raised the
sword-dripping red along its keen edge-once more.
  "Ennis!" She screamed his name. A line of fire
hurtled toward her- Mac Ard-and she barely
managed to turn the fireball aside; she could feel its
terrible heat as it exploded in one of the buildings
behind her. She heard screams from behind but
couldn't turn to look. The net tightened around her;
in her cloch-vision, she could feel the snarling power
of Ó Dochartaigh's and Mac Ard's clochs gathering
for another strike.
  Ennis-smiling fixedly like a mad creature-brought
the sword down.
  Jenna brought up a shield of Lámh Shábhála’s
energy. Where the power met Ennis' sword, the
blade hissed, smoked, and sheared away. Screaming
wordlessly, Jenna sent the red-tinted fury past the
useless weapon, hur-tling into Ennis' body, burning
and tearing at it as if it were her own hands even as
she cried. Ennis screamed in pain, calling her name
like a curse, and she wept even as she pulled at the
ribbon of energy that linked his image to the cloch
that had created it. She could feel the Mage at the
other end shrieking with agony as she raked the
phantom with Lámh Shábhála’s power, and that
fueled the anger even more. She ripped every last
erg of energy from the other's cloch and sent its
remnants hurtling toward the netting laced around
her. The impact loosed the constriction, and she
rolled aside as azure lightning and red-orange
fireballs both gouged craters in the earth at the spot
where she'd been standing an instant before.

  For a moment, she was free, but the cloch-vision
roiled with bright points of power even as she threw
shields around Lámh Shábhála to keep it hidden.
Some of them were matched with the clochs of the
Inishlanders: Moister Cléurach, MacEagan, Aithne,
Galen . . . Most of the Tuathian clochs were set
against the Inish troops, but she could feel several
search-ing for her. She wished she could make
sense of the uproar and confusion around her. Men
were shouting and yelling and moaning all around
her; there was movement and the bright sound of
clashing steel; the scent of blood and death, but she
was standing alone in a small circle of calm She spun
around, looking for MacEagan, but though she could
sense his cloch close by, she couldn't see him.
"MacEagan!" she shouted. "Kyle!" There was no
answer.
  She thought for a moment she glimpsed Kianna
through a gap in the clouds of smoke, sword lifted
and bloody, hacking at two Tuathian sol-ders, then
the smoke covered her again. Where Aithne or
Moister Cléurach or Rí MacBrádaigh might be, she
had no idea. She tried to walk and nearly went
down; pain shot through her right hip, and she
looked down to see her clóca ripped and covered
with gore, her left arm slathered with blood and the
wound gaping and raw. The sight of it made her
nauseous and weak and she nearly fell. Her fingers
loosened on Lámh Shábhála, and the cloch-vision
faded, the world going gray and dim. She forced
herself to stand erect, to pull strength from the
cloch.
 "This is what war is like ..." The voices came from
within Lámh Shábhála.
 ". . . we warned you ..."

 ". . . it's pain and blood and loss and death ..."

  ". . . it's only in the songs and myths that war is
glorious and brave and only the enemy is hurt..."
 Jenna felt despair and hopelessness wash over
her. We're going to lose. We need to call the retreat
now, before it's too late.
  But there were sea-green points of magic-imbued
light, moving out in the water. One of them was
very familiar. "Thraisha!" The blue seals moved
among the ships of the Tuatha. Through the
confusion of the battle, Jenna heard the sudden
shouts of alarm aboard the boats and the splintering
of wood. In the cloch-vision, Thraisha's brilliance
flared, and Jenna saw, out in the Inner Harbor, a
ship suddenly heel over as if a giant hand had
pushed it; at the same time, one of the cloch-lights
winked out, extinguished.

  The Tuathian Mages now seemed to realize that
they were being at-tacked from the sea and Jenna
felt many of them turn away to deal with this new
threat. Limping and slow, Jenna made her way
toward the water. She felt the ground underneath
move from stone flags to hard-packed earth to
wooden planks as she reached the quays. She
passed bodies, both Inishlander and Tuathian; she
passed wounded who looked up at her beseechingly,
moaning or calling out to her-she ignored them, lost
in the cloch-vision.
  Mac Ard was still there, searching for her, and
Árón Ó Dochartaigh also. She was near enough now
that she could see the ships on which they stood,
Mac Ard out near Little Head, and Ó Dochartaigh a
few hundred yards out and to the south of her, his
ship rowing in. "Strike before they find you ..." She
heard the whispered advice, and plunged her being
into Lámh Shábhála, gathering up as much of the
cloch's power as she could hold, keeping the shields
around her as she prepared, then drop-ping them
as she threw the wild energy toward Ó Dochartaigh.
Too late, he saw the attack and sent pulses of blue
toward it, but the white-hot force was hardly
blunted. Jenna followed the lines back, imagining
that she handled lightning with her bare hands and
shoved it, pushing it back at Ó Dochartaigh. She saw
his face in her cloch-vision, glimpsed his ha-tred as
he realized that Jenna was there. "This is for
Ennis!" she shouted at him, not knowing if he could
see or hear her, not sure if it was truly his face or
simply a shadow of it glimpsed in the cloch-vision.
His lips shaped words, but she held the lightings and
thrust them directly into that mouth. Lámh
Shábhála tore at him, shredding flesh from bone, his
hair aflame, his eyes bulging . . .

  And he was gone. The cloch-light went dark, and
she felt him, finally, die.
 She had no time to savor her revenge, no time to
feel any emotions at all. Lámh Shábhála was
revealed again, and Mac Ard and the other cloch
wielders saw her. Red violence streaked toward
her; she thrust it aside and the piers to either side
of her erupted in splinters and flame, the heat of
Mac Ard's attack rushing over her. The net-thrower
was at her again, tossing its webbing about her. She
could feel the attention of other clochs turning to
her now. A giant wolf howled, leaping from nowhere
toward her, mouth open and slavering. She speared
it with Lámh Shábhála, toss-ing it into the water as
somewhere a Mage howled in concert. Another wolf
followed, and another . . . She dropped the pier from
underneath one, then hurled the other into the fire
of the docks Mac Ard had de-stroyed. The netting
pulled tight around her as her attention wandered,
tendrils closing around her throat, the ends writhing
and pushing at her mouth. Her arms were trapped,
and she felt herself being pulled toward the water,
her feet lifting from the ground.
  Jenna was deep into the reservoirs of Lámh
Shábhála now. She forced herself to concentrate, to
find the power to pull away the cloch-bonds around
her . . .
  . . . she felt them loosen, and at the same time,
aqua light blossomed near her. "I'm here, sister-kin,
as I promised," a familiar voice boomed in her head,
and she saw Thraisha lash out at the person holding
Jenna while-through her eyes-she saw Thraisha
clambering out of the water onto the broken pilings
of the quay. In the cloch-vision, Thraisha was a
darting, sleek blue presence, liquid and graceful,
severing the threads surrounding Jenna and
sending them recoiling backward. "There ..."
  Freed, Jenna staggered backward. A sinister,
double boom reverberated in her head and red
flares came streaking toward her: Mac Ard. She
reached into Lámh Shábhála, imagining a wall, but
Thraisha's presence interposed itself before she
could use the energy. Blue inundated red each
pushing against the other. Mental sparks flew, like a
grinding wheel sharpening a blade, energy flowing
from both of them toward the point of impact.
Thraisha moaned, and Jenna heard pain and
weariness in the call. The net-weaver had returned,
and strands were coiling around Thraisha.
  Jenna sent her mind into Lámh Shábhála, and in
her anger, she knew that this was the moment. She
would smash Mac Ard now, overwhelm him and end
this. End it forever. Thraisha's vision had been false
...

 ... a noise . . . not heard with the senses of Lámh
Shábhála, but with her own ears . . .
  ... a hammer blow between her shoulder blades,
sending her crum-pling to the pavement . . .

   . . . the shock of the blow loosening her grip on the
cloch, so that it rolled free of senseless, stiff fingers .
..

  . . . scuffed boots in front of her face, and laughter.
Jenna looked up to see the face of a Tuathian soldier
...
  . . . the pain coursing through her as she groped
for Lámh Shábhála, a loss as intense as the moment
she saw Ennis fall. She cried aloud, moaning and
trying to reach the cloch, knowing that Thraisha
was now alone against Mac Ard and the others, that
Thraisha couldn't stand against them all ...

  . . . The soldier's hand, grimy and broken-nailed,
reaching for Lámh Shábhála as well. . .

  ". . . When you jell, the clochs turned to me, and I
could not swim against that current..."
  Jenna saw Thraisha's glimmering blue-and-black
body skewered by scarlet lightning. The bolts
ripped through the seal, nearly tearing her body in
half. Her dying eyes seemed to stare at Jenna as the
force of the strike from Mac Ard's cloch toppled her
back into the water. Blood spewed from the riven
corpse and stained the waves, and a silvery form
wriggled away from Thraisha's open, silent mouth.
  ". . . Their magic drowned me, and Bradán an
Chumhacht swam from my mouth. So if it's destiny,
then it's not only your death ..."
 Jenna wondered if death could hurt more than the
pain of losing Lámh Shábhála.
                 Chapter 58: Retreat



 "SO you're the Mad Holder . . . and this must be
Lámh Shábhála."
  Jenna looked up from the ground to see the
soldier holding the cloch, and the sight of it caused
her mouth to open and release a wailing cry that
sounded more animal than human. She shuddered,
reaching use-lessly for the cloch, and the man
kicked her scarred arm aside. He grinned down at
her: a red-bearded face stained with black gore, a
long cut down his left cheek and through one side of
his mouth dripping blood. The deep gash through
his lips widened sickeningly as he grinned at her. He
was missing teeth, and his voice was slurred with
his injuries. " Tis mine now, 'tis."

  Jenna blinked, peering up through the acrid
smoke that wrapped the harbor. The man didn't see
the movement behind him. There was a flash of
steel and the Tuathian's head was suddenly
separated from its shoul-ders, rolling away. The
body stood for a moment, fountaining blood from
the stump of the neck before it collapsed, nearly
falling on top of Jenna.
 "Sometimes," she heard someone say, "it's just
more satisfying to use a sword."

  A hand was reaching for her-"Let's go, Jenna . .
."-but she slapped it away, scrambling over to the
body, tearing at the fist holding Lámh Shábhála’s
chain and ripping the cloch away from lifeless
fingers. "Mine!" she proclaimed, closing her right
fist around it.
 "Jenna!"
  She whirled around at the shout, snarling. Lights
flared wildly, confusingly, in the sudden
cloch-vision. She started to tear Lámh Shábhála
open, to send its power hurtling blindly at the
person in front of her, but she could not hold the
power; it burned her so that she screamed, her
right arm in agony. Hands caught her as she fell.

 "Mother-Creator, you've been wounded! Didn't
you hear the call for retreat? Come on . . ."
 Jenna blinked away blood, trying to see the face.
"Ennis?"

  "No, it's MacEagan," came the soothing voice.
"Lean on me, Jenna
  That's it; let me support your weight. We have to
leave now . . ."



  . . . there was the flickering of candles and the
smell of wet stone, and a form moving in the twilight
...

 "Here, Holder. Please sip this ..."

  She could smell the andúilleaf in the crude clay
mug the old man was holding out to her. For a
moment, disoriented, she thought it was Seancoim
and her heart leaped inside her, but then her vision
cleared and she recognized him as the Banrion's
healer. He held out the mug toward her; she pushed
it away. "No, I won't drink that."

 "It will take away the pain."

  "No!" She pushed at it again even though she
could feel herself yearn-ing to drink it, to lose
herself and the suffering in the leaf's milky embrace.
The healer grimaced and pouted, but he put the
andúilleaf aside. Jenna was relieved; she didn't
know if she could have resisted if he'd insisted a
third time. She tried to raise herself up, and the
movement pulled at the stitched and healing
wounds, making her cry out and bringing back all
the anguish: in the wounded left arm, in the scarred
right, her head, her stomach . . .

  . . . her stomach. She touched her abdomen,
relieved to feel an answer-ing stir. The healer
grunted. "The babe is fine," he said, and responded
to Jenna's shocked look with a faint, conspiratorial
smile. "Aye. The Banrion told me since 1 was
looking after you and she felt I needed to know. But
no one else will know unless you tell them. At least
not until it's obvious. That's another reason you
need to rest, Holder."

 "I need to understand-"
  "Understand what?" a new voice intruded.
Someone had thrust aside a woolen curtain Jenna
hadn't noticed before, letting in a stream of sunlight
that made her eyes water and blink, revealing the
stone walls of a small cavern. The curtain dropped
down behind the silhouetted form and the room
went dark again.

  "Ah, Tiarna MacEagan," the healer said. "Holder,
I'll leave you with your husband, then. Maybe he
can get you to drink the infusion."
  Husband . . . Jenna found herself turning the
strange word over in her head as the healer left the
room. MacEagan walked over and sat at the edge of
the blankets on which she lay. A long cut crossed his
forehead, scabbed brown with the skin an irritated
red along the edges, and one hand was wrapped in
bandages. "Infusion?"

 She shook her head. "You're hurt."

  "Have you seen yourself?" he answered. "At least
I'm walking. It's a rare person out there who isn't
wounded, and there are far too many familiar faces
missing." A sadness came over his own face.
 "Alby?"

  MacEagan smiled momentarily. "No, he's alive,
though he took injuries like the rest. He wouldn't
leave me, even though he's more a liability with the
sword than an asset."

  "I'm glad to hear that. I know how you would have
felt if you'd lost him."

  Again the smile came and vanished. "That's kind
of you to say. Still, it was a terrible battle, and a
terrible cost we paid."
  The sounds and memories flooded back to Jenna
in disjointed, uncon-nected fragments: the initial
assault, the confusion, the bitter victory of killing
Árón, the struggle with Mac Ard, Thraisha's
sacrifice, the stunning moment when she lost Lámh
Shábhála . . . She reached for the stone with a gasp.
Aye, it was still there, but drained entirely of power.
"I remember . . . You came, I think, and helped me
up . . ." She shook her head. "I don't remember
anything past that. It's all gone. And it was only
yesterday."
  "It was two days ago," he told her. "You were
badly hurt. I wasn't sure you were even going to
live." He told her then: how the two of them
together fended off another attack from Mac Ard
and the Tuathian Hold-ers with Lámh Shábhála and
his own cloch, falling back past the square and
finally finding what was left of the Inishlander
defenders near the base of the Croc a Scroilm;
fighting their way through another wave of
Tuathians; Kianna falling near the harbor and the Rí
MacBrádaigh severely wounded, but fighting his
way to them; finally reaching the winding road to
the keep, then making their way into the deep clefts
beyond.

  It was like a tale to Jenna, unreal. There was no
memory of it in her at all. He might as well have
been speaking of a battle fought a century ago with
other people.
  "Where are we now?" she asked after he'd
finished.

  "In the mountains north of the city." His lips
twisted. "In the same caverns that Severii
O'Coulghan used when he retreated after Máel
Armagh's attack. We can only hope that this will
turn out the same. The Tuathians hold Dún Kiil for
now. Scouts have told us that more ships are coming
from Falcarragh, and that the banner of the Rí Ard
flies above the keep."

