Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  “On Cooper Street. He has a room in a widow’s house. Her name is Murrin. I’ve seen him a couple times now. Do you want me to do something with him? There are people I know in Low Town . . .”

  “No,” Jenna answered. “I will take care of O’Deorad háin myself.”

  Coelin’s head went back at the ferocity of her words. “You’re certain? He could be dangerous, and I—”

  “I will take care of the man,” Jenna said decisively. “Don’t worry about him.”

  Coelin nodded reluctantly. “I should go, then,” he said. He looked uncertain, an odd, strained smile on his lips, and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, as if he wanted to say more. “I’ve been asked to play for the Rí again, next week. And the Tanaise Ríg said he would talk to his father about me.”

  The mention of O Liathain’s title brought the coldness back, and Jenna reached for the mug of brew, taking a long swallow and grimacing. “That’s . . . good,” she told Coelin. “When you come here again, we’ll make plans.”

  He nodded. Turned.

  “Coelin,” she said. She could not keep the desperation from her voice. “Tell me that you love me.”

  He smiled, looking back over his shoulder. “I love you, Jenna. I always have.”

  And he left.

  24

  The Traitor

  THE Banrion seemed concerned when Jenna came to her requesting half a dozen trusted gardai, but to her credit, Cianna did not ask Jenna why but only nodded in agreement. “Certainly, Holder. Let me call for Labras; he’s a good man, and he can choose five others . . .”

  Jenna lifted her hand. “No, Banrion. Not today. After the Tanaise Ríg leaves. Tomorrow morning. I need to go into Low Town then.”

  “Ah,” Cianna had said. Just the one sound, then silence. “I’ll make arrangements for them to be at Keep Gate at first bell tomorrow, then.”

  The Banrion started to move away, as if in dismissal, but Jenna cleared her throat. “Banrion, I would like to tell you why. It needs to be a secret between the two of us, though. You’re the only person who has given me help, unasked for. Now I would ask it.”

  Cianna smiled softly. “Jenna, I will know anyway, whether you tell me now or not. The gardai will inform me where you take them, and why. The ones I would send with you aren’t as blindly stupid as those you’ve borrowed before from my husband or Mac Ard. They won’t let the Holder roam unaccompanied through Low Town, no matter what she says.”

  Jenna laughed with the Banrion. “I know. And that’s why I came to you.”

  She told the Banrion about O’Deoradháin, how he had lied to them about himself on their way to Ath Iseal, how he had reacted during the attack by the Connachtans, that she’d glimpsed him in Low Town (though she said nothing about du Val), and how she now suspected the man had been responsible for the assassin.

  Cianna’s face was grim when Jenna finished. “Tell me where this man is, and I will have him fetched here for you,” she said. “There’s no need for you to expose yourself to danger, Jenna—and the Tanaise Ríg will be upset if you are injured while you remain with us.”

  Jenna shook her head. “Banrion, I will have Lámh Sháb hála to protect me. Your gardai will be there only as a precaution. I want to do this myself. I want to see his face and hear his voice.”

  “Jenna—”

  “Please, Banrion. I don’t know any longer who I can trust. I can only trust myself.”

  Jenna saw Cianna gather herself for another argument, but the Banrion finally dropped her shoulders. She coughed softly a few times, rising from her chair. Servants appeared as if summoned by the rustling of fabric, and the Banrion waved them away. “Come, then,” she said. “We should give our farewell to your future husband, and pretend that none of us is plotting anything.”

  “I need four to stay out here and make certain that no one leaves until I’m finished.” Jenna gestured to Labras, a tall, burly man with hair so red it almost seemed to burn and eyes as gray as storm clouds. She wasn’t sure she liked the man at all; he seemed to radiate violence, and the abundant scars on his face spoke to his familiarity with it. Yet if the Banrion trusted him ... or maybe her reaction to him was only the haze of the andúilleaf. She’d taken two mugs of the brew before they’d left the Keep, knowing she might well be using the cloch, and the herb was like a fog over her mind that wouldn’t quite clear. “Labras, bring someone with you and follow me.”

