Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (36 page)

Owaine’s clochmion might not know that it was Meriel, but his gut screamed that it was.

“Will you be staying the night?” the proprietor was asking. “I’ve a room for you, and the wife has a good side of lamb roasting in the kitchens tonight. ’Tis a foul evening, as you already know . . .”

Owaine sniffed and sipped at the brown head of the stout. The bitterness played along his tongue and throat. He wanted nothing more than to fall into a real bed and sleep, and the thought of lamb roast started him salivating. “I’ll have some of the roast and another stout,” he told the proprietor. “And if you have someone who can feed and take care of my horse while I’m eating, I’d appreciate that. But I can’t stay.”

The man’s chin lifted. “That must be important business you’re about if you intend to ride through the night in this weather and in these parts,” he mused. He tilted his head, leaning on the table and obviously waiting for Owaine to elaborate—as a good traveler was expected to do. Owaine noticed the other people in the room had stopped their own talking and were listening as well. After all, tales from strangers were likely to be more interesting than the well-gnawed gossip they all knew anyway.

“Aye, it’s important enough to me,” Owaine said. It was clear that they weren’t going to leave him to sit in silence. It seemed easiest to mix a bit of the truth with the outright lies he would have to tell. “I’m looking for someone I’ve lost.”

“Ahh,” one of the women breathed and beamed a gap-toothed smile. “ ’Tis love, then.”

Owaine nodded. “Aye, ’tis that indeed,” he said. The bartender nodded; the woman who’d spoken grinned.

“That’s good, that’s good. Love makes for the best stories. Come, sit over here and tell us about it while you eat. . . .”

The bedroom of the Rí Ard appeared to Doyle as a battleground, or perhaps a game board for ficheall, with the combatants arrayed on either side of the dying man and glaring across at each other. Doyle sat alongside Edana at her da’s left side, and Doyle kept his arm around her shoulder as she grasped the Rí Ard’s hands, clasped over his chest as if he were already dead.

Across the bed was her brother Enean, his scarred face made even more distorted with a mute and sour fury, as if he waited there to slay the Black Haunts when they came to take the Rí Ard’s soul to the land of the dead. MacCamore, Enean’s guardian, stood behind the young man, which was natural enough, but Tiarna Labhrás Ó Riain also sat alongside Enean, his Cloch Mór glittering prominently on a brocaded, silken léine. Ó Riain’s hand was on Enean’s shoulder, but his gaze kept drifting to Edana and Doyle with open malice.

At the foot of the bed sat the Toscaire Concordai, Ulán Rhusvak, dressed again in his bearskin garb. The emissary watched the stuttering breath, the erratic lifting of the Rí Ard’s chest, and Doyle could not tell what the man might be thinking past the curve of yellowed bear teeth that masked his face.

Outside the chamber more Riocha waited: each with his own agenda, each with his own thoughts. Doyle wondered how the alliances would eventually play out, and realized that he would find out all too soon.
Those who were with me at Inishfeirm must hold together. That’s what matters most. None of them can talk about our capture of Meriel until I meet with Jenna at Inishduán, or we’re lost.

The current healer hovered around the Rí Ard’s bed, occasionally leaning over to help Nevan sip a bit of water or drink a potion of andúilleaf to ease his pain. A pair of Draíodóiri—a priest and priestess of the MotherCreator from the Dún Laoghaire temple—stood in the far corner of the chamber near the open window, quietly chanting while incense curled around them. The room smelled of herbs and illness.

The Rí Ard was no longer conscious, though his eyes were open and staring. His Cloch Mór—named Demon-Caller for the apparition it could summon—lay heavy on its chain, sparkling in the candlelight. “He may be able to hear you, even if he can no longer see,” the healer whispered to Edana. Doyle leaned over to her and added his own whisper into her ear:

“And be careful what you say, my love. Too many ears listening . . .” He felt more than saw her nod.

“Da,” she said. “It’s Edana. I made it back, as I promised. Doyle’s here with me.”

“I’m here, too, Edana,” Enean said, too loudly. “I’ve been here the whole time, even though it’s boring and it stinks in here.” He started to rise from his chair and old MacCamore took a step forward to press him back down, whispering softly into the addled young man’s ear. Tiarna Ó Riain nodded at Enean’s protest.

