Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  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 window 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.

  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 Dun 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 Coelin. 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 outward with the stone’s energy, seeing the crowd with the power and looking 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 up 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 vendor’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 at 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 wondered: 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 Con nachtans 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 pre amble. “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 sh
oulder lifted and fell. “I 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 assassin?”

  “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 Rí’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 wanting 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’Deoradhain 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.

  22

  Proposals

  THE mage-lights came that night and Jenna caught their power, crying out in mingled longing and agony. After ward, 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 Banrion.

  “Holder, if you have a moment . . . ?”

  Nevan O Liathain called to Jenna as she passed the door of his apartments. 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 Ríg. Of what service can I be to you?”

  O Liathain glanced significantly at Aoife, and Jenna waved to the servant. “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 bear 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 Ríg?”

  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 kno
w that for the moment Padraic is unlikely to legitimize the child or his relationship 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 Ríg. While I would like to see the Tiarna Mac Ard acknowledge 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 implications, 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.”