Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (47 page)

He collapsed like a storm-felled tree, hitting the ground hard. His body convulsed, thrashing wildly at the earth.

He went still.

In the terrible silence that followed, Kurhv Ruka stepped forward. Lifting a flap of his leather loincloth, he carefully released a quick splash of urine on Noz Ruka’s body. He came over to Ennis and lifted him the way his da had once lifted him, placing him effortlessly on his hip. The Arruk around them slid carefully back from the two of them as Kurhv Ruka stepped over the body and entered the temple.

Ennis could feel them staring at him, but the blue ghost simply held onto Kurhv Ruka and smiled gently and innocently back at them.

“AND THAT, MY RÍ ARD, is why we feel so . . . Astrongly that Meriel Geraghty must be declared to be a Mionbandia. The declaration would mean so much coming from you, especially with all the troubles . . .”

Doyle stared from his balcony in the Ard’s Keep out to Meriel’s barrow on the Cnocareilig, the Hill of the Ards. Even at this distance, he could see the line of supplicants snaking down the road out of Dún Laoghaire toward the barrow. Where once they’d come to the Heart Chamber in the Ard’s Keep to be cured of their afflictions, now they went to his niece’s barrow to pray for her favor. Every day brought reports of more healings and transformations. Meriel had told Edana and Doyle, years ago, how some of those who came to her were hurt only in their own heads, and for that reason their own belief in the power of Treoraí’s Heart sometimes healed them. Treoraí’s Heart might be gone (and active again, too, far off and probably in the hands of that damned Taisteal woman Isibéal) but the belief in Meriel the Healer Ard still lingered, transferred now to Meriel’s spirit.

“Meriel Geraghty must be declared as a Mionbandia. . . .”
Meriel’s Hand of the Heart, Áine Martain, had come to him yesterday and made that plea: “must be,” not “should be.” Doyle hadn’t missed that distinction. The woman had gazed at Doyle and made the demand without flinching. Heart-Hand Martain claimed that Meriel’s ghost had come and told her to remain at the barrow, and that is where she now lived: in the eyes of the populace, Martain the Heart-Hand was now Meriel’s Draíodóir, her priest, and she lived from the offerings the supplicants gave her.

Doyle believed none of it. But his skepticism did nothing to lessen the belief of the tuathánach. The tuathánach were restless everywhere, the Finger was in open revolt, his niece was a demigod, and now—worst of all—Lámh Shábhála had returned in the hands of some unknown Pale Witch, a Bán Cailleach with hair the color of snow and eyes like night, her face and arms and body scarred as if the mage-lights had burned themselves into her skin. All those with clochs na thintrí had seen that apparition in the mage-lights.

The burning in his stomach, the queasy fire that had been set alight the night Lámh Shábhála had reappeared with the Bán Cailleach, made him grimace. He touched the cold, smooth gold of the torc around his neck. After all the years, after all he’d sacrificed and all the loss in his own life it had taken to place the torc of the Ard around his neck, he should have felt triumphant, but it had all turned to ashes: first with the loss of Edana’s love, and now again with the mage-lights.

“Da?” Doyle turned to see Padraic standing at the door to his chambers. “Rí Mallaghan is here.”

The burning rose higher in his throat. He swallowed hard. “Send him in, Son.”

Torin Mallaghan swept in before Padraic had even turned. “Thank you, Padraic,” he said to the young man. “If you’d leave your da and me, and take the servants with you . . .” Padraic glanced once at Doyle; he nodded to Padraic, and his son gave a terse bow to Rí Mallaghan and left the room, gesturing to the attendants to follow. Torin waited until the door had closed behind them before he spoke. He brushed at the folds of his clóca, trimmed in gold and dyed in the green of Tuath Gabair; his own torc, well polished, lay under the chain of his Cloch Mór. Though his hair had long since gone gray, he still retained his full head of hair and the burly figure of a warrior. Torin Mallaghan, more than any of the Ríthe, gave the appearance of being regal. “I sent a messenger to give my regards to Banrion Mac Ard,” he said, “but I’m told she’s not in residence.”

“Edana’s at our estate in the Ceocnocs, along with her court. She says that the air here no longer agrees with her.”

A single eyebrow raised itself. “The Ceocnoc hills are lovely this time of year, I have to admit, and the air sweet.”

