Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) Page 9

  “People don’t believe miracles they can’t see,” Isibéal told the boy. “That’s just our nature. Do you understand what I mean?”

  He nodded, his large eyes wide. “Mam could heal the sickness inside you,” he said. “If you let her.”

  Isibéal found herself holding her breath, staring at the boy. “What . . .” She had to stop and swallow. “What do you mean, Ennis? I’m not sick.”

  “You don’t think so,” Ennis answered with the same dry solemnity, as if he were reciting his lessons. “But you are.” Before she could reply to that, he wriggled in her arms and pointed. “Look!” he said breathily.

  Meriel had dismissed all the other supplicants except for the dark-haired woman. The poor ones left quickly with downcast eyes. The two Riocha also bowed and gave polite thanks, but Isibéal could see the frustration and distaste in their eyes at realizing the Banrion Ard had again chosen a tuathánach over them. When they’d gone, Meriel motioned to the woman, who came and stood nervously in front of the Banrion Ard. Meriel’s hand tightened visibly around the clochmion she held, and she reached out to cup the woman’s head with her other hand. Meriel stiffened at the touch, as if it pained her to make the contact. Her chin lifted, the torc of the Banrion Ard gleaming on her léine, and her eyes closed. She groaned loudly, a keening low wail almost like the grieving of the sochraideach, the professional mourners who attended the Riocha funerals. A blue glow surrounded the two of them, the illumination flaring quickly to white and then vanishing as Meriel lifted her hand from the woman. The woman gasped as Meriel sank backward, her knees gone limp. Siúr Martain rushed to the Banrion, but it was Doyle Mac Ard who caught her, holding her until Meriel’s eyes flickered open again and she stood. “Thank you, Uncle,” she said to Mac Ard. “And you?” she asked the woman, who only shook her head mutely.

  “I don’t know what to say, Banrion Ard,” she answered finally. “I’ve never . . . The pain, it’s gone.”

  “Aye, gone forever,” Meriel told her with a gentle smile. “Go on now, back to your family. You’ll live long, the Mother willing.” The woman hesitated, and when Meriel opened her arms, the woman rushed forward to embrace the Banrion Ard. Edana smiled indulgently at the display, but Doyle’s smile seemed more smirk to Isibéal.

  With another bow, the woman left the room. Edana stroked Meriel’s long hair. “They love you, Meriel,” she said. “Every time I watch you do this, I realize how well-chosen you were.”

  “The common folk certainly love you, all those unwashed tuathánach that parade through the keep every day,” Doyle interjected.

  “Doyle . . .” Edana pressed her lips together, and Doyle shrugged.

  Meriel sighed as if she hadn’t noticed Doyle’s comment. “I’m tired and dreadfully hungry—will the two of you join me? I want to hear all about the children. Doyle, I haven’t seen Padraic since he went to the Order of Gabair, and you were just there. I hear that Alastríona is going to be coming back from fosterage this summer. I’m sure you can’t wait to see her again and see how she’s bloomed . . .”

  They moved toward the door, still talking, and the hall garda opened it for them. As they were leaving, Doyle stopped, allowing the Banrion and Banrion Ard to pass out into the corridor before him. Slowly, he turned, looking directly back at the lacy grillwork where Isibéal and Ennis were huddled. His eyes seemed to find Isibéal’s and—very deliberately—he nodded once.

  Then he turned and followed the two women from the room.

  “You’re shaking, Isibéal,” Ennis said, looking up at her solemnly. He said it as if it were a reaction he’d expected.

  “It’s nothing,” she told the child. “Nothing at all. Come, it’s time for you to eat.”

  Taking the boy in hand, she led him away from the Heart Chamber.

  8

  Preparations

  “YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE dinner for us?” Ennis asked Isibéal, and she nodded.

  “Tomorrow night, for both you and your mam. Just for us.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a special day for the Taisteal, when we honor the god Fiodóir who is the son of the Mother-Creator, and who weaves the tapestry of Fate. I wanted to make a special meal to celebrate.”

