Once, the walls must have been decorated-there were flecks of colored pigment clinging to the plaster and her touch caused more of the ancient paintings to crumble and fall away. Here and there were larger patches where she could see traces of what, centuries ago, must have been a mural. Jenna was glad to finally reach the relative spaciousness of the burial chamber. She glanced back: through the passage, she could see the dolmen awash in the brilliant fireworks of the mage-lights.
The burial chamber itself had been constructed with five huge stones, forming the sides and roof. The air was musty and stale, and the room dim, touched only by the reflections of the lights, the cloch na thintri's illumination. At the center of the room was a large, chiseled block of granite, and set there was a pottery urn, glazed with the same swirls and curved lines carved on the lintel stones. Around the urn were beads and pieces of jewelry, torcs of gold and braided silver that glistened in the moving radiance. Clothing had once lain here as well; she could see mouldering scraps of brightly-dyed cloth. These had been funeral gifts, obvi-ously, and the urn undoubtedly held the ashes and bones of Riata. But his specter had vanished.
"Hello?" she called.
Air moved, her hair lifting, and she felt a touch on her shoulder. Jenna cried out, frightened, and the sound rang in the chamber, reverberating. She dropped the cloch na thintri, and as she started to reach for it, the pebble rose from the floor, picked up by a hand that was barely visible in the stone’s glow.
"Aye," Riata’s voice said in her head, full of satisfaction, the tones dark and low. "Tis true. This was once mine." Pale light stroked the lines of his spectral face, sparking in the deep hollows where the eyes should have been. His voice seemed more ominous, touched with hostility. "Or more truthfully, I once belonged to it. Until it was stolen from me and found its way to another."
"I didn’t steal it," Jenna protested, shrinking back against the wall as the shadowy form of Riata seemed to loom larger in front of her. "I found it on the hill near my home, the first time the mage-lights came. I didn’t know it was yours; I never even knew of you. Besides, it’s only a little stone. It can’t be very powerful."
Cold laughter rippled the dead air of the tomb, and the stench of death wafted over Jenna, making her wrinkle her nose and turn her face away. "I don’t accuse you of stealing it," Riata’s voice boomed.
"This cloch na thintri has owned many in its time and will own many more. Davali had it before me, and Oengus before him, and so on, back into the eldest times. And it may be little, but of all the clochs na thintri, it is the most powerful."
"It can’t be," Jenna protested. "Tiarna Mac Ard… he would have said. ." Or he didn’t know, she suddenly realized. She wondered if he would have handed it back to her, if he had.
"Then this tiarna knows nothing. This cloch even has a name it calls itself: Lamh Shabhala, the Safekeeping. The cloch was placed here when I died, on the offering stone you see in front of you. And it was taken over a thousand long years ago-I felt its loss even in death, though I didn’t have strength then to rise. For hands upon hands upon hands of
years I slumbered. Once, centuries ago, the lights came again to wake me and I could feel that Lamh Shabhala was alive with the mage-lights once more.
I called out to Lamh Shabhala and its holder, but no one answered or they were too far away to hear me. With the mage-light's strength, I was able to rise and walk here among the tombs when the mage-lights filled the sky, but few came to this place, and though they were Bunus Muintir, they appeared to be poor and savage, and seemed frightened of me. None of them knew the magic of the sky. I realized then that my people had declined and no longer ruled this land. But someone held Lamh Shabhala, or the lights could not have returned. For unending years I called, every night the lights shone. Then, as they have before, the mage-lights died again, and I slept once more." The shape that was Riata drew itself close to her. "Until now," he said. "When the mage-lights have awakened again."
"Then take the stone," Jenna said. "It's yours. Keep it. I don't want it."
Riata laughed again at that. "Lamh Shabhala isn't mine, nor yours. Lamh Shabhala is its own. I knew it wanted me to pass it on as it had been passed to me. I could feel its desire even though the mage-lights had stopped coming a dozen years before I became sick with my last illness, but I held onto it. There were no more cloudmages left, only people with dead stones around their necks and empty skies above. I believed my cloch to be as dead as theirs; in fact, I prayed that it was so. I should have known it wasn't. Lamh Shabhala is First and Last." The voice was nearly a hiss. "And a curse to its Holder, as 1 know too well, especially the one who is to be First."
The stone hung in the air in front of Jenna, held in invisible fingers. "Take Lamh Shabhala," Riata said. "I pass it to you, Jenna of the Daoine, as I should have passed it long ago. You are the new First Holder."
