A Rising Moon
Page 19
Ceanndraoi Greum was shaking his head, his gaze furious as he watched Mac Tsagairt. Orla could see a tear sliding down Magaidh’s cheek; both Sorcha and Orla put their arms around her.
“Let someone else here take my burden around their own neck,” Comhnall finished. In the silence that followed, Mac Tsagairt walked slowly from the grove, escorted by Hùisdean. The warriors moved aside to let him pass in respectful silence. As Comhnall came near Eideard, he paused; a look passed between the two men, and then Comhnall walked on, striding through the ring of oak trunks and into deep emerald shadow.
“Iosa . . . Iosa . . .” The call started as a single voice, which was quickly joined by others until the chant rang loudly in the clearing. “Iosa! . . . Iosa! . . .” Eideard bowed his head as the shout grew louder, then strode to the clearing’s center, brushing past Greum Red-Hand. He took the torc of the ceannàrd from the stump and lifted it. The clan àrds roared their approval. Eideard pulled the torc open more and placed it around his muscular neck as the acclamation washed over him.
Greum said nothing, not even looking at Eideard until the tribute faded.
“If you expect me to do the same as our former ceannàrd, all of you can wait until the rain turns this boulder into a mere pebble.” Ceanndraoi Greum’s voice brought everyone’s attention to him. He tapped the boulder on which Ceiteag’s bowl sat with the end of his walking stick. The bowl rang softly with the impact. “I am still ceanndraoi. I will remain ceanndraoi. No mere warrior can take that title from me.” Now he looked directly at Eideard, then spat on the ground between them for emphasis. Eideard’s face flushed under his beard, but he made no move.
Cold seeped into Orla’s back: the Moonshadow’s anamacha.
“Do the draoi believe they need a new ceanndraoi?” Greum said. “If so, let them declare it. Let someone challenge me. Any of you. Even injured as I am, I’m ready.”
Orla felt Magaidh’s hand grasp her wrist. She said nothing, only shook her head once, then released Orla’s arm. The rest of the draoi were silent as Greum’s gaze swept over them. “I thought not,” he said finally, then he looked at Ceiteag. “Ring the bowl a last time,” he told her. “This conclave is over. I’ll meet with our new ceannàrd this evening, and he can give me his wise advice.” The look he gave Eideard made it clear just how valuable he thought that advice would be.
Then, as the bowl chimed three more times, Greum—leaning heavily on his stick for support—made his slow way from the ring of oaks.
16
A Meeting of Enemies
AFTER EIDEARD IOSA AND Greum left the clearing, Orla waited as nearly all the other draoi and warriors followed them. She felt them staring at her as they did so; she wondered what they were thinking, especially the draoi. It wasn’t until then that she stirred
The walk back to the camp seemed far too long. Orla trudged alongside Magaidh and Sorcha, her head down and her thoughts whirling around what had happened. It was Magaidh who broke the silence between them. “Eideard was so eager to take Comhnall’s title,” she said. “I hope he’s ready for all that it means.”
“So you knew Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt no longer wanted the title before the conclave?” Sorcha asked her.
Magaidh nodded. “Comhnall was reluctant to accept the title in the first place after Ceannàrd Maol Iosa’s death, but Greum insisted—he knew he had to make some concession to the northern clans after he and Onglse had failed to support Voada and Maol Iosa, and he felt Clan Mac Tsagairt was the best choice, since Comhnall was already Ceannàrd Iosa’s First Àrd. Comhnall believed himself too old even then. And after this injury . . .” Magaidh gave a bitter laugh. “There’s a certain sense of justice in knowing that the Red-Hand will be dealing with another Ceannàrd Iosa who dislikes him even more than his uncle did.”
Orla listened to their conversation without speaking. She could feel that they were speaking around her, avoiding the subject of the ceanndraoi and his defiance. Should I have taken his challenge? Is that what I was supposed to do? Is that what Elia wants of me?
