Holder of Lightning (75 page)

“Holder,” Lomán said, but Jenna’s eyes were on the boy with him, who would not look at her directly though she saw him glance with fright at the broken statue before sending his gaze back to the ground. She had expected Toryn to be with the old Protector, but this boy was blond and no more than fourteen, far younger than Toryn.

“Where’s your apprentice?” Jenna asked Lomán.

“Toryn is . . . gone,” Lomán answered. His scraggly beard sagged as he frowned, and the boy with him shuddered. “When I learned what he had done to Seancoim Crow-Eye and you, I sent him to the oaks, the Old Ones. He feeds their roots now. I’m sorry, Holder. Seancoim was right; I chose poorly and taught badly for Toryn to do such a thing. Aye, I would gladly have allowed him take Lámh Shábhála if you’d failed in the Scrúdú, but to kill Seancoim and to try to take the cloch by force . . .” He shook his head, grimacing. “I’m sorry if I’ve cheated you out of the revenge you might have wanted for that.”

Jenna gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough. She gestured at the body between them. “I think, Protector, that I’ve had my fill of revenge.”

The apprentice visibly brightened at that statement, ven turing a small smile. Lomán
hmmed,
clearing his throat; his breath wheezed asthmatically. “Holder,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“You know the way to the nearest Daoine village?”

A nod.

Jenna pointed again to Mac Ard. “Good. I know that you also know herb lore: I want you to treat this body so that it can make a long journey, then take it to that village. Tell them there that the Comhairle wishes the tiarna’s body returned safely to Dun Kiil. That’s all. Consider it a partial payment for your poor choice of apprentice.”

His eyes glared, a flash of irritation that he hid almost immediately. “It will take several days to do as you ask,” Lomán answered.

“I don’t care,” Jenna told him. “Do it.” Neither of the Bunús Muintir moved. Neither of them seemed to want to be near her. Jenna lifted the cloch. “Now,” she said.

For an instant, she wondered if Lomán, like Toryn, might try to use the slow magic against her. But the ancient Bunús snarled something to his apprentice in their own language and the younger man moved quickly over to Mac Ard’s corpse. He picked it up, draping the tiarna’s body over his shoulder. His back bowed under the burden, he walked away toward the trees. “This will be good for the young one here. He has much to learn, and I . . . well, I don’t have a great deal of time left to teach him.” Lomán bowed to Jenna, bending stiffly from the waist. “There is a cavern nearby where you can stay, Holder, until the body’s prepared.”

“I have my own way home,” she told him. “Just do as I’ve asked.” Lomán nodded silently at that and turned to follow his new apprentice into the forest. Jenna watched until they had gone.

She wanted to sleep, to give in to the exhaustion and pain. But she forced herself to walk down the slope, away from Bethiochnead to where the cliffs lowered and she could find a way down to the water. She clambered down over the slippery rocks until the salt spray of the waves touched her face, refreshing her. The moon dappled the ocean as she stood on the rocks at the water’s edge.

Not far out from the shore, a dark body lifted its head above the waves. Jenna heard the grunting cough of a seal. She brushed her fingers against Lámh Shábhála. There was barely enough power remaining. “Thraisha . . . ?” Jenna whispered hopefully into the wind, feeling the presence of Bradán an Chumhacht there.

“Not Thraisha,” a voice said, the words sounding in her head as her ears heard more throaty gruntings. “Garrentha.”

“Garrentha. I thought for a moment . . .”

Garrentha gave a bark, and in Jenna’s head a sad laugh echoed. “I know,” Garrentha said. “I was there at the battle, too, and we both saw my milk-mother die. When her body went back into the water, I saw Bradán an Chumhacht swim from her mouth, and I chased it and swallowed the power myself. I struggled with it for a day, then felt you gathering the power of the stones, and Bradán an Chumhacht allowed me to follow you here. A small foretelling . . .” Garrentha barked, and Jenna heard the laugh again. “I thought you would need me.”

“I do,” Jenna said. “More than you know.”

“Then I’m here for you,” Garrentha answered. “In that first foretelling, I saw more, as well, and I’ll tell you now: those who came here to wage war are preparing to leave. And tomorrow, the stone-walkers who live here will meet in their stone house.”

