Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (42 page)

Jenna hurled more lightning at the demon as the furious, ululating battle cry of the Inishlanders, the
caointeoireacht na cogadh,
tore from her throat. The crackling, wild energy battered at Edana’s wall, colliding with her cloch’s energy in a brilliant burst of white and blue sparks, and then—as Edana’s defenses crumbled—smashing into the chest of the mage-demon itself. The beast roared, not in defiance but in sheer agony, and through her own ears Jenna heard Edana’s answering wail. The mage-demon staggered and nearly went down, and even though the dragon hurled fire at her, Jenna ignored Doyle to send another barrage toward the crippled demon. Edana’s shield was entirely down; the lightnings enveloped it and Jenna felt Demon-Caller empty itself as Edana collapsed to the ground: unconscious or dead, Jenna didn’t know which, but she had no time or inclination for guilt.

Jenna hurriedly glanced around her with her cloch-vision. The other two clochs had vanished, but so had all signs of Dhegli—she could feel none of them with Lámh Shábhála’s probe. She had no time to search for the changeling: wings beat and claws struck her, knocking her to the ground once more. The dragon hovered above as the rain sheeted down on her.

“Neither one of us can win here now, Doyle,” Jenna shouted up at the awful, red-and-gold face of the creature. She held up Lámh Shábhála, showing him the glittering emerald-and-azure energy cupped in her hand. The dragon hissed; with her true eyes, she saw Doyle standing alongside the crumpled form of Edana. “Release your cloch, Brother, and I’ll do the same. It’s over; it’s just the two of us and I’m stronger. I’ve no wish to kill you unless you’ve harmed my daughter. . . .”

She wondered if he would know her words for the bluff they were. There was little energy left inside Lámh Shábhála: enough to return Jenna to Dun Kiil. Not enough to defend herself against Doyle. She could feel the remaining strength of Snapdragon, and it frightened her. But she scowled at him and pretended.

The dragon roared once more, but it didn’t attack. Instead, it faded in her sight until the ghostly outlines were driven away by the wind. Jenna let go of Lámh Shábhála, nearly losing consciousness herself with the shock of returning to the world.

Jenna managed to stand, though her body screamed in protest. Doyle crouched over Edana. Her face was bloodied and she didn’t move, but Jenna thought she saw the woman’s chest rise with a breath. When Doyle glanced back at Jenna, his eyes were full of hate and fury. Near them, the bodies of the other two mages were sprawled—they had the surreal stillness of death about them.

Dhegli was nowhere to be seen.

Out on the waves, sailors were shouting and a small boat had been launched. She could see four people rowing toward the shore. She could not stand against even gardai; they might be able take Lámh Shábhála from her with plain swords, weak as she was. She saw the same appraisal in Doyle’s face and watched his hand stray near the Cloch Mór.

“Don’t, Brother,” she said, her voice raw. “Please . . .”

Doyle spat on the ground, a red stream of spittle. His fingers closed around the cloch.

Her hand leaped to Lámh Shábhála. She saw the dragon begin to appear around him once more, rearing up on hind legs, wings spread and mouth wide. Muscles bulged in its neck and it struck like a snake.

At the same moment, Jenna used the dregs of power within Lámh Shábhála, imaging her chambers in Dun Kiil. The colors of the mage-lights gathered around her and snatched her away.

As Inishduán vanished, she heard Doyle’s scream.

“Damn you, Jenna! You lose your daughter for what you’ve done here! Do you hear me? You lose her!”

L
EAVING Ballintubber was no different than leaving any other tiny village. The clan was up just before dawn, taking down their tents and storing away the goods. A few villagers were there as well, picking up pots that the clan tinsmith had repaired overnight and bringing payment in grain or poultry or eggs. Meriel had performed once more as Cailin the Healer the night before, using the clochmion to cure a child of poxboils. Meriel had found it difficult to pull herself away from
being
the child, caught up in the horrible fear of death that their linkage revealed. The nightmares the girl had experienced for the last few weeks as the pox spread became Meriel’s as well, all the horrors gibbering and clawing in the darkness of her mind. She found herself clinging, as the child had, to the light of affection and love that welled from her parents, allowing her to find her way back as she released Treoraí’s Heart.

The mage-lights hadn’t come last night and Treoraí’s Heart hung around her neck empty of power, so Sevei had diverted or sent away the quartet of villagers who came to see her as the Taisteal broke their camp.

The wagons jangled and clattered as Nico slapped the reins of his horses and the wagons started lumbering out of the village. Meriel sat with Sevei at the front of their own wagon, following immediately behind Nico. They rode through the dawn mist, passing the lane where Jenna’s farm had once been, crossing a rickety bridge over a small, boggy creek and finally passing Knobtop, rising on the other side.

These all would have been familiar sights to her mam, but they meant nothing to Meriel.

It was nearing midday when Meriel noticed that a forest was creeping closer to the road: dark oaks wrapped with vines, the woods dense and old. That would be Doire Coill, she knew, through which her mam had fled after she found Lámh Shábhála. Doire Coill was another remnant of the ancient old growth forests where the Bunús Muintir had lived. Where, if legend was true, they
still
lived, what few of them were left.
“We all feared Doire Coill. . .”
Meriel could hear her mam’s voice as she recalled those precious times when Jenna had pulled Meriel onto her lap and talked to her about her own childhood.
“And there was good reason for that, too. Doire Coill is alive, in its own way, and the Eldest Trees aren’t friendly. But there’s also great beauty in the Old Forests, and I found a friend there who would save my life more than once. Maybe one day we’ll go there, you and I. Would you like that?”

