But she stood now in the bright sunshine near the whitewashed splendor of Tuatha Halla on its hilltop overlooking the harbor of Dún Laoghaire. There were several ships in the harbor, flying the banners of all the Tuatha. The banner of Inish Thuaidh fluttered on one mast as well—that of
Uaigneas,
the ship that had brought Meriel and Owaine here. Edana had told Meriel that their ship was the first Inishlander vessel to have been in the harbor for over a century. Meriel hoped that it was an omen, and that Inish trade ships would now ply back and forth from the Tuatha.
Across from Tuatha Halla, on its own low hill, stood the Keep of Dún Laoghaire, its massive walls girdling the slopes. The towers were decorated with banners displaying the colors of all seven of the Ríthe who were in attendance and the keep’s great wooden gates were open and welcoming. The keep was not a fortress today, but a home for the Riocha who had come for the Óenach.
“ ’Tis a beautiful sight,” Owaine said. He was clad in the white clóca and léine of the Order of Inishfeirm, Blaze gleaming a brilliant red on his chest. Owaine linked his arm with hers and pressed her to him, leaning closer to her ear to whisper so that none of the Riocha could hear. “But ’tis not as beautiful as Dun Kiil, I think. This land is too flat and too tamed.”
Meriel grinned at that and leaned her head against his shoulder. They stood among the crowd of Riocha waiting for all the Ríthe to enter the sacred hall before they filed in to listen to the Óenach. Meriel was already tired of the polite conversation and careful smiles, and she would be glad when she and Owaine could return to their chamber in the keep. Though that would be stripes from now, after the celebratory supper for the new Ard. She was tired of the whispers and the half glimpsed pointing of fingers.
“That’s the Mad Holder’s daughter, and the Inishfeirm cloudmage with her is her husband. They were both there at the Battle of Falcarragh. I wonder how many they killed . . .”
Meriel would glance at them and they would quickly stop the whispering and smile back, as if they’d been discussing the weather. The whisperers were bad, but the ones who came fawning up to her were worse.
“Ah, I heard the Banrion Mac Ard talk of how you ended the battle at Falcarragh with your cloch. We’re all so grateful to you, Bantiarna. I wonder . . . my niece is ill, and if you could see her, then perhaps . . .”
They smiled at her, too, those who wanted Treoraí’s Heart.
All the Ríthe had entered but for the Banrion of Dún Laoghaire, last as custom dictated. Her retinue was just cresting the hill, with banners fluttering in the strong wind off the bay and horns blaring to announce their approach. The Riocha and—behind them—the tuathánach around Meriel cheered as the Banrion’s carriage reached the entrance and Edana disembarked on Doyle’s arm, the gold-and-silver-chased torc of Dún Laoghaire around her neck.
Meriel whispered up to Owaine through the noise of the approbation. “Amazing how they cheer now, isn’t it? Only a few months ago, she and Doyle were hunted criminals, and these same people were howling for them to be killed.”
“As they did with us,” Owaine reminded her. “Those with power are always cheered to their faces, no matter what the people really think. But you . . .” He grinned down at her. “Anyone who knows you would shout ‘huzzah! ’ and mean it.”
Meriel smiled and hugged him. Edana and Doyle were walking toward the beckoning doors of the Halla, but Edana stopped as they came abreast of Meriel and Owaine in the crowd. She motioned to them to come to her, and released Doyle’s arm to take Meriel’s. “Come,” she said. “Let’s walk over here for a moment, away from the crowd. Doyle, if you’d stay with Owaine; you can tell him what we’re discussing.”
Doyle, to Meriel’s eyes, didn’t seem happy with the request, but he nodded and clapped Owaine on the back. Edana led Meriel a few paces away, putting the carriage between them and the crowd of Riocha, watching curiously as their Banrion spoke to the Inishlander.
“Are you nervous, Edana?” Meriel asked her. “You’ll make a fine Banrion Ard. I know this.”
Edana smiled back at her, pressing her fingers in Meriel’s hand. “I’m pleased that you think so. Your approval means much to me.” She paused. “The decision for the Ard won’t be unanimous, though. Ríthe Taafe, Mac Baoill, and O Seachnasaigh will vote against. But Ríthe Mallaghan and Mas Sithig, and Banrion O Treasigh and myself are in agreement. Four against three—it’s a slim margin, but enough. It won’t stop the arguing or the disagreements, however, and the Tuatha will take time to accept the decision made today.”