  Isibéal and Ennis were walking through Oldtown, the narrow, crowded streets of Dún Laoghaire near the north end of the harbor: a boil of grimy, close-packed buildings set in a chaotic whirl of tiny lanes. There were always shadows here, not only those in the narrow gaps between houses or beyond the depths of ancient archways leading into musty catacombs, but the human kind who dealt in illegal goods and other activities on the fringe of society. A quartet of solemn-faced gardai walked with them, a few respectful steps behind but ready to intervene if anyone in the crowded lanes tried to bother them. Isibéal had no illusions as to whose aid they’d come to first—she was just a hired servant; it was Ennis they were there to protect. The people who passed them glanced carefully at Ennis, dressed in a fine, pale gray léine and clóca, his hair freshly cut and oiled. Even if they didn’t know he was the Banrion Ard’s son, they knew he was Riocha. If they wondered what such rich folk might be doing in this neighborhood, they knew better than to wonder aloud.

  Isibéal took Ennis’ hand, steering him around a pile of nightsoil in the foul central gutter of the lane. Ennis wrinkled his nose at the smell and looked up at Isibéal.

  “The Mother-Creator doesn’t have a son, just a daughter,” he said. He seemed to find the sights around him more fascinating than disgusting. He looked about wide-eyed and eager.

  “That’s what you Daoine believe, aye, but the Taisteal believe differently.”

  “Which one is right?”

  “I don’t know,” Isibéal answered. “Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.”

  “Then I’ll ask the Mother-Creator, after I die.”

  Isibéal shivered at that. “Here—this is where we’re going.” She pointed to a sign painted with fanciful leaves and red-berried plants, the colors now chipped and faded and partially lost under a green beard of mildew. Isibéal opened the door to the shop and the pungent smell of spices wafted out to them. They walked into the fragrant atmosphere, the shop as dark and poorly lit as the rest of Oldtown—two of the gardai came with them, the other two remained outside.

  “There’s no one here,” Ennis started to say, then visibly jumped as a net of shadows shifted in the rear of the shop. A cackling laugh emerged from the darkness and an old woman hobbled into the flickering light of tapers, tapping along the uneven flooring with a thick cane. She was white-haired and as wrinkled as an old apple, stooped over with a dowager’s hump.

  “One day soon enough, you’ll be right, boy,” she said, laughing again to reveal a mouth with only a few remaining teeth. She tapped her way forward, stopping near a table piled with racks of drying herbs. “Ah, Isibéal. Here to pick up your order?”

  “Aye, Asthora. You were able to get everything I asked for?”

  A nod. “’Tis not easy to get all you wanted this time of year, but I managed. All of it. Here.” Groaning, the old woman reached under the table and brought out a large packet of thick, folded paper sealed with a wax seal. Eyes with whites gone the color of egg yolks flicked over at the gardai. She lifted the package to her hooked nose and took a long, appreciative sniff. “Ah, the very aroma makes me hungry. Do you want to see?”

  Isibéal shook her head quickly. “I trust you, Cousin. How much?”

  Asthora set the packet down on the table. “Two mórceints.”

  “Two mórceints,” one of the gardai muttered. “Are those spices made of gold, woman?”

  Asthora only chuckled. “Not gold. There are herbs and spices far rarer than mere gold. And to those who need them, worth more. Would you like to buy some of my herbs, perhaps? Why, I have something that would put steel in the weapon you young men like to brandish the most. The ladies would like that, eh?” She grinned at him. The garda shook his head while his companion snickered.

  Isibéal hande
d Asthora the coins. “Thank you,” Isibéal said as she took the parcel.

  “I’m sure it will be a fine meal. One to remember,” Asthora answered. “Cousin.”

  Isibéal glanced at the gardai. “I hope so,” she answered. “Come, Ennis. It’s time we got back to the keep.”

  “Is she really your cousin?” Ennis asked as they left the shop, the gardai falling in behind them again.

  “Possibly,” Isibéal told him. Outside, the air seemed colder than usual, and Isibéal placed the packet under her clóca. The paper seemed strangely heavy and she could smell the herbs in the movement of the air. “On my da’s side; the Taisteal side. All Taisteal call themselves cousins, even if they’re not sure.”

  “Mam stayed with the Taisteal once. She liked them a lot, she said. One of them once saved her life, she said. My sister Sevei was named after the Taisteal woman, but Kayne was named after my great-da on my da’s side.”

  Isibéal forced herself to smile at him. “I’m glad your mam likes the Taisteal. But they’re just people, like any others. Some are good, others . . .” She lifted her shoulders.

  “Was your son a Taisteal?” he asked. “The one who died?”

  “Adimu?” Isibéal frowned. “How did you know . . . ?” The boy just looked at her innocently. Isibéal shook her head; she must have mentioned having a son, though she didn’t remember doing so—Ennis seemed to remember everything that anyone told him. “Aye, Adimu’s da was Taisteal, too.”

