Holder of Lightning (47 page)

“I want the answers now,” she persisted.

“I’m the teacher, you’re the student. I will determine when you’re ready, what you’ll learn, and when.”

“Aye, I’m the student. And it’s
my
duty to tell you when I don’t understand something so that you can explain. Don’t put me off with platitudes and pleas for patience. When I ask questions, tell me what you know or tell me that you
don’t
know.”

“You’re an arrogant young lady.”

“And you’re a crotchety old man who is used to easily cowing the boys who are sent to you because you look sour and mean. Your appearance and reputation aren’t going to frighten me, Máister Cléurach. A year ago, I might have been as terrified as any of them, but not now. Here’s one thing I’ve learned in that time: when someone refuses to answer me, they either don’t know the answer to my question or they’re deliberately withholding it for reasons of their own. Which is it for you, Máister?”

They glared at each other for a few breaths, then Máister Cléurach snorted. “The Holders of Lámh Shábhála evidently have their obstinate streak in common,” he said. “As well, evidently, as a tendency to view the world in dualities. One thing I hope you learn here is that things are more complicated than that. You’re seeing conspiracies when the truth is more innocent and banal.”

He shook his head, rapping his fingernails on the table a few times before continuing. “Here’s your answer: Severii O’Coulghan was not Tadhg. Though he did serve as Máister here, which was his da’s dying wish, the truth is that he didn’t share Tadhg’s sweeping vision for the Order. The clochs went dead late in his Holding, and Lámh Shábhála finally died a year or two afterward. Had Tadhg been the Holder then, he would certainly have given Lámh Shábhála to the Order as the ultimate prize of its collection. Then, when the mage-lights returned, we would have seen them shining
here
over Inishfeirm and known that the time of the Filleadh was approaching. We would have had Lámh Shábhála to protect us if raiders came to plunder the clochs. Severii had the cloch, though, not Tadhg. Rather than treasuring the cloch for the Order, he gave Lámh Shábhála as a gift to his lover.” Máister Cléurach gave a sniff of derision. “Lámh Shábhála is not the most beautiful or most striking of jewels, as you know,” he continued. “If anything, it’s rather plain. And love, as you may also know, is an emotion that can fade and die like the mage-lights. Severii’s lover one day abruptly left the island never to be seen again. With him went Lámh Shábhála.”

Jenna’s face must have shown confusion.
“Him?”

Máister Cléurach shrugged. “Life is complicated,” he re plied simply and continued his tale. “No doubt Lámh Sháb hála was eventually given away or lost or misplaced as something not particularly valuable. When Severii was asked by the librarian for a description of Lámh Shábhála, so that it could be painted and written down in our books . . .” Maister Cleurach went to one of the shelves and pulled down one of the bound volumes.

“The Book of Lámh Shábhála,”
he said, placing it before Jenna. He opened the stiff leather cover, the smell of dust and old paper wafting over Jenna. His bony forefinger pointed to an illustration on the first page: a cloch held in someone’s hand: caged in silver wire; whorled with emerald-green and mottled gold; the size of a duck’s egg and glinting as if transparent and full of hidden depths. Jenna could see hints of the actual stone in the representa tion, but this was Lámh Shábhála magnified and made far more jewellike than the reality.

“Obviously, that’s
not
Lámh Shábhála,” Máister Cléurach said. “Perhaps Severii deliberately lied to the artisan—wanting to make the loss of the cloch and his lover all the more poignant. Or it’s possible that the artisan, knowing that this was Lámh Shábhála, the greatest of the clochs, could not see it as . . . well . . . plain, and Severii obviously never contradicted that image. So when a rather ordinary-looking stone reputed to be Lámh Shábhála
did
come back to the Order, you can understand why my predecessors doubted the identification when they looked here. That’s also why, when your great-da stole it, Máister Dahlga could believe that it was a false cloch that had been lost, not Lámh Shábhála.”

“I do understand,” Jenna said. “And is what’s written in this book also false?”

“In this book is written all that Tadhg and Severii told us of Lámh Shábhála, and all that we have learned since. Some of it is undoubtedly untrue or exaggerated or rumor; other portions are certainly true. You’ll help us revise this at the same time you’re learning from it.”

