Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (69 page)

Ennis felt his eyes narrow and his brow wrinkle. He would tell himself later that it was the pattern. All he was doing was following the blue ghost.

“Here . . .” he whispered to Daj Svarti inside, and he allowed the mage-energy within Treoraí’s Heart to flow out, shaping it. “The maggots,” he whispered inside Daj Svarti’s mind. “The maggots will have you. Look . . .” They were the pale white of the grave, plump and ugly creatures the size of Ennis’ little finger: hand upon hand upon hand of them, and more coming as the mage-light trickled from the Heart. “They’ll eat from the inside, Daj Svarti. They’ll consume you alive, and you’ll feel them in your belly as they feed, wriggling and hungry and growing larger. Maybe you’ll even still be alive when they burst out through your skin. Maybe you’ll see them, wriggling and slipping through your fingers as you try to hold them in. Won’t that be horrible, Daj Svarti? Won’t that be terrible?”

Linked with Daj Svarti, Ennis felt the revulsion and shock radiate through him as Daj Svarti recoiled. He felt the pain as the maggots began to do their work, and the suffering was so intense that Ennis released Treoraí’s Heart in sympathetic shock. He heard Daj’s scream with his true ears, not through the mage-vision. Blinking in disorientation, he saw Daj Svarti double over alongside Lieve Mairki as Kurhv Kralj and Cima stepped back. Daj Svarti was clutching his stomach, his claws extended and digging into his own flesh so that blood flowed.

“Kill me!” Daj Svarti hissed to Lieve Mairki and Kurhv Kralj, his eyes wide in panic. “Kill me now! Please!” He moaned and howled again. All around them, other Arruk dropped what they were doing to watch in horrified fascination.

The blue ghost moved Ennis. He stepped forward again, standing before the terrified Svarti. “I can help you,” he told Daj Svarti in his halting, uncertain Arruk, “if you’ll lift your chin for me.” He cocked his head, staring at the contorted body of the Svarti. “Will you do it, or will you die?” he asked.

Daj Svarti was frothing at the mouth. His claws had dug long furrows in his scaled abdomen and he’d fallen to his knees so that Ennis could see the frill along the top of his head. Slowly, in obvious agony, Daj Svarti lifted his head, his eyes half closed. His snout lifted until, trembling, his nasal slits pointed at the sky.

“Good,” the pattern said, and Ennis echoed the word. He took Treoraí’s Heart in his hand again. “Then let me heal you, Daj Svarti. Let me take away the nasty, awful maggots . . .”

Afterward, Kurhv Kralj stared at him strangely, as if pondering something Ennis didn’t understand. But none of the Svarti or Mairki or any Arruk below him would ever again fail to lift their chin when standing before him. . . .

By afternoon, they were in the foothills of the mountains, on the strangely-deserted High Road that led out of the mountains girdling the Finger and running down to the plains eastward toward the Céile Mhór’s capital of Concordia. They’d seen riders from Céile Mhór, but the Daoine scouts seemed content to watch the Arruk army without engaging it—the Arruk army was, after all, leaving Céile Mhór for Talamh an Ghlas. They were the Rí Ard’s problem now, not the Thane’s

Ennis and Cima rode together in their litter alongside that of Kurhv Kralj. Cima had been strangely quiet since the incident with Daj Svarti, and he stayed well away from Ennis, carefully not letting their bodies touch. The blue ghost had left Ennis for the time being, and he leaned back against his pillows, tired and pensive, afraid to think about all that had happened because he was afraid that he’d start to cry. He moved his leg and it brushed against Cima’s scaled one; the Arruk nearly jumped.

“Cima,” Ennis said, “I wouldn’t ever hurt you. Never. Don’t you know that?”

The litter swayed as the bearers moved over the uneven ground. Cima nodded uncertainly. “I know,” he answered. “But you scare me sometimes, Ennis Svarti. I don’t understand you. Are all the Daoine like you?”

“I don’t know,” Ennis answered honestly. “I used to be scared of Da sometimes, and Kayne and Sevei if they were mad at me for something, but never Mam.” He stopped, watching the play of light through the litter’s curtain move across Cima’s face. “Where did you learn to talk like me?” he asked the Arruk.

