Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  “No,” Jenna answered. She touched her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Toryn seemed to shrug. He lifted his hands again, speaking a phrase in his own language. She saw the flames appear before him.

  Jenna turned away. The cliff edge was two steps away. She ran toward it, and leaped.

  She expected death.

  The wind rushed past her, roaring. And she felt her body changing, altering as she plummeted toward the water. Her clóca and léine slipped away, torn from her new, sleek shape by the rushing of air, and she fell naked to the waves.

  She had almost no time to contemplate the alteration of her body.

  Jenna hit the water with a stunning impact that ripped the breath from her lungs. She expected to feel the shock of the frigid ocean, but somehow the water felt impossibly warm and pleasant. Still, the shock of striking the surface nearly made her lose consciousness; she was disoriented, her sense of direction lost underwater. Her body, already sore and battered, screamed with abuse; her vision seemed sharper yet somehow distorted. She could see the wavering light of the waves well above her and her lungs yearned for air. She reached out with her arms and kicked with her legs to stroke for the surface. They responded though the feel was strange, and she could not see hands or arms even though the light came quickly closer. She broke the surface with a gasp, swallowing spray along with the wonderful cold air. She almost immediately went under again.

  Something, someone was under her, lifting her . . .

  She emerged into the air once more, coughing and spitting water, and she was held up as she retched and spluttered and finally took another shuddering breath. A head emerged from the waves.

  Jenna started to speak in surprise and relief—“Thraisha!”—but what emerged was a croak and moan. She looked back along the length of her own body.

  The chain of Lámh Shábhála gleamed against black fur touched with blue highlights, the caged stone still with her. Jenna barked in surprise; Thraisha’s eyes gleamed; she almost seemed to laugh. High above them, at the cliff edge, Jenna saw Toryn staring down, his face pale. Thraisha followed the direction of Jenna’s gaze, her body rolling easily in the white surf. She spoke, but with the emptiness within Lámh Shábhála Jenna understood none of it. Thraisha started swimming, pushing Jenna’s body in front of her, moving away from the rocks and outward. Toryn shouted something, his voice faint against the roar of wind and waves. Jenna tentatively tried to help Thraisha and swim on her own—the body ached and complained, but she managed a few strokes. They swam out beyond where the waves broke, and Jenna realized that Thraisha was making for the blue-gray hint of coastline to the south, where a tongue of land curved outward.

  She could not swim long and had to stop, exhausted. Thraisha stayed with her, patiently keeping Jenna afloat on the waves. Swim and rest; swim and rest.

  The journey took hours. The sun was nearly setting when they came to a table of low, wet rocks and could crawl out of the water.

  “You threw yourself from the cliff a stone-walker and landed a Saimhóir.” Thraisha seemed amused by what she’d seen. “Welcome to the sea, land-cousin.”

  The mage-lights had come; Jenna had been able to renew Lámh Shábhála, and with the cloch she’d regained her ability to speak with Thraisha. She was still in seal form—far more comfortable than any human one in this environment. She marveled at the new feel of the world around her and her heightened senses. She had never known that the taste of the ocean was so complex, that she could sense where the mouth of a river shed fresh water, or whether the bottom below was sandy or rocky, or where the kelp beds lay. Swimming unbounded by gravity was a luxuriant pleasure, the feel of the water against her fur like the stroke of a lover’s hand. Underneath the water, she could hear the sounds of the ocean: the distant, mournful calls of whales, the splash of brown seals feeding nearby, the flutter of a school of fish turning as one, the grunts and chirps and clicks of a thousand unidentified animals.

  Yet her new body retained marks of the old: her right flipper was scarred and balky, the fur marked all the way to her spine with the shapes of the mage-lights. She still ached, every movement sending a reminder of the punishment she’d endured.

  “How long can I stay this way?” she asked Thraisha after she’d recounted to the Saimhóir what had happened since they’d last talked. “Ennis, he said that most changelings were either Water-snared or Earth-snared, able to change for only a few hours.”

