Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (14 page)

But the body wasn’t moving, and slowly the uproar dimmed. Doyle sat, gently pulling Edana down with him. The others took their seats again more slowly, Labhrás Ó Riain among the last to sit. “Again, I apologize, Rí Ard,” Rhusvak said when his voice could be heard. Next to Doyle, Edana pressed her perfumed sleeve over her mouth and nose, trying to ease the stench. Rhusvak caught the motion. “That isn’t simple corruption you smell, Bantiarna,” he said to her. “That is mostly the reek of the Arruk.”

Enean alone remained standing now, and O Liathain gestured to his son to sit down; MacCamore came forward and pushed down gently at the confused young man’s shoulders while Labhrás Ó Riain stood again at Enean’s other side and whispered in his ear. Enean reluctantly took his seat. Doyle wondered at that interchange, wondered why Ó Riain was suddenly so solicitous toward Enean.

“What
are
these Arruk?” O Liathain asked. “What have they to do with the Tuatha?”

Rhusvak glanced down at the body with obvious distaste. His lips puckered as if he were about to spit on the creature. “I’ll make the story as short as I can, Rí Ard,” he said. “It began fifteen summers ago when word first came to the Thane of attacks on the Daoine villages in Lower Céile nearest Thall Mór-roinn. Bands of these Arruks had come over the Thumb into our land.”

“
Your
land?” the Rí Ard interrupted. “Does Thane Aeric now claim Lower Céile for the Concordance?”

Rhusvak took a long, sighing breath. “Perhaps that overstates things, Rí Ard,” he continued. “We have but a few settlements in Lower Céile, well separated and rarely visited by anyone except the Taisteal and other traders. Certainly Thane Aeric has never been to Lower

Céile himself. There is empty land enough there—which was part of the conflict. Rather than spread out into unclaimed land where they might have had only sporadic contact with us, the Arruk established their own settlements near ours. They planted no crops, tended no herds. Instead, they took food from our fields and killed our sheep, goats, and cows, as well as thinning the storm deer herds that have lately become common. There were encounters and brutality on both sides. More of the Arruk came; they began to raid and burn our villages and kill our people. Five years ago, Thane Aeric sent an army past the Uhmaci Wall into Lower Céile to deal with the growing threat. Only its tattered remnants came back, the commanders telling the Thane of hillsides bristling with the Arruk weapons, of the frightening strength of their warriors protected by a natural armor and the cunning of their generals. They also spoke of a magic the Arruk mages wielded, a magic not from clochs na thintrí but from staves of wood, a slow magic but more powerful than any of the little spells we know, more like that of the clochs na thintrí of the Tuatha.

“Last summer, a new army was raised and sent out beyond the Uhmaci; it, too, came back in decisive defeat. And in the month of Longroot . . .” He paused. “The Arruk brought their own army against the Uhmaci Wall. The Wall was broken.”

“Uhmaci Wall? Broken?” O Liathain leaned forward as far as his bonds would allow him, staring at the Arruk as if the body could give him answers.
Uhmaci Wall . . .
The name of the legendary demarcation of the Daoine lands brought to Doyle a vision of imagined white towers and stone buttresses undulating over green hills. The Wall was impossibly far away, so distant as to be only a legend, but in those legends and tales, the Wall was impregnable. It had stood for over a thousand years.

“The Arruk now hold all of Lower Céile,” Rhusvak continued, “and we no longer control all of the gates of the Uhmaci. The Arruk have made raids well past the wall into the midland where many of our Riocha have their estates. Our people flee in front of them—already, thousands in Mid Céile nearest the Uhmaci have left their homelands. More come to our main cities in Mid Céile every day: hungry, homeless, lost. And the Arruk continue to come northward.”

They were all staring at the body now, Doyle as much as any of them, imagining hordes of the Arruk moving over the green and fertile hills from which their ancestors had once traveled. “We ask for help from our sundered cousins,” Rhusvak said, more softly now. “We know the power of the clochs na thintrí, and Thane Aeric would see the army of the Rí Ard ride with the army of the Thane: one great Daoine army against a common enemy, the power of the Clochs Mór against the power of the Arruk.”

“Let me go there, Da!” Enean half-shouted, his voice too loud. “I want to fight the beasts.”