The bright color of Cima’s scales faded slightly, and he looked away from Ennis as if fascinated by the curtains at the side of the litter. “It’s not a tale I enjoy telling, Ennis Svarti.”

“I’m sorry, Cima. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Cima’s frill lifted and settled again; Ennis wondered if that was a shrug. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Cima said. He took a long breath, his underlids closing for a long time before opening again. “A cycle or more ago, we noticed there were new bluntclaws dressed strangely with the Perakli army, and as Kurhv Kralj told you, a few of them were able to snatch at Cudak’s Web each night and could unleash a power more awful than even the spell-sticks of the greatest Svarti. But Kurhv Kralj didn’t tell you all. I was Cima Svarti: Kurhv Mairki’s chosen Svarti. These sky-stones of the new Perakli had cost us lives and territory, and Meidi Kralj wanted the new Perakli dead, wanted
us
to have the sky-stones and learn to use them. Meidi Kralj asked Kurhv Mairki to capture a few bluntclaws alive from the battlefield, so we could learn more. Kurhv Mairki assigned me to the task of working with the bluntclaw captives and learning their language, since it would certainly be a Svarti who would be able to use the sky-stones. If I learned the language well, Kurhv Mairki told me, if I learned how the Perakli used them, I would be given a mage-stone. He was certain we would capture one or more of them. I’m certain he also believed that this would make him Kralj.”

Cima went silent. The litter lurched and swayed, and Ennis shifted in his cushions. “What happened?” he asked Cima.

The Arruk grimaced. “Several moons ago there was the great battle that Kurhv Kralj told you about, where the strange bluntclaws came with their great mage-stone when we least expected it, the stone that threw great red fires. Just as Kurhv Kralj said, the mage-stone broke our Svartis, killed many of the Arruk, and sent us to our worst defeat. One of the new Perakli even killed Meidi Kralj and Meidi Kralj’s Svarti was killed also.”

Cima turned back to Ennis, but his gaze wasn’t on Ennis’ face but to where Treoraí’s Heart lay hidden under his léine. “Is that why you’re not a Svarti, because Meidi Kralj’s Svarti was killed?”

“After the battle, Grozan Mairki became Kralj. He blamed Kurhv Mairki for our loss because he hadn’t been able to learn enough about the sky-stones, and broke him to Ruka, as you know. As for me . . . All the other Mairki had their own Svarti, and Lieve Mairki, who was elevated when Kurhv Mairki was broken, didn’t want a Svarti who had failed in his task and who was also associated with a disgraced Mairki. He named Daj Svarti as his Svarti. They took my spell-stick and broke it in front of me, and they took all titles from me. They laughed at me as they did it, and they wouldn’t let me kill myself, even though I offered.”

Ennis heard Cima exhale, as if he were about to say something more, but his snout closed and he leaned his head back against the pole of the litter.
“There’s more . . .”
Gyl Svarti whispered in his head, snorting in derision.
“He doesn’t tell you all . . .”

“Cima?”

Cima took another long breath. “I thought . . . I thought that I would be in your place one day, that I would be the Kralj’s Svarti. When I was little more than an eggling, my Life-Weaver told me that the patterns of my scales showed greatness and an affinity for magic, and that’s all I ever thought about, ever since that day. The Life-Weaver was right, because whenever Cudak’s Web appeared in the sky, I could
feel
the power in it. Some of the Svarti were already talking about Cudak Zvati and how we must go to it, but I knew, Ennis Svarti, I
knew
where it was. I could feel Cudak’s Web better than any of the Svarti, even when I was just a Nesvarti. And I could feel Cudak’s power in the Perakli’s stones, too, and as I learned the Perakli language I also learned how the bluntclaw’s sky-stones could call down the sky’s power and hold it, and that those bluntclaws came from a land to the west, where I knew Cudak Zvati was. The other Svarti—they were already afraid or jealous of me. So when Meidi Kralj was killed . . . well, the Svarti had me broken as well.”

Ennis nodded. The blue ghost was silent, but he spoke the words anyway, not caring that he broke away from the dance because he couldn’t stand the pain he heard in Cima’s voice. “My da had a sky-stone,” Ennis told the Arruk. “A Cloch Mór, one of the great stones. He was here with my brother. That’s who you fought. He was the one who threw the red fire,” he finished with certainty.

