Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (64 page)

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know myself,” Meriel answered.

“You should know this—the decision to take you hostage—”

“Edana!” Doyle said sharply, speaking for the first time since they’d arrived at the cave. “Don’t.”

Edana shook her head as she glanced at him, and she smiled softly, touching his hand. “No, Doyle. She deserves to know.” She looked back at Meriel, though her hand stayed on Doyle’s. “Taking you hostage was my idea. I suggested it first. I knew that you were the only possible thing that could cause the Mad . . . your mam to give up Lámh Shábhála.”

Meriel stared. Thoughts roiled inside her, too many and too unfocused for her to speak.

“I didn’t know you,” Edana continued. “You were just a name. Just the daughter of the Banrion First Holder. I could put you into danger because I didn’t know you. Now . . .” She glanced at Doyle as she spoke. “I owe you my life and Doyle’s. We won’t betray you. I promise you that much.”

Owaine sniffed suspiciously; Doyle said nothing. He’d been nearly silent since Edana had awakened, and Meriel could guess nothing of what he might be thinking.

A hint of color wafted between the stars directly overhead. All of them looked up at the same moment, drawn to the sight. Meriel saw Owaine’s hand go to his cloch. Edana’s hand lifted as well, then stopped as she noticed Meriel watching her. “I won’t betray you,” she said again. “But I won’t fill Demon-Caller if that’s what you want.”

Owaine shook his head when Meriel glanced at him. But she also saw the yearning on Edana’s face and she remembered the horror that had held her for so long. “I trust your word,” she said to Edana. “Go ahead. Take Demon-Caller.”

The three of them stood, opening their clochs to the mage-lights as the sky-dance sent bars of light moving over the hillside. Doyle remained seated, huddled in on himself with his head down. Meriel let the cold energy fill Treoraí’s Heart, sighing as the clochmion took the power into itself. She could feel, well to the east, Lámh Shábhála’s presence, also open to the mage-lights. They
all
felt it, and they all looked that way in anger.

Too soon, the mage-lights faded and they sat once more. Edana took Doyle’s hand. “Doyle and I can’t stay here,” she said. “We can’t hide here forever. And neither can you.”

“What are you saying, Bantiarna?” Meriel asked.

“Tiarna Ó Riain stole Lámh Shábhála from your mam and Snapdragon from Doyle. He’s also duped my brother and taken away a title that should have been mine. All of us here have reason to hate him. He is the enemy of each of us.”

“We all have reasons to hate each other, also,” Owaine interjected. “Perhaps more reasons than we have to hate Ó Riain.”

For the second time, Doyle stirred. His thin, drawn face lifted. “Aye,” he said. “But perhaps at this point we make better allies than enemies.”

“L
OOK what I have for the new Rí,” Ó Riain said as he entered Enean’s chambers. Enean clapped his hands with delight at the thought of a gift; Nuala, now Enean’s wife, set down her sewing on her lap but didn’t move from her seat. Her gaze was flat and suspicious; under her léine, her belly was beginning to round with the child she carried. Ó Riain brought a cloch out from under his clóca, the stone caught in a new silver cage and hung on a wide, ornate chain. “Every Rí should have a Cloch Mór,” Ó Riain continued. “Since Edana stole the one that should have been yours, I’ve acquired this one to give you.”

“It’s so beautiful . . .” Enean held out his hand and Ó Riain dropped the gem in his hand and let the chain pool around it. Enean took it and held it up to his chest, turning so that Nuala could see it. “Look, Nua. See what Labhrás has brought me. ...”

Nuala could sense Ó Riain watching her. She kept her face carefully neutral, allowing herself to smile. She knew that Cloch Mór—any acolyte of the Order would have known it. The color of the stone, the shape . . .
It’s Weaver, the cloch that Alaina was given. Oh, Mother, what has happened ... ?
She also knew the smaller stone that adorned Tiarna Ó Riain’s chest, the one that made her want to gape in astonishment.

