Holder of Lightning (55 page)

Jenna glanced back at the town. They could hear the sound of laughter and see the tops of the banners fluttering from the roofs of Market Square, just past the warehouses and fisheries that flanked the harbor front. The gaiety struck a false note now, like a song sung just off-key. Jenna could look at the harbor and imagine it filled with the warships of the tuatha, could practically see the smoke of burn ing houses while below the streets of Dún Kiil were chaotic with battle. As she stared, her right arm throbbed, her fist convulsing with the pain as if she were already there, the power of Lámh Shábhála arcing through her and breaking against the massed might of the Cloch Mór.

“It’s only a possible future you see,” Jenna said. “It must be. The Water-Mother sent you a vision in warning. After all, Thraisha, if what you see
must
happen, then what use is there in telling me? If it’s destiny, then there’s nothing I could do to change it. Any action I take would still inevitably lead to the same point.”

Thraisha wriggled again. “I don’t know the way of gods, yours or mine. I see what I see,” she repeated. “If it’s destiny, then I know I’ll soon be here with you again. I saw more, sister-kin. When you fell, the clochs turned to me and I could not swim against that current. Their magic drowned me and Bradán an Chumhacht swam from my mouth. So if it’s destiny, then it’s not only your death. It’s also mine.”

“It’s a glimpse of maybe,” Jenna insisted. “That’s all. A warning.”

“I hope you’re right, Holder,” Thraisha answered. Her companions were chattering loudly behind, and she turned her head toward them, her fur glistening with the movement as she listened and then looked back to Jenna. “The sweetfish have started their evening run, and it’s time for us to feed,” she told Jenna. “I will see you again, sister-kin, and I will help you any way I can.” Her gaze went to Ennis. “And you, land-cousin, I bid you farewell.”

Thraisha waddled toward the water, moving awkwardly over the rocks and dropping into the water. One by one, her companions slipped into the water with her. Their heads regarded Jenna and Ennis for a moment, then they ducked under the next swell and were gone.

45

Torn Apart

T
HEY walked back to the square. Though Jenna tried to pretend that nothing had changed, the joy had been drained from the day. The gaiety and laughter around them only served as a contrast, making darker the shadows that wrapped around Jenna with Thraisha’s words. She realized now that there would be no escape from the burden of Lámh Shábhála, not until it was taken from her (and with the thought, a bolt of agony shot up her right arm as if it had been torn loose from its socket) or she was dead.

She could not escape the world: not with love, not with festivals, not by turning her back on it and secluding herself. She must
be
the First Holder.

“Come on,” she told Ennis, taking his hand. She pulled him toward the square and for the next few stripes, she went from one vendor’s booth to another, watched all the performers, examined all the wares with a fierceness and energy that surprised Ennis. She plunged into the fair as if she could obliterate herself in its bright celebration. By the time torches were lit along the square and the bonfires roared on the three hilltops around the city, Jenna was exhausted and certain that she knew what she must do.

They took supper in one of the inns just off the square, and afterward strolled out toward the crowd gathering around a temporary stage at the north end for a performance by a group of mummers. They were stopped by a page from the keep, who came running up to them. “Mages! There you are! I’ve been looking for you for over a stripe now . . .”

Ennis laughed at the boy, panting, his hands on knees as he tried to catch his breath. “What is it, Aidan? Is Máister Cléurach wondering where we got to?”

“Not Máister Cléurach,” Aidan answered, gulping air. “It’s the Rí. The procession to the square is ready to start and he wishes the two of you to be at his side when he enters.” He nodded toward one of the side streets leading away from the square. “Follow me,” he told them. “I was told to take you this way.”

They followed after him down the narrow lane. Jenna could nearly touch the houses on either side and little light made its way here from the square, only the milky light of the moon providing illumination. There were few people here, all of whom pressed back to let the three well-dressed Riocha pass. Aidan was well ahead of Jenna and Ennis, stopping near an intersection and waving. “This way! Hurry!”

They heard the horns announcing the Rí from the square behind them. Ennis stopped, a hand on Jenna’s arm. The page was looking back toward the square with a puzzled expression. “I thought—” Ennis began.

The page collapsed to his knees, his eyes widening as if startled. His mouth opened but no words came. He fell face-down into the mud of the lane. Three arrows protruded from his back.

“Jenna!” Ennis yelled. He pushed her into a doorway across the street as more arrows suddenly hissed past them. Ennis grunted, and Jenna saw a wooden shaft blossom in red at his shoulder. He staggered backward against the wall across the lane from her. His eyes on her, he shook his head as she started to run across to him. His hand closed around his cloch.

A moment later, she did the same, ripping open Lámh Shábhála so that its power roared out like a rogue wave.

She could sense Ennis and his cloch, along with a trio of Cloch Mór lurking just down the lane. Several dozen people were moving toward them from the front as well as behind. She had no chance to identify any of the ambushers or judge their intentions: the three Cloch Mórs arrayed against her struck.

