Holder of Lightning tc-1

by S L Farrell Неизвестный Автор

  narrowing again, as it had in the keep, all her periph-eral vision gone until there was nothing there but what was directly in front of her. The headache raged in her skull, and she was afraid that if she moved, her head would burst. "Seancoim. ." she wailed.

  "I'm here," his voice answered, and she heard his staff clattering against stone as he moved. "I'll stay with you. Here, drink this."

  He pressed a bowl to her lips. She sipped the warm liquid, hoping irrationally that despite his words it was anduilleaf. It was not: sweet mint tea, with a hint of something else. She swallowed, more eagerly than she expected, for the taste made her realize how hungry and thirsty she was. He gently laid her head back again. "Seancoim, just this once. The mage-lights… it hurts…"

  "I know it does," he told her. "But you can bear it."

  "I can't" she answered, but the words were hard to speak. She was sleepy; she could feel the weariness spreading through her, radiating out from her belly. "Where's O'Deoradhain?" she asked.

  "He'll tell you what's happened…"

  "He's here. Just outside." Seancoim's face was receding, as if she were falling away from him. "And he's told me everything."

  "It hurts," Jenna said again.

  "I know," he answered, but his face was so tiny and his voice so soft and it was easier to close her eyes and give in to the urge to sleep.

  "Seancoim?"

  A hand brushed lank hair away from her face.

  "No, it's Ennis," O'Deoradhain's voice answered. "Seancoim's gone for a bit. Should I go look for him?"

  Her head felt huge and heavy, and the headache still pounded. Her right arm was a log of ice cradled against her stomach. She tried to lift it and couldn't. She couldn't feel her fingers at all. Her body was trembling and despite the chill air, she could feel sweat breaking out on her fore-head. A soft cloth brushed it away. Jenna licked dry, cracked lips. "Thank you," she husked.

  "Feeling better?"

  Her left hand felt for the cloch around her neck. When she felt the she clasped it with a sigh. "Worse,

  I think. I'm not sure." "Here then. He left this; said to have you drink it when you woke up." The bowl touched her lips again and she drank the sweet brew. Afterward, she lay back. O'Deoradhain looked down at her worriedly. There was a across his forehead: a line of dried blood with black thread sewn through it to hold the gaping edges shut, and both his eyes were swollen nearly closed and blackened.

  "What happened to you?" Jenna asked. "Did the Ri's gardai. .?" O'Deoradhain shook his head. He touched the wound, his mouth twisting ruefully.

  "No. After you took in the mage-lights, you collapsed, and this crow came flying past me and an ancient Bunus Muintir appeared right behind me. I thought he was about to attack or cast a spell. I drew my dagger, and all of a sudden the old bastard cracked me on the head with his damned staff, a lot faster and harder than an old blind man had any right to move. ."

  Despite the pain, Jenna found herself chuckling at the image of Seancoim rapping O'Deoradhain over the head with his staff. O'Deoradhain frowned at first, then finally smiled back at her. "I'm glad you find that funny. I assure you I didn't at the time."

  "If you wouldn't go pointing your weapon at people, it wouldn't have happened at all,"

  Seancoim's voice answered from behind O'Deoradhain. A moment later, Denmark fluttered past O'Deoradhain to land at Jenna's left side. She lifted her hand to stroke the glossy black feathers, and the crow cawed back at her. "He was rather insistent about protecting you," Seancoim told her. "Even when he'd been knocked on the skull. Doesn't listen well, either. I had to hit him twice more. I nearly left him there, but I decided that if he brought you this far, he deserved better." Seancoim shooed O'Deoradhain aside. He crouched down next to Jenna's pallet. His gray-bearded, flat face was solemn. The cataract-whitened eyes gleamed in a nest of wrinkled brown flesh. "It's time to get up," he told her. Jenna shook her head. "No. Let me lie here. I couldn't. ." His gnarled, thick-knuckled hand reached down and took her arm. His grip surprised her with its strength as he pulled her up to a sitting position. Her head whirled with the movement, and for a moment she thought she would be sick. "Breathe," he told her. "Slow breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s it."

  She could feel his hand on one side, O’Deoradhain’s on the other, lifting and she shook her head again.

  "It hurts. I don’t want to. ."

