Holder of Lightning

by S L Farrell

  Aithne gave a cough of laughter. “Then you don’t know me well at all, Máister. Holder Jenna, it’s good to see you again. I wanted to give you my condolences on the death of your friend Seancoim. It must have been terrible, losing two people so close to you in such a short space of time.” The sadness in her voice seemed genuine, as did the sympathy on her face. “And I also wanted to welcome you back.” She held her hand out to Jenna, who took it. Aithne’s fingers pressed against hers. “I was afraid I would never see you again,” Aithne said. “I knew when we woke that morning and found you gone that you’d taken the path to Thall Coill. Come, walk with me a bit and tell me about it. Máis ter Cléurach’s dry reports are fine, but I’d like to hear your own words. Máister, if you don’t mind . . .”

  Jenna didn’t particularly want to relive any of it again, but she could think of no way to politely refuse. Leaving Máister Cléurach and the library, the Banrion walked with Jenna along the stone corridors of the White Keep, her two gardai accompanying them just out of earshot.

  They walked for a few minutes, hand in hand, Aithne telling Jenna about their own trek back from Glenn Aill and the response of the Comhairle to the news of Árón’s treachery. “. . . My own best guess is that my brother, Tiarna Mac Ard, and the others with them have left Inish Thuaidh and slipped the net of ships we placed around the island. They’re probably in Falcarragh with the Rí Ard by now.”

  They’d come to the bronze doors cast in the shapes of the mage-lights: the Temple of the Founder. Aithne pushed the doors open and they entered. Six acolytes were there with a Bráthair of the Order, who bowed to the Banrion and Jenna and quickly escorted his charges out of the room. The Banrion and Jenna walked down between the twin rows of marble columns as they exited, approaching the immense statue of Tadhg O’Coulghan. He seemed to watch them advance, his right hand raised as if he were about to cast the power of Lámh Shábhála down at them from the mage-lights swirling in the painted dome above him. They stopped just under the dome, with Tadhg looming above them.

  “How long has it been?” Aithne asked.

  Jenna’s brows wrinkled, puzzled. “Banrion?”

  Aithne pressed her fingertips against Jenna’s abdomen, gently. Jenna flushed, and the Banrion smiled. “Sometime dry reports have buried nuggets. You came here with noth ing, and among the documents Máister Cléurach sent was a list of everything you’d been given, a quite detailed list. What was interesting to me was what wasn’t there: no sponges, no cloths. A surprising omission for a young woman who should be expecting her monthly bleeding. I wasn’t certain, though, until I saw you.” The Banrion chuckled softly. The sound reverberated from the dome. “How long?”

  “Two months, Banrion. Nearly three.” Jenna sighed—with the admission, a surprising sense of relief washed through her; she hadn’t realized how much it had pained her to have no one in whom to confide.

  “Is Ennis the da?”

  Jenna nodded. “So Máister Cléurach knows as well?”

  “Actually, I doubt it. He didn’t mention anything in the reports, I didn’t speak to him about my suspicions, and he’s not . . . as observant about these things. I didn’t know until I saw you, and even then I wasn’t certain. Your condition isn’t really visible yet, but I see a slight curve to your stomach where there was none before, and I doubt that the Order is feeding you that well.” She smiled. “Combined with the rest . . . The question now is what to do about it. My healer has potions that can start your bleeding again even at this point, if that is what you want.”

  Jenna was shaking her head before the Banrion finished. “No,” she answered. “This is all I have left of Ennis. I . . . can’t.”

  Aithne nodded. “I thought that would be your answer. Do you remember Tiarna Kyle MacEagan of the Comhairle?” Jenna nodded, recalling the short, stocky man who with the Banrion and Kianna Cíomhsóg controlled the Comhairle. “He and I have been good friends for many years,” Aithne continued. “I like the man—he’s a good person, wise and quick-witted. He knows when to speak and when to hold back what he knows. He’s also . . . unmarried.”

  Jenna started to protest, realizing what Aithne intended to suggest, but the Banrion held up a hand. “Let me finish,” she said. “Tiarna MacEagan . . . well, let us simply say that he doesn’t have any interest in our gender beyond friendship. A marriage between the two of you would legitimize both you and your son or daughter. He would be a good father as well as a guide and companion for you. You would have as much leverage over him as he would have with you: he wouldn’t care if, in time, you have other lovers as long as you gave him the same freedom. And he would acknowledge as his own any children that came as a result.”

