"He may have tried to do so. But it remains that Tiarna O Dochartaigh disrupted the holiday, destroyed the Ri’s property, and killed several of his subjects. That isn’t eraic; that is lawlessness and a breaking of the oaths of fealty and peace we’ve all sworn to the Comhairle and the Ri. The Comhairle should still recommend that the Ri issue the warrant against him."
Banrion Aithne rose then, nodding to MacEagan. "And I, sadly, must agree with Tiarna MacEagan." Her voice was tinged with soft regret. "Even though Aron is my brother, he has violated the peace of the Ri and de-serves to pay for that. ."
Jenna wondered why Aithne would argue against Aron, but Moister Cleurach leaned toward her and whispered. "Oh, she’ll make him pay-by bleeding his personal estate dry to come up with the honor-price against the warrant and replacing him in the Comhairle with another tiarna whose gratitude will give her his vote. Leave it to the Banrion to turn her brother’s rash judgment to her own advantage."
The Banrion continued to speak."… but Tiarna Ciomhsog is also correct in that the hostage taking is now eraic, and neither the Comhairle or the Ri can interfere in that." Aithne looked directly at Jenna, and though the sorrow still throbbed in her voice, her gaze was as hard as "int. "I wish it were different, First Holder. I wish the decision weren't so painful and difficult for you, or that I had wise counsel to give you. I don't. You must make your own decision as to how to respond to the eraic's demands. I can only offer myself as your servant to carry Lamh Shabhala to my brother, if that is what you decide."
Chapter 47: Voices
SHE wished she could speak with Seancoim. She wished she could sink into her mam's arms and simply sob. She wished Ennis were there, warming the other side of her bed.
But the night was cold and empty, and there was no one but Jenna herself and the voices inside Lamh Shabhala. She stroked the stone, listening. .
". . give it up! Aye, it will hurt and may even kill you, but holding the clock will end up being more pain for you than this, and death is a final release. Save the man you love… "
". . give up Lamh Shabhala, and you'll die unhappy and young. You'll hate him for having made you lose the cloch, that wonderful love of yours will turn sour and bitter and you'll end up with nothing. Nothing at all… "
". . go there yourself and attack the man. If you lose, at least you've fought… "
". . only a stupid fool would give up Lamh Shabhala for a lover… "
". . only an utterly selfish one would keep it at the cost of a lovers death…"
"Riata, talk to me," Jenna said, but if his voice was there in the babble, she couldn't distinguish it from the dozens of others. Jenna rolled from the bed, grimacing as the healing wounds and burns pulled and com-plained, and went over to a chest at the foot. Under the clothing were nestled the tore of Sinna Mac Ard and the carved blue seal her father had made. She picked up the seal, caressing it and
holding it against Lamh Shabhala. A moment later, the moonlight streaming in from the windows shimmered, and she was looking at the interior of her cottage in Ballintubber, and her da glanced up in surprise. "Who are you?" he asked, as he had every time.
And as she had every time, she told him, and watched his disbelief slowly turn to acceptance. She told him about Mac Ard and Maeve, about Ennis. "I don't know what to do, Da," she said finally, unable to stop the tears. "1 don't know. ."
Niall put down the block of wood he was carving. He walked toward her and a hand went out to touch her in comfort, but it moved through her as if Jenna were no more substantial than air. He looked at his hand as if it had somehow betrayed him. "What if it were you, Da?" Jenna continued as Niall stared at the offending fingers. "What if holding the cloch meant that you lost Mam?"
"I never held a cloch na thintri when it was alive," he answered. "It's not hard to give up something that had little value to you. I would give away a thousand stones like that to keep Maeve." He put his knife to the wood and a brown shaving curled away. "I'm sorry, Jenna. Truly I am. But I can't help you; I can't imagine needing to make the choice or the choice being that important." His sad, lost eyes gazed at her, and she was struck by the softness of his face and his hands. He wouldn't have been strong enough to hold Lamh Shabhala. It would have destroyed him. The thought was so like the cold, judgmental voices she'd heard in her head that she gasped, knowing it was her own voice she heard. She opened her hand and the carving fell to the floor. "Da, I'm sorry. ." she whispered as Niall and the cottage vanished, leaving her alone in the room.
