by S L Farrell
“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 Duán, 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 behind. “Let me go!” Jenna cried. Her horse reared, but O’Deoradháin held fast. 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 followed 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 hap pened 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 yourself, 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.
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 impossibly crowded, though she knew that Lár Bhaile, to the south on the east side of Lough Lár, 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 fighting. 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 Rí’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 Ballintubber: 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 Rí’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 together 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 bantiarna, 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 offended—”
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 herself 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 ancient Holder had seemed so bitter, so fey. Not someone Jenna would voluntarily 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 Connachtans or O’Deoradhain?”
Mac Ard shrugged with one shoulder. “None. Three of the Connachtans 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’Deorad háin had come into the camp only a few hours before us. He was probably a Connachtan as well.”
Three are dead, and two of them you killed. . . . Jenna swallowed hard, trying to keep her face from showing any thing of her feelings. “There’s talk all through Áth Iseal about mage-lights, clochs, and the Filleadh,” Mac Ard con tinued. “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 o
f 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 suddenness. 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.”