She knew the answer her anamacha would give her. The Moonshadow remained a careful few steps away from her, far enough that she couldn’t hear the yammering of the voices inside. She saw the faces flickering across its visage, her mother’s face among them, and thought she saw disappointment in the ghostly features.
She noticed movement to their right from a converging path and saw Ceiteag emerging from the oaks, carrying the bowl and beater. “Wait a moment,” the woman called out. Magaidh—and belatedly, Sorcha and Orla—halted to let the older woman catch up to them.
“Draoi, may Elia be with you,” Sorcha said to her. Ceiteag nodded to Sorcha and Magaidh, then her rheum-laden and wrinkle-netted eyes snared Orla’s gaze.
She stared at Orla for two long breaths, not letting Orla look away. “I want you to know this,” she said. “A little more than two years ago, I stood with Greum Red-Hand on the cliffs of Onglse as we watched the last of Commander Savas’ ships leaving for the south to do battle with your mother. I told Greum then that he was making a mistake: that those of us on the island should join with your mother; that he should acknowledge her openly as ceanndraoi and send what aid we could to her. He refused. He said the southern clans who had risen up with Voada and Maol Iosa would have to deal with their own mess and that the Moonshadow had driven your mother mad. He was furious that she dared to give herself the title of ceanndraoi. What I didn’t say to him—and perhaps I should have—was that she’d been given that title by the clans for what she’d accomplished and that she deserved the title because of that. But I held my tongue, and I too stayed at Bàn Cill when Greum remained on Onglse.”
Her gaze flickered over Orla, over Magaidh, over Sorcha. “I know the man better than any of you. He understands what he’s doing and has made deliberate choices, and he holds the interests of the Cateni in his heart, even if you think otherwise. Anyone who says he doesn’t is being blind and foolish.”
Ceiteag licked dry, cracked lips with the tip of her tongue. “He refused to let go of his title then as he’s refusing now,” she continued. “His pride, perhaps, has always been stronger than his reason. It still is, and that’s not going to change. Ever. But I ask you to trust him, especially now. You don’t understand all that he’s done and is doing.”
“I don’t agree with you, Draoi Ceiteag,” Magaidh told her. “I think his pride has overwhelmed him entirely. I believe he thinks only of himself and the power he holds, not of the Cateni.”
Ceiteag’s mouth pursed. “As I said, then you’re the fool. I suppose you think this child”—she nodded her head toward Orla— “is fit to be ceanndraoi just because she’s not yet as mad as her mam.”
“I only worry that’s it’s too soon,” Magaidh said flatly. “Orla’s not ready.”
“And in that, at least, you’re right,” Ceiteag answered. “I knew Voada before she learned how to join with her anamacha. I taught her first. I was a poor teacher, as Greum would tell you, but I was afraid for her even then. She’d suffered too much already in her life and I wanted nothing more than to give her my friendship and comfort. I did that as best as I could in our time together. But I knew—I feared—that the Moonshadow would be too strong for her.” Ceiteag’s gaze came back to Orla. “As I’m afraid it will be for you,” she finished. “I don’t hate you, Draoi Orla. But I have little hope for you.”
“I’ve made no challenge to the ceanndraoi,” Orla answered. “I don’t even know what this challenge tha
t the ceanndraoi spoke of might be.” Her throat was dry and parched; the words were difficult to shape, her voice hoarse.
“Then you don’t need to know what it is, do you?” Ceiteag answered. “I can tell you this for certain: Greum Red-Hand will never voluntarily give up the title of ceanndraoi while he lives. He certainly won’t give it up to Voada’s daughter.”
“Then he can keep it,” Orla declared. “I don’t want to be ceanndraoi.”
“Neither did Voada, but it was what she became,” Magaidh said quietly.
Ceiteag sniffed at that pronouncement. “Until Voada came, Greum Red-Hand had led the draoi well. He was respected as ceanndraoi, and for good reasons. I see two paths for you, Orla: either you can do as Voada did and leave us to become Orla Moonshadow among the draoi you can convince to follow you, or you can stay and give your total obedience to the ceanndraoi. That way, maybe you’ll escape your mother’s fate.”