She left the carving where it fell, picking up a shawl and leaving her chambers. The guards posted outside started to follow her, but she ges-tured to them to stay. She hurried down the stairs and corridors of the keep and outside to the courtyard.
"I need to go down to the town," she told one of the pages on duty there, and he scurried off to wake the stable master and bring a carriage. Half a stripe later, she left the carriage at one end of the wharf. "Stay here," she said to the driver. "I'll be back soon."
In the darkness, the harbor area was quiet, though she could hear laughter and singing from the tavern facing the docks, and the waves lapped the piers as mooring ropes groaned and hulls knocked gently against pilings. Jenna strode quickly to the end of the wharf where she and Ennis had gone the night of the Feast of First Fruits. She walked from the planks onto the wet, dark boulders there and sat, staring out over the water. She touched Lamh Shabhala, her attention drifting with its energy over the sea, calling.
There was an answer. Several minutes later, as she sat shivering in the cold night breeze, a head appeared in the waves, the waves splashing white and phosphorescent around it. A grunting warble: "Sister-kin." The Saimhoir hauled itself awkwardly out of the water and onto the pebbled beach.
"You knew," Jenna said. It was not so much an accusation as a state-ment, nor did Thraisha deny it. "When we left, you told him ’Farewell’”
“You knew."
The black eyes glinted in moonlight. Blue light shimmered in the satin fur, mottled with the pattern of the mage-lights. She smelled of brine and fish. "I knew that my land-cousin wasn’t with you in my foretelling, and I had the sense that I wouldn’t see him again."
Tears filled Jenna’s eyes with that, and Thraisha waddled over until she could put her head in Jenna’s lap. Jenna stroked the silken fur, crying. A drop fell near Thraisha, and she lapped at the water, tasting it. "Why do you give the salt water?" Thraisha asked. "Is it an offering to your gods?"
"No," Jenna answered, sniffing. "I’m crying because I know that I could change your vision. All I have to do is give up Lamh Shabhala."
"You can’t do that." It was not a warning or a caution, only a statement of fact.
"Why not?" Jenna railed. "Why shouldn’t I?
What’s Lamh Shabhala brought me that’s so wonderful I can’t bear to let it go? I’ve lost my mam, lost my home. I’ve had to endure more pain than I thought possible; I’ve killed people and had them try to kill me." She yanked the stone from around her neck, holding it in her hand, the chain dangling. "Why not give it up?" she shouted. She took her arm back, bringing it forward with a sharp, throwing motion.
But there was no answering splash out in the water. Her hand remained closed and when she opened it, the stone was still there, glinting in her palm.
"Jenna, stroke my back." Jenna placed Lamh Shabhala around her neck again, and reached down to Thraisha, her fingertips grazing wet fur: "No-harder, so you can feel beneath," Thraisha told her. Jenna rubbed the patterned fur, and underneath the skin of her back and sides, she could feel the lines of hard ridges. "Those are scars and wounds that are still healing," Thraisha said. "Not from harpoons or the teeth of the seal-biter. These are from my own kind, because they wanted what I have and tried to take it from me. Because they think that I'm wrong in what I do.
Her front flippers slapped rock as she moved, and Jenna saw that the left one was torn, as was her tail. "So it's no different for you."
"No, sister-k
in." In the cloch-hearing, Thraisha gave a bitter laugh, as Jenna's own ears heard a soft warbling. "Stone-walkers and Saimhoir both came from the loins of the Miondia, and those lesser gods are all brothers and sisters from the womb of the same deity, even if we give Her different names-We are cousins and share more traits than we like to admit. There are a few who believe as I do, but only a few."
"What is it that you believe?"
Thraisha looked up at Jenna. "That we're to do more with the gifts we've been given than use them as weapons. That we who come First can mark this time and shape it so that it will be different and better than all the times the mage-lights have come in the past. That your fate and your choices-yours, sister-kin-are important to the Saimhoir because you hold Lamh Shabhala, who opened the way for all and who might still guide us." She huffed, her nostrils flaring at the end of the dark muzzle. "But there aren't many who agree with me. Most believe that Saimhoir and stone-walkers should stay apart, that our changeling land-cousins are abominations, and that the Bradan an Chumhacht should be used only for the needs of the Saimhoir. 'The stone-walkers live on the dry stones and their concerns aren't ours. We only meet them at the water's edge, and that's not enough. Use your gift
for your own kind.’ That’s what they tell me."
