Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  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 unhandsome 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 Ríg, 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 vulnerabilities to you, Holder. And offering you a solution to effectively negate 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 accompanying her as she had her own duties in the kitchen. They were nearing the stairs when she heard her name called.

  “Holder!”

  “Tanaise Ríg.” She gave him a perfunctory curtsy; Aoife droppping 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.” O 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 Ríg. 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 pounding up the stairs toward them, shouts of alarm, and the ringing of unsheathed 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 standing, 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 discordantly 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 blameless 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 whispered 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 whale-bone carved as a twisted knot. “This was made in Connachta,” 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 kneeling 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 O 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 Lia
thain, 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 Ríg?” 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 eraic—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 éraic 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 Ríg 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 Ríg, 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 Ríg,” 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 serious.”

  “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 Ríg did, if he was responsible for Aoife’s death.”

  “I didn’t threaten the Tanaise Ríg. He wasn’t in danger from me.”

  “The Tanaise Ríg, 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 ringer 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 Ríg and eventu ally 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 extended from the bank. “How? How can I delay?”

  “The Tanaise Ríg 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 Dun 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.”

  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 le
t 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, bodh ran, and flute, all eyes on them. Most of the Riocha were already there, the céili 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 dropping a purse of gold mórceints into the palm of a paid assassin.