by S L Farrell
“He’s gone, Jenna.” Máister Cléurach’s voice, at her shoulder. “Jenna, I’m so sorry . . .”
He’s not gone!, she wanted to rail at him. I won’t let him be gone. There has to be something, some way to change this . . . But no words came out. She looked up at Máister Cléurach, stricken dumb, her mouth open as she shook her head.
She took Lámh Shábhála in her hand. She held the cloch, opening the small store of energy still left within it. She held the energy, not knowing how to shape it or change it so that she could bring his soul back from where it had fled. The brilliance of the mage-lights shimmered around her, and it meant nothing. She let go of the cloch and fell over Ennis’ body, weeping.
She lay there for long minutes until gentle hands pulled her away.
49
Leave-taking
THE attendants, returning now that the battle was over, argued that with the rain it was impossible to cremate the body, but Jenna insisted that a pyre be built in the nearest field. Jenna watched as they sullenly constucted the pyre in the downpour, sitting by Ennis’ body and refusing to move whenever Máister Cléurach or Aithne came to join her, though she didn’t resist when they tended to her injuries. The tears came and went on some internal tidal rhythm; the grief filled her like a cold moonless sea, heavy and deep. The sun sank below the mountains beyond Glenn Aill; the rain subsided to drizzle as mist and a few stars emerged between ragged clouds.
“The pyre’s ready,” Aithne said. Jenna felt the Banrion’s hand on her shoulder. The woman had said little since the battle. She crouched down alongside Jenna and took her hands, still clutching Ennis’ stiffening body. “They need to take him now,” she whispered, nodding to her attendants. They came forward silently and took the body as Aithne helped Jenna to her feet. She stood unsteadily, her legs weak with exhaustion and hours of sitting.
They placed the body atop the framework of logs and branches, and placed the bodies of the gardai who had died to either side of him. One of the retainers came forward with a burning torch and touched it to the base of the pyre. A pale blue flame flickered then went out. “The wood is soaked, Banrion,” he called. “We used what little oil we had, but . . .” There was a hint of pleasure in his words, the ghost of an unspoken reprimand.
“I’ll do it,” Jenna said. She shrugged away the Banrion’s hands, drawing a breath as she found Lámh Shábhála’s chain, recovered from where it had fallen and around her neck once more. She lifted the cloch, closing her eyes and coaxing the remaining essence from deep within the well of the stone.
She imagined fire: a flame of elemental force, burning purer and hotter than a smelter’s furnace. She placed the image under the pyre and released it. With an audible whump, the pyre burst into flame. White smoke billowed as the moisture in the wood went immediately to steam and evaporated. The pyre hissed and grumbled, but it burned so aggressively that the attendants all moved well back. Shadows lurched and swayed behind them as the flames leaped up to envelop the bodies, the light from it touching even the walls of Glenn Aill. Jenna poured the last dregs from Lámh Shábhála into the pyre; the flames roared in response, sending a whirling column of furious sparks pinwheeling into the night sky.
She watched as the flames devoured the corpses. She imagined Ennis’ soul soaring free, dancing in the glowing ash toward the sky and the Seed-Daughter’s welcome to the afterlife. She watched until the pyre collapsed in a tornado of sparks; until it was no more than glowing embers; until she saw above them the mage-lights snarling the sky and felt the yearning, seductive pull of Lámh Shábhála toward them.
“I know you’re exhausted and hurting, Holder, but you need to renew your cloch,” Aithne said softly, startling Jenna. “Árón and the others will be doing the same, and it’s a long and possibly dangerous ride home.”
Máister Cléurach, off to one side, had already opened his cloch to the lights. Aithne stood near Jenna, her face gentle and sympathetic. The Banrion looked battered and sore: a bruise discolored her cheek and puffed one side of her mouth. Her clóca and léine were scorched, torn, and filthy, and blood had soaked through along one arm where a long cut trailed down nearly to her wrist. She’d been burned on the other arm—Jenna could see the blisters that glistened on the woman’s left hand, running up beyond the sleeve of her léine.
