Ennis sniffed again, and his voice trembled. “I don’t . . . My parents are dead and so are my brothers and sisters. They’re not here. I’m all . . . all alone.”
“All alone?” The man’s voice dripped with sympathy and concern. “Oh, young Tiarna, that’s worse than I thought. You must be terrified.”
Ennis nodded silently. The man’s hand was still outstretched toward him. He reached out and took it, his small hand lost when the man closed his own fingers around it. His grip was tight and firm, though his voice was still gentle. “Come with me. I’ll get you to a safe place, and then I’ll find the gardai and have them come for you. A young Tiarna with a cloch . . .” He shook his head. “What’s your name, so I may tell them?”
Ennis listened to the blue ghost and answered with it. “MacVahlg. Connail MacVahlg.”
“Good. My name is Artol Jantsk. I’m a merchant from Céile Mhór—do you know where that is?”
“Aye. Far away.”
“Aye, far away indeed,” Jantsk laughed. “Are you hungry?”
With the question, Ennis heard his stomach growl. His head bobbed fervently, and Jantsk chuckled again. “Good. Then let’s get you some food. You’d like that, Connail, wouldn’t you?”
Still talking, he led Ennis out of the ravine, and—holding tightly to his hand—took him to where four men dressed in a similar fashion were talking near a long rowboat tied to the quay. He said something to them in another language, and the four got into the boat and unshipped the oars, placing them in their notches in the gunwales. “These are my friends, Connail,” Jantsk said. “They’ll take you out to that ship there. See?” He pointed to the ship flying the banner of Céile Mhór. “We’ll go there first, and eat, and then I’ll come back here and talk with the gardai. Here, let me help you in . . .”
Jantsk picked up Ennis and handed him to one of the other men, then untied the boat from the pier. He hopped down into it himself then, and pushed them away into the wavelets of the quiet harbor. He seemed to be watching the people nearest them as they rowed away, but if any of them had noticed the incident, none of them seemed concerned or particularly interested. The man sat next to Ennis on the wooden seat at the front of the boat.
“A young Tiarna with a cloch, and your parents dead,” Jantsk said, shaking his head. In the light of a lantern hung at the front of the ship, Ennis could see the tattoo on the man’s face leaping as he spoke, as if the bird were alive. He smiled, but in the lamplight there was greed in his eyes that he could not hide.
“A terrible thing,” he said. “A terrible thing indeed.”
27
The Rí Ard
DOYLE MAC ARD TRIED to keep the satisfaction from showing on his face as his carriage lurched to the crest of Halla Mount and stopped near the line of other royal coaches. His driver hopped down and opened the door. His son Padraic slid from the carriage immediately. Doyle glanced out at the stone ring of Tuatha Halla: the ancient edifice where the rulers of Talamh an Ghlas traditionally met, gleaming in whitewashed splendor in the sun. Tufts of ephemeral cloud drifted beneath a canopy of ultramarine, and Dún Laoghaire, spread out below them, shimmered in the warmth of the sun as the waters of the bay lapped at the shore.
There was a gathering of perhaps a hundred Riocha outside the massive oaken doors, representing most of the great families of the Tuatha. The Ríthe were already inside, but the mass of Riocha had paused to watch Doyle, Padraic and Shay O Blaca, the Máister of the Order of Gabair, arrive. Beyond them, standing under the watchful gaze of several pike-bearing gardai, a crowd of céili giallnai—the lower ranks of nobility—watched, and past them a large group of plainly-dressed tuathánach had also gathered.
It should have been an altogether beautiful day, Doyle decided. The decision of the Óenach—as the gathering of the Ríthe was called—was a foregone conclusion. Doyle knew who the new Rí Ard would be. Rí Mallaghan had already told him.
But the beauty was marred by the scowls and whispered taunts from the common folk and even some of the céili giallnai who had come up to see the Riocha gather for the election. The animosity of the commoners against the Riocha had reached fever pitch following the funeral of the Banrion Ard Meriel—there had been attacks against Riocha in several of the towns along with some rioting and looting. Riocha traveling the High Road had rocks and vegetables hurled at their carriages, and there had been clashes between gardai and groups of unruly youths. In the moon cycle since Meriel’s death, the overt violence had ended, but it was obvious that those who the Riocha ruled were angry and uneasy. Rumors abounded: there had been sightings of the spirit of the Healer Ard in various locations, especially around her barrow on Cnocareilig, and there were rumors that a group of Draíodóiri at the royal temple were secretly praying to her spirit as one might to a demigod.
