Holder of Lightning (65 page)

It glared at her, mouth gaping dangerously, then the eyes and its voice softened. “You don’t know, do you?” it asked.

Jenna shook her head. “I don’t understand. No.”

“Look,” An Phionos answered. “Look within yourself.”

An Phionós gestured, and Jenna saw herself as the creature saw her: a form of energy and light, her heart beating like a candle fluttering in the wind, and in her belly, a tiny flame burned.

“Mother-Creator . . .” Jenna breathed. She cupped her abdomen, as if she could warm her hands in that small radiance.

“Aye,” An Phionós answered. “You’re with child. You didn’t know?”

Jenna could only shake her head mutely. An Phionós snorted. It came to earth, resting again as she had first seen it: sitting on its haunches, the wings down against its body, the tail wrapped around one side, staring down at her as she lay in front of it. “There can be no finish to this

Scrúdú,” it said. There was a note almost of triumph in its voice. “I let you live.”

“But I found the path,” Jenna told the creature, still cradling herself and staring in wonder at the sparkle of life in her womb. She raised her head as the cloch-vision faded. “I saw the way to defeat you.”

An Phionós shook its head. “Perhaps,” it said. “And perhaps not. You’ll never know now.”

“Why not?” Jenna asked. “I could come back, after the child is born . . .” She stopped, realizing that what An Phionós had said was the truth.

“Aye,” it said. “You nearly died this time, with no certainty that what you found would have helped you. Could you undergo this again, knowing that you might leave your child motherless and abandoned? The child will bind you here, Jenna. This time, you fought without caring that you might die; the next time, your focus will be divided.” Its voice was sad. “There’s but one time in your life to test yourself this way, Jenna. Now you must leave the Scrúdú to some other. Perhaps to the child inside.”

Its voice became less heard than sensed, the years and decades and centuries seeming to pass as she watched An Phionós became simply a statue once more, its features eroding and fading. “You saw inside Lámh Shabhala. You glimpsed the possibilities. But you’ll always wonder if you’d really found the way, Jenna,” its dying voice husked. “And so will I . . .”

The fog around them cleared. She was back in Thall Coill, kneeling on the cold ground with Seancoim hurrying toward her, and she let herself fall.

54

Fire and Water

“J
ENNA!”

Through half-opened eyes, she could see Seancoim hurrying to her, and Dúnmharú cawing in alarm at her side as she rolled and pushed herself up on one side with her left arm. Scrapes and cuts oozed blood along her body; the smell of ozone hung in the air like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. She was still clutching Lámh Shábhála, but the cloch was empty and drained. Her world swayed around her and she steadied herself, trying to keep from falling back into unconsciousness. Her head pulsed with a fero cious headache; her right arm, now that she released Lámh Shábhála, fell dead and useless at her side.

She felt as if her body had been placed on the anvil of the gods and pounded.

The spice of Seancoim’s presence was at her side. His hands cradled her. “Jenna . . . You’re alive! I thought . . .”

“So did I,” Jenna answered. The rocks dug into her side, her legs, her elbow. “Help me up, Seancoim.”

“Can you stand?”

“I think so. Probably.” Toryn had come over to her as well, and she felt both of them lifting her.

“You passed the Scrúdú,” Toryn said, his voice awed. “You met the beast and defeated it. We saw the mage lights, we heard your cries, saw you fighting with something unseen . . .”

Jenna shook her head. The movement sent the world dancing again and she would have fallen if not for the hands holding her. “No,” she said when the land settled once more. She glanced at the ruined visage of An Phionós. “No,” she repeated. “I didn’t win.”

“But you’re alive,” Seancoim protested. “The Scrúdú kills those who fail.”

“Aye,” Jenna answered. “But not me.” She touched her abdomen. “Not us.”

“Us?” Seancoim asked, but Toryn interrupted before Jenna could explain.

“But you’ve found the full power of Lámh Shábhála,” he said. “You wrestled with the beast and were given that gift.”