Cima’s scales had paled even more, the hues muted. Ennis wondered if he was sick, wondered if he should take Treoraí’s Heart and try to cure him as Mam had done. But the Arruk stirred, moving as far from Ennis in the litter as possible. “I warned Meidi Kralj about the sky-stones, especially about the red one that was the strongest of them,” Cima said. “I told Meidi Kralj that perhaps the Perakli would let a few of the Svarti go to Cudak Zvati if we stopped fighting them. But the Kralj didn’t listen; he
wouldn’t
listen. Meidi Kralj said that I’d spent too much time with the bluntclaws when I learned their language, that I’d been infected by them and was now only half-Arruk—and I know that he was speaking words the other Svarti had told him.”

Cima lowered his head and glared at Ennis. “I know that Cudak calls for us,” he continued. “He calls so that He can teach
us
how to call down the sky-net and use it. Maybe He will show the Svarti how to use their spell-sticks the way you bluntclaws use your clochs, your sky-stones. Or maybe He will give us sky-stones of our own.” Again, Cima glanced at Treoraí’s Heart around Ennis’ neck. His underlids flicked over his bulbous eyes and slid back again. “My Life-Weaver said I would be one of the greatest of the Svarti. But I’m nothing. Not a Svarti or a Nesvarti or even an apprentice. Just a half-Arruk with no title at all.”

“If I die, you can take Treoraí’s Heart, Cima,” Ennis said earnestly, not caring that he felt the faint resistance of the blue ghost as he spoke the words. “I’d want you to. You’re the only friend I have. You’re the only one I can talk to.” Cima’s head cocked to one side, but his expression looked uncertain. “It’s what you want, isn’t it, Cima?” Ennis asked.

“It’s what I wanted once,” Cima answered. “I don’t know anymore.”

The Arruk looked away again, opening the curtains of the litter with a hand and staring out as the Arruk force moved ever higher into the mountains.

DESCENDING FROM the heights of the Narrows to the lightly rolling plains surrounding Lough Tory had plunged Séarlait’s mood into depression, Kayne realized. She scowled as she rode alongside him, glaring at the road ahead. He tried talking to her as they rode, but she was as silent as she’d been before Sevei had healed her, responding only with headshakes and shrugs.

Rí Mac Baoill and Shay O Blaca rode close by, while Kayne, Séarlait, and Harik were enclosed in the Rí’s entourage of Riocha and céili giallnai. Kayne found the sensation uncomfortable. He’d been so long away from the Riocha of the Tuatha that their mannered speech and rich clothing seemed somehow alien to him. His own clothing more closely resembled that of the common tuathánach soldiers trudging on foot before and behind the mounted tiarnas: dirty, stained, tattered from both wear and battle, and far more utilitarian than decorative. He’d refused the Rí’s offer of some of his own clothing from the chest in the retinue’s supply wagons; it felt better to stay dressed as he was. In any case, Séarlait was dressed the same way, and there was no sense in deepening her mood. Áine, the Hand of the Heart, had offered some of her skirts to Séarlait, who had just stared at them. “Those might do well for a Riocha’s nice hall,” she told the woman. “They’re not for fighting, and I expect there’s still fighting to do.”

Áine, at least, had known better than to argue.

Kayne also found the circumstances uncomfortable simply because they were outnumbered. At Harik’s suggestion, he’d sent most of his da’s remaining gardai back to the Bunús Wall under the command of Garvan O Floinn, who had fully recovered from his wounds. Rodhlann and his Fingerlanders would continue to guard the Narrows. “We have three Clochs Mór,” Harik said when Kayne broached his worry to the Hand. “Three Clochs Mór make up for a lack of men, as long as we stay alert.”

“Our clochs will do us no good when they slide a dagger into our backs before we can open them,” Séarlait had answered before Kayne could comment.

Harik had given her a faint eye roll, like a parent listening to a child’s futile arguments. “Not all Riocha are as treacherous as a Fingerlander’s paranoia would make them out to be.”

“Ah,” Séarlait said. “I should apologize, Harik Hand. The Riocha are the true salt of the earth and their very words are always the golden truth.” With that, she’d spat on the dirt between them and ground the spittle into the earth with her booted foot before stalking off. Harik had carefully avoided meeting Kayne’s gaze afterward, but Kayne thought he could nearly hear the man’s thoughts.