  Thraisha grunted agreement. “He was right. But your blood runs strong with the Saimhóir strain and with the power of the mage-lights. You can stay this way until you will yourself to return to your birth form. But there’s dan ger in that, as well. The longer you remain Saimhóir, the more difficult it will be to make the change back. And I would believe that the longer you stay Saimhóir, the more likely it is you will lose the ability to use the cloch na thintrí. Lámh Shábhála is a servant of the stone-walkers, not of the Saimhóir.”

  In the radiance of the cloch, Jenna could sense the faint stirring of the life inside her. She wondered what would happen to the child if she remained Saimhóir. “I need to go back. To Inishfeirm, perhaps.” She looked at the cliffs of the headland, a hundred yards away from the rocks on which they lay. They were lower here than at Thall Coill—looming like a blue-green line of thunderclouds on the horizon at the end of the curving shore of the island—but still high. And beyond them, she knew all too well, were trackless miles of steep hills and drumlins.

  She would be naked. With no resources but Lámh Sháb hála. Without Seancoim . . . The thought stirred the deep sorrow in her. You’ve lost the two people who cared most for you. You’re alone. Alone . . .

  Jenna found that while a Saimhóir could feel anguish and grief, they could not cry.

  Thraisha stirred. “We could swim there, faster than you could walk. I would stay with you.”

  “I can’t ask that of you. You told me: the interests of the Saimhóir aren’t those of my people.”

  “You are both,” Thraisha answered. “And we’re linked, you and I.” She coughed, and the heads of two more blue seals broke the water near them. They hauled out of the water alongside Thraisha.

  “It’s a long swim around the Nesting Land,” Thraisha said. “Rest today, and feed yourself while the sweetfish are running. Then we’ll begin.”

  55

  A Return

  OWAINE often went down to the shoreline in the mornings. He’d help his da and his older brothers push the boat off the half-moon shingle where it was beached and tied every night, even though he knew that it was the burly arms and legs of his brothers and not his tiny form that was sliding the tarred and weathered wood along the wet sand. When the waves finally lapped at the prow, his da would ruffle his hair. “That’s good enough, little one. We’ll take it from here. Watch your mam for us until we get back.” Then they would push the boat out into the swells, his da leaping into the boat last as his brothers rowed out a bit. He’d see his da readying the nets as the boat cleared the surf and headed out to the deeper water past the headland.

  Owaine would watch until he could no longer see the boat—that would not be long, since his eyes were short-sighted and everything quickly became a blur—then he’d go exploring before his mam called him back to the cottage up the hill. Usually, he scrambled around the clear tidal pools that collected between the black rocks, trying to catch the small bait fish that were sometimes trapped as the tide went out, or poking at the mussels and clams. Sometimes he’d come across odd presents the sea had tossed up on the shore for him to find: a boot lost by some fisherman; a battered wooden float from a fishing net; strange, whorled shells with enameled, sunset-pink interiors; driftwood polished by the waves and twisted into wondrous shapes.

  Today Owaine walked to the north side of their small beach, to where the waves broke against the rocky feet of the Inishfeirm. The wind was cold; the salt spray wet his hair and made him blink. Mam wouldn’t let him stay out long today; he knew she
’d be calling him back to help her and his two sisters: there was butter to be churned and the chickens to be fed. He half-slid, half-crawled along the rocky shoreline, wet to his thighs. He thought he heard the call of seals just beyond a screen of boulders, and he clambered over to them to see. Once his brothers had said they’d seen a family of blue seals on the shore, but Owain hadn’t been there that day. Blue seals occasionally visited the island, he knew, and it would be exciting to glimpse them, since they were so rare. Bragging about it afterward to his brothers would be best, though . . . Maybe he could make it sound even more exciting than it was.

  Owaine pulled himself up the surf-slick face of the last boulder. Beyond was another tiny rocky beach. He caught a blurred glimpse of black fur sparkled with blue fire, but then movement at his end of the beach caught his eye. He gasped and nearly fell from his perch.