  Jenna sat up, grimacing as her body protested the
movement. For a moment, the cavern whirled
around her and she thought she might lose
consciousness, but she closed her eyes until the
spinning passed. She started to raise her left hand
to MacEagan, then realized it was bound to her side.
Instead, she reached out with the stiff lump of her
right. She could see the scars of the mage-lights
beyond the stained sleeve of her leine. "Help me up
again," she told him.

 "You should rest," he told her.
  "There's not time for that, and I'm not the only
one hurt. I need to talk to the Banrion and I want to
see those who fought with us." She reached out
again. "Help me." She paused. "My husband."
  He responded with a quiet smile. Then he stood,
crouched down again, and took her hand and arm.
"Let's walk together, then, wife."

  Jenna found that they were encamped in a narrow
valley nestled between tall, steep slopes covered
with purple heather and thickets. Bright rills
capered down the sides to a small river curling
through the valley bottom before vanishing into the
misty distance, where the indistinct backs of more
mountains loomed. The hillsides were studded with
hollows and shallow caves eroded from the soft
limestone that protruded from under the thin skin
of earth, and crude tents and lean-tos littered the
ground. Campfires lifted columns of white smoke
into the fog. The remnants of the Inishlander army
had rejoined their families, but Jenna saw many
tents where solemn-faced women hugged silent
children to them. They would nod silently toward
her as she passed. Jenna expected to see anger and
blame in their faces, but there was none; there was
only the aching loss. She wished she had words of
comfort for the widows, for the father-less children.
She could only gaze back at them, echoing their
pain. One of them clutched at Jenna's clóca as they
passed, and Jenna stopped. The woman could have
been no more than a year or two older than Jenna,
with a child nuzzling at her breast under the
red-dyed leine of mourning, and a boy that might
have been three years old at her side. "Holder, she
said, "My son ... he wanted to see you . . ."
 Jenna knelt down in front of the woman. The boy
peered out at her from under his mam's arms; she
pushed him forward. He held back for a moment
and seemed to gather his courage, lifting his face
and frowning sternly. He took a step toward Jenna.
 "What is your name?" she asked.

 "Mahon." The boy's voice was serious and quiet.
"My da died."
  "I know," Jenna answered softly, with a glance at
his mam. "He was a brave man."

 "Did you know him? His name was Deelan. Deelan
MacBreen."
 "No," Jenna told him. "I'm afraid I didn't. But I
wish I had."
  "When I'm older, I'm going to be a soldier like my
da. Mam said she would give me his sword, and I'll
come fight with you."

  "I hope, Mahon, that won't be necessary." Jenna
looked again at Mahon's mam. She was smiling,
sadly, all her attention on the boy. She felt the
pressure of Jenna's gaze and looked at her with eyes
the color of the sea at night. "I'm so sorry for your
loss," Jenna told her. "There aren't any words I can
say that can give you comfort, I know."
  The woman settled her baby at her breast,
stroking the infant's head. "It was the choice he
made, Holder, the choice of any Inishlander." The
woman's face went grim and almost angry. "Drive
them back out, Holder," she said. "Make sure his
death wasn't wasted. That would give me com-fort."

  Jenna didn't know what to say. She nodded
without knowing why, she brushed the boy's
disheveled hair, and stood up again, grimacing with
the effort that movement required. "We should go,"
MacEagan said. Numb and hurting, she let him lead
her away.
   And where they passed the soldiers who had been
there at Dún Kiil- with arms bound or heads
bandaged, limping or curled on their pallets,
huddled with their families-she heard them whisper
her name; saw them nudge one another as she
approached. They looked at Jenna and they
straightened, bowing. They lifted their sheathed
weapons in quick salute. They smiled. They held out
their hands to her as she passed. "Holder . . ." they
said. "So good to see you . . , A good morn, 'tis it not?
. . . Pleased to see that you're up and about . . . We
were praying to the Mother-Creator for you . . ."
She nodded back, and tried to smile in return. She
touched their outstretched hands and watched the
tentative smiles widen.

   "They saw the Holder of Lámh Shábhála fighting
for them," MacEagan whispered to her, sensing her
bewilderment. "They saw the power of the cloch,
and they know that some of their own lives were
spared because the Clochs Mór of the Tuathians had
to contend with you and couldn't be used against
them. They saw you wounded and yet continuing to
battle and that gave them strength to do the same.
They watched you cover their retreat with Lámh
Shábhála until both it and you were exhausted." He
lifted his chin toward the valley littered with tents.
"You're quite the hero Jenna, whether you believe it
or not. Some of the rumors . . . well, you'd be
amused."
 "I'm not a hero," Jenna said. "I'm not . . .
anything."

  "But you are. You're the First Holder, and you
brought Lámh Shábhála back to Inish Thuaidh,
defying the Rí Ard and defeating the mages he sent
to stop you. You restored the Order of Inishfeirm to
its glory. You routed the traitor of Glenn Aill, who
conspired against the Comhairle and the Rí
MacBrádaigh. You went to Thall Coill to undergo the
Scrúdú and returned again triumphant. You're the
Changeling who can be seal or eagle or dragon at
will. You woke the Rí MacBrádaigh from the
slumber of his rule and gave his sword the strength
of twenty men. You stood against the massed Clochs
Mór of the Rí Ard and very nearly defeated them
all."

  Jenna had begun shaking her head long before
MacEagan finished the litany. "But that's all wrong.
I didn't do those things. They're exaggera-tions,
half-truths, or outright lies."
  "It doesn't matter whether it's the truth or not.
Not anymore. The point is that they believe it, and
more. You give them hope and strength and
courage." MacEagan frowned then, his face grim.
"And right now, that's what we need most."

 "I don't want this," Jenna insisted. "I never did."
 "Want it or not, it's been given to you. Come, the
Banrion's anxious to see you."
  The Ri's tent was set near the river, its bright
panoply of banners seem-ing to mock the
weariness, loss, and pain around it. The gardai stood
back as Jenna and MacEagan approached, and she
heard a moan emerge from the flap held aside for
them.

  Inside, in the warm light of candles, was a bed
holding the Rí, the Banrion sitting in a chair
alongside. Jenna could smell the strong aroma of
andúilleaf. She cradled her cold right arm to her
waist.
 "Any change with him?" MacEagan asked as they
entered, and Aithne shook her head in answer.

  "None. The healer says that it's a matter of time,
that's all." Aithne chuckled, mirthless and short.
"It's strange. I had no respect for the man until
now. From what I was told, he fought like a man
possessed, scream-ing the caointeoireacht na
cogadh and rallying everyone after Kianna
fell-'There was a pile of bodies at his feet,' one of his
gardai told me, 'so high that the Rí could not even
step over them. He wouldn't leave until we had
Bantiarna Cíomhsóg's body, and even then he
stayed at the rear protecting the wounded as we
fled.' He was a poor husband and a weak ruler. But
he found his strength in the end. I wish I'd seen it."
She sighed, reaching over to brush away a strand of
white hair curling over the Ri's forehead. Her eyes
found Jenna's. "I'm glad to see you walking and
somewhat recov-ered, Holder. We'll need you now,
more than ever."

  Jenna must have shown confusion at that, as
Aithne stood and came over to her in a rustle of her
clóca. "We lost this battle," she said to Jenna, "but it
cost them far more than they anticipated. They
thought they would crush us completely with one,
swift blow and never have to wage a cam-paign.
They thought they had enough Clochs Mór to
guarantee the fall of Lámh Shábhála, and enough
troops to smash all resistance. They were wrong
and they know that now. I suspect the Rí Ard isn't
altogether pleased with his son's generalship."
  "Nevan O Liathain planned this?" She could well
believe it-the glory of leading the combined forces of
the Tuatha would have attracted the man as a
guttering candle calls to a moth.
  "Aye," Aithne replied, "that's what we've been
told, but his victory's cold. None of our cloch Holders
are dead and we've recovered another of the Clochs
Mór. Eight of their Mages died-before you fell
unconscious, you told us that-so seven of their
clochs either have new, inexperienced Mages or
were lost entirely in the harbor. They lost nine ships
to the catapults and Stormbringer, and during the
hand-to-hand fighting we de-stroyed at least a third
of their forces. Winning the battle cost them so
much that they couldn't follow us, but were forced
to wait for reinforce-ments."
  Jenna heard little of the end of it. Talking of the
battle brought back snatches of memory: Árón’s
face, screaming in agony and frustration and anger
as she killed him . . . "Banrion, your brother ... He
was with them."

  Her lips tightened and lines folded around her
eyes. "I know," she said. "You told me that also."

 "I'm sorry."
  "No, you're not," she answered. "You had no
reason to feel anything but hatred for my brother."

  "I'm still sorry for your loss. He was your brother;
I know you cared for him. And if I'd not come
here-"Jenna stopped. "If I'd not come here, none of
this would have happened. None of it."
   The lines deepened in Aithne's face. Her gaze
flicked once toward Mac-Eagan, and she stepped
forward, cupping Jenna's face in a hand and lifting
her chin. "You came," she answered. "That can't be
changed. And my brother made his own choices-you
didn't force them on him, nor did you tell the Rí Ard
and Tanaise Rig to bring their armies here. You're
not responsible for their actions, Jenna, only your
own. Do I mourn Árón? Aye, I do. I will miss him,
and I'll always remember his strength and his love
for our family. But I didn't agree with his last
decisions. He knew when he chose to stand with the
Rí Ard that his choice might mean my death as
Banrion, and still he did so."

  She released Jenna's face, going back to the chair
by the bed and sitting "Let me tell you one other
thing, Jenna, a choice I made. I saw you during the
battle. I could feel the clochs set against you, and
there was a moment when I could have come to
your aid. But I didn't-because Árón was among
those fighting you. Instead, I set my eyes
elsewhere." Her hands were folded on her lap, her
head tilted to one side as she stared at Jenna her
gaze unblinking. "I did that knowing that my
presence might be the difference between your
living or dying, but I told myself that I would let the
Mother-Creator decide. So you see, loyalty is a
shifting and elusive thing, Holder. But I'm sure you
realize that by now. Árón?-aye, I'll mourn him, and
I'll remember what was good and try to forget the
rest."

  The Rí MacBrádaigh moaned once more, and
everyone's attention went to him, almost with relief.
Aithne leaned over and took a washcloth from a
basin of water, wringing it out and placing it over his
forehead. "There's nothing we can do for him?"
Jenna asked.
  The Banrion shook her head. "Too many wounds,
and some of them very deep. I'm afraid he's beyond
the skills of any of the healers here. Moister
Cléurach says that there was once a healing stone
among the Clochs Mór, but he doesn't know who
holds it. There were reputedly clochmion with the
same skill though with less potency; Moister
Cléurach is asking if anyone among us holds one, but
he doesn't know that even a clochmions would have
the ability to help. The Rí sank into deep sleep early
yesterday and hasn't woken. In just the last stripe
of the candle, his breathing's gone shallow and fast,
as you hear it now. The healer thinks he'll be with
the Mother-Creator by morning." Aithne took the
cloth, moistened it again, and patted his cheeks with
it. "Perhaps it's better this way. He'll be
remembered for his last acts, not the incompetence
that came before."

  "I talked with the rest of the Comhairle,"
MacEagan said to the Banrion. "They agree with us.
We'll meet tonight for the appearance, but we
already have the votes."
 "Agree with what?" Jenna asked, looking from
Aithne to MacEagan.

  MacEagan answered. "We sent runners to all the
townlands when we learned that the fleet was
coming. Many of the Riocha, especially those from
the north and west, didn't have enough time to
muster and arm their people and come to Dún Kiil.
But they're coming in now-we al-ready have as
many troops here now as we did for the first attack.
The Banrion and I think that we shouldn't wait for
the Rí Ard to get his reinforcements from
Falcarragh. We think we should counterattack now,
as soon as we can. The Tuathians may well be
expecting it, but they won't ever be weaker than
they are now." He paused. "Especially if Lámh
Shábhála is with us."

 "Attack again? So soon?"
  "Tomorrow, so long as the mage-lights come
tonight so you can restore your cloch, and we'd
better pray that they do-by now word will have
reached Falcarragh and ships could already be on
their way. We can't wait."
  "Waiting was what allowed them to come here in
the first place," Aithne commented, her thin lips
pressing together after she spoke. Jenna felt the
point of that rebuke and grunted in response.
  Going into battle again . . . Her whole body cried
out in protest at the thought. Her wounds had just
begun to heal, the arm that linked her to Lámh
Shábhála throbbed and complained, her soul was
heavy with the loss of Thraisha, and the pleasure
that she thought she'd feel at avenging Ennis' death
with Árón’s life was diluted by guilt and remorse.
The faces of the widows haunted her, and that of
the boy Mahon, and the fierce loyalty of the soldiers
who had crafted something from her that she was
not.

  Ennis, what should I do? Thraisha? Seancoim? But
they were all gone, those whose advice she might
have trusted. She had only herself. She could not
even ask Riata or the dead Holders, silenced
because of Lámh Shábhála’s emptiness. Aithne and
MacEagan stared at her, and she could feel their
eagerness and certainty.

  An image came to her, as sharp as reality, and she
had a sense that she was glimpsing the future:
herself lying dead on the cold ground, the remnants
of battle smoking around her. Jenna touched her
stomach: the child lay unmoving inside her.
 If you die, your baby dies with you. But you have
no choice. No choice. You can't flee, and if they take
Lámh Shábhála from you the pain of the loss will be
more than you can bear. ...

  Jenna cupped the fist of her right hand in her left,
her gaze traveling along the swirled lines of white,
dead skin until they reached the sleeve of her leine
and disappeared under the white cloth. Her right
hand felt like a frozen stone in her palm. She
half-closed her eyes, willing the fin-gers to open.
They obeyed only reluctantly, lifting until she could
see folded lines crossing her palm then refusing to
move farther. She moved the hand to her breast,
leaning forward slightly so that Lámh Shábhála
slipped between the fingers into the hand. She
looked at it: the plain, ordinary stone trapped in its
web of fine silver.
 "Aye," she told them. "I agree with you. We can't
wait."




            Chapter 59: Death on the Field



  THE mage-lights rippled and flowed, and Lámh
Shábhála suckled at them like a ravenous infant,
drawing down the power. Jenna sagged, her knees
buckling with the sense of relief, the energy of the
lights easing the aching of her muscles and the
bitter chill along her right side. The world around
her seemed saturated with color again, no longer so
gray and dim. Her awareness seemed to swell out,
encompassing the entire valley where the Clochs
Mór of MacEagan, Aithne, Moister Cléurach, Galen,
and the others were also renewing themselves; and
at the outer edges of her senses she could feel the
pinprick presence of the Tuathians' clochs also
feeding on the same energy-all of them linked to the
sky, all of them tied together.

  She could pluck them if she wanted, like the
strings of Coelin's giotár. She reached out with the
cloch, found the blood-red strand of an ail-too
familiar cloch, and followed it back. Faintly, she
could feel the mind be-hind the energy-and that
person sensed her at the same time.
  "Jenna ..." The voice was a dark husk, the tones
familiar. "So you are still alive. 1 told them you
were, but they still hoped ..." "Aye, Tiarna, I'm
alive. How is my mam? My brother?" She could feel
the surprise in Mac Ard's mind. "You know?"
"Lámh Shábhála told me." He didn't respond. She
felt him try to close his mind to her, and she pushed
aside the curtains he drew over himself, enjoying
the frustration and fear she felt in response. "You
can't hide from me, Mac Ard. I am your bane. You
hold the Cloch Mór I gave to my lover, and I intend
to take it back."

