Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  PART ONE: - BETRAYAL

  Chapter 1 - Crow in the Trees (A Prologue)

  Chapter 2 - Arrivals

  Chapter 3 - Banrions

  Chapter 4 - A Gifting

  Chapter 5 - Caught in Mage-Light

  Chapter 6 - A Clochmion’s Use

  Chapter 7 - Morning Affairs

  Chapter 8 - Preparations

  Chapter 9 - The Coming Storm

  Chapter 10 - Fiodóir’s Meal

  Chapter 11 - The Battle of the Narrows

  Chapter 12 - The Wreck of the Uaigneas

  Chapter 13 - In the Bracken

  Chapter 14 - An Ard’s Funeral

  PART TWO: - DIVISION

  Chapter 15 - On the Stepping Stones

  Chapter 16 - The Voice of Vengeance

  Chapter 17 - Meeting the Taisteal

  Chapter 18 - A Soul to the Mother

  Chapter 19 - The Council of the Clans

  Chapter 20 - The Blue Ghosts

  Chapter 21 - Breath of Fire

  Chapter 22 - The Battle of Ceangail Valley

  Chapter 23 - The Shape of a Future

  Chapter 24 - The Dragon of Thall Coill

  Chapter 25 - Choices Made

  Chapter 26 - The Pattern’s Dance

  Chapter 27 - The Rí Ard

  Chapter 28 - A Binding to Stone

  PART THREE - ALLIANCE

  Chapter 29 - Another Binding

  Chapter 30 - The Haunted Ship

  Chapter 31 - The Scrúdú of Bethiochnead

  Chapter 32 - The Battle of the Narrows, Reprised

  Chapter 33 - Arruk Encounter

  Chapter 34 - Movements

  Chapter 35 - Arrows and Trees

  Chapter 36 - The Terrible One

  Chapter 37 - Reunion

  Chapter 38 - The Eyes of the Storm

  Chapter 39 - Revenge

  Chapter 40 - On the Cnocareilig

  Chapter 41 - Triple Hearts and Broken Walls

  Chapter 42 - Responses

  Chapter 43 - The Bán Cailleach’s Demands

  PART FOUR - CONFRONTATION

  Chapter 44 - The Battle of the Four Lakes

  Chapter 45 - Meetings and Offers

  Chapter 46 - Conclave of the Aware

  Chapter 47 - Memories and Maggots

  Chapter 48 - At Tory Coill

  Chapter 49 - Bunús Wall

  Chapter 50 - Traitors and Allies

  Chapter 51 - A Holder Revealed

  Chapter 52 - The Defense of Ceangail

  Chapter 53 - In Tory Coill

  Chapter 54 - Negotiations with the Enemies

  Chapter 55 - A Meeting of Friends

  Chapter 56 - Maneuverings and a Skirmish

  Chapter 57 - The Unstoppable Flood

  Chapter 58 - Death in the Family

  PART FIVE - DECISIONS

  Chapter 59 - Bethiochnead and Cnocareilig

  APPENDICES

  Raves for Heir of Stone:

  “Readers will be grateful for the extensive appendixes, which include a cast list, a glossary and a brief history. While the pace can be leisurely at times, Farrell continues to shine as one of the strongest voices in the Celtic fantasy subgenre.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Farrell’s smashing series outdoes itself with each new volume. This one constitutes a wonderful tale of transformations, personal for Sevei and Kayne, global for the evolving consciousness of two species in conflict. Good enough to be cast in gold.”—Booklist (Starred Review)

  “An atmosphere of ancient Celtic magic is effortlessly brought to life by Farrell’s colorful and fast-paced style. In classic sword-and-sorcery style, plots and intrigue abound and danger and dark magic lurk at every turn.”—Locus

  “This spirited and vivid fantasy continues a compelling saga that will appeal to fantasy fans, particularly those who enjoy strong female heroines and Celtic lore. This book is perfect for teens who enjoy well-crafted fantasies with lots of battles and magic.”—VOYA

  The Cloudmages

  HOLDER OF LIGHTNING

  MAGE OF CLOUDS

  HEIR OF STONE

  Copyright © 2005 by Stephen Leigh.

