Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (24 page)

She felt a hand on the pack as she pulled it from the horse: Ennis had risen and come over to help her on his own. “I’m sorry, Ennis,” she told him. “I’m just so tired . . .”

“I know,” he said with that same unnerving seriousness. “I understand.”

“You remind me so much of my own son . . . I couldn’t . . .”

“I know that, too,” he said, the words sounding too adult for the little boy’s voice.

“How could you? I’m certain I never told you . . .”

“I just know,” he answered confidently. “Get some sleep. The ones you’re waiting for will be here soon. The Taisteal.”

“The Taisteal . . . ?” she began, but he just stared at her as if watching a dragonfly on a rush. She shuddered; his gaze wouldn’t leave her, but she was so tired, so tired. She quickly hobbled the horse and let it graze, then rolled up the blankets. She made a bed of them and snuggled down in the woolen folds. “Here,” she said. “Sleep with me. We’ll keep each other warm.”

They lay together, cuddled in the early morning fog and light. She fell asleep quickly, drifting into dreams in which the Banrion Ard awoke from her death and pursued her and Ennis, her hands reaching out like claws, all the while with a strange smile on her face as if she knew exactly what Isibéal was thinking and what she had done. Her voice sounded like dull clanging bells as she shouted at Isibéal. The Banrion Ard reached out, and Isibéal felt the dead woman’s hand close around her shoulder and the touch burned like fire.

“No!”

Isibéal sat up, gasping. Ennis stood beside her, his hand still raised from shaking her. She panted, blinking into the afternoon sunlight that dappled her clothing.

“They’re here,” Ennis said.

“Aye,” Keira told him. “You’d go, because that way leads you quickly to something you want. But you can’t see far enough ahead. Go that way, Ennis, and though you’d find the sword, you’d also meet the Seanóir, the eldest trees of the forest, and they would sing you their songs to draw you to them, and then they would
eat
you.” With the last words, Keira leaned forward so abruptly that Ennis startled and began crying.

“They’re here,” Ennis said. He pointed through the overhanging curtain of the willows. Several strides away, a man stood at the edge of the bog, staring in at the hummocks rising from the black swamp. Behind him, on the road that curved through the hills, were a quartet of horse-drawn wagons around which Ennis could see several other people, dressed in bright, strange clothing. The breeze brought the sound of pans clanking together as one of the thick-bodied workhorses stirred in its traces.
Taisteal
, he realized. He’d seen Isibéal’s people in Dú Laoghaire, selling herbs and spices and items from strange and distant lands, and before his sister Tara had left for fosterage, she’d told Ennis about Mam and the Taisteal woman that their older sister Sevei had been named after, who died helping Mam. Mam liked the Taisteal and always went to see their wares. (“And she always pays far too much for them, too,” Da had told Ennis once before he left with Kayne for the war. He’d laughed, sharing the jest between them.)

Ennis watched Isibéal rise to her feet. He could see the relief in her face as she noticed the Taisteal; she was ready to hail the man, but Ennis was already moving, sliding through the drooping branches of the willow to stand in the high grass near the edge of the water. He waved. “Hallo!”

It felt as if he’d done this before, like when Isibéal had taught him one of the Taisteal dances: he’d practiced it every day for a week until he didn’t have to think about the steps at all. His body fell into the motions, without his even knowing it. This felt the same though he’d never seen this man before. He just
knew,
the way he sometimes
knew
things back home.

He knew a lot. He knew more than Isibéal thought. The blue ghosts had shown him. They’d shown him the dance of what could be, the dance that would protect him.

The man waved back at Ennis and Isibéal, then turned his back and began walking back to the wagons. By the time Isibéal had unhobbled the horse and put the packs on the beast, the Taisteal had brought the wagons down toward the bog. An older woman stood a little apart from the wagons, waiting for them.

“Clannhra Ata! It’s good to see you!” Isibéal called to her as they approached, the horse sloshing through the peat-blackened, opaque water, with Ennis seated in front of Isibéal. The old woman sniffed and spat once on the ground as the horse plodded from the swamp onto the drier ground of the meadow. She ground the spittle into the soft grass under her booted right foot. With the expectoration, Isibéal seemed to shudder at Ennis’ back.