“Indeed you have, Enean,” he said. “You’re a good, beloved son, and your da is proud of you, as he should be.”

Edana smiled at her brother, though Doyle could see her cold glance to Ó Riain. “Enean’s here, too, Da,” she added, patting her father’s hands, and Enean subsided, sitting down again. “We both love you very much. We’ll take care of everything you’ve started. Don’t worry; just rest. You’ll be in the Mother’s arms, Da. She’ll keep you safe forever.”

There was no answer, no flicker of eyelids or anything that indicated he might have heard. There was only the slow gasping inhalations and the long pauses between. No one said anything.

A stripe passed. Another. The healer kept up his ministrations; the Draíodóiri continued to chant in their corner. Doyle sat, patient and watching. Watching them all.

He suddenly realized that he hadn’t heard the Rí Ard take a breath in a long time. The silence stretched on too long. The healer shuffled forward, touching his fingers to the Rí Ard’s neck. “He’s gone,” the healer said simply.

Edana sobbed once, a choking gasp, and Doyle put his arms around her. Enean screamed, flailing his arms as if he were wrestling with ghosts that only he could see. “No!” he screamed. “Bring him back! Bring him back!” He lurched forward as if he were going to fling himself on his da’s body, and it took both MacCamore and Ó Riain to hold him back. When the grief subsided as suddenly as it had come, MacCamore led Enean away out of the side entrance, calmly talking to the distraught, quietly weeping man. As they left, the Toscaire Concordai pulled himself from his chair with a groan and started toward the main chamber doors. “I’ll let the other Riocha in to pay their respects to the Rí Ard,” he said.

“Thank you, Toscaire Concordai,” Ó Riain said, and at the same time, Ó Riain reached over toward the chain of the Cloch Mór on the Rí Ard’s still chest. Before the tiarna could touch the cloch, Doyle stretched his arm and caught Ó Riain’s hand by the wrist.

“That’s Edana’s legacy,” he said, “and not yours to take.”

Ó Riain stared at Doyle. “Remove your hand, Mac Ard. Now.”

“I meant what I said, Tiarna. Demon-Caller belongs to Edana.”

“That cloch goes to the new Rí Ard.”

Doyle smiled grimly. “Certainly you mean the
Banrion
Ard.”

Ó Riain opened his fingers and pulled away; Doyle let him go. The Toscaire Concordai watched from near the door, masked by the bear’s teeth; Edana stood at the side of the bed. The healer retreated from the confrontation as the chant of the Draíodóiri faded. “The Rí Ard wanted Enean to be his successor,” Ó Riain snarled. “That’s what he whispered to me two days ago while his daughter was riding away from his deathbed, and I’ve told the other Riocha here in Dún Laoghaire. Many of them agree. So will the Rithe, when they come.”

“
I
don’t believe that happened,” Edana spat before Doyle could answer. “Nor does Doyle or the Riocha who are with us. Nor will all the Rithe agree and certainly not the cloudmages of the Order of Gabair. When I left, Tiarna Ó Riain, my da was unconscious and the healer tells me that he never—
never
—woke again or spoke to anyone. As to Enean . . .” She paused. “It’s not my brother’s fault, but he’s not capable of being the Rí Ard and we all know that. My da said so many times, when he could still speak. The Riocha have all heard
that,
and from his own lips. Not from yours.”

Ó Riain scoffed. “They’ve also never heard the Rí Ard say that he wanted his daughter on his throne, while he has in the past said that of Enean, his firstborn and son.”

“My da did say that,” Edana agreed, “before Enean was injured. Enean was the firstborn and had been named Tanaise Ríg, as he should have been—but that was
before
he was hurt.”

“Your brother was wounded while defending his mam and his betrothed, and the Rí Ard admired that,” Ó Riain retorted.

Edana nodded. “Indeed, and we’ve all wondered who might have been behind that attack. Perhaps it wasn’t the Inish. Perhaps it was someone closer.”

Ó Riain’s smile touched nothing but his lips. “Whoever it was, they didn’t succeed in assassinating Enean or in killing his spirit. Enean hasn’t lost his courage, nor his strength or his desire. All he needs is guidance.”

“And you’ll be happy to provide that,” Doyle said.