  A young woman was standing there, walking out of the water. She was naked, her black hair hanging in wet, dripping strings, her body sheened with water. She seemed exhausted and her right arm appeared to be injured, scarred and hanging limp at her side. She wore a silver chain around her neck, with a pendant swinging between small breasts. To Owaine, she seemed to be perhaps a little older than his sisters.

  A naked lady on the beach was going to be a far better tale than blue seals, but he wondered if anyone was going to believe him.

  He must have made a noise, for her head turned and she looked at him. “Don’t be frightened,” she said, the words accompanied by a soft smile. Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she hadn’t used it for a long time. She made no attempt to cover herself; she didn’t seem to notice her nudity at all. She cleared her throat. “This is Inishfeirm, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, wide-eyed.

  “Good. I wasn’t certain, since I couldn’t see the White Keep from this side, but that’s what they said it was. Do you have a cottage near here?”

  They? Owaine wondered who she might mean but decided not to ask. Instead, he nodded solemnly.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Owaine.” He blinked as the apparition took a few steps toward him. He crouched, ready to jump down from the boulder and run. The woman walked gingerly, the way Owaine did when he sat too long with his legs under him and they were all tingly and heavy. He decided he could stay where he was. “Owaine Geraghty. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Jenna. I need to go to the White Keep. Do you know if Máister Cléurach has returned there yet?”

  Owaine shook his head. He’d heard that name, of course—everyone on Inishfeirm knew it—but his family had little to do with the White Keep and the cloudmages. He’d seen a few of the acolytes, even talked to them a bit when they bought the fish his da brought to the market, but he’d never seen the old Máister, who—his brothers and sisters all told him—was a cross and nasty man who sometimes liked to beat the acolytes with willow branches, just for fun. They told him other more imaginative and awful things about the keep and the Bráthairs and their Máister and what happened to the acolytes there, but Owaine wasn’t sure how much to believe since, after all, none of his siblings had ever actually been to the White Keep. Still, some of it might be true and Owaine couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to meet Máister Cléurach, who seemed to be part monster.

  Of course, this woman could be a monster herself, which might explain her appearance . . . But the woman smiled again, and she didn’t seem dangerous at all. “Don’t worry, it’s all right,” she said. “How about you—do you have a home near here? Is your mam there?”

  “She’s back there in the cottage.” Owaine pointed to the whitewashed walls just visible high up in the green hills.

  “Will you take me to her?” She seemed to have realized her state for the first time, one hand covering her breasts, her scarred and stiff-looking right hand over the dark fleece at the joining of her legs. “I suppose I need some clothes . . .”

  Being in the White Keep reminded Jenna achingly of Ennis. She almost sobbed, seeing her own tiny room again. But Máister Cléurach arrived not a minute after the wide-eyed acolyte closed the door behind himself.

  “I didn’t think I would see you again, frankly,” he said without preamble.

  “I’m pleased to see you again, too, Máister.”

  He sniffed at that. He stared at her, his eyes dark under the white-haired line of his brows. “The rumors are flying through the keep that you’ve returned from Thall Coill, that you appeared naked on the shore in a blaze of sorcer ous light, that you passed the Scrúdú and now understand the deepest places within Lámh Shábhála.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted. “I’ve returned from Thall Coill. The rest . . .” She shrugged. “. . . are just rumors.”

  “What happened?”

  She wasn’t certain that she wanted to tell him. But once she started, she found that there was a catharsis in telling him all that had happened since they’d parted ways after Glenn Aill. Máister Cléurach let her talk, occasionally interjecting a question to clarify some point. An acolyte came in with a lunch of bread, fruit, and water, then left. She told him everything except the fact that she was pregnant.

  She didn’t know why she kept that back, only that it felt right to do so.

  Máister Cléurach listened, then grunted. “I still don’t un derstand,” he said. “Why did this An Phionós not kill you as it did Peria?”