She felt a stab of fear touch her swelling stomach. If Alaina was dead, then so also might be Tiarna Mac Ard or the others of the Order, and she must look to her own safety. She knew that Tiarna Ó Riain had his own choice for Enean’s wife and had been visibly upset when Enean had made his preference obvious. And the truth was that Nuala found that she liked Enean well enough. He was gentle with her and protective, and if he sometimes seemed to forget her name and call her Sorcha—the name of his dead fiancée—she could overlook that.

But she had no illusions about the situation. Especially now. If something happened to her—and with Tiarna Ó Riain holding Lámh Shábhála, that now seemed far too likely—Tiarna Ó Riain’s niece Toiréasa De Danaan would be in Nuala’s place as soon as custom and propriety would allow.

Enean was still holding the stone out toward her. “That’s wonderful, Enean,” she said, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. “I wonder where Tiarna Ó Riain acquired such prizes?” She gave them both the same smile. “You’re fortunate to have such a generous Regent Guardian, Enean. Especially one who has the strength to hold Lámh Shábhála.”

“Lámh Shábhála?” Enean burst out as Ó Riain raised eyebrows at Nuala. “Is that really Lámh Shábhála?”

“Aye, ’tis,” Ó Riain said, though his glance lingered on Nuala too long for her comfort.

“You defeated the Mad Holder, Labhrás?”

“Aye, I did,” Ó Riain answered. “Two nights ago, well to the west. She and her cloudmages had come into Tuath Gabair, and I learned of it. I was there to meet her with my cloch and others, as was my duty to you, Enean, as your Regent Guardian.” He gave a long sigh, waving his hand. “The struggle was incredible, my Rí, and there will be tales about the terrible lightnings on the mountain generations from now, but finally we prevailed, though many fell. We defeated her and I took Lámh Shábhála, but only just in time. There were creatures from out of Doire Coill who came to protect her, awful things from the night, and we had to flee for our lives without capturing the Banrion.”

Enean seemed to have stopped listening somewhere during the tale. His scarred face twisted as if he were puzzled. “Shouldn’t the Rí have Lámh Shábhála?” Enean asked. He plucked at the Cloch Mór around his neck.

“Aye, perhaps you should,” Ó Riain told him. “But, Enean, I had no choice. If I hadn’t taken Lámh Shábhála, we would all have died. Wolfen, my old cloch . . . it was exhausted and useless after the struggle. To save us, I had to take Lámh Shábhála for myself. And now . . .” He clasped hands over the gem. “Enean, I
can’t
give up Lámh Shábhála. It would kill me. Ask your wife. She knows.”

They were both looking at her. “It’s true,” Nuala answered. She lowered her head so that she didn’t need to meet Ó Riain’s eyes. The colors of the sewing thread blurred on her lap. “Losing Lámh Shábhála would drive the Holder insane. The pain of the loss is said to be nearly impossible to bear. I was taught that at the Order of Gabair. The Regent Guardian wouldn’t be able to give up Lámh Shábhála once he took it.” She raised her head, carefully looking only at Enean. “You harm
any
cloudmage greatly when you take their Cloch Mór,” she said.
If Alaina’s cloch was taken, who else’s might he have?
She wondered if the Order of Gabair even existed now.

At the edges of her vision, a faint satisfaction smoothed Ó Riain’s face. “You see, Enean,” Ó Riain continued, “even though I wanted to give Lámh Shábhála to you, I
had
to take it or it would have fallen back into the Mad Holder’s possession and everything would have been lost. Now . . .” His hands lifted. Fell. “I can’t give it up. It won’t allow me.”

Enean was scowling, the long and jagged scar white on his face. The burning knot in Nuala’s throat grew larger; she could feel the dangerous annoyance in her husband, the childish, impulsive rage that sometimes overcame him. Everything had changed now, she realized : Lámh Shábhála had altered her world and she could only try to save herself. “Enean,” Nuala said soothingly, “Tiarna Ó Riain is telling you the truth and you have to believe him.” She put the sewing aside and went to Enean, stroking his muscular back and putting her head on his chest, placing herself carefully between Enean and Ó Riain. “Remember, your da wore a Cloch Mór and he was the finest and most respected Rí Ard in many generations. You’ll be like him when the Ríthe meet for the Óenach again and give you that title. Very soon now. Your da would have been so proud to see you put the golden torc of the Ard around your neck. It’s what he would have wanted.”

