Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (62 page)

He slept very little that night.

Doyle woke up in the morning scratching at the fleas and vermin that had crawled into his clothes from the straw in the wagon. The sky spat rain from scudding dark clouds and a looming darkness to the west threatened more. The oilcloth roof over the cart was tattered and thin, and large, persistent drops pooled underneath, gathering and falling. His mouth tasted foul and the water in their skins was stale and bitter. There were no fine clean clothes he could don, no servants to attend to him, no breakfast awaiting, no perfumes, no oil for his hair. There was only a sad, ancient horse to be hitched to the cart and a long, miserable, and nearly hopeless road ahead.

The road that followed the west side of Lough Lár was less traveled and less maintained than that along the eastern shore. There were no large towns on the forest side of the lough, only one sizable village and a few gatherings of a half dozen ramshackle buildings and several farms interrupting the thirty miles of shoreline. Travelers had never been particularly numerous along the road’s rutted, grassy length, but in recent years the number had decreased even more.

Before the Filleadh, the coming of the mage-lights, the main danger on that side of the lough had been common bandits and thieves who had taken refuge within the outskirts of Doire Coill, though none of the rogues ever cared to venture far into that forest’s heart, for those who did sometimes never returned. Even in slumber, Doire Coill had been a dangerous place. But in those times the forest didn’t bother travelers and they came no closer than a few hundred strides from the road, and bandits were readily killed by sword and arrow. The elderly remembered those times fondly, their heads shaking over their stout as they glanced toward the setting sun.

Now the forest had awakened with the Filleadh. Now its outlying trees here and there lifted branches over the road’s very edges, and the people who lived between the forest and the lough reported seeing all manner of strange creatures: packs of horse-sized dire wolves, vast herds of storm deer, flocks of wind sprites that would light up entire pastures, and glimpses of other strange and bizarre forms. The trees called loud and strong on windy nights, and sióg mists rolled out from under the oaks with alarming regularity. Ghosts walked in the moonlight, and so did manlike beings who thirsted for the blood of the living. Then there were the Bunús Muintir, who knew the slow magics too well and who hated the Daoine who had nearly destroyed their culture and driven them into hiding.

It was a dangerous time for those who traveled the west of the lough. Even the gardai Rí Mallaghan had assigned to patrol the forest road knew the danger: they’d all seen the horror of one of their own turned to oak; his frozen terror still stood on the road as a warning for all those who saw it.

Doyle had heard of the wooden statue in Lár Bhaile several days before, the tale told to him by a young garda who had just returned from patrol and claimed to have seen it happen. “It was awful, Tiarna Mac Ard. He thrust at her with his spear, a blow that should have ripped entirely through the girl’s body, but she just touched him with her staff and the staff went up like lightning, and both Faólan and his horse were caught. There were, oh, a few dozen or more Bunús Muintir with her and they came screaming out of the woods, all of them waving their own staffs. We were outnumbered and they had their terrible magic. We didn’t have any choice but to flee. It was horrible!” Doyle had doubted the story at the time.

Now he stared at the truth of it—
“Faólan’s Folly, we all call it now, Tiarna . . .”

Paili wouldn’t come near the statue. Doyle didn’t know if it was because she was frightened of the statue or because she preferred to sit under the sparse shelter of the cart’s oilcoth. “Don’t you be touching it, master,” she said warningly as he walked up to it in the rain. He ignored her, running his fingertips along the amazingly textured surface, slick and glossy with the drizzle. He could easily believe that horse and rider had once been living. If this had been the work of a sculptor, everyone would have hailed it as a masterpiece. Every detail was there, captured in the oak: the weave and folds of léine and clóca under the leather armor, the belts and straps of the harness, the expression of terror and surprise on the garda’s face, the sharp definition of the horse’s muscles as it began to rear back. Doyle looked up, blinking into the raindrops: the face of the rider was caught in a moment of sudden fear and surprise, the mouth just opening in what must have been his last shout.

Doyle walked slowly around the captured horse and rider. He glanced toward the nearest trees, no more than a few strides away.

“You there! Get away!”

The shout came from up the road, in the direction from which they’d come. A trio of gardai on horseback had come around the nearest bend in the road, their forms still gray in the mist. Even at that distance, Doyle recognized the one who’d shouted: an officer of the gardai named Bearn whom Doyle had met a few times in Lár Bhaile. The trio cantered up, hooves splashing in the puddle water in the road as Doyle backed away, ducking his head and staring down at the ground like any ordinary tuathánach, not letting them see his face. Bearn came up to him; the other two went to either side of the cart. “That’s nothing for you there,” the garda snapped at Doyle. He wore a reed coat against the weather; water dripped from the ends. “Keep your filthy hands off that.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Doyle mumbled, trying to give his voice the broad rural accent he’d heard in Ballintubber. “I seen it in the rain an’ I dinna know . . .”

“Where are you heading on a miserable day like this?” the garda demanded. “Look at me, man.” Doyle lifted his head slightly, hoping the dirt and closely-cropped hair would deceive the man. He squinted at Doyle suspiciously, but before Doyle could speak in answer to his question, one of the other men called out from the cart: “Bearn, you should take a look at this . . .”

With a glare at Doyle, the garda yanked at the reins of his horse and went to the cart. Doyle glanced up to see that the other two gardai had dismounted. One was holding Paili’s arms; the other pointed to where Edana lay in the back of the cart as the leader rode up. “She’d be a handsome one if you could scrape the dirt off her, don’t you think, Bearn? And she didn’t stir at all when I nudged her.”

