Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  The pattern in the cow’s fur was the same as the scars on Jenna’s right hand.

  The cow spoke, uttering a long string of moans and gargles and Jenna glanced back at Ennis. “She offers welcome to their land-cousin, the Holder,” he said.

  “Land-cousin?”

  Ennis lifted a shoulder. “The blood of the Saimhóir—that’s their name for themselves—is mixed with many Inish families. They say the Saimhóir can sense when a human has but a touch of their blood in their ancestry. She’s saying that you’re one of them.” The seal spoke again, a bark and a braying cough. “She also says that I’m a poor translator and you should use the cloch.”

  “The cloch . . . ?” Jenna touched it. Curiously, she opened it slightly until she saw the seals in both her own vision and that of the cloch’s energy. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, startled, when she heard the seal’s voice.

  “Land-cousin, can’t you taste the salt in your blood? Thraisha is my name and Garrentha, who fought the dark-beast that attacked you, was of my milk.” The words came overlaid with the sound of the seal’s own language and came not from her ears but through Lámh Shábhála. Around Thraisha, there was a strange radiance in the cloch’s vision, something Jenna had never experienced before.

  Jenna laughed in wonder, glancing back at Ennis with wide eyes. “Thraisha, you can understand me now when I speak?” Jenna asked, and she knew the answer immediately: her voice came back to her altered into the moans and calls of a seal.

  “The language of Saimhóir is part of your blood, and Lámh Shábhála allows you to tap that part of yourself,” Thraisha responded. “And I have chased and swallowed Bra dán an Chumhacht, the first bright salmon of the mage-lights, which has come back to us. I am like you and I bear the marks. Aye, I understand you through Bradán an Chumhacht as you understand me through Lámh Shábhála.”

  Jenna blinked. “You’ve eaten a fish that gave you the ability to tap the mage-lights?”

  Thraisha gave a series of pants that translated as laughter to Jenna’s ear. “And you have a stone that gives you power?” she said, mimicking Jenna’s tone of astonishment. “Why, the land is full of stones.” She laughed again. “The sea has changed as the land has changed, and things swim under the waves that have not been glimpsed since the last change of currents. Did you think that you humans were the only ones who could tap the power above or who could use the slow magics? The gods made us all; why should they gift only you?” The seal lifted her gray, bristled muzzle. “I am First for the Saimhóir as you are First for your kind. I understand your pain; I have endured it also.”

  With the words, a foaming, cresting wave of force rose from within Thraisha and enveloped Jenna. For a moment, as the false surf swept over her, Jenna felt the memory of the Filleadh, the agony she’d felt as she’d opened all the clochs na thintrí to the mage-lights . . . and at the same time she saw herself as Thraisha, undergoing the same brutal trial underneath the sea and nearly dying as the energies tore at her. It had been worse for Thraisha, Jenna realized—she had nearly succumbed, saved only by her bull mate who had lifted her to the surface and held her above the water for long hours as Thraisha lay senseless. Jenna cried out, a wail of her own remembered torment all mingled with Thraisha’s suffering as she sank to her knees in front of the seal, not caring that the rocks were wet or that the spray from the slow breakers washed over her legs and clóca. Her arm ached and throbbed, the fingers of her right hand knotting as muscles cramped and protested. Thraisha lurched forward and Jenna cradled the seal’s head against her breast as she might a child, her breath choked with a sob. She heard Ennis start forward behind her, then stop as the bull roared once at him in warning.

  “We are closer than sisters of the milk,” Thraisha said softly. “We know, you and I. We know . . .” Thraisha’s head pulled away and Jenna reluctantly let her go. “Bradán an Chumhacht isn’t Lámh Shábhála; what it gives me is not what the stone gives you,” the seal said to her. “One gift it brings to me is a small foretelling, a glimpse of possibilities. I am seer and this is what I’ve seen: our fates our linked together, my sister-kin. That’s why I wanted to meet you.”

  “What do you mean? How are we linked?”

  Thraisha moved her head from side to side with a gurgling wail. “That I don’t know. I can’t see it. But I know we will be together again, and in one vision of those possi ble futures, we die together. I’ve seen Bradán an Chum hacht swim from my dying mouth and Lámh Shábhála fall to the ground from your hand.”