  She touched Lámh Shábhála once as the three of them strode toward the door of the small, two-story house. She could feel O’Deoradháin, could feel the pattern of his energy motionless on the second floor. She could sense no fear or apprehension in him.

  She decided that would soon change.

  An elderly woman came scurrying from the kitchen as they opened the door, stopping suddenly and gaping with an open, toothless mouth at Jenna and the armed men behind her. There were two elderly men in the front parlor, huddled over a ficheall board and staring with frightened eyes at the intruders: Labras with a drawn sword, his companion holding a nocked and ready crossbow. “You have nothing to fear if you stay where you are,” Jenna told them. “Widow Murrin, you have a man here named Ennis O’Deoradhain.”

  “First door to the left at the top of the stairs,” the woman said hurriedly, pointing, then hopping back as Jenna and the gardai pushed past her and up the stairs. Jenna heard the click of a door shutting as she reached the landing; in the expanded awareness of the cloch, she could feel O’Deoradhain’s presence: still and quiet, even though she knew he must have heard the commotion below, the pounding of feet on the stairs and the jingling of the mail over the gardai’s tunics. She could sense no danger in him, though, as she had with the assassin. He seemed to be waiting, calm. She started toward the door, but Labras shook his head. “He may have a bow or sword, ready to strike the first person through,” he whispered. “Let me go in first.” He seemed almost eager to do so.

  “You needn’t worry,” Jenna said firmly. “He has a dagger, and it is in its sheath.”

  “How—?” Labras began, then saw her white-patterned hand touch the stone around her neck. An eyebrow interrupted by the pale line of a scar lifted and fell again. “So he has a dagger. You can see with that?”

  “Aye,” she told him. She pushed the door open. O’Deor adháin was leaning against a table on the far side of the room, arms folded across his chest.

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to find me,” he said. His gaze went past Jenna to the two gardai crowding the doorway. “You don’t need them.”

  “No?” Jenna answered. “Strange. I expected you to be running like a frightened rabbit again, as you did the last time I saw you.”

  “If I were a ‘frightened rabbit,’ I wouldn’t have come to Lár Bhaile at all,” O’Deoradháin responded easily. “I wouldn’t have made certain you saw me at du Val’s. I wouldn’t have made it so easy for that handsome, stupid boy with the golden throat to track me down.”

  His remark caused anger to flare in Jenna. She grasped Lámh Shábhála, opening it slightly with her mind so that the cold, blue-white power filled her hand. “You knew where I was,” she spat. “If you wanted to speak to me, you didn’t need this charade.”

  O’Deoradháin snorted. He took a step toward her, his hands down at his sides. She saw the well-worn leather of the scabbard there, and heard the gardai shift uneasily behind her. But the man stopped two strides from her. “Oh, aye. I could have walked right up to the gate—and Mac Ard would have had me killed immediately, or the Rí Gabair would have bound me in irons to be tortured until I gave them the answers they wanted, or the Tanaise Ríg might have had me dragged behind his carriage as he left for Dun Laoghaire, just for the pleasure it would give him. But I could never have gotten to you, Jenna Aoire. They might call me their enemy and be right, but I’m not your enemy.”

  Aye. That’s why you sent the assassin, she wanted to tell him, mockingly. But she saw him through the eyes of Lámh Shábhála, not
just her own, and though she could sense that he desired the power she held, there was no malice in him toward her, only jealousy and envy and sadness. The certainty in her failed. “Who’s your master, then?” she asked. “Who sends you? The Rí Connachta?”

  He laughed and glanced at the gardai. He gestured at Labras with his chin, his hands not moving. “I would rather not talk here. In front of them.”

  “You’ll talk here, or you’ll talk back at the keep. I’ll ask you again, and I’ll know the truth of what you say: are you with Tuath Connachta?”

  Again, a laugh. “I gave you the truth when we met. I’m of Inish blood. As to who sent me ... I’m a Bráthair of the Order of Inishfeirm and the Máister there gave me this task.”

  Despite herself, Jenna found her interest suddenly piqued at the mention of Inishfeirm and the Order. She remembered her da Niall’s tale, and her great-mam’s and great-da’s escape from that island. “And what task was that?”

  “To bring you back to Inishfeirm so you could be taught the ways of the cloudmage.”

