by S L Farrell
. . . a gentle rocking motion, the creaking of wood, the splashing of water and the smell of damp and fish. She looked up and saw stars above her, swaying softly . . .
There were still stars, and the smell of the lough and the sound of canvas rippling in a wind. Jenna sat up. She was in a small boat, a single small sail billowing in the cold night breeze. She was wrapped in blankets and she hugged them around her against the frigid air. O’Deoradháin was seated in the stern of the boat, the tiller in his hand, his left arm still bandaged tightly against his chest. Ahead, the shore was no more than a quarter mile distant. “Where?” was all she could manage to say. Her throat was raw and burning; the headache still pounded with every beat of her heart, and she wasn’t certain she could move her right arm; it seemed dead. She touched her neck with her other hand: Lámh Shábhála was still there on its chain—that, at least, gave momentary relief. O’Deoradháin hadn’t taken it from her.
“Nearly on the western shore of Lough Lár,” O’Deorad háin answered. “And a bit north of Lár Bhaile as well. I’ve been looking for a good, low shingle where we can land.”
“Andúilleaf . . . I need it. . .”
O’Deoradháin shook his head. “Don’t have it. Du Val took it.”
Jenna shivered at that. Anger burned, and she started to lift her hand to the cloch, but weariness overcame her. She sank back. “I’ll die,” she whispered. “I hurt so much.”
“You might wish you died, but you won’t. Not from the pain of Lámh Shábhála or withdrawal from the leaf. Per haps from the Rí’s soldiers, if they find us.”
She remembered, suddenly, O’Deoradháin standing before the bridge, and it falling . . . “The bridge,” she said. “You said you knew other magics, but you also said they were slow and weaker. That was neither slow nor weak.”
If Jenna’s praise pleased him, he didn’t show it. His face was grim and sad. “Aye, much slower and weaker they are. But that spell was set earlier, before we met in the ravine and once the keystones were gone on the arches, the bridge itself did the rest. I thought that if we were to need to flee from the keep, that we would also need a way to slow up the pursuit. The spell took several at least a candle stripe or two of preparation, but then it was already done and set—all I had to do was speak the words.”
He lifted his head to scan the shore, turning the tiller and adjusting the sail. “There, that’s as good a spot as we’re likely to find.” A few minutes later, the keel grated on a tiny, pebbled beach along a small cove. Starlight dappled the tops of the trees on the shore while they held impenetrable darkness underneath, but across the lough and to the south, Jenna could see the yellow light of Lár Bhaile. O’Deoradháin leaped from the boat into the shallow water. Extending his good hand, he helped Jenna from the craft.
“I can’t walk far,” she told him.
“I know, but come dawn we’d be all too visible on the lough’s shore.”
“They’ll see the boat anyway and know where we landed.”
O’Deoradháin shook his head. “No,” he said simply. He helped her up the bank to dew-wet grass. Then he went back down to the beach and shoved the prow of the boat away from shore. Jenna heard the bottom of the craft grinding against the bed of the lough, yet the boat continued to move outward. She saw two dark forms, blacker than the night, break the water’s surface alongside the hull. Blue light shimmered from their bodies. Water splashed, the foam white, and the boat moved out into deeper water, floating free. The bow turned and faced south and east and it began to move away from them. O’Deoradháin came back to her and stood watching until they could no longer see the boat past the bend of the shore. He said nothing; Jenna decided she would not, either, though she wondered: were those seals? O’Deoradháin held out his hand to her. “We need to go as far as we can tonight,” he said. “They’ll find the boat tomorrow just south of Lár Bhaile, on the eastern side. If the Mother-Creator smiles on us, it will be a few days before they start looking on the western shore.”
“And where are we going?”
O’Deoradháin shrugged. “North. To Inish Thuaidh.”
“No,” Jenna said.
“No?” In the darkness, it was difficult to see his face, but Jenna could hear his scowl and sigh of exasperation. “Holder, in the morning, all of Gabair will be out looking for you. When word reaches Dun Laoghaire, the Rí Ard will have his troops sent searching as well, and Tuath Connachta might very well consider this a wonderful opportunity to come look for you themselves. The other tuatha may do the same. Your only safety is to be gone from here as quickly as we can, and Inish Thuaidh is where you can best learn to use the power you have.”