  All rights reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1315

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  First Paperback printing, January 2005

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-09848-6

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This one’s for Denise, alone, who is my Lámh Shábhála:

  my strength and my love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sonic inspiration this time around: Capercaillie still found lots of play in iTunes. A new group this time around is Gaelic Storm (also known as the “Steerage Band” from the movie Titanic); I’ve enjoyed listening to their CDs that I’ve picked up and also put in iTunes. I’ve also come across a local group called Roger Drawdy and the Firestarters who do Celtic-based rock and who are a riot to see in person. Dead Can Dance also spent some time being played, even though they’re more Middle Eastern-influenced than northern Celtic—I think of them as my “Arruk” group. In honor of the passing of their harpist, I also put several of my Chieftains CDs on. And, as always, the Osna CD received a few plays, especially with Jenna’s scenes. And Kate Bush, a long-time favorite, found some time in the rotation while I was writing—her evocative vocals seemed to fit.

  The Celtic Way of Life by the Curriculum Development Unit (The O’Brien Press Ltd., 1998), is a small but interesting book giving an overview of daily life among the Celtic people of Ireland; it served as a quick source of inspiration for some of the aspects of life in the fictional Talamh an Ghlas.

  For a more detailed and in-depth look, The Course of Irish History by Professors T. W. Moody and F.X. Martin (Roberts Rinehart Publishers, 1995) proved invaluable. The book is essential reading for anyone interested in a detailed and well-researched overview of the history of Ireland.

  My apologies in advance to speakers of Irish Gaelic. Through the book, I have borrowed several terms from Irish and though I’ve made my best attempt, any mistakes in usage (and I’m sure there are many) are my own and are due to my limited understanding of the language.

  I also need to express my gratitude to Sheila Gilbert: for seeing the initial story and loving it, and for invariably giving me fabulous editorial suggestions that made each of the novels thus far a better book. Sheila, thanks for making me part of the “family” at DAW.

  If you’re connected to the internet, my web site can be accessed from www.farrellworlds.com—you’re always welcome to browse through.

  PART ONE:

  BETRAYAL

  1

  Crow in the Trees (A Prologue)

  THE PINES NEAREST TORIN Mallaghan sighed in the wind as if weary of holding up their branches. Underneath his boots, the ground was carpeted by a thick, soft covering of needles. The man kicked at a brown drift poole
d around his toes: dry and pale on top, below the needles were wet and so dark as to be almost black. They clung to the slick, polished leather of his boots—he would have to have one of the servants clean them tonight. The wind gusted in the high branches, sending a momentary drizzle of green, fragrant needles down over his well-made, intricately-embroidered clóca. He brushed them away, looking up at the swaying branches fringing the overcast sky. A crow darted and swooped through the trees, coming to rest on a nearby branch. Torin scowled at the creature and kicked again at the well-needled ground, looking for a rock to throw at the bird, but his horse, tied to a nearby tree, nickered restlessly. Torin heard the sound of another horse approaching slowly on the road through the forest.

  Torin’s hand went to the jewel captured in a cage of silver and suspended from a gold-linked necklace around his neck, not to the sword in its scabbard. He caught sight of the rider; slowly, his fingers relaxed around the gem. He stepped out onto the rutted, muddy road, holding his hand up in greeting. “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d actually come today,” he said. “But I should have known you would obey orders. Tell me, what news do you bring, Doyle?”

  The rider pulled at the reins of his mount. He leaned forward in the saddle. His face was stained with travel, his eyes snagged in dark, puffy circles. Red hair spilled from under the hood of his clóca. “You’re here alone, my Rí?” he asked with some surprise. “Is that wise?”

  “How better to make sure there are no unwanted ears listening? You look . . . disappointed.”