Jenna shook her head, now more afraid of the stone than of the ghost. Yet her hand reached out, unbidden, and took the cloch from the air. She fisted her hand around the cold smoothness as Riata's laughter echoed in her head.
"Aye, you see? You shake your head, but the desire is there, whether you admit it or not. It's
already claimed you."
Jenna was near to crying. She could feel the tears starting in her eyes, the fear hammering at her heart. The cloch burned like fiery ice in her hand. "You called it a curse to its holder. What do you mean?"
"The power of the land is eternal, as is the power of the water. Their magics and spells, for those who know how to tap and use them, are slower and less energetic than that of the air, but more stable. They are always there, caught in the bones of the land itself, or in the depths of the water. The power within the sky ebbs and flows: slowly, over generations and generations of mortal lives. It has done so since before my people walked from Thall Mor-roinn to this land and found Lamh Shabhala here.
No one knows how often the slow, centuries-long cycle has repeated itself. There were no people here when we Bunus Muintir came to Talamh an Ghlas, but there were the standing stones and graves of other tribes who had once lived here, and we Holders could hear the voices in the stone, one tribe after another, back and back into a past none of us can see. The mage-lights vanished for the Bunus Muintir four times, the last time while I was still alive. The sky-power returned once for you Daoine, then van-ished again. Now the mage-lights want to return again."
Jenna glanced down the passage of the tomb. Multicolored light still touched the dolmen, brightening the valley. "The mage-lights have already returned," Jenna said, but Riata's denial boomed before she could finish.
"No!" he seemed to shout. "This is but the slightest hint of them, the first stirrings of Lamh Shabhala, the gathering of enough power within the stone to open the gates so that all the clochs na thintri may awaken and the mage-lights appear everywhere. For now, the lights follow Lamh Shabhala-and that is the danger. Those who know the true lore of the mage-lights also know that fact. They know that where the lights appear, Lamh Shabhala is also there. And they will follow, because they want to hold Lamh Shabhala themselves."
Jenna continued to shake her head, half understanding, half not want-ing to understand. "But why hold the stone if it's a curse?"
A bitter laugh. "The one who holds Lamh Shabhala gains power for their pain. Some believe that’s more than a fair barter-those who have never held the cloch itself. It’s the First who suffers the most, not those who come after, and you are the First, the one who will open the way. So watch, Jenna of the Daoine. Watch for those who follow the mage-lights, for they aren’t likely to be your friends."
Jenna thought of the riders from Connachta, and she also thought of Mac Ard. But before she could say more, Riata’s shape stirred. "The mage-lights beckon," he said. "They call the stone. Do you feel it?"
She did. The cloch was throbbing in her hand. "Go to them," Riata said. His shape was fading, as was his voice, now no more than a whisper. "Go. ." he said again, and the apparition
was gone. She could feel its absence, could sense that the air of the tomb was now dead and empty. She called to him-"Riata!" — and only her own voice answered, mocking. The mage-lights sent waves of pure red and aching blue-white shimmer-ing down the passage, and Jenna felt the stone’s need, like a hunger deep within herself. She walked down the passage and out into cold fresh air again. The mage-lights wove their bright net above her, a spider’s web of color that stretched and bent down toward her, swirling. She raised her hand, opening her fingers, and the light shot down, surrounding her, enveloping her in its flowing folds. The whirlwind grabbed her hand in its frigid gasp, and she screamed with the pain of it: as the brilliance rose, a sun caught in her fingers, consuming her.
Hues of brilliance pulled at her. Knives of color cut into her flesh. She tried to pull away and could not, and she screamed again in terror and agony.
A flash blinded her. Thunder filled her ears.
Jenna screamed a final time, as the cold fire seemed to penetrate to her very core, her entire body quivering with torment, every nerve alive and quivering.
Then she was released, and she fell into blessed darkness.
Chapter 9: Through the Forest
"JENNA?"
The smell was familiar-a warm breath laden with spice. Jenna opened her eyes to see Seancoim crouching alongside her. The dolmen towered gray above her, rising toward a sky touched with the salmon hues of early morning, and Denmark peered down at her from a perch on the capstone. Jenna blinked, then sat up abruptly, turning to look at the tomb behind her. *Riata," she said, her voice a mere hoarse croak. Her throat felt as if it had been scraped raw, and her right arm ached as if someone had tried to tear it loose from its socket. She could feel the cloch na thintri: cold, still clutched in her fist, and she slipped it back into the pocket of her skirt, grimacing with the effort. Something was wrong with her right hand-it felt wooden and clumsy, and the pain in her arm seemed to emanate from there.