“No,” Jenna repeated. She looked up, to where the wind tousled the heads of the trees. She could see nothing but the night sky and stars above them, but she could feel the first shy touch of mage-lights at the zenith. She knew that they would appear soon, no more than two stripes from now, and she was tired. So tired. No! she wanted to scream to them. Not tonight. I can’t . . .
She struggled to her feet, staring into the darkness of the trees. She remembered other trees, the dark twisted oaks that stretched close to the shore of the lough, Seancoim’s tenderness and aid . . . “I’m going to Doire Coill.”
O’Deoradháin loosed a scoffing breath. “I didn’t snatch you from the Rí’s gardai to have you die under the haunted oaks.”
Jenna shrugged. She took a halting step—it took more effort than she thought. “I’ve been through those oaks once before. I think I’m safer there than on the road. If you don’t want to come with me, then I’ll thank you for your rescue, Ennis O’Deoradháin, and may the path to your home be easy.” Another step. She forced herself to stay upright. She turned toward the trees and forced her legs to keep moving. Suddenly she felt O’Deoradháin beside her, his hand under her arm, supporting her. When she glanced at him, he was shaking his head.
“Is it true, what they say of Doire Coill?” he asked.
Jenna nodded. “Aye. And yet no. The forest is old and alive in a way that other woods are not, and things live there that are dangerous. But Doire Coill is also beautiful, and none of the tales that I heard ever spoke of that. I have a friend there . . .” She closed her eyes, the weariness coming over her again. She looked back across the lake to the town, as if she could see the commotion and upset there. She had thought she had a friend there as well and she had left behind the one person whom she knew loved her unconditionally. Mam, I’m so sorry. I hope I will see you again . . . “At least I think he’s a friend,” she finished.
O’Deoradháin took a long breath. Let it out again. “Then I suppose it would be a shame for me to miss seeing the forest while I’m so close.”
Two stripes and more passed while they walked to the west at as fast a pace as Jenna could manage. They crossed the High Road a half mile from the lough, moving across the stone fences into a field dotted with small trees that must have once been farmland but was now long abandoned. A line of darkness loomed at the ridge of the hills just beyond the field, and as they approached, they saw the twisted, tall forms of oaks against the starlit sky. “Doire Coill?” O’Deoradháin asked, and Jenna nodded.
“Seancoim said it came close to the lough at places. We’re lucky.”
“Or not.” O’Deoradháin scowled at the forest. “It feels like the trees are watching us.”
“They are,” Jenna answered. She glanced at the sky and thought she could see wisps of color curling above. “Hurry,” she said. “I won’t be able to go much farther.” O’Deoradháin glanced at the sky also, though he said nothing. His arm went around her waist, and he helped her forward over the rough ground.
The hill was steeper and taller than it had appeared from the High Road. As they climbed, resting often, the two could look back over the ground they’d covered and see Lough Lár glimmering beyond the trees and, faintly on the horizon, the hills where the city lay. There were trees now as they neared the ridge, still widely spaced but unde
niably the offspring of the ancient oaks of Doire Coill. As they started down into the valley beyond, the trees came suddenly closer together, and they had to walk carefully to avoid tripping over roots or being smacked in the head by low-hanging branches. At the bottom of the hill, they came across a small stream meandering through the wood, and Jenna sank to the ground. “No more,” she said. “I’m too tired.”
“Jenna, we’re two miles from the lough. Maybe less. We should move on.”
Jenna shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll know where I am soon enough.” She pointed to the sky overhead through the winter-dry leaves and netted branches. Light burned there, brightening even as they watched. As the mage-lights grew, Jenna felt the desire in her to take their energy grow as well, overwhelming the exhaustion. She struggled to her feet again and took the cloch’s chain from around her neck. She placed the stone in her right hand, forcing the fingers to close around it.