"I hear the voices of all the old Holders," Jenna said. "I’ve never heard any of them speak much of the Saimhoir."
Again the laugh. "Then perhaps it’s time one did."
"I didn’t want this," she said. "I didn’t ask for it."
"I know," Thraisha answered. "I didn’t either. But it’s ours, and the question is what will we do with it."
"You’ve already seen it in your foretelling. You’ve seen my death and yours. You’ve seen it all fail."
A cough, a moan. "Perhaps. Or, as you said, maybe that was only a vision of what could be, not what must be." Her head lay back on Jenna’s lap, as if she were tired. "What do you think Ennis would tell you?"
"He would tell me not to worry about him and to do what I felt was right." She stroked Thraisha’s head. "It should have been Ennis with Lamh Shabhala. Not me. It would have been better that way."
"It wasn’t what Lamh Shabhala wanted," Thraisha answered. "It chose you, and there was a reason for that."
"Then it should tell me what it is."
"I think it has," Thraisha answered. "You just haven’t listened. You need to listen now-to your head, not your heart."
"But Ennis…"
"Ennis is lost," Thraisha said. "I think you know that."
"No!" Jenna shouted the denial, screamed the word as if she could burn away the void inside her with the fury as she scrambled to her feet, pushing Thraisha away. In the tavern, the singing stopped, and someone opened the door, spilling yellow light over the dock and silhouetting a man’s figure. "I won’t let him be lost!"
"Hello out there!" the figure called. A few other heads appeared behind it. "Is everything all right?"
"I’m. . fine," Jenna said, turning to wave at the people in the tavern door. "Sorry. I just. . slipped."
The door closed. After a moment, the singing started up again.
When Jenna turned back, Thraisha was gone. The waves lapped the stones silently.
Chapter 48: Glenn Aill
THE party that left Dun Kiil on horseback was tiny: Jenna, Moister Cleurach, the Banrion Aithne and a quartet of gardai along with six attendants. They were escorted for the first day by the Rl and several tiarna and bantiarna of the Comhairle and their followers, but the others turned back when they came within sight of Sliabh Mlchinniuint, where long ago Mael Armagh had been defeated by Severii O'Coulghan. The group traveled on alone: beyond the townland of Dun Kiil into Maoil na nDreas and Ingean na nUan, and finally past the leaning, gray stone marker of the O Dochartaigh clan.
Jenna could well believe that Rubha na Scarbh could effectively hide Aron O Dochartaigh or a thousand others. The landscape was violent and wild, with sudden cliffs, great mountains of greenery-hung granite; boulder-clogged lowlands and hummock-strewn bogs. Mist and clouds draped the slopes and thunder rumbled in the valleys. They followed wandering sheep and goat trails or no path at all, coming upon "villages" of three or four houses where suspicious, grimy faces peered at them from shuttered windows. For every mile they traveled northwest, it seemed they traveled four up and down, or had to detour for half a day around an escarpment that flung itself across their path.
They saw a herd of storm deer, their hooves striking sparks from the rocks, the noise of their passage obliterating the storm. The next night, wind sprites lit the air around them in the mist and fog. From the pine wrests bristling on the mountains came the howls of wolves that sounded 'like sibilant, long chants. Red, glowing eyes watched them from the darkness, and once there was a call that none of them could identify at all-chilling long moan that raised the hair on the back of their necks, then was answered from across the valley.
"The land is changing," Moister Cleurach said.
"The Old Ones are slowly waking from their long sleep. You woke them, Jenna."
A rider had come up to their party that morning, as they moved deeper into O Dochartaigh’s land. A white banner fluttered from his spear, and his scabbard was empty of its sword. He’d glanced at Jenna, Moister Cleurach and their escorts, then handed the Banrion a note. "I wasn’t told the Holder would be coming, or the Inishfeirm Moister," the man said. "The tiarna… "
"Is my brother so defenseless that a dozen riders are a threat to him?" the Banrion asked, and the man flushed.
"The Holder-"
"— wishes to see that the hostage is delivered into her hands as was promised," the Banrion snapped. "Nothing more. Tell Aron that she is here to give him the eraic he demanded. Or if he prefers, we can ride back to Dun Kiil and he can be content with nothing."