His half niece a god . . . Now that would be irony. Doyle sniffed. Better a ruler here than a god in the afterlife Beyond.
Padraic was staring at the crowd, nervously fingering the new Cloch Mór around his neck. O Blaca had seen the twin crowds also. He sniffed and wrapped his clóca tightly around him. “Let’s get in, Doyle, Padraic. It won’t do to keep the Ríthe waiting, and I don’t like the feeling out here.”
Doyle could already feel the weight of the torc of the Ard around his neck. He imagined that somewhere in the Beyond, Jenna, Meriel, and the rest of the damned Aoire clan were screaming and weeping in frustration. He did smile at that, causing some of the tuathánach watching near the entrance of the Tuatha Halla to scowl and point.
Finally, Da,
he thought,
I’ve given you your revenge.
Doyle put his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “The Máister’s given us an order.”
Unruly commoners could be dealt with—they would understand the whip and the noose well enough and bow their heads. The only true flaw was that Lámh Shábhála remained lost under the waves. Every night when the mage-lights came, Doyle lifted Snapdragon to the sky and he followed the thread of power back toward the other clochs na thintrí wondering if he would feel Lámh Shábhála among them, sucking greedily at the power. But it had been over a moon now, and the great cloch hadn’t made its presence felt. Doyle felt certain that it was lost, but he was equally certain that it would appear again, washed up on some shore or lodged in the gullet of a fish. Lámh Shábhála would return to the world because it must; he would be there to take the stone when it did.
As it had always been his plan to take it.
Yet despite his satisfaction, the loss of Edana’s affection cast a pall.
That is what you must fix now,
he reminded himself.
After today, you must do all you can to gain her back.
She had fallen out of love for him, aye, but he had never stopped loving her. She was the other true constant in his life.
“Nothing’s changed since your talk with the Ríthe last night?” Shay O Blaca asked as the trio walked from the carriage toward the doors of the Halla. The Máister of the Order of Gabair was moving slowly these days, troubled by gout in his right leg, a gout that Meriel had steadfastly refused to heal despite Doyle’s suggestion to her—two years ago—that it might be a politically adroit move.
“I’m sorry, Doyle, but if I tried to cure all the gout in the Tuatha, I would do nothing else for the rest of my life,”
the great “Healer Ard” had answered. “
Treoraí’s Heart should be reserved for better uses. Let the Máister live with it as do the others. There are salves and ointments he could try, and perhaps a better diet . . .”
Meriel had tried to soften the refusal with a smile and Doyle had smiled back at her, but neither of them had meant it.
“Nothing’s changed, Shay,” Doyle answered softly. “The only one whose mind I don’t know is my wife’s.” He said it as gently as he could, but Padraic still glanced sharply at him. Doyle knew the boy was as torn as Doyle was himself, loving both Mam and Da when the two were at odds. Doyle and Edana had argued—again—this morning, and he was certain that Padraic had overheard at least some of it. “By my count, the vote will be a hand to one . . . with my wife abstaining; a hand to two if she doesn’t.”
O Blaca’s eyes narrowed. “Edana would do that? She’d vote against you here? I don’t like that. That will start whispers and dissension.”
“The dregs of love are bitterness,” Doyle answered, as much for Padraic as O Blaca. “I’m afraid that’s all the two of us have at the moment, though I have hope for better in the future.” He clapped Padraic on the back. “Aye, son? Your mam’s a person who stays with her convictions, and that is part of why I have always loved her. We have to give her time, but I have hope. I do.”
He went silent then, smiling thinly as they reached the first ranks of the Riocha, which parted to let the two of them enter the Halla first. Clad in the dark green clóca of the Order of Gabair, Doyle moved among the Riocha with Snapdragon lying prominently on his chest. Among the Riocha were several members of the Order, all there to present a showing. He nodded to those he knew well, exchanging greetings and well-wishes as he and O Blaca entered Tuatha Halla, handing ritual knives to the quartet of gardai at the entrance: long tradition dictated that no Riocha was allowed to enter Tuatha Halla bearing a weapon—though that tradition did not extend to the clochs na thintrí that many of them wore. Once through the doors, they found themselves on a gallery overlooking a great ring of stone thrones on the level below. In the center of the building, a large turf fire burned, the smoke writhing upward in a coiling dance toward the opening in the thatch roof. The Ríthe were seated around the fire: a paltry hand and two in the circular arrangement of a hand of double-hands of thrones. The painted visages of their ancestors frowned down on them from the walls, stern and forbidding.