They concentrated on Jenna. As she crouched in the doorway, a rush of heavy wings beat the air above her. She looked up to see a demonic horror above: twice as tall as herself, skin burnished like bronze over massive muscles, clawed fingers and feet, and a brick-red face scowling with anger under folds and horns. Leathery wings sprang from the creature’s back. Looking at the thing dredged an elemental feeling of revulsion and horror from her, as if this were a creature formed of ancient racial fears or memory. Jenna wondered at first if it was simply an illusion, but the apparition slammed into the structure above her, its claws ripping deep into mortar and plaster. The mage-demon was real and physical enough. The house shuddered at the im pact, and Jenna had to use part of Lámh Shábhála’s power to shield herself from falling stone and beams. The creature howled, roaring words in no tongue that she had ever heard before as it started to fall toward her, but she pushed it away. It snarled and spat, slamming again into the second story of the house as its great wings flailed the air. In frustration, it ripped away at the house, pulling it apart as if it were made of paper and throwing pieces of the ruin down toward her.

Dust made her blink her eyes, but she kept the shield in place above her, pushing the splintered, hard rain away from her.

She could do little more than fend off the mage-demon. In her cloch-vision, she saw a stream of pure energy—a blue so brilliant it was nearly white—come snarling toward her. She threw up a wall of her own power barely in time, and the color broke against it, sizzling and burning.

Fire erupted in the street in front of her, molten gobs splattering against Lámh Shábhála’s wall. In the dust, Jenna saw a figure standing nearby, seemingly formed of lava and flame, glowing orange-red and covered with scabs of black, visible both to her eyes and the cloch-vision. The lava-creature lifted its hands and a glowing boulder erupted from them, arcing toward her. Jenna pushed back at the new assault, sending a blast of furious wind from Lámh Shábhála. The boulder went black and fell, shattering ten feet away in a gout of fury. Jenna could feel the heat, searing and intense. The building was aflame above her.

The cloch-beast continued to tear at the structure, and she could sense the house starting to collapse around her. The roiling clouds of dust and smoke were so thick that she could see nothing as she flung herself back into the lane. Bowstrings sang from somewhere above and arrows arced toward her; with a flick of energy, she sent them to streaks of fire and ash. But some of them got through, hissing past or ricocheting from the doorway in which she now crouched.

I can’t keep this up . . . I can’t . . .

A strobe of lightning illuminated the dust clouds as it streaked away: Ennis attacking. Down the lane, there was a cry of distress and the massive lava-creature grunted and shifted its attack to Ennis, though the blue-white beam still pounded at the defensive wall Jenna had erected. “Jenna! Back to the square!” she heard Ennis shout in the confusion. She thought she saw a glimpse of his figure, then the dust closed in again as the second story of the house fell in with a splintering, long crash. Someone screamed in the rubble. The mage-demon attacked directly once more, hovering above her with an audible whoomp-whoomp of wings before it plummeted down; Jenna formed the energy of Lámh Shábhála into hands and reached for it. The beast reared back as the hands caught and held it, fiery arcs of drool flying from its mouth and its wings flapping desperately, clawing at the unseen fingers that held it. Jenna could
feel
the claws, as if they were ripping into her own skin, and she screamed.

Jenna forced herself to focus, to fend off the beast and still hold back the others. She knew now how Lámh Sháb hála had been beaten in the past—she could not put her attention anywhere long enough to counterattack; inevitably someone would get through. She could sense that the other Cloch Mór Holders in the city were now aware of the battle: Máister Cléurach, the Banrion . . . She could only hope that they would enter the fray soon. She gave way, the mage-demon following, backing down the lane and hoping Ennis was doing the same. She could feel him struggling against the fire cloch.

She heard his voice, calling out, “Jen—” and then cut off. She screamed her own pain and fear as the lava-creature stomped back toward her.
Hold them. They have to be weakening . . .
Already the cloch-beast’s struggles were failing, though the other two clochs continued their assault. For an instant, she let down the wall, shouting against the pain as the energy stream burned her, as the clinging fire of the lava-creature struck her clothing. She channeled the flow of Lámh Shábhála toward the hands holding the mage-demon, imagining them crushing the life from the thing: the beast gibbered in panic, limbs flailing now in desperation. She heard bones cracking, and the soft, ugly sound of the body rupturing.

The cloch-beast vanished in a wail as down the lane she heard an echoing cry from its Holder. Jenna threw the wall back up again, pushing away the other two clochs’ assault. She’d fallen without knowing it, nearly losing hold of Lámh Shábhála. Her clóca was scorched, her skin burned underneath. She forced herself to stand again, readied herself to release the wall now and counterattack.

Raging chaos shifted abruptly into silence and dark. In her cloch-vision, the other two clochs vanished. She could sense them still, but they were dim and inactive. The Holders were moving away, quickly, as if on horseback. She flung furious lightning bolts toward them, but it was already too late. They were gone.

“Ennis!” She called his name, coughing in the dust, try ing desperately to see either with her eyes or through Lámh Shábhála. “Ennis!”

He wasn’t there. The dust was settling; she could see the street and the rubble strewn across it, but there was no sign of Ennis, and she could not feel him or his cloch with Lámh Shábhála.

He was gone. Taken.

“Ennis!” she called again, knowing in her heart it was useless. Footsteps were running toward her from the direc tion of the square. Jenna whirled, her hand on Lámh Sháb hála, ready to strike.

“Holder!” One of the Rí’s gardai—a sergeant by the insignia on his shoulder—came to an abrupt halt, staring in disbelief at the destruction around him and Jenna’s battered appearance as half a dozen soldiers came hurrying behind. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Mage O’Deoradhain has been captured.” Jenna waved her arm. “Quickly! We have to find him!”

The sergeant barked orders and his men scattered, but Jenna knew it was too late.

Too late.

PART FOUR

THE SHADOW Rí