Holder of Lightning tc-1

by S L Farrell Неизвестный Автор

  "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 Mor. 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 de-stroyed 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 reinforce-ments."

  Jenna heard little of the end of it. Talking of the battle brought back snatches of memory: Aron’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 Mac-Eagan, 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 Rl Ard and Tanaise Rig to bring their armies here. You're not responsible for their actions, Jenna, only your own. Do I mourn Aron? 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 Rl 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 Aron 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. Aron? — aye, I'll mourn him, and I'll remember what was good and try to forget the rest."

  The Rl MacBradaigh 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. Moister Cleurach says that there was once a healing stone among the Clochs Mor, but he doesn't know who holds it. There were reputedly clochmion with the same skill though with less potency; Moister Cleurach is asking if anyone among us holds one, but he doesn't know that even a clochmions would have the ability to help. The Rl 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 Dun Kiil. But they’re coming in now-we al-ready 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 Ri 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 Lamh Shabhala 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 Lamh Shabhala 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 Aron’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 Lamh Shabhala’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 Lamh Shabhala 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 leine and disappeared under the white cloth. Her right hand felt like a frozen stone in her palm. She half-closed her eyes, willing the fin-gers 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 Lamh Shabhala 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."

  Chapter 59: Death on the Field

  THE mage-lights rippled and flowed, and Lamh Shabhala suckled at them like a ravenous infant, drawing down the power. Jenna sagged, her knees buckling with the sense 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 Mor of MacEagan, Aithne, Moister Cleurach, 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 giotar. She reached out with the cloch, found the blood-red strand of an ail-too familiar cloch, and followed it back. Faintly, she could feel the mind be-hind 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. 1 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?"

  "Lamh Shabhala told me." He didn’t respond. She felt him try to c
lose 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."

  Again, he threw up a shield; she broke it down as quickly. He tried to mask the flare of anger he felt, and that pleased her. Grudgingly, he an-swered. "Maeve’s well enough, and waiting in Falcarragh with my son."

  The mention of the child, her half brother, made her think of the baby in her own womb, the child she would never see. "Your bastard, you mean."

  "I love Maeve, Jenna, as I’ve told you before, and I treat her as well or better than any wife. I have acknowledged publicly that the child is mine; there’s no secret there. No matter what you want to believe, Jenna, I’m no monster. I never was your enemy. Never. You forced that upon yourself, like all the rest."

  "Aye, none of this could possibly be your fault," Jenna taunted. "You’re so faultless and noble."

  "Your mam misses you," Mac Ard said, ignoring

  the comment, "and she is afraid for you. I think she may even be afraid of you after what you did in Lord Bhaile. And she hates this war."

  "As do I."

  "Then end it, Jenna. Surrender yourself and Lamh Shabhala and we can negotiate a peace. You can't win this, Jenna. Inish Thuaidh can't stand alone against all the Tuatha."

  Jenna sent scorn hurtling through the mage-lights, not allowing him to see the doubts that his statement caused to stir within her. "Believe what you will. Tell Nevan that I remember his words at Lord Bhaile, how he said that everyone must know that the arm of Dun Laoghaire is long. Well, I know that now, but he will find that the arm of Inish Thuaidh may not reach as far, but it is stronger. Tell him that." Lamh Shabhala was full. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of completeness and power that the lights gave her. She released the cloch.

  Mac Ard and the rest of the clochs na thintri vanished. The mage-lights began to dim in the sky.

  The Ri MacBradaigh died that night.

  The Comhairle met briefly in the Banrion's tent, deciding that the issue of a successor must wait, though they gave control of the Inish forces to Tiarna MacEagan. After a long conference, it was decided to strike Dun Kiil in three groups: the largest force taking the heights on which the keep sat, and two pincer arms coming in from the west and east alone the lower valley where the main roads ran. The west and east attacks would occur simultaneously, hopefully diverting the attention of the Rl Ard's forces and drawing them down toward the harbor so that the assault on the keep would have the advantage of surprise. They already knew that the Rl Ard, the Tanaise Rig, and most of the Tuathian Mages were in the keep, and it was there that the battle would be won or lost. There were secret passages into the keep that the Riocha had used for centuries to flee or enter in secret: the Banrion sent Tiarna O Beollain of Baile Nua along with several squads of soldiers along those hidden paths with the task of opening the gates and doors of the keep from the inside as the main force approached.

  As for the cloudmages, two would go with each of

  the initial waves both to protect them and so that they appeared to be legitimate attacks: Mundy and another Brathair were assigned to the eastern forces and Moister Cleurach and the new cloudmage with the west. MacEagan, Aithne, and Jenna would remain with the main force.

  The encampment woke before the dawn and began to move, assem-bling in the narrow valley, then moving up toward the low pass to the south. Their faces grim and set, they left behind the tents of the camp followers and their families as well as those too seriously wounded to walk. Many of those who went with the army were limping or still bearing blood-stained bandages from the battle a few days before, Jenna no less than any of them.

  She walked with the cloudmages in the midst of the column: Banrion Aithne, MacEagan, Galen, Moister Cleurach, Mundy, and two other Brathairs of the Order, one of them new to his Cloch Mor.

  Jenna felt as if she were walking into the face of her own doom.