 "It was mine first, as you know since it was you
who stole it from me."

  "Stole? Won it, perhaps, and only after you
attacked me twice. If I'd been able to glimpse the
future, I'd have killed you then. I left you alive only
because of my mam. Tell me about her, Mac Ard."

 Again, he threw up a shield; she broke it down as
quickly. He tried to mask the flare of anger he felt,
and that pleased her. Grudgingly, he an-swered.
"Maeve's well enough, and waiting in Falcarragh
with my son."
  The mention of the child, her half brother, made
her think of the baby in her own womb, the child
she would never see. "Your bastard, you mean."
  "I love Maeve, Jenna, as I've told you before, and
I treat her as well or better than any wife. I have
acknowledged publicly that the child is mine; there's
no secret there. No matter what you want to
believe, Jenna, I'm no monster. I never was your
enemy. Never. You forced that upon yourself, like
all the rest."

 "Aye, none of this could possibly be your fault,"
Jenna taunted. "You're so faultless and noble."
 "Your mam misses you," Mac Ard said, ignoring
the comment, "and she is afraid for you. I think she
may even be afraid of you after what you did in
Lord Bhaile. And she hates this war."

 "As do I."
 "Then end it, Jenna. Surrender yourself and Lámh
Shábhála and we can negotiate a peace. You can't
win this, Jenna. Inish Thuaidh can't stand alone
against all the Tuatha."

  Jenna sent scorn hurtling through the
mage-lights, not allowing him to see the doubts that
his statement caused to stir within her. "Believe
what you will. Tell Nevan that I remember his
words at Lord Bhaile, how he said that everyone
must know that the arm of Dún Laoghaire is long.
Well, I know that now, but he will find that the arm
of Inish Thuaidh may not reach as far, but it is
stronger. Tell him that." Lámh Shábhála was full.
She closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of
completeness and power that the lights gave her.
She released the cloch.

  Mac Ard and the rest of the clochs na thintrí
vanished. The mage-lights began to dim in the sky.
 The Rí MacBrádaigh died that night.

  The Comhairle met briefly in the Banrion's tent,
deciding that the issue of a successor must wait,
though they gave control of the Inish forces to
Tiarna MacEagan. After a long conference, it was
decided to strike Dún Kiil in three groups: the
largest force taking the heights on which the keep
sat, and two pincer arms coming in from the west
and east alone the lower valley where the main
roads ran. The west and east attacks would occur
simultaneously, hopefully diverting the attention of
the Rí Ard's forces and drawing them down toward
the harbor so that the assault on the keep would
have the advantage of surprise. They already knew
that the Rí Ard, the Tanaise Rig, and most of the
Tuathian Mages were in the keep, and it was there
that the battle would be won or lost. There were
secret passages into the keep that the Riocha had
used for centuries to flee or enter in secret: the
Banrion sent Tiarna Ó Beollain of Baile Nua along
with several squads of soldiers along those hidden
paths with the task of opening the gates and doors
of the keep from the inside as the main force
approached.
 As for the cloudmages, two would go with each of
the initial waves both to protect them and so that
they appeared to be legitimate attacks: Mundy and
another Bráthair were assigned to the eastern
forces and Moister Cléurach and the new cloudmage
with the west. MacEagan, Aithne, and Jenna would
remain with the main force.

  The encampment woke before the dawn and
began to move, assem-bling in the narrow valley,
then moving up toward the low pass to the south.
Their faces grim and set, they left behind the tents
of the camp followers and their families as well as
those too seriously wounded to walk. Many of those
who went with the army were limping or still
bearing blood-stained bandages from the battle a
few days before, Jenna no less than any of them.
She walked with the cloudmages in the midst of the
column: Banrion Aithne, MacEagan, Galen, Moister
Cléurach, Mundy, and two other Bráthairs of the
Order, one of them new to his Cloch Mór.
 Jenna felt as if she were walking into the face of
her own doom.

  Not long after noon, they were within a few miles
of the city. There, the forces divided, and the main
group waited for a few candle stripes to allow the
others to begin the encirclement. Finally, with the
sun already lowering in the west, they rose and
started to climb up the long slope to the plateau
where Dún Kiil Keep stood brooding and weeping
over its town.
  Jenna plodded along with the others. There was
very little talk, all of them lost in their own reveries,
their own hopes and fears, wondering perhaps if
they would still be alive after this day.

  Jenna felt only a dull fatalism. The miles she'd
trudged that day had been exhausting on their own,
a challenge for the slowly healing cuts and scrapes of
her body, for muscles torn and taken to their limits
only a few days before. She shivered under her
thick woolen clóca, and her right arm was a block of
flesh-colored ice against her side.

 If Jenna herself was quiet, the voices inside Lámh
Shábhála were not.
  ". . . this is too soon. The last time nearly killed
you ..."

 ". . . you'll be with us, one of the ghosts within
Lámh Shábhála, yammering at the next Holder ..."
  "Be still!" The voice was a near-roar in the mental
din: Riata's voice. "Leave her alone if you have
nothing to say that will help her."

  "Riata!" Jenna thought to him, closing her mind's
ears to the rest of them. "I'm so scared."
 "Those who are the bravest are those who know
what they face and still go to meet it," Riata
answered.

  "I'm not brave," Jenna answered. "I just want this
to be done and over, even though ..." She couldn't
say the words. But Riata knew or guessed her
thoughts.

  "If you want to live, then you must use what
you've learned. Go deeper into the stone, Jenna.
Remember where you went at Bethiochnead. Find
that place again."
 "I don't know if I can. I only glimpsed it once, in
pain and desperation. Riata, I don't care if I live. Not
anymore. It doesn't matter."

  "Find it!" Riata insisted, then his voice was gone
again, drowned in the babble of the other Holders.
Jenna forced them away from her, shoving them
back down into the recesses of Lámh Shábhála.

  "Are you all right?" She heard MacEagan's voice
only faintly. Opening her eyes, Jenna realized that
her hands were clasped over her ears as if the
voices of the Holders had been physical and real.
She lowered them, shiv-ering as the cold reality of
the mountains returned to her.

 "I'm fine," she told him. Alby was standing just
behind the tiarna, his soft hands around the hilt of a
sword. "Is it time?"
  "Nearly." MacEagan's gaze moved off to the ridge
beyond which the Keep stood. "No matter how this
ends, it will be remembered. The bards will be
singing of it for the rest of time."
 "I hope you have the chance to hear that song."

  He didn't notice the stress on the "you." "So do I,"
MacEagan answered. "Win or lose, I've sent too
many people to their graves today." He smiled
wanly at her. "Of course, if we lose, I won't have to
worry about the guilt, will I now? And if we win,
why, I can console myself with the necessity of it all.
I wonder if every leader feels that way."
 "I doubt most of them think of it at all," Jenna
answered.

  He chuckled quietly; at the same time, the bass
growl of thunder rolled loud from the south and
west of them. A thunderhead appeared there, dark
against the bright sky. "Moister Cléurach and
Stormbringer," he said. "It's begun." Already the
soldiers were rushing all around them, and the
banner of Inish Thuaidh waved at the head of the
column. They began to move quickly, a bright
swarm over the rocks and mosses of the hills.
  Jenna heard the faint clamor of battle as they
crested the rise. The tri-towered ramparts of the
keep were black outlines drawn on the sky, the
town unseen past the cliffs of the Croc a Scroilm, but
the wind off the bay sent to them the ringing of iron
and bronze and the cries of the combat Jenna
opened Lámh Shábhála as they reached the
summit: aye, the Clochs Mór were awake now and
fighting. So far at least, MacEagan's tactics had been
successful-the clochs were all intent on the two
arms already attacking the town, perhaps waiting
for Lámh Shábhála to appear in one place or the
other. There were Clochs Mór awake in the keep
and not yet engaged-Mac Ard's among them-but
she could feel their attention focused outward.

 That could not last long, she knew. She wondered
how close they would get before someone on the
walls looked behind and saw them.
 It wasn't long. There was no outcry that Jenna
heard, but she felt the shift in attention within Mac
Ard. "Now!" she cried aloud to MacEagan and
Aithne. "They know we're here."

  Gouts of too-red fire spat from the window of the
northernmost tower, rushing toward the front
ranks of the troops. Jenna stretched Lámh
Shábhála’s fingers toward them, touching each with
the cloch's power: they exploded in brilliant flame a
hundred yards short of the target. A cheer went up
from the Inishlanders and they began to run toward
the keep. Jenna heard the first ululations of the
caointeoireacht na cogadh, shrieking from their
throats as they charged toward the castle . . .

  . . . she ran with them, half blind with the overlay
of the cloch-vision. The rush carried her along, and
she glimpsed MacEagan and Aithne near her. The
air was loud with the keening and the rattling of
mail and the thudding of feet on the earth . . .
  . . . even as the last glare of the fireballs faded,
Jenna ripped at the tower with the cloch as if
tearing the stones apart with her own hand- great
blocks tumbled away from the window where Mac
Ard had been. He was a raging, throbbing scarlet in
the cloch-vision, like a volcano spewing lava. Jenna
could feel the heat of him, and she countered with
the cold of the void, wrapping him in blue-white ice,
placing more and more of it around him as he
melted away each layer desperately. The glow was
beginning to dim as he poured more energy from his
Cloch Mór to keep her away, and for a moment, she
dared to believe that she could end it here . . .

  . . . they were close to the keep now, and arrows
filled the air in a deadly rain. She saw the man
beside her suddenly drop, a feathered shaft
sprouting from his neck as blood spurted, but then
he was gone under the rush. The main gates to the
keep loomed ahead, but they were still shut. . .
  . . . something snarled, and a whip of arcing yellow
slapped down across her shoulders. Jenna whirled
and saw a dragon's face, jaws open with needled
teeth as it clamped down on her shoulder and coiled
the rest of its body around her. Jenna howled, the
teeth digging deep into her, the writhing scales
flaying the skin from her body everywhere it
touched. "MacEagan!" Jenna shouted, but even as
she called, she realized that both MacEagan and
Aithne were each struggling with a rival Cloch Mór
and couldn't come to her aid. Mac Ard was nearly
free of his confinement. Jenna imagined herself
growing larger, her skin hard as stone, and energy
flowed from Lámh Shábhála into her. The yellow
coils of the dragon's body snapped and broke, and
she followed fading energy back to its source-a
young man, his face pale and frightened as he
realized who he faced-but she saw him only for an
instant as Lámh Shábhála tore at his Cloch Mór,
draining it. She thought she could hear the young
man whim-per, and Jenna wondered if she had
killed him . . .

  . . . The charge faltered with the sight of the closed
gates, the front ranks spreading out along the walls
as the arrows continued to arc down on them. "The
doors were supposed to be opened!" someone
shouted. "We can't go forward..."
  . . . furious now, Jenna swept the cloch-vision
about, searching for Mac Ard, but she was given no
chance to find him. The mage-demon landed just
outside the keep, towering above the onrushing
Inishlanders, and it roared as it plunged into their
ranks, tearing and ripping with its clawed hands and
feet. She saw it storm forward and pick up a man
bodily, legs and arms flailing, and rip the body apart
as if it were a rag doll, blood and entrails splattering
as it tossed the broken corpse aside. The
war-keening faltered; the advance slowed like a tide
striking a rising seabed. The beast laughed, its
wings spreading and blotting out the setting sun,
and it bent to its terrible task once more. Jenna
shouted and unleashed Lámh Shábhála again,
reaching out with arms of energy to pluck the thing
up and smash it down on the ground again before it
could react to the attack. She sent thunderbolts
raining down on it, striking it again and again and
yet again. The creature bellowed as she tore at it,
and she heard the mirroring cries from its Holder
within the keep. In the cloch-vision, a coiling line of
gold led from the mage-creature back to the Cloch
Mór which spawned it, and Jenna sent of blade of
energy down on it, severing the link. The
mage-demon howled once more and vanished, and
Jenna would have finished it then . . .

  ... the arrows no longer fell, but something else
did: several hands of round balls arced over the
walls, rolling into the midst of the Inishlanders.
Where the jell, great cries of anguish went up. One
fell near Jenna and she saw that it was not a stone
but a severed head, the eyes still wide open, long
black hair matted with mud and caked blood. She
recognized the gory features even through the
distortion of the death rictus: it was Tiarna 0
Beolldin, and she knew then that those who had
been sent to open the keep from the inside had
failed. The last glow of sunlight was fading; darkness
was falling, and when she looked up at the walls of
the keep, she saw the first stars glitter in the dome
of the sky

  . . . light blazed all around her, suddenly. A
half-dozen flares of power multihued and
dangerous, Mac Ard among them. Jenna reflexively
threw up shields as they attacked as one, and she
was suddenly contending with attacks from all sides,
the snarl and blinding light of mage-energy
pound-ing at her. Mac Ard sent his fire; she caught
it with Lámh Shábhála and threw the flame toward
the great glowing wolf that was leaping toward her.
Spears of golden sunlight cascaded from the shield,
but she couldn't respond fast enough to the others.
A stream of rich azure slithered through, burning
her while a funnel of utter black whirled above, its
mouth twisting ravenously. She could feel the power
of Lámh Shábhála being leeched away by the
tornado . . .

  . . . the war-keening had died. Around her, the
soldiers milled, confused and stymied. Rams were
brought forward to break down the gates, but
archers on the walls cut down half the men wielding
them. The gates shuddered with the impact but
held. MacEagan's lava-creature-bright in the
growing darkness- came lumbering forward to
smash open the iron-barred wood, but the
mage-demon, returning to the battlefield, met him,
the two struggling before the gates so that none
could get past. The moving shadows of their contest
played over the faces of the soldiers, and Jenna
could see the despair and resignation there. Jenna
knew that the gates must go down now or they
must retreat. To stay would mean being decimated
by the archers on the walls and the Clochs Mór. . .
  . . . This was the end, Jenna realized, even as she
fought the Clochs Mór arrayed against her, even as
she tossed wild power around her and threw them
all momentarily back. She was stronger, aye, but
they would bear her down under sheer numbers.
The Inish hope had been that the army could gain
the keep, that sword and spear would cut down a
few of the Mages or cause them to look elsewhere.
Mac Ard's cloch attacked her again, and this time
she could not push it aside. The force struck her,
enveloping her in fire, and she screamed as the blow
sent her reeling backward and her freshly healed
wounds ripped open again. Unseen hands caught
her and held her upright, but they, too, shouted in
pain as they touched Mac Ard's blaze. Jenna held
Lámh Shábhála aloft in futile defiance, gathering
power in the fist of her mind and sending it
smashing down to where she sensed Mac Ard
standing-but the other clochs inter-posed
themselves, shunting the energy aside or absorbing
it themselves. She could feel their realization that
victory was to be theirs, that they were enough to
overwhelm Lámh Shábhála. Their colors circled her,
like hun-gry wolves harrying an injured but still
dangerous storm deer stag. They would come in for
the final kill now, and Jenna found that the anger
inside her, even toward Mac Ard, had dissolved into
resignation. She hadn't wanted this fight in the first
place, and people all around her were dying, all
because of the cloch she held . . .
 . . . the men around the mage-demon hacked at it,
but it kicked them aside as if they were bothersome
flies. It leaped upon the lava-creature, and Jenna
saw its clawed hands grasp the glowing head and
twist it. A sound came like stones splitting, and
MacEagan's clock-created creature was gone. She
saw MacEagan, several yards away, collapse as Alby
wailed, dropped his sword, and sank down alongside
him, cradling the unconscious tiarna in his lap. The
mage-demon began rampaging through the
Inishlanders closest to the gate, and Jenna saw men
starting to retreat in panic into the gathering night,
pushing back against the ranks behind them . . .