Ó Riain smiled. “Indeed. Enean . . .
trusts
me.”

“I don’t,” Edana said. She reached for the Cloch Mór on her da’s chest; at the same time, Ó Riain closed his hand around his own cloch. A wolf’s howl shimmered in the air and a black form leaped between Edana and Doyle, close enough that Doyle felt the wind of its passage. Edana gasped, snatching her hand back as hungry jaws snapped at her. Doyle opened his own cloch even as several spectral wolves shimmered into existence around Ó Riain. Doyle felt the golden dragon rise behind him, snarling and familiar.

A wolf sprang toward him; Doyle sent the dragon’s tail whipping out, snatching the wolf in mid-leap and hurling it backward against the wall where it dissolved in black and yellow sparks. Ó Riain staggered with the impact. From the corridor, they heard muffled shouts of alarm as those with clochs sensed that something was happening inside the Rí Ard’s chambers.

“Is this the way it has to be, Ó Riain?” Doyle asked. “Do we tear at each other with our clochs over the body of the Ard?”

“There are more outside who would follow me than you, and they have clochs as well,” Ó Riain answered. “You can’t win this battle.” He turned as if to call to his allies, but the Toscaire Concordai was watching in seeming fascination, and he held the doors firmly shut even as the waiting Riocha knocked and called.

“I
will
kill you before I fall,” Doyle said. “You know that, Ó Riain. Whether or not you like or agree with the Order of Gabair, you know our training is good. You know how well I handle the power; you know I could hold even Lámh Shábhála. How are you going to advise Enean when you’re laying cold in your tomb with the Rí Ard? Go on—send your wolves now if you believe that’s an empty threat.”

The dragon snapped its tail and hissed; the wolves howled but remained huddled around Ó Riain. “Take Demon-Caller, Edana,” Doyle said. “Go on. It’s yours.”

Edana reached over the bed. She kissed her da’s cheek as she lifted the chain from him. O Riain released his cloch and the wolves vanished.

“This isn’t over,” Ó Riain said. “None of this is finished.” He lifted his chin and glared at Edana as she slipped the chain of the Cloch Mór over her own head. “You can hold Demon-Caller for the moment, Bantiarna, but you’re not the Banrion Ard yet,” he told her. “Not until all the Ríthe of the Tuatha declare it during the Óenach, and that’s not going to happen. I’ll make certain of it.”

With that, Ó Riain stormed from the room, rushing past the Toscaire Concordai and pushing open the doors. He gestured angrily, and several of the tiarna outside left with him. One of them, Doyle noticed, was the court representative of Rí Connachta. Edana noticed as well; he heard the hissing intake of her breath. The others stared curiously into the chamber as the Toscaire Concordai shut the doors once again. Doyle glanced inquiringly at the man. “Are
you
taking sides, Toscaire Rhusvak? I’d think that’s a dangerous thing for the Concordance at the moment.”

Rhusvak’s face was solemn behind the gaping jaws of the bear. “No, Tiarna. I’m simply a neutral observer who will work with whomever becomes the new Rí Ard.” He nodded to Edana. “Or Banrion Ard. The Concordance has its own worries with the Arruk and the Thane’s attention is there, not on the Tuatha. Though . . .” Rhusvak paused for a breath, and Doyle waited. The Toscaire lifted a shoulder under the bearksin. “If the two of you can offer the Concordance the help of Lámh Shábhála, as the late Rí Ard promised me privately, perhaps the Concordance can be persuaded to be ... less than neutral in this. Certainly a few of our troops could be spared to come west, if they are joined later on their return with an army from the Tuatha.”

“The Rí Ard made that promise with our knowledge, as you know, Toscaire,” Edana said to him. She moved alongside Doyle; he took her hand in his. “We will have Lámh Shábhála soon. We will also have the throne of the Tuatha. And we’ll keep the promise my da made to you.”

“The Thane will be pleased to hear that,” Rhusvak answered. He glanced back at the door through which Ó Riain had gone. “Though it seems that not all Riocha agree with you, and who knows what
they
may promise the Concordance.” He bowed to both of them. “I should retire to my own chamber and give my scribe a message for my Thane. My condolences to both of you on your terrible loss.” He glanced at the door. “The other tiarna and bantiarna should have a chance to pay their respects.”