The Ríthe were leaning toward each other, talking. As Doyle and O Blaca entered the gallery, followed by the flood of Riocha, they went silent. Doyle placed himself at the rail where all the Ríthe could see him, at the stairs leading down to the ring. He glanced at Edana, already sitting in her throne with the torc of Dún Laoghaire around her neck. She saw his gaze and turned to her right to speak with Rí Mas Sithig of Tuath Infochla. Doyle saw a flush creep upward on her neck. When she glanced back he nodded to her; she looked away again, turning once more to Mas Sithig and saying something. She did not look at him again.
Rí Mas Sithig, as eldest of the Rí, nodded to Edana and bestirred himself. He’d grown fat over the years, his straggly beard looking like a dry autumn field, folds hanging heavily over weary, yellow-rimmed eyes. Several of his teeth were missing, and Doyle knew from experience that the mint Rí Mas Sithig constantly chewed couldn’t hide the scent of rot in those he had left. Every new season brought news that the Rí was ill and might die, but so far he had disappointed his heirs and fought off the Black Haunts. Doyle had been surprised that the man himself had come to the Óenach rather than sending one of his numerous offspring in his place. He spoke slowly and with slurred speech, but anyone who mistook his infirmities for an indication of a dull mind would have been surprised. No Rí could have survived this long without an innate political savvy. As was customary in the Óenach since the Riocha in the gallery were not permitted to speak, he addressed himself only to the other Ríthe.
“We are gathered here again to name an Ard. As First Speaker, I propose that we do so quickly. My old bones dislike the cold of the Halla and there are brighter fires and suppers waiting for all of us back at Dún Laoghaire Keep, thanks to the hospitality of Banrion Mac Ard and her husband.” That was accompanied by a faint nod to Doyle in the gallery; Edana seemed interested only in the hands folded on her lap, though Doyle knew her well enough to see how the dimples at the corners of her mouth deepened as her lips tightened. “I know we’ve talked of little else in the last few days. As First Speaker, I also have the right to name a candidate for vote.” He paused, wheezing a bit. “I place before the Ríthe the name of Doyle Mac Ard.”
Rí Allister Fearachan of Tuath Connachta, youngest of the Rí, laughed scornfully at that. “Mac Ard?” he said without looking up at the gallery where Doyle watched. “My apologies to the Banrion of Dún Laoghaire for speaking so frankly about her husband, but Doyle Mac Ard’s da was Riocha, aye, but his mam was entirely common born, a sheepherder. Not that this is unusual for the Mac Ards, a line that has gained most of its power through convenient marriages. Will we have a second half-breed set before us as Ard?”
Morven Mac Baoill of Tuath Airgialla interrupted with a loud expectoration in the direction of the fire in the center of the thrones. “That ‘half-breed’ to whom you refer was also the daughter of the First Holder. Perhaps the Rí Connachta makes the mistake of thinking that ‘common’ also means ‘unimportant.’ Seeing who has sprung from the Aoire line, that’s a dangerous assumption. And given the mood of those common folk you so casually dismiss, I would say that having an Ard who not only shared blood with the Healer Ard but who also had some affinity with the tuathánach would be an asset.”
There were murmurs of agreement around the thrones. Rí Fearachan scowled, sitting back and twirling a forefinger in his full red beard. Edana, Doyle noticed, said nothing. Her face might have been a carving. “There are other considerations as well,” Fearachan persisted. “Name Mac Ard as Rí Ard, and we also elevate the Order of Gabair. That’s fine for Tuath Gabair, perhaps, but perhaps not for other Tuatha.”
“Did the Order of Inishfeirm rule the Tuatha while the Healer Ard was on the throne?” Rí Torin Mallaghan shot back—not surprisingly, since the Order of Gabair’s Keep stood next to his own in Lár Bhaile. “I don’t recall seeing white-robes writing laws for us. I didn’t see gardai from Inish Thuaidh protecting the Banrion Ard, and Lámh Shábhála never once came to Dún Laoghaire in all those years.”
Though the Banrion Ard traveled to the First Holder several times, and we all know that the Mad Holder was on her way here,
Doyle thought. He could see the same rejoinder narrow the Rí Connachta’s eyes. Fearachan started to answer, but Mas Sithig slammed the end of his walking stick onto the stone flags. The Halla reverberated with the sound and Fearachan closed his mouth.