  . . . her cloch-vision was filled with the lights of the
Tuathian Holders. She gathered a shield around
her; they broke it down. Lámh Shábhála was
weakening now; she was using its stores quickly.
She could prepare a final stroke, perhaps aiming it
at Mac Ard, or she could simply allow it to
happen-quickly and hopefully without too much
pain. The mage-demon had fastened its eyes on her,
and was plowing through the soldiers between it
and her . . .
 . . . now. It's better that we die now, she told
herself and her unborn child. 1/ we die, this ends.
The Tuathians will have what they want, and Inish
Thuaidh will have to retreat and then negotiate for
peace, but the battle will end. In the final tally, we
will have saved hundreds of lives. Won't that be
better . . . ?

  . . . but there was something else in Lámh
Shábhála’s vision now, mov-ing swiftly toward them
from the tumbled rocks at the feet of the moun-tain
close to the keep, and there was the sound of rocks
clashing together in furious handclaps, a storm of
sound, and mingled with it a musical warbling that
Jenna remembered well. She blinked, wonderingly.
The Créneach . . . !
  In their valley near Thall Coill, she had never seen
them move this quickly. They were surprisingly
graceful despite their size and appearance, their
craggy bodies sliding among the amazed
Inishlanders. The mage-demon howled, fluttered its
leathery wings and flung itself at them; one of the
Créneach slapped at it with a bouldered hand and
the mage-demon shattered like glass. Several more
of them went to the gates of the keen The archers
sent a hail of arrows down at them, but the shafts
clattered and broke on their smooth, dark skin. The
Créneach placed their hands on the great doors and
their fingers seemed to sink into the wood as if the
oak were no more substantial than newly-churned
butter: they ripped the gates open, splinters and
shards of reinforcing metal flying, the portcullis torn
out and flung aside as if it were made of sticks. The
Inish troops cheered; they began to surge forward
again. A ferocious battle was quickly underway at
the ruins of the gate as the defending soldiers within
came forward to meet the Inishlanders.

  "Holder of the All-Heart!" Jenna heard Treoraí’s
voice, mingled with the warbling sound of its true
language. "We tasted the need of the All-Heart, and
so we came." Jenna wanted to answer, but the
clochs had not forgotten her with the appearance of
the Créneach; as she heard the call and felt
Treoraí’s presence approaching from behind her,
they attacked again as one. Forms and shapes and
colors swept over her like a tide, too quickly for her
to do more than glimpse them. A dire wolf flew at
her; she split it asunder with a blade of energy; lines
of bright color wrapped around her like a snake; she
tore them away. The yellow dragon coiled above
her; the black funnel began to draw power from
her; Mac Ard's fire spitting at her like great glowing
meteors.
  In the cloch-vision, an ebon wall interposed itself
between Jenna and the others. They shattered
against it, energy flaring in a mad explosion. For a
moment, the wall held, but the massed clochs
continued to strike, battering it. With her own eyes,
she saw Terrain shamble forward to stand facing
her, and she heard the shrill trill of Treoraí’s voice.
"The Soft-flesh must give in to the heart that you
hold in your hand," it said. "Find Céile inside. You
must-"
  "I can't," she told Terrain, not knowing if the
Créneach could hear or understand her. "It's too
late."
  "If not for you, then for the life you carry,"
Terrain answered. "You can, if-" Its hand plunged
into its own chest, ripping a fissure in its body, and
emerged again holding a tiny blue crystal. "Give this
to her . . . Treoraí’s voice went silent as the clochs
broke down the wall. Jenna heard the sound of
falling stone; before her, the bodily form of Terrain
collapsed into a heap of rocks and boulders. The
crystal fell to the ground.

 The Clochs Mór surged toward her.
            Chapter 60: The Gift of Death



  THEY hammered her down. They took her
cowering to her knees. Jenna shrilled her pain to the
world, nearly losing her grip on Lámh Shábhála as
she fell. Her own sight was gone now; there was
only the terrible light and agony of the cloch-world,
and she sank down inside Lámh Shábhála as she
had with An Phionós at Bethiochnead, desperately
seeking a place to hide from the assault. The voices
of the Holders shrieked at her or laughed or shouted
contradictory advice.

  She burrowed deeper, seeking escape. The Clochs
Mór followed her. She tumbled into a crystalline,
twisting well. The faces of the ancient cloudmage
Holders flashed past her: the Daoines, then the
Bunús Muintir, then tribes and peoples for whom
she had no names at all, falling deeper into the past.
And there, at the bottom . . .

  Lámh Shábhála throbbed like a live thing, waves
of colors pulsating around her. This was the place
.she had glimpsed during the Scrúdú, the place she'd
not been able to reach. She went toward it as the
Clochs Mór continued to pummel her, and again she
was held back. "No ..." a voice whispered. "You're
not allowed here. You have not passed the test."
 "Then I'll die!" she shouted back.

  The voice sounded amused. "We thought that no
longer mattered to you." The energy of the Clochs
Mór crackled around Jenna, and she pushed back at
them. She could feel the baby in her womb,
frightened and in pain because Jenna was in pain,
suffering because she suffered. The voice at the
heart of Lámh Shábhála seemed amused. "So that's
why you fight, even though you still don't
understand. What have you brought me?"
  Jenna could only shake her head in confusion and
terror. "I don't know what you mean? The clock?"
   "No. There, in your hand." Jenna could see blue
light radiating from between the fingers of her left
hand-the crystal that Terrain had pulled from itself.
She held it out, felt the presence take it from her.
The light danced away in darkness. "Ah, such a gift
..." The voice seemed to sigh "So my children ask
me to help you. How can one refuse one's own ..."
The voice faded, and Jenna thought it had gone.
Then the feeling of nearness crawled over Jenna's
skin again. "AH the hearts of my children connect to
the mage-lights through you. You fight yourself
when you fight them."

 "What do you mean?"

  "I will give you a gift for the sake of my children,
though I don't know if you are capable of using it.
This once, in this moment, you must accept what
they give you," the voice answered. It was sounding
fainter now, and Jenna felt herself being pushed
away, rising through the levels of the cloch once
more back to reality. "Accept it..." the voice said
again, a whisper.

  Jenna lay like a broken doll on the cold ground
before the keep. The power of the Clochs Mór
played around her, keeping away the Inish sol-diers
who were trying to reach her and pull her free. The
pile of stones that had been Terrain were at her
right hand, and the mage-lights had appeared in the
sky above. She could feel the threads connecting all
the clochs na thintrí: running through Lámh
Shábhála and into the sky, creat-ing loops of energy,
endless circles and spirals . . .

  "This once, in this moment, you must accept what
they give you ..." That's what the voice of Lámh
Shábhála had said.
  Jenna let the shields fall. The energy poured into
her and through her. She marveled at the feel of it.
She seemed to have been thrown entirely away
from her body into some new reality where she was
with all the clochs, and their energy filled her, but it
no longer hurt, not with the mage-lights in the sky.
Instead, she had become a vessel, and they filled
her to overflowing. She held the power in her hand.
 She rose. She found five of the Clochs Mór and
took hold of them.

 She thought.
  The wind blew cold and salty. The mage-lights
flared and vanished, but
their radiance seemed to remain, illuminating the
cliffside and the weathered, ruined statue of
Bethiochnead.                             ,

  Six people stood there, each with a cloch na thintrí
in his or her hand all of them battered and bruised
and bloody, all but one of them with confusion on
their faces.

  "Where are we?" Banrion Aithne asked. She stood
next to MacEagan and Moister Cléurach, both of
whom stared up at the statue. "Holder, did you do
this?"
  "Aye, I did," Jenna answered. "I think I did. I'm
not entirely certain." Power filled Lámh Shábhála as
it never had before, so potent that her body seemed
to vibrate with it. She felt like a piece of parchment
trying to hold back a frothing torrent. Is this what it
would have been like if I'd passed the Scrúdú? she
wondered. How can anyone handle this? The energy
buzzed in her head, making her giddy and delirious.
Her face burned with it so that she was surprised
that she wasn't literally glowing. Her voice seemed
too loud and too fast. She wanted to laugh. "Banrion,
Tiarna MacEagan, Moister Cléurach, this is Nevan
O Liathain, the Tanaise Rig, and Tiarna Padraic Mac
Ard. And this," she swept a hand about to indicate
the cliffside on which they stood, "is the place they
call Bethiochnead, in Thall Coill."
  Before she'd finished talking, she felt O Liathain's
Cloch Mór open; before he could use it, she clamped
an ethereal hand around it, letting the power flow
not to his stone but to her, the Tanaise Rig gaping in
astonish-ment as nothing happened. The feel and
color of the energy was all too familiar to Jenna, and
she did laugh now, high and maniacal. "Why,
Ta-naise Rig," Jenna said. The power of his cloch
wriggled in the grasp of her mind, and she saw him
grimace in pain and cry aloud, falling to his knees.
"So it was you who wielded the mage-demon. I
should have known. I'm sorry, I really can't allow
him to walk here."
  Mac Ard and O Liathain were truly frightened;
she could see it in their faces. MacEagan, Aithne,
and Moister Cléurach seemed bewildered,
un-certain of whether they should attack the
Tuathians or wait. Jenna could feel all the clochs;
she held the strings to them in her mind like
puppets, but they were puppets who had wills of
their own and who fought the control. She could not
hold them long, not when the energy ached to be
used, rattling the bars of her mind. She heard her
voice again. "Tanaise Rig, you were right to name
me the Mad Holder. You were right to call me
dangerous. But you want to know why you're here
now, don't you?" Jenna realized she was babbling,
but she had to talk, had to find some way to
dissipate at least some of the energy or it would
consume her utterly. "That's simple enough. I will
have an end to this war. Now."

  Mac Ard and O Liathain looked at each other; O
Liathain had risen shakily to his feet again. His
voice, even through the fear, was still oily and
smooth and dangerous. "That's what we all want,
isn't it, Holder? But it wasn't us that started this,
after all. After Lár Bhaile ..." A shrug; a glance at
Aithne. "Even the Banrion understands that, I'm
sure. After all Cianna was your niece." His gaze
went back to Jenna, but he kept glancing at the
others. "Killing us also won't end the war, Holder. It
will only convince everyone of how dangerous you
are. Everyone."
  Jenna was trembling now. "I give you a gift for the
sake of my children, though 1 don't know if you are
capable of using it. . ."Jenna closed her eyes, trying
to stop the buzzing in her head. Her scarred arm felt
as if it were aflame, the pain crawling along the lines
the mage-light had carved into her flesh; she had to
bite her lip to keep from screaming. She could tell
that the clochs wanted to return to where they had
been; it was only Lámh Shábhála holding them here.
It was as if she had lifted all five of them into the
air: if she let go, they would return, falling back
instantly to Dún Kiil; but the effort of holding them
was draining her.

 "You are Tanaise Rig," she said to O Liathain, and
her voice was a shout, tearing at her throat. "You
will be Rí Ard one day. You can end this. You will
end it, or-" Jenna stopped.
  "Or you will kill him?" Mac Ard finished for her.
He stepped forward, putting himself between Jenna
and the Tanaise Rig. One side of his mouth lifted.
"I'm sure you could, Jenna. That seems to be your
answer for any disagreement. Kill me, kill the
Tanaise Rig. Then what happens when the Banrion
or your new husband or the Moister do something
you don't like. Do you kill them also?"

   "Be quiet.'" Jenna shouted at Mac Ard, wondering
if he could even hear her over the shrilling, singing
energy that filled her. The cloch pulled at her,
struggling to be free of her grasp. The strain of
holding them here was too much, too much.
  "Don't you see?" Mac Ard continued, and he was
no longer talking to her but the others. "We are
dealing with a rogue Holder. That isn't some-thing I
want to admit since Jenna's the daughter of the
woman I love, but none of us can deny it. She's a
danger to everyone around her. She can- she
will-kill those she perceives as standing against her.
She is mad. How long before it's one or all of you
that she turns on?"

  "Shut up!" Jenna roared at him. She ached to
strike at him.

  Mac Ard glanced at her, almost pityingly. "I love
her mam," he said to all of them. "I would have
loved Jenna as a daughter, if she would have let me.
I tried to be a guide for her, tried to be like a da. But
she rejected all of that. Even her mam is frightened
of her now-she would tell you that if she were here.
Holding Lámh Shábhála has been too much for
Jenna. It's turned her fey."

  "No!" Jenna lashed at Mac Ard with the denial,
the power arcing around him, and throwing him
backward so that he slammed into the base of the
statue. He fell on his side on the ground. He spat
blood.
  "End this?" Mac Ard said, speaking not to her but
to the others. He wiped at his mouth, trailing red
over the sleeve of his leine. "Aye, we can end this, if
all of us work together. Lámh Shábhála is strong,
but not as strong as all five of us."
  Mac Ard struggled back up, one hand on the
centuries-blurred stone of the statue, the other still
holding his cloch. His hair was matted and bloody,
and his dark eyes were intent on Jenna. She could
feel him reach-ing for the energy within his cloch.
She started to reach for it as well, knowing she could
stop him, knowing that it didn't matter that O
Liathain was preparing to attack as well. But the
others . . . Aithne was staring at her, and Moister
Cléurach, and MacEagan. In the charged
atmosphere of Lámh Shábhála, she could hear
them, could feel their doubt and hesita-tion.

 "Aye," O Liathain said. "If we are together, one of
us will be the new Holder, and I promise this as
well: however it ends, whichever one of us takes
Lámh Shábhála, I will take the armies of the Tuatha
home. Remove the Mad Holder, and we will have
peace."
  There was the same hunger in all of them. Despite
the strong ties to their own clochs, the lust to hold
Lámh Shábhála was still greater. Mac Ard knew the
desire better than any and had tapped it. Jenna felt
the change. No one spoke, but in that moment, four
clochs attacked as one. The strands running from
them through Lámh Shábhála to the mage-lights
brightened and came together in Jenna's mind as if
like a sinuous, multicolored dragon. The
mage-demon snarled near the statue, fire burned
near her, storm clouds gathered and lightnings
flickered overhead, even a pale copy of Lámh
Shábhála appeared.

  They came at her at once. Jenna tried to hold
them, tried to turn the energy but still it came, the
mage-creature raking claws over her, fireballs
slamming into her, the storm thundering . . .

  A creature of fire arose, standing in front of Jenna,
and it leaped at the mage-creature, taking it down.
"I promised I would stand with you no matter
what," MacEagan's voice said. "My wife."

