Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  “Good evening, Holder,” he said, his breath scented with mint. “A fine party for the Tanaise Ríg, 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 Dun 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 musicians 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 politely. Jenna turned to see the Rí and Banrion at the top of the stair, with Cianna holding to both the Rí’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 naïveté 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 Dun 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 Ríg 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 conversation, 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 vanished; 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 Ríg 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 followed 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 Ríg.” Jenna settled into the chair, feeling the welcome 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 Ríg,” 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 circumstances. 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 believe 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 demonstrate 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 Dun 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 pres sure on him. The Tanaise Ríg will not marry a commoner.”

  “Then your answer is aye,” she said finally. “But Tanaise Ríg, 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 feel that. Lámh Shábhála tells me this. The mage-lights would not follow me as far as Dun 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.”

  “If 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 Dun 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 ap palls 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 from his chair and extended his hand to Jenna. “Let us make our entrance,” 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 léine.

  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 Ríg 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 know 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 widened, 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 w
anted Coelin that much, or just so O 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 Ríg 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’Deorad háin. 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.