by S L Farrell
It was like a tale to Jenna, unreal. There was no memory of it in her at all. He might as well have been speaking of a battle fought a century ago with other people.
“Where are we now?” she asked after he’d finished.
“In the mountains north of the city.” His lips twisted. “In the same caverns that Severii O’Coulghan used when he retreated after Máel Armagh’s attack. We can only hope that this will turn out the same. The Tuathians hold Dún Kiil for now. Scouts have told us that more ships are coming from Falcarragh, and that the banner of the Rí Ard flies above the keep.”
Jenna sat up, grimacing as her body protested the movement. For a moment, the cavern whirled around her and she thought she might lose consciousness, but she closed her eyes until the spinning passed. She started to raise her left hand to MacEagan, then realized it was bound to her side. Instead, she reached out with the stiff lump of her right. She could see the scars of the mage-lights beyond the stained sleeve of her léine. “Help me up again,” she told him.
“You should rest,” he told her.
“There’s not time for that, and I’m not the only one hurt. I need to talk to the Banrion and I want to see those who fought with us.” She reached out again. “Help me.” She paused. “My husband.”
He responded with a quiet smile. Then he stood, crouched down again, and took her hand and arm. “Let’s walk together, then, wife.”
Jenna found that they were encamped in a narrow valley nestled between tall, steep slopes covered with purple heather and thickets. Bright rills capered down the sides to a small river curling through the valley bottom before vanishing into the misty distance, where the indistinct backs of more mountains loomed. The hillsides were studded with hollows and shallow caves eroded from the soft limestone that protruded from under the thin skin of earth, and crude tents and lean-tos littered the ground. Campfires lifted columns of white smoke into the fog. The remnants of the Inishlander army had rejoined their families, but Jenna saw many tents where solemn-faced women hugged silent children to them. They would nod silently toward her as she passed. Jenna expected to see anger and blame in their faces, but there was none; there was only the aching loss. She wished she had words of comfort for the widows, for the fatherless children. She could only gaze back at them, echoing their pain. One of them clutched at Jenna’s clóca as they passed, and Jenna stopped. The woman could have been no more than a year or two older than Jenna, with a child nuzzling at her breast under the red-dyed léine of mourning, and a boy that might have been three years old at her side. “Holder,” she said, “My son . . . he wanted to see you . . .”
Jenna knelt down in front of the woman. The boy peered out at her from under his mam’s arms; she pushed him forward. He held back for a moment and seemed to gather his courage, lifting his face and frowning sternly. He took a step toward Jenna.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Mahon.” The boy’s voice was serious and quiet. “My da died.”
“I know,” Jenna answered softly, with a glance at his mam. “He was a brave man.”
“Did you know him? His name was Deelan. Deelan MacBreen.”
“No,” Jenna told him. “I’m afraid I didn’t. But I wish I had.”
“When I’m older, I’m going to be a soldier like my da. Mam said she would give me his sword, and I’ll come fight with you.”
“I hope, Mahon, that won’t be necessary.” Jenna looked again at Mahon’s mam. She was smiling, sadly, all her attention on the boy. She felt the pressure of Jenna’s gaze and looked at her with eyes the color of the sea at night. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Jenna told her. “There aren’t any words I can say that can give you comfort, I know.”
The woman settled her baby at her breast, stroking the infant’s head. “It was the choice he made, Holder, the choice of any Inishlander.” The woman’s face went grim and almost angry. “Drive them back out, Holder,” she said. “Make sure his death wasn’t wasted. That would give me comfort.”
Jenna didn’t know what to say. She nodded without knowing why, she brushed the boy’s disheveled hair, and stood up again, grimacing with the effort that movement required. “We should go,” MacEagan said. Numb and hurting, she let him lead her away.