  With MacEagan's sudden defense, Jenna felt
momentary doubt grip the others. Their attack, for
a moment, faltered. It was enough.
  Jenna imagined her hand, seizing each of the Cloch
Mórs and stran-gling the link to the power of the
mage-lights, spilling the energy within them.
Savage, unfocused energy exploded, striking the
earth around them, scoring the black rock of the
statue, charring the trees at the edge of the clearing,
hissing over the cliff into the cold ocean. Jenna held
them all, and they could not escape.
   "You've all betrayed me," she said into their fear
and despair. "You've all shown your true faces. Now
. . . now is my time."

 They were huddled together: O Liathain, Mac
Ard, Moister Cléurach Aithne. Jenna reached out
with Lámh Shábhála; behind them, the statue of An
Phionós shuddered, tilting as she ripped it from the
ground that had held it for so long. She brought it
high overhead, dirt and rocks falling from the
encrusted base. Its shadow was dark and massive.
In Jenna's head, the dead Holders shouted: "Let it
fall . . . kill them . . . you must smash them to end
the threat..." And Riata's voice: ". . . you must live
with what you do . . ."

  "All I need do is release the monument," she told
Mac Ard and the others, "and this is over. Do you
think, Tanaise Rig, that your armies will stay when
I return your broken and crushed body to them?
Will they continue to fight when they see the full
might of Lámh Shábhála before them, or will they
flee back to their Tuatha like scolded dogs? Tiarna
Mac Ard, I won't have to worry about you ever
again. Banrion, Moister Cléurach, I won't have to
wonder whether your advice and actions are
intended to help me or yourselves. I'll demonstrate
to everyone- everyone-that the Holder of Lámh
Shábhála is not to be trifled with."
  The energy within her could no longer be held.
Jenna shuddered with the effort of holding it. With a
cry half of fury and half of pain, she smashed the
statue down with all her pent-up anger. The cliffside
shud-dered and rocks and boulders fell away into
the sea. The crash was deaf-ening, the impact so
hard that the massive stone of the statue itself
cracked, a fissure opening along the creature's back.

 Jenna sobbed.
 The others stared at the statue, now plunged at an
odd angle into the ground back where it had been.
None of them spoke. None of them dared.

  Finally, Jenna took a breath. "There is always a
choice, and we cloud-mages have chosen the path of
vengeance and death too many times al-ready. I
choose another. I was told that the First Holder can
sometimes change the course of her time, and
perhaps that can be done without the Scrúdú.
Tanaise Rig . . ."

 His voice was small. "Holder?"
  "You said that no matter how this ended, you
would take your armies back. It's ended, and I
charge you to keep that pledge and to add to it:
swear that you will never lead another army here to
Inish Thuaidh. Will you do that?"

 "Do I have a choice?" His face was grim and
twisted, as if he were tasting sour milk. He glared at
her. "Aye, Holder," he answered. "You have my
word."

  "Then go and keep your oath." Jenna closed her
eyes for a moment. In the cloch-vision, she found
the thread of his Cloch Mór and released it from her
hand, letting it free. She heard a gasp and a cry, and
there was a sense of something torn away from her,
leaving her weak. When she opened her eyes again,
O Liathain was no longer there.
  "Moister Cléurach?" The old man would not look
at her. "Stormbringer fits you. Take your gloomy
presence back to Inishfeirm, with your pledge that
you will remain there for the rest of your time."

 Moister Cléurach nodded; Jenna released him and
with a crackle of distant lightning, he was gone, and
with him, more of the power of the clochs.
  "And what of me?" Aithne asked. A wry smile
touched her lips. "Holder, I'd tell you that I was
sorry, but that would be false. I made my choice,
too."
  Jenna's eyes were still closed from the effort of
releasing Moister Cléurach. Wearily, she forced
them open. "Would you make it again?"

  The smile wavered, then steadied. "I tell you 'no'
as I stand here and I mean it. But I don't expect you
to believe that. And if the moment came again, in a
different time and place, who knows?"
  "That, at least, is honest," Jenna answered. She
took a long breath, considering. "The Comhairle
must elect a new Rí," she said finally. "Once I would
have said that you should take your husband's place
and simply be Banrion. But not anymore. I ask for
your pledge that the Comhairle elect someone more
suited to the task."

  Aithne glanced at MacEagan before answering. "I
give you my word," she said.

 Jenna turned to MacEagan, holding out her left
hand to him. She hugged him once, fiercely.
"Husband," she said, smiling. "I would send you
back with the Banrion, with my thanks for your
help."
 MacEagan grinned. "It was my duty," he
answered. "And my desire." He nodded to Mac Ard,
going somber. "But I don't want to leave you with
him."

 "I hold him," Jenna answered, "and you're needed
more in Dún Kiil. Alby will be worried."
 "Then send me there, and I'll do what should be
done."

  Again, Jenna submerged herself in the
cloch-vision, finding Aithne and Kyle and loosing
them from Lámh Shábhála’s grasp. Their departure
burned her with its swiftness. Now the
mage-energy no longer filled her, and she could feel
the pain of her body: the wounds, the ravagements
of wielding Lámh Shábhála, the weariness from lack
of sleep and worry, the loss and grief.

   She opened her eyes. Mac Ard stared at her. "So
it's just the two of us " he said. "What do you ask of
me, Holder? What is my punishment?"
 "Be my mam's husband," Jenna answered.
Exhaustion throbbed in her voice. The gift given to
her was almost gone, and Jenna felt only relief.
"Marry her."

 "That's all?"

  Jenna nodded. It was too much effort to speak.
She couldn't hold Mac Ard's cloch much longer; it
shivered in her mind, struggling.

 "Then I will do that. I give you my word." Mac
Ard sniffed, wiping his bloodied lips with his sleeve.
He shook his head. "You should not be the Holder,
Jenna," he said. "Everything you do tells me that.
You're weak."
  Jenna's cheeks colored. Her lips tightened. "Leave
me, then," she said. She started to release him, to
send him back as she had the others. But where the
rest had departed willingly, Mac Ard did not. His
cloch re-mained, burning red before her, the glow
growing rather than diminishing. "You're too weak,"
she heard his voice repeat, almost sadly. "Especially
right now. But I will keep my word to you, Jenna.
Take that with you to the Mother-Creator as some
comfort. I will marry your mam, afterward."
  She felt his cloch open and turn its power toward
her. "No!" she screamed at him, but an inferno had
already erupted. The mage-energy licked hungrily
at her, the heat taking her breath. Mac Ard was
sending everything toward her, emptying his cloch.
She tried to throw up shields but they were weak
and late, the fire burning through them in an
instant. There was little left in Lámh Shábhála, and
Jenna knew that if she miscal-culated here, if she
did not use enough of what remained to her, then
Mac Ard would win. He would take Lámh Shábhála
from her-he would kill her.

  He would kill the life inside her. He would kill all
that was left of Ennis.
  "No!" Jenna screamed into the assault. She sent
herself spiraling deep into the cloch, gathering all
that she could of the mage-energy. There was no
subtlety or finesse to her response; it was a blunt
weapon, wielded with all the remaining strength she
had. Even as the fires surrounded her, she sent it
out, hurtling multicolored lightnings into the red
center of Mac Ard.

  They struck, blinding her. She heard him scream
as the fire of his cloch vanished.

  For several seconds, there was no sound but the
wind and the faint crash of the waves far below,
though her ears still rang with the furious sound of
the clochs. Jenna blinked into the starlight above
Bethiochnead. Mac Ard was lying on the ground a
few feet away. She went to him, looking down into
the open, staring, sightless eyes. His mouth was
open, his chest still. Kneeling beside the body, she
closed his eyes and took the Cloch Mór from his
fisted hand.

 "This," she said, "was never yours."
  Jenna straightened. The movement made her
momentarily dizzy, and she had to close her eyes to
stop the world from spinning around her. She
wanted nothing more than to collapse. But she
couldn't. Not yet. Not here.
  Only the dregs of the mage-energy were left.
Lámh Shábhála couldn't take her back to Dún Kiil or
return Mac Ard's corpse. She lifted her head,
looking toward the moonlit oaks ringing the cliffside.
"Protector Lomán!" she called. "I know you're there
watching. Step out!" There was no answer for
several breaths and she started to call again. Then
two figures emerged from the shadows and began
walking slowly toward her, one of them leaning on
an oaken staff. The Bunús Muintir stopped several
feet from her.

 "Holder," Lomán said, but Jenna's eyes were on
the boy with him, who would not look at her directly
though she saw him glance with fright at the broken
statue before sending his gaze back to the ground.
She had expected Toryn to be with the old
Protector, but this boy was blond and no more than
fourteen, far younger than Toryn.

 "Where's your apprentice?" Jenna asked Lomán.
   "Toryn is ... gone," Lomán answered. His scraggly
beard sagged as he frowned, and the boy with him
shuddered. "When I learned what he had done to
Seancoim Crow-Eye and you, I sent him to the oaks,
the Old Ones. He feeds their roots now. I'm sorry,
Holder. Seancoim was right; I chose poorly and
taught badly for Toryn to do such a thing. Aye, I
would gladly have allowed him take Lámh Shábhála
if you'd failed in the Scrúdú, but to kill Seancoim and
to try to take the cloch by force ..." He shook his
head, grimacing. "I'm sorry if I've cheated you out
of the revenge you might have wanted for that."

  Jenna gave a laugh that sounded more like a
cough. She gestured at the body between them. "I
think, Protector, that I've had my fill of revenge."

  The apprentice visibly brightened at that
statement, venturing a small smile. Lomán
hummed, clearing his throat; his breath wheezed
asthmatically. "Holder," he said. "How can I help
you?"

 "You know the way to the nearest Daoine village?"
 A nod.
  Jenna pointed again to Mac Ard. "Good. I know
that you also know herb lore: I want you to treat
this body so that it can make a long journey then
take it to that village. Tell them there that the
Comhairle wishes the tiarna's body returned safely
to Dún Kiil. That's all. Consider it a partial payment
for your poor choice of apprentice."

  His eyes glared, a flash of irritation that he hid
almost immediately "it will take several days to do
as you ask," Lomán answered.

  "I don't care," Jenna told him. "Do it." Neither of
the Bunús Muintir moved. Neither of them seemed
to want to be near her. Jenna lifted the cloch.
"Now," she said.
 For an instant, she wondered if Lomán, like
Toryn, might try to use the slow magic against her.
But the ancient Bunús snarled something to his
apprentice in their own language and the younger
man moved quickly over to Mac Ard's corpse. He
picked it up, draping the tiarna's body over his
shoulder. His back bowed under the burden, he
walked away toward the trees. "This will be good
for the young one here. He has much to learn, and I
... well, I don't have a great deal of time left to teach
him." Lomán bowed to Jenna, bending stiffly from
the waist. "There is a cavern nearby where you can
stay, Holder, until the body's prepared."

  "I have my own way home," she told him. "Just do
as I've asked." Lomán nodded silently at that and
turned to follow his new apprentice into the forest.
Jenna watched until they had gone.
  She wanted to sleep, to give in to the exhaustion
and pain. But she forced herself to walk down the
slope, away from Bethiochnead to where the cliffs
lowered and she could find a way down to the water.
She clam-bered down over the slippery rocks until
the salt spray of the waves touched her face,
refreshing her. The moon dappled the ocean as she
stood on the rocks at the water's edge.

  Not far out from the shore, a dark body lifted its
head above the waves. Jenna heard the grunting
cough of a seal. She brushed her fingers against
Lámh Shábhála. There was barely enough power
remaining. "Thraisha . . . ?" Jenna whispered
hopefully into the wind, feeling the presence of
Bradán an Chumhacht there.
  "Not Thraisha," a voice said, the words sounding
in her head as her ears heard more throaty
gruntings. "Garrentha."

 "Garrentha. I thought for a moment ..."
  Garrentha gave a bark, and in Jenna's head a sad
laugh echoed, know," Garrentha said. "I was there
at the battle, too, and we both saw my milk-mother
die. When her body went back into the water, I saw
Bradán an Chumhacht swim from her mouth, and I
chased it and swallowed the power myself. I
struggled with it for a day, then felt you gathering
the power of the stones, and Bradán an Chumhacht
allowed me
 follow you here. A small foretelling ..." Garrentha
barked, and Jenna heard the laugh again. "I thought
you would need me."
 "I do," Jenna said. "More than you know."

  "Then I'm here for you," Garrentha answered. "In
that first foretelling, I saw more, as well, and I'll tell
you now: those who came here to wage war are
preparing to leave. And tomorrow, the
stone-walkers who live here will meet in their stone
house."
 "The Comhairle, aye. Kyle will be the next Rí,"
Jenna said, anticipating, but Garrentha's head
moved quickly side to side.

  "They will not choose a Rí. They will instead elect
a ..." Jenna felt the touch of Garrentha's mind on
hers, searching for the word. "... a Banrion to lead
them."
 "Aithne," Jenna breathed.

  Again, a bark/laugh, making Jenna tilt her head in
puzzlement. "No. Not Aithne herself, though the
choice of person will be hers," Garrentha said. "But
there's time enough for you to worry about
stone-walker things later. Now you should listen to
the Saimhóir within you ..."
  Jenna nodded. She stripped away her filthy,
tattered clóca and leine and pulled the boots and
stockings from her feet, standing shivering and
naked on the shore. She slipped the chain of Ennis'
cloch around her neck next to Lámh Shábhála and
stepped into the water. The waves that lapped her
feet were icy, and she drew in a hissing breath, but
the cold vanished a moment later as she continued
to walk forward, and suddenly she was no longer
walking at all but diving into the waves.

  Two sleek bodies swam away, black fur
shimmering blue in the moon-light.



                 PART FIVE: Reunion
               Chapter 61: The Banrion



  INISHDUAN was a barren flyspeck of an island
pushing out of the waves halfway between Inish
Thuaidh and Talamh An Ghlas. Over the course of
history, it had been controlled by both Tuath
Infochla and Inish Thu-aidh, but in fact no one
much cared who owned the small tumble of rocks.
No one lived there, no one visited except a few
fisherfolk; the earth there was thin and unarable;
the wind scoured entirely clean much of the single
peak that formed the island. Someone had once
tried to establish a herd of wild goats there; even
the goats had been unhappy. Seals clam-bered over
the rock at the shoreline while gulls, terns, and
other seabirds nested in the steep cliffs rising out of
the sea, spotting the gray rocks with white-the seals
and birds seemed to be the only animals that much
cared for the island.
  Undesirable, empty, the isle was well-situated for
this meeting. Stand-ing in front of a white tent
billowing in the harsh, steady wind, Jenna watched
the tiny rowboat approaching her from one of the
two ships anchored just offshore, one flying blue and
white, the other green and brown. A pair of gardai
in green-and-brown clóca stepped out as Jenna's
own gardai helped pull the boat onto the wet,
narrow shingle. A woman was seated in the boat,
stepping out once the craft was ashore. The
pas-senger approached the tent slowly, and Jenna
could see that she was hold-ing a baby in her arms.
She seemed to glance from Jenna to the
blue-and-white banner fluttering on the tent poles,
then strode purposefully for-ward off the wet
shingle, leaving the gardai behind as she came to a
stop a few strides from Jenna.