  Twin knots of tension burned in the corners of Jenna’s jaws, clamped tight as Aithne spoke. The gardai stood near the door of the room, talking softly among themselves and carefully looking away. No! she wanted to shout. No! This is not what I want. But she pressed her lips shut, taking a breath and glaring at the face of Tadhg high above. “And you, Banrion,” Jenna asked. “What do you get out of this?”

  Aithne nodded as if in satisfaction. “You learn well, Holder. Aye, I’ll benefit from this arrangement, also. It keeps the Holder of Lámh Shábhála bound to Dún Kiil and Inish Thuaidh. It means that Tiarna MacEagan, Bantiarna Cíomhsóg and I will have an even stronger hold on the Comhairle. It means that you will fight with us against the Rí Ard, because that time’s coming very soon. I wanted to strike first, as you recall. I still believe that would have been the best strategy, but that time’s past. The invasion will come well before the Festival of Gheimhri. There isn’t much time.” She looked meaningfully at Jenna’s clóca. “There isn’t much time for you to make your decision, either, Holder. Soon enough your secret will be . . . obvious and then Tiarna MacEagan would no longer be able to make the offer.”

  “You’ve already broached this with Tiarna MacEagan?”

  “No. But I’m confident his thinking will be the same as mine.” The Banrion reached out and touched Jenna’s hair, stroking it gently. “He’s truly a good person, Jenna,” she said. “If you allow it, he could be a loyal friend even though you never share a bed. I made certain that Máister Cléurach gave him the Cloch Mór of the fire-creature you destroyed at Glenn Aill, and he is learning to use it. He could be an excellent ally if you have political desires. I know that you say you don’t, but that may change in time. You could do far, far worse for a husband. Do this now in the next few weeks, and no one will question that the child is his—it will simply come early, as some children do. But if you wait . . .” Aithne shrugged.

  Ennis . . . Jenna’s thoughts whirled, confused. I miss you so much . . . What do I do? Jenna started to speak, then stopped. She backed away from the Banrion, pacing around the base of the statue. “I can’t give you an answer,” she said. “Not here. Not right now.”

  “You already have,” Aithne answered. “You haven’t said ‘no.’ Think about this conversation, Jenna. I will be here for another day, perhaps two. I’ve come to tell Máister Cléurach that he must bring the Bráthairs of the Order to Dún Kiil along with the few clochs na thintrí they hold so that we can prepare for the Rí Ard’s invasion. We could go back together, meet with Tiarna MacEagan, and make the announcement to the Comhairle.” Aithne sighed, her face soft with sympathy. “This is a lot to put on your shoulders, which have already borne more than their share of pain. I know that, Jenna. I don’t mean this to sound as cold as it will, but Ennis is gone forever. We can’t bring him back. I think he would understand this and approve, because it’s best for you.” She gestured at Lámh Shábhála. “I know that you can hear the old Holders. Listen to them. How many of them have done the same thing I’m asking you to consider?”

  Jenna remembered Banrion Cianna’s words to her back in Lár Bhaile—that seemed so long ago now, though it had been less than year—regarding Tiarna Mac Ard’s reluctance to marry Maeve: “. . . marriage to him is another weapon...” Even Ennis had said it once
: “. . . They would tell you that the Holder of Lámh Shábhála should use marriage as a tool, to be utilized when it’s most advantageous.” She suspected that Ennis would have understood, all too well.

  Jenna stared at the Banrion, her face stricken, her head shaking from side to side not so much in denial as in confusion. Aithne gathered Jenna to her, hugging her close. “Go, and think about this,” she whispered in Jenna’s ear. “I’ll keep Máister Cléurach away from you until tomorrow. Then come and give me your answer.” Her lips brushed Jenna’s hair. “In the end it must be your decision, Jenna,” she said. “Not mine.”

  56

  Covenant

  3AN attendant, a younger man, opened the door for Jenna and Aithne and motioned them in.