Back then, Meriel had nodded her head eagerly. Looking at the woods now, she was no longer so certain. There was nothing welcoming about these trees. Even the sunlight seemed unwilling to penetrate the canopy of green. As with Foraois Coill in the north, there was also the sense of being watched, of eyes peering from the darkness. Meriel could swear that she saw shadows flitting through the bramble under the trees and crows lifted high to land in bare branches sticking above the main mass of green, their heads turning to watch them pass. Cold air drifted from under the trees across the road at times, almost as if the forest were breathing slowly. It seemed to be waiting.

In the pocket of Meriel’s clóca, the oak twig the crow had given her quivered. She reached in and touched it: the small branch was vibrating. She brought it out quietly so that Sevei didn’t notice, and the twig bent immediately in her hand, pointing at the woods. The single leaf, still green, fluttered as if in a wind even though the air was still.
Here,
it seemed to be saying.
You should go
here . . .” Meriel put it back in her pocket.

Sevei hadn’t seen the twig. She was laughing and smiling as they moved along the road. “You’ll be surprised when you see Áth Iseal, Cailin,” she was saying. “Or maybe not—I keep forgetting that you’ve seen actual cities. Anyway, Áth Iseal isn’t like these tiny places we’ve been moving through. It’s more a real town, even if it’s not as big as Lár Bhaile where the Rí of Tuath Gabair lives, and as for Dún Laoghaire where the Rí Ard stays, well, there’s no place larger in all of the Tuatha. Even so, we’ll be in Ath Iseal for a few days, I’m fairly sure. At least that’s what Nico did the last time—”

She stopped. The road curved here slightly eastward; ahead, they could see several mailed gardai on horseback standing in the middle of the road. Two riders waited in front of them: Riocha, judging by the way they were dressed. Nico called the clan to a halt and the tiarna rode forward, their green-and-brown clóca flowing in the wind. Rings of mail jingling, the gardai followed them. Meriel didn’t recognize either of the tiarna, but she felt a shiver, seeing them. Outside the stiff boiled leather jackets they wore under their clócas, each had a heavy chain that held a jewel . . . and those could only be clochs na thintrí. “You’re Clannhri Dranaghi?” one of the tiarna called out to Nico. His right hand stroked his chest near his cloch.

“Aye, Tiarna,” Nico called out. “We’re traveling to Áth Iseal. Has our fame reached so far that the Riocha come out to meet us? Surely we’ve done nothing to offend, especially to a tiarna who I don’t know . . . ?” Nico laughed as if no one could seriously believe that the Taisteal would be under any sort of suspicion, but the tiarna’s face remained grim.

(“Sevei?” Meriel whispered as Nico was speaking. “I don’t like this.” She touched the twig again, feeling it wriggling like a live thing against the cloth. “You said you’d help me when the time came for me to leave. I think that time’s now.”

A frown. “Hush,” Sevei answered. “Wait a moment. Nico will handle this.”)

The first tiarna glanced at the second wagon with Sevei and Meriel. His gaze stayed with them as he spoke. “I’m Nyle O’Murchadha, cousin and friend to Doyle Mac Ard, and this is Tiarna Shay O Blaca of the Order of Gabair, sent here by Tiarna Mac Ard. We’ve come to take the young woman he left with you, Clannhri.”

“Tiarna Mac Ard spoke of Tiarna O Blaca,” Nico answered. “Though sadly he didn’t give me a description. Why didn’t Tiarna Mac Ard come himself?”

“He’s away to the north on pressing business,” O Blaca answered. “And I assure you that I’m who Tiarna O’Murchadha said I was—though I would think that our clochs might be identification enough for a Clannhri who wanted to avoid trouble.”

Nico raised his hands. “Now there’s no need to take offense, Tiarna. After all, Tiarna Mac Ard made it clear that I was to—”

O Blaca shifted in his saddle, grimacing. “The girl, Clannhri. Now.”

“Ah, aye, the girl,” Nico nodded, stroking his chin. “There was a question of additional payment, you see—” Nico’s words trailed off as O Blaca nodded to O’Murchadha, who tossed a leather pouch toward Nico. It jingled heavily as he caught it.

“Payment in full and more,” O’Murchadha said. “Tiarna Mac Ard thanks you for your service and looks forward to seeing you again when you reach Dún Laoghaire. Now, the girl. Quickly.”

The tiarna looked again at Meriel, then away, and Meriel realized that he was searching for red hair. (“Sevei?” she whispered again. “Please . . .”) Nico was laughing.

“Ah,” he said. “Nico Dranaghi is more clever than that. Do you think I would let my charge be seen so easily? No. A bit of hair coloring . . .”

(“Trust me,” Sevei said. “I said I would help you, and I will.”) Nico hopped down from the wagon’s seat. He pointed at Meriel. “There,” he told O’Murchadha. “She’s the one.”

Sevei’s hand gripped Meriel’s arm. “And I have her for you, Tiarna,” Sevei said. “Come alongside and I’ll put her on your horse for you.”

“Sevei!” Meriel gasped at the betrayal.

“Be quiet, child,” Sevei laughed. “Tiarna, here’s what you paid for. Come take it.”

Grim-faced, O’Murchadha nudged his horse back to the second wagon; O Blaca waited, his hand on his sword as he watched Nico. Meriel struggled to get away but Sevei’s hand held her, fingers digging into flesh. As the tiarna came alongside, he reached out for Meriel. But rather than pushing Meriel toward the man, Sevei pulled her backward, whipping her across the board and off the wagon entirely. Meriel tumbled to the ground. “Run! Now!” Sevei shouted to Meriel. As Meriel scrambled to her feet, she saw Sevei fling herself at O’Murchadha, her knife flashing. She pulled the tiarna from his horse as Nico hollered in dismay, shouting to his sons.