And where they passed the soldiers who had been there at Dún Kiil—with arms bound or heads bandaged, limping or curled on their pallets, huddled with their families—she heard them whisper her name; saw them nudge one another as she approached. They looked at Jenna and they straightened, bowing. They lifted their sheathed weapons in quick salute. They smiled. They held out their hands to her as she passed. “Holder . . .” they said. “So good to see you . . . A good morn, ’tis it not? . . . Pleased to see that you’re up and about . . . We were praying to the Mother-Creator for you . . .” She nodded back, and tried to smile in return. She touched their outstretched hands and watched the tentative smiles widen.
“They saw the Holder of Lámh Shábhála fighting for them,” MacEagan whispered to her, sensing her bewilderment. “They saw the power of the cloch, and they know that some of their own lives were spared because the Clochs Mór of the Tuathians had to contend with you and couldn’t be used against them. They saw you wounded and yet continuing to battle and that gave them strength to do the same. They watched you cover their retreat with Lámh Shábhála until both it and you were exhausted.” He lifted his chin toward the valley littered with tents. “You’re quite the hero, Jenna, whether you believe it or not. Some of the rumors . . . well, you’d be amused.”
“I’m not a hero,” Jenna said. “I’m not . . . anything.”
“But you are. You’re the First Holder, and you brought Lámh Shábhála back to Inish Thuaidh, defying the Rí Ard and defeating the mages he sent to stop you. You restored the Order of Inishfeirm to its glory. You routed the traitor of Glenn Aill, who conspired against the Comhairle and the Rí MacBrádaigh. You went to Thall Coill to undergo the Scrúdú and returned again triumphant. You’re the Changeling who can be seal or eagle or dragon at will. You woke the Rí MacBrádaigh from the slumber of his rule and gave his sword the strength of twenty men. You stood against the massed Clochs Mór of the Rí Ard and very nearly defeated them all.”
Jenna had begun shaking her head long before MacEagan finished the litany. “But that’s all wrong. I didn’t do those things. They’re exaggerations, half-truths, or outright lies.”
“It doesn’t matter whether it’s the truth or not. Not anymore. The point is that they believe it, and more. You give them hope and strength and courage.” MacEagan frowned then, his face grim. “And right now, that’s what we need most.”
“I don’t want this,” Jenna insisted. “I never did.”
“Want it or not, it’s been given to you. Come, the Banrion’s anxious to see you.”
The Rí’s tent was set near the river, its bright panoply of banners seeming to mock the weariness, loss, and pain around it. The gardai stood back as Jenna and MacEagan approached, and she heard a moan emerge from the flap held aside for them.
Inside, in the warm light of candles, was a bed holding the Rí, the Banrion sitting in a chair alongside. Jenna could smell the strong aroma of andúilleaf. She cradled her cold right arm to her waist.
“Any change with him?” MacEagan asked as they entered, and Aithne shook her head in answer.
“None. The healer says that it’s a matter of time, that’s all.” Aithne chuckled, mirthless and short. “It’s strange. I had no respect for the man until now. From what I was told, he fought like a man possessed, screaming the caointeoireacht na cogadh and rallying everyone after Kianna fell. ‘There was a pile of bodies at his feet,’ one of his gardai told me, ‘so high that the Rí could not even step over them. He wouldn’t leave until we had Bantiarna Cíomhsóg’s body, and even then he stayed at the rear protecting the wounded as we fled.’ He was a poor husband and a weak ruler. But he found his strength in the end. I wish I’d seen it.” She sighed, reaching over to br
ush away a strand of white hair curling over the Rí’s forehead. Her eyes found Jenna’s. “I’m glad to see you walking and somewhat recovered, Holder. We’ll need you now, more than ever.”
Jenna must have shown confusion at that, as Aithne stood and came over to her in a rustle of her clóca. “We lost this battle,” she said to Jenna, “but it cost them far more than they anticipated. They thought they would crush us completely with one, swift blow and never have to wage a campaign. They thought they had enough Clochs Mór to guarantee the fall of Lámh Shábhála, and enough troops to smash all resistance. They were wrong and they know that now. I suspect the Rí Ard isn’t altogether pleased with his son’s generalship.”
“Nevan O Liathain planned this?” She could well believe it—the glory of leading the combined forces of the Tuatha would have attracted the man as a guttering candle calls to a moth.