Again, Jenna shook her head. “No. I used every bit of energy within Lámh Shábhála. And I thought, for a moment . . .” She tried to lift her right hand to the cloch and couldn’t. “Mother-Creator, it hurts. It hurts so much . . .”

“Jenna, here. Sit.” Seancoim lowered her to one of the rocks. “I’ll start a fire, mix some andúilleaf . . .”

He hurried away. Toryn stayed with her, his gaze apprais ing and cold. “Lámh Shábhála is drained? The struggle must have been awful.”

Jenna shuddered at the memory. “Aye,” she answered. Toryn nodded. Seancoim had gone downhill a bit to the edge of the forest. They could see him gathering deadwood, Dúnmharú fluttering around him.

“Let me help you,” Toryn called. He walked down toward the old man, stooping to gather up branches. “Go on,” Jenna heard Toryn say finally. “There’s a few more branches here. I’ll be right behind you.”

Seancoim started up the hill, one arm around a bundle of dry sticks, the other around his staff. Toryn turned as if to follow. Jenna saw the intention in the younger man too late.
“Sean—!”
she began as Toryn swung the heavy oaken limb he held. Jenna saw Seancoim fall an instant before the dull, sickening sound of the impact came to her. Dúnmharú screeched, diving at Toryn as Jenna tried to stand. She forced her right hand to move as Dúnmharú raked its talons over Toryn’s cheek; Toryn swung the crude club at the bird and missed. Jenna’s hand closed around Lámh Sháb hála and she tried to open the cloch (the crow rising again in a fury of black wings, coming back to attack once more), but there was nothing there, no glittering store of mage-energy. Nothing.

The club swung again, striking Dúnmharú down to earth in a heap of ebon feathers. Toryn lifted it again and pounded it back down on the small mound. As Jenna cried out, Toryn flung the club aside. He spread his hands: fire erupted between them.

He gestured toward the unmoving Seancoim.

“No!”

Small, tiny blue flames erupted over Seancoim’s figure; thin tendrils of white smoke rose and began wafting away toward the forest. Jenna screamed again and started running toward Seancoim, even as the flames thickened and went to orange and yellow, as the smoke began to billow in earnest. Seancoim didn’t move. Jenna could hear the flames crackling, burning as if Seancoim were made of paper and tinder. In the space of her first two limping strides, he was engulfed in an inferno. The impossible heat washed over her, and she knew no one could survive that. Toryn, already running up the hill, caught her before she could move again.

Jenna battered at Toryn with her fists, first trying to push past him to get to Seancoim, then tearing herself from his grasp and backing away from him. “Sometimes slow magic is quite effective,” he said, grinning as she struggled. “Crow-Eye was a useless old man anyway, but he did make you quite a nice fire, don’t you think?” She was still holding Lámh Shábhála in her hand, and she saw his gaze on it.

“No,” she said in a voice that trembled. “It’s mine.”

His smile was lopsided. “I won’t ask you to give it to me. I know that’s something Holders can’t do. But I
will
take it from you. It took me a full day to create the spells to hold the slow magic so I could use it at will, but I made two of them. Seancoim could have deflected the spell if he’d been awake—even old and decrepit, he was strong in the slow magic. But you don’t
have
the slow magic, do you? All you have is a cloch na thintrí that’s been exhausted. I don’t think a bit of fire will hurt Lámh Shábhála.”

Jenna continued to back away. She was alongside the statue as Toryn glanced back at Seancoim. The fire was already dying. Jenna could glimpse a blackened, withered skeleton through the smoke. “At least he was unconscious when it happened,” Toryn remarked. “Can you imagine what it would feel like to be consumed while alive and awake? Your flesh crackling and turning black like bacon too long in the fire; the fat of your body hissing and sputtering as it boils, the flames feeding on your face. Flesh gone, muscle and tissue seared and crisped as you scream and shriek in agony . . .” Jenna continued to back away; Toryn stalking her, step for step. She could sense the air at her back, could hear the crumbling edge of the cliff under her feet. Toryn stopped. “Are you sure you don’t want to give me the cloch?” he asked, his hand held out to her.

