Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (70 page)

If this was what it meant be Rí Ard, then he suspected that he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience.

They had topped a rise where the company could look out over the landscape around them. They’d left the High Road, which after descending from the Narrows turned sharply north to Dathúil and detoured westward around Lough Tory—Kayne recalled the argument he’d had with his da just before he’d died: how following the High Road would add several days to the journey. As Kayne would have done, Rí Mac Baoill took them along the Forest Road, which wound between the southern shore of Lough Tory and the northern boundaries of Tory Coill, The dark oak forest spread its tall canopy like an emerald blanket over the land before them. Rí Mac Baoill came riding up to Kayne and Séarlait as they paused a moment, looking out. “We should ride close,” he said. “This is the least tamed part of Tuath Airgialla. Still, ’tis a pretty sight in its own way, is it not?”

“It’s too flat and too green,” Séarlait said. She looked behind them. “I prefer the mountains.”

“Mam and Da always said this part of Airgialla reminded them of the area around Doire Coill and Lough Lár in Tuath Gabair,” Kayne told the Rí. Séarlait would not look at him. “They spent much time there. The Bunús Muintir always treated them well.”

Rí Mac Baoill nodded. If the Rí had his own opinions of the Bunús, he kept them to himself, though Kayne knew that the Rí’s da and great-da had both been harsh in their treatment of the old race. “We’ll push on so we get past Tory Coill before dark,” he said “It’s become less safe here since the Filleadh. The Bunús Muintir, dire wolves, and worse, you know. There’s a tiny fishing village—Cloughford—at the southernmost end of the lough—not even a village, just a few scattered houses; we’ll hope to have our midday meal there, and make for Broughshane, a larger village just on the other side of Tory Coill, by nightfall. From there, it will be three days to Dún Laoghaire, but there will be towns and villages enough on the High Road. I’m sending Tiarna O Blaca with Quickship to go ahead of us and tell the Ríthe to expect us.”

“To prepare a proper reception, no doubt,” Séarlait said.

If Rí Mac Baoill felt any of the mockery that rode in her voice, he made no sign of it. “Aye, Bantiarna Geraghty,” he answered. “That’s exactly so. With the clochs and men we have with us, we’ll be safe enough.” He hesitated a moment, pulling back on the reins of his horse. “Of course, you could always call the Bán Cailleach to our aid in the unlikely event we’re attacked,” he added.

“My sister comes in her own time,” Kayne told him, “not at my beck and call. I would expect her with the mage-lights, not before.” He paused, not liking the look on the Rí’s face. “But, aye, if she felt me in trouble, I’m sure she would come as quickly as she could,” he added.

“Ah,” Mac Baoill said. “Still, we’d best move as swiftly as we can. I should make sure my gardai understand the need for haste. Tiarna, Bantiarna.” He nodded to Kayne and Séarlait both and pulled hard at the horse’s reins, prodding the animal with a booted heel.

“You shouldn’t mention your weaknesses to your enemy,” Séarlait told him as they watched the Rí move off to where the entourage waited farther up the narrow road.

“Perhaps not,” Kayne answered. “But my true weakness he can see all too easily—that you and I are at odds.”

Her chin trembled. She stared stiffly away into the wind. He heard her take in a breath as if she were going to speak, then stop. When she finally looked at him again, her face had softened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I do love you, Kayne. That’s not changed at all.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I’m not good at speaking—I’m too new to it. I haven’t had the chance to learn how to keep my thoughts from tumbling out in words. I do love you, and that’s why I speak frankly when I think you’re doing something that may hurt you or us, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. And I want you to speak those thoughts . . . but to
me,
not to the others. I both want and need your counsel. And your love.”

She nodded. Her eyes glittered in the sunlight, and she blinked hard. “It’s just . . .” she began.

“What? Tell me.”

“When you get back to Dún Laoghaire, back to your world, you’ll be surrounded by bantiarna who know how to look and act as they should, who will be fairer and less rough-edged than me . . .” She stopped. Her hands were white-knuckled around the leather straps of the horse’s reins. “By the Mother, I sound like some stupid girl.”

Kayne nudged his horse next to hers, so that their legs touched. He reached over and wound a braid of her hair around his finger. “You don’t need to worry, Séarlait. My da and my great-mam were both tuathánach. We come from humble roots, and our tastes are common.”

“Are you saying I’m
common
. . . ?” Séarlait’s eyes still glittered, but the moisture had vanished in heat. Kayne grinned at her, and she slowly allowed herself to smile also. Ahead of them the entourage jerked into motion again, and the soldiers on foot and the supply wagons crowded up close behind them. “This isn’t anything to joke about,” she said, but there was laughter in her voice.

“I managed to make you smile. That’s all I wanted.”

“I still don’t like this, Kayne.”

“I don’t either,” he told her. “But we’ll each watch out for the other, and we’ll be careful.”

She looked unsure, but she nodded. Together, they prodded their horses into motion, and moved down the forest road toward the waiting trees.

The village of Cloughford stank of the whitefish that the few inhabitants seined from the deep blue waters of Lough Tory. Their nets, much-repaired and half-rotted, hung everywhere near the muddy shore, and their boats—little more than two-person currachs hollowed out from the oak trees of Tory Coill—lay pulled up like great slumbering turtles with their barnacle-encrusted hulls to the sky. The inhabitants made themselves scarce when the Riocha had arrived, fading quietly away from the village. Doyle had caught a glimpse of one of them; he thought the man looked half-Bunús Muintir, with a flat, thick-browed countenance and a scowl as he vanished behind one of the thatched huts. Doyle and the others had been here since before dawn, and none of the villagers had remained behind to fish the lough that morning or returned to rekindle the dead coals in their hearths.