  The rider shrugged underneath the clóca. “All I could think about the entire morning is reaching Lár Bhaile, where I could rest in comfort in the Order’s common room, drinking a good mug of stout and sitting by the fire. We could ride there together, and talk while riding so we get there all the sooner.”

  Torin waited, arms crossed over his chest, and Doyle finally sighed. “All right, since it appears the stout and the fire will have to wait until you get your answer. I’ve spoken to the other Ríthe, as you requested; they’re in agreement and they’re willing to offer you their help as long as they’re not seen to be directly involved.” The man couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice, but then Doyle Mac Ard’s emotions and ambitions had always been transparent to Torin—it was what made the man easy to manipulate.

  “As long as they’re not seen to be directly involved,” Torin repeated, mimicking Doyle’s tone. “But they’re not willing to do all I asked for.” Again, Torin’s fingers brushed the stone at his chest. From the corner of his vision, he saw the crow flap heavily from its branch to one just above them. “I must admit I’m disappointed. To have Jenna MacEagan received in Dún Laoghaire, to have the Banrion Ard greet her as if she were one of us . . .”

  “Even with the Mad Holder’s impending arrival, the other Ríthe are still not willing to move directly against our Banrion Ard,” Doyle answered. “But in truth, Rí Mallaghan, did you really expect them to do so? They’re all afraid of the Banrion Ard’s popularity with the tuathánach—and not just with the common folk, but even some of those among the Riocha.”

  Torin scoffed. “You mean that’s what you’re afraid of, Doyle.”

  Doyle nodded. “Aye, I am, Rí Mallaghan. That doesn’t make it any different for the Ríthe. None of them want to be known as the one who brought down the beloved Healer Ard. But . . . they’ll offer what help they can as long as they’re not visible giving it, and they’re more than willing to share in the vulture’s feast once she’s gone. Banrion Taafe, in particular, had a . . .” Doyle paused as if uneasy. “. . . specific recommendation,” he said finally. “A person she knew, discreet and reliable though expensive. I’ve already hired the woman and sent her on to Dún Laoghaire, and she only awaits word from us to act. She’s supposed to be excellent at what she does, and frankly, I’d rather that our hands aren’t seen in this either. No mage from the Order of Gabair should be directly involved in the Banrion Ard’s death, nor should you, my Rí. No clochs na thintrí should be used. This shouldn’t look like the work of the Riocha.”

  Torin nodded. The crow hopped on its branch alongside the road. Its eyes stared down at them, a brighter black caught in jet, “Oh, I agree. You’ve done well, then. As well as I hoped for, anyway. And as for the rest of the Geraghty brood?”

  “I let the Ríthe know what we had planned. Assuming all goes well in Dún Laoghaire, Rí Mac Baoill will take care of Owaine Geraghty and Kayne, and Rí Fearachan has a spy within the Mad Holder’s retinue who will help us deal with Sevei and perhaps the Mad Holder herself.” Doyle smiled grimly. “Though, if you’ve no objection, I’ll deal with her myself.” The harsh emphasis in Doyle’s voice surprised Torin not at all; he smiled, hearing it. It’s that long hatred of Jenna MacEagan and his lust for what she holds that makes the man so malleable. When this is done, I may have to do something about Doyle, too. . . .

  Torin brought his attention back as Doyle sighed and continued. “As for Meriel and Owaine’s other children . . .” Doyle shrugged. “They’re too young at this point to be players in this; we’ll only need to be certain that they’re . . . removed so they can’t be used as pawns by others.”

  “And Edana, back in Dún Laoghaire?”

  Doyle laughed mirthlessly at that, shaking his head. “Oh, I’ll say nothing to my dear wife about this, my Rí. Ever.” Doyle let out a long breath. A squirrel chattered on the crow’s branch, its tail flicking angrily, and the crow fluttered its wings. “After all these years, to think that the wait might actually be over . . .”