“Aye,” Aithne replied, “that’s what we’ve been told, but his victory’s cold. None of our cloch Holders are dead and we’ve recovered another of the Clochs Mór. Eight of their Mages died—before you fell unconscious, you told us that—so seven of their clochs either have new, inexperienced Mages or were lost entirely in the harbor. They lost nine ships to the catapults and Stormbringer, and during the hand-to-hand fighting we destroyed at least a third of their forces. Winning the battle cost them so much that they couldn’t follow us, but were forced to wait for reinforcements.”
Jenna heard little of the end of it. Talking of the battle brought back snatches of memory: Árón’s face, screaming in agony and frustration and anger as she killed him . . . “Banrion, your brother . . . He was with them.”
Her lips tightened and lines folded around her eyes. “I know,” she said. “You told me that also.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” she answered. “You had no reason to feel anything but hatred for my brother.”
“I’m still sorry for your loss. He was your brother; I know you cared for him. And if I’d not come here—” Jenna stopped. “If I’d not come here, none of this would have happened. None of it.”
The lines deepened in Aithne’s face. Her gaze flicked once toward MacEagan, and she stepped forward, cupping Jenna’s face in a hand and lifting her chin. “You came,” she answered. “That can’t be changed. And my brother made his own choices—you didn’t force them on him, nor did you tell the Rí Ard and Tanaise Ríg to bring their armies here. You’re not responsible for their actions, Jenna, only your own. Do I mourn Áron? Aye, I do. I will miss him, and I’ll always remember his strength and his love for our family. But I didn’t agree with his last decisions. He knew when he chose to stand with the Rí Ard that his choice might mean my death as Banrion, and still he did so.”
She released Jenna’s face, going back to the chair by the bed and sitting. “Let me tell you one other thing, Jenna, a choice I made. I saw you during the battle. I could feel the clochs set against you, and there was a moment when I could have come to your aid. But I didn’t—because Árón was among those fighting you. Instead, I set my eyes elsewhere.” Her hands were folded on her lap, her head tilted to one side as she stared at Jenna, her gaze unblinking. “I did that knowing that my presence might be the difference between your living or dying, but I told myself that I would let the Mother-Creator decide. So you see, loyalty is a shifting and elusive thing, Holder. But I’m sure you realize that by now. Árón?—aye, I’ll mourn him, and I’ll remember what was good and try to forget the rest.”
The Rí MacBrádaigh moaned once more, and everyone’s attention went to him, almost with relief. Aithne leaned over and took a washcloth from a basin of water, wringing it out and placing it over his forehead. “There’s nothing we can do for him?” Jenna asked.
The Banrion shook her head. “Too many wounds, and some of them very deep. I’m afraid he’s beyond the skills of any of the healers here. Máister Cléurach says that there was once a healing stone among the Clochs Mór, but he doesn’t know who holds it. There were reputedly clochmion with the same skill though with less potency; Máister Cléurach is asking if anyone among us holds one, but he doesn’t know that even a clochmions would have the ability to help. The Rí sank into deep sleep early yesterday and hasn’t woken. In just the last stripe of the candle, his breathing’s gone shallow and fast, as you hear it now. The healer thinks he’ll be with the Mother-Creator by morning.” Aithne took the cloth, moistened it again, and patted his cheeks with it. “Perhaps it’s better this way. He’ll be remembered for his last acts, not the incompetence that came before.”
“I talked with the rest of the Comhairle,” MacEagan said to the Banrion. “They agree with us. We’ll meet tonight for the appearance, but we already have the votes.”
“Agree with what?” Jenna asked, looking from Aithne to MacEagan.
MacEagan answered. “We sent runners to all the townlands when we learned that the fleet was coming. Many of the Riocha, especially those from the north and west, didn’t have enough time to muster and arm their people and come to Dún Kiil. But they’re coming in now—we already have as many troops here now as we did for the first attack. The Banrion and I think that we shouldn’t wait for the Rí Ard to get his reinforcements from Falcarragh. We think we should counterattack now, as soon as we can. The Tuathians may well be expecting it, but they won’t ever be weaker than they are now.” He paused. “Especially if Lámh Sháb hála is with us.”