  Jenna bristled. The andúilleaf rang in her ears, Lámh Shábhála pulsed in her grasp. “What makes you think that I need your instruc—” In the fog of the andúilleaf, she nearly missed it: a sudden sense of danger, of attack—not from the man in front of her, but from behind . . .

  “Jenna!” O’Deoradháin shouted at the same time. He flung himself forward as Jenna turned to look.

  She caught a glimpse of Labras, no longer holding a sword but with a long dagger in his hand, his gray eyes not on O’Deoradháin but on Jenna and the dagger already beginning to make a sweeping cut that would have found her neck. O’Deoradháin hit Jenna in that same instant; as she fell she glimpsed O’Deoradháin parrying Labras’ attack with his own weapon, the clash of blade against blade loud. Then she saw nothing as she struck the floor with a grunt and a cry, trying to roll away. As she tumbled, she heard a shout and a horrible, wet strangling sound: Jenna, on her knees, saw Labras fall, a new, second mouth on his neck gaping wide and frothing blood. The crossbow twanged, the bolt hissing, and O’Deoradháin staggered backward. The remaining gardai tossed the now useless crossbow aside and drew his sword. He moved—toward Jenna, not the wounded O’Deoradháin.

  A shout of rage, the tendons standing out like ropes in her neck: Jenna let the power surge from the cloch. A torrent of agony rushed from the cloch, through her arm and into her body, and she threw that torment outward with a scream as light flared from her hand. The searing bolt lifted the garda from his feet and slammed him backward into the wall, lightning crackling madly about his frame. The wood cracked and shattered beneath the force of the blow, mingling with the cracking of bones; the body dropped to the floor like a rag doll, neck and spine broken, the wall blackened and smoldering behind him.

  The echo of thunder rumbled in Jenna’s ears and faded. In the sudden quiet, she could hear O’Deoradháin groan as he pushed himself to his feet. Jenna was breathing heavily, her body shaking. She stared at the garda’s mangled body. The eyes were still open; they gazed at her as if in accusation. “I’m sorry . . .” she whispered to the corpse.

  “That is what makes me think you still need to learn how to use your cloch, Holder,” O’Deoradháin said. That near-contempt in his voice snapped her head around. His left arm dangled uselessly, the quarrel from the crossbow protruding from his shoulder and dark blood staining the arm. His right hand still held his dagger, dripping red. He went to the corpse of Labras and wiped the blade on the garda’s clothing. He turned to Jenna, sheathing the dagger. “Your other men are coming,” he continued, “and I don’t have time to talk.” He was right; she could feel them rushing toward the house from their stations. “I’m not your enemy. They may be.”

  Jenna shook her head; she could feel nothing in the others but concern and fear for their own well-being if she’d been hurt. She wished she’d taken the same precaution with Labras and his friend. “No,” she told him. “They’re loyal.”

  “To you, perhaps. Me, they’ll kill.”

  “Stay, O’Deoradháin. You’re right. We need to talk.”

  They could hear the first of the gardai rush into the house. O’Deoradháin went to the window and glanced down. He put a leg over the sill. “Then come with me.”

  There were footsteps pounding the stairs. “O’Deorad háin!” Jenna called. “Wait.”

  His shook his head. “Meet me below Rí’s Market at Deer Creek—third bell, two days from now.” She could have stopped him. She could have reached out with Lámh Shábhála and held him with the cloch’s energy—or crushed him like you did the garda . . . Jenna lifted her hand but rather than reaching out with the power, she pushed it back, closing Lamh Shabhala. O’Deoradháin slid over the windowsill, grimacing as he tried to maneuver with one hand. He lowered himself slowly down, until all Jenna could see was his right hand, holding the sill. Then he let go, and she heard him land on the soft ground outside, the sound followed by his running footsteps.

  “Holder!” someone shouted, and Jenna turned from the window to see the gardai, swords out, staring horrified at the carnage in front of them. She could feel the fear in them as they glanced toward her, untouched in the midst of the butchery. And perhaps because she could sense that dread, perhaps because she needed to convince herself that she had only done what she’d needed to do, she lifted her chin and glared back at them.