The mage-lights seemed to feel Lámh Shábhála’s presence; they swelled, flashing like blue and green lightnings directly above her. She heard O’Deoradháin gasp. The power of the mage-lights crackled and hissed in her ears, and it seemed she could almost hear words in the din, speaking a language so old that it awakened ancestral memories in her blood. The scars on her arm seemed to glow, echoing the patterns in the sky above, and she lifted her hand, watching the colors converge and fuse over her. A funnel, a tongue slipped down from the display, bending and twisting until it touched her hand, engulfing it. Jenna cried out in mingled pain and relief as the power of the mage-lights poured into Lámh Shábhála. She didn’t know how long the connection lasted: forever, or a stripe of the candle, or only a few breaths. She could see the force or the magic, brilliant as it surged into the niches within the cloch, as it filled the well inside the stone nearly to overflowing.
Once more . . . Jenna realized. The next time the mage lights come, Lámh Shábála will be able to hold no more....
But Jenna could hold no more herself. The primordial cold of the mage-lights burned her, and she could no longer bear it. She cried out, as the mage-lights danced above and waves of tints and hues fluttered in the sky. She pulled her hand away from the grasp of the lights, and there was a pulse of fury and thunder.
As Jenna fell away into darkness, she thought she heard the rustle of wings and the caw of a crow.
29
Awakening
SOMEONE’S head swam in her vision, and she could smell a scent of spices. Jenna blinked, squinting to make the features come into focus. She seemed to be in a cave. Torches guttered against the walls, and she lay on a bed of straw matting. The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of a peat fire. If O’Deoradháin was there, she couldn’t see him. “Seancoim,” she whispered. “Is that you?”
“Aye,” a familiar voice answered. “I’m here.”
“Lámh Shábhála,” Jenna said, suddenly panicked. She remembered holding it, her fingers opening . . .
“It’s around your neck,” Seancoim answered. She felt his fingers take her left hand and guide it to her throat. She felt the familiar shape of the cloch in its silver cage. The relief lasted only a moment.
“Andúilleaf,” she croaked. “I need . . . the leaf potion. You must have some. Give it to me.”
“No,” he answered, his voice gentle yet firm.
“Please . . .” She was crying now: from the pain, from the refusal. “Seancoim, it hurts . . . You don’t know how it hurts . . .”
His blind eyes seemed to stare at her. Callused fingers brushed her cheek. On his shoulder, she could see Dúnmh arú, the bird’s black eyes giving back twin, tiny reflections of her face. “Jenna, what’s hurting you most right now is the lack of the andúilleaf and not the sky-magic. I should never have given the herb to you in the first place. Some people can’t stop once they take it, and eventually the craving becomes so intense that it drives you mad. You will have to get through this without it.”
“I can’t,” she wept. She huddled in a fetal position, cradling her right arm against herself, but nothing would warm its cold flesh. Nothing would ever make it normal again. The chill seemed to have crept all the way to her shoulder, and she shivered. She couldn’t see Seancoim anymore; her vision was narrowing again, as it had in the keep, all her peripheral vision gone until there was nothing there but what was directly in front of her. The headache raged in her skull, and she was afraid that if she moved, her head would burst. “Seancoim . . .” she wailed.
“I’m here,” his voice answered, and she heard his staff clattering against stone as he moved. “I’ll stay with you. Here, drink this.”
He pressed a bowl to her lips. She sipped the warm liq uid, hoping irrationally that despite his words it was andúilleaf. It was not: sweet mint tea, with a hint of something else. She swallowed, more eagerly than she expected, for the taste made her realize how hungry and thirsty she was. He gently laid her head back again. “Seancoim, just this once. The mage-lights . . . it hurts . . .”
“I know it does,” he told her. “But you can bear it.”
“I can’t,” she answered, but the words were hard to speak. She was sleepy; she could feel the weariness spreading through her, radiating out from her belly. “Where’s O’Deoradhain?” she asked. “He’ll tell you what’s happened . . .”
“He’s here. Just outside.” Seancoim’s face was receding, as if she were falling away from him. “And he’s told me everything.”
“It hurts,” Jenna said again.
“I know,” he answered, but his face was so tiny and his voice so soft and it was easier to close her eyes and give in to the urge to sleep.
“Seancoim?”
A hand brushed lank hair away from her face. “No, it’s Ennis,” O’Deoradháin’s voice answered. “Seancoim’s gone for a bit. Should I go look for him?”
Her head felt huge and heavy, and the headache still pounded. Her right arm was a log of ice cradled against her stomach. She tried to lift it and couldn’t. She couldn’t feel her fingers at all. Her body was trembling and despite the chill air, she could feel sweat breaking out on her forehead. A soft cloth brushed it away. Jenna licked dry, cracked lips. “Thank you,” she husked.
“Feeling better?”
Her left hand felt for the cloch around her neck. When she felt the stone, she clasped it with a sigh. “Worse, I think. I’m not sure.”
“Here, then. He left this; said to have you drink it when you woke up.” The bowl touched her lips again and she drank the sweet brew. Afterward, she lay back. O’Deorad háin looked down at her worriedly. There was a cut across his forehead: a line of dried blood with black thread sewn through it to hold the gaping edges shut, and both his eyes were swollen nearly closed and blackened.
“What happened to you?” Jenna asked. “Did the Rí’s gardai . . . ?”
O’Deoradháin shook his head. He touched the wound, his mouth twisting ruefully. “No. After you took in the mage-lights, you collapsed, and this crow came flying past me and an ancient Bunús Muintir appeared right behind me. I thought he was about to attack or cast a spell. I drew my dagger, and all of a sudden the old bastard cracked me on the head with his damned staff, a lot faster and harder than an old blind man had any right to move . . .”
Despite the pain, Jenna found herself chuckling at the image of Seancoim rapping O’Deoradháin over the head with his staff. O’Deoradháin frowned at first, then finally smiled back at her. “I’m glad you find that funny. I assure you I didn’t at the time.”
“If you wouldn’t go pointing your weapon at people, it wouldn’t have happened at all,” Seancoim’s voice answered from behind O’Deoradháin. A moment later, Dúnmharú fluttered past O’Deoradháin to land at Jenna’s left side. She lifted her hand to stroke the glossy black feathers, and the crow cawed back at her. “He was rather insistent about protecting you,” Seancoim told her. “Even when he’d been knocked on the skull. Doesn’t listen well, either. I had to hit him twice more. I nearly left him ther
e, but I decided that if he brought you this far, he deserved better.” Sean coim shooed O’Deoradháin aside. He crouched down next to Jenna’s pallet. His gray-bearded, flat face was solemn. The cataract-whitened eyes gleamed in a nest of wrinkled brown flesh. “It’s time to get up,” he told her.
Jenna shook her head. “No. Let me lie here. I couldn’t . . .”
His gnarled, thick-knuckled hand reached down and took her arm. His grip surprised her with its strength as he pulled her up to a sitting position. Her head whirled with the movement, and for a moment she thought she would be sick. “Breathe,” he told her. “Slow breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s it.”
She could feel his hand on one side, O’Deoradháin’s on the other, lifting, and she shook her head again. “It hurts. I don’t want to . . .”
“You will,” Seancoim answered. “You are stronger than you think. And there is something you must see.” Suddenly she was standing on weak, wobbly legs. The room, she saw for the first time, was less a cave than a deep, sheltered hollow below an overhanging limestone cliff. Ahead of her down a grassy embankment was a creek, and beyond that the dark tangle of oaks and brush of the forest. They helped her walk down the embankment and out past the vine-fringed cliff wall into sunshine. Jenna squinted, but the heat on her shoulders felt good. The day was warm for the season; she could not even see her breath before her. “Sit here,” Seancoim said, and Jenna was happy to do so, sinking down into the blanket of grass. “Look . . . Straight across the stream, near the tallest oak.”
Jenna saw it then, in a shifting of shadows as it moved. At first she thought it was simply a stag deer, but then it came out from under the trees, and Jenna gasped as she realized that the animal was huge, taller than O’Deorad háin at the shoulders, with a rack of massive antlers that echoed the great branches of the oaks. Its coat was a brilliant russet with a white, powerful breast, and the black, gleaming hooves were larger than Jenna’s hands. The creature was magnificent, almost regal, as it walked slowly down to the stream’s edge and lowered its crowned head to drink for a moment. Then the head lifted again to gaze across the river to the three people with eyes that seemed calm and intelligent.