“No,” Jenna answered. She touched her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Toryn seemed to shrug. He lifted his hands again, speaking a phrase in his own language. She saw the flames appear before him.

Jenna turned away. The cliff edge was two steps away. She ran toward it, and leaped.

She expected death.

The wind rushed past her, roaring. And she felt her body changing, altering as she plummeted toward the water. Her clóca and léine slipped away, torn from her new, sleek shape by the rushing of air, and she fell naked to the waves.

She had almost no time to contemplate the alteration of her body.

Jenna hit the water with a stunning impact that ripped the breath from her lungs. She expected to feel the shock of the frigid ocean, but somehow the water felt impossibly warm and pleasant. Still, the shock of striking the surface nearly made her lose consciousness; she was disoriented, her sense of direction lost underwater. Her body, already sore and battered, screamed with abuse; her vision seemed sharper yet somehow distorted. She could see the wavering light of the waves well above her and her lungs yearned for air. She reached out with her arms and kicked with her legs to stroke for the surface. They responded though the feel was strange, and she could not see hands or arms even though the light came quickly closer. She broke the surface with a gasp, swallowing spray along with the wonderful cold air. She almost immediately went under again.

Something, someone was under her, lifting her . . .

She emerged into the air once more, coughing and spitting water, and she was held up as she retched and spluttered and finally took another shuddering breath. A head emerged from the waves.

Jenna started to speak in surprise and relief—
“Thraisha!”
—but what emerged was a croak and moan. She looked back along the length of her own body.

The chain of Lámh Shábhála gleamed against black fur touched with blue highlights, the caged stone still with her. Jenna barked in surprise; Thraisha’s eyes gleamed; she almost seemed to laugh. High above them, at the cliff edge, Jenna saw Toryn staring down, his face pale. Thraisha followed the direction of Jenna’s gaze, her body rolling easily in the white surf. She spoke, but with the emptiness within Lámh Shábhála Jenna understood none of it. Thraisha started swimming, pushing Jenna’s body in front of her, moving away from the rocks and outward. Toryn shouted something, his voice faint against the roar of wind and waves. Jenna tentatively tried to help Thraisha and swim on her own—the body ached and complained, but she managed a few strokes. They swam out beyond where the waves broke, and Jenna realized that Thraisha was making for the blue-gray hint of coastline to the south, where a tongue of land curved outward.

She could not swim long and had to stop, exhausted. Thraisha stayed with her, patiently keeping Jenna afloat on the waves. Swim and rest; swim and rest.

The journey took hours. The sun was nearly setting when they came to a table of low, wet rocks and could crawl out of the water.

“You threw yourself from the cliff a stone-walker and landed a Saimhóir.” Thraisha seemed amused by what she’d seen. “Welcome to the sea, land-cousin.”

The mage-lights had come; Jenna had been able to renew Lámh Shábhála, and with the cloch she’d regained her ability to speak with Thraisha. She was still in seal form—far more comfortable than any human one in this environment. She marveled at the new feel of the world around her and her heightened senses. She had never known that the taste of the ocean was so complex, that she could sense where the mouth of a river shed fresh water, or whether the bottom below was sandy or rocky, or where the kelp beds lay. Swimming unbounded by gravity was a luxuriant pleasure, the feel of the water against her fur like the stroke of a lover’s hand. Underneath the water, she could hear the sounds of the ocean: the distant, mournful calls of whales, the splash of brown seals feeding nearby, the flutter of a school of fish turning as one, the grunts and chirps and clicks of a thousand unidentified animals.

Yet her new body retained marks of the old: her right flipper was scarred and balky, the fur marked all the way to her spine with the shapes of the mage-lights. She still ached, every movement sending a reminder of the punishment she’d endured.

“How long can I stay this way?” she asked Thraisha after she’d recounted to the Saimhóir what had happened since they’d last talked. “Ennis, he said that most changelings were either Water-snared or Earth-snared, able to change for only a few hours.”