“I don’t want to be ceanndraoi,” Orla repeated.
Ceiteag laughed at that, showing her gap-toothed mouth, which Orla found strange. “You sound so much like her,” she said. “Just like you, your mam was certain she understood the shape of things. And she was just as wrong.”
* * *
Ceannàrd Eideard came to Orla’s tent with the morning sun. Orla opened the flap of the tent to see him, Sorcha at her shoulder. His chariot rattled and clattered, and his horses neighed, their breath steaming from flared nostrils. Tadgh was in the traces, reins in his strong hands as the horses stamped at the muddy earth.
“Come ride with me, Draoi Orla,” he called out. “We need to talk, you and I.”
Less than a stripe of the candle later, she stood with Eideard on the edge of the escarpment, looking south toward the River Meadham and Muras, with the waving banners and tents of the Mundoan army spread out on the floodplain before them.
“The ceanndraoi is a fool who cares far more about himself than the welfare of the Cateni,” Eideard began. Despite his insistence that they needed to talk, that was the first thing Eideard had said beyond polite pleasantries when she’d stepped into the chariot with him. He wasn’t looking at her but at the landscape spread out below. Eideard waved an arm to take in Savas’ army. “He listens to no one but himself. If he had, we would have driven the Mundoa back across the river and sent them fleeing south.”
Not certain how to reply, Orla remained silent, waiting for him to say more. Eideard heaved a dramatic sigh. “It’s obvious to me and to other of the àrds that Greum Red-Hand shouldn’t be ceanndraoi. Not anymore. I wager that most of the draoi feel that way as well, even if they won’t openly speak out against him.” Now he glanced at her. “Is that your feeling too, Draoi Orla?”
“You’re asking someone too new to the torc,” she answered, touching the brass circlet around her neck. It seemed to her that it was heavier now than when she’d first put it on. “I never knew the ceanndraoi until I came to Onglse a few months ago, and I never really knew that I was menach or draoi, though my mother said I might be because I could see taibhse. I never understood anything of the northern clans or Onglse. For three years I lived with the Mundoa as an officer’s lowly second wife, and all I knew of the world was that and the gossip I heard in the camps.”
“But now you’ve seen how the Red-Hand is. You’ve fought and argued with him yourself.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “As a person, he’s cold and stern. I would never choose to be his friend or be with him. I haven’t agreed with all of his tactics. But none of that means he’s a poor ceanndraoi, does it?”
Eideard sniffed. His hands prowled his beard, tugging at the oiled strands. They could hear Tadgh giving water to the horses and talking to them, a double hand of strides back from the escarpment. “If the Red-Hand were a good ceanndraoi,” Eideard said, “he’d have known or suspected what Savas was preparing in Muras, and we’d have kept them in the funnel trap of the bridge as he himself suggested, rather than letting them cross in a wide line—though I don’t think the Red-Hand’s was the best strategy in any case; why stay where your enemy can easily strike at you? If he were a wise ceanndraoi, he’d have listened to Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt’s counsel and had us burn down Muras while we had the chance, take down the bridges entirely, then head back to Onglse to prepare a reception for Savas when he eventually arrived there. Greum did none of those things. Now Savas sits in Muras like some obstinate turtle in the middle of a stream, and we sit here and watch. We have no sense of what he intends, and it’s imperative for us to know that if we’re to make our own plans. Last night, when I spoke with the Red-Hand, I asked him if we’ve tried to send spies into the town or contacted any of the Cateni living there. I can tell you the answer. He’s done nothing. He sits and waits, and he listens only to his own advice.”
Eideard bent down, plucked a stone from the edge of the bluff, and threw it over the edge as if he could strike down the nearest Mundoan. They both listened to the stone crash futilely into the underbrush below.
“From what Magaidh’s told me of my mother, she was also someone who only listened to her own advice,” Orla replied. “Which sounds exactly Greum. Like the Red-Hand, she could also be cold and stern, and dangerous besides, even to those she loved. Yet your uncle thought of her as the ceanndraoi, and he chose to follow her even though that led them both to death.”