  “This is what happens to those who betray me,” she said.

  In her voice, she heard an imperious tone that had never been there before, and she wondered at it.

  25

  Preparations

  JENNA had wondered whether Cianna would believe her. She shouldn’t have worried. The Banrion uttered a gasp of horror when Jenna started to relate how Labras had attacked her, and she immediately sent away the servants, going to the door of her chamber and closing it firmly. “My child,” she said, enfolding Jenna in her arms. Then she released her, a quivering hand going to the torc about her neck, gold braided with bright silver. “I can hardly breathe,” she said.

  “Let me call the healer,” Jenna said, but Cianna shook her head.

  “No.” Cianna took a long, wheezing breath. “No. It will pass. I put you in terrible danger, however unintentional. I was certain Labras was one of those I could trust, but . . .” She bit at her lip. “. . . he was evidently in someone else’s pay. How can you ever forgive me for making such a mistake? Had you been hurt, or the cloch taken from you . . . Jenna, I put you in such danger.”

  Jenna hurried to reassure the distraught woman. “You couldn’t have known, Banrion.”

  A flush burned high on Cianna’s cheeks. “No, Jenna. I absolutely should have known. For my own survival, as well as yours. Now I have to wonder who else around me is in the employ of another, who of those others I trust implicitly . . .” Cianna turned away, hunching over as a fit of coughing took her. “Damn this sickness in my lungs, and damn the healer for his own lies.” Slowly, she straightened again, still turned away from Jenna. “What about the man you went to capture? Was he part of this, too?”

  “He escaped, Banrion. When I used the cloch.”

  Cianna turned, touching a handkerchief to her mouth. There were clumps of clotted blood on the cloth. “My guess is that Labras was being paid in this O’Deoradháin’s coin. To think that I was an unwitting accomplice—oh, this would have played so well for him—had you not been alert, Lámh Shábhála would have been his.”

  Jenna didn’t bother to correct Cianna’s perception. It would be a good lie for the time being, until she learned whose hand was actually behind the scenes. And she would find out.

  The anger burned in her, alloyed with fear.

  “I will have the rest of the gardai who went with you interrogated to see if there are others whose loyalty has been turned, but now I don’t know if I can trust the results I would hear,” Cianna continued. “I can’t discount the possibility that my husband arranged for this, or the Tanaise Ríg, or even Padraic
Mac Ard or one of the other tiarna here—maybe Aheron from Infochla; he seemed awfully fond of you the other night.” She stopped, and touched Jenna’s cheek. “You can trust no one, Jenna.” A bitter smile creased her face. “Evidently not even me.”

  Jenna put her own hand, stiff and marked with the curling scars of the cloch, on top of Cianna’s. She took the Banrion’s hand and kissed it once. “It wasn’t your fault, Banrion,” she told the woman. “We both need to be more careful, that’s all. And I’ve learned something from this: I can use Lámh Shábhála to look inside a person and see what’s in their heart.” Jenna frowned. “I won’t be surprised this way again,” she declared.

  Cianna, pale and grim, nodded.

  “The Holder Aoire,” the page announced, and closed the door behind Jenna. The three men in the room were huddled together over a table, and they turned to look at her as one: Rí Mallaghan, Tiarna Mac Ard; and a man whom Jenna didn’t recognize. She lowered her head and gave them a brief curtsy.

  “Ah, Jenna,” the Rí said. He was smiling, but there was a grimness in his smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Here, you should see this . . .” He beckoned to her, and she came over to the table. She nodded to Mac Ard, then glanced curiously at the other man. “Ah, you’ve yet to be introduced to our Field Commander,” the Rí said, noting the direction of her gaze. “Holder, this is Tiarna Damhlaic Gairbith, who has been away to the west watching the Connachtans.”

  The man inclined his head to her. He wore his clóca uncomfortably, as if he were unused to the long folds of fabric. His face was hardened and assured from exposure to wind and sun, his cheeks and forehead marred with the white lines of scars, his gray-flecked beard thin over patches of mottled flesh. His hands were on the table, holding down a large piece of unrolled parchment; Jenna saw that the left hand had but two fingers and a thumb.