  "Mam . . ." Jenna breathed. She started to move
to her, to take her in her arms and embrace her.
  Maeve had changed much in the intervening
months. Her face was heavier and paler, the dark
hair now liberally streaked with gray. Semicir-cles
of brown flesh hung under her eyes, and she stared
at Jenna with such scorn that Jenna stopped where
she was, her hand still raised. Maeve's gaze went
from Jenna's face to the golden tore around her
neck, below to where Lámh Shábhála hung on its
chain, and further down to her rounding belly.
"Married, and with child. A Riocha," she said. The
last word was uttered as if it were a curse. "And
more, They tell me you are now Banrion MacEagan.
They also say that you rule alone, that your
hus-band is not the Rí."

  "That's true," Jenna said. "It was the decision of
the Comhairle."
  Maeve sniffed. Her eyes shimmered with tears
and she looked away. Jenna heard a sob, and she
put her hand on Maeve's shoulder. The baby stared
at her from within its swaddling, the chubby face
solemn. With the touch, Maeve sniffed and brushed
at her eyes with a sleeve, the gesture almost angry.
She took a step back from Jenna. "It's too late for
that," she said. "Maybe once . . . Not now."

 "Mam-"
  Maeve shook her head. "I've always heard that
the Inishlanders are strange, and you . . . you fit
them well. I can barely believe the stories I've
heard about you." She stroked the baby's head;
Jenna could remember Maeve doing that with her,
long ago. "I can barely believe even what I've seen.
You're the Mad Holder, the changeling, the warrior,
the great cloudmage, the Banrion." She paused. Her
breath hung for a moment like a white cloud
between them before the wind tore it away. "The
murderer of your brother's da and my lover."

 The cold air pulled tears from Jenna's eyes. She
wanted to answer an-grily: What about me? I'm
your daughter, your own flesh and blood and all you
have left of Niall, and he would have killed me.
You're talking to me like an unwelcome stranger.
Have 1 hurt you that much? Do 1 mean so little to
you now? She forced the anger down, taking a
breath. "Mam ... If I could have changed that, I
would have. He gave me no choice."

  "Is that what you told yourself about Banrion
Cianna also, Daughter?" Maeve retorted. "Would
you say that to the widows of all the gardai dead
because of you? 'Poor me! I had no choice!' I tell you
this, Jenna, because it's what I thought every night
since you fled Lár Bhaile: you should have stayed in
Ballintubber. You should have given that
stone-embodied curse you found on Knob top to
someone else. Everything since you took Lámh
Shábhála has turned to dust and ashes." Maeve
barked a short, bitter laugh, looking at the tent.
"Often quite literally." The baby stirred and gave a
cry; Maeve rocked him in her arms and he settled
down once more. Jenna saw the face again briefly as
Maeve brushed aside the swaddling-a mass of red
curls, bright blue eyes, a small mouth with pouting
lips: a handsome face. A tiny hand closed around
one of Maeve's fingers. Jenna wanted to ask to hold
the infant, to be able to look closely at him.

 "That's my brother?"
  Looking down at him, Maeve's face had softened
for the first time. "Aye. His name's Doyle Mac Ard."
She looked back to Jenna and the hardness
returned to the lines around her eyes and mouth.
"Padraic's final will gives the boy his surname and
an estate-Padraic showed the document to me
before he left Falcarragh and the Rí Ard has
confirmed it. At least Doyle will have that, even
though they will always whisper that he is 'the
bastard Mac Ard child.'" Her gaze drifted past
Jenna to the tent. "Padraic's body's in there?"

   "Aye. I brought it with me from Dún Kill." Jenna's
acknowledgment was less than a whisper. Maeve
walked past Jenna. As she passed, Jenna started to
lift her hand to touch her mam, but Maeve cast her
a cold stare. Jenna watched her go to the tent, lift
the flap, and walk inside. After a moment, Jenna
followed her.

   Mac Ard's body was wrapped in cloth saturated
with unguents and oils: Lomán's work. The gardai
had laid it on a low pyre built of logs brought with
them from Inish Thuaidh. The smell of oil was thick
in the tent, cloying. Maeve didn't seem to notice,
though Doyle started crying again. Maeve rocked
him as she stood staring at the body, standing at the
edge of the pyre. "It took weeks to bring him back
from Thall Coill," Jenna said to Maeve's back. "I
didn't know what you would want, whether you
would want to send him to the Mother here or take
the body home to whatever end he desired. Tell me
what you want, and I'll have my gardai take care of
it."

  "What I want is for Padraic to be alive," Maeve
answered, still facing the pyre. "Can you give me
that, Jenna? Can the First Holder, the new Banrion,
do that for me? Is that within your vast power?"

  The questions tore holes in Jenna's soul. She felt
the child inside her stir, and she placed her hands
protectively over her stomach. "No." The wind
snapped the canvas of the tent, punctuating the
word. "Mam, I'm so sorry."

  Maeve swiveled. "What of the Cloch Mór that
Padraic held? Give me that, so I can give it to Doyle
as his legacy as a Mac Ard."
  Jenna shook her head. "I can't-I won't-do that. It
belongs . . ."Jenna paused, taking a breath. It
belongs to the child 1 carry. It's Ennis' legacy. "... to
Inishfeirm and Inish Thuaidh."

 Maeve nodded, her mouth tightening. "Then can
you at least manage to give me a torch?"

  Jenna went to one of the tent posts, where two
circles of copper held a smoldering brand. She
pulled it from the rings and gave it to her mam.
"You may leave now," Maeve told her.
 "Mam-"
   Maeve shook her head vigorously, the flame
flickering in her hand. "I'm not your mam. I'm the
woman who loved your enemy. My allegiance is to
the Rí Ard, not the woman who calls herself Banrion
in the pigsty of Dún Kiil. Leave me to say farewell in
private. Go back to your ship and your island and
forget me. Give me that much."

   Jenna's mouth hung open; a dozen unsaid replies
filling her head. A gulf wider than the Westering Sea
separated them, and Jenna could think of no way to
bridge it. The infant Mac Ard was crying again, but
Maeve's face reflected only a stoic suffering. Jenna
started to take a step toward her but Maeve's eyes
narrowed warningly and she stopped. Finally, Jenna
ducked her heard and left the tent, going out into
the wind again. Her gardai were waiting for her.
They looked at her questioningly.

 "We're leaving," she told them.

  Jenna sat in the boat as they rowed back to their
ship, gazing backward at Inishduan. She saw Maeve
come out of the tent, Doyle cradled in one arm.
Smoke gushed white around the central pole as
Maeve walked down to the beach without looking
back. A few seconds later, the first flames appeared,
leaping high into the air. Smoke rolled gray with the
oils, the wind smearing it west and south toward
Talamh an Ghlas.
  They arrived at the ship. Hands reached down to
help Jenna up onto the deck. Standing at the rail,
she looked back to the island: to the boat that was
  carrying Maeve and Jenna's half brother back to
  their own vessel; to the conflagration rising high into
  the sky.

    "Are you ready, Banrion?" the captain asked.
    Jenna nodded. "Aye," she said. "Take me home."


  Appendices

Characters (in order of appearance):
Jenna Aoire             A young woman from the village of Ballintubber
Maeve Aoire         Jenna's mam
(nee Oldspring)
Tara                Owner of a tavern in Ballintubber
Kesh                Jenna's herding dog
Old Stubborn        The ancient ram in Jenna's flock
Halden              A resident of Ballintubber, danced with Maeve at Corn Festival

Coelin Singer       A musician in Ballintubber
Songmaster          Coelin's mentor, dead three years
Curragh
Mother-Creator      Goddess: creator of the world
Aldwoman            The oldest person in Ballintubber and the Teller of Tales
Pearce
Tom Mullin          Ballintubber resident
One Hand            Ballintubber resident
Bailey

Erin the Healer     Ballintubber resident
Maghera             A character in song and legend, female
Ellia               Tara's daughter, enamored of Coelin
Matron Kelly        Ballintubber resident, keeps cows
Niall Aoire         Jenna's da (father)
Chamis Redface      A Ballintubber resident who teased Jenna as a child
Rafea               Ballintubber resident, weaves cloth
Sean                Matron Kelly's son, brain-damaged by fever
Eliath              Tara's youngest son
Padraic Mac         A tiarna (lord) who comes to Ballintubber
Ard
Conhal              Mac Ard's horse
Máel Armagh         An ancient king of Tuath Infochla who tried to conquer Inish Thuaidh a
Severii           The Inish chieftain who defeated Máel Armagh
O'Coulghan
Buckles           A resident of Ballintubber, an old man
Fiacra De Derga   A tiarna from Tuath Connachta, a cousin of Mac Ard
Rß Gabair         The king of Tuath Gabair
Rß Connachta      The king of Tuath Connachta
Daragh            A resident of Ballintubber, killed by a falling tree in Doire Coill
O'Rheallagh
Widow             The wife of Daragh
O'Rheallagh
Denmark           Seancoim's companion crow, and his eyes
Seancoim          The old guardian of Doire Coill
Seed-Daughter     Goddess: the daughter of the Mother-Creator, who planted the fir

Ruaidhri          Bunús Muintir chieftain, died in the Battle of Lough Dubh
Crenél Dahgnon    Daoine king who fought Ruaidhri at the Battle of Lough Dubh
Riata             Bunús Muintir chieftain, the last of the Bunús cloudmages
Dávali            Bunús Muintir cloudmage who possessed Lámh Shábhála before Rßata

Óengus            Bunús Muintir cloudmage who possessed Lámh Shábhála before Dával

Declan Sheehan    Head of Clan Sheehan, one of the roving Taisteal bands
Edan              One of the Taisteal
Hilde             One of the Taisteal
Bran              One of the Taisteal
Ennis             Inishlander who meets Jenna in the Taisteal encampment
O’Deoradháin
Aodhfin Ó         Rß of the small kingdom of Bhaile, Holder of the cloch after Eilís MacGa
Liathain
Eilís             A Holder of the Lámh Shábhála, killed in the Battle of Lough Lár by Ao
MacGairbhith      Liathain
Kerys Aoire       Jenna's great-mam, who fled from Inishfeirm when she
                  became pregnant
Niall             An acolyte of the Order of Inishfeirm who fell in love with Kerys Aoire.
                  great-da. His last name is unknown
Conn Hagan        Head of the family that took in Kerys Aoire after her flight
                  from Inishfeirm, and eventually married her
Torin Mallaghan   The Rß Gabair
Aoife             A servant girl in Jenna's employ at Lár Bhaile
Du Val            An apothecary in Lár Bhaile who supplies Jenna with leaf
Kiernan O         The Rß Ard, or High King
Liathain
Nevan O           The Rß Ard's first son and Tanaise Rßg (Heir Apparent)
Liathain
Cianna            The Rß Gabair's wife
Mallaghan
Rowan Beirne      Holder of Lámh Shábhála from 648-651
Bryth Beirne      Mam of Rowan, Holder of Lámh Shábhála from 622-648
(nee Mac Ard)
Garad Mhúllien    The Inish cloudmage who took the cloch from Rowan
                  Beirne in the year 651
Anrai Beirne      The tiarna who married Bryth Mac Ard—da of Rowan
                  Beirne
Ailen O'Curragh   Holder of Lámh Shábhála from 597-612
Sinna Mac Ard     Original surname Hannroia, married to Ailen O'Curragh
                  and then Teador Mac Ard, mother of Bryth Mac Ard,
                  Holder of Lámh Shábhála from 612-622
Slevin Mac Ard    Bryth's brother, and the ancestor of Padraic Mac Ard

Galen Aheron      Tiarna from Tuath Infochla, at the Rß Gabair's Keep
Baird             One of Nevan O Liathain's men, a tiarna
Murrin            The widow woman from whom O’Deoradháin rents a
                  room in Lár Bhaile
Labras            One of Cianna's gardai
Damhlaic          Commander of the Rß Gabair's forces
Gairbith
WaterMother       The chief god of the blue seals
Garrentha         The blue seal who rescues Jenna from an attack by an
                  underwater creature
Flynn Meagher     A sailor from the village of Banshaigh
Maister           Head of the Order of Inishfeirm
Cléurach
Mundy Kirwan      A friend of Ennis O’Deoradháin and a Bráthair of the
                  Order of Inishfeirm
Tadhg             Founder of the Order of Inishfeirm, and da to Severii, the Last cloudm
O'Coulghan        Before
Maher             Librarian of the Order of Inishfeirm
Scanlan           Keeper of the Order of Inishfeirm, killed when the White
                  Keep was invaded
Aithne            Banrion of Inish Thuaidh
MacBrádaigh
Ionhar            Rß of Inish Thuaidh
MacBrádaigh
Thraisha          A blue seal on Inishfeirm, the First of the Saimhóir
Árón Ó            A tiarna of Inish Thuaidh from the townland of Rubha na Scarbh, Head
Dochartaigh       Cormorants
Kyle MacEagan     A tiarna of Inish Thuaidh from the townland of Be an Mhuilinn, Bay of

Kianna            A bantiarna of Inish Thuaidh from the townland of An Cnocan, the Hillo
Ciomhsóg
Peria Ó Rßain     A Holder of Lámh Shábhála, from whom the cloch
                  passed to Tadhg O'Coulghan
Aidan             A page from the Keep at Dún Kiil
Terrain           "The Guide," one of the Créneach
Littlest          An infant of the Créneach
Anchéad           The Créneach name for the Mother-Creator
Céile             Literally, "Spouse," the companion Anchead made for It-
                  self, and from whose body came the All-Heart, perhaps
                  analogous to the Daoine "Seed-Daughter"
Lomán             The Bunús Muintir who is the Protector of Thall Coill
Keira             Seancoim's pledge-daughter in Doire Coill
Greatness         The Bunús Muintir term for the Mother-Creator
Toryn             Lomán's pledge-son in Thall Coill
An Phionós        "The Punishment," the statue-creature in Thall Coill
Dwaine            A young child on the island of Inishfeirm
Alby              Tiarna MacEagan's attendant
Keira             Jenna's attendant in Tiarna MacEagan's household
Mahon             A child whose father Deelan was killed at the Battle of
MacBreen          Dún Kiil
Deelan            Killed in the Battle of Dún Kiil
MacBreen
Tiarna Ó          A tiarna of Baile Nua, killed in the assault on Dún Kiil Keep
Beolláin

 Places:
An Cnocan         A townland in Inish Thuaidh
An Deann          A townland in Inish Thuaidh
Ramhar
Áth lseal         A village on River Duán, where the High Road crosses the river
Bácathair         Capital city of Tuath Locha Léin, on the west coast of the peninsula
Ballintubber      The village where Jenna was born
Banshaigh         A village on Lough Glas in Tuath Connachta
Be An Mhuillian   A townland in Inish Thuaidh
Bethiochnead      The "Beast-Nest," the location in Thall Coill where the Scrúdú takes pl