  Not long after noon, they were within a few miles of the city. There, the forces divided, and the main group waited for a few candle stripes to allow the others to begin the encirclement. Finally, with the sun already lowering in the west, they rose and started to climb up the long slope to the plateau where Dun Kiil Keep stood brooding and weeping over its town.

  Jenna plodded along with the others. There was very little talk, all of them lost in their own reveries, their own hopes and fears, wondering perhaps if they would still be alive after this day.

  Jenna felt only a dull fatalism. The miles she’d trudged that day had been exhausting on their own, a challenge for the slowly healing cuts and scrapes of her body, for muscles torn and taken to their limits only a few days before. She shivered under her thick woolen cloca, and her right arm was a block of flesh-colored ice against her side.

  If Jenna herself was quiet, the voices inside Lamh Shabhala were not.

  ". . this is too soon. The last time nearly killed you…"

  ". . you’ll be with us, one of the ghosts within Lamh Shabhala, yammering at the next Holder… "

  "Be still!" The voice was a near-roar in the mental din: Riata's voice. "Leave her alone if you have nothing to say that will help her."

  "Riata!" Jenna thought to him, closing her mind's ears to the rest of them. "I'm so scared."

  "Those who are the bravest are those who know what they face and still go to meet it," Riata answered.

  "I'm not brave," Jenna answered. "I just want this to be done and over, even though…" She couldn't say the words. But Riata knew or guessed her thoughts.

  "If you want to live, then you must use what you've learned. Go deeper into the stone, Jenna. Remember where you went at Bethiochnead. Find that place again."

  "I don't know if I can. I only glimpsed it once, in pain and desperation. Riata, I don't care if I live. Not anymore. It doesn't matter."

  "Find it!" Riata insisted, then his voice was gone again, drowned in the babble of the other Holders. Jenna forced them away from her, shoving them back down into the recesses of Lamh Shabhala.

  "Are you all right?" She heard MacEagan's voice only faintly. Opening her eyes, Jenna realized that her hands were clasped over her ears as if the voices of the Holders had been physical and real.

  She lowered them, shiv-ering as the cold reality of the mountains returned to her.

  "I'm fine," she told him. Alby was standing just behind the tiarna, his soft hands around the hilt of a sword. "Is it time?"

  "Nearly." MacEagan's gaze moved off to the ridge beyond which the Keep stood. "No matter how this ends, it will be remembered. The bards will be singing of it for the rest of time."

  "I hope you have the chance to hear that song."

  He didn't notice the stress on the "you." "So do I," MacEagan answered. "Win or lose, I've sent too many people to their graves today." He smiled wanly at her. "Of course, if we lose, I won't have to worry about the guilt, will I now? And if we win, why, I can console myself with the necessity of it all. I wonder if every leader feels that way."

  "I doubt most of them think of it at all," Jenna answered.

  He chuckled quietly; at the same time, the bass growl of thunder rolled loud from the south and west of them. A thunderhead appeared there, dark against the bright sky. "Moister Cleurach and Stormbringer," he said. "It’s begun." Already the soldiers were rushing all around them, and the banner of Inish Thuaidh waved at the head of the column. They began to move quickly, a bright swarm over the rocks and mosses of the hills.

  Jenna heard the faint clamor of battle as they crested the rise. The tri-towered ramparts of the keep were black outlines drawn on the sky, the t
own unseen past the cliffs of the Croc a Scroilm, but the wind off the bay sent to them the ringing of iron and bronze and the cries of the combat Jenna opened Lamh Shabhala as they reached the summit: aye, the Clochs Mor were awake now and fighting. So far at least, MacEagan’s tactics had been successful-the clochs were all intent on the two arms already attacking the town, perhaps waiting for Lamh Shabhala to appear in one place or the other. There were Clochs Mor awake in the keep and not yet engaged-Mac Ard’s among them-but she could feel their attention focused outward.

  That could not last long, she knew. She wondered how close they would get before someone on the walls looked behind and saw them.

  It wasn’t long. There was no outcry that Jenna heard, but she felt the shift in attention within Mac Ard. "Now!" she cried aloud to MacEagan and Aithne. "They know we’re here."

  Gouts of too-red fire spat from the window of the northernmost tower, rushing toward the front ranks of the troops. Jenna stretched Lamh Shabhala’s fingers toward them, touching each with the cloch’s power: they exploded in brilliant flame a hundred yards short of the target. A cheer went up from the Inishlanders and they began to run toward the keep. Jenna heard the first ululations of the caointeoireacht na cogadh, shrieking from their throats as they charged toward the castle. .

  . . she ran with them, half blind with the overlay of the cloch-vision. The rush carried her along, and she glimpsed MacEagan and Aithne near her. The air was loud with the keening and the rattling of mail and the thudding of feet on the earth. .

  . . even as the last glare of the fireballs faded, Jenna ripped at the tower with the cloch as if tearing the stones apart with her own hand- great blocks tumbled away from the window where Mac Ard had been. He was a raging, throbbing scarlet in the cloch-vision, like a volcano spewing lava. Jenna could feel the heat of him, and she countered with the cold of the void, wrapping him in blue-white ice, placing more and more of it around him as he melted away each layer desperately. The glow was beginning to dim as he poured more energy from his Cloch Mor to keep her away, and for a moment, she dared to believe that she could end it here. .