Doyle hurried back to the cart. “She’s me wife Selli,” he told them, “an’ she was magicked by an old witch-woman who hated Selli ’cause her husband kept watchin’ her. Now she don’t wake. I was told there was an herb-woman in Inchigeelagh as could cure her, so me an’ her mam Paili are going there . . .” Bearn watched Doyle as he spoke; Doyle kept his head lowered, trying not to let the man see his features clearly. Bearn grunted and dismounted, looking into the cart. He stared for a long time at Edana. Then, with a grunt, he reached over the low rails and grasped the collar of Edana’s tunic in a gloved fist. Before Doyle could move or react, he yanked hard. The cloth tore, exposing Edana and the Cloch Mór that lay between her breasts.

“I know you, Tiarna Mac Ard,” Bearn said. His gaze went down to Doyle’s right hand, and Doyle belatedly pulled his sleeve over the exposed swirl of white scars there. “And my men shall enjoy getting to know Bantiarna O Liathain as well, I think, after I take the Cloch Mór. Then perhaps we’ll take you all back to Lár Bhaile for the Rí’s judgment.”

Doyle had hidden his sword under a rough blanket on the seat of the cart. He reached carefully under the blanket now with a sense of growing hopelessness and loss. He had no chance here, not against three gardai in rings and leather. Doyle’s body screamed at the thought of moving the water-hardened weight of the weapon.
Better to die here. At least it will all be over . . .

He drew the sword and swung it at Bearn in one desperate motion.

It was Keira who suggested that they walk down toward the lough. “Andúilleaf grows best where the soil’s moist and the trees are a bit thinner,” she said. “I’m nearly out of the dried leaf and right now your mam’s sleeping. We should be back before she wakes up again.”

Meriel had demurred, saying that she’d wait behind with her mam—though in fact it was because she didn’t want to see the lough empty of Dhegli’s presence and the day was so dreary and wet. Keira had insisted, however, saying that “three pairs of eyes are better than one, and the rain won’t melt you.” Meriel got up with as much good grace as she could manage and followed Keira and Owaine back down the meandering path toward the lough.

“Here,” Keira said as they came near the forest’s edge, where the oaks thinned and the brush started to thicken. Meriel could see the stone fences of the High Road through one of the gaps between the trees, though for the most part they were hidden from view. “This is what andúilleaf looks like,” Keira told Meriel and Owaine, holding out her hand palm up to show them a small leaf with serrated edges and a small lobe at the top. “It likes shade and tends to hide under ferns and the like, since it prefers the same soil. If you’re not certain it’s andúilleaf, touch one of the leaves; the plant will curl up as if it were withering before your eyes and you’ll smell the same odor you get from an infusion of it. Don’t be discouraged if you don’t find any—it’s a rare plant, and difficult to find, even here where it grows best.”

They spread out, moving slowly over the ground, kneeling and crouching in the mud, rain dripping from the branches above. It was wet, dirty work, and—Meriel decided—singularly unrewarding. After a stripe’s work or more, she had nothing to show for it but soaked and muddy clothing, hands that were filthy with soil, and several bites from insects who seemed to think she was a roaming breakfast. Keira had found two of the plants and Owaine one small one that Keira had carefully replanted. “Too young, that one. We’ll let it grow some more . . .”

“If she’s the only one finding them, why did we have to come along?” Meriel muttered to Owaine as Keira went off again. Owaine grinned and shrugged.

“Practice,” he said.

Meriel sniffed at that as Owaine crouched in the mud and starting looking again. She moved off a few feet, brushing dripping curls away from her forehead. From the direction of the road, she heard a shout. Owaine’s head had come up; he’d heard it as well. Meriel pushed through the undergrowth in the direction of the road, curious. She stopped alongside one of the young oaks, peering through a gap in the trees as Owaine came up alongside her.

Through the trees, they could see the frozen wooden form of the horse and rider. Near it, a horse-drawn cart had stopped as three gardai rode up. The gardai confronted the peasants, dismounting and gathering around the cart, evidently in a discussion with them. Suddenly, one of the peasants reached into the cart and they saw the gleam of a sword in his hand. He swung, but the garda he attacked was quick and had unsheathed his own weapon. They saw the blades meet, then a second later the ring of iron against iron reached their ears. The other two gardai had drawn weapons as well. They heard the shriek of a woman as the peasant retreated, parrying the attack of the garda as his two companions moved to either side, ready to enter the fray.

“That’s hardly a fair fight,” Keira’s voice said from just behind them; neither one of them had heard her approach.

“Can you do something?” Owaine asked the Bunús Muintir. “Some slow magic . . .”

Keira shook her head. “Not from this distance.”

“But
you
can, Owaine,” Meriel said. The peasant swung his sword again, two-handed, and they could hear the grunt that accompanied it followed by the clash of iron. The other two gardai were laughing now, leaning on their swords and calling out encouragement to their companion. The peasant had gone down on one knee from the impact of the last blow, “You’re the only one who can.”

“What?” Owaine said, then his eyes widened: “Oh, aye . . .” He reached under the sodden collar of his tunic, taking in his hand the Cloch Mór Meriel had given him. His fingers tightened around the stone. “By the Mother, this feels so much stronger than the clochmion . . .” His eyebrows lowered and Meriel knew that he was no longer seeing only with his own eyes, but also with the power inside the cloch. What happened then surprised Meriel: Owaine raised his hand and scarlet light erupted from it. A trio of fireballs hissed and wailed as they arced away from Owaine trailing smoke. They slammed into earth near the cart: one gouging a hole in the stone wall of the road and sending rock fragments flying; another cratering the middle of the road in a spray of black earth and striking down the decrepit-looking horse reined to the cart; the last hitting the garda as he raised his sword over the peasant. The fireball exploded: an arm pinwheeled away still holding the sword as the man’s torso was ripped apart. The bloody, half-corpse remained standing for a second before toppling.