Cat's Alley       A back street in Lár Bhaile
Céile Mhór        The far larger peninsula to which Talamh an Ghlas is connected by the
                  of mountainous land
Croc a Scroilm    The "Hill of Screaming," the mountain that faces Dún Kiil Bay
Doire Coill       The "Forest of Oaks"
Duán Mouth        The mountain-girdled and long end of the River Duán,which ends in an
                  bay
Dubh Bhaile       A city in Tuath Gabair, south of Lár Gabair on the Lough Dubh
Dún Kiil          Seat of Inish Thuaidh
Dún Laoghaire     Main city of the peninsula, seat of the High King
Falcarragh        Capital city of Tuath Infochla
Foraois Coill     Another old growth forest, in Tuath Infochla
Glen Aill         A fortress mansion in Rubha na Scarbh (Inish Thuaidh)
Ice Sea           The sea to the north of the peninsula
Ingean na nUan    A townland in Inish Thuaidh
Inishcoill        A large island off the coast of Tuath Airgialla, entirely covered in old gr

Inishfeirm        A small island off Inish Thuaidh, home of the Order of Inishfeirm and o
                  great-mam and great-da
Knobtop           A small mountain outside Ballintubber, on whose flanks
                  sheep are often grazed
Lár Bhaile        A city on Lough Lár, the seat of Tuath Gabair
Lough             A lake on the northwest border of Tuath Gabair
Crithlaigh
Lough Dhub        A lake on River Duán, scene of one of the final battles between the Bun
                  Daoine
Lough Glas        A lake on the coastline of Tuath Connachta
Lough Lár         "Center Lake," a large lake nearly in the center of the peninsula, very n
                  Ballintubber
Maoil na nDreas   A townland in Inish Thuaidh
Néalmhar Ford     The crossing of the River Néalmhar, the Gloomy River, in Inish Thuaid

Rubha na          A townland in Inish Thuaidh, home of Árón Ó Dochartaigh and Banrion
Scarbh            MacBrádaigh
Sliabh            A mountain in Tuath Infochla near Falcarragh, where Rowan Beirne lo
Bacaghorth        Shábhála
Sliabh Colláin    A mountain in a southern county of the peninsula, also the title of a son

Sliabh            The battle at the end of the previous incarnation of the mage-lights wh
Míchinniúint      of Infochla were defeated by the Inishlanders

Talamh an         "The Green Land," the peninsula on which the events of the novel take
Ghlas
Thall Coill       The "Far Forest"
Thall Mór-roinn   The "Far Continent," the distant mainland, of which Ta-lamh an Ghlas
                  of yet another larger penin-sula, Céile Mhór

The Black Gull    The only inn on Inishfeirm
Thiar             A city on the west coast, the seat of Tuath Connachta
Tuath Airgialla   The Tuath in the northeast corner of the peninsula
Tuath             The Tuath to the immediate west of Tuath Gabair
Connachta
Tuath             The Tuath in the south of the peninsula
Éoganacht
Tuath Gabair      The Tuath in which Jenna was born
Tuath Infochla    The Tuath in the northwestern corner of the peninsula
Tuath Locha       The Tuath in the southwestern corner of the peninsula
Léin
Valleylair        A location in Tuath Connachta, famous for its ironworks
Westering Sea       The ocean to the west of the peninsula

Terms:

Ald                 The "Eldest," a title of respect for the local repository of history

Andúilleaf          A plant from which an addictive narcotic can be obtained
Banrion             The feminine form of Rß: "Queen"
Bantiarna           The feminine form of tiarna: "Lady"
Before, the         The time of myths, when magic ruled
Black haunts        The spirits of the dead who come and take the soul of the living when i
                    die
Blue seals          Intelligent seals, black, but with a sheen of electric blue in their fur

Bradán an           "Salmon of Power," the blue seals' analogue to the clochs na thrintrí,
Chumhacht           eating one of the Bradán an Chumhacht that a blue seal can tap the
                    mage-lights

Bráthair            The title for those who have dedicated themselves to the Order of Inish

Bunús Muintir       The "Original People," the tribes who first came to Ta-lamh an Ghlas, a
                    remnants still can be found in the hidden places

By the              A familiar mild curse, as we would say "By God . . . "
Mother-Creator
...
Caointeoireacht     The war-keening; the ululating and terrifying war cry of the Inishland
na cogadh           charge their foes; the cry in con-junction with their ferocious aspect ha
                    sent foes retreating in panic

Ceil giallnai       The lower grade vassals of the Rß
Cinniúint           Máel Armagh's ship
Clóca               A long cloak worn by the Rßocha over their clothing, usu-ally in the col
                    Tuath
Cloch Mór           The major clochs na thrintrí, the ones with large abilities
Cloch na thrintrí   Literally, "stone of lightning," the stones that gather the
                    power of the mage-lights
Clochmion           The minor clochs na thrintrí with small powers
Clock-candle        Device used to keep time: a candle of standard diameter with colored w
                    intervals; one "stripe" equals roughly one hour
Cloudmages          Sorcerers of old who took power from the heavens to create their spell
Colors          The various Tuatha have colors that show allegiance:

                Tuath Gabair = green and brown
                Tuath Connachta = blue and gold
                Tuath Infochla = green and gold
                Inish Thuaidh = blue and white
                Tuath Airgialla = red and white
                Tuath Locha Léin = blue and black
                Tuath Éoganacht = green and white
Comhairle of    The Council of Lords, the actual governing body of Inish Thuaidh
Tiarna
Comhdáil        The "Conference of the Comhairle," the meeting of all chieftains in Inis
Comhairle
Corn Festival   Autumn feast in Ballintubber
Créneach        Literally, "Clay Beings," a race of sentient beings who inhabit the moun
                Thall Coill
Currach         A small, dug-out boat used by the fisherfolk of Inish Thuaidh
Da              Father
Daoine          Literally, "The People," the society to which Jenna belongs

Dire wolves     Large, intelligent wolves that speak a language
Draíodóir       Those consecrated to serve the Mother-Creator, in essence, the priesth
                is not restricted by gender; the plural is Draíodóiri

Eneclann        Honor-price, the amount a person can owe by his/her status
Éraic           Payment of blood-money from a slayer
Feast of        One of the great quarterly festivals, taking place in late March
Planting
Fia stoirm      Storm Deer, a giant deer, previously thought extinct
Ficheall        A board game similar to chess
Fili            Poet
Filleadh        The "Coming Back," the prophesied return of magic
Fingal          To slay your own kin; one of the worst crimes
Freelanded      A term meaning that the land is owned by the person living there; to b
                to be one step down from being Rßocha, or nobility
Garda           The police of the large cities, or the personal protectors of a tiarna, also
                "guard;" the plural is gardai
Giotár          Stringed instrument, guitar
Great-da        Grandfather
Great-mam       Grandmother
Is ferr fer a   "A man is better than his birth"
chiniud
Kala bark          An analgesic used for headaches and minor pain, non-addictive, but no
                   near as strong as andúilleaf
Knifefang          An extinct or mythical carnivore of the land
Lámh Shábhála      The cloch na thrintrí that Jenna holds
Léine              A tunic worn under the cloca
Maidin maith       "Good morning!"
Mam                Mother
Milaran            A breakfast griddle cake from Inish Thuaidh, sprinkled with molasses a

Miondia            The Lesser Gods
Mórceint           A fairly large denomination coin
Óenach             An assembly held on regular occasions to transact the private and publ
                   the Tuath
Pledge-son/daugh   A Bunús Muintir term, a younger person adopted by an Elder as his or
ter
Quern              A stone mill using for grinding grain and corn
Rß                 King
Rßocha             The nobility
Saimhóir           The name the blue seals call themselves
Scrúdú             The test which allows a Holder to fully open all of Lámh Shábhála's cap
                   fatal
Seanóir            The Eldest, the oak trees of Doire Coill and the other Old Growth fores

Siúr               "Sister"
Stirabout          A meat stew
Taisteal           The "Traveling," an itinerant group of peddlers of anything, from orpha
                   to hard goods
Tanaise Rßg        The Heir-Apparent
The Badger         A constellation used for navigation, as the snout of the badger always p
                   north
Tiarna             The title "Lord"
Tuath              Kingdom
Turves             Turf cuttings, peat
Uaigneas           The Banrion Thuaidh's ship: "Loneliness"
Uisce Taibhse      Literally "Water Ghost," a race of intelligent creatures living in fresh-w
                   sometimes antagonistic to humans
Wind sprites       Nearly transparent, small and sentient herd creatures,
                   once thought to be entirely mythical, nocturnal

Saimhoir Terms:

Bradán an          The "Salmon of the Mage-Lights," the analogue of a cloch na thrintrí
Chumhacht
Bull               Adult male seal, bulls are less common, and are "shared" by several ad



Cow                Adult female seal
Haul out           The term for leaving the water for the shore
Land-cousin        Those humans with Saimhóir blood in their ancestry
May the            A common polite greeting
currents bring
you fish
Milk-mother
                   The cow who suckles a youngling, not necessarily the
                   same cow who gave birth to the infant. In Saimhóir soci-ety, the young
                   suckled by another cow. There is generally a stronger attachment to th
                   than the birth-mother (unless, of course, they happen to be the same).

Milk-sister/bro
                   A seal who has shared the milk of the same mother
ther

Nesting Land
                   Inish Thuaidh, only on this island the Saimhóir breed,
                   on the northwest shores
Saimhóir           The name the blue seals call themselves
Seal-biter         The shark, which feeds on seals
Sister-kin         A term of endearment


Sky-stones         The cloch na thrintrí
Stone-walker       A human
Sweetfish          Any of the small fish that make up the bulk of the Saimhóir's diet


WaterMother
                   The chief god of the Saimhóir. It is possible, though not proved, that th
                   is simply another manifes-tation of the human's Mother-Creator

Winter Home
                   The peninsula of Talamh an Ghlas, where the currents
                   are warmer and the fish more plentiful during the coldest months



The Daoine Calendar:
  The Daoine calendar, like that of the Bunús Muintir,
is primarily lunar-based. Their "day" is considered to
start at sunset and conclude at sunrise.
   Each month consists of 28 days; there is no further
separation into weeks. Rather, the days are counted
as being the "thirteenth day of Wideleaf" or the
"twenty-first day of Capnut."
   The months are named after various trees of the
region, and are (in translation) Longroot, Silverbark,
Wideleaf, Straightwood,         Fallinglimb, Deereye,
Brightflower, Redfruit, Conefir, Capnut, Stranglevine,
Softwood, and Sweetsap.
   The solar year being slightly more than 365 days,
to keep the months from recessing slowly through the
seasons over the years, an annual two-fold
adjustment is made. The first decision is whether
there will be addi-tional days added to Sweetsap; the
second proclaims which phase of the moon will
correspond to the first day of the month that year
(the first day of the months during any given year
may be considered to start at the new moon, quarter
moon waxing, half moon waxing, three-quarter moon
waxing, full moon, three-quarter moon waning,
half-moon waning, or quarter moon waning). The
proclamation is announced at the Festival of Ghéimri
(see below) each year—any extra days are added
immediately after Ghéimri and before the first day of
Longroot. All this keeps the solar-based festivals and
the lunar calendar roughly in line.
   This adjustment is traditionally made by the
Draíodóiri of the Mother-Creator at the Sunstones
Ring at Dún Laoghaire, but the Inish Thuaidh
Draíodóiri generally use the Sunstones Ring near Dún
Kiil to make their own adjustments, which do not
always agree with that of Dún Laoghaire. Thus, the
reckoning of days in Talamh an Ghlas and Inish
Thuaidh is often slightly different.
   The year is considered to start on the first day of
Longroot, immediately after the Festival of Ghéimri
and any additional days that have been added to
Sweetsap.

  There are four Great Festivals at the solstices and
equinoxes.

Lafuacht:             Marks that true winter has been reached and that the slow ascent t
(in the first week    warmth of spring has begun. Generally a celebration touched with a somb
of Straightwood)      cause the rest of winter must still be endured.

Fomhar
                      Marks the time to prepare for the spring planting to come and the birthing of n
(in the second week
                      animals. This festival was an appeal to the Mother-Creator and the Mi
of Brightflower)
                      lesser gods) to make the crops grow and the live-stock fertile. A time o
                      prayer.
Meitha
                      Marks the height of the growing season. In good years this was the
(in the third
                      and happy festival, celebrating the plenty all around.
week of Capnut)
Gheimhri               Marks the onset of autumn. This is a date fraught with uncertainty
(in the fourth         as the crops are harvested and the colder weather begins. Though t
week of                often spreadsover more than one day, it is also laden with solemn r
Sweetsap)              ceremonies to placate the gods who awaken with the autumn chill.



The following is a sample year with corresponding Gregorian
dates.
However, bear in mind that this is only an approximation and
will differ slightly each year.
1st day of Longroot        = September 23
(New Year's Day)
1st day of                 = October 21
Silverbark

1st day of             = November 18
Wideleaf

1st day of             = December 16
Straightwood

Festival of Lafuacht   = 7 th day of Straightwood
:                      (December 22)
1st day of             = January 13
Fallinglimb

1st day of             = February 10
Deereye

1st day of             = March 10
Brightflower

Festival of            = 11th day of Brightflower
Fomhar:                (March 20)

1st day of             = April 7
Redfruit

1st day of Conefir     = May 5

1st day of             = June 2
Capnut

Festival of            = 19th day of Capnut (June 20)
Meitha:

1st day of             = June 30
Stranglevine
   1st day of               = July 28
   Softwood

   1st day of               = August 25
   Sweetsap

   Festival of              = 28th day of Sweetsap
   Gheimhri:                (September 21)



History:

Time of Though details and sometimes names vary, similar tales
Myth are shared by both the Bunús Muintir and Daoine people,
        which indicate a common mythological base and possibly
        a shared tribal ancestry. The following tale is just one of
        many, and is the primary Daoine Creation Myth. The
        Mother-Creator had intercourse with the Sky-Father,
        and gave birth to a son. But their son was sickly and died,
        and she laid him down in the firmament, and his skeleton
        became the bones of the land. In time, the
        Mother-Creator overcame her grief and lay again with
        the Sky-Father, and gave birth to Seed-Daughter.
        Seed-Daughter flourished and in time became as
        beautiful as her mother, and she attracted the attention
        of a son of the Sky-Father, Cloud. From that triple union
        came the plants living in the soil that covered her
        brother, the Earth. Seed-Daughter was also coveted by
        Darkness, and Darkness stole her away and took her in
        violence. When Seed-Daughter escaped from Darkness
        and came back to Cloud and Rain, sorrowing, she was
        heavy in her womb, and from her time of confinement
        would come all the Miondia, the Lesser Gods. The
        Miondia spread out over the lands, and from their
        couplings emerged the animals in all their varieties. After
        the rape by Darkness, Seed-Daughter could conceive no
        more. She wept often, sometimes fiercely, which we see
        even now in the rain that falls.
Year    The first of the Bunús Muintir tribes reach Talamh an
-2500 Ghlas, after traversing from Thall Mór-roinn, the
(appro mainland, into Céile Mhór, the larger peninsula to which
x.)     Talamh an Ghlas is attached. These Bronze Age people
        created their society in Talamhan Ghlas, which lasted
        until the arrival of the Daoine tribes in Year 0.
Year     The disappearance of the mage-lights for the Bunús
-75      Muintir people. The mage-lights would not reappear
(appro   again until after the arrival of the Daoine and the collapse
x.)      of Bunús Muintir society.
Year   Death of Bunús Muintir chieftain and cloudmage Riata.
-70
(appro
x.)
Year 0 The first of the Daoine tribes enter Talamh an Ghlas,
       crossing over the "Finger," the spine of mountainous land
       connecting Talamh an Ghlas to the peninsula of Céile
       Mhór, and also arriving by ship at Inish Thuaidh, on the
       western coast at Bácathair and in the south at Taghmon.
       They would encounter and eventually displace (and
       in-terbreed with) the Bunús Muintir people.
Year   The Battle of Lough Dubh, where Rß Crenel Dahgnon de-
105    feated the last Bunús Muintir chieftain Ruaidhri.
Year    The first recorded mage-lights appear over Inish
232     Thu-aidh. The Inishlanders would eventually learn to
        harness the power of the mage-lights through the cloch
        na thrintrí, the "lightning stones" of Bunús Muintir
        legend. This is the beginning of what will be popularly
        called the "Before" by the people of Jenna Aoire's time.
Year    Máel Armagh, Rß of Tuath Infochla, sets out to conquer
711     Inish Thuaidh, and is defeated and killed in the Battle of
        Sliabh Míchinniúint by Severii O'Coulghan, the
        In-ishlander chieftain.
Year    Last reported sighting of mage-lights over Inish Thuaidh.
726     End of the "Before." Over four centuries will pass before
        the mage-lights return.
Year    A reputed cloch na thrintrí is stolen from Inishfeirm by
1075    an acolyte named Niall (last name unknown) and is given
        as a pledge of love to Kerys Aoire.
Year    Niall Aoire, son of Kerys Aoire, arrives in Ballintubber
1111    and meets Maeve Oldspring, whom he will marry.