O Liathain nodded indulgently to his son, but Doyle saw the subtle hand motion the Rí Ard gave to MacCamore. The old warrior crouched alongside Enean, whispered something, and quietly escorted him away, Enean still chattering about fighting, his hands flailing the air as if he were holding a sword already. The Rí Ard watched his son’s departure, then his eyes closed for a moment, the eyelids fluttering.

Doyle noticed that Labhrás Ó Riain watched also and that the man slipped out of the room quietly a few moments later.

“These Arruk have done nothing to us,” the Rí Ard answered finally. “And while the Concordance and the Seven Tuatha have never been enemies, neither have we always been friends. Céile Mhór is far from Dún Laoghaire in more ways than simple distance.” There was a murmur of assent from the Riocha around the Great Hall, but Rhusvak shook his head.

“Look at this creature, Rí Ard. Look at it with the wisdom of your years. Imagine tens of thousands of them, hundreds of thousands, an endless horde descending on this keep. In another five years or ten or fifteen, if this continues, the Arruk will come through the Neck into Upper Céile, and from there, one day, across the Finger into Talamh an Ghlas. Perhaps we can hold them back longer, but if in the end the Concordance fails, then the Arruk
will
come to the Seven Tuatha. We have a chance now—together—to end that threat. If you fail to act . . .” He shrugged, and the fur on the bearskin rippled with glossy highlights. “Then the swords of the Concordance will be rusting in the ground and will be of no help to you, and our ghosts will be laughing at your fate.”

The rumble of whispered conversation rolled about the hall as the Rí Ard stared at the body alongside the man. Edana leaned over toward Doyle. “Are you thinking as I am, my love?” Her sapphire eyes glistened in torchlight; the hint of a smile touched her lips.

Doyle almost smiled. “I might be,” he answered, “if you’re thinking that the Toscaire Concordia may have put another weapon in our hands.”

She did smile then and turned in her chair, leaning over toward her da with a rustle of cloth. Doyle could not hear what she said, but the Rí Ard stirred. “We thank the Toscaire Concordia for this warning,” he said formally. “And we will consider our response. In the meantime, have the gardai remove this carcass from the Great Hall. Toscaire Rhusvak, if you will follow the Hall Máister, he will guide you to your chambers and have the servants bring you and your people refreshment.” The Hall Máister came forward and escorted the Toscaire away. The Rí Ard leaned back against the throne, nodding in turn as each tiarna and bantiarna bowed and took their leave.

When the last echoes of footsteps had died in the vaulted ceiling, Doyle and Edana untied the Rí Ard. He sagged wearily against Doyle’s shoulder with a long, audible exhalation. “I’m so tired,” he said simply.

“I know, my Rí,” Doyle said. “Let us help you back to your chambers.” He started to lift O Liathain, Edana under the man’s other arm.

“It’s time,” O Liathain said to them as they helped him to his feet. “Edana’s right. It’s time for us to act.”

“There are some who will disagree,” Doyle said cautiously. “Tiarna Ó Riain will be one and he speaks for Ríthe Connachta and Éoganacht, at least.”

“Let them disagree,” O Liathain snapped with sudden energy. “I don’t have time to waste on politics. Not anymore. Edana knows. Listen to her, Doyle.”

Doyle caught Edana’s gaze as they walked the Rí Ard slowly away from the dais. She was watching him, staring at his face as if she could see the thoughts chasing each other inside his skull.

She smiled.

“Then we’ll proceed, my Rí,” Doyle answered. “It’s all in place. I just need to send the messages and get my people together. . . .”

G
RAY waves rolled in from the west, and dark forms flew through the cold water.

Meriel shivered in the brisk wind, her body stiff and reddened from the icy sea, her tightly-curled hair darkened to rust-red with salt water and plastered down her back in twin clinging strands. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but false dawn shimmered golden on the horizon. She felt again the weary happiness that followed the exhilaration of being in the water.

Of being with
him
. . . . “ ’Bye, Dhegli,” she called to the water; there was an answering wailing call. She hurried to the blanket and clothing she’d left neatly folded behind a large rock just out of the reach of the foaming tide. She dried herself with the thick blanket, and quickly put on her underclothing, then the red léine, white clóca, woolen stockings, and boots.