  She’d prepared a lie for that, knowing the question would come. “We fought to a draw,” she said. “I wasn’t able to defeat An Phionós, but neither did it have the power left to kill me.”

  “Hmm . . .” Máister Cléurach ran fingers along his bearded jaw. “And you have the changeling blood, too. Like Ennis.”

  The mention of the name made her blink. “Aye,” Jenna answered. “Or I wouldn’t be here and Lámh Shábhála would be lost in the ocean.”

  “I doubt it.” He plucked a slice of apple from the tray and chewed it thoughtfully. “Lámh Shábhála has a way of finding its own path to a Holder. By now, someone else would have found it washed up on a shore, or in the gullet of someone’s fish dinner.” He swallowed. “I’ve already sent word to Dún Kiil that you’ve returned.”

  Jenna nodded. “I thought you would. So the Banrion’s back there? Is she well? Is there word about the Rí Ard and the Tuatha? Mac Ard?”

  “Nothing about Mac Ard,” he answered, “but we hear that the Rí Ard and his son have gone to Tuatha Gabair, Airgialla, Connachta, and Infochla, and sent messages to Locha Léin and Éoganacht as well. Mundy Kirwan—you remember him; Ennis’ friend—is strong with the slow mag ics, and he has felt Clochs Mór gathering near Falcarragh. I think the war comes soon; the Comhairle agrees with me. And that makes me wonder. Why did you come back here, Jenna?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I thought . . . I thought it was the only place I belonged right now.”

  “Then you’ll fight with Inish Thuaidh.”

  The memory of Thraisha’s foretelling came to Jenna again, as it had all too often over the last days. . . . You stood there alone, and you called lightning down from the skies with Lámh Shábhála, but other sky-stones were there also, held by the hard-shelled ones, and they gathered against you. I was there, too, but I was too far away and others’ clochs were set against me and I couldn’t reach you. You looked for help, but even though those with you held sky-stones of their own, they were beset themselves, and none came to your aid. I saw you fall . . .

  “This is my home. This was Ennis’ home. And I know that my presence is the reason for the war if it comes.” Jenna shrugged. “I didn’t choose this path, Máister. But it seems to be the one I have to walk.”

  Máister Cléurach grunted again. “Then I’ll do my best to make you ready for it,” he told her. “We can start today.”

  She hadn’t been certain what she wanted, but Máister Cléurach certainly had no such doubts. He immediately resumed his role as Jenna’s mentor in her studies of the cloudmage art. Most of that time was spent
in the library, as Máister Cléurach set Bráthair Maher to pulling out dusty and half-crumbling rolls of ancient parchment. There were exercises and meditations; reading and history lessons; the beginning of her study in the slow magics of earth and water.

  Jenna fell into the routine almost gratefully. It allowed her no time to think, the work kept her mind occupied and held the grief and worry at arm’s length, at least during the days. The nights were a different matter. She didn’t sleep well, despite the exhaustion of the days and the mage lights’ nightly call. Then the ghosts threatened to overwhelm her as she cried with her head buried in her pillow, seeing Ennis’ face or Seancoim’s. She clutched her stomach where the first flutterings of life quickened. She listened to the calls of the seals far down the jagged cliffs of Inishfeirm, and wondered whether Thraisha was out there somewhere, even though she couldn’t feel her with Lámh Shábhála.

  But the days . . . The days she could tolerate.

  “. . . and as you see, Severii claims that even when Lámh Shábhála seems to be devoid of energy, there is still a reservoir of power within it, one that he was unable to tap. Which is what he thought was the place that would be opened through the Scrúdú—”

  Máister Cléurach stopped, causing Jenna—seated next to him looking at the mostly undecipherable marks on the yellowed roll of parchment—to glance up. An acolyte cleared his throat from the doorway of the library; behind him, another figure lurked. “Máister,” the acolyte began, but Máister Cléurach was already on his feet.

  “Banrion,” he said. “This is a surprise.”