"You saw him?" Seancoim asked, and Jenna nodded. Seancoim didn't seem surprised. "He walks here at times, restless. I've glimpsed him once or twice, or I think I might have."
"He. ."Jenna tried to clear her throat, but the effort only made it hurt worse. She wanted to take her hand out from where it was hidden in the woolen skirt, but she was afraid.". . called me. Spoke to me."
Seancoim's blind eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He opened the leather bag at his side and rummaged inside, pulling out a smaller leather container capped with horn. "Here. Drink this." Jenna reached out. Stopped. The skin of her right hand was mottled, the flesh a swirling pattern of pale gray and white, and the intricate tendrils of whitened flesh ached and burned. Her fingers were stiff, every joint on fire, and the damaged skin throbbed with every beat of her heart. She must have cried out, for Denmark flew down from the capstone to Seancoim's shoulder. The Bunus Muintir took her hand, examining it, pushing back the sleeve of her blouse. The injured area extended just past her wrist.
"Your skin is dead where it's gray. I've seen it before, in people who were caught in a blizzard and exposed to bitter cold," Seancoim said. Jenna felt
tears start in her eyes, and Seancoim touched her cheek. "It will heal in time," he said. "If you don’t injure it further."
"Jenna!" The call came from the ridge above them. Maeve and Mac Ard stood there, her mam waving an arm and scrambling down the slope into the valley, Mac Ard following more carefully after her. Maeve came run-ning up to them, glancing harshly at Seancoim. "Jenna, are you all right? We woke up and saw the lights, and you were gone-"
She noticed Jen-na’s hand then, and her own hand went to her mouth. "Oh, Jenna. ."
Jenna turned the hand slowly in front of her face, a contortion of pain moving across her features as she flexed her fingers slowly. The swirling pattern on her hand echoed the carved lines of the dolmen. Her mam took her wrist gently. "What happened, darling?" she asked, but Jenna saw Mac Ard approaching, and she only shook her head. He had the cloch in his hand, and he gave it back to me. . Mac Ard came up behind Maeve, putting his hands on her shoulders as she examined Jenna’s injury. Jenna saw Mac Ard’s gaze move from her hand to the carvings on the dolmen, then back again. For a moment, their eyes locked gazes, and she tried to keep her emotions from showing on her face. Watch for those who follow the mage-lights, Riata had said. She wondered how much Mac Ard knew or guessed, and if he had, did he regret not keeping the stone when he had it.
"I’m fine, Mam," she said to Maeve. "The pain’s easing already." It was a lie, but Jenna forced a small smile to her face, pulling her hand gently away from her mam.
"I’ll make a poultice that will take away the sting and speed the heal-ing," Seancoim said. "There are anduilleaf flowers still in bloom in the thicket near the camp." His staff tapping the ground ahead of him, he shuffled away between the barrows.
"Jenna," Mac Ard said. "We saw the lights. Did the stone. .?"
"I hold the stone," she answered, far more sharply than she intended. Belatedly, she added: "Tiarna."
His eyes flashed, narrowing, and his hands dropped from Maeve’s shoulders. "Jenna!" her mam said. "After all the tiarna’s risked for us. ."
"I know, but we've risked our own lives as well," Jenna told her, watch the wood. The last time I passed by the valley of the tombs, with a bright moon above, I saw him walking restlessly outside near the dolmen, look-ing up at the night sky. When you came, I realized that it might be that the Last Holder needed to meet the new First, so I made certain our path went by the tombs."
"You know about this cloch, then," she said. "He called it Lamh Shabhala. Can you tell me-what will it do to me? What does it mean to be the First?"
Seancoim shrugged under his furs. "I know the magic of the earth, not the sky, and they're very different. Jenna, it's been four centuries since the mage-lights last came, and you Daoine had Lamh Shabhala then. For the Bunus Muintir. . well, the last time we possessed the cloch you hold was not long after you Daoine came here, an entire age ago. and all the tales have been so twisted and distorted in the tellings and retellings that much of the lore can't be trusted, or is so wrapped with untruths that it's difficult to separate the two. Each time, the cloudmages must learn anew. I can tell you very little that I know with a certainty is true."