“The Comhairle, aye. Kyle will be the next Rí,” Jenna said, anticipating, but Garrentha’s head moved quickly side to side.

“They will not choose a Rí. They will instead elect a . . .” Jenna felt the touch of Garrentha’s mind on hers, searching for the word. “. . . a Banrion to lead them.”

“Aithne,” Jenna breathed.

Again, a bark/laugh, making Jenna tilt her head in puzzlement. “No. Not Aithne herself, though the choice of person will be hers,” Garrentha said. “But there’s time enough for you to worry about stone-walker things later. Now you should listen to the Saimhóir within you . . .”

Jenna nodded. She stripped away her filthy, tattered clóca and léine and pulled the boots and stockings from her feet, standing shivering and naked on the shore. She slipped the chain of Ennis’ cloch around her neck next to Lámh Shábhála and stepped into the water. The waves that lapped her feet were icy, and she drew in a hissing breath, but the cold vanished a moment later as she continued to walk forward, and suddenly she was no longer walking at all but diving into the waves.

Two sleek bodies swam away, black fur shimmering blue in the moonlight.

PART FIVE

REUNION

61

The Banrion

I
NHDUÁN was a barren flyspeck of an island pushing out of the waves halfway between Inish Thuaidh and Talamh An Ghlas. Over the course of history, it had been controlled by both Tuath Infochla and Inish Thuaidh, but in fact no one much cared who owned the small tumble of rocks. No one lived there, no one visited except a few fisherfolk; the earth there was thin and unarable; the wind scoured entirely clean much of the single peak that formed the island. Someone had once tried to establish a herd of wild goats there; even the goats had been unhappy. Seals clambered over the rock at the shoreline while gulls, terns, and other seabirds nested in the steep cliffs rising out of the sea, spotting the gray rocks with white—the seals and birds seemed to be the only animals that much cared for the island.

Undesirable, empty, the isle was well-situated for this meeting. Standing in front of a white tent billowing in the harsh, steady wind, Jenna watched the tiny rowboat approaching her from one of the two ships anchored just offshore, one flying blue and white, the other green and brown. A pair of gardai in green-and-brown clóca stepped out as Jenna’s own gardai helped pull the boat onto the wet, narrow shingle. A woman was seated in the boat, stepping out once the craft was ashore. The passenger approached the tent slowly, and Jenna could see that she was holding a baby in her arms. She seemed to glance from Jenna to the blue-and-white banner fluttering on the tent poles, then strode purposefully forward off the wet shingle, leaving the gardai behind as she came to a stop a few strides from Jenna.

“Mam . . .” Jenna breathed. She started to move to her, to take her in her arms and embrace her.

Maeve had changed much in the intervening months. Her face was heavier and paler, the dark hair now liberally streaked with gray. Semicircles of brown flesh hung under her eyes, and she stared at Jenna with such scorn that Jenna stopped where she was, her hand still raised. Maeve’s gaze went from Jenna’s face to the golden torc around her neck, below to where Lámh Shábhála hung on its chain, and further down to her rounding belly. “Married, and with child. A Riocha,” she said. The last word was uttered as if it were a curse. “And more. They tell me you are now Banrion MacEagan. They also say that you rule alone, that your husband is not the Rí.”

“That’s true,” Jenna said. “It was the decision of the Comhairle.”

Maeve sniffed. Her eyes shimmered with tears and she looked away. Jenna heard a sob, and she put her hand on Maeve’s shoulder. The baby stared at her from within its swaddling, the chubby face solemn. With the touch, Maeve sniffed and brushed at her eyes with a sleeve, the gesture almost angry. She took a step back from Jenna. “It’s too late for that,” she said. “Maybe once . . . Not now.”

“Mam—”

Maeve shook her head. “I’ve always heard that the Inishlanders are strange, and you . . . you fit them well. I can barely believe the stories I’ve heard about you.” She stroked the baby’s head; Jenna could remember Maeve doing that with her, long ago. “I can barely believe even what I’ve seen. You’re the Mad Holder, the changeling, the warrior, the great cloudmage, the Banrion.” She paused. Her breath hung for a moment like a white cloud between them before the wind tore it away. “The murderer of your brother’s da and my lover.”