  The room was the same one in which she’d first met Tiarna MacEagan. The sun streamed through the stained glass window depicting the horror of Croc a Scroilm, sending bright hues shimmering on the walls. MacEagan sat in one of the chairs near the fire, sipping an amber liquid in a cut-crystal goblet. Bantiarna Kianna Cíomhsóg sat across from him. Jenna brushed her cloch with her finger and let it open slightly: MacEagan wore the Cloch Mór she remembered all too well from Glenn Aill and the attack during the Feast of First Fruits. Kianna, who had no cloch at all the last time they’d met, now had a clochmion, perhaps the one that had been MacEagan’s.

  MacEagan set down his glass and rose as Jenna and Aithne entered, going immediately to Jenna after a quick glance at the Banrion. She found herself searching his face, looking at his body. The crown of his head was but a few finger’s width higher than her own, and streaks of pale scalp showed through the dark strands at his temple. Still, the lines around his eyes crinkled deep when he gave her a wry smile, and his eyes were kind and lingered easily on her face.

  “Holder,” he said. “This is awkward for both of us.”

  “Aye,” Jenna answered, not allowing herself to respond to the smile. “ ’Tis that.”

  “Banrion Aithne has told me about her, umm, proposal. I want you to know—it would be acceptable to me. It would, in fact, be good for me. And I hope for you as well.”

  Jenna lifted up a shoulder under her clóca. She remained silent and MacEagan looked again at Aithne. “I’ll leave the two of you to discuss this,” the Banrion said. “Banti arna Kianna, why don’t we walk and plan the defense of Dún Kiil?” Kianna pushed herself from her chair; she and the Banrion linked arms and left. The attendant remained, gazing with a strange intensity at MacEagan, who nodded to him.

  “You may go, too, Alby,” he said. “I’ll call for you later.”

  “Tiarna—”

  “Go on. Please.” Alby bowed stiffly and left. The door closed loudly behind him. Jenna cocked her head toward MacEagan, raising an eyebrow. “Aye,” the man said. “Alby is more to me than simply my squire. I tell you that so there won’t be any secrets between us. There can’t be, not if this is to work.” He gestured toward one of the chairs and Jenna sat, watching as MacEagan seated himself across from her. The odd smile was still on his face, and he folded his hands quietly on his knee.

  “I’ll never love you,” Jenna said flatly.

  He seemed to take no offense, his face unchanging. “Per haps not. And certainly not love in the way you loved Ennis O’Deoradháin. I wouldn’t expect or want that of you. But I hope that you could come to like and respect me, at least. I think we can be friends, Holder Aoire, and I would say that I have love for my friends.”

  Another shrug. More silence. Finally, MacEagan rose and went to the window. He pushed open the stained glass panels, sending colors shifting across the room. He stood there limned in sunlight before turning back. “I know the Banrion has outlined what I can offer you, Holder, and I won’t go over that again, only tell you that I would en deavor to be as a father to your child. I would offer your child everything I would offer a child of my own.”

  “And what is it you intend to gain from our . . . arrangement?” Jenna asked him. “In your words, not the Banrion’s.”

  He brought steepled hands up to his mouth, bowing his head for a moment in thought. “I get to use your reflected power,” he answered finally. “Bluntly, that’s what I receive. We know—Aithne, Bantiarna Cíomhsóg, and I—that Rí MacBrádaigh won’t live much longer. When he dies, a tiarna of the Comhairle will be elected Rí in his place. A tiarna married to the Holder of Lámh Shábhála would be a powerful figure, don’t you think? Maybe even enough to be more than a Shadow Rí—and we control enough votes in the Comhairle to guarantee the outcome. And you . . . you would be Banrion and would take my place on the Comhairle.”

  “What of Banrion Aithne?”

  “She would have her ancestral lands in Rubha na Scarbh to rule, especially now that her brother has proved to be a traitor. She would still be among the Comhairle, representing her townland, and the Comhairle is the real power in Inish Thuaidh, not the Rí. And she would also know our secrets, which would ensure that her voice was adequately heard. She loses nothing but a husband she doesn’t love, like, or respect and a title she won’t mourn.”

  “Because hers was a political marriage,” Jenna spat. “Like the one we’re discussing.”