  "You will," Seancoim answered. "You are stronger than you think. And there is something you must see." Suddenly she was standing on weak, wobbly legs. The room, she saw for the first time, was less a cave than deep, sheltered hollow below an overhanging limestone cliff. Ahead of her down a grassy embankment was a creek, and beyond that the dark tangle of oaks and brush of the forest.

  They helped her walk down the embankment and out past the vine-fringed cliff wall into sunshine. Jenna squinted, but the heat on her shoulders felt good. The day was warm for the season; she could not even see her breath before her. "Sit here," Seancoim said, and Jenna was happy to do so, sinking down into the blanket of grass. "Look. . Straight across the stream, near the tallest oak."

  Jenna saw it then, in a shifting of shadows as it moved. At first she thought it was simply a stag deer, but then it came out from under the trees, and Jenna gasped as she realized that the animal was huge, taller than O’Deoradhain at the shoulders, with a rack of massive antlers that echoed the great branches of the oaks. Its coat was a brilliant russet with a white, powerful breast, and the black, gleaming hooves were larger than Jenna’s hands. The creature was magnificent, almost regal, as it walked slowly down to the stream’s edge and lowered its crowned head to drink for a moment. Then the head lifted again to gaze across the river to the three people with eyes that seemed calm and intelligent.

  "That’s a fia stoirm," Seancoim said quietly, answering Jenna’s unasked question. "The storm deer. In the Bunus Muintir histories, they speak of herds of them, their hooves so loud pounding against the earth that it sounded like thunder.

  When the sky-magic died, so did they."

  "Our stories are the same," O’Deoradhain said.

  "From the Before, cen-turies ago. But if they all died

  !!

  "Not all," Seancoim answered. "A few survived, hiding in the oldest places. When I was young, I

  once glimpsed a storm deer deep in Doire Coill. But in the past year, I have seen dozens, and not in the depths of the forest but here near the edge. I have seen other things, too, that were once legend and are not as beautiful and gentle as these: dire wolves, who have a language of their own; boars with long tusks as sharp as knives, and whose bristles are gold; snakes with white scales and red eyes, as long as any of us are tall. From my brothers to the west,

  I have learned that a dragon's scream was heard on one of the islands in the Duan Mouth. And from another, that blue seals were gathering along the northern coast. Jenna remembered the seals she'd seen in Lough Lar, the way their satin fur had gleamed. She glanced at O'Deoradhain, but he would not look at her. "The myths are awakening again," Seancoim continued. "Things walk the land that have not been seen in many generations. Even the trees of Doire Coill are more awake now than I have ever felt them."

  Almost as if in response to Seancoim's words, the wind rose slightly and shook the branches of the oaks. The stag's nostrils widened as it sniffed the breeze. The creature took a last look at them before bounding away, its great hooves thudding audibly on the ground as it departed.

  "This is what you are caught in, Jenna," Seancoim said. "Part great beauty, part great danger. As the mage-lights are awakening the old crea-tures, so you are ready to awaken the other clochs na thintri. You will make a new world."

  "I can't," Jenna said. The pain inside her, forgotten for a moment with the sighting of the storm deer, returned. "I don't know how. I'm scared, Seancoim. I'm so. ." She couldn't finish the sentence. The tears came again in racking, terrified sobs, and she wanted more than anything else for her mam to be here, t
o comfort her as she had so many times. She had thought of herself as a woman now, an adult and self-sufficient, but she suddenly felt like a child again.

  It was O'Deoradhain who came to her. "I can help you, Jenna," he told her, crouching down in front of her. "I can't do it for you because Lamh Shabhala has chosen you, but I can help you. If you'll let me."

  His arms went around her, and for a breath she stiffened, ready to pull away. He started to release her, to back away, but she laid her head on his shoulder. She let herself fall into the embrace,

  allowing herself to believe that she was safe in her mam’s arms again, imagining that she was home again and that none of this had ever happened.

  But it wasn’t an illusion that could last.

  "There’s another who will help you as well," she heard Seancoim say. "Or at least, I hope so. We’ll go to him tomorrow."