Jenna nodded. “Banrion, I’m sorry . . .” she began, then faltered. So much had happened that demanded an apol ogy: that she hadn’t told the Banrion about the false Lámh Shábhála she and Máister Cléurach had prepared; that she hadn’t trusted Aithne; that Aithne had been injured pro tecting her . . . “I wish I’d told you before what the Máister and I had done.”
“I wish you had also,” Aithne said and the agreement cut deeper than any of the wounds. “But I knew, or at least suspected. And I understand why you kept your own counsel and didn’t tell me.”
“Árón was your brother, and I didn’t know how you’d react. I thought it might work, and it was the only way I could think of to get Ennis back, and . . .” A deep sob racked her from the center of her being, a grief so huge and terrible that for a moment she thought she couldn’t bear it. Aithne put her arms around Jenna, pulling her close. Jenna wept on the Banrion’s shoulder, letting the lamentation rise within her and give voice to her bereavement as Aithne stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head as her mam might have done.
Her mam . . .
Jenna gently pulled away from Aithne, pushing the grief back down within herself. “Banrion, during the battle, Lámh Shábhála showed me the face of one of your brother’s allies. It was Tiarna Padraic Mac Ard, of Tuath Gabair, holding the cloch they’d taken from Ennis. And the other clochs . . . Máister Cléurach is certain that at least one of the other Clochs Mór was among those stolen from Inishfeirm.”
Aithne’s face went grim. “That’s a strong accusation,” she responded. “Aron is stubborn and foolish. He thinks mostly of himself. But you call him a traitor to Inish Thuaidh now. And that is something I find hard to believe.”
“I know what I saw,” Jenna answered. She gestured at the sullen orange embers of the pyre. “I’m also realizing, now, how the loss of someone you love can mark and change you. And your brother’s right: I was responsible for that. I bear the blame.”
Aithne said nothing. Her gaze went from Jenna to the pyre. Finally, she placed her hand over her Cloch Mór. “I’ve been told the name of this cloch is Scáil,” she said. “ ‘Reflection,’ because it steals the power from another Cloch Mór and uses that force to defeat the attack. Árón gave the cloch to me, after I returned from meeting you at Inishfeirm. He said that it had been in our clan for centuries, but though he was eldest and it belonged rightfully to him, he had another. I used the cloch with Árón so that I could learn to understand how it worked. In those few minutes when our clochs were linked and struggling against each other, I also saw Árón’s mind mirrored in my own.” She paused, taking a slow breath and looking away from Jenna. “I saw the rot in his soul,” she continued. “I don’t think you made him that way, Jenna. I think Cianna’s death only exposed that vein within him and gave him an excuse to turn to it more and more. If the Rí Ard promised Árón that he would be made Rí in Dún Kiil, then my brother might well listen and betray kin, clan, and oath. But I still hope not. I still hope that there’s some other reason why he would tolerate Mac Ard’s presence here.”
Aithne sighed. She glanced up at the sky, then down at her cloch. “We don’t have much time, Holder,” she said. “And whatever my brother is or whatever he plans, you will need Lámh Shábhála. Let’s use the mage-lights while we can, and worry afterward.”
The day dawned surprisingly clear and warm. The field workers came out from Glenn Aill, staying well away from the encampment over which flew the banner of Dún Kiil and Rí MacBrádaigh. Of Árón Ó Dochartaigh and his people, there was no sign. Jenna let Lámh Shábhála open slightly; in the wave of cloch-vision she felt no other Clochs Mór aside from those with the Ba
nrion and Máister Cléurach. If Árón and Mac Ard were still lurking in the area, they weren’t where they could immediately attack.
Ennis’ pyre still smoldered in the field, wispy tendrils of smoke rising from the ash. “Holder?”
Jenna turned to see Aithne and Máister Cléurach already mounted on their horses. The attendants were packing the last of the supplies onto the pack animals and the Banrion held the reins of Jenna’s horse. “It’s time to go back to Dún Kiil,” Aithne said. “We need to make plans. I’ll make certain that the Comhairle puts a watch on our coast immediately, but I don’t have much hope that we’ll catch Mac Ard before he returns to Talamh an Ghlas and tells the Rí Ard what’s happened here. If you’re right and my brother has allied himself with the Rí Ard and the Tuatha, then we can expect them to attack soon. Possibly before the Festival of Gheimhri and winter. I’ve been talking with Máister Cléurach; he wants you to go back to Inishfeirm at least through the month of Softwood to continue your study with Lámh Shábhála.”