He knew why. He knew. He saw it.

“I have no doubt that you’d be glad,” the Clannhra answered, her voice heavy with a distinct accent that sounded dark and sonorous to Ennis’ ears. “Especially since you’ve managed to get yourself into so much difficulty. I won’t say that we’re happy to see you, Isibéal. I laid out the cards last night and they were ominous and angry, almost as if someone were interfering with them. Now I look at you and I see great trouble for Clan Kahlnik.”

They had ridden up close enough that Ennis could see the Clannhra’s face. It was brown like his mam had said the Bunús Muintir’s faces were, but the shape of the face and the long nose were more like the Daoine. It was a face that had seen hard times and harsh judgments: her cheeks were mottled by long, pale scars, and her mouth was sunken around toothless gums; her hand were knobbed at the joints, trembling with a palsy; her legs were bowed as if carrying the weight of her stout torso was too much of a burden. The hair that escaped from under the patterned scarf she wore was as white as new-fallen snow, wispy and thin.

She seemed to be gauging Ennis at the same time; her lips tightened and the lines of her forehead became as deep as plowed furrows. “The news is already spreading,” the old woman continued. “We heard it in the town we just came from when a troop of gardai came through. They were quite thorough in searching the town, and in searching our wagons also. They’re looking for a half-Taisteal woman who may be with a young boy. A half-Taisteal who . . .” She stopped. “Have you told the boy yet?”

“No, Clannhra, I haven’t. I intended to today, but we’ve just awakened from last night’s ride.” Ennis felt her hand brush his hair. He didn’t say anything.

“I know what you’re not saying,”
he wanted to tell them.
“I know Mam’s dead.”

A nod. “The gardai came because of what’s happened in Dún Laoghaire, and the description they gave of the person they were looking for was vague enough that they would have taken poor Unnisha if the village’s healer hadn’t sworn to them that she was with us for the last two days. I wonder how many other Taisteal women they
will
take, and what they’ll do to them? The Riocha want you dead, Isibéal: the ones who hired you because you betrayed their orders; the ones who didn’t for simple revenge, and they’re all looking for the boy, and something else, too. I tell you this so you know why we can’t take you in with us.”

“Clannhra, you must,” Isibéal pleaded. “I have nowhere else to go, no place where I could flee, no other allies. All I want is enough time to take ship away from here to Céile Mhór. That’s all. We made an agreement, Clannhra—”

“The boy wasn’t part of our agreement, Isibéal. You should never have taken him. You’ve been stupid and you’re exposing us to that danger now.” She spat again on the ground, this time using her left foot to smear the moisture into the grass. Ennis squirmed in his seat to see Isibéal staring at the Clannhra’s foot.

“Clannhra . . .” Ennis heard Isibéal take a nervous breath as he turned back. “Please . . .”

“I’m a gift to the Taisteal, Clannhra,” Ennis said before Isibéal could gather her wits to answer. “You’ll keep me just like the Taisteal once kept my mam.”

Ata’s eyebrows sought the top of her forehead. “Children should remain quiet while adults are speaking, especially when it concerns them,” she told him. Then, querulously: “What do you mean, boy?”

“Because I
know,
” Ennis answered earnestly.
Follow the patterns of the blue ghosts, just like when you’re dancing. The blue ghosts which show you all the things that could happen . . .
He could see them now, strong and gathering all around them: a hand or more images of himself, of Isibéal, of the Clannhra. “I’m supposed to be here. Didn’t Unnisha just lose a boy my age yesterday because he got sick?”

“How do you know that?” the Clannhra asked suspiciously. She peered past him to Isibéal. “Did
you
know?”

Ennis felt Isibéal shake her head even though Isibéal remained silent. “Isibéal’s afraid you’re going to spit three times,” Ennis said loudly and heard the gasping intake of breath from both women. “I know what that means, too. It means that Isibéal has to die.”

Isibéal hissed behind Ennis.

Ata was staring at Ennis as if he were a dire wolf snarling in front of her. “What have you brought here?” Ata asked Isibéal, and there was fear in her voice. “What
is
this boy?”