“Attack again? So soon?”
“Tomorrow, so long as the mage-lights come tonight so you can restore your cloch, and we’d better pray that they do—by now word will have reached Falcarragh and ships could already be on their way. We can’t wait.”
“Waiting was what allowed them to come here in the first place,” Aithne commented, her thin lips pressing together after she spoke. Jenna felt the point of that rebuke and grunted in response.
Going into battle again . . . Her whole body cried out in protest at the thought. Her wounds had just begun to heal, the arm that linked her to Lámh Shábhála throbbed and complained, her soul was heavy with the loss of Thraisha, and the pleasure that she thought she’d feel at avenging Ennis’ death with Árón’s life was diluted by guilt and remorse. The faces of the widows haunted her, and that of the boy Mahon, and the fierce loyalty of the soldiers who had crafted something from her that she was not.
Ennis, what should I do? Thraisha? Seancoim? But they were all gone, those whose advice she might have trusted. She had only herself. She could not even ask Riata or the dead Holders, silenced because of Lámh Shábhála’s emptiness. Aithne and MacEagan stared at her, and she could feel their eagerness and certainty.
An image came to her, as sharp as reality, and she had a sense that she was glimpsing the future: herself lying dead on the cold ground, the remnants of battle smoking around her. Jenna touched her stomach: the child lay unmoving inside her.
If you die, your baby dies with you. But you have no choice. No choice. You can’t flee, and if they take Lámh Shábhála from you the pain of the loss will be more than you can bear. . . .
Jenna cupped the fist of her right hand in her left, her gaze traveling along the swirled lines of white, dead skin until they reached the sleeve of her léine and disappeared under the white cloth. Her right hand felt like a frozen stone in her palm. She half-closed her eyes, willing the fingers to open. They obeyed only reluctantly, lifting until she could see folded lines crossing her palm then refusing to move farther. She moved the hand to her breast, leaning forward slightly so that Lámh Shábhála slipped between the fingers into the hand. She looked at it: the plain, ordinary stone trapped in its web of fine silver.
“Aye,” she told them. “I agree with you. We can’t wait.”
59
Death on the Field
THE mage-lights rippled and flowed, and Lámh Shábhála suckled at them like a ravenous infant, drawing hála suckled at them like a ravenous infant, drawing down the power. Jenna sagged, her knees buckling with the sens
e of relief, the energy of the lights easing the aching of her muscles and the bitter chill along her right side. The world around her seemed saturated with color again, no longer so gray and dim. Her awareness seemed to swell out, encompassing the entire valley where the Clochs Mór of MacEagan, Aithne, Máister Cléurach, Galen, and the others were also renewing themselves; and at the outer edges of her senses she could feel the pinprick presence of the Tuathians’ clochs also feeding on the same energy—all of them linked to the sky, all of them tied together.
She could pluck them if she wanted, like the strings of Coelin’s giotár. She reached out with the cloch, found the blood-red strand of an all-too familiar cloch, and followed it back. Faintly, she could feel the mind behind the energy—and that person sensed her at the same time.
“Jenna . . .” The voice was a dark husk, the tones familiar. “So you are still alive. I told them you were, but they still hoped . . .”
“Aye, Tiarna, I’m alive. How is my mam? My brother?”
She could feel the surprise in Mac Ard’s mind. “You know?”
“Lámh Shábhála told me.” He didn’t respond. She felt him try to close his mind to her, and she pushed aside the curtains he drew over himself, enjoying the frustration and fear she felt in response. “You can’t hide from me, Mac Ard. I am your bane. You hold the Cloch Mor I gave to my lover, and I intend to take it back.”
“It was mine first, as you know since it was you who stole it from me.”
“Stole? Won it, perhaps, and only after you attacked me twice. If I’d been able to glimpse the future, I’d have killed you then. I left you alive only because of my mam. Tell me about her, Mac Ard.”