Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (13 page)

“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 as 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.”

The accusation brought blood to Kayne’s face. “That’s not true, Da. You don’t understand. You’re still thinking about Ceangail.”

“Aye, I am,” Owaine answered, “and the way you spoke out after the battle at Lough Scáthán, and the dozen other times you acted as if you wanted to be a dead hero rather than a live soldier. A hero doesn’t do things for his own glory. A hero doesn’t get to choose his time or even to know whether he was successful. For all he knows, he’s just another nameless dead garda . . . and that’s all you would have been.”

“Da, I’m talking about taking less time to get home. That’s all. You’re making this much more than it is.”

“You’re talking about your own comfort over those who have given their own blood in our service. I think—”

Owaine stopped. He peered up at the lip of the pass ahead of them, dark against the lowering sun. Kayne saw nothing, but he also knew that Owaine’s sight was keener than most. Then he saw it: the glint of sunlight on a banner and the cloud of dust raised by riders. Kayne could see no colors or insignia on the banner; it was simply a piece of cloth. “Who are they, Da?”

“Red and white,” he answered, though Kayne could see no colors at all. “They’re from Tuath Airgialla. I’ll bet the Rí has heard of what happened at Ceangail and has sent gardai to reinforce the borders. Good. Then Harik and the others can return home, too.” Owaine waved to the rest of their group, pointing to the summit of the pass where the riders could now be seen cresting the lip. There were already at least three double hands of gardai visible, and more kept coming: it seemed to Kayne that the Rí Airgialla had sent out a small army and he frowned at that, wondering why.

“Let’s go meet them,” Owaine said to Kayne. “It’ll be good to get some news from the Tuatha.”

UAIGNEAS
ROLLED IN a heavy, restless sea. Sevei tried to ignore the freezing rain that found every crack in her reed coat, soaking her hair and clóca underneath. The wind smashed into the rising waves and tore streaks of white from their crests. The captain had ordered the sails furled and the crew were struggling with the long oars, keeping the ship’s bow into the wind so that
Uaigneas
laboriously climbed the slope of each wave and then streaked down the other side into a new green-foamed valley. The storm had roared in from the Ice Sea, driving them rapidly south. They’d been planning to skirt Talamh an Ghlas’ west coast and thus come around to Dún Loaghaire, but the storm had risen the second day out. Before the clouds and rain had closed around them, they’d glimpsed the rocky humps of the Stepping Stones, a chain of islands that curved from the southern borders of Tuath Infochla northward toward Inish Thuaidh. Now they could see nothing, and the captain had ordered them to turn back north, not wanting to be driven unwittingly onto the rocks of one of the islands.

There had been fright in the eyes of the servants who accompanied them, but Sevei thought of it more as an adventure, conjured up for her enjoyment.

The sea could not harm her. She loved it too much.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” She felt arms go around her even as she heard the voice, and she leaned back into the welcome embrace.

“At least I’d have a chance of survival if I fell over the side,” she told Dillon. “You wouldn’t.” He sniffed at that, or perhaps it was only the wind, and his arms tightened around her. “I thought you were staying in the cabin, love.”

“The Banrion’s come out, too,” Dillon told her. “Said she’d had enough of being tossed about and was going to do something about it. I wanted to watch.” He pointed to the bow of the ship near the small, roofed cabin. Sevei saw Jenna there, with Máister Kirwan at her side and the captain of
Uaigneas
looking concerned near them. Jenna appeared to be frail and in more pain than usual, and Mundy held her left arm carefully. But Jenna reached under her clóca for Lámh Shábhála, and as she lifted the cloch, her demeanor and attitude changed: in Sevei’s vision, she seemed to grow larger, her back straighter, all her pain banished under the caress of the power within the stone as the years fell away from her. Sevei glimpsed Jenna as she must have appeared when she was Sevei’s age: young and vibrant. Her hair whipped about in the wind as she held Lámh Shábhála high, displaying it defiantly to the storm. Light flared as if Jenna held a small sun in her hand and shadows dashed madly over the ship as the vessel lurched in the waves. Coruscations of bright, saturated color flickered, ribboning northward and up into the mist and cloud, spreading outward. Sevei could see the reflections of the power, glimmering in the gray expanse above and before them.

Jenna cried out, words that Sevei couldn’t hear in the gale. The ribbons of color brightened, steadied, and then seemed to explode, sparks flying away above them as if the gods had struck a hammer to molten steel. Sevei and Dillon both lifted hands to eyes to shield them from the glare. Sevei couldn’t see well even after she let her hands drop again as spots of wild hues chased themselves in her vision. But she could hear the difference immediately: the wind had eased and the rain had stopped; as her vision cleared, Sevei could see blue sky overhead and the evening sun sent shafts of light through shredded clouds near the horizon. The storm still raged a few leagues or so away all around them and the waves were still huge, but
Uaigneas
rode in a clear, circular space within the storm.

A cheer went up from the sailors, and the captain barked the order to raise sails again. “Come on,” Sevei said to Dillon. Taking his hand, she went to where Jenna leaned into Máister Kirwan’s embrace, her face now sallow and old, the pain etched again in the lines around her eyes, mouth, and forehead. “Gram,” Sevei said, “that was amazing. I knew Stormbringer could control weather, but—”

“Lámh Shábhála can do anything any of the other Clochs Mór can do, and more,” Jenna told her. “Stormbringer couldn’t have done all this.” She nodded to the open sky above them. “But storms are larger than even Lámh Shábhála’s power. I gave us a respite, that’s all. A chance for the captain to find a harbor and a place to anchor so we can ride out the rest of it.”