“My presence appears to be what spoils the air here,” Doyle told him.

“I hope you don’t expect me to tell you how sorry I am to hear that.” Torin came out onto the balcony with Doyle; he sniffed at the line of supplicants shuffling toward Meriel’s barrow. “I understand the Hand of the Heart wants a declaration from you. I think you should give it.”

“My Rí . . .” After all the years, he couldn’t call the man by his name. Not even when he was the Rí Ard and supposedly above the man. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“Why not?” Torin said. He smiled and waved down to the supplicants. None of them returned the gesture; none of them were looking at the keep at all. “After all, we Ríthe had nothing to do with the Banrion’s death. That was the fault of that horrible Taisteal woman.” He managed to say it without sarcasm. “Let’s face reality, Doyle. The tuathánach will make Meriel MacEagan a Mionbandia whether you declare it so or not. By making the declaration, you make us look less . . . guilty, and perhaps throw some oil on the waters of the unrest. We have worse problems.”

“Lámh Shábhála,” Doyle said. The words burned in his throat.

“Aye, Lámh Shábhála,” Torin agreed. “Which you should have had, eh?” That was accompanied by a sharp look of rebuke. Doyle pressed his lips together. He could feel a burning rising from his stomach to his chest. “And now we must wonder where will it go? Who is this Bán Cailleach who holds it and what is her alliance? Those are questions we must have answered, and quickly. Did you call back the Order’s mages from the Finger, as I asked?”

“I did,” Doyle told him, “but Rí Mac Baoill was incensed at the action, especially when several of the other Tuatha’s troops went with them. I received a rather harsh message from him, especially after I gave him orders to advance his troops into the Finger anyway.”

Torin frowned as though he’d eaten something disagreeable. “You did
what
? You were to wait until I came here to make any decision on the Finger.” The acid burned all the way to the back of Doyle’s throat. He touched the Ard’s torc. Torin saw the gesture and shook his head. “Don’t say it,” he told Doyle. “You’re Ard because I made you Ard, and for no other reason. You’re still subject to me.”

Doyle said it anyway. He couldn’t hold the bile inside him; he was afraid it would kill him. “I obeyed you, Rí Mallaghan, and allowed my niece and her family to be killed. I obeyed you and I lost my wife’s affection and respect. I obeyed you and we
still
don’t have Lámh Shábhála—and that was not my fault. Well, I won’t let you make me become the Puppet Ard. I’ve sent message birds to Mac Baoill, telling him that the Fingerlanders must be put down or we’ll face Lámh Shábhála in the west and both the Fingerlanders and the Arruk in the east . . .”

Mallaghan’s face had gone the color of the sunrise. “You don’t know that.”

“You saw the Bán Cailleach, my Rí. Whoever she is,
whatever
she is, she has no allegiance to the Tuatha, which means we must consider her a potential enemy. And the Arruk
are
coming; I’ve read the messages the Thane of Céile Mhór has sent over the Tween since Owaine Geraghty left, asking for more troops and clochs to return. The Thane’s army aren’t able to hold the Arruk. You made me Rí Ard; now I’m doing what that position demands—no matter who put me on the Ard’s throne. Nothing more.”

Torin still glared. He moved closer to Doyle, so that he stood a finger’s distance from the younger man. “I don’t care if it’s the right thing to do. I made you Ard, aye. I made you Ard because that was the strategy that served me best, and here’s what I expect in return. I expect to be consulted in the future before you make decisions that affect all the Tuatha. If I suspect that you ever again failed to do that . . .” He hesitated. Doyle saw his eyes narrow slightly. “Then Banrion Edana might find that no air anywhere in the Tuatha suits her, and Padraic and the rest of your children may find that they have no sponsors or support among the Riocha. As for yourself . . . Ards can be disposed of when they become liabilities; it’s happened often enough in the past, eh? And rather recently, as well. We both know that, don’t we?” Mallaghan smiled then, cocking his head slightly to one side and brushing the torc around Doyle’s neck with a finger. “You understand me, don’t you, Doyle? After all these years together, I’d hate to think that we misunderstood each other’s place.”

His gaze bored into Doyle’s eyes. The burning in Doyle’s throat touched the back of his tongue and he swallowed the sourness back down. “I understand you, my Rí.”