The seals warbled and honked at her, out on the flat rocks beyond the surf. She waved once more toward them and started toward the trail leading up from the tiny, rocky beach, holding tight to the memories of the last few hours.

“Awfully cold for a swim,” a familiar male voice said, and a young man dressed in the same colors as Meriel stepped out from behind the screen of a large boulder. “Not to mention that Máister Kirwan doesn’t like acolytes out by themselves at night.”

Meriel stopped, feeling a sudden heat on her face. “How long have you been standing there, Thady MacCoughlin?” she asked.

“Probably not long enough,” he answered, with a slight, almost shy grin, “judging by appearances.”

Her blush deepened and she scowled at the fact that he could affect her that way. She wanted simultaneously to run from him, to shout at him for spying on her, or to simply disappear in sheer embarrassment. If he’d taken a step toward her, she would have fled back to the sea, uncaring of what he might witness then, but he stayed where he was without moving toward her or away. Meriel wondered if Dhegli had noticed Thady, and she hoped he wouldn’t come out of the sea, naked and dripping water, to confront him.

“Why are you here at all? Were you following me?” Her voice snapped, anger covering her embarrassment as Thady spread his hands apologetically, ducking his head as if Máister Kirwan had lashed him with one of his legendary furies. Meriel wished it was her own personality that had that effect; she knew the subservience was because of who her mam was.

“I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep,” Thady explained. “I was wandering around the grounds when I heard the seals down here, so I came down to see them.” He glanced out to the rocks. “Those are blues, aren’t they—the Saimhóir? Half the island claims to have Saimhóir blood in them.” He cocked his head toward Meriel. His gaze was appraising, and she saw the sudden certainty in them. “Some even claim to be changelings who can swim with them.”

“Most people swim simply for exercise and enjoyment,” Meriel answered. “And if you don’t stop talking, neither one of us is going to get up to the White Keep quickly enough to keep from getting caught at First Bell.” With as much dignity as she could muster, Meriel pushed past Thady. After a moment, he followed.

It was a long and steep climb along the winding path and Meriel hurried so that they had no chance to talk. They crossed a foaming, quick stream of cold water and scrambled upward through bracken and heath before reaching the crown of the mountain where the keep brooded, higher than anything except Mt. Inish looming just east across a narrow, deep valley. Meriel and Thady could look southward down to Inishfeirm Harbor, where the houses of the island’s main town clustered near the docks; behind them, the keep rose ever upward with its towers of whitewashed, pale stone, the forbidding walls pierced with the dark eyes of windows.

The two half ran to the side wall of the Low Tower and the tiny, ivy-covered door. “Oscail,” Meriel whispered—the opening word that Thady had taught her—and waited for the faint
click
as the latch slid back. But there was no answering click: there was no sound at all except for the wind in the trees and the faint hammering of the surf far below. Meriel looked worriedly at Thady; he went to the door and put his hands on it.

“Oscail!” he said, more loudly, and pushed. The door shivered in its frame but didn’t open. Thady shook his head. “What’s the matter? It’s never done this before. You don’t think—”

“No, you
don’t
think, Thady MacCoughlin. ’Tis exactly the problem, I would say. I expect better of a third-year.” The voice was deep and stern, and both Meriel and Thady drew in their breaths. A man’s form stepped out from the shadows of a nearby oak tree, his white clóca and léine swirling around him.

“Shite!”
Meriel heard Thady curse under his breath, then: “Máister Kirwan ...”

“Aye,” the man answered. “It never fails to amaze me just how
surprised
acolytes are when they’re caught.” Máister Kirwan’s eyes glittered, icy blue, and his mouth was pressed tight into a frown. He stared at Meriel especially hard, his gaze holding a long time on her face framed by water-matted hair. “I was once an acolyte here, too, as were all the Bráthairs and Siúrs. I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true, and I learned the same things you did. I’ve also learned since how to make a door tell me when it’s been used and to change the ward-word.”

He went to the iron-banded oaken planks of the door and laid his hand on it, whispering a phrase to the wood that neither of them could hear. The lock clicked in response and he pushed the door open with a creak of ancient hinges. “Bantiarna MacEagan, An-tUasal MacCoughlin, if you’ll follow me . . .”