  “I like you, Isibéal,” Ennis said. “No matter what.”

  Isibéal looked away. Above the houses of Oldtown, the keep loomed against a gray sky. “Let’s get you home,” she told Ennis, “before your mam begins to worry.”

  Sevei came out of the crashing surf a moment after Jenna, allowing the touch of the wind to start the change and shift her from seal to human form. She shivered in the air, and the pummeling waves nearly knocked her over as she walked out onto the rocky shingle of the beach. Jenna was waiting for her, watching, and Sevei saw the gleam of Lámh Shábhála between her gram’s breasts. “Here,” Jenna said, handing Sevei a towel. “I’m always amazed at how cold the air and water are once I’ve changed back.”

  Gratefully, Sevei took the cloth, though Jenna remained naked despite the goose bumps prickling her arms and shoulders, standing on the beach and staring out at the water. “Thank you,” Jenna said. “That was delightful, having someone to swim with and share the experience. Swimming alone isn’t the same.”

  “Was it wonderful, Gram, being with the Saimhóir?” Sevei asked her, and Jenna turned to smile.

  “It was. I had good friends among them, though they’re all gone now. The Saimhóir don’t live as long as we do, and for several years now they’ve actively avoided us.” The smile went quiet and sad. “Or perhaps it’s only me and our family they avoid. It’s my fault and I can’t blame them.” The smile evaporated and her hand went to Lámh Shábhála. “I wasn’t all I could or should have been . . .” Her voice descended to a whisper before she smiled again, the fine lines around her mouth deepening. “Now I’m cold, too. Let’s get dressed and go back up to the White Keep. Mundy will be waiting and there’s much to do tonight if we leave in the morning for Dún Laoghaire.”

  “I hear that Máister Kirwan will be coming with us.”

  “You get to bring the Ó’Baoill boy; I get to bring Mundy,” Jenna answered. Sevei had been happily surprised when Gram had announced that Dillon would accompany them to Dún Laoghaire, but now she raised her eyebrows in surprise that was only half-feigned.

  “Gram!” Sevei laughed in shocked bemusement at what Jenna’s comment seemed to imply.

  “What?” Jenna asked. “Don’t act as if you’re offended. I love your great-da and respect him for all he’s done for me, but both of us also have other . . . friends. Kyle knows Mundy will sail with us, and he knows what that means. He’s comfortable with that.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this, Gram.”

  “Then don’t listen,” Jenna chuckled. “And for the Mother’s sake, don’t tell anyone.” Jenna reached down for their clothing and stopped. She groaned, clutching herself around the waist.

  “Gram?” Sevei went to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. Jenna was trembling under her touch and her skin felt as warm as if she had a fever.

  “It’s nothing,” Jenna said, straightening carefully, her eyes closed against the pain. “Or everything. The change takes away the pain for a time, or at least shifts it around, and I forget . . .” Her eyes opened and she sighed. “There, it’s easing a bit.”

  “The cloch?”

  Jenna nodded. “The years of holding it. Of being the First.”

  “The First Holder bears the most pain. I remember Siúr Caomhánach teaching us that in class.” Jenna picked up the clothing and handed her great-mam her léine. “She also said that you’ve held Lámh Shábhála longer than any known First Holder.”

  Jenna grimaced, lifting her arms to let the folds of the tunic fall over her body. She pulled water-heavy hair out of the neck opening. “I won’t hold it much longer.” She held up her hand against Sevei’s automatic protest. “No, don’t tell me how I have years yet. I’m tired, girl, and the pain . . . I can’t stand it much longer. I’m already using . . .” She stopped, pressing her lips together; when she continued, Sevei could hear a tinge of bitterness in her voice. “I would have given Lámh Shábhála to Meriel, but your mam didn’t want it. Treoraí’s Heart was enough for her—even if it’s a mere toy in comparison.”

  “Mam’s done a lot of good with that mere toy, Gram,” Sevei answered, sharply enough that Jenna’s eyes narrowed. Maybe more than you’ve done with Lámh Shábhála . . . Sevei thought the words but didn’t dare say them. She put on her léine slowly, letting the cloth hide her face. When her head emerged, Jenna was still staring at her.

  “Will the ability to call a dragon if one just happens to blunder nearby be enough for you?” Jenna asked.