“To honorable deaths,” Eideard answered. “Death in battle against the enemies of the Cateni. Maol Iosa has gone to Tirnanog and the Hall of Warriors as his reward, while your mother lives on in the Moonshadow.”
“But they’re still dead,” Orla insisted, “and only Elia knows what they might have accomplished had they taken a different path and lived longer.”
Eideard shook his head, the braid of his long hair moving as he stared outward again. “You have the Moonshadow. I’ve seen what you can do with it. Your mother was ceanndraoi; you could claim the same title. That’s what Greum Red-Hand is afraid of. I know it even if he won’t say it.” Orla could hear the echo of Ceiteag’s voice in Eideard’s. She shook her head at both of them.
“I’ve only seen three hands and three of summers,” Orla said. “Magaidh said that I’m not ready. I may never be. When my mother joined with the Moonshadow, she was three double hands and more old. Yet she couldn’t contain Leagsaidh Moonshadow—that personality within the anamacha, my anamacha, consumed her. I haven’t yet allowed the Moonshadow to touch me; I don’t know what would happen if I tried.”
“Maybe your mother was too old. Maybe a younger, stronger person—”
“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Orla repeated mockingly. “You’re full of maybes and could-have-beens, Eideard Iosa, but you don’t know. You can’t know. In the end you’re no different from Greum Red-Hand. You only care about how you can use me—or rather, how you can use the power of the Moonshadow. I don’t believe there’s honor in dying in battle, Ceannàrd. It’s just death.”
“How can you say that, Orla? You have to hate the Mundoans more than most for what they did to your family.”
Orla gestured toward the Mundoan army as Eideard had a few moments before. “I hate what the Mundoa did to my family, and I’d love to see them gone from all of Albann. But when you know the enemy—”
He scoffed, stopping her from saying more. “Are you saying you didn’t hate the Mundoan you were forced to marry?”
“It would be easy to say yes to that. Bakir . . . the man made me watch while the soldiers under his command beat and kicked my mother until I believed she was dead, and that same night he forced himself on me. But in my time with him, I also saw that Bakir genuinely loved Azru, his First Wife, and his children. I hated what he’d done, but the man himself? He had some good qualities, even if he rarely showed them to me. For that matter, Azru protected me from Bakir as much as she could, and I loved her and her children in turn. It was Azru who helped Sorcha and me escape when Bakir died, when the other Mundoan wive
s might have turned on us. Am I supposed to hate her simply because she’s Mundoan? And Commander Savas? My mother met him in Pencraig while she was still the Voice-wife, and she said he treated her and my father extremely well. He might have become her enemy, but she didn’t hate him. I know that because she’s told me herself.” Orla nodded toward her anamacha, then realized that Eideard couldn’t see the apparition or understand what her gesture meant. “Neither do I,” she told him.
“Altan Savas killed your mother. He killed my uncle—how can we not hate him for that?”
“My mother and your uncle would have killed Savas just as certainly had that been the fate Elia chose for them. They’d have killed him not with hatred but because it was their duty to do so to protect the Cateni people. You and I may want the same thing, Ceannàrd, but we want it for vastly different reasons.”
“I don’t understand you, Orla,” he said. She could hear genuine confusion in his voice, not simply disagreement, and it softened what she might have said. She managed a fleeting smile.
“I know you don’t,” she told him. “I’m not entirely certain I understand myself.”
* * *
“Now Savas sits in Muras like some obstinate turtle in the middle of a stream, and we sit here and watch. We have no sense of what he intends, and it’s imperative for us to know that if we’re to make our own plans.”
Orla lay in her tent, Sorcha alongside her. The moon shimmered faintly through the cloth above her, and she stared at the blue-tinged spot in the darkness. She could hear the sounds of the encampment asleep around her: someone snoring loudly nearby, the single-note call of the night thrushes, the trill of fiddle-bugs in the trees, the soft footsteps of the guards on their rounds and the murmur of their conversations. Orla shifted restlessly under the blankets.