  “You must feel pleased and vindicated, my friend.”

  “Honestly, Rí Mallaghan, I feel mostly tired. It’s cold and I want to be somewhere familiar and comfortable. I’d like to see Edana and my children again. I’d like to see the end of this. Talamh an Ghlas needs a strong leader, now more than ever if we’re to deal with the threats around us, and I’m glad you’ve made this decision. It’s long past time to rectify the mistakes the Ríthe made in the wake of Falcarragh.”

  Torin’s gaze moved from the man in the road to the crow. His eyes narrowed. He lifted his right hand, the white sleeve of his léine falling down to reveal a faint pattern of scars reaching to the wrist, and placed it over the jewel at his breast. He spoke a quick phrase as the crow, seeming to understand, cawed and started to fly away. The squirrel chirped and vanished behind the trunk of the tree. But as the bird’s wings flapped and it started to rise, something unseen struck the bird. Black feathers exploded in a flurry at its chest as if an arrow had found its mark; the bird gave a startled caw and fell, landing in a dark, motionless heap at the side of the path.

  “We’re too close to Doire Coill to trust crows,” Torin said.

  Doyle nodded with a glance at the dead crow. “Then, my Rí, let us get to Lár Bhaile and see if I can find that fire in the Order’s Keep . . .”

  Torin unhitched his horse, swung up into the saddle, and the two rode off.

  The squirrel reappeared on the branch and looked down at the crow. It scurried quickly along the branch, leaping from there to the branch of the nearest tree, and vanished among the needled crowns, hurrying in the opposite direction to that taken by the riders.

  The wind stirred the pines, sending dry needles down to cover the body of the crow.

  2

  Arrivals

  SEVEI STRODE OUT of the surf into the overcast day, the gray waves lapping around her knees as her body shifted from that of a seal back to human form. With the change, she shivered, the air suddenly cold and the water dripping as frigid as a winter rain down her bare back. She ran to the rock where she’d left her clothing and a towel. As she wrapped herself in the cloth and started to dry her matted hair, she heard someone clear his throat loudly from behind a screen of boulders green with moss and algae.

  “It’s about time, Bantiarna Geraghty,” the voice said.

  “Dillon?” Sevei said hopefully.

  “If I were Dillon, then I’d have been absolutely re
miss in my duties,” the voice answered, and this time she heard the quaver of age, the rough gravel in the words. Sevei pressed the towel tightly to herself with a hissing intake of breath.

  “Máister Kirwan?”

  “This is the beach where your mam swam during her time here on Inishfeirm. If you thought I wouldn’t know what you do on certain nights, then you’re making the same mistake she did. And if you think I’d allow one of my male students to follow you down here, you’re doomed to be forever disappointed.” She heard the Máister clear his throat again with a rumble of phlegm, though he stayed discreetly behind the rocks. “I trust your swim was pleasant; my wait certainly wasn’t. Damn this weather. Are you dressed yet, girl?”

  “Not yet, Máister.”

  A sigh. “Then quickly. There’s someone waiting for us up at the keep.”

  “Who?” Sevei asked, then the answer came to her. She saw the flash of a vision in her head, as she sometimes saw people in her family: a slender, gray-haired woman, her face creased and folded with a life of cares and loss, and a small green stone caged in gold and silver at her breast. She sat in the chair in Máister Kirwan’s office. She was drinking something from a steaming mug . . . “Gram!” Sevei shouted gleefully. “Gram’s here!”

  “Aye,” Máister Kirwan’s voice answered gruffly. “The Banrion of Inish Thuaidh is here and she wants to see you. It’s impolite to keep a Banrion waiting, not to mention that half my staff is acting as if they’ve never seen a Riocha before. I’ve been waiting here for half a stripe or more for you to show up, and every joint in my body is aching. So I’d suggest you hurry, Bantiarna Geraghty, or perhaps Siúr O’Halloran will get the notion that it’s your turn for kitchen duty after supper.”