Jenna walked over to them and took the reins. She swung herself up on the horse, tucking the long clóca between her legs. She stared at the pyre, then lifted her gaze away from Glenn Aill to the north and east where mountains lifted stony heads in the sunshine.
“. . . You can determine the shape of this age . . .”
“. . . It doesn’t have to be this way . . .”
“I don’t think my path leads to Inishfeirm or Dun Kiil,” she said.
Máister Cléurach followed the direction of her gaze, and his mouth tightened under his beard. “You can’t be thinking of Thall Coill. Jenna, don’t be stupid—”
He stopped as Jenna’s head snapped around and she glared at him. “If you think that I’m at all concerned about the possibility of dying, you’re mistaken, Máister.”
He sniffed and frowned. “I didn’t think that at all, First Holder. In fact, it doesn’t surprise me at all that you’d choose a suicidal course. So far, your recent choices haven’t proved to be particularly wise.”
The words stung, her face reddening as if he’d slapped her across the cheek. “The difference between us is that I don’t judge wisdom by how little the action might cost me.”
Aithne gave a short laugh, but Máister Cléurach’s eyebrows lowered like white thunderheads over the sea. “Jenna,” he said, his placating tone at odds with his face, “at Inishfeirm, I can show you what the other Holders of Lámh Shábhála have said about Thall Coill and the Scrúdú. Why, neither Tadhg or Severii O’Coulghan would attempt that, not after Tadhg witnessed Peria’s death, and Tadhg was one of the most accomplished cloudmages.”
“So you believe that because Tadhg was afraid of the Scrúdú, I should be also. No doubt that’s more of what you call wisdom.”
“Tadhg watched the woman he loved die there,” Máister Cléurach answered, all the softness gone from his voice. It was steel and bone. “You of all people should appreciate that. Don’t push away those who are only trying to help you, Holder. You need us more than you can imagine.”
“Don’t try to impose your will where it doesn’t belong. I am the First Holder, not you.”
The two glared at each other. The Banrion rode up between them, so that their horses shifted and the eye contact was broken. “I think the Holder is fully aware of your feelings, Máister Cléurach,” she said. “Jenna, I won’t presume to tell you what course to follow. I only ask you to consider this: if you go to Thall Coill and fail, then you leave Inish Thuaidh open to the Rí Ard.”
“If I don’t, then probably Inish Thuaidh falls anyway. And right now, Banrion, I have to say that I find I don’t really care. Inish Thuaidh was my great-mam’s home and I love this land, too, but ultimately the land will remain, no matter who is called Rí in Dún Kiil. Will the lives of these people change?” She gestured at the field workers. “They’ll just switch one master for another, that’s all. No matter who rules, the crops will have to be planted, tended, and harvested, and the stock will have to be fed and watered. I know. I was once one of them and I cared nothing for the Riocha in their keeps and estates. When you say Inish Thuaidh will fall, you mean yourself.”
If Aithne felt the lash of Jenna’s words, she showed none of it. “Then perhaps you made a mistake not handing over Lámh Shábhála to my brother yesterday,” she answered with a gentle reproof. “The Rí Ard’s interest in Inish Thuaidh is mostly because you’re here, after all. If you’d given him Lámh Shábhála, it might be that no army would come here at all.”
Jenna’s hand had gone protectively to her breast, where the cloch was hidden under her léine. “Jenna,” the Banrion continued, “there are times we’re drawn into something all unwillingly. No matter what you do, the Rí Ard considers you now to be part of Inish Thuaidh. You’re their enemy; nothing you say or do will change that, not until you no longer hold Lámh Shábhála.” Aithne stopped then, her gaze sliding to Jenna’s right hand and past to the white ashes of the pyre. “You had something I’ve never had, however short the time,” she said. “I envy you that, Jenna. What do you think he would tell you? Can you hear Ennis’ voice?”