  Chapter 30: Release

  SHE remembered the valley. The sight of the central dolmen, carved with the pattern of the scars on her arm and surrounded by the passage graves of the Bunus Muintir chieftains, still made her shiver. The day was gray and sullen with rain misting from lowering clouds, the water dripping heavily from the cap-stone of the dolmen as they stood under it. Only Denmark seemed un-bothered by the rain-the crow was perched above the entrance to Riata’s grave, mouth open to the sky and occasionally shaking droplets from his feathers.

  Jenna’s mood matched the weather. Her stomach roiled and she’d thrown up nearly everything that Seancoim had put into her. The head-ache refused to leave, so that at times she could barely walk, and her right arm hung useless at her side. She’d leaned heavily on O’Deoradhain as they’d made the two-day journey to the valley. She remembered little of the time: it was a blur of pain and fatigue. She’d begged Seancoim for anduilleaf off and on, sometimes weeping, sometimes in a fury, once with a threat to use the cloch; he refused each time, though never with anger.

  Jenna sank down with her back against one of the standing stones, not caring that the ground was soaked and muddy. "Now what?" she asked.

  "We wait," Seancoim answered.

  "Here?" Jenna spat.

  "Here, or in Riata’s cairn."

  "Here," O’Deoradhain said. He cast a look at the blackness beyond the stones where Denmark

  roosted, and shivered. "Graves aren't for the living."

  "Riata isn't quite dead," Seancoim told him.

  "Then that's even worse."

  "Can we at least have a fire?" Jenna asked. "I'm cold through."

  O'Deoradhain gathered together what kindling he could find and pulled his tinderbox from his pack, but the spark wouldn't catch despite repeated efforts. "It's too damp," he said finally. Jenna nodded miserably, and Seancoim hunkered down in front of the nest of kindling O'Deoradhain had built. He rubbed his hands together several times, chanting words that Jenna could not understand. He picked up O'Deoradhain's flint and struck it. A blue flame shot out, startling Jenna, and the kindling began to crackle. O'Deoradhain chuckled. "I'm beginning to think that I was lucky you only hit me on the head," he said to Seancoim.

  Seancoim's grizzled, ancient face grinned back at him as he warmed his hands over the flames. "That you were, young man."

  They stayed there under the dolmen as the sun lowered itself beyond the lip of the valley and the valley grew darker under the overcast sky. The rain stopped before sunset; as night fell they began to glimpse stars between the thinning clouds.

  Seancoim and O'Deoradhain talked as they waited, but Jenna said little, sitting on the ground with her knees drawn up and her right arm cradled against her. She stroked Lamh Shabhala from time to time. The cloch seemed almost restless, its image throbbing in her head, filling her vision with bright sparks. There was a tension in the air itself like the drone of some sepulchral pipe, so low that she couldn't quite hear it but only feel the sound, rumbling just below the threshold of perception.

  A finger of light appeared above them, blue outlined in gold, wavering and brightening so that they saw the shadow of the dolmen sway on the ground in response. Jenna rose to her feet.

  "So it is to be tonight… "

  The voice spoke in her head, not in her ears: a resonant, warm baritone. The others looked up as well, as if they'd also heard. "Riata?" Jenna glanced toward the entrance to his tomb. There was a wavering in the dimness, a mist that formed itself

  into a man’s shape as she watched. "Do you remember me?"

  She felt the now-familiar touch of another Holder’s mind on her own, this one more powerful than most, strong enough so that she could not shut him out as he prowled her thoughts and her memories. The spectral figure of the ancient Bunus Holder drifted toward her. Jenna was vaguely aware of the others watching, Seancoim placidly silent, O’Deoradhain with shocked apprehension. "Ahh," Riata sighed. "Jenna. You are the First who came to me once before." More mage-lights had appeared in the sky, brighter and more brilliantly colored than Jenna had seen in previous displays. The largest manifestation was directly overhead, but the mage-lights flickered all the way to the horizon. The entire valley was illumi-nated, as if a thousand fires burned above. Riata’s indistinct face glanced up to them. "Aye," he said. "Tonight."

  Jenna clutched the cloch na thintri. The fingers of her right hand, as if warmed by the glare of the mage-lights, moved easily now and closed around the stone. Lamh Shabhala was frigid in her palm, glowing in re-sponse to the swaying, dancing power above it. Jenna could sense the cloch yearning like a live thing, wanting her to open it, to fill it. The feeling was so urgent and compulsive that it frightened Jenna.