“I have another question,” Jenna said, and Máister Cleurach sighed audibly, though he said nothing, waiting. “Sometimes, when I’ve used Lámh Shábhála, I’ve heard the voices of all of its Holders. Some of them have spoken of a test, ‘Scrúdú,’ they call it. What is that?”

Máister Cléurach sighed. His fingers brushed the parch ment where the false image of Lámh Shábhála was painted.

“The Scrudu . . .” he breathed. “Not all Holders need to know that.”

“That’s not an answer, Máister.”

He glared at her, but continued. “Right now, Lámh Shábhála is like a Cloch Mór, more powerful and with more abilities than any of those, aye, but still a Cloch Mór. Many Holders have been content with that, and spent their years with the cloch that way. No one will think less of you if you do the same.”

“Finish your answer, Máister. Please.”

He snorted in irritation. “A few, a
few
Holders have found the full depths of Lámh Shábhála’s power. To do so, they must first pass the trial they call the Scrúdú. I will tell you this, Holder Aoire: most who try fail.”

“And if they fail?”

“If they’re lucky, they die,” Máister Cléurach replied. His stare was unblinking and cold. “If you believe that to be overdramatic, I assure you it’s not.”

“Is this Scrúdú in your book?”

“It’s mentioned, but neither Tadhg or Severii ever risked the challenge. But the process, the way to begin and what happens then . . .” He shrugged. “
They
—the voices in the stone—will tell you later if you’re foolish enough to make the attempt. I would advise you to first
learn
something about being a cloudmage.”

Jenna started to speak, but Máister Cléurach closed the book sharply, surprising her so much that her mouth snapped shut again. Dust rose from the pages, so heavy that Jenna had to turn her head and sneeze. “You’ve used up your quota of questions for a month, Holder Aoire. If you have no interest in the lore we have to give you, you’re welcome to leave. If not, then henceforth you’ll learn
when
I’m ready to teach and not before. Is that quite clear?”

He glared at her, his head turned sideways, looking so stern that Jenna suddenly felt compelled to laugh. “Aye,” she told him, as his face softened slightly in response to her laughter. “I suppose I can work on my patience.”

Máister Cléurach might be old, but he was hardly decrepit. If anything, his stamina was greater than Jenna’s. The schedule over the next weeks quickly fell into routine: every morning, O’Deoradháin would wake her by knocking on the door of her small cell, located near Máister Cléu rach’s own rooms. She broke her fast with O’Deoradháin in the same dining hall as the other acolytes and Bráthairs. O’Deoradháin then escorted her to the library, where she and Máister Cléurach worked until sundown.

Máister Cléurach had given over his other duties and students; Jenna’s instruction was now his only task. She learned about the clochs na thintrí: their history, their behavior, their quirks, how previous Holders had dealt with handling their power. She was shown meditations that helped her deal with the pain of her interaction with the mage-lights, she was guided through the bright landscape she saw when she looked at the world through Lámh Sháb hálá’s eyes. She and Máister Cléurach pored over the texts left by previous Holders of Lámh Shábhála, and Jenna realized that she had only touched on the surface of the cloch’s abilities. As Máister Cléurach had said, some of what was stated in the book was false, but much more of it illuminated pathways within the cloch that Jenna had not even guessed at. The Máister pushed her and prodded her, never letting her rest, taking her past what she thought were her physical and mental limits, never accepting less than her best effort.

“Was he this way with you?” she asked O’Deoradháin after a particularly grueling day. “After all, he expected
you
to hold Lámh Shábhála had you found it. Did he drive you like this?” They were standing on a balcony of one of the White Keep’s towers, overlooking the crags and cliffs atop which the cloister perched. The houses and buildings of the village were a collection of dots far below already in deepening shadow. Only the upper rim of the sun was still visible, the clouds above burning molten gold and rose, the waves of the sea tipped with shimmering orange. A sparkling column of wind sprites lifted from the cliffs halfway down the mountain, and several seals had hauled out of the sea, roaring and honking where the waves crashed foaming onto black rocks.

“Consider it a good sign,” O’Deoradháin grinned. “He’s hardest on the ones he feels have the most potential. The time to worry is when he’s easy on you.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Was he this hard on you?”