“Good.” The smile widened and Torin took a step back. “Then let’s talk about the declaration you’ll make tomorrow concerning your dear niece Meriel. . . .”

Laird Liam O’Blathmhaic might have been willing to give Kayne the two days, however grudgingly, but Rí Mac Baoill evidently was not. The word came in the late evening, not long before the mage-lights would begin sliding between the stars, as Kayne and Séarlait were preparing to fill their clochs outside their tent. There was a movement in the moonlight, and they heard a garda hail Harik. A few breaths later, the Hand appeared, nodding in Kayne’s direction though his gaze never moved over to Séarlait at all. “The army’s advancing toward the Narrows again, Tiarna,” Harik said. Kayne could read nothing in the man’s battle-scarred and weathered face, but he knew that his own face had to show his disappointment at the news. He scowled, his lips pressing together and he spat on the ground.

“Why would they do that after all their losses? I was certain they’d wait.”
You needed them to wait. Two days, Sevei had said. And if she has Lámh Shábhála . . .

“I’m surprised as well, Tiarna,” Harik said, though Kayne thought he looked more pleased than disappointed. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d risk the High Road in darkness, but the moon’s bright enough tonight. Evidently their intention is to be close enough to come through the pass tomorrow and engage us by midafternoon.”

“How many? Do we have a good count yet?”

“The scouts say they have five thousand or more, but that there are no mages from the Order of Gabair with them at all and nearly all the troops are from Airgialla. They’ll have two or three Clochs Mór, at most.” Harik gestured with his head toward the cleft of the pass, a darkness against the fabric of the star-speckled night. “You can see from the High Road . . .”

Kayne and Séarlait followed Harik out of the encampment and up to where the High Road lifted over the ridge of the last mountain and began its gradual descent toward Lough Tory. Laird O’Blathmhaic and Rodhlann were there with several of the Fingerlander Hands, O’Blathmhaic huddled in a sheepskin pelt against the cold wind that raked the stones. Seárlait’s great-da pointed silently as they approached. Far below, the lights were moving in the darkness, a line of them snaking up the winding road. “We won’t be waiting much longer, Tiarna,” O’Blathmhaic said as Kayne stared down at the approaching army. “Tomorrow we’ll fight rather than sitting here forever in the cold while our houses are warm behind us.” The old Fingerlander sounded rather pleased with the prospect.

Kayne sighed. “We need to fall back, then,” he said. “We can harry them from the hills after they come through the pass, but we can move our main force back down the High Road. Maybe to the high coast near Ballilow . . .”

O’Blathmhaic was already shaking his gray head, the strands of his beard waggling. “Have you gone daft and soft, man? Have you forgotten everything we said? We came here for battle, and first you ask us to wait. That was bad enough, but now they bring the battle to us, and you want us to turn like beaten cowards and show them our arses as we flee?” O’Blathmhaic glared at Kayne, then looked to Séarlait. “An’ you, girl? Would you say the same as your husband here?”

Kayne looked at Séarlait. He could see the hesitation and uncertainty in her face. Her gaze flickered over to him, almost as if she were pleading, but she nodded firmly and emphatically. O’Blathmhaic spat on the ground, aiming carefully away from them. “And this Hand of yours? Harik?”

Harik shrugged. “I have no say at all in this, Laird,” he said. “Tiarna Geraghty knows my thinking. I know my men and what they’re capable of doing, but the decision isn’t mine. My duty and my loyalty involves carrying out Tiarna Geraghty’s commands to the best of my ability. And that’s what I’ll do.” The words were correct, but they could all hear the unspoken criticism in them. O’Blathmhaic snorted, Rodhlann grinned.

“Well spoken,” he said. “Well, I know the Fingerlanders. I know that once we’ve determined to do something, we do it. I know that there’s already grumbling about the waiting we do up here when we can see our enemy below. I know that when I sent word to the other clan-lairds that we would wait here, they didn’t like the thought of it and it took all that I could do to keep them here. I told them what you’d said, Tiarna: about your sister and Lámh Shábhála, and I don’t know if they truly believed me or not. Most didn’t, I’m sure, but I managed to convince them. I won’t be able to do that again, not if you’re telling them we’re going to turn our tails without even drawing swords.” He spat again, and this time the globule landed at Kayne’s feet. Kayne stared at it for a moment.