"I'm scared, Seancoim," Jenna said, her voice husky and broken.
He stopped. He took her injured hand in his gnarled, wrinkled fingers. "Then you're wiser than anyone else who is searching for Lamh Shabhala," he said.
The land flattened out into a plain, and Jenna noticed that the trees were no longer so closely huddled together. The oaks were now less numerous than maples, elms, and tall firs, and the ground less boggy than the wide valley where Ballintubber sat. The woods grew lighter, with the sky visible between the treetops, and Jenna became aware of the bright singing of birds in the trees above them, a sound that she realized had been missing in Doire Coill. Ahead, they could see where the trees ended at the verge of a large grassy field, which ran slightly downhill to a wide, brown strip of bare earth bordered on either side by a stone fence.
"There is the High Road coming up from Thiar in the west and Bacathair to the south," Seancoim said. He pointed to the left. "That way, the road runs north to cross the Duan at Ath Iseal. Beyond the line of trees on the other side of the road is Lough
Lar, and the High Road runs along-side it. This is the eastern border of Doire Coill, and here I leave you."
"Thank you, Seancoim of the Bunus Muintir," Mac Ard said. "I promise you that I’ll tell Ri Gabair of your help. Is there some way I can have him reward you for bringing us here safely?"
"Tell Ri Gabair to leave Doire Coill alone," Seancoim answered. "That will be reward enough for the few Bunus Muintir who are left."
Mac Ard nodded. Jenna went to Seancoim and hugged him, then stroked Dunmharu’s back.
"Thank you," she said.
"Take care of yourself," Seancoim whispered into her ear. "Be sparing with the anduilleaf; do not
use it unless you must, or you’ll find it difficult to stop. I also think you should be careful about showing the power of the cloch you hold. Do you understand?"
Jenna nodded. She hugged Seancoim again, inhaling his scent of herbs. "I’ll miss you."
"I am always here," he told her. "Just come into Doire Coill and call my name, and I’ll hear it." He let her go, and turned his blind eyes toward Maeve. "Take care of your daughter," he said. "She’ll need your help with the burden she bears."
Maeve nodded. "I know. I thank you also, Seancoim. When I first met you, I didn’t trust you, but you’ve kept your word to us and more."
"Remember that when you look on others," he answered. He gave a short bow to the three of them. "May the Mother-Creator watch your path. Denmark, come-we have our own business to the south." He turned his back to them and walked off into the forest. Jenna watched until his form was swallowed in shadow, and the three of them made their way to the High Road.
Chapter 10: The Taisteal
THE High Road, between the waist-high stone walls that bordered its path, was rough and muddy, with a scraggly growth of grass and weeds in the center between ruts carved by the wheels of carts and car-riages. Mac Ard bent down to look closely at the road. "All the hoof marks are old. No riders have passed this way in a few days," he said. "That makes me feel a bit easier." He stood up, scanning the landscape. "I've come up on this side of Lough Lar a few times. Ath Iseal is no more than ten miles to the north, but there aren't many inns or villages along this side of the lake, so near to Doire Coill. It's too late for us to reach the town today, but we can camp along the lake's shore if we don't come across an inn. Tomorrow morning it should be an easy walk to the ford of the Duan, and once across to Ath Iseal I can hire a carriage to take us to Lar Bhaile." He smiled at Maeve, at Jenna. "We're almost home," he said.
Not our home, Jenna wanted to answer. That's gone forever. She clamped her lips together to stop the words and nodded encouragingly.
They walked through the afternoon. The High Road followed the line of Lough Lar, sometimes verging close enough that they could see the blue waters of the lake just to their right. At other times, the road turned aside for a bit to climb the low, wooded hills that held the lake in their cupped hands. As they approached the narrow end of the lake, the dark woods of Doire Coill turned westward and gave way to large squares of farmed and grazed land, defined with tidy stone fences. Occasionally, they would pass a gate in the fence that bordered the High Road, with a lane leading far back to a hidden farmhouse set a mile or more from the road. Jenna, used to the small homesteads and farms of Ballintubber, was amazed by the size of some of the fields. They saw workers in those fields, and once had to stand aside as a hay wagon drawn by a pair of tired, old horses squealed and creaked its way past them. The driver looked at them curiously, and said little to Mac Ard's hail. They passed no one at all on the road going in their direction.
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