  "Lamh Shabhala craves the power as you crave the anduilleaf," Riata murmured in her head. "You must control Lamh Shabhala as you must control yourself, or it will destroy you utterly when it consumes the mage-lights this night and sets free the other clochs na thintri."

  Riata’s words filled Jenna with dread. Her breath came fast and shallow; she could feel her heart racing. "I can’t do it," she gasped.

  "You can. I will help you."

  "As will I," O’Deoradhain said. He was beside her now. His hand touched Jenna’s shoulder, and she shrugged it away.

  "You want me to fail," she spat at him. "Then you’ll take Lamh Shabhala."

  "Aye, I would if that happened," he told her. His pale emerald eyes regarded her calmly. "But your failure isn’t what I want. Not any longer. You can

  believe me or not, Jenna, but I will help you. I can help you. This is what I was trained to do."

  "Listen to him," Riata husked. "Use the cloch. See the truth even if you want to deny it."

  "You swear that?" Jenna asked O'Deoradhain, and she let the barest hint of the cloch's strength waft outward. Shaping it to her task was like holding one of the piglets back in their farm in Ballintubber: it wriggled, it squirmed to be away, and she could control it only with difficulty.

  "I do swear it," O'Deoradhain answered, and the truth in the words reverberated like the sound of a bronze bell.

  "Then what do I do?" Jenna asked.

  "Start as you always have. Open the cloch to the lights."

  Jenna let the image of Lamh Shabhala fill her mind: the crystalline interstices; the jeweled valleys and hills; the interior landscape of spar-kling energy. Above, the sky responded, a surge of pure white light that was born directly above Jenna and rippled outward in bright spectral rings. The mage-lights flamed, the clouds were driven away as if by hurri-cane winds.

  Lamh Shabhala pulled at the sky-magic, sucking in the power like a ravenous beast. "No!" O'Deoradhain and Riata shouted as one. "You must direct the cloch this time, Jenna," O'Deoradhain continued, his voice shouting in her ear but almost lost in the internal din of the mage-lights as they crackled and seethed around her. "You must go up to the mage-lights, not let Lamh Shabhala bring them down to you."

  "How?" Jenna raged at him. "Do you think I can fly?" This was nothing she had experienced before with the cloch. She seemed to be in the mid-dle of a coruscating storm, flailing a
nd trying to hold her ground, nearly blind and deaf in its brilliance and roar. Riata's voice answered her, calm and soft as always, cutting through the bedlam.

  "Think it," he said, "and it will be."

  Her arm burned, the scars as bright as lightning. She lifted the cloch toward the sky and imagined rising into the maelstrom above. Her per-ception shifted: she was outside herself. She could see her

  body on the ground, arm lifted, and yet she was also above with the mage-lights run-ning through and around and with her, the land spread like a tapestry below. She was Lamh Shabhala; she was the power within it. Voices and shapes surrounded her in the dazzling space and she knew them: all the ones who had held an active Lamh Shabhala before her: Severii O’Coulghan, who like Riata had been Last Holder; Tadhg O’Coulghan, his father who had held it before Severii; Rowan Beirne, Bryth and Sinna Mac Ard; Eilis MacGairbhith, the Lady of the Falls, and Aodhfin O Liathain, the lover who had betrayed and killed her to take the cloch; Caenneth Mac Noll, also a First, and the first Daoine to hold an active Lamh Shabhala. The Bunus Muintir Holders were there too-Riata, Davali, Oengus. There were hundreds of them: Daoine, Bunus Muintir, and peoples unknown to her, stretching back thousands of years. And they spoke, a babble of voices that rivaled the sound of the mage-lights.

  ". So young, this one."

  ’… She’s too young. Too weak. Lamh Shabhala will consume her."

  "… I was a First and I died the night I opened the clochs, as will she. ."

  "… let her undergo the Scrudu, too. Now, before this happens, and if she lives. .

  ’Now is not the time for the Scrudu. She must wait for that test until later, as I did. Lamh Shabhala chose her, and sent her to me." That was Riata, calm. "There is a reason it was her… " "What must I do?" Jenna asked them. Her voice was phosphorescence and glow. A hundred voices answered, a jumble of contradiction. Some were amused, some were hostile, some were sympathetic.

  ". . die!"

  ". . give up the clock while you can…"