O’Deoradháin smiled again. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” Jenna laughed and his smile grew broader. “I knew you could do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Laugh. Enjoy yourself.”

Jenna felt herself blushing, and she glanced down toward the village so that she wouldn’t have to look at him. Her flight from Lár Bhaile now seemed ages ago, and over the intervening months her feelings toward O’Deoradháin had been slowly changing: from suspicion and caution to grudging admiration, to friendship, to . . . she didn’t know how to term what she felt now.
Or perhaps you’re simply afraid to give it a name, for all manner of reasons . . .
Below, the seals were leaping into the waves, one after another, dozens of them. “Are those blue seals?” Jenna asked to shift the subject, but O’Deoradháin moved closer to her to peer over the balcony’s stone railing. She could feel the heat of his body against her side.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Just the normal harbor seals. There’s a family of blues here, but they’re usually on the other side of the island.”

“Are they . . . ?”

“The ones I first swam with?” he finished for her softly. “No. That was on Inish Thuaidh itself. But I’ve been with this group, when I felt the need. They know me, and Garrentha, who saved you at Lough Glas, is one of the Inishfeirm family.” His hand touched hers on the railing—her right hand. She didn’t move away this time. His fingers interlaced with hers, pressing gently. Though the fingers of that hand, as always, moved only stiffly and with some pain, she pressed back. “Jenna . . .” he began, but his voice trailed off. The throng of wind sprites rose in the darkening air, chattering in their high voices as they swarmed past Jenna and O’Deoradháin before darting around the bulge of the tower.

“What were you going to say, Ennis?” Jenna asked, and O’Deoradháin chuckled. “What?” she said into his laughter.

“I think that may be the first time you’ve called me by my given name.”

She smiled back at him. “Is that wrong? Is that too familiar for you?”

“No,” he answered, still smiling. “I like the way you make it sound.”

They were still holding hands. “Ennis . . .” she began, and this time the tone was different.

“I know. You don’t have to say it.”

Her eyes searched his. “What do you know?”

“I’m a bit too old for you. A bit too strange. A bit . . .” He shrugged. He let her hand fall away from his grasp. “I understand all that. Truly. But I hope you know that I will always be your ally. When you need my cloch to stand with you against the other Clochs Mór—and I don’t think that can be avoided—I will be there.”

He started to turn away. She reached out with her left hand and touched his arm. “Wait, Ennis.”

His head tilted, his gaze questioned. Jenna reached up for him, slowly, wondering at the gesture even as she made it. She brought his head down to hers. The kiss, when it came, was softer and sweeter than she expected, and longer. There wasn’t the bruising urgency there’d been with Coelin; there also wasn’t the awkwardness. This was deeper and stronger.

It was more frightening.

The fright overwhelmed her. She turned her head, breaking off the kiss. His breath was warm at her ear. She heard him swallow.

“I’m sorry, Jenna,” he said. “I shouldn’t have . . .”

“Tell me that you have no more secrets, Ennis.”

A quiet, tentative laugh. “None that I know of.”

“Then tell me that you won’t hurt me the way Coelin did.”

His arms closed tight around her, pressing her close. “Not the way he did, no. I can’t promise that I’ll never hurt you, Jenna. But I’ll promise that I’ll love you, for as long as you want me.”

“Ennis . . .” She didn’t know how to say it, to tell him how scared she was of this, how confused. How she didn’t—couldn’t—trust her own feelings, not after Coelin’s betrayal. That the things he had told her about himself
did
matter, even if she said they didn’t. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if shaking the cage of its confinement; her pulse throbbed in her temples, and the pain of her arm came again, making her close her eyes. She shook her head. “I’m not ready . . . I don’t know . . .”

He nodded. She could see the hurt in his eyes. His hands left her. “Ah,” he said. He tried to smile. “I understand,” he said. “I do.”

She wanted to explain it all to him, but she had no words.

The seals called plaintively below them, and the sun’s disk slipped below the line of the sea.

40

The R
í
’s Request

“J
ENNA?”

‘The knock on the door was tentative, and the husky whisper was that of Ennis. Jenna blinked sleepily. It was dark in the room, though dawn was just beginning to paint the sky. Jenna reluctantly put the covers aside and drew her night robe closer around her in the cold air as she sat up.