  Sevei’s hand went to her own stone. She could feel its power: comforting and familiar even though she’d had the clochmion for just two short days. Touching it, she could feel her awareness sweep outward across the sea and over Inishfeirm, but there was no answering call within the clochmion’s small range. Like most clochmions, this one’s gift was limited—and actually, she had to admit, potentially dangerous; the damage to the keep just from the dragon’s presence had been extensive and though Gram had repaired much of it with Lámh Shábhála, some of the scrolls in the library had been lost forever and they’d been fortunate no one had been seriously injured. Still, Treoraí’s Heart had always seemed more like a Cloch Mór to Sevei, with its skill at healing. But perhaps that was also her mam’s gift, augmented by the stone.

  “I don’t think so,” Sevei answered honestly. “If I have the chance to hold a Cloch Mór . . . Aye, I would take it.”

  “Mundy’s talked with you about my being weary of the burden of Lámh Shábhála.” Sevei glanced at her, wondering whether that was something she should admit to knowing, and Gram smiled. “I told him to tell you,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  Sevei nodded. “Aye, Gram, he told me when he gave me Da’s clochmion.” She looked at Lámh Shábhála, resting now against the brocaded edging of Jenna’s clóca. “But I don’t know . . .”

  “Neither do I,” Jenna said, her voice almost harsh. “Neither do I. Not yet.” She glanced back at the gray waves in which they’d been swimming. The wind was tearing at the tops of the waves, the salt spray stinging their faces. “But there’s still time. I’m not ready to pass the stone on. Not yet. There’s still time.”

  Sevei wondered who Gram was trying to convince.

  Two days from Ceangail, Owaine, Kayne, and the gardai who hadn’t remained behind with Harik were still in the mountains of the Finger, moving in the highlands through the snowy Narrows, the pass that led down into the plains in front of Lough Tory. They were riding slowly so that the wagons carrying the wounded and ill rolled a
s smoothly as the badly-maintained High Road allowed. Now and again, they caught a glimpse of the land before them: a cove of Lough Tory twinkling in the far distance, or the gray-green expanse of the old forest Tory Coill that spread along the lough’s southern shore. Even a double-hand of years ago, there would have been no question as to their route. They would have followed the High Road north to Dathúil and Glenkille, taking the circuitous northern route around Lough Tory rather than attempting to pass through Tory Coill. But Kayne’s mam and his gram both had forged alliances with the Bunús Muintir, the ancient folk who lived in the oak forests, and now one could travel through the Coills with a reasonable expectation of emerging safe on the other side. There were no guarantees—but there were no guarantees even if one traveled the High Road. The Bunús Muintir would allow travelers to pass through unmolested as long as they stayed to paths the Protectors of the Woods had marked.

  Kayne had been pushing his da to take the southern route once they descended from the pass. As they ascended into the last high valley before the final long slope to the lowland plain, Kayne flicked Gainmheach’s reins to move closer to Owaine, riding at the head of the column. “Have you thought more about what I suggested, Da? The men are tired and want to be home. Going through Tory Coill would save us days, if not a week or more.”

  Owaine’s glance at Kayne was sour. “Aye, I’ve thought about it, but no, Kayne. We’ll follow the High Road.”

  “Why?” Kayne asked, unable to keep his exasperation from showing in his voice. “Da, if we go through the forest, we’ll be in Dúnani in a hand of days, and Dún Laoghaire in another hand. Less.”

  “Kayne—” Owaine gave a huff of frustration or irritation; Kayne couldn’t tell which. He looked around as if seeing who might be listening, but they were a little ways ahead of the column and out of easy earshot. “Why do you question every decision I make?” Owaine said, his voice pitched low. “I’m your da, aye, but I’m also in command of these gardai, and you are one of my officers. Your duty is to obey. That’s all.” Kayne didn’t immediately reply, and finally Owaine spoke again. “The High Road is the better road, and with our wounded men in the wagons, that’s important. Tory Coill has bogs and swamps, and the trail through the wood is narrow and overgrown. The High Road’s also well patrolled; no common thieves are going to attack a force as large as ours . . . but dire wolves in Tory Coill might smell the blood and sickness of our wounded, or there may be other, worse things there who wouldn’t fear us at all. I want to get home as quickly as we can, but I also want to get my men there safely. I’m responsible for the well-being of my soldiers, and that’s my first loyalty. That’s something you need to realize if you’re ever going to be in a command position yourself. You always think of yourself first, Kayne.”