There were seals in the lake as well, and Doyle no longer trusted seals—not since the battle at Falcarragh, years ago. Standing on the rotting pier that jutted out a few strides into the lake, he could see a large seal’s head surface not far out in the water, the black eyes peering back at him. The seal’s fur was suspiciously dark, and Doyle had a moment to wonder if it could be a Saimhóir before the head ducked back under again in a rippling of still water. He thought of opening Snapdragon to snatch the creature from the water, or bringing one of the archers over.

Doyle didn’t like Cloughford: didn’t like the watching seals, didn’t like the foul smells, didn’t like the tumbledown and half-ruined houses, didn’t like the proximity of Tory Coill with its mistletoe-infested oaken limbs just a few hands of strides across the road, didn’t like that Padraic was here with him.

“An ugly place, is it not?” a voice intruded. Doyle heard the creak of wood under boot soles a moment later.

“An ugly place for ugly deeds,” Doyle responded as he turned. “I’d be careful, Rí Mallaghan; I don’t know if this pier can take the weight of two men.”

Torin Mallaghan smiled at that, his thin, deceptively frail features crinkling like fine paper. “You almost sound like you’re worried, Doyle.”

“I
am
worried. I don’t like this.”

Rí Mallaghan shrugged. “O Blaca arrived a stripe ago, and he’s confirmed what we thought: the Bán Cailleach can only find and go to a Holder when the mage-lights are out and the clochs are feeding. And we know from our experiences with the Mad Holder that Lámh Shábhála is limited like Quickship—Jenna could use Lámh Shábhála to go to other places at any time, but she could only transport herself to locations she herself knew and could remember.” Mallaghan gestured at the village around them as they walked from the pier to the shore past the nets on their poles. “Sevei Geraghty has certainly never been here, and the mage-lights won’t come for stripes yet. And even if we’re wrong . . .” Doyle saw the velvet cloth of Mallaghan’s clóca ripple with his shrug. “If the Bán Cailleach can stand against all the Clochs Mór we have brought here, then there was never any hope at all, was there? That would almost excuse the failures you’ve had with Lámh Shábhála over the years . . .” The Rí stopped and turned suddenly, so that Doyle nearly ran into the man. “You’re not having second thoughts about this, are you, Doyle? I’d hate to think that at this late date I no longer had your loyalty.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” But he wished he weren’t. He wished Padraic weren’t. He had been having more than second thoughts about this, as the burning in his stomach reminded him. Past the Rí’s shoulder, he saw Padraic, walking near the road. His son waved once at him, then continued walking. The banked coals in Doyle’s stomach glowed brighter.

“Aye, you’re here,” Rí Mallaghan answered. “And I’d remind you that it’s because you
are
with us that your wife is allowed to be as . . . uncooperative as she has been. This is the time when all of us Riocha must stand together. But you still look unconvinced, my friend.”

Once, Doyle had thought that Torin Mallaghan meant the word “friend” when he said it. No longer. “I remember having a conversation with you twenty cycles ago, back when Edana’s da died. You told me then that ‘the prize was worth the risk.’ Back then, I agreed with you.”

“But you don’t now. Is that what you’re saying?”

Doyle was saved from having to answer. A garda came running up to them from the village, the rings on his leather mail clanking. “My Rí, Tiarna, they’re approaching.” The embers inside Doyle went to flame.

“Ah, good.” Rí Mallaghan took a deep breath in through his thin nose, his nostrils flaring. He brought his Cloch Mór out from under the clóca and took it in his hand for a moment. “We begin, then. Come, Doyle.” He began walking away without waiting for Doyle to respond.

The garda was staring at him, waiting for him to move. Doyle shivered in the cold breeze. He looked back at the lake. It was still and silent. There was nothing there.

“I’ll be there, my Rí,” he said. “Give me a few moments.” He gestured to the garda. “I need to see Tiarna O Blaca,” he said. “Tell him it’s vital. Hurry!” The garda nodded and ran off. Doyle glanced once more back at the lake—no, there were no seals there now—and began walking slowly toward the hovels of the village and the road. Shay O Blaca met him halfway there. “What is it, Doyle?” the man asked. “Make it quick—Rí Mallaghan wants me to talk to the green-robes before Kayne gets here.”

“Shay . . .” Now that it came to it, Doyle wasn’t sure how to proceed, and the sour fire in his throat made him swallow hard. Shay’s head cocked sideways and lowered storm cloud-gray eyebrows. “We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember, and I’ve asked you too many times for favors. But I have one more to ask: the last one, I promise . . .”

In the morning, she slept long, and when she awoke, only Issine was still there. The Créneach stood motionless a few strides from her, looking more like a knee-high pile of rocks than a living thing. The round head turned on its stony torso with a sound like scuffed gravel as Sevei stood up, shivering a bit.

Bhralhg had evidently brought fish while she’d been sleeping. They lay gleaming at Sevei’s feet. “Did he expect me to eat these raw?” she asked.

Issine made a sound halfway between a cough and a hammer blow on granite. “They would taste good enough to you if you were in Saimhóir form,” he told her. “Or you can build a fire and scorch them if you’d like. I’m sure Lámh Shábhála’s capable of that.”

His tone made her feel like a child again, being scolded by an amused parent. She stuck her tongue out at Issine impulsively and he made a chuckling sound again. Sevei glanced down again at the fish. “What do Créneach eat?” she asked.