Her voice calmed him, as she’d hoped. She could feel him relax under the influence of her hands and her voice. Her own position was precarious, but she knew that Enean’s now was just as insecure. Being Enean’s “Regent Guardian” while allowing Enean the title of Rí Dun Laoghaire had been convenient and politically expedient. But now, holding the great cloch . . . if Tiarna Ó Riain felt that Enean was beyond his control or was actively interfering with his plans, she was certain that some accident would befall her husband, and Ó Riain would claim the power that was already his in all but title.

She looked up and her gaze met Ó Riain’s. “We should be glad that Lámh Shábhála is in the hands of someone who loves you as much as I do,” she said to Enean.

“As indeed I do, my Rí,” Ó Riain said quickly with a strange, lopsided smile. “And I will use the power that’s been given me to make certain that you receive all that you deserve.”

Enean was smiling now, his mood shifting with childish rapidity. “Thank you, Labhrás,” he said, plucking at the cloch on its chain. “You’re a good friend. I’m sorry I got angry.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Ó Riain said. He approached them, putting one hand on Enean’s shoulder, the other on Nuala’s. She forced herself not to flinch. “Tonight, when the mage-lights come, we’ll fill our clochs together and perhaps your wife can teach you some of what she learned of the art of the cloudmage, eh?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial baritone. “It’s time the world learned just how powerful you are, Enean. First, we show those on Inish Thuaidh how foolish they were to follow the Mad Holder. Then, when they’ve bowed to our will, we take our armies and our clochs na thintrí and follow the Toscaire Concordia east to drive the Arruk from Céile Mhór. And who knows, after that is done, perhaps there will be new Tuatha who bow to the Rí Ard in Dún Laoghaire.”

“And I’ll be the Rí Ard over it all,” Enean said. Nuala could see him caught up in Ó Riain’s vision, imaging himself in that future.

Ó Riain laughed then, and the self-satisfaction in it made Nuala shiver even as she pretended to smile with Enean. “Of course you will be,” Ó Riain said smugly. “The strongest person must always be Rí Ard. ...”

They shook dust from the earth with booted feet and pounding hooves. The choking swirls rose over them like a dun cloud and their line, stretching for a mile or more, filled the High Road like brightly-clad ants swarming to a nest.

“That’s the fourth group I’ve seen heading north in the last two days,” Owaine said. His voice startled Meriel from the half-trance into which she’d fallen, sitting on the slope at the edge of Doire Coill. “The Tuatha are going to war. The question is, against whom?” He sat carefully a few feet from her with a sound of rustling dry leaves that was strangely louder than the distant clattering and pounding of the passing troops. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“And you came to protect me?” She gentled the comment with a quick smile. She found that she wished he’d sat closer—so she could feel his warmth on a chilly day, she told herself. “Owaine . . .”

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” Her attention returned to the army passing between Doire Coill and Lough Lár. “They’re in the green and brown of Tuath Gabair, mostly, but I’ve seen other colors as well, from most of the Tuatha. Look, that tiarna on horseback and the gardai alongside him are wearing Connachta’s colors. If Gabair is marching with Connachta, then the Tuatha aren’t warring against each other. And they’re going north.”

Owaine finished the thought for her. “To Tuath Infochla and the port of Falcarragh, and from there to Inish Thuaidh.”

“Aye. And this time, Lámh Shábhála will be riding against Inish Thuaidh and her cloudmages, not with them.” Even if she’d never experienced war, Meriel could imagine it all too well: the smoke of the battle, the fires in Dun Kiil, the keep shattered under the assault of thousands of soldiers, the flaring energies of the Clochs Mór sparking all around. Those she knew and loved would be there, grimly defending their land: her da, Bantiarna Aithne and the rest of the Comhairle, Máister Kirwan, Súir Meagher, all the cloudmages of the Order ... and they would—they
must
—fall, all of them. She could see their bloodied faces, their twisted forms lying on the shattered rocks of Inish Thuaidh.