Year    Jenna Aoire born in Ballintubber.
1113
Year    On the 18th day of Longroot, mage-lights reappear over
1129    the village of Ballintubber in Tuath Gabair. This heralds
        the beginning of Filleadh—the "Coming Back."




The Holders of Lámh Shábála

(Dates given face indicate in Daoine years and in
chronological order. Entries in bold-the cloch was
active during the time of Holding.)

The Bunús; Muintir Holders (from Year -160)
-144     Lasairiona (F)
to
-160
-129     Óengus (M)
to
-144
-113     Dávali (M)
to
-129
-113   Rßata (M) The last Bunús Muintir holder of an
to-70  active cloch. The magelights failed in the last
       years of his Holding, and Lámh Shábhála would
       rest again for three centuries.
-70 to None. During these years, the cloch remained in Rßata's
-63    tomb.
-63 to Breck the Tomb-robber (F) For two days, until she was
-63    caught and executed.
-62 to None. Again, the cloch rests in Rßata's tomb.
-53
-53 to Nollaig the One-Handed (M). Nollaig, like Breck, stole
-42    the cloch from Rßata's tomb but held it for years, until he
       was caught pilfering other items from the chieftain
       Lobharan's clannog. The cloch and other items once
       belonging to Rßata as well as from the other tombs there
       were found among Nollaig's belongings. Some of the
       treasure was returned to the tombs, but Lobharan kept
       the stone. Nollaig lost his hand.
-42 to Lobharan (M)
-27
-27    Ailbhe (F) Lobharan's daughter.
to-15
-15 to   Struan (M) Ailbhe's son, father of Cealaigh.
11
11 to    Cealaigh (M) First war chief of the Bunús, who were now
37       actively fighting the Daoine in the north of Talamn an
         Ghlas. He would wear the cloch in battle under his armor,
         and was never defeated on the field—he died of an illness.

37 to    Mhaolain (M) Mhaolain was Cealaigh's successor as war
42       chief, who (like Cealaigh) wore the cloch as a talisman for
         victory. When he was finally defeated by Dyved of the
         North Holdings' army, the cloch passed from Bunús
         Muintir hands to those of the Daoine.

The Daoine Holders

42 to    Dyved of the North Holdings (M)
57
57 to  Salmhor Ó-Dyved (M) Dyved's son, killed in battle
59     against the Bunús Muintir. The cloch was among his
       effects, but none of Salmhor's heirs seems to have
       inherited the cloch. From here, it passes out of history for
       nearly two centuries until the magelights come again in
       232.
49 to The Lost Years. Sometime during this period, the cloch
232    was moved from the North Holdings (a small kingdom in
       what would later be part of Tuath Infochla) to Inish
       Thuaidh. No one knows for certain who held the stone
       during this time, though several people in later years
       would claim that their ancestors had been among them.
       Since none of the Daoine had seen the mage-lights, it's
       doubtful that they understood the significance of the
       stone beyond its recent history as a talisman of the
       Bunús war chiefs. There is a legend that the Bunús
       Muintir recovered the cloch after Salmhor's death on the
       battlefield, and that the Bunús themselves took the cloch
       to Inish Thuaidh to hide it. Anotherlegend claims that the
       cloch was thrown into the sea, and that a blue seal
       brought the cloch to Inish Thuaidh. The truth of any of
       these claims can't be verified.
232 to Caenneth Mac Noll (M) The first Daoine cloudmage, and
241    the return of the mage-lights in the skies. Caenneth was
       not of royal lineage, but a simple fisherman of Inish
       Thuaidh, yet he would come to understand the
       sky-magic, and would reactivate the other cloch na
       thrintrí. Caenneth would die in Thall Coill, attempting the
       Scrúdú.
241 to Gael O Laighin (M)
263
263 to Fearghus O Laighin (M)
279
279 to Heremon O Laighin (M)—died testing himself against the
280    Scrúdú.
280 to Maitlas O Ciardha (M)
301
301 to Aithne Lochlain (F)
317
317 to   Nuala Mag Aodha (F)
329
329 to Ioseph MacCana (M) Died testing himself against the
333    Scrúdú.
333 to Lucan O Loingsigh (M)
379
379 to Naomhan McKenna (M)
382
382 to Kieran MacGairbhith (M)
392
392 to Eilís MacGairbhith (F) Killed in the Battle of Lough Lár
401    by Aod hfin " Liathain, and the control of the cloch moves
       south from Inish Thuaidh to the mainland of Talamn an
       Ghlas.
401 to Aodhfin Ó Liathain (M) Rß of the small kingdom of
403    Bhaile.
403 to Dougal Woulfe (M)
416
416 to Fagan McCabe (M)
432
432 to Eoin Ó hAonghusa (M)
459
459 to Eimile Ó hAonghusa (F)
463
463 to Donal Ó hAonghusa (M)
480
480 to Maclean Ó hAonghusa (M)
487
487 to Brianna Ó hAonghusa (F)
499
499 to Lochlainn O'Doelan (M)
515
515 to Maitiu O'Doelan (M) Perhaps the only Daoine from
517    Talamh An Ghlas to attempt the Scrúdú. He came to
       Thall Coill stealthily via ship in company with his good
       friend Keefe Mas Sithig. He did not survive the attempt.
517 to Keefe Mas Sithig (M)
529
529 to   Conn DeBarra (M)
541
541 to   Barra Ó Beoillain (M)
577
577 to   Uscias Aheron (M)
591
591 to   Afrika MacMuthuna (F)
597
597 to Ailen O'Curragh (M)
612
612 to Sinna Mac Ard (F) The young lover of Ailen O'Curragh,
622    who after O'Curragh's early death married Teador Mac
       Ard, then the Rß of a fiefdom within what is now Tuath
       Gabair.
622 to Bryth Beirne (nee Mac Ard) (F) Daughter of Sinna and
648    Teador Mac Ard. It is during Bryth's holding that the
       Inish cloudmages began to secretly plot to bring the cloch
       back to the island. Negotiations were begun with Bryth,
       including possible ar-rangements of marriage to the Rß
       of Inish Thuaidh, but she refused despite Rß Mac Ard's
       interest in that political union, and eventually married
       Anrai Beirne, a tiarna of Tuath Infochla.
648 to Rowan Beirne (M) Bryth's son Rowan foolishly allowed
651    himself to be drawn north out of Falcarragh to a
       supposed parley with the Inishlanders, where he was
       ambushed and murdered by assas-sins in the employ of
       the Inish cloudmage Garad Mhullien. Lámh Shábhála
       was taken from Rowan's body and brought to the island.
651 to Garad Mhullien (M) The cloch returns to Inish Thuaidh.
662    Garad would die testing himself against the Scrúdú.

663 to Rolan Cileachair (M)
669
669 to Peria Ó Rßain (F) Mother of Severii, lover to Tadhg
671    O'Coulghan. She died in Thall Coill testing herself against
       the limits of the cloch with the Scrúdú. Tadhg would take
       the cloch from her body and become Holder himself.

671 to   Tadhg O'Coulghan (M) Founder of the Order of
701      Inishfeirm based on the tiny island of the same name just
         off the coast of Inish Thuaidh. Tadhg was the da of
         Severii, the Last Holder. It was Tadhg who began the
         process of codifying and bringing together all the lore of
         the clochs na thrintrí, as well as Lámh Shábhála.
701 to   Severii O'Coulghan (M) The last person to hold an active
730      Lámh Shábhála until the mage-lights returned in 1129.
         The mage-lights had ebbed to nothing by 726.
730 to Lomán Blake (M) Lover of Severii, and a wastrel who
731    sold Lámh Shábhála to pay off gambling debts.

731 to   Donnan McEvoy (M) Kept Lámh Shábhála, hoping that
741      the mage-lights would return. They didn't. Donnan, a
         gambler, was killed in a tavern brawl in Dún Kiil, after
         which the stone passed into the possession of Kmnat
         Mórain, who owned the tavern and confiscated the dead
         McEvoy's belongings.
741 to   Kinnat Mórain (F)
753
753 to Edana Ó Bróin (F) The daughter of Kinnat Mórain, who
779    found the stone in her mam's jewelry chest after her
       death due to the Bloody Flux. Edana and her husband
       took over the tavern. She had no idea that the stone was
       Lámh Shábhála; she kept it only because it had been her
       mam's. She happened to be wearing it on the day Doyle
       Baroid came to Dún Kiil on business and stopped in the
       tavern for a drink and a meal.
          779 to Doyle Baróid (M) A Bráthair of the Order of Inishfeirm,
          831    who recognized that the unprepossessing stone around
                 Edana's neck was similar to the description of Lámh
                 Shábhála in the Order's library. He purchased it from
                 Edana, and brought it back to Inishfeirm. He would
                 eventually become Maister of the Order. On his death,
                 the cloch was put in the collection of the Order.
          831 to During these two and a half centuries, there was no single
          1075   Holder of the stone. The stone resided in the Order of
                 Inishfeirm's collection of clochs na thrintrí.

          1075     Kerys Aoire (F) Kerys fell in love with a man named
          to       Niall, one of the Bráthairs of the Inishfeirm Order. Niall,
          1093     as a pledge of his love, stole the cloch and gave it to
                   Kerys. Because the Bráthairs were contracted by their
                   families to the Order and were forbidden to marry,
                   Kerys and Niall fled Inishfeirm. Their small currach
                   foundered in a storm; Niall drowned, but Kerys,
                   pregnant, survived. She would give the cloch to her son,
                   also named Niall.
          1093     Niall Aoire (M) In traveling, he came to Tuath Gabair
          to       and the village of Ballintubber, where he fell in love with
          1113     and married a woman named Maeve Oldspring. Niall
                   would lose the stone (or perhaps the stone lost him)
                   while walking on Knob top, a hill near Ballintubber.



                                                      The Known Clochs Mór, Their Current Mani
Stormbringer       Inish            ? Captain of Uaigneas                        Ability to control
(color:                             ? Maister Cléurach                           and lightning. Th
smoky-gray)                                                                      will strike random



Blaze (color:      Inish            ? Padraic Mac Ard                            A fireball/lightni
bright red)                         ? Ennis O’Deoradháin
                                    ? Padraic Mac Ard
Snarl (color:      Inish            ? Damhlaic Gairbith                          Capable of puttin
blue-green)                         ? Ennis O’Deoradháin                         unaided human c
                                    ? Mundy Kirwan of the
                                      Order
Firerock (color: Inish              ? Tiarna, ally of Árón Ó                     Creates a creatur
ruddy)                               Dochartaigh
                                    ? Kyle MacEagan
Scáil (color:      Inish            ? Aithne MacBrádaigh                         Can mirror the ef
opaque silver)
Demon-Caller       Tuatha           ? Nevan O Liathain                           Creates a winged
Waterfire       Tuatha                  ? Árón Ó Dochartaigh                               Produces blue str
(color:
sapphire)
Snapdragon      Tuatha                  ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           Creates a whiplik
(color: yellow                                                                             chews at the flesh
laced with red)
Rogue          Tuatha                   ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           Creates a tsunam

Sharpcut       Tuatha                   ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           Calls into being d
                                                                                           unseen infantry.

Weaver         Tuatha                   ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           Creates a stingin

Nightmare      Tuatha                   ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           Give the Holder t
                                                                                           worst fears or gr

Wolfen (color: Tuatha                   ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           Calls into being g
amber crackled
with black)
Tornado (color: Tuatha                  ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           An energy-sucke
black)                                                                                     draining it
GodFist        Tuatha                   ? A tiarna of the Tuatha                           Creates an ethere
                                                                                           effect is (such as




                                Copyright 2003 by Stephen Leigh.
                                       All Rights Reserved.
                                   Jacket art by Gordon Crabb.
                                 DAW Book Collectors No. 1243.
                        DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam Inc.
                     Book designed by Stanley S. Drate/ Folio Graphics Co. Inc.

               All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to
                           persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

                              This book is printed on acid-free paper. .




                                    First printing, January 2003
                                    123456789



                                      DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
                                  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
                                            MARCA REGISTRADA

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                                         PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
               Acknowledgments


   My appreciation to Padraic Lavin, Treasa Lavin,
Daragh O'Reilly and Johnny Towey, who comprise the
musical group OSNA, whose self-titled CD Osna (Celtic
Note, CNCD 1002) I purchased while in Ireland.
When-ever I wanted some special inspiration or
needed to fall into the mood of the novel, I put their
CD in the player. I've been unable to find any other
recordings by this group in the U.S. , but this is one fine
effort. Thank you for the sonic inspiration! You can
find Celtic Note at http://www.celticnote.ie on the
internet.
   And while I'm mentioning the music which was
always playing in the background, I should also give a
nod to Capercaillie and Cherish The Ladies, both
groups which also found quite a lot of time on the CD
player during the course of the writing.
   THE CELTIC WAY OF LIFE by the Curriculum
Development Unit (The O'Brien Press Ltd., 1998), is a
small but interesting book giving an overview of daily
life among the Celtic people of Ireland , and it served as
 a quick source of inspiration for some of the aspects of
life in the fictional Talamh an Ghlas.
   For a more detailed and in-depth look, THE
COURSE OF IRISH HISTORY by Professors T.W.
Moody and F.X. Martin (Roberts Rinehart Publishers,
1995) proved invaluable. The book is essential reading
for anyone interested in a detailed and well-researched
overview of the history of Ireland .
   My apologies in advance to speakers of Irish Gaelic.
Through the book, I have borrowed several terms from
Irish and though I've made my best attempt, any
mistakes in usage are my own and are due to my
limited understanding of the language.
   Many thanks to Sheila Gilbert for seeing the story
and loving it, and for making me part of the "family"
at DAW.
   If you're connected to the internet, my web page can
be accessed from www.farrellworlds.com you're
always welcome to browse through.