“ ‘The Tuatha are in agreement as often as the sun rises in the west,’ ” Meriel said. “That’s one of Mam’s saying, and I’ve heard others in Inish Thuaidh say the same. But you’ll manage to win them over.”
Edana laughed, then her face turned somber. “No, I won’t. I’m not to be the Ard, Meriel,” she said. “I will be Banrion Dún Laoghaire only; that’s enough for me. I spoke with Malaghan, Mas Sithig, and O Treasigh last night and we’ve all agreed on another.”
“Edana, no . . .” Meriel could feel the shock and disappointment on her face. She and Owaine had come at Edana’s specific request to see her take the torc of the Ard, and now . . . Meriel felt the joy in her dissolve. With Edana as Ard, there was at least some hope of peace between the Tuatha and Inish Thuaidh. With any other . . .
Meriel remembered the horror of Falcarragh, and could imagine what would have happened had the armies of the Ríthe actually come to Dún Kiil. Edana, she knew, would never fully forgive Jenna for her part in Enean’s death, but she would at least seek to keep peace between their countries. Meriel dreaded having to bring this news back home to her parents and the Comhairle. “If not you, then who? Torin Mallaghan? My mam said his da certainly had aspirations for the throne—”
“No,” Edana interrupted. She seemed strangely undisturbed by the news she’d brought. A pale, soft smile brushed her lips, genuine and almost amused. Meriel wondered if she wasn’t simply relieved at not having to take on the burden of being the Ard in addition to her duties as the Banrion Dún Laoghaire. “Not Rí Mallaghan. In fact, the person we intend to nominate isn’t a “Rí or Banrion at all.”
“Then who?” A sudden, horrible suspicion came to her and she glanced quickly over to Doyle, still talking with Owaine. Edana saw the direction of her gaze and laughed gently.
“No, not Doyle. He would not be anyone’s choice. In fact, as much as I love him, he would not even be my choice. I’ve also seen his flaws.”
“Then who . . . ?”
Edana was staring at Meriel. The odd trace of a smile on her face was reflected in the shining metal of her torc. “You, Meriel,” Edana said. “You.”
Meriel started to speak, but no words came out. She gaped, too shocked to think. “Me?” she said finally. “Edana, this is nonsense. It’s worse than nonsense—it’s rash insanity. You can’t be serious.”
“I am. We are. Very much so.”
Meriel was still shaking her head. “My mam’s the Banrion Inish Thuaidh, whom the Ríthe still consider an enemy, and I’m . . . I’m not . . .” Meriel had a sense of disorientation, that this was all some odd, intensely real dream. She blinked. “This can’t be. I don’t want it.”
“Please, listen to me for a moment,” Edana answered. “This is something I’ve thought about for weeks now. Aye, your mam’s an Inishlander and the Mad Holder besides, and that’s why Taafe, Mac Baoill, and O Seachnasaigh will squawk and scream and turn red and vote a forceful, loud nay. They’ll be furious and feel that they’ve been betrayed, and they will try to make your reign as Ard difficult.”
“All the more reason—”
Edana lifted a hand. “No, listen. What they would do with you is no more than they’d do with me. But let me also be honest about the others’ feelings. Rí Mallaghan thinks that because you’re young and inexperienced in the intricacies of politics, you’ll also be pliable and easy for him to control. He’ll find out that he’s wrong, but by then it will be too late. Rí Mas Sithig looks at the ruin of Falcarragh and then at how near his Tuath Infochla is to Inish Thuaidh. He’ll be too afraid to insult the Inish to vote against you once you’re nominated. Frankly, he needs the aid and money your mam has promised to Tuath Infochla after her return to Dún Kiil, in reparation for the death and damage she caused. And he also wonders if Falcarragh wouldn’t be the first victim again if Jenna becomes angry at the Tuatha or turns mad again. Banrion O Treasigh only sees your gender and the fact that her hated cousin Rí Connachcta will be mightily upset, and she takes delight in that. She will vote ‘aye’ for sheer perversity, and because Locha Léin is a long way from Dún Laoghaire and the Ard’s seat.”
Meriel gave a cough of disbelief. “If that’s how everyone feels, why would you even be thinking of me as the Ard?”
Edana’s smile widened. “Because
I
know the true reasons. I know what I saw in Doire Coill and in Falcarragh. I witnessed courage and bravery, determination and loyalty. I saw someone who is compassionate but who’s also not afraid to be strong when strength is needed. I saw someone to whom I could kneel as Ard and be proud to do so. It took me time to see it, after Falcarragh and poor Enean’s death, but I have. Give the Ríthe time, and most of them will realize that also.”