  “Aithne went into her marriage knowing it would be no more than it is,” MacEagan responded. “I have higher expectations.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “But I do,” he persisted. “Oh, not for physical love—neither one of us want that of the other. But I do admire you, Holder Aoire. Your youth, your background—there aren’t many like you who could have gone through what you have and survived, much less flourished. You’re stronger than most believe, including, I think, yourself.”

  “I don’t need false flattery, Tiarna MacEagan.”

  He went back to the chair, sat, and took the glass in his hand again, swirling the liquid before taking a small, appreciative sip. “I’ve said nothing false, Holder. And my given name is Kyle. I would be pleased to have you use it.”

  “I still haven’t made a decision,” Jenna answered. She paused, took a breath. “Tiarna,” she finished.

  MacEagan gave a sniff that might have been a chuckle. “How can I help you make that decision, then? Tell me what you need.”

  “There’s nothing you can give me. It’s something I have to feel. Back in Ballintubber . . . My marriage would never have been arranged; I wasn’t important enough for that. It’s the poor who can most easily marry for love, and I always expected that, if I married, it would be that way. I expected that we would have little more than the land we worked, that it would be hard, but it would be all right because we would care for each other. This—” Jenna swept a hand through the air.

  “You can still have love,” MacEagan said. “I don’t intend to keep you from that.”

  “But it would always have to be a secret love. You might know, and perhaps Aithne, but it would have to be hidden from everyone else.”

  “Aye,” MacEagan responded. He blinked. “As mine is. Now.” He took another sip of the whiskey and set the glass down once more. “I’ve already given you my trust, Holder. I’ve already made myself vulnerable to you so that you would feel safe. I can’t force you into this marriage, and wouldn’t even if I could. But I do think it could be advantageous to us both. I will give you one other promise—if one day you find a love that you can’t bear to keep hidden from the rest of the world, then I will go with you to the Draíodóir and sign the dissolution. All you have to do is ask.”

  “You say that now.”

  “I’ll put it in writing, if you wish.”

  Jenna could feel her hands trembling. She placed her right hand over her left, trying to conceal the nervousness. In the three days since the Banrion had made the suggestion back in Inishfeirm, she had agonized over this. The night the Banrion had come, she’d gone to the harbor and called Thraisha, but no matter how wide she cast the vision of Lámh Shábhála, she couldn’t find her. The Holders within the cloch na thintrí had been useless, yammering contradictory adv
ice. She had found Riata in the babble and spoken with him, but he had only sighed. “The Daoine way isn’t ours,” he said, more than once, and didn’t seem to be able to comprehend the implications, so foreign to his culture. She’d called her da from the carving of the blue seal, and he had listened sympathetically, but in the end all he could tell her was to do what she thought best. She wished more than once that she could talk with her mam again—she wondered what Maeve’s advice might be, caught up as she was in the same snare—but her mam was with Mac Ard. She closed her eyes every night and called to Ennis’ spirit, trying to bring him to her to tell her what to do . . . but the only answer had been the wind and the steady, relentless sound of the surf against the rocks.

  “You are the only one who can make the decision,” Riata had said finally. “You are the one who has to live it.”

  “Write it, then,” Jenna said. “And we will marry, Kyle MacEagan.”

  “Please leave us, Keira,” MacEagan said to Jenna’s attendant. The young woman—no older than Jenna herself—lowered her gaze, curtsied quickly, and vanished, closing the door to the bedchamber behind her. MacEagan smiled at Jenna, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling her night robe tightly around her neck. He held a bottle of wine and two goblets.

  “I thought I would come and say good night, Jenna,” he said. He remained standing at the door. He nodded toward the polished wood behind him. “You can trust her. Keira’s been with me since she was twelve; she knows how to keep her mouth shut and eyes averted when they need to be. Or if you have someone else you feel you can trust more . . . ?”

  Jenna shook her head, mute. MacEagan—my husband, she thought. I wonder if I will ever stop shivering when I hear that—continued to smile. “ ‘Bantiarna Jenna MacEa gan of Be an Mhuilinn, Holder of Lámh Shábhála.’ I imagine that will sound strange to you for a while.”

  “I think it may always sound strange,” Jenna answered.