“Aye,” Jenna answered immediately. “I listened all night for it, asking him the same question. I heard the answer.”
“This is nonsense,” Máister Cléurach said. “Banrion, we have no time to waste here.”
“Should I tie the First Holder to her horse and drag her back to Dún Kiil?” Aithne answered. “Is that something you want to try, Máister?”
Máister Cléurach glowered but said nothing.
The Banrion gave Jenna a soft smile. The torc about her neck glinted with the movement. “Your Ennis spoke to you, truly?”
Jenna nodded. “I hear him here,” she said, touching her breast.
“Surely you’re not thinking of telling her to go,” Máister Cléurach said. “That would be a tragedy for all of us, including Jenna.”
Aithne sighed. “It’s not a decision any of us need to make yet. Jenna, the High Road to the townland of Ingean na nUan is still two days’ ride from here, and that’s the road you’d need to travel to An Ceann Ramhar and eventually Thall Coill. We’ll ride together at least that far, then we’ll see.” She looked at Máister Cléurach warningly. “And we’ll speak of this no more today. A few days of thinking might do us all some good.”
50
Roads Taken
THERE were barrows where their path met the High Road, which was little more than an unmarked trail heading vaguely northeast down from the hills. In the storm and rain, Jenna had noticed neither the High Road nor the barrows when they’d passed before. The mounds were overgrown, appearing as stony, weed-infested hillocks in the field alongside the path, the low sun draping long shadows behind them.
“They’re old Bunús Muintir graves,” Banrion Aithne said, noticing Jenna’s attention. “There are a few barrows here in Rubha na Scarbh, and more in the northern townlands. As children, we were told they were haunted. We were warned to stay away from them or the wights would rise from their slumber and come for us. No more than tales, I’m sure. I know that I was shooed away from them more than once, and Árón as well. They say there are still Bunús living in the hills and people still saw them occasionally, though I never did.” She inclined her head to Jenna. “There’s only another hour or two of light. There’s an inn we could reach in that time and stay in dry and warm rooms.”
“On the road to Dun Kiil?”
A nod.
“I’m staying here tonight,” Jenna said. Máister Cléurach groaned audibly.
“I don’t care to sleep another night with rocks digging into my back,” he said. “I’m an old man and I’ve been too many days away.”
“Then go on,” Jenna told him. “Leave me here. I’m going no farther today.”
Máister Cléurach looked at the Banrion. “Rocks,” he said. “In her head, too.”
“If we stay out here, anyone can see our fire from the hills around us,” the Banrion said to Jenna. “I
know those with my brother will have eyes out there, reporting to him where we are. I doubt he would dare attack after the last time, but I don’t know that for certain. He’d be less likely to do so if we’re in a village, where others might be more inclined to side with the Rí in Dún Kiil.”
Jenna said nothing, sitting on her horse and staring down to where the High Road led off through the heather. She felt more than heard the Banrion’s sigh.
“We’ll stay here,” Aithne told the attendants. “Make the camp ready.”
The mage-lights that night were faint and weak, soft filaments that glowed fitfully and vanished. Jenna watched them while sitting between the barrows, away from the encampment and the fire, a blanket around her shoulders. Both the Banrion and Máister Cléurach had come to her earlier—Máister Cléurach demanding and gruff, Aithne soothing and understanding, but both attempting to convince her to return to Dún Kiil. To both of them she gave the same reply: “I’ll decide by morning.”
She didn’t know what she expected to happen during the night to ease the conflict within herself. The thoughts chased themselves, ephemeral and changing, impossible to hold or examine. She felt the conflict deep in her soul; when she tried to muddle through the choices in front of her, Ennis’ face rose before her and the grief welled up again, overcoming her.
Once, she opened Lámh Shábhála, but there was only more confusion and contradiction in the voices of the old Holders and she closed it again quickly, returning to the near-silence of the night.
In the darkness there was the rustling of dark wings. A form appeared on the barrow to her left, a particle of night with black eyes that stared at her. A yellow beak opened. The creature cawed once.