“But
me . . . ?
”
“Why not you? You’re Riocha. Your pedigree is as good as most of them here. The MacEagan line is well known; the Aoire line connects to the Mac Ards. Your mam is the Banrion Inish Thuaidh and the First Holder besides.”
“Owaine has no connection to the blooded families, and he’s my husband.”
A shrug. “No, he’s not Riocha, but he’s a cloudmage of the Order, a Holder of a Cloch Mór, and Inish—everyone knows that Inish are different. Owaine isn’t to be Ard. You are.”
Meriel’s head was shaking as if of its own volition. “
You
should be Ard, Edana. Not me. You were born to it, your da and your great-da were both Ard. You
understand
the politics; you’re part of them. I don’t. I was never even part of it back home. Be the Ard, Edana, as you should be.”
“I wanted it,” Edana admitted. “Part of me still does. But I
do
know what I’d face and I know the limitations I’d have. I’m afraid I’d be little more than the holder of the title. I don’t know how much I could accomplish.”
“I’d be no different. I’d be worse.”
“No.” Edana laughed again and Meriel could hear a tinge of bitterness in the sound. “If I were Ard, I’d simply be one voice among the seven Ríthe, and the Tuatha would squabble and fight and even war among each other no matter what I said. I worry about that. I worry about what’s happening in Céile Mhór with the Arruk—you didn’t see the creature that the Toscaire Concordai brought, Meriel, but I did and I wonder if we won’t be facing them soon. I worry about Inish Thuaidh, too. I think it’s time that the Inish and the Tuatha try to work together, not apart. But old sentiments and grudges and hatreds run deep in the families, and my lone voice as Ard won’t be enough. I have Dún Laoghaire, the weakest of the Tuatha, and I have two Clochs Mór. That’s enough to make me Banrion Ard if I say that I want the title; it’s not enough to do more than give me the name.” Edana spread her arms wide. “I thought about all this,” she continued, “and I knew I couldn’t be the Ard I would want to be. But you . . . you could. You bring with you Lámh Shábhála’s reflected power and the immediate support of Inish Thuaidh. You’ll have Dún Laoghaire with you as well—and that is enough to give you the votes of other Ríthe like Infochla, if only in fear of the consequences if they oppose you. You have the potential to actually unite the Tuatha, Meriel, and I’m afraid that will be necessary if we’re to survive.”
“I don’t hold the kind of power you seem to think I have,” Meriel protested. She lifted Treoraí’s Heart. “I don’t even hold a Cloch Mór.”
“I wonder if you don’t hold more,” Edana answered. She touched the scars on Meriel’s arm with a finger. “But Owaine holds a Cloch Mór, and I do, and Doyle. Your mam holds the most feared cloch of all. Meriel, even the Bunús Muintir would stand with you. I promise you that Dún Laoghaire will always be your ally, and you know Inish Thuaidh will. And you . . . you will also have the people of all the Tuatha: the tuathánach.” Edana cupped her hands around the one with which Meriel held her cloch. “The people will respond to an Ard who heals rather than hurts, a ruler they can love rather than fear. That will scare and impress the Riocha more than anything. You may need no more than that.”
Meriel was shaking her head. Her heart pounded against her ribs; her breath came short and fast and the Tuatha Halla threatened to begin dancing around her. “Edana—I didn’t ask for this. I don’t
want
this.”
The smile on Edana’s face creased itself deeper. “I know, and that’s another reason you should have it. Too many people—even my da and his da before him—wanted it too much, and it consumed them. Too many people want it
now.
”
To be Banrion Ard . . .
The thought still made her dizzy, but Treoraí’s Heart pulsed warm in her hand—. . .
the people will respond to an Ard who heals . . .
—and the fear no longer burned in her stomach.
You’re not fighting this,
she realized suddenly.
You’re frightened at the thought, aye, but at the same time you’re actually considering it.
She looked over to where Owaine and Doyle stood talking. Doyle glanced over at them, and his stare was hard and grim. “What of Doyle? Does he agree?”
The smile faltered slightly at that. “My dear husband? No, he doesn’t. But he can say nothing here and he won’t. And you will change him, also, Meriel. You will.”
“How could you say nothing of this to me?” Meriel looked around, bewildered. “How could you let me come here thinking you were to be Ard?” Everyone seemed to be staring at them and she wondered what she saw in carefully smiling faces.
“If I’d said it, would you still have come, or would I have had to find a way to pry you out of the White Keep at Inishfeirm or Dún Kiil?”