Jenna had remained silent, staring back as the rider’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. Then, with an arrogant sniff, he wheeled around and galloped away. The Banrion had unrolled the parchment. "He’ll meet us at Glenn Aill," she said. Her eyebrows raised as she glanced at Jenna. "This is what you want, isn’t it, First Holder?"
Jenna felt a flush rise in her cheeks. "I don’t know of any other way to get Ennis back." Moister Cleurach came up to them, listening. Jenna couldn’t look at him, afraid of what Aithne might see if she did.
The Banrion seemed mostly amused by Jenna’s statement. "Love is a phantom, Holder. It lives but a few years, then withers away and leaves you wondering how you could have ever thought you liked this sad per-son sharing your bed." She paused, her head tilting slightly as she re-garded Jenna. "I think we’re more alike than you want to believe, Jenna, and I certainly wouldn’t give up what you have for that."
"I suppose I don’t have your cynicism, Banrion."
Moister Cleurach, grunted but said nothing.
Aithne smiled at Jenna. would call it realism,
Holder. Besides, your sacrifice leaves my brother as the Holder of Lamh Shabhala."
"I would have thought that was something you might prefer."
"Love is a phantom," Aithne repeated, "whether 'tis between lovers o between siblings. I hold no illusions as to whether Aron would allow any lingering affection for me to stand in the way of what he wants."
"And that is…?"
"He would like to see a true Rl sitting on the throne at Dun Kiil, one who wouldn't need or want the Comhairle. With Lamh Shabhala, he could well have that." Her gaze lingered on Jenna, and Aithne seemed to sigh. "I wish you trusted me more, Holder. I think we both actually want the same thing." She kicked heels into her horse's side.
"Does she know?" Moister Cleurach asked softly as the Banrion moved up the trail. Jenna shook her head.
"I don't think so."
"We may have made a mistake in not telling her."
"If so, it's already made," Jenna answered. "We've gone too far to take the chance now."
The Banrion stopped, looking back at the two of them. She waved her
arm. "We go this way," she said.
They were in their second day of storm.
" Tis no worse than others I've seen," Moister Cleurach said. "The sea is a fey mistress and we're no more than a speck in her hand-there's no escaping her whims, not in Inish Thuaidh."
Jenna huddled sullen and miserable on her horse. The reedcoat she wore flapped in the gale force winds that shredded the gray-black clouds above and pushed them firmly across the sky. The persistent and steady rain, blown nearly horizontal, had penetrated every fold and gap in the reedcoat and plastered her hair to her skull under the hood she held over her face. Her mount plodded through the deluge, great clumps of mud clinging to her hoofs and fetlocks, her mane dripping and the leather saddle and reins sodden. The clouds ran aground on the tops of the steep mountains to either side of them, a thousand dancing and splashing rills and streams plummeting down their sides toward the river whose banks they followed.
It helped, a little, that the others in their small party were suffering with her. Moister Cleurach sniffled and coughed, the gardai and retainers grumbled and muttered. Only the Banrion Aithne seemed unaffected by the weather, sitting uncomplaining on her black mare as she peered around her.
"Another few hours," she said. "We’re nearly there."
Glenn Aill emerged from the storm and haze like an apparition: a curving half-moon rampart of native stone thirty or forty feet high, its horns ’acing outward toward them. Huddled high on a steep mountainside and adorned with draperies of vine and moss, the fortification could have been part of the landscape. Dour, small windows peered out from two towers at either end of the structure; a single massive oaken door at the center led out into a cramped, winding path through fifty yards of chevaux de frise: pointed, tall rocks set like thousands of teeth bristling in the gums of the earth, through which an army would have trouble advancing at any speed. The rocks gave way to a long, sloping meadow separated by stone fences into dozens of small fields planted with various crops or grazed by sheep, all running down to a narrow black lough that filled the valley in front of them. A stone-walled bridge with wooden planks arched over the water. No more than two riders could have ridden across it*abreast. "Glenn Aill was built over two hundred years ago and has never been taken by force of arms, though there have been attempts," the Banrion said. "Beyond the walls is the keep, also built of stone. Even if the outer wall and keep were overrun, there are corridors leading back into caverns in the mountain where you could hide forever, or come out far from here."
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