The cold air pulled tears from Jenna’s eyes. She wanted to answer angrily:
What about me? I’m your daughter, your own flesh and blood and all you have left of Niall, and he would have killed me. You’re talking to me like an unwelcome stranger. Have I hurt you that much? Do I mean so little to you now?
She forced the anger down, taking a breath. “Mam . . . If I could have changed that, I would have. He gave me no choice.”

“Is that what you told yourself about Banrion Cianna also, Daughter?” Maeve retorted. “Would you say that to the widows of all the gardai dead because of you? ‘Poor me! I had no choice!’ I tell you this, Jenna, because it’s what I thought every night since you fled Lár Bhaile: you should have stayed in Ballintubber. You should have given that stone-embodied curse you found on Knobtop to some one else. Everything since you took Lámh Shábhála has turned to dust and ashes.” Maeve barked a short, bitter laugh, looking at the tent. “Often quite literally.” The baby stirred and gave a cry; Maeve rocked him in her arms and he settled down once more. Jenna saw the face again briefly as Maeve brushed aside the swaddling—a mass of red curls, bright blue eyes, a small mouth with pouting lips: a handsome face. A tiny hand closed around one of Maeve’s fingers. Jenna wanted to ask to hold the infant, to be able to look closely at him.

“That’s my brother?”

Looking down at him, Maeve’s face had softened for the first time. “Aye. His name’s Doyle Mac Ard.” She looked back to Jenna and the hardness returned to the lines around her eyes and mouth. “Padraic’s final will gives the boy his surname and an estate—Padraic showed the document to me before he left Falcarragh and the Rí Ard has confirmed it. At least Doyle will have that, even though they will always whisper that he is ‘the bastard Mac Ard child.’ ” Her gaze drifted past Jenna to the tent. “Padraic’s body’s in there?”

“Aye. I brought it with me from Dún Kiil.” Jenna’s acknowledgment was less than a whisper. Maeve walked past Jenna. As she passed, Jenna started to lift her hand to touch her mam, but Maeve cast her a cold stare. Jenna watched her go to the tent, lift the flap, and walk inside. After a moment, Jenna followed her.

Mac Ard’s body was wrapped in cloth saturated with unguents and oils: Lomán’s work. The gardai had laid it on a low pyre built of logs brought with them from Inish Thuaidh. The smell of oil was thick in the tent, cloying. Maeve didn’t seem to notice, though Doyle started crying again. Maeve rocked him as she stood staring at the body, standing at the edge of the pyre. “It took weeks to bring him back from Thall Coill,” Jenna said to Maeve’s back. “I didn’t know what you would want, whether you would want to send him to the Mother here or take the body home to whatever end he desired. Tell me what you want, and I’ll have my gardai take care of it.”

“What I
want
is for Padraic to be alive,” Maeve answered, still facing the pyre. “Can you give me that, Jenna? Can the First Holder, the new Banrion, do that for me? Is that within your vast power?”

The questions tore holes in Jenna’s soul. She felt the child inside her stir, and she placed her hands protectively over her stomach. “No.” The wind snapped the canvas of the tent, punctuating the word. “Mam, I’m so sorry.”

Maeve swiveled. “What of the Cloch Mór that Padraic held? Give me that, so I can give it to Doyle as his legacy as a Mac Ard.”

Jenna shook her head. “I can’t—I won’t—do that. It belongs . . .” Jenna paused, taking a breath.
It belongs to the child I carry. It’s Ennis’ legacy.
“. . . to Inishfeirm and Inish Thuaidh.”

Maeve nodded, her mouth tightening. “Then can you at least manage to give me a torch?”

Jenna went to one of the tent posts, where two circles of copper held a smoldering brand. She pulled it from the rings and gave it to her mam. “You may leave now,” Maeve told her.

“Mam—”

Maeve shook her head vigorously, the flame flickering in her hand. “I’m not your mam. I’m the woman who loved your enemy. My allegiance is to the Rí Ard, not the woman who calls herself Banrion in the pigsty of Dún Kiil. Leave me to say farewell in private. Go back to your ship and your island and forget me. Give me that much.”