  The bull roared loudly behind them and Thraisha gave a snort. “Your people are coming and I must go now. We’ll talk again.” With a lurch and a roll, the seal turned to leave. The bull waited, but the other female and the pup had already slipped back into the water, calling to Thraisha.

  “Wait!” Jenna cried. She stumbled to her feet, Ennis running forward to help her up. “I want to know more.”

  “You will,” Thraisha called. “We both will, when it’s time.” Thraisha was at the water’s edge; she half-fell, half-dove into the water. The bull lumbered after her. A moment later, her sleek head reappeared. “Beware the storm,” Thraisha called to her. “It doesn’t follow you; it travels with you.”

  “Thraisha . . . !”

  The blue seals dove as one. She could see their muscular bodies just below the surface, seeming to fly in the water, as graceful in their element as they were clumsy on the land.

  “Mages!”

  The voice came from the wharf. Jenna and Ennis turned as one, Jenna releasing her hold on the cloch at the same time. As the cloch-vision left her, the brilliance seemed to wash out of the world, leaving the colors muted and gray. The Banrion was standing there looking down toward them. Máister Cléurach stood next to her; behind, their luggage was being loaded into Uaigneas. “Consorting with seals isn’t something I expected of the First Holder,” Aithne commented. “I especially didn’t expect to hear you growling and wailing like one of them. Will we find you chirping at gulls, as well?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The captain says we should sail now, while the tide is running out. We’re boarding.”

  The Banrion gestured to them and strode purposefully toward the ship, the gardai falling into place alongside her. Máister Cléurach stared a moment longer, then followed her.

  “Jenna . . . ?” She glanced back to the water, its rolling surface now unbroken. Thraisha and her companions had vanished. Ennis’ hand stroked her right arm, trailing down the stiff flesh and falling away again. “We need to go.”

  She nodded.

  Inishfeirm lay only five miles off the coast of Inish Thuaidh, but they were making for the harbor of Maddygalla, twenty miles eastward around a cliff-walled headland—a full day’s journey. Jenna had to admit that the Uaigneas was far more comfortable than the small fishing boat in which she and Ennis had made the crossing from Talamh an Ghlas. The ship rode the waves easily with a gentle rocking motion, the sail billowing on the mast above them, spray curling from the bow as it cut the gray-green water. Jenna stood with Ennis at the starboard rail; the Banrion and Máister Cléurach were talking near the stern. Jenna watched the water, wondering if she might see the shapes of the seals pacing the boat, but there was nothing but the occasional gull or cormorant diving for a fish. Behind, Inishfeirm slowly receded, the White Keep glinted atop the summit as the sun moved in and out of clouds.

  “What are you thinking?” Ennis asked. He was standing next to her, a careful arm’s length away. She leaned toward him, enjoying his closeness and attention, imagining that she could feel the warmth of his body against the chill sea breeze.

  “I’m thinking that we’re walking into another snake’s nest like the Rí’s Keep in Lár Bhaile. I’m thinking that there are still too many things I don’t know. I’m wondering if I have a baby brother by now or if I’ll ever see my mam again. I’m wishing that I had the courage to say . . .” She stopped herself. . . . to say to you all the things I want to say. She sighed, and ga
ve him a wan smile. “I’m wondering about Thraisha’s words. Did you know about her, Ennis?”

  “Aye, a bit. I knew the tales the Saimhóir told about the mage-lights and Bradán an Chumhacht, and I knew from Garrentha that her milk-mother had eaten the salmon.” His hand was near hers on the railing. If she moved, she could touch him. “I figured that she’d come looking for you.”

  The sun cloaked itself again though its light still danced on the waves well out from them. Jenna shivered. “Are there more? Other things like the cloch na thintrí held by other creatures?”

  “Probably. The books in the library talk of eagles and wolves having their own magic and they hint of dragons with the same. There may be others.”

  She glanced up at his shadowed face. “When did you last see a dragon?”

  He smiled back at her for a moment, the expression lightening his face, and she started to laugh with him. Jenna lifted her hand, put it on top of his. He looked down at their intertwined fingers as he spoke. “Never. Máister Cléurach says he doubts they exist at all. But I hope he’s wrong. Now that would be a sight . . .” He suddenly dropped his hand away from the railing, his gaze moving past her shoul der. “Banrion,” he said. “Máister. Good morning.”

  That earned Ennis a grunt from Máister Cléurach and a flick of the Banrion’s eyes before her gaze went to Jenna. “We hardly need to make polite small talk here. Let me be blunt. You don’t seem to like me, First Holder,” Aithne said.

  “Banrion—” Jenna began, but the woman raised her hand.

  “You don’t need to either acknowledge that or try to smooth it over. I simply state the fact. The truth is, Holder Aoire, I don’t much care if you like me or not. All that matters to me is that I understand where your loyalties lie, so that I know how we can work together. Your mam, I understand from Máister Cléurach, is the consort of Tiarna Mac Ard of Gabair and is carrying his child.”

  Her tone made it clear that she felt the word “consort” was closely related to “whore,” and the quick shift of her gaze to Ennis indicated that she might feel that Jenna was little more than that herself. Jenna’s eyes narrowed as if she’d been slapped, and it was difficult to keep her voice civil. “Aye, Banrion, that’s true, if she hasn’t already delivered the baby.” The wind freshened slightly, and Jenna felt a drop of rain touch her cheek. “But as to my loyalty . . .” Deliberately, she put her arm through Ennis’, who nearly jumped before his mouth spread into a grin. “This man helped me where no other would. And the Order and Máis ter Cléurach have taken me in and I owe them for their kindness. Past that, I am loyal only to Lámh Shábhála. My enemies are those who would try to take it from me.” Jenna started to remove her arm from Ennis’s, but he brought his arm in to his body to hold her.

  “That’s well said,” the Banrion answered. The wind tossed her light hair, lifting the glossy strands from her shoulders as it turned around to blow from the northwest. A splatter of rain drummed over the wooden deck and Jenna glanced up to see the clouds gray and lowering over the boat, though well out in the channel she could still see sunshine, and the White Keep shone far behind. “You’ll find that most of the Riocha here share your attitude. Inish Thuaidh isn’t Tuath Gabair, where the Rí’s word is law. Ask Máister Cléurach how difficult it is to get the Comhairle to agree on an action, even if the Rí wishes it.”

  Above them, canvas snapped angrily, and Uaigneas heeled over abruptly, causing all of them to reach for ropes and railing to keep their balance as a wave crashed white and gray over the side of the ship, drenching them. Thunder grumbled somewhere close by, and the day had gone as dark as twilight, though sunlight played on the horizon all around. Sailors scurried across the deck as the captain came over to them. “You told me this would be a fair day for sailing,” the Banrion shouted at him over the rising wind.

  The captain had a hand in the pocket of his oiled overcoat, as if the shifting deck were solid ground and he were out for a stroll. “That is what all my experience said, Banrion,” he answered. “But blows like this can come suddenly and without warning. You and your guests should go below—it’s becoming dangerous up here.”

  Another wave pounded the ship, the prow lifting high then falling, sending Máister Cléurach sprawling. Ennis reluctantly let go of Jenna and helped him back to his feet as the rain began to fall in earnest, cold and stinging. The captain alone seemed unperturbed by the ship’s motion, one hand still casually in his pocket. Jenna could see nothing past the rippling gray curtains: Inishfeirm had vanished, as had the chalk cliffs of Inish Thuaidh. The captain shouted to his men to reef the sail which was threatening to tear apart in the gale, and to man the ship’s oars. “Banrion, please,” he said. “I can’t be responsible if you stay on deck.”

  The ship lurched, turning as the captain shouted directions to the man at the tiller. Jenna followed Aithne to the small deckhouse and down the short flight of stairs into a cabin barely large enough to hold the four of them and the trio of gardai. The wind howled and cold seawater poured in through the hatch before Ennis and one of the gardai managed to push it shut. Uaigneas rolled again, more sharply this time, and they heard an ominous cracking and splintering above, accompanied by a scream. Then the ship seemed to shake off the waves and finally right itself, lifting first bow, then stern. “The captain’s turned her to run before the wind,” Ennis said. “We’re going where the storm wants to take us.”

  A garda abruptly and noisily threw up. Jenna fought not to be sick herself from the smell and the seawater and the ship’s wild careening. For an interminable time, like the others, she huddled in a corner of the cabin, leaning against Ennis with eyes closed as she tried to sleep, her hands out to brace herself. She must have managed to actually doze for bit, but a sharp roll of the ship brought her awake again.

  “Beware the storm . . .” Thraisha had said that before she left, and Jenna wondered if she’d glimpsed this. She’d said more, as well. Jenna took a breath, trying to remember as the ship seemed to rise, hesitate a moment, then plummet back into the sea. “It doesn’t follow you; it travels with you.”

  Jenna remembered the sunlight, playing on the horizon and the peak of Inishfeirm. The storm hadn’t come streaking from across the sea toward them; it had developed rapidly above them.

  “. . . it travels with you . . .”

  She fumbled under her soaked clothing for the chain that held Lámh Shábhála. She let her mind touch the cloch as she forced stiff fingers to wrap around the stone; her awareness drifted outward with the cloch’s energy.

  Aye. There . . .

  Another cloch na thintrí was aboard, its bright energy spraying outward and upward, and she could sense the mind wielding it: one that knew the waters of the channel, knew the ship and how much wind and heavy seas it could handle. Driving us east and south with the storm, toward Talamh an Ghlas . . .

  Jenna pushed herself to her feet, trying to maintain her balance on the rolling, wet planking and still hold onto Lámh Shábhála. “Open the door!” she shouted above the shrieking wind and the drumming of the rain. “Ennis! I need you!”

  Ennis noticed Jenna’s hand on her cloch, and he immediately clenched his own. The Banrion noticed as well. “Open it!” she ordered the nearest garda. “Go with the Holder.”

  The garda pushed open the door; water and sheets of sleeting rain poured in as the garda, then Jenna and Ennis, forced their way up the stairs to the deck. “Can you feel it, Ennis?” Jenna shouted to him, blinking against the assault of rain and wind. The crew was at the oar seats, drenched and grim-faced with the task of keeping the ship from being swamped in the heavy seas.

  “Aye!” Ennis pointed to the bow of the ship, near the tiller. The captain was there, his gaze turned up toward the sky. One hand remained in the pocket of his overcoat.

  “I’ll hold him,” Jenna shouted to him. “You and the gardai take him.” Ennis nodded. Jenna let herself fall into Lámh Shábhála’s worldview. There, the captain’s Cloch Mór was a maelstrom
of gray and black, swirling and rotating and as yet unaware of her. Psychic winds howled and screeched around it, and Jenna knew those could be directed at her as easily as they now pushed at the ship. She opened Lámh Shábhála fully, letting its radiance swell outward until it touched the cloudy black; as it did, she felt the captain’s awareness shift, sensing the attack even as she brought her cloch’s energy down on and around the interior storm. It battered her, the winds tearing at Lámh Shábhála’s hold like a furious animal. The cloch’s strength surprised Jenna, and for a moment the maelstrom nearly slipped through as doubt entered her mind. A gust of wind slammed into Jenna, sending her staggering backward. She went to her knees, gasping and taking in water from the rain and the waves, but she held onto the stone, pushing back again at the other cloch’s dark energy.

  She had no choice. She could feel the power draining from Lámh Shábhála with every passing second, but she knew that the same was happening to the captain’s stone. Lámh habhala burned in her hand, searing her flesh with ice, and she forced herself to hold tightly to it, knowing she would pay afterward.

  A bolt of lightning cleaved the inner vision, and from the deck there was a cry of pain and alarm. The maelstrom faltered; Jenna pressed in against it and it collapsed completely. Jenna could see Ennis and the gardai rush the captain, taking him down.

  Ennis’ hand reached down, pulling the cloch from the captain. There was a scream, a wail of wild distress and loss. The wind slowly died; the rain fell to a drizzle. The waves fell.

  “Well done, Holder.” The Banrion was standing at the entrance to the cabin, and Máister Cléurach emerged behind her. The crew, appearing dazed, were gazing about them in bewilderment as Ennis and the gardai dragged the captain forward. The man was weeping, and he stared at Ennis, struggling to be released. “Give it back!” he cried. “I have to have it. You must give it back!” In Ennis’ hand was a large crystalline stone, which he gave to Máister Cléurach. The